Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Shifting the Paradigm (Part I of "Serendipity") ❯ Different ( Chapter 4 )

Suggested Listening: The Alan Parsons Project, "Eye In the Sky"

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 I know you're different.
You know I'm the same.

We’re both too busy to be taking the blame.*

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Different

"See-yah-ra!" Mrs. Briefs cooed as the younger woman hobbled into the room. "You're up early today—did yeh sleep well?"

Sierra knuckled one shadow-hung eye, scanning the kitchen for a familiar appliance. "Coffee," she rasped as she all-but collapsed at the counter. "Please…tell me you have coffee." Sure enough, Panchy bustled to her side with an empty mug and the freshly brewed carafe.

"Didn't sleep so well, huh?" the blonde murmured as Sierra sloshed her mug full to the brim with shaky hands. With the drink sweetened and creamed, she took a long, deep gulp and threaded her fingers through her sleep-tangled hair in a belated attempt to appear less savage.

"Just my back," she admitted. "One spasm after another, all friggin' night. Nothin' caffeine an' Advil can't fix." False. Caffeine and Advil wouldn't fix anything, but they wouldn't hurt. 

Certain the younger woman would be okay, Panchy returned to supervising the trio of robots making breakfast. "Well," Panchy said in a syrupy sweet chirp that made Sierra want to cringe; morning people always creeped her out. "...hopefully, that new doctor can help ya with it—my Bulma says he got you on a new medicine that'll help a lot!"

Already through her first cup and pouring another, Sierra answered, "Yeah, it'll take a while to kick in, though…still can't believe I let her talk me into acceptin' Capsule Corp insurance benefits—I'm no employee! All I'm doin' is tutorin' some kid but she's payin' for my treatment like I'm a tenured manager." She snorted into her coffee, clearly almost sulking though her expression never changed. "Auntie Constanza'd kick my ass over this if she weren't already dead."

"That's just how my Bulma is, Sweetie...She'd never think twice about helpin' a friend, and money means nothing to her!" Without warning a small lavender-haired rocket zipped into the room and over to the fridge.

"Hi Gramma!" Trunks greeted excitedly as he dug through the fridge for a box of juice. "Breakfast ready yet? Dad's getting grumpy." Suddenly realizing that his grandmother wasn't the only other person in the kitchen, he turned to stare at Sierra, who stared right back, curious at the boy's odd hair color. Back in the States, people just didn't come with hair in such vibrant unnatural colors; unless it was dyed, everyone had black, brown, blond, red, grey, or white hair. Here in Japan, though, technicolor hair seemed so common no one even batted an eye. She always assumed it was dyed, but this close she could swear that the boy's hair was natural—full of highlights, lowlights, and mid-tones galore—or if not natural, a better dye job than she knew was even possible. How could he have been born with purple hair?

Of course, she reminded herself firmly, one of her closest friends was born with grey hair and she herself was brought to Capsule Corp by a flying teenager and temperamental alien the week before. Compared to that, freaky hair wasn't even registering on her weird-o-meter.

"Who're you?" Trunks demanded, darting to protectively plant himself between her and his protesting grandmother, instantly dropping into a defensive stance. "Why're you in my kitchen?"

"Trunks Briefs!" Panchy reprimanded in what was, for her, a stern voice; it still came across as pretty darn' ditzy, Sierra mused. "Mind your manners. This's Sierra, she's a friend of your mother's! She'll be living with us fer a while!" With his worries calmed, he finally realized something crucial: her chi, or rather, lack thereof.

"Pretty weak, aren't ya?" he laughed at Sierra; the brunette arched one heavy eyebrow as his Grandmother objected shrilly.

"No sugar, Sherlock," she retorted dryly. "I'm kinda crippled, ya know—but don't think I can't whack ya into Kingdom Come if need be. This cane's heavier'n it looks."

Later on, over breakfast, Bulma explained to Trunks what had transpired the day before…and revealed that his Arithmetic grades had dropped far too low and they were forced to take drastic measures. Even as the demi-saiyan protested and whined, Sierra sat silently in the garden, staring through a patch of wilting forget-me-nots, deep in thought. Rio, she thought with an aching heart, Rowan…Cor…I'll get my life back under control, I promise. But once I do, how can I ever face you again?

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"I don't need a tutor," Trunks pouted at her across the table; unaffected by his dark glower, Sierra stared him down. Finally, he looked away, choosing instead to glare at his Mathematics book like it had been calling him horrible names.

"Is that so," Sierra retorted blandly, pulling a stack of papers from the file Bulma handed her over lunch. "Your grade card says otherwise." Without even a hint of emotion, she laid the most recent grade report on the table between them. Every class had been aced…every class, that is, except Mathematics. Trunks cringed as she proceeded to lay out several more sheets of paper: three more grade reports, notices from his math teacher, even a few tests he'd failed abysmally. "You have excellent marks in everything but Maths, Trunks, but it's nothing to be ashamed of—it just means you need a little help with that course.

"It's not my fault!" he whined. "My teacher's a fusty old grandpa—he's so old he forgets what he's saying every few words!" To his surprise, her mask cracked somewhat: she stared back in what was for her blatant shock.

"Oh, dear Lord," she muttered in disbelief. "Don't tell me your teacher's Watanabe Hisashi!" Trunks' dismayed expression was the only answer she needed. She dragged one callused hand down her face with a groaned, "Dios mio. He should'a been replaced decades ago—he was ancient when I was in school an' just as useless—no wonder you're failing his class!" As Sierra muttered under her breath in the strange language she had a tendency to break into, Trunks' insecurities faded away.

"Then…" He hesitated, not really wanting to voice his words. Words obtain power when they're spoken, after all…so long as they remain unspoken, they cannot be confirmed…but they cannot be denied, either. "…I'm not…stupid?" Startled from her one-sided argument with the file folder, Sierra looked up to her new pupil. Though her once-again-blank expression never cracked, her eyes softened.

"Kiddo, you are not stupid. The dingle-dorks who kept Watanabe-san on payroll despite rampant dementia are the stupid ones; you're just suffering from a pathetically underqualified teacher. A little help, an' you'll be back on top in no time." Finally, his fears eased, Trunks grinned. "So…will ya work with me? I don't have a degree in mathematics or teaching, but I did graduate with a major in small business…an' that needs lots of math classes." Trunks' answer was a cocky grin and his feet thrown up onto the table, his chair tipped back onto two legs precariously.

"Eh, why not. At least I can rub it in Goten's face when my grades improve and his get worse." Sierra said nothing about the obvious rivalry, but yanked his seat back down with one foot, unimpressed with his posturing. As the afternoon wore on, she and Trunks worked out his strengths and weaknesses and figured out what they needed to focus on most. Later that night she put together a lesson plan even as she wondered when her life became so upside down.

She wasn't a teacher—she was a gardener, a botany shop owner, and nowhere near qualified to be teaching kids! At least, she admitted with a wry smile, she had plenty of experience with them from raising Rowan. That night she drifted into a world of dreams, greeted by a temperamental wrench-hurling brunette, a shy woman with black hair and full, dirt-smeared cheeks, and a young redheaded beauty who was once even more troublesome than Trunks.

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A week later

"Sierra-san?" Trunks whined.

"No," she replied dryly, not even looking up from the paper she was grading. She knew without looking that the boy was practically dancing in his seat; she also knew that no one's bladder refilled in a matter of three minutes, five times in a row. She was no amateur at dealing with headstrong children—her niece made sure of that.

"But I gotta go!" he whimpered, adding in a shiver and extra wiggle for good measure. Thinking she wouldn't see, he glanced outside again; Goten stood on the lawn waving up at him. When he looked back to his tutor, her unimpressed brown eyes stared back dully.

"You don't gotta go," she corrected. "You wanna go—You wanna go play an' blow off your lessons, even though you promised you'd stick with them." Trunks deflated, glaring through the notebook before him as though willing the figures and formulas scrawled across the paper to spontaneously combust.

"But…but that's not fair," he mumbled putting as much effort into his puppy dog eyes as possible. One dark brown eyebrow arched to the heavens, the only sign of emotion on Sierra's impassive face.

"Life's not fair, Kiddo. The sooner you finish that page, the sooner you can go play. You're only ten problems short—quit pouting and just get it over with." Finally, realizing he was accomplishing absolutely Jack spit, returned to his lessons with a loud grumble. When he finally got outside, he swore to himself, he was going to find the biggest, slimiest slug he could and shove it right down her shirt. "Keep pushin', Sport—I'll gladly add another page." She never turned away from the page before her, somehow knowing what he was thinking. How could she do that, he wondered nervously?

By the time he was finished with his lessons, Goten was already back home and Chi-chi insisted he needed to stay home and work on his own lessons. After yet another wonderful fall day wasted on lessons, his path became clear:

Vengeance. It was time for him to become the teacher, and for Sierra-san to be taught a lesson.

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Over the next couple weeks, Trunks took every opportunity to test his tutor's apparent sixth sense. Thus far he could never sneak past her, could never hide his intentions from her, and somehow she always knew when he was hiding something or lying. It wasn't just him, either—she consistently recognized the truth behind his father's blustering tantrums and saw right through his mother's excuses when she came to check on his progress.

After two weeks of tests, hits and misses, and cataloged reactions, the truth was clear. Sierra had a strange inhuman ability to sense things she shouldn't be able to, but the briefer the contact, the less she could sense. If someone simply said something and took off, only in her company for a moment, she seemed unable to get a fix on them—her eyes always grew pinched and squinty, and her brow crinkled in confusion.

All that waiting, testing, and scheming led up to this moment, Trunks reminded himself; backing down would mean it was all pointless. Sierra sat in the kitchen at the counter, staring down a cup of coffee, lost in thought. He was due to catch the bus in only a few moments, and his father was napping. Out back, he sensed two familiar chi signatures, the owners clearly engaged in heavy training. Finally, he was ready; he dashed into the kitchen at dizzying speed.

"Sierra-san!" he called out as he snatched his lunch kit off the counter. "Dad needs some water and towels, can you take them out to the training room, don't wanna miss the bus, thanks, bye!" From the first word to the last he never took so much as a single breath. When he zipped back out the door, he knew Sierra was staring after him in confusion, that confused crinkle in her forehead proof that she couldn't get a read on him. The stage was set—all he had to do was wait for her to spring the trap herself.

Back in the kitchen, Sierra stared after Trunks, bewildered by his odd behavior, but more by what she sensed from him. Deceit. Why did he want to deceive her? What was he being deceitful about? She had a feeling, but the more she thought about it, the more she knew she would just have to risk it—if Vegeta really did request water and towels and she refused to bring them, it would greatly annoy him. She annoyed him enough as it was, what with her odd ability to see right through him. If Vegeta didn't send Trunks with that message…well, obviously it was a trap, but she couldn't pick up any specifics.

"He's been watching me," she realized aloud, halfway between paranoid and angry. "He's been digging for blind spots this whole time, just to pull one over on me! But why?" Though she was hurt by the boy's willful deceit, she knew there was only one thing to do:

Spring the trap and hope it was merely a childish prank.

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"Dodge!" Piccolo shouted at Gohan, increasingly frustrated with his teenage pupil. "Don't just stand there, move your ass!"

"I'm—uh!—I'm trying!" Gohan grunted, wildly darting through the minefield of exploding energy blasts filling the gravity chamber. "It's way harder with—"

"Quit whining and just do it!" the unusually crotchety Namek cut him off, sending another fleet of energy mines into the fray. Gohan responded with a loud 'ack' and increased his efforts to not wind up a scorch mark. As the duo sparred and argued between explosions, neither noticed a slightly hesitant knocking at the door to the gravity chamber.

"You know," Gohan pointed out with a cheeky grin as he slung a Masenko blast at his sensei. "If you'd just talk to her, you might not be so grumpy." A slash of one clawed green hand rendered the Masenko harmless.

"I am not grumpy!" Piccolo snapped back. "I'm always like this!"

"Yeah," Gohan snickered, easily evading the chi blasts his sensei was now wildly flinging at him…missing every time. "So you're not affected at all, huh? Then why are you missing?" A seldom seen evil grin manifested on Piccolo's face. Gohan flinched, backing away a little. "Uhh…Piccolo...san?"

"Who said I missed?" A feeling of Deja Vu swept over Gohan; in defeat, he glanced upward. Sure enough, every blast that had 'missed' him now hung around him in a blazing golden minefield, all rocketing toward him at breakneck speed.

"Oh, come on!" was all he got out. Wave after wave of energy blasts slammed into his body, exploding in painful bursts. By the time it was all over, he slumped on the tiled floor, almost pouting up at his teacher as his clothing smoked. "You seriously 17'ed me, Piccolo? Really?"

"You've got a lot to learn, Kid," Piccolo smirked, offering him a hand. "First and foremost—"

Their conversation was cut short by a sudden loud shriek from the chamber door—the open door—where Sierra now sprawled across the tiles on her stomach. At her sides, a pile of towels and a jug of water lay scattered, suggesting her purpose. They never heard the door open, and how could she have gotten so far into the gravity chamber? She should have been plastered to the floor the moment she crossed the threshold, but there she lay a good yard and a half from the door.

"What the—" Gohan darted over to the shrieking woman and glanced outside the door. "There's something greasy all over the steps—she must've slipped! Piccolo, we—" The rest of Gohan's frantic ramblings fell on deaf ears; Piccolo watched the frustrating woman intently, stunned.

She was trying to get out on her own; not once did a plea for help cross her lips, even as she screamed in agony at the drastically increased gravity. Even as the damaged muscles in her back froze up and her worn joints creaked and ground, she dug her nails into every available crevice in the tiles, fighting to drag herself back to the door. In between his confusion at her stubbornness and his suspicion at why she was there in the first place, something became very, very clear to him.

Sierra was only a woman—just another puny, helpless human woman—but she had a fighter's spirit.

"Piccolo!" Gohan shouted, breaking him from his thoughts. "Something's wrong!" The Namekian warrior whipped his head around to the display on the wall, and sure enough, the numbers were steadily, rapidly rising. 300…350…400…450…500... As the numbers climbed higher and higher, even Piccolo and Gohan found themselves collapsing to the tiles, pinned to their knees by the skyrocketing gravity. 600…650…800… They had to do something—Trunks told them about the glitch last week, but also warned that there wasn't really a way to reset the chamber from inside.

Wait. Piccolo thought frantically. Trunks knew about the glitch because of Vegeta. How would Vegeta shut off the malfunctioning machine? He and Gohan apparently arrived at the same conclusion at the same time; twin Masenko blasts bored through the control panel and the power box by the door with an ungodly squeal of chi on metal.

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Just as suddenly as it rose, the gravity plummeted, and Sierra's adrenaline-fueled strength finally gave out. Shock set in, dulling the pain just the slightest bit. A violent cough burned its way up her throat—a splash of crimson splattered the tiles—the world tipped and turned, leaving her clinging to the floor as though she'd fall to the ceiling. As the world blurred around her, shouts and gruff warnings echoed left and right.

'She's bleeding internally!' a deep, muddled voice said as two powerful arms lifted her into a surprisingly gentle hold. Her head lolled, finding a comfortable resting place in a fold of pristine white cloth that smelled of greenery, petrichor, and sweat. The owner of the arms, she thought rather deliriously, smelled like a forest in springtime.

Wind blew Sierra's hair in her face, and strands of it caught on the sticky blood coating her lips and chin. The last thing that registered before her world faded into an ink black void was an impression of concerned black eyes and an October blue sky.

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Whispers broke the silence first, followed by worried murmurs. Sierra fought to focus on her surroundings, fought to trudge through the murky blackness back to the light.

What happened?

Someone sent her to the gravity chamber to deliver towels and water…after splashing grease all over the steps. The machinery went haywire and she flew right into the middle of it! She's lucky she didn't hit her head.

Lucky?! That infernal machine could have killed her! The stubborn woman wouldn't just stay still, no, she had to fight it! She's lucky to be alive!

Guys, there's no need for fighting…she's healed and should be waking soon.

As the voices became clearer, a bright, saturated blue sky faded into view. Sierra recognized two of the voices—Gohan and Piccolo—but the third she'd never heard before. For the moment she couldn't care less; she hurt all over and felt like she just ran a marathon with three broken limbs and half her vital organs, but she'd never seen such a view of the sky. No buildings to block it out, no power lines or cell towers, there weren't even any trees to be seen…just bright October blue littered with a sea of mackerel scale clouds.

"Miss?" Gohan asked hesitating at her side. "Miss, are you okay?" She stared unblinkingly up at the sky, still only half-aware of the world around her.

"Sierra," a low, graveled voice greeted her. Finally, back to her senses, she blinked to clear the clouds from her mind and cautiously glanced around her. Gohan crouched beside her, his eyes wet with worry. Piccolo stood nearby, arms crossed and the sun at his back. He really knew how to cut an intimidating presence, she thought dryly, wincing from the sunlight he wasn't completely blocking. Beside her shoulder knelt another person, someone she didn't know.

The bottom dropped out of her stomach as her intuition filled in the blanks; images and phrases whirled through her thoughts in a frenzied dance. Guardian, the impressions sang to her. Healer, Kami, Protector, Defender, Ruler! Finally, they stilled, leaving only one final word to burn in her mind in frightening reverence: Deity.

Her dark brown eyes, full to the brim with fear, slowly drifted to meet the eyes of the unknown person. Dende grinned down at her, clearly excited to meet someone new. "Hi, I'm Dende!"

Overload. Her eyes rolled up in her head, and she fainted dead away. Somewhat hurt, the still youthful guardian turned to Gohan for answers, but the other teen was bewildered. "What in the world?" the demi-saiyan mumbled as Dende gently checked Sierra's pulse. "She didn't so much as blink when she met Piccolo, but she met you and fainted." Dende studied her unconscious body silently, searching his memory for answers. On a hunch, he tugged her loose clothing aside, searching her neck, shoulders, and head for something he didn't find. Without a word of explanation to his bewildered companions, he rolled her over and yanked her shirt up and down in the back, searching there as well.

"No marks," he muttered aloud, resituating her and her clothing. "She's no Elemental…but still…it's like she knew who I am. I heard whispers of thought not my own—how could she have known?"

"Wait, wait, backup," Gohan protested as Piccolo shot Dende a serious frown; the two Nameks communicated silently a moment, one filtering through memories from Kami, the other his own. "Elemental? What's that?" Dende shook his head, staring down at Sierra with a serious expression.

"Explanation will have to wait," he answered, his voice firm. "I have some reading to do—no mortal should be capable of what I think she just did. She has secrets, and I fear what they mean for us—all of us." With a rueful smile and parting wave, he took his leave, retreating to the Lookout's massive library. "She'll wake soon, friends. Be cautious of her; she may still be sore."

No sooner had Dende vanished among the dark hallways of the Lookout, Sierra groaned and rolled onto her side in a fetal position. "Oh, my head," she rasped, her usually thick Midwestern twang slightly warped. "Infierno sangrienta. Did anyone get the number on that bus?"

Gohan and Piccolo exchanged a dubious glance. "Bus?" Gohan finally asked. "What bus? The gravity room blew up with you in it. There was no bus."

With a long stream of grunts, hisses, flinches, and halted movements, Sierra pushed herself into a sitting position. "I was afraid of that. So, seeing as I'm no longer having weird dreams about sittin' on clouds an' talkin' to gods, can—" Her sarcastic remark trailed off in horror at the sight before her: a straight shot across the lookout's tiled platform, and Mister Popo watering one of his many gardens. The always cheerful djinn waved at her, smiling in welcome.

'Humans are so fragile,' Piccolo thought with a sneer, watching her impassive mask fall into place as her emotions were stamped out like guttering flames. 'The slightest change and they lose their minds—the tiniest proof that the world extends beyond their insipid little lives and they need a mental vacation.' How did he ever believe Sierra might be any different?

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Later that night, Sierra sat bundled up in a recliner in one of Capsule Corp's parlors, a book laid out in her lap and two quilts bundled up around her. After being nearly killed by scientifically magnified gravity, Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey was just what the doctor ordered: simple, humorous, and a reminder that a person's perception can make all the difference. Of course, the letter from her friend Dakota tucked into the cover didn't hurt.

Dakota taught her years before that there was more to the world than she could see. After finding herself face to face with a deity, a djinn, and a floating palace in the clouds, to read about 'Koda mistiming a pyrotechnics display and singing her hair was nothing. The mental image it provoked—perpetually staticky grey hair charred and frizzy with soot and ash—made her shake her head.

About an hour passed with no changes or even movement. Every now and then, she fought the urge to glance over at the green-skinned warrior hovering lotus style in the corner. She was resting, she was safe, so why was he still here when he was clearly annoyed with her? –not that she knew why he was annoyed with her….

She reached for the cup of black tea on the end table but froze in place as a twinge of pain shot up her spine. She eased her arm back to her book almost sulking. If that was the consequence, tea didn't sound too good after all.

Just as a shuffling neared the door, Sierra glanced up expectantly; sure enough, Bulma hauled Trunks in by the collar. Not a trace of Sierra's amusement reached her blank expression, even as the young boy was plopped down on a footstool before her chair with a rather ridiculous pout. "This had better be good," Bulma demanded of him, furious beyond words. No one spoke, Trunks avoiding all eye-contact, glaring at the carpet. "Trunks Brie—"

"Ms. Briefs?" Sierra interrupted passively. "If I may?" Bulma wrestled with her decision for a moment, then nodded, stepping back. "Trunks, you and I both know you set me up. You and I both know your father didn't call me to the 'training room,' and that the top step wasn't greased on accident." She fixed him with a serious stare, his eyes finally meeting hers. "You may realize I suspected the trap before I even sprung it—"

Trunks' eyes widened in disbelief. Interesting.

"—or not," Sierra countered. "Do you know why I didn't confront you or your mother about it? Why I simply walked right into it, even knowing I might be hurt?" Trunks shook his head, finally showing something other than anger. "Because I hoped you would do the right thing—that your conscience would kick in, that you'd confess and warn me instead of standing in the bushes laughing."

"You skipped school?" Bulma snapped; a look from Sierra silenced her, and she paced before the couch, fuming.

"Piccolo-san," Sierra said dully, "you said my injuries were extensive. Would you care to enlighten Trunks just how far this…prank…went?"

Sure enough, Piccolo shot Trunks a stern glare. "Humans are fragile, Kid. It's a miracle she's not dead. Dende says she was hemorrhaging internally; she could have bled to death on the inside without his healing." He didn't expect visible guilt, Trunks being Vegeta's son and having a major chip on his shoulder for his age, but Piccolo knew the knowledge disturbed him. The boy's eyes widened, his shoulders drew tight, and his lip quivered just the slightest bit.

"I…" Trunks protested weakly. "I didn't—! I wouldn't—!" A single sharp look from Sierra silenced him.

"Trunks, I am very, very disappointed in you. I believed I was tutoring an intelligent, warm-hearted young man who simply had trouble with one subject. Now, I don't know what to think. Should I trust you now? Can I trust you?" The moment his eyes watered, Sierra knew her words were having an effect; it wasn't surprising, really, since she'd perfected them on a certain headstrong niece.

"I'm sorry!" Trunks cried, launching himself at her. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Puh-Please don't h-hate me!" As he buried himself in her shoulder crying, Bulma met her eyes in stunned disbelief. Though her expression never changed, Sierra winked back at his mother over his lavender hair as she rubbed Trunks' back.

Guilt tripping could bring the most headstrong brats to heel.

"A'right now." Sierra carefully pried off the death grip Trunks had on her neck. "I'm alright, and I forgive you. You can stop crying." As sobs faded to sniffles, he clambered off of her lap to perch on his footstool again. "You're not getting off scot-free, Kiddo. This all stemmed from hating your lessons, and the punishment fits the crime: from now on, you're to spend an extra hour every day on your lessons, and now you have to study on weekends whether you have homework or not."

"But—" 

"—And," Bulma added, "you're to be extra kind and helpful to Sierra-san for the rest of the day, starting with handing her that cup of tea! She's sick, Trunks, and she hurts all the time from it. This incident might set back her recovery! I'm disappointed in you, and I expected better."

Trunks stared through the floor, torn between two reactions. He was angry about the punishment, angry that his workload was increased, angry that his mother ordered him to wait on his tutor hand and foot. On the other hand, he was ashamed—ashamed that he hurt her so badly just for following his mom's orders. She was there to help with his lessons, he admitted begrudgingly. A sudden hiss ripped him from his thoughts; the older woman cringed in pain, her shoulders tight from trying to suppress it. Leaning the recliner back clearly triggered a muscle spasm in her back.

"Yes, Mom," Trunks mumbled, avoiding everyone's eyes. "I'll go warm up your tea, Sierra-san." His mother's eyes followed him as he left, surely wondering at his unexpected manners. The thoughts going through his head disturbed him. If not for his childish grudge, Sierra wouldn't be hurting right now; if he were truly sorry, which he was, he would accept the punishment without complaint. Firmly, he reminded himself not to make the same mistake again. Next time, who knew who would get hurt, and how badly.

Back in the parlor, Bulma bustled over to the recliner but halted in her tracks when every shred of pain abruptly fled Sierra's face. "Do you need something for that? I can go get the muscle relaxer Dr. Fleet ordered."

Though Sierra's face remained blank, she chuckled under her breath. "No need. A guilt trip works every time." Piccolo rolled his eyes; the manipulative woman faked a spasm to remind Trunks of the value of humility?

Humans.

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Up next: Dende discovers that reading is dangerous, Sierra's family is full of drama, a wild Dakota appears, and Dende really puts his foot in it in Lessons Learned and Bridges Burned

 Notes in order of occurrence

* Rush, "Second Nature" from album Hold Your Fire.

Watanabe Hisashi: Japanese, surname first as tradition. The first means "Cross boundary" and the second means "long-lived." 

Dios Mio: Spanish, My God. (Fun fact: Bing Translator censors this to My gosh.) Also, lest anyone assume I'm having Sierra use spanish randomly for the usual bullshit reasons, there's a specific reason for it which will be revealed in the future. This is a Sierra thing, not a Sierra-is-latina thing.

October blue: a special, vibrant shade the sky only has during the middle of Autumn due to the distance from the sun.

Infierno sangrienta: Spanish, Roughly, Bloody Hell.