Gasp. Ryoma eyes opened with a start. For a brief second, his mind was a complete blank before it all came flooding back to him. Like the beads of perspiration slowly trickling down the sides of his neck, the tentacles of the haunting nightmare lost its grip and Ryoma could feel it crawling back to whatever hell it came from. Bit by bit, Ryoma let out the breath he had been holding. Images so frightening, that even when gone, the clarity remains, startling lucid. Then again, when one has gone through it in reality, there is nothing to stop the subconscious from drawing its inspiration straight from the awakened mind.

Waiting with a studied patience until feeling came back to his cramped muscles, Ryoma tried to relax. Nightmare again. He had thought he was recovered. The memory of a distant past was just that, no more than a forgotten reference in some history textbook. But apparently, he had thought wrong. Wryly, he pictured the expression on Dr. Jacquemann's face, when he let him know about this night. Dr. Jacquemann was a good psychologist and much rather preferred his patients to never fall into relapse even if it meant less income. Not that the doctor needed the money. Dr. Jacquemann came with the highest recommendations from the celebrity world. And if Ryoma had not been who he was, he may not have afforded his fees.

Just as well, he was due for a review appointment. This night could not have chosen a better time to happen.

Ryoma stared at the clock on his bedside table. Three AM. It was a little antique clock, with no luminescent hands, but Ryoma could read it easily anyways, seeing how his lamp was still turned on. He could not recall the time he ever slept in total darkness. Not since the incident. In the deepest corners of Ryoma's mind, he knew with certainty that it could never be forgotten. In his very first appointment, Dr. Jacquemann had told him that he was no miracle worker.

The good doctor only promised moving on beyond it, but no, it could never be forgotten.

Once he could move, Ryoma made haste, quickly stripping his pyjamas that were uncomfortably clinging to him, on the way to the shower. The hot water washed over him, and as he breathed in the soap scent, he could feel the oncoming nausea diminishing swiftly. Good. He was going to keep the contents of his stomach this time. It was a regime Dr. Jacquemann taught him, and despite his stubborn nature to resist any instruction, Ryoma had learnt early on that following his doctor's orders was not just helpful. Strictly speaking, it was necessary to his survival. The green tea and mint concoction he used as soap was not a coincidental purchase. It was borne from multiple sessions with Dr. Jacquemann and bending over the toilet bowl heaving out everything he ate the day before. The nightmares were always accompanied by bouts of nausea, and Ryoma was very fortunate that the soap was so readily available in the supermarkets. Dr. Jacquemann was unable to give any reasons why it worked, and Ryoma had long since stopped dwelling on the how or why.

How's and why's no longer had a place in his life.

Once before, he had sunken into the profound depression they brought, questioning what he must have done to bring the fates against him, to bring him down that alleyway on that day, which would have just been like any other day, if not for the incident. Strange, or to be more precise, ironical, that a single incident, of so short a duration could be the cataclysmic event that ended the world he thought he knew, and yet at the very same time, started him on a journey towards a new world. Many had envied him his consecutive Grand Slam wins, the celebrity fanfare, the sponsorships, the glittering world he seem to live in and epitomized. Very few, in fact, besides Nanjiroh and his mother, only Dr. Jacquemann had ever seen the faint scars on his front and back, and the ones on his thighs. Lucky to be alive. They were the only ones who knew the truth, the only ones to whom he had allowed the privilege of bestowing their care and counsel upon him. He had gotten to this skill level, acquired his invincibility on the pro-circuit courts, only because tennis had been the only companion he could derive any sort of comfort from.

Before, Ryoma had played tennis because of Nanjiroh. After the incident, he played tennis because he had nothing left.

Frankly, even Ryoma himself did not know if he was born with tennis legend potential. Nanjiroh was the only reason why he ever played. Every move he learnt on the courts counted as one more move against his father. He had been making progress, getting closer to his goal of defeating his father. Nanjiroh had been more focused when they played their evening match just a few days before the incident.

The Ryoma now could barely recall that time, when he had been so naively contented with life.

After the incident, Ryoma had left his school almost immediately. Nanjiroh had thought it got in the way of his recuperation. In the following few months, as Ryoma recovered from his physical injuries, his parents concentrated on seeking a psychologist who could help them. Ryoma could remember the time he met Dr. Jacquemann very clearly. It was the morning after another particularly sleepless night, and he had again just emptied everything he ate the day before. He had no strength to get out of bed, and had been losing weight at an alarming rate.

Dr. Jacquemann had taken one look at him, and to Ryoma's surprise, addressed him directly, "Kid, have you taken a look in the mirror yet? You look like hell." And so it was, Dr. Jacquemann was hired and they began their first session right there in his bedroom.

Tennis had always been the only way Nanjiroh knew how to communicate with his beloved son, and in the years after the incident, Nanjiroh and Ryoma had badly needed to communicate. As the frequency of nightmares trickled down, and Ryoma finally gained back his weight, Nanjiroh had approached his son just before dinner with two tennis rackets in one hand, and begun in his usual way, "Eh, think you can beat me yet?" His golden eyes slightly widened, Ryoma hesitantly accepted one of the rackets, and as he held it in his familiar grip, he realized the immense comfort it brought him. For the first time, he was no longer focused on winning when he played his father on the court, but was immersed in the complete freedom and escape from the dark thoughts that always threatened to erode the edges of his mind. He felt his pain and grief alleviated, and for that briefest of moments, he could actually forget the incident. He did lose the match after all, even with Nanjiroh giving him a handicap of four matches. It was no surprise. His stamina, having suffered such a setback, would require more than just time to be restored.

There was no turning back after that day. Dr Jacquemann finally discussed ending his weekly sessions four years after the incident, cutting it back to a review session once a year. He had gone pro by that time, and played his first Grand Slam match, though he lost at the semi-finals. At seventeen, he became the youngest player to ever win the Grand Slam, and at eighteen, the youngest player ever to achieve it twice. His father, having been defeated just before he went pro, acted as his manager and coach, and although it was hard to imagine how Nanjiroh could keep anything organized, he evidently worried too much for his son to put up with anyone else in that role. Tennis became Ryoma's single passion. It was his career, his life, and dominated his world.

Patter patter. Meow meow. Stepping out of the shower, already fully dressed and very awake, Ryoma bent down to stroke Karupin, whom he often liked to think of as his particular Himalayan guardian. He certainly felt safer when she was around. The incident had changed Karupin in some ways too. In the past, Karupin often took long wandering walks about the neighborhood, scaring the neighbor's poodles, and occasionally hanging around Nanjiroh. Now it seems, Karupin spent all the time shadowing Ryoma, whether in the house or when Ryoma ran an errand in the neighborhood. She fussed terribly when Ryoma had to leave for his tournaments, spending all the time, even having her meals in Ryoma's room, and seemingly found it difficult to believe that a cat, no matter her importance, could not be allowed on tournaments with her master.

As Ryoma coddled the fur ball, he pondered how he could spend the rest of the night, without waking the household. Going back to bed was not an option. Strangely, he could not recollect when he had his last nightmare prior to this night. For all that the nightmares relentlessly hounded him, when they began to die down after the first year, it had been relatively uneventful. The Echizen household gradually slipped back to its habitual ways. Nights became serene. Nanjiroh stopped checking on him in the middle of every night. And now, after so long, Ryoma could not figure out why this peace was broken. Perhaps Dr. Jacquemann would have some conjectures for him when they meet later this week. He always had some, even when there could be no conclusion.

Giving a second glance at his tennis racquet, Ryoma shook his head and made himself comfortable at the desk. He turned on the laptop, and began randomly browsing through the Internet for tennis-related news. There were many pages carrying his photographs, both on and off the courts, and his eyes quickly skipped through those. A few of the sites were created by his fans, and tended to be somewhat extreme, complete with heart bubbles surrounding his face and pink backgrounds, and although they carried much information about his blood type, height, weight, eye color, birthday, game statistics, and the like, there was little that painted anything of his character or personality. Ryoma was well-known in the media for his dislike and avoidance of any questions related to his personal life, and Nanjiroh was even more defensive of his son's privacy. In spite of the often abortive attempts by sponsors to create a more affable Ryoma, to the public, he was all about tennis and only tennis. As the fates would have it, this image of a young invincible samurai warrior with a hard cold front and tennis obsession, worked to Ryoma's favor, and his fandom continued to grow throughout the tennis world, especially in Japan since he was of the same lineage.

He had been reading an article commenting on the Japanese tennis pro scene, when he chanced upon a link: university/skills&techniques/livechat/.

A platform for all interested in tennis to discuss tennis at the University level.

This was a new link. He had not seen it on this site that covers Tokyo tennis before, and with a mild interest, he performed a quick calculation in his head, estimating the time in Tokyo to be around noon on a Saturday.

With a click of his mouse, Ryoma entered the chatroom using the moniker "sleepless_in_LA".