Away for a week and I still can't help but write weird stuff. This just came
to me; don't know if it would be any good. And if you could take the tags
off when you reply, that'd be a help.

�Facade�

A Ranma 1/2 crossover by G. Falconar

Author�s Note: See below (wayyyyy below) for full disclaimers. This is an
idea that I probably won�t finish; anyone else is welcome to pick it up. If
you�re interested in doing so, I could give you a few of the things I have
planned for the rest of the story.

****

�He trained for a WEEK?�

Miss Parker�s tone was exasperated at the very least. This was, what, the
sixth time in the past two months she�d been through this routine?

�It surprised me as well, miss. He claimed to have no experience in the art
and yet started at a level comparable to my third year students. By the end
of his time here, he was providing me with somewhat of a challenge, and I,
miss, have been master of my school for ten years now.�

The sixth time in the past two months... right down to the forced humility
of the sensei of the dojo. He was a small man, but his bare arms and legs
showed the effects of years of conditioning; he would be more than a match
for almost anything the Centre could send his way. If it came to that, which
she hoped it might but doubted it would.

�He told me that you and your friends might come, miss, and asked me not to
disturb the upstairs room until that time. Are you friends of his?�

�You might say that,� responded Sydney. He gazed up the stairs that led to
the second floor of the small Seattle dojo, and motioned for the others to
follow him as he began climbing them.

The door to the loft creaked open, and Sydney flicked on the light to
reveal...

�Videos?� asked an incredulous Broots. He began looking through one of the
largest of at least twenty stacks of videos that formed a neat line along
the western wall of the room. ��Kung Fu�, �Sidekicks�, �Dragon�, Jackie
Chan... hey, he was pretty good in this one.�

�Save the Leonard Maltin impression for someone who cares,� snapped Miss
Parker. She began combing the room, searching for something, some scrap of
paper or garbled note that would point her towards the next location. She
knew that what she found would be vague at best, but the last few searches
she�d done had come up almost completely empty. �Any ideas on what Wonder
Boy might be doing, Syd?� she called over her shoulder as she began sifting
through a pile of conditioning manuals.

Sydney chuckled briefly as he noticed Broots slide one of the tapes into the
TV/VCR combination which graced one corner of the room, and turned to Miss
Parker, brow furrowed in thought. �The martial arts are about
self-discipline... perhaps he is seeking to assert greater control over his
world by asserting greater control over himself.�

�If he were any more in control of himself, he�d be a robot,� retorted Miss
Parker, who was now searching through one of the myriad stacks of videos.
�He�s probably just training so he can slip back into the Centre whenever he
wants and not have to worry about security.�

Sydney considered this for a moment, then shook his head. �No. One of the
first principles of almost any martial art... certainly the ones he�s been
studying... is that the art is to be used only in defense, never in offense.
But I do concede that he may simply be training... though what he could be
training for is beyond me.�

Miss Parker completed her third sweep of the small room and sighed.
�Nothing. Just like the last five. This is becoming entirely too much like
standard procedure for my liking. Sydney, Broots...�

Broots sighed as he turned away from the television. Back to another
glorious week of waiting for leads and trying to keep himself from being
sniped at in the bureaucracy of the Centre. He flicked the light off out of
habit as he followed Miss Parker and Sydney out of the small loft...

...and the Jackie Chan video began to play... undubbed.

****

This wasn�t at all like his usual case. For one, he had left the country for
perhaps the first time in his life.

He stepped out of the crowded subway and allowed himself to be swept along
by the tide of commuters and up to the surface, content to merely take in
the completely foreign surroundings and lose himself for a few moments in an
entirely new culture.

Sydney had run a few cross-cultural simulations, simply to give him a wider
perspective on certain issues which demanded such things, but the
artificial, sanitized environment he had worked in then was completely
different from the rush of sound, color, and aroma which surrounded him now.
It was so... real, so full of life...

He lifted himself out of his musings as his path led him away from the bulk
of the crowd, and he drew the familiar red notebook from the inside pocket
of his jacket. This was another deviation from the usual; the articles
inside were in Japanese, naturally, and told of a rash of bombings, arsons,
and vandalism that had plagued a few small districts of Tokyo. No one had
been crippled or killed... yet. But he was sure that someone would be. He
was taking a risk, training for as long as he had, but he swore that he
would stop this madness before anyone was hurt.

A close examination of the photographs told him that these were no ordinary
crimes, and, perhaps more importantly, that the people who committed them
were no ordinary people. He caught glimpses of them, here and there,
watching to ensure that everyone got away safely... and noticed a more than
unusual pattern in the lists of names of those affected by these disasters.
To be more specific, only a few people - almost exactly the same people
every time - were ever hurt, but not seriously enough to warrant more than a
few days� stay in the hospital.

His two months of training were also two months of research. He wanted to
find out everything about these strange, almost supernatural people, and
information on a few individuals in a world of billions was scarce, to say
the least. He hadn�t managed to piece together much, but what he had
constructed only served to further interest him in what was happening here.

That was what made this case so very different from all the other causes he
had championed. At the core of this matter was not greed, or hatred, or
jealousy, or anger. It could be said, somewhat truthfully... that love was
to blame for all this.

He didn�t know what to make of that discovery, really. Love was the most
bizarre and complex of all the emotions, and he had seen - or at least
simulated - many people doing extraordinarily strange and hateful things for
what they called love. Love was the antithesis of hate, that much was
clear... but defining something by what it is not leaves many possibilities
open for what it could be. Sydney had said, once, that mankind had been
trying to define love for as long as they had felt it. Modern psychology was
coming up with theories, true, but they were just that: theories. He didn�t
much like things that defied understanding. Not in the least. He hoped that
he knew what he was doing well enough to help... and the feeling was
entirely alien to him. This would be the most challenging goal he had set
for himself... he only hoped that he had planted enough subtle though false
leads to buy enough time to accomplish it.

Ah. He was here. Most, if not all, of the strange events which unfolded in
this place revolved around a few individuals, and he wished to be as close
to them as possible. To that end...

****

Kasumi finished drying the last of the dinner dishes, and the cupboard no
sooner clicked shut than there was a knock at the door. She quickly scanned
the house, mentally, to see if anyone would be free to answer it; she had
laundry to start, after all. Her father and Mr. Saotome were busy playing
shogi... asking one of them to get up was inviting wholesale cheating on the
other�s part. As it was, her father had taken advantage of the momentary
distraction provided by the knock to turn a few key pieces... the panda�s
expression was proof enough of that. While the spirit of Anything Goes
certainly had no place at the shogi board, she supposed that it made the
game a bit more interesting for both parties, since the number of possible
moves increased dramatically, if illegally.

Ranma and Akane were sparring in the dojo... Ranma had been faced with
either that or eating an Akane-made lunch the next day, and had somewhat
predictably (and wisely) opted for the former. And, judging from the lack of
mallet impacts she heard, Ranma was managing to keep the scathing comments
to a minimum. She could never understand how such an otherwise nice person
could be so cruel at times... then again, he had spent much of his life in
the company of his father, and, if the verbal sparring at the dinner table
(accompanied by equally vehement physical sparring) was any indication,
Ranma couldn�t help but insult. It came all too naturally to him, as a
reflex rather than a deliberate response.

And Nabiki was upstairs, entering the day�s records in her backup ledger and
triple-checking them, like as not. Even though she made mistakes about as
often as Kasumi botched a meal, she was quite insistent on accuracy. A pity,
thought Kasumi, that such a penchant was directed towards ends which were
often less than scrupulous... but something had to keep food on the table.
That something, like it or not, was Nabiki�s greed, extrapolated to its
natural profitable end.

Another knock jolted Kasumi from her reverie. She blushed a bit as she
realized that she had kept a guest waiting outside, and hurried to the door.

She opened it to reveal a young American, and sighed inwardly. Most
Americans tended to have no regard for the culture or the custom of the
country they visited, and, from the look of this one, it was his first trip
abroad. She told herself such a thing shouldn�t grate on her nerves as much
as it did, but such admonishing hardly stopped it from doing just that.

She noted with mild surprise that his shoes were already off; a pair of
black wingtips, which he held in one hand. In the other was the traditional
gift for one who would be... staying? Perhaps he was another character from
Mr. Saotome�s admittedly checkered past...

�I apologize for the intrusion, Miss... Kasumi Tendo, is it?�

Kasumi was a bit surprised that this... whoever it was... recognized her.
While most of Nerima knew her, if only in passing, she hadn�t expected a
foreigner to be so familiar. His Japanese was a bit formal... like most
foreigners, he probably hadn�t had much experience with the language as it
was spoken every day. The formality of his speech was an odd contrast to the
cheerfulness that seemed to pervade his demeanor... which itself was a
contrast to the almost solid black outfit he wore.

�I�m terribly sorry... you have me at a loss. Should I know you, sir?�

The man laughed as he stepped into the house, following the almost automatic
motions she made to invite him in. He slipped his shoes next to the family�
s, handed her the gift, and bowed, respectfully, smiling as though this were
the greatest thing ever to happen to him. She returned the bow a bit
hesitantly, not quite sure what to make of this new arrival.

�I don�t expect that you should. My name is Jarod. Jarod Lee. I�m here to
train.�

****

And now the disclaimers. Ranma 1/2 is intellectual property of the Lady
Rumiko Takahashi and all distributors of her work. �The Pretender� is the
intellectual property of its creators and all distributors of their work;
the only distributor I know of is NBC, but that may change. This crossover
is entirely unauthorized and both series are used without their creators�
permission, and the events which take place here should not be considered
canon or be seen to reflect on any episodes of either series, past or
future.

Comments and criticism are welcome; flames will be rerouted to their
creators and doused with liquid oxygen.

--G. Falconar