Yikes, it's been a while since I've posted anything... C&C truly welcome! A
little of this was posted several months ago, though it's been tweaked
throughout. The previous four chapters can be found on my website.
***
Choices: Decision
by
Michael Noakes
Ranma 1/2 is the property of Rumiko Takahashi.
Grays and shadows, concrete lines indistinct beneath opened skies. The
torrent enforced a sullen silence, leaving the city subdued but for the
sibilant hiss of rain striking pavement. Canals swollen with runoff carried
away the filth and detritus of city life. Lashing winds rode the dampening
fall. The scent of moist and freshly torn foliage hovered near the ground.
A young girl ran through the storm, alone. Holding herself tightly, she
ran blindly and heedless of the punishing weather. Blood flowed freely
where she had scratched herself, quickly washed away by the rain.
The rain drummed a staccato beat against the windowpane. Hiroshi stared
listlessly outside, watching the rain fall, watching the trees sway
noiselessly in the distance. He traced the path of a single drop with an
idle finger, its seemingly random path, the glass cool beneath his touch.
The bead of water was absorbed by a larger rivulet and carried away.
The boy sighed and leaned his forehead against the window. He closed his
eyes. Ms Hinako droned on somewhere in the background, and despite being in
her adult form she sounded just as weary as he felt. Half the class was
already asleep at their desk as the clock continued its heavy ticking march
towards the end of fourth period. Then lunch. Free time followed by
cleaning the school. Back to class, two more hours, club activities. Home
then dinner, study then sleep. Lather, rinse, repeat. Hiroshi sighed
again: even in a school like Furinkan it sometimes seemed all so
predictable.
In quiet moments like this, Hiroshi felt he could see the entire sequence
of his life stretching before him. Sometimes he enjoyed imagining the
possibilities. For example: his relationship deepening with Sayuri, they
marry soon after graduation; supporting him as he struggles through a
second-rate Tokyo university, she eventually quits and stays at home and
raises their children as he joins with a large firm, another be-suited
soldier of human management. A good husband and father, he retires after
forty years of hard work and recollects the golden days of his youth in high
school.
These are my golden days? Hiroshi thought.
Maybe soon after graduation Sayuri realizes how much of a geek he is, and
dumps him. Left reeling, he redirects his agony into effort and loses
himself into study, and manages to enter a top-flight university. With
these heightened prospects he is recruited by a major international
corporation. Rising swiftly through the ranks, he nevertheless still fears
that adolescent pain and never again connects deeply with another woman.
Older and richer (and possibly with an ulcer, though Hiroshi wonders if that
might be over-the-top), he one day retires and cynically reflects on his
high-school heartbreak.
Yeah, sure, Hiroshi thought, grinning ruefully. Who am I kidding? The
only part that rings true is being dumped.
These unexciting thoughts appeal to him more than the occasional wild
flights of fancy. Though fun imagining himself being bitten by a strange
radioactive insect and suddenly gaining superhuman powers allowing him to go
toe-to-toe with Ranma and his friends in hand-to-hand combat . . . it also
seemed silly. Hiroshi knew he was not a hero. Enough sideline encounters
with the daily insanity of Ranma's life had taught him that. However:
something inside yearned terribly for a chance--just _one_ chance--to test
and prove himself. To Daisuke. To his parents and to Sayuri. To himself.
I had my chance, he told himself, and I missed it. I wanted to be a hero,
but I always imagined it would be something grand, something obvious:
grabbing a cute girl out of the path of an out-of-control truck, maybe. But
when Ranma was hurting, and my buddies were insulting him behind his back,
and making rude comments about his curse, and talking about making a _real_
girl out of him; and all those girls spreading rumors and lies: _that_ was
my chance to prove myself. I could have stood up and taken his side. I
could have said something--anything!
But when the person at the front of the whole campaign is your own
girlfriend, what can you do? I really like Sayuri, he thought miserably,
and I _think_ she really likes me too. Ever since the party--ever since
Ranma's absence--their relationship had been steadily deepening. Who would
have thought, he added with some wonder, that a popular girl like her would
see something in a dork like me? But she does, and when we're together and
alone it's great.
Being her boyfriend at school was a different matter. She wasn't exactly
_cold_ to him, but compared to the affection she showed when they were
alone, it felt chilling, and almost painful--that it even pained him came as
a surprise. Not that he could blame her: he'd probably be embarrassed to be
seen with himself, too, if he was that popular. Then there was the way she
tore into Ranma today and ended up hauling buckets. He knew he would be
hearing all about it at lunch. He remembered the stupid bet he made with
Daisuke a week ago, and felt weak.
Hiroshi shifted, as the cool spot where his forehead touched the window
grew uncomfortable. A break in the teacher's monotone recital pulled his
eyes forward. The students at the head of each row were passing back
worksheets. Woo hoo, he thought. More mindless busywork. At some time
during his distraction, Hinako had reverted to her youthful form. In the
brief free time while the students collected their class work, she stared
outside with such a serious, pensive air, the skin between her eyes pinching
into a cute little 'v', that it appeared comic on such a childish face. He
followed her gaze, and saw only the falling rain and half-concealed trees.
He turned slightly, and saw himself vaguely reflected in the window. A
slight shock ran through him at the expression on his face--
_"But, really," Ranma said, "don't worry about it."_
--and he realized that maybe Ranma had been feeling something very similar
as he waved off the earlier apology. Feeling something similar--to what?
Hiroshi suddenly lost confidence in his friend's reassurance. Something in
Ranma's expression, something in his _own_, left Hiroshi uncertain.
It was usually at home, in the mornings during his shower, at night in
those empty minutes before sleep claimed him, that he allowed his mind to
wander and craft silly visions of a mundane future. He never did it at
school. Every time he tried, the possibilities seemed to unwind and fall
apart, the myriad paths different friends and encounters allowed for, the
choices, too much. His imagination couldn't cope. It couldn't stretch
itself enough to allow for the presence of--
I wonder how Ranma is doing, Hiroshi thought. I sure hope he's okay.
With each step, the water captured in the folds of her furled hood
overflowed and trickled cold down the small of her back. The skirt of her
uniform was soaked through to appear nearly black; her wet hair clung
tenaciously to her scalp. The rain stung her eyes. Blinking rapidly as she
hunched into the storm, she walked home. Through the fence she watched the
canal's swift flow, its rain-dappled surface, and the refuse riding the
water away. The metal tip of her umbrella scraped the pavement at her side.
I can't do this, Akane Tendo thought. I can't--how can I just walk home?
She imagined herself at home, dry, with her sister, comfortable, with a warm
cup of green tea clutched in her hands, warm, and with her father, safe. . .
. Her already trudging walk faltered. She suddenly felt weak and had to
lean heavily against the fence. The metal was wet and slick and coarse
against her skin. Her fingers found purchase among the chain links and kept
her propped up as she sank into a crouch. She suddenly realized that she
was crying, but the downpour made it impossible to tell.
_"Akane is really okay?"_
Under the rain's incessant fall, her plaintive cry went unheard.
"Then I have to go," Ranma said. Without another word, he turned away and
left. The noise of the door sliding in its railing, wood against wood,
metal rollers, sounded clear in his wake. A windowpane rattled in its frame
as the storm outside gained strength.
She stood next to Doctor Tofu. The man groaned as he regained his feet.
Her mouth opened and closed wordlessly, struggling to speak. One hand,
raised in vain to-- she didn't know, to stop Ranma from leaving, maybe, to
reach out and comfort him-- how do you comfort someone in a time like-- he's
been ra-- how can he be pre-- was he worried-- I just wanted to touch him
and let him know he isn't alone! she thought, and her arms fell limply at
her side.
"Ranma. . . ?" She found her voice, barely above a whisper, but too late.
The wind breathed through the room, its sound hollow and quavering. Tofu
stepped past her and closed the door the rest of the way. He did not look
outside. Wind severed, the room sank back into deep silence. The doctor
stayed at the door, his back towards her, one hand resting heavily against
the dark grain of the doorframe. His shoulders trembled slightly.
"Don't go," Akane finished, louder but too late.
Bikini bottom twisted around a girl's ankles. Naked, bra-like top tangled
in the crook of one elbow. The smell of the room had been pungent, the air
heavy. Even after two weeks, the image remained painfully clear in Akane's
mind. She feared it always would. There had been details she had refused
to see at the time. Marks across the girl's shoulders and upper arm, and
back, parallel lines pale against her skin, reddening at the edges:
scratches, and heavy grip marks that her training told her fell just short
of bruising. Straightening out and pulling the swimsuit up the girl's legs,
how could she not notice the blood, still not quite dry, speckling the
inside of her thighs? I should have told someone earlier, Akane thought.
Tugging the bottom over her hips, the matted hairs of the girl's pubic
region had glistened in a way that Akane's inexperience could not then
understand.
I should have told someone about her! she thought, and took a weak step
forward. She suddenly felt ashamed. Ranma's _not_ a girl, she told
herself. She tried to draw some strength from that fact. Another step.
The image would not leave her mind. Ranma, half-unconscious on the bed.
Naked flesh obscenely vivid against the sheets, a pallid contrast in the
dark. The room had seemed so _hot_. Akane had never seen Ranma spread out
so defenseless before, nor seem as weak and helpless as he had then; her
stomach twisted and dropped at the thought. Tightly balled fists pressed
forcefully into her sides, straining in vain to reach the source of her
pain. Akane's vision dimmed, and a rushing sound assaulted her ears. She
fell to her knees. She felt her bile rise. She vomited on the floor of the
clinic.
A solid hand on her shoulder brought her back. She looked up through
blurry eyes at Doctor Tofu. His cheeks were moist but his features were
reassuring.
"She's a boy," Akane insisted firmly.
"Yes he is," Tofu agreed, and pulled her up.
"But that doesn't make it any better," she said. With the back of her
right hand, she absently wiped the bile from her chin. Her wrist ached
where Ranma had slapped her away. "It doesn't make a difference."
"I don't think it does, Akane," Tofu said.
She stared at the closed door. She remembered Ranma's departure. He had
seemed so lost and confused. His eyes had never been that empty. An uneven
beat began against the ceiling: the first heavy drops of the incipient
storm.
"It's raining," she said numbly. "Ranma shouldn't be out in the rain. Not
without a coat." She went to take a step forward but found her movement
arrested by a strong grip on her arm. She glanced back, confused, and gazed
blankly at Tofu's hand.
"The rain is the least of his worries," he said.
"I-- I know," she said. "But I should go . . . ."
"I think," Tofu said, "that even if you could find Ranma, it might be best
if no one was with him right now." His grip tightened slightly as she tried
to pull away.
"No!" she yelled. "No! Ranma _needs_ me, I have to _help_ him-- let me
go!" She turned away and tried to yank herself out of the doctor's grasp.
She twisted free of his hand but the doctor's soft touch followed her,
easily moving to the opposite shoulder, her elbow, gently restraining her.
Akane cried out in frustration and redoubled her efforts, her mind consumed
with the image of Ranma, in the rain, Ranma, unconsciously supine on the
bed, Ranma, a shadowy figure poised between her splayed legs; "No!"
The doctor's arms wrapped around her from behind, pinning Akane's arms to
her side. He held her tight as she thrashed within his grasp. Her elbows
smacked his side, her heel sought his shins. His grip did not weaken, nor
did he say a word. "Ranma's all alone!" the girl cried out, "She's all al.
. . ."
Akane's struggled abruptly ceased. Akane sagged in the doctor's arms, and
he gently eased her to the floor. She held herself tight, eyes squeezed
shut. The first wracking sob tore through her, then another, and finally
the tears, hot and heavy. "Ranma's a boy!" she wailed, and buried her face
against Tofu's chest. He held her comfortingly, her weeping muffled by his
body. His shirt became wet with tears as she clung to him. The doctor was
something strong and solid, as everything else fell apart. She tried to
come to terms with what had happened. Someone--no, not just _someone_, she
insisted, _Ranma_--that she . . . knew, no, more than that, cared for--had
been . . . hurt. She choked on her own tears, a grim laugh mingled with her
cry: she's been more than just hurt, 'hurt' doesn't _begin_ to describe
what's been done to her! And then: no, Akane persisted, not _her_; him!
Him, him, Ranma's a guy, a guy, no matter what happened! But try as she
might, huddled in the doctor's consoling embrace, she could not disassociate
the idea of Ranma, the boy she had come to know over the last year and a
half, from the image of the girl she had found sprawled on a soiled bed in a
dark room two weeks ago.
As her tears subsided, Akane gradually became aware of a growing wetness in
the doctor's side. She pulled away from his grasp. His face was pale, and
his shirt stained with blood.
"Doctor?" Akane said, eyes widening.
Tofu smiled wanly. "Ranma was fairly insistent we leave him alone, don't
you think?" He carefully stood, and Akane joined him. "It's not so bad.
Nothing worse than a cracked rib, maybe, and some minor lacerations." He
nodded towards the corner Ranma had shoved him, and the shattered end table
that had broken beneath his fall.
Akane recalled how she had flailed within his arms. "I'm sorry," she said,
but the doctor waved it off. He walked stiffly to the back of the clinic.
Akane trailed after him as he tended to his wound.
"Doctor," she started, hesitatingly, but her voice trailed off to nothing.
She sat down heavily on one of the clinic beds. Hugging herself, she
focused on the doctor's actions, watching as he peeled back his shirt and
applied a dressing to his side. He paused and looked at her expectantly.
"Akane?"
She shook her head slightly, orientating on his voice. She tried to focus
on the doctor. In trying to avoid reliving the scene fresh in her mind,
Akane found it hard to keep her thoughts from slipping away.
"Doctor," she tried again. "Is she-- is _he_ going to be okay?"
Tofu paused, and smiled reassuringly. To Akane, the attempt seemed weak
and transparent. Beneath the reassurance, his features were sad and tired.
"I don't know," he answered. "Ranma is a strong boy. He's already survived
some amazing things. But this. . . ." His smile slipped, and he turned
away. His voice sounded thick and doubtful when he continued. "I'm . . .
sorry, Akane. But I really don't know."
The storm grew stronger.
Akane pulled herself to her feet. Under the pouring rain, there was no
point in wiping her tears away. She wobbled unsteadily for a moment, her
legs weak. A deep breath helped settle her brimming emotions, but her
entire body shivered from the dampness. Her clothes were wet and cold
against her skin. As the rain grew more intense so did the noise, and she
soon found herself surrounded by its dull hissing roar. The young woman
felt very lonely.
She absently rubbed at the soaked and torn bandages wound tightly around
her hand. Doctor Tofu, after tending to his own wounds, had turned to her
sprained wrist. Akane had not realized she had been hurt. After securing
the wrappings in place, he had told her to go home. "You should wait for
him," Doctor Tofu had said. "You should be there when Ranma returns."
Akane wasn't sure Ranma would.
Trudging along the canal, head bowed to the rain, one hand trailing along
the slick fence, she had to ask herself: Why should he?
_Get out of my house._
And he had stared back at her wide-eyed, with a face suddenly pale, and
answered with that enigmatic whispered, "Yes". To what question, she
wondered, had he replied? Then came the guilt: how could I throw him out,
she asked herself, when I knew what was at stake? No matter what he
said--and even now, beneath the dark clouds, rubbing at her dully aching
wrist, fragments of a memory roiling at the edge of her thoughts, reds and
pale flesh and threatening shadows; even after all that, she _still_ felt
residual anger at his words--I should have kept my temper in check and made
sure he stayed. But balancing between her concern for Ranma and her intense
anger at his actions and words had been too difficult, that knife's edge too
thin; in the end she had fallen and in that brief moment given vent to her
rage.
I was too weak, she told herself.
Akane paused in her slow walk. Despite the miserable cold, she could not
bring herself to go any faster. She finally noticed the umbrella held
loosely in her hand, but somehow the effort of raising it over her head
seemed more trouble than it was worth. She attempted a few more steps
before grinding to another fatigued halt.
At least talking with Nabiki had helped, she thought. Her sister helped
share the burden. She had known what to do, had been the one to call up
Doctor Tofu and set up the bogus appointment. And because of that, Ranma
thought I was sick. Even after what he said in the bathroom yesterday, all
those horrible things--he stayed longer, just to make sure I was okay.
Akane shivered violently from the cold. I _won't_ be okay, she told
herself, if I don't get out of this rain soon. But her house felt so far
away, an impossible journey in her current state. She forced herself to
look around, and realized with a start that she had long missed the turn
toward home. A bridge--one of Ranma's hangouts--was nearby. She wondered
if she had unconsciously come this way in search of him.
After only a brief hesitation, she clambered over the fence. Her efforts
were clumsy and she slipped on the slick metal. Her wrist began to ache.
With a final grunt of determination, she lifted herself over and fell
heavily on the other side. The water level was high, overflowing the lower
canal and swallowing up the earthen bank. Akane carefully made her way
along the edge, slipping occasionally on the slick concrete but avoiding the
water. In focusing on not falling into the rapidly flowing water, she was
able to avoid looking at the small space left beneath the bridge. Her heart
was beating rapidly as she approached.
When she looked up, there was nobody there. Only then did she realize how
much she had hoped to find Ranma--expected to find him, even; and she
released a breath unconsciously kept trapped until that moment. She stood
there in the pouring rain, staring blankly at the empty space before her,
blinking rapidly. Another strong shiver forced a few steps forward, and she
ducked down and took cover beneath the concrete arch.
She dropped onto the pebbly ground. The protection overhead dampened the
sound of the rain, but the rushing water in the bloated canal seemed even
louder. Akane breathed deeply, smelling old stone and wet grass, and hugged
herself for warmth.
Is he out there in the rain? Akane wondered. That means he's a she right
now, and she pictured the young girl walking through the rain, or maybe
running, the doctor's words still ringing in her ears, holding herself,
small. That very image in her mind brought with it a sudden pang nearly
more vivid than anything thus far: Ranma, small. Her fiance had always
seemed so large, with an exuberant energy that easily filled a room. Now
she seemed diminished. Akane knew how unfair thinking that way was, and
hated herself for being so weak to allow the idea to creep in. In fleeing
her own judgment, she morbidly tried to imagine how Ranma must feel at this
very moment; she tried to imagine herself in that pained flesh and
shuddered. She couldn't.
For when the suggestion of that dark figure arose in Akane's mind, poised
between the petite girl's spread legs, all she could see was Ranma's face.
"I'm too weak," the girl said, and Akane flinched away and buried her face
in her hands, and wept.
Overhead, another figure trudged through the rain. It was short, and
black, and it wore a checkered bandanna. It was a pig and it was steaming
angry--literally, for the falling water erupted into tiny sizzling wisps
upon contact with its porcine skin. Cloven hooves found difficult purchase
on the pavement and it struggled against the fierce winds as it crossed the
bridge. With relentless determination it crept forward. Clenched fiercely
in its tiny fanged jaw was a crumpled and rusted bottle-cap.
Just you wait! seethed Ryouga Hibiki. I'm almost there! For insults to me
and injuries to Akane, you will pay, Ranma! When next we meet, I'll send
you to hell!
Akane lost track of how long she sat beneath the bridge's cover. Long
enough for the rain to slow and then weaken, and finally stop. The clouds
thinned and broke, and the sun beamed down in gently drifting shafts. The
level of the canal was quickly rescinding, and a few ducks even fluttered
by, dipping their heads beneath the surface. The wind, still moist and
cool, no longer chilled her as deeply. She had stopped crying quite a while
ago.
The sky was already darkening. It's getting late, she thought. Kasumi
must be wondering where I am. She tried to push the thought from her mind,
because it was a further complication she did not know how to deal with.
This thing that happened to Ranma--how would the others react? I can't tell
them, she had decided, during her long wait beneath the bridge. That's up
to Ranma.
She climbed out from beneath the bridge and returned to the street, and
began the long walk home. Nerima seemed beautiful after the storm, somehow
more alive and healthy: the leaves sparkled slightly in the dwindling light,
and everything smelled fresher. It made her angry. It's not fair, she
thought. Not after what happened. But it gave her something to focus on
other than her own unpleasant thoughts, and for that she was thankful. As
Akane approached her home, her anxiety grew. She wasn't sure she could
maintain her composure before her family. Then to her surprise, as she
slipped through the outer gate and secured it behind her--an unconscious yet
unfamiliar action, since they almost never locked the door--she felt an
unexpected relief to be off the street.
"I'm back," she said softly, sliding the door shut.
The house seemed ominously silent at that moment, and while Akane felt
relief at not being immediately accosted at the door, she also felt a brief
tremor of anxiety, the source of which she could not entirely place. She
slipped off her shoes and left her soaked book bag in the entranceway, and
slid down the dim hallway. It was with some pleasure that she heard the
normal bustle of another of Kasumi's dinners in progress; she must have
stepped in during a lull in the conversation. The shoji were shut against
the moist winds, but the light shining through the thin rectangles was
cheerful and reassuring. For a long moment, Akane simply stood there
watching the shadow play of her family's evening, silhouettes cast against
yellowed paper. Her father's occasional words, complimenting the taste of
the food; the eldest sister's demure denial that it was anything special;
Genma's booming voice insisting otherwise; a wryly voiced cynicism
undercutting them all from Nabiki.
Akane turned away and the dark lines in the smooth wood pulled her eyes
along the length of the floor. She took a few shuffling steps and stood
outside the dining room. The soft light spoke of warmth and comfort.
She turned away and stared out across the backyard. She found comfort in
the solitude of the small garden and the tiny pool with its languidly
swimming carp. Even the wind, with its heavy, sullen movement, proved more
welcoming than what lay behind her. It ruffled her drying hair and tickled
the nape of her neck. I don't deserve to step in there, Akane thought.
Lost in empty contemplation, the sound of the door sliding open behind her
went unheard. The soft touch on her shoulder surprised her, yet she didn't
jump. Akane looked back at Nabiki standing next to her, at her serious and
pensive eyes, dark and brooding. Behind them both, in the bright light of
the halogen lamp above, made harsh without the diffusing paper door, the
rest of the family watched her with concern.
"Were you planning to join us, Akane?" Nabiki asked.
"I didn't think anyone heard me," she said, turning away.
"It's not easy to sneak by a family of martial artists," her older sister
answered. "Don't worry, I explained to Kasumi that you called me to let the
family know you would be late."
"Thanks, sis," Akane answered softly.
"Don't mention it," she answered just as quietly.
They both stared out across the garden for a long moment before Akane
finally turned back to Nabiki, and with a voice thick with emotion, said,
"We have to talk."
Nabiki perched at one end of her bed, anxiously watching her sister sitting
opposite her. Akane held her head low, drooping bangs veiling her eyes like
a dark curtain. The scene was entirely too much like last night's for
Nabiki's comfort. She didn't want to hear what her sister had to say. The
painful hollowness of her own stomach told her that she already knew what
the result of the boy's visit to the doctor's clinic had to be.
No, the middle sister insisted, growing angry. Not that: it's ridiculous.
That kind of shit doesn't happen. Not in Nerima. Not to my family. Not to
Ranma.
When Akane finally looked up, Nabiki's feeble anger masking her deeper fear
disappeared. Her sister wasn't crying--in fact, she seemed remarkable
composed--but Nabiki knew her sister too well. There was hurt in her
sister's eyes, and a deep hopelessness she hadn't seen in a very long
time--had only seen once before. Akane was a girl of extremes--she cried
easily, and angered even easier, and smiled and forgave easiest of all; but
when she grew quiet and withdrawn her pain reached deep, and endured.
"Akane?" Nabiki called out softly, only to discover that her voice hadn't
escaped, that her own throat seemed swelled shut, her words too thick to
slip free. Keep it together, she scolded herself. "Akane?" she tried
again. She inched closer to her sister. Nabiki began to feel distant from
her own actions, as if watching herself from outside, on a stage or a
screen. She felt she already knew how everything would turn out, and was
stuck in a role she didn't want to play. Why should she be the one to hold
shit together? She wasn't the emotionally comforting one; wasn't that
Kasumi's role?
Her sister had insisted that they talk, but obviously needed some help
getting started. Nabiki touched her softly on the side of the head. She
smoothed down her sister's hair, still damp and wild from the earlier storm,
and finally rested her hand on Akane's shoulder. She gave a firm but gentle
squeeze and forced her sister to meet her gaze. "Please listen to me,
Akane," Nabiki said.
And then the older sister watched herself ask, "Akane, was Ranma raped?"
One of Akane's hands flew to her lips as if in fright, and then she nodded,
once. Her eyes were wide.
"Where is he now?" Nabiki asked, and congratulated herself on how steady
she kept her voice.
The response came slowly. "She--_he_ ran away when he found out." Her
other hand fluttered uselessly for a moment, until Nabiki noticed the torn
and dirty bandages there. "I tried to stop him."
"Did he hurt you?" Nabiki asked, tone carefully neutral.
"No!" Akane insisted, her reply quick and sharp.
"Does anyone else know?"
"No," she said, in a softer voice. "I asked doctor Tofu to keep it secret
for now."
Nabiki nodded. She couldn't imagine how this would impact her family.
Badly. She wondered where Ranma had run to. There was guilt in Akane's
voice, and fear: she probably suspected that the boy wouldn't come back, and
blamed herself. Nabiki felt otherwise. After all, where can he go? He's
not tough enough to deal with this on his own.
Akane raised her voice again, tentatively at first but finally with
wavering strength. "There's more, Nabiki," she said.
"More?" She hadn't thought her stomach could drop further, but it did.
"I was right, last night."
Nabiki tried to remember their conversation last night. It was a blank.
Strange, Nabiki thought dully, I'm normally really good at remembering
stuff. "Last night?"
"Nabiki, Ranma's pregnant."
A corner Nabiki's mouth quirked into a smirk, as if at a joke subtly
appreciated; then her smile died and her mouth fell open at the total
seriousness with which Akane held her gaze.
"Don't be stupid," Nabiki mumbled. "He couldn't possibly. . . ."
"She is," Akane said firmly. "Tofu took me aside before Ranma got there.
He explained it to me. I--I can't really remember most of it right now.
Something about a chemical in the blood. I couldn't concentrate. He said
he almost missed it, it's so early, but it's definitely there."
"Ranma's . . . pregnant." Nabiki repeated the words slowly. She felt
stupid saying it. How could a guy be pregnant? But Akane had said 'she'
was pregnant. Ranma, the girl. Her mind balked at the idea. Somehow over
the last year and a half, she had stopped ever thinking of Ranma, even in
his cursed form, as a girl. After that first encounter so long ago--when
she'd grabbed his breasts with a familiarity that still made her blush, at
times, when she thought of it--every encounter with the boy-turned girl
convinced her further of his masculinity. Even at his most feminine, at his
most ridiculous. . . he still resembled a caricature rather than the real
thing. Not a girl; a man with tits rather, a very curvaceous, convincing
cross-dresser, maybe, but a man nonetheless.
How could a man be pregnant?
Nabiki looked at her sister and saw the confusion in her eyes, and
understood that Akane was struggling with the same question. Her doubts ran
deeper, the uncertainty hurting her badly. "Tofu said--," her sister was
saying, when Nabiki suddenly drew her into a tight embrace. She threw her
arms around her younger sister and held her tight. She held her as tight as
she could and wished she could offer more.
"He'll be okay," Nabiki whispered. "He'll be okay."
"It's how he knew," Akane continued, her voice hoarser now and muffled.
"It's how Tofu knew. How could Ranma be pregnant? Only if someone . . . if
some guy had. . . ." Nabiki felt her sister tremble.
Forced himself on Ranma, Nabiki finished mentally. But how do we know it
was forced? The thought, as brief lived as it was, made her flush hot and
angry. How can I even _think_ that? she demanded of herself, but the
thought had come, unbidden, of Ranma submitting his female body to a boy's
advance. How many times had he flirted shamelessly with guys, flaunting his
tits and ass with bizarre pride that bordered on the neurotic? A caricature
of femininity rather than the real thing, sure, but still sexy as hell. How
many men would prefer a cartoon girl to the real thing? Ranma had been at a
party, and he'd been angry, and he'd been depressed and vulnerable, and he'd
been drunk and he'd been surrounded by friendly guys who would have been
happy to offer a shoulder to cry on, and more, certainly, if he asked for
it. . . . Was it really that inconceivable?
Yes, it was. Nabiki believed this beyond any doubt. The boy was so
neurotic he couldn't even bring himself to kiss a girl, let alone . . .
anything more. But Nabiki realized that if the thought occurred to her, it
would occur to others--to others who did not know the boy as well, or who
would like to believe he had 'gone girl', or who would take pleasure in
seeing him humbled and ruined.
"He'll be okay," Nabiki repeated, and she did not believe her own words.
The two sisters held each other for a long time. The older sister became
aware of the gentle sobbing of her sibling, of a growing wetness against her
shoulder. A moment later Nabiki realized tears streaked her own cheeks.
She was afraid. She felt filled to brimming with a diffused dread that
lurked just beyond recognition.
A moment later, a soft knocking intruded and the two girls drew apart. The
door opened, and Kasumi poked her head into the room. Her usual smile grew
brittle a she saw the state of her two sisters. They stared at each other
in tense silence, and then Kasumi suddenly blurted out, with unusual
urgency:
"Ms. Saotome is on the phone." When Akane failed to respond, she quickly
added, "She wants to talk to you. She says that Ranko is at her place."
The hurried walk to Nodoka's home would later remain a blur to Akane.
There was a definite sequence of events, of course--phone call, rush from
the house, walk and arrival--but somehow it all seemed disconnected.
Rather, she found that she could only remember disjointed images or sounds
and scents: the slam of the door sliding shut behind, the wet slap of her
run through puddles, Kasumi's face pale and concerned, scattered wispy
clouds tinted pink, sunset. The air had been fresh and cool against her
face as she ran to Mrs. Saotome's home. She remembered that most of all:
following the storm, the dusk sky had been painfully clear and the emerging
stars, bright.
Then her memory hiccupped, skipped forward, and Akane found herself staring
down at the huddled shape of her former fiance.
Ranma sat in the corner of the room. He sat curled in a little ball,
hugging himself tightly. Head held low, he stared at the floor. Hair
undone, it fell in straggly wet coils across his face. His features
remained hidden from view. The ragged clothes he wore were still wet and
clung to his female contours. He shivered violently at times despite the
heat of the room. A heavy blanket lay crumpled at his side. His forearms
were marked and torn by many ragged scratches, red and painful looking.
There was no reaction from him as Akane stopped at the threshold of the
room.
"She's been like that for over an hour," Mrs. Saotome said, and despite
trying to speak in a low voice her voice was shrill with worry. "I tried to
talk to her. I tried to change her clothes. She wouldn't even take the
blanket I gave her."
Akane nodded dumbly, her eyes never leaving the girl crouched in the
corner. She couldn't think of anything to say. She did not know what to
do. This was--too much.
Mrs. Saotome continued to talk, relieved to have someone to share her fear
with. "I found her on my doorstep," she said, "when I got back from
shopping for groceries. I had been thinking about her, about Ranko, I had
bought some ice cream and thought I could invite her over. And there she
was, sitting by my door when I got home.
"But I could tell that something was wrong. When she looked up. . . ."
She hesitated, but found her voice a moment later. "Ranko was crying. And
her eyes . . . I've never seen . . . she seemed so _lost_, Akane, and wet
and cold, and . . . .alone."
Ranma's mother had dropped her bags of food as the young girl uncoiled and
hurled herself into the older woman's embrace. Akane had absently noticed
the mess upon arrival, and thought it unusual; Nodoka always kept her home
so clean. She vividly remembered a scattering of cherry tomatoes spread
across the entrance. In the bluish light of twilight they had seemed so
bright and red.
Mrs. Saotome seemed visibly shaken as she continued. "I held her tight and
brought her in. She was crying so hard! She was crying . . . so hard, I
couldn't understand. What she was saying. But Ranko kept repeating the
same thing."
"What was she saying?" Akane said.
"'Help me, mom'. Over and over. 'Help me, mom'."
Akane suddenly couldn't breath. She felt cold.
"Ranko kept asking for her mother," Nodoka continued, and when Akane
finally tore her gaze away from the huddled form of her fiance, she saw the
woman's cheeks were streaked with tears. "She held me so tight! She buried
her face and kept asking for her mom, and I kept telling her that her mother
wasn't here, that she wasn't here, that I would do whatever I could to help,
but she just kept crying, Akane, she wouldn't stop and I didn't know what to
do. . . ."
So you called me, Akane thought. But what made you think that _I_ would
know what to do? An overwhelming sense of both relief and sadness held her
paralyzed. Ranma's mother still didn't know the truth about her son. But
when Akane pictured Ranma so desperately grasping for consolation that he
could feel and touch and yet that remained beyond his reach. . . .
Oh, Ranma, she thought, and began to silently cry. What are you going to
do? A moment later, though the tears remained, she felt herself relax. She
began to breath normally, because she knew she had to. Mrs. Saotome always
seemed so strong, a pillar of authority and confidence, and seeing her so
shaken and . . . ineffectual, was disconcerting; but Akane knew that it was
now up to her to help Ranma. It was her responsibility. What are _we_
going to do, she thought, and stepped into the room. At that moment, it all
became clear to her. This whole situation was largely because of the
choices she had made. Now it was up to her to set things right--or as right
as could be expected.
If I hadn't lost my temper, Akane thought, kneeling in front of Ranma, we
wouldn't have fought. If we hadn't fought, she wouldn't have drank so much.
And if she hadn't become drunk. . . .
_Untidy disarrayed sheets. Dishevelled Chinese shirt. Bikini top crumpled
on floor. Mussed bangs and unravelled locks. Red -- red. Pungent reek of
bile and sweat and alcohol. Stifling unaired cluttered over-bright room.
The half-naked unconscious girl curled into a tight, small ball in the
middle of the bed._
It's all my fault, Akane thought, and took one limp hand in her own. She
softly brushed the damp strands of hair that hid Ranma's face from view.
The girl continued to stare blankly at the floor. With gentle pressure
Akane forced her to raise her head. Akane stared straight into her blue
eyes.
"I don't know how," Akane said in a low but steady voice, "But everything
will be okay." She squeezed the lifeless hand in her grip. "Ranma? You're
not alone."
Ranma's eyes focused on her. For a moment it seemed he might even speak.
She saw in his eyes a depth of misery and hopelessness unlike any she had
ever known; it was too much for her to match his desperate stare. Her eyes
flickered away briefly, and when they returned Akane thought she could see
her own gaze mirrored there--the full reach of the sympathy and pity she
felt for the poor girl before her.
Ranma's eyes turned glassy, empty and withdrawn. He would not speak. But
when Akane took his hand and pulled him to his feet he didn't resist. The
broken and silent girl would docilely follow Akane all the way home.
It slowly dawned on Genma that something was wrong. It took him quite some
time to pin it down. His day had followed an almost perfectly normal
routine: an excellent breakfast from Kasumi followed by a couple of
stimulating games of igo with Soun; a hearty lunch followed by some training
in the dojo and a light nap; and finally a delicious dinner and a few cool,
refreshing beers. The only thing missing was a little early-morning
sparring with the Boy, but a little taunting over breakfast had nicely made
up for that.
Genma pulled back from the low-set table with a deep sigh of contentment
that belied the anxiety he felt. His breath grumbled deep in his chest as
he took an unusually contemplative pose. Legs crossed and sitting
straight-backed, eyes closed, he focused his thoughts. Something was amiss.
Soun was taking a bath and Kasumi was cleaning in the kitchen and who
could keep track of all those daughters, anyway? That Ryouga boy had shown
up about an hour ago, but there wasn't anything particularly strange about a
black piglet wandering into the house to be replaced by an angry-looking
martial artist. Genma liked it when the boy turned up; he made a good
sparring partner for the Boy. Not that he felt any urge to talk to the
young punk. He was happy to leave Ryouga alone watching the television,
though the older man wished the boy would stop his incessant flipping of
that bottle cap.
Ranma hadn't returned from school yet, but that wasn't unusual either. The
life of a martial artist was fraught with peril, as Genma liked to say, and
even if he preferred a life of leisure supplemented with copious amounts of
food, it did Ranma good to lead an exciting life. It kept him on his toes.
Oh, sure, the Boy might grumble and complain about all the trouble his
father threw his way, but it was all in his best interest, after all, and
one day he'd look back on these years and smile wistfully. Just like he and
Soun often did. Like the time they chased that prince Happosai angered all
the way to Hokkaido and. . . .
Smiling briefly, Genma pushed the thought aside and concentrated on the
matter at hand. Whatever was wrong involved his son. He knew this with a
certainty that reached from deep in his belly. He knew to trust his gut;
his stomach's instincts rarely led him astray. But what could be wrong with
Ranma? True, he hadn't seen much of his son recently, what with taking off
for a week of training (the nerve of the Boy; such arrogance!) after his
mother's visit. The school had called about some problem or another, but
that's what government employees were supposed to do: complain. No new
girls had shown up recently. No new rivals. Genma mentally ticked each
reason off on a finger: Akane, other girls, rivals, sex-changing curse,
school, mother . . . nothing new, his son's life was as ordinary as ever.
And yet the Boy had seemed unusually unfocussed this morning over breakfast,
as if mulling over a difficult decision. . . .
His eyes snapped open. Genma rushed from the family room to the guest room
he and Ranma shared. Entering the room he was suddenly struck by how empty
it seemed. Two folded futons in the corner, a single dresser, and the
calligraphy scroll placed by Kasumi; plain tatami, beige walls, and white
closet door. He threw the sliding door open and stared at the empty spot on
the floor, his heart sinking.
His son's backpack was gone. His own pack lay slumped to one side without
his son's next to it to prop it up. He crossed over to the dresser with two
quick strides. He noted the bottom drawer was slightly ajar and pulling it
open he reached for Ranma's little stash of secret possessions. Genma liked
to keep tabs on what the Boy kept hidden. There were already too many
girlish and weak things that he saved, thing unbecoming a man among men. He
threw aside his son's collection of lingerie and feminine costumes and
pulled out the box hidden at the back and knew at a glance that they had
been looked at recently.
Ranma only mooned over his little collection when something was really
bothering him, and keeping track of that little box was almost as useful as
reading through a diary--if the Boy kept one, which thank goodness he
didn't; only girls kept diaries. The box was bad enough, useful as it might
be at times. At least he had the sense to keep it hidden. If his mother
found it . . . although the pile of lacy bras and stocking would probably be
enough to sink them both. . . . Genma growled and shook his head.
His son was gone.
Genma mused over this as he wandered back to the family room, planning as
he went. He'd have to follow, of course, and track his ungrateful excuse
for a son down. The Boy thought he could leave without him? Arrogant!
Selfish! He felt his fists clench at his sides as he walked with heavy
steps, the night air cool in the hallway. How dare his son just take off
without a word? His anger grew with each step until he reached the sliding
door and he suddenly stopped, trembling, and forced a deep breath and
realized that he wasn't just angry. He was also very, very scared.
Something was terribly wrong with his son--he didn't even know _how_ he
knew, only that some instinct developed over a decade of constant contact
with his son insisted so--and Genma was furious not with his son but with
himself, because in all honesty he didn't _want_ to know what was wrong with
his son. His innards churned with a discomfort he had felt only a few times
before: after the mess with the Neko-ken or when his son's strength had been
stolen and seemed forever gone, times when Genma saw his son withdraw in
pain. Times when he didn't know how to reach him, or help him. Times that
left Genma feeling useless and full of doubt. He had taught his son how to
fight, how to be strong, how to be a _man_--how could that not be enough?
It was more than his own father had ever given him.
Genma went to step into the main room and suddenly realized that people
were arguing, and loudly, and there he caught a glimpse of his son. His son
had finally returned--but still female, and wan and withdrawn, hurt, with
eyes so very far away, and he knew that his instincts had been right,
painfully so, and that this was something he didn't know how to deal with..
. . . Ranma's father pulled back before anyone could see him and silently
crept away.
Nabiki checked the front gate from the second floor window every five
minutes or so. She didn't want to and she scolded herself every time she
found herself staring down at the household entrance, but no matter what she
did to distract herself she found herself rushing back to the window at
every sound, imagined or real. Staring down at the gate helped clear her
mind, or at least focus it on a single thought: where were they? Otherwise,
her thoughts turned unpleasant. Darker. The questions she asked herself
could only lead to unpleasant ends.
What if Ranma had told his mother the truth--of nearly two years of lies
and avoiding responsibility and keeping his identity hidden from her by
playing at 'Ranko'? He was pregnant!--what surer sign of his unmanliness
could a woman like Nodoka ask for? What kind of woman would force her own
son to commit suicide, especially after what he had just been through?
Nabiki wondered if Ranma would even care.
Turning to her ledger provided none of the relief money usually brought
her, nor the thought of collecting past due accounts (of which there were
quite a few). Nabiki felt a need to go to the bathroom and left her room;
passing the window she stopped, stared outside, and a few minutes later
wandered straight back to her room. She flopped down on her bed and started
idly leafing through a borrowed manga, but hearing a noise she rushed back
to the hallway. Nothing. She returned to her room and stared down at her
homework for a full ten minutes before throwing her pencil down in disgust.
None of this was accomplishing anything. She felt the need to be helpful.
It was a new and unusual sensation for Nabiki, and somewhat disquieting.
Somehow comforting her sister didn't seem enough, but what else could she
do? Comforting Ranma directly wasn't going to happen. . . he didn't trust
her, and considering that less than a week ago she had been ready to exploit
the boy for every yen he could earn, she didn't blame him. So what could
she do, wander from the house in search of her younger sister?
An unpleasant awareness began to well up inside, one she wasn't used to
feeling. Helplessness. Nabiki closed her eyes. Her head drooped into her
hands as the feeling washed over her. But when she shivered she realized
that it wasn't just helplessness she was feeling: she was afraid. She
suddenly realized that she didn't want to leave the house . . . that
returning home, she had breathed an unconscious sigh of relief at being off
the streets. She was safe here, protected by the love of her father and by
a household full of some of the best martial artists in the world and by the
walls of her home.
Out beyond those walls there was a rapist. When she focused on that
thought her heart beat faster and she felt genuinely afraid, but she
couldn't turn away from the recognition that her world--as dangerous and
absurd as it was, filled with perverts like Happosai and violent weirdos
like Tarou--had been invaded by something far more sinister and evil than
she had ever encountered before. And as she raised her head and her hands
clenched at her side, Nabiki realized that the thought made her angry.
Very, very angry.
What kind of bastard would do something like that to a woman--a helpless
one, passed out on a bed in a friend's house? Did he think he could get
away with hurting a member of her family? Who was he?
Nabiki knew then how she could help. She was going to find the bastard
responsible for what had happened to Ranma and make him pay. All the
necessary materials were at hand: a phone, a list of phone numbers, and most
importantly of all her carefully constructed framework of that night two
weeks ago, still fresh in her mind. So intensely was she focused on the new
task at hand, on preparation and organizing her thoughts, that she was the
last one to reach the family room when all hell broke loose upon Akane and
Ranma's return.
Kasumi hadn't been expecting a houseguest but was rarely caught unprepared.
Within five minutes of Ryouga's arrival she had a warm cup of tea set
before him; three minutes after that she had a bowl of rice, some hot miso
soup, and some pickled daikon ready as well. She regretted that it wasn't
up to her usual standards, but had prepared it distractedly. Something was
amiss within her house. She didn't know what it was. Whatever happened
beyond the boundaries of the household was rarely her concern. But when it
impacted upon her family she had to take notice. Both her sisters were
acting strangely, and Mr Saotome too. . . well, stranger than usual, that
is. After totally ignoring their houseguest he had dashed upstairs without
a word. There was a disquieting presence intruding upon her home and Kasumi
didn't like it one bit.
Still, there was a houseguest to attend to and her own concerns, for the
moment, had no bearing upon that. "How are you feeling, Ryouga?" she asked.
He seemed half-famished, devouring the food rapidly and breaking only to
toss cupfuls of tea down his throat. His obvious enjoyment of her food
brought a smile to Kasumi's lips.
He paused in mid-gulp, and actually blushed. "Fine." He hastily wiped his
mouth clean and flashed a toothy grin. "I mean . . . better now, thanks to
your food."
Kasumi accepted the compliment with a small nod. "Thank you." Of all of
Ranma's friends, Ryouga seemed the most polite. He was easier on the
furniture than most of the others as well. His usual yellow-and-brown
clothes were clean, if somewhat rumpled. Considering the recent weather,
she decided he must have changed just before arriving. She approved of that
kind of consideration in a guest.
The boy shrugged. He seemed at a loss for words, and looked around the
room expectantly. Finally he turned back to Kasumi. "Umm... have you seen
Ranma by any chance?" he asked. "Or Akane?"
"Not in the last hour or two, I'm afraid," Kasumi answered. "Akane
received a call from Ranma's mother. He was visiting, I think."
Ryouga seemed a little surprised at the very prospect of Ranma having a
mother. He stopped rolling a rusted beer cap across his knuckles for a
moment and clenched it in his fist. The boy shrugged. "Any idea when
they'll be back?"
None whatsoever, and that concerned her greatly. Kasumi kept track of her
family, as best she could--she knew when they left for school and when they
were due back; on what days there were club activities and when her father
was out meeting the members of the neighborhood council; the dates of doctor
appointments and special school activities and when all the festivals came
to Nerima. Her household was anything but quiet but she still knew where
her family was. . . usually. She had seen the empty closet in Mr. Saotome's
room.
"Quite soon, I should think," Kasumi answered.
"Would you mind if I waited here until they got back?"
She smiled warmly at him. "Of course not."
Kasumi picked up his dishes and carried them back to the kitchen. She felt
uneasy. She felt that she didn't fully understand what was happening within
her own family, and Kasumi didn't like the loss of that control one bit.
As she left the room she glanced back. Ryouga was leaning back against the
wall, staring into the distance and smiling. His fangs glinted from his
bared grin, and the bottle cap danced across the back of his hand.
The trip home had been a long one, longer than any Akane could remember.
Ranma had held her hand the whole way, with the insistent temerity of a
young child. He stumbled along behind as she led the way, eyes downcast and
hidden by the fall of his unbound hair. Once or twice she thought she heard
him mumble something but was unsure, and stopping to check he offered no
answer to her queries and refused to meet her gaze. The walk had been
otherwise silent.
Now they stood before the front door of her home and she hovered at the
threshold, unsure as to what to do. Step in, Ranma trailing behind wet and
quiet, and sunnily announce "I'm home"? If she didn't bring him home
straight away, life could continue under a facade of normalcy for a few more
days, at least, much as it had for the last week or two with the ending of
the engagement still a secret, the horrible consequences of that party so
long ago still unknown. . . no one but Nabiki knew, her father was still
blissfully ignorant, Kasumi as well, and Mr. Saotome. . . .
Akane shuddered at the thought of how Ranma's father would react when he
discovered that his son had been raped. When he learned that Ranma was
pregnant. The man lived in constant fear that his son would be discovered
as anything less than manly . . . glancing at the boy-turned-girl standing
listlessly behind her, she allowed herself to briefly see Ranma the way his
father must see him: as a girl lost within herself, weak, delicate even . .
. helpless, with none of the boundless energy or fierce pride he usually
exhibited. The girl stared at the ground in a pose that would seem almost
demure were she not so wet and bedraggled and with those horrible red welts
marring her forearms. Akane's stomach churned in anticipation of their
reception.
Ranma must have felt her indecision, for he raised his head to fix her with
a blank stare. She could barely see his eyes behind the veil of hair that
obscured his face. With a tentative reach she brushed the hair away and
fixed it behind his ear. Confronted with the full emptiness of his gaze she
found that she could hardly keep herself from looking away. Ranma offered
nothing more than an unblinking stare, demanding nothing, hoping for
nothing.
"Ranma," Akane stammered, but as soon as the words left her mouth his gaze
dropped once again to remain fixed upon his shoes. He swayed slightly and
remained silent.
She took a deep breath. Hopefully the entrance would be empty and she
could lead him upstairs without anyone noticing. Nabiki would know what to
do. She could help control the family, or break the news to them in some
way that didn't seem as bad, she was so good with words, phrase it gently,
deflect the full awful reality of what had happened--how could you break the
news of a rape gently?
Akane opened the door and stepped through and turned around to slip out of
her shoes and stepped back to make room for Ranma to follow her in. When
she turned around again Ryouga was standing at the far end of the entrance.
"Ranma," the boy said, his lips curling into a toothy grin. "How good to
see you."
Ranma still stood by the door, where he made no motion to remove his shoes.
He offered no reaction to his friend's greeting. Ryouga's welcome didn't
seem very friendly. This wasn't the time for one of their silly brawls.
Ranma was in no shape to fight. He needed to be protected. Akane moved to
fully interpose herself between the two boys. "Ryouga, wait. . ." She
started to speak but even as the words left her mouth the martial artist was
moving.
Ryouga's smile twitched into a smirk. He flicked something into the air,
snatched it and, his hand a blur, sent it flying towards his rival.
His target made no effort to dodge. The projectile landed with a
painful-sounding thud high on Ranma's brow. Only once it fell to the ground
with a metallic ping did Akane recognize it as a bottle cap.
"I've been saving that for you for weeks!" Ryouga snarled. "I knew it had
to be your fault when it hit me!"
The impact had snapped Ranma's head back. A moment later his head lolled
forward again. A thin line of blood trickled down his forehead. His
vacuous gaze and languid lips remained unchanged, but his complete
indifference at the attack seemed to take Ryouga aback. Still wearing his
sopping-wet shoes, Ranma wordlessly shuffled past his attacker.
Instinct obviously overcame his shock: one arm snaked out, seized Ranma by
the wrist, and pulled him back. The flesh whitened and the jagged scratches
stood out lividly beneath the tight grip. Ryouga's thin smile tightened,
though uncertainty seemed to tug at its edges. He grinded on the thin wrist
in his grasp. "Well, Ranma. . . nothing to say?"
Ranma's flickered down to his wrist then up to Ryouga's face. His rival's
face was rapidly reddening. He answered those furious eyes with a gaze of
placid indifference that seemed to only infuriate Ryouga further. The
faintest hint of a smile seemed to threaten to overtake Ranma's lips. Blood
beaded down the lines of his face.
Ryouga was never one to enjoy being laughed at. He couldn't see that if
there was any mockery, that it was aimed inward; Akane wasn't sure if her
former fiance was even fully aware of the boy before him. The martial
artist gave a savage tug on Ranma's arm, unbalancing him. "Answer me,
dammit!" he demanded, but the boy remained silent, impassive, and didn't
even try to catch himself as he stumbled forward. He fell against Ryouga.
Without the grip on his arm he might have slumped to the ground.
The larger boy endured the presence of his rival against him for a
surprisingly long time, as the redness of his face gradually shifted from
anger to acute embarrassment. It looked like he was holding a young girl to
his broad chest, one who made no effort whatsoever to remove herself from
his embrace. "What the hell are you doing?" Ryouga hissed, releasing his
grip but seemingly at a loss at what to do about his limp opponent. "In
front of Akane!"
In front of Akane, but she found herself unable to move or react, frozen in
place as she watched with growing horror as her friend's face suddenly
resolved itself --as he reared back and formed a hammy fist --as he pushed
the girl before him away and held her steady with the other hand --as he
punched forward. . . .
"Ryouga, no!" she cried, but too late, her voice finding itself well after
the attack was thrown . . . the punch took Ranma squarely across the jaw.
Again, he made no attempt to avoid or soften the attack. Akane watched in
what seemed like slow-motion as the punch sunk into flesh and connected with
bone; as the head snapped around and the neck twisted back and the whole
body followed after, corkscrewing through the air, lifted clear off the
ground and sent soaring down the hallway. Ranma hit the hardwood floor
face-down, flopping bonelessly and sliding several feet. But Ryouga was
already launching himself after his target, face purpling with continued
anger. With one hand he hauled the unresisting girl up by the hair. "Fight
back!" he demanded, his voice cracking around the edges, unsettled by
Ranma's refusal to fight. He didn't wait for an answer; with a savage twist
he drove his shoulder into the girl and sent her sprawling into the family
room. She slammed into tatami and tore a grove into the mat and left it
bloodied as the fine-edged bamboo lacerate her cheek; and even before her
momentum was through Ryouga was in pursuit, pinning Ranma beneath his foot
and drawing his fist back for a final blow. "Fight!" His eyes were red and
nearly bulging with unrestrained fury--or something equally unsettling.
And suddenly Akane found that she could move, and leapt after the martial
artist and his downed target, her voice finding itself again: "Ryouga,
stop!" He paused, his eyes briefly turning her way, long enough for her to
catch up. "Leave her alone!"
"Her?"
Ryouga seemed genuinely surprised, unable to associate the idea of
pummeling on Ranma with that of punching an actual girl. His looked at
Akane quizzically. She flushed red herself, ashamed at her mistake, angry
at having thought of Ranma as a girl again. . . furious at Ryouga for
having led her back into that error. As had often happened before Akane
found that, once ignited, it was terribly easy to tag her anger onto the
nearest available target; and for the first time that target proved Ryouga.
Ranma should have been her victim: he was the strong one, the one always
picking on those weaker than him, the cocky arrogant one, so full of life,
so full of himself, so . . . alive.
Ranma lay spread-eagle on the floor, lips twisted in a curious half-smile,
and stared sightlessly at the ceiling.
"Leave HIM alone!" Akane howled. She hurled herself at Ryouga. Though his
eyes widened with surprise--he must have seen her haymaker coming from miles
away, which infuriated her even more--he simply watched the attack approach
with the same quizzical look to his face. Her fist connected solidly with
his head, powerful enough to shatter brick; he staggered back a few steps.
"Akane?" he said, sounding hurt.
"Get out of here!" she screamed, trembling with anger. A bubble of
hysteria swelled up from deep inside: tension stretched to its final limit,
the emptiness it barely contained threatened to overwhelm her. . . would she
collapse in tear? . . . erupt into violent anger? . . . or simply laugh out
loud? She had thought herself strong, in control and able to take care of
Ranma, but already she felt her tenuous hold on her emotions slipping away.
Ranma had been _raped_, there was some kind of . . . monster, out there, a
predator on the loose . . . he was _pregnant_ . . . it's my fault . . . how
could he let that happen to himself . . . how can I think that? "Get out of
my house!" Hadn't she said the same thing to _him_ just days ago? Fists
clenched at her side and breathing heavily, she stood over the unmoving
Ranma. Ryouga seemed to wilt under her furious gaze, confused but unwilling
to argue. Shoulders bent he turned towards the exit.
"Stay where you are, Ryouga." Kasumi stood at the entrance to the kitchen,
arms crossed. Her voice remained low but held a steely edge; she fixed
Akane with a stern look as she spoke. "That's no way to speak to a guest,
Akane. I've welcomed Ryouga into our home, and I won't have you speaking to
a guest in such a manner."
Akane stared at her older sister, dumbfounded. How could Kasumi contradict
her like that? After what Ranma had been through. . . he needed to
protected from the likes of Ryouga. What if all his other rivals suddenly
showed up: Mousse demanding retribution for slurs against Shampoo, Kuno
demanding the same for insults to the pigtailed girl; or even worse his
suitors, Ukyou, Shampoo, who knew how many others; or Happosai, or Tarou,
or. . . or. . .
The full immensity of what had happened suddenly came crashing down upon
Akane. Ranma's life was anything but simple or solitary--anything serious
that happened to him impacted on so many other lives. How many would learn
of his debasement with unadulterated glee? With shock and disappointment?
With tears or laughter or derision? Each one would be a terrible blow
against her former fiance, far worse than what he had suffered at the hands
of his peers a few weeks ago at school. He'd be emotionally defenseless,
and she wasn't sure she could protect him from all that. Akane felt an
overwhelming surge of hopelessness again and it was all she could do to stop
herself from sinking to her knees or burst into tears. With reddening eyes
she glared at Ryouga, then at Kasumi, and back again, and she couldn't think
of a single word to express how she felt.
Ryouga stood frozen between the two Tendo women. He offered a nervous
chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "Umm. . . maybe I should go take a
little walk."
"No, you'll sit down and enjoy your tea," Kasumi said. "Please," she added
in tone that brooked no argument.
"Kasumi, please. . . ." Akane found her voice, and it came out soft and
pleading. She didn't know what she was asking for.
Her sister's countenance softened slightly, though her voice remained firm.
"Akane, you're acting very strange."
What answer could she offer to that? Strange? Nothing in their life had
been normal since Ranma's arrival over a year ago. Maybe life in the Tendo
household had always been slightly unusual before that, but nothing compared
to what the Saotomes carried with them, wrestled with and took part in every
day, insisted was the way a life should be led--insisted that Akane learn to
live with as well. Well, for a week she had sampled what life could be like
without Ranma and all the other nutjobs he knew; she'd led the life of an
ordinary Japanese teenage schoolgirl, going to school and hanging out with
friends and taking part in club activities and even throwing a sleepover at
her place. No one had attacked the school or broken down the door of the
house or kidnapped her--no one had changed sex unexpectedly or called her
fat or stupid or clumsy. Everyone had been very friendly and kind and
supportive. She hadn't gotten angry at anyone. She'd even slept well. It
had been a very nice week.
A few years ago, before Ranma had appeared, the whole family had taken a
vacation trip as a reward for Akane passing her high school entrance exams.
The Tendo's had gone to Shikoku, to Tokushima prefecture and the 'hidden'
Iya valley. There were old stories of villagers who'd lived in isolation
for decades, and of shattered samurai armies living in hiding, waiting for
the day to avenge their fallen master and totally unaware that whatever war
they had fought in was long over . . . the thought of meeting an ancient
master of a forgotten martial art had been exciting to Akane back then, and
she'd carried that hope with her on the trip. Of course, other than
visiting a few reconstructed vine bridges and semi-historical sites, most of
the trip had been spent at the rented cabin, relaxing and enjoying the
nearby hot springs. She remembered Nabiki sitting outside on the deck,
totally relaxed in her yukata and with the full splendor of the mountain
forests wreathed in mist before her, and the sound of the river rushing
through the gorge coming from far below.
"This is nice," her sister had said. "But, man, I'd hate to live out
here."
Akane wondered, even if she had never met Ranma, would she have been happy
with a life like she'd just experience for the last week?
Martial Arts were a part of her life. She'd encountered the fantastical
creatures of Ryugenzawa on her own when she was but a child. Happosai would
have come visiting whether the Saotomes were living with them or not. She'd
already had her own challenges: Kuno and nearly every male club member, for
one. Her life certainly hadn't been boring before. Before . . . Ranma.
But he'd brought so much more with him, and before she'd made any kind of
choice he'd inadvertently dragged Akane along with her. Would she have
chosen to follow had she been given time to decide? It didn't seem to
matter anymore.
Ranma was slowly rising to his feet, seemingly oblivious to the tension
surrounding him, Kasumi and Ryouga's stares, Akane's own held breath.
Without meeting anyone's face he slowly shuffled towards the bathroom.
"Stop acting like a girl!" Ryouga demanded.
There was a sharp intake of breath: Nabiki, standing at the bottom of the
stairs. Had she watched the whole thing? Ranma gave no indication that he
heard his rival. He didn't slow or turn back. Not even when Akane called
out after him. In silence, Ranma slowly left the room.
Nabiki had seen the whole thing: Kasumi trying to hold on to a domestic
authority she must feel slipping away without knowing why; Ryouga
overcompensating for a fear he couldn't understand through aggression;
Akane, calling out to Ranma in a soft, fearful voice, so full of concern and
pity; and Ranma. . . .
Nabiki saw in his eyes a look she was all too familiar with: resentful
hatred, burning but impotent. It quickly turned inward, twisting into
self-loathing, but there was no mistaking the hateful burn at hearing her
sister's voice. Nabiki had had similar looks directed at her often enough,
as she collected fees from debtors unable to afford to pay, or fulfilled a
threat against someone who doubted her ruthlessness. Always the same
useless rage as their loss turned into her gain. But what was Ranma losing,
and her sister gaining, that, even briefly, he could hate her so?
She'd only had a brief glimpse of Ranma's face, but hadn't liked what she
had seen there. There was also a dangerous tension to the boy's features, a
tautness to the lines of his face that suggested, to Nabiki, barely
repressed violence. She'd felt an unpleasant thrill run through her, a
unconscious shiver of fear at the look he'd given her before turning away.
She'd never seen Ranma angry--not _really_ angry, though she'd heard a few
stories of him getting serious in a fight; she suspected in those brief
moments he looked something like he did now. Now wasn't a good time for
anybody to be near him. Even Akane, though she firmly believed that he'd
never maliciously do anything to harm her.
"Where do you think you're going, Ranma?" Ryouga yelled after his
retreating rival.
"I told you to leave him alone!" Akane said, her voice shrill.
"Akane! That will be enough!"
"Where has that lazy son of mine gone?" When the hell did Mr. Saotome show
up?
"Mr. Saotome, no, Ranma needs to be left alone right now!"
"What's happening?" Great, Dad would have to get involved as well.
"What, is he moping girlishly again?"
"Don't SAY that!"
"I won't have you speaking to a guest--."
"He's such a girl--."
"Um, what's happ--."
"What'you say, boy? I'll--."
"People, people!" Nabiki called out.
Suddenly all the chatter stopped, all eyes turning to her. She had no
idea what to say next. She only knew that she needed to calm everyone down.
"Some people are trying to take an afternoon nap, you know!"
There was a brief silence. Her father ended it with, "Nabik, really." And
she could see that everyone was ready to erupt into argument again: Ryouga
taking a step towards the stairs, Akane flushing red with anger, Genma
looking ready to bluster and throw his bulk around, and her father confused
and suddenly on the edge of tears. . . only her older sister seemed to
remain calm, suddenly seeming far more aware of what was going on than
Nabiki would have given her credit for. Well, Nabiki thought, if I can't
get them to listen to me, I can at least get them to hate me. I'm good at
that.
"But while I'm up," she continued, and allowed a smirk to creep onto her
face, "we might as well talk about a number of outstanding debts and
allowances . . ."
Nabiki seemed to have everybody briefly occupied, or at least confused.
She was talking quickly and gesturing animatedly and keeping the attention
focused on herself as she blocked everyone's way towards the bathroom.
Akane took the opportunity to slip away and out the front door. As she ran
around the house towards the side the bathroom faced, she thought about
Ranma: she wanted to reach him before anyone else did. Bringing him home
had obviously been a mistake. He needed peace and quiet now, not loud
bickering and violent threats.
She opened the bathroom window without hesitation, but the sliding door
separating the bathtub from the sink and laundry basket was closed. A
blurred feminine silhouette stood silently on the other side. There was the
sound of running water. The shape opposite her shifted and grew taller and
suddenly seemed stronger. The water stopped but Ranma otherwise didn't seem
to react. Akane quickly pulled herself through the window and crossed over
to the door. She pulled it over.
He stood there, a man once again, with his shirt off and for one fleeting
moment Akane could nearly fool herself into thinking that everything was
fine, their problems were solved--he was a man! A man couldn't get raped,
and he couldn't get pregnant. But he didn't react to her arrival, didn't
even seem to notice. He stared deeply into the mirror. One hand hovered
lightly over his lower abdomen. He eyes flicked back and forth, as if
looking for something in his own reflection.
He shuddered, his whole body convulsing, it seemed, around his belly. One
hand clenched the edges of the sink with dangerous strength, but the other
grabbed at what little loose flesh there was at his stomach. . . his fingers
sunk into his stomach and grabbed and twisted and released and grabbed
again; and with his eyes squeezed tight he sunk to his knees, still holding
to the sink as it cracked beneath his grip but now he wasn't grabbing at his
stomach anymore. . . his hand curled into a tight ball and suddenly he was
hitting himself, his fist connecting with a loud smack with his side, his
torso. . . .
"Ranma, no!" Akane cried, moving to stop him; but he'd already stopped,
looking past her with unseeing eyes. He suddenly sprung forward, catching
her by surprise. He clipped her with his shoulder and sent her sprawling,
and smashed through the doors behind her. She felt a dull pain in the side
of her head and heard something shatter; she fell stunned to the ground,
something wet trickling down her forehead, and she dazedly noticed the
broken pieces of mirror around her.
In what seemed like mere seconds later, Ryouga stood framed in the doorway.
His eyes bulged as he took in the broken doors and shattered glass and
cracked porcelain; at Akane on the floor, her forehead slick with blood.
"He hurt you!"
"Ryouga, no," she tried to say, but her voice came out as a whisper, her
vision still swimming.
"That bastard hurt you!" Louder, angrier.
"He didn't mean--."
"I'LL KILL HIM!"
And Ryouga was gone.
Ryouga found his target standing silently in the middle of the dojo, in the
dark, illuminated only by the dim light slanting in from outside. It was a
miracle that Ryouga hadn't gotten lost while tracking his foe. The thought
didn't occur to him. His mind was too full of rage to think rationally.
Tracking Ranma down because of the insult of the bottlecap had been a
pleasant divertissement--something to occupy his mind during the long hours
on the road. A pleasant reward for the end of a long trip. But this. . .
Ranma had hurt _Akane_!
Ryouga didn't bother with insults or declarations as he launched himself at
his rival; the anger he felt was beyond anything he could remember feeling.
He didn't pull his punch. Ranma didn't dodge. The attack caught him
solidly in the face and sent him tumbling across the dojo. Even as he hit
the polished floor Ryouga was after him; he buried a kick in Ranma's side
and felt with grim satisfaction ribs that nearly splintered beneath the
impact. The kick lifted the unresisting body off the ground; with an iron
grip he grabbed Ranma by the throat, lifted him into the air, and smashed an
elbow into his face. The boy collapsed back to the ground in a silent heap.
The only noise in the hall was Ryouga's heavy breathing and the heavier
sound of his fist smacking into flesh.
That, more than anything, cut through the red haze that filled his mind.
Fights with Ranma weren't supposed to be quiet: there were insults and
taunts; the exchange of blows and the declaration of technique names; what
was going on here? Panting, he watched as Ranma slowly regained his feet.
His rival's face was streaked in blood that gushed from his nose and seeped
from cuts along his brow. Skin was already purpling in places, yellowed and
black in the center. Ryouga stared at his passive victim. His gaze was
matched in silence. Blood dripped from chin and nose and trickled down
Ranma bare chest. As Ranma held Ryouga's gaze his lips slowly curled into a
mocking smile. Both arms hung loosely at his side, but then spread
slightly--it was an open invitation to strike at his undefended torso.
Was this some kind of trick? It had to be. . . some new bizarre technique
of passive resistance; he'd suck up all the power of his attacks and release
it in one apocalyptic punch . . . or something. It had to be. Why else
would he just stand there?
"Why won't you fight me?" Ryouga demanded. No answer came. "What's wrong
with you?" Again, nothing. "You think you can just ignore me, is that it?
You think that'll save you? After what you did to Akane?" Ryouga thought
he saw a flicker of--something, recognition maybe?--briefly flash through
his rival's eyes. It was something he could follow up on; pulping an
unresponsive opponent wasn't much fun, and while it didn't make Ryouga feel
terribly guilty there was little honor to be had in finally defeating Ranma
if he wouldn't put up a fight. "Yeah, you bastard, I've always known you
didn't deserve her but I didn't think you'd stoop so low as to _hit_ her! "
Again, a reaction buried deep within his eyes; and his arms fell back to his
side. Ryouga took a deep, happy breath. "You're the worst thing that ever
happened to her! And I bet you don't even care! You probably enjoy
stringing her along like the rest of your girls, right? Well, it stops
tonight!"
Ranma took a step forward--it was slow and loose but almost contained a
hint of aggression.
"Don't like what I'm saying, Ranma? The truth hurts, doesn't it! But you
don't have anything to say . . . maybe you finally get it. You're scum,
Ranma--you're insulting and violent and abusive and perverted." Something
started to smolder deep inside his rival's eyes. "She should've dumped you
ages ago, you know that? Well after tonight, I don't think you'll be wanted
around here for much longer. Fiance? Ha! Like she'd marry a freak like
you!"
Unexpectedly, those final words seemed to siphon the growing anger away
from Ranma . . . he went limp, his gaze dropping to the floor. Ryouga felt
an unexpected panic. . . something was really, really wrong here. But he
couldn't stop. The need to avenge Akane ran parallel with his fear that
he'd just been thrust into something way over his head. He fumbled slightly
before finding his way again. "Hey . . . no, wait . . . you think you can
just ignore me, Ranma?" He stepped forward and backhanded his opponent
across the face, but compared to his earlier assault it was barely a tap.
"Stop acting like a girl!"
Ranma's head suddenly snapped up. His eyes narrowed and his lips grew thin
and tight.
"You don't like it when I say that, do you?" Ryouga said, sneering and
stepping closer, and inside he felt a personal triumph at having finally
gotten through to him. Maybe now they could finally have a proper duel and
he could win Akane's affection! "Well, if you're going to act like a girl,"
Ryouga said, and rearing back he delivered a savage side-thrust to Ranma's
midriff, "you should look like one, too!"
The kick sent Ranma flying once again, but this time he slammed into the
bucket full of water the Tendos' kept in case of a fire within the dojo.
The container upended and its contents splashed all over Ranma. A wet and
bedraggled and female Ranma lay in the heap on the floor.
That ought to do it, Ryouga thought, and he smiled.
The pigtailed boy's head snapped up. Ryouga gave an involuntary gulp at
the look in his eyes. They were far from dead, or blank; rather they burned
with a rage unlike any he had ever seen there before. His rival rose in a
crouch that was nearly feral; his lips curled back and even at several
meters away he could hear the heavy, gulping intake of breath.
Ranma howled. There were no coherent words, only a primal expression of
anger and hate and loss that filled the dojo with its fury. His head thrown
back and his eyes squeezed shut and arms thrown wide, tears poured down his
face and washed through the blood as he continued to scream. Finally his
voice died out, in the trailing wail of a throat stripped raw. He stood
there panting. He focused on Ryouga once again.
"Because of you, I've seen Hell?" Ryouga said, suddenly feeling a lot less
sure of himself.
With a savage, inarticulate cry, his rival flew at him. Ranma was a flurry
of punches and kicks, slamming into Ryouga with unmitigated rage, screaming
all the time, face twisted with anger, teeth bared, blue eyes wide and
staring madly through a streaked mask of tears and blood and bruises . . .
Ryouga fell back beneath the onslaught and suddenly feared for his life--in
a very real and panicky way that he had rarely known before, and never when
fighting Ranma. The strikes came fast and strong and Ryouga tried to take
as many as he could on his forearms, throwing up what defense he could, but
Ranma seemed everywhere, half-naked and female and clawing and kicking and
grabbing and howling like a deranged animal.
Ryouga didn't know what was going on--this also wasn't the way it was
supposed to be. Ranma was the smooth, controlled fighter, the one who
dodged and avoided until the last moment then threw the final attack that
ended it all; or who matched his opponent with steely determination until
that inevitable weakness presented itself, the flaw in the technique. . .
But this, this was fighting like. . . .
Like me, he thought, and with a roar of his own he dropped his defenses and
launched himself forward. A dozen nearly crippling blows left him numb and
almost blind with pain but then he passed through the storm of attacks and
slammed bodily into his smaller opponent and sent him sprawling. Ranma was
back on his feet immediately, but now Ryouga had regained his footing he was
better able to meet the attack. They were undisciplined, ungodly fast and
terribly strong but entirely empty of skill; they were the furious
thrashings of a child and not the controlled strikes of the master martial
artist that he knew Ranma to be. Ranma had gone silent, panting with
exhaustion but still pressing the attack, only now Ryouga was able to
deflect and outright dodge the worst of the onslaught. He sidestepped a
kick and ducked beneath the following punch and slapped the next few aside
at the elbow; and weaving in close he slammed a punch into his rival's
shoulder that staggered him. He stayed close and with grim efficiency
continued to pummel Ranma whenever the opportunity presented itself: a kick
to the thigh, a punch in the ribs, a ridge-hand to the collarbone; and
finally he was slowing down, the unrelenting speed of his attack exhausting
him, the damage of Ryouga's attacks finally catching up. . . .
The opportunity Ryouga was waiting for presented itself: a brief window in
which Ranma was forced to catch his breath and was left wide open. A swift
hooking kick to the back of the knee buckled Ranma's legs; as he collapsed
Ryouga rushed forward, hauled him forward by one shoulder and cracked his
elbow into his face. He slumped backwards to the ground but Ryouga wasn't
going to give him a chance to recover; he followed his opponent down,
dropping onto Ranma's thighs and trapping his legs and forcing them apart
and denied him any leverage, while keeping the body pinned down by pressing
his weight down on one shoulder. His free hand pulled back for a finishing
punch.
"This is the end, Ranma!" Ryouga cried. But before he could deliver the
blow he could tell that the fight was over--Ranma was again retreating into
himself, seeming to withdraw as far from his own body as was possible. "No
you don't," Ryouga demanded, and pounded him in the shoulder. "You won't
ignore me again! You'll pay for everything you've done to me! You'll know
the hell that I've known!"
Ranma was suddenly horribly awake and fully present before him, thrashing
madly beneath his grip but unable to break his pin, eyes staring wildly
around as if seeking an escape, and Ryouga realized that his opponent was
speaking in a terrified whisper: "not again, please, not again. . . ."
Ryouga grabbed him by both shoulders and lifted him up and slammed him back
down. He held him there but suddenly felt strangely aware of his opponent's
naked torso and unbound breasts. "What the hell are you talking about?" he
demanded. "What's wrong with you?"
Staring him straight in the eye and speaking in a small and frightened
voice, Ranma said, "I've been raped. . . ."
***
Author's Notes:
This is only the first half of the chapter, since very few actual decisions
(at least explicit ones) have been made. The next part of the chapter will
deal with those. So it's going to take a little longer. Considering how
long this story had been going on, I don't really have much call to ask for
patience... I'm hoping to finish the chapter by (optimistically) September,
since I'll be heading back to school then and I'd rather have it done.
Life's been kind of busy lately.
As always though, C&C is greatly appreciated! It's not an easy thing to
write and seems to get more difficult with each chapter, so feedback,
whether positive or negative (but preferrably constructive) can only help.
-Mike Noakes
noakes_m@hotmail.com
http://www.geocities.com/noakes_m
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