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* Ranma 1/2 Fan Fiction * Ranma 1/2 Fan Fiction * Ranma 1/2 Fan Fiction *
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Switch: Herbs and Spices (Part 10 of 12) 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. http://www.geocities.com/Tokyo/Flats/3145/switchf.html
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Chapter 19
"I believed in you."
He stared at the head that did not speak. "I believe you, Dad."
His father stared back at him, with soft eyes. In a female voice,
Genma didn't say, "what does this mean?"
His father stared back at him, with soft eyes. In a female voice,
Genma didn't say, "eep?"
Something good was burning up. Someone was singing: "how would we
have loved to be the other choice?"
There was a boat sailing into the horizon, where the sun was
already setting. He tickled the chin of the one he loved with his right
hand.
His fianc�e stared back at him, with soft eyes. In a female voice,
Akane didn't say, "eep?"
"How would it have been in the other hand?"
Someone tugged at his left hand. The bokken seemed stiff as Ranma
said, "I believed in you."
Irritated, he took a clump of her red hair in his hand and purred.
The sizzling sound increased. "How I've wanted to hear, in your
voice."
His fianc�e stared back at him, with soft eyes. In a female voice,
Akane didn't say, "what does this mean?"
He screamed at the flaming sun, sailing into the horizon. "I
believe you, Dad."
The sun boiled back, and he felt a sunbeam swipe at him, like a
katana thrown at light-speed. Akane was burning, "leave me again, will
you?"
Ukyo painted her face with dribbling sauce. "All the songs which
rhymed my name."
He melted in the heat of their blazing tongues.
"Finally!" The doors boomed closed in Kuno's Regal Domicile.
Kuno, as do most eccentrics populating the Kuno Residence, had more
than one bedroom that he called his own. His Samurai's Slumber, his
Poet's Purchase, his Old Room... and this, the Master's Bedroom.
(Actually, the Master's Bedroom is what Kodachi calls the basem...)
Here, and only here, will he receive the attentions of...
The bed - sparse, clean and untainted.
He had had the oddest sensation - the most peculiar sound... like
the breaking of hems... or -
"Of course!" he shouted. "The sound is only," whip! the motion of
a fast-moving sleeve, "the rumbling of the very heavens!" Maniacally, he
hefted the battered noodle cup in one hand, defying the godly decrees in
their elemental grumblings.
"Bray! Stamp the heavens underfoot in your jealous rage!" He
himself took to the bed, not even bothering to balance himself rightly,
soon doing so anyway. "Not even your lightning tridents and your creaky
ceiling boards can stop true love!" Kuno guffawed as he stared at the
highly-regarded instant meal, and saw... creaky ceiling boards?
*ssssszzzzzkkRACK!*
Stunned by the evident multi-colored moon hanging slightly above
his bed, Tatewaki Kuno was unable to deflect the falling Tsubasa's
hindquarters as it hit the ramen cup, tipping it in the now very
unbalanced Kuno's hand. All the mighty Blue Thunder could say as he saw
Tsubasa's blue boxers falling into his face was "AH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAG-
glmph?!"
Without malice.
Without malice, her mind insisted, as she dredged it up from the
gutter, along with some other aspects of her. I don't care whatever the
hell he does, or who he does it with. I don't care, she lied.
Slowly, deliberately, Shampoo lifted herself out of the trash bin
(comforted slightly by the fact that it did not make any moves on her).
She barely bothered to shake the shit out of her hairs - a hot bath would
make her change her mind about that.
About... him, though - that was a different matter. Something had
to be done - soon.
She jumped onto the quickest path to the Cat Cafe, barely avoiding
a rushing blur in apron strings.
This is just so #$%$ kewl!
It was just so much like Saotome to not understand the power (!) he
had been throwing away and had been taking for granted. Knowing him,
he'd be using his "curse" to sate his carnal instincts - or maybe to
force Aka- NO!
"H-how dare you, R-Ranma!" Pulling on his sleeves, he tied his
candle headdress on, and started to pound a well-oiled nail into a straw
Ranma-quin.
"Hikaru! Stop that racket and come down here this instant!"
The implements of symbolic (and hopefully representative) pain and
torture quickly disrevealed themselves as Gosunkugi meekly replied.
"Yes, mother." He'd already stepped in on her today - trying to be on
the safe side was always a good deal [2].
Strangely enough, Mrs. Gosunkugi was more concerned in a positive
manner than usual, that is, concerned in a negative manner. "A letter
just arrived from a little girl for you." She handed him a light pink
envelope, with just a hint of perfumery.
"A-A little g-girl?" Had he not been tripping over the last word,
he might have gone several ways: he might have realized "a girl, for
me?"; he might have realized "a girl gave me a note?"; he might have
realized "a girl gave me a PERFUMED note?"; he might have realized "wait
- do I know any little girls?"; after the last thought, he would have
realized, "that must have been Miss Hinako...", which would have gotten
him nowhere, unless he asked his mother (politely, of course), "did this
little girl have long brown hair?" to which his mother would have
replied, "yes, Hikaru, she did," then she would have slyly added, "is she
someone I should know?" - he would have then shrugged it off by saying,
"oh, she's my teacher," and his mother would have gotten the completely
wrong idea that Hikaru had been taking Home Ec class. Instead, he took
the note, said, "thanks, mom," and trampled on upstairs. It was in his
room when he eventually ran through the trouble mentioned above (having
to peek downstairs at the last).
At last, he read the note.
[2] The myth of the good deal is prevalent throughout different
schools of thought and crosses cultural boundaries. For a more elaborate
discussion of its related pantheons, read "The Wealth of Nations" by
Sainted CEO Adam Smith.
"Oh dear." She pulled away from him slowly, but firmly, holding
him with her eyes. "Don't, don't move. I'll be right back."
He noticed it much sooner than she did - lightly fried fish,
doubtlessly blistering lightly over a very thin layer of vegetable oil.
A bottle of pickled radishes standing near the pan and, yes, two eggs,
scrambled.
He crept out of bed, inching by the wall, checking on his toes and
the floor and made sure that nothing was coming between them. He edged
to the doorframe and dared to peek out into the short corridor.
There she was, apron all ready, whipped around her bodice - you
could not tell it was whipped, hastily at first. It was the single most
attractive piece of clothing she had - the broad frills would make lace
blush - the sweet, sensual curves of the simple cloth, accentuated by the
subtle artistry of the tones of the burn stains, the tints of condiments
spilled with the greatest care, amongst the oily kissmarks flavored with
spice and appetite which begged for more than bread and circuses, all
arranged across the canvass spanning her body, her heart, her soul.
But that was to the further side, as she had her back turned to
him. At this moment, it was the strings of that self-same apron that
were taunting him, begging him to release them. Her focus was on the pan
an the spatula - she would not notice him taking off the fabulously
daring *phsh*.
"Oh, you cheat!" She assumed the position: arms akimbo, hips set
back, face readably unreadable. "Didn't I tell you that you needed to
wait in bed? You're such a naughty boy!"
"I'd rather show you," he said, grabbing her fully in his arms,
keeping the culinary lingerie between him and her bountiful...
"Show me what?"
Genma's grin disappeared. He stopped his turning, cocked his head
to one side, noting that Nodoka was wrestling with the eggs she had
barely saved from severely burning, and that the apron had been discarded
in a heap on the edge of the sink. He had not noticed in front of him -
it was probably a new old addition, and the child before him would have
been familiar to his estranged wife, had they known each other longer -
the child he had once been, when he was of the age of Ranma when he...
"Oh... I'm a little too dizzy... don't, mind, m-"
Somewhere, someone really smart was keeping tabs on the population
of Nerima.
That is to say, probably. The conspiracy theorists have been
adamant that if Tokyo was monitored with eagle eyes, Nerima would not be
looked over. Rife with overpowered overnight visitations and tremendous
wastes of energy and manpower, Nerima was the distraction under which the
whole world played cricket.
You would imagine the Kunos would have their hand in that -
paranoia is kind of their shtick - and it would be within their budget
and reasoning - although it would seem a little too devious for the
principal or any of the younger Kunos.
It wouldn't, however, be such a wasteful investment - especially
for large companies with an interest in the anomalies plaguing such an
unassuming piece of surreal estate. Amazingly enough, it also would not
have to be done obviously or overtly - and it needn't even be done in
chronological order.
Hanayoshi Mansion, morning.
"Click."
A pair of eyes opened, the shutters of a keen analytic machine
drawing open with the hair-trigger trap set by one who really, really
didn't know why it had to be set in the first place. "Unnnnghhh."
Barely-focused eyes could scarcely detect anything of importance.
However, details do not need to be seen for a suspicion to be founded -
foremost on detection is motion, followed by color.
What she saw was a blue-shifting brownish blur passing across the
plane of her vision, from left to right.
"Wha-?" she was in the middle of saying, when she was lifted into
the air. Lifted, of course, was literal, but she fell (again, really)
onto her couch (only by definition), which cushioned (two-way literal)
her bottom (figurative - lit. dorsal end) - which was very strange,
because her "couch" was notorious for resembling a pagan sacrificial
altar with its stiffness and the hell you feel sitting on it; her back
still bore the marks of a cramp it had kneaded over the night.
It felt fluffy.
"Whaaaaaa..." was what she said, the unusual softness blunting her
cutthroat response. Having to remind herself that her apartment was
being invaded by a rampaging washing machine, she fought sleep and rolled
off of the sitting-thing.
Before she landed on the wooden floor (which now shone with a clean
that had never before been seen by the floor itself), she engaged her
onboard Shuffle mechanisms, and sped after the chirping ruddy blur.
As Hinako sped behind the other, details were beginning to make
themselves out and the voice was coming to intelligible pitch, with
Doppler and relativistic effects reduced significantly. The other girl
was obviously highly displeased with the care and maintenance of the
"household" and was adamant about the immediate rehabilitation of the
area, while she was around to do something.
"Stop it!" she yelled.
Despite the remarkable speeds that they were going, the intruder
stopped immediately, turned, and saw Hinako's wide-eyed expression as
they nearly crashed into each other.
"Are you okay, teacher Hinako?" Kasumi asked as she held out a
hand to the disciplinarian English instructor.
Not even bothering to brush the dust from off of herself, she
immediately started to look for one of her coins. "Who are you, what are
you doing here, why are you-?"
"Here," Kasumi simply said, smiling, leaving her with an invite,
and zooming off to the next stop.
"H-hey! Hey, you, miss!" She clutched the card, and stared, more
than slightly afraid, of the strange, wide-open space she had in which
she ended up, in her apartment. "Where am I?"
Strangely, Ryoga knew exactly where he was.
He longingly looked at the peaceful calm that was Ukyo's sleeping
form. Her breathing had finally lost the stutter of her hiccuping a
half-hour ago.
He wanted - even tried to will - her to wake up. He wanted to tell
her how sorry he was about all this, how he wanted to leave now, rather
than cause her distress, respiratory or otherwise. She'd always have
Ranma - well, actually, she'd never have Ranma, but she'll always have
the thought of him.
He wondered if she would be happy to trade thoughts with him - she,
with her perfect impression of a void - he, with his endless
embarrassments and humiliations. Would she still love him, knowing full-
well how much a jerk Ranma really is?
He wanted that peace of mind, a trade for a piece of his mind.
He wanted a piece of her mind.
And what would he see, through that shard of her soul? Dedication,
hard work, a list of options of which he was a pathetic bottom-liner.
Did it matter? He was just a viable alternative - she was just
rebounding from a depressing episode. He was a friend, a good friend and
- at least, this time - a real friend.
She'd always been there for him - or had she?
Was he?
He shook his head - sentimentality made for a poor martial art.
From his angle, he just noticed a glow. A nearly invisible trail
from the side of Ukyo's eye, to the side of her cheek, and down the side
of her face glittered, a pure facet of her heart making itself known.
Somewhere between tentatively and eagerly, his fingertips traced the
texture of the teardrop stretching itself into disappearance.
It was then he promised to watch for each tear as it became too
heavy for her to keep.
The blue void screamed obscenities at about fourteen hundred
syllables per second, howling at frequencies that could be felt by the
fingertips, if one dared to touch his nemesis.
It blared out its oaths through thousand-watt speakers, woofers and
tweeters, focused intently on the confines of the room. Beneath it, a
warning light blinked unheeded, unconcerned with the particulars and the
circumstances.
Steady, calming gusts of wind at nineteen degrees fell much like
rainclouds, stoking the dying embers, keeping them from erupting into
chaos and heat. Had they just blown in, they might have smothered the
flames, killed the senses at their source.
Hulking monoliths and precariously piled-up mounds of plastic,
fabric and paper sat to obstruct and to obfuscate, a miniature labyrinth
that often came to shin-high, often to knee-high, jutting out to snag at
the hips. Under such terrible curses as flooded this ravine, they shook
with the littlest of indignation, resonating only because they must,
indifferent without the air of carelessness.
The only hint of metal came from a gentle creaking of an overused
door, a nervous chattering between jealous lovers. Footsteps - cautious,
steady, as though not to upset the very hairs of the muffling carpet.
Cautious, as they trod lightly, respectfully - cautious, or familiar.
Eyes flew lightly on the bright whistles and the red blares, set in
a black box that has known of all sort of experience. A clucking - the
filled capsule is replaced, not even ejected, by one, empty - the alarms
ceased.
Slipping the jacket onto the incriminating module, the intruder
turned his attention to the slumbering mound huddling near a wall.
"Moron," he said, turning off the television set, then making his way out
of his younger brother's room.
Winter silence ruled.
The door blasted open, sending stacks of manga and CDs into beds of
used clothes. "HEYA, FRECKLES!"
'Freckles', unfortunately, had only one mouth. His one brain,
which suddenly found a way to assert its control, needed to say several
different things: "what time is it?" for waking up; "what do YOU
want?" for the hour; "watch it!" for the door; "watch it!" for the
stuff on the floor; "don't you know how to knock?" for his sister;
"can you say that a little louder, some people in Hokkaido didn't hear
you" for the volume; "'room' to you, too" for the pun; "eep!" for when
he realized that he fell asleep watching. He ended up sitting and
stretching, with one foot lashing out, the other foot reaching for his
VHS player, a hand scratching head through his perpetually brown
tumbleweed hair, the other pointing to the sibling then to the door then
to the floor, his mouth engaged only in saying "geez!" However,
Hiroshi's mouth could not even be trusted to such a simple task as that;
besides, it wasn't even everything - some people are just so impatient.
"Geezzzz, Mary Louise albino!" It wasn't really such a big slip.
His sister did her part in shutting him up with an envelope.
He eyed the squarish note, noticing the sweet smell that was
wafting into his nostrils. "Open it!" she suggested.
He took the invite slowly, edging when his sister leaned on her
arms, extremely intent on the contents of her errand. "Who's't frrom?"
"Dunno. This kid brought it, said it was yours." She leaned
again, not even wary of his morning breath. "So, who's it from? Is it
Sa-?"
He shot her a look that said nothing nice, and pulled the flap.
She sat across the table from him, eyeing him as he devoured the
portion of breakfast that she had given him. He had discarded the
glasses he had been wearing the night before, not needing them to see
clearly.
She herself had no appetite, quickly losing both direction and
conviction, as feelings of sympathetic maternal concern washed over her.
The child had obviously come to her after she had yelped (screamed, most
likely) in a mixture of fatigue and despair from brutally training with
the sword. Although he seemed vaguely familiar, she could not assign a
name to his face - peculiar, as he would have had to be a neighbor's
child. But what mother of this day and age would not be anxious over the
overnight disappearance of her little boy?
And, yet, her longing increased, the sharp double-edge of her
razor-sharp hurt ebbing, dulling into that throbbing pain in her temples.
A part of her wanted replacement, a filling-in. Selfish, so selfish, she
chided herself, but she still fantasized about the child in front of her,
watching him grew, blossom, live his years with her...
She hadn't even noticed the tears, until she saw him shuttle
between forced inattention and concern. She demurely sniffed, bringing a
tissue to her eye.
He mumbled something she didn't hear, as she was drowning herself
in sigh and he had his head bowed, but at her prompt, he turned to look
at her with his hawk-like gaze and repeated: "Do you miss him that
much?"
She could not stutter. "Yes..."
She heard the chair move backward, and the pitter-patter of his
steps began, and began to recede. "Wait!"
"No." Genma halted, nonetheless. "If I do, all you think of if
the child you've been missing." He walked, dreaming to be faster, but
whispered, at the door, "but I missed you, too."
"Now, now, what could that racket be?"
The caterwauling in the alley was definitely louder than
yesterday's clanging, and definitely more disquieting - it was the sound
of an Amazon warrior in hell.
Cologne opened the back door to the knocking that was barely heard
over the din. "Eh?"
Shampoo hung drained, bloodied, hair in clumps, yet still kicking,
clawing, squirming in the grasp of her diabolic tormentor, screaming
bloody murder. She reeked of defeat, of gutter madness, of slowly,
stolidly amassing power - concentration which would be her be-all and her
end-all.
The vile torturer merely smiled, and scrubbed the cat with a rough
cloth, taking care to avoid the vicious claws, which had already broke
their owner's flesh.
"Here," Kasumi said, handing the noisy feline and two letters.
"You might want her cleaned up first."
With that, Kasumi zoomed off.
"... this just in: a full-grown alligator has been caught in the
Nerima district of Tokyo just minutes ago. This large adult specimen was
captured with much difficulty and only through the efforts of ten brave
zookeepers from the local district zoo.
"The zoo superindentent has denied the suspicions of a fresh
outbreak of a yet undiscovered freshwater strain of Mad Cow Disease.
Several such incidents of the disease have been reported in the said
district within the last year.
"A reliable source has mentioned strips of cloth hanging from the
beast's mouth, indicating one or more casualties. More news in an hour.
Good morning."
"Honey?"
He tuned down the TV. "Yes."
"Is Daisuke still in his room?"
Footsteps. An opening door. "Nope."
"Well, this girl came and - wait." A smile slowly resounded.
"Dad! Do you know anyone named Yuka?"
Eventually, of course, he had to come back to the scene of the
crime.
After all, Sasuke Sarugakure was the loyal and humble servant to
the great Kuno clan. No matter what the circumstance, he would have to
fulfill his duty, even in the face of the most lethal of punishments
awaiting.
Case in point: it was time to fix the sheets.
Not to say that he couldn't be nervous - he waited just past the
large doors to Tatewaki Kuno's, err, the Kuno master bedroom.
He had almost mustered the courage to step up to the door and
wonder whether he would knock on it or not, he heard a rumbling just
outside the gate. "That must be the people come to repair the piping."
However, instead of stopping outside the gate, the rumbling grew
closer. "Eh?" He turned about, and gaped in horror at the monstrosity
that was heading his way along the corridor. "Saaaaaasssuuuukkeeeeee..."
"ack!" He stepped backward, knowing full well that there was no
way to turn. He would valiantly stand ground, protecting lord, liege...
"Sorry, Master." He opened the door and slammed it behind him.
Moments later, a mob crashed into the largest room of the Kuno
mansion and made a big mess, too.
If she was asked, she would have never been able to tell a soul why
she danced like she did with him: slow, effortless, head lain on his
shoulder. Maybe, for that moment in time, she never existed. That it
was a moment skewered, not connected to the past, not possessing a
future.
Whatever enchantment was cast, she shrugged it off at the end of
the wordless song. Forcing herself to look him in the eye, she started,
"I..."
"I love you."
She blinked.
He blinked.
They smiled. Smiled at the slip, smiled at the mistake they almost
made, over a shared moment.
They both knew, of course, knew of the love that had blossomed
between the two of them, knew of the sacrifices they were making for the
true loves they were questing.
Positively poetic - their greatest obstacles were themselves.
They parted, fingers and tails turning into smoke, indifferent gray
in the black and white of love and hate.
She began to panic. Was this pain? An error?
She sought his face, a sign to assure.
but she could not see further than his lips...
blooming, spitting, cussing, praising, calming, shouting, moaning, being
closer and closer and closer an closer an closer n deeper n smoothern kis
Ukyo woke with a yelp.
She gulped breaths as she sat up - immediately assigning the pain
to her temples.
The room glowed with ambient sunlight, setting the time to about
half-past ten in the morning. It made the gloominess stick to the walls
and the floor and the wood, aerating with authority and timeliness.
A hand covered her forehead - the heat did not come from fever -
and rotated the flesh at the sides of her head. The other hand traced
the dryness of her lips, a side effect of not being out in the sun for
how long.
Without turning, the second hand roved the sheets, blindly crossing
silk dunes - finding a familiar set of calluses and weatherworn knuckles.
Had he always been there? Had he been waiting, all this time?
She traced the fist, its texture - the skin was unyielding to her
probing, unpliable and broken in spots. It was an unfriendly hand, one
which did not trust its world. Even her own hand, hardened by
circumstance and preference, seemed delicate, pleading as it covered the
extremity in fetal position.
His fingers were coiled around cloth, but it was not the blanket,
nor was it the sheets... she checked her neck and, sure enough, her
keepsake was not there. The flesh seemed raw, though, and she was
thankful.
She lay the hand by the young man's side as she extracted from the
second-hand kiss, and she softly exited the bed on the other side as a
noise made itself evident from downstairs.
As the door closed, Ryoga moaned, turning on his side, keeping the
arm with the hand Ukyo had caressed under, and ended up with his face on
the bed. He lashed out with his other arm, and it landed in the middle
of the bed, his hand still gripping Ukyo's half of the ribbon.
How could he?
Genma walked barefoot under the midmorning sun, not caring that he
was on the way to the dojo.
How could he have been so cruel?
He could not feel the blistering on his soles, deafened by the
blustering of his stupid ego. He was defeated by his pride, his stupid
pride, and now he could never be with her, the one he had loved.
Of what use was he now? Of what use had he ever been?
"Oh, Kami-sama," he fell to his knees, "take me now."
He disappeared in a gust of wind.
Exactly three minutes and forty-nine seconds later, Nodoka Saotome
passed by the spot the earth had last noted Genma Saotome.
"Yes, thank you, I will."
The man closed the door softly, moaning as his back began cramping.
Inadvertently, he had the fleeting thoughts of Thai massage to comfort
him - yet another vice he would have to give up.
He wasn't really a snoop, but the envelope was not really sealed
and the ribbon caught his pinkie and - well, okay, so he was curious.
He took a short time digesting the gist of the note and sat down at
the kitchen table as he passed by it to mull it all over. There was a
story here, wasn't there? The girl had to be pregnant or something - why
else would she be marrying at such a young age...?
"That's it!" He stood, slamming a fist to the wood, and sped off
to his room.
The far door opened, and Sayuri came in, arms full of vegetables.
"What was that all about?"
She noticed the note as she set her groceries on the table.
She leaned back as far as she comfortably could, as though the
physical distance would aid her mind from properly focussing on the here
and now. Indeed, her eyes were closed, and she felt flight in her veins.
Already, she could hear the unearthly silence threatening to fall
in sheets, broken by the bright rays of laughter, and of song. Peals and
shimmers followed the cherry blossom petals as they danced along a gay
breeze.
"Break the breeze," they cheered, catcalling and jeering like
children following a dream-being.
But the breeze, indeed, could not be broken - it shook the
decorations hung about - it winged its way through the crowd, weaving its
hypnotic hymn - it lifted a pair of turtle doves celebrating their mating
quite appropriately - and found itself smothered in the bride's kimono.
It seemed as though the white butterflies concerted to fly from the
blue fabric. Ukyo glowed as she wondered, "no one thought this would
even be possible."
Ryoga smiled, fangs smoothening his demeanor, "no one thought of
being happy."
She stood, the note addressed to "Ukyo Kuonji and Ryoga Hibiki"
left on the grill, and went back to her bed and to her lover.
"What a big mess!"
Kasumi set down the batch of invites on the misplaced end table,
immediately marking it to be the last piece of furniture to be replaced.
She made a show of pulling up her sleeves as she turned -
When Kodachi moaned.
- and she gaped.
The trench made its way through the center of the room, where most
of the bed was. It swerved near the far wall of the room, causing floor
boards to curl upward, crashed into a new walk-through window, and
continued along most of the roof before turning one last time, making its
last architectural modification. In its wake, wood, shingling and
assorted pieces of clothing were strewn haphazardly.
That was not what shocked her.
What made Kasumi gape (and stare and balk and) was the evident
m�nage � trois that was interrupted by the twister. It was clearly
evident that the way Tsubasa's hand had lain was the cause of Kodachi's
moan, but it could be because of the way Kuno's face was in his...
Kasumi did an immediate about-face, left three envelopes on the end
table and reddily sped away.
Terse quiet ruled the van.
"Tranq ready?"
"Y-yeah." No one complained that that was the fifth time in as
many minutes.
Turn... slowly...
"Eh, what's that?"
They stared at the pink, peach and dove white spectacle that had
apparently overrun a household.
"Sweeto!"
Happosai merrily followed the chaos caused by the mob. He was
surprised to find a brown blur rushing from beyond the destroyed doors of
Kuno's master bedroom (not that it was still recognizable as such).
"Was that...?" He said no more as he made the error of turning his
head, thus slamming right into the pillar just beyond the bedroom. The
water guns in his hands flung obediently followed momentum into the room.
The doorbell rang again.
Soun opened the gate and saw one of Akane's friends dragging
another girl behind her.
"Um, good m... is Ranma in?" Yuka looked confused.
"He's still sleeping," Nabiki said. Soun quickly came to the
conclusion that the girls were there to give Ranma last-minute advice on
Akane, vis-�-vis Nabiki's invitation. He smiled in approval.
"Would you girls like to come in for some tea?" he added.
He did not realize that, with him and Nabiki outside, Nodoka had no
one keeping an eye on her.
She slumped, tiredness finally taking its toll. As a final try,
she rang the doorbell one last time.
Kasumi dropped the wedding invitation in the mailbox and trudged
onto the last stop, the stop farthest from this one, leaving the empty
house to dream by itself.
Dr. Tofu wanted to step out into the day.
He had no reason to worry that the materials had been used in some
sort of mischievous plot to drug key figures in the district, to
influence and to sway the vanguard athletes of the community into
distraction - possibly petty argument or even self-destruction.
After all, who in their right mind...?
He opened the door.
"Hello, Dr. Tofu," greeted the Mth volume of "Flora, Fauna and
What-Not".
"Hello, and good morning," he said - he didn't have a reason not to
say it.
The book fell back to reveal bright brown eyes, set in a smiling
face. She gave him the book but did not wait for him to leave it behind
as she tugged at his hand.
Taking Kasumi's tiny hand in his, they walked hand in hand to
destiny.
The doorbell rang again.
Nabiki opened the gate for the Shinto priest. "I'm sorry, I'm
early, right?"
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(Detach here)
I have always been a science fiction writer. Some of you would
have noticed all that in the writing of this fic. My collection has been
filled with the like of Star Trek, and Douglas Adams's Hitchhiker trilogy
(yes, all five of them) and... well, that's it. Well, a lot of Star Trek
novels, I guess. From there, I went to comic books, then to manga, then,
well, it's like I've gone full circle. The first effort I have made was
science fiction, but it still hasn't seen the length I've gotten here.
I guess I've always been a fantasy writer, then. I mean, sci-fi is
a special field of fantasy, right? The first novel I read was the Hobbit
- man, was that a shocker. After that, well - Good Omens comes to mind.
There's most of the Pratchett that I've read so far. (So forgive me: I
still haven't gone through Act I of Discworld II, the game, that is.) I
mean, I love the feel of a good descriptive epic between my - erhm.
So I've always been partial to long, drawn storylining, tapestries
and detailed characterizations which swam above, below and around you,
swallowing you up in its grand
But, I digress.
For all intents and purposes, I have ended my writing of this
fanfic - the next two parts will have to write themselves out, or they'll
never come out at all. I thank you who have come down the road with me
for this, the homestretch of the storyarc. I have been trying to keep
most everyone in the dark about the eventuality of the story - I mean,
I've been writing most of the story, as in the dark as you, in the
details, at least. I mean, I wanted to write something I wanted to enjoy
reading as well (from a writer's POV).
But, I'm lying. I've always been a bad liar - there are, after
all, two more parts in this book to write, plus the second storyarc
itself (to direct, I had hoped, but apparently I will write it as it
comes - if it comes...) and still several anecdotes in the third
compilation. But I have enjoyed writing this story - playing around with
people's minds has become such an interesting pastime.
[summary insert]
Finally, the food fight to start all food fights. When they meant
pot luck, they did not know what Goddess had been summoned - but don't
get any wrong ideas, I'm not planning on any crossover soon. Will three
entr�es be enough? The first two will be served in part eleven, rounded
out with the main course in the last chapter - with dessert in the
epilogue. Grab a hold of a napkin holder - you'll use them for more than
just the tips of your mouth.
Please somehow send C&C.
(Detach here)
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