Choices

Part Three:
Decision
by
Michael Noakes


Burning embers floated high on the night wind to flicker
briefly among the stars before flaring, fading, dying.  Their
dizzying dance twirled amongst the smoke and silence as they
drifted into the sky.  A cascade of sparks flared, the result of
an idle poke at the source, but the sudden intensity dulled
quickly and the fire returned to a slow, crackling simmer.
The young man beneath the tree leaned back and stared up at
the evening sky through a thick canopy of shifting branches
and leaves.
   Earlier that day the variety of sights and wilderness
colours had struck him with their vividness and acuteness.
Now all was shades of grey and black, the fire providing the
only colour with its flickering oranges and popping reds.
Beneath the softly flowing wind, even sounds were subdued:
the night was quiet, and calm, and Ranma Saotome felt at
ease.
   Aching muscles and sheer exhaustion urged rest, but
he resisted the lull of sleep so as to enjoy the moment, even if
but briefly.  It was his first night in far too long spent
outdoors, the firmament his ceiling, this bower of trees and
interlaced branches his chamber, a knotted root his pillow, the
earth his bed; cursing, he pulled a rock from the small of his
back and wished that nature included more creature comforts
-- he felt cold, and hungry, and uncomfortable, and began to
question what he was doing out in the middle of nowhere.
   I must be getting soft, Ranma thought.  This is just
what I need: a training voyage, to regain my edge.  Get strong
again.  Just like the old days, me and Pop wandering and
training.  But a glance to the side revealed a conspicuous
absence: no, not like the old days, amended the boy, this time
I'm alone.  Genma had to be left behind, of course: he
wouldn't have understood, and even if he had, would have
interfered.  Weird, he thought.  He's made my life hell, got
me engaged, got me cursed, made rivals of possible friends,
made of me a shame to my mother; he beat me and threw me
to the cats and never took it easy on me for one day out of
those ten years of training . . . and yet I think I miss the idiot.
Thing was, he's always been there.  Now I'm alone.
   Yet nevertheless at ease, since despite the weariness
the day's hike had worn into his bones, for the first time in far
too long -- for perhaps the first time, period -- no one was
imposing demands upon him, no death threats, no wedding
threats.  For the first time he could remember, he felt free.
   The opportunity would be put to good use, too, he
decided.  Without his father to cook up bizarre and
potentially dangerous -- but, Ranma had to admit, ultimately
very creative and efficient -- techniques, it was up to himself
to design his training agenda for the next week.  He had
brought a minimum of supplies: everything he ate, drank,
slept on or under, would come from his own efforts: hard,
straightforward work, he figured, as much as he disliked
unnecessary labour, would establish a strong foundation for
further practice.  Then perhaps some perfection of his
technique.  Some speed training.  Physical conditioning.
Maybe some deep meditation, if not for his chi techniques,
then at least to move beyond the events of the last few days.
He closed his eyes, soothed by the scents carried on the
breeze, settling deeper into the ground, his mind passing back
over the terrain he had covered, picking out likely training
spots, forming a tentative regime for the week.  And at the
end of those seven days. . . .
   It would be time to return ho- to the Tendos.  He had
promised: would he remain beholden to his word?  He had
seven days to decide.  This morning, he would have denied
ever going back, but by the afternoon his resolve had
wavered.  And now?
   Ranma slept.


Decisions once made impart passion and clarity of mind, but
such singularity of purpose endures but briefly; and so it was
that, as Ranma Saotome walked home that afternoon, the first
stirring of doubt assailed him.  The open stares and gawking
of the pedestrians at the pigtailed boy that passed them by
wearing a school skirt and blouse disturbed him not -- he was
inured to mockery, for the opinion of such as them currently
meant nothing to him -- but the reality of what he intended to
do intruded upon his detached calm.
   To leave the Tendos was one thing, but where would
he go?  As he passed along the Nerima canal he ran options
through his mind.  Ukyou, the Amazons: not likely; leaving
one fiancee's house for another would simply compound his
problems.  The Kunos?  The thought of fleecing Tatewaki
and Kodachi for a few weeks brought a smirk to his lips, but
he doubted he could do so without losing his mind.  Maybe
his mother's house?  As a last resort, perhaps, but the idea of
spending a week or two as a female -- and putting up with her
efforts to redeem 'Ranko's' femininity -- was almost as
unappealing as living with the Kunos.
   He wondered what normal kids did when they ran
away from home, whether they had plans or goals or a clearer
idea of what they were doing -- then frowned at the
implication.  I'm not 'running away,' he told himself.  I'm
moving on.
   Not knowing where he was moving to did not subdue
the memory of where he was coming from, or of what he was
leaving behind.  Furinkan High School.  The guys, false and
perverse, one night calling him friend, the next day insulting
and mocking him; the girls, shallow and cruel, believing lies,
perpetuating worse exaggerations.  So what.  I was an idiot,
Ranma told himself, to try and fit in with those jerks.  Who
needs people like that?  My enemies make better friends than
those people at school.  At least with Ryoga and Mousse, I
know where they're coming from: they're rivals, and sneaky,
and liars and cheats and. . . .  For a moment he forgot exactly
_why_ they were better than the people at school.  Oh yeah:
because at least they were _honest_ rivals: they never hid the
fact that they'd take any opportunity to kick his ass (Ranma
sneered at the idea) and steal both fiancee and cure from him
given the opportunity.  Yet despite this -- perhaps because of
this -- they made the best of allies when the going got really
tough.  He'd never turn to those idiots back at Furinkan for
help.  For anything.  He'd never go back to that school.
   He kicked a wayward pop can lying on the street and
watched it bounce, clattering, down the pavement.  How did
it happen, he wondered, why did they turn on me like that?
That some people would insult him came as no surprise:
Sayuri, for instance, had obviously disliked him from the day
he arrived in Nerima, for reasons he simply could not fathom.
But why Yuka, when they had got along so well the night of
the party?  And then Hiroshi: the guy had professed to be a
good friend, had listened and offered advice, had 'bonded,' as
he put it -- and then went and spread secrets given in
confidence, and allowed lies to propagate by keeping silent,
when he damn well knew those stories going around were
untrue!  If that was the kind of friends one made in high
school, then screw it, Ranma told himself.  At least when
Ryoga pounds me in the head, I know he's being genuine
about it.
   And then, with little awareness of either time or
distance having passed, Ranma stood before the Tendo
residence, and his previous concerns became inconsequential.
Having arrived, he now had to decide whether he was to stay;
to his surprise, he found very little remorse over the idea of
leaving this place forever.  After all, what was there to keep
him here?  Not Akane, certainly, for whatever feelings he had
for her were obviously never to be reciprocated; though it
galled him to admit defeat in any battle, he knew this one was
hopeless.  The other sisters?  Nabiki he would gladly bid
good riddance to; Kasumi would be missed, and Ranma
wished there was some way to thank her before leaving.  As
for Soun and his father -- well, he'd find some way to make it
up to them, although considering the trouble they'd caused
him in the last year, it wouldn't take long to pay up _that_
bill.  The dishonor of leaving his marriage promises
unfulfilled bothered him, but why should the onus always fall
on _him_, he decided.  Akane was the one who broke our
fathers' oath this time, let her deal with the consequences for
once!  'Cus by the time our parents figure out what's going
on, I don't plan on being here no more.
   With a dismissive shrug, he stepped into the house.
   He ignored the two fathers playing shogi, offered a
greeting in passing to Kasumi, and headed straight to his
room.  Only it wasn't his room anymore, of course; looking
around, he realized it had _never_ been his room.  Where
were the dozen little touches that marked a place as belonging
to someone, the character identifiers and knick-knacks of
personality that said, 'Ranma Saotome lives here'?  Aside for
the few outfits he had hanging in the closet (into one of which
he quickly changed, tossing the Furinkan schoolgirl uniform
aside), the camping gear stored beneath it, the few personal
items shut away in the dresser, there was little to nothing.
One had to own stuff to display it, and everything he had ever
left out had either been repossessed by Nabiki (if valuable),
inadvertently thrown out by Kasumi (if ugly or clashing with
the room's original decor), or broken by Akane (or by any
number of suitors or rivals).  Even necessary items, such as
school books and training equipment, were either kept out of
sight or in the dojo.  For the first time it occurred to him that,
whether consciously or not, the Tendos had made every effort
to minimize his impact upon his own room.  He wondered if
the effect extended throughout the entire house.  Of course,
erasing his presence wasn't possible, the sheer property
damage he had either directly or indirectly caused to the
household ensuring that.  But once the fresh paint faded, the
holes were patched, the scars healed -- once the only visible
signs that a Ranma Saotome had ever spent a year-and-a-half
within these Tendo walls were gone, would he be forgotten?
   Then he thought, did I bring anything to this
household other than violence?
   What about to the school?
   He looked around the mostly empty room.  Listened
to the sounds of the house: Kasumi, softly singing to herself
as she passed by; the clink of mugs raised in cheer; the
banging of a door.   Zephyrous whispering of wind slipping in
through an open window, coiling across the room, extending,
breathing down the hallway, up stairs, touching on closed
doors -- three sisters, clapping of a wooden duck -- and now
down, stirring hanging beads and the aromas of the oft-visited
kitchen, then through a family room that never was, and
finally. . . .
   Out the back, free once again.
   A lifetime of short stays and hasty departures made
him a quick packer.  It took mere seconds for his dusty and
worn pack to be retrieved from the closet and laid out upon
the floor.  It had not even been disassembled, Genma having
taught him the value of foresight and preparation when it
came to unexpected travel.  Meager possessions were quickly
sorted through, absolute essentials chosen and trivialities
tossed to the garbage -- he wouldn't be returning for them, so
why bother putting them away?  Into the pack he shoved his
gi, intact but so worn and used it had begun to turn grey; it
was followed by an extra set of black pants and red shirt, his
last pair considering what Nabiki had done to his clothes at
school.  Some underwear and socks, stored in a plastic bag,
completed his traveling wardrobe.  The surprisingly
numerous dresses, gowns, skirts and blouses he had somehow
accumulated over time he fastidiously ignored, and the
feminine underthings obviously remained behind.
   As he continued filling his packsack, he considered
possibilities: should he travel Japan, in search of martial
instructors?  Or better yet, China?  If required, he could find
work to finance the trip -- though if push came to shove,
simply swimming the distance was possible.  Not pleasant by
any means, but he had done it before, and if necessary, would
do so again.  His eyes widened: how could he have not
thought of it earlier: what else was there to do once in China
but return to Jusenkyo?  Too long the search for a cure had
been put aside by his responsibilities here in Nerima; now
that every last connection to this house and little city had been
absolved, he could finally be rid of his cursed girl-side.
   He secured the final tie on his backpack.  Good.  He
hefted it and found it light enough for easy travel.  One last
thing to check.  In the bottom drawer of the dresser -- the
drawer assigned to him, his father having claimed the ones
above -- was stored his small collection of racier female
clothing, lingerie, and embarrassing accessories.  Digging
quickly through the odd accumulation of articles -- an iron
corset, a worn yet intact skimpy bunny outfit, his tattered but
neatly folded tea-ceremony wedding kimono -- he pulled out
a nondescript shoebox stashed at the very back.  His intention
was to sift through it quickly, yet each item he touched upon
forced recollection.  A few strands of long, black hair, tied
with a shred of yellow ribbon: an early encounter with a rival,
a fiancee held close, a bad cut.  Ragged piece of cloth: ice and
skating and an unwanted kiss, makeshift bandage,
unexpected kindness and ministrations.  Yellow scarf that
closer resembled a fishing net.  Iridescent-green dragon-like
scale.  Picture of curiously cat-like Ranma rubbing nose
against a surprised Akane's cheek.
   Junk, all of it.
   Carefully closing the box, he tenderly returned it to its
position, replaced the oddities that concealed it, softly closed
the drawer, grabbed his bag and hoisted it over his shoulders
and turned to leave; and then the door to his room slid open
quietly on its railing and Akane was standing there on the
threshold with eyes widening with sudden realization, and
Ranma knew he had wasted far too much time on pointless
reminiscence.  In that first moment, eyes locking and full
awareness of what Ranma intended dawning upon Akane --
he could tell, he could see it in her face, he knew her at least
that well after a year -- he considered simply running away,
jumping out the window and making his escape.
   No.  No more running.  If he had learnt anything this
afternoon at school, it was that you could never turn your
back on these people.  I'm leaving here by choice, not like
some thief at night, he told himself.  I'm leaving by choice
and moving on.  Akane stepped into the room, closed the door
behind her, and slowly looked around.  He watched her take
in the details: the open closet, the missing clothes, discarded
items on the floor, the pack on his back.  Dumb as a stump
when it came to P-Chan, he thought, but observant enough
when she has to be.
   "You're leaving," she said, eyes still sliding across
the room.
   It wasn't really a question.
   "When are you coming back?"
   So maybe she didn't get it after all.  He didn't answer.
   Hazel eyes sharply fixed cerulean.  "You're not, are
you?"
   He shrugged and moved towards the door.  Akane
blocked the exit.
   "Outta my way, Akane."
   "Or what, you'll hit me?"
   Ranma snorted.
   "Nice show you put on back at school."
    "Wasn't a show."  He stared at her for a moment
and, realizing she wasn't about to move, turned away.
   "So what if someone had got in your way?  What
would you have done?"
   "Dunno."  Answering over his shoulder, he pulled the
curtains aside from the window.  "Hit 'em, I guess.  Prob'ly
regret it after, but, hey, didn't happen, so no worries, right?
After all, nobody tried to stop me from leaving, did they?
Not the teachers, not the guys -- not even you, Akane."  He
glanced back at her but found her now standing next to him,
pressing down hard on the window frame.
   "They were scared, Ranma.  _I_ was scared."
   "D'ya really think I'd ever hurt you, Akane?"
   "You did two nights ago."
   "No, I didn't."  He yanked the window open,
overcoming her initial resistance to his effort.  He took a deep
breath of air, then hoisted himself up into a sitting position on
the sill.  He faced her.  "What I did, Akane, was give ya what
you've always wanted: I took you seriously for once.  Isn't
that what you're always goin' on about, how tough you are,
you're a martial artist too, you can take it?"
   "That's diff-."
   He cut her off with a glare.  "No it's not, and now you
know why I never did.  One move -- shit,  I didn't even apply
pressure! -- and now you're whinin' and everybody's callin'
me a jerk and an abuser an' worse.  I try an' tell 'em
otherwise, but no one ever listens.  Well I've said I'm sorry
already.  I've said it so often I'm sick of it.  I'm not gonna say
it again."
   Akane visibly restrained her anger, and instead
offered up an unusually subdued posture, eyes downcast to
the floor.  When she finally spoke, her voice seemed quiet and
nearly timorous.  "I didn't say any of that stuff about you,
Ranma."
   "Yeah, maybe not."  He shrugged.  "But you sure as
hell didn't speak up at school."
   "Do you think it would've made a difference?"
   "Probably not.  Not with those jerks.  Woulda meant
somethin' to me, though.  I was kicking myself, thinkin' I'd
hurt you.  Not goin' to do that anymore, tho, 'cus I know I
didn't."
   "But you did."
   "Yeah.  Whatever."  He began to turn away, feet
raised to clear the window.  "I'm outta-."
   "You did hurt me, you jerk!"  Now Akane looked up,
and her eyes were anything but tame.  The front of Ranma's
Chinese shirt twisted in her grasp as she grabbed him and
hauled him off the window sill.  "You did, and it's got
nothing to do with your stupid technique!  Here, take my
wrist -- go ahead, take it!  Twist my wrist.  Do it.  You think
that's what this is all about?"
   He pulled his hand free of her grip.  "I don't got time
for this."
   "Yeah, I'm sure running away has a tight deadline."
   "I'm not running away!"
   "Sure looks like it."
   "I'm moving on."
   "Mo. . . is that what you call it?  What, you milked us
for all you could, and now it's time to live off another
fiancee?  Hell, Ranma, why only a year, I'm sure you
could've strung us along for at _least_ another six months!"
   "It's not like that!"
   "Then why?"
   "Shit, Akane, isn't it obvious?  I know where I'm not
wanted."
   "Who are you to judge that?"
   "You want me to stay, then?"
   Silence.
   "Right.  I'm gone."  Again he headed for the door;
again, Akane moved to intercept.  With a sigh he threw his
pack to the floor and sat on it.  "Listen, I'm gettin' really tired
of this.  If ya got somethin' to say, say it.  If you don't want
me to stay, then get the hell outta my way."
   She settled into a kneeling position across from him,
her back to the sliding door.  A deep breath, eyes briefly
closed as if to signal a collecting of thoughts, and then she
spoke: "I don't want you here.  I can't stand seeing you right
now.  Seeing you almost makes me feel sick.  But I don't
want you to leave.  Not now, not yet, not like this."
   "Heh.  And they call _me_ the indecisive one."
   "This isn't a joke!"
   "Oh, it's a joke all right, it's always been one; only
now, I'm just getting the punch-line.  Think about it, Akane:
a macho-jock jerk guy who turns into a _girl_, ain't that the
funniest thing you've ever heard?  But there's more, 'cus this
guy, see, he's got these three girls engaged  to him, and. . . ."
   "Ranma."
   "Then there's the guys who love his girl-side, and the
guys who hate his guy side, and the guys who want him to
stay a girl, and the guys who just want his fiancees."
   "Ranma!"
   "But it's all his fault, of course.  Then one day, he
thought he'd try and change, you know, make some friends --
but damned if anyone was gonna let _that_ happen.  And the
punchline, if you didn't get it, is: _that's me_, and my life's a
joke."  Teeth flashed through his thin-lipped laugh, the
gesture bereft of any sense of merriment, and Akane winced
at the sound  "Why aren't you laughin', Akane?  Everyone
else does."
   "Stop it!"
   "Why should I?"
   "What's wrong with you, why are you acting like
this?  This isn't you, Ranma!"
   "So you've got me figured out too, huh, just like
everyone else.  So what am I, then?  Am I the perverted
macho jerk everybody says?"
   "You're-."
   He leaned forward, cutting her off with an
exaggerated hiss.  "It's true!  I _am_ a macho jerk."  Sitting
back again, he shrugged.  "But that's okay, 'cus it ain't my
fault, it's theirs.  I figured that out today, standin' out there
on the baseball field, all those girls makin' fun of me and
making it quite clear what they thought of me -- thanks, by
the way, for standing up for me, I _really_ appreciated that --
and getting me kicked off the team.
   "See, for the longest time, I couldn't figure out why
people kept sayin' all that crap about me behind my back.
For a year it bugged me and worried me, the insults and
gossip and stuff.  What was I doing wrong?  Don't look at me
like that, Akane -- I'm not talking about the obvious, here:
the fightin' and fiancees and curse.  'Cus even when things
were normal they'd make fun of me.  You know what I'm
saying, you've heard enough of it, heck, Sayuri and her
friends are probably the main source of half that shit."
   She didn't say anything, her slight wince answer
enough in itself.
   "For a year, Akane, a _year_!  When I wasn't
fighting or training or dealing with somethin' weird, it'd eat
away at me, worryin' about what was wrong with me.  But it
ain't me, it ain't never been me; or maybe I oughta say, it's
always been me, but those jerks tried to make something
outta me that I'm not.  You know why?  Fear."  He chuckled
dryly.  "Who would've guessed -- that bastard Uehara was
right."
   "After today, you wonder why they were afraid of
you?" Akane said.  "You vindicated every worry they may
have had."
   "They erased every doubt I had about them, saying
the crap they did about me!"
   "That was a surprise, after getting drunk and acting
like an idiot at the party?"
   "I wouldn't have _been_ drunk if you hadn't started
that fight!"
   "Me -- I started the fight?  You're the one who-."
   "If you'd bother. . . ," he began, then scowled.  His
blood was pounding, voice steadily raising, face flushed with
the intensity of the argument, and the whole scenario sickened
him.  "No.  I won't play this game, Akane, I'm not gonna
argue with you.  Hell, I wanted to be gone before you even
got back from school."  He stood up, shouldered his pack
once again.  "Doesn't matter, I suppose.  Just ask yourself
this: sure, maybe I acted like an idiot at the party, made a fool
of myself -- but did I deserve the bullshit I got today?"
   "You-."
   "Careful, Akane.  Did you listen to the rumors, heard
what they said?  Some were sayin' I like to beat up girls, that
I get some kinda sicko thrill outta it.  Some said I was
buddies with Uehara, that I set the whole thing up.  Hell,
some guys were sayin' I was just actin' drunk, using it as an
excuse to screw around with guys and stuff."  His jaw
tightened, thick cords of his neck standing out.  "So tell me,
Akane, did I deserve those kinda lies following me around at
school?  Did I deserve to be kicked off the sport teams?  Did I
deserve to have every one I know at that whole fucking
school turn on me like that?"
   A long silence in which she matched his angry, cold
eyes with an enigmatic gaze of her own, before answering.
"No," she half-whispered.  "No."
   "Damn straight," he said, stepping past her, yanking
the door open.
   "Do you want to know why I didn't say anything?"
   He hesitated, held by her query, one foot past the
threshold; held his position but refused to look back.
   "Because I enjoyed seeing your hurt," she said,
quickly, almost desperately, it seemed.  "Because I wanted
you to feel what _I_ felt that night at the party!  I wanted you
to hurt the way I did -- the way I still do!"
   Ranma slowly turned and reentered the room, silently
sliding the door shut behind him.  "You what," he asked,
very, very softly.
   Akane looked up at him from her position on the
floor.  "All day, people have been asking me what happened,
did we fight, were we really broken up, and why.  I never
answered them, at least, not directly.  I knew that they would
take my silence whatever way they wanted, and probably in
the worst way possible -- and I didn't really care.  I didn't
expect things to get so out of hand . . . but probably would
have acted the same if I had."
   "Akane, you . . . how could you?"
   He despised how weak his own voice sounded, but a
palpable sense of betrayal arose at her words and undercut his
previous authority and righteous anger, leaving him feeling
off-balance and momentarily vulnerable.  The pain, he
realized, had been a burgeoning presence within him all
morning: her refusal to come to his aid earlier this day had
left the seeds of uncertainty within, but her current direct
admission staggered him -- how could she be so cruel?
   "I could ask the same question of you," she answered.
   Shaking his head in disbelief, he once again sank into
a sitting position across from her.  "Me - Me?  Do you have
_any_ idea what I went through today?"
   "Yeah, Ranma, believe it or not, I think I've got a
pretty good idea."
   That she thought she could empathize with the myriad
emotions he had undergone this day provoked outrage, even
as he tried to accept that she could so callously seek to hurt
him. "You -- you don't got no idea, Akane!  What I felt -,"
trust, friendships betrayed; anger, humiliation, pain
compounded by confusion; the constant growing stifling
greyness that demanded release but with relief ultimately
denied, "how could you _possibly_ know?"
   "You really don't get it, do you?"
   "Get?  What is there to-."
   "Who the hell do you think you are, Ranma?   Is this
your world, huh, you think Nerima revolves around you?
You corner the market on feeling like shit?  Well, guess what,
Ranma, big news flash: you're not the only one who's been
hurt here!"
   "No way!  Not like this, I've put up with a hell of a
lot more than -- than you, or Nabiki, or anyone else at that
damn school! -- has ever had to deal with."  And then,
because he refused to keep it in, "And I _never_ go out of my
way to hurt others and spread lies like that about 'em!"
   The look of disbelief that overcame Akane would
have almost been comical in any other situation.  Here and
now it simply furthered his annoyance.  She recovered
quickly.  "Never?  Never!  Ranma, you _always_ go out of
your way to hurt others.  If you're not insulting your dad,
you're picking on poor Ryoga -- don't interrupt me, dammit!
-- or beating up Mousse, or insulting my cooking, or the way
I dress, or the way I look, act, talk, or. . . everything!  First I
work out too much, I'm a tomboy, but then I'm too weak, a
terrible martial artist.  Sure, Ranma, you never insult
_anybody_."
   "But-."
   "Let me guess, you're joking," she said.  "Guess
what, Ranma, once is a joke: after a couple dozen times, it's
insulting."
   "Yeah?"
   "Yes."
   "Then I guess you must've really meant it all those
times you called me a jerk and a pervert, huh?"
   If she felt any guilt whatsoever, she hid it well; then
again, he was doing a fair job of that himself.
   "Whatever, Ranma.  I could say that every time I
called you those things, you deserved it, but I know you will
just turn it around and say the same thing to me.  So what's
the point?"
   "Yeah."
   Silence.
   "You know, Akane, if you're trying to convince me
to stay, you're doing a pretty lousy job of it."
   Akane sighed.  "I don't know.  Maybe you shouldn't
stay.  Maybe you're right, you need time away.  But not
permanently, not forever, not like this, not for something as
stupid as today."
   "Why should I come back?  What would be the
point?"  Then, fixing her with a piercing gaze, "Why would
you even want me to come back?"
   "Why do you think?"
   "Frankly, Akane, I haven't got a clue, I never have.
Way I have it figured, you don't like me and never have, and
with good reason: I'm an unwanted perverted sex-changing
freak of a fiance who bullies your friends and fools around
behind your back, and who's brought nothing but chaos and
violence in your life. . . why on earth would you want
somebody like that around?"
   "Is that how you think I feel about you?"
   "Pretty much."
   A certain wonderment tinged her voice.  "And yet you
stayed?  Why?"
   "I dunno.  Family honor and obligation?  Maybe I
thought I liked it here in Nerima?  Mostly 'cus I didn't want
to admit to myself that that's how you felt."  He shrugged.
"Now I know that's all bullshit.  My honor is my own, not
my father's, nor Tendo's; Nerima has nothing for me; and as
for you, Akane, I think you've made it abundantly clear what
you think of me.
   "You. . . hate me, and I'm sorry, so very sorry, I've
made your life what must have been a living hell for the past
eighteen months.  Well, hopefully when I leave, all the crap
that came with me will leave too.  I'll have to come back to
Nerima at some point, I suppose -- I've got stuff to settle with
my mom, and Ryoga, and with Ukyou and Shampoo and the
Old Ghoul, but I'll make sure to leave the Tendos out of it."
   "And so now, you just leave?"
   "Yup."
   "No."
   "Dammit, Akane!  Why the hell won't you let me
go?"
   "Because things aren't that simple, you can't run
away from this, because I. . . don't hate you, Ranma, I never
have.  Right now, I don't like you -- but that's not the same
thing as hate."  She rose from her sitting position and slowly
approached him.  Her features softened, recalling an incident
from not long ago: at the party, soon before she left,
exchanging easy banter and a relaxed shared moment.  A
smile, something so rarely received, it seemed, but all the
more precious for it -- would he ever be privy to that aspect of
her again?
   She took his hand in hers as he stood there
momentarily at a loss.  "Ranma, we've lived together and
been fiances now for a year-and-a-half.  Maybe that's all over
now, and I doubt we can ever go back to the way things were
before -- but do you want to end what's between us, whatever
that may be, like this, in anger?"
   "Akane. . . ."
   "You're right, of course, you need time away.  To
cool off.  But you have to promise me, Ranma, that you'll
come back.  In a week's time.  By Sunday, say."
   "But-."
   "If you come back, and still want to leave, I promise I
won't stop you.  Think about it, about what you're leaving
behind.  About what happened.  Maybe you'll even
understand why I'm hurting too."
   "I don't think I'll ever understand you, Akane."
   Did that secret smile flicker across her lips?
"Probably not, Ranma."
   "I have to go now."
   "Do you promise to come back?"


Ranma Saotome awoke to the scent of wild sage wafting on
the summer air and the early morning light shimmering
through the canopy of leaves, with the echoes of a promise
offered fading from his mind.  The anger of yesterday -- was
it only twenty-four hours ago that everything had gone so
wrong? -- had largely dulled, but the possible ramifications of
his actions were just beginning to emerge.  Could he return to
the Tendos' after leaving; could he return to Furinkan after
lashing out; would either of them accept him back?  The
temptation to simply never find out, never return, was very
real, yet the promise Akane had extracted from him (so
easily, it seemed, why had he capitulated so quickly to her
request?) seemed to exclude that possibility.  The full
implications of yesterday's conversation with her were yet
beyond him: how had he hurt her, and if so badly, why did
she want him to return; and why the unexpected tenderness at
the end?
   As he rose from his makeshift bed, he cast such
thoughts from his mind.  Now was the time to train, and to eat
as well, he realized, his stomach grumbling loudly.
Stretching to work the night's knots out from his back, he
walked deeper into the forest, martial patterns and training
techniques filling his thoughts.  All other concerns he could
address later -- in a week's time.

******

The mental shade of the night's dream (resplendent with
intimations of red, pungent scents, hurt mewling) faded
rapidly, giving way to the now-familiar worry tightening her
stomach as Akane Tendo awoke.  This time, however, that
concern was quickly supplanted by a sense of relaxation not
known for several months.  Despite the risk to her morning
schedule, and repeated calls by her eldest sister to wake up,
Akane remained buried snugly beneath the bed sheets,
basking in the suffusive peace that warmed her body.  The
faintest of smiles played across her lips.  At last.
   Eventually necessity drove her to full wakefulness,
and she grudgingly swung her legs out of bed.  A luxurious
stretch and full yawn, then she threw the curtains wide and
allowed the sunlight to beam in, setting her room aglow in
amber softness.  As she traded pyjamas for her school
uniform, her mind wandered forward over the day's
activities: breakfast, school -- one test, in English, but nothing
to worry about -- and then drama club after classes.
Following that. . . she was free, free to do whatever she liked,
maybe visit a kissaten with a friend, take in a movie, or
simply walk the length of a shopping arcade and take in the
sights.  It was with a smile that she made final adjustments to
her uniform, picked up her bookbag, and strolled downstairs.
   A still-sleepy Nabiki was the first to confront her, still
blinking blearily through half-closed eyes.  "Gee, aren't we
happy this morning," she said, sounding grumpy in the face
of such cheerfulness.
   "Why shouldn't I be?  It's a beautiful day."
   "Guess you haven't heard."
   Akane's smile took on a strained aspect.  "What?"
   "Seems that our houseguest took off yesterday, after
his little display at school."
   Akane took some pleasure in watching the slightly-
malicious smirk on her sister's lips disappear as her own
smile returned in full strength.  "Oh, that -- I already knew."
   "You-."
   "I had a big talk with Ranma yesterday, told him he
should take some time away, go on a training trip or
something."  Akane brushed by her older sister.  "He'll be
back in exactly one week."
   "One week?"
   "Yup.  I made him promise."
   Akane moved on toward the kitchen, exulting in her
victory: even her cynical sister had not been able to ruin the
giddiness that still filled her.
   "Yeah, after last weekend, we know how much that's
worth," muttered Nabiki as she mounted the stairs, her words
just loud enough to be overheard.  "He's probably just trying
to skip out on our deal, the cheat."
   A less buoyant Akane determinedly entered the dining
room, where she was immediately accosted by the
household's two adults -- or, to be more accurate, the two
eldest men on the premises -- or more accurate yet, one man
and a panda.
   "Oh, my poor daughter," wailed her father, "your
fiance has disappeared!"
   Where is that ungrateful son of mine?, asked the
panda in sign language.
   "What will become of the dojo?"
   Lazy brat, skipping out on practice!
   "You must find him, Akane!"
   He stole my backpack!
   "He might be in trouble!"
   Made a mess of my room, too.
   "Saotome?"
   Tendo?
   "Why are you still a panda?  Your wife left yesterday
morning."
   !, exclaimed the sign, before being tossed aside as the
bear lumbered upstairs.
   Gritting her teeth, Akane pointedly ignored the pair
and sat at the table, at which point Kasumi emerged from the
kitchen carrying breakfast.
   "Good morning!" said the eldest sister, offering a
smile that immediately helped to restore Akane's spirits.
   "Morning, Kasumi!  Mmmm, smells delicious, what
is it?"
   "Well, I thought Ranma might be feeling a little
depressed after his mother's visit, so I cooked his favorite -- a
bacon omelette, thin and light and made with duck's eggs,
just the way he likes it -- but it would seem that he is not here
this morning."  The smallest of frowns creased her brow.
She's probably upset that her little gift can't be properly
received, Akane thought.  Especially since I don't like pork --
the only reason that jerk likes this stupid breakfast is because
he knows I don't, he just likes to taunt P-Chan with it.  The
grip on her chopsticks whitened her knuckles.
   "Mrs. Saotome's visit must have been harder on him
than usual," continued her sister.
   "Hmmm, yes, he did remain 'Ranko' for quite some
time," added her father.
   "Although he plays the part very well."
   "Yes.  Slightly worrisome, that."
   "Too bad there really isn't a Ranko.  Wouldn't that
be fun?  Maybe we should make a copy of Ranma!"
   "Ha ha ha!  Very original, Kasumi!"
   "Do you know where he is, Akane?"
   "Yes, daughter, did he mention anything before
leaving?"
   She slowly counted to five before answering.  "He's
gone on a training trip," she said, making of each statement a
declaration.  "He'll be back in a week.  He promised."  None
too delicately, she returned her plate, food hardly sampled,
back to the table.  "I have to go.  I don't want to be late for
school."
   Without another word, she left the house.


"Hey, Akane!  Sis, wait up!"
   Akane stopped in her determinedly meandering walk
to allow Nabiki to catch up.  There really was no need to
hurry, of course, since she had left home so early.  Instead she
had stopped at every distraction she could justify, wishing
good-morning to passing junior-graders, and even pausing to
talk to the old woman who washed the sidewalk every
morning.  Her name was Himiko, Akane had discovered, and
had enquired about the whereabouts of the nice young man  --
or was that young girl? -- that always walked with her.  She
wanted to apologize for accidentally splashing him --  or was
that her? -- so often. The youngest Tendo's mood was
steadily diminishing.
   "You sure took off in a hurry this morning," said
Nabiki, pausing between words to reclaim her breath.
   "Yeah, I guess."
   "You forgot your stuff."
   "Damn!"
   "Here, I brought it."
   "Oh, thanks."  She accepted the offered school bag
and resumed walking, falling in next to her sister.
   "Gee, don't act _too_ grateful, now."
   "How much?"
   "Aw, forget it, it's a freebie.  Just this once."
   "Really?"
   "Yup."
   "I don't suppose you brought lunch, too?"
   "Nope."
   "Guess I'll have to buy it at school."
   "Some things never change, eh?"
   "Excuse me?"
   "C'mon sis, you were always forgetting stuff back in
junior high, and either Kasumi or I had to chase after you
with it.  Your books, your bag. . . your uniform!"
   "Hey, it wasn't my fault if I was late because of dad's
kempo lessons. . . you know, I kinda wish Furinkan served
lunches the way junior high did, at least then I didn't have to
worry about forgetting it."
   "I don't.  School lunches suck, and I didn't trust other
kids handling my food.  If I remember, you weren't even
allowed to serve. . . something always happened between
them preparing the food, and you scooping it out.  How many
kids were sick that one time?"
   "Hey!"  Akane gave her sister a mock shove, frown
undermined by the twitching of her mouth.  "Like you said,
the food tasted terrible, I just wanted to liven it up a little."
   "Ha!"
   "Beside, it got me out of lunch duty.  If I remember,
you were even jealous."
   "Only 'cus you stole the idea from me!"
   Laughing, and relaxing into simple chatter, the two
sisters continued on their way to school.  Akane felt her
earlier mood returning, and had to admit surprise that Nabiki
would be the source of her happiness.  But then again, why
not?  Her sister, despite the many rumors to the contrary,
wasn't entirely the money-hungry heartless manipulative
extortionist many made her out to be.  Certainly, she was a
little of all those at times, and sometimes she could be
downright mean -- but she was also her sister, and they had
shared many a close moment, often on this very path.
   "When was the last time we walked to school
together, Akane?"
   "I was just wondering the same thing."
   "We used to do this every day."
   "Yeah."
   "We used to talk about everything and anything."
   "I kinda miss that."
   "Won't happen again very often.  Another month, and
I'm done with this place."
   Akane stopped in her tracks.  "You -- that's right,
entrance exams are coming up.  I don't know how, but it
never really occurred to me. . . you're graduating!"
   "Yeah, imagine that."
   "How could I have. . . ?"
   "It's been a busy year for you.  No big deal."
   "Are you ready?  Worried?"
   "Honestly?  Absolutely terrified."
   "Really?"
   "Yeah.  Of falling asleep during the test.  This stuff's
a breeze.  I could've passed those exams at the _beginning_
of this grade, let alone now.  This last year of school
would've been dreadfully boring without Ranma to spice it
up a. . . oopsie, wrong thing to say, huh?"
   "No, it's nothing," answered Akane through her
grimace.  "Please, go on."
   "Akane, my dear sister, you are many things, but a
master of subtlety you are not.  It's Ranma, right?"
   "It's. . . yes, it _is_ him, dammit!  Can't I go for more
than five minutes without hearing his stupid name?  He's not
even here!  He's all anyone ever talks about!"
   Nabiki nodded, then checked her watch.  "Listen, sis,
thanks to your storming off this morning, we're still way
early.  I heard Kasumi worrying about you -- you skipped
breakfast, right?  Let's stop at the Mister Donut, it's on me.  I
think we need to have a talk, sister to sister."


The sigh she released was fatalistic at best, and the gaze that
peered into the inky depths of her coffee was utterly
despondent.  To be expected to attend school while in the
midst of such sorrow, thought Hiromi, how could her parents
be so unreasonable?  Didn't her mother realize that, just last
night, she and Kokichi had broken up. . . again?  She felt like
dying, the pain so real, the heartbreak so palpable, and it was
with another deep sigh that she wiped an errant tear from her
eye.  Her coffee offered no advice, her doughnut little solace,
and she wondered how anyone could expect her to survive
this day, bereft and oh so alone, as she now was.
   Of course, going to school today held a certain
attraction, if only to see the fallout from yesterday's Ranma
debacle.  No one had expected him to freak out like that, and
it  reinforced her belief that the guy was both weird and
dangerous.  She wondered if Kokichi would've done the
honorable thing, would have stepped forward in her defense
had the martial artist turned on her, and sacrificed himself so
that she might escape unharmed.  Such heroism, so romantic
and brave -- the stupid wimp would never do that.  The
bruises from his last encounter with Ranma were still fresh on
his neck, after all.
   "Welcome!" chimed the Mr. Donut girl behind the
counter.
   "Yeah.  One coffee, and a -- what do you want,
Akane? -- and a hot cocoa, and two honey glazed.  Hey, don't
worry, sis, I'll cover it, just don't expect me to make a habit
of it."
   "Thanks."
   Hiromi broke out of her melancholic musings as the
two Tendo sisters slid into the booth behind her.  Interesting.
Everyone had been wondering, yesterday after school, where
Ranma had gone and if Akane had followed him, and the
speculations about what  happened ranged from the two
enjoying a simple conversation, to the two making up and
consummating their love in a frenzied coupling of amorous
affection.  Daisuke had offered his usual 'evil-prince-and-
kidnaping' theory, but no one took that seriously anymore.
Here was a chance for the inside scoop.  She put aside her
cooling coffee, hunkered down in the seat, and cast an
attentive ear toward the conversation.
   "So.  Ranma," started Nabiki.
   "Yeah."  Akane's reply was only a step above a
growl.
   "A little bitter, are we?"
   "No.  Well, a little.  Yes."
   "He really pissed you off at the party, didn't he?
Normally you get over his crap quicker than this."
   "That's just it!" exclaimed the younger sister.  "It's
not that!  Or at least, that's just a part of it, the latest, and,
yes, biggest part of it, maybe, but still only a part.  The fight
we had, have been having over the last few days, it's not just
because of a single weekend: it's been a year-and-a-half
coming!"
   "Well, duh, I could have told you that."
   "What?"
   "Hey, I've already given you my opinion of your dear
ex-fiance.  I told you he was 'wishy-washy, and careless, and
insensitive, and stupid, and cheap,' and I maintain that truer
words have yet to be spoken.  You did the right thing
dumping him at that time, and, really, it's no big loss if you
ditch him now."
   "Wow.  You really do hate him."
   "Hate him?  Not at all.  I actually kinda like the clod.
Beneath the macho jock exterior, he's a pretty nice guy --
never tell him I said that, by the way -- but you can do _so_
much better, sis."
   "Oh."
   "Let's face it, since the day a panda arrived carrying a
certain red-haired girl over its shoulder and stepped through
our doorway, you and she haven't exactly gotten along."
   "That's because he's been annoying me since he
forced his way into our house!"
   "Right.  And you've fought, and fought, and the
anger built up and finally boiled over, and eventually you'd
break up with him and kill the engagement.  I mean, how
many time has it happened?  Three, four?  Mr. No-Backbone
even ended up engaged to me at one point.  Yet, here we are,
a year-and-a-half since he arrived, and until two days ago, the
two of you were still fiances."
   "Family honor, Nabiki.  You know that.  I never had
a choice."
   "Obviously you did.  Family honor or not, this time
you don't seem so willing to go back to the way things were
before."
   "It's different this time.  Ranma went too far."
   "Ah, that's what I wanted to know.  What he did do
to make you so angry?"
   "Come on, Nabiki, you've already heard it all at
school.  You know what happened."
   "I learnt long ago not to trust second-hand witnesses,
sis.  I've heard a lot of different stories from a lot of different
people: some is obvious bullshit, some has the truth buried in
there somewhere. . . but none are the whole truth: only two
people can give me that, and wonder-boy isn't here right
now."
   There was a hesitant pause, in which Hiromi
surreptitiously slurped down the last of her coffee, before
Akane answered.
   "Why are you so eager to help me, Nabiki?"
   "You asked me for advice first, remember?"
   "Actually, you offered."
   "Semantics.  Is it so hard to believe I'm expressing
sisterly concern?"
   "Yes."
   "You wound me."
   "More likely, you're just looking for the
'authoritative version' of last weekend to sell at lunch."
   Nabiki's laugh rang clear across the donut shop.
"Ha!  You're learning, sis!"
   Hiromi heard shuffling sounds, and risked a peek
around the bench.  The younger Tendo sister, face flushing
with anger, was in the midst of standing and looked ready to
leave.
   "Thanks for the love, Nabiki," said Akane, turning
away.
   "Oh, sit down, and lose the wounded act.  Would you
rather have rumors flying around your head all week, or have
the truth settle things down?"
   "I don't need you for that, I can tell people myself!"
   "Akane, Akane, my poor naive little sister, you think
people are going to believe you?  People aren't just talking
about him anymore, you know, they're gossiping about you,
too."
   "What?"
   Akane sat down quickly.  Hiromi sat back into her
seat.  She hoped they hurried up, otherwise they would all be
late for school!
   "Well, gee, sis, you sure took off after your 'ex'-
fiance pretty quick yesterday, especially considering how you
completely ignored him otherwise.  Gets people thinking, you
know?  What happened, they wonder, where are they off too?
Did they just have a nice, pleasant conversation?  Or
something far more sordid?"
   "We just talked!  We just talked!"
   How disappointing, thought Hiromi.  She rather liked
the sordid alternative.
   "Oh, I know that, but they don't.  And since you're
involved in these rumors, no one is going to accept anything
you say, especially when it's something as boring as the
truth."
   "But they'll believe you?"
   "But of course!  I'm Nabiki Tendo, the ever-reliable,
objective source of information: my morals lie with the flow
of hard currency, never with anything as fallible and
intangible as shifting schoolyard allegiances and popularity
contests.  People know I speak the truth, even when it
concerns my own family -- I charge triple when it's family."
   "You're sick, you know that?"
   "I've said it before and I'll say it again: 'I'm a slave
to money'.  So how about giving me the exclusive interview?
What _really_ went down at Kiyoshi's party?  What really
happened yesterday afternoon between you and everybody's
ex-favorite Casanova?"
   Another lengthy pause.  Hiromi checked her watch
again.
   "We'll be late if I start at the beginning."
   "I'm stricken by sadness at his departure.  How can I
be expected to attend school in such a state?"
   "But I feel fine!"
   "Believe me, sis, you're stricken too."
   "Oh."
   "So," said Nabiki.  "Shall we begin?"


Only after several donuts, coffees, and hot chocolates did the
full story emerge, and only after a number of piercing
questions was Nabiki satisfied with Akane's retelling; at
which point the younger sibling left for school, while the elder
remained to 'put her notes in order,' as she put it, and settle
the bill.
   Smiling slightly, Nabiki ran through her mental
chronology of the weekend's party, filling in the gaps that
Akane's version made clear, adjusting for her sister's anger-
skewed perspective, noting curious holes she left uncovered,
wiping away information now made redundant or otherwise
proven fraudulent.  In a way, it was more fun than actually
attending the event: this way, she could sift through the
entirety of the evening, partake in any of myriad interlaced
plots, examine the tight weave of high school dynamics and
enjoy any particular thread at her leisure.  Oh, certainly,
actually being there was fun as well, and last year's party was
a night she would remember fondly forever -- but one got so
involved, so caught up with one's own affairs and immediate
situation, that it was easy to lose sight of the big picture.
   Nabiki loved the big picture.
   Vertices, nodes, ties, lines, threads, connections: how
much of Furinkan was contained within her mental
construction of that single night?  Connections reached out,
ensnared other schools -- Tomoboki, Furunerima, St.
Hebereke -- split, spread,  intertwined, looped back: how
much of the teen population of Nerima could she now trace:
could she place a finger lightly against their collective pulse
and know their story?
   An anthology, really, though an incomplete one: for
even her knowledge of it, Nabiki grudgingly admitted, was
far from total.  Nor would it ever be even remotely
comprehensive, the beginning reaching too far back, too
many causes for each event, the ending yet to be written and
always so very far away.  Yet at times even an approximation
would do, and Nabiki could still enjoy so many individual
aspects of the whole, knowing each was a potential source of
both knowledge and currency.  At times, the two were
virtually interchangeable.  She felt something akin to grief,
knowing she would be leaving all this behind when she left
for college.
   For now, as she drank the last of her caffeine
breakfast, she contemplated the narratives of the players
foremost in her interest: Hiroshi, Hiroshi and Sayuri, Sayuri
and her girlfriends; those friends and the guys, the guys and
Hiroshi, Hiroshi and Daisuke, Daisuke and Ryuta Uehara;
Uehara and Ranma. . . .
   Ranma Saotome and Akane Tendo: throughout
everyone else's interwoven threads pierced a string that
belonged to those two only.  Certainly, the tapestry could
exist without, and had done so for many years before the
intrusion of that new element: but the jagged, disruptive
addition of that single foreign detail was the artist's
masterstroke that threw the entire work into perspective and
rescued it from unforgivable blandness.  Remove that stroke
and the rest, though still strong and durable and of
noteworthy complexity, might as well be tossed aside.
   With Ranma gone, Furinkan would once again
become average and dull, of that Nabiki was certain.  How
long before Nerima followed, all the Amazons, magics, chefs,
princes, demons, warriors, and lunatics fading back to their
manic fringes and frayed corners?  Her sister's ex-fiance
might be an idiot, but he was fun, and his 'secret-techniques'
were a hoot.
   She'd miss them; she'd miss him.  Nabiki doubted
strongly that, even with his promise, Ranma would ever
return -- or if he did, that he would remain long.  There was
no longer any reason to stay.  Akane, the only real tie he had
to the city, would never allow things to return to their
previous state, of that Nabiki was sure.  If she understood the
situation properly, her little sister had proven  capable of
surprisingly complex feelings and motivations, even if not
consciously fully realized: old emotions had been superseded
by newer freedoms and subtler impulses, and perhaps even a
little growing up had been achieved in the last few days.
Depending on the decisions Akane made in the next few days,
there could possibly no longer be room for the pigtailed boy
upon his return.  This made the final insistence on Ranma's
return ring false: why bother?  A final grasping onto the way
things had been?
   Ultimately pointless, of course.  Ranma, she
suspected, had done his fair share of growing up in the last
few days as well.  The boy who had defied an entire school
and torn the door off her locker was not one who would
forgive or forget easily -- who would submit, for instance, to
embarrassing lingerie photo shoots at the slightest threat,
anymore.  Unfortunate, really, she'd miss that income and
those sessions.  The guy was too nice for his own good, and it
was time he learnt that.  In his place, she would have told
everyone (including herself) off long ago. . . and extorted
them all into poverty soon after.
   On the matter of extortion. . . .
   "Hey, Hiromi, how's it going back there?  Little late
for class?"
   Short pause.
   "Na- Nabiki?"
   "Let me guess, in mourning for Kokichi, right?"
   "Ah. . . ."
   "Let's talk.   There's a few things I'd like to teach
you, such as: 'exclusive storytelling rights,' 'copyright
infringement,' and 'eavesdropping fees.'  C'mon over, I'll
buy you a coffee.  Let's make that a decaf, you look a little
jumpy."


The fervor that underscored lunch that day at Furinkan high
excluded Hiroshi.  Sitting on the sidelines, he wanted nothing
to do with it, and the attitude prevalent among his friends and
peers left him feeling sick.  He left himself feeling sick.  A
victim of his own cowardice and lack of conviction, he
wished to somehow go back one single day and do things
over again.  Perhaps it would have made a difference.
   He's not coming back.
   Akane came today, but Ranma never showed up.
   Why should he?
   There are no friends for him here, he told himself.
You proved that all too well yesterday.  Even if it had not
made a difference, at least it would have shown Ranma that
not everybody believed the crap going around about him.
But you stayed silent, and why?  Because you didn't want to
stick out; didn't want to risk insulting your girlfriend; didn't
want to associate yourself with a loser.  Didn't, didn't, didn't.
. . you didn't do the right thing, and the only loser here is
yourself.
   "Yo, 'Roshi, are you, like, in there somewhere?"
   Startled from his musings, he looked up to see
Daisuke sitting down next to him.  "Sorry.  Just thinking."
   "Gee, really?  Hadn't noticed, what with you ignoring
me calling you across the field for the last five minutes."
   "Oh."  Hiroshi offered up a sheepish, apologetic grin.
   "No prob, bud.  Let me guess, Ranma, right?"
   "Mostly."
   "Yeah, I wonder where she's at?"
   The look the black-haired boy received was nearly
disbelieving.  "Where's she at?  Don't you get it, Dai?  He's
not coming back!"
   "Of course she is.  Why wouldn't she?"
   "Why wouldn't -- c'mon, man, the way people treated
him, why _would_ he come back?"
   "Well, duh, 'cuz she's still just a student, like the rest
of us.  She's gotta finish school, right?  She's needs a home,
doesn't she?  And, last but definitely not least, there's Akane.
. . ."
   "And Akane wants nothing to do with him.  Ranma
doesn't need a school or a home, Dai, that's one thing I
figured out this weekend.  If there's anything he needs,
maybe, it's friends -- and there's none of those here, so why
come back?"
   "Hey!  We're her friends!"
   "Yeah, sure.  Great friends."
   Silence settled between them as they began to eat,
onigiri systematically falling before lunchtime cravings.
Scenarios ran through Hiroshi's mind, mild variants of scenes
from yesterday: in each, instead of backing down before the
collective Ranma-bashing of his peers, he stood his ground,
offered up convincing proofs, lashed out with witty repartee
or choice bon-mots, and overwhelmed his enemies --
somewhere along the line, they became his verbal foes,
eloquent but never on par with him -- with stirring speeches
and dazzling rhetoric.  Verbal acuity after the fact, however,
did little to alleviate his depression, and he found himself
sinking into darker contemplations.
   "Yen for your thoughts, buddy."
   "One yen?  One crummy yen?  Yeah, I guess you're
right, that's about all I'm worth right now."
   "Ouch."
   "Sorry.  Still pissed off about the whole Ranma
thing."
   "Take it easy on yourself, man.  There's nothing you
could've done."
   "That's not true, and you know it."
   "Fine.  Nothing that would've made a difference."
   "To him.  To myself, maybe."
   "She wouldn't have noticed.  And you'd still be
depressed."
   "Shut up!"
   "With good reason.  I'm going to miss her."
   "You're just going to miss her body, you perv!"
   "Heh!  So says pervert number two."
   "Whatever."
   Hiroshi put his lunch aside and leaned back in the
grass.  What would happen, now that Ranma was gone?  He
supposed life at Furinkan would return to normal. . . would
he?  Somehow, he felt he had touched upon something
special, scratched the surface of an entirely different world.
No.  Not a different world, but simply a divergent way of
living and perceiving it.  There were alternatives, he now
suspected, to the expected routines: school, college,
salaryman, death was one possibility; dropping out and
pointless rebellion another; but then Ranma seemed set on a
different path, defined by his own passions, desires, and
uncaring of whether others had trod the road before him -- his
steps making the way fresh anew.
   That was Ranma, but he was only Hiroshi, whose life
had until only recently been bereft of martial arts, duels to the
death, ancient artifacts, and powerful rivals.  How could he
expect to live up to that standard?  Confined within the
realities of his own life, the room to maneuver, defy
boundaries -- to be the central player, instead of a bit-actor,
simply did not exist.  Likely, he would always fall within the
limits of the expected, the normal, the dull.
   "Looks like something's interesting happening over
there.  Nabiki promised an update on the Ranma situation,
bet that's probably it.  Better rush over and get myself a copy
before they sell out," intruded Daisuke.  The dark-haired
youth, staring off towards the central schoolyard, began to
stand.
   "I think I'm going to dump Sayuri."
   "What!"
   "I think we're through."
   "Shit -- that's unexpected."
   Hiroshi smiled.
   "You're giving up a lot."
   "Not as much as you think."
   "Bullshit.  Where to start?  Well, first, there's the
obvious: her breasts, followed closely by her ass."
   "Hey!"
   "Then there's the popularity factor: we're losers,
'Roshi, and you hooking up with her has lifted you into a
whole new echelon of chicks, man.  Dude, I urge you to
reconsider, I've hooked my wagon to your star. . . I don't
wanna be a loser again!"
   "Get a grip."
   "Did I mention her breasts?"
   "That's my girlfriend you're talking about there!"
   "What about the sex?"
   "What sex?" exclaimed Hiroshi.  "You know we
haven't. . . ."
   "Yeah, but you're getting there, I saw you at the
party."
   "You didn't see anything," he insisted, yet blushed.
   "You don't know what you're missing."
   "And you do?"
   "Ah. . . ."
   "Anyway, she's been pissing me off with this whole
anti-Ranma crusade.  I don't get it, but I don't think I can just
ignore it.  He's a friend, right?  Didn't we once swear we'd
never let a girl get between our friendship?"
   Daisuke laughed.  "We were both single losers!  It
was an easy promise to make.  You know damn well we were
both ready to stab each other in the back, first sign of an
interested chick."
   "But-."
   "You just got a girlfriend first, you lucky bastard!"
   "That's not. . . okay, you're right, you've got me
pegged."  Hiroshi chuckled.  "But things have changed.
Having a girl isn't everything."
   "Sure.  Very convincing.  You've tasted the manna,
man, you think you can go back to living on bread and
water?  You can't do it.  I'm even willing to bet on it.  By the
end of this week, you'll still be blissfully dating Sayuri,
whether you want to or not.  You don't have the balls to
break off with her!"
   "Do so!  I'll be single by Friday!"
   "Shake on it?"
   "Deal!"
   "Deal!"
   A moment later, Hiroshi felt profoundly stupid,
wondering how he could've bet on something so infantile.
How shallow could one get?  It tainted the profundity of the
moment in which he had first made the decision to break up
with her -- a moment in which, if only briefly, he had felt the
first phantom step on a unique path .  He was spared further
introspection, however, by an unexpected intrusion.
   "Well well, who do we have here?"
   The voice, coming as it did from behind and close,
with no signs of approach having been given, both surprised
them and filled them with instant dread.  Turning as one, they
saw Ryuta Uehara emerge from the bush behind them, tall as
ever, perpetual dangerous glint to his dark eye, grinning
wickedly.  Aside for two small bandages forming an 'x'
centered on his forehead, he seemed otherwise none the worse
for wear.  Somehow, on him, the Furinkan boy's uniform
seem designed for brawling, edges frayed and seams
stretched.  Whereas the jacket made most boys seem either
formal or stifled, it simply looked cool stretched too-taut
across his chest, cuffs rolled back and flared, collar flipped up
but front unbuttoned beyond school policy.  Raking calloused
fingers through lanky blond hair, the Furinkan youth took a
step -- Hiroshi could only interpret it as threatening -- towards
the pair.  The pop of cracking knuckles sounded ominously in
the air
   "Hi and Dai, right?  How. . . nice, to see you two
again."
   Hiroshi backpedaled away before scrambling to his
feet, trying to maintain a safe distance from the bully.  "Um,
er, listen," he offered.
   "Yeah, heh, ah," suppled Daisuke.
   "So, where's your protector, huh?  Where's that
pervo freak-bag Saotome?  Him and I hafta have words."
   "You, ah, haven't heard?"  Did I just say that,
wondered Hiroshi.
   Ryuta turned towards the source.  "I just got here.
Heard what?"
   "He's, ah, that is, Ranma's not here.  Ummm, I don't
think he's ever coming back."
   Unexpectedly, Ryuta looked disappointed.  "What?
Why the hell not?"
   "Weren't you here yesterday?"
   "No."
   "Oh, ah. . . ."
   "You got a problem with that?"
   "No no!"
   "What happened?"
   Hiroshi's account of yesterday's taunting, once the
nervous tics, swallows, and pauses were removed, was by
necessity remarkably brief.  Ryuta's reaction, again, was
unexpected: he laughed.
   "Ha!  I told him, didn't I?" he said.  "Didn't I tell
him?"
   "Umm, er-."
   "Oh, relax, I'm not gonna beat you up.  Hell, I'll even
apologize if it'll make you feel better.  I was drunk at the
party, 'kay?  Alcohol makes me kinda nuts, you know?  I do
all kinda crap I regret later, or can't even remember.  I didn't
mean half that shit I said."
   "Ah.  Oh."
   "Hey, I said relax!  Do I hafta pound you to get the
point across?"
   Hiroshi took a deep breath.
   "Well, this sucks.  Got a tough fight comin' up this
aft', was kinda hoping Saotome might show me that kung-
fuey shit he flattened me with."  He shrugged.  "Ah well,
guess I'll rely on the old 'boot to da head,' huh?  See ya
around, chumps."
   They watched the larger boy leave.
   "Man, I'm sure glad he didn't kill us," said Daisuke.
   His friend whole-heartedly agreed.


The day had gone surprisingly well.
   Akane acknowledged this as she made her way
toward the drama club.  Having expected unending questions,
she had been mostly left to herself; anticipating rumors and
whispers, they had all been quickly laid to rest by Nabiki's
lunchtime sales.  A few unavoidable problems had arisen to
be dealt with -- a visit to the vice-principal's office, to explain
her tardiness and Ranma's absence; a make-up test for the
one she had missed; Tatewaki Kuno -- but for the most part,
life had seemed nearly. . . normal.
   Quiet, even.
   It perturbed her, to a certain degree, that so few
people had talked with her this day.  With Ukyou absent, she
had eaten lunch alone; between classes she only received the
most cursory of greetings and farewells; and everywhere, a
veneer of artificial politeness from her peers seemed to
confront her.  She could only assume that things had moved
too quickly for people to immediately adjust, and that, for
now, she existed in a sort of limbo state.  The social dynamics
should readjust themselves soon, she hoped, and perhaps once
people accepted her again as 'Akane Tendo, second grade,
single, youngest-sister, likes martial arts,' as opposed to
'Ranma Saotome's fiancee,' perhaps life would return to the
way it had been nearly two full years ago.
   Turning the corner to the drama classroom, she came
across Sayuri and Hiromi sitting by the door, talking.  The
latter started at her arrival, but the former merely offered a
large, welcoming smile, smoothing back her brown ponytail
as she stood from the single chair by the door.
   "Akane!"
   Akane smiled in return.  "Sayuri.  Hiromi.  What's
going on?"
   "Nothing much.  Hiromi was just leaving, right?"
   "Er, yeah," said the girl, scrambling to her feet.
"Hafta get home.  Call Kokichi.  Later!"
   The girl scampered off, a rather bemused Akane
watching her retreat.
   "Shouldn't she stay for drama?"
   "Guess you haven't heard," said Sayuri.  "It's been
cancelled for today."
   "Really?"
   "Well, we are sort of short a leading guy, now.
They're holding an emergency male audition."
   It had become such a commonplace occurrence for
Ranma to worm his way into any male role opposite Akane
(despite the fact that, strictly speaking, he wasn't even a part
of the club), on the off-chance that the play involved a kiss,
that it had never even occurred to her that his departure
would rob the club of it's masculine lead.  Not that he ever
kissed her, of course, but no one else would, either, and even
understudies were scared away by his implied threats.
Despite the failure of the club to successfully perform a
romance play as scripted in the past two years, they
nevertheless always accepted Ranma's unofficial
involvement: he drew a great crowd, staged excellent fight-
scenes, the real-life tension between him and Akane made for
great on-stage drama, and in a pinch he could easily be
substituted into any minor female role as needed.
   "Hey Akane, why don't we go check out a movie
instead?"
   The idea appealed to her.  When was the last time she
had seen a movie without it being somehow disrupted or
ruined by her ex-fiance?
   "There's that new horror film," suggested Sayuri.
   Akane shook her head.  "I'm not too big on horror.
I've seen enough real ghosts and goblins to last me a
lifetime."
   "What about a romance?"
   "You're kidding, right?"
   "Well, what then?"
   "I dunno.  How about some action?"
   Sayuri sighed.  "Let me guess, martial arts."
   The movie, however, had several hours to go before
beginning, and so they stopped by Sayuri's house to pass the
time.  Though not as large as the Tendo household, it was
nevertheless quite spacious, and sacrificed both yard and dojo
for extra living room.  Nor was it as sparsely decorated,
exhibiting an expensive if somewhat Western taste.  Her
friend's father, Akane remembered, was quite the successful
businessman, often busy and away but very generous with the
money.  Climbing the sharply polished stairs that led to
Sayuri's bedroom, Akane saw none of the scuffs and scars
and patches that a century-long history of combat had left
upon her own house.
   "It seems like forever since you've been here,
Akane."
   "A long time."
   "It's too bad, really.  You've missed out on a lot of
good times: some great sleep overs, get-togethers, and
parties."
   "I know."
   "But not anymore, right?"
   "I. . . guess not."
   "Of course not!  Why would you?  Now that _he's_
gone, you can start doing normal things again."
   Akane sighed.  "He is coming back, you know."
   "So?  You're through with him, right?"  Stopping,
Sayuri turned to her friend and fixed her with the most
serious of stares.  "You _are_ through with him?  You're not
thinking of engaging yourself to him again, are you?"  The
horror expressed in her voice made it clear what she thought
of that idea.
   "Of course not!"
   "Then you're free of him."
   "There's still the family engagement.  If he still feels
responsible, he might end up married to one of my sisters."
   "Then I pity your sisters, but better them than you."
Grabbing her by the hand, Sayuri led Akane into her
bedroom.  "C'mon, let's get changed for the movie.  I've got
some great new clothes, and I bet they'd look great on you,
too!"
   Soon after, Akane found herself kneeling in her
friend's spacious bedroom, piles of clothing growing before
her and awaiting inspection.  Akane knew a thing or two
about clothes; she had quite the sizable wardrobe herself; but
for a moment, she felt overwhelmed by the flurry of fabrics,
colors, and styles.  She didn't know where to begin.
   "Hey, Akane, snap out of it!"  Her friend knelt next to
her, a tie-dyed minidress draped over one arm.  "You okay?"
   "Yes.  Yes, I'm fine."  She fingered the dress.  "Umm,
I don't think so.  A little too daring for me."
   "Ha!  If you don't take a few risks, you'll never
attract the guys."
   Akane scowled.  "The _last_ thing I'm interested in
right now is a boyfriend."
   "Yeah, I guess so.  Must be tough coming out of a
year-and-a-half relationship."
   "Rela. . . he was _not_ my boyfriend!"
   "But you two were together for so long."
   "We were engaged by our parents -- it wasn't by
choice!"
   "But wasn't it just so romantic?"
   "Romantic -- that twit wouldn't know romance if it
kicked him in the head!"
   "Right!"
   "Yeah!"
   "Feel better?"  Sayuri was all smiles.
   "I. . . hey!"
   "And the point of all that," elaborated the brown-
haired girl, "was to get you to stop moping.  Tonight, you're
going to forget the last few days ever happened.  You're free
of that jerk, Akane, it's time to reenter the real world."
   For a short while, at least, Akane almost felt like she
could forget the last few days and pretend to be a normal
teenage girl spending time with a friend.  She tried on many
outfits.  Talked and laughed.  Looked in the mirror.  Killed
time.
   The moment could not last.
   How weak she seems, she found herself thinking at
one point, as Sayuri slipped out of a tight, long-sleeved top.
Her arms are so thin, does she even have any muscle-tone?
Look at her pull that box down from the closet, she's
struggling with the weight.  I've picked up _boulders_ three
times the size without straining.  Look at those boots she's
wearing.  The platform must be at least ten centimeters, she
can hardly walk in them.  What if she got into a fight?  Then
she thought, what's wrong with me, who cares how strong she
is, why should she get into a fight, what does it matter?  A
year ago I never noticed these kind of things.
   A year ago, however, she had not seen the massive
and wonderful animals of Ryugenzawa, padding lithely
through the deep forest, nor the eight-headed Orochi of legend
rising from its watery depths.  She had never heard of the
Musk dynasty and its fearsome dragon-blooded heritage.  The
Hiryu Shoten-Ha and its awesome destructive power had still
been a secret, unseen, unfelt.  Now?  She had witnessed and
lived them all, and the memory of those events contributed a
disjointedness and surreality to her current activities.  Sitting
in another girl's room, trying on clothes in preparation to
cruise a mall, chattering on about everything, anything. . .
nothing, really -- it all seemed somehow insignificant
compared to the experiences Ranma had shown her.
   That's not fair, she told herself angrily.  This is what I
am, too: an ordinary teenaged girl.  Wide brown eyes, short
black hair, small nose; average height, maybe a little on the
muscular side, but nothing unusual;  black skirt, oversized
socks, blue mini-T with a corporate white swish centered over
the swell of normal-sized breasts: in what way did this
reflected image deny that she was in any way different from
millions of other Japanese girls?  How many stood just as she
did at this very moment, before a mirror in contemplation?
   How many wished to be anything _but_ normal?
   I should go home, she thought.
   "It must have hurt," intruded a voice.
   Akane started from her unseeing contemplation of the
mirror to find herself lightly rubbing the wrist of her right
hand.
   "Is that what you were thinking of?" asked Sayuri.
   Akane forced a small laugh.  "What, my wrist?  No,
no, it's okay.  Ranma didn't really hurt me.  I'm tougher than
that."
   "That's not what I meant."
   "Oh?"
   "The betrayal," said Sayuri, and took the wrist gently
in her hands.  "For so long, he was always there, always
protecting you.  Of all the boys you knew, he was the only
one who would never, ever, hurt you.  No matter what
happened."
   "Yes," Akane whispered.
   "Then in one moment, he became the same as all the
rest.  He hurt you, or threatened to, and all his promises and
declarations suddenly meant nothing."
   She could only nod.
   "The one and only boy you had ever felt safe or
comfortable with, the only one with whom you let your guard
down, actually allowed yourself to trust -- and he betrayed
you.  He betrayed your trust and confidence, and that, more
than anything else, more than his grip or pressure on your
wrist, hurt, didn't it, Akane?"
   Everything she said was true.  Akane knew this.  She
had all but admitted so to herself in the days immediately
following the night where everything had gone so wrong.  At
first her terrible pain at Ranma's attack -- and it had been a
pain, a most palpable and physical one, though originating in
neither muscle nor bone -- had both confused and frightened
her.  Only through bitter contemplation had the source of her
misery come clear.  She had even explained as much to
Nabiki this morning.
   One truth, however, she had continuously shied away
from; only now, forced by Sayuri's empathic explanation to
fuller comprehension, could she consciously understand the
full extent of her loss.  With the old Furinkan crowd trying to
date her through violence; through repeated examples from
Kuno; even perceived failures on the part of her father,
especially following the death of her mother: her conception
of boys had been consistently negatively reinforced, and she
had decided very early that she wanted nothing to do with
them.  Then Ranma Saotome had appeared, and he was one
boy -- even if occasionally a girl -- who resisted any attempt
at being ignored.  Even her kempo talents failed as a defense,
his undeniably superior skills driving home since the first day
that her training would avail her nothing should he decide to
attack -- yet the possibility of violence originating in him had
always seemed so very remote.  Quite the opposite: how often
had he gone to ridiculous lengths to protect her, or had taken
a blow, no matter how savage or possibly crippling, on her
behalf?
   Through him, as strange as it seemed, the opposite sex
began to be redeemed in her eyes.  More importantly, though,
with him, Akane found someone in which to trust.  There
were the little betrayals, of course -- the times spent with
other women, the insults -- but always she believed that, no
matter what, he could never turn on her.  She felt, if not love
for him, then at least security with him; that faith had been a
long time developing and most grudgingly given; and then the
whole thing had been ripped and torn away in a moment of
carelessness lasting less than a second.  What had she lost in
that moment?  The betrayal had come from him, but they had
both created the circumstances leading up to it.  Some of the
blame, she now knew, lay with her: she had seen his
vulnerability and ruthlessly attacked it. . . but I was so sure,
she cried, so very sure nothing could push him that far.  Push
him away.  He betrayed; I betrayed myself.  Did my own
faith in him frighten me?
   A pain previously only understood empathically
could now no longer be denied.
   "Akane?"
   "Sayuri. . . ."  She turned to her friend, deep grief
etching her face, a thickness rising through her chest and
threatening to tear her apart.  "Oh Sayuri, why?"
   She collapsed into her friend's embrace, the first sob
ripping free.
   "Shhh, Akane.  It's okay."
   How long did she cry, lost in her friend's arms -- long
enough for the hurt to ease, it felt, though both her realization
and acceptance remained raw in her mind.  Finally, though,
her throat unclenched enough for words, pained and gasping
though they were.
   "Why did he. . . ?"
   "He's a jerk, that's why."
   "No- no.  He. . . we did it. . . why did I?"
   Sayuri pulled away with a sudden jerk, her face
contorting with vicious anger.  "What. . . you're not supposed
to. . . Akane, Akane, this isn't your fault, you didn't do
anything wrong, this is all his fault, Ranma's fault, he's the
bastard who betrayed _you_, not the other way around!"
   "No, no, I led him; I said. . . ."
   "It doesn't _matter_ what you said!  He _attacked_
you!"
   "But-."
   "Dammit, Akane, there's no room for 'but' here."
   "I, we set it. . . I made him. . . ."
   "What, hurt you?  It's your fault?"
   Akane swallowed, stifled a sob.  Took a deep breath.
"Yes."
   "I can't believe I'm hearing this crap."
   "What?"
   "It'd almost be funny if it wasn't really happening;
it's like watching a bad after-school drama, or reading it out
of a textbook.  You're turning him into the victim.  Oh, poor
Ranma, it wasn't _his_ fault he hurt you, was it?  You made
him do it!"
   Akane fell back a step before her friend's sudden
fury.
   "You throw out a couple of words, and suddenly he's
free to do what he likes?  Is that it, Akane?  What did he call
you, ugly, violent, a bitch?  He hurt you.  He strangled
Hiromi's boyfriend.  He punched in Kiyoshi's wall.   Nearly
crippled Uehara.  Yesterday he threatened the entire girls'
class, wrecked school property, tore your sister's locker apart.
Yeah, Akane, it's all your fault.  He's the victim here."  She
spat out the next three words: "Poor.  Fucking.  Ranma."
   But Ranma only knows how to defend himself
physically, thought Akane, suddenly finding herself
protecting her ex-fiance.  Were our attacks any less violent,
less brutal, for being merely verbal and social?  Three days
ago Ranma put a hole in somebody's wall; yesterday, we all
punched a hole in someone's soul.
   "The guy is dangerous.  How much more violent has
life become around Nerima since he showed up?  How many
fights a week does he get into?  I'd say castrate him to keep
his temper in check, but the curse just proves he's beyond
help."
   "Sayuri. . . ."
   "Instead of a violent asshole, she's an aggressive
bitch!"
   "Sayruri, please. . . let's not talk about Ranma
anymore."
   "But-."
   "I thought you wanted me to forget the last few days.
Tonight, I just want to be an ordinary girl out to see a movie.
I don't want to think about engagements, or cursed fiances, or
violence.  I just want to walk through a mall, watch a movie,
and eat some popcorn."
   "I-."
   "Please?"
   "I. . . ."  Sayuri visibly restrained herself before
releasing a giant breath.  "I'm sorry.  I guess he brings out the
worst in me.  This isn't over, Akane.  What happened wasn't
your fault.  But for tonight -- I'll let it drop."  A smile slowly
eased itself onto her face.
   "Thanks."  Akane twirled before her friend.  "How do
I look?"
   "Good!"
   "I do?  Thanks."  She looked herself over in the
mirror once again: the girl who looked back now struck her
as anything but normal. . . but she could pretend, for now at
least, and at times that was better than the real thing.  "Let's
go."


She came in late that night, and having appeased the worries
of both her father and eldest sister, Akane retired to her room
feeling calmer and more at ease than she had in a very long
time.  Having met up with a number of friends at the
shopping arcade, the general consensus had been to skip the
movie in favor of hanging out at the local park.  Among these
girls gathered under a slowly darkening sky, unified in their
guilty pleasure at ignoring semester-end schoolwork and
determined to simply loiter and enjoy time together, the
problems of yesterday, the last weekend, month, year, seemed
impossibly distant.  Of what concern were arranged marriages
and martial artists when sprawled across a wooden bench by
a stone fountain, talking reflexively with a girlfriend; why
worry about someone's return while collectively laughing at
some strutting foolish boy who can not understand that his
targets were no longer laughing _with_ him?
   For a time, entire hours, the stress of a year was
forgotten.  For a time, Akane felt that her life was her own
once more.  For a time, the future not only seemed limitless,
but immaterial: bound in the pleasure of the present, the
possibilities of tomorrow became irrelevant.  Now,
undressing for bed, carefully laying Sayuri's clothes aside --
she would have to remember to return them, perhaps Kasumi
could even clean them first -- the heady glow with which she
had started today still buoyed her, and it was the first day she
could recollect in quite some time in which she had both
awakened and returned to bed feeling content.
   Final toiletries finished, lights off and snugly lying
beneath freshly cleaned sheets, she looked back over the day.
A full day without Ranma, Akane thought.  Not the first, of
course: many times his father and he had left on training
voyages alone, or Ranma had left on some quest or another
without her.  Always in those situations, however, was the
unconscious assumption that, sooner or later, he would
return, and life would resume as before.  Not this time, for
even if he returned -- even with his promise, that was in no
way guaranteed -- there was even less chance that he would
remain.
   Did she even want him to come back?
   There was the matter of responsibility, and she felt her
stomach tighten at the reminder.  Whatever I think about him,
she reminded herself, Ranma's been hurt.  Maybe badly, and
I'm partly to blame.  Until that is resolved, I have to at least
watch out for him.
   Yet the temptation remained to simply never allow
any aspect of that life to return, to block him out utterly, for
she understood the tenacious and insidious capacity her ex-
fiance had for unconsciously insinuating himself into the lives
of others.  Had he not been here for nearly a full year and a
half, despite early and incessant protests by both of them that
neither was interested in marriage?  Only now he left, yet
tendrils of his presence still enwrapped much of Nerima.  As
long as his absence was felt in the city, could she ever forget
him?
   Do I ever want to?, she suddenly thought, and
blushed: a sudden cascade of snippet memories (near kisses, a
fleeting touch of hands, defiant protectionist cries)
overwhelmed her, and for the first time of the day she felt
momentarily exhausted.
   She suddenly yearned for the presence of P-Chan, and
wondered where her little pet pig had been for so long.  She
felt the need to talk to someone, the need to confide in
someone.  Ideas needed to be put into words; held within her
mind they betrayed themselves, were easily disrupted by
errant recollections or swayed by random feelings.  I need
somebody to understand how and why I feel, she thought, and
if the only one I can trust is a pig. . . well, maybe that says
more about my problems than anything I possibly could.
There was nobody else she could trust: not her sisters (one too
mercenary, the other too traditional), not her father and
certainly not Genma; Ranma's friends and rivals were biased,
even Ryoga; her friends had been too distant too long to be
confidants.  Even Sayuri, though Akane hoped that in time,
maybe soon, that friendship would return to what it had once
been.  It would be good to have a best friend once again.
   A diary would have been a nice alternative, but she
learnt at a young age that with sisters like hers, such things
were fundamentally unsafe -- one would read it for profit, the
other out of genuine concern.  Add a Ranma to the mix, and
she might as well yell out her innermost feelings to the world.
That left her with a pig, a very compassionate and empathetic
one, perhaps, but a pig nonetheless: and he wasn't even here,
anyway.
   Dammit, I can't sleep, she thought.  Akane turned
over in her bed, grappled with her pillow.  She simply wasn't
tired.  Sleep would blanket this pointless meandering of her
thoughts and lay her concerns to rest (at least for another
night,) but deep rest eluded her.  Why, especially after such
an ordinary day?
   She thought about getting up and taking a walk.
Eating a snack.  Working out in the dojo.  Starting a diary
and hiding it better.  Watching late night television.  Reading
manga.  Listening softly to some music.  Doing some
homework.  She remained in bed and didn't sleep, mind one
step ahead of body.
   Tap.
   The sudden sound, light as it was, electrified her and
banished extraneous ideas other than those related to
immediate physicality.  School, friends, trust, ideas burned
away like mist before the sudden beating of her heart, rush of
blood, tensing of muscles: all within a moment in which she
neither blinked nor twitched but achieved a sudden awareness
of her room.  There -- again!  Akane risked a glimpse through
one eye: boyish silhouette outside her window, dim light of
partial moon casting his pale argent shadow against one wall.
   Ranma?
   No.  A tendril of Ranma.  Ukyou.
   Akane sighed.  Sat up in her bed, letting the covers
fall away.  Clicked on her nightlight, dispelling the spatula-
carrying shade in her room, gestured for the one outside her
window to enter.
   "Do you have any idea what time it is?"  Akane
checked for herself.  It was near midnight.
   The okonomiyaki chef lifted the window open and
slid quietly into the room.  Dressed in her traditional black
combat tights, bandoleer across her chest and fully loaded,
spatula strapped to her back, and bearing the most serious
countenance, Ukyou fixed Akane with a piercing gaze.
"Where is he, sugar," she said, her voice making it quite clear
it wasn't a question, but a demand.  "I want to keep this civil,
so just tell me and I'll be on my way."
   "Hey, this is my house!  Don't try and threaten me."
   "And this is my fiance.  What've you done with
him?"
   Akane shrugged.  "Nothing.  He's taken off."
   Her rival's eyes narrowed.  "Where?"
   Akane knew she wouldn't believe her, and took some
pleasure out of it.  She wasn't tired yet anyway.  "I really
don't know."
   "You're not making this easy. . . ."
   "Don't you have a restaurant to run?  Shouldn't you
get some sleep?"
   "Everyone saw you run after him yesterday.  I've
heard the story your sister spread around.  I want the truth.
Where is he, Akane?"
   "You want the truth?"
   "Yes!"
   "You can't ha-."  Akane took a deep breath.  "The
truth is, I really don't know."
   "Listen. . . ."
   "He's left on a training voyage.  Mostly to cool down,
though.  If it'll make you feel better, he'll probably be back
in a week."
   Ukyou eyed her suspiciously, but visibly relaxed after
a moment.  She passed a hand wearily across her eyes.  "You
mind if I sit down a moment, Akane?" she asked, gesturing
toward a chair.  Akane shrugged.  "Thanks.  I'm going to feel
this tomorrow.  The morning rush is going to be hell."
   "You'll understand if I'm not very sympathetic."
   The chef stripped off her giant spatula and carefully
placed it aside before sitting.  "Hey, I have a vested interest in
wherever Ranma-honey goes and whatever he does.  It's been
busy at work so I've only been getting the info second hand,
and a lot's been happening in the last few days."
   "So you come here looking for a fight at midnight?"
   Ukyou smirked.  "Hey, a girl's always gotta be
prepared, right sugar?"
   A slight smile grudgingly escaped as Akane relaxed.
"Sure."
   "So you really don't know where he is?"
   "Nope."
   "Is it true?"
   "What?"
   "That you two are splitsville?"
   Akane didn't quite like the way her rival -- no, ex-
rival, she realized -- put it, but shrugged.  "I guess so."
   "So you don't care if I take off and hunt him down?"
   "It's your life."
   Good luck finding him, Akane thought.
   "What about comforting him in his time of need?"
   "Feel free."
   That would be an interesting scene to see.
   "I will find him, you know."
   "Go right ahead."
   The last thing Ranma would want right now is a
fiancee with him.
   The girl sat back in her chair, gazing contemplatively
over interlaced fingers at her.  Akane waited patiently.  How
long before she clues in, she wondered.  She was surprised
how little the situation angered her -- surprised that it did not
anger her in the least -- in fact, she was rather enjoying
playing out the little scenario.  For the first time, her own
words rang true even to herself.  She really did not care.  A
slight frown creased her brow.  No, that wasn't quite right.
   "You really mean it this time, don't you?" said
Ukyou.
   "Didn't I say so?"
   "It's not exactly the first time you two have broken
up, you know."
   "It's different this time."
   "No shit, sugar.  But why? What did you do to him?"
   "Me?"  Akane felt a twinge of anger -- an all too
familiar companion when dealing with the likes of her former
rivals -- returning.  "Sure, blame me."
   "Wouldn't be the first time you hit him without
provocation."
   "You're not guilty of the same?"
   "Hey, I only hit Ranma when he deserves it."
   "Right."
   Ukyou grinned sheepishly.  "Well, okay, maybe
sometimes I get carried away."
   "Exactly.  And that's what happened this time.  I got
carried away -- we both got carried away.  We both said stuff
we didn't really mean -- or maybe stuff we've always wanted
to say finally came out, but never should have.  Either way,
none of it can be taken back, and some of it hurt me really
bad.  That's why we've broken up."
   The okonomiyaki chef was slowly shaking her head.
"I find that hard to believe.  Ranchan can be an insensitive
jerk sometimes, but he's never mean."
   "Are we talking about the same Ranchan here?"
   "You're the one who's always been thin-skinned.
You probably just took a joke of his the wrong way."
   "Really?"  Akane leaned back against the wall,
watching for Ukyou's reaction.  "Maybe you're right.  Maybe
there's some other meaning to being called a 'bitch' that I
wasn't aware of.  Oh, and 'ugly,' 'mean,' and 'cruel,' too.
Uncute didn't hurt much, but telling me I didn't have any
friends did; and threatening to hurt me certainly didn't help.
Was he joking?  If he was, I sure missed the punchline."
   Eyes widening with each word, Ukyou stared back in
disbelief.  "No way he said those things."
   Akane shrugged.  "He did.  If you don't believe me,
Nabiki's report says pretty much the same thing.  To be fair,
I'll admit I said some nasty stuff in return: I called him a
pervert, and unmasculine, and a girl, and he took it really
badly."
   Siting up in her bed past midnight, talking with an old
rival across a darkened room only faintly illuminated by
glimmering moonlight: certainly not the conclusion Akane
had anticipated to her day.  Yet -- hadn't she hoped for
someone to talk to?  Again, perhaps it said something about
her life when friends and family failed as confidants. . . but a
rival could be trusted; or, if not trusted , then at least expected
to understand and even sympathize.  Ranma had been the one
to bring them together -- to bring them all together, Ukyou,
Shampoo, Kodachi -- but perhaps with him removed as an
item of contention, something akin to a friendship could now
form. Such a relationship of sorts had existed between Akane
and Ukyou in the past, but always suspicion on the part of the
first, and opportunism on the part of the second, had remained
between them.  Now?
   It would be nice to have a friend who understood the
other side of her life, the one that involved martial arts, duels,
and the desire for independence.  And once Ranma returned. .
. if things took a turn for the worse, both support and help
would not only be appreciated, but needed.
   Akane swallowed against the sudden tightness of her
stomach.
   Now was not the time, however.  Not for expressing
feelings and concerns, or motives and desires.  Perhaps one
day she and Ukyou would be good friends, and tonight might
have been the first step in that direction: but at times a single
step was enough, and both had enough thoughts to digest for
the remainder of the evening.  Akane could feel the first
yearnings for sleep spread through her body -- the encounter
with Ukyou apparently had been just what she needed to
settle her mind and body sufficiently for rest.
   The chef seemed content enough to let the subject
drop -- for now.  Weariness was apparent in her features, and
she turned away with a wide yawn.
   "Later, 'kane."
   "Night.  You know, you can use the front door if you
want."
   "Heh.  Thanks."
   "You coming to school tomorrow?"
   "Yeah.  It'll be hell, but I'll be there."
   "Meet for lunch?"
   Her smile broadened.  "Sure.  I'd like that.  I want to
hear the rest of this."
   A final farewell, and she quietly left.  Akane settled
into her bed, covers pulled up to her neck, eyes closed,
breathing deepening, slow numbness spreading across her
body.  There would be other encounters with ex-rivals in the
next few days, of that she was sure: and doubtless neither
Shampoo nor Kodachi would be half as reasonable as Ukyou.
Those, however, were concerns for another day.
   Akane slept.


The week passed quickly.
   This proved a source of both relief and anxiety for
Akane.  With the passing of each day she grew more tense in
unconscious anticipation of Ranma's return.  As her
uneasiness matured and came to occupy more of her
conscious thought, and overwhelmed her unconscious mind
in dreams, she came to count the days until his supposed
return.  She hoped then that her worries would be proven
unfounded.  The alternative was not something that she liked
to think about.
   The first few days following Ukyou's nighttime visit,
however, were busy enough to keep her from thinking of her
ex-fiance.  First had been Shampoo's appearance on the way
to school: though made more difficult by the language barrier
and the amazon's somewhat more violent ways, the
conversation had proven very similar to the one with the
okonomiyaki chef; except that, with a look of surprising
comprehension in her eyes and a subtle enigmatic smile, she
had pronounced, "Ranma finally learn, Shampoo wait now"
before turning away and biking back towards the
Nekohanten.  Akane had watched her former rival disappear
down the street, lavender tresses swaying in counter-time to
her cycling, and suddenly felt small.
   Kodachi had required more convincing.  Only
violence, and some poetic intervention on the part of her
brother dissuaded her from an attempt to assault the Tendo
sister at lunch.  Her threat rang clear in the air as she left,
however: beware, if Ranma did not return by the week's end!
Confronted with this, watching the leotard-clad lunatic fly
across the rooftops, Akane had felt suddenly content and
mature.
   Somehow, or perhaps unsurprisingly, neither her
father nor Genma realized that something was amiss, Akane's
explanation that he had left on a week-long training voyage
after his mother's visit ("to reclaim his manliness," she had
said) proving sufficient to satisfy their curiosity.  With her ex-
rivals momentarily calm, and Nabiki agreeing to remain
silent (for her own reasons, she assured Akane, and not out of
sisterly kindness), the fathers somehow never realized that
their life-long dream of family union was in serious jeopardy.
   Life, otherwise, had proven delightfully normal, and
she had immersed herself completely, and with some joy, into
the routine of an ordinary schoolgirl: there were classes to
attend, tests to study for, clubs to participate in, and friends to
hang out with.  She found herself spending time with Sayuri,
and felt their friendship swiftly returning to its former
closeness.  Ukyou she saw far more of as well, and their
sometimes-animosity slowly transformed into an almost
camaraderie -- more than a few lunches and after-schools
were spend at the Ucchan, and only rarely did they speak of
Ranma.
   The week came to an end.  Akane decided to have a
sleepover: she was unsure whether it was a final clinging-on
to the normality she had recently enjoyed, or a mask for the
gnawing anxiety that haunted her in anticipation of Ranma's
return, but the idea was received with enthusiasm.  The party
went well -- mostly.  Many friends came, Sayuri, Yuka,
Naomi, and even Ukyou, and more, and they watched movies
in the house and slept in the dojo and talked until two in the
morning, and did all the ordinary things that girls do at such
occasions: and yet, faint echoes of what had disturbed her at
Kiyoshi's party returned to do so at her own affair.  She spent
most of the night talking with Ukyou, found the gossip
confusing and often dull, and came to wonder if there was
something wrong with herself.  When her friends left the next
morning it came almost as a relief -- until the memory of
Ranma returning, which had lurked at the back of her mind
all night, brought back with it the worries of the week.


******


Understanding came to Ranma Saotome during the moment
of greatest intensity of that early morning's training, and
instead of shattering his fragile focus underscored it with
inexplicable poignancy.  With a timorous mental hold he
retained possession of the idea lest it slip away, as he slowly,
beautifully, completed an equally elusive technique.  He rose
to his feet, still gripped by the residual euphoria of his
workout
   So that's why she's hurting, he realized.  The sun's
ascent overhead went unnoticed as he mulled the idea over.  It
came as some surprise -- not the cause of her pain, for some
reason it now made perfect sense -- but he had not been aware
of having even contemplated the problem.  The last week had
been one of both perfect simplicity and the utmost
complexity.  Only one thing had dominated his time: intense,
single-minded training; but each technique and exercise and
form had been dissected and studied with thoroughness.  Such
concentration had left little room for other considerations.
   At night, however, lying on his hard earthen bed,
there were those brief moments before utter exhaustion and
body weariness overtook him: in that brief time, what did his
mind turn to?  He could never remember by morning, and his
dreams faded quickly -- snapshot images of Akane, perhaps?
Certainly not of Furinkan, and of those who had betrayed
him.
   There's nothing for me there, he reminded himself.
   He felt sluggish, and the clarity he possessed during
training eluded him once he began the necessary mundanities
of morning.  With a fresh fire crackling and his kettle set over
it, he walked down to the shallow forest stream that flowed
nearby.  The water was icy-cold, he knew from previous
experience, and after stripping out of his clothes a quick dip
served to dispel errant thoughts and shock him to full
wakefulness.  His dirt-and-sweat encrusted clothes he washed
and scrubbed and hung to dry, then turned to his morning
ablutions.  Squatting by the river-side, he wished he'd
thought to do so before turning female.
   Glinting in the rising sunlight, a reflection caught his
eye: a young red-haired girl, naked and squatting by the
water -- himself, of course, and normally he would have shied
away from the image.  This time, however, he paused:
something felt strikingly familiar, and he grasped for
recollection.  Unlike earlier, however, the memory this time
eluded him, and suddenly ashamed by his own female
nakedness, he turned away.
   It's probably nothing, he told himself.  Something left
over from a dream.
   Returning to camp he pulled his other set of clothes --
equally dirty as the others, it seemed -- from his pack and
dressed.  What to do next, he wondered.  Strength, speed,
endurance, reflex, form, stance, and attack training: he'd
tackled them all, and every muscle and joint still ached from
the effort.  No new techniques learnt in the last seven days,
perhaps, but a further perfection of what he already knew.
Maybe now he should focus on his female side?
   You could go home, drifted through his mind.
   He had neglected his cursed form all week, reverting
to male form as quickly as possible each time circumstances
had forced a change.  Well, maybe another week of training
focused entirely upon his female body's strengths and
weaknesses was necessary.  How often had he needed to
resort to shameful feminine trickery due to a lack of
confidence in the abilities of his woman's body?  Again his
mind began to draw together abstract ideas and concrete
knowledge, and build a potential training regimen.
   "What am I training for?" he suddenly asked himself,
out loud he realized, and the sound of his own voice and the
very question itself shocked him into sudden stillness.  It
seemed the question hardly required asking -- and yet having
done so, he began to doubt.  I've trained this hard before, he
told himself, this is nothing new.  But this time was different,
and he knew it: for while the near-desperation that had
underscored the week's effort was familiar, this time there
was no tangible enemy confronting him.  This perfection of
his technique, against whom would he apply it?  This
dispelling of all thoughts not immediately related to martial
arts -- what was he avoiding?
   Akane, he told himself.  A moment later he realized
that wasn't true.  There were issues yet unresolved between
him and her, yet the thought of confronting her held little fear
for him now -- held, even, a certain attractiveness.
Somewhere, amidst the confusion and hurt of recent events,
that wall of hesitancy that had always hindered and made any
attempt to speak honestly with her ultimately fail, had simply
disappeared.  At a cost, of course. . . what else had been lost?
   All week he had danced about and studiously avoided
the question of whether or not to return to Nerima.  This he
recognized, but again, settling upon the idea at this time
brought little unease.  Quite simply, he didn't want to, and
could see little reason to do so, his promise notwithstanding.
Return to those bastards at Furinkan?  Deal with his
remaining fiancees?  Face off against more rivals?  His
parents?  He snorted.  Not likely.  He might only be
seventeen, but he could get by without any of them, he could
take care of himself just fine.
   And yet. . . .
   He was lonely.  So very lonely.
   There it was.  Finally accepting the truth he had tried
to bury beneath incessant physical exhaustion was enough to
drop him to the ground, legs curling up to his breasts as he
released a deep sigh that seemed to resonate from impossibly
deep within.  Damn this stupid body, he cursed himself,
holding back on a sudden wetness of his eyes, but again he
knew that being female had little to do with it.  When was the
last time he'd been so truly alone?  Ten years of traveling, but
during that entire time, his worthless idiot of a father, despite
any other shortcomings he may have had, had always been by
his side, morning, day, and night.  In the last year-and-a-half,
since his arrival in Nerima, he had often felt lonely:
surrounded by people but seemingly understood by none,
their presence had served to only heighten his isolation: but
now, truly isolated with no one around, he understood how
the former paled in comparison to the latter.  At least in
Nerima, there were voices to be heard other than his own --
even if those voices were usually underscored with anger and
carried only curses and threats.  It was attention, at least.
   "Guess I'm not the noble wandering martial artist I
thought I was," he whispered to himself, and smirked in self-
depreciation.  How does Ryoga do it?  I'll have to ask him
next time I see him.  It's probably why he hates me so much:
what else does he have to think about other than revenge?
Anything, even hatred, would be better than focusing on
being alone.
   Finding his feet once more, he knew a decision had
been made.  What choice did he have but to return to
Nerima?  His training had not been in vain: it had served to
bring him to this precise point: now he felt prepared to
confront the people he thought he had left behind -- from
fiancees to schoolmates, things as they had been could now
come to an end.
   "Time to finish this," Ranma muttered, and then
nearly laughed at his own conceit.  It helped to think of his
return as a final showdown.  It was a concept he felt more at
ease with.
   He returned to maleness, and as he gathered his few
possessions and began to pack once again, his stomach
churned uneasily.  The wild food he'd caught and eaten had
been anything but delicious, and his stomach had reacted
most negatively.  Now _there_ was a reason to go back:
Kasumi's cooking.  He smiled at the prospect and, hefting his
backpack over his shoulders, Ranma took the first step
towards returning home.


******
******


In the brief interlude during which the pain abated slightly, he
had time to morosely contemplate the water before him and
think, why do I put myself through this shit, before his
stomach clenched up, his throat spasmed, and he again
forcefully and noisily puked up more of the night's meal.
This time, at least, he remembered to hold his pigtail clear
with one hand -- its length was already wet and dotted with
clingy pieces of half-chewed rice -- and with the other he
shakily reached up to flush the toilet once again.  The
brownish, chunky water swirled and carried its load of curry
and vegetables off to a better place.
   Bent double over the Tendos' toilet, long, stringy
strands of saliva looping from mouth and chin, Ranma
Saotome turned his head and leveled a glare at the girl
standing in the doorway.
   "Um. . . would it help if I said I'm sorry?" said
Akane.
   He wiped his mouth clean with the back of his hand.
"No."
   "Well I am."
   "Is this why you wanted me to come back so badly?"
   "I didn't mean-."
   Ranma raised one hand to forestall her protest, and
returned his attention to the water before him.  With
something closer resembling a hiccup, he brought up another
dollop of bile, and it landed wetly in the toilet.  "Akane.  I
really, really don't feeling like talking right now."
   She left without another word, and he barely noticed
the door sliding silently shut.  Nose filled with the acrid scent
surrounding him, throat burning and raw, Ranma returned to
his not-so-silent contemplation at the porcelain throne.


"Oh, hello Ranma, you're home."
   Kasumi's soft and gentle welcome momentarily threw
him off guard as he returned from his week of training: a
greeting he had most certainly anticipated, but his
expectations had ranged from cold indifference to various
levels of violence or parental screaming.  Despite his
confidence of that morning he felt tense with nervousness, but
the eldest Tendo sister's few words abated his concerns and
immediately put him at ease.
   "Um, yeah," he answered, slipping off his shoes and
stepping through the door.  He was well aware of both the
appearance and scent he projected.  His shirt and pants were
encrusted with dirt and sweat stains, and his hair clung to his
scalp with a slick tenacity that the hot weather hardly
warranted.  He shrugged off his pack and dropped it by the
door, and followed Kasumi into the kitchen.
   "So how was your training?"
   "Pretty good.  Excellent, even.  I think I nailed down
a few techniques I was having trouble with."  As he talked he
peeked into the fridge and nabbed a few sticks of leftover
yakitori.  "How've things been here?"
   "Oh, fairly quiet for the last week," Kasumi
answered, returning to her domestic routine.  "A nice new
little shop opened a few days ago.  The owner's really sweet.
Miss Nakamura a few doors over was feeling a little ill, so I
helped out. . . but I don't want to bore you, Ranma, you must
find all this terribly dull."
   Leaning up against the wall, he smiled.  "Naw, not at
all."
   So the eldest sister continued to fill him in on the
details of the week as she worked at cooking and cleaning
about the kitchen, and the smoothness and surety with which
she moved struck Ranma as appearing nearly martial in its
expression.  Domestic trivialities -- the sickness of a nearby
pet, the small bird that accidentally flew into the dojo, the
favored bowl recently broken -- that had never concerned him
gained a significance beyond their prosaic value through her
retelling.  When was the last time he had truly listened to
Kasumi, he wondered, or taken note of the undercurrents of
life running through the neighborhood?  It had never seemed
important before.  After a week alone in the wilds of Japan,
however, the sudden feeling of a community surrounding him
was reassuring.   Kasumi, on her part, seemed to enjoy the
unexpected audience.  The tension slowly drained away as he
gave himself over to her voice.
   "And that's it, really.  Nothing compared to your
week, I'm sure."
    "I dunno.  Sounds like you've been busy.  I never
realized you did so much out of the house."
   Kasumi smiled.  "Oh, it's nothing, really.  But thank
you."
   "For what?"
   "Listening."
   He shrugged, suddenly feeling slightly embarrassed.
"Um, so, where's everybody else?"
   "Well, Father and uncle Saotome are out chasing
grandfather Happosai again: they said they got an urgent call
for help.  Nabiki is spending the day at a friend's, and she
said she wasn't sure if she'd be back for supper."
   "Oh, okay."  He felt somewhat relieved that Nabiki
wasn't home.  The debt he supposedly owed her returned
fresh to his mind upon hearing the name.  "And. . . ."
   "Akane's just gone to pick up some ingredients she
needs for supper tonight," continued Kasumi.  "She should be
back soon."
   A curious mix of pleasure and anticipation arose at
the realization that he would soon see, and confront --
possibly for the last time -- his ex-fiancee.  Then the full
portent of Kasumi's words registered, and his stomach,
already uneasy, flopped and sank.
   "Akane's cooking supper?"
   "Oh yes!  She seemed rather excited that you were
returning, and insisted on preparing the main course."
   Anticipation turned to dread.  Urgent call indeed.
Might not be back for supper, sure.  Apparently everyone else
had bailed, leaving him the sole target of Akane's latest
culinary attempt.  I suppose I should be flattered that they
trusted me enough to come back when I said I would.  It was
small consolation in face of the upcoming meal.  He muttered
a few choice invectives against fate in general and resigned
himself to a night of possible torture.  After all, how bad
could it be?
   Collecting his possessions by the door, he dropped
them off in his room before trudging off for a bath.  A vague
unease began to gnaw at him, and it was a deeply
preoccupied Ranma who stripped out of his clothing and
stepped into the furo.  He soaped and scrubbed and rinsed and
hardly even noticed turning female.  Only after sinking into
the bath, the hot water easing muscles even as it flared half-
healed training scratches and cuts into clean but smarting
awareness, did the source of his distraction become clear.
   Kasumi.  The house.  The bath.  His bedroom -- _his_
room, when a scant week ago he had denied any attachment
to this building and its residents.  Just now, the path from
kitchen to room to bath: how often had he traced that very
same route, with the same instinctiveness and comfort?
Seven days ago he had felt a stranger in this house, unwanted,
eager to leave.  The urge to move on remained, yet the same
urgency that had led him to that decision was now lacking,
and he questioned the imperative that had led him to depart so
quickly.  He cursed himself and sank deeper into the water
and tried to silence the hinting doubts arising in his thoughts.
Too much of that lately, he decided.  Thinking.  Oh, sure, the
week of training in the forest had been blissfully quiet, but
ever since his awakening this morning, his mind had been
abuzz with nettling half-formed ideas.  Perhaps that was why
I latched on to Kasumi's words so quickly, he thought.
Hearing her words, I could ignore my own; focus on her
images, not mine.  After all, why else would I care about
what happens around here?
   But strangely enough he found that he did, and after a
few more minutes of forcefully trying to deaden his own mind
-- stopping just short of actually banging his head against the
ceramic tiles of the wall -- he decided he was just wasting his
time and vowed to head over to the dojo for a purely-physical
workout; and rising from the cooling waters, he returned to
his senses just in time to hear the door slide open on its
rollers, and he turned to face a very naked Akane stepping
into the room.  The small white towel, with its delicate edge
of embroidered blue leaves and scattering of carefully
rendered sakura blossoms, the one he remembered was given
to Kasumi as a gift for help in a neighborhood bake sale -- he
had helped too, running interference to keep Happosai away,
and so had Akane, though nobody bought her attempt at
cookies (something which, obviously, had annoyed her to no
end, with the eventual result that he'd been forced to eat most
of them) -- did very little to cover her modesty.
   Their eyes met.  For far too long, it felt, they simply
stared at each other.  He found it impossible to read anything
from those brown, slightly startled eyes, yet looking away
never occurred to him.  She stepped back through the
threshold and slid the door shut once again.


She waited in her room.
   The inevitable knock came, stronger and more
confident than she expected.  Akane struggled between
distinct urges to simply remain quiet and pretend she didn't
hear, or screaming and smashing her chair through the door.
She chose instead to utter a curt, "Come in."
   It was Ranma, of course, still slightly wet around the
edges and wearing a bath yukata.  He bobbed his head as he
entered but otherwise didn't seem the least bit apologetic.
She felt an echo of that very special anger that only he
seemed able to generate, rise within her.  Well, she told
herself, there goes a week of peace and tranquility out the
window.  Amazing, it took him less than a minute to piss me
off, too.
   "Hi, Ranma," she said, though her tone was anything
but welcoming.
   "Hi," he answered.  "Er, well. . . I'm back."
   "Yeah, I noticed."
   He tried a little grin, and Akane watched with some
satisfaction as it died under her steady stare.  After a moment
of heavy silence, he shrugged.
   "Fine, whatever.  Let's just get this over with.  You
wanna slam me over the head with the table again, or will a
simple scream suffice?"
   "Excuse me?"
   "How 'bout calling me pervert?  Will that make you
feel better?"
   "You are a pervert!  You ogled me!"
   "Hey, you took a pretty damn good look too!"
   "As if -- you're the voyeur here!"
   "You walked in on me!"
   "You left the sign off the door!"
   "That's 'cus. . . oh, screw this, man."  He turned back
toward the door.  "Didn't we already do this a year ago?"
   "Where are you going?"
   "To hide in my. . . in the guest room until my clothes
are dry.  Then I'm leaving."  He glanced back.  "You wanted
me to come back?  Fine.  I came back.  I don't know why.
Obviously nothing's changed.  I'll be out of your sight as
quickly as possible, 'kay?"
   "Oh, cut the theatrics, Ranma.  It made sense a week
ago; now, you just sound petulant.  Grow up."
   The words were slightly more barbed than she
expected, but they did stop him in his tracks.  Good.  She
didn't want him to leave just yet: there were still so many
things to resolve, things she needed to know.  Already she
could feel her anger of earlier subsiding -- she could even
grudgingly admit that he had a point, she was the one who
had walked in on him.  And taken a rather good look.
   Surprisingly, she even found herself enjoying, in an
angry sort of way, the verbal sparring between them.  No one
had really argued or tried to annoy her all week (except for
maybe the ex-rivals), and while the respectful friendships had
been genuinely pleasant, they had also been just a little. . .
dull.  It was almost fun, seeing whether she could push
Ranma's buttons.
   "Grow up?  You're the violent tomboy who looked
ready to pound me when I stepped in the room."
   Of course, he was remarkably good at pushing _her_
buttons, too.
   "Still, I'm glad this happened," he continued, leaning
back against the closed door.  "Helped me figure out
something that's been bothering me since I got back."
   "Oh really?" she said.  "I didn't know you were so
easily bothered."
   The look he gave her was odd.  "Yeah.  Sometimes.
See, when I stepped through the front door, and Kasumi
greeted me, and I walked around the house -- everything just
felt so. . . normal.  Nice.  Kinda like, well, home, I guess --
not that I really know, since this is the closest I've ever come
to having something like that."
   "You _have_ been here eighteen months, Ranma.
That's not surprising."
   He shook his head.  "You don't get it, Akane, you've
always had this place.  I've lived in other places for long
enough, before: maybe not as long as here, but six months,
eight, a full year here and there. . . and they've never felt like
home before."
   Akane found her urge to nettle Ranma quickly dying,
as he offered up a surprisingly honest. . . pain?, desire?. . . of
his.  How often had she wished for this -- how often had she
denied it -- why did it have to happen once it was too late?
For him to open up like this: something had happened during
his week of training; he had changed in the last week, grown
up, maybe.  She suddenly wondered if she could say the same
-- wondered if she suddenly felt intimidated or frightened by
his openness.
   "But here. . . I dunno.  Maybe it was 'cus I knew,
those other places, they were only temporary, that I'd be
moving on again eventually.  Here was different.  I know, we
both hated the engagement, but for the first time, I couldn't
clearly see a day ahead, some date circled on a calender,
where Pop and I'd be leaving.  Or maybe it was Kasumi, or
even Nabiki, or your dad. . . something made it feel like. . .
well, if not my own home, something a hell of a lot better
than just a house."
   But not me, right Ranma, Akane thought.  Never me.
   "But it wasn't that," he said, fixing her with his gaze.
"When I got back today, I couldn't understand.  Why had I
been in such a hurry to leave last week?  Even with all that
shit back at Furinkan, it wasn't enough.  But I remember
coming back here that day, and this place feeling so alien, so
unwelcoming -- like it does now.  It's not your sisters, or your
father, or the house itself. . . it's you Akane."
   Her breath caught in her throat.
   "It's you.  You don't want me here.  And as long as
you still hate me, or can't stand me. . . or, hell, feel the way
you have about me for the last year -- this place can never be
a home for me."
   He held her gaze for a moment longer, and the faintest
expression of sadness seemed to wash across his face; but she
blinked and it was gone.  Finally he turned away.  "So that's
why I'm leaving."
   "Ranma. . . ."
   "Akane, please. . . don't."
   "Ranma, did you mean everything you just said?"
   "You think I'd lie about something like this?"
   "I don't know, Ranma," she said.  "At one time, yes.
To get out of eating my food, certainly."
   Despite his best efforts, a slow grin crept up and
replaced the scowl that had been there just momentarily.
"Damn, you know me too well.  I'd considered it, yeah."  He
shrugged.  "But, no, I'm being serious about this.  I hafta.  I
have to leave -- I'm not sure I still want to, but I won't stay
here, not the way things are.  Not with you hating me."
   His words had an intensity of effect upon her that
came as a surprise, and she suddenly knew that something
had changed within her during the week as well.  That he
could admit to not wanting to leave -- that this house, family,
home, meant something to him -- that she was the deciding
factor in whether he stayed or not, though he had nowhere
else to go: how could he admit this with such honesty, and she
not do the same?
   But not yet.
   "Ranma. . . I already told you, I don't hate you.  I
don't think I ever have, not really."
   He sighed.  "Not hating someone isn't enough,
Akane.  You don't hate Kuno -- but do you want him living
with you?"
   "I know.  I know.  I. . . just, don't leave, Ranma.  Not
yet, please, just wait a little longer.  After supper, we'll talk.
I need time to think.  I've been doing a lot all week, and now.
. . I think I'm ready to make some choices."
   The look on his face was doubtful, yet she thought
she could detect the faintest glimmering of hope within his
eyes.  Signs of an internal struggle were visible across his face
-- she wondered how much the prospect of eating her food
played in his deliberation -- before he apparently settled upon
a decision.
   "Fine.  I'll stay."
   "I'm glad."
   "And we'll talk after supper."
   "Yes.  Please."


Ranma, after his time in the bathroom, had retired to his room
for the night, slightly feverish, exhausted, and in ill-temper.
The fathers were back, slightly drunk and somewhat
apologetic.  Kasumi cleaned the kitchen and sang softly to
herself.  As for Akane: the youngest sister sat on the edge of
the bed of the middle sister's room with burgeoning tears
springing to her eyes, seeking comfort that was not entirely
forthcoming.
   "Sis, I'd like to help, really," said Nabiki, "but you
know I'm no good at this stuff.  It's Kasumi's department.
Wouldn't you be better off talking to her?"  The middle sister
leaned back comfortably in her chair, one arm propped up
against her desk and supporting her head, legs crossed at the
knee with one leg swinging casually with metronomic
regularity.  It was the only indication, really, that she was
anything _but_ relaxed, and as aware of the nervous habit as
she was, there was nothing she could do to still the sway of
her foot.  She hated giving advice, especially to family,
especially when it was important. Manipulating people,
having a little harmless fun at their expense was one thing,
but offering a solution to a serious problem?  What if she
gave the wrong advice?  Nabiki recognized that, for all her
skill at reading people, she was if anything less experienced
(if more forthright) than her younger sister when it came to
affairs of the heart.  Who was she to be giving advice?
   Beside, she distrusted people who easily offered
advice, and that translated into a deep dislike of doing so
herself.  Most people offering help, she felt, were more
interested in vindicating their own beliefs, or in some way
reaffirming their own self-importance, than in any actual act
of altruism.  Never trust anyone giving free advice, she
believed, they've got their own angle, even if they don't
recognize it themselves.  Yet here she was, being called upon,
if not forced, to give some of her own.
   "I can't," answered Akane.  Her voice quavered
slightly, and she stopped frequently for short swallows or
quick breaths.  Her eyes glimmered with half-formed, unshed
tears, a slight puffiness along the bottom eyelid revealing
inceptive redness.  Her entire expression and comportment
exhibited extreme distress, to a degree that Nabiki had not
seen in her younger sister for a very long time.  The reason,
however, eluded her, for aside from the usual problems, what
had changed so significantly in the last few hours; or perhaps
she should say, what had Ranma done this time?  "Kasumi
doesn't know about how things stand between me and
Ranma," continued her sister, "and I can't tell her -- she'd tell
Dad, or let it slip, or something.  But I have to talk to
someone, Nabiki, I have to.  I can't keep this to myself, not
any longer, I have to talk to someone, but there's nobody,
nobody close enough or who knows or that I can trust. . . but
I need help, he does too, and, and. . . ."  She cut off suddenly,
pressing the heel of her palms against her eyes, and slowly
crumpled forward until her elbows rested against her thighs.
   Nabiki watched in shock as her sister seemed to
collapse inwardly.  She wondered if her sister was crying, for
though Akane's body trembled all over, neither sob nor tear
escaped.  I must've missed something, she berated herself,
there's something going on here that I don't understand.  She
was fine this morning, even with the idea of Ranma leaving
forever, and now she's falling apart.  I have to find some way
to figure out what's happening.  Unsure of what to do, she
simply watched as her sister sat there, shaking silently, until
time drew out and the tension became unbearable; and
suddenly Nabiki knelt next to Akane and hesitantly pressed a
hopefully comforting arm to her back.  "There, er, there.  It's
okay, it'll be okay," she said, deeply hoping that everything
_was_ okay, and knowing that things obviously were far
from being so.
   Suddenly her little sister's tremulous movement
stopped, and she sat up straight, Nabiki's encircling arm
falling aside.  Akane took a deep breath and seemed to
compose herself.  She appeared fine aside for a reddening
around her eyes where her palms had pressed.  The youngest
Tendo looked around for a moment, as if momentarily
confused as to where she was.  She then stood up.  "I'm sorry,
Nabiki.  I'm fine.  Really.  I'll be okay.  I should go."  An
obviously forced smile crawled across her lips, quickly
disappeared, and then Akane stepped toward the door.
   The signs which had been obvious all week but that
she had somehow missed -- or not allowed herself to
recognize -- were momentarily fully apparent as Nabiki
caught a look of her sister's face as she turned away.  Akane
was anything but fine.  The slight pallor to her features, a
deep-set nervousness or distraction lending an unpleasant
jerkiness to her movements: these elements had been there all
week, if not so clearly exhibited; subliminal, perhaps,
unconscious, but nevertheless existent, and once again Nabiki
berated herself for having not noticed.  Or had she noticed
and simply chosen to ignore the signs -- would she, the
mercenary Tendo sister, have overlooked the same telltale
signs in an opponent during a monetary transaction?  Now
brought to the fore by. . . something, Ranma's return, a
change she was yet unaware of, Nabiki could no longer
overlook the tensions pulling at her younger sibling.  Akane
was falling apart -- or, more likely, tearing herself apart.
   "Don't you dare leave this room, Akane," she found
herself saying, just as her sister's hand closed around the
doorknob.  "Don't you leave this room."
   "I'm okay," was the answer, given without turning
around.  "I'm fine."
   "Bullshit.  Bull - shit, you're fine.  You just fell apart
in my room, Akane.  You broke.  I've seen you cry, scream,
yell, pound the wall, but you've never. . . collapsed."  She
allowed  some of the genuine fear she felt slide into her voice.
"You scared me, sis."  She took a deep breath.  "Please. . .
tell me, tell me what's going on."
   "I don't want to talk about it."
   "Dammit, Akane!  Yes you do, or you wouldn't have
set foot in my room.  You want to talk about this, you _need_
to talk about this."
   "I can't."
   "You will!  If I have to blackmail you, if I have to tell
Daddy about you and Ranma . . . I'll make you talk!  You
have to!"
   "I can't!"  Akane finally turned, spinning back
toward  her sister, first tears streaking down her cheeks as her
voice escaped in a startled gasp.  "I can't!"
   Nabiki didn't answer, she didn't know what to say,
but simply moved forward and collected her sister in an
embrace.  For a moment she felt Akane tense up -- how strong
she was, muscles hard and taut beneath her grasp, and for a
moment the older sister felt afraid -- but then release herself to
the hug, going soft, giving herself over to the comfort offered.

   Without letting go, she moved the two of them over to
the bed and sat next to her sister.  Tears turned to sobs, deep
ones that made Akane's entire body shudder as she buried her
head in Nabiki's shoulder.  No words were given nor needed,
as the elder sister waited for the crying jag to run its course.
It was getting dark outside, she noted, the vivid sunset hues
streaking across the March sky fading into the blues and
greys of dusk.  The last errant sakura blossoms, withering and
fading as the season ended, fluttered past her window on the
evening wind.  It suddenly felt unnaturally quiet, for aside
from the muffled and lessening sound of Akane's weeping
and her own soft breathing, Nabiki could hear nothing from
the remainder of the household.
   There was a stirring from within her embrace, and
Akane slowly and quietly pulled away.  Her face was red and
tear streaked, eyes bloodshot from the fierceness of her
crying, yet already some of the nervous tension that had
underscored her demeanor seemed to have faded.  Nabiki
wordlessly passed her the tissue-box.  Akane  wiped her eyes
and blew her nose, and finally sat back on the bed, leaning
back against the wall.  The older sister waited.
   A deep sigh, and Akane spoke.  "Thanks."
   Nabiki nodded.  "No problem."
   "I really fell apart there, didn't I?"  Hint of a wry
grin.
   "To pieces.  Total collapse.  You were a mess."
   "Guess you were right."
   "I've told you before, never argue with big sister."
   "Yeah."
   Silence.  Akane wiped at her eyes again, closed them,
curled into a small ball, thighs to chest and chin resting on
knees.  Nabiki, at the opposite end of the best, stretched out
her legs and waited some more.
   "I'm sorry," Akane finally said, eyes still closed.  "I
didn't mean to. . . ."
   "Hey.  Don't worry about it.  I'm no Kasumi, but that
doesn't mean I don't care."
   "I know."
   "So are you ready to talk about it?"
   "No."
   "Will you?"
   A pause.
   "Yes."


Ranma dreams:  I walk along a cobblestone path toward
shimmering depth of blue.  There is nothing else: no light no
sound, neither scent nor sensation: only the path, the pool,
and I.  Darkness all about.  Yet with each step a concurrent
reality intrudes itself upon my march.  First: voices,
ephemeral, their source just beyond the limits of vision,
incomprehensible.  Then: phantom traces of others along the
path.  Recognition accompanies the intrusion of cloying
sweetness wafting on the night's wind, sakura short
blossom'd end: I walk a chosen path clad in female body and
female clothing, and as always my feminine form forces a
disjointed nightmarish aspect upon the scene.  My orange
bikini sheds crimson as a duck sheds water, flies four times
about my head and joins the embers floating skyward.  I have
returned to the party.  I am not alone.  I join my friends, they
ply me with drinks and jokes and sexual innuendo and
observing the scene from without I see myself shudder at
each, for I have just noticed the cracks in their face through
which the curry of their minds flows.  I step up to the edge of
the pool; every broken, immobile bodied seeping face turns to
follow; and I leap into the air, high above them, into the
darkness, suspended, above a coalescing pool of bloodied red-
spattered brown curry every grain of rice a sharp, serrated-
edged tooth flowed free from friends' gaping yawning maws
and pointing straight at the me suspended above their
putrescence, suspended and spinning curled-up cannonball-
dive ball,
   and I grasp the ball in my hand and for a moment,
gaze off into the distance, into the clear unspotted sky
punctuated only by the single bespectacled duck hovering on
the horizon.  I toss up the ball and it seems suspended,
blocking the sun, and in the swelling darkness the girls and
boys form a ring about me, hands linked, drawing closer,
circle closing, looming faceless, restraining me.  I laugh out
loud triumphantly.  They have no idea of what is coming.
Restrain me, who blocks the sun and becomes that very orb of
light and heat from which they cower?  I hoist the bat and
swing,
   and I hit the ball just -so-, with all the strength I can
muster with all the control and fluidity and power that
seventeen years of martial training has wrought and I watch
the ball disappear into the distance with a resounding crack,
   and it's all so clear as I watch myself plunge arrow-
like into the slough of Furinkan's decay spewed forth of the
phalanx of faceless cracked gaping students lining the pool's
edge and standing row after row into the unending distance.


It was some time before Akane felt ready to continue.
Despite her threat, Nabiki nevertheless allowed her younger
sister to leave the room, on the condition that she promise to
return.  Word given, she took her time in the bathroom;
seeing her puffy eyes and reddened nose, and the other visible
signs of her sadness that still marred her face, Akane
marveled at how quickly the tranquility of an entire week
could be so thoroughly destroyed.  But she couldn't muster
anger, not at this point, not at Ranma.  Even the memory of
his betrayal failed to pierce the lethargic blanket of
melancholy that settled softly and numbingly around her, as
she stared at herself in the mirror.  Face: limpid unblinking
hazel eyes: shallow pools.  She blinked, turned away, feeling
sudden disgust.
   That betrayal.  It failed to anger her, but she hadn't
yet forgiven him.  She wondered if she ever could, wondered
if others could ever understand how deeply his unthinking
simple -- incredibly complex -- action had scarred her.
Unthinking?  Hardly, and perhaps the wound cut all the
deeper for having been so obviously considered.  How much
had been decided in that impossibly brief moment, hand on
wrist, twist, tightening of muscle, psychic spasm of pain that
yet reverberated throughout.  The eyes showed it.  Had shown
it.  A choice. . . .
   She was back in her sister's room, now dressed in her
yellow fishcake-design pajamas, hardly aware of having
changed.  Her sister waited patiently, idly flipping through a
year-old manga, one leg casually swinging with monotonous
regularity over the edge of the bed.  Akane quietly sat at the
edge of the mattress.
   "He knew exactly what he was doing," she said,
almost startling herself with the recognition that she had
begun speaking.  It was a sudden realization, and she pursued
the new idea even as she spoke.  "When he hurt me that
night."
   Nabiki snorted indelicately.  "No shit, Akane.  Of
course he did.  You don't twist somebody's wrist by
accident."
   "No, no, not that," answered Akane, shaking her
head.  "That was nothing."
   "Nothing?  He hurt you, sis."
   "That's the thing.  He didn't.  He didn't.  I pulled
away before he actually applied enough pressure for it to
cause pain."
   "So what?  He meant to, and that's what counts here,
drunk or not.  Intent, right?"
   "Did he?"  Akane focused for a moment on her sister,
before returning her gaze to the wall opposite her.  "Mean to
hurt me, that is?  I'm not so sure, now.  I mean, that's what's
been eating at me all this last week.  The idea that he'd
actually hurt me.  Betrayal.  I trusted him -- I never realized
how much -- even when I accused him in the past, I still
believed in him -- he'd always protected me, absurd lengths,
never retaliated, built a trust. . . ."  The word tumbled out,
quickly, half-spoken as she rushed along a new idea towards
an unknown destination; then she came to an abrupt halt,
took a deep breath, before continuing with sudden
deliberateness.  "And then he cut all that out from beneath me
with a few words and his hand on my wrist.
   "But what if. . . ."  Brown meeting blue over crossed
hands, a year reduced to a heartbeat, myriad possibilities to a
single inevitability.  "It wasn't about the party, or going
swimming, or doing what either he or I wanted to do that
night."
   "Then what?"  Her sister's question nearly startled
the answer out of her mind, so intent had she been on it.
   "It was about making a choice."
   "Yeah, to hurt-."
   "He made his then and there, offered me the same. . .
."
   "Huh?"
   "It's been eating at me all week, trying to understand.
He chose without me."
   "Sis, what the hell are you talking about?"
   "And tonight I ruined everything."
   "Hello?"
   Akane suddenly felt the same staggering sadness of
earlier well up within.  Tears sprang once again to her eyes.
An overwhelming crush of emotion.  She recognized that the
decision that had tormented her all week had likely been
made long ago; and given a chance to reverse her choice, she
had unconsciously undercut that very possibility.  It was the
only explanation, and now she wept at her own weakness of
spirit -- and yet, it seemed, she felt a slight relief that the
ambiguity was now resolved.
   "Okay, you've got me," a dry voice interrupted, "I've
got _no_ idea why you're crying this time."
   A giggle, with an undercurrent of hysterica, cut
through her tears.  Akane turned back to her sister.  Nabiki
was watching her with a hint of a wry smile.  Of course you
don't, she thought, how could you, you too decided long ago.
. . .
   "Don't you see, Nabiki?  Tonight!"
   "So we're back in the present?"
   "We were supposed to talk!"
   "Um, aren't we?"
   "Not you, Ranma!  Ranma and I were supposed to
have a big talk tonight, after supper."
   "I dunno, sis.  He didn't look up for too much after
puking his guts out.  I can't really blame him for heading off
to bed."
   Akane frowned.  "Thanks, Nabiki.  I can see you're
taking this very seriously."
   Her sister shrugged.  "Hey, at least you stopped
crying.  I told you: I want to help, but I suck at giving advice.
And when you walk into my room, burst into tears, leave,
come back, get all cryptic, then burst into tears again -- well,
what do you expect?  I need full sentences here, sis, give me
something to work with!"
   Akane blew her nose, wiped her eyes dry.  Well, she
thought, although the sarcasm was something she'd rather do
without, she couldn't fault her sister for at least trying.  At
least the irritation Nabiki provoked was better than the
overwhelming sadness or stupefying apathy she felt when on
her own.
   "Okay."  She decided to try again.  "Earlier today,
Ranma and I had a short talk.  He -- well, he's changed a bit
in the last week, I think.  He admitted some pretty serious
stuff to me.  And I wanted to answer back, meet him halfway.
After a year-and-a-half, we were finally talking, Nabiki, we
were really talking, and not just arguing or swapping
nonsense.  But I needed time.  I told him, later tonight.  After
supper."
   Nabiki nodded in comprehension.  "Right.  But that
never happened, because he got sick."
   "Exactly.  And. . . oh, Nabiki, it was _so_ important
for us to talk!  He was ready to leave, for good, forever.  I
told him to stay, to wait.  Tonight was my last chance to
convince him."
   "Yes, but sis," her sister interjected, leaning forward,
"do you _want_ him to stay?"
   That, of course, was the crux of the matter.  How
many issues were concentrated into that single question?
What did it mean for him to stay; what did it mean for him to
leave?  But she had a ready answer -- not _the_ answer, but
one that would do.
   "Yes, Nabiki, I do."  Her reply came with only the
briefest of hesitations.  "I don't have the right to make him
leave.  He made it very clear: the only thing making him go
away was me.  But that's not fair.  If he leaves, what does he
lose?  Home, family, friends, his education: everything.
What kind of life can he expect to lead, if I send him away?"
   "I dunno," Nabiki said, and shrugged.  "The kind of
life he wants, maybe?"


Ranma dreams: I step from the river onto solid earth.  The
swim was refreshing.  It eased the heat of the day and
cleansed the sweat from my body.  I take a moment to exult
in the simple glory of being alive, in breathing deeply and
feeling the swell of air within my muscle-hardened chest.  I
exult in the vibrant life of the forest around me.  I exult in the
knowledge that I am myself -- for what else could I possibly
be?  Content, I step,
   from the river onto solid earth.  The swim was
refreshing.  It eased the heat of the day and cleansed the sweat
from my body.  I take a moment to exult in the simple glory
of being alive, in breathing deeply and feeling the rush of air
beneath the swell of my soft rounded chest.  I exult in the
vibrant life of the forest around me.  I exult in the knowledge
that I am myself -- for what else could I possibly be?
Content, I watch the man follow the path leading into the
woods, choose to follow, and I step,
   from the river onto solid earth.  The swim was
refreshing.  It eased the heat of the day and cleansed the sweat
from my body.  I take a moment to exult in the simple glory
of being alive, in breathing deeply and feeling the intake of
air beneath incipient breasts, within my youthful chest.  I
exult in the vibrant life of the forest around me.  I exult in the
knowledge that I am myself -- for what else could I possibly
be?  Content, I watch the woman follow the man follow the
path leading into the woods, choose to follow, and I step,
   onto the path leading into the woods, alone yet
fulfilled.  I feel that I am missing nothing.  The trees surround
me, teeming with wildlife: a duck darts from the brush,
quacks urgently at me once, and soars into the air, the bright
sun glinting off of his glasses.  On a whim I choose to follow
the bird, for I am free to do as I choose.
   (On a whim I choose to follow the man following the
bird, for I am free to do as I choose.)
   (On a whim I choose to follow the woman following
the man following the bird, for I am free to do as I choose.)
   I walk along this new path, through a steadily
darkening forest, and the multitudinous sky-reaching trees
begin to give way to ground that squelches underfoot and
reeks of rot.  Fetid waters squeezes its way through the
healthy soil and corrupts.  I no longer wish to find what lies at
the center of this mire, for I am alone.  It calls to me.  No
challenge can be refused.
   I am afraid.
   (I am afraid.)
   (I am afraid.)


Another brief pause, her final question seeming to have
stunned her sister into momentary silence.  Nabiki found that,
despite herself, she was actually enjoying this little sister-to-
sister moment.  They were all too rare.  It was great fun
watching her little sister's mind run through loops and blow
the occasional fuse.  But it was tiring work, and so while
Akane pondered, the older sister padded downstairs for a
snack.
   The fathers had given up on shogi and turned to igo,
although a quick glance at the board left her wondering what
purpose the red, green, and plaid stones filled.  The kitchen
was empty but had been left immaculate, and Nabiki almost
felt guilty disrupting its pristine state by daring to pour herself
a glass of milk.  The fridge revealed a bowl of leftover rice
and curry, and she carried the late-night meal back upstairs
with her.
   "So, what're you going to do?" Nabiki asked, as
plopped down on her bed across from Akane.
   "I don't know," her younger sister answered, "I feel
like I ruined everything."
   "I really don't see how you're to blame in all this."
   "The food, Nabiki.  I made him sick."
   "Oh, big deal.  It's not the first time you've nauseated
someone with your cooking."
   "Thanks."
   "C'mon, you know it's true.  But that just goes to
show you, it's nothing to worry about, it's not like you spiked
his tea or poisoned him on purpose, or. . . hey, what's
wrong?"
   "But that's just it," Akane yelled, "I did poison him
on purpose!"
   Nabiki opened her mouth, thought better of it, closed
without saying a word.  She took a sip of milk.  Tried again.
"Um, excuse me?"
   The anger that drove Akane to raise her voice now
abruptly seemed to transform into shame, eyes dropping and
fixating on the floor.  Her fingers found folds in the bed sheets
and hid from sight.  No answer was forthcoming.
   "Akane?"
   "I-."  The younger sister glanced up before looking
away again.  "Well, what else could it be," she said in a quiet
voice.  "I must have done it on purpose.  I know what my
cooking's like, Nabiki.  Maybe it's getting better, but I still
know how bad it really is.  I taste my own food now -- you
have no idea how many meals I've thrown away because I
knew they were inedible.  But not this time.
   "Not this time," she repeated, and sighed.  "And why
not?  I said earlier I wanted to talk to Ranma, it was my last
chance to set things right, maybe, or convince him to stay; but
it's a lie.  It's all lies.  I might say it, but obviously I don't
mean it, or I wouldn't have insisted on cooking.  I wouldn't
have forced him to eat my food.  I wouldn't have walked in
on him in the bathroom.  I wouldn't have turned away from
the opportunity to talk when it came up -- not if I really
wanted to do so.  Time to think, I said.  Ha!  I'd already had a
week to think.  It was enough for him, it should've been
enough for me, too.
   "I'm a coward, afraid of finally having an open
conversation with him, and I delayed and hid behind my
cooking until the threat Ranma represented was gone, and. . .
."
   "Oh, will you shut up," said Nabiki, and leveled a
glare of disgust at her younger sister.  "Have you gone loopy
or something?"
   "What?"
   "You give yourself too much credit, sis.  I hate to
break it to you, but, frankly, you're not that deep."
   "Hey!"  The look of sudden indignation on Akane's
face was nearly comical.  "I am so deep!"
   "Sorry, Akane, you just don't work on that many
levels.  Trust me, I know.  Many things you are, sis: kind, and
caring, considerate. . . and, let's face it, just a tad violent; but
you're also forgiving, so that's okay.  But most of all, Akane,
you're honest.  Heart on your sleeve honest.  You're not
capable of that level of self-deception."  Well, maybe, thought
Nabiki, at least when it comes to matters of Ranma and love.
But she wasn't even sure of that anymore.  You said Ranma
had grown in the last week Akane, but I think you may have
as well.  I don't think we'd be having this conversation
otherwise.
   Her sister had the oddest look on her face, a cross
between desperately wanting to accept what had just been
said, and anger at the somewhat belittling -- Nabiki took
some pride in the carefully calculated tone of her voice, half-
reassuring, half-condescending -- judgment of her character.
Apparently consolation won out, as she released a deep sigh
and much of the tension visibly drained from entire body.
   "I. . . do you think so?  Maybe I am reading too much
into this."
   "For sure," agreed Nabiki.  "With Ranma too.  I
don't know what you were babbling on about back there,
with all that nonsense about choices and decisions and
whatnot, but I'll tell you this: the only thing he was thinking
about at that point was going swimming.  If he hadn't been so
drunk, he probably would've backed down, too."
   "You really think so?"
   Nabiki nodded.  "He's even more straightforward
than you, sis.  The guy couldn't deceive if his life depended
on it.  He's an open book."  But even as she said so, a little
doubt gnawed at her: the Ranma she had confronted a week
ago was not the same as the one she'd dealt with and
swindled and toyed with for the last year.  There had been a
hint of a backbone beneath the genuine contriteness over what
had happened with her sister.  If he had changed as much in
the last week as Akane seemed to think. . . things could prove
interesting.  But that was neither here nor there, for what her
sister needed at this time was comforting, not further doubts.
Constant self-questioning never came to any good.  That she
knew all too well.
   "I guess," Akane said, and flopped back onto the bed.
"I hope."
   "No doubts.  Don't worry."
   "I just really wish he had liked the food tonight.  I
even cooked rice curry for him.  I thought he liked my curry."
   Nabiki paused, glanced down at the nearly empty
bowl cradled in her lap.  "That's odd," she said, mainly to
herself.  She felt inwardly, checking for imminent stomach
cramps, convulsions, cold sweats. . . death.  Everything
seemed fine.
   "What is?"
   She took a tentative bite, which felt a little silly after
having already taken in the entire bowl.  It tasted. . . fine.
Almost. . . good.  Poor by Kasumi standards, maybe, but
probably better than anything she could serve up on her own.
"Did you serve anything else?"
   "No, just curry.  I didn't want to overdo it."  Akane
propped herself up on one elbow and looked curiously at her.
"Why?"
   "It's just strange, that's all."  She showed her sister
the bowl.  "I just finished off the leftovers.  It tasted fine.  I'm
surprised Mr. Iron Stomach couldn't handle. . . sis?"
   For even as she trailed off, she watched the most
remarkable transformation overtake her young sister's
countenance: she paled, immediately, features turning white,
even as suddenly bloodless lips yawned in a soundless 'o'.
Her eyes resembled those of one who, turning a sharp corner
on a mountain road, suddenly finds a truck bearing down on
her; eyes wide and unblinking, yet not so much surprised as
resigned to the nearing inevitability, unwilling to accept yet
unable to deny the reality of what was happening.  A slight
tremor overtook Akane, seeming to start from deep within,
but building as it spread outward, so that within moments she
was shaking hard enough that Nabiki, at the other end of the
bed, could feel a slight shiver through the mattress.
   And then the silence was broken, as a low, pitiful
moan tore itself from Akane's lips, ending only when she
buried her face in her hands, at which point the only sound
Nabiki could make out was her sister's constant, broken
repetition of a single word: "Oh Ranma, Ranma, Ranma. . . ."


Ranma dreams:

[3/4 camera angle.]
[Zoom in quickly upon the structure.]
[Level out upon approach.]
   Lightning crashes in the distance.  Trees are split in
two, from drooping head to sunken base.  Earth is thrown up
and scattered.  Indistinct from afar, the object upon the
horizon reveals itself to be a thick stone slab set upon short,
thick legs.
[Rotate horizontally slowly about the NIGHT SEA ALTAR.]

   The detailing is meticulous, chthonic, disturbing,
grey-stoned carved and age-pitted.  Slippery rotted vegetation
droops limply over the edges, curls along the dulled relief and
reaches for the moist earth.  Darkened crimson streaks sunken
into the top slab's sides look well used.  Life crawls along the
altar's massive clawed supports, scurrying through
ctenophore canyons, cilia crevices, feelers a-twitch, mandibles
snapping, a thousand thousand chitinous legs raising a
seething sibilant shivering rustle.
[360 rotation complete.]
[Draw back slowly.]
[Rotate vertically upwards: reveal the top of the altar.]
   Someone lies bound to the altar.
[Top-view camera angle, revealing YOUNG RANMA.]
   On the altar, a young girl lies naked, arms and legs
spread and lashed down by blackened creepers no longer
verdant.  Her red hair is unbound but twined with stalks of
wheat, and falls half across her face, obscuring one eye.  The
other is opened wide, frantically glancing about.  Her mouth
is opened to scream but no sound escapes: twisting vines
leaking dark fluids choke her cries.
[Draw back, lower the view: reveal the person standing by the
altar.]
[It is NODOKA.]
   She is tall, and beautiful, and bears a strong
resemblance to the child lying before her on the altar.  Vacant
eyes fail to make the recognition.  Crimson sakura blossoms
dripping blood flow across the midnight-pitch fabric of her
kimono.  She holds a drawn katana in her hands.  She holds it
overhead, point aimed towards the figure at her side.
[Camera spins: rapid zoom across the landscape.]
[Dodge to one side to avoid an errant duck before
continuing.]
[Return to 3/4 angle, close, upon two figures emerging from
the woods.]
[Zoom in upon the horrified faces of RANMA and FEMALE
RANMA.]

"No!"  The cry tears itself from my throat as I see my darkly-
clad mother lift her katana overhead.  I can not make out the
figure lying before her, but I know beyond all certainty that
she must be saved.  Fear becomes immaterial once that
decision is made.  I sprint forward, across the wet earth, faster
than I have every moved.
   (I watch myself move forward; I watch myself follow;
I watch myself stare in terror as my mother lifts the family
blade overhead and aims it straight for my core.)
   But suddenly dozens of Ryuta Uehara's and Sayuri's
and Hiroshi's are blocking my path, splashing me with sticky
sweet drinks and slowing me with insults and stopping me by
bonding.  They go down quickly, a single kick or well placed
punch eliminating the delay, but there are hundreds, it seems,
far far too many to simply plow through.  And the sword rises
ever higher and gleams ever sharper, and sudden fear chills
my soul at the thought of it slicing me to the very core.  Yet
even as tears of frustration spring to my eyes the opposition
melts away before me, and a loud, insistent voice urges me
forward.
   "Go, dammit!  I'll hold them off," yells my female
half, tearing Sayuri's head off with a vicious knife-hand,
swinging the head by its long hair and knocking a half-dozen
foes aside.  "You have to save us!"
   Even as a leap forward I know it's too late.
   Glint of argent steel.  Spray of red.  Scrape of metal,
bone and steel.
   I didn't make it, I failed, the scream of loss escapes
before it twists into one of pain.  The sword follows a straight
path, as it was designed to do: from my mother's hand,
through the soft flesh of my inner thigh, through the softer
belly of the girl beneath me, into the thirsty stone of the altar.
Staring up in disbelief at the woman responsible reveals only
empty eyes and thin lips curled into a malicious smirk.
Bloodied hands -- mine -- curl about the wet shaft piercing me
and I.  There is resistance.  I will not be denied.  The sword
slides free with a slick slurping sound.  My mother stumbles
back and falls, and for a moment resembles someone else, a
man, perhaps.
   Before I can move the altar crumbles away, and I fall
into the gaping, collapsing earth, followed by stone and
blood, into darkness.



It was her sister's urgent shaking and forceful urging that
broke Akane's incessant, quiet sobbing, and she looked up
with red, though tearless, eyes into Nabiki's concerned face.
   "Shit, sis, what's wrong?"
   How to explain: the pain, the twisting hollowness
within as her worst fears were confirmed; that the possibility
she had denied herself even contemplating all week was now
all but certain.  It couldn't be, impossible, not to -- another
explanation, had to be, he'd been sick -- somebody else
would've of seen, known. . . but even as her mind shied away
from the idea, she found herself finally unable to deny the
reality of what was happening, and it made her sick, she
swallowed against the rise of bile in her throat, eyes squeezed
shut, cold sweat; and an abiding sense of dormant panic
awoke and seized her in its grip.
   "Akane. . . Akane!"
   She wouldn't explain, couldn't, giving voice to what
she had finally consciously realized would make it too real.
It was too dangerous.  Could destroy the household.  Ranma.
Oh, Ranma. . . .
   "I can't. . . ," she started to say, voice hardly a
whisper, but even as the words escaped she suddenly knew
that it was inevitable, she _had_ to share what she knew.  Her
stomach twisted again.  She wasn't strong enough to carry
this in her own, Akane now realized, even a single week had
proven too much.  Not on her own.
   "Akane," tried Nabiki again, "what's going on?"
Then Akane grabbed her by the shoulders and pull her close,
and suddenly tearful hazel eyes cleared, hardened, demanding
her attention.
   "Nabiki.  What I'm about to say, you can't ever share
with anyone.  No one.  Ever."
   "Sis-."
   "Promise, Nabiki," Akane insisted.  She saw her
sister wince in pain, and realized that she had tightened her
grip.  She didn't relax.  "I have to share this, I can't do this on
my own, I need your help. . . but I need to know that what I
say won't leave this room.  That it'll stay between us."
   She watched as her sister momentarily hesitated,
biting her bottom lip in indecision.  Akane couldn't and
didn't guess at what was running through Nabiki's mind --
her own was in far too much turmoil to do so.  But finally,
still caught in the younger sister's painful embrace, Nabiki
gave a small nod of consent.
   "You promise, Nabiki?"
   "I. . . promise.  I do."  And then, a moment later when
Akane had yet to release her, a touch of anger tainting her
voice.  "Dammit, Akane, I said I promised!"
   Only then did she let go, and fall back, and watched
as Nabiki pulled away and gently rubbed at her shoulder.
Already she felt some of the tension -- if none of the
queasiness -- abate.  "I'm. . . I'm sorry," she offered.
   "I hope so!" Nabiki said, frowning, obviously pissed
off, voice loud.  "That's going to bruise, you know!  This
better be good, sis, first you send me in a panic, then you hurt
me, and now. . . ."
   "I think Ranma's been raped," Akane whispered.


She was totally unprepared for the sight that awaited her
when the lights flickered into life.  Untidy disarrayed sheets.
Dishevelled Chinese shirt.  Bikini top crumpled on floor.
Mussed bangs and unravelled locks.  Red -- red.  Pungent
reek of bile and sweat and alcohol.  Stifling unaired cluttered
over-bright room, and Akane finally, forcefully focussed on
the centre of the scene: the half-naked unconscious girl curled
into a tight, small ball in the middle of the bed.  Whatever
anger had carried her back this far faded immediately as her
eyes lingered disbelievingly over Ranma's shivering form.
"Ranma?" she whispered and then, when he failed to respond,
again, louder, "RANMA!"
   The redhead uncurled slightly, eyes flickering open.
He smiled.  "A - Akane," he sighed, and struggled briefly to
reach towards her.  Then his whole body trembled, convulsed
once, and he collapsed, pitching forward onto the mattress.
The bed bounced him up once and then he remained
motionless, laying face down.  Akane was at his side a second
later, kneeling next to the bed.
   "C'mon, c'mon, Ranma. . . ," she whispered,
desperation tainting her voice, lightly shaking the redhead.
This couldn't be happening; not this, not to Ranma. . . .  A
tight, tight knot formed in her stomach as she looked him
over, wash of guilt and fear and worry.  "C'mon, Ranma,
please. . . ."
   His head lolled limply to one side, but after a moment
she was rewarded with a glimpse of slitted blood-shot
cerulean eyes.  "Akane," he moaned, and one hand fluttered
feebly towards her.
   "Wh - what happened," she asked softly, taking his
hand in hers.  It was cold and clammy.
   "You came back," he mumbled, voice so thick and
slurred it was practically incomprehensible.  "I don't feel
s'good, 'kane. . . ."
   "Ranma. . . ."
   "It hurts, Akane.  It hurts."  His voice was almost a
whimper.
   "I - I'm sorry."
   "S'not your fault," he whispered, "s'mine," and his
eyes closed and his dirty, smudged female face relaxed into
something nearing sleep.
   Akane stood up.  After a moment of staring down at
Ranma, she slowly reached down and picked up the fallen
bikini top.  It was awkward, but she managed to pull the
thing back over his generous bosom.  Then she straightened
out his shirt and tied the front up.  Finally she took hold of the
bottom, tangled loosely around one ankle, and slide it up his
legs.  Oh, she noted absently, I guess she's already started her
period.  His period, she corrected herself, looking numbly at
the redhead.
   For a long time she stood there, feeling lost, eyes
slowly sweeping across the room without any clear of idea of
what she was looking for.  Finally they settled on the form of
the young, redheaded girl snoring softly on the bed before her.
She didn't know what to do.  But there really was only one
possibility.  Akane made the only choice she could think of,
the only one available to her: she picked up the unconscious
form of her fiance and made her way through the darkened,
empty house, finding her way home.


"No, Akane, no," said Nabiki, after listening mutely to her
sister's story.   "You're wrong, there's no way. . . no fucking
way. . . that he could've been. . . that kind of shit doesn't
_happen_, not here, and not to Ranma!  There's no way!"
Gone was the assurance of the night, the cynicism, the
enjoyment.  Nabiki couldn't remember the last time she felt
this exposed, raw -- in some way she felt angry, at having her
control torn away, and that anger fueled her denial.  "No
_way_!  You saw it wrong, or. . . ."
   Surprisingly, it was Akane who now seemed calm,
having delivered her recollection with an even, almost
monotonous, voice.  "I know what I saw," she said, "I told
you everything I saw."
   "Then it was just like you said.  He was having his
period -- shit, can't believe I'm talking about some guy's
fuckin' period! -- and that's it.  Nothing more."
   Akane shook her head.  "You think I don't want to
believe that?  I tried.  All week.  It's been killing me, when he
was here, when he was gone, in my dreams, at school, always
in the back of my mind.  When I was talking to him.  It made
me sick, Nabiki!  The thought of it, of what it would do to
him -- sick!
   "The next day, I didn't know what to do.  But there
he was, he seemed fine, he didn't say a thing. . . and if he'd
been. . . if someone had. . . he would've known, right?  That's
what I told myself, I made it easy to convince myself.  After
all, I was angry, I was still so angry at him, for everything
else, and I tried to use that to forget.  I tried to make him go
away so that I could forget.  But even as I wanted him to
leave, I couldn't let him go, I had to make sure he came back:
what if something _had_ happened?  And now he's back, and
I know, and. . . ."
   "And you know _nothing_," Nabiki insisted.
"Nothing!  You found him drunk, and naked -- okay.  Okay.
Looks bad.  Could also be a prank.  Maybe someone took
pictures.  There was blood.  It was his period.  Doesn't mean
a thing.  Nothing."
   "No, Nabiki," said Akane, eyes sad.  "I checked.  I
had to, even if I didn't quite let myself know why.  If it was
his period, it would've shown somewhere.  He stayed girl for
a long time, his mother was here.  I went through the laundry,
before Kasumi got to it.  Aside from the bikini, nothing."
   "That doesn't. . . maybe he. . . ."
   "What, used a pad?  Ranma?"
   "Then. . . then," Nabiki stammered, inexplicably
angry, hurting, unsure -- unused to having her argumentative
defenses so easily swept aside, and by her sister no less.  This
was _her_ battleground, an arena of logic and rhetoric and
information: and this time, the information was lacking, her
logic failed, and what place did rhetoric hold before the stark
reality of what her sister suggested?  Nabiki could neither
back down nor accept what she was being told, not without
another try.  "Then -- pain.  If what you say happened, then
there's no way Ranma wouldn't have noticed, especially if
there'd been. . . blood.  He would've been hurt, would have
felt the pain the next day, down. . . ," she swallowed the
sudden rise of bile that stung her throat, "there."
   Akane blinked slowly, as if taken by surprise and now
mulling the idea slowly, and Nabiki thought she had scored a
convincing counter, until her sister slowly shook her head in
denial.  "Nabiki, this is the same person who's been tossed
across a skating rink and left an impact crater in the concrete
wall; who's been imbedded two feet deep into a rock face by
a punch from Ryoga; who's had everything from explosions
to poisons lay him flat: and given a few minutes, hours, a
night at most, he's back up and running.  He heals quick,
quicker than anyone I know.  Why would it be any different
in this situation?
   "And it did hurt him," she continued, this time her
eyes dropping and her voice lowering to a whisper.  "He
whimpered when I found him.  Told me it hurt.  I tried to
believe it was the alcohol, the throwing up, or maybe
something emotional, the break-up; but I was being weak
again and hiding from the truth.  But I can't do that
anymore."
   Nabiki sank back, shocked.  This couldn't be
happening.  Have happened.  She just needed to step back,
think it through, analyze -- but it was too immediate,
demanded to be felt, not reasoned, and left her so profoundly
shaken that she couldn't get an angle on it.  She wasn't on the
outside, now, Akane had dragged her in and made of her a
participant.  She stared at her sister, sitting opposite her,
somehow looking more relaxed, if still obviously in grief,
then she had all night.
   "But. . . sis," Nabiki tried.  "I mean, why now, why
not anymore?  If you went all week, and weren't ready to
believe. . . why now, tonight?  What happened?"
   "Isn't it obvious?" Akane said, and pointed at the
bowl lying upside down next to her.  "The food.  You said it
was fine, you just ate it all, but you're not sick."
   "So?"
   "But don't you get it?  It can only mean one thing.
Morning sickness: he's been raped, and now he's pregnant,
and now he's suffering from morning sickness!"
   It was too much, from the overwhelming gravity of a
moment ago, to this absolute absurdity: making the sudden
switch forced sharp, loud laughter from her.  The suppressive
atmosphere that had pervaded her room to the extent that
even her breathing had felt labored immediately lifted.  The
rush of relief in its wake almost left her feeling giddy.
   "Nabiki, this is serious!"
   "Oh, I know, I know," she said, wiping a tear from
her eye.  "I know.  It's just. . . oh, Akane, sis, you are just
_so_ naive."
   "Excuse me?"
   "Morning sickness?  This is why you're so sure?  Sis,
even admitting that he -had- been. . . and was now pregnant --
which is just crazy -- it's barely been a week!  It doesn't
happen that quick."
   "He was sick!"
   "And he ate your cooking!  Maybe it was a reflex
action.  Or who knows what kind of crap he ate while
hanging out in the bush.  He might've been carrying around a
mild case of food poisoning.  Even Kasumi's cooking
would've set him off."
   "But. . . ."
   "No."  Nabiki cut her off.  "It's not even worth
thinking about.  I mean, it doesn't make sense.  How about
this: he's been a guy since he has gotten back.  Probably spent
most of the last week as a guy, too.  If he was pregnant," and
saying it, she had to suppress a giggle, a half-hysteric
bubbling up of released tension, "wouldn't that screw up the
curse?  Wouldn't he be stuck in his female form, or
something?"
   "I don't know," said Akane," sounding doubtful but
looking desperate to be convinced.  "I don't know how the
curse works.  But then, how do you explain what I saw, then?
In the room, after the party?"
   "I can't," Nabiki admitted.  "That's. . . pretty heavy
shit.  I don't know what happened.  Maybe it was only a
prank.  Maybe. . . something worse.  But we have no way of
knowing.  Short of asking Ranma himself."
   "No!" exclaimed Akane, eyes wide. "No, never!  We
can't ask him, we can't tell him!  Even the idea -- it would
destroy him!  You promised!"
   "I don't need you to remind me of my word, Akane,"
said Nabiki, coldly.  "But do you seriously intend to keep this
secret from him?  If he's been taken advantage of, he needs to
know.  If you seriously think he might be pregnant, shouldn't
he be aware of the risks?  If anyone's got the right to know
what's going on, it's him."
   "No!  No, there has to be another way."
   "Well, then you better think of something quickly,
because from what you've been telling me, he'll probably
take off tomorrow, and that'll be that.  For better or for worse,
it won't be your concern anymore."  Nabiki inched forward
and grabbed her sister's hands in her own.  Nabiki could feel
the tightness in her stomach, the tension wrought by the very
idea of what might have happened, and wondered at her
sister's strength, that she could carry the secret, alone, for so
long.  She felt closer to Akane than she had in a very long
time, brought together by the shared knowledge and
responsibility of unwanted possibility.
   "You have a decision to make, Akane."


Ranma dreams:
   i float along a river in darkness alone
   behind me an upward hole to rot and sickness
   further lies a pool corrupted and broken friends
   before me lies nothing.

   cradled in arm is myself slain and young
   blood of her womb leads to blood of my thigh
   she and I alone on the water
   before lies nothing

   forever silent clutching me
   dark retreat upon darker sea
   yet what remains for us to learn
   before nothing

   And then sudden light from above, unreachable,
blinding: and a figure hovering in the unexpected egress: a
duck.  Chains from voluminous wings offered escape, for one.
Leaving the ruined body to sink into the waters, he grabs the
link to above and hoists himself away.  But at the apex of his
climb his strength abandons him, the throbbing pain in his
thigh resonates throughout and weakens his grip.  With
nothing more than a sigh he lets go, to fall back into the dark:
and before he can stumble a hand reaches out and pulls him
the remaining distance, back into the light above ground.
   "Hey, watch that last step, man," said Ranko, smiling
through a face bespattered with blood.  "It's a doozy."


"What are you going to do?"
   "Is there really any choice?"


Ranma woke with a start, lingering traces of a dream fading
from mind.  An abiding sense of wrongness settled in its
place.  His ready backpack lay next to him.  It was the first
thing he saw upon opening his eyes.
   He stared at it for a very long time.


Concluded in Choices: Consequences
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