ell?"  The old man stumbled, and took in his
surroundings before shaking his head in disgust.  "Now, let
me tell you, when *I* was young, we got *real* breaks in our
fics!  Not these disjointed, pasted-in... why, they didn't
even duplicate the disclaimers!  You have to go find Part A!"

Luckily, this venerable citizen has nothing at all to do
with the rest of this story.

                      *     *     *

Ranma stood sweating, the sound of his racing heartbeat
echoing off the silent, watching trees.  Without closing his
eyes, he immersed himself in his other senses, feeling the
pollen-laden air as it swept past the trees in bloom and on
to him, the whisper of wind caressing the blades of grass,
the smell of sunlight slowly baking the earth dry, the
rumbling of an idiot pounding through the woods, the
imperceptible buzz of gnats buzzing about his head....

"Ranma!  This is all your fault, but I'm willing to forget
that for just a moment, because you have to help me!" 

Senses hyper-sensitive from the meditative exercise, Ranma
could feel every ripple of Ryoga's muscles as he was
engulfed in a desperate hug, and the still-minuscule damp
spot where Ryoga's tears of frustration and desperation were
just barely beginning to soak into his shirt.  He was also
fully aware that Ryoga was stark raving nude.  Ranma was, at
this point, almost an expert in being involuntarily seized
by undressed individuals, and, all told, he would rate this
particular experience as one of the worst.  Besides, Ryoga
didn't know Don't-Hold-On Grenade-Jutsu.

Smiling grimly, Ranma recalled one of Genma's earliest
lessons, imparted in a rumbling voice over a campfire to a
wide-eyed boy, shivering through his first winter spent
outdoors.  "Son," the burly man had said, staring
contemplatively at his hands held out to the flames, "a
martial artist trains to be strong, both for himself and for
those weaker than him.  We learn to fight to protect those
who cannot fight for themselves, and to defeat those who use
their skills for gain at the expense of others.  But the
reason we learn special techniques, Son, the really fancy
flashy stuff, is to beat the hell out of mentally deranged
men who run around naked and try to molest us.  I don't
expect you to understand that, not today; but someday, in
the future, you'll look back on what I just told you, and
what I had to do today, and you'll understand."

Ranma hadn't understood, until now.  And, just
coincidentally, that enlightenment had come just as he
finished learning his newest attack; one so powerful that,
the deepest, darkest part of his mind confessed, it scared
even him.  Summoning his strength, he followed Genma's
advice and prepared to unleash the Way Of The Heavenly Mist
on his foe.

"Ryoga," he said, in a calm, almost sweet voice.

The lost boy froze, and his grip loosened.

"I really don't think you should be touching me like that,"
Ranma continued, his tone a blissful hymn.

Ryoga backed further off, his eyes wide and face pale.

"Oh, my!" Ranma cheerfully exclaimed, putting one hand to
his cheek.  "Imagine if Akane had seen us!  She almost
certainly would reached the wrong conclusion."  Without
losing his tiny smile, Ranma leaned in towards Ryoga, finger
extended.  His target, frozen like a rabbit in the depths of
a polar ice floe, could only watch as the tip of the finger
slowly drifted in until it rested on his forehead.

"You've been very naughty, Ryoga," Ranma chirped.

Ryoga closed his eyes as the pressure increased slightly.

The finger withdrew.  He opened his eyes again.

"There!" Ranma beamed at him.  "Now, be good!"

Ryoga screamed in rage and fear, and leapt back, hands
before him in a ready stance.  "Ranma!  This is no time for
us to be fighting!  You have to help me get Hyatt to a
hospital!"

Ranma let the Way Of The Heavenly Mist dissipate and stared
at Ryoga in befuddlement.  "Hyatt?"

"Yes, Hyatt!"  Ryoga crossed his arms and glared at his
foe.  "She collapsed and she has no pulse!  I tried to take
her to Nerima General Hospital, but it's not in Osaka
anymore!"

Ranma waved a hand at him.  "Wait, wait.  Hold up.  Who's
this Hyatt girl, anyways?"

"Hyatt?  Well, um, she's this girl who caught me in
pig-form," Ryoga stammered, pushing his fingertips against
each other, "and she was going to eat me, but she was
actually kind of nice about it, and she was really pretty,
and she had purplish hair and really pale skin...."

"Oh, wait."  Ranma snapped his fingers.  "Ya mean the girl
who was with Excel and spouting blood and is standing
behind ya now scopin' out yer ass?"

"Right!" Ryoga exclaimed, relieved.  "Wait, what?"

"Oh, I'm very sorry, Mr. Ryoga," Hyatt said.  "I thought it
would be all right, seeing as it was out in public."

"Nah, I don't think he minds."  Ranma smirked, and leaned a
little towards Hyatt, reaching over the frantically blushing
and curled-up Ryoga to whisper confidentially.  "Tell ya the
truth, I think he's an exhibitionist."

"Really?"  Hyatt blinked slowly, and then carefully
scrutinized Ryoga's fundamental attributes.  "Well, I
suppose I can understand that.  Mr. Ryoga has a lot to
exhibit."

Ranma twitched slightly.

Surging to his feet, Ryoga seized Ranma's throat and set
about methodically strangling him.  "RANMA!  How dare you
say such things!  What if Akane heard you?"  Blinking, he
stared around the clearing for a few minutes, until a faint
gurgling caught his attention.  "Oh.  Sorry."  He let Ranma
down a little.  "Where is Akane, anyways?"

"Akane?"  Ranma echoed stupidly.  "I dunno.  Around
somewhere, I guess."

                      *     *     *

"Um, Sister?" Akane whispered into the stifling,
sultry darkness.

"Mmmmm?"

"I can't, um, move."  Akane twisted uncomfortably against
the silk ropes.  Spread-eagled, it wasn't easy.

"Mmmph?"

"I don't know!" she hissed.  "The knots are too tight.  And
they're *really* starting to chafe."  At least the bed was
nice and soft.

"Mmmrphm!  Mmmmmm...."

"Nonono, that's not what I meant!  C'mon, please untie
me... hey!"

A long series of wet, muffled noises followed, throbbing in
the musky air, until they were interrupted by Akane's
muffled, broken whimper.

"Noooooooooooooooo!"

                      *     *     *

"Now, then."  The not-leprechaun paced back and forth before
Excel, hands crossed behind her back and her hair gently
swaying to and fro.  "Today, we begin your serious training
in the Pot of Martial Arts Tricks School of Martial Arts.
The fundamental precept of this school is that fighting,
being a natural thing, arises from the things that we
consider to be natural.  And so, the serious practitioner
will find that mastery of the arts will arise through
devoting herself to the relentless study and pursuit of
everyday activities."

Standing stiffly at attention, Excel raised a hand up high
and began making enthusiastic little noises.

"What?" O'Callahan snapped.

"So we're going to eat and breathe and sleep all day?"

"What?  No.  You're going to deliver newspapers."

Excel grunted sagely as she nodded her head.  "Ah, yes.
Delivering newspapers, the ultimate expression of man's
struggle for divine perfection in a mortal and flawed
world."

O'Callahan nodded gravely, and handed Excel a bulging canvas
satchel.  "Here are the newspapers.  Over there on the curb
are the advertising supplements."  She watched for a
second.  "Lift with your legs, student, not with your back."

After a few minutes of experiments, Excel deduced that if
she took off the newspaper satchel and hung it on a corner
of the massive pillbox of advertising, she could, just
barely, manage to heave the entire mess on to her shoulders,
and that with great straining effort, she could stop her
knees from bowing completely out when they got to about
right angles.  "I'm ready, Teacher!  Well, when I say ready,
I mean, I'm ready if all of these newspapers need to be
delivered just next door, but I think that they probably
need to be delivered all over this neighbourhood, so my
'ready' is really just youthful optimism and gung-ho can-do
attitude!"  

"Ah, no."  O'Callahan smiled indulgently.  "No, they don't
have to be delivered all over this neighbourhood.  They have
to be delivered all over Shinjuku."

"Shinjuku!" Excel exclaimed with starry eyes.  "You mean
Shinjuku, located exactly 180 degrees opposite Tokyo Eki
both physically and psychologically, which is where the
metropolis unabashedly flexes its bulging 21st-century
muscles?  Over two million commuters scurry through its
turnstiles every working day, either heading for other parts
of Tokyo or into one of Shinjuku's skyscrapers!  These
towers of steel and glass defy the tail of the mythical
catfish that lies under the archipelago, and whose agitated
rustlings cause the tsunami and earthquakes so feared
throughout the land.

"Shinjuku," Excel continued, waving a cheery little tourist
group flag as she pointed at the slideshow projected on
O'Callahan's front door, "at the time a mere rice-paddy
village, was one of the only areas of Tokyo left functioning
after the devastating earthquake of 1923, when it began to
enjoy an accelerated rise in commerce. What emerged are two
distinct Shinjuku personalities: the west side of Shinjuku
Eki is prim and proper, dedicated to business and commerce
and emerging as the new financial center of the city; the
east side is raucous and bawdy, bursting with stand-up
restaurants, discount shops crammed into underground
passageways, street musicians, and Kabuki-cho, a constantly
humming nightlife quarter."

The last slide clicked out of the projector, leaving a blank
white field shining out as Excel cutely cocked her head and
kept reciting.  "Shinjuku is best known for...."  She ground
to a halt and gaped, slit-eyed, at O'Callahan.  "Being very,
very, very far away from Nerima."

"Not by subway."

"Are we taking the subway?"

"No."

"So it is very far away."

"Yes."

"Are we walking?"

"No."

"Oh, good."

"We're skipping."

"Skipping?"

"Skipping."

"As in, tra-la-la-lally, here down in the valley, tra-la,
jumping about like fairies, skipping?"

"Ah, you know the song already!"

Sighing, Excel hitched her load a little higher, forcing the
concrete under her feet to groan and buckled under the
stress.  "I do this for you, Lord Il-Palazzo!"  And then,
mumbling, "I just hope you never find out."

                      *     *     *

"Sister."

Kodachi turned her head just enough to see Kuno while she
continued to pace gracefully down the footpath twisting
between the solemn oaks.  "What is it, brother?"

"There is a disturbance to the side of us," he explained in
a low voice.  "I will investigate it ere it involves us
unaware."

Slowing to a stop, Kodachi turned about to glare at her
brother.  "Brother dear, Ranma darling is just ahead.  I have
no intentions of letting some new harlot have her hooks in
him any longer than necessary."

"Your words wound my soul," Kuno intoned gravely, "but,
truly, guaranteeing your well-being and, perhaps, protecting
other innocents are duties that I find I must hold as dear
as vanquishing the sorcerer Saotome."  With a short, sharp
bow, he darted off into the woods.

Before she could think, Kodachi followed on his heels.  Fast
as she was, though, she was surprised to find her brother
even faster, and shortly was following his trail rather than
his fluttering hakama.  Breaking into a full sprint, she
broke through a thick bush to almost trip over Kuno, who was
kneeling before a tree.  Gathering herself, Kodachi stepped
closer and stifled a gasp.

Slumped against the trunk was a young man, beaten and
bruised, with blood dripping down over his eyes.  For a long
minute, the tableau froze, and then, slowly, the man lifted
his head, wheezing with the effort.  "Please."  His hand
fumbled up towards Kuno's collar, but fell back to the
ground before reaching it, spent.  "Please.  Save my
brother... save my village... with my dying breath, I beg
you...."

A single tear tracked its way down down Kuno's grim face.
"Your words still my soul, and I, the Blue Thunder, hearby
swear that I will not rest until vengeance and surcease is
found for your kin."  He paused.  "However, honour compels
me to note that I do not believe that running into a tree
will cause your life's blood to cease."

The villager had the grace to look embarrassed.

Kodachi prodded the villager with the haft of her gymnastics
ribbon.  "And what, pray tell, are we protecting your
ever-so-humble abode from?"

The villager's eyes went wide, and his hands were trembling
as he prostrated himself before the Kuno siblings.  "Oh,
it's terrible, terrible," he wailed.  "They came from
nowhere, and ground us under their heels.  I'm the only one
left who even dares to run away -- the spirits of all the
others have been crushed, entirely.  They don't dare to
fight back, or disobey in the least."

Shaking his head sadly, Kuno inquired, "And how long have
you and yours suffered under this withering blight?  How can
the authorities have allowed this to come to pass, with nary
a struggle nor even a harsh word that has come to the
attention of those of us outside?"

Staring up at the sky for, the villager counted on his
bloodied fingers.  "About... one day.  They're *very*
oppressive," he added defensively.

Eyes hard and face blank, Kuno turned to levelly regard his
sister.  "This peasant's story compels me, sister, and needs
must I temporarily suspend pursuit of our most rightful
vengeance upon the demon that I may act upon the wishes of
the gods and take up this quest of justice."  He hesitated
slightly.  "It may well be that the angels of duty that ride
upon both our shoulders may compel you to pursue Saotome
before the scourging of any other evils, but e'en though
your aid would likely be of no small import, I must not
tarry in my mission, nay, nor waste my breath upon a single
unneeded word."

The burning intensity of his gaze knocked Kodachi's breath
away, and it was a shaky laugh that she muffled with the
back of her hand.  "Oh, no, brother dear, you won't get rid
of me that easily!"  Collecting herself, she graciously doused
the stunned villager in rose petals and sprang away.
"Follow me, and we will unleash the vengeance of the Kunos!"

                      *     *     *

"Ah, this is the start of your route.  Not bad running time,
but you'll need to be faster tomorrow.  People are going to
get their papers late!"  O'Callahan frowned at Excel.  "You
can stop skipping now."

"Hweeeeeeeeeeeeez," Excel agreed.

"As good as skipping is for your legs, back, ki, and
feminine deportment, the rest of the training will be
different."

Excel pondered that.  "Hrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrk."

Crossing her minuscule arms across her withered chest, the
leprechaun-like master shook her head, hair twisting and
writhing.  "You're pathetic.  Look at me!  Do I look
anywhere near as winded as you?  No!  That's because I
train!"

"Weren't... carrying... any newspapers," Excel gasped.

"Well, true.  But even if I were, my training...."

"And," Excel said a little more smoothly, "you rode on my
back for a while."

Brows beetling, O'Callahan explained, "That was part of your
conditioning...."

"Then you hailed a cab."

"Time's wasting!" scolded O'Callahan.  "You must focus on
your training!"

Excel jumped atop a nearby mailbox, popped a party cracker,
and pointed dramatically down the street.  "Yes!  By
delivering newspapers, I will achieve my full martial
potential!"

Mail boxes in Japan are large, bulky red things, clearly
visible to even the casual passer-by.  Normally, they have
two slots; one on the right for the letters of ordinary size
and local destination, and the other for packages of more
unusual dimensions and for international destinations.
While these mail boxes are considerably more convenient than
those to be found in the West, it would be a mistake to
consider them "complete" in any sense of the word; a trip to
the postal office is required for any truly over-sized
packages, or to send registered mail, or if any assistance
was required in navigating the often Byzantine rate tables.

Those fees were well-earned by the Postal Service, though,
since it was devoted to going beyond the recognized call of
duty for postal services in serving the general populace.
For example, when Mount Oyama had erupted, and the
government had ordered an evacuation, the Postal Service
had kept no less than five offices open until the evacuation
had completed four days later, and had exempted the
residents from postage and fees for registered mail
containing monetary contribution as well as parcels containing
materials for disaster relief.  They had also, as was their
standard practice, exempted them from postage for
letter-post items and presented them with complimentary
items: as many as five postcards and one postal letter per
household!

To facilitate this high quality of service, the Postal
Service had recently been reorganized as part of an overall
streamlining of governmental functions.  The Ministry
responsible had been changed from the now-defunct Ministry
of Posts and Telecommunication to the newly created Ministry
of Public Management, Home Affairs, Posts and
Telecommunications.  It had also been divided into two
separate organizations; the Postal Services Policy and
Planning Bureau was an internal Ministry bureau devoted to
overall management of the Postal Service, while the Postal
Service Agency was a state-run corporation that would
actually implement mail services.  This scheme would allow
for flexible, independent management and detailed accounting
and financing which did not require direct involvement of
the Diet, leading to a reduction in waste.

Reflecting upon this, Excel wondered why she seemed to be so
impressed, as obviously the current Postal Service would be
as nothing compared to the magnificent Department and
Ministry of Transported Material Communication and Shipment
that would be lovingly crafted by ACROSS following the
inevitable submission of the nation.  After puzzling it over
for a bit, she realized it was almost certainly an attempt
on the author's part to impart an air of "authenticity" to
the fic through elaborate exposition of background colour,
and decided to get on with the plot.

Wiping a few streamers with "Happy 45th Anniversary" written
on them from her face, O'Callahan muttered, "Yes, that's the
basic idea.  So...."

"So I will attack the delivering of the newspapers as if it
was an attack!  An attack of newspapers attacking!"

A look of alarm purchased some real estate on O'Callahan's
face.  "Err, yes.  Through the process of delivering
newspapers, the mind and body are strengthened...."

"I will move from customer to customer like a ninja!  I will
launch the newspapers like an archer!  I will collect my
dues like a yakuza!  I will strike down dogs that dare to
nip at my feet like a person striking down dogs nipping at
their feet!"

"That's not quite the way it's supposed to...."

"Take that, training obstacle!"  With a deadly eye, Excel
hurled a newspaper through the display window of a camera
shop, and followed it by a barrage of four-colour fold-out
grocery coupons.  With great, reverent care, she withdrew a
white bandanna, emblazoned with a rising sun, from her
backpack, and knotted it snugly about her forehead.  Still
standing atop the mail box, she drew one foot to
waist-height and began slowly waving her arms about as the
proprietor of the camera shop charged out, screaming.

This would have been the moment at which O'Callahan pointed
at Excel and feigned innocence, had she not already been
halfway down the street peering intently at a display of
plastic noodles and whistling in an overly-cheerful manner.

"So!  You are to be my first opponent!  I will punch you and
kick you and noogie you and tie you up and beat you down and
steal your merchandise to take photographic evidence of my
overwhelming victory and then move on and overcome all of
your compatriots and your acquaintances and people who
you've never met but are also part of this training exercise
so that I and therefore ACROSS which I represent though
unofficially of course it being a secret organization so
please forget that I mentioned it will become stronger and
accomplish our short-term initiatives that lead to our
mid-range goals and from there on to our global objectives
and hello Mr. Policeman what can I do for you OUCH ah so YOU
are the next...."

                      *     *     *

The mansion ahead, closely crowded about by forest, was
barely deserving of the name.  With a low roof, walls of
rough-hewn logs, and a cobble-stone chimney spewing dark
smoke over a thatched roof, it was the imperial palace of
crude shacks, possessed of a barbaric and primeval dignity. 

Standing concealed behind a broad and spreading oak, Kuno
mused, "It is passing odd that I can see no signs of
guards."

Even a bare handful of hours ago, Kodachi would have assumed
that Kuno's ability to maintain his equanimity in the face
of the horrors they had witnessed in the village below was a
direct result of his intolerable idiocy.  He had, however,
been surprisingly even-keeled since they had begun looking
for her darling Ranma, and his actions in the village
below... well.  He had been, perhaps, a bit foolish, but
heroically so.

"A trap, do you think?" She wished that caution was the only
thing keeping her voice low.

"Perhaps," Kuno said, as he stepped out and began to stride
towards the house, bokken hanging freely in one hand.  "More
likely it is the mark of a man who thrives so on fear in the
hearts of others that he has lost the need to feel fear
himself."

Kodachi followed him down to the door, which stood open.
Before she could contemplate a course of action, from the
smothering blackness within came a hoarse torn voice.  "Come
in, my uninvited guests.  It's far too late to be shy."

While she was still stalling, sure now that an ambush lay
within, Kuno stepped straight in.  Muttering to herself,
Kodachi steeled herself to show no weakness and plunged into
the shadows.

The windows had all been shuttered, and the only source of
illumination was a brazier of smoldering coals in the
middle of the vast room.  There were no furnishings, and the
starkness of decoration drew Kodachi's eyes directly to a
rough-hewn slab directly opposite the door, over which a
thick and presumably expensive rug had been carelessly
spread.  Kneeling on the dais was a slender young girl of
breathtaking beauty and grace, dressed in an elaborate
kimono patterned with a yellow phoenix chasing orange clouds
over a crimson landscape.  She paid no attention to the
Kunos as they drew near the fire-pit, though, as her
attention was clearly preoccupied by selecting choice
morsels from the tray beside her and delicately presenting
them to....

Despite herself, Kodachi could not repress a shudder of
revulsion.  The man who sprawled on the heaped cushions was
lean and muscled, and likely would have been handsome by any
standards if his entire body had not been swathed in
tight-fitting bandages.  The only exposed skin was the flesh
about his lips, which even in the murky half-light was grey
and heavily scarred.  All he wore was a tattered piece of
black cloth, wrapped about him toga-fashion, almost as if he
gloried in the wrappings which hinted at his disfigurement.

But what made Kodachi gasp was none of this, but his eyes:
brown, laughing eyes that had seen a joke no others had
shared, the humour of which had burnt away morals and ethics
and cares and replaced them all with a scorching resolve to
share the punchline with all others, whether they wanted it
or not.

"You are," Kuno asked urbanely, "the cur who is responsible
for the abominations perpetrated upon those poor peons in
the village below?"

"I suppose I am," said the bandaged man indifferently.  The
woman offered him another tidbit, but he waved the
chopsticks aside while never taking his gaze from Kuno.

Kodachi frowned.  Something in the tone....

Whatever it was, it showed no sign of affecting Kuno.
"Then," he said almost amiably, "I find myself honour-bound
to do battle with you.  Do you care to explain your motives?
Though it seems a distant chance, perhaps in them I might
find some extenuating circumstance that will persuade me to
use something less than my full might in chastising you."

"My motives?"  Beneath the wrappings, Kodachi could make out
the brow of the man lifting.  "It's really quite
straightforward.  This village is placed within convenient
striking distance of every major commercial transport route
in the Kanto region.  When the appropriate time comes, my
forces will issue forth from this base to shut them all
down, plunging the entire nation overnight into a disarray
that will make it easy plucking for the revolution."

Kodachi laughed shrilly.  "Fool!  Do you really think we
will allow you to perpetuate such a diabolical plan?"

The man smiled.  "No, not really.  That's why I was just
joking."

Neither of the Kunos could immediately think of a response.

Settling a little deeper, he continued, "Neither of you have
any sense of humour.  Actually, I took this place because
they have the best okonomiyaki ingredients."

Something in Kodachi's mind clicked.  "You're the
okonomiyaki slut!"

"That's right."  Ukyo nodded affably.  "And you're Kuno
Kodachi, and he's Kuno Tatewaki, and you're both chasing
after Saotome Ranma.  I'm afraid, however, I'm going to get
him first."  She grinned mirthlessly.  "But because I just
made possibly the best pork-and-shrimp deluxe with extra
sauce in my entire career, I'm feeling rather generous, so
I'll tell you what.  You can have his corpse after I'm
done."

For the first time, Kuno sounded startled.  "You mean to
kill him?  Are you not one of those maidens which he has
ensorcelled with his demonic magicks?"

"Don't I love him, you mean?"  Ukyo smiled coldly.  "Oh,
yes.  Twice, in fact.  When we were young, he scarred my
heart, and so I bound my chest and sought revenge, forsaking
love.  My darling Ranchan turned me aside with a single kind
word, and I loved him again.  This time he scarred my body,
and so I wrap myself with bandages, and seek revenge again.
And this time, nothing but his life blood will assuage me!"

She rose to her feet, and her wild, roaring eyes pinned
Kodachi in place.  "I will grind his bones to meal, and
grill the batter it will make on a fire of his fat; his
tendons I will make into noodles, and his hair into bonito
shavings.  And the finest okonomiyaki sauce ever will be his
blood, squeezed from his still-beating heart.  Then I'll
kill my father, so that I can lay that okonomiyaki of
revenge upon his grave as an offering to the dead, and
then?"  She grinned, suddenly, sunnily.  "Well, then, I
think I'll open an okonomiyaki shop that everyone will eat
at."  The grin stayed; the humour vanished.  "Everyone."

Kuno took another step forward, and drew his bokken up into
a ready stance.  "You will seek to deny me my French
cuisine?"  His voice was tight and his eyes tense, Kodachi
noticed with sudden alarm.

The girl, who had not shifted from her sitting position
throughout except to sigh with hearts throbbing in her eyes
at Ukyo, made to rise, but Ukyo kept her down with a gentle
hand atop her head.  "No, Konatsu.  I'll take care of this."

For a second, it looked like the girl would protest, but
without a word she bowed her head.  Nodding in return, Ukyo
turned to face Kuno again; to her chagrin, Kodachi seemed to
be ignored.  "Deny you?  In a sense.  For, you see, I'm
afraid that I'll have to dispose of you here and now."
Reaching behind her, she produced a massive, frightening
spatula, fire-scarred and saw-toothed.  "It will probably be
hard enough to dispose of Saotome without the likes of you
running about."

"Stay back, Kodachi."

Startled yet again, she stared at her brother.  "What?"

"This is a fearsome opponent," her brother intoned gravely,
his eyes not breaking from Ukyo's gaze.  "Fear not.  I will
keep you safe."

And then he was dashing towards Ukyo, bokken held high,
while she was charging towards him with the spatula held
behind her, and their expressions by the flickering embers
caught Kodachi's breath in her lungs, and she could not help
but scream....

                      *     *     *

"It is important," announced Moira O'Callahan, "that your
training include techniques to counter strengths of your
opponent.  In the case of Saotome Ranma, that means
developing means to deal with one of his most fearsome
abilities: the Cat-Fist."

Cinching her belt about her waist, Excel brightened.  "So
that's why you've been hitting me in the head with little
porcelain kittens!"  Another one, bright green and with a
textured ball of pink yarn, smashed against her forehead.

"No, I do that because you won't shut up.  Look here."
O'Callahan dragged a blackboard over and began ferociously
sketching.  "The Cat-Fist is a fearsome technique which,
when unlocked with the presence of a cat, allows the
Cat-Fist master to access his inner feline, giving him
strength, speed, and reflexes beyond your imagining, as well
as the ability to wield his amplified ki as a weapon,
natural extensions of his body just as the claws are to a
cat."

"Wow."  Excel stared at the blackboard.  "That's
impressive."

"Indeed."  O'Callahan nodded grimly.

"I don't think I've ever seen such a realistic pot of gold
before," Excel bubbled.  "And the way the light glints off
it, and makes a rainbow... what a work of art!"

Blushing, the crone mumbled bashfully, "Well, you know, I've
seen....  Shut up!"  She broke the chalkboard over Excel's
knee.  "You must focus!"

"Yes, Teacher!"  Excel snapped off a salute.  "So to defeat
the Cat-Fist, you are going to train me in the art of Having
A Pack of Ferocious Starving Cat-Eating Rottweilers Around?"

"No."

Excel looked again at the back of the yard.  "So why is
there a pack of ferocious starving cat-eating rottweilers?"

"Follow me."  As they walked over to the pen and the
adjacent covered pit, O'Callahan began to explain.  "To
understand what we are about to do, you must know that the
Cat-Fist is trained by wrapping the student in fish sausages
and throwing them into a pit filled with starving cats.  The
trauma of the experience is the key to the Cat-Fist."  She
rested one hand on the plywood sheet over the pit and looked
at Excel, who blinked uncertainly for a few seconds, and
then smiled.

"I see," she said thoughtfully.

"Do you?"

"No."

O'Callahan nodded.  "The obvious counter, then, is to wrap
you in those ferocious starving cat-eating rottweilers, and
then throw you into this pit," she threw away the cover
dramatically, "of Cat-Fist masters!"

Excel leaned over the pit and looked down.  Below was a
throng of dozens of men and women, all shapes, sizes and
ages, but all fit and dangerous looking.  A few of them
looked up at her; one, red-haired and cradling a sword in
his arms, waved cheerfully back at her.

Reaching into her hair, Moira O'Callahan produced a cage with
a massive, grey, one-eyed tabby.  "Then, when I poke this
cat to make him meow, you will be swarmed under by the
Cat-Fist masters!  And with this," her eyes glinted in the
sudden shadows as thunderheads swept across the sky, "you
will become the master of the Cat-Fist-Fist!  The mere
presence of the Cat-Fist will allow you to access your inner
Cat-Fist master!"

Laughing triumphantly, Excel gloated, "Yes!  The
Cat-Fist-Fist!  There is no way I can fail Lord Il-Palazzo
when I have the Cat-Fist-Fist!  Who could even dream of
withstanding the incredibly awesome power that is the
Cat-Fist-Fist!"  She frowned suddenly.  "But, Teacher, since
the obvious counter to the Cat-Fist is the Cat-Fist-Fist,
isn't Ranma going to train in the Cat-Fist-Fist-Fist?"

"Never mind that!"  She waved dismissively, already strapping
the rottweilers to her student.  "We have no time to waste!"
Stepping back to admire her handiwork, she addressed the one
finger protruding from the canine hill.  "Are you ready,
Excel?"

"Ow!  Um, yes, Master!  Ow!  Nice doggies, stop biting me,
I'll have you know that I'm the best of friends with a
wonderful dog named Menchi ow! ow! let that go, I think we
ought to get this over with soon, Master, I think they might
think that I'm a cat...."

O'Callahan nodded sharply, and her writhing column of hair
knocked Excel into the pit.  From its depths, there was a
sudden murmur of concerned voices.  "Are you okay, miss?
Here, let me help you...."

A sardine held up in front of the cage prompted a sharp,
demanding yowl from the tomcat, and the voices cut off for a
sharp, breathless instant.  Then the air was rent by a
choral scream of "C-C-C-C-C-CAT!"  The ensuing noises of
frantic struggle were cut off as O'Callahan slammed the
cover back into place, and then tugged herself up to sit on
top of it contentedly.

"Soon," she chuckled.  "Soon, you will be more than a match
for Ranma."  Watching the petals float down from the cherry
tree, she laughed again, entirely mirthlessly.  "And my
revenge will be at hand."

"What revenge was that, again?" Excel chirped.

Inscrutably staring at her student, Moira O'Callahan slowly
reached behind herself to pat at the indisputably intact
cover.  "How," she asked evenly, "did you get out?"

Proudly, Excel beat one fist against her chest.  "Lord
Il-Palazzo is always dumping me into deep, dark pits filled
with horrid dangers!  But not until now did I realize that
he was actually training me in the secret long-lost art of
Pit-Fu!  Oh, Lord Il-Palazzo," she sighed dreamily, "this is
surely a sign of how you care for me!  That you would
carefully prepare me for this, the most trying trials that I
should every try to face! Oooooohh!"  She clasped her hands
to her face and wiggled.  "You musn't, Lord Il-Palazzo!  Not
there!  Not here!  Not with basketball gear!  Okay, let's do
it!  I've got the...."

Sighing, Moira O'Callahan reached for a porcelain cat.

                      *     *     *

Ryoga stood at the treeline beside Nabeshin, Hyatt to his
other side and just behind him.  She'd been spending a lot
of time behind him lately, which probably wouldn't have
bothered Ryoga so much if he hadn't kept feeling like his
underwear was riding up.  At the moment, though, he couldn't
be bothered with that, because he was watching Ranma train.

Ranma stood in the valley just below, slowly circling under
a hailstorm of nine-inch nails.  There were dozens in the
air above him, each perfectly perpendicular to the ground,
and as each fell past him, Ranma would flick it back into
the air with hand or foot.  On occasion, one would make it
past, and without breaking step, Ranma would sweep his head
down to the earth and snatch the nail up between his teeth
and spit it skywards to rejoin its mates.

This had been going on for half an hour now.

"Impressive," Ryoga said grudgingly, and meant it.  The
speed, the focus, the control required to keep all of the
nails in the air and perfectly aligned....  He'd find it
incredibly easy to do, of course, if he felt like trying.
It was just impressive to see Ranma managing such a feat.

Nabeshin grunted.  "He's not doing bad at all."  

Ryoga watched some more, until he found his muscles
twitching along after Ranma's.  When he started looking for
shapes in the clouds, though, he became uncomfortably aware
of a burning sensation on his backside.  Shifting
uncomfortably, he turned towards Nabeshin.  "So, what is he
supposed to learn from this technique, anyways?"
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hyatt shift to stand
behind him again just as he was about to inconspicuously
reach back and adjust his underwear, and stopped himself.

Nabeshin kept staring at Ranma, hands in his pockets and
eyes narrowed against the bright sun.  "I dunno.  He's
bright.  He'll figure something out."  Turning, he adjusted
his tie and strode off into the woods.  "I'm hungry.  Let's
get takoyaki."

                      *     *     *

It is a great irony of life that some of the most brutal and
horrific of battles in human history have been fought on
days bright, clear, and sunny.  So it would come as no great
surprise to the connoisseur of planned butchery that the day
of the appointed challenge was cold and overcast with a
heavy promise of rain later to come, because the gods often
delight in ironically violating people's expectations of
irony, until someone points out just how paradoxical that
is, at which point the gods go back to their primary
occupation of smiting wise-asses with lightning bolts.

"Where is Ranma, anyways?"  Excel wondered.  "We've been
waiting for a few hours.  Ah!  Perhaps the reason that Hyatt
has been gone so long is that she took the initiative to
undertake a secret ninja mission to tie his underwear into
secret ninja knots...."

"Is that the challenge in your pocket?"  O'Callahan had
learned by now it was better to cut Excel off sooner rather
than later.

"Ah, yes.  Is that bad?"

O'Callahan sighed.  "Well, I suppose we'll just go interrupt
them at their training camp."  She looked around.  "Probably
a bad idea to fight in a supermarket, anyways."

Stuffing the egg-carton behind her back, Excel looked as
innocent as you can manage with yolk running down your face.

                      *     *     *

It was getting close to noon, and Ranma had done no
training.  Nabeshin had mysteriously suggested that he
relax, citing "directorial foreknowledge," which Ranma
gathered was a bit like danger-sense.  And so he was, for
lack of a better word, moping, though he would violently
have denied it.

Where was Excel?  When would the challenge be?  Ranma longed
to test his skills against her again, she who had given him
the most formidable challenge of his career.  It was not, he
hastened to assure himself, anything else, certainly not a
desire to hear her dulcet voice calling his name, or the
feel of her calloused yet gentle hand upon his shoulder, or
her repeatedly shaking him while shouting at him
irritatedly, or, or, having her scream in frustration while
hitting him on the top of the head, oh, gods, yes!

Nabeshin belted him across the chin.  "What the hell do you
think you're doing?  This is no time for manly comradely
embraces!"  

Ranma let him go and wiped his bottom lip dry, grinning
sheepishly.  "Um, sorry.  Was thinking of something else."

"Never mind.  Look down there."  Nabeshin pointed down the
mountain slope, where two shapes could be seen making their
way through the sparse trees.  "They're coming."

Snapping to full attention, Ranma shaded his eyes with one
hand.  Excel was immediately recognizable to Ranma, tromping
delicately through the underbrush while singing some song
about polishing a palace's pillars, apparently.  Squinting
harder, he could just make out....

"Hey, Nabeshin," he asked, "who's the leprechaun with fire
for hair with Excel?"

"I'm not sure," Nabeshin said shortly.  "Excel's teacher,
probably.  Must be very strong."

Ranma nodded grimly.  "Yeah.  Only the greatest martial arts
masters look that stupid."

"Miss Excel!" Hyatt sighed cheerfully.  Ranma started
slightly; engrossed in studying his opponent, he hadn't
noticed her and Ryoga coming up behind them.  "Oh, look,
Mr. Ryoga, Miss Excel is here!  Isn't that wonderful?"

"Uh, yeah," Ryoga muttered.  "Great."  Not only was he still
hitching at his pants when he thought no one was looking,
Ranma noticed, but he'd gone pale.  Strange.  He'd never
seen Ryoga sick before.

"Saotome!  I challenge you!" Excel did not say.

"Kuno?" Ranma whirled.  Approaching from behind was, indeed,
the Blue Thunder of Furinkan High, as well as his sister.
Both looked worn, and their clothes were tattered, but
nonetheless, Kuno's head was held high and his eyes were
narrowed, burning with danger and confidence.

"That is correct, foul cur.  For the evils you have
perpetrated on the proud tigress, on the pig-tailed girl, on
the porcelain goddess, on the...." Kuno ground to a halt,
and, the slightest flicker of embarrassment across his face,
pulled a list from his sleeve.  Mouthing silently as he
quickly perused it, he nodded sharply.  "And on the
porcelain goddess, I challenge you!"

"Hey, you can't challenge him!" Excel protested as she
closed the last of the distance.  "I challenged him first,
and I have to fight him, because Il-Palazzo said so!"

The leprechaun shook her head sadly as she trotted up behind
Excel, the whipping of her hair stirring up a gust of wind
that flattened Ranma's shirt across his chest.  "Hush,
student.  You'll get your chance to fight Ranma, but there
are other matters to deal with, first."  She grinned
toothily.  "Hello, Nabeshin."  Her voice was suddenly filled
with a cold contempt.

Nabeshin jerked uneasily and tugged at the collar of his
shirt.  "Do I know you?"

The wizened hag-thing chuckled nastily.  "As Moira
O'Callahan?  Certainly not.  I've had many a face and name
before."  As she spoke, the harridan's hair had twisted and
writhed upon itself, fanned by a windstorm none other could
feel.  "But you should certainly recognize me as...."

With a rustling noise, the pillar of white hair split in
two.  As it slumped to the side, a man was revealed, wearing
the style of red coat and blue shirt that Nabeshin favoured,
face dwarfed by a massive brown afro cut the same way as
Nabeshin, adjusting a yellow tie that might have been the
mate of Nabeshin's, kicking the remains of a leprechaun body
costume off his left foot in the exact same way that
Nabeshin wasn't but probably would if Nabeshin had the
remains of a leprechaun body on his left foot, and, in
general, looking like the spitting image of....

"Nabeshin!"  The new Nabeshin pronounced.  "That's right!  I
am the true Nabeshin, come to unmask you as the impostor you
are and take vengeance on you, in the names of Happosai, the
Space Butler, Pedro, my newspaper delivery boy, and a
character to be revealed in the sequel, 'Samurai Excel,'
coming soon to a mailing list near you!  (Soon is defined
on a geological time scale; warranty void where prohibited
by law; this is prohibited by law.)"

Ranma stared at Nabeshin II, and then turned to cock an
eyebrow at Nabeshin I, who looked back at him indignantly.
"He's lying!  I am the real Nabeshin!"

"Oh, yeah?" Nabeshin II challenged.

"Yeah!"  

Propping his bokken upon his shoulder, Kuno snorted
derisively.  "Come, now, Saotome.  Even one of such a low
intellect as yours should not be confused by this!"

"Actually," Excel piped up, raising a hand, "I'm pretty
confused too.  I mean, my teacher who was not a leprechaun
but looked a great deal like one and never gave any hints at
being someone else other than a leprechaun in hiding is now
claiming to be Nabeshin, which strikes me as just the sort
of contrived and implausible plot twist I've come to
expect.... Okay, I'm not confused."

Ryoga, who had been nodding as Excel spoke, stopped and
started scratching his head, and then jumped slightly and
edged away from an ever-serene Hyatt.

"Here we have," Kuno elaborated, "a man who has presented
himself as 'Nabeshin' from, yea, the very beginning, and
proffered credentials to that name which you found
impeccable.  Then, now, at this most critical of junctures,
someone else, who has until now concealed themselves in both
identity and visage, steps forward to claim that name for
themselves, and denounces the first as an impostor."

"How the hell do ya know all that?" Ranma asked in
bemusement.  

Kuno waved a hand negligently.  "I purchased the information
from Tendo Nabiki, who, I believe, obtained it from the
listening devices she had surgically implanted in your
spleen, for the sum of forty-five billion yen, which is
negligible to a scion of the Kuno house.  That, however, is
unimportant; it was simply a means by which to obtain the
facts from which only one inevitable conclusion can be
drawn."

He crossed his arms proudly over his chest.

After a few minutes, Ranma threw a tiny pebble at his head.
"Oi!  Ya gonna tell us what that is?"

Kuno blinked.  "Why, they are both impostors, of course," he
said condescendingly.

There were another few minutes of silence, and then Hyatt
raised her hand tentatively.  "Excuse me...."

"Yes, porcelain doll," Kuno said encouragingly.  "You wish
to confess your love to me?"

"Actually, sir, I'm afraid I don't understand why you know
that they are impostors."  Hyatt blushed a bit demurely and
lowered her hand again, which made Ryoga twitch.

"Ah!  Well, for you, one of the most privileged of women to
be part of the trinity of my beloved, shall I explain my
peerless logic, though I do not doubt it shall still escape
the grasp of those uncultured barbarians."  Smiling a
secretive little smile that seemed almost out of place on
his grave features, he raised one finger into the air, took
a breath, and ripped off his face.

Despite the fact that Ranma found he wasn't entirely
surprised, he still had no words to say when Nabeshin III
threw aside his bokken and thrust both hands above his head,
making victory signs.  "*I* am the real Nabeshin!  And
neither of you two imitators will walk away from here!"

The tableau was devoid of motion for a long time; a triangle
of Nabeshins glaring at each other, Ranma and Ryoga behind
Nabeshin I, with looks of confusion matched only, Ranma was
sure, by the frown furrowing Kodachi's brow from where she
stood behind Nabeshin III.  Excel, on the other hand, had
plopped down to sit cross-legged behind Nabeshin II, plowing
through a bucket of popcorn and following the drama with an
avid fascination.  Looking around in sudden panic, Ranma
found Hyatt standing a few paces behind he and Ryoga, her
attention clearly elsewhere.

Oh, good, Ranma thought.  She ain't a Nabeshin.  

Yet.

"Well," Nabeshin II said abruptly, "this isn't getting us
anywhere.  I will confess; Nabeshin, too, is just another
mask I wear."  Reaching up, he seized his afro, and rotated
it ninety degrees.  With a click, steam began to hiss from
the hairline, and with a ratcheting noise, ex-Nabeshin II
lifted the hairdo.  As it cleared the skull, vast clouds of
fog surged out to obscure everything.

What was revealed, when the wind finally whipped the cloud,
was a short and statuesque woman, dressed in a long white
Chinese dress.  Her black hair was cut in a page-boy bob
about her round, pert face, and her eyes, green and cheery,
glittered out behind large round glasses, over which lights
from no apparent source flickered.  

The Nabeshins gasped in unison.  "Hashirumi!"

"That's right!" she chirped, pointing at Nabeshin I.  A
flicker of uncertainty, then she switched to point at
Nabeshin III.  "Naughty Nabeshin.  I suppose I would just
let you walk all over me and defile my dreams and works?"
Another flicker, and her finger wandered over towards
Nabeshin I, and then slowly oscillated between the two
before she, with a charming maidenly snort, put her finger
away and propped her fists on her hips.  "I might be a very
nice person, but even very nice people have their limits!
And so I trained Excel to make sure that she *would* defeat
Ranma, ruining your 'experiment'!  And now I'll make
you... err, you... Nabeshin pay!"

"What are you talking about?" Nabeshin I snapped.

"What she's talking about," Nabeshin III smirked, "is how my
plans are working perfectly."  Reaching into his blazer
pocket, he pulled out a ballpoint pen and shoved it into his
afro.  "GORGEOUS RONIN WOMAN ASTEROID HEALING DISGUISE OFF
CONFIRM DISGUISE OFF (y/N) Y!"

A shower of pink translucent sparkles engulfed Nabeshin III
and spun him into the sky, stripping away his clothes in a
storm of twinkling ribbons.

When Ranma had gotten his stomach back under control and
could stand to steal another peek, wiping bile from his
mouth, Nabeshin III had been replaced by a bear of man, a
solid thick column from shoulders to knees.  He brushed at
his immaculately pressed red flannel plaid dress shirt and
took off his fur cap to scrub at deep-set eyes.  "I always
hate that.  Why do all the good disguise pens have to come
from shoujo shows?"

Nabeshin I and Hashirumi gasped in unison.  "...!"

"Ansonbi!" he barked. 

Nabeshin I and Hashirumi gasped in unison.  "Ansonbi!"  They
looked at each other, and chorused, "Who the hell is
Ansonbi?"

The mystery man chuckled darkly.  "Who am I?  I am the one
that set this trap, to lure you both in.   And now that I
have you, I will kill you, and take your power for myself!"
He clenched his fist.  "With the power of Nabeshin and
Hashirumi, as well as my own, I will reign unchallenged!"

He stopped, and with the perfect synchronicity of public
restroom toilets running out of toilet paper simultaneously,
all eyes turned to stare at Nabeshin I.

"What?" he demanded.  "I'm the real Nabeshin!"

The stares did not diminish.

"Really!"

"Well," said Hashirumi tactfully, "assuming for a minute
that you *have* brought both Nabeshin and I here...."

"He did!" Nabeshin stomped his foot.  "I'm Nabeshin!"

"Do you really think," Hashirumi persisted, "that you're up
to the task of taking us both out?"  She gave Ansonbi a
small smile with the edges of razors lurking in the corners
of her lips.

"That's right," Nabeshin said, stepping forward and cracking
his knuckles.  "Do you think you can play with the big
boys?"

"Let's find out," Ansonbi replied.

And the world vanished in a blank inferno.

                      *     *     *

Stillness.  The light/not-light fades, leaving a wind of
power, of ki, of the fuel of life, winding about the three.
There are others who are not of the three, but they are here
only in place, not in time.

Battles are fought with weapons.  Weapons are manifestations
of battles.

There is no battle yet.  No weapons have been shown.

A squirrel hides an acorn in a tree that will be cut down
next week for firewood that will be used to roast sweet
potatoes. 

"Must we battle?"  Spinner of tales.

"We must."  Thief of mind.

"It was foretold."  Master of dreams.

Faint buzzing fills the silence.  An insect, most likely
drosophila melanogaster at the terminus of the fertile
stage.

A frown, unplanned.  "Foretold?  By who?"

The head jerks.  "Him."

"He doesn't count."

"What do you mean, I don't count?"  Offended.  Is the
destiny challenged?

"If I announce that I'm going to the supermarket to buy some
milk, I can't exactly claim that my dairy purchases were
'foretold', now, can I?"  Logic must prevail.  Reason
provides order.

"That's exactly my point."  A satisfied grin.

The drosophila melanogaster goes out of the fertile cycle,
revealed by the dance of chemical compounds in the
pheromones that none of the three can detect.  Being
outside its normal habitat, it has not bred.  Idly, the
drosophila melanogaster is swatted.  The cycle of life
continues.

"Was it?"

"Pretty much, yes."  

"I thought it sounded out of character for you."

Another pause.  Deep insights are weighed.  Paradigm shift.

"Wait.  Who am I?"

Bemusement passes to scorn.  "Master of dreams, of course."

Scorn fumbles and is intercepted by counter-contempt.
"That's pretty damn useless, moron.  I mean, am I Nabeshin,
Hashirumi, or...."

"Shh!" Panic.

"What?"  Frustration.

"You can't use names!"  Scandalized.  "It ruins
the... the...."

"Ambiance?"

"Yeah, ambiance!"

A sigh of deep ages.  "Look, can we just go and beat each
other up and get this over with?"

"We can."

"We must."

"And stop talking like cryptic clowns, too?  Please?"

Consideration.  During battle it is a hindrance, and after
battle is the pause before the next battle.  Wisdom after
the battle is then also wisdom before the battle, except
that it is for the battle immediately succeeding it and not
applicable to the preceding battle, that is, the battle
chosen as a reference point.  But what are references, but
arbitrary coordinates?  References are nothing to the unmated
dead displaced drosophila melanogaster.

"We can not fight here."

"This world does not go deep enough to take our full might."

"No, talking like normal civilized humans was probably too
much to ask."

"Where then?"

"What about some Harry Potter fanfic?"

"Good idea."

"No one reads them anyways."

Gone, like a distracted author pursuing a subplot during the
climax at the expense of dramatic tension.

                      *     *     *

Akane sighed in relief as she smoothed the floral print
dress across her hips.  It really wasn't the style she'd
prefer, and it was made for a woman a fair bit taller than
her, but it was definitely better than both the rags that
had been left of her school uniform and the... get-up...
that the Sister had given her.  Most things would be better.
She wasn't sure which of those two options had been worse,
even if, technically, the latter had covered her whole body.
Turning, she smiled at her rescuer.  "Thank you, Pedro."

The tall Brazilian adjusted his purple undershirt, flushing
in embarrassment.  "Oh, it's no problem!" he stammered.  "I
deal with that sort of thing all the time."

Her smile broadened.  Pedro was so cute, eager and innocent,
just like a puppy.  Mind you, most puppies didn't have
broad, cut shoulders, and a musical accent....  She gave
herself a mental shake.  She was engaged already.  Even if
she didn't want to be.  And her fiance hadn't done anything
to help her.  Turning away to give him a chance to compose
himself, she looked around the green, rolling hills.  "So
this is your home?"

"That's right."  He stepped up behind her and put one hand
on her shoulder, gently turning her and pointing.  "Over
there is where I grew up... you can just see it if you
squint."

"Oh?"  Akane found her hand creeping towards her leg to
scratch it, and firmly stopped herself.  She hated to admit
it, but cotton seemed so... itchy, now.  Vaguely, she
wondered if silk would feel any smoother.  Pushing the
thought out of her mind, she leaned back against Pedro --
all the better to sight along his arm, of course.  "I don't
quite see it...."

"Pedro!"

Abruptly, Akane found herself dumped indelicately on her
rear as Pedro stepped hastily away, hands carefully raised
above his head. "I-I-Ish-chan!  It's not what it looks like!
I swear!"  For some reason, his tone brought equal tides of
hurt and anger rising up in Akane, and she twisted to stare
at the newcomer.  Mouth opened for a biting remark, she let
it fall the rest of the way open in shock.

Standing -- no, floating -- there was a... hole in the very
fabric of space, a round portal looking out onto a starry
expanse of chilling void and swirling galaxies; somehow,
Akane knew that the window was, at the same time, the
entirety of creation.  A pair of slender, feminine arms hung
off the sharp boundaries, hands resting on a pair of quasars
where an ordinary woman's hips might be.

A delicate alto snort emerged from the dying throes of a
supernova.  "Oh, of course it isn't!"  One hand made a
gesture both dismissive and imperious.  "Men!  Leave them
alone for a minute, and they go off and defeat crystalline
minions and rescue some pretty little vixen to fall
head-over-heels for!"

In unison, Akane and Pedro blushed and stammered, "No,
it's...."

They were ignored, except that the stars within began to
spin even faster.  "Well, I'll deal with you later, Pedro
*dear*.  But first," she turned, arms spreading wide like
the wings of a bird of prey, "I need to show this tramp what
happens to girls who mess with the boyfriend of the Great
Will of the Universe...."

Akane shrank back as the star-flecked darkness began to
sweep towards her.  As it grew far faster than mere speed
could account for, she whimpered, "Pedro...."  Out of the
corner of her eye, she could see his hands raised in futile
supplication, and then the emptiness engulfed her.

"Noooooooo!"

                      *     *     *

Excel yawned hugely.  "Hey, Ranma, can we fight now?"

Blinking again to clear his eyes, Ranma looked around.
Nabeshin and the ex-Nabeshins had disappeared in the sudden
flash, leaving him more than a little confused.  Why the
hell hadn't Nabeshin taught him that trick?  "Yeah, okay."

"Pardon me, Ranma darling," Kodachi interrupted.  "Might I
quickly clarify something before you begin?"

Ranma and Excel blinked at the gymnast.

"Did I just truly see my brother reveal himself to be, in
fact, someone by the name of Ansonbi?  That is, not my
brother at all, but someone merely posing as him by means of
a ruse to cruelly deceive and trap those others who have
vanished along with him?"

Exchanging looks with Excel, Ranma scratched his head.  "Ah,
yeah.  Looks that way."

Visibly, Kodachi slumped in relief.  "Oh, good," she
sighed.  "I was rather getting worried about myself."  With
a maniacal laugh, she leapt into the treetops and bounded off
down the mountain.  "Lord Ansonbiiiiiiii!  Come back to your
darling Kodachi!"

Strange, Ranma thought, but neither here nor now.  Focusing
his attention on Excel, who had struggled to her feet and
was now scratching sleepily at her hair while cleaning out
one ear, his heart began to race.  "Let's get your losing
over with," he smirked, dropping into a relaxed ready
stance.

Taking up a cat stance, Excel snorted.  "You think I shall
lose?  I fight for the powerful, wise, strong, grade A
man-meat Il-Palazzo, and I can't lose!"

"Actually, Miss Excel...."

"Don't bring that up, Ha-chan."

"Yes, Miss Excel."

Mind quickly racing through the possibilities, Ranma
countered Excel by shifting to a horse stance.  "Il-Palazzo,
huh?  Sounds like the sort of wimp I could beat one-handed."

In a crane stance, Excel screeched in indignation.  "What?
A mere boy like you can't even dream of approaching the
glory of the Lord of ACROSS!"

Ranma's eyes narrowed.  "Oh, yeah?  Then prove it!"  He
assumed an ox stance and waited.

"I will!" Excel snarled.  

She had switched to an elk stance, Ranma noted with mild
alarm.  Assuming the opposing emu stance, he inquired
nastily, "You really think you can take me?"

Now a giraffe stance.  "I think I can take you, fold you in
half, wrap you up, include a self-addressed stamped
envelope, and mail you to Santa Claus, except that he is an
old outdated myth that has no place in the rational,
reasoned regime that is the dream of the Ideal Organization
ACROSS and hence my dream because of that being the
organization to which I belong!"

Millipede stance.  "Gotta bark!  Can you bite?"

A pause.

"How are you doing that?"

"I'm... not really sure."

"Doesn't it hurt?"

"Yeah.  What about you?"

"A little, now that you mention it."

Unfolding themselves, Ranma and Excel stared at each other,
taking no note of the spectators that had long since backed
away.  And then a leaf hit the ground, and they raced at
each other.

The battle was fast and furious.  Ranma observed, in a
detached way, that Excel's style was one he had never seen
before, which seemed to be based by running past your
opponent at top speeds while launching attacks sideways while
never slowing down. 

(Pretty effective, doncha think?)

A sudden blink cost Ranma a one-knuckle thrust to the
tricep.  (Who the hell are you?)

(I'm you, of course.  Guess the stress we've been going
through has made your mind split.)

(Stress?  What stress?)

(Dunno.  Work with me here.)

(So, what, you're my girl side or something?)

Ranma simultaneously took a kick to the side of the kneecap
and a mental slap across the head.  (You don't got a girl
side, dumbass.  You're a guy, remember?  Cheez, next you'll
be having homoerotic fantasies about Ryoga and blaming 'em
on me and hormones or something.)

(So you're exactly the same as me?)

(Yup.)

(But you're gonna help me by helping me develop strategies
and tactics that I couldn't come up with by myself, right?)

(Actually, I was just going to go off there in the corner
and cuddle with your Don't-Hold-On Grenade-Jutsu fantasies.
Pretty sexy for a figment.  See ya around!)

"Stupid jerk," Ranma muttered to himself as he grabbed Excel
in mid-air pass and threw her to the ground.

She twisted around and landed lightly on her feet, one hand
and at her hip and the other arm held across her body.  She
studied him carefully, her face serene.  "You've trained
hard."

"You too," Ranma acknowledged, standing across from her.
"Now, let's get serious."

No language has been birthed that can describe the
experience of two powerful warriors engaging each other in
battle.  There are no words that mean, "completely
surrendering oneself to death while simultaneously
struggling with full might to keep oneself alive and strike
down the opponent," or, "scared into empty bowels and
flailing around frantically with whatever is at hand to
desperately try to keep everyone and anyone at arm's reach,"
and even if there were, they would do no justice to the
heart-racing, blood-chilling, adrenaline-filled,
kettle-cold, calculated, burningly dispassionate reality.

The option, then, is to use analogies and metaphors, to
liken punches to lightning bolts, and describe attacks as
the rushing charge of wolves, and compare tactical decisions
to precise and painstaking ballistics computations done by
custom written FORTRAN 77 software compiled with Watcom F77
that tax the floating point epsilon of a five-hundred and
twelve MIPS processor SGI Origin 3000 server with Irix 6.5
ASE.  These, however, cannot come close to capturing the
full essence of the warrior's existence, any more than a
meticulous, lifeless accounting of strikes, parries, and
health insurance deductions.

So, why bother trying?

They broke apart again, wordlessly agreeing to a temporary
truce.  The clearing in which they had started was long
departed; the clearing in which they stood now was one they
had made themselves.  Out of the corner of his eye, Ranma
could see Ryoga and Hyatt watching, huddled behind an
improvised firebreak.

"Ready to give up, Ranma?" Excel gloated.  She was bruised,
but nowhere near as badly as Ranma.  "You fought well, and
hard, and long, and in a way that would have made me be
absolutely starving if I wasn't already very very hungry so
that instead I've now moved on to being so hungry that I'm
not really feeling hungry now, but you had no real chance of
defeating Lord Il-Palazzo, who isn't here, but is the master
of ACROSS, which also isn't here, being a sort of
non-physical ideal organization thing, but of which I am the
agent and representative, and I am most definitely here, as
if I wasn't here, I couldn't be kicking your ass as
thoroughly as am I now!"

"Yer pretty strong," Ranma conceded, wiping a track of blood
from his lip, and then laughed.  "But I've been only using
a... ummmm...."  He snapped his fingers in consternation.
"A, um, small bit of my full power!  Now, I'm going to use
a, uh, less small bit of my power, which will be more than
enough to defeat you even though it's still only a small bit
of my full power!"  Clenching his fists, he reached deep
inside of himself, to his pride, his grace, his superiority,
his mercurial moods, his appetite, his laziness, his disdain
for all people not currently feeding him, brought them all
forth....

... And unleashed the Cat.

Not the Cat-Fist, with its phobia-induced animalistic mind,
but the power it had given him.  His battle aura burst
forth, snarling and surging about him like a hunting
leopard, lashing at the air and the ground until they began
to swirl up around him to reach towards the sky.  He opened
his eyes and was barely aware of the not-prey being forced
backwards by the sheer pressure of his ki; instead, his full
intensity rested on Excel, who froze like the mouse before
the fangs of the panther.

"This," Ranma purred, "is the result of a lifetime of
training."  Casually, he flexed his aura and tore a boulder
protruding from the ground free to float in the air between
them; with an equally nonchalant wave, he tore it into sand.
"This is what you challenged."  He leered at her ferally.
"Now, shall we start to play again?"

A shudder rippled Excel's shoulders as his gaze forced her
to drop her eyes.  Ranma did not bother to conceal his
smile; first, she would admit that he was the better man,
and then....

And then her eyes came up, flashing defiance, and she raised
her fists, and she pronounced, her voice leaden with final
certainty, "I will not lose."  Ranma could feel her summon
her full ki as she raised her face to the heavens and
screamed, "For ACROSS, Lord Il-Palazzo, and really good
Korean food!"

The mountain exploded.

                      *     *     *

"I'd say that I was sorry to it had to come to this," said
Ukyo, her ponytail sweeping across the linen bandages
covering her skull as she sauntered forwards, "but that
would be a lie.  I don't really care about you one way or
the other, actually."

The nun struggled against her manacles, causing her to
rotate slowly about on the chain suspending her from the
distant, smoky ceiling.  "Why are you doing this to me?" she
demanded, the strain of her voice causing her leather corset
to creak.

"Why?"  Ukyo chuckled, and made a beckoning motion with her
hand.  As Konatsu came forward from the door of the cell,
Ukyo answered, "Just like you, I don't want to see your
unborn daughter enslaving the world, and disrupting my own
plans.  It's just that I'm prepared to take more direct
measures.  You see, the weak are okonomiyaki, and the strong
eat.  And I," she said indulgently, taking the little
control box from Konatsu, "am very strong.  Good-bye,
Sister."

Nothing happened when she pushed the button.

"What...."  Ukyo stared at it for a long moment.  "Ah.  This
is the detonator to blow up Ranma's training camp."  She
sighed, and took the other box that Konatsu hastily
produced.  "I hate doing things out of order.  No big loss,
though.  Now then, Sister, where were we?"

                      *     *     *

Crouching in the depths of age-old bracken, stoically
ignoring the scrapes and scratches, Ansonbi clutched at the
sucking wound above his floating ribs.  Staunching the
bleeding while keeping his breathing even and quiet was
difficult, but he did his best.

He could feel them out there, their dark cloaks sweeping
across the moor, hidden faces snuffling at the air,
bloodless and scabby hands poking at the sod to find the
faintest of tracks.  They were dogged, and persistent, with
no souls to make them question their mission; they would be
as nothing to Ansonbi... normally.

One bone shard slipped past another, and Ansonbi winced.
The pain slightly lessened, he began worming his way towards
the best safety he could hope for.  "Well," he muttered to
himself as he slid through the muck, "today's experiment
failed."  Under the moonless skies, only his grinning feral
teeth reflected the starlight.  "But they haven't seen the
last of me."

                      *     *     *

ACROSS Headquarters is still dark, still quiet.  The throne
is still missing.  The episode is still in present tense,
which according to the manual is a known bug linked to
appearances by Il-Palazzo, who is still in the hall, so the
author gives up and pretends that the reader will not care,
this being the end and all.

Nestled within the depths of a new Laz-E-Boy, Il-Palazzo
surveys his domain, and then regards the plush blue armrest
on which he is leaning.  "Comfortable," he pronounces, "but
lacking in a certain dignity.  It will need to go back."

Picking up his Gameboy, he plays for a few minutes more,
pausing only to activate the built-in leg rest.

"In a bit."

                      ~~~The End~~~

                   -- Author's Notes --

Numerous works have provided inspirations and references for
this piece.  I have decided to follow the lead of the
production staff of Excel Saga in not providing credits for
these secondary sources, and let the reader find what they
may.  To the creators of all those things that in some way
found their way into "Across Honour", my profoundest
gratitude and apologies.

Excel's Shinjuku speech is taken with minor modifications
from the Japanese National Tourist Organization website, at
http://www.jnto.go.jp.  No infringement of copyright is
meant; it is included here without knowledge or permission
of the copyright holder for purpose of parody.

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