This is the last chapter of the first part of Ranma Nibun no Usugurami. 
I hope I haven't completely scared you off. When exiting remember to 
return your trays to the fully upright position and that these 
characters aren't mine no matter how much I play with them.

Chapter 7

Tentatively, Ranma slid the door open to the room she was staying in. 
Her mind told her that the lack of furniture she saw was a normality of 
Japanese design, but the emptiness of the room only served to remind her 
of the emptiness inside.

Slapping herself on the head, she tried to remain objective in her 
surroundings. Needless self-pity would not help her. She looked around 
the room for something familiar. The room was rokuj� size, built from 
the same materials represented in the rest of the house. In the far end, 
to her right, was a closet with a small table beside it. The table was 
supporting a bonsai. She saw that there was no other furniture. No desk, 
no dresser, not even a simple wall scroll. The only other features this 
room had was a full-length mirror on the opposite wall of the closet, 
and a window centred on the wall in front of her. She might as well be 
living in tract housing.

Stepping over the threshold, she closed the door. Since the shutters on 
the window and the slats on the windows were closed, a halo of light, 
cast around the window, was the only source that kept the gloom from 
falling into darkness. There was a fluorescent light in a simple wooden 
fixture on the ceiling but, preferring the low light, she made no move 
for the switch. Instead, she walked to the mirror.

"Its about time I get a chance to see what I look like," she said.

When in view of her reflection, she just stood there, taking it all in. 
She was about five-foot-two, maybe five-three, with a small face and 
soft features: an upturned nose, full lips that looked like they would 
pout when she wanted and deep blue eyes. But none of that stood out the 
way her hair did. Her hair was red, like fire, which defied the darkness 
of the room and seemed to shine with radiance all its own, though 
sharing none with its surroundings. She ran a hand through her bangs 
also fascinated by how the tightness of the braid in her hair made her 
pigtail curl upward.

When she looked at the rest of her clothes, she became confused. Made of 
Chinese silk, her top was red with four clasps, her pants dark blue with 
a white silk drawstring. The confusing part was that, with the sleeves 
of the shirt rolled up and the numerous folds in the pant's waist, it 
looked like her clothes were made--or bought--for someone larger. And 
yet, she thought as her mind switched tracks, even through that, the 
figure was unmistakable.

She used her hands to even out the fabric, but thanks to her curves 
there wasn't much to even out. Her whole frame was voluptuous, with 
breasts that felt like they were sculpted from marble despite the fact 
they had Croftian proportions, and hips that looked like they could bend 
steel. She also had the smallest waist she could imagine was possible. 

"And this is *without* plastic surgery?" she asked of herself, arching 
her back to check her butt. "Damn, I've got good genes."
She struck a couple more sexy poses before she began to giggle at how 
silly she looked to herself.

Her mood was decidedly better. If she really had amnesia, she felt 
better about being a hot, eighteen-year-old girl than a fat, 
eighty-year-old man. But still, it was nothing to hide behind. She had 
to find the real Ranma, whoever she was. And she was prepared for a 
struggle.

"But these clothes..." she said trailing off. She reconfirmed that there 
was no dresser, and made her way to the closet.

Opening the closet door, she looked inside. There were four shelves plus 
a space on the floor. Three pairs of house slippers were down there. Two 
futons were on the first shelf. More Chinese clothes on the second 
shelf. The third was bare and the top shelf was too high to see. The 
shirts were the same style as what she wore but with the same ridiculous 
dimensions. If these *were* hers, what must she have been thinking?

When she tried to look at the size of the folded pants, the room became 
darker. Not like a crawling twilight, but very quickly, unnaturally. 
Behind her she heard a noise like a soft wind rustling grass. Under 
different circumstances she would have found the sound calming, but 
right now it filled her with inexplicable dread.
Most of the time the world is infamous for filling people's lives with 
harmless, unexplainable events. As she turned to face the origin of the 
fading sound however, she felt that harmlessness was at a very low rung 
on its priority ladder.

A gasp got caught in her throat. There was someone in the corner of the 
room directly opposite from her. For a moment, the figure just stood 
and, man, she thought, the figure was tall.

Even in the dark surroundings the intruder was darker still, absorbing 
all as efficiently as the mirror would reflect it. Slowly, the intruder 
took a step forward. She tried to take a step back but was prevented by 
the closet shelves she had already backed up against when she first saw 
it.

The intruder drew back its arm and held it for a heartbeat. But that was 
where the lag ended. It whipped its arm and a cord came at her like a 
gunshot. In the last split-second she had, she dove out of the way and 
the cord--or whatever it was--and crashed into the closet. She screamed 
in hope that it would attract someone's attention downstairs. The 
assailant moved to the middle of the wall to collect its weapon, except 
she didn't see any hands moving. That thought was thrown quickly aside 
so she could draw her legs up to avoid the projectile again. The cord 
struck the hardwood, splintering one of the floorboards with a deafening 
*crack!*

In the short pause, she leapt up and grabbed the table behind her, 
letting the plant fall. It hit the floor but the pot did not break. 
Lifting the table above her head, she hurled it at the figure. It didn't 
look up until the last second. The table hit and the back of its head 
smashed into the mirror. The table fell to the floor with the shards of 
reflective glass though it gave no cry of pain or surprise. Instead, it 
kicked the table back at her. She dodged and the table widely missed her 
but when it hit the wall, it splintered and one of the legs struck the 
back of her knee, forcing her down.

The sound of her heart was pounding in her ears and enough adrenaline 
was pumping through her vessels to make her eyes pop out of their 
sockets. Her exhaustion was more from the stress of fear than exertion 
and she didn't think that the figure had even broken a sweat. That 
*thing* was just that; despite the shape, she didn't think it was even 
human.

The figure lashed out again and she dropped to the floor as the whip 
flew past. Before it could gather the weapon again, she grabbed it.

The texture was completely wrong for any rope or cord or even chain and 
it was very cold. The figure made no effort to pull at the captured 
whip; it merely flinched its arm and the tendril *itself* wrapped itself 
around her.

"What the hell are you?" she demanded, striving to sound intimidating 
but coming off as being scared out of her wits.

The reply came in the form of her attacker pulling her off the floor and 
throwing her face-first against the wall. The force of the impact made 
her lungs implode and seize up. It repeated the process on the opposite 
wall and she was almost thrown through the window. Instead of breaking 
through on the impact, the glass broke and cut her shirt and back. She 
recovered her breath long enough to cry from her spine grinding against 
the shutters as she fell to the floor.

"Ranma, what's wrong?" a voice called through the door. She recognised 
the voice of her father and screamed again.

Father began to open the door but the thing forced it shut again. It 
freed her to concentrate on its task and she took the chance to scramble 
away. Turning back, she saw it *extend itself* to cover the door! She 
told her eyes to stop playing nasty jokes but they gave no other view. 
How was this *possible*?

The banging of fists and short yells came from outside, but the figure 
turned its attention back to her, having finished with the door to its 
satisfaction. She realised she had backed herself into a corner, with 
nowhere else to run to. Frantically, she grabbed the bonsai that had 
fallen and threw it at the thing's head. When the bonsai hit, its head 
exploded like a cherry bomb in a mound of sand. Faced with another 
impossible scene, her mind was reeling with confusion. Even in this 
darkness, it clearly looked as though no head existed on the intruder's 
inky shoulders any more.

She thought she killed it but her celebration was short lived. The 
figure, headless, started walking toward her. By the second step, the 
thing's head reconstituted as if the explosion was being played in 
reverse. Now back together, it continued to advance.

When it was close enough--considering that in her opinion, its presence 
anywhere on the planet was too close--she could see green eyes, not too 
bright but pulsing like an artery, set on its non-existent face. They 
also flickered with flames fuelled by an unknown source.

She was aware of the punching outside again because now it was closer, 
being directed on the wall. The figure paused, looking at the wall. The 
next punch that came started to splinter the wood. She expected another 
punch. Instead, Father burst through the wall like a human battering 
ram. The figure crossed its arms to try to block the rush but when 
Father hit it, it exploded the same way its head did. It did not come 
back.

Father hit the floor with a grunt. Ranma rushed over to him wrapping her 
arms around him, happy to see anyone human.

Sobbing into his chest, she was blustering half-sentences and gratitude. 
"Oh, thank you. It just-- Then it-- And you-- Oh, thank God. No, thank 
*you*."

He rose to his knees and held her up. His eyes darted around as his 
hands patted her, trying to find signs of injury. Convinced that she 
wasn't hurt too badly, he looked at her again.

"What happened?" he asked, concerned.

"Something attacked me," she said through tear-filled eyes, clutching 
Father's shirtsleeves to confirm that he was real.

"You mean some*one*," Uncle Tendo corrected.

Looking up at the other man who came with Father, she pondered his 
words. Her enemy had the shape of a human but that was where the 
similarities ended. She tried to attribute the silhouetted features as a 
trick of the shadows but what crepuscular conditions could create 
burning green eyes? 

"Yeah, someone," she said quietly, hoping it would convince them. It 
didn't convince her.

Father stood up and went over to his friend. He pinched the cleft of his 
chin and let his head droop a little. They were not whispering, just 
talking softly, and she could overhear.

"We have a precedent," Uncle said, tugging at his beard. "What if this 
happened again while we were away?"

Father furrowed his brow. "I'm just concerned about Ranma's health. The 
child has no real experience remaining, it would be like trying to train 
a baby to walk as soon as it's out of the womb."

"Yes," Uncle agreed, "but if we keep to basic throws and punches, maybe 
a few simple kata routines, the new knowledge could unlock the old."

Head still hanging, he dropped his arms and he turned to her. A single 
tear was shed.

She looked back. Her eyes, first a combination of concern and sadness, 
started to grow a look of encouragement. If it would help her memory, 
she wanted to try it.

He stared at the floor; an inward argument kept stiffening his muscles. 
Finally, he thrust his fist out to her in an averring pose.
"Ranma. You must be trained to defend yourself," Father said. "If you 
think that this is the last attack, you couldn't be more wrong."
Not the last attack? Her eyes widened in astonishment. She never figured 
that so many people would take advantage of her but, then again, she 
didn't know anyone else at all. That made it very difficult in deciding 
whom to trust, including the men before her. No. She was only allowing 
herself to be caught in the grip of irrational fear. And why, because of 
one attack? These were people she could trust. And they wanted to help 
her so she could help herself. Too much dependency, she decided, was not 
a good thing to have.

"Train me," she said simply.

"Good." Father smiled. "It is a decision no one can regret."

"You don't know how fulfilling the rewards are," Uncle stated.

Father walked over to the closet. The shelf that held Ranma's clothes 
was splintered in half. He took notice of this but reached for the top 
shelf, and brought down a short stack of white clothing held together 
with a black fabric strap. He tossed the bundle at her.

"Put this on and meet me in the training hall. You remember where we 
showed it to you?"

She nodded. He smiled again then left through the hole. His friend 
followed.

Cradling the clothes, she slowly walked across the room as she looked at 
them. She couldn't remember anything about them, but it just *seemed* 
right.

She went for the door but paused. She stared at the mirror and a 
thousand fragmented Ranmas stared back.

"Which one of you is the real one?" she asked the mirror 
expressionlessly and left, closing the door behind her.

A breeze blew through the empty room and the shutters on the window 
reacted by silently opening.

END PART ONE

Authors Notes:
Whew! I thought I'd never get that one out. But you know what they say; 
better late than never.

I got the idea for this Fic a long time ago during one of my absent 
mullings.
"Mull, mull, mull," I went.
I wanted to create my own Fic based on Ranma but I didn't know what to 
do. Finally, it dawned on me.
Actually, it hit me over the head repeatedly until I took notice.
"Hey," it said, verrily it did. "How about you write something about 
Ranma losing his memory?"
"Losing his memory," I said. "Naw. That's too stupid."
But later I thought <<Hmm. The one person who is so macho it hurts, 
COULD lose his memory and we could all laugh at him doing girly things 
until we puked up a lung.>>
So I proceeded to write a rough outline. I was good so I wanted to keep 
it in a safe place. That place was so safe I'd forgotten about it for 
two years.
By the time I found it again, I didn't want to write it anymore.
"I don't want to write this anymore," I said and threw the damn thing 
away.
Later, about another year, I had been reading a lot of thriller novels 
and I thought, <<Hey, I want to write something like this.>> And lo and 
behold I found my outline.
Actually, it had crawled out of my trashbin/portal to hell and it tried 
to get my atention.
When I regained conciousness. I started to write anew keeping the kernal 
but changing everything else.
And here it is, Ranma Nibun no Usugurami, RNU for the purpose of subject 
tags. Seven chapters down and 33 to go. Keep reading!

- Shakudo -

______________________________________________________
Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com