Most of the characters within the story are from the Anime Series, Ranma
1/2 and are property of Rumiko Takahashi, and whoever else may own the
rights. I write this without permission and do so with no attempt to
profit off of the marvelous works. Rather, I do so for everyone's
benefit. Please enjoy and tell me what you think.


Lifted by the warm greeting and the happy faces, Kimiko enters into a
seemingly pleasant world. As the sky grows dark with the jealousy and
rage of the mad, the surface of her newly discovered plane will be
permanently shattered by those that seek her demise. Time will only tell
if fate allows her salvation from the darkness, or the bitterness of
eternity to be caught in its web of lies, deceit and worst of all, love.

**********************************************
*A Ranma 1/2 Fanfiction: Misery Loves Company*
**********************************************
-Third Fanfiction, following "Vengeance" and "A New Life."
by Ryan Erik


An excerpt from Part Two, "Haunted Pasts."


    Glancing across the surface of the blue river, the coin shaped rock
skipped nearly thirty feet before plunging into the water. Another
followed, though it only stretched half the distance before it sank to
the riverbed. Another, the size of his open palm, was raised to meet a
similar fate as its brethren, but instead was tossed to the side. The
hand that had thrown the rocks fell to the side of its owner, firmly
placed on the dirt.
    He sighed, watching as the sun began its slow but steady ascent on
its way towards the zenith, but it still had nearly six hours until
then. The sky was empty at the moment, not even the slightest swirl of
white water vapor tainting it. He closed his eyes for a moment as a bell
sounded out across the water, striking seven times. Had he been out here
that long? he wondered. It seemed as though only a moment had past, yet
he had been throwing stones for an hour. He did more than toss rocks
across the rippling water; he used this time to think.
    His bare arms tingled from the cold as did his wet feet, but he
ignored the discomfort for it was hardly comparable to the pain he felt
inside, the emotional strife that fed his depression. His eyes blinked
open and he turned to see his younger brother walking down the incline
of the hill towards him. Turning again, he stoically faced the water, a
tinge of anger burning within him. It was not for his brother, but he
often directed it at him.
    "What do you want Shin-kun?" He found another stone and cast it
skidding across the water. "I told you not to follow me." He had no need
to see his brother to know that he was scared. "What's the matter?"
    Shintaro sat to his right but he did not turn to face him. He could
feel his little brother's eyes weighing him, judging him, just like
everyone else. "Poppa wants you to come home and get ready to go."
    He caught himself from snorting in disgust; after all, it was not
his brother's fault. "Was he mad?"
    "No," Shintaro whispered, as if surprised by it himself. "He was
excited, though, and told me to find you and tell you that we're leaving
at nine instead of eleven." His brother paused tentatively, and
continued, "I wouldn't have come out here if he didn't say so, I swear!"

    He sighed again, looking at the water and watching Shintaro's stone
skip nearly twice as far as his best had. He gritted his teeth, gripping
his knees to his chest. He hated to lose at anything, no matter how
insignificant. "Don't worry about it." His voice sounded brittle to his
own ears so he added, "I'm not mad at you." Rubbing his chilled arms, he
bit back his anger, trying to calm himself with a deep breath. He could
never fully extinguish it, though. It always seemed to build, layer upon
layer, until he could no longer stand anyone's presence. He knew that he
had the right to be indignant, or at least he hoped he did.
    "Okay," Shintaro replied cheerfully, standing. "Don't be mad but dad
said that if you don't come this time..."
    "I know," he interrupted. "I won't make him mad like that again. I
promise, I won't miss any more." The last time that his parents were
getting together with their friends, he had refused to go. His father
was incredibly angry and his anger had vented on Shintaro too. He might
not have liked his little brother much, but he certainly did not want
him to be punished when he, himself, made the mistake.
    "Thanks," his brother replied solemnly. "I'll go now."
    "You can stay," he offered, turning to the boy whose hair was a mess
and squirming with discomfort underneath his thick clothes.
    "Nah, I gotta get ready," his brother said to him, a little less
than convincing. "I'll see ya around though."
    "Sure," he muttered, facing straight ahead once more. "Whatever."
His brother scurried away as if he forced the boy to stay there against
his will. He clenched his teeth again, feeling truly alone.

                          *       *       *

    Warm water gushed from the gleaming metal faucet, slowly filling
large bath tub. Kimiko submerged her right hand into the flowing stream
of water, testing the temperature. She withdrew it slowly, watching
large drops of water slide down her hand and fall back into the tub.
Quickly shaking her wrist over the water, she stood and walked over to
the shower. The icy water hit her full on, but she clenched her teeth
and forced herself to submerge in it. Shivering, she picked up the bar
of soap and started scrubbing, eager to be in the warmth of the tub.
    Twisting the knob, she shivered uncomfortably as the spray of ice
water drooped and died. Walking over to the tub, she stepped in and
lowered herself in. The waves of warmth were pure pleasure, and she
sighed with relief. Closing her eyes wearily, she began to relax in the
hot water.
    Her dreams had been particularly rough the last night, and she
wondered if she would have been better off skipping sleep all together.
Mental exhaustion was almost as bad and sometimes worse than physical
exhaustion. Sinking lower till the water covered her ears, Kimiko
yawned.
    Relaxing, she slid until her head submerged underneath the gentle
waves of the bath. She opened her mouth, spilling the oxygen from her
lungs and watched them rise and bubble at the surface. Under the clear
bath water, it seemed almost serene and strangely haunting. The light
from the window shown down upon her, but its image was less vibrant, its
color filtered. Reality there was different, even though it was no more
than a foot of distance away.
    The light steadily grew in intensity until she was forced to close
her eyes and puncture the peace she felt below the water's surface. Her
lids opened momentarily and she reeled back in surprise, striking her
head on the bottom of the tub.
    "It is good to see you again, Kimiko," the pleasant voice greeted
from above the water's surface. Too stunned to reply, she only stared in
silence as the spirit continued. "You do not seem so happy to see me."
    The wet, torn silks worn by the specter across from Kimiko barely
covered her entire figure. Her messy, long black hair dangled past her
ear, brushing the surface of the water, and her dazzling green eyes
shined with unnatural light. Her pallid skin almost took a bluish tinge
upon closer examination, but not dark enough to casually notice. A white
aura glowed faintly around the ghost, and she smiled placidly. Goose
bumps rose on Kimiko's skin as she beheld the specter hovering over her.

    After a few more moments of silence passed, Kimiko instinctively
took a breath of the water, and her lungs mysteriously filled with air.
She paid little attention and spoke anyway. "I didn't think you were
real." Her voice carried to its receiver, still sounding doubtful of the
ghost's existence. The drip of the faucet echoed across the bathroom,
and faint morning light illuminated the room, but no noise intruded upon
their conversation. It was as if time stood still for them to talk.
    "I am real enough," Lilly replied solemnly, staring back serenely.
"I'm much more than a figment of your imagination." Breathing heavily,
Kimiko only nodded in reply. Her heart thumped so loud that she could
swear that the people outside could hear her.
    "How do I know that you're real?" she asked, reaching her hand out
to the spirit.
    Reaching across, the specter put her warm hand against Kimiko's and
whispered, "Would you rather believe that you are crazy or would you
rather believe that you are perfectly fine and that you have a guardian
spirit?"
    Retreating her hand to her side, Kimiko replied, "The second one."
    "Good, love," the ghost whispered, smiling eerily. "I have just come
to warn you, nothing more, nothing less." Her brilliant green eyes
shimmered brightly, and she turned towards the entrance of the bathroom.
"I have very little time, so listen carefully. You will be challenged
three times, by three different forces, each whom have a quarrel with
you. Whether imagined or real, it does not matter. Treat them as real
threats, or your life may end in this place you call home. Do you
understand?"
    "Who is-" Kimiko began, but Lilly interjected.
    "Do you understand?"
    Silently, Kimiko nodded.
    "Good, very good," she replied. "I must go now, so remember to never
let your guard down, for a friend or even a family member."
    The sound of the door to the inner bath filtered through the water,
and Lillith instantly vanished, revealing the interior ceiling. Kimiko
drew in a startled breath, but only sucked in water. She instantly sat,
sputtering water and violently coughing. She was only vaguely aware of
Mayako entering the room.
    "Are you all right?" the girl asked, walking to her side. "Swallow
some bath water?" She smiled warmly, walking over to the shower and
turning it on.
    "I'm okay," Kimiko replied, straightening herself. She coughed once
more, clearing her throat. Lillith's words burned in her mind, her last
message before Mayako's entry more so than the rest. Why would she say
such a thing, she wondered sadly. Here she was, returned to this place
after nearly twenty years and she was not supposed to let her guard
down. Could Mayako be the one of the three Lilly warned her about, she
thought distastefully, but that was unlikely. Could she even trust the
advice itself, or even its source?
 Kimiko turned in time to see Mayako stick her tongue out at her. She
smiled. Mayako was trustworthy enough. Before she could return her
attention to soaking, the shower turned off. Mayako walked over, putting
one foot in the tub. "Oh, it feels good." Kimiko nodded. "So, what are
your plans for today?"

                          *       *       *

    With his eyes intently planted on the back of his father's head, he
silently followed his family as they winded their way to the Tendo
household, the last place he wanted to be. The many memories of that
place resurfaced, each burning as harshly in his mind as the ice cold
wind burned the exposed flesh of his arms. From the moment he started
martial arts there with the other students, to the day he stopped taking
lessons at the dojo, not one of them was friendly to him, all jealous of
his ability no doubt.
    He had been an apt student, and Aunt Akane, the Onos and the two
masters of the school trained him more than the others. Many probably
figured it was because that his father was one of the masters, but he
knew otherwise. He was to be the heir of the Saotome style of Anything
Goes Martial Arts, and his teachers, his father, wanted him to strive
harder than the rest, harder than anyone had before him against some
unknown standard. Not a single waking moment was his alone, and not a
single sleeping hour was not spent resting from some horribly exhausting
training exercise.
    Somewhere he had heard the phrase, "That which does not kill you
will only make you stronger." He guessed that held true, but he pondered
what the cost of living by such a standard was, for that is exactly what
his father exacted upon him. Was he, then, the result of such a
lifestyle? If so, he advised against even considering such a course of
action, for he knew that his father royally fucked him up.
    He knew over fourteen styles and variations of martial arts, he
acquired six different black belts which included a fifth degree in the
Anything Goes style, and yet he had absolutely no friends. Even his own
brother feared him. He guessed that it was probably best left that way.
He did not want friends. Friends held you back. Friends were nothing but
liabilities in the face of the Art. Nothing but victory mattered, and
that he knew, and that he had been taught.
    The problem with friends was that you were supposed to like them.
How could he like someone he may have had to fight sometime in the near
future? You simply cannot pull your punches for anyone. Never, ever pull
punches. If you do, then you give them an edge, he reasoned to himself.
The line between friendship and enemies was too fine to discern. His
father's teachings drilled that into his mind.
    There was no time, no place for them either. Who needed them anyway?
The answer: he did. He needed them more than he needed water. He needed
someone to pour out his heart to, he needed someone to hang out with
when it rained, and most of all he needed someone to back him up, be by
his side, inspire him, and everything else a friend was supposed to do.
    Oh, but no, friends betray, friends stab you while your back is
turned, and the hurt of the loss was too deep to risk. You cannot take
chances like that. When no one's at your back, no one can stab it, no
one can betray you. If there is no one, you have to worry about no one.
Blanketing his eyes with this philosophy, he tried to live life
normally, but when you hated everyone and everyone hated you, it was not
easy.
    Oh, he had a friend once. He was fun to be with; he said they would
be friends forever. Than he left. He left without saying good-bye, and
that hurt worse than anything father ever did to him. That hurt worse
than the rocks, that hurt worse than the fire, and those hurt a lot,
especially the fire. He hated fire. Fire hurts, burns and scars.
    But no one would listen to him; no not him, the boy who no one
liked, the trouble maker, the misfit. No one liked him and no one cared
if he lived or died. So then, why should he care if they lived either?
    His gaze then trained on the back of his mother's head. Where was
she when he needed her? Where was she when he cried and cried, wailing
for her to come to his rescue? Oh, where was she when the fire burned
him, when the rocks slammed into his adolescent body? The answer:
turning a blind eye. She ignored him, let his father do those things,
oh, and she continued to let him. She wanted a manly son, a superior
being, one who was more god than man. She wanted him to be the best, to
win, never fail. No, never that. You can never fail. Failure was pain;
failure was death.
    He hated her more than his father, almost as much as fire. She could
have stopped it, but she did not. It was not abuse; it was training. Why
should she stop his training? It was working, was it not? He excelled in
the Arts. He had straight A's in school. Nothing and no one could stop
him from any goal. Why should he complain? Why should she interject
herself where she was not needed?
    Shivering with dormant rage and with the cold alike, he looked
between his parents, his supposed caretakers, his would-be benefactors.
They walked identically, not in unison, but in stature. His father
walked with pride and happiness, in fact, he practically glowed with it.
His mother strode down the walk gracefully, with that same pride, that
same happiness, that same joy. Why should they, of all people, be happy?
Were they not ashamed of what their eldest son had become, their
creation, their Frankenstein monster? Those were the words that his
father had used the day before, the week before, and the year before.
    "What is she like?" he overheard his mother say as she quietly spoke
with his father. They may have thought no one could hear, but he was not
just anyone. Years of intense meditation made his hearing more acute
than even the visually impaired.
    "She's amazing," his father replied, his voice hoarse with
excitement. "Soun said she fought with skill he had not seen in ages,
and he would not exaggerate concerning such delicate matters."
    "And you think that she's his?" His mother's voice sounded hopeful
and happy, though she normally took the most shocking news calmly,
without any betrayal of emotion.
    "We do believe that she may be his daughter," his father answered,
putting his arm over her shoulder to plant a kiss on her cheek. He
almost skipped a step watching that event take place. Rarely did they
ever show emotion for one another, and never in public.
    "God must have heard my prayers," she whispered in his father's ear.

    Their words circulated in his mind, repeating endlessly, trying to
extract order from chaos. He hissed inaudibly, unable to decipher their
conversation. They spoke of a woman, most likely a girl since she was
someone's daughter that they knew. His father spoke of her skills, which
he obviously knew to be in the realm of martial arts -- his father would
not speak of this girl if it did not pertain to it. Though he knew the
hatred he felt for his father was mutual, he wondered if the bastard
would take on another student, one who might replace him as the heir to
the Saotome school of Anything Goes.
 Never before had his heritage been challenged, since Shintaro was his
only other competitor for the title, and he had absolutely no worries
there. Shintaro completely lacked any ambition what-so-ever, and his
natural ability was average at best. The man had no right to do this to
him after all the torture he endured for the position.
    He truly wondered if this girl had the skills to stand up to him in
real combat. A challenge would certainly fix his ever-sinking mood for
the present. Not only from the fight, he would gain much pleasure by
seeing his father's plans ruined, schemes against his eldest son, his
only true prodigy.
    They were silent from that point on, and so he decided to study the
boy who strode next to him. His brother looked like a version of himself
at that age, though the boy's hair was slightly longer than his. There
was no need for long hair. It simply got in the way when you needed to
see, and became a disadvantage if an enemy were to latch onto it.
    "Mother?" Shintaro asked as the boy glanced over at him.
    "Yes, son?" His mother's voice still radiated the joy it had
earlier.
    "Can I stand between you and father?" His brother's voice sounded
weak, fearful, and it almost came out as a squeak.
    "Sure you can," she replied, moving over to the side. His father
turned for an instant, and they locked stares before he turned to his
younger son and patted him on the head.
    He almost roared with laughter after that. His brother was just
scared standing next to him. Oh, the irony.

                          *       *       *

    A deep rumble of thunder resounded across the valley's walls as a
cold north wind wailed. Black clouds gathered overhead, flashing with
streaks of lightning. Hard leather boots trampled over the ground,
uncaring of their path, or their destination. As people ran for shelter,
one man continued with melancholy determination, tearing his way through
anything and anyone who stood in his path.
    His cold, lifeless eyes stared towards the horizon, ever watching
and waiting for something. What, he did not know, but he did know that
something was out there, and he needed to find it, before it found him.
Another flash of lightning lit the sky, but he ignored it, stomping ever
forward towards his imaginary destination. One day he would find it, and
on that day he would stop his meaningless search. On that day his life
would be filled again.
    Morning light should have shown down upon him, but in the ever
changing world, only coldness and water would fall upon his tired, dusty
brow. Traveling, in the old days, was unintentional, but now it was his
only release. The maddening call for blood did not burden him here, in
this ancient, vast land. He never stopped to ask questions, but rather,
he just existed, to be here one moment, and there the next. To settle
down, he would have to stand up to his demons, which he could no longer
even name. The memory of them had escaped his mind long, long ago -- a
second to God was an eternity for man.
    The rain began then, first as a light shower, than as the storm he
knew it would amount to, winds roaring, lightning crashing and rain
pouring. It amounted to little, in the grand face of things, and it
mattered not in the slightest anyway. If he could defeat the greatest
martial artists in the world, what then, was a little storm which could
hardly be considered anything more compared to him?
    In the next moment, his heart skipped a beat and he spun on his
heels, prepared for an attack, and yet, the streets as far as he could
see were empty. He almost turned to continue his journey, but the
nagging feeling he experienced made him dodge hard to his left. Where he
had stood, a large fist ripped through the space. There was absolutely
no time to size up his opponent, for it attacked him again.
    The speed his attacker utilized was admirable, but fell short of
being effective in comparison with his sheer skill. Blocking the
figure's attacks proved less effective, though, as he realized its
strength. A flash of light revealed his attacker, and his eyes narrowed
in anger. He should have known this particular bastard would not give up
after one fight.
    "What's wrong, maggot?" he taunted, while his fist connected with
his opponent's face. "I already gave you my answer, even though you lost
in the first place." He followed that with a nasty combination of
punches, but his target vanished, reappearing above him. He rolled to
the side, frantically avoiding the aerial attack.
    "I don't believe you," a cynical voice replied, though it was more
of a growl than speech. "Stop hiding him!" Flipping to the side, he
narrowly dodged his opponent's following attack.
    "What do you think-" he began, tearing through thin air as his
opponent became airborne again. "-could possibly motivate me to hide the
old demon?" He ducked under the swoop as another flash of electricity
illuminated his opponent's enraged form. "He could be dead for all I
know."
    "You're lying!" it roared back, attacking viciously. "I don't know
what you did with him, but you'll tell me now!" He dodged its assault
and landed a nasty kick on its left leg, crippling it. Its cry of pain
reverberated throughout the village. He doubted if any of the villagers
would investigate the noise, but rather dismiss it as the howling of the
spirits.
    "I'll tell you one more time," he yelled, straining to be heard
through the fierce wind. "I don't know where the hell he is, and I
haven't seen him for over fifteen years!"
    He could hear its strangled panting and knew he already won the
fight. Yet, it continued its resistance. "You lie." It's voice sounded
no more than a hoarse whisper, but he knew that it would never admit
defeat.
    "Farewell," he laughed back at it. "We'll probably meet again."
    Its reply was cut off by the storm.

_____________________________________________________________________

And so begins another part in the storm of emotions known as Misery
Loves Company. I hope you enjoyed my tale, dear friends, and I wish you
farewell once more.


Ryan Erik
ICQ: 2561463
ryanerik@xoommail.com
http://members.xoom.com/RyanErik