Sorry about the last repost, but apparently text file attachments doesn't 
fare well when being posted to FFML from AOL end, and there are 
restrictions on how large email AOL can send at one time (the fic 
exceeded 80K) so I've taken the liberty of splitting this fanfic into two 
parts- 5a and 5b. Keep in mind that I am reposting this fic for Murmur 
the Fallen. Send replies to him at Harijubal@aol.com (though I'll forward 
any messages I receive on this to him as well).

Enjoy,

Dark Alpha <DarkAlpha@aol.com>

-----------------------------

Author's note:
Due to the fact that some people have complained that the formatting is 
screwed up once more, Dark Alpha has kindly split the story in two and 
reposted yet again.  *Sigh*, here we go again . . .


MISTAKEN IDENTITY
A MURMUR THE FALLEN FANFIC
BASED UPON THE CHARACTERS AND SITUATIONS BY
RUMIKO TAKAHASHI


Chapter Five: The rapid progression of actions

	Life was really funny.  Not Ha-Ha funny, but odd in ways that were 
never dreamt of by normal men, but that which haunt the truly mad.  Well, 
it could be considered funny, if one were to have a truly bitter and 
ironic sense of 'humor', and a deep need to be punished.  
	Saotome Yuri's personality did not have in its makeup those two 
components, though she certainly felt bitter, and also felt that she was 
being punished.  Karma, she mused, was a real vindictive bitch, that paid 
back in spades for every single imagined slight.  The anthropomorphism of 
karma, really, was the only way that she could explain the fact that what 
was happening to her, was indeed happening to her.
	Her brother (whom she was quite certain was the cause of all the 
pain and misery in the world) was holding her (he being a she at the 
moment.  And she being a she also, though, really, the way that her life 
had been going lately, she didn't expect it to last) head in her hands, 
looking in quite a bit of pain.  Normally, that would have cheered her up 
immensely, especially since she herself was the cause of said pain; 
however, that was not the case now.  She had just told her brother (whom 
she hated more than life itself) what she had been doing with his (now 
her) name.  
	"Damn it.  I can not believe that you did all that in a few months.  
How could you do all that in so short a time period?" Ranma asked, 
incredulous as hell, and twice as angry.  "I didn't think that anyone 
could get into that much trouble without screwing over all the major 
crime cartels in the world.  My name is going to be all over the place, 
you realize that?"
	"So?  What's the big deal?" asked Yuri, unconcerned.  Why should she 
care?  After all, anything that inconveniences him err-her is all for the 
best.
	"Since you don't seem to have empathy, how about the fact that 
you're going to have a lot of people looking for me come around.  And not 
all of them are coming for my vast store of bawdy jokes, or a free drink.  
And if you think that I'm going to be the one to accept their bullets, 
you're nuts!"  It was a testament to Ranma's speaking ability that she 
gave the impression of yelling at quite high decibels, yet remaining at 
whispering level.
	"What do you mean?" asked Yuri, though getting one of those weird 
premonitions that she most definitely would not like the coming answer.
	"You, my dear sister, are going to be my proxy."
	Shock was the first reaction that she had.  
	Perfectly natural, given the unusual circumstances.
	Her following reaction, though, was not.
	But, really, it was bound to happen sooner or later.  
	One of life's little lessons, really.  

			*			*			*
	
	It wasn't what it looked like, Akane would say later.  It was pure 
coincidence that, after her father had led the two siblings to the spare 
room, that she would suddenly remember that she had left something in 
there.  Something which she couldn't remember now, of course, but which 
importance seemed paramount at the moment.  So much so that she waited 
outside the door, waiting for them to finish so that she could get it.  
Why didn't she just walk inside to retrieve it?  She couldn't do that; it 
would be rude to interrupt.  And she took great care to not accidentally 
eavesdrop on the conversation.  
	Not like the others were doing, the gossipmongers.

			*			*			*

	Karma, Ranma mused, is a real vindictive bitch, that nurses grudges 
beyond the point of letting go.  So much so that the grudges turn into 
loonies that start hacking their names into the rapidly cooling bodies of 
those that they have slowly and sensuously . . . where was this metaphor 
going again?  Ah, that's right.  Karma: bitch, Yuri: bitch.  Damn it, why 
does this sort of shit always happen to her? 
	Sometimes she really felt like just blowing up a country and ranting 
about the beautiful night.
	Ok, calm down, Ranma, she said to herself.  Take it one second at a 
time or you really will end up blowing up a country, or at least a city.
	Well, she never really liked Tokyo all that much.  Dirty, crowded 
place with too many ugly buildings.  
	"Yeah, sure.  I want to know.  Really," said Yuri, derailing his 
steam engine of thought, in that infuriatingly glib tone of hers.     
	And she told her exactly why she should care.  If there was one 
thing that she had learned over the years was, you can't trust charity, 
but you can trust enlightened self-interest.    
	"What do you mean?" she asked.  Ah, now there's the light of reason 
dawning upon her.  Let's see how she takes the blunt approach.
	"You, my dear sister, are going to be my proxy."
	Oh, how the look upon her sister's face just lit up her entire soul 
with a warm, comforting glow. The look of one who knows that she is 
utterly and completely screwed, and it was all her own doing.
	She had no one to blame but herself, and that just made the whole 
fiasco almost worthwhile.
	Of course Ranma never did expect what happened next. 
	As she gloated internally, Yuri's shock turned into utter fury.  
With her anger fueling her, she quickly grabbed the open Ranma and tossed 
her out the door with all her strength.
	The toss would have taken her through a wall and out the other side, 
bruising her quite severely (it could be hoped) in the process.
	 However, what the toss didn't expect was Mr. Soun 'momentum 
dampening' Tendo to be in the way.  Ranma smashed into Mr. Tendo, and 
sent both of them into the wall, and while making a radiating spiral of 
cracks, did not break it.
	The toss was understandably disappointed. 
	Yuri was understandably horrified and feeling immensely guilty.  
Though not about Ranma.
	Mr. Tendo was understandably unconscious.
	Ranma was understandably furious, or would have been if she also 
hadn't been unconscious.
	There was a whole of lot understanding in that hallway.  
	Oddly enough, however, Kasumi was not there.  
	No, Kasumi was in the living room, going over the daily mail.  
Another one of the little things she does.  
	She came across one letter in an envelope that opened along the 
smaller dimension, rather than the longer one.  It was addressed to 
Saotome Ranma.  
	"But which one?" asked Kasumi, to no one in particular.  
	It had no return address.
	"I didn't know that you could mail a letter without a return 
address.  What if it got lost?" Kasumi asked no one once more. 
	No one replied as it always did: in no way. 
	"I wonder who I should give this to?"
	Kasumi shrugged slightly, and got up.  She shook her legs, one after 
the other, in an attempt to wake her sleeping feet.  Then winced, again 
very slightly, at that unpleasant pins and needles sensation.
	She walked to the hallway, where she saw the most recent scene of 
utter carnage in her house.
	Perhaps she should not have played her Walkman so loudly.
What, she wondered silently and to herself (for no one had gone no 
where), was Yuri (really, she went in her mind on a different train of 
thought, running parallel to the first, this whole identity situation was 
very odd) doing on the floor with that large bump on her head?  
	The answer immediately supplied itself in the form of a confused 
looking Akane looking down on the downed girl.  
	And why was Ranma (in her girl form, though, she thought, since I 
have not seen her otherwise, I have only Mr. Saotome's word that she 
actually does have one.  And I know how reliable that is) unconscious and 
in a tangle with father? 
	In a more lecherous mind, the answer would have been swift and 
dirty. 
	In Kasumi's mind, she drew a more accurate conclusion.	
	"Really, Father," Kasumi said admonishingly to her 'sleeping' 
father, "you should learn to respect other people's privacy."  
	No matter that he couldn't hear it.  After all, it was the principle 
of the matter.  
	"And, Akane, you must learn to control those impulses."  Waggling a 
finger was probably a bit too much, she thought.  But when she acts like 
a child, she should be treated like one.  
	"Nabiki," she said to her sister.  "I don't think that father would 
like it if you blackmailed him with those pictures.  You do know how he 
gets when you try to do that, don't you?" she asked rhetorically to her 
felonious sibling, who was shuddering in the memory of her one experience 
with the dreaded "Demon Head."
	Now to soak some compresses.  
	
			*			*			*

	Ah, Paris, the city of lights, the city of love.  The center of 
Haute Couture, and a citadel to the memoirs of past culture.
	So what do all this lights, love, couture, and culture add up to?
	A horrendously expensive vacation spot that rains quite a bit and 
doesn't have anything that you couldn't find in a decent art book or LA.
	Well, that was not quite true.  An art book would not have the 
originals on display, under a foot of hermetically sealed plexi-glass.
	But what, one must ask, is the difference?
	Ah, Paris, tourist trap with attitude.  
	That was pretty much why Arsene hated being there.  Arsene hated old 
cities, especially European Old Cities.  They had a certain air to them 
that screamed "We have History!  We have a Past!  We have Really Large 
Buildings with Gargoyles!  With Extra Masonry!"  
	But Arsene loved money, and in Arsene's particular field of 
expertise, Paris was the mother-load.
	Oh, what was Arsene's field of expertise?
	Why the grand art of thievery, of course.
	For Arsene Lupin the Fourth was a thief, and a good one at that.  
	One of the best in the world, it could be said with a great deal of 
certainty. 
	It was expected of her, really.
	What?  Arsene Lupin was a girl?
	Yep.
	Not that very many people knew that little fact.  
	So, please, try to keep it to yourselves, if you would.
	Arsene looked upon that grand old city, and sighed.  She hated 
Paris, and, if a city had a mind, she was sure that Paris hated her right 
back.  
	She swiftly shut the heavy curtains, and leaped to her bed, the 
tired springs creaking loudly, protesting the sudden weight upon it.  
	It didn't help that the bed was now carrying two.
	"Hey, Nodachi, what do you want to do?" Arsene asked the man next to 
her in bed, a rather tall, scruffy fellow in his early twenties, with 
green, spiky hair and tattered black leather jacket and pants, and a T-
shirt that screamed PANTERA. 
	Now, a more lecherous mind would have drawn a very dirty little 
conclusion by now.
	It would be wrong, of course. 
	Kuno Nodachi stopped in his contemplation of the ceiling to look at 
his partner in crime, and stuck his tongue out, silently.
	"Real mature, No-chan.  No, come on, really.  What should we do?  
I'm bored," whined the world-renowned master thief.  
	"Go away, I'm tired as hell," replied Nodachi, 'die a slow, painful 
death' spread all over his tone.
	"Well, fine, if that's the way you want to be," said Arsene, pouting 
slightly.  She sat up, pivoted her legs so that they hung from the side 
of the bed, and turned her back to her depressed partner.
	Arsene re-opened the curtains, looking at the raining city.  While 
she liked rain, she always found the sight of an old city being rained 
upon to be depressing.  She sighed very dramatically, and closed the 
curtains, only to re-open them and sigh yet again.  She continued to 
stare, and sigh every few seconds.  During which, Nodachi stared glumly 
at the ceiling, wincing in pain, not guilt, at each breathy, dramatic 
sigh.  Finally, after ten minutes of the Lupin Sighing Torture, he 
decided that the pain was too great to bear any longer.
	"Fine!  Fine!  You've broken my spirit!  What the hell do you want 
to do, now?!" yelled Nodachi, as he went from horizontal to vertical in 
less than a jiffy.  
	"I don't know, what do you want to do?" she asked childishly, as she 
again stared at the oddly hypnotic sight of gutter water pouring down 
onto the cobbled street.
	Nodachi looked at his partner.  She was a very pretty girl, at about 
average height with full chestnut colored hair that reached to her 
shoulders.  Silhouetted as she was by the storm filtered light, only her 
profile showing, Nodachi quickly came up and just as quickly discarded 
the first three of his 'suggestions'.  "How about we steal something?"
	"No, really?" Arsene said sarcastically, her eyes wide with false 
shock.
	"Why don't you come up with something then, genius?" Nodachi said 
scornfully.
	"Why the hell do you think I was asking you?  I'm tapped out, god 
damn it!" she yelled, as she flounced back onto the bed.  She took a 
small booklet from the small table next to the bed, and flipped through 
its glossy pages at random.  She stopped at a picture of the glass 
pyramid entrance of the Louvre.  She looked up at her partner and said, 
with a devilish grin, "Say, I've got an idea . . ."
	"Well, don't just trail off like that!"
	"God, you try to be a bit dramatic-."
	"A bit.  Uh-huh."
	"What?"

			*			*			*

	The old man looked across the table.  He sipped at his green tea, 
not really tasting it, yet savoring the heat.
	If you had looked at him, you would probably have guessed that the 
old man was in his late sixties, perhaps a very robust man in his 
seventies.  
	You would be quite wrong, of course.
	But you knew that, didn't you?
	Tick-tock, tick-tock.
	The woman that sat across from him also sipped at the green tea.  
She never took her eyes off the man at her side, though.  She stared at 
him, not with love in her eyes, but with deep suspicion and not a little 
anger. In any other couple, that would have meant love, but not in those 
two. 
	The woman looked quite young, perhaps still in her teens, though she 
gave off a sense of maturity that seemed far older than her apparent age.  
Her most striking feature (other than her regal, elegant, swarthy beauty) 
was her glossy green hair, rich, full, and elegant, though in a matronly 
bun that contrasted wildly with her apparent age, and matched exactly 
with her aura of maturity.
	You would think, what a dowdy looking young gir . . . err, woman. 
	You'd be wrong again, but you knew that as well.
	What you don't know is that the sense that you were wrong about the 
old man is not the sense that you were wrong about the young woman.  
	Weird, huh? 
	It'll be addressed later, if at all.  
	Because, really, it is a minor point at best, and a distraction to 
the main plot at worst.
	Tick-tock.  
	The man at the woman's side looked to be in his late twenties, or 
early thirties.  He wore black slacks and a black blouse, along with a 
black tie.  His coat, which hung on a coat-rack in the corner of the 
room, was also black.  Black, black, black, a common motif for the man: 
from hair, to eyes, to socks, though not in skin pigmentation.  Not a man 
to have a funeral catch him unawares.   
	He was the only one of the three not drinking tea, for he was, 
rather, gulping rather large amounts of what was called yogurt, but 
wasn't really.  But it tasted good, and, really, what else is there for a 
drink to be?  
	"So," said the old man, the word echoing uncomfortably in the small 
room.
	Tick-tock.
	"So," repeated the man, grinning slightly at the two others in an 
odd way.
	The young woman remained silent.  The two others stared at her 
intently, waiting.  Her eyes had a set look to them, indicating to the 
two men that she was not going to be as silly as they were.  The two men 
sighed slightly. 
	"So," said the old man, yet again, and wincing at the sudden glare 
from the young woman, "what was it like being dead?"
	"Not something that I would want to do again any time soon," replied 
the young woman in an ironic manner.  "Though I don't think that I have a 
choice in the matter."
	"Heh," went the man, grinning slightly in his mug of 'yogurt'.
	Tick-tock.  
	"Do you have something you wish to say?" asked the young woman 
frostily.
	"Who, me?" replied the man, as innocently as he could. 
	"So, why did you ask that we meet?" said the young woman of the old 
man, ignoring the man in black.
 	"Hmm?" hummed the old man, also as innocently as he could.  
	"Don't play games," said the young woman.
	"Isn't simply wanting to be in the company of old friends enough?"
	"No, it isn't," said the young woman, again lowering the temperature 
with her tone.
	"Well, all right, you've dragged it out of me." The old man sounded 
extremely smug, his grin wrinkling his face.  "One of my boys has the 
Book."
	Tick-tock, tick-tock.
	"What book?" asked the man.
	"You know, the Black Book," said the old man, his grin threatening 
to crack his jaw.
	Silence met his words.
	Tick.  
	"Well?  Shouldn't the two of you be gasping in surprise and mounting 
horror?" asked the old man petulantly. 
	"Should we?" the man asked of the young woman.
	Tock.
	 "I do not see why I should, though you may indulge yourself in 
pointless drama, as is your wont," declared the young woman.
	"Oh yes, and it wasn't you that I saw making a particularly verbose 
little speech high atop a perch, one fine moonlight night?" asked the man 
in a mocking way.  The young woman blushed slightly in response, and 
looked away. 
	"Ah Hem!" went the old man.  
	"What? Oh, yes, the Black Book," said the distracted young woman.  
She looked at the old man, and said, "So, someone finally managed to find 
it.  When will we get to see it?"
	"Oh, soon, soon," said the old man as reassuringly as possible.
	Tick-tock, tick-tock.
	"You know, this is highly portentous," observed the man, as he 
waggled a finger in the two other's direction.  "The return of the 
Warriors, the presence of the Scattered, the battles with the darkness, 
and now this.  Interesting times, and getting far more interesting as of 
late."
	"Hmm, yes.  Events are occurring too rapidly for me to divine with 
any degree of certainty," said the young woman, as she sipped from her 
cup of tea.
	"Millennial fever.  It's like the very earth itself has caught 
millennial fever," observed the man.  He finished off the last of the 
yogurt, sighed, and stood up.  "Well, I've got to be going now.  You know 
how it is; busy, busy, busy."  The man walked softly to the coat-rack, 
took his coat, and casually put it on.  
	He reached for the door handle, and just as he was about to slide 
the door open, the old man said to him in an off-hand manner, "Oh, by the 
by, I've had a stern talking to with Harold."
	Tick-tock, tick-tock.
	"Ah, drat," muttered the man, as he stepped out, sliding close the 
door behind him.
	"Heh.  It's not often I get one over on him," said the old man, 
gleefully chortling.  
	"Oh, please.  Don't think that just because you found one, you've 
found all."  The young woman then got up, and went for her own jacket.  
She looked at the old man, and said, rather fondly, "Take care of 
yourself, alright?  And don't involve yourself too much in the coming . . 
. events, whatever they may be."
	"Right, right.  As always, I defer to your never ending wisdom," 
said the old man, smiling.
	"Huh."
	The young woman walked out the door.
	The old man finished the last of the tea in the kettle as he looked 
absently at the closed door.  His gaze was turned inward, rather than 
outward.
	"I wonder what I should do about that boy.  And I wonder why I keep 
getting such conflicting reports?"  The old man also got up, and sighed 
loudly at the crackling sensations that accompanied the action.  "Ah, 
well.  Hey, baseball should be starting any time now."
	The old man left the room, all thoughts of old times, old friends, 
and old enemies buried under the prospect of a good game of baseball.
	Tick . . . tock.

			*			*			*

	Outside, the flickering streetlights cast very eerie shadows upon 
the cool concrete ground.  The young looking man drew his coat closer, in 
an effort to warm himself, his breath clouding in front of him.  He 
looked around very dramatically, as if he were in a very old and very bad 
spy picture, and whispered to the shadows that covered the brick walls 
that surrounded him, "I think that you know what to do."
	A voice from the shadows, an androgynous voice that could have been 
attributed to either sex, answered in an overly polite manner, "But of 
course.  I, your humble servant, do nothing but serve your will, and this 
instance is no exception."
	"Oh, stop that.  I do the over the top dramatics around here," 
answered the man.
	"Of course you do," said the young woman as she looked down from the 
flickering lamppost.  She jumped down from the great height, somehow 
making it appear dainty and ladylike, and smiled slightly.
	"Ah, for the love of- does everyone have to steal my act?" 
complained the man, as he looked towards the faint stars, and lifted his 
arms high in mock exasperation.    
	"Yes," replied the voice from the shadows and the young woman 
simultaneously.  
	"Whatever," muttered the man in black.  He turned towards the 
shadows and said, "Well, go on, don't hang around here all night.  Go on, 
you've got an international conspiracy to run in my place."
	The person in the shadows did not reply.  A faint rustle sounded the 
exit.  The two people left behind did not even look at each other as they 
started down the street in unison.
	"I . . . have a need of your . . . assistance," stated the young 
woman hesitantly, as they walked side by side along the dark suburban 
lanes.
	"Oh.  So the aloof one decides that she needs to get down into the 
trenches?" said the man mockingly.  "You were mighty lazy in your old 
age, and now you're desperately trying to play catch up to the rest of 
us.  I think that I like that."
	"Whatever opinions you may hold, I hope that you are mature enough 
to accede to my request."
	"Well, as you may have guessed, I'm taking a little vacation."
	"I thought that you were 'busy, busy, busy.'"
	"Well, you know how much effort you have to put in to have a 
vacation."
	"No, I wouldn't."
	"Oh."
  
			*			*			*

	Ranma's dreams were always framed in pretty much the same manner.  
There was an observer Ranma, and a Ranma that interacted with the others 
in the dream.  And it was always, always horrible . . . in retrospect.  
But sometimes, what was so horrible about it was that it didn't feel all 
that horrible, but he felt that it should.  The horrors of a rusty 
morality, he would call it.  
	Ever since he stole from that small village in China, the dreams had 
taken a new and very annoying twist: All through it, the song "Hey, Jude" 
would play. 
	That was why Ranma avoided psychologists like the plague.  Well, 
that and his mother issue.
	Ranma was alone, something that happened very rarely indeed in his 
dreams.  There was a book, but only by default.  It was nothingness; not 
black but an absence of light.  The only thing that defined it as a book 
were the silver clasps and silver designs upon the covers.  The clasp 
opened, and the book flipped open, the song became louder, and underneath 
it all, Ranma was sure that he was gibbering mentally.  He hated 
gibbering.  And he hated the Beatles.
	The scene changed in a flash of blinding white light.
	A city street, a laughing, loving couple, a quick death; fun, fun, 
doodle-dumb, that's the way Ranma's mind works.  Happiness was not 
something he liked seeing in others.  It just really pissed him off.  
Pissy, pissy, pissy, that's him all right.  Though the bullets were 
getting a bit annoying, the pinging against his shield just screwed up 
his rhythm.  Now how was he supposed to tear out people's thoraxes, or 
for that matter, where is the thorax?  He didn't laugh, he didn't need 
to, nor did he feel the slightest inclination to laugh, diabolically, 
insanely or otherwise.  Well, maybe just a little bit . . . 
	Ranma shook his head.  He hated the plays, the little dramas that 
went on in his dreams.  He hated them almost as much as the things, if 
only because the things weren't quite as cheesy.  Well, wasn't he filled 
with bravado, laughing in the face of his obvious insanity, ha ho he who 
hey.  Stop.  He hated the aftermath of the plays as well.  It always left 
a foul patina of melodrama on his muddled thoughts.
	Whoops, here he goes again.
	A kitchen, pretty modern actually.  A microwave, a large two door 
refrigerator, a self-cleaning washing machine, the every-girl being 
kicked at on the linoleum floor, all the conveniences of a whacked out 
psychotic dream.  Of course, since it was his dream, it was him that was 
kicking the every-girl.  The every-girl showed up at least once every two 
months.  Basically, it was pretty much every girl he could possibly 
imagine or have seen at some point in his life.  The features were a bit 
blurry, most due to the fact that she constantly shape-shifted.  But 
there was one constant about her, she was always being hurt by him.  When 
awake, Ranma would shy away from whatever the hell that meant.  And so, 
this time it was 'Ranma beating up every-girl in a mild domestic 
setting.'  Better than 'Ranma torturing every-girl in the humid, stygian 
depths of Tartarus.'  That's good, try to keep your sense of humor about 
you, he told himself as he continued to kick at her.  It was especially 
trying when she configured her face into HER on no less than five 
occasions.  If every-girl had ribs at that point, they would have been 
pulverized.
	Pulling himself out of a play was one of the harder things he had to 
do.  He hated the every-girl plays.  Hate, hate, hate; oh well, at least 
the things haven't shown up in a while.  And "Hey, Jude" isn't all that 
bad after an eternity.  Ah, spoke too soon.
	Now, the things show up in a fairly predictable manner, usually.  A 
golden tiara with an ellipse on it appeared, gigantic to his point of 
view.  The ellipse showed a hairline line upon it; and the gold slid away 
to reveal an eye.  The eye shined for a brief moment, then the first 
thing blotted out the light.  
	He really didn't know what the things were.  Suppressed darker 
emotions running wild in the mind?  Bits of his personality that have 
gone mad from the dreams?  But no, the things were there with the first 
dream, so no go with that.  Something to ponder as they destroyed him in 
the dream.
	Then, just as it seemed like he couldn't go on, it stopped.  And he 
woke up.  He hated that too.

			*			*			*

	The light stabbed him, his eyes burning in his sockets, and all he 
could see was the blood red color.  
	"Ow, by the bright lady, that stings like the devil," Ranma swore, 
squinting.  
	"That's odd, florescent lights shouldn't hurt," Kasumi commented 
idly.  
	"That's good to know."  Ranma sat up and looked around.  He was on a 
bed, feminine in its pastel sheets and blanket.  The room was the same, 
though the walls were oddly bare, stark in its lack of decoration.  "Hey, 
thanks."
	"Not a problem."  He stared at her, and shuddered a bit at the sheer 
content that she radiated.  How could someone be so happy?  His eyes 
narrowed for a split second, then returned to normal.  It didn't matter.  
Ranma fell down onto the futon with a sigh, a long drawn out one.  He 
felt so tired.  He looked at Kasumi, who had been absently fretting at a 
fluffy pink bunny on her dresser.  "Oh, man, what a long, long day this 
has been."
	"Hasn't it though?" she replied.  She paused slightly, then went on.  
"You have a wonderful singing voice."
	"What?" Ranma said.
	"I said that you have a wonderful singing voice.  While you were 
asleep, I heard you singing a song."
	"Sleep singing.  There's a new one," he mumbled.  Ranma looked at 
Kasumi, suspicion rising once more.  "What song did I sing?"
	"Oh, one of those old ones.  Something by the Beatles, I think."
	"Ah."  Nothing for it, really, he thought.  He tried to be 
nonchalant about it, but inside it worried him that the dreams were 
starting to affect him.  The thought that the dreams have always affected 
him didn't really run through his mind except on a very unconscious 
level.  The funny thing about unconscious thoughts is that they soon 
become very conscious.  But, on the surface, Ranma shrugged it off for 
the most part.  
	"I really should be angry at her, and at him, you know?" he said, 
looking at the ceiling, at the bright light, enjoying, after a fashion, 
the dull ache in his eyes.
	"I suppose, but really, you shouldn't be.  Not at Yuri-chan, at 
least.  She's a very sweet girl," said Kasumi, not looking at him.
	"Che, whatever.  But I'm too tired to be angry right now, you know?" 
	"Yes, that is interesting, isn't it?  How anger can tire you so much 
that you can't feel anything any longer, numb to emotions.  A self 
defeating emotion, anger is," Kasumi said, still not looking at Ranma.  
"No, no.  This is horribly wrong."
	"Uh, what is?" Ranma asked, disorientated by the sudden change in 
topic.
	"Hmm?  Oh, this arrangement of stuffed animals."  Kasumi stepped 
aside and gestured to her dresser top, which held nothing but stuffed 
animals.  
	"It . . . looks alright."
	"Oh, no.  It looks just awful."
	" . . . Yeah, I can see what you mean . . ." Humor her . . . don't 
set her off . . . you don't what will happen . . . you don't want to end 
up like that couple in Hong Kong, do you?
	"Oh, I've upset you.  Oh, dear, I do apologize," Kasumi said, bowing 
very slightly, still looking the same.
	"No, no, quite alright, I assure you," Ranma replied hurriedly, 
waving his hands.  He then sat up, and looked at himself.  "Hey, I'm a 
man again.  	Thanks."
	"Also not a problem."
Ranma stood, shook himself slightly, and yawned mightily.  "Oh, man.  I 
need shut eye, bad."
	"Well, I'm sure that you can use the room downstairs.  I'll get it 
ready," Kasumi said, walking towards the door.
	"No, no, don't trouble yourself.  I've got a room in town."
	"Well . . . just for tonight . . . but really, I feel that I should 
insist that you stay here tomorrow, or at least come here in the morning 
for breakfast."
	"I . . . that would be nice, thank you."
	"But not tonight."
	"No.  I don't think that I can . . . deal with my . . . family 
tonight.  I suppose that I need to . . . detach myself a bit in order to 
get a clearer picture," Ranma stated, haltingly, trying to find the right 
words.
	"Well . . . all right," Kasumi acceded.
	"Thanks."  Ranma went to the door, and just as he was about to leave 
the room, turned back and said to Kasumi, "Don't bother seeing me out, 
I'll find my own way.  And thank you for talking with me.  It's been a 
while since I had a conversation."	
	Ranma walked out.
	"What an interesting young man, don't you agree, Mr. Snuggly?" 
Kasumi asked of her stuffed bunny.  "Now . . . I wonder when Yuri is 
going to wake up?"  She asked once more, looking at the still sealed 
letter.  "Hmm?  Oh, yes, I suppose that I could have given him the letter 
. . . but really, the poor fellow has been through so much so . . . Oh, 
don't be silly, Mr. Snuggly, I wouldn't do a thing like that."

			*			*			*

	"Odd girl.  Nice though," Ranma said sotto voce.  He walked down the 
stairs carefully, trying not to alert anyone that he was leaving.  In 
retrospect, he really should have gone out the window in that odd, but 
nice girl's room.  Too late now, however.  
	Tip-toeing all the way, he thanked whoever that he didn't bring 
anything with him.  Now, if he could just make it to the door.
	"And where do you think that you're going?" asked a female voice 
behind him.
	Ranma turned around slowly, and with an easy smile said, "I think 
that I'm going to my hotel, Ms. Tendo."
	Akane stared at him, a bit disconcerted.  He looked so much like . . 
. Yuri, yet acted so differently than . . . her.  "I just wanted to say 
that I don't like what you're doing to Yuri."
	"And what am I doing to her?" he asked.
	" . . . You know what you're doing," she said, floundering slightly.
	"Of course I do.  But you don't, and I doubt that Yuri will tell 
you, so you're in the dark, I'm afraid," Ranma said neutrally.
	"I don't think that I like you, Ranma," Akane said angrily.
	"That's Saotome-san to you."  Ranma walked into the dark winding 
alleys of Nerima, shrilly whistling a very upbeat pop song.
	"I really don't like you!" Akane yelled after him.

*			*			*

	"Leave me alone, Akane," Yuri said, sounding so very angry and 
defeated.  She was in her room sitting on her futon, the lights of the 
lamp above soft and muted.  Akane sat next to her, her legs beneath her, 
staring at Yuri, trying to get her to talk.
	"No."
	" . . . Please," she pleaded softly.
	"No."
	"Fine."  Yuri sank back down into the covers and pulled the blanket 
over her head.  "Good night."
	"Oh no you don't," Akane said sternly, pushing the blanket off of 
Yuri.
	"What do you want?" Yuri asked plaintively.  "I'm tired.  I need to 
sleep, ok?"
	"We need to talk, Yuri," said Akane, saying 'Yuri' in that same 
uncertain tone as she had been.
	"No, we don't," Yuri replied, pulling the blanket over her once 
more.
	"Yes, we do."  Tug.
	"No, we don't."  Tug.
	"Yes, we do."  Tug.
	"No, we don't."  Tug.
	"YES, WE DO!" TUG.
	" . . . Ok." 
	Akane sighed, and tried to regain control.  It was just so 
frustrating, getting Yuri to talk to her.  "Listen, I think that you need 
to talk about Ranma.  I've never seen you so angry and so . . . scared."
	"I'm not afraid of him!" Yuri yelled loudly.
	"Uh huh.  And that's why you were running away from him so much, and 
saying that he was 'evil incarnate'.  I didn't think that you even knew 
what 'incarnate' meant."
	"Oh, lord . . ." Yuri groaned, while rolling her eyes. 
	"No, really, he scared you, admit it," Akane said, pushing.
	" . . . No, he didn't."
	"Yes, he did."
	"No, he . . . look, I don't want to play this game anymore," Yuri 
said.  "Nice try, though."
	"Gee, thanks," Akane said sarcastically.  "Look, we have to talk 
about this."
	"I don't want to."
	"If you don't talk about it, you're going to explode, you know," 
Akane admonished.
	"You're the one that's gonna explode, Akane."
	"Fine then, do it for me," Akane said, her eyes glowing slightly 
with unshed tears in the dim light.  With her voice quavering slightly, 
she said to Yuri, "After all . . . don't I deserve that?"
	"Aw, geeze," said Yuri sounding helpless under the intense guilt 
trip she was on.  "Aw, come on, stop that."
	Akane didn't stop.  In fact, her eyes glowed even more, as her lower 
lip trembled.  
	"Alright, fine!" Yuri yelled, defeated.  She sighed and, in a 
defeated tone, said, "When did you learn to be so crooked?"
	"Learned from the worst," Akane said smugly, none of the traces of 
her supposed sadness remaining on her now brightly cheerful face.
	"So . . . what do you want me to say?" asked Yuri, trying to get it 
over with.
	"Whatever you want to."
	"'Whatever I want' . . . I don't WANT to talk!" yelled Yuri, 
frustrated beyond belief.  "Argh!"	
	"Don't yell at me," Akane scolded.
	"I have nothing to say about Ranma, absolutely nothing. Can't you 
understand that?" Yuri said pleadingly to Akane.  She then said under her 
breath, "Chicks.  I don't know what they're oww!"
	Yuri rubbed her head slightly, trying to rid herself of the bump 
with friction.  "What did you do that for?"
	"You're a 'chick' too, you know," Akane said sardonically.
	"Me, a chick?  I ain't no . . ."
	"You're a girl, Yuri.  I don't know why you said that you were a boy 
and were so . . . adamant about it, but you're a girl.  Now start acting 
like one," Akane lectured in a pious way.
	"Act like what?  Like some sort of simpering, passive little 
mindless twit that only worries about how much the meat is going to cost 
at the butcher?  That has had all the life sucked out of them by a 
husband that isn't even there and a kid that you don't even know?  You 
think that I want to be a housewife?  You think that I want to end up 
like that?" Yuri said in a tirade, her voice rising higher and higher 
with every moment passing.  When she was done, she calmed down, and 
breathed deeply before going on.  "Look, I thought that you of all people 
would understand why I don't act 'feminine'."
	"Look, just because I don't know how to cook -shut up, Ran-Yuri- and 
all those other things that a good little Japanese girl should know, that 
doesn't mean that I'm ashamed of being a girl.  And you shouldn't be 
either," Akane said consolingly.
	"I'm not ashamed.  I just . . . look, I don't know how I feel, ok?" 
Yuri asked desperately, her voice faltering while trying to find the 
right words.  "I'm tired, and even when I'm not tired my feelings are 
really mixed up on this, ok?  So even if we spend the rest of the night 
talking about this, I'm not going to feel better, and you're just going 
to feel worse.  So . . . let's save this for a better time, ok?" she 
pleaded.
	"Ok.  But only for a while."  Akane moved to get up, feeling the 
best she had for a long time.  While her feelings towards Yuri may be 
very mixed, for the first time, she felt a sort of connection to someone 
that she lacked with even her sisters and closest friends.  It felt nice 
having a companion that was traveling the same path down life's bumpy 
five-lane highway, though they may swerve around that highway like a 
drunken groundhog.
	Akane looked down at Yuri and smiled.  She walked over to the light 
and placed her palm upon the light switch.  "Good night."
	"Good night, Akane," mumbled Yuri underneath her covers.
	When Akane was just about to turn off the light, Kasumi showed up in 
the doorway. 
	"Oh, I do hope that I haven't woken you up, dear," Kasumi said.  
"Here, Yuri, this letter came for you today."  She handed over the simple 
letter and was about to leave when Yuri interrupted her.
	"Hey, this was addressed to Ranma," she said with some distaste.
	"I assumed it was for you, dear," Kasumi said as she left.
	"What is it?" asked Akane, leaning down.
	"It's a letter," Yuri replied dryly.
	"I know that, stupid.  Well, open it up."
	"Ok, ok, hold your horses."  Yuri ripped off the shorter end of the 
envelope and took out the letter.  "'To Saotome Ranma . . .'"
	"Well, don't just trail off like that, what does it say?"
	"AAAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHH!!!!"

			*			*			*

	"Did you hear something, Saotome?" asked Soun, his eyes never 
leaving the board.
	"I think it was my daughter, Tendo," replied Genma, his eyes also 
never leaving the board.
	"Why don't you go check, Saotome?" 
	"She can take care of herself."
	"Mmm."
	"Mmm."
	"You do realize that, what with Ranma coming here, that Grandfather 
is probably going to contact us, don't you?" asked Soun neutrally.
	"Yes, I do," replied Genma, just as neutrally as his friend did.
	 "I feel like I could cry."
	"So do I."

			*			*			*

	"What's wrong, Yuri?" asked Akane once her hearing returned.
	"ARRRRGH!!" Yuri replied.
	"Will you stop that?"
	"ARRRRGH!!"
	"Shut UP, Ranma!" screamed Akane, taking out her mallet.
	"Ok, ok, I'm fine now.  Well, not really, but the urge to scream has 
stopped," Yuri huffed, trying to get some air into her lungs without 
hyperventilating.
	"What was that all about?" asked Akane, anger and curiosity mixing 
oddly in her tone.
	"Here, read this."  Yuri handed over the letter that upset her so, 
and waited inside her blanket.
	And Akane read the short terse letter, and frowned.

	To Saotome Ranma

	By the time that you receive this letter, I shall be arriving the 
next day to regain my family's honor and to see your family's name 
dishonored.  Be prepared, for I am.

	Yours truly, Yamazaki Ken

	"Oh my," said Akane, softly.
	"You said it.  Only tomorrow it's going to be mine," groaned Yuri in 
despair.

			*			*			*

	"I don't think that I can handle this," said Ranma, staring at his 
shot-glass.
	"Can't handle what?" asked the bartender, a cute blonde girl in her 
early twenties inside a tight dress shirt and pants.  And that girl was 
working in a rather nice bar, dimly light and clean.  No sounds could be 
heard but the sounds of a room full of men trying desperately to get 
very, very drunk.
	"My family," replied Ranma, still not taking a drink.
	"Well, families are hard to deal with," stated the bartender in that 
sage manner that all bartenders can.
	"Yeah, well . . . I think that I could handle my family if I knew 
them.  But . . . it's like I'm dealing with a bunch of strangers that 
really annoy me, and I can't . . . deal with them the way I want to," 
Ranma said, his voice droning and monotone.
	"And in what way do you want to deal with them?" she asked while 
cleaning a glass.
	"I don't know.  And that's another thing that annoys me."  Ranma 
sighed, and opened his mouth, pouring the drink down his throat with one 
quick gulp.  "Haaaa," he gasped.
	"Say, I should have asked this earlier, but are you legal?" asked 
the bartender, not particularly worried.
	"And if I said no?" 
	"Charge you more, I suppose," replied the bartender.
	"Ha!" barked Ranma.  His face then returned to the blank expression 
he had on before.  "I . . . found that . . . funny, for a bit.  I'm 
almost tempted to tip you."
	"Now that's funny.  So, what do you think you're going to do about 
them?" 
	"Give me another shot," ordered Ranma, ignoring the question.  He 
then downed it in exactly the same manner as the one before.
	"Another."  The bartender handed Ranma another shot.  
	"Another."  This went on for quite a while, the talking having 
stopped completely except for the constant repetition of 'another'.
	"Hey, maybe you should stop," said the bartender, concerned.
	"This is what I've decided to do," said Ranma drunkenly but in that 
same toneless manner.
	"And what's that?"
	"Pass out, and hope that it seems clearer in the morning."
	"Good plan," the bartender said sarcastically.
	"Say, you're a pretty lady.  How's about we go back to my room and 
do stuff?" 
	"No can do.  Say, feel like passing out yet?"
	"Right about now," said Ranma, just before he slumped on the 
counter, unconscious.
	And the dreams came back to haunt his drunken mind.

			*			*			*

	They walked together, the two old possible enemies.  
	"So . . . you still have a yen for that sheep buggering 
narcoleptic?" the man asked casually.
	"I really wish you would stop calling him that," muttered the woman, 
blushing slightly.  "He really hated that, especially when everyone else 
started doing it."
	"Well, do you?" asked the man again.
	"You are pushing it," warned the woman.
	"It's a gift.  And you haven't answered the question."
	"I don't see where any of that is your business," the woman said 
primly.
	"Still not answering," he said in a singsong.
	"I haven't given a straight answer to a question in over half a 
century, and I don't think that I should start now and with you."
	"Ah, it won't hurt your reputation any.  Just you, me, and the empty 
road."
	"Get that look out of your eye."
	"What look?" he asked much too innocently.
	"You know what look, you loon."
	"I am not a . . . Listen, are you going to answer the question or 
not?"
	"No."
	"Ok then."
	They ceased speaking for a moment.
	"So, will you accede to my request?" the woman asked of the man at 
last.
	"Contact my second and he'll help you," answered the man.
	"Very well."
	"We should do this more often," the man said, sounding quite fond.
	"You know we won't," she said.
	"Yeah.  That's too bad," he said.
	"Too much bad blood, as the clich� goes."
	"Yeah.  I . . . can't say that I'm sorry . . . but I wish that I 
was."
	"That is, by far, the oddest statement that you could have possibly 
have made."
	"Ah, screw it.  Hey, look at that," he said, pointing to the 
horizon.  "No matter how many times I see that, I don't think that I'll 
get used to it."
	"Please stop.  I don't think that I can handle anymore of your brand 
of drama."
	"Right, like that skirt isn't the slightest bit exhibitionistic."
	"Oh, go *((@__@))* yourself."
	"Such language."

			*			*			*

	"Oh, god," Yuri said, staring at the ceiling.  You're the best, 
remember that, she told herself.  You're the best, you beat him, you're 
better, better, better than anyone, everyone.  You can beat anyone.
	She sat up, got dressed, and had a flashback.
	It was quite short, objectively, but it was also quite long, 
subjectively; much like many other things.

	"A letter, huh?" said Yuri, taking it from Kasumi's hand.  He looked 
at it, and grinned slightly.  "It's probably another love letter from my 
adoring admirers.  And why shouldn't they love me?  After all, I am the 
greatest thing to hit this planet since sukiyaki."  He grinned his 
trademarked rakish grin, and shook his head, ruefully.  "It's a curse."
	"Do you think that the girls would 'love' this curse?" asked Akane 
acidly, splashing Yuri with a glass of water.
	Yuri coughed loudly, and when she cleared her throat, said in a 
wheezing voice, "Stop doing that!"
	"Not until you stop being such a complete idiot!"
	"Me an idiot?  Look who's talking, Miss Oblivious!"
	"Jerk!"
	"Tomboy!"
	"Idiot!"
	"Clumsy!"
	They continued to bicker for quite a while, frequently repeating the 
same insults over and over again, until finally it degenerated into a 
repetition of jerk and tomboy.  
	"Oh my stars and garters," muttered Nabiki, shaking her head in 
disgust.  She took the letter, forlorn and forgotten off from the ground 
and opened it.
	"What a surprise," she said dryly, after reading it.
	"Huh?" said Yuri, leaving Akane in the lurch.
	"I said, the contents of this letter is a surprise in a sarcastic 
manner," answered Nabiki, smiling slightly.
	"Oh."
	"What's in it?" asked Akane, glaring slightly at Yuri.
	"A letter.  Duh," Nabiki said, smiling a small smirk with a twinkle 
in her eye.  
	"Hey!"
	"Anyway, it's not a love letter, surprise, surprise."  Nabiki handed 
the letter to Yuri, who read it.  His eyes enlarged to ridiculous 
proportions, and his jaw dropped to his . . . well, it didn't drop to his 
knees, but the concept is most likely understood, correct?  His features 
then went in the opposite direction, with the eyes narrowed and the mouth 
a thin line.  A visible, angry aura started to manifest in the air around 
him.
	"What?  What?" asked Akane, looking from Yuri to Nabiki.
	"Damn him.  Damn him straight to the worst hell," hissed Yuri, 
almost too angry to talk.  Her hand clenched convulsively around the 
letter, crumpling it.  "I'LL KILL HIM!!"


			*			*			*

Contiuned in part 5b