Hey all!  Here's my contribution to the Reunion storyline.  It seems to 
have suffered elephantiasis-of-the-fanfic, but hope you enjoy it anyhow,  
Original idea for this story (as well as the Reunion storyline itself) 
came from Erin Mills, though he may not recognize it anymore.

Parts of this were written this morning and parts were written last year, 
so I apologize in advance for any variations within the text; I still 
need to go over it all together...

C+C welcome as always, though this email address of mine will only be 
good for me through May 18, so after that please send private messages 
c/o Jamie Wilde at wildeman@flash.net.  And discussion on the FFML would 
be even better!

Thanks and enjoy!

Ranma 1/2 Reunion
Shampoo:  Feet of Clay, Kisses of Death

     Shampoo sat before the mirror combing her hair, her fingers
trembling slightly as they gripped the intricate jade comb. 
Outside her hut she could hear preparations for the celebration -
- the murmur of gathering voices, the excited sizzle of dumplings
frying, the hiss of meat and poultry roasting to tenderness on
spits, and the understated thumping bubble of soup simmering.  A
half-smile crossed her lips as she thought of the open-pit fires
that would burn all night, first for cooking, then the dancing
and singing and fighting -- and then just a warm gleam in the
distance as she and her new husband retreated for their own
private celebration.
     Her husband.  She paused in her combing and tried it out
loud.  "My husband."  The words felt strange in her mouth, as if
she were speaking a foreign language instead of her native
Chinese.  She said it again in Japanese, wincing at how easily it
rolled off her tongue.  She barely felt Chinese any more, much
less part of the insular Amazon tribe she had grown up in. 
Somehow, the tribe -- her family, she reminded herself -- seemed
to be at a distance, as if she were standing on a hillside
looking out at a valley of flowers.  The distance was not
entirely imagined -- in the few days since her return, there had
been something of an uneasy barrier around her that few dared to
cross.  It as as if -- she blinked at the thought -- as if she
herself were an outsider.  She wondered if someone would be
tempted to give her the Kiss of Death at the end of next year's
tournament.
     Her hands automatically began to pull out locks of hair to
wind into her usual buns, though today she was twisting in long
strings of pearls, which gleamed secretly through strands of her
dark hair.  Perhaps she was assuming too much, that she would win
next year's tournament.  Although she had kept up a rigorous
training regimen in Japan and was as fit as ever, she had not had
the advantage of training with and against her peers.  Who knew
what skills her challengers had developed during her years of
absence?  Some of the new warriors she had last seen as gangly
adolescent novices had been giving her measuring looks from a
distance already, and she expected to receive a few challenges
before the coals of the celebration fires had cooled, from those
who couldn't wait for the tournament, or who feared she would be
pregnant by then, exempt from the battles.
     The burst of firecrackers from outside her door startled
her, and she heard shrill children's laughter fading away, the
scolds of some of the cooks, then Cologne's gravelly voice rising
above them all.  Cologne would be disappointed if she couldn't
compete, but there was nothing to be done.  Cologne would have to
grow used to disappointment.  It would be harder for the elder
than it had been for Shampoo; so far as she knew, Cologne had
never, not in the hundreds of years she had lived, never lost a
battle, whether of strength or of wits.  Until, as Shampoo's
mentor, her great-grandmother, and her tribal elder -- a triple
responsibility -- she had taken Shampoo's failure as her own.
     Shampoo shook herself grimly, tucking in the ends of hair
and beginning on her second bun.  <There was no failure,> she
told herself determinedly.  <Those are her words, not mine.> 
They echoed, though, and Shampoo smiled sadly.  Her pride was not
as it had been, nor her heart, but she had learned to deal with
it, and even to find new happiness.  Once, she had believed as
she suspected Cologne still believed, that life was an all-or-
nothing proposition.  But she knew now that there was a middle
ground, that bittersweet balance that made life livable; and,
more importantly, she had decided that she herself would not
settle for nothing.  At times she found herself thinking of
Cologne as a spoiled child, petted and catered to and ultimately
immature, unaware of that middle ground where life took place. 
Shampoo always scolded herself for her disrespect, but at the
same time she would not give up her own hard-won balance.  Her
own strip of grey was narrower than the Challenge Log, and she
would not give up.  After all, she had only once been unbalanced
in tournament, and she had vowed never again.
     How fitting that the same opponent who had sent her tumbling
on the field of battle should also have thrown her in life.  Her
eyes unfocused slightly as she recalled that first blow, her
first moments of uncertainty.

                           * * *

     It was a hot day, one that made the ladies of Tokyo unfurl
their parasols and pat delicately at their sweating foreheads
with silk handkerchiefs.  Shampoo was no wilting flower, though,
and she reveled in the hot sun on her back as she pedaled in
search of her quarry, down back streets where no pedestrians
slowed her.  She calculated vectors in her mind, preparing to
jolt her bicycle into the air at just the right moment and angle
to pick Ranma off his usual fence without landing them both in
the canal.  Today she would add a bounce off that violent girl's
head, just hard enough to send a clear message of superiority. 
Psychological warfare was essential in social situations, and the
tomboy was satisfyingly vulnerable... With a sure jerk of her
strong arms and a twist of her body, Shampoo bounced off the
plastic frog in front of the drugstore, left skidmarks on a light
pole, then rebounded to an awning that angled her up, over the
roof of the squat drugstore.  She shed her bicycle at the apex of
her leap, using the leverage of her kick to send herself towards
the tomboy...
     ...who wasn't there.  Shampoo adjusted her trajectory in
midair and landed lightly on her toes, scanning the street with
narrow eyes.  Akane was nowhere in sight.  It was impossible that
Shampoo had miscalculated; she had been at the top of her Combat
Physics class and never missed her target on the Complex
Projectile Motion laboratories.  And although Ranma and Akane had 
been out of school for a short while following the failed wedding
(Shampoo smirked to herself at her successful guerrilla warfare),
they were due to return to school this week.  The only answer was
that Akane was not going to school today.  Shampoo grinned
ferally.  Ranma was all hers.
     But... he wasn't on the fence, not as far as she could see
in either direction.  Ranma was skipping school too?  That was
odd.  He usually showed up for first roll call at the very least. 
Perhaps he was sick; she would have to fix some special
restorative ramen...
     "Shampoo."  Ranma's cold voice came from behind her and she
instinctively pushed off for a Full Glomp (tm), knocking him
against the drugstore's back wall and wrapping her arms tightly
around him.
     "Nihao," she purred, happily rubbing her cheek against his
satin shirt.  "You dump violent girl, play *hooky* with Shampoo?" 
She hoped Ranma noticed her subtle use of the word "hooky" as a
euphemism for passionate husband-wife stuff, but just in case he
was too dense to figure it out -- a definite hazard with Ranma --
she applied her favorite Subtle Mid-Glomp Movements (tm).
     "C'mon, Shampoo.  Quit it," he said, pushing at her
fruitlessly. (Nobody ever escaped from an Amazon Glomp (tm).)  He
obviously didn't get it.  Shampoo sighed at her husband's lack of
mental faculty, but then, what did she expect?  He was only a
man.  She released enough to let him see her face and pouted.
     "If you no go on date with Shampoo, then why you no running
to school?"  Mentally she cursed the Japanese language, which
made her sound like an idiot.  Ranma apparently missed the
playful logic; in fact, he seemed to be... angry?
     "It's a national holiday," he said in a tight voice. 
Then his tone grew harder, mirroring the glare in his eyes. 
"Shampoo, we have to talk.  That's why I came out here today."
     "Okay, we talk."  Shampoo snuggled closer.  Her husband
wanted to talk to her!  The day shone before her.
     "Separately.  I don't want you touching me."  Shampoo didn't
like that idea, but it occurred to her that maybe Ranma meant to
confess his love on bended knee, and so she let him go and waited
for him to kneel.
     Instead, he folded his arms and glared at her for a few
moments.  Shampoo grew uneasy as time stretched out.  "Ranma?"
she said in a tentative voice that she barely recognized as her
own.  She had never seen him quite like this, so... quiet.
     When he spoke, it was in a determinedly reasonable voice. 
"Why did you do it, Shampoo?"
     "Do what, airen?"
     "Why'd you attack Akane like that?"  He began to speak
faster.  "I thought you were a friend of ours, that you'd gotten
over that killing stuff, at least where we were concerned.  But
it was all an act, wasn't it?  You were just waiting for an
opportunity, an excuse.  And then, you even dragged Ukyou into
it."  He raised his head and looked straight into her eyes. 
"It's taken me this long to calm down enough to even talk to you. 
I've never been this angry in my entire life."
     Shampoo blinked.  "But, Ranma, you know I must kill Akane. 
She try to stop us from fulfilling destiny.  And long ago I give
her Kiss of Death. I try be su... sub... subtle for you, since
you so cute and squeamish, but end is same.  You and Shampoo are
married.  If Akane try to get in way, I must kill."
     Ranma took a deep breath, closing his eyes as if praying to
some higher power.  "Shampoo," he said carefully.  "Akane isn't
what's keeping us apart.  It's you."
     "Me?"
     "Look.  I'm tired of being put on a pedestal."  He sounded
rehearsed, as if he had practiced that line for hours without
ever quite mastering it.
     "Put on pedestal?"  Shampoo frowned.  "What that mean?"
     "It means... forget it, I'm not going to explain anything to
you.  I'll make this short."  He folded his arms. "Shampoo, the
engagement is off."
     "We no engaged, we married."
     "Then the marriage is off."  He stuck his jaw out
belligerently.  "As of today, I've made my decision.  You and
Ukyou and Kodachi, all of you are out of the picture.  None of
you seem to be able to get it through your heads that I'm not
some contest prize, that I have the right to make my own
decisions."
     Shampoo began to see red.  Ukyou and Kodachi and herself...
that left...  "What about that violent girl?"
     "You stay away from Akane."  Ranma's voice was deadly quiet. 
"If you ever try anything with Akane, I'll kill you."  He shook
his head as if clearing away cobwebs, then spoke in a more normal
tone of voice.  "I don't know whether I'm going to marry Akane. 
That's a decision I'm not ready to make.  But I know who I'm not
going to marry.  You."
     Shampoo clenched her fists.  "You no make fun of Shampoo."
     "I'm not making fun of you," he said flatly, with perhaps a
hint of sympathy.  "Look, if you can ever start treating me like
a human being and stop trying to kill Akane, we can still be
friends."
     Friends?  Cold fury washed over her, and she could feel
herself trembling.  She had left family and friends, possibly
even her career behind her, and he wanted to be friends?  Well,
she wouldn't give in so easily.  There was one weapon she had
left, and she wasn't afraid to use it.
     "Ranma," she growled.  "You no do this!"  With an energetic
flip she flew backwards, landing feet first in the canal.  As the
change spread upward through her body, she could feel her fury
crackling through her skin, making her wet fur bristle, and she
grinned inside at the satisfying expressiveness of her cat body. 
As she leapt back over the fence, she heard Ranma moan in
terrified anticipation.
     He scrabbled backwards at the sight of her, his eyes glazed
and pupils dilated.  One jump to his chest, a dainty lick on the
ear, and he would succumb.  She put thought into action.
     But -- he had closed his eyes.  His head was shaking weakly
back and forth, tears leaking out from his screwed-shut eyelids,
his whole body trembling with fear and effort.  His tongue
flicked at his lips.  "No, Shampoo."  His voice cracked.  "No."
     She swished her tail at his nose.  "No," he muttered.
     Her whiskers played across his cheek.  "No," he whispered.
     There was more, so much more she could do, but his
determination gave her pause.  Was he serious?  And if he was
serious... The implications staggered her, and in a flash -- her
cat body did everything in a flash -- she decided to press her
advantage another day.  She scampered off in the direction of the
Nekohanten, grateful once more for her cat body, for if she had
been human, she would have cried.
     In the safety of her room, she did cry, though silently so
that Cologne would not hear.  When the tears had ceased their
silent progress down her cheeks, she reached up to the shelf of
language textbooks over her bed, pulling down her idiomatic
dictionary.  She had been studying Japanese for less than a year,
and had found the book an invaluable tool in understanding the
people around her.
     What had Ranma said? -- He was "tired of being put on a
pedestal."  Tongue between her teeth, she looked up the word
"pedestal."  See "on a pedestal."  She flipped back a few pages.
     Hmmm... of English origin, meaning "lovingly honored and
cared for; exalted."  That didn't sound too bad; Ranma had said
it like it was a bad thing.  There were a slew of examples; she
read them with interest, frowning intently.
     "In Japan we are so used to work that we can't conceive of
life without it.  We have placed work on a pedestal.  It is our
God."
     "They discovered that their idol had feet of clay, after
placing him on a pedestal."
     Feet of clay?  She flipped back some more.  "A hidden flaw
or weakness in a person which is discovered or shown."  The
example seemed strange.  "The woman finds that her golden-headed
god has got an iron body and feet of clay." Iron body described
Ranma all right -- what was wrong with that? -- but... She
combined the definitions in her head:  They discovered that their
idol had a hidden flaw or weakness, after lovingly honoring and
caring for him.  She discovered that Ranma had a hidden flaw or
weakness, after lovingly honoring and caring for him.... She has
placed Ranma on a pedestal.  He is her God..... Realization
flooded over her, and she winced.  
     So it was not the honoring, but the fact that it was
excessive that was bothersome.  Perhaps she should hold back...
She stared at the pages of the dictionary, brows knit in thought. 
Something nagged at her about that description... "Aiya!" she
muttered in sudden realization.  That was how _Mousse_ treated
_her_!
     She sank back into her bed, shrinking slightly into herself. 
She couldn't be as pathetic as Mousse.  She was a proud warrior
of the Joketsuzoku tribe, as near to perfection as humanity came. 
Mousse was a blind, whining, pathetic *man*.  She wasn't like
him, not at all.  But a little voice inside her whispered in a
voice she knew, but couldn't quite identify, <yes you are.>
     There was a faint knock at the door.  She glanced into her
mirror to make sure there was no trace of her tears.  Her face
was as flawless as usual.  "Come in," she said haughtily.
     Mousse stood nervously in the doorway.  "You've been
crying," he stated.  "I can tell."
     Shampoo narrowed her eyes.  That was one reason she hated
him, he could always read her.  Not in battle, nor any time that
it took eyesight, but when it came down to the things she truly
wanted hidden, her weaknesses, he always saw them.  Pathetic
fool.
     Mousse went on.  "I know you don't want to talk to me,
Shampoo."  His voice was as formal as ever, though oddly calm;
usually he would be nearly hysterical at this point in the
conversation.  "I just want you to know that I know what's
happened.  You're not the only one Ranma had a talk with."  He
raised his head, glasses shining on his forehead.  "Just remember
that I am here for you.  I love you, Shampoo..."  She slammed the
door in his face before he could glomp her; he had mastered the
Amazon Glomp (tm) nearly as well as she, though luckily he
usually missed his target.  She sniffed, partly in pride, partly
to hold back tears.  Pathetic fool, coming to sweep up Ranma's
leavings.  Well, she would take no consolation prize.  The
campaign had just begun.
                           * * *

     The next day, Shampoo showed up at Furinkan High School
exactly thirty seconds before the lunch bell rang, carrying the
wooden Nekohanten take-out crate with careless ease.  Inside, she
had placed her own special Pork Ramen, with spring onions and
shiitake mushrooms and a perfect heart-shaped strip of seaweed
that sank delectably into the broth.  During her half-minute of
wait, she gave herself a miniature version of the pep talk she
had chanted inwardly the entire morning.  "Okay, Shampoo," she
muttered under her breath.  "Treat Ranma normal.  Give him food. 
Don't touch violent girl.  You do that, he no hate you."  He
might fight her; okay.  He might yell at her; okay.  She could
handle these things...  The bell rang and she kicked in the wall.
     Conversations tended to stop whenever Shampoo entered a
room; she was used to it by now.  Not only was she worth pausing
to look at, she really knew how to make an entrance.  (With one
well-placed kick, of course.)  And so the silence Shampoo usually
met was a good thing, proof of her superiority.
     This silence... this silence was different.  Expectant. 
Tense.  Fearful -- yet not fear of her, oh no.  She sensed that
immediately.  No, the fear was *for* her.
     She faced Ranma across the classroom, noting in the corner
of her mind that the other students had already clustered into
groups at the fringes of the room.  The only student still seated
was Akane, who was nonchalantly eating rice out of her bento box. 
Ranma moved to block Shampoo's view of the violent girl, crossing
his arms and half-seating himself on a desk.
     "I thought you might show up today."  Ranma's voice was
resigned and a little bitter.  Shampoo recalled what she had
heard about his confrontation with Ukyou, and quailed inside, but
pasted a smile on her face and stepped forward.
     "Of course I come today.  Shampoo bring special Pork Ramen
for lunch.  Is thing wi... uh, *friend* does for *friend*."  She
winked and opened the box to let the fragrant steam of the soup
waft out.  She could see Ranma's mouth begin to water, the hunger
in his eyes.  Oh, yes, her Ranma had feet of clay indeed, and she
had the shoes that fit them.
     Ranma turned away briefly, keeping one eye on the ramen, and
muttered something at Akane behind him.  Shampoo leaned closer.
"... and remember, whatever I say or do, just stay out of it!"
     "Of course I'll stay out of it," Akane hissed.  "Get on with
it!"
     Ranma turned back just in time for Shampoo to hold up a
steaming bunch of noodles with her chopsticks.  "Say 'ah,'
Ranma!"  she bubbled.
     Instead, he held out his hand, palm up.  Shampoo slowly
looked downwards.  There, shining in the fluorescent gleam of the
classroom lights, were three silver coins.  She blinked.  "Ranma,
what this?"
     "It's 700 yen.  That's what the ramen costs, isn't it?" 
Ranma gazed at her steadily.
     Shampoo felt something crumble inside.  "But..."
     "Is it more?"  Ranma pressed.  "I haven't looked at the menu
in some time, but it was 700 yen last I knew... Here."  He pulled
another coin out of his pocket and added it to the others.  "This
should cover the delivery charges."  Shampoo's eyes were glued to
the coins, and the ramen began to tremble in her hands.
     "Ranma..." she said softly.  "You no have to pay for ramen. 
Shampoo give to you."  Her eyes raised to his, pleading.
     He shook his head.  "Sorry, Shampoo.  I can't accept any
more free food.  Anything you bring me, I'll be paying you for."
     Shampoo's mind whirled.  This was something she hadn't been
prepared for.  Why didn't he shout?  Or fight her?  This... this
*money* made her feel... cheap.  Like she was no warrior, but a
mere waitress.  Not a loving wife, but a servant...  Tears sprang
to her eyes, and she didn't bother blinking them away, allowing
them to roll fetchingly down her cheeks; here was another
weakness of Ranma's, one she had used often.  Though her tears
had never been quite the same as these... In any case, Ranma
would soon be begging her forgiveness, as well he should.
     She heard the clink of coins as Ranma dropped his handful of
change on top of her take-out crate.  "I'm sorry, Shampoo," he
said firmly.  "This is the way it has to be."  He folded his arms
again and simply watched her.  Shampoo looked up at him in
anguish, something in her aching at the sight of him, so cold and
strong and distant... <This is how Mousse feels...> she thought
blearily, then narrowed her tear-filled eyes until Ranma's image
was warped and blurred.  <But I am not Mousse!>
     She hurled the bowl of ramen with blinding speed, not even
waiting for it to connect before she was out the hole in the
wall, pulling her crate with her.  Great-Grandmother would be
upset that she had broken the bowl, but she would have plenty of
other things to upset her as well.  
     Halfway to the Nekohanten, Shampoo looked down and realized
that some of Ranma's change was still sliding around atop the
crate, though some had been lost along the way.  Shampoo picked
up the coins in her fist and threw them as far as she could, then
smashed the crate against the nearest lamppost, sinking to the
ground.  The tears rolled unfettered, and she gave herself over
to them, not caring anymore whether her face was blotchy, or her
eyes red.  That voice in her head was taunting her, telling her
how worthless she was.  <You put him on a pedestal,> it said,
<but in so doing you put yourself in a ditch.>  She wrapped her
arms around her knees and let her hot tears soak into her satin
pants, wondering what she could possibly do now that Ranma, the
foundation of her future, was gone.

                           * * *

     She managed to disguise her broken heart for three weeks
before Cologne found out, but discovery was inevitable, despite
her best efforts.  She continued to fix ramen for Ranma's lunch
every day, which she would dump untasted into the canal, or feed
to stray dogs.  She bounced off for an occasional "date" -- spent
alone on a rooftop far from the Nekohanten, far from Furinkan
High School, and farthest of all from the Tendo Dojo.  She even
bought herself the occasional gift with her own pocket money -- a
hair comb, a sentimental card, a bit of chocolate.  She hid her
tears in her room.
     Even Mousse, for some reason, seemed to sense her need for
secrecy -- where once he would have brashly proclaimed himself
Shampoo's groom now that he had no rival, instead he simply
watched Shampoo, silently, his brown eyes somber and shaded.  Or
perhaps that was just the effect of his glasses.  
     But Cologne must have sensed that something was wrong,
despite Shampoo's best efforts.  Shampoo was unaware of the old
woman's inquiries until, on her return from a "date" with the
roof of the Asahi Bank, she was greeted by a staff blocking her
way.
     "How did your date go?" Cologne asked as silkily as her
voice would manage.
     Shampoo smiled weakly. "Fine, Great-Grandmother."
     Cologne's eyes narrowed.  "Indeed.  And son-in-law?"
     "Ranma fine too."
     "Ah, yes.  He was in excellent health when I spoke to him a
short while ago."
     Shampoo froze.  "What you say, great-grandmother?"
     In a flash Cologne was eye to eye with Shampoo, locking
gazes penetratingly.  "You were on no date with Ranma.  I found
him at the Tendo Dojo.  He told me that he... broke up... with
you some three weeks ago.  That it was no use my trying to get
you back together, because he would not marry you, much less date
you, even if you gave him a deed to Jusenkyou.  Is that correct?"
     Shampoo winced at Ranma's words -- still painful, oh yes. 
"<Great-grandmother, I can explain...>" she began in Chinese.
     "Speak Japanese, girl!  You cannot function if you do not
speak the native language."
     "I can explain..." Shampoo began again, only to be cut off.
     "No explanations!"  Cologne and her stick were trembling
with anger, and Shampoo shrank back slightly.  The old woman's
yellowed eyes opened slightly, giving Shampoo the sudden
impression of madness.  "You must marry Ranma!  You must kill
Akane and take Ranma back!  Otherwise, no man in the village will
ever marry you.  You are the last of our line, child.  Without
your marriage to Ranma, the line will die out.  No man will ever
marry a woman who is weak."
     <Mousse would marry me,> Shampoo thought, but squelched the
thought as it arose.  Mousse was no husband fit for her.  Mousse
annoyed her, with his claims to friendship and love from long
ago.  Mousse was too weak to defeat her.  Mousse was a pathetic
fool.  No, Great-grandmother was right.  She had to marry Ranma. 
But the thought made her feel empty, as if there were a pit deep
inside her and she was falling into the cold blackness.  But
there was one last problem.
     "Great-grandmother, he say if I kill Akane, he hate me."
     "Child, let him hate you.  It will not matter in the least. 
He will marry you, and eventually he will forget Akane and love
you.  And if he does not -- well, you will have children.  Even
if his mind resists, his body will still respond to you.  Hate is
quite the aphrodisiac.  Ranma will be yours.  All you must do is
kill Akane."
     Shampoo almost said, but I don't want a husband who hates me
-- but the look in her elder's eyes silenced her.  There was her
duty to the village and her family, and to her own future.  A
Joketsuzoku warrior who bore no children had no status, however
well she fought.  She closed her eyes and nodded.
     "All right, Great-grandmother.  I kill Akane."
     "Tonight."  The old woman's voice was final and distant.
     "Tonight," Shampoo agreed.
     Shampoo heard the old woman's hair rustle, as if in a nod,
then the clack of her staff moving away.  She kept her eyes
closed for a moment longer, picturing herself killing Akane --
running her through with a sword, perhaps, or smashing her head
with her bonbori.  She envisioned the look of betrayal in Akane's
eyes, blood flowing from them like tears as she crumbled.  And
there, behind her, was Ranma, his eyes unreadable.  In her
vision, she leaped forward to embrace him, neatly avoiding
Akane's bloody corpse.  Ranma's body was stiff and unyielding
beneath her.... Could he love her then?
     The Ranma she embraced behind her eyelids slowly tightened
his arms around her, embracing her with passion.  Yes, perhaps he
could, perhaps he would love her, she was strong, she was
undefeated -- and yet against her will she envisioned the Ranma
that held her so close slowly freeing one arm from the embrace,
reaching behind him, grasping a knife, raising it high above her
unsuspecting back...
     She blinked her eyes open, not wanting to see more, and saw
a pair of feet close to her own.  She snapped her head up, and
gazed full into Mousse's face.  He was staring at her with
something that on anyone else's face would be revulsion.  But not
on Mousse.  Mousse would never look at her like that.  And yet
she couldn't think of any other emotion that would make him look
like that. 
     "So you're going to kill her."  His voice was flat and a
tiny bit higher than usual, as if were repressing something.  
     "I must kill Akane," she said dully, turning her head away
from that incomprehensible look on his face.  "No man marry me if
I am weak..."
     Mousse cut her off, grabbing her shoulders.  "I heard what
Cologne said," he hissed at her averted face.  "Don't repeat it
for me.  Are you going to kill her?"  Shampoo remained silent. 
He shook her slightly.  "Shampoo, answer me!"  he gritted through
his teeth.
     She wrenched herself away from his grasp, drawing herself up
a few feet away.  "Leave me alone!  What I do no business of
yours!"
     "You are going to kill her."  There was faint disbelief in
the statement, and a tinge of that thing that was not revulsion,
not disgust, not from Mousse.  Shampoo stared resolutely away
from him, folding her arms in defiance.  He was silent,
oppressively silent.  Too silent.  After a while, Shampoo
relented and turned to look at him.
     His fists were clenched by his side, nearly concealed by his
dangling sleeves; his face was rigid, jaw clenched.  He stared at
her as if at an insect, one rare and unseen and ultimately
revolting.  When her eyes met his, he shook his head, and the
look was gone.  He whirled, his robes swinging heavily, and
stalked through the doorway.  Just before he vanished, he turned
and looked over his shoulder -- and now she saw that the
rigidness was gone, and tears were flowing down his face.  "I
thought better of you," he said in a voice like breaking ice, and
was gone. 

                           * * *

     Shampoo crouched behind a rock in the Tendo garden,
carefully watching the house.  She had chosen her curved sword
after all, and its weight at her hip felt as if it was dragging
her down into the earth.  She had watched, unseen, as the family
ate their dinner, one or the other Saotome occasionally flying
out to splash into the pond.  It felt odd to watch them going
about their normal life, unaware of her malevolent presence even
when they passed within yards of her.  Ranma at the very least
should have sensed danger, should have known of a presence bent
on harm, but he seemed completely at ease, glancing around
unconcernedly after each dunking, then returning to the house,
Shampoo's eyes hungrily following him.
     She could not risk a direct attack.  A direct attack would
only cause a ruckus she could not afford.  No, she would creep
into Akane's room when the family was asleep and silently slit
her throat.  She hated to sneak about like this -- she preferred
open warfare -- but she could not risk Ranma discovering the
battle; he would join in on Akane's side, and Shampoo would lose. 
And she could not afford to lose.  Not this time.
     The last light in the house flicked off -- Nabiki's room --
and Shampoo checked her sword yet again.  Razor sharp.  It had to
be -- there could be no noise.  Only death.  She waited a safe
time, then scaled to Akane's window.  It was unlocked; she
slipped in, eyes fixed on the dark shape in the bed, rumpled hair
barely peeking out from under the covers.  The carpet was rough
under her bare feet -- bare for silence -- and she took one step,
two steps, estimating the location of the neck, raising her
sword... and pausing.  Her arms were quivering, tears were
beginning to run down her face.  Why could she not kill Akane,
her enemy, the only thing standing between her and her love?  Her
inner voice taunted her weakness, and she recognized it as the
voice of her great-grandmother.  <I must not lose!>  she exhorted
herself, and tensed to begin her swing.
     "Don't even think about it."
     The voice came from the bed, but it was not Akane's.  In
horror, she watched as the covers slid back to reveal Ranma, his
eyes narrowed into black slits that the moonlight could not
touch.  She shrank back, the sword falling from nerveless fingers
to thunk heavily on the carpet.
     "Ranma... how...?"  She backed against the desk, feeling it
hard against her legs.  He knew.  He knew she was coming, and now
he would kill her.  She had failed.  
     Meanwhile, he had picked up the sword, and was studying it
intently, shifting it so that the moonlight glinted off the blade
like ice.  "You tried to kill me with this once," he said
reflectively.  He touched his fingertip to the edge, then held it
up to the moonlight, the drop of blood black as his eyes.  "I
always wondered how sharp it would be."  
     There was a flurry of movement, and he was standing close to
her, leaning over her, pressing her into the desk.  The blade was
a hairsbreadth from her throat, his eyes pierced into hers.  "I
told you I would kill you if you tried anything with Akane.  I
should kill you now."  His voice was almost conversational, and
she could not look away, she could not breathe for fear of the
blade.  His body was pressed against hers, thigh and stomach and
chest, warm and solid and not hers.  That thought made her close
her eyes in pain, and she decided to take care of things for him. 
Just move her head forward a few inches, quickly, and it would be
over.  Over.  
     But before she could move, the sword was gone, and he was
feet away from her again.  She touched her throat, gingerly.  Not
a scratch.  He looked at her with those dark, dark eyes, and
turned away, walking to the door.  As he opened it, he turned
back.  She recalled Mousse doing much the same thing earlier that
day, and his words echoed in her mind.  He had thought better of
her.  Ranma was silent as he looked at her and slipped out the
door, but she thought perhaps he had thought better of her too.
     That night, after a shameful confrontation with Cologne, she
went out into the night to think.  Ranma had known.  How?  She
had been absent from his life for long enough to breed
complacency, he should have been at ease.  But he had been
waiting for her.  She stared at the rooftops of Tokyo, so unlike
the skyline of her home village, and thought.
     A sound behind hr made her turn, and she saw Mousse, his
stance apologetic.  Apologetic.  She whirled and stood, hands
unconsciously fisting at her sides.
     "You warned them."
     "Yes, I did."  Mousse's voice was defiant and proud, unlike
any she had ever heard from him.  "I could not let you kill
Akane."
     "Why not?  Is law.  You must follow law too."
     "But in this case, the law is wrong.  It is wrong for you to
kill Akane."
     Shampoo lunged at him; he stepped aside, barely evading her.
"Mousse, you hy... hippo... you mad at Shampoo for doing same
thing you always do!  You mad Shampoo try kill Akane, but you
always try kill Ranma!  You just want Shampoo no have Ranma." 
She threw a series of punches and kicks that he barely dodged,
leaping to a nearby chimney and looking down at her.
     "That's true, I don't want you and Ranma to get together. 
Akane does keep you apart.  But it's been a long time since I
actually tried to kill Ranma.  I wanted him dead at first -- and
even now, I wouldn't be too upset if he died.  But mostly I
wanted to beat him.  I wanted the law to be on my side."
     "Shampoo not marry you, even if you beat Ranma!"
     "I know," he sighed, then leaped down to a ready stance not
too far away from her.  "Beating Ranma would never be enough for
you.  It would never prove it for you.  The only way to prove my
worth is to defeat you in combat.  Because you don't really think
Ranma is better than you.  You don't think any man could be
better than you."  He deepened his stance, then suddenly lashed
out with his chains.  Shampoo somersaulted over them, one winging
her leg; she turned her leap into a kick at his head.
     He ducked and swung some sort of weapon in the direction of
her landing; it crashed into her arm, but she connected at the
same time, heel smashing into the side of his head.  He reeled,
and would have fallen from the roof but for the weight of the
chains he had flung.  He gestured, and with a click the chains
retracted into his sleeves like a tape measure.  He flung them at
Shampoo again, faster than she'd ever seen him move.  This time
her response was slower, and he almost entangled her, but she
clawed her way free and leaped over his head, landing a wild kick
on his shoulder, expecting him to retract his chains again.
     But instead he whipped one of them around in a wide circle,
and it impacted against her side, knocking the breath out of her,
then wrapped around her, pinning her arms to her sides.  She fell
to her knees, and the two of them were silent under the moon,
panting in the aftermath of battle.
     He had beaten her.  Mousse had beaten Shampoo.  She could
not absorb that into her head, it kept dancing around just out of
reach, taunting her.  She had been defeated, and so easily.  Had
he been holding back against her?  Or had she lost some of her
edge in the confrontation with Ranma?  It must be the latter,
Mousse would never beat her in a fair fight.  And yet, she could
not look at him.  Any moment now, he would proclaim his victory. 
Any moment now...
     When he didn't, she spoke up in a small voice.  "You beat
me, Mousse."  Her voice was not her own, it was weak, the voice
of a beaten girl.  "You have right to be husband now."  When he
still remained silent, she raised her head.
     He was looking at her with something between shock and
elation.  His eyes were wide, and his breathing still labored as
he visibly questioned the reality of the situation.  Then he
blinked, and the joy was replaced with anguish.  He shook his
hands, and the chain around her loosened, then drew away into his
sleeves.
     "No, Shampoo," he said softly.  "Not this way.  Not through
duty, or laws, or shame.  I don't want you like this."
     With that, he was gone, leaving Shampoo feeling like the
abandoned shell of a cicada, fragile and empty.

                           * * *

     The months passed with a relentless cycle that even Shampoo
began to grow sick of.  She would avoid Ranma and Akane for as
long as she could, until Cologne browbeat her into another
attack, which would invariably fail.  Sometimes Mousse would warn
them; sometimes she caught them unawares, but was defeated
anyhow.  For some reason, Ranma had stopped looking at her with
hate when she had been defeated, but with pity.  She hated his
pity.  She hated him, now.  She didn't even want to marry him
anymore.  But Cologne stood behind her, prodding her, lambasting
her when she neglected her duty to the family.
     Mousse was always present, yet distant.  There were no more
battles, though she suspected he had been doing some training
with Ranma; he would arrive home some days sweaty and frustrated
and yet somehow smug.  During meals and after work, he would
speak with her about inconsequential things, or sit silently
reading across the table from her.  And after each defeat he
would sit with her outside, silent, never pleading with her to
stop, or to marry him.  She found herself wanting him to stop
her, wanting him to grab her from behind as she set off on each
mission, but he simply watched her silently, when he knew, and
(she presumed) made his phone call to the Tendo Dojo.  Once she
lingered, hiding on the roof above the kitchen, and heard his
voice on one of the phone calls.  "She's coming again," he had
said simply, then hung up.
     She silently thanked him for making the phone calls, and
after a while it became a silent contract between them -- she
would let him see her preparations, he would see her off, almost
like a husband seeing her off to battle.
     Months stretched into years; Akane and Ranma graduated, then
went off to college.  Shampoo stayed behind.  Upon their return
from the first year, they announced their engagement, the real
one.  Shampoo heard some customers in the Nekohanten discussing
it.  She calmly gave them their ramen, went upstairs, and within
minutes was tearing down the road towards the dojo, carrying
every weapon she owned.  She leaped over the wall, burst through
the door -- and stared at Ranma and Akane, leaning tenderly
against each other as they watched television.  They sprang apart
and into combat stances as she entered, but she had seen, and
didn't even bother to attack.  She simply stood there, staring,
then bowed her head.  "Congratulations," she said softly, then
retraced her steps at top speed, ending up on the banks of the
river.  She threw her weapons aside, and stilled at the sound of
footsteps behind her, somehow expected.  Mousse.  She flung
herself at him, the tears soaking his robes as she clung and
wept, for something she had lost long ago.
     "Be careful," he said when she was almost finished.  "You'll
rust my chains."

                           * * *


     Shampoo hung up the Nekohanten phone, a queer shivery
sensation lodged just under her ribcage.  It was over.  She
stared at her hand, gripping the phone so calmly, as if it hadn't
yet realized what had happened -- or perhaps it was numb, but
that was hard to believe.  She should be shaking with rage and
loss now, shouldn't she?  She should be flooded with anger,
misery, revenge -- but she was not.  She unfocused her eyes and
focused inwards, on that shiver in the pit of her stomach, and
with a sense of surprise she realized it was relief.
     "Shampoo?"  Her great-grandmother's voice creaked behind her
like an ancient door closing.  "Is there a take-out order?"
     "No, Great-Grandmother.  That was Ranma."  Shampoo felt a
certain anticipation inside and noticed that her voice held an
unusual ring that she couldn't quite identify.
     "Ah, Son-in-law."  Cologne eyed Shampoo speculatively.  "Has
he come to his senses, then?  You sound happy."
     Happy.  Was she happy?  A smile crept across Shampoo's face
as she realized that yes, she was.  The weight of tradition that
had oppressed her for so long was now on her side.  Shampoo
tilted her head proudly as she gazed steadily into the piercing
light of her great-grandmother's eyes.
     "<Ranma and his *wife* wanted to share the happy news. 
Akane will be bearing a child next summer.>"  She spoke in
Chinese, adding to her defiance, but for once Cologne was silent. 
Shampoo seized her advantage and went on.  "<Now that Akane is
pregnant, I have no more claim to Ranma.  According to the
Joketsuzoku Prime Law, Great-Grandmother:  "The mother is sacred
above all else."  Akane is no longer mine to kill.  The Prime Law
takes precedence...>"
     The blow on her head took her completely by surprise, but
she stood up straighter and locked gazes with Cologne, whose
wizened face, normally a mask of calmness, was contorted in fury. 
"<This is because of you!>" the old woman spat, punctuating her
words with a blow to the chin that sent Shampoo sprawling.  "<If
you had not been too weak to do what needed to be done, Akane
would not have lived past her wedding day.  That she bears a
child now is only proof of your failure!>"
     Shampoo lifted herself up on her elbows, rubbing her jaw
with careful, trembling fingers.  "<No, Great-Grandmother,>" she
said painfully.  "<I did not fail.  I chose my life's course.>" 
She rose to her feet, refusing to wince at the pain of new
bruises.  "<I have the right to make my own decisions, Great-
Grandmother.  That my life does not follow the grand course you
planned for it, is no failure of mine.>"  A lopsided, painful
grin split her face.  "<You put me on a pedestal.  You told me I
was more than human.  But I am human, I am a woman.  And I will
live as I choose.>"
     Shampoo braced herself for another blow, one that would
break bones, but it never fell.  Cologne watched her steadily,
the only movement the whisper of her long white hair in the
autumn breeze that swept in the door, and a peculiar tic in the
muscles of her cheek.  Besides that small, barely perceptible
movement, her face was a mask once more, and after a moment she
spoke in a soft voice like rustling leaves.
     "<Such defiance, child.  You remind me of my own youth.>"  A
humorless smile washed over her wrinkled face.  "<Like you, I was
once full of challenge, going against every word of my elders. 
But I learned, my dear.  And so shall you.  This is not over
yet.>"
     "<Yes, it is.>"  Shampoo glared down her nose at the
shriveled woman, the woman who had trained her.  "<Akane and
Ranma cannot be killed, or we are both exiles, anathema to the
tribe.>"
     "<Oh, Akane will live.  Son-in-law too.  But you will learn
the price of defiance.>"  Cologne hopped off, the clack of her
stick echoing in the silent kitchen.  As it faded away, Shampoo
sank to her knees.
     To have disappointed her elder so, to have made an enemy of
her -- that was not wise.  Shampoo was beset by a memory of
riding on her Great-Grandmother's back as she hopped along on
that stick of hers, teaching her from her earliest days nuances
of balance and attitude that would make Shampoo one of the
greatest fighters in the tribe.  Her elder's dry, thin laughter
mingled with her own childish giggles.  There had always been a
bond between them, beyond the bond of duty.  It would take time
to mend -- but mend it she would, for she could not help but
respect and love her great-grandmother.  She simply didn't agree
with her.  And Shampoo was no longer a sixteen-year-old girl, to
follow blindly; she was ready to lead... but...
     Was Cologne right?  Was she weak, unfit for command?  She
wrapped her arms around her knees.  She had been full of brave
words, but deep inside, her great-grandmother's censure scared
her.  <Scaredy-cat>, her inner voice derided her.  <Weak fool,
unable to handle killing one girl, one of those unfit for
continuance.  That means that the one who is truly weak is...>
     "Great-Grandmother finds that her golden-headed goddess has
got an iron body and feet of clay." She whispered the Japanese
words to the air, bitterly, and was surprised to hear a voice
answering her, low and intense.
     "'It is the feet of clay that make the gold of the image
precious.'"  Mousse stepped out of the shadows of the kitchen,
raising his head slowly.
     "Mousse!"  Shampoo's hands flew to her chin, her bruised
arm.  "How long you been there?"
     "Long enough.  I heard you talking with the mummy."
     "Oh."  Shampoo felt her face turning red, then tried to
change the subject.  "What that you say just now?  You make that
up?"
     "I... no.  I was quoting an author, from Ireland, I think. 
Oscar Wilde."  Mousse slowly approached Shampoo, kneeling beside
her and tilting her chin up with his fingers to assess the purple
swelling.  "I read a Japanese translation of it last month.  It
means that weaknesses only make you more lovely."
     Shampoo swallowed, her stomach fluttering.  "Oh," she
repeated, wincing as his fingers found a particularly tender
spot.  "That man Wilde, he very romantic."  She concentrated on
Mousse's cheek, avoiding his eyes.
     "I suppose he is."  Mousse's voice was hoarse.  "We should
get some ice on your chin, before it gets any worse."
     "Okay."  Neither of them moved.  Shampoo had finally met his
eyes, distorted by his glasses, and all she could think of was
taking them off, just to see... She did, watching in fascination
the way he blinked at the change of focus.
     "Shampoo, why did you do that?  Now I can't see you."  His
voice was still low, with nothing of the whine he had once used. 
That had changed, at the very least... Something else had too,
she realized as she slid the hand holding his glasses behind his
neck.
     "<You don't need to see me for this.>"
     His lips were soft and shy under her own for several
seconds, then his arms came around her and the shyness slipped
away.  Shampoo felt tears coursing down her cheeks as she pressed
him close.  Yes, she would choose her own life and her own love. 
And now, at last, her choice was clear.
     She thought she heard the clack of her great-grandmother's
stick, but when at last she opened her eyes, nobody was there but
Mousse, his eyes blank and awed.  Shampoo reached up one hand to
cup his cheek, and he shook himself, attempting to focus on her
face.  Shyly, he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss on her
stinging chin, then hesitated before briefly kissing her lips
again.
     "You're crying," he said quietly.
     "Yes," Shampoo replied.
     "Are you unhappy?  I can go."
     "Oh, no," she said shakily.  "Don't go."  She swallowed
softly, then enfolded him in her arms.  "I love you, Mousse," she
whispered in his ear.  
     "I know," he said, his breath tickling her hair.  "I knew it
all along."

                           * * *

     Looking back, Shampoo was surprised anew at her great-
grandmother's lack of response.  She and Mousse had prepared for
battle, confronting Cologne in the Nekohanten kitchen, but the
old woman had simply looked at them, perched birdlike on her
gnarled staff, then shrugged.  "So that is how it is to be," she
had said in an enigmatic tone of voice, then gone back to
preparing broth for the next day's ramen business.  Shampoo had
felt rather lost, after the amount of mental preparation she had
gone through, but she wasn't complaining.  Retiring to the
privacy of Mousse's garret room was much more fun than a hopeless
fight against the greatest warrior of the amazons.
     Shampoo smiled secretly, remembering.  Mousse had insisted
that they wait until their wedding night for the actual
consummation of their marriage, but they had managed to occupy
themselves quite well anyhow with just about everything else. 
Shampoo considered it shock treatment for poor Mousse's
nervousness; after what they had done, he no longer babbled like
a fool in her presence, though he did tend to turn red in the
face when they were in public.  Particularly if Shampoo happened
to mention chocolate syrup, whipped cream, or rubber spatulas. 
Shampoo bared her teeth at the mirror.  Oh, yes, she was ready
for the wedding feast.  
     Speaking of which... she frowned at the reflection of her
Hello Kitty clock in the mirror.  Mousse was late.  He was
supposed to have been at her hut fifteen minutes ago, to formally
beg admittance.  Then they would walk together to the hall where
the Council of Elders awaited them.  It would take only a
declaration before them and a simple ceremony, and they would be
wed.  The Joketsuzoku firmly believed in getting to the
celebration as quickly as possible.
     He would never have run out on her, she thought
complacently.  He must be fussing over his robes, polishing his
glasses, stocking up his sleeves with accessories for their
wedding night (she hoped he didn't forget the egg-beater)... He
would surely arrive soon.
     Twenty minutes later, she was ready to strangle him with his
own chains.  Looking good for his wife was one thing, but how
long did he intend to primp?  Men.  She sniffed and went to her
door.  She had waited for this day long enough.
     The feast was done cooking, for the most part, and the rich
scents of festival cuisine teased her nose as she stalked across
the plaza where Mousse lived with his mother -- or would live,
until tonight.  His mother was helping with the feast, arranging
garlands of flowers around a roast boar; she waved at Shampoo,
who smiled just enough not to offend and continued on her way. 
Cologne was nowhere to be seen, probably in the Council Hall with
the rest of the Elders.  Another villager called out to her
exuberantly.
     "<Shampoo, where's the groom?  Flown away?>"
     Shampoo caught her breath, then relaxed.  None but Cologne
knew of Mousse's curse just yet, and on the old woman's advice
they would keep it that way for a while, to save him face.  She
answered in a light tone.  "<Perhaps he has.  But then, there is
no joy in the capture without the hunt.>"  She laughed with the
villager, then stalked up to the door of Mousse's hut, knocking
imperiously.
     There was no answer.  Odd.  She opened the door and stepped
in.
     The interior was cluttered, though on a second glance there
was a certain organization to it.  One corner held edged weapons,
another one a selection of Mousse's more unusual tools.  The
walls were hung with chains, their ends bedecked with hooks and
knives and spiked balls.  Shelves along one wall held bowling
balls, commemorative statuettes of Liberty, anvils, egg cartons,
back issues of Popular Mechanics, Mousse's throwing knives, and
spare pairs of glasses.  The room was filled to the brim with
Mousse's possessions.
     But no Mousse.
     Shampoo peeked out the back door, then smiled indulgently. 
There were Mousse's celebratory clothes, in a damp heap on the
ground.  Nearby was a child's watergun, empty.  A child's prank,
no more.  She gathered up the robes -- much heavier than they
looked -- and was about to go in search of her husband-to-be when
a gleam in the grass caught her eye.  She bent and picked up the
object -- a jade pendant, hung from a gold chain.  She puzzled
over it for a moment, then smiled, tears brimming in her eyes. 
It was a stretching cat, at once sensuous and aloof.  Her fingers
stroked the smooth lines of the carving.  Mousse must have meant
it as her wedding gift, a surprise.  She slipped the chain over
her neck, the chill of the gold a fine thread on the nape of her
neck, then tucked the pendant inside so that it hung, cool and
smooth, between her breasts.  She would return it to him once she
turned him back, then let him give it to her himself.  After she
punished him for making her wait, of course...
     The clothes bundled in her arms, she skipped back to where
the feast was beginning to cool.  Children were gazing longingly
at the heavily-laden tables, and Mousse's mother hurried up to
her.
     "<Shampoo, where is my son?  Everybody is anxious to
begin.>"
     "<Don't worry... mother.  I know what happened to him.>"
     "<Oh, good.>"  The thin woman smiled."<He stepped out some
time ago, to fetch a surprise, he said, and I haven't seen him
since.>"  She blinked at Shampoo's armload.  "<Why are you
carrying his clothes?>"
     "<Never mind that,>" Shampoo said quickly.  "<Mother, have
you seen any... ducks around today?>"
     "<Oh, yes.  Oddly enough, a fine big one wandered into my
hut today.  I was quite surprised, since they aren't common
around here in the autumn.>"
     "<Good.  Where is this duck now?>"
     "<Right over here, dear.>"  Mousse's mother began to walk
along the table.  "<Ah, here he is.>"
     Shampoo froze, feeling Mousse's robes slip from her
nerveless fingers.  No.  She refused to believe what she was
seeing.  Mousse's mother's voice rang hideously in Shampoo's ears
as she stared and stared.
     "<Ah, yes.  So very fortunate -- it is such a good omen,
isn't it?  Here I was, just this morning lamenting that we had no
duck for the feast, and lo!  there he is.  Surely your marriage
will be most fertile, with many fine warriors, and sturdy sons to
marry off.  Such a good omen... why, Shampoo, what's wrong? 
Don't you like Peking Duck...?>"
     The voice faded slowly, echoing as if in a tomb, as Shampoo
felt herself falling, falling into a blackness thick as velvet.   
 
                          * * *

     Voices crept into her bruised consciousness like maggots,
squirming across her raw nerves.  She tried to dive back into the
darkness, so blessedly cool, but the voices insisted that she
listen.
     "<Such a shame,>" said a dry, brittle voice like autumn
leaves, falling and crackling underfoot.  "<Of course, if they
had simply told the truth about the matter from the first, as I
suggested, it would never have happened...>"
     "<Indeed.>" The reply was edged with shrillness, like a reed
whistle.
     Shampoo wanted to say, no, Great-Grandmother counseled us to
wait, she said it would smooth the way if we were wed first.  But
her mouth was numb and thick, and she could only swim a tiny bit
closer to the light, her arms heavy and dull as clay.  As she
approached, she began to hear a faint sound underlying the
conversation, the sound of a woman weeping.  Why are you weeping?
she asked the dimness, but there was no answer.  The first voice
spoke again, like the crunch of breaking bones.
     "<Of course, it has been some time since Great-Granddaughter
listened to my counsel.  If she had, this day would never have
been.>"
     The second voice may have spoken, but Shampoo did not hear
it, for it was drowned out by a scream, raw and tortured.  As her
eyes blinked open to the noonday light, her sore throat told her
that the scream was her own.  Her gaze fell first on Cologne,
balanced like a vulture on her staff, looking down at her with
compassion and grief and thinly masked triumph.  With a wrenching
turn of her head, Shampoo saw the source of the weeping, Mousse's
mother, rocking back and forth as she clutched to her the
plucked, naked body of a bird.  Her son, Shampoo realized anew. 
My husband.  My love.
     In a flash, she knew what had happened.  No child's prank,
no accident.  A shriek rose from the core of her being, and she
lunged for Cologne.  Cologne, who had raised her.  Cologne, her
beloved great-grandmother.  Cologne, the murderer of her love.
     Her hands, poised to crush the old woman's windpipe, closed
instead on empty air -- but somewhere within her something
snapped, and with catlike instinct she whirled in a blind kick
that, miraculously, connected with the old woman's chin.  Cologne
somersaulted in mid-air to a perfect landing on her staff, then
bounced high in counterattack.  Shampoo leapt in pursuit, faster
than she had ever been.  Her hands grasped the ends of the old
woman's long hair, tangling in the strands as fine as spider's
silk, and she pulled, snarling.  Cologne came flying towards her,
turning as she came, and Shampoo reached out both hands for
vengeance...
     The tip of Cologne's staff impacted on her chest, and
Shampoo froze instinctively.  That was one of many paralysis
pressure points, and she knew that she should have been unable to
move.  Yet she watched her own hands clawing at Cologne's throat,
missing by a fraction of a hair as the old woman pushed off,
catapulting away from her.  As Shampoo rolled to a landing on the
buffet table and sprang forward again, a corner of her mind
laughed in maniacal glee.  For in place of the precise pressure
of Cologne's staff, there had been a diffuse, cool sensation, the
chill hardness of jade.  Mousse's final gift to her: a chance at
revenge.
     Yet it was wasted, for as she leapt, she realized that
Cologne had abandoned the aerial attack, rolling under Shampoo's
airborne feet to lash out from behind.  Though Shampoo modified
her trajectory and twisted in midair, she knew it was too late as
she felt the point of the staff in the small of her back. 
<Forgive me, Mousse!>  she cried inwardly as she fell.  <I was
too weak!>
     She landed face-first in a platter of noodles that seemed to
writhe like worms, unable to even turn her head away.  The fetid
stench of meat filled her nostrils, nauseating, rotten.  Hands
rolled her onto the ground, brushing at her cruelly.  She wanted
nothing more than to close her eyes, but they were frozen open,
and she was assailed by a montage of villager faces, expressions
ranging from sympathy to horror in one moment, leering like
demons in another.  Then they all vanished and she was staring
into the clear blue autumn sky, tears trickling down the sides of
her face as she realized that the sky was nothing like Mousse's
eyes.
     Then that circle of sky was filled with the dark shape of
Cologne, her chin beginning to swell and purple.  She stared at
Shampoo for a long moment, her face unreadable.  Mousse would
have called her an old mummy, and Shampoo thought it for him,
glaring as best she could through frozen eyelids.  Cologne's head
blotted out the sun.  The bereaved mother's wails could still be
heard, an eerie background to the old woman's silence.
     Finally Cologne spoke, staring straight at Shampoo though
she addressed the villagers, out of her circle of vision.  "<It
seems today's events have unsettled my great-granddaughter. 
Bring her back to my hut, and I will care for her.>"  As hands
took hold of Shampoo's frozen arms and legs, the old woman added
as an afterthought, "<Someone arrange for the funeral of... my
son-in-law.>"
     The hands on Shampoo were those of demons; her vision shook
and swayed as she was carried -- one moment she saw the icy blue
of the sky, then the distant tops of trees... an upside-down
glimpse of Mousse's mother, still keening and rocking, keening
and rocking... Cologne's shriveled figure rising and falling in
slow motion... and then the dimness of the hut opening before her
like the maw of a great beast.  Shampoo felt herself screaming
through frozen lips as she was swallowed up, consumed,
devoured...

                          * * *     


     She lay on a bed, the scent of scattered flower petals
mingling with the stink of food that lingered in her hair.  The
demons who had carried her were slipping out the door, muttering
in subdued voices, jabbering at the feast denied them.  Shampoo
could not move as the ghoul came closer, red eyes gleaming like
the setting sun.  The ghoul's hand reached out to torment her, to
rend her to shreds.
     Instead it stroked at her sticky hair, gently, wearing away
at her sanity like water wearing down a stone.  Shampoo would
have flinched away from that soft reptilian pressure if she
could, but she was no longer in control of her own body.
     "<Poor child,>" the ghoul hissed in false pity.  "<For such
a thing to happen to you.  I had such high hopes.  Such hopes.>" 
The hand moved away, and Shampoo heard a splashing close to her
ear.  Moments later she felt the ghoul's scaly hands tugging at
her stained clothing, stripping it away, leaving her naked but
for the pendant about her neck.  The ghoul took notice of this
and leaned in, claws clutching at Shampoo's treasure.  "<What is
this, child?>" the ghoul whispered, mocking her; Shampoo could
not answer of course, and the ghoul apparently had no need of it. 
"<A gift from your intended?  Poor child.>"  The claws turned it
over and over; Shampoo expected the ghoul to rip it from her
neck, but instead it placed it on her breastbone, the jade warmed
by the infernal heat of the ghoul's hands, which arranged the
chain carefully into a precise V.  There was the sound of
splashing again.  Then the leer of the ghoul as warmth spread
over Shampoo's body in long strokes, sponging away the dirt while
Shampoo glared her hatred.  The cleansing went on for long
moments before the ghoul spoke again.
     "<You blame me for this, of course.  You think I advised you
ill apurpose, to ensure his death by such a means."  There was a
pause, as if the ghoul listened to Shampoo's silent response. 
"<I did not.  I truly believed that in advising you to keep
Mousse's curse a secret I was giving you proper counsel.  But I
counseled you to deceive the elders of our village, and so once
the worst happened, I had to salvage our place in the village by
making it seem as if it were the impetuousness of youth.  You may
be forgiven for defiance; I may not.  You understand, don't
you?>"
     <Liar!> Shampoo thought grimly.  She knew better than to
trust a demon disguised as a loved one.  Even if it could somehow
simulate tears.
     "<I knew you would,>" the ghoul continued.  "<The child who
caused Son-in-law to change has confessed, and of course we know
the rest of what happened.>"  Another pause, feigning respect. 
"<Great-granddaughter, I am sorry that this happened.  I gave you
counsel that proved incorrect.  The final failure is mine.>" 
There was a long moment of silence, then a final splash as the
ghoul abandoned her sponge.
     "<You are my only female descendant,>" the ghoul said
softly, toweling Shampoo off.  "<Only daughter of the only son of
my only son.  I had hoped...>"  The ghoul's voice broke, and in
the silence it met Shampoo's gaze of defiance with red-rimmed
eyes.  "<If I free you from your paralysis now, you will kill me. 
If you kill me, your punishment by the village will undoubtedly
be death.  I cannot allow that.  You are still my only hope for
the line's continuance, and you must live.  Forgive me.>"
     With that, the ghoul gently pulled a quilt up over Shampoo's
body, encasing her in smothering warmth.  The ghoul turned and
left.
     Shampoo still could not move.

                              * * *

     Time passed in a state between waking and dreaming --
Shampoo knew not when she slept or woke; sometimes it was light,
sometimes dark, but there was no relationship between the two.
     The ghoul was always there.  Always.  It watched her from
the shadows, cleaned her and trickled warm vegetable broth into
Shampoo's slack mouth.  Shampoo waited for her chance to kill.
     Sometimes the ghoul would release her from her paralysis for
a few moments.  Each time, Shampoo would lunge for the hag, her
long nails scratching at eyes; each time, she was plunged back
into paralysis by the ghoul's sorcery.  Finally, the ghoul
sighed.  "<Great-granddaughter, I cannot feed you more than broth
unless you are free, but I cannot feed you at all while you are
attacking me.>"  And so Shampoo was wrapped in a tight white robe
that cinched her arms to her waist, three times a day, and the
ghoul would try to force food down her throat.  Horrendous food. 
Rotting meat, stinking fish, putrid eggs.  Shampoo would not open
her mouth for these.  Once or twice the ghoul caught her by
surprise, stuffing a hunk of maggoty meat in her mouth as Shampoo
screamed out her hatred, but the taste of meat, the sinewy
texture, made her think of Mousse, plucked and broken, and she
vomited it up.  Vegetables she could eat, and fruits.  The ghoul
stopped presenting her with meat at all, and Shampoo gloated
inwardly.  She was winning.
     After meals, the ghoul would paralyze her again, dress her
in warm clothing, and bring her out to the nearby river, carrying
her on its stooped back.  The rise and fall of their progree
sickened Shampoo.  The ghoul would set her on a blanket, leaning
up against a tree, and leave her to look out at the river.  Never
for long, though Shampoo felt no discomfort.  Sometimes she would
hear the flapping of wings and she would dart her eyes around
looking for Mousse -- but it was always a pheasant, or a
nightingale, never a duck.
     Mousse visited her sometimes.  Shampoo would look over the
ghoul's hated shoulder, and there he would stand.  He never
spoke, he simply stared at her sadly.  Sometimes he would rot
before her eyes, falling in a heap of bones to be eaten by worms. 
Sometimes Shampoo would gaze into the fire and see him there,
turning on a spit, his dear brown eyes pleading with her as the
sweet flesh crisped from his bones.  Sometimes the spitted Mousse
was a duck, sometimes a human, but the eyes were always there,
even when there was nothing else left.  He came to her in her
bed, remembered caresses turning cruel; he hovered just out of
reach.  She could not even try to reach him; her arms were bound.
     It seemed like an eternity; perhaps it was.  The breezes
that came in the door warmed, then cooled, then began to warm
again.  A day came when the ghoul did not visit her, did not feed
her.  Instead, Shampoo was all alone with Mousse... He sat by her
bedside, cool hand stroking her forehead, whispering something
that she could not hear.
     It was dark when the ghoul reappeared, looming above them in
the cool spring night.  Mousse vanished like mist, and the ghoul
spoke.
     "<Great-granddaughter, it has been more than a year.  You
must come back to me.>"  The ghoul waited, then sighed.  "<You
still do not forgive me for my error.  I expected as much.  I
have brought you a gift.>"  The ghoul held up a small wooden
cask, then broke the seal on the top, flinging the contents at
Shampoo, who could not flinch as the cold water struck her.
     Something should have happened.  She knew that.  But there
was nothing but the clamminess of water seeping into her bedding,
and the ghoul staring at her unreadably, then hopping away.

                            * * *

     Days and nights passed, how many Shampoo did not know or
care.  She watched the ghoul, waiting for her opportunity.  She
had noticed that the ghoul always used the same point on her back
to work its evil magic.  She waited, then began to shift her back
to the side, slightly, imperceptibly, as the ghoul struck.  It
took many nights before the desired result was achieved.  A
slight shift to the right, and the paralysis magic did not work. 
Shampoo stiffened as if it had, moving not a muscle as the ghoul
stripped her of her bindings and put her to bed.  She would wait
for an unguarded moment, then strike.
     The ghoul turned from her, pulling a piece of paper out of
its robe and staring at it a long moment.  Shampoo feigned sleep,
watching under half-closed lids.  The ghoul huddled by the fire,
muttering to itself.
     "<I cannot let her see this, oh no.  She must not.  The
danger is too great.  If she knew... No.  She must not.>"  For a
moment Shampoo's eyes cleared, and she saw the ghoul as a lonely
old woman, bent and broken before the fireplace.  She wondered in
that moment of clarity why there were no visitors at their hut,
why Cologne never seemed to have duties to fulfill.  But then the
bowed head turned towards Shampoo, and it was the ghoul again. 
"<Best to burn it.>"
     The ghoul placed the paper in the fireplace, then hopped
from the room, out into the darkness of night.  At the door, it
turned and stared unreadably at Shampoo.  "<Goodnight, my
child,>" it whispered, then was gone.
     Shampoo tried to leap from the bed, but her muscles were
weaker than she expected, and she fell to the ground, scrabbling
ignominiously to the fireside.  Her hands snatched at the
smoldering paper, beating at it until the blackness stopped
spreading across it.
     She was almost too late.  Almost every word was gone, but
she could make out a bit here and there.  "Dear Shampoo..." --ah
yes, it was indeed hers -- "... ho... reunion.... une 25 at the
Saotome Do.... Please... love to..."  The rest was obliterated,
except for a single name, surrounded by blackness at the bottom
of the page.
     Ranma.
     Shampoo stood shakily and wavered over to the trunk in the
corner, her muscles growing steadier with each step.  There
beneath the hated white jacket, beneath her everyday clothing --
the gleam of red satin.  Her wedding robes, cleaned and folded
away.  She donned them carefully, fastening the frogs of the
bodice over the jade pendant that still hung coolly about her
neck.  The robes were loose.  She stood before the mirror,
winding pearls into her hair by the light of the moon and the
fire.  She saw Mousse in the mirror as she finished, his brown
eyes full of anguish.  She turned her face away.
     Pathetic fool.
     She gazed at herself in the mirror -- sunken cheekbones,
papery skin, long thin hair.  Flawless as usual.  She thought she
heard the ghoul's staff, but she had more important things to do
now.  She climbed carefully out the window and fled into the
night.
     "Ranma, I coming!"
     But as her feet soaked up the dew of the summer night, a
tiny part of her wondered if this wasn't exactly what the ghoul
had wanted all along.    



bengman ***  "On the appointed day, I notice something amazing. When I take a 
step outside the vacant lot, a meadow spreads out before my eyes.  And there 
are lots of horses and cows staring at me. Since when has there been a ranch on
Akane's street? -- Where the heck am I?!" -- Ryouga, "Ittai koko wa dokonanda?"