I swore up and down that I wouldn't start on this until I finished 
Spice of Life.  I lied.  Enjoy.

The tags alone should indicate that this will be . . . interesting.  
I'm Cat Who.  I've never posted here before, although I usually send 
off a chapter of Spice of Life to the RAAC every one or three months.  
I decided to join after the fanfic panel at AWA8.  I was the girl in 
the purple shirt with the pink hair and the laptop. (And yes, the 
laptop exists for me to write fics on, and not much else.)

C&C greatly appreciated.  Be openly critical and tell me what's wrong, 
and please tell me *why* it's wrong . . . because I wanna get better, 
ya know?  I write short chapters (I try for 30-40K) so that I can put 
stuff out more quickly.

Oh, and I believe my email program automatically wraps plain text.  If 
it doesn't, I'll know to run it through 3Ft first next time.  Let me 
know.

* * *

War Games

By Cat Who

* * *

Inuyasha and Ranma 1/2 belong to Rumiko Takahashi.  Noir belongs to Bee 
Train and its creators.  Tenshi ni Narumon belongs to Studio Pierrot 
and Pastel Cat. This is a work of fanfiction. I make no profit, 
although Nabiki is probably making money off of it somehow, knowing her.

* * *
Chapter One
* * *
Nerima, Tokyo, Japan
* * *

"Arms up, then to the side," Ranma Tendou said to his Advanced Class of 
Anything Goes Martial Arts.  There were only three of them that had 
reached the upper class, two of them now sixteen year olds who had 
started eight years ago when Ranma was only seventeen, and Akane.

The students followed his directions carefully.  Their master, Ranma, 
was one of the most respected martial artists in all of Tokyo, and they 
were pleased that they hard started working on one of his secret 
techniques earlier that day.  They were in the cool down now, 
stretching their tired and bruised muscles so that there would be no 
soreness that evening.

They held the crane position stiffly, trying not to quaver as they 
stood on their toes.  Akane's grim determination was enough to force 
the sixteen year olds to push themselves to the fullest.  She had been 
in the advanced class for many years now, and really didn't need his 
instruction anymore, but it gave her a break from the monotony of being 
Mommy to their son.  She also taught one of the beginning classes 
herself, with the five year olds who were just learning martial arts. 
Most of their lesson was actually spent cleaning the dojo, but she did 
early kata with them too. Akane had taken to motherhood surprisingly 
well; even if she couldn't cook, she had a certain knack with little 
kids that Ranma himself didn't possess.  She liked them, and they liked 
her.  Even when their four year old son Sounma had been a baby Akane 
loved him unconditionally.

"Drop arms, and relax" Ranma finally said, staring at their sweat 
covered bodies in the mirrors that lined one wall of the old dojo.  
They had installed the mirrors a few years ago, and it definitely 
helped the classes they taught.  Students had trouble correcting 
problems that they couldn't see, and if the problem was in the 
straightness of an ankle, or the curve of the back, it was hard to 
explain without the use of some sort of reflective device.

The younger students groaned and massaged their sore arms.  They were 
done with the lesson for the day.  The Amuriguri Ken had left them with 
burnt knuckles and bruised pride, but soon they'd be picking up speed 
as they practiced.  The students, one boy and one girl, had looked 
surprised at Ranma's suggestion that they seek a part-time job as 
servers in a restaurant.  

"We're done for the day." Ranma bowed toward the students.

"Thank you, sensei!" the three students chorused in unison, and bowed 
back.  Then the two high schoolers took off for home, bickering all the 
way.

Akane stood in the middle of the dojo, her arms crossed, smiling.  
Although she managed a pretty good Chestnut Fist herself, she had yet 
to really master the technique, and probably never would.  Motherhood 
had become her first priority.  She kept trying, however, and Ranma was 
glad that she hadn't abandoned the art after they'd gotten married.

"Last class of the day," Ranma said, stretching his own arms a few more 
times as he walked toward his wife.  "The intermediate class normally 
held at six was cancelled due to school exams."

"That was nice of you," Akane said softly, and sucked on one burnt 
knuckle.  

"Is it bad?" Ranma asked, concerned.  He held the offended hand in his 
own, eyeing the reddened area critically.

"No worse than usual.  I'll put some ice on it and I'll be fine."  
Akane grimaced, and stomped one foot impatiently.  "Why am I not 
picking up speed?  I've been doing this for how many years now?"

"Six," he answered automatically.

"Six years, and I'm still nowhere near as fast as you! It isn't fair."  
Akane sighed and rescued her hand.  "Come on, Auntie Nodoka will want 
me to watch her make dinner again.  I think we both need a bath first."

"Yeah, good idea.  You go first, then."

Akane gave him a semi-smile, and trotted out of the dojo toward the 
furo.  Ranma let out a sigh of his own, and dropped to his hands and 
knees, inspecting the floor of the dojo.

"No new cracks, it looks like," he muttered to himself, and began 
crawling around.  The floor had been broken and repaired so many times 
that it was almost impossible to tell what the original stain of the 
wood had been.  The walls and the ceiling were much the same.

Bits had been replaced over the years, but the heart of the dojo went 
on.  That was the important thing.  The learning, the concentration, 
the *soul* of the students who studied here was still embedded in the 
walls themselves, even if the walls were no longer the same ones that 
the students had studied in.  The dojo was the thing, and the whole of 
the thing, whether it was the original dojo or not.

At least that's what the Tendous told themselves.  The insurance 
company for the house said otherwise.  The brutal truth was that their 
dojo was old, and dangerous.  More than once since they had started 
teaching classes again had a student broken through the flooring, or 
cut themselves while punching a hole in the wall.  Even though they 
didn't have a mortgage or rent on their home, their insurance premium 
was through the roof.  

And that was with classes limited to an enrollment of five.  The 
insurance agent, one of those very uptight salarymen who wore the 
perfect gray suit with the perfect gray hat and carried a perfect slim 
black leather suitcase, had hummed and hawed as he inspected the dojo, 
and glanced over the notes he had made beforehand.  He had then 
presented them an ultimatum: Either fix the dojo, or have no more than 
six people in it at one time.

Unfortunately, even with a maximum capacity of six, the insurance still 
nearly broke them each month.  Tokyo had a great respect for its 
ancient buildings, like the Tendou dojo, which was at least a hundred 
years old, but it also liked them to be in a liveable condition.  They 
hadn't been able to get a martial arts teaching lisense without 
insurance, and without a liscense, they couldn't legally teach the Art.

They could't take on more students until they repaired the dojo.  They 
couldn't repair the dojo until they took more students.  It was the 
ultimate catch twenty two.  Ranma hated that there were so many things 
he *couldn't* do.  His art, his whole way of being, depended on turning 
that "couldn't" into "will."  

I will somehow find the money to repair the dojo, he vowed as he stood 
up. I will be able to teach more students the Art.  I will . . . 
somehow.

* * *

Nodoka and Genma had moved in with Ranma and Akane shortly after Nabiki 
had moved out, seven years ago.  The arrangement had worked out well, 
since it finally left Kasumi free to move out too.  Tofu Ono had 
finally managed to work up the nerve then, and with Nodoka to cook for 
her busy son and daughter-in-law, Kasumi hadn't felt guilty for leaving 
them at all.

"Now, Akane," Nodoka began patiently, "we don't need to add any salt at 
this point."

"But it tastes too bland!" Akane protested.  Nodoka only let her "help" 
in the kitchen, since Akane had never been able to make very edible 
food on her own.

"Sometimes bland is better.  And even if we did want to add salt, it 
wouldn't need to be a full cup."

Akane grudgingly put down the measuring cup, and stared at the merrily 
boiling stew angrily.  Seven years with Nodoka had taught her to never 
cross Ranma's mother.  She could out-nice even Kasumi while preparing 
you for ritual suicide, and afterward all you felt was tremendously 
guilty for disappointing her.  That was the difference; Kasumi was 
never disappointed.  Nodoka never said it, but Akane saw it in her 
eyes, and often felt as though she were a total failure as a wife.

Sounma, the third generation living in the house, toddled through the 
kitchen to the porch where his grandfathers were engaged in a battle of 
go.  

"Saotome, it has been your turn for several minutes now," Soun Tendou 
complained.

"I'm thinking, Tendou," Genma answered sharply.  Sounma, named after 
both of his grandfathers, watched the stones with interest.  He sat 
down carefully, his attention never wavering as he took in the pattern 
of black and white on the board.

"No, Akane, we don't need any more seaweed."

"But it'd add some more texture!"

"Not even for texture, Akane.  Put the seaweed down."

"Yes, Auntie Saotome . . ."

Sounma ignored the voice of the women in the kitchen.  Before him, a 
war waged on the metaphysical plane.  White was winning, but only 
just.  If black were to go there . . . and then white went *there* . . .

Genma finally placed a black stone, in the wrong spot.  Sounma sighed.  
He learned a lot from watching , but they just didn't seem to 
understand the power of the game.

"Heya little fella," a warm tenor said from behind him, and picked him 
up.  Sounma giggled as his father swung him in the air.  Ranma was 
fresh from his bath, and wore a clean Chinese shirt and old sweatpants.

"No, Akane, not that much sake. No!"  Pots and pans banged from the 
kitchen.

"It needs more bite to it!"

"Bite, not a roundhouse kick."

The four men stared in apprehension at the kitchen, where culinary 
Things happened.

"Will she ever learn?" Ranma wondered aloud.

"Probably not," Soun said, laying down another go stone with careful 
precision.  "Although Nodoka has been a remarkable influence, I have to 
admit.  We haven't had food poisoning in almost a year."

Ranma groaned at the memory of that last disaster, but privately agreed 
that Akane was getting better.  She at least made consistantly decent 
curry nowadays.  Nodoka had forced Akane to work with a limited set of 
ingredients, and only once in a while did Akane decided to . . . 
experiment beyond that with curry.

Ranma set his son back down, and Sounma immediately concentrated on the 
go game before him.  Ranma wandered over to the central table, where 
today's newspaper lay neatly, only mildly mangled after his father in 
law had finished with it.  Idly, Ranma flipped through the paper, 
noting the baseball scores, blinking at a few advertisements, pausing 
over a few headlines.  By chance, he found the classified ads, and 
something inside prompted him to find the Help Wanted section.

"Lessee . . . chef wanted, no . . . driver . . . no car, hmmm."  Ranma 
scanned them, wishing for once an ad would say something like "Martial 
Artists wanted."   No ad ever said that.  Martial artists, like kabuki 
theatre players and geisha, had a certain note of respect with everyone 
in Japan, but no one ever really *wanted* them for anything.  They just 
wanted them to stay as they were, a comforting reminder of an ancient 
culture that had only decided to take a little break from tradition in 
the interest of becoming a world power.

Then, defying that logic, Ranma saw an advertisement from the Sony 
corporation.

"Seeking qualified martial artist to pose for 3D gaming platform in 
development.  Prefer a medium build," Ranma glanced down over his mid-
sized, wiry frame, "with many years experience.  We need an excellent 
male and female model.  Please enquire in person only.  Bring this 
advertisement to our Personel Department, 26th floor, Sony Building, 
Tokyo."

An idea began to form in his mind . . .

Nodoka and Akane emerged from the kitchen, hot dishes in mitt-covered 
hands.  Ranma guiltily folded up the paper, and got out of the way 
while the women of the house set up the dinner table.  He placed the 
newspaper on the stand near the main door, then as an afterthought 
found a pen and circled the advertisement from Sony.

"Dinner's ready!" Nodoka called to her husband and son's father-in-law.

"How much did Akane actually make so I know not to eat it?" Ranma asked 
automatically, earning him at flower-pot at the head from Akane.  He 
ducked and it bounced harmlessly against the wall behind him, the paper 
flowers inside it landing with a sad whump on the ground.  They kept 
mostly plastic dishes and things around the house, since everyone knew 
Akane's temper and *anything* might be thrown at some point.

"I made the salad, thank you very much," Akane huffed, and began piling 
lettuce onto a place for her husband.  "It's plain.  Auntie Nodoka 
wouldn't let me add any salt."

Ranma shot a grateful look to his mother, who pretended not to notice 
as she set up dishes.

Sounma stared at his grandfathers some more, and finally spoke aloud.  

"It's over," the four year old said quietly, and then stumbled over to 
the dinner table, where his mother and grandmother fussed over him and 
tucked a bib around his neck.

Soun and Genma frowned at the go stones.  Neither of them liked to end 
an unfinished game, mostly because neither of them were very good and 
they really couldn't tell who was ahead until the endgame itself.  But 
Sounma had the uncanny habit of prediction who would win after the 
halfway point of the game.  Most of the time it was Soun.

But sometimes it was Genma.

"Hey, Sounma . . ." Genma called to his grandson, who was already 
stuffing his mouth with salad.

"Who won?"  Soun finished.

Ranma ruffled his son's hair, and leaned in close to the young 
boy.  "Don't tell them," he whispered with a grin.  Sounma grinned 
back, revealing a mouth full of salad.

"I won't," he said.

"Sounma? Help out Grandpa here.  We want to eat dinner too."

"C'mon, tell us who was winning . . . be a sport . . ."

"Ranma, you shouldn't encourage him," Nodoke chided gently, then 
without another word handed her grandson another place of food.  "Eat 
up," she said.

"Sounma? Please?" Genma pleaded, while Soun sneakily rearranged a few 
stones.

* * *

The family turned in early in the evening.  They tended to follow the 
pattern of the sun, since none of them worked in an office environment 
and no one was in school at the moment.  Ranma yawned and changed into 
his usual tank top and shorts in the room he and Akane had shared ever 
since they were married.

Nine years, he told himself, unable to belief how quickly the time had 
passed.  Their real wedding had ended up being a brief civil ceremony 
in a courthouse.  No invitations, no meddling, no announcement at all.  
The parents had acted as witnesses, and the only gift they recieved was 
the Tendou dojo.

There had been a ruckus the next day in Nerima, of course, although he 
and Akane had been safely on a honeymoon to Okinawa by then.  Over 
time, however, the mindless devotion of the Fiances had weathered down 
into occasional good natured bantering.  Shampoo had married Mousse.  
Ryouga had married Akari.  Ukyou had married Konatsu.  For reasons 
Ranma never quite understood, Kodachi had married Prince Herb of the 
Musk Kingdom, and she lived in China, so she wasn't a problem 
anymore . . . but in the case of the others, Ranma knew that the only 
reason they'd settled for who they were with was that it was better to 
live with the person who loved you best than to live without the one 
you yourself loved.

And really, he was happy with Akane. She understood him (most of the 
time) and she only threw things at him or tried to hit him when he was 
intentionally provoking her.  It was their way of teasing each other.  
To someone who wasn't used to it, it could be mistaken for violent 
abuse, but if Akane stopped trying to hit him someday, then he'd be 
worried.  And she never hit anyone else, not even Kuno, who had married 
Nabiki for her business acumen if nothing else.

Akane entered their bedroom, stifling a yawn.  She held a glass of 
water in one hand.  "Sounma's tucked in for the night."

Ranma lay back on the bed, trying to stay as far away from the water as 
he could.  Akane set it down on her desk, at a safe distance, and 
started to change into her own pajamas.

"Did he try to get out of it again?"

"No, I told him that the best time to think about the games that 
Grandfathers play is right before he falls asleep.  He seemed to like 
that idea."  She yawned again, now in pair of blue and white pajamas 
that gently hugged her trim figure.

"Scoot over," she commanded, and Ranma obliged.  They shared a full 
sized bed now, one that had been hastily purchased after an unfortunate 
instance with a cat accidently locked in their room with Ranma.  The 
wooden furniture had survived with only a few claw marks, but Akane's 
poor twin bed had to be vacuumed up.  After that, Akane had forbidden 
animal of ANY kind (except pot-bellied pigs) in their dojo.

They snuggled, leg to leg, and tried to find the most comfortable 
position without disturbing the other one too much.

"Hey, Ranma?" Akane asked in the darkness, leaning against her 
husband's shoulder.

"Mmm?"

"Are we going to make it this month?"

"Just barely," Ranma answered with a sigh.  "One of the mirrors was 
cracked two weeks ago, you remember that?  The insurance company is 
paying thirty thousand yen to have it replaced, but the installation 
and everything will run twice that.  As long as nothing else happens, 
we should be all right."

"I wish there was something else we could do . . ."

"Actually, Akane . . . I've been thinkin' about something."

"What?"

"Maybe I should try to get a real job, if only for a little while."

Akane sat bolt upright, not quite believing what she had just 
heard.  "What, you mean a day job?  Like a salaryman job?"

"Calm down, Akane! Yeah, something like that."

"But Ranma, all you have is a high school education.  And whenever 
we've been short for a month, you'd just worked at Ucchan's for a 
weekend to make up for it . . ."

"I can't make enough to actually gain anything at Ucchan's.  We need a 
permanent solution, not a temporary fix.  There was a job ad from Sony, 
lookin' for a martial artist.  I'm gonna apply."

Akane let herself relax again.  If it was a position for a martial 
artist, Ranma had a fighting chance.  She'd been afraid he wanted to 
apply for a desk job, one that he wasn't qualified for, one that would 
only get his hopes up only to have them dashed against the ground 
again.  But she should have known that Ranma wouldn't do something he 
didn't think he could succeed at.

"When?"

"Tomorrow," Ranma said, a note of determination in his voice.  "If I do 
get the job, you're gonna have to take over all the clasess except the 
advanced one."

"That's fine.  Now that Sounma's a bit older, I can handle teaching 
again."

They were silent for a few moments, each mentally working out how to 
rearrange schedules.  Ranma's advanced class could be moved to the 
evenings, and most of the other classes could stay the same, except for 
perhaps the 6PM intermediate class.  Maybe they could be swapped out. 

"We'll figure out a schedule after I get a job," Ranma decided aloud.  
Akane made an agreeable noise, and settled down on his shoulder for the 
night.

The door tentatively knocked.

"Mama? Papa?  I can't sleep," a little boy's voice whined.  The 
parents, who had almost been expecting this, looked at one another in 
mutual understanding.  

"My turn," Ranma whispered, and crawled over his wife, trying not to 
disturb her too much.  Unfortunately, his foot got tangled in the 
sheet, and he nearly lost his balance, and landed on the desk across 
the room.  A faint goosh of water and a thump from the glass on the 
carpet accompanied an unpleasant dampness and an even more unpleasant 
sensation of morphological change.

"Ranma, are you okay?" Akane cried, flipping on the light to reveal her 
husband, in his female form, looking quite disgruntled and wet.  The 
glass of water had spilled onto his leg, triggering the old curse from 
Jusenkyo that Ranma still hadn't found a cure for.  They were too poor 
now for certain to afford a trip to China.

The water dripped steadily from the desk onto her foot.

"I'm fine, I'm fine . . . I'm gonna take a bath after I tuck in 
Sounma . . ."

"I'll clean up the water," Akane volunteered, climbing out of the bed 
to go find a towel.

Ranma-chan stomped out of the room angrily, and plucked her son up with 
one hand without losing stride.  Sounma giggled, as he was being 
carried sideways.

"Hi, Auntie Ranko," Sounma said.  It was what they had termed Ranma's 
cursed form after Sounma was born.  Sounma was too little to understand 
that Auntie Ranko was his father, so to prevent any bizarre Freudian 
things that might haunt the little boy in his later life, they simply 
pretended that Ranma-chan was another person entirely.

"C'mon, boy, let's get to bed," Ranma said gruffly, trying to impose a 
remembered sternness from his father's version of parenthood.  Sounma 
giggled, indicating that it wasn't working.

"Don't wanna."

Ranma kicked open the door to Sounma's room, which had been Nabiki's 
room a long time ago before she moved out.  

"Sleep," Ranma commanded, depositing her son on his bed 
unceremoniously.  Sounma giggled again.

"I don't wanna.  When I sleep, then I can't see the games in my head."

Ranma paused at that statement.  Sounma had an uncanny interest in the 
games that his grandfathers played, both go and shougi.  He was too 
young to play himself, but he loved nothing more than to stare at the 
board for hours while Genma and Soun duked it out with imaginary armies.

"You have to sleep though, Sounma.  We -- your parents and I worry that 
if you don't get enough sleep, you'll get sick."

"Won't get sick," Sounma insisted.  

"Can't you think about the games you saw tomorrow?"

"They'll play different games tomorrow.  I wanna see those too."

Trying to argue with a four year old was almost as futile as trying to 
argue with a two year old.  The only major difference was that a four 
year old used a twisted sort of logic, while the two year old just 
said "no" to everything.

"Tell you what," Ranma-chan pleaded.  "If I play a game of go with you 
tonight, will you be happy?"

Sounma looked blank.  "Play?"

"Yes.  Instead of watching a game with Grandpa and Grandpa, I'll play a 
game with you.  But only if you promise to go to sleep afterward, okay?"

The littl boy nodded dumbly as Auntie Ranma stood up.  "Let me go and 
fetch the board."

It was a good plan.  Ranma would let Sounma push the stones around a 
bit, maybe sort out what his grandfathers did all the time, and let 
Sounma grow bored with the whole thing.  It'd be over in ten minutes.

* * *

Three hours later, Ranma, once again back to his normal male half, 
stumbled into the bedroom.  Akane woke up and turned on the light, 
revealing Ranma with bloodshot eyes and an expression of shock.

"Ranma . . .?" she asked, confused.  "I thought you were going to tuck 
Sounma in and then take a quick bath."

"I was," Ranma groaned, and *very* carefully climbed over his wife into 
the bed.  "But then I made the mistake of offering to play a game of go 
with him --"

"Oh, Ranma!"

"--and I have never lost a game so badly in my life."

Akane blinked a few times, and then clicked off the light.

"Did you finally get him in bed?

"Yeah, it's almost midnight now, he's too tired to stay up any longer.  
I hope."

"I hope he grows out of this phase soon," Akane said quietly, and 
burrowed into Ranma's shoulder again.  "G'night, Ranma."

"'Night, Akane."

* * *

In the darkened room, go stones danced through Sounma Tendou's sleeping 
mind.

* * *
Luxemburg
* * *

In front of a fireplace, several men and one woman sat comfortable in 
chairs.  The decor around them tastefully complemented the old luxury 
of the chairs and people themselves; it was a place that spoke of 
ancient wealth, ancient knowledge, and ancient secrets.  These were not 
the people who made history, since history is merely kings and dates 
and battles.  These were the people who planned it.

A push here, a nudge there . . . and the whole river of destiny could 
change its course.

"They've posted the ad in Nerima," one of the men said.  Neither his 
name, nor his face, were important.  

"Do you think he will respond?" another questioned.

"There is no doubt.  The insurance premium is draining them dry.  Only 
hard work has kept them afloat this long."

The others nodded.  In their world, luck was something that happened 
only when you made it.

"Has he contacted Lord Sesshoumaru yet?"

"Not yet. A few other hopefuls responded to the ad, and Sesshoumaru 
politely rejected them.  I believe it is only a matter of time."

"Time," the woman echoed thoughtfully, one beringed finger tapping 
against the jeweled head of her cane.  "Time is nothing something we 
have a lot of."

"The projected date of the project isn't for another five years," one 
of the men reminded her.

"Five years is a mere breath in the lifespan of the world," she said.

"He will answer soon," the fourth man said sharply.  "If not, then we 
have . . . ways of forcing his hand."

"Arrestation? Arson? Assassination?"

"No, no.  I was thinking more along the lines of giving him a friendly 
phone call, actually."

"Oh."

The creators of history stared at the dull orange flames of the fire in 
front of them.  On the scale in which their universe worked, there was 
no such thing as a really drastic measure.  Control was the key, of 
course.  It was one thing to force two nations into terribly, bloody 
combat.  It was another to lead them on a merry waltz to economic 
deadlock.  Both methods eventually lead to the destruction of the 
nations in question.  The latter was so much more interesting, though, 
and usually a lot more profitable.

"What about the other one, the one that Sesshoumaru said was probably 
here now?"

"We've been watching that household carefully.  There have indeed been 
frequent sightings of a mysterious young man around the shrine."  The 
voice paused, and then continued, slightly embarassed.  "He's a bit of 
a tourist attraction, actually.  They're making him part of the history 
of the shrine."

"I don't like dealing with demons," muttered one of the men who had 
hitherto remained silent.  "Bloody freaks, the lot of them.  Worse than 
those vampires."

"We are not here to pass judgement!"

The mutterer grumbled a bit more under his breath.

"The pieces of this game are being assembled onto the board, now," the 
woman said, a hint of deadly smile creeping into her voice.  "And we, 
gentleman, are the players."

"The question is . . . what does the winner recieve?"

* * *
Nerima, Tokyo, Japan
* * *

Ranam stared in apprehension at the giant face of the Sony building in 
front of him.  Akane had dragged out one of her father's old suits, and 
it fit Ranma rather loosely, but the only other nice clothing that 
Ranma had had been the tuxedo their parents had picked out for their 
wedding, which was hardly appropriate since it was white.

He looked down at the ad, carefully clipped from the newspaper.  He was 
twenty five years old, and he'd never worked at a *real* job in his 
life.  It was frightening.  Regular paychecks  . . . benefits . . . 
regular hours . . . those sorts of things generally didn't appear in 
the career of a martial artist.  Money was supposed to come second to 
one's dedication to the art.

No use standing around, Ranma told himself.  He entered the building, 
waited for an elevator, and started on the long, long elevator ride to 
the 26th floor.

There were so many stories in the skyscraper that the numbers above the 
door were digital, because otherwise they wouldn't fit in a row. 

24, the numbers said.  25.  And then, 26.  The elevator stopped, and 
the doors opened again with a muted oily, mechanical sound.

A sign right in front of him said "Personnel."  Ranma followed the 
arrow.

Personnel turned out to be a large lobby with a pretty blue haired 
receptionist, who smiled at Ranma and handed him a clipboard when he 
showed her the ad.  Something seemed odd about the woman, something 
that Ranma could't quite place.  She made him feel very nervous.

 He filled it out in his careful handwriting, struggling to remember 
his tax ID number and the official name on his birth certificate.  
Finally, he handed it back to the receptionist, and wondered what 
happened next.

She looked down at the clipboard, and blinked for a few moments as she 
scanned over the application.  Then she smiled back at Ranma, revealing 
two rows of perfect teeth, and said, "Wait right here." She scurried 
off to someplace unseen from the lobby.

Not knowing what else to expect, Ranma waited.

* * *

"Sara-chan?" the receptionist from personnel said into a phone.

"Yes, Miruru-chan?"

"He's here.  You can tell Sesshoumaru-sama that the first one is here."

"Which one?  Tendou or . . .?"

"Tendou."

"Sesshoumaru-sama will be very pleased."

"He will indeed."

* * *

And so the message reached the ears of one Sara, full youkai and 
secretary to one of the most powerful men . . . er, demons, in Japan.  
She was not ethnically a Japanese demon, but that was okay, since most 
demons nowadays lived in their own world anyway.  

Her job was a cushy one.  She answered the phone for Sesshoumaru.  She 
pushed paperwork around her desk and made other people do the actual 
work.  She painted her nails and brushed her fluffy salmon colored hair 
and refreshed red lipstick that never had a chance to wear off.  Only a 
very few people ever got to see her in person, and fewer made it past 
her to Sesshoumaru.  

She really wasn't a very powerful demon, as far as demons went.  Not 
like Sesshoumaru, who was over five hundred years old and had a true 
form the size of small islands.  Her one main ability was that she 
could go entirely invisible, if she so desired.  It wasn't that useful, 
not like some youkai abilities, such as being able to devour humans in 
one gulp.  It did make her popular at office parties, when she would 
strip and wander around invisible and naked.

Now one of Sesshoumaru's plans had begun, and Sara anticipated being 
the one to tell him about it.  She had met Sesshoumaru a long time ago 
(about four hundred and fifty years ago, to be a little more exact) and 
in all that time, she'd found that his plans were always a lot of fun.  
She loved Sesshoumaru, and would do almost anything for him.  

When he'd met her again, a few months ago, and offered her a job as his 
secretary, she'd jumped on the chance she'd lost all that time ago.  
She liked nothing more than telling Sesshoumaru good news.  She never 
told him bad news, because it was her job to make the bad news go away 
before it ever got to him.

"Sesshoumaru-sama," she said, opening the door to his office a crack 
and peering in to look at him.  No other being, mortal or demon, dared 
to do such a thing.  Sara had privleges.

"Yes, Sara?" Sesshoumaru asked, looking up from his paperwork.

She slipped inside the door, and smiled at him from across the room.

"Ranma Tendou has applied for the job, just like you said he would.  
Miriru has already hired him.  He'll start next week."

Sesshoumaru set his paperwork down then, and Sara caught her breath.  
Even though he was well over half a millenium old, he didn't look a day 
over twenty.  He was entirely himself today; the spells he used to keep 
his true nature under wraps had been dropped in favor of the natural 
look.  Two stripes graced each high, proud cheekbone, and a large blue 
cresent moon glowed from the center of his forehead.  His long eyes 
glittered a dangerous lemon yellow from inside a face that was too 
pretty for a man.  His neatly brushed hair hung loosely down his back.  
In public, he pulled it back into a gentlemanly ponytail, and his 
cheeks bore no marks.

Times had changed, however, in some respects.  This Sesshoumaru wore a 
tailored charcoal three-piece business suit from Saks Fifth Avenue.

Sara, in her little red Chanel suit and little red pumps, matched this 
Sesshoumaru, and she liked that fact a lot.

"Has the other one arrived yet?"

"We just sent out his letter yesterday.  I believe he should be along 
either this afternoon, or sometime tomorrow."  Automatically she began 
tidying up the office.  Sesshoumaru was a neat person, in both speech 
and in manner, but he had never really understood the true need for a 
filing cabinet, a quirk that resulted in cleaning maids not being 
allowed in his office anymore under any circumstances whatsoever.  She 
picked up the stacks from the floor and arranged them near the wall, 
clearing up a signifigant amount of floor space.

"You don't need to do that, Sara," Sesshoumaru said softly.  He told 
her that everytime she started the task, which was usually every time 
she stepped in his office.

"You never know when you might have missed something I could have taken 
care of, Sesshoumaru-sama," she answered with a grin, and picked up a 
set of complicated looking forms to prove her point.  She handed them 
to him, and Sesshoumaru produced a tiny pair of reading spectacles from 
one coat pocket in order to peer at them.

"Ah, I see.  This is for that charity ball I was invited to."

"Did you want to go?"

"I may as well.  I will donate one half million yen. And you will 
escort me, of course."

Sara nodded and took the forms back from him.  He pocketed the reading 
glasses again.  He wasn't really that old, at least by youkai 
standards, but the eyes generally were one of the first things to go no 
matter what species you were.

Ah, another charity ball with Sesshoumaru.  In order to ward off 
scheming businessmen who intended on matching Sesshoumaru to their 
young daughters, Sesshoumaru took Sara as his date.  It was a lesson he 
had learned long ago in the court of Kyoto.  Everyone knew she was his 
mistress, which was the important thing.  The fact that he was too much 
of a gentleman to actually keep a mistress never ocurred to any of them.

Sometimes I wish he *would* make an improper move, she thought with a 
sigh.  But he has too many bitter memories about his love life.  He 
told me that much in the Sengoku Jidai.  

Sara had once landed in that time by accident.  She had met Sesshoumaru 
then, and fallen in love at first sight.  He had been unable to 
reciprocate her feelings, so she had run back to her own time, 
heartbroken . . .

Then it had turned out that he had waited all that time for her, which 
was why she was now his secretary.  Yet, he had never made an actual 
move to demonstrate anything.  He was a patient man, and apparently the 
time for him to love Sara had yet to arrive.

That was okay with Sara, too.  As long as she was the one by his side, 
she could continue supporting him, and loving him in her own way.  They 
understood each other that much.

Sara returned to her own desk and started filling out the forms in a 
crisp, flowing hand.  

"Let's see . . . one half million yen . . . pennies for Sesshoumaru, 
but five times the required amount for this ball . . ."

* * *
Nerima, Tokyo, Japan
* * *

Ranma returned home to the Tendou Dojo, a rather stunned look on his 
face.  Akane greeting him with a quick hug, and asked the question that 
had been foremost on her mind all day.

"Did you get the job?"

Ranma nodded dumbly.

"How much is the salary?"

"Three . . ." he began.

"Three hundred thousand yen? What, is that a month?"

"Three . . .," he began again, still unable to imagine that much money.

"It's a good salary, Ranma.  I'm so proud of you."

"Akane, it's three . . . million."

"Three million a year?"  She calculated the math in her head.  "That's 
a little under 280 thousaund yen a month . . ."

"No, Akane.  It's three million yen. A month."

Akane's expression matched Ranma's for a few moments.  Three million 
yen . .  a month . . . was a lot of money.

"It's only a temporary position, though.  I'll be working for three 
months.  That's nine million yen for the contract, total."

"Nine . . .?" Akane managed to choke out.

"Yes."

They silently calcuated how much they had made, as a household, over 
the past nine years.  It was about half that much money.

"Ranma," Akane said, her face full of wonder.  "Don't tell Nabiki."

"I won'te tell Dad, either," Ranma said, looking nervously in the 
direction of the porch where a panda bear and Soun Tendou were playing 
shougi.

* * *
Luxemborg
* * *

The fire burned again that evening.  The fire always burned, although 
those in the room who watched it changed occassionally.

"The bait has been eaten."

"Yes."

"Was it poisoned? Or was it in a trap?"

"Not poisoned.  The Tendou Dojo is, after all, a historical building.  
It would be a shame to let it continue in that state of disrepair."

"Then it was a trap."

"Perhaps not.  Perhaps . . . it was only a lure."

"Ah."

One of the voices casually lit a cigar, earning a stern look from the 
woman of the group, although no one could see her actual face in the 
gloom of the study.

"I really wish you wouldn't smoke in here," she pronounced.

The man with the cigar smiled ferally back at her.

"I really wish you wouldn't focus on trivial things in here."

"There are no trivial things.  Every minor detail is of import to some 
plan."

"Every detail?"

"Every little one."

* * *
End chapter one.
* * *

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