This won't appeal to everyone, but then, what does?
$Revision: 0.1 $
$Date: 1998/10/04 08:27:47 $
BML Productions
presents
A wHatever Fic
The Smile
a Ranma 1/2 Fanfiction
written by
DaR
Ranma was puzzled. In fact, perhaps puzzled was too mild a word.
Baffled, unwitted, confused, verily, even dazed. He was utterly
and totally unsure. For him, this was amounted to a rather unpleasant
experience. So much of his self-worth was built on the confidence
that often crossed over into outright arrogance.
He couldn't read his opponent. Not at all. He didn't understand
it. Even against Cologne or Happousai he was able to anticipate
them to some degree. They could mask their aura, but not hide it.
But she didn't have an aura. None.
In a battle between two high-power martial artists, the initial
move was everything. It determined who would have the offensive,
the advantage, and often, the win. It was something Ranma had spent
most of his years perfecting. Reading an opponents intentions was
perhaps his single strongest skill.
He knew when the enemy would break, when they would rush in, when
they would pull back. Attacks were felt, reflected in the aura of
their ki. Defenses could be seen, concentrations of energy in
preparation for a blow. All he got from her was that damn cryptic
smile. Like she was holding all the cards this time, and knew it.
Panic flashed through him, leaving a vague trembling in his limbs.
How could he win this fight? Would that smile haunt his dreams
and nightmares to the end of time?
Across his fists, he stared. With unearthly calm, she stared back.
No aura, not even a hint of it. How could it be? Even people with
no training at all had that distinctive quality to them.
Could it really be that she had such control that she was damping
it out entirely? He wasn't sure it could even be done. Tofu was,
perhaps, the best master of internal ki he knew, outstripping even
Cologne in some areas. He couldn't do that. He only dim it down
to barely perceptible, but it was always still there if you looked.
Stalling for time, he began to circle, but she merely turned with
him. No openings, no weaknesses to exploit. One of them would
have to move first. It was a battle of the psyche, straight out
of an old-fashioned samurai drama.
The challenge had come as a surprise to begin with. Of all the
people he knew, she was one of the one's he'd have least expected
it of. She witnessed his skill on a regular basis, daily even.
Before it had started, he wondered how she could possibly hope to
win. Or even compete. Then he started looking for ulterior motives.
His attention ripped back to her. Had she just moved? Was that
a twitch of her shoulder? An indication of attack? Up and down,
he cursed this inability. Had it been Ryouga, or Mousse, or Kunou,
he would have known. Like reading from a book.
Before long the first exchange would have to occur. Reputation
was on the line here. Ranma had lost battles, but never once had
he lost overall, there had always been a way to win in the end.
Not so here, this was it. If he didn't figure it out, there wouldn't
be any second chances.
With great effort, he firmed his resolve. He wasn't going to get
his read, so he'd have to do without. This was going to be one of
the hardest fights of his life, he suspected. How should he open?
It was unlikely she would, her style would have to be defensive.
At least, he assumed so. It was astonishing that she even stood
in the dojo with him in this capacity. What made her think she
could take him now, after all the training he'd had since he got
here?
It wouldn't do to hurt her badly. Not only did it going against
what he'd learned, he didn't want to. That would mean a soft style.
Maybe some judo throws, where he could keep control of her body,
her fall. Yeah, defeat her without injury. She can't be that good
anyway, this is a show, something she's trying to prove to someone.
Okay, here we go. He'd force the issue, starting the attack, make
her respond. Maybe he'd get a read then. If not, she could only
respond in so many possible ways. And soon enough he'd get a
position where he could take her down. Quickly.
Circling some more, he looked for the most opportune time. When
she was set most firmly in her stance, unready to move. The white
gi covered her loosely, masking the subtle play of her leg muscles.
Why was she wearing a white gi?
Movements were smooth and assured, unexpectedly so. Stance open,
arms up in an easy guard position, no tension anywhere. And that
smile. Before today it had been pleasant to see, had made him feel
good on those rare occasions she'd pointed it at him. Now it was
creepy.
He almost chickened out again. Was she really that good? So good
that she could smile at him so evenly in the middle of a fight?
No. It wasn't possible. He'd have noticed after all this time.
Never once in all the time he'd known her had she indicated such
a superior skill level. That grin was almost predatory.
What did the sudden blankness hide, what ability did she really
have? Time to find out. The pre-battle psychological staredown
had gone to her. Had she ever lost one? He'd have to make it up.
With no warning, he leapt in, battle cry hot on his lips, hopefully
putting her off balance.
His first punch was off-center, deliberately so. She couldn't
discount it though, she'd have to move, to try and counter it.
Then she'd be open. He started to follow up, but she hadn't moved.
She'd known.
It was more stunning than the challenge had been, almost as much as
her complete lack of ki aura.
As his punch came back, he started to spin, using his own momentum
to his advantage. His center dropped, leg beginning to straighten
for a sweep. As his circle continued, his head snapped around,
ready to lock in the final target for his technique. Which had
vanished.
Panic time again. While his head had been turning, she'd moved.
Without sound, with no sense of disturbance in the surrounding
area. He pushed with his supporting leg, turning the turning sweep
into an evasive roll. As his feet came under him again, he sprung
up, rotating further.
It was is if some miraculous teleportation had occurred. Her
stance, posture, guard, even that smile, were all unchanged, just
relocated. As he watched, the smile slipped minutely. Fear
exploded inside him, wrenching his guts. He knew she'd been insulted
by his tactic. By not taking her seriously.
And then she was in front of him. He'd missed her moving again,
caught off guard by the lack of clues that usually signaled an
attack. It was beginning to become crystal clear how much he relied
on those hints.
They began to exchange a flurry of deadly serious blows. He felt
like a beginner again, having to pick up each move and block it as
it started, rather than simply knowing where it was going to hit
and avoiding it. Punches and kicks rained down on him, though he
was giving almost as good as he got.
Hook kick, round kick, reverse punch, jab, block, block, dodge,
jump, sweep, side kick. Ridgehand, palm strike, rising block,
dropping block.
They both jumped back, the air thick between them. Ranma was
panting, she was not. He'd never worked so hard to score so few
hits before, even against Cologne. At least he had more information.
All of her attacks and defenses had been traditional karate,
straight, fast, and hard.
He began circling again, almost missing her motion for a third
time. Dancing back and to the side to avoid the kick he figured
on, he almost had his head removed by the sweeping punch. Only
his superior reflexes and speed saved him.
Again they clashed, moving at incredible speeds. How could she be
that fast? To slip up would be to lose, there would be no recovery
time. The fear was back. He was going to lose. The only question
was how long could he hold it off.
The smile was beginning to get to him now, he hated it. It mocked
him, made him aware of his faults. Before, he could ignore his
shortcomings, he was the best martial artist around, no one could
touch him. Cologne and Happousai required all their years of
training to keep up, his father was a roadmark in the distant past
of his skills. Now, he knew he wasn't the best, might never be.
Pain erupted in his side, forcing him to stagger back and away.
She'd tagged him with a solid side kick, one he should avoided with
ease. It had been a thing of beauty, she'd led him into a pattern,
and then broken it, and him. Or at least, a couple of ribs it
felt. He'd fallen for it like a white belt in his first sparring
match.
It made him want to cry, a feeling he suppressed ruthlessly. She
might take away his pride, but she couldn't make him cry like some
weak girl. The pain had lessened, the ribs weren't broken, but
he'd sport a nice bruise to show for it.
The gloves were off now, he wasn't holding back because she was
female. It wasn't necessary anymore. If he won, nothing would be
said. The observers all knew what this fight meant to the combatants.
There was no going back.
For the first time in what seemed like forever, he felt the pure
wholeness of the Art subsume him. It wrapped around him like a
warm white light. There was no need to suppress his abilities, to
make the fight fair, to gain training by imposing self-restrictions.
He let it flow over him, through him, out of him.
They came together again, two elemental forces colliding. Techniques,
combinations, patterns, katas, everything ebbed and flowed like
the tides of the ocean, pulled between the moon and the earth. No
more was she leading him, no more than he had hoped to lead her.
It was dance, it was combat, it was love, it was hate, it was joy,
it was life, it was death. It was just everything.
The smile was there, still. Now it seemed to be encouraging,
lifting him up to her level, dragging him to the next plane. He
wasn't ready, he never would have been, might never be again. It
didn't matter.
No longer did he think about what techniques he would throw, how
he would block, he simply did. The onlookers gasped, awed by the
display. He still could not read her aura, it was a closed book,
sealed to his mind. Nor was it necessary to do so. The Art pulsed
within him, like his very lifeblood. It called to him, and he
answered, letting his limbs perform by its demands.
Faster and faster they sparred, constantly probing, striking,
reacting. His mind was detached, observing his body from far away,
marveling at the exchange of skill. Slowly his awareness returned
to her. She wasn't sweating, in fact, her breathing wasn't even
labored. Adding to his continual astonishment, neither was his.
He was unsure how long it continued. It must have been forever,
he couldn't recall anything else but their stylized dance. But it
seemed they had only just started it.
Unfortunately, he couldn't not maintain it within him. It struck
him with sudden surety that he would never reach this state of
grace again. Once more he nearly cried out, this time at the
injustice of having this primal perfection stripped away. And with
that it ended.
She knew it as well, could see it even more clearly than he. As
his focus dropped, she stepped up, swiveling in for a final blow.
The final roundhouse slammed into his ribs, opposite the other
damage she'd done him. A final courtesy for a battle that was
surprisingly well fought.
As he rocketed towards the dojo wall, he wondered what would come
next. In a way, it was oddly like being reborn. His old life was
over, without doubt. The only question that came to mind was what
would come next. Perhaps he'd ask her to teach him, but perhaps
not. There could be no further bad blood as a result of this, not
after achieving what they had, but it had the potential to be
uneasy.
The impact was sudden and surprisingly painless, testament to the
punishment his previous life had required of his body. Some
indeterminate time later, he struck the floor, face-first and limp.
With no small effort he rolled over, staring at the ceiling, the
rafters, seeing everything as if for the first time.
Then the smile was there again, knowing, with a touch of smugness.
He couldn't hate it anymore. Maybe he hadn't ever hated it.
She reached out for him, extending a hand. She meant for him to
take it, to use it to climb up. It was a lifeline, extended despite
the battle they'd fought. He could see no reason not to.
As she spoke, she somehow maintaining the smile through each word.
"That was fun Ranma, we should do it again sometime."
Yes, Ranma thought as he watched her retreat towards the house, we
should.
***
Author's Notes:
Yeargh. Another fic that ripped its way out of my subconscious
without stopping to ask first. The concept of a lack of aura as
a superior fighting tactic comes from Seta Soujirou from the series
Rurouni Kenshin. When applied to the Ranma characters, there was
really only one choice in my mind for who could do it. And no I
won't say who. You can guess yourself if you care. You might even
be right. :)
There's no set up, nor closure, to this. If someone wants to write
it, they're certainly welcome to. As always, my express permission
is given to anyone who wants to use this scenario in a larger work,
though I would appreciate hearing about it.
Saotome Ranma is a creation of Takahashi Rumiko, and appears without
any sort of permission.
-DaR