Piccolo adjusted his sunglasses over the bridge of his nose, and dragged his ratty purple shirt over the top of his head. His antennae slapped against his forehead, and he grumbled. His feet caught on a few broken machine pieces as he kicked them out from underneath him, all while trying to drag on his shorts.

He grabbed several bottles of water, and threw them into a rather hole-filled bag, before finally heading towards the door. Outside he was hit with a brutal gust of wind that almost knocked him sideways, and threw dust in every part of his mouth.

"Dammit," he snarled. His attempts at swiping crust from the corner of his mouth were proving useless, so he gave it up. He trudged out towards the rust-bucket of a jeep he had, and peeled back the door. It practically screamed in agony at him, but he simply threw his backpack into the passenger seat, and strapped himself in. He double checked that he had his shotguns all lined up, and his registration proudly on display.

He backed out of his driveway, barely giving the house a glance from his rearview mirror. It was much like everything else that Cold gave him—old, rickety, and falling apart. Though, he supposed the things weren't that old when he'd been given them. The jeep, for instance, had been a rather shitty old thing from the eighties, but its extended stay so close to the desert had given it its current appearance.

The house had once been painted a bright, cheery yellow, with white windows, and a little picket fence that wrapped nicely around it. It had fallen to disrepair shortly thereafter. The fence now leaned on its side, like an old man on his cane—the house itself had several holes where it was clear Piccolo had stuffed rags in from the inside, and the windows shuddered with each gust of wind. His house was a rather large eyesore for the suburb that it sat right next to, and he was certain that the brand-new house beside him, with pristine, green grass was purposefully put there to mock him.

His face remained neutral as he continued his ride out into the desert, all thoughts of his shit house behind him. It had been his since he was a child, and he supposed he couldn't complain. Sand rolled past him as he finally left the main road, and peeled out into the dunes. His shitty jeep was fighting to keep upright as he rode. Once he'd lost sight of the road, he dug around in his console and pulled out a long map, which he pressed against his steering wheel as he went.

As bad as the jeep was, times like this made him happy Rustbucket was so old—without power steering, there was no over correcting as he maneuvered his map into place, and began studying the X's placed all over the parchment's surface. He made a sharp right by a familiar boulder, and continued onwards for what he estimated to be ten minutes.

His tape player had gone out a year or so ago—with a metric ton of sand trapped in it that seemed to have a never-ending source that he couldn't stop. He'd eventually given it up, and had since grown accustomed to listening to the clanks and bangs that Rustbucket was so fond of making. The howl of the wind added for alternating percussions, as projectiles hit the side of his jeep, and over-all Piccolo had enough to keep his ears and mind busy to not miss the music all that much.

He was finally able to come to a stop as he saw smoldering wreckage in front of him. He grinned, grabbed some goggles from his backseat, and popped them into place.

"There was nothing there," Piccolo growled. He was rather disappointed, and leaned back in his office chair. The thing creaked dangerously underneath him, but didn't give out on him. He kicked an apple core that happened to be too close to him, while his fingers drummed heavily against his desk. Or, not a desk—merely an old bookcase that he'd cut in half and repurposed.

"What was the burning pile of rubbish then?" the voice on the other end was high pitched and nasally—a voice that Piccolo had learned to hate extensively over the years. Freeza was General Cold's son: A Royal Pain in the Ass. The twerp had moved his way up through the ranks when Piccolo was younger, so Piccolo thought he would eventually move away from operating his father's phone. Unfortunately, that was not the case.

"I told you, it was some kid's drone," Piccolo glared at the offensive thing. He'd retrieved it from the sand, and had been severely disappointed at its discovery. The hunk of junk had apparently been flying around, when a severe wind had crushed it into the ground. He'd managed to locate the owner—some pimply fourteen-year-old that had immediately tried to hide when Piccolo went banging on his door.

Piccolo could practically hear a sneer on the other side. "Ah, yes. I suppose that would explain the rather furious woman my father had to deal with on the phone."

Piccolo wanted to throw the phone. If he'd already known that Piccolo had confronted the people—why bother with the rudeness or the skepticism?

"Was there anything else you needed, Freeza?"

"That's Colonel Freeza," was the waspish response, "but no… I suppose that's all I need. Daddy will handle your social faux pas, but I was told to remind you that your existence is only mildly tolerated in that specific suburb due to him paying handsomely for your position there. It would do you some good to avoid the rest of civilization, and to hide our ugly green mug from normal humans."

The call was cut off rather abruptly, leaving Piccolo staring furiously at his phone. It was a constant bur in his side that Freeza threw out insults like that, and Piccolo was unable to respond in kind. He'd never had the pleasure of meeting Cold and his brood face to face.

He gritted his teeth, and rose from the chair he'd been occupying. He knew this meant he also would be shorted on his weekly stipend for not actually having located anything this time—as it was unlikely that he would find a spacecraft tonight that he could salvage.

Piccolo grabbed a dusty apple from the counter, and gave it a miserable bite. He hated the desert. Hated the way that sand worked its way inevitably into every part of his life. Even his food was riddled with it. After twenty some odd years he supposed he should be used to it, but it never really agreed with him. He couldn't wait to get out of this godforsaken place. —Potentially, of Earth entirely.

He looked at the one personal decoration that he had in his ratty house. It was a single cube, with a holographic image that rotated non-stop. Even when he cut the lights off, and laid down on his bed, the green glow cast across his ill-features every night. The image of his father, the one man that could get him out of his miserable conditions.

And he was going to find him.

But, fate worked against him. In the following week, he had two calls that got him absolutely nowhere. His checks were going to be incredibly shortened, and the gas he kept having to waste to make his way out in the desert everyday was taking its toll. As reliable as Rustbucket was, the monstrosity guzzled gas like it wasn't an irreplaceable fuel.

One of the calls he'd received, had been some old drunk claiming to have seen a UFO. When Piccolo arrived on the scene, however, he'd been dismayed to have an elderly human vomit profusely on him, cry, and accuse Piccolo of anally probing him all simultaneously. He'd hurriedly left the scene before cops were involved and he had Cold's wrath on him once more.

The second call was someone claiming that their cow had been stolen by extraterrestrials, but that merely led to Piccolo chasing a cow around the desert in insane heat (bearing a bowl of broccoli which the owner assured him was the cow's favorite). When he'd finally caught the bovine escapee, he'd been less than thrilled to find out the cow had absolutely no symptoms of being tampered with. He'd gone home feeling slightly used, and with absolutely nothing to report.

Then—there was the fact that Piccolo was quite certain he was receiving a new neighbor. Moving trucks had appeared outside. The house beside him had been unoccupied since it was built, and he'd hoped it would stay that way. Due to his mere presence, this was a very exclusive neighborhood to get into. There was an asinine amount of paperwork to go through if one wanted to live in this area, and plenty of legal tape to hold anyone that left in place. All his neighbors thus far had completely avoided him, just as he liked it.

He just hoped this new one was just as smart.

And, for the first few days, it certainly seemed like his neighbor was just that.

Piccolo was packing up his truck, and was rather ecstatic. He hadn't received a call, but he himself had seen a strange object floating through the night sky. The strange blips and colors led him to believe that he was actually onto something this time. If not for the low temperatures being rather dangerous to his species (a lesson he'd learned unfortunately in his youth) he would have headed out the moment he'd seen it from his window.

Now he was completely prepared. He peeled out of his driveway, and out into the desert, marking carefully on his map the trajectory he was certain the UFO had taken. He was intent upon getting there, and barely bothered to lift his eyes to the sand dunes. He finally saw a smoke plume in the distance and sped up.

At about twenty feet from the wreckage, Piccolo felt a grin overtaking his face. He hit the brakes, and grabbed his goggles. His map was thrown haphazardly over his shoulder as he popped his eyewear into place. His shotgun was soon in hand as he slithered out of his seat, and carefully rounded Rustbucket.

In front of him was a bona fide alien space craft.

The ship was sleek and smooth, with bubbled windows, and lights that flickered in spastic patterns. Smoke and heat rose from the wreckage as Piccolo drew closer, his shotgun pressed firmly against his shoulder. He shifted through the sand, his black boots just barely maintaining leverage on the surface as he came up to the hulking silver craft.

He punched the ship's panel, thankful of his protective gloves as sparks were spit back at him. The door slid open with a hiss, and a strange smell filled the air. Piccolo grimaced, and moved a bit closer, careful to keep his mouth shut tight as he clambered up the steps. Inside was a long hall, where he could already see corpses that lay sprawled out across the walls.

The ship had crashed on its side, leaving everything leaning to the right. Hologram chips, strange food, and miscellaneous blasters were all scattered around Piccolo's feet. He made sure to step over them, treading lightly as to not alert anything that might still be alive on board.

He came upon a door, and gave it a sharp kick, sending it flying down. He grabbed the edge of the doorway and swung himself into the room. His feet dangled precariously, before he could drop himself and his gun down into the room. He saw that computers had all been upended, and saw a body motionless on the ground.

Piccolo was shocked. This was the first ship that had survived a crash so intact that he had been able to actually see a working control room. He could see coordinates for space flashing on the screen, as well as several warning messages that had obviously come a little too late. He lowered his gun, and scooted towards the computer. Cold would want this entire ship—the thing was a gold mine for the government to use for their explorations. And, they could give it Piccolo once they were through, or completely craft a new one!

His luck was turning around!

Something cold, wet, and slimy wrapped around Piccolo's free arm, and he sighed.

Of course, it wasn't.

He spun quickly, and shot the alien in the head. The thing practically absorbed the bullet, and slowly began to rise to its full height. The creature rose several feet above Piccolo, and shook slime from its body. Its skin was nothing but pustules, and it had absolutely no face. It was merely a gelatinous blob with tentacles, and a rather protruding beak in the middle of its body.

It screeched—an attempt at some form of communication—but Piccolo shot once more. He kicked his left foot up, and managed to get it stuck to the tentacle anchoring him in place.

"Fuck…" Piccolo looked desperately around for something, before he realized that the alien wasn't even attacking him. The creature had turned its back to Piccolo, and instead was focused on the computers. Piccolo took that time to try and pull himself free from the thing's grasp, but was completely unsuccessful. His attempts were interrupted, however, as the alien smacked a large red button, which immediately sent sirens blaring.

Piccolo practically keeled over, the loud sound piercing his skull. Before he could hit the ground, though, the alien punched a hole through its own ship, reeled back, and sent Piccolo flying back out into the bright sunlight. Piccolo was flipped entirely upside down as he went spiraling through the gritty air, before he hit a sand dune and was promptly buried under the hot grains.

He lay there for a moment, before he heard a distant boom. He then struggled back to the surface, and spat sand in every direction. He cricked his neck back, just to see fiery shrapnel raining out into the desert—and once more all of his hopes and dreams of leaving Earth being dashed.

Defeated, Piccolo felt his shoulder slump forward. He remained there for at least ten minutes, before he finally dragged himself out of the sand. It was then that he realized that the alien's slime had left him with an unfortunate coating, and he was now thoroughly caked.

Piccolo cursed and kicked at nothing, before he finally got up, and did the rest of his job—retrieval. He went to Rustbucket, and dug out his trash bags, along with a pooper scooper he'd bought online. The thing came in rather handy, since Cold's people didn't like him touching the alien samples. He managed to gather up all the burnt body parts into one bag, before he got to work on collecting the spaceship parts. Most of the pieces would go to Cold for research purposes, but many of the smaller things Piccolo was allowed to keep. The majority of this ship would probably be his, as they'd already had one of this model crash prior. Those aliens had been birdlike creatures, however, and not slimy freaks that chucked him halfway across the planet.

He went through, and attempted to gather as much as he could. When he was finally done, he headed back into town. The pieces rattled around in the back, and he was still dripping slime into his cloth seats, but he was rather happy that he'd come across that ship. As much of a pain as it had been, it meant he'd get some money this week—and he'd had his eye on a leather jacket he'd seen online. His current one was beginning to show wear and tear from his occupation.

Especially if he came into contact with anymore slime.

He pulled into his driveway, and kicked open Rustbucket's door. He slid out of his seat, and immediately yelped. A stranger was in his driveway. He whipped his gun up, the muzzle level with their forehead as he went into a defensive pose.

"Firearms are not permitted in this area!" the stranger snapped, and Piccolo realized it was a woman. He quickly pulled the gun back, his jaw tightening as he stared her down.

"Are you insane?" he snarled. "I could have shot you!"

"Not likely." The woman sniffed. Her eyes narrowed into slits as she tilted her head back, and regarded him with disdain. "So… you really are an alien…"

Piccolo felt distaste bubble up in the back of his throat. "No, shit, you got to see the freak show. Anything else I can help you with?"

"You can start by not using profanity!" she barked, and Piccolo sneered.

"Why the hell not?"

"Because I don't want my son hearing that!"

"Your—is that a kid on your back?" Piccolo stepped back, his elbows bumping Rustbucket. He got a good look at the woman. She was short, with wide hips, and a powerful frame resting on her. Her eyes were almost as black as her hair, that was cut simply with bangs. She wore plain clothes—a green blouse and khakis, along with sensible flats, where Piccolo could see another pair of shoes dangling just behind her.

"That kid looks big enough to be twelve!" Piccolo balked. The woman had her kid in one of the backpack holsters—except the child was significantly Too Old to be in one.

"I'm actually nine!" A timid voice piped up. "But it's real nice to meet you, mister." Piccolo crinkled his brow, while the woman merely focused back in on him.

"That's sweet Gohan, but mommy's gotta focus now." She jabbed a finger towards Piccolo, and he actually felt himself flinch back from it. "You, mister, are the whole reason I had to sit through eight thousand pages of legal mumbo-jumbo!"

"It's actually eight thousand and one," Piccolo sneered. "That last page is strictly for signatures, though."

The woman's nostrils flared in a very unattractive way. "Not the point!" She took a step, and her little sensible flat kicked up enough dirt to swirl its way up into Piccolo's sinuses. "Now, mister, I don't know how things went before I moved in here—but I believe in a good community, first and foremost! And good communities don't have dirt yards, rusty pick-up trucks, and guns!" She stared at each offensive item as she ticked them off, and Piccolo felt his aggravation mounting once more.

"Woman, I've lived here a hell of a lot longer then you have," he snapped, "and nobody's ever complained before."

"Well," she leaned back, a rather imperious smirk on her face. "We'll see about that. I suggest you shape up without ulterior motives. I'll not have my baby in the same neighborhood as an extraterrestrial thug."

"Thug—?" Piccolo broke off his words. His jaw snapped hard enough for seismic activity as he glowered at the woman. This was incredible! Ridiculous! "You're the one trespassing," he finally spat.

She frowned, but didn't back down. "Just make sure you clean your act up." She turned sharply on her heel, and Piccolo was finally face to face with the kid. He looked the spitting image of his mother—just with a hideous bowl cut smacked down on his skull. He gave a cheerful little wave at Piccolo, who in turn bared his fangs.

With those two gone, Piccolo was left in peace to handle the remains of the alien.

He hadn't taken the woman's words to heart—not really, anyways. He'd mostly shrugged her off as being a crack-pot neighbor that talked big but never did anything. She wouldn't have been the first. Piccolo had had one man move in, who had decided that Piccolo was going to plunder his wife. Outraged at the very idea, the man stormed up to Piccolo's door, got an impromptu nose job from a well-aimed can of soup, and had promptly disappeared from Piccolo's life. He didn't know if the man even still lived in the neighborhood.

So, naturally, when his new neighbor had come at him, Piccolo scoffed, and took it in stride. He'd already shown her he was larger, and armed—he figured that would be the end of it.

He realized how wrong he'd been, exactly, when he left the house one morning to find a flyer had been taped to his door. He stared, blankly, at the paper.

NEIGHBORHOOD MEETING

To celebrate our community, everyone is invited to attend

an informal cook-out, held at the local recreation building.

Visitors are encouraged—but not required—to bring fun,

food, and family!

"Heya, mister!"

Piccolo jumped, and dropped the paper to the ground as he whirled about to the sound of the voice. He glared at where his rickety fence now had a much nicer little white picket to put it to shame. But just above the fresh white paint was a little boy's happy face, chubby cheeks turned up.

It was Bowl-cut.

Piccolo attempted to ignore the kid and head out to his truck, but the child was apparently insistent.

"Heya, mister! Did you read the paper?" Bowl-cut appeared to be bouncing on his toes. He could just barely peer over the fence into Piccolo's yard, and Piccolo had to debate whether a kick would crush the kid's face—or merely discourage him.

He contemplated this while Bowl-cut started up again.

"I hope you liked it! I typed it up and everything—really! I'm good at typing! Best in my class—or, my old class, really… I don't know about this new school yet…" Bowl-cut's enthusiasm faded for just a moment. Piccolo stared at the child, willing a spacecraft to land, right now, on the dumb kid's turned up nose.

Unfortunately, no alien was forthcoming. The damned things had a penchant for desert that Piccolo would never understand. It was hell out there. Though, he supposed it was hell here too, what with weird kids accosting you.

"So, you gonna come?"

Piccolo frowned. Come to what? —that shit from the paper? Was the kid insane? He didn't attend community functions. In fact, he wasn't even sure they had any. It was one-hundred percent possible that they did, and nobody ever thought to invite Piccolo. He certainly wasn't asking them to do so. But if the kid had typed it up, he could only assume that the woman from before was behind this.

"I'm not," Piccolo snarled, "going to any stupid community meetups. I got shit to do." He crunched through the dirt and sand all the way to Rustbucket. He saw Bowl-cut practically wilt. Piccolo cranked Rustbucket up to life, and backed out of his driveway. It was then that he saw the kid was leashed into the yard—one of those weird backpack deals tied up to a post.

Piccolo stared, and for one teeny, tiny, insignificant moment wondered if he felt bad for the kid. Then, Piccolo promptly reminded himself that the kid and his mom could wrap their mouths around a car's tail pipe for all he cared, and then he sped off into the desert.

All thoughts of the kid, and his obnoxious new neighbor, left his mind for the few hours that he was out in the desert. As much as he hated the place, he found himself relaxing as he trudged through as much ground as he could cover. When he finally did head back home, he was rudely awakened from his peaceful day, as the woman stood on the sidewalk, directly in between their lines of property.

He pulled in, resisted the urge to roll his eyes, and actually braked for the damned woman. He didn't know why—but he paused, and passed her a rather dry glance.

"Gohan said you weren't interested in coming to the meetings."

Of course. Bowl-cut snitched on him. "I'm not." Piccolo repeated himself for the second time that day. He wasn't used to having to talk to people, and he was finding all of this very trying for his nerves. The most he ever spoke to anyone was General Cold and Freeza, and those two were mostly bland reports about what he was doing out here, and why they should continue to maintain him.

"You really need to come. A lot of the discussions we plan on having are going to directly involve you, and problems in the neighborhood that you are attributing to." She stared him down, her tiny black eyes boring into his skull.

Piccolo curled his upper lip. "I've got a job to do, and I have no interest in playing neighbors with the pathetic people here."

The bridge of the woman's nose flushed in aggravation. "That's a horrible attitude to have!" She snapped.

"I'm not the one tying my brat up in the yard," Piccolo retorted.

"That is none of your business, and I'll have you know it's to keep him safe! Now," that damned index finger rose up and pointed at him, "you need to come to this meeting!"

"I don't need to do anything." Piccolo reached his hand angrily into his glove department box, where he grabbed hold of some papers. He stuffed them out of his truck, meeting the woman's finger midway. "You see this here?" He gesticulated with the papers. "This is my legal documentation. I'm a free alien—a legal alien—and you can't do shit about that. You got that?"

Of course, he could not have been more wrong.

He'd hit his gas pedal then, and had gone tearing up the dirt to his house. He could see the woman was still standing there, brain kicking into overdrive at the rude way he treated her. He couldn't care less, though—the way he saw it, the woman was being a nuisance to him, and not the other way around.

His behavior soon backfired, however, as he flopped down on the couch, his boots kicked off, just as his phone rang. He groaned, rolled his eyes up towards the sky, and stomped his way over to the clamoring device. He picked it up, and as soon as the cold plastic pressed against the shell of his ear, he was immediately accosted.

"I don't know what the hell you're doing over there," Freeza's high-pitched voice screeched through the receiver, "but my father is currently being hounded by some inane woman!" If Piccolo strained his ears hard enough, he could just make out General Cold's own voice. It sounded a tad bit frantic. "She claims she's your neighbor - what the hell are you doing to her?!"

"I haven't done anything," Piccolo protested. His fangs clicked together, and he hoped Freeza could hear it. "She keeps hounding me about being a neighbor, and wants me to go to this cookout." He shifted in his seat, to better shrug his jacket off, as Freeza tore back into him.

"I don't give a damn what the inane woman wants - just give it to her! If daddy is interrupted by her one more time, it'll be your head we're after! Need I remind you that your situation is perilous as is? You are not to draw this much attention to yourself!" Freeza's voice managed to sound simultaneously like a hiss and a scream all in one, and Piccolo really wondered how he did that.

"Won't it be drawing attention to myself if I go to a cookout with a bunch of people around?" Piccolo argued. He wasn't giving this up without a fight.

"The people know you exist," Freeza said. "They're just… not used to your unfortunate appearance."

Unnecessary, Piccolo thought to himself.

"Regardless," Freeza continued, "we're sick of hearing her loud mouth. You are going to do what she wants from here on out, or else we'll cut our funding."

Piccolo's mouth puckered inwards as his brows drew down. He tried not to make any audible noise of the hatred that bubbled in his stomach, but he found it increasingly hard to clamp down on it.

"Well then, too-da-loo." Freeza's voice cut out of existence, and Piccolo was left staring angrily at his phone.

Piccolo's attendance at the meeting had been made mandatory, but he certainly wasn't going to enjoy the time that he had to spend there. He purposefully strapped his gun on to his hip where it would be visible, pulled on his dirtiest, oldest pair of boots, and intentionally flapped his shirt in the sand that had collected on his living room floor - in spite of his best efforts. Now it aided his scruffy look as he stomped out of his house and slammed the door.

He honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd made a public appearance in front of humans, but he supposed it would be all right. Freeza had assured him, after all, that everyone who moved into this community had to sign a phenomenal amount of paperwork, and that attending this meeting was mandatory. He didn't know what the diminutive woman had said to actually rally Freeza and Cold into acquiescing to her, but he supposed it was none of his business. It didn't matter what she'd said, after all - all that mattered was that he was being forced into this stupid mess.

He wasn't familiar with town, but as far as he knew there was only one strip of actual road in this entire area. He knew there was a grocery market past the horizon of houses, and he assumed that somewhere in that direction, a recreation center existed.

He climbed into Rustbucket, and felt the metal beast rock beneath him. He turned the key in the ignition, and it roared to life. He cruised down the road, always startled at the rather asinine amount of green grass that flared to life outside of his little hell-pocket of a house. He didn't know what it was about his home - perhaps it was him? - but there was something about that completely and utterly deterred any form of growth. He'd thought, once, that he'd seen a dandelion growing out by his fence. It was, however, merely a space pod that injected itself into the ground which Piccolo had quickly squashed, too aggravated that it was far too small to salvage any pieces from.

Houses rolled by him in an unrecognizable blur, along with a gas station (which he didn't need to use, as Cold sent him his own gasoline) a few grocery stores, and a few little locally owned shops. Piccolo knew none of these, and did most of his shopping online, or was simply sent it through the Colds' network.

He finally arrived at the recreation center, or, what he assumed was the recreation center. It was a rather large, nondescript parking lot, with several picnic tables dispersed beneath a giant stone awning, with a huge banner spread from one concrete column to another. Several cars were already in the parking lot, and Piccolo could see people milling about. Piccolo parked Rustbucket far away from everyone else's vehicles, just out of pure spite. He pulled the keys out of the ignition, and attempted to mentally prepare himself.

He got out and headed over towards the recreation center, his shoes crunching through sand and what pitiful amount of grass managed to grow out here. Off to the side of the pavilion, he could see a rather decrepit looking playground which a few kids were hanging off of. He couldn't see Bowlcut over there, but it soon became apparent why, as he was currently riding on his mother's back again. He looked rather distressed, and kept glancing wistfully over to the other children, but the woman seemed to pay no mind.

His neighbor was busy greeting people, handing out little flyers to everyone that approached her. They were all talking about inane things, and Piccolo was able to walk up to stand underneath the awning before anyone even noticed him.

The shock on their faces almost made attending the stupid meeting worth it. A few wives had been placing dishes out for others to get a hold of, while a few more people still were standing at the public grills. They all turned to face him, almost completely dropping everything they were doing to stop and stare. What had started out funny had officially become rather nerve-wracking and annoying.

The only person who didn't seem startled was his neighbor.

She turned fiery eyes on him, and shoved a flyer in his direction.

"Here you go. A bullet point list of the topics we'll be discussing today over everyone's meal."

Piccolo glowered at the paper in his hand.

A Better Community:

How we'll achieve it

*A discussion over how grass length directly

affects youth's ability to study

*A friendly neighborhood is a happy one

*How communities affect their children

*Microwave radiation and how it affects

your child's grey matter

Piccolo stopped reading at that point, and simply stared, stupefied.

"Lady, are you fucking nuts?"

"Bullet point fifteen expressly states that we're here to discuss how cursing affects our children and their ability to handle confrontation appropriately," the woman hissed at him.

"I didn't read that far down," Piccolo replied, crumpling up the paper. He dropped it to the ground.

"I can tell!" she snapped, and stooped down to pick up his paper. She clenched in her fist, and pointed dramatically up at Piccolo. "Don't you know littering is bad for the environment? You could ruin this ecosystem around here!"

"We live in a desert," Piccolo snorted. "And let me guess - pollution affects how your kid studies, or something?"

"As a matter of fact - ,"

"Ms. Chi Chi!" A young, bald police officer made his way over, a smile on his face. "Please, I was telling one of my work buddies about how you intended to talk about the police force, and really, we take it as a great honor!" The officer gave Piccolo a nervous look out of the side of his eye, but said nothing.

"Of course." His neighbor - Chi Chi - puffed her chest out. "A strong police force means that the streets our safer for our kids." She smiled, then, but when she turned to Piccolo it became malicious once more. "Of course, some of us actually care about our future."

Piccolo flipped her the bird, and ignored the agitated screech that came after him. He stuffed his hands in his jacket pocket, and took a seat at one of the stone picnic tables. All of the other people gave him a wide berth, and continued talking about the points that Chi Chi planned to bring up today.

He was able to enjoy a relative silence until Chi Chi and the police officer happened to approach a table near him, where all the people immediately began talking quite loudly about the topics at hand.

"We have such a big problem with the UFO's that come around here," a woman complained, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

"Well, they're not UFO's," the bald officer corrected. "They're identified." He rubbed at the back of his sweat-slicked head. "Unfortunately, no one really knows why they always land here, so there's not much we can do about it."

A man at the table spoke in an obnoxiously loud whisper, "But, couldn't they be landing here because… you know?"

Piccolo frowned, because he could feel gazes burning into the back of his shoulder. Like hell it was his fault! Half the aliens that landed here only did it because of how deserted the… well, desert was!

"I think it's more due to how much empty space there is." Chi Chi said this, and Piccolo was startled to hear something somewhat sane come out of her mouth. "Plenty of area for a spaceship to land." He could hear disapproval in her voice, as if she wanted nothing more than to approach a flying saucer and tell it off for inconveniencing her child's independent reading time.

"Either way, it's a wonder I can even feel safe! I've tried to move so many times, but…" The woman's voice faded away for a moment, as if she'd suddenly forgotten how to speak. When she finally did find her voice, she sounded a bit dazed. "Oh, it just never works out for me… you know the house market."

"It's definitely cheaper out here," Chi Chi conceded. "Oh, I'd better get up to the front. I should prepare the presentation." She walked off then, and Piccolo turned around in time to see Bowlcut's heels dragging in the sand as Chi Chi made her way to the front of the pavilion. She cleared her throat, and when she spoke, her voice was so loud she didn't even need a megaphone.

"Hello, people of Barren Grove, today we're here to discuss many topics, and we'll start with bullet point one. Grass, and the affect it has on your child's psyche and ability to grow! As stated in Minute Things for Child Growth, by Harrold Hoggson, a pleasant look is necessary for a pleasant mind, and in this book he discusses - ,"

A droning sound had started overhead. At first, Piccolo assumed it was his brain attempting to tune out everything stupid that Chi Chi was saying, but as he saw other people reacting as well, he realized that no, in fact, there was a loud thrumming noise coming from up in the sky - to the point where now no one could hear Chi Chi speak.

Piccolo stood, and moved out from under the pavilion, just in time to watch a giant alien ship, shaped like a saucer, to land directly in the parking lot. Right on top of Rustbucket.

Piccolo felt as if he'd been stabbed, and stared dismally at the where his faithful companion used to be. Everyone else's cars were perfectly safe on the other side of the lot, and the sun twinkling off their roofs seemed to mock him.

He hadn't realized he'd slid to his knees until Chi Chi had stormed up next to him, her hands balled up into fists. She'd left Bowlcut back at the pavilion, tied up to one of the pillars.

"The hell do they think they are?!" he heard her shout over the drone of the ship. He thought about telling her to fuck off, that he had this - but then he remembered his gun was in his currently deceased truck. He felt sorrow bubble in his stomach once more, chased by firey, red hot, rage.

He rose to his feet beside Chi Chi, just as the ship shut off, and an eerie silence fell up on the congregation of people. He could hear parents gathering up children, pulling them off the playground and clinging to their little ones. He expected Chi Chi to run back as soon as the ship's door hissed open, and a giant ramp extended from it, but he was surprised - and impressed - when she held her ground.

A silhouette formed at the top of the ramp, and a humanoid alien emerged from within. Piccolo actually froze - he'd never seen an alien look so similar to humans before. The alien looked as if it were an earthling male, except with large, towering black spikes of hair, and a tail that lashed the air behind him.

The alien took several steps forward, and his white boots clicked against the metal. His tail trailed lazily behind him as he hoisted his chin high to regard them all. The humans behind Piccolo gave out cries of alarm and shrank back. But, just as Piccolo was prepared to run forward and fight, another figure emerged from the ship, stuck a taser to the back of the alien's neck, and completely incapacitated the creature.

As the alien slumped to the ground, everyone had a clear view of the person standing behind him.

It was a woman in low-slung cargo pants, a crop-top, and plenty of blue hair that spilled wildly down her back. She had big blue eyes, and a wide, crimson smile that Piccolo could see even at this distance. She popped her hip out, placed one fist on it, and idly spun the taser around with her index finger.

"Hiya," she called, and much like Chi Chi, the woman didn't need a megaphone to be heard. "Sorry to drop in like this, but I'm Bulma Briefs, and I'll be living here now."

There was a great rise of noise and whispers from behind Piccolo and Chi Chi (who he noted was still on guard), and the people seemed to rouse themselves from their scared stupors.

Bulma Briefs stepped carefully over the alien she'd downed, and came swaying down the ramp, until she touched down softly on sand. She glanced upwards, the wind kicking up her wild spray of hair - and she noticed Piccolo for the first time.

She stared at him, and Piccolo only had one moment to dodge out of the way as the woman had dropped her taser in the sand, and had snatched a pistol out of one of her pockets. She leveled it at Piccolo.

"What are you doing?!" It was, surprisingly, Chi Chi who had spoken up. Her brown eyes practically shot fire as she stepped in front of Bulma's gun.

Bulma glanced quickly between Chi Chi and Piccolo, before she slowly lowered her gun.

"That thing… you know it?"

"That thing lives here, you twat," Piccolo griped.

Bulma furrowed her brow. "What…? But, how?"

"He's paid for by the government or something," Chi Chi replied for him. "But you should know this… didn't you sign off on all the paperwork before moving in here?"

Bulma frowned. "Paperwork…?" Something seemed to light in her eyes, however, as she smoothed over her features. "You know what," she laughed, but it sounded incredibly fake, "of course! I completely forgot." She mimicked a duh! sound, and lightly tapped her forehead. "Guess I got distracted, what with the alien and all." Very slyly, she slid closer to the gathered crowd. "I managed to track him, sneak aboard his spaceship, and followed him here."

There was immediately a flurry of excitement, and people crowded around her. Chi Chi tried, unsuccessfully, to remind the crowd of their flyers and all the bullet points they had to get through. Nobody seemed interested in listening, however, as Bulma was recounting her valiant tale to get aboard the alien's ship.

Piccolo frowned, and stood off to the side. He glowered up at the unconscious form of the alien. He'd like to get ahold of that ship - after all, it was still functioning! This could be the lucky break he'd been looking for! In his thinking, he hadn't realized that he'd drawn closer to Bowlcut, who was still tied up to a pillar.

"Don't you think it's odd?" Bowlcut whispered. "That she's not paying attention to him at all… She tried to cover it up, too, but she didn't know about you." The kid turned large eyes up towards Piccolo. "Hey, mister? You know she's lying, right?"

Piccolo nodded, and crouched down beside the kid.

"If that ramp's the only way onto that ship," Piccolo muttered - which he was certain it was, if he could guess anything by the design of it, "then there's no way in hell she snuck on board."

Bowlcut looked reproachful about the use of a curse word, but he seemed to stifle it in favor of talking to Piccolo. "How come she's here, then?"

Piccolo shrugged. Then he realized he was talking to a damn kid about this.

"All right, you better buzz off. If your mom sees you talking to me she'll be pissed." Piccolo sneered, and Bowlcut actually gave a solemn nod.

"Guess you're right, there, mister. But hey, sorry about your truck."

Rustbucket! In all the bedlam, Piccolo had momentarily forgotten that his truck had been annihilated. He stared, heartbroken, at the alien ship. Not that it mattered much. All he had to do was get into the space ship, and he'd be golden anyways. The truck was only a necessity (or so he told himself) to get in and around the desert.

Chi Chi approached him, and he expected to hear an ear full about being near her precious baby but, to his surprise, she kicked at some sand, and glowered in Bulma's direction.

"That woman just showed up, ruined the meeting, and was carrying a firearm…" Chi Chi gritted her teeth together, and her eyebrows furrowed. "Though… why'd she tase that one alien, and try to shoot you?"

Piccolo blinked. That… was actually a good question. All he could offer was a shrug. None of this matter if he could just get on that ship…

Bulma Briefs suddenly extricated herself from the crowd, and headed back over to the ship.

"Well, I must be off now! It was a pleasure to meet all of you!" She was smiling, and stomped her way up the metal ramp - pausing only to grab the strange alien by the scruff and drag him back up into the spacecraft. Then the ramp slid back up and away, the ship kicked on with a loud hum, and rose back up into the air.

"Definitely strange," Bowlcut said. Chi Chi nodded, a pensive look on her features.

"She took the spaceship," Piccolo groaned. He dropped his head in his hands - with the Briefs woman having left, the carnage of Rustbucket was now completely visible. Bowlcut gave him a soft, consoling pat. Piccolo stared blankly at the little boy's tiny hand.

"Your truck…" Chi Chi seemed to have just noticed what had happened. Something seemed to struggle on her face for a moment - some internal conflict - before she let out a deep sigh. "Whenever the meeting is done…." The words sounded as if they hurt her. "... I can drive you home."

Piccolo frowned. "Fine…"

It turns out, Piccolo didn't have to wait too long. He sat in the sand next to Bowl-cut (who apparently had a great interest in space ships and was talking animatedly to Piccolo about them) as Chi Chi ran back over to the gathering of people, still abuzz with Bulma's surprise entrance. The excitement about her crash landing made it impossible for everyone else to settle down, and Chi Chi was unable to continue her lectures about posterity.

People began to filter out, and Chi Chi was left fuming amidst plenty of trash for her to clean up. Piccolo was in the middle of explaining a Type A funnel ship and their tendency to blow up if you touched the door, Chi Chi stomped over, and pressed her fists to her hips.

"You want a ride, you're helping me clean up." She said this forcefully, but her angry gaze didn't even fall on his face, and instead stared off into some distant area to the left. "I can't believe these people!"

"What are you surprised about?" Piccolo grumbled, pushing himself up off the ground. "You really didn't expect people to stick around and clean, did you?"

"Of course I did!" Chi Chi seemed affronted. Then, a sort of melancholy came across her features. "Well, bullet point thirty-five was about working better as a community to clean up our streets and it involved a ten-step program that we were going to implement."

Piccolo shook his head. "Everyone was too distracted by that damn woman…" He sent a cursory glance to his faithful Rustbucket's entrails. He could see shattered metal and pieces scattered in the parking lot.

"She can't be trusted," Bowl-cut muttered. "D'you think… maybe she's an alien?"

Piccolo shrugged, but Chi Chi scoffed.

"I didn't see any tails growing out of her backside. Just devil horns…" She muttered that last part, and shook her head angrily. "Gohan, baby, stay still while me and…" She looked at him, and tilted her head.

"Piccolo."

She frowned. "What?"

"That's my name," he grunted. He hated that he could feel his ears burning under her scrutinizing gaze.

"You name yourself?"

Piccolo pursed his lips. "None of your business." He turned, then, and began gathering up garbage. It was slow going, as Bowl-cut - Gohan - kept stopping him to ask inane questions. Like how his antennae worked, could he be sunburned, why were his ears so large, why was he green, and the like. Chi Chi didn't reprimand him, and instead joined in as well, demanding to know where he was from, was he going to attend future meetings without her having to force him, and what his job was, exactly, because she didn't quite understand.

Piccolo ignored most of their questions. And by most, he meant all. As far as he was concerned, none of these things were of importance to them. And they ought to learn to mind their business. The two of them together were quite a nuisance.

The sun was setting by the time he was done, and even though Piccolo was used to dealing with the desert and all of its trials, he found himself wore out. He supposed it was the mental strain of having two morons constantly pestering him who he was.

He clambered into Chi Chi's car, and was hit by a strong, chill breeze. He shuddered, and stared in surprise at her vents. He'd completely forgotten about air conditioning, and reveled in it.

Chi Chi noticed where his attention lay, and arched her brow at him.

"I take it that old truck didn't have AC?"

"No," he snorted. "Definitely not."

She squinted at him. "Your species all right with the cold?"

Piccolo blinked. "Yes." He was surprised that she'd thought to ask him.

"So, you can take heat, and cold?" Gohan asked eagerly from the backseat. Piccolo turned to look at the boy, and was unsurprised to see that Chi Chi still had the boy in a car seat.

"Can't humans?" Piccolo replied, only slightly snotty, in his opinion.

After that, Chi Chi pulled out of the parking lot, and drove them home. Piccolo got out of the car without a good-bye, or a thank-you. As far as he was concerned, he'd worked for that car ride. He quickly ran into his house, and allowed himself to mull over the recent developments.

A new woman had just landed (destroying his car in the process) with a spaceship, a strange alien, and who hadn't known he existed… Well, he needed to call Freeza to get a new car anyways. Knowing his luck, Freeza would tell him to buy it with his own pocket money, but nevertheless, he could still ask about the newcomer to their neighborhood.

He turned sharply, and dialed the phone.

/Throws myself back into Chiccolo with a vengeance.

I've been sitting on this for a while, and the first chapter's finally ready. I probably won't be able to update with the frequency that I did for IDAFT buuut, ah well. And someone over on Tumblr chose the name, but I cannot find the post! If it was you, yooo hit me up and I'll credit you.

Reviews are appreciated, as always.