Chapter 6

The realisation had hit Ukyo with all the force of a kick to the chest. 
Ranma was now devoid of his memories and forced to remain as a girl 
until he rediscovered them. He could be trapped for days. And all it 
would take was contact with plain, simple water and he would crack. He 
would become some kind of babbling invalid. He would--

She began to shudder and forced herself to think of something else. 
Except Ranma kept appearing in her thoughts. When she thought about her 
childhood, she remembered how Ranma would come to Dad's cart everyday. 
That memory was happy. But that didn't stop the next years from being 
not so happy. Like when Ranma left. After he and Genma had stolen her 
cart--the whole of her family's business--he had also stolen her life 
away.

Dropping into unpopularity and finally obscurity around her peers when 
they heard what happened, she had turned to her martial arts training to 
fill the void. But it was her thirst for revenge against Ranma that had 
kept her striving to become better. Of course, the training was not 
without its drawbacks as well.

She had thought that in order to beat Ranma--to beat a man--she would 
have to get inside a man's mind. So in preparation for training, she 
started to adopt a man's clothes and a man's persona for her sessions. 
It seemed to help.

But she had wanted to train harder and faster. So she went to wearing 
men's clothing full-time. And she wrapped her chest in bandages before 
puberty had finished with her to keep her chest size down. But she still 
felt she was being too easy on herself, so at Dad's behest, when she 
graduated grade school, she and him moved not just to another town, but 
to another prefecture. She enrolled in an all-boys school so she could 
train against other men. She even took birth-control pills to keep her 
female hormones in check.

She'd done it! She'd conquered the girl inside her and she was ready to 
fight Ranma and beat him, man-to-man.

Then Dad had fallen ill. The doctors called it viral pneumonia, said it 
was serious, yet easily treatable. They said, "he would make it." His 
left lung was completely blocked, but "he would make it." His 
temperature rose to a hundred and four, but "he would make it." His 
breathing became ragged; his blood pressure became so high, it was cause 
multiple aneurysms throughout his body; the only break his tired body 
got was when he finally went into cardiac arrest. They revived him of 
course, but they crammed a tube down his throat and hooked him to a 
respirator.

It had all happened in a day. She saw him lying there, like a corpse, 
and realised everything she had missed over the last nine years. Time 
forever lost to her. She cried, yearning for support yet finding none, 
the rest of her family having been long gone. She wanted...Ranma. She 
wanted someone to help her through this. She didn't want to be alone...

Less than twelve hours later, it was done. Dad had a second heart 
attack, one he could not be revived from.

Now she was truly alone. Alone except for her quest for revenge. Revenge 
against the one whom had ruined her life. If she were sentenced to be 
alone in this world, she would guarantee Ranma would get his own 
isolated shaft in Hell. The next year she had spent, tracking him down, 
until she finally caught up with Genma and him here in Nerima. She was 
ready for the glorious battle she had been envisioning when Ranma 
employed his unbeatable technique: ignorance.

She was taken aback when he had finally realised she was a girl. She 
immediately, and gratefully, dumped the fight and ten years of 
preparation like a batch of rotten vegetables. She opened up Uk-Chan's 
on a new vow, that she would get Ranma and never let him go. He may have 
been engaged to Akane in the time she was gone, but she would still have 
him in the end, no matter what she would have to do.

But now, two years after all that, he was gone again. Only this time it 
was not in body but in soul, and that was much worse. It left her even 
more powerless.

She stopped, buried her head in her hands, and cried.

"Are you all right?"

"What?" Ukyo blinked the tears out of her eyes to look at the person who 
had asked the question.

"Are you all right?"

Ryoga. She remembered Shampoo and Mousse had turning off toward the Cat 
Caf�, but Ryoga had walked off some time ago. Now he was here? And where 
did he come from?

He started to look nervous, and she realised she was staring.

"Yeah, I'm fine," she said rubbing the back of her head momentarily 
before letting it drop again. "I just keep thinking of Ran-chan. He must 
feel like he's so lost."

Ukyo recognised the faux pas as soon as she spoke it. Grimacing, she 
looked up at him expecting to see his eyes burning, but his temper 
didn't flare.

"I don't know," he began, "I don't know if I'll be able to uphold my 
half of the bargain."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, think about it. Ranma's finally in a vulnerable position, a 
position that he can't escape from." His voice softened a slight. "He 
would never see it coming."

Her eyes widened as understanding filled her thoughts. They could form a 
plan, a plan that could finally end the constant battling for Ran-chan's 
emotions. The more she thought about it, the more she liked it. She 
would no longer have to try to subvert Akane. Besides, Akane never came 
to admit she loved Ranma, as she had. Granted, Ranma had forced it out 
of her and he got a butt-load of pain for it, but she told him all the 
same. Now, fate was finally stepping in to give her a chance to have him 
say it back. There was no way she was just going to give it up.

Her eyes grew a bit more devilish. "Did you have anything specific in 
mind?" she asked.

"Okay..." He resumed walking. "I pretend like we like each other. You 
know, buddies. I try to get Ranma alone in a room..." He paused.

"Well?" she urged him.

"Well then I..." he tried to continue. "Forget it."

Her jaw dropped "*What?*" she blurted out.

He saw the look of anger on her face and became indignant. "What?" he 
asked. "I just can't think of anything!"

She stared off. "You, the one who hates seeing Ranma with Akane more 
than anyone?"

Before he could speak again, she clamped a hand over his mouth. She 
quickly looked down the street. She could see the shop where she picked 
up most of her ingredients. If the shop was there, then Uk-Chan's was 
nearby. She looked at the curtain beside her. She groaned when she saw 
that the place they were in front of was Uk-Chan's. She would save 
yelling at herself for her lack of perception later. Right now, she 
pushed him inside.

?                    ?

Walking back, Shampoo was in as much deep thought as Ukyo was.

Ranma didn't remember her. She doubted if he would ever remember. It was 
a morbid thought but it was undeniable; unless Ranma could remember that 
he was supposed to be male, nothing would seem familiar. Any memories 
that might resurface would be dismissed. The big, strong man she had 
once loved would be lost...forever.

<<I need some kind of distraction.>>

She looked at Mousse. He showed no emotion. His head was angled down but 
his eyes were aimed straight ahead, looking over his glasses.

She should have been content that he wasn't clinging on to her. But what 
happened in the restaurant, and now his lack of emotion, set off alarms 
in Shampoo's trained mind. She risked breaking the silence.

"Mousse?" she asked, her Mandarin wavering slightly with the tension in 
her chest. "Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine." His response was as cold as his mood and he showed no signs 
of elaborating on his response.

She hung her head again and kicked a pebble out of her path. It rolled 
into the gutter and she sighed; it was the most exciting thing that 
happened since they left Ranma's.

She looked at him again. His gaze was still locked forward.

"You sure?" she ventured again.

"I said I was fine." His tone was a little harsher.

More alarms were set off. He had never acted this way before.

"But you're making me worried," she said letting a bit of a whine slip 
in.

"Leave me alone!"

Forgetting she was trying to find what was wrong, she quickly turned to 
anger herself. "Fine. See if I care!"

Hopping behind him, she aimed a kick to the back of his head. Not 
looking back, he blocked the kick with his forearm--hurting her leg in 
the process--and leapt up to a rooftop. She fell to her good knee and 
clutched the ache in her leg. The pain was shooting straight to the 
bone. She could do nothing but look on as he vaulted out of sight.

She stayed kneeling for a while, shocked at what he did. What had 
happened--was happening--to him? Had anything changed in the past week 
or month?

She racked her brain but couldn't find anything. Not before this morning 
had she noticed any change. What was causing it...and how could she have 
overlooked it until now?

Something was eluding her and she didn't know what, or why. It was 
obviously important; he was acting like a different person. It was 
making him angrier. Especially at Great-grandmother.

Great-grandmother. She may know what was changing Mousse. Her age and 
experience gave her wisdom and insight that Shampoo did not yet possess.

She tested her leg. The pain was subsiding quickly and she could walk on 
it again. She knew that thanks to years of training, there would be no 
bruise. To prove to herself that the leg was fine, she ran the rest of 
the way to the Cat Caf�.

Halting beside the doorway to the restaurant, she composed herself 
before she went inside. Holding a hand to her chest, she checked if her 
breathing was steady. If customers were in there, it would not look good 
to them if their waitress appeared to be anything less than perfect. She 
took a calming breath, lifted the curtain, and opened the door.

The standing crowd inside the restaurant had filtered out and every 
table except for a couple was occupied. It was quieter too; she could 
hear the music playing through the restaurant again.

She walked inside, bowing to a couple as they were leaving. The two 
returned the greeting and turned left when they got outside. She 
straightened up and cleared the vacated table to ready it for the next 
customers. A clattering of pans made her flinch and she looked towards 
the serving window. A billow of steam escaped into the dining room.

Walking over to the window, she saw Great-Grandmother balancing on her 
staff, throwing another pan over her shoulder while she still tried to 
divide her attention amongst four burners. The pan didn't even reach the 
mouth of the basin. It struck against the lip and fell to the floor with 
another cacophonic ring.

She spun her head toward the pan and shot a look at it as if she were 
going to scold the pan for not following instructions. She then shifted 
her eyes to look at Shampoo.

"What kept you, Granddaughter?" she asked returning to her cooking. "And 
where is the fool?"

"Mousse left," Shampoo answered in Japanese. "Shampoo no know where 
Mousse went." She thought about her next question and decided to brave 
it. Shampoo want ask about Mousse. When--"

"Not now," Great-grandmother interrupted. "I need you to do some dishes 
before I run out."

Jumping through the window, Shampoo and looked at the big sink closer. 
One half was filled with bowls with bowls and plates and cooking 
utensils, the other half with pots and pans. "Why Shampoo have to?"

"Because the quack isn't here and because we need dishes if we wish to 
continue serving customers. So hurry up."

Shampoo looked at the back of the elder and then back to the sink full 
of dishes. Sighing, she took a free apron and tied it around her.

<<Perhaps Great-Grandmother and Mousse have been drinking the same stuff 
lately.>>

?                    ?

Inside Ryoga broke free of Ukyo's grasp. He took a fighting stance two 
feet away; she stood at the door indignantly as if daring him to try 
something. They stayed like that, staring at each other, so quiet each 
could hear the other's heartbeat, for about half a minute.

Ukyo broke the silence first. "Useless."

"I am far from it, aren't I? But you don't need to remind me of that," 
he said. "And what the hell does this have to do with Akane?"

"Put your stuff down," she said, her voice soft but demanding.

He didn't move. His arms remained extended in opening stance.

"Ryoga!" she barked. He flinched at the false start. "If I was going to 
fight you, I wouldn't be talking to you! Now drop your position and drop 
your bag!"

His eyes fluttered slightly and his jaw loosened. It was good enough for 
her. Muscles thanking her for being able to rest, she walked over to the 
counter and dropped her bandoleer behind it as a sign of good faith. 
Tossing her hair behind her shoulders, she moved to a table between them 
and sat down, crossing her arms across the smooth, lacquered surface of 
the oak table.

He walked up, unhooked his umbrella and set it against the table leg. He 
checked for a reaction from her though she kept from making any. Then he 
laid his bag against the umbrella.

Sitting down--finally--at the table, he rested on his elbows. "You still 
haven't told me how Akane fits into this."

"I think you already do know, Ryoga. You've already thought up a plan, 
haven't you...but you're not willing to use it? Why?"

"Listen, Kuonji. We made a deal--"

"And you're honour-bound to uphold it, is that it?"

His face darkened and his voice hardened. "Yes. It is."

She was expecting this reaction and changed her tactic accordingly.

"But Ryoga, has *Ranma* been very honourable towards *you*? What about 
P-chan?"

Ryoga faltered a bit but didn't lose pace. "Okay! So maybe he *is* a 
little ignominious, but he hasn't completely betrayed my trust! Akane 
still doesn't know!"

"You're rationalising."

"I'm following my honour."

He certainly was consistent; she had to give him that. And she was 
getting nowhere.

She laid her cards out on the table. "Okay, Ryoga, here's how it works. 
Ranma doesn't know Akane anymore. So all you have to do is distract 
Akane so Ranma can't get close."

"*Humph!* Right. And you get Ranma, huh? He's a girl right now, in case 
you haven't noticed," he said, mimicking her, "so your chance's of 
attracting him are pretty fucking low right now. And it's him who's lost 
his memories, not Akane, and though he can't remember it, she still does 
love him!"

That's when she lost it. Slamming her palms on the table, she jumped up, 
knocking her chair back. "Damn it, Ryoga!" she shrieked. "Did you 
*sleep* through last year? You remember what happened!"

"I thought that was an accident!" he countered. "I just don't care 
anymore! I admitted my defeat! It's time you do too!"

"Never," she growled.

"Fuck, fine. Whatever. See ya'."

She glared at him as he gathered his things. She hardened herself and 
pushed the anger from her mind, she didn't want to have a repeat of the 
nervous breakdown that had caused her to bomb Ranma's place that one 
time. But there were too many advantages she would be giving up if she 
allowed Ryoga to escape. He could get where she couldn't, due mostly to 
the fact that Akane trusted him more. That way--if she got him onto her 
side, and that was becoming a very big if--she would have a method of 
keeping tabs on Ranma even when Akane was close by. And there was no way 
in Japan that Ryoga would spill anything in front of Akane, lest he 
wanted to face her wrath; he wouldn't be able to bear it if she were 
angry with him.

The last hurdle Ukyo had yet to overcome was getting Ryoga to obey 
*her*, and there he was preparing to walk out the door. <<Damn you, 
Ryoga,>> she thought. <<I see you've smartened up in the last couple of 
years. But I still have one ace up my sleeve.>>

"Ryoga," she said when she finally found the words.

He paused inches from the exit and shifted the weight on his foot, 
swiveling his torso so he looked back at her, he didn't respond. He just 
stood there, somberly blinking his eyes, one hand clutching the strap of 
his backpack.


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.

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