Hi!

Well, here's another chapter, enjoy!  At under two months, I think I've set a new record for myself.  Wee.  I'm just hoping interest in this hasn't died off, I got a whopping zero response on the the last chapter; fair enough, I guess, since it _was_ a repost.  In that spirit, feedback is always greatly appreciated: private's great, public's even better!

And, most importantly, many thanks and much gratitude to my prereaders: Chris Moran, Vincent Seifert, Reid Carson, Louis-Philip Giroux, and Brigit Wilde.

Previous chapters are at: http://www.geocities.com/noakes_m/curtain.htm
E-mail me at: noakes_m@hotmail.com

Later!
Mike Noakes

***

What has gone before:

While visiting university, Ranma came into possession of a
strange book.  A man named Karadoku fought him for it.
Ranma lost, and received a scar to his chest for his failure.  The
book, however, lay with Akane, who unwittingly ensnared
herself in its magics.  Ranma returned in time to save her, but
not before a man named Gabriel warned of future dangers.  In
the following week, a string of savage murders swept Nerima.
Ryoga, Shampoo, and Mousse managed to accidentally
interrupt the latest attempt, but  nearly died doing so.  It
became clear the killer was not human.  Ranma sought to end
the slaughter, and was attacked.  Only with Konatsu's timely
intervention -- and much property damage -- was Ranma able
to overcome his enemy.  Recovering from his wounds,
however, he realized that there may be more enemies out
there -- and that he had led them straight to their true goal: Akane.


***


The beast slunk through darkness and rot and filth towards
safety, leaving a faintly luminous trail of something akin to blood
behind it.  Rain sluiced in from grates above, and the occasional
muted crack of thunder sounded overhead, echoing eerily along
the narrow sewer tunnels.  He waded painfully through murky
waters, and the scales of his flesh and spurs of his arms rasped
painfully against stone as he stumbled into walls.
   He had a name, a human name, though at this time it lay
beyond him.  He knew himself a man, something above a beast,
though his appearance and actions belied it.  Even thinking did
not come easily, not now, and the great pain and rage he felt
made doing so a near impossibility.  Instinct drove him, drove
him towards safety, so that he might rest and lick his wounds
and contemplate revenge.  A bestial rumble began deep in his
chest.
   They were not to strike during the day: that he
understood.  But her presence had been so strong!  Others
were closing in upon her as well.  She had to be taken, time
was of the essence, and the opportunity had presented itself;
certainly the risk had been worth it!  And though she had not
been there, her mark had been on those others -- they would
have left a strong sign for the one he sought.  But who could
have predicted the resistance?  Children!  Mere human children
who fought with skill beyond reason, with enough ferocity to
resist even his devouring hate and strength.  Especially that last
one, who made the earth explode and struck with the strength
of ten.  He would enjoy tearing that one apart, later, and
devouring his innards.
   'No.  You will not.'
   Nothing but the sound of wind whistling through stone
tunnels, and water dripping down.
   He resumed his slow walk.  Nearly there.
   'Forever too far, little twisted one.'
   Undeniably a voice, this time.  The rumble in his chest
rose to a growl in his throat, and his lips curled back like a
dog's.  There, a presence ahead, stepping from a side passage.
Alone, and all too human, and weak.  Fresh flesh with which to
heal quicker.
   "Not so weak," the figure said, approaching, and the
dim light cutting down from the holes above seemed to cascade
like droplets off the impossibly silver length of its hair.  "Nor
shall you heal."  Flame seemed to erupt from its hand, painfully
bright; flame that swept down in a cleansing arc that burned,
briefly and painfully, and left nothing in its wake.
   "Your name was Jun," the figure said, almost sadly,
before turning away.


                     Let the Curtain Fall
                             by Michael Noakes


   Lo! thy dread Empire, Chaos, is restored;
   Light dies before thine uncreating word:
   Thy hand, great Anarch, lets the curtain fall;
   And universal darkness buries all.
   -The Dunciad


Act One,
Chapter Three:
The Nature of the Beast


Akane Tendo climbed the stairs slowly, careful with the tray
she carried and the food it bore, though her thoughts lay
elsewhere.  The day was a beautiful one and this was not lost
on her: the afternoon breeze carried with it a moist scent of
grass and earth, the trilling of birds rang clear through the
house; and in the aftermath of the storm everything seemed
swept up in an impulse towards renewal.  The oppressive
atmosphere of last night's waiting had dissipated like dew after
the sun's ascent, and the entire household virtually hummed
with relaxed happiness.
   Kasumi's gentle presence followed the eldest sister
through the house as she cleaned and spoke softly with
Ranma's mother, the two occasionally giggling.  Ukyou and
Nabiki argued cheerfully at the table, pitting university
economic theories against small-business financial realities.  The
two patriarchs swapped happy platitudes and shogi playing
pieces and laughed with the ease of old friendship.  It was a
day that recollected early times.  It was the day following a
great victory by her fiance, signalling an end to a string of
terrible killings that had plagued Nerima.
   A great victory, certainly, proving once again beyond a
doubt that he was a man among men, as Nodoka put it, despite
the fact that her son had been a woman throughout the entire
fight.  My hero, Akane thought darkly.  The baka.  He just had
to go at it alone, didn't he?
   How her heart had jumped when she saw him return;
and how it fell when he collapsed in a bloody heap on the floor.
For a moment, the briefest of times, she thought him dead; and
in that split-second, how unbelievably strong the paralysing grief
that had seized her!  Enough that she could only watch as
others rushed to his side, Ukyou and Genma arriving almost as
soon as he hit the ground, while all Akane could do was stand
and gasp with sudden chill with one hand pressed tremulously
to her throat.
   Ranma had pulled through, of course, as he always did,
despite the tremendous injuries he had taken.  Kasumi had
tended them well, cleaning the massive wound in his side and
the gouges along his back, washing the fantastic quantity of
blood from his body, bandaging him tight and then putting him
to rest in the guest room.  Even then, Akane had stayed by his
side all night, sitting cross-legged next to the futon and watching
him breathe, fists clenching tightly every time it seemed he might
falter.  But the tension proved too much and she eventually fell
asleep.  She woke that morning in her bed with faint memories
of her father having gently carried her there.
   Konatsu had given a very quick accounting of the
conflict before Ukyou had taken him away to the hospital.  An
inhuman thing that healed impossibly fast possessing fantastic
strength: where could it have come from, and why?  I suppose
it doesn't really matter anymore, she mused, approaching the
room in which Ranma lay.  It won't be hurting anyone ever
again.
   She went to enter the room and noted the door was
ajar, and heard voices speaking from within: Ranma and
Ryoga.  Her name was mentioned, and she paused to listen
further.
   "No, man, you don't understand," Ranma was saying.
"This is bad, really really bad.  Right before that thing. . . died,
it said something about a 'mark'.  That it could get to Akane
through me."
   "Yeah, but it's dead, right?" Ryoga answered.
   Akane felt a thrill pass through her at the mention of
further danger.  That monster had been after her?
   "What about the others?"  Ranma continued.  "It said
Akane's scent was on me, stronger than anyone else.  It was
dying, but still threatened me.  I think it knew its friends would
be able to track me as well."
   "But you came. . . ."
   "Straight home, dammit."  Strong anger marked
Ranma's words, and she realized it was self-directed.  Friends?
she wondered.  Scent, a mark?  What hadn't he been telling
her?  "I led them straight to her!  There's more of them out
there, Ryoga, and now they're coming!"
   Akane stifled a gasp.  More coming -- more of the
things that Ranma had fought last night?  One, on its own, had
almost proved too much for both him and Konatsu, fighting
together; one, on its own, had successfully fought off Shampoo,
Mousse, and Ryoga.  How many of these things were there?
   There was a long pause.  Then Ryoga's voice,
sounding suddenly tired.  "What do these things want,
anyway?"
   "I don't really know," Ranma answered.  "That weird
guy I mentioned before, Gabriel, well, when Akane used that
book I found, he said that she 'called' something to her.  That
things would wake up and come to get her.  Well, the thing
from last night was damn sure a . . . 'thing', and it was looking
for a girl.  Akane.  Yours was too, probably.  All the girls that
died had, in some way, something in common with Akane.  I
think.
   "Way I see it, something tried to grab her through that
book.  I stopped it, so now things are trying to do it the hard
way.  But these monsters she summoned, they didn't know
where she was before, so they grabbed the wrong girls and
killed them when they realized their mistake.  But now. . . ."
   The tray nearly fell from her grip but, catching it in time,
she placed the food quietly down with trembling hands.  Oh no,
she thought, eyes open wide in horrified disbelief as she backed
away.  No, no, no, say it isn't true. . . .  She stumbled against
the wall, turned, and fled to her room.  A single thought raced
through Akane's mind: It's all my fault, it's all my fault, I killed
them, I killed them!


   "They know where Akane is," Ryoga finished for him.
   "Yup.  That's about it."  Ranma curled his legs beneath
him and sat up fully on his futon.  A dull ache throbbed from his
side, but it was nothing he could not ignore.  He stretched wide,
wiggled his fingers, and felt a brief fire in his back from the
wounds there.  Not quite in top shape yet, he thought, still a
little sore and stiff, but strangely enough, still better than I've felt
in far too long.
   "I wish you wouldn't do that," Ryoga muttered.  His
rival looked away, blushing and scowling.  "At least put a top
on first!"
   Belatedly realizing he was still female and slightly
embarrassed by his little show, he quickly crossed his arms
across his jiggling chest.  "Um, sorry 'bout that," he said,
grabbing a shirt.  He pulled it on.  "Didn't realize."  As he did
up the ties, he looked his friend over.  A day of healing had
done him wonders: aside from a scratch above his eye, he
seemed fine.  Ranma wondered if his friend's leg had healed;
the barb he had taken in the thigh had been his worst injury by
far.  "You'd think you'd be used to it by now."
   "To what, a naked girl's chest?  What kind of pervert
do you think I am?"
   "Hey, I ain't no real girl!  And it's not like it's the first
time I flash you."
   "That makes it better?  You really don't have any sense
of feminine modesty, do you?"
   Ranma scowled.  "No, man, I don't -- despite Mom's
efforts.  I told ya, I ain't no girl!"
   "Well you look like one, dammit!  So hurry up!"  A few
moments later, once the martial artist had covered up, he
noticeably relaxed and continued.  "So now what?" Ryoga
asked,  "What's the next step?"
   "I dunno.  I really don't," Ranma answered.  He
sighed, a deep exhalation of mixed weariness and frustration.
"I don't know what's happening here, Ryoga, no better than
anyone else.  It's just. . . ."
   "Yeah?"
   "I can't help but think we've gotten ourselves involved
in something big, man, really big."  He fixed Ryoga with a
serious gaze.  "Or should I say, I've gotten myself into.  You
don't hafta do this, you know that, right?"
   Ryoga snorted.  "Yeah, right.  Akane's life is on the
line.  You think I can just go home?"
   A wry smile; Ranma grabbed Ryoga's hand in a tight
grip.  "Thanks, man."
   A brief moment; flustered, the larger boy knocked the
hand away.  "Hey, I'm doing it for Akane.  Some scaly green
guy wants to make a pigtail ornament out of you, I'll help him
hold you down."  Nearly imperceptible, an ironic smile of his
own crept onto his face.
   They sat there in silence for a little longer, though
whether in thought or sudden embarrassment Ranma could not
tell.  Finally, with a loud clearing of his throat, Ryoga stood.
"Well," he said, "I should let the others know you're awake."
   "And tell Pop and Mr. Tendo about what's coming,
too.  But one sec'," Ranma said, motioning for him to wait.
"Something else happened last night."
   Ryoga looked at him quizzically.  "Konatsu didn't
mention anything."
   "I don't think he noticed.  When we left the house,
well, for a moment -- and I was pretty out of it by then, so who
knows -- I could've sworn I saw that Gabriel guy, standing by
the road.  Watching.  Then it's like he disappeared."  He
suddenly shivered.  "But maybe I was seeing things."
   "Maybe."
   "Yeah.  Maybe not.  That's what's bothering me.
There's too much here we don't understand.  I mean, who is
this guy?  And those losers from last week, why'd they want
the book?  What was that stupid thing, anyway?  And why
Akane?"
   "Does it really matter?"  Noting Ranma's expression,
he shrugged.  "I mean, really?  Not right now, it doesn't.  Right
now, all that matters is that in less than twelve hours, some
really strong monsters might be showing up looking for Akane.
And we've got to stop them.  That's all there is to it."
   He was absolutely right, the young martial artist
realized.  Those other details could wait until later -- could wait
until the threat to Akane was stopped.  Maybe then they could
go hunting for answers.  Until then, such questions were nothing
but unimportant distractions.
   "Hey, you want breakfast?" Ryoga asked, standing by
the door.  He picked up a tray of food.  "Somebody left this by
the door."  Ranma's stomach grumbled and he reached for
lunch.  "I'll go get the others."


   Ranma Saotome sat back in bed and began to
methodically eat the food before him, and as he absently
munched on an onigiri his thoughts turned to the previous night.
Almost unconsciously he started to analyse the progress of the
battle, from the first nearly-debilitating surprise attack to the
final double-handed sword strike that had ended it all.  Noted
the beast's tactics -- or relative lack thereof -- and his own
responses.  Konatsu's timely arrival.  The fall over the cliff.  His
own, final flurry. . . .
   Only then did he realize he was trembling, ever so
slightly, and he swallowed against a throat suddenly dry.
What's wrong with me? he thought, and took a deep breath.  I
won the fight, didn't I?  Again he replayed the fight, comparing
his movements at the beginning of the combat to his actions at
the end.  Even after that first wound to the side, he had known
he could win; or at least, thought that he could.  The speed
difference had been so great.  And then his punches and kicks
had glanced off without effect, and he had realized that his
opponent was adapted to its relative slowness, and maybe
immune to his efforts.
   And yet, in those final moments: flowing forward,
smooth movements despite his own terrible wounds, attacking
with a surety and vigour he had rarely known.  Such power,
then: punches, strong enough to shatter stone, pummelling his
enemy's flesh to pulp; kicks, able to fell trees, cracking his
enemy's bones.  It could heal, quickly, but not fast enough to
overcome the grievous damage he had inflicted.  He had
attacked it with lethal abandon, and the only thoughts rushing
through his mind had been of its death.  Of sword, held
overhead, and driven down hard into the monster's chest, hard
enough to embed into the concrete below.
   The fact that he had killed it disturbed him, though not
greatly.  It had been a monster, after all.  What else could he
have done, handed it over to the police?  Yet even while
hunting, he had tried to avoid the reality of what he had set out
to do; tried to avoid it despite everyone else's demands.  'Kill
it!' Mousse had demanded; 'Finish it off,' Ryoga had said; and
Konatsu last night had suffered under no illusions nor hesitations
as to what either of them had to do.  Why were they so quick
to assume he would, that he even _could_ kill -- kill anything,
whether monster or man?
   Because you've killed before, he told himself.  You've
killed before --
   _soul of ice; colder yet chill pressed to heart_
    -- and they all know you can do it again.  Why else
have they all avoided you these past six months?
   The realization of his own capabilities for killing at that
moment struck him like a physical blow, and he shuddered and
fell back into the embrace of the futon.  Ranma lay there as if
insensate, while his mind turned in upon itself.  These thoughts
which he had avoided ever since battling Saffron, reawakened
by last night's events, could no longer be silenced.  Is this what
I have trained for all my life, to kill? he questioned, then pushed
it aside as irrelevant.  He had always know the Art's capacity
for death; it was his own capacity that had lain dormant.   Is it
becoming easier, then?  Yet that too was an evasion: the lethal
intensity of purpose that had overcome him at the end of last
night's battle had not descended upon him like a shroud, had
not been summoned through an effort of will.  Like the battle
against the king of Phoenix Mountain, he had suddenly realized
what needed to be done to win -- and had done it.  If anything,
his focus had come nearly too late, and but for Konatsu's
arrival, he would have likely died.
   What, then?  He recollected the final minute of last
night's combat with the utmost vividness, embracing the wash
of visual flashes, rushing sounds, the surprisingly strong scents
that all lay on the periphery of sensation as he fought; and
sinking into the memory he could feel the thrilling rush of life
through body and limb, the pounding of his heart, and he
suddenly found himself smiling -- and understood.  The joy of
relived excitement died with the recognition of that joy.
   "I enjoyed it," he whispered to himself, abruptly sitting
up.  Isn't that what really makes a killer, he asked himself, liking
it?  But no, he added, and vehemently shook his head though
there was no one to see it, that's not true, that's not true.  It's
not the killin' I liked.
   It's the fighting.  No, more than that: the perfection of
the Art.  Losing myself to it.  In those final moments, when his
movements were surest and his strikes strongest, he had
approached a singularity of thought and action that he had truly
felt only once previously: when he had soared above the ground
amidst winds of his own making, resisting the fires of a god with
the ice of his own soul and the knowledge of what had to be
done.  His greatest opponent had inspired his moment of
greatest glory.
   And underscoring that glory had been death.  Had the
intensity of true Art come upon him only with the acceptance
that he must kill?  Perhaps only then could he truly capture what
he so yearned for -- had yearned for during the last six months,
leading to the confused unwilling distraction of which Akane
had only understood a fraction.  The greatest achievement of
my life, he realized, and nearly laughed and sobbed with the
irony, was based in death.  Must I be willing to embrace
another's death to embrace my own life?
   The very idea terrified him.  The fight above Phoenix
Mountain, the final moments of last night: Ranma considered
these to be among the greatest experiences of his life, and he
yearned, deeply, with the entirety of his being, to lose himself
within such sensations again.  But if it could only be achieved
through the necessity of killing. . . .
   No! Ranma thought.  This is insane, I ain't no killer!
I'm thinking about this too much, I'm getting all melodramatic.
That thing was a friggin' monster, it killed three helpless girls
and tried to kill me, it was after Akane.  It's not like I could
reason with it.  I only did what needed to be done, what I had
to do.
   With these thoughts he quickly and forcefully dispelled
the unease of his earlier musings.  'I had to do it,' became a
mantra he repeated as he returned to quietly eating the last of
his lunch.  He tried not to think, nor to notice the grim
satisfaction he took in every brief ache and pain that recalled
the events of last night.


   Genma Saotome was not the first to enter the room in
which his son-turned-daughter lay recovering, and so he only
caught a brief glimpse of the far-away look in his eyes that was
quickly concealed.  The larger man nodded with satisfaction as
he stepped through the threshold, thinking, Now he's ready.
As he entered the room he noted Akane's absence; more
importantly, he noticed Ranma's momentary disappointment
upon observing the same.  His lips curved in a smile.
   This became a frown as his wife ran to their son's side,
kneeling next to him and pulling the boy into a firm embrace.
"Oh, my son!" she said, and he saw Ranma wince, though
more from the overwhelming pride she exuded than from
aggravated wounds.  "My manly, manly son!"  She's spoiling
the boy, he thought, but refrained from making any comment.
"Are you okay?"
   His son smiled, and nodded.  "Yeah, Mom, I'm fine."
   "That strange ninja. . . boy," she said, "told us how
bravely you fought.  You gave us quite the scare, the state you
were in, when you returned."
   Ranma blushed slightly.  "Yeah, sorry 'bout that."
   "No problem!" Kasumi chimed in, smiling broadly,
"The blood cleaned right out of the tatami!"
   "Er, right," added Nabiki.  "But I suppose congrats are
in order," she said, and snapped off a sharp salute.  "Well
done, guardian Saotome!  We declare you hero of Nerima, and
offer you the Kettle of the City."  She offered up a battered
bronze kettle, steam escaping from its spout
   "Thanks, Nabiki," he answered, smiling wryly but
accepting the proffered water.  A moment later he shifted back
to maleness.  My son, Genma thought, and felt a brief swell of
pride.
   "The pleasure's mine.  Now if this heart-warming scene
is over, I'm missing the financial report," she said, and
wandered off back downstairs.
   "Don't mind her, honey," Ukyou said, taking her place.
"I'm sure young girls across Nerima appreciate what you did
for them last night -- even if they don't know it was you, that
is."  Nodoka's expression, which had darkened slightly at the
okonomiyaki chef's approach, positively glowed at her last
remark.  Genma sighed.  If the girl was trying to ingratiate
herself with his wife, she was succeeding.
   It went on like this for some time, a flow of
compliments and inquiries into his son's health, and he watched
as Ranma blushed and squirmed under the attention.  Finally the
Saotome patriarch, having given the women their time, had
enough and pushed his bulk forward, taking an intimidating
pose before his son.  He glared down at the boy, arms akimbo.
   "Well?" he asked, in his firmest voice.
   "What?" his son answered, and Genma scowled at the
insolence.
   "Where were you this morning?  You missed our
training session, boy!"
   "I what?" he exclaimed.  "I lost, like, a litre of blood or
somethin' last night!"
   "No excuses!  I thought you were serious about our
training!"
   "But-."
   "No buts," Genma said, and roughly threw his son's
dogi into his lap.  "Ten minutes.  In the dojo," he said in a voice
that would brook no disagreement, and without another word
he turned away.  He heard the girl, the okonomiyaki chef,
angrily mutter, "Sugar, your dad can be a real asshole at times."
Though there was no one to see, he smiled broadly as he left
the room.


   "Police are baffled by the scene revealed after last
night's fierce thunderstorm," said the anonymous television
announcer.  "Details remain sketchy at this time, as police
officers try to draw together a coherent picture of what exactly
occurred."  The image on screen changed to a slow scan of a
street, torn up in numerous places, and a wrecked house, the
tail end of a car sticking out through the roof.  "Mr. Tanaka, the
owner of the car, said he nearly crashed into some giant 'beast'
standing in the middle of the road."  Now the screen showed a
portly, nervous-looking man bearing a number of minor
scratches to his face.  "I was just driving along, minding my
own business," the man said, "when this _thing_ appeared
ahead of me!  I swerved out of the way and hit a wall.  When I
got out of my car, it tried to kill me!"  Tanaka got this sudden,
far-away look in his eyes.  "But then this beautiful girl with hair
like living flame descended from the skies above and saved me!
She must have been some kind of angel!"
   Nabiki snorted indelicately and almost coughed up a
piece of muffin.
   "Soon after," the reporter continued, "someone drove
or pushed Mr. Tanaka's car over the cliff's edge, crashing it
into the roof of the house below.  Mr. and Ms. Suzuki, already
in bed for the night, were shocked awake by the car suddenly
falling through their kitchen roof."
   Yeah, I'll bet, Nabiki thought.  But you'd be surprised
how quickly you get used to that kind of thing.  "It was
terrible!" Ms. Suzuki said, nearly in tears.  "Hiro-chan and I
were cuddling, it being a Thursday night, you know, our special
night, and. . . ."  The middle Tendo daughter laughed at the
beet-faced man cringing in the background.  "There was this
sudden loud noise, and then roaring!  Hiro-chan went to
investigate -- isn't he just _so_ brave -- and there was this giant
animal standing in our living room, all covered in blood, with a
hubcap stuck in its forehead!  And a car in our kitchen!  It was
the most horrible thing I've ever seen!"
    Oh, don't be so melodramatic, Nabiki thought,
munching on some potato chips.  I've seen worse.
   "What has the police most confused, however,"
continued the even-toned announcer, "is the body left in the
wake of this inexplicable carnage.  One Mr. Takeshi Hirano,
prominent Ginza banker, was found dead at the scene.  Despite
many grievous wounds to his body, it has been determined that
death was caused by internal bleeding caused by a single stab-
wound to the chest, by what was likely a sword of some kind."
   Oh my, Nabiki thought, Ranma's not going to like this
at all. . . .


   A half-dozen urgent thoughts and desires passed
through the son as he knelt opposite his father in the middle of
the wide expanse of the dojo floor, and only through the
strongest effort of will was he able to deny the impulse to
simply stand up and leave.  Patience, Ranma told himself,
though he had very little of it at the best of times, Pop'll get to
the point eventually.  His father could be a moron and a cheat
and a lazy bastard, but when he was in 'the mood' -- and he
most certainly seemed to be in it now -- then there was no
denying nor resisting him.  This was the side of his father few
ever saw, the side that devised outrageous but surprisingly
effective training techniques; created innovative, if occasionally
stupid, fighting styles; this was the side of Genma that was truly
'Teacher' -- and damn good at it, too.
   Today, he had sealed the dojo to all outside prying
eyes, something he had done only once previously.  Even now,
Soun stood fuming outside, but would nevertheless not dare
enter.  Ranma understood his father and teacher wanted to
pass on something important, and for this reason alone did he
wait, stewing in impatience.
   "Ranma," his father suddenly said, startling him back to
attention.
   "Yeah, Pop?"
   "Tell me about the fight."
   Ranma shrugged.  "Sure," he said, and began a quick
rundown of the night.  His hasty retelling slowed substantially as
his father interrupted, asking for an elaboration of several
points.  Genma insisted on knowing every step and stage of the
combat in exacting detail: every punch, fall, stance that his son
had used.
   "Then I reached back," Ranma finished, "and snagged
Konatsu's sword from the air, and stabbed it into the monster's
chest.  I used both hands, and it went right through, and hit
concrete on the other side.  And that was that."
   His father nodded, once, and made a deep rumbling
sound suggesting comprehension.  Without a word he stood,
turned, and walked several paces away.  Ranma watched from
his position on the floor and wondered what was up.
   Suddenly Genma spun in place, stabbing a finger at his
son, and his glasses glinted sharply in the afternoon sun.
"Today, I retrain you from the beginning!"
   Ranma sighed.  "Jeez, again?  Think we could skip
Jusenkyo this time?"
   "Such arrogance!  Do you not see?  You have learnt
nothing!  The final step to mastery of Anything Goes eludes
you!  You have failed, Ranma; or perhaps my teachings have
failed you.  You have fallen from the path, and today I correct
the mistakes of a decade!"
   In the space of a second, Ranma rose from his kneeling
position, launched himself across the room, and slammed a
flying kick to the side of his father's head.  "Retrain this, you
goof!" he said, landing softly, as Genma went sliding across the
room.  "Sheesh.  Important shit's happening; I don't got time
for this crap."
   "You will _make_ time," his father growled, rising to his
feet and looking genuinely angry.  "What I am trying to teach
you is more important than anything else you could possibly
have to do."
   "There's more of those things coming!" Ranma yelled
back.  "Maybe lots of them, and maybe tonight!  We have to
prepare -- what could be more important than that?"
   "What could be more important?" Genma asked, softly,
walking closer.  "What indeed. . . .  You have no idea, boy.
Very well, then.  Answer me one question, and then you may
leave."
   "Fine," Ranma said.  "Shoot."
   "Why did you not use the Umisen-ken?"
   "Huh?"  The younger Saotome gave his father a
quizzical glance.  "Well, duh, because I promised not to.  You
wanted the techniques sealed away."
   "Because the styles were dangerous," his father
answered.  "Yes.  Innocent people could be hurt.  Yet last night
you fought a monster.  An inhuman beast who tried to kill you;
who has already killed innocent girls; who is after your fiancee:
do you not think that warrants the use of extreme force?"
   "Hey!  I still won, didn't I?"
   "Through luck.  You came this close," Genma said,
holding his thumb and forefinger a fraction of a space apart, "to
dying.  Once you decided to overwhelm your opponent with
sheer force, you should have immediately used the techniques
you know are strongest.  You could have torn its heart from its
body with your bare hand, shattered its back, severed its
limbs. . . ."
   "Shit Pop!" Ranma exclaimed, eyes wide.  "Listen to
yourself!  You sound like some kind of psycho!"
   "No, boy," he said, and his eyes were dark, "I sound
like someone taking a very serious situation very seriously."
   "But-."
   "No," Genma interrupted.  "This is the final lesson I
have to teach you.  The correction of the final flaw in your
technique; or perhaps a flaw that lies within the Anything Goes
Art itself.  I don't know if you are yet ready to learn what I
have to offer.  But as you said, there is little time left.  So now
you will sit, and you will listen, and if you are capable, you will
learn."
   Ranma knelt, and Genma resumed his position opposite
him.  The young martial artist listened with rapt attention as his
father and teacher began to speak on the last lesson he would
ever pass on to his son.


   The middle Tendo daughter slowly absorbed the details
of her surroundings, and in losing herself to the memories the
household evoked she felt a momentary pang of sadness.  She
was happy at university, of course, and thrived there in a way
that Nerima and high school had never allowed her to do; but
nevertheless she missed some of her earlier days.
   For most people at Tokyo University, their previous
small-town life had been easier and simpler.  Nabiki laughed at
the idea.  Life in Nerima had been _anything_ but easy, or
simple, and at times she found she greatly missed much of the
amusement that the chaos that was Ranma's daily life had
afforded her.  University life had its own unique and very
enjoyable challenges, but they remained, for her, very mundane
and normal challenges.  There was almost no one at school to
talk to about these feelings: she rarely spoke of home, for who
could understand, or even believe, the fantastic incidents she
had experienced, even if only from the periphery?  So even as
she quite happily lost herself within her course of studies, or the
challenges of her new social circle, or within the even greater
challenge that was her new boyfriend, she always remained
aware of the insane and humourous world that existed just
beyond the walls of her ivory spires.  It was good to come
home and reconnect with that, sometimes.
   But classes called and homework insisted that these
visits be short.  It was time to say her farewells and return to
her dorm and get back to writing her essays.  Her overnight
bag was ready by the door.  With a sigh, she slipped it over
one shoulder and began to hunt for her family.
   Her sister's fiance stepped into the room, a distant,
thoughtful look on his face.  Nabiki grinned.  Ranma,
thoughtful?  Not even on his best days.  "Yo, Ranma," she
called out, snapping him out of his reverie.  "What's up?"
   "Just thinking," he mumbled back.  He noticed her bag.
"You heading home?"
   "Yeah," she answered, and shrugged.  "Gotta get back
to school.  Classes to attend, essays to write, boyfriend to see."  She smirked as she placed emphasis on the last.  "I'm sure you know how it is."
   He nodded but looked like he hadn't heard a word.  "Sure, sounds great. You can't leave."
   Nabiki allowed the slightest of frowns crease her brow,
though she felt more curiosity than anger at his impudence.  "Is
that so?  And why would that be?"
   "Because," he answered, and the look he turned on her
was dark and serious, and made her shiver unconsciously, "if
you step outside of this house, Nabiki, there's a good chance
you'll be dead by sunrise."  He turned away abruptly, even as
she let her bag drop to the ground.  "I'm sorry, but I need
everybody together in the dojo, and quick.  We need to make
plans."
   "Plans?" she asked from a mouth suddenly dry.  "For
what?"
   "For a siege," he said.


   Ranma Saotome stood anxiously before his fiancee's
door and hesitated only momentarily before knocking.  She has
to be in here, he thought, slightly annoyed.  I can't find her
anywhere else.  Everyone is waiting in the dojo.  This really
isn't the time for her to be playing hiding games.
   There was no answer.  He knocked again, and waited,
and slowly lost patience as the seconds dragged out.  Finally he
tried the door and found it unlocked.  The room was a little
dark, the lights out and curtains drawn shut, and the
atmosphere within hot and heavy.  Even before his eyes
adapted he knew Akane was in the room.  He could tell from
the gentle sobbing that came from her bed.  Ranma knew that
sound too well, and it never failed to pierce him deeply.  He
closed the door behind him.
   "Get out!" Akane hissed at him, "Leave me alone!"
She sat at the foot of her bed, against the wall and with legs
drawn to her chest, and as she looked up he could see her
cheeks were wet with tears.
   "Akane?" he asked, and stepped closer.
   "Go away," she cried.
   He hesitated and stopped, utterly confused.  What was
wrong with her? he thought, while deeper down a voice of
irritation added, we don't have time for this.  He angrily quelled
the thought.  Like his father had insisted, he would make the
time.
   "Akane, I. . . ," he stammered, and stopped.  I what?
he thought.  I don't know what I'm doing here, I'm no good at
this stuff, I've never been good at this stuff.  Guys suck at this.
   She looked at him a moment longer before burying her
head once again into her knees, and sobbing loudly.
   "Dammit, Akane, just. . . just wait a 'sec!" he said, and
fled.  Out the bedroom, down the stairs, and to the bathroom,
nearly running over Nabiki talking on the phone in the process.
A quick splash of cold water, and as his clothes settled around
his slighter frame, he hurried back upstairs.  Pausing only long
enough to take a deep breath and shake the water from his red
bangs, he softly knocked, opened the door, stepped back in,
and closed it behind him.
   The youngest Tendo did not even look up as he
entered her room for the second time.  Ranma slowly padded
over to the bed and sat down near her.  For some reason it
was easier to do this as a girl.  Less intimate or something, he
thought, or at least more comforting.  Certainly less threatening.
He hoped.  What do I know?  I might be one at times, but I'll
never understand girls.  Period aside, they're always cryin' for
the weirdest reasons.
   He could see her tense up as the mattress shifted under
his weight.  She didn't otherwise move, and though her crying
stopped, she didn't say anything.  "C'mon, Akane," he tried,
"What's wrong?"  She still refused to respond, and he sighed.
He eyed her critically, almost like an opponent, and tried to
think of an approach.  Unfortunately, he admitted to himself, the
emotional battlefield was one he had never quite figured out.
"Sheesh, Akane, you can tell me.  It's. . . like, it's only us girls
here, right?"
   "You're not a girl, Ranma," Akane said, her voice
muffled by her knees.  "You're just a pervert that turns into
one.  Go away."
   He swallowed his irritation at the insult and tried again.
"No.  You wanna, I dunno, braid my hair or something?  That's
what girls do together, right?  Braid and talk?"
   That, at least, got her to lift her head, and she glared at
him with shimmering eyes over the curve of her knees.  "Your
hair's already braided.  Leave me alone."
   He flicked his pigtail over one shoulder and undid the
binding.  His hair fell in red locks about his neck and ears.
"Oops.  Now somebody's gotta do it up again."
   "Ask your mom," Akane answered, though the corner
of her mouth twitched ever so slightly.
   "I guess I could," he said, then released an exaggerated
sigh.  "But what about," he started, grabbing a makeup case
from her dresser and returning to the bed, "this?  Conservative
gu- er, girl that I am, I've never figured this cra- stuff out."  He
uncapped a tube of lipstick.  "I mean, like this, whadd'ya do
with it?"  He eyed it critically for a moment, then jabbed himself
in the forehead.   "Darn.  That's wrong, isn't it?"
   "Hey, that's expensive!"
   "Sorry."  He started to root through the bag, dumping
its contents across the bed.  "Wow, you've got a lot of stuff in
here.  Wanna show me how to use it?"
   His forced smile turned real as she uncoiled slightly and
wiped the back of one hand across her eyes.  She sniffed and
reached for a tissue; he passed her the box.  "You're an idiot,
you know that?"
   Ranma grinned.  "Sure.  And you're a tomboy."  He
became serious.  "Akane, wanna tell me what's wrong?"
   She shook her head but shifted closer, sliding her legs
beneath her; Ranma did the same, mirroring her.  "It's. . . ," she
started, then frowned.  She pulled out more tissues, then leaned
forward, reaching for his forehead.  "You look stupid like that."
He sighed but let her attack the red gash over his eyes, and
winced as she rubbed rather too hard.
   "Akane. . . ."
   "Shh," she said, and finished she sat back and eyed him
critically.  "All gone."  She smiled slightly, though to Ranma it
looked like it concealed a deeper pain beneath.  Then she
picked up the tube of lipstick he had dropped, and reached for
him with it.
   He reared back, throwing up his hands defensively.
"Hey, whoa, what d'ya think you're doing?"
   "You said you wanted to learn," she said, and pouted  -- again, to Ranma, it looked forced.  "This is what girls do together, right?  They braid each other's hair, and give each other makeovers."
   "But-."
   "And they talk."
   Which is what I want her to do, he realized, so how
can I say no?  He ignored the sinking feeling in his stomach at
this little scene he had initiated and which she now wanted to
play out to its end.  Why she wants to do it this way, I don't
know, and I guess it doesn't really matter.  I gave up trying to
understand her a long time ago.
   But he knew her well enough to recognize the pain
crippling her, and the desire to share it that hid beneath the
pride that wouldn't let her easily do so.  He couldn't refuse her,
not when she hurt like this, and so he willed himself to patience,
despite the knowledge that everyone else was waiting in the
dojo and that potential danger crept closer with each passing
minute; he willed himself to patience and pursed his lips as he
shifted closer.
   "We're going to make you beautiful." Akane said,
"You've got good taste, this colour just so goes with your hair."
Then she added in a more serious voice, "Are you really okay
with this?"
   He nodded slightly and waited as she gently traced his
lips, and hated every moment of it.  Then she looked him over
again, and reached for another tube.  "Some sparkly gloss, too,
I think."  Again, he bore it in silence, and waited for her to talk.
   Halfway through, she hesitated, eyes clouding over, and
looked away.
   "Hey, what's wrong?" he asked.  "You don't have to
stop."
   When she looked back, tears were in her eyes again,
and her body shuddered with barely suppressed sobs.  As
much as he hated her putting makeup on him, he suddenly
realized he hated this a whole lot more.  Don't cry, he wanted
to say, but had no idea what was wrong with her.
   "Ranma. . . ," she said.
   "Ye. . . yeah?"
   "It's all my fault!" she cried out, and then threw herself
into his arms, burying her head into his shoulder, scattering
tubes and bottles across the bed and onto the floor.  For a
second he froze, and then his arms fell around her and held her
close, protectively.  He was smaller than her now, and he was
acutely aware of the feeling of his own breasts pressed up
against hers, and of even the strange taste and waxy feel to his
lips, and of every little detail that reminded him that he wasn't a
man; and somehow, at this moment, it didn't matter in the least:
all that mattered was that his fiancee was crying, and he was
there to comfort her.
   She eventually pulled away, still sniffling, though her
hands remained in his.  Her eyes slipped away, as if she could
not meet his gaze.  "What's your fault?" he asked softly, and
when she refused to look at him, he gently turned her head with
a finger at her chin.  "Akane, what's wrong?"
   When she could no longer glance away, she locked her
eyes with his, and said in a very low voice that quavered
slightly, "Everything."
   "What?"
   "The book, the magic, the. . . killing," she said, and her
voice choked on the last.  "It's. . . it's all my fault."  She forced
her head from his gentle grasp and looked away.  "I'm the one
who used that book, and made those monsters come, and
because of me three girls are dead.  Because of me our friends
got hurt.  Because of me, you. . . you almost died!"
   He could see that fresh tears threatened to overwhelm
her, and he grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and once
again forced her to look at him.  "Listen to me, Akane," he
said, "That's just dumb.  It is _not_ your fault."  Yet even as he
said it, that same impatient voice from earlier suggested
otherwise: it _is_ her fault, now isn't it?  After all, she _is_ the
one who stole the book, who made those things come after her.
If she had just left well enough alone, maybe nothing would
have happened.  Maybe you'd even have a cure.  At the very
worst, those guys would have taken the book, and it'd be their
problem, not ours.
   But he couldn't say that; more importantly, he couldn't
believe it.  But she saw the doubt flicker in his eyes, even if only
briefly, and she cringed back.
   "No, Akane, no" he insisted.  "It's not your fault.  If it's
anybody's, it's mine, for getting into that stupid fight with
Happosai and getting stuck with that stupid book.  If you need
to blame somebody, blame me."
   Akane shook her head, and he knew it wasn't going to
be that easy.  "No.  No.  I can't hide from this.  You found the
book, but I used it, I'm the one who. . . ."
   "Who was used _by_ it," he said.  "Dammit, Akane, it
was magic!  We're dealing with stuff we don't understand!
That guy at the fight said the book was dangerous; that Gabriel
guy said it 'ensnared' you.  Well, shit, I've had enough poisons
and spirits and magic try to take me over to know just how
helpless that crap can make you.  Remember those hugging
mushrooms of Shampoo's?  How 'bout Pop and those
Surikomi eggs?  He did a lot of stuff he regretted later."
   Ranma could see his arguments were working: Akane
_wanted_ to be convinced, and why not?  Suddenly thinking
yourself responsible for the death of innocent people, who
wouldn't want their guilt appeased?  There's no weakness in
that, he told himself, in wanting to escape the terrible
knowledge of having killed someone.  Who wants to carry that
with them for the rest of their life?
   "Are you okay?" Akane asked.
   "I'm fine," he said, and he thought of his conversation
with his father and drove away his own nagging concerns.  "It's
not me we have to worry about.  It's you."
   "I know.  I overheard you and Ryoga talking.  There's
more of these things coming, aren't there?"
   He nodded.  "Maybe tonight.  Everyone's in the dojo,
so we can make plans."
   "Sorry I kept people waiting."
   "Don't be," he said, and impulsively squeezed her
hand.  She squeezed back, and he could see she had more to
add.  "What?"
   "Am I. . . ."  Her voice trailed off, but at his curious
expression, she tried again.  "Does this make me a killer?" she
asked softly, and her hands trembled in his grasp.
   The question parallelled his own thoughts so closely
that he briefly wondered how she could have known his mind,
before realizing that it must be a natural question.  This is her
first brush with death, he realized.  Not counting her mother, he
added, but that was hardly the same thing.  She was involved
this time, even if only indirectly, and he could see how terribly
frightened she was.  Ranma suddenly felt the veteran, and
weary, and wished his first encounter with death had not
involved so intimate a connection, so that someone could have
convinced him of his own innocence as well.
   "Am I?" she repeated.
   He looked at her, and smiled almost mockingly, though
the bitterness was entirely directed within, and said, "No.
You're not, Akane.  Believe me, you're not."  Perhaps the
sincerity of his voice, or the absolute conviction of his words,
was enough, for she seemed to suddenly relax.  "Trust me, I
know," he added.  He had to quickly look away to conceal his
own brief pang of self-hatred.
   When he looked back, her expression had softened
considerably, and her eyes glimmered, not with tears, but with
something he fancied might be understanding.  Again that angry
voice, scoffing within: how dare she presume to sympathise
with what he felt?  She had never killed, not directly, never
shattered a man to icy pieces, never stabbed a sword so hard
into an enemy that it cleaved straight through and sank into
stone.  She had never felt the heady thrill that accompanied the
act, nor the debilitating guilt that followed.  Again he pushed the
voice aside, for he refused to nurture that anger: Akane had
enough of her own, he could tell, to still deal with.
   "I should go back to the others," he said.
"Everybody's waiting."  She nodded, but when he went to
stand up to leave, her grip on his hands did not let go.  He
looked at her inquisitively.  "Akane?"
   "Please," she said.  "Don't go.  Not yet.  Just a few
more minutes?"  And as he sat back down, glancing anxiously
at the thin crack of reddening sunlight he could make out
through her curtains, she smiled slightly, and that made it
worthwhile.  "Besides," she added.  "I'm not done with your
makeup yet.  Can't leave a job half-done, can I?"  She raised
one hand to forestall his protest.  "Hey, you started this."
   And then, so soft he barely hear it, she added, "Thank
you, Ranma."


   Ryoga wandered listlessly around the dojo, careful to
never leave the confines of the four wooden walls.  Nervous
tension and impatience were riding high among the gathered
members, but nowhere higher, he fancied, than within himself.
He knew what was approaching, had already fought with one -
- and lost, though he remained convinced that, had he not had
to defend that girl, Akako, he could have still pulled a victory.
It was getting late in the afternoon, and no plans, whether to
stay and fight, or to run, had been made yet.  Where's Ranma,
he wondered, what's taking him so long?  Ryoga itched to do
something -- itched to do anything, to practice, to wander, to
talk to Akari, to speak to Akane. . . .
   No, not to Akane, he forcefully reminded himself, not
Akane, only Akari.  Those feelings I have for Akane, I can no
longer allow to remain inside of me.  That she happens to be
the most beautiful, kind, and wonderful woman on Earth is
irrelevant.  I already have someone I care very deeply for, and
who loves me in return.  It should be easy to forget about
Akane, he continued, after all, there's so many reasons _not_
to love her: she only thinks of me as a friend, she only loves me
as a pet, she doesn't _know_ that I'm her pet, she's already
engaged to a guy she. . . maybe kind of doesn't really hate; a
man who rode the winds above a mountain and duelled with a
god there, and doused its fire with the ice of his own soul.
Ranma.
   How magnificent that fight had been!  Only then,
watching from the cavern's edge as the two had clashed,
incandescent spheres of power duelling within the howling
cyclone above -- only at that time could Ryoga no longer deny
the awe he felt at watching his nemesis fight unfettered of
concerns for his enemy.  Envy would come later; but on
Phoenix Mountain, as Saffron levelled a mountain range and
Ranma kept on coming, the lost boy had had no choice but to
accept one stark fact: had that been him up there, duelling
within those winds, he would have long since been dead; and
should Ranma ever come at him with that same degree of
seriousness, his chances would be equally as slim.
   Dammit, Ranma! the lost boy swore.  What was I to
you, in all of the many fights we've shared?  A joke, a toy?
You humiliated me often enough -- and saved me often enough
as well.  You've taken advantage of me without hesitation --
and just as easily forgiven a betrayal and sacrificed yourself to
save me.  Laugh at my sense of direction yet help me when I
need it.  Mock my curse but keep it a secret.  You're an utter
jerk, Ranma, Ryoga thought, but somewhere in all that, you've
become my friend.
   And now it's friend-in-need time, right?  Well, I'll stand
by you, Ranma, even if I don't like you.  Because we've been
through so much together already, and if anyone can maybe
understand who I am, understand my depression and our
rivalry, it is you.  I guess you'll always get to be the hero, in a
way that I never will; whenever it comes to an ending, you'll be
the one to strike down the god from the heavens while I throw
rocks at him from the sidelines.  But our rivalry isn't over,
Ranma, you bastard, my friend: you've pushed me to excel, but
I've pushed back just as hard; and maybe someday still, I'll
push back so hard that I'll get to be the hero, just once.


   Ranma had heard, hanging around with friends, of the
many relationships at school, and the different things people did
with each other.  He only listened with half-an-ear, since he told
himself he was neither interested nor a pervert; on the other
hand, he had never had a real date, nor even a real kiss, and
despite his reputation as a local playboy, he sometimes
wondered what normal boys and girls did with each other.  A
lot of what he heard made him blush, and a lot of it he knew
was untrue, just from hearing or by virtue of having a slightly
more intimate understanding of the opposite sex than most men;
and some of it made him yearn for a date, someday, an
ordinary, simple date with a single girl.  An impossibility, of
course, since taking only one girl out would incite the others to
try and kill him; but one could dream, right?
   He suspected, however, as Akane drew the blusher
across his cheekbones, that few boyfriends put up with a full
makeover from their girlfriend.  Especially when certain death
from the realms beyond approached in the form of many big
monsters with really nasty teeth.  Oh, sure, he mused, I've
heard of guys letting girls do their toenails, or something, but
that didn't really compare; and though it wasn't the first time for
him to wear makeup, he felt vaguely ridiculous.
   Yet, as his fiancee focussed on the task, she visibly
relaxed, the guilty tension of the day draining away.  Certainly a
few minutes, and it hadn't even been ten yet, of indignation was
worth that, right?  He surreptitiously licked his lip and felt the
strange substance there, and wondered.
   "Hey, I saw that," Akane said.  "Stop it."
   "Akane," he said, patiently.  "You do know that bad
things might be coming, right?"
   "Yes," she said.
   "You're not worried?"
   "Terrified.  Now lean forward a bit.  Blink a few times,
so your eyelashes rub against the brush.  Be careful, you don't
want to poke out an eye."
   "I know how to put on makeup, thanks.  If you're
worried, then don't you think--"
   "Why didn't you tell me any of this earlier?" she
interrupted.  "If I hadn't listened in on you and Ryoga, I never
would have known."
   "And that's a bad thing?" he asked.  "You _wanted_ to
spend the day crying in your room?"
   "No, of course not!  The other eye.  But if you had told
me everything from the beginning. . . ."
   "You would've just worried more.  Listen, Akane, I
didn't really know any of this was going to happen.  Some
weirdo tells me death is coming, and I should listen?  I had to
make sure.  And you were so busy with studying and exams
and trying to get into. . . university, that. . . ."
   "What?"
   "Nothing."
   "Ranma," she growled.  "Don't keep secrets from the
girl smearing colours across your eyelids."
   "Akane, what did the book offer you?"
   She started.  "What?"
   "That Gabriel guy said the book got to you because it
promised you something you really, really wanted.  Now me,
I'm sure it would've been a cure for my curse.  Heck, there
was even a mention of Jusenkyo in there, remember?  It
probably made that up to get me to keep reading it or
something.  So I wonder: what did it offer you, Akane?"
   "I have no idea what you're talking about," she said,
and snapped her compact case shut.  "Well, all done.  You
look fantastic."
   "I'm sure," he said wryly.
   "Let that be a lesson to you.  Next time you hold the
truth back from me, I'll pluck your eyebrows too."
   "Fine.  Can I go now?"
   "Of course," she said, and smiled broadly.  "Let's go."


   Where is that jackass? Ukyou wondered for the nth
time, levelling a baleful glare through the dojo's door, across
the yard, and straight at Akane's window.  How long can it
possibly take to drag that girl back here?  What could they
possibly be doing?
   The okonomiyaki chef, however, did not like that line
of thought, and therefore curtailed it.  Lately, she avoided
thinking about many things concerned her fiance, or of a future
including him in her life that seemed increasingly unlikely as time
passed by.  She tried to deny it, but a year did a lot to drive the
inevitable home; and while she refused to ever give up, Ukyou
had begun to doubt even her own drive towards capturing her
childhood sweetheart.  When she thought of losing the fiancee
war, the emotions that welled up within disturbed her greatly:
for the very lack of depth to her feelings suggested that
something fundamental had changed.  Certainly, the thought of
losing Ranma brought feelings of disappointment, and anger,
and sadness -- but where was the savage intensity of before,
that drove her to violent outbursts at the least sign of possibly
affection between Ranma and any of her rivals?  Where was
that impetus that led her to delve into the Dark Side of her Art
and to cook up evil explosive okonomiyaki that helped destroy
a wedding?
   The wedding.  Now _there_ had been a mistake,
Ukyou mused, both in trying to get those two together, and for
the rest of us to try and stop it.  Ranma certainly hadn't been
very happy about losing his chance at a cure, which was why
(she was sure) she saw so little of him in the days afterwards.
Not only did I piss _him_ off, but I got on his mom's bad side
as well!
   Surprisingly, that distancing from Ranma's mother
disturbed Ukyou deeply.  They had gotten along quite well,
before, and Nodoka had been a not-infrequent visitor at the
Ucchan's.  The chef would not deny that her intentions in
approaching the Saotome matriarch had been at first less than
altruistic: after all, how better to get closer to her love than
through his mother?  But over time, something akin to a genuine
friendship had formed.  The woman was completely batty,
Ukyou admitted, but nevertheless a wonderfully warm, caring,
and interesting woman.  Conversations that had been
completely centred around Ranma gradually migrated to other
topics: first, okonomiyaki, and then. . . the world.
   That ended with the wedding.  Nodoka no longer
visited the restaurant, and in their few encounters, her
withdrawn manner had been, in comparison to her earlier
friendliness, positively chilling.  Ukyou mourned that lost of
what had been the closest, perhaps, to a mother she had ever
known -- and she was determined to regain that closeness
again.  So she turned back towards the woman, doing what she
could to avoid the fat man standing next to her, and tried to
strike up a conversation once again.
   Just then Ranma entered the dojo, Akane trailing a few
steps behind.


   Ranma stood before his collected friends and family
with anticipation and concern sitting like a heavy stone in the pit
of his stomach.  So much time lost already, he thought, it'll be
dark soon.  Speaking with his father, helping Akane get over
her guilt: he refused to consider this wasted time, but it had
used up a lot of the late afternoon, and if his fears were right,
their enemy could be here at anytime.  If they even attacked
tonight.  Of course, the meeting would have started even faster
if everyone had not burst into laughter the moment he walked
into the dojo.  Stupid makeover, stupid Akane, he grumbled.
Trust the tomboy to suck at every other feminine skill except
this one.  Why do I have to be so damn beautiful?  A few
people hadn't laughed, though their reaction hadn't been any
better: his father had flushed red with anger, and his mother had
offered up a proud, if hesitant, compliment.
   But a veneer of seriousness finally returned, and taking
a deep breath, Ranma started over.  "Right.  Let's try this
again.  As I was saying," he started, and then shifted into a
quick retelling of the relevant details of last night, adding his
own theory as to their enemy's  -- or quite possibly enemies' --
motivation.  Ranma noted that Akane paled slightly as he
explained, but also saw the hard glint of determination in her
eyes that held the guilt back.  Good girl, he thought, before
turning his attention back to his speech.
   "So that's where we stand," he said.  "We've got more
of these things -- who knows how many -- coming this way.
Possibly even tonight.  If they're anything like the one I
fought -- and judging by the one Ryoga met yesterday, they probably
are -- then these bastards are tough.  They're only after Akane,
but they don't seem to mind taking out anybody else that gets in
their way.
   "So: what do we do?  Do we stay and fight?  Or do we
make a strategic re. . . ."
   "Sounds good to me," Genma said, hefting his
backpack over his shoulders and making a quick beeline for the
door.  "Running sounds _very_ good to me."
   "SA-O-TO-ME!" growled a very angry Soun Tendo,
stepping in front of his lifelong friend and looming threateningly
over him.  "Where do you think you are going?"
   "Um, somewhere very, very far away, where it's safe?"
   "My daughter's life is in mortal danger by minions of
evil, and you want to RUN AWAY?"
   "You could all come with me?" added Genma, meekly.
   "Right," said Soun, hefting his own pack.  "Pack your
bags, girls, we're going on vacation."
   "Dad!" yelled Akane.
   ". . . treat," Ranma finished, and sighed.  "The problem
with retreating," he continued, "is, of course, that these things
can track us.  Wherever we go, they'll follow -- if they haven't
already found and surrounded us.  After all, I think they like
nighttime, but Ryoga's didn't seem to mind jumping into the
sunlight."
   "Of course," Genma said, dropping his load, "staying
and fortifying. . . ."
   "Might not be such a bad idea," finished Soun, kicking
his bag aside.
   "That's what I thought," Ranma said, shaking his head.
"Personally, I think staying's the better idea.  Fight them on the
ground we know, or whatever.  At least they won't be able to
surprise us."  He unconsciously rubbed his injured side.
   "Um, yeah, sure, sounds great," said Nabiki, raising her
hand.  "Except in all the ways that it doesn't.  Like, hello?
Non-combatant here.  None martial-artist type, right?  I've got
essays to write, and I'd rather not have to ask for an extension
due to an unforseen case of extreme being dead.  Know what I
mean?"  She gestured at her older sister and Ranma's mother.
"I'm pretty sure they'll back me up on this, too."
   "It's a martial artist's wife's duty to stand by her
husband in the face of certain death," said Nodoka, nodding
sagely.
   "Oh, I'm sure everything will turn out just fine," added
Kasumi.
   "Great," Nabiki groaned, slapping a palm to her
forehead.  "I'm doomed."
   Ranma spared an anxious glance towards Akane,
looking away before she noticed.  "I know what you mean,
Nabiki, and I'm not happy about it either.  But if you were to
leave, I think there's a good chance one of them might follow
you home -- the thing last night kept going on about scents, and
lets face it, there's probably enough Akane on you after
spending the night."
   "You just _had_ to hug me, didn't you, sis?" Nabiki
said, throwing an evil glare her sister's way.  The middle sister
pulled away from the group to glower in a corner, muttering all
the way:  "Yes, sensei, I know I'm late with my essay, it's just
been kinda hard to write ever since that demon my sister
summoned up bit off both my arms.  But don't worry, I'm
learning to type with my toes. . . ."
   "This means we'll have to protect the non-fighters, as
well as ourselves," Ranma continued, while throwing a
significant look towards Ryoga.  His friend gave a small nod as
his eyes darted towards Akane.  "And considering how tough
just one of these things was. . . it's not going to be easy."
   "It's going to be a hell of a lot harder than that," said
Pop, frowning.
   "Yeah, I know."
   "Mark my words, boy.  There won't be any leeway for
mistakes.  We've stumbled into something very serious here,
and somebody could very well end up badly hurt.  Even dead."
   "I know," Ranma repeated, but this time he gulped
nervously.
   "This means going all out."  Ranma found himself fixed
by his father's sharp, dark gaze.  "No holding back."
   The young martial artist slowly gave a single, reluctant
nod.  "I understand."
   "Good."
   Outside, the setting sun touched the horizon.  In the
light's heavy red hues, the clouds seemed ignited and streaked
like blood across the firmament; and the sky's violent excess
spilled across the silhouetted cityscape that lay beyond the
dojo's walls.  For a moment he felt isolated, as if on an island,
and everywhere that lay beyond this house became dark and
hostile.  How many of these things were out there, how strong
would they be?  Ranma shivered and felt suddenly afraid, and
berated himself for such weak feelings.  But if an attack was
coming tonight, it wouldn't be long now.
   The others were huddled together, talking quickly,
exchange ideas, glancing nervously towards the window, the
closed door, each other.  Ukyou wanted to start cooking
attack-food as soon as possible; Genma and Soun were sifting
through the dojo's collection of weaponry and armour; Nabiki
was grumbling in the corner, levelling nasty glares at anyone
who dared look her way.  A hand fell on his shoulder, and he
turned away from the crimson view outside.  Akane looked
down at him with large brown eyes filled with concern.
   "Are you okay?" she asked.
   He looked outside and watched as the heavy sun sank
lower, and sighed.  "Yeah."
   "What do we do first?"
   "We-."
   Just then, he snapped to attention at a flicker on the
periphery of his vision.  Something outside.  Eyes narrowing,
without any unnecessary movement, he focussed on the suspect
area.  The stretch of the wall surrounding the Tendo Residence,
just beyond the large tree that grew next to the pond behind the
house itself.  Through the early blooming that decorated the
bare, craggy branches green and brown something. . . shifted.
And then he saw it, almost invisible against the stone and
crimson sky lying behind: an eye.  A single lidless orb that
slowly turned towards him; and for a moment it seemed to stare
directly at him.  Pale white, utterly inhuman, it watched him
impassively for several moments across the intervening
distance, and then slowly slid back behind the wall.  Only then
did he realize that what he had first taken for slick, wet stone
was something else entirely, as the surface of the wall seemed
to ripple, shifting colour slightly, and flow away out of sight.
   "Ranma?"
   "What do we do?" he said, and swallowed nervously.
"We call for help."


   The phone rang many, many times before finally being
picked up.
   "I'm sorry, but the Nekohanten is closed for business
today," a woman's voice said tersely, and then quickly hung up.
The next time, the phone was answered much more quickly.
   "I'm sorry, but-."
   "Old Ghoul!  Waitasec, don't hang up," said Ranma.
   There was a brief pause, then the Amazon matriarch's
voice, sounding tired, a little angry, and just a touch sarcastic.
"Oh, well, Son-in-law.  How nice of you to call."
   "We've. . . ."
   "My, it certainly has been a long time, hasn't it?  I
suppose you're calling out of concern for my great-
granddaughter.  How very touching.  Calling a full day after she
was very nearly mortally wounded shows a great deal of care."
    "Hey, I-."
   "Between the concussion and the blood loss-."
   This time it was Ranma who interrupted.  "Dammit, Old
Ghoul, I don't got time for this!  You know I don't wanna be
talking to you.  You think I'd be doing this if I wasn't
desperate?  We're in a deep load of shit!"
   Another brief silence on the other end of the line, during
which Ranma quivered with impatience.  "Explain," the older
woman said.
   "The thing that attacked Shampoo and Mousse; last
night I hunted for it.  I didn't find it, but one of it's brothers
found me.  We fought, I won.  But there's more of them.
They're after Akane.  Or anyone who's had contact with her,
or even looks like her.  I think.  Now they know where she is -- where we all are.  And they're here, Cologne. . . these friggin' monsters are here, right outside our walls!"
   "And they haven't attacked yet?" asked the old
woman, her voice now utterly serious, the earlier annoyance
dropping away.
   "No.  But I saw one watching us a few minutes ago."
The image popped into his mind unbidden, a single liquid eye
watching before flowing away.  He shivered.  "I don't know
why they haven't attacked yet, but they could at any second.
We need reinforcements!"  A touch of desperation entered his
voice, and while he detested the weakness of it -- especially
before Cologne -- he could not deny the honesty of it.  "We. . .
dammit, _I_ need your help, Cologne.  We're over our heads
here; way over our heads."
   There was no longer any hesitation in her response.
"We will be there as quickly as possible."
   The relief he felt was nearly palpable, and showed in his
voice.  "Thanks."  He suddenly thought of the thing lurking
beyond the walls.  "Except. . . how will you get in?"
   "A very good question," the Amazon answered dryly.
"Although. . . ."
   Just then Ranma felt a foreign presence approaching.
He heard the front door slam open.  Everyone was indoors,
preparing, keeping watch, and since the phone lay just beyond
the entrance, he was guarding the most obvious way in.  It's
beginning, he thought, mixed sensations of dread and eager
anticipation swept through him, and as the phone dropped from
his hand he turned towards the door.
   "Son-in-law?" rang faintly from the receiver.
   "Who's first?" Ranma growled, as heavy steps left the
genkan; and his opponent stepped into view.  Sudden intense
fear and loathing gripped Ranma.
   "Pig-tailed girl!" exclaimed Tatewaki Kuno, rushing
forward to grab him in a tight embrace.  "My heavenly beauty,
my vision of eternal radiant beauty, how I have missed thee,
how I have yearned for thee, how I have. . . ."
   "Oh, put a sock in it," Ranma muttered in disgust,
flooring the older kendoist with a quick uppercut.
   "Son-in-law?"
   He picked up the receiver, even as Kuno picked
himself up off the floor.  "One 'sec, 'kay?  It may be easier than
we thought for you to get in."  Covering the mouthpiece,
Ranma called out loudly.  "Hey, somebody order a moron on a
stick?  We just had one delivered."
   "That'll be mine," Nabiki said, coming down the stairs.
"Yo, Kuno-baby.  Glad you could make it."
   "Hey," the new arrival said, waving feebly with one hand while clutching his stomach with the other.  "I got your call and came as quickly as possible."  The look he cast Ranma's way was pained.  "That hurt, you know."
   "Aw, man," the pigtailed girl sighed, "Nabiki, can you
take care of him?  I've got the Ghoul on the line."  He returned
his attention to the phone as the Tendo sister led her university
peer away.  "Sorry 'bout that," he said.
   "I gather that getting in won't be so difficult, then?"
   "I guess not," he answered.  "Kuno seems to have just
walked in.  I don't understand."
   "Whatever the reason," said Cologne, "we will be over
within minutes."
   "Thanks," said Ranma, and hung up the phone.


   Nabiki sat in the living room across from Kuno and
watched the bustle of preparation.  Ranma's description of the
thing beyond the wall had only served to increase the hectic
energy within the room, and while the middle sister wasn't
convinced anybody was accomplishing anything of much use,
everyone certainly seemed busy.  As for her, she was
explaining the situation to Tatewaki.
   Whether by fate or by chance, he had ended up at
Tokyo University in business studies as well,  surprising both
her and the rest of the Furinkan high school population; who
would've thought that behind that moron exterior there had also
been a keen academic mind?  At first Nabiki had been annoyed
that the boy had trailed after her to Tokyo -- she had been
hoping for a clean break from the looniness of her past -- but
eventually came to appreciate his presence.  He was maybe the
only one of her circle of friends at university who could
understand the uniqueness of her Nerima days, and he seemed
to share the same sardonic view of their peers' concept of
stress.  Stress wasn't a fifteen-page paper due the next day:
stress was having a fifty pound phoenix sitting on your head.
Though she had scorned him at first, she now saw him several
times a week, and they shared a dinner together (his treat, of
course) every Friday night.
   Even more surprisingly, a year at university seemed to
have done him a world of good.  Away from the crazy house
that had been his home, away from his Hawaii-obsessed father
and lunatic sister and her rather suspect cuisine, his demeanor
had improved to no end.  He even spoke normally, most of the
time, with only the occasional burst of poetry escaping.  Sure,
Nabiki admitted, he still thought himself a modern-day samurai,
but at least it was _modern_ day; he gave up living in some
fantastical pre-Meiji period of his own invention somewhere
during his first semester of school.  Nothing showed this better
than his current clothing: gone was the martial garb, and instead
he wore a rather fashionable, very expensive, and, Nabiki had
to admit, very good-looking casual shirt and trouser set.
   "So, foul creatures seek to do the fair Akane harm?" he
asked.  "Then I had best change into my warrior's garb.  'Tis a
good thing I brought my hakama!"
   Of course, Nabiki sighed, he still slipped up
occasionally.
   As Kuno stepped off to the bathroom, she glanced
down at the newspaper she held folded in her lap.  She knew
what the front page story was without looking: an article about
the surprise slaying of one Takeshi Hirano, Ginza banker.
Killed in the same way that Ranma had put down the beast of
last night.  Could they be one and the same?  Nabiki had little
doubt; if a fat man could turn into a fatter panda, then why
couldn't a philanthropist banker turn into a vicious, hulking
monster?
   The dilemma that twisted within her mind was, rather,
what to do with the information.  No one else had seen the
news report on television, nor read the newspaper -- and she
wasn't about to let anyone else see it now.  Should she let
Ranma know that the monsters coming were possibly all
transformed people, with jobs and families and household pets?
   Should she?  Yes, she told herself, I should.  That
would be the morally right thing to do.  The very thing they
droned on about back at school.  But will I?
   No.
   For she had every intention of coming through this mess
alive, with her family intact, and if that meant keeping the truth
secret from Ranma -- a truth that could only serve to confuse
him, to make him hesitate -- than so be it.  Her conscience
could deal with those unknown people's demise.  Rather their
blood on her hands, than her family's.


   Ranma had just finished explaining the latest of many
needed preparations to Kasumi when the Chinese
reinforcements arrived.  As the eldest Tendo sister headed off
to Happosai's room, carrying several boxes of foodstuff and
other sundry items -- he shuddered at the very thought of
them -- he returned to the entrance to greet them.
   "Son-in-law," Cologne said in way of greeting.  She
looked the very same as she had at their last encounter: old,
dangerous, ugly, and very cunning.  She balanced atop her
battered walking stick and somehow made it seem more stable
than the floor he stood on.  Behind her stood Shampoo and
Mousse.
   The long-haired boy looked the same as always, thick
glasses set atop his brow, his arms folded into the voluminous
sleeves of his robes.  Compared to the bonbori and sword
carrying Shampoo standing next to him, he appeared unarmed,
but Ranma knew by now just how deceptive that was.  Judging
by their last little tangle a few months back, the master of
hidden weapons was even better at his trade then ever before.
Mousse nodded once in silence, and his countenance was
grave.
   Shampoo, standing a step behind her great grand-
mother, appeared far from her usual dynamic self.  She was in
obvious pain, though her only concession to it was a tight-
lipped pursing of her lips.  The superficial damage of yesterday
had healed, but her stomach was still giving her great difficulty,
and her head remained swathed in bandages.  Cologne's
Chinese medicines had obviously done a great deal of good,
but the wounds that the beast had given her had been severe.
But the very hard, very cold glint to her eyes spoke volumes: no
wound would keep her from exacting a harsh revenge.
   "Old. . . Cologne," he said, and bowed deeply.
"Thank you for coming."
   "Bah, enough of that," she said, hopping past.  "You
carry respect well.  Now, explain to me exactly what is going
on here, and why something tried to kill my great grand-
daughter yesterday."
   "Sure," he said, leading her to the living room.  Quickly,
sparing extraneous details, he filled Cologne, Shampoo, and
Mousse in on what was happening.  Once he was finished, he
sat back, and shrugged.  "That's about it, really.  I know it's
not much, but. . . well, do ya know what's goin' on?"
   The amazon matriarch laughed.  "It never fails to amaze
me, the naivety of youth, and what knowledge people seem to
assume I have.  I have lived a very long time, and seen many
things beyond your imagining," she said, "but the greatest lesson
of all I have experienced is that there will forever be far more
that remains beyond my understanding."
   Ranma puzzled that over for a moment before saying,
"So you don't know nothin'?"
   "You told me a big monster attacked you last night.
What kind of conclusion do you want me to draw: that it had a
predilection for arrogant, bull-headed boys who change into
girls?"
   "Thanks."
   "However, these enemies of yours, they are skilled.
Entering this house felt like stepping into the lions' den.  You
were right: something lies lurking beyond those walls.  How
many, I could not tell, for their presence was concealed very
well."
   "But that's what I don't get!" said Ranma.  "If they're
already out there, why not attack?  Why let more people in?
Are they waiting for reinforcements of their own?"
   "Or maybe," added Cologne, "they simply want to put
an end to all this tonight.  Eliminate everyone associated with
these events with a single strike.  No need to hunt loose threads
down, when you've already done an admirable job of bringing
everyone together."
   "You mean they _wanted_ me to. . . ?"
   "So I assume," Cologne said, and nodded.  "However,
we can only hope that they have overestimated themselves in
their arrogance."  Her eyes narrowed.  "For on this night, they
shall learn what it entails to attack a sister of the Joketsuku."
At her side, Shampoo smiled cruelly, and Mousse's glasses
gleamed in the electric light that kept the night at bay.  "And
now, Son-in-law," Cologne continued, "how about showing me
these preparations you have made."


   Akane sat in the central room of her home, and though
she tried to maintain an appearance of calm composure, within
her heart was aflutter with nervous anticipation and excitement.
Twisting beneath that was a gnawing sense of guilt: after all,
everyone had come together because of her inadvertent
actions, and though they now fought to defend their own lives
as well, she was the true goal of their unknown enemies' attack.
She felt a certain warmth, knowing that these people were
willing to fight to defend her.
   Well, maybe not their Chinese friends.  Akane was
pretty sure Shampoo fought for her own personal revenge --
when the amazon had heard that the one responsible for
wounding her yesterday was still at large, her smile had only
turned thinner and crueller.  Of course, wherever Shampoo
fought, Mousse stood by her side and one step behind; and as
for Cologne, who could guess that inscrutable old woman's
motivations in anything?  The amazon matriarch had essentially
taken control of the situation upon arrival, and had her wards
patrolling in pairs, Shampoo with Ukyou, Mousse with Genma.
   Her father looked as gallant as she had ever seen him,
wearing the old brown dogi which had carried him through his
travels with Genma and Happosai.  He stood stoically by the
sliding doors that led to the back, silhouetted against the twilight
sky outside.  It frightened her to think he would willingly lay
down his life to defend hers; but it won't come to that, Akane
thought, because if anything tries to hurt Dad, I'll pound it into
dust.  Ryoga stood watching from the top of the stairs, just in
case anything broke through the barricaded windows on the
second floor.  Kuno remained with the non-combatants,
Kasumi, Nodoka, and Nabiki, huddled together near the
kitchen.  He played the role of samurai guardsmen to
perfection, despite the middle-sister's frequent belittling
comments.
   As for Ranma: he stood next to her, back in his male
form, and the hovering protectiveness that had so annoyed her
during the last week was nothing compared to the loose
readiness with which he now held himself.  The look in his eyes
was one she had never seen before, or maybe only once in a
half-remembered dream.  It was hard, and cold, and behind
that lurked something very, very mean.  Even though she knew
it existed in defence of her, she realized she did not like seeing
such a look on Ranma's face.  But how long could he hold
himself in that ready, angry state?  Already it was getting late,
past seven, and though both Cologne and Ranma remained
certain that something -- possibly many somethings -- waited
outside, nothing more had been seen.
   Cologne pogo'ed into the room.  "It would appear that
they wish to play a waiting game with us.  Likely they expect us
to get either tired or impatient."
   Ranma nodded and smiled grimly.  "Not me.  Soul of
ice."
   Akane shivered against a night breeze, and the night
suddenly seemed darker and colder.  Cologne tensed.  "What
was that?"
   The pigtailed boy shrugged.  "I dunno, I didn't feel
nothin'."
   "Nevertheless, remain on guard."
   "What do you think I've been doin', sleeping?  I told
ya, there's nothing out there, I would've felt it."
   "You questioning me, boy?"  Cologne turned on
Ranma, and the younger martial artist glared back.  "You doubt
my talents?"
   He snorted.  "You doubt mine?"
   Cologne laughed, and the sound was unpleasant.  "I
thought we settled this six months ago, son-in-law, or have you
forgotten the lesson I taught you?"
   Ranma scowled and flushed red.  "Oh no, Old Ghoul, I
haven't forgotten.  Not at all."
   Akane watched as they began to argue, becoming
increasingly hostile, and wondered, what's wrong with these
two?  She knew that they had had some kind of falling out soon
after his return from China, though the details remained
uncertain: he had made it abundantly clear that he didn't want
anybody prying into his business, and had proven extremely
touchy when the subject was brought up.  Did this level of
resentment still remain between them?
   "Arrogant whelp, flying so high," said Cologne,
smirking disdainfully.  "You ought to thank me.  You came
close to burning those young wings, but I certainly brought you
down to earth, hard, didn't I?"
   "That was then, you old bitch," he growled, and took a
step towards her.  "And this is now."
   This is crazy, Akane thought, what are they going to
do, fight?  "Hey, wait a second," she said, standing up.  "What
do you think you're doing?  Calm down!"
   "Shut up, you silly little girl," said Cologne without
taking her eyes off of Ranma.  "This does not concern you."
   "Don't you talk to her that way," said Ranma.  "Don't
you _ever_ talk to her like that."
   "Hey, what's going on down there?" called Ryoga from
upstairs.  "What's with all the yelling?"
   "Shut up, Pig Boy!" answered Ranma back.  "Stick to
your own business."
   "Hey!"  The lost boy's heavy steps descended the
stairs, and turning the corner he joined the group.  "I was only
asking a question!"
   "What the hell do you think you're doing?" yelled
Ranma.  "You left your post!"
   "You think you're doing a better job than me, eh,
Ranma, arguing with the mummy?" answered Ryoga, flushing
red.
   "Who are you calling a mummy?" said Cologne,
rapping his head with her stick.
   "Don't hit me!"
   "Stop it!"  Akane started as her father, thus far silently
and steadfastly maintaining his guard, suddenly turned and
glared at the bickering crowd.  "My daughter's life is in danger
and all you can do is argue amongst yourselves?"
   "Oh, big surprise," muttered Nabiki from her corner of
the room.  "With this crowd?  I'm surprised it took this long."
   "Now that's not nice," admonished Kasumi, frowning
ever so slightly.
   "Now, now, girls," interrupted Ranma's mother, and
her hand fell gently onto the grip of her sword.  "Sisters
shouldn't argue."
   "I will brook no more arguing in this house," insisted
Father, cracking his knuckles.  "Not when my dear Akane's life
is at risk!"
   "Is violent girl's own fault," added another voice from
behind, and Akane turned to see the four people who were
supposed to be on patrol standing outside the entrance her
father had been guarding.  "Why we risk our life for stupid girl's
mistakes?"
   Akane would have protested, but Ukyou beat her to it.
"What the hell are you jackasses doing?" the okonomiyaki chef
demanded.  "We could hear the yelling from the other side of
the house!"
   Kuno stepped in, having heard the earlier slur against
Akane.  "Peasant," he said, levelling his bokken at the purple-
haired amazon, "how dare you, simple girl that you are, slander
the fair Akane's name in such a way?"
   A barely audible 'snick', and sudden Mousse had a
long, jagged curved blade in his hand.  "I wouldn't point that at
her if I was you," he said softly, "if you want to wake up
tomorrow morning."
   The drawing of the first weapons seemed the signal for
others to make an appearance.  Spatula, bombori, and walking
stick were brought to bear, even as others shifted into combat
ready stances.  Akane watched in stunned disbelief as she saw
her friends square of, each against everybody.  Arguing
reaching a new fevered pitch, and everybody's face was red
and horribly disfigured in anger.  Threats were thrown around
indiscriminately, weapons and fist were pointed almost at
random, rage redirected at the slightest provocation.
   Why am I the only one who isn't angry? Akane
thought.  Aren't I usually the first one to lose my temper?  This
just isn't right. . . .  She looked up at Ranma, and saw how the
normally relaxed, cheerful features were distorted and ugly in
his wrath, and saw that terribly hardness in his eyes turned on
Ryoga; and Akane knew that if she didn't act now, things were
about to get very, very ugly.
   "STOP IT!" she yelled, and when her words had little
effect on the already screaming crowd, she jumped up and
grabbed her fiance's arm.  "Stop it, Ranma!  This isn't right!"
   For a moment he turned away from his target, and his
eyes focussed on her.  She quailed and her knees felt weak at
the horrible coldness of his look, and Akane suddenly
wondered, is this what Saffron saw, in that final moment, when
Ranma fought for my life?  She gasped in pain at the tightness
of his grip, and a more pressing concern took precedence: is he
about to hit me? she asked herself.  Just as it seemed Ranma
was about to rear back with one fist, something akin to
indecision softened the hardness of those eyes, and he turned
away.  He shoved her back, roughly, saying, "Stay outta this,
university girl.  This don't concern you."
   Akane stumbled, fell, and her head rapped painfully
against the living room table.  Tears spring to her eyes, though
whether from the pain or Ranma's callous treatment of her, it
was impossible to tell.  Lying briefly among the shuffling,
violently moving legs of her friends and family, she thought in
desperation, what's going on?
   And then: through the blurriness of her tears, a red haze
at the periphery of her vision, an indistinct crimson cloud that
hovered in the corner of her eye.  She blinked and shook her
head, and even though the tears cleared the haze remained, and
as she sat up, it seemed her view of the room was seen through
a bloodied filter.  What the hell?, she thought, and suddenly
winced at a sharp, piercing pain that lanced through her head.
She gasped as the pain redoubled, as a high keening assaulted
her ears, steadily increasing from an indistinct background hum
to a deafening wail; and she clapped her hands over her ears
and screamed for it to stop, and her cry went unheard in the
sudden clash of weapons and fist and foot above her; and then
so abruptly it came as a surprise, the sound and pain
reverberating withing her skull stopped.
   She opened her eyes and uncovered her ears, and
scrambled away from the sudden chaotic battle forming around
her.  She choked down another scream at the scene revealed
before her.  Everywhere, her friends and family were at each
others throat.  And beyond them: a single, luminous eye the size
of a dinner plate hung suspended from the ceiling, and
unblinkingly it stared at the scene below.  Some kind of
gelatinous fluid surrounded it, formed its body, and flowed and rippled
eerily along the entire surface of the ceiling.  What the hell are
we fighting here, Akane thought, how the hell did this thing
sneak in?  Staring at it through the red haze that yet persisted,
that seemed thickest about that translucent creature above, she
suddenly understood that it was somehow responsible for what
was happening to her friends.  The eye shifted and focussed on
her, and in that alien gaze she saw both intelligence and
malevolence.  Wet tendrils emerged from the mucous mass
suspended above and reached threateningly towards her.
   I need a weapon, she thought desperately, drawing
back from the wall, and just then one was presented to her: the
Saotome family katana slid across the floor as Genma knocked
his wife down, and Akane stamped down on the blade with her
foot.  It flipped up and she grabbed it from the air, and it settled
comfortably into her hand.  She smiled nastily.
   "Leave my friends alone!" she yelled, and jumping off
the table she launched herself into the air.  She flew straight for
the eye.  At the apex of her jump she threw the sword spear-
like, and her aim was true: the blade pierced the lidless eye
straight through the slitted pupil, and buried itself to the hilt in its
fluid mass.
   And just like that, it was over.  It mid swing, the fighting
ended, even as the creature suddenly lost its cohesiveness and
fell from the walls and ceiling in a wet, goopy mess, leaving the
katana imbedded in the ceiling above.
   "What the hell?" Ranma muttered, shaking his head, as
Cologne swore vehemently in rapid Chinese at herself.  Others
picked themselves off the floor, cursing or blinking in confusion,
or retrieving their scattered weapons from among the warm,
sticky fluid that now coated everything, including themselves.
Akane could tell at a quick glance that no one had been
wounded, not seriously -- but it had come so very, very close.
If she hadn't. . . but then, she was the only one that had not
been effected by that strange red haze.
   Ryoga was staring at her in wonderment.
   "What?" she asked.
   "Your. . . forehead," he said, and pointed.  "It was. . . glowing!"
   She tentatively reached one hand to her brow, and felt
nothing there.  She shrugged, and was about to tell him that she
had no idea what was happening, and try to explain to the
others what she had seen and done, when she saw movement:
suddenly looming out of the darkness behind Ryoga, a figure
approached rapidly, and light gleaming off of a toothed maw
most certainly inhuman; and behind it the darkness swelled with
the forerunner's brethren.
   "Here they come!" she screamed.


Continues in
Chapter Four: The Siege

***

Chapter Notes

Not much to say, other than that I had originally intended the
battle scene to be included in this chapter.  But doing so would
make this already long chapter ever more so, so I guess it'll
have to wait until part four.  I just hadn't expected quite so
much character stuff and whatnot.  Probably better this way,
since I'd rather avoid the 'half-story/half-fight' story structure
that the previous two chapters have used.

Also. . . not sure when the next chapter will come.  I'm
considering putting this one on the shelf temporarily and turning
my attention back to the next chapter of 'Choices'.  We'll see.
Later!

***

noakes_m@hotmail.com
http://www.geocities.com/noakes_m

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