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A Ranma 1/2 Fan Fic
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Switch: Herbs and Spices Day 2
by Nikholas "Switch" F. Toledo
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Please do remember that Ranma 1/2 is a trademark and a copyright of and
by some big name people and companies I am not even worthy to introduce.
Anybody who says that I took any of their stuff better not find me
hiding. Also, great thanks to whoever reads this and likes it, good
thanks to whoever reads it anyhow, and teeny-weeny thanks to whoever else
even saw this.
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The Flirty Dozen
Daisuke waited, on the dot, under the archway of the Nerima
Shopping Mall. He had actually been early, because he was getting very
bored of the "summer" vacation, and mostly because he had no reason to be
anywhere near where most of the martial arts matches occurred. During
school days, it was easier: there was usually an announcement of sorts,
usually from the desk of Nabiki Tendo. In any case, sticking within
earshot of Ranma was enough to insure the daily requirement for
gratuitous violence.
Much as he begrudged it, martial arts composed most of his active
thoughts. He and Hiroshi would occasionally make color commentaries of
the regular matches Ranma had, and he was also a pretty good control-pad
combatant, second only to the great Hikaru Gosunkugi. Unfortunately,
like Gosunkugi, he didn't have enough guts to learn past halfway any
martial art. Considering the strategy for a well-placed kick or ki-blast
was not the same as teaching your body to do the exact same thing.
And so, he had learned to appreciate the finer points of martial
arts, like respect, concentration and discipline.
The latter, unfortunately, his companions were lacking in.
"Night people," he muttered, kicking a pebble on the road.
Once upon a time, there was a great warrior.
As with any tale including the phrases "once upon a time" and
"there was a great warrior", the phrases "beautiful princess", "grave and
terrible danger", "heroic rescue", and, of course, "happily ever after"
are expected to follow.
However, these are the nineties, after all. Fairy tales of that
type are beyond passe.
This great warrior, was, in fact, a beautiful princess. She was so
beautiful, in fact, that all the other heroes who weren't beautiful
princesses were enamored with her beauty and courage. Had she of a mind
to, she would have been able to single-handedly revive the guild system
of adventurers in her homeland.
There were problems with that, though.
First and foremost, such a guild probably would break a few union
laws, and probably would never have a voice in politics.
Secondly, she wasn't the only great and beautiful warrior-princess
in town. Some wore long black hair, some were buxom, and, indeed, some
were lawless. They weren't really happy about not having guilds of their
own, but their main source of contention was some other matter.
Thirdly, the other matter. She wasn't exactly a princess. She was
more of a prince. And all princesses married princes.
Hiroshi, on the other hand, longed for the summer vacations.
"I love Nerima," he'd say, about every ten minutes, when he'd
remember to say it.
Getting enrolled into Furinkan High, although it would often be
equivalent to being cannon fodder or getting scalped, was worth having a
three-week-long break every three months.
Turning a corner, he approached Daisuke from behind, asking, "the
girls aren't here yet?"
Daisuke stifled his mumbling "at last" by noticing their "dates"
about three blocks down. "They're coming," then he pointed.
"That they are, friend." Hiroshi ran a hand through his curly
brown hair, whistling. "Where to first?"
Daisuke glanced at his watch, which wasn't necessary since he knew
that they were collectively fifteen minutes late. "Lunch."
Kodachi ran a hand up Tsubasa's neck, twirling her fingers in his
silky, long, light brown hair. Her head on his chest, she looked up at
his face, fascinated by his lips. "You're so beautiful..."
Tsubasa was somewhere lost on the Highway to Heaven. He found
Kodachi's choice of perfume... arresting. "Well... I am... in an
androgynous sense. I might not be handsommmmm..."
Kodachi came up for air from their latest and deepest kiss.
"You'll do in a pinch."
"'In a pi'-YOWTCH!"
Kodachi winked coyly. Tsubasa smiled nervously, removing Kodachi's
hand from within the seat of his boxers.
"Have you ever thought," started Akane, "of destiny?"
Nabiki was nursing some body bruises she had, while Akane bandaged
some of the cuts on her arms. Interaction, of course, was good; you'll
never know what family would tell you when they were inclined. Akane,
she knew, would always have a loose tongue after a good sparring session.
She just wished that Akane would stop with the small talk.
"Nope." She didn't even hesitate.
Akane took another bandage from the first aid kit. "Never had a
feeling that everything that happened was planned?"
She couldn't resist the opening. "Like you and Ranma being
engaged?"
Akane shot her a look that shouted "CHEAP SHOT!" rabidly. She
didn't grin at that, her eyes shouted this back. She covered it up. "Do
you think that some All-Powerful Writer and his Pre-reader Bob would take
the time to chronicle each and every life story?"
"Well," Akane muttered blankly, "yeah."
Nabiki just shook her head. "Sis, if you don't write your own
story, you're probably going to blame your misgivings on others."
Akane sat back, pondering these words. Nabiki smirked, having
finally ended the inanities. She stood, offering a hand.
"Urg."
Mousse did not like sleeping on the floor. Even though he did it
often, he still hadn't gotten the hang of liking it yet. He also didn't
appreciate the fact that he was shoved there.
"Whass the-?"
He stopped to dodge a cane. Of course, since Cologne was currently
on the way back from Mt. Fuji, she couldn't have been the one to give him
the rude awakening. "Wha-? Wha gives?"
"Dr. Tofu," Kasumi was saying, "we have to talk."
The hand that shoved him dangled from the edge of the bed. Mousse
was drawn to the picture in the hand.
"Ka-Ka-Kasumi?!" Dr. Tofu's glasses were practically steaming. He
let go of the picture.
In Mousse's mind, one quite recently freed from the narrowed one-
girl-for-me! perspective, quite literally, the image was heavenly-sent.
Dr. Tofu jumped nearly ten feet back. "Y-you gave me k-quite a
rise, there. Heh-eh."
Kasumi sounded pleading, "don't run, Doctor. I need you."
Dr. Tofu's brain was firmly planted in reverse. Thus, he quickly
made an about-face and ran headfirst into a wall two feet away.
Kasumi stood aghast. "Oh... oh my." She ran to the knocked-out
moxibustionist, who had a silly grin on his face.
Mousse stood, holding the picture, quite enamored and, what's more,
incredibly piqued. Taking his eyes off the photo, he suddenly realized
that a body had just replaced him on the bed. He gaped as he saw Kasumi
standing over a prone Tofu.
"Y-you...!" He gave Kasumi an openly incredulous look. Then he
noticed the worried look she gave the doctor. "H-him...?" Then he
refocused on the prone form, not quite certain who these people actually
were. "W-who...?" Then he noticed the look he was getting from the
eldest Tendo girl. "M-me...?" This was accentuated by hand gestures in
the traditional manic air.
Kasumi considered Mousse, saying, "you're... Ranma's friend...
Mousse?"
"Uh... yeah. I mean, I'm Mousse. Who are you?"
"I'm Kasumi Tendo. How..." Kasumi pulled herself from routine,
when she realized what she was going to say. She had inadvertently
glanced down on Dr. Tofu again, which made Mousse flinch. "... well."
"And... he's...?"
Yuka daintily dabbed at her neck with the kerchief. Briefly, she
glanced at Sayuri, who had her hair down, and thought that, maybe, she
should wear her hair long. It looked cooler, too. She patted the other
side of her neck, which went under Hiroshi's scrutiny.
Sayuri daintily dabbed at her neck with the kerchief. Briefly, she
glanced at Yuka, and thought that, maybe, she should wear her hair short.
It probably kept you cooler, too. She patted the other side of her neck,
which went under Hiroshi's scrutiny.
Daisuke didn't pay that much attention, since he was trying to see
if anyone was inside the Cat Cafe. The front door was locked shut. He
couldn't see anyone from the windows in the alley, and he noticed a
scuttling in a corner. He wrinkled his nose: rats.
"Closed, ladies and gent." Daisuke clapped his hands clean of
whatever dirt he'd picked up.
"Aaaaaaaaawwwww..." was all that Hiroshi said.
Sayuri gave him a leer, while Yuka stuck Daisuke a look. "Where'll
we go, then?"
Daisuke shrugged, "why not..."
Gosunkugi had actually missed most of the ruckus by minutes, under
the guise of his ever-present aura of guileless anonymity. He muttered
some, "er... must be going... finding my books, that's all..." Actually,
he found the books on the table in the receiving room.
He was almost giddy with excitement. Saotome's hair! Several
ideas of how to use it came to mind: voodoo dolls, demonic stalkers,
spontaneous combustion, body/mind control, really painful ulcers...
Of course, he wouldn't be looking as he came out of the clinic.
*whump!*
In a flurry of flying books, he was able to both not drop the file
and fall on his teacher. "Mr. Gosunkugi!" From his vantage point, the
diminutive English teacher loomed over him. "I would appreciate it if
you looked where you where going!"
"Ms. Hinako!" One does not usually meet his teacher in the middle
of summer, especially his favorite teacher. He hoped he wasn't bubbling
over in excitement as he stood. "Where are you off to, ma'am?"
She wouldn't have noticed. "Off to check-up on my baaaaaddest
student! See ya!" She shuffled along the road at his usual pace,
leaving a "..." Gosunkugi.
Kuno ran down the long and winding way to the Tendo dojo. Ever
since he had found that they (they being the two foci of the ellipse of
his life-path) had both being taking residence there, it had been easier
in deciding which upon them he would grant his devotions: whoever would
be the first to receive him as he came, then she would be the one
blessed. A simple system, whereupon only the Goddess of Luck Herself
would have sway.
When the one to answer his summons from the doorway was Nabiki
Tendo, he almost but not quite absolutely not considered the irony of it.
"Kuno-baby! I'm sorry but there's no one home. Akane and our
little redhead went to the shopping center, I'm afraid. Thanks for the
roses! They're my favorite." She took the bouquets, and shut the gate
before the self-appointed school ninny noticed anything about the
markings on her face.
"Who was that, Nabiki?" Akane shouted (impatiently) from the
kitchen.
"A pesky flower vendor," she fibbed, "and don't touch a thing!"
She rushed back to the second half of the deal.
The Okonomiyaki Ucchan's.
"AAAAHHH!" The screen door buckled outward, precariously hanging
off its treads.
Hiroshi, who was in the lead, stopped and turned to the rest of the
troop. "Uh... guys?" Another muffled scream, another table-shaped dent.
"Can't we just go shop first?"
A chair crashed through a window. "All for it!" They made tracks.
Nerima has always had a history.
It is a little known fact that, even now in modern times, these
tales of olden-time adventures have been kept in record.
They call her the Storyteller.
Once in a while, she used to have children come over (no doubt,
sent over by parents who once were sent over by their parents) to hear
one of the many stories that filled her mind about her town.
One that the children have always loved (because it resembled a
fairy tale more than a tale of feudal Japan) was about the warrior-
prince.
"Once upon a time, about the same time when a monk had rescued the
village from wicked foxes, there was a great and noble prince.
"(Of course, he was on an errand for his lord and liege, being
waited for by his ladylove, fair and true. He looked bold and daring on
his noble steed.)
"There was an epic battle with a fearsome enemy, and," amidst gasps
and yelps that were centuries late, "there was a clash of swords that
rang through the valley for days.
"And, in the end, the prince fell, defeated. The foe was not a
merciful one, though. The prince did not die: he fell under a curse."
Like any other good story, she would stop when the going was
getting good. "For next time," she'd always say.
Of course, when they came back, she'd forgotten where she'd left
off.
"You've got it all wrong!"
"What? What have I got all wrong!? WHAT?!"
"C'mon, Ukyo! It's hard enough talking to you WITHOUT the
furniture!"
Ukyo put down the table. "So you're saying that I'm INTOLERABLE?!"
"Yes! No! Dammit, stop pacing and face me!"
Her eyes turned into slits. "WHAT DID YOU SAY?!"
Ryoga shut his mouth and quickly reviewed the last sentence. "Uh,
I mean, look at me!"
Turning on her heel, she whipped into a stance of absolutely no
quarter. They stared.
"Ooooohhh!" Ukyo turned on her heel, and stomped to the door
behind the grill.
Ryoga boggled for a few seconds, before zoning back in. "Uh,
Ukyo?" He ran to the door behind the grill.
Tatewaki Kuno, like any young man scorned and confused by Lady
Luck, went back home to charge up on his flower power, to go for another
spin.
Lady Luck, however, wasn't through with him. He took a wrong turn.
"Why didn't we go and eat HERE in the first place?"
Hiroshi cringed under the heat of the question. "I... I didn't
know..."
Sayuri did that blue aura thing. "I know. YOU wanted to ogle
Shampoo and Ukyo, didn't you?!"
"Yes! I mean, no! What's it to YOU, anyway?"
"Nothing!" Sayuri started to sputter incoherently, a sure sign of
breakdowns and explosions.
A firm hand gripped each on the opposite shoulder.
"I'm hungry," Daisuke intoned.
"Really, Sayuri," Yuka soothingly said, "you two are starting to
sound like... y'know..." She rolled her eyes.
Daisuke broke out in laughter. The others just gave him big eyes.
He winded out and calmly said, "that's funny."
In response, his stomach growled.
The group had a hearty laugh, as they entered the fast-food place.
A sharp screech of laughter punctured his earshot. He cringed, an
automatic reaction. He soon unclenched his shoulders, as soon as he
could determine that they were, in fact, not laughing at his expense.
"What's the matter, Mousse?"
Mousse sighed in a resigned manner. "Oh, nothing really."
From across the set-in table, Kasumi hid a frown. It wasn't that
hard: Mousse was squinting some nine degrees off. She extracted the
patties from her Big Wac, placing them neatly in the wrapper, and folded
that. She noiselessly slid out of the seat.
Not noiselessly enough for a half-blind martial artist, though.
"Huh? Kasumi?" He was about to stand up when somebody sidled over,
blocking his way out.
Kasumi was minutely aware of the other people.
With deft hands, she clamped Mousse's finely-muscled shoulders.
Turning him in a solid and extremely unexpected motion, she had his back
so vulnerably exposed. She dug deep into it.
"Say... isn't that Kasumi?"
Yuka nodded in acknowledgement. "And, isn't that..." *squeak*
"... Mousse?!"
With a similar squeal, Sayuri jumped and turned, Hiroshi all but
forgotten.
"Okay, okay, let's start over."
*sigh* "Do we have to?"
A pause.
"Of course, of course. What WAS I thinking?"
"Tsk, tsk. Do I hear a note of SARcasm?"
*sigh* "It... it's just so..."
"Demeaning?"
"No."
"Debilitating?"
"Not really."
"Impossible?"
"NO WAY!"
Nabiki shook her head. Three hours of hard work just to get Akane
to the right temperature, down the sink. She had to a little more choosy
in deciding what psychological ploy she could use. On making this
omelet, there were more than just eggs broken.
The bell sounded.
"Akane?" Nabiki turned to stop Akane from chopping up another
soft-boiled egg. "Take five. Could you answer the door? I'll... just,
uh... clean up here."
The blue aura disappeared. "Oh... oh, sure, Nabiki." She gingerly
pushed herself from the disaster area, and began rushing to the door by
the third chime. Nabiki took a stool and sagged.
Little Miss Hinako Ninomiya bouncied in. "Oh, hello, Miss Tendo!"
She fluttered back outside. "Bye!"
After a few seconds, Akane ambled in.
Nabiki pointed out the screen door.
Akane nodded thanks, then ambled out that way.
"Say... that's pretty, uh, good."
Kasumi put in just a pinch of smile in her voice. "You're too
uptight. Father says that martial arts is a combination of movements and
rests."
She slowly retracted her hands and shifted slightly backward. "Is
it... Shampoo?"
At the mention of the Amazon's name, he recoiled into a knot.
"Please don't ever mention that... that word."
Kasumi looked confused. "My, that wouldn't be easy. How would I
buy some from the grocery?"
The slip went past Mousse, who looked all the more troubled. With
urgency, he motioned to slip out of the booth. "I... I've got to go."
"So soon?" Kasumi sidled outward and bowed to Mousse. "Thank you
very much for the meal, Mousse. I would like to invite you to eat dinner
at my father's house." She straightened.
"Huh?" Mousse had never been invited over... at least not by a
woman. Not by... did she say like? "Sure, Ms. Kasumi! Thank you!"
Giddy, he left.
"What a charming young man," Kasumi said to no one.
"All your fault. Stupid, macho, stubborn..."
Ukyo rambled on, muttering, as she reached the door of her room.
Opening it from the inside, Ryoga "Akk!"ed.
Ukyo stopped. "What are you doing in my room?" she started
dangerously.
Ryoga peered into the face of Fury Hell Hath Nothing On. He wasn't
backing down now. He whispered, "I'm here to talk... as a friend."
Silence.
"You know," Ukyo spoke, "you men are all alike." She chuckled
softly, a mocking tone. "Friends. Do you know how often I've heard that
word?"
Flash: images of a carefree time. She remembered smiling and
laughing. She remembered her father, her mother, the yattai which was
their all. Yellowed picture memories.
Flash: images of a young Ranma came to mind. Already a young man
at six, bursting with healthy energy. She wondered if children they'd
have kids would look as adorable, as alive.
Flash: images of a departing yattai.
Flash: images of new friends, and a young man who was tied to a
tree trunk.
Flash: images of the tree trunk, a yellow ribbon torn.
Flash: images of the sea, revenge.
Flash: images of Tsubasa, overlaid by a frilly dress. Images of
Ryoga, overlaid by a piglet in a girl's arms.
"Friends never stay friends."
That said, she closed the door.
The door slid open.
From the other end of the room, a Voice spoke. "Come."
Despite his confusion, he did as he was told.
The Voice commanded, "sit."
In the center of the room, a large mat was laid. Threadbare in
parts, it was obviously well-worn. The room lay in a radiating darkness,
offset by the fireplace set into the farther side of the room. The
silhouetted figure, which obviously owned the commanding Voice, turned
from stoking the flames. "It has been a while... Tatewaki."
The mention of his name gave him back his ability to think, not
that it was that much of a whoop. "I... I know you..."
"As do I you." The figure hobbled over to a chair, and sat itself.
It Spoke again, "you have come... for a story."
"No." He shook himself, and started to rise. "I'm afraid... I was
looking for... some roses to give..."
"... to one of your true loves."
He was immediately impressed. "How... how did you know?"
The Voice laughed, in a small, unassuming (and, at times, painful)
manner. It ended up coughing. Clearing its throat, the Voice came.
"There is a story, and you have heard of it: the one with the
cursed prince. This one, however, is about the princess.
"On the eve of his fatal battle, the princess gave the prince a
lock of her hair. 'If,' she said, 'you do not return, may you return
this when we meet in the afterlife.'
"'But,' the prince asked, 'if I do return?'
"'Then, return it to me at our wedding.'
"With a kiss, she bade him to leave for battle, and to his fate.
"For days and weeks, she waited for his return, without avail.
"In his absence, the princess fell ill, as she lost all manner of
reason for living.
The Voice paused. "It was at this time that the prince, cursed as
he was, returned. He feared that he was scarred too much for the
princess to recognize, and that her rapidly deteriorating health would
take her from this world too soon.
"In his desperation, he went to a shugenja, the wizard of the fief.
Using an oracle, the shugenja saw the prince in his true form.
"He was told, 'under the light of a blue moon, drink of her, and
she will see herself in you. She will understand.'
"Of the lock of hair, they prepared an elixir. And on the blue
moon... hey, where are you going?"
Kuno was gone before the figure could stand.
The Voice sighed. "Young'uns." Grabbing a ladle and a bucket, the
Voice ambled off into the decaying daylight, onto the street, and she
splashed and splattered, waiting for the next legend to come along.
The Empty House
Most houses have legends all to their own.
Since the massive exodus of prehistoric man from the trees, there
have been stories, passed from generation to generation, of the Earth, of
its origins, and its history, and of time itself.
Many a night was spent around a fire (which, no doubt, had had, by
itself, stories of note) with the organization of a storyteller (or more)
and of an audience, held captive by the epic and often apocryphal myths
of the Cause, the Reason, or the Other Things That Had Never Happened.
The only thing that had really changed was the size of the matter.
In time, the history of Man had increased in volume. In such, so
had the stories of Man, and the domicile of Man. The world had grown, in
a shrinking of units, of an enlargement of capacities, and the homes of
all of Man's aspects grew in the same manner.
But the Human House did not just enlarge, appending as a random
function of time. Much as the Legend was its Soul, the House Matured.
In the silence of a much dimmed room, one can almost believe that a
larger, deeper soul breathes.
Listen. It speaks.
It wouldn't be hard to believe that the Tendo residence once housed
nobles and warriors of revered blood. It stood luxurious and expansive,
simple in design, yet austere and regal in bearing.
Of course, during the feudal era, Nerima was a mere valley, a
disinteresting waterhole, whose high point was a set of springs much like
their mother-springs across the sea. (To which, despite being closed,
are still connected there: did you think that the carp pond was just a
carp pond way back when?)
There was once an inn, though, but that's another story, another
time.
In the best-selling and highly regarded reference book "The Hair of
Care" (Toiletries Press, 489), there is a mention of a tradition of more
barbaric tribes of yore partaking in the hair of their opponents to have
insight into the plans of the opponents. (The more sophisticated of
then-current tribes had the traditions of finer dining, a.k.a.
cannibalism.) This it attributes to the belief that hair grew out of the
head, and contained much spiritual and ethereal power.
It also states a superfluous number of recipes for hair for this
particular reason. The simplest recipe for hair follows:
Get hair.
Get container of soup.
Place hair in soup.
Drink in one gulp.
Belch.
The recipe was, unsurprisingly, named "Mongolian stew" (some if the
more interesting Mongolian recipes are for other types of facial hair,
charred or otherwise boiled off).
Strangely enough, it makes no mention of love potions from hair.
In the basement of a building, a small window was spraying the
afternoon light into a small corner of the room. The corner was empty,
bereft of life as it was of cover. The grimy floor still has fresh
tracks, but these were slight, even unobvious. What was more obvious
though, were the open crates nearby, emptied of their contents. Several
footprints weren't visible on the steps, trailing the grime, up...
What is the home?
It is the fruit of the seed.
It is not the rind which makes the fruit, it is the soft and spongy
cushion in which the chrysalis of the heart lays, not dormant yet not at
all in control.
What is the home? It is what the mind envisions when at peace.
What is the home? It is the oasis on the journey that is life.
What is the home? It is that part of the house that resides in
Man.
The midafternoon sun sent tendrils of light into the windows of
three rooms on the second floor of the only house on the block that was
also a tactical target. A dusty air scurried into and out of the probing
strobes, receding into the corners.
In the room with two sets of windows, the curtains stayed closed.
A calendar overlooked a neatly fixed bed, a silent airconditioner on the
other side of the corner. Not too long ago, the potted plant stood
witness to a written confession in that self-same room.
On the opposite wall, a bookcase provided much-needed space for odd
books on first aid, cuisine, herbalism and fairy tales. One would not
see the space one occupied by rows of lightweight fare; they were just
displaced, without any intention of returning.
The drawers were empty: indeed, there was nothing to hide.
Several flat-soled shoes, plus one pair of simple heeled shoes,
were lined up under the shelves.
A cabinet stayed closed, sentry to the openings and closings of the
door. Aside from that, and a almost unused dresser, the room was nearly
empty, a mere waystation and lodging.
A door slid open noiselessly.
In the unlit room, the hallway light casted a pillar onto the wall,
then the television set, then the playstation, then the floor, lightly
touching several books scattered on the floor.
"Hunh, still in the library. I wondered why it was so quiet."
There is a house, somewhere in Tokyo, which is often empty.
A woman lives there, a mother and a wife.
She sometimes wonders if the house would come crashing to the
ground; she fancies herself a believer in the "a house is not a home"
theory.
She rarely dreams of the house. The house rarely dreams of her.
In fact, the house rarely dreams: when it does, it is usually the
same dream, over and over.
The house dreams of the night: not just any night, it is a night
which it is not empty.
It dreams of the night of the other people.
It dreams, over and over, wondering about the children taken away
from their parents.
It dreams, and sleeps.
For once, the Kuno mansion was completely empty.
Principal Kuno, of course, was in Hawaii, a much-unlamented fact.
He was rarely missed in the household; indeed, he was rarely missed in
Nerima. His penchant for causing construction sites endless trouble
(what with surfing down rubble-waves, from gravel piles) and his frequent
barber-shop raids have already made him notorious throughout companies in
the district.
Tatewaki Kuno was struck by a scheme by which to claim the heart of
either Akane Tendo or the pigtailed girl, and thus could not be bothered
by housesitting.
Kodachi Kuno was not available for interview at this point.
Sasuke, the head (and only regular) manservant, has been busy
chasing the escaped Mr. Turtle, who, as soon as it was revived and freed
from its bonds, fled to find food through the plumbing of the hot springs
of the Kuno estate (which should be noted as being artificial, and have
never had magical shapechanging properties). However, since Tatewaki
Kuno was concurrently questing, it was a surety that Sasuke would drop
the hunt in order to aid, abet, and generally be accomplice to whatever
was necessary to see it through.
Mr. Turtle was, in fact, washed out to the river.
The other, unnamed househands (unique only up to laugh quality),
shared two singular qualities: one, having been victimized the explosion
of Kodachi aphrodisiac experiments of yesterday, and, two, being all
female. These two traits caused them to follow the first male in the
household they could find: thus, unbeknownst to him, Sasuke was being
chased by the rest of the aforementioned household help.
Thereby, the Kuno estate was completely empty, from end to end. Of
course, there was no fear of burglary, as the house itself was a virtual
deathtrap.
Nonetheless, it is crucial to mention that, because Kodachi (along
with Tsubasa) came home a little after dinnertime, no one was able to
view or, later, locate the meteorite that fell smack-dab in the middle of
Mr. Turtle's pond.
A few steps, and: "AAGGHH!"
Immediately, the scream stopped. Outside the door of the Ucchan's,
the sound of a head hitting wood slowly, deliberately.
As in any tight knit neighborhood, people moving into and out of
the area would always attract attention: after all, it's kind of hard
not to notice those moving trucks as they crowd into the small streets.
"Yes, I think that that's all of it. Thank you very much."
The young woman wrapped her arms around the young man's muscled one
as she stared at the lot beyond the tall gates. He, on the other hand,
was busy outlining his plans for the wide space in the back yard of the
house, possibly a training hall or some such. She sighed into his arm:
at last, their marriage seemed completed short of the pitter-patter of
small knees crawling around their feet.
People started coming into the knot that was building in front of
the old inn that old lady Tendo was housekeeping. She hadn't exactly
been the housekeeping type, actually; some of the Nerima parties were
passed within the confines of the lot. It showed: the grass grew wild
in the backyard, but trampled in spots. Even the pond seemed neglected,
as moss was covering the bottom, giving it a greenish tinge. But it
seemed healthy, alive... the foliage was coming for vengeance. They
would only find that out later, but find out they would.
The young man felt a tap on his shoulder.
With his martial arts reflexes, he immediately swiped his wife from
off her feet, and turned to his tormenting mast-
"Hello."
They blink-blinked at the short-sleeved-kimono-wearing old lady.
She waved her ladle in the air with a flair and pointed at them. "BOO!
Heeeeeeh, heh, scared you, didn't I?" She laughed loudly.
The young woman clambered down her stiffened and shocked husband,
who was crying through unclosing eyes. "Uh... we're sorry."
Straightening, she bowed at the waist. "We must introduce ourselves.
We're..."
"The Tendo newlyweds. Yes, yes. Congratulations, of course." She
made swish-swish movements with her ladle (spraying layers of minute
drops) and flashed a toothy grin, in a way to gesture... something.
"Well... Nabiki..."
"Yes..." He finally fell out of his stupor, recognizing the name.
"Yes, grandaunt did write about her friend... so, you're the famous
Storyteller of Nerima?"
"Shuckin's," the Storyteller replied demurely, "I knew Nabiki would
do that. Now, my reputation's in shambles."
"Why's that?" the younger woman played along.
"Well, you can't be a storyteller with being a visionary. And here
I was, trying my hand out at prediction-making." She tsk-tsked at her
apparent loss.
The young man followed his wife's lead. "Of course, of course, we
realize. Forgive us. Um... are you making daily horoscopes?"
She belted an even fiercer laugh into the young man's face. "Stop
confusing astrology for clairvoyance! Science is a very heartless
oracle, the stars even more! No, no... what was I saying?"
The couple had little sweatbeads on their napes. The young woman
was the one who recovered faster: "uh, Grand-aunt Nabiki..."
"Oh, yeah, that's right... Nabiki and I have this little wager
going..."
The young man goggled, "betting on the future?"
His wife bonked him some.
"Actually," the old woman said morosely, "yes. We're betting on
YOUR future."
The second room over in the second floor of the Tendo household has
the air of being in the exact middle of change. Strewn about in some
places were pieces of paper and assorted cloth and clothing, overlaid on
the order underneath. The bedsheets were as straight as a ruler's edge,
but the blankets left waves that lingered.
A bookcase stood over the bed, filled with all sorts of tomes on
actuarial science, abstract algebra, life contingencies and differential
calculus. In between these heavy texts, several smaller, lighter novels
sit comfortably out of plain sight. And in between those, important
information on unassuming corners of paper, in-between words of burning
passion and righteous love.
A clipboard unobtrusively hung on the side of the case announced
the "Things to Be Done", but the slate was clean. The desk from which it
was most visible had a smaller line of books on it and an imposing
painting hanging right above it. Most of the time, the desk was
cluttered will little notes and all, scribblings of... well, things best
left unknown. Now, it lain pristine and, most of all, storiless.
The cabinet on the other side was tall enough for the box on top to
be obscured from anyone who isn't looking for it, most importantly the
owner of the contents. As they say, out of sight, out of mind. The said
owner was only peripherally aware of it, much in the way that she was
aware that it took up space and shifted the path of the currents in her
room and in her life.
A medium-height-backed chair, a cassette player/recorder, and the
occasional boxes and rugs littered themselves in an upright manner in the
room. Framed pictures studded the walls, as though in an effort to
surround the room with faces and memories.
All of it, epitomized by a small doll inside the box, which did not
and was not what it seemed, but was that way, anyway.
A few steps, and: "AAGGHH!"
Immediately, the scream stopped. Outside the Ucchan's, the sound
of a head hitting wood slowly, deliberately, on the second floor.
The sound of running water, and porcelain.
Kuno's mind worked in mysterious and easily controlled ways.
While not exactly your high speed processor, the neural links are
there, it's just that there's so much traffic. Not because there are so
many things running through it, just that the roads are kind of skinny in
parts.
Be that as it may, there are still some creative enough connections
that would make the ride pretty interesting. For example, the only thing
connected to "watermelon" was a clump of complicatedly bunched together
motor neurons. "Family" would shunt a reduction of endomorphine in the
hypothalamus, and "magic" was well-associated with "science", as were the
concepts of "poverty", "weakness" and "oompah-loompah". His ego was very
in touch with his superego, but the latter rubbed elbows with his id,
which made for a somewhat dysfunctional set-up. A whole bunch of words
were in linked lists to the tune of Shakespeare's sonnets, and the verbal
part of his right brain was locked into that pool.
The way that it stored information was through stories: it would
create, word for word, a new linked list, as the story unfolds. This
causes two problems: the download time for information would be kind of
large, and cross-referencing would be troublesome.
Three actually; that would mean that all information was to be
taken in the literal and chronological arrangement that it was given.
A corner stood in the darkening atmosphere, the target of one, and
the takeoff of another. Thus, they were unable to meet.
The blue moon is the Western astrological concept of the rare (once
in every 33 months) occurrence of two full moons in a single month. As
the moon has an effect on the tides and has often been cited to cause
crazy sicknesses like lunacy and lycanthropy, as well as aiding the
powers of witches and warlocks through the Greek goddess Hecate (or is
that vice-versa?), such changes in the phases of the moon have caused
enough ruckus to make them see rabbits in it. It bases itself quite
unfairly on the way that a month is named (much is a difference of the
Western based Julian and, later, Gregorian calendars with the Chinese
lunar calendars, which are based on the phases of the moon, and quite the
fashion in Asia during the 16th and 17th century), and actually did not
exist during the feudal period of Asia. Straighter to the point yet, a
shugenja could not possibly name an arbitrary full moon a blue moon.
Needless to say, changes in culture prescribe an updating of
stories. Also needless to say, that night's moon was actually waning
gibbous.
"Now, there, Nabiki... have some fun with Akane, now..."
"Yes, Mom..."
"Yes, Mommy..."
Nabiki looked at the receding back of Kimiko Tendo, and pulled out
the scissors she was planning to play with. Akane's eyes widened,
fascinated by the glinting metal edges as they caught the afternoon sun.
"Ooohh..."
Nabiki pulled the shears from her youngest sister's vicinity.
"Akane, you know you're not allowed to play with these."
Akane pouted, "you're not supposed to..."
"If," Nabiki said, pulling out the newspaper, "you keep quiet, I'll
let you use it..."
Akane widened her eyes, and nodded wordlessly.
Kasumi was just outside Akane and Nabiki's room when she heard the
bawl.
With heightened/frightened senses, she opened the door wide.
"WHAT'S WRONG??"
Nabiki didn't turn.
The scissors lain on the floor, as though dropped.
Akane cried, as though in pain.
"NABIKI!"
Nabiki turned sheepishly. "Aww... Kasumi..."
Kasumi looked stunned. "I can't beLIEVE you're taking this so...
dumbly!"
Akane increased her pitch, apparently forgotten by her elder
sisters. Kasumi calmly put a hand on their baby sister's shoulder,
unable to make "there, there" noises, mostly because her mouth was geared
in another direction.
"You... your..."
Nabiki put a hand to the side of her head. "It's not that bad..."
Akane redoubled her efforts.
"Not that bad?" Kasumi whispered, out of Akane's earshot.
"Nabiki, if you wanted a free haircut, you could have asked me." Putting
down the book she was holding, and took up the scissors. Licking her
lips, she took her last look of Nabiki's well-cared-for ponytails, and
made decisive cuts.
Akane stopped crying, fixated on the bonding occurring. Because
she was only five, and didn't know squat about bonding or the importance
of hair to a girl, so: "Me! Me, too!"
Nabiki shushed her. "Your hair's already short, Akane."
"But I want Kasumi-neechan to cut it!"
Kasumi gave the final touch on to the sides. "There." She started
picking up the hairs which piled itself at their feet. "How about you,
A... Akane?"
The black-haired girl held the two endpieces of ponytail. Bound,
they looked like hula skirts topped with round pink coconuts. "I'm
sorry."
Nabiki smiled, a wistful grin. "It's okay. Hey, look, I'm sure
Kasumi-neechan can make some pretty dolls out of those..."
Akane looked askance from Nabiki to the eldest. "True?"
Kasumi nodded. "True."
Akane turned to Nabiki, handing out a piece. "You have this one...
it IS your hair."
Nabiki took it, sharing a look with Kasumi, and they hugged their
little sister.
The young lady didn't quite hear. "You're betting on what?"
The Storyteller laughed. "Yours." She took out a folded piece of
paper. "Seems that Nabiki doesn't really believe in predestination, and
all that. I just think that things don't really change."
The man pointed at the paper. "Is that...?"
"The list of predictions I made regarding this empty house that
stands before you. What would happen to its next owners, that's you
folks, listed in chronological order." She opened it, revealing a rather
long list, indeed.
The young man sighed. "Well, it seems like we'll live long,
fruitful lives here, eh?"
"Oh, yes, yes. You, your children, your children's children... the
name Tendo will prosper in this house, for generations to come. Says so
in line #361." She gave the list to the young newlyweds, the young man
taking it.
The younger woman wondered. "How did you make these predictions?
Not without any astrological devices, that is?"
"Simple," she said, simply, "I asked Nabiki what happened to your
family as far back as she could. It's all fractal, you see. Recursive,
detail mimics portrait."
"Come again?"
"History repeats itself."
The young man scratched his nape. "I don't recall anyone in the
family who's gone to China."
"Ah... the process is reiteration, not repetition. It doesn't need
to be exactly the same with anything that has happened, it just has to
seem so." She yawned, then pointed to a line in the list. "I don't
think anyone in your lineage has been offered a royal marriage twice,
now. Neither has there been anyone who became younger, or made insane."
The male nodded, committing the data to memory, not really
concerning himself with the authenticity of the information. Half good,
half bad, not that bad, then.
The Storyteller took back the list, gingerly folding it. "Oh,
well. It's getting late, and I've got to cook some dinner." She waved,
winking at the settling-in couple. "I'll be keeping a close eye on you,
count on it."
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(Detach here)
Eight months after posting Part 6, here it finally is... A little
less fluid, a little more gruff, and a lot more confused. Given the
spurt of pomp to continue this "original flavor" (not quite, now, is it?)
story, with the need to finish to the next storyarc, Herbs and Spices are
now alive and kicking again. By now, you guys might already have hints
and tidbits into the next part, because of the out-of-sequence posting of
Three White Lies, but how much DO you know? I'm getting all worked up
about the plot twist that I've planned some one-and-a-half years ago, and
boy, I hope I make it fast before someone writes it out. That's eighteen
months gone, ten to go...
I was planning for a more interesting, experimental feel to the
thirteenth chapter (oops! mustn't say that... bad, bad luck...) "The
Empty House", by trying to develop the characters and the story without
the use of the characters directly. I cheated: there are two
flashbacks, and several faceless lines. What I did want to focus on was
the descriptions of the rooms of the Tendo siblings, details of which
were acquired from the scans on the Ranma 1/2 Universe page. (And, yes,
that thing in the upper left corner of the picture is probably a heater,
but I just assume that it's an airconditioner.)
So I used Nabiki's name as the name of her great-grandaunt.
And, as per the usual, the roll:
Akane: last seen in the Tendo kitchen
Nabiki: last seen in the Tendo kitchen
Ryoga: last seen in the Ucchan's
Ukyo: sleeping in the Ucchan's
Kasumi: last seen in the WcDonald's
Tofu: last seen in his clinic
Shampoo: still asleep in the Cat Cafe
Tsubasa: last seen with Kodachi
Kuno: building a mystery
Sasuke: last seen snooping, and chased by the Kuno househelp
Kodachi: last seen with Tsubasa
Mousse: last seen in the WcDonald's, but could have been snooping
Mr. Turtle: river rafting
Gosunkugi: not at home
Hinako: last seen in the Tendo-ke
Up in sixty, snakes and ladders. Will we finally get back on
track? What plot twist am I talking about? Who is A? Will the
Storyteller take on Cologne? What the hell was that meteorite? Is there
sense in having flashbacks? Who cares about blue moons? How do you make
a love potion out of hair? When are those people who went to Mt. Fuji
coming back? And, why not make a teaser and hint at what will happen?
Please somehow C&C.
(Detach here)
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