Fearless
A Ranma Crossover
By: Bob Lobster
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters within. Now lemme alone
and read the story.
Chapter 1: Death
They say that everyone has a story to tell. Some good, some bad; some
heroic epics, others dull soliloquies. My story has been called one of
the stranger tales to be told. It starts simply enough, a journey, a
teary goodbye as a son leaves a mother, a husband leaves a wife and
the training of a warrior begins. But that isn't the beginning, not
really. The true beginning happens some years later, when father and
son, master and student, part and the true journey begins.
It starts on a street corner in downtown New York.
**********************************************************
The street isn't unusual in the least: cars travel down it; people
cross it, and nearing the corner a young boy wanders aimlessly down
it. He is fairly small, being only twelve years of age he has a while
yet before he hits any significant growth spurts and begins to fill
out, leaving a scrawny kid, short but strong looking with long black
hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. He is dressed in a dirty white
training dogi that looks as if it has seen better days and his eyes
are searching from one place to another, never resting on any one
thing for long, as if he has never seen a city before. That
observation in itself was partially true as, although he has been in
cities before, none that he can remember were ever quite so large and
crowded as the metropolis he is in now. It makes him both nervous and
excited to be in a city so grand as he takes in the sights but at the
same time has to be careful not to let the claustrophobic feelings
overwhelm him from all the people around him.
Truthfully he would much prefer to be with his father right now,
wandering the wilds, training to be the greatest warrior of all, but
his training is exactly the reason they are in this city in the first
place. His father had recalled mention of a man from his own travels
who was said to be an exceptional martial artist, one who would only
take on certain select students, one who resided right here in New
York. Unfortunately their search had come up empty for long enough
that funds had run short and his father was somewhat reluctant to
begin using his more underhanded methods of obtaining funds in such a
large city. In smaller towns as long as you can get out of town
without anybody realizing who you are then you're usually safe. In a
town of this size, however, the police are a great deal better funded
and any crimes you commit are more likely to follow you wherever you
go. So, his father had entered a somewhat more legitimate business,
that of a prizefighter. With his uncanny martial arts ability his
father had quite quickly made a name for himself as an unbeatable
fighter, thus drawing larger crowds and making more money for the two
of them to survive on, enough really to keep them going for quite a
while to come.
So it was then, that his father had asked him to go take a bit of
a walk while he negotiated with the bookie for his latest pay. Which
was why he was walking alone down a crowded street in downtown New
York at the tender age of twelve. His wandering attention causes his
eyes to rest momentarily on an old man crossing the street rather
slowly. His attention immediately shifts once again, this time to the
lights telling the man that it was alright to cross, and then to all
the other people who are just finishing crossing in front of the man.
This scene strikes him as slightly odd, as the old man is obviously
having trouble crossing and yet nobody seems to be offering to help
him, something unheard of to someone raised under the ideal that one
must always help those who couldn't help themselves. He chalks it up
quickly however to just another thing he didn't understand in a city
full of things he didn't understand, and quickly moves towards the
intersection in order to offer his aid to the man.
He is about halfway to the intersection when a noise to his left
catches his attention. Glancing over in the direction he catches sight
of a rather large truck heading towards the same intersection to which
he was headed. The speed with which the truck was moving severely
alarms the boy as there is no way it could stop in time to avoid
hitting the man who had yet to even notice his danger. Picking up
speed the boy sprints as fast as his little legs can take him towards
the man, trying to out run death as the truck barrels down on him. He
reaches the intersection just in time and without a second thought
dives out at the old man, his father's words echoing in his mind,
"It's a martial artists duty to protect the weak. You must always
protect those that can't protect themselves."
**********************************************************
Joe Marsh has lived a good life, or at least he likes to believe
so. He is always polite and kind to others, he gives to charities
whenever he can and he even tries to volunteer whenever he has time
for whatever cause needs him. He can't understand why it was then that
he seems to be being punished for some reason. He had a beautiful wife
who had died last fall from cancer; a wonderful job which he was laid
off from because he was "too old"; and his only son won't talk to him
because of a stupid argument they had after his wife's funeral. Not
only that, he has recently hurt his leg in a small accident, making
even the simple task of walking a chore and the kind citizens of this
city seemed content to watch him struggle rather than help him with
what should be the relatively simple task of crossing the street. He
is just about across said road when he feels a sudden, strong push
from behind, sending him flying rather unceremoniously onto his hands
and knees on the hard pavement. He is about to turn around and give
whoever had shoved him a piece of his mind when the crash of a vehicle
sounds behind him, shocking him out of his anger and causing him to
turn over and view the carnage to his back.
The scene was bad, the truck has swerved to avoid him and rolled
onto its side, spilling whatever it had been carrying all over the
road. The boy who had pushed him out of the way has been luckily
missed by the truck itself, the content of said truck, however, was
another story altogether. The site was enough to leave an impression
on Joe that will stay with him to his dieing day.
**********************************************************
He feels a moment of satisfaction as the man flies harmlessly out
of the way of the truck before the barrel strikes him out of the air.
He has a second to realize that the truck has missed him as well and
to know that he'll survive, regardless of his reckless bravery, before
he hits the ground hard, not having enough presence of mind to roll
with the landing as his father had taught him so many times. Time
seems to slow down as he sees the barrel that had struck him hit the
pavement hard, breaking open and spilling its thick brown liquid
contents over the street and himself. His first thought is that the
liquid is actually rather warm, before the pain strikes his eyes and
face and he screams out in his high, child's voice. He hears his
father calling his name and tries to answer, but it all seemed to be
through a haze.
"Ranma!" His father yells, as he feels the large man reach his
side.
"Papa, my eyes. It hurts!"
"My god, did you see that."
"Oh Christ, his face."
"...hurts, papa, it hurts..."
"Someone call an ambulance!"
"...pushed that man out of the way."
"Don't worry Ranma, it'll be alright. I promise, it'll be
alright." He feels his father hold him close, feels hot tears on his
face, wondering briefly whether they were his or his father's, before
consciousness finely leaves him and the peace of slumber claims him.
**********************************************************
When consciousness reaches him once more he finds himself in the
thralls of agony. Pieces of sandpaper rake across his skin, leaving it
raw. No, not sandpaper, sheets, heavily starched sheets. Odors assault
him from all sides, buckets of sweat poured in every part of the room
he is in, thickening the air in a heavy oppressive fog. The bitter
tang of disinfectants hangs in the air. The smell is familiar, if much
stronger, more nauseating then he recalls, and he finds himself
realizing that he is in a hospital. That thought is driven from him as
they begin to shove needles in him, pumping him full of drugs, useless
drugs, drugs that can't seem to mask the pain as they cut his face.
He wants to scream out, he wants to cry, he wants to yell at them
to stop, to leave him alone, to make the pain go away. His body
doesn't work though, all he can do is lay there and try not to go mad.
He wishes it would just end.
He wants to die.
**********************************************************
"RANMA. CAN YOU HEAR ME?"
*How can I not hear you when you yell like that?*
"THE DOCTORS SAY YOU'RE GONNA BE ALRIGHT, SON. YOUR FACE, THEY
FIXED IT UP REALLY WELL."
*Please, oh please be quiet. So loud, why does everyone have to
speak so loud?*
"I'M GONNA GO NOW SON, YOU GET SOME REST."
*I'd get better rest if everyone could just be quiet.*
But they're not quite. Every sound echoes in his head like the
bang of a steel drum and he finds himself wishing he could shut all
sound out. He hears people arguing outside his room, down the hall, on
the next floor, and it sounds like they are in there with him,
screaming in his ears. He tries to cover his ears, but that just sends
waves of pain shooting through him so, moaning, he lets his arms fall
back to the bed and prays for help, prays for answers and
explanations, prays for relief.
**********************************************************
His father doesn't understand. He tries to tell him what he feels,
tries to tell him about the smells and the sounds and the sensations
but he doesn't listen. His father just cries, though it's supposed to
be unmanly, and tells him how sorry he is. He tells him that he should
have been there, that he shouldn't have let him wander off, that he
should never have brought him to such a god forsaken city. But he
doesn't listen, he doesn't understand. No one understands. He's alone,
alone and afraid. Afraid of what he hears, afraid of what he smells,
afraid of what he feels, and most of all afraid of himself. And afraid
to be alone, but he is alone, because no one understands.
**********************************************************
He lays there on his bed, as he's done for the past days and tries to
shut out the noise, the incessant yelling, screaming in his ears; he
tries to ignore the smell of the doctors and the nurses as they walk
by and check on him in clothing they can't have washed in years; he
just tries to sleep when a new sound reaches his ears. Soft footsteps
travel up the hallway and end at his door, a wave of sweet smelling
perfume hits him: Jasmine, he thinks and he wonders who this person
could be, this person who doesn't assault him with foul smells and
harsh sounds. She walks in to his room, and now he's sure it's a
woman, no man could smell that sweet, and gently closes the door
before making her way to his bed. She sits softly in the chair beside
him and takes his hand in hers, soft and gentle, and whispers in his
ear.
"Hello little one. How do you feel?" She speaks softly, her voice
flitting across his senses like a summer breeze, quiet and refreshing.
He immediately feels better just being around her. Calmer, more alive
than he has in days.
"It...it hurts." He answers her truthfully. He knows that his father
always said that admitting pain was admitting defeat and no Saotome
ever admitted defeat, but a lot of his beliefs were being proven wrong
these days, so this one could be too. After all, if his father could
cry, couldn't he tell a kind lady the truth.
"What hurts, son? You can tell me." She doesn't push, and to him she
doesn't seem to be prying. She seems to genuinely want to help him, so
he opens up to her. He tells her all the things that have been
happening to him. The pain that raged through him after the accident,
the way every sound seems magnified a thousand-fold, how he can smell
things from hundreds of meters away, how everything he touches seems
to have a greater depth than it once did. He begs her to make it all
go away, to make it stop and let him be normal again. She doesn't
answer right away though, instead she leans over him and kisses him
gently on his forehead.
"Ranma," She quietly begins, "You mustn't think of this as a curse.
This is a blessing in disguise. So much greatness you can do with a
gift like this, if only you allow yourself to learn to use it. But you
must promise me something. You must not tell anyone else of this, not
even your father. No one will understand it, and it will cause you
great trouble if you tell people. Can you promise me this, dear?"
"I...I promise. I already know...that people don't understand." Ranma
sniffs a bit at this, but the lady leans down and puts a comforting
hand on his forehead. Ranma smiles a bit, the first smile he has had
in days, and reaches out to her only to feel something hanging off of
her neck. He feels a cross on a chain, a cross made of gold.
The woman then kisses his forehead once more and stands up. He can
almost feel her sad smile as she looks down upon him for a moment
before she turns and walks out the door. As she leaves, Ranma suddenly
feels stronger than he has since the accident. He no longer wants to
die.
He will live
**********************************************************
The days continue on and Ranma is eventually released from the
hospital under the condition that he takes it easy for a while to
recover. He is told that the doctors have done a great job and that he
will suffer no permanent damage to his face, that he won't even have
any scars. But his eyes will never heal. He'll be blind for life.
The soft-spoken woman never returns but it doesn't matter, she's
already done more than anyone could. He will live. He will continue
with his life. He will be the best, as he was going to be before the
accident.
His father no longer pushes him like he used to. He still tries to
teach him as much as he can, but they both become frustrated more
easily than they used to and give up more quickly. Despite his
determination, the lack of results begins to wear on him. For a boy
who used to learn faster than anyone should, to learn so slowly is
agony. For someone who only had to see a move to copy it, how does one
deal with not being able to see moves anymore. Not even his new senses
seem to help, they only confuse him as things seem to focus at one
moment only to be distracted by some distant sound or smell and
suddenly he is lost again.
He sits on the balcony on his father and his small apartment listening
to a lovers spat three blocks over, attempting to recognize the music
being played in the school yard two streets down and trying
desperately to tune out the conversation going on behind him as his
father discusses his next "job". He's known for quite sometime now
that his father does these little jobs for the local mob, collecting
money from people who owe them and "convincing" those who don't have
the money to pay. He knows why his father does it, fighting doesn't
pay as well as it once did and the hospital bills drained their
savings. Genma "The Devil" Saotome just doesn't draw in the crowds so
much anymore. He hasn't lost in two years of fighting and no one
believes he will. Who wants to see a slaughter, and no one can field a
fighter that can stand against him. So he does these jobs, hiding his
shame from his son. But Ranma is proud of him regardless, proud of how
strong he is, how he keeps going regardless of the troubles they have
seen, proud of how he bears all the trouble himself. He only wishes
they could go home. He may love his father, but he really wishes that
he had his mother around.
As he sits there, feeling the nearly non-existent breeze and trying to
block out the sounds of the couple who are now "making up" he decides
that he can't stay here any longer. The gym, he wants to go to the
gym. He always loved the gym, where he and his father used to train,
where they still do when they can, when neither of them are feeling to
frustrated by his lack of success. He used to go to the gym whenever
he was feeling down and just work on the bag; whenever the shouts of
the children became too much, as they called out that horrible
nickname they gave him, as the girls laughed and the boys shouted out
at him "Daredevil! Daredevil! Daredevil!" he would hit the bag as he
couldn't hit them and wish he could be home again, where he was sure a
loving mother would be waiting for him.
Yes, the gym, that's where he'll go.
**********************************************************
He lifts himself up once again and takes up a forward stance. He
begins. The form is sloppy, a form he once thought he could do
blindfolded he now finds that, put to the test, he has more trouble
with than the new forms his father was teaching him before the
accident. He throws out another punch and then twists around, throwing
himself into a jumping spin kick, only to misjudge the position of a
pile of mats and end up on his face on the ground. Pushing himself to
his hands and knees he tries to control the tear that form in his
eyes, tries to stop the frustration and anger from forming, but it is
too late as he begins to sob, tears beading in his eyes and falling to
the mats below his as the pent up feelings flow out of him. So wrapped
up is he that he doesn't notice the man standing on the other side of
the room from him. He doesn't hear the soft breathing or the gentle
beating of the man's heart. All he knows is the floor and his sorrow.
"Well, what are you waiting for? Get up, try again." He spins around
at the sound of the gravelly voice, hard and seemingly devoid of
emotion. He easily recognizes all the signs of there being another
person in the room with him now, now that he is more focused and he
berates himself for letting anyone sneak up on him. The man before him
is silent though, and he realizes why he had missed him. Even knowing
that there is someone there Ranma still has trouble spotting where he
is. His breathing is almost silent and even his heart seems to beat
more quietly than most, something that Ranma just can't figure out.
Ranma gets to his feet and faces the direction he is now sure the man
is in.
"Who are you?" He asks timidly, wondering who could possibly be so
quiet. The man doesn't answer right away though, just continues to
stand there, breathing softly. He is beginning to become impatient
when the man finally speaks.
"My name is Stick." The man says quietly, and Ranma hears him begin to
walk forward, quiet as a faint breeze. He briefly wonders about the
name, wondering who would take a name like Stick, as it obviously
wasn't given to the man by his parents, before Stick speaks again.
"And from now on, I'll be your Master."
**********************************************************
Stick takes him to a broken down basement, large and dusty and packed
high with garbage. Ranma walks in, reluctantly following the man who
has declared him his student as Stick once more begins to speak.
"While you're with me you won't be belly-aching about your blindness.
I've been blind all my life, growing up on the street, so I won't hear
any of your bitching." Stick walks up to him once more and just stands
for a moment, as of letting that sink in before continuing. "You'll
spend every spare moment here, learning what I can teach you and, if
you're good enough, I'll make you a warrior. It won't be easy, you
have discipline, I'll give you that, but the accident has made you
weak. You'll get over that, or you'll fail."
He stands there for a moment, absorbing everything that Stick has said
before responding in a slightly unsure voice. "Why...why are you
helping me?"
"Because we need help. And hopefully you'll provide." Stick sighs a
bit at this but continues to stand there, next to Ranma, thinking
things over a bit.
"Help?" Ranma repeats confusedly, "What kind of help?"
"Enough questions, boy, time to train. Hold your hands out before you.
I want you to feel the air." Ranma does as he is told and holds his
hands out, stretching his arms so that they are straight at the elbows
and walking around like he is trying to feel his way. He remains
confused by the man's words though and so speaks up again.
"But...there's no wind."
"Not the wind, boy, the air. The air is all around you, it fills up
all the space surrounding us. Feel it. There is a wall in front of
you, feel the distance between you and the wall in the air. Turn
around, there is another wall there, a little closer than the last,
feel it." Ranma again does as he is told, turning around in circles,
trying to feel the walls through the air but he quickly comes to the
conclusion that his "master" is either making things up or crazy,
however he tries to ask again what he means exactly.
"But there's nothing there." He states with conviction. This statement
quickly earns him a blow to the side of the head, which rocks him
slightly on his feet. The strike isn't as hard as some of the hits he
has taken during sparring with his father but it's certainly enough to
make him take notice.
"Can you feel that?" Stick grounds out, as Ranma rubs the spot he had
struck and yells out at him.
"What did ya do that for?!?" Rather than an answer, he receives
Stick's cane to the top of his head. Grunting in a bit of pain Ranma
swings his own cane in front of him in an attempt at retaliation but
it only finds air and he gains another hit to the side of the head as
a response. Again he swings, and again he is struck. This continues on
for several more hits until finally he raises his own cane just in
time and he feels the vibrations, hears the telltale "thunk" of wood
on wood and realizes that he actually managed to block a swing. More
than a little surprised, Ranma just stands there for a moment before
he manages to say anything.
"How...how did I do that?" He asks in wonder. Stick just lowers his
arm and snorts a bit.
"Don't get cocky, boy, that was just the first step. You have a long
road ahead."
**********************************************************
Days pass, weeks, months and true to Stick's word, he's there everyday
to train Ranma in his new senses. Genma is proud to see a marked
improvement in his son's skills as grace returns to his form and he
even begins to pick up the new techniques Genma wishes to teach him
with some of his old speed. All the while Ranma trains with a
determination he hasn't seen before.
One day, stick comes to him and asks him to identify what he is
holding. Ranma listens for a moment at the sounds the object makes in
Sticks hands, giving his analysis as Stick waits.
"Cord being stretched, wood creaking, some sort of leather...no,
catgut. A bow. You're holding a bow." He thinks about that for a few
moments before voicing the next most obvious question. "What the hell
are two blind me supposed to do with a bow?"
"This." Stick responds before Ranma hears the bowstring drawn back,
feels the arrow notched in it and listens as Stick lets the arrow fly.
A loud thunk signals the end of the arrows flight and he sends out his
senses, feeling the target and where the arrow lays, dead in the
centre. Stick then draws back and lets two more arrows follow the
first to group themselves with the first at the centre of the target.
Ranma allows his eyes to widen slightly in appreciation for the skill
shown by his mentor before realizing that the man would obviously want
him to show the same skill before too long. Resisting the urge to sigh
dramatically, he accepts the bow from Stick and notches an arrow,
easily pulling the heavy string back.
"Feel the target. Feel its shape, feel where you want the arrow to go,
and then send it there." Sticks words wash over him as he tries to
carefully aim the bow. Releasing the arrow, he awaits the sound of it
hitting the wood of the target. He is suitably disappointed therefore
when he hears the window well above the target shatter as his arrow
passes through it. Stick sighs, the sound of long suffering, and tells
him to try again.
Another arrow flies, a little closer this time, bouncing off the wall
instead of hitting the window above. This is followed by another, then
another and another after that. Time passes and he sends arrow after
arrow at the wooden target until his arms shake from exhaustion, but
still he keeps trying. Finally he is rewarded as he hears the sound of
arrow piercing wood and senses his arrow striking the bottom corner of
the target. Jumping in the air he shouts out in joy before turning
towards his master.
"Anyone can hit it once. Do it again." Is Sticks only response, but
Ranma can feel the slight smile on his face as he notches another
arrow. Again he begins the grueling attempts at archery, and he keeps
at it, hope renewed by his success until he can hit the target every
time.
**********************************************************
Over time his aim increases to the point where he can, not only hit
the target, but hit the bulls-eye every time and from any point in the
room. Then Stick pulls out the ninja stars. This is followed by darts.
In the meantime Genma continues to teach him in art of his family.
Genma still fights in the local matches but most of his money comes
from the jobs he does for the local mob. As long as he can keep Ranma
fed though, he is alright with what he has to do. Besides, soon he'll
have enough spare money to pay their trip back home and he won't have
to worry about such things again. He's proud of the progress his son
has made in the last little while as he seems to be back up to his old
standards, learning at a speed that Genma can barely comprehend, and
reacting with reflexes that almost rival his own, even at such a young
age. Genma doesn't realize that Ranma can react so quickly because he
can read his father's moves almost before he makes them with his
enhanced senses.
**********************************************************
The nights are his favorite time. He'll wake up before sunrise and
Stick will be there, waiting. They'll go up to the rooftops, and up
there, alone with the night, they'll dance. Running from rooftop to
rooftop, jumping and flipping. Somersaulting across the gulfs between
roofs. All the while he finds a strange joy in the freedom the roofs
provide.
Sometimes they fight across the house tops, mighty battles that range
for blocks in all directions, using moves that would make many martial
artists cry with envy. Sometimes train, throwing objects back and
forth while jumping from roof to roof in a perverse form of catch.
Usually though, they just dance, reveling in the night air, the
silence and the joys of the air.
**********************************************************
Genma Saotome jogs down the street, caught up in his own thoughts. He
wonders where it is that Ranma goes all the time, especially at times
like this. This isn't the first time that he has woken up for his
morning jog to find his son gone, but he normally just shrugs it off,
figuring that Ranma has gone off to train some more. He must be
training on his own after all, Genma realizes, he knows that he is a
good trainer but even Genma can't convince himself that his boy's
progress is all due to his teaching. No one could get better as
quickly as Ranma has just on the training Genma has recently been
giving him.
So caught up in thoughts of his son is he that it takes a moment
before he realizes that a can has pulled up beside him. Realizing whom
it is that is most likely within the car, Genma sighs to himself. He
hadn't heard from his boss in the mob for a while now, hadn't gotten
any new "assignments" for long enough that he had hoped that he had
seen the last of them.
The window of the car opens up and Genma stops running and looks
towards it. The man looking out at him is well known to him. The dark
skinned man with black hair, white at the temples and a cigar hanging
out of his mouth. The man who calls himself "The Fixer".
"You shouldn't push yourself so hard Genma, you're not as young as
you used to be." The Fixer says, smiling benevolently. Genma scowls
slightly but keeps any thoughts he's having to himself.
"I could run around this whole damned city and you know it Fixer."
Genma responds, earning a soft chuckle from the man in the car. "I
assume you have another job for me?"
"Not quite, Genma. I have something a little different in mind this
time." Fixer says, smiling evilly and causing Genma to shudder
slightly despite being warm from the run. "It seems that people see
you as something of a titan, an unbeatable fighter and that's going to
make me a great deal of money. Especially when you take a fall in
tomorrow's fight. The usual warnings apply should you not head my
'advice', of course. Have fun tomorrow."
That said, the window rolls up and the car drives off leaving Genma to
scowl at it as it leaves him behind. He stands there for a moment,
glaring at the receding vehicle before he lowers his head and, not
knowing what else to do, continues with his jog.
**********************************************************
The fight is probably the most exciting that any Genma fan has seen in
ages. The man that he is facing is actually standing up to him,
getting hits in where no one else has in so many fights. People cheer
as the two trade blows back and forth, blood flowing down both their
faces and spit flying with each successful hit. The only one in the
audience who isn't cheering is the only one whom Genma really cares
about, his son. Ranma sits there, "watching" the fight impassively and
wondering why his father isn't destroying the horribly slow fighter he
is facing.
The bell rings and another round comes to an end as the two fighters
sit down in separate corners, resting up for a moment as their helpers
mop the sweat and blood from their faces. Genma just sits there,
waiting for the bell to signal the start of the nest round, waiting
for the Fixer's man to tell him when to proceed. He doesn't have to
wait long for the second.
A shady-looking man with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth sidles
up next to the ropes on Genma's sided of the ring. He looks Genma up
and down for a moment before speaking.
"It's time. Just give him a nice, easy opening and go down. Don't do
anything stupid, remember your boy." Genma looks at the man for a
moment before lower his head and shaking some of the liquid off. He
then glances out into the audience to where he can see his son
listening to someone explaining what's happening in the fight to him.
When he looks back towards the thug there is a fire in eyes that
wasn't present a few moments ago.
"My son is exactly who I'm thinking of. My son and one of the only
truly important things I taught him. Never give up, a Saotome never
loses." With that, the bell is rung and Genma stands once more to meet
the other man. They bow slightly to each other out of respect and the
referee signals them to begin. His opponent leads with a quick two-
punch combo, which he easily evades. He ducks the first punch and
brings up his arm to deflect the second before throwing several
punches of his own, all of which connect with devastating results.
Spit and blood mix as both fly from the other fighter's mouth, as his
head twists about and his body collapses out from under him like a
puppet whose strings have been cut. The crowd goes silent as the
referee counts out loudly to ten, before holding Genma's hand up and
announcing him the winner.
In the back of the room near the door, the Fixer stares angrily at the
ring before he signals the dozen men with him and they all head out
the back way.
**********************************************************
Genma walks out the back door, his bag over his shoulder and his head
down. He finds himself strangely calm, knowing as he does what's about
to happen. He steps out into the calm alley and looks up at the dozen
or so men arrayed behind the Fixer. The Fixer has an ugly looking
scowl on his face and Genma can't help but smile slightly thinking of
how much money he has undoubtedly cost him this day.
"You're tired, Genma. Tired, hurt and outnumbered. Not even you can
fight all of them. Just give up now, it'll be easier in the long run."
The Fixer smiles that cocky smile of his, the one that says that
nothing you do will make any difference at all, that in the end, he
will win. Genma knows that he can't win this fight, knows that the
Fixer is right, but as he told his son, you never give up in a fight
or you've lost before you've begun.
The first two men go down easily to Genma, one falling where he stood
while the other made a meaty thwack against the far wall. The third
one managed to get a good hit in before he too fell to Genma,
receiving a roundhouse kick to the side of his head. The fourth man
however manages to get a hit to the back of Genma's head with the bat
he carries and the fight goes downhill from there. The men overwhelm
Genma's tired defenses and within moments have him on his knees,
beating him mercilessly with fists, feet and various weapons. One man
uses a knife to carve up Genma's face, leaving blood to fall to the
ground, pooling at his feet. Finally all the men step back and Genma
merely kneels there on the ground, too hurt and too exhausted to move.
The Fixer steps forward, one hand reaching into his jacket and pulling
forth a rather impressive looking revolver. Genma just stares ahead as
the Fixer steps in front of him and lifts his head, opening his mouth
to shove the barrel of the gun violently inside.
Genma's eyes flick to the Fixer's and he sees the smile on the Fixer's
face as he cocks back the hammer.
The trigger is pulled, the hammer falls and the deafening sound of
thunder fills the alley.
Genma Saotome falls.
To Be Continued......
Authors Notes: I got this idea while reading some of my brother's
Daredevil comics(Ahhhh, brother's, always a good source of comics to
read^_^). I don't think I've ever come across a fic with Ranma in Matt
Murdock's shoes so I thought I'd see what would happen. This is
actually based very much off of Frank Miller's "The Man Without Fear"
five-part mini-series, which I'd highly recommend to anyone who hasn't
read it. It ranks up in my top ten all time favorite comics(along with
at least three other of Miller's works, the best of which will always
be "The Dark Knight Returns" for anyone who cares). Please don't flame
me if you notice dialog that comes straight from the original comics,
since I'm admitting right now that I did in fact use some, especially
when he first meets Stick, but I did try to change most of it to be as
original as possible. Things will change more as the series goes on
and Ranma heads back to Japan, but it'll still be heavily based on the
events in the mini-series. As always, C&C can be sent to me at
ranikkoku@hotmail.com or in the guestbook of my website where this
will be archived as soon as I get around to it
www.geocities.com/ranikkoku
Thanks
Bob The Mutant Lobster
A Ranma Crossover
By: Bob Lobster
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters within. Now lemme alone
and read the story.
Chapter 1: Death
They say that everyone has a story to tell. Some good, some bad; some
heroic epics, others dull soliloquies. My story has been called one of
the stranger tales to be told. It starts simply enough, a journey, a
teary goodbye as a son leaves a mother, a husband leaves a wife and
the training of a warrior begins. But that isn't the beginning, not
really. The true beginning happens some years later, when father and
son, master and student, part and the true journey begins.
It starts on a street corner in downtown New York.
**********************************************************
The street isn't unusual in the least: cars travel down it; people
cross it, and nearing the corner a young boy wanders aimlessly down
it. He is fairly small, being only twelve years of age he has a while
yet before he hits any significant growth spurts and begins to fill
out, leaving a scrawny kid, short but strong looking with long black
hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. He is dressed in a dirty white
training dogi that looks as if it has seen better days and his eyes
are searching from one place to another, never resting on any one
thing for long, as if he has never seen a city before. That
observation in itself was partially true as, although he has been in
cities before, none that he can remember were ever quite so large and
crowded as the metropolis he is in now. It makes him both nervous and
excited to be in a city so grand as he takes in the sights but at the
same time has to be careful not to let the claustrophobic feelings
overwhelm him from all the people around him.
Truthfully he would much prefer to be with his father right now,
wandering the wilds, training to be the greatest warrior of all, but
his training is exactly the reason they are in this city in the first
place. His father had recalled mention of a man from his own travels
who was said to be an exceptional martial artist, one who would only
take on certain select students, one who resided right here in New
York. Unfortunately their search had come up empty for long enough
that funds had run short and his father was somewhat reluctant to
begin using his more underhanded methods of obtaining funds in such a
large city. In smaller towns as long as you can get out of town
without anybody realizing who you are then you're usually safe. In a
town of this size, however, the police are a great deal better funded
and any crimes you commit are more likely to follow you wherever you
go. So, his father had entered a somewhat more legitimate business,
that of a prizefighter. With his uncanny martial arts ability his
father had quite quickly made a name for himself as an unbeatable
fighter, thus drawing larger crowds and making more money for the two
of them to survive on, enough really to keep them going for quite a
while to come.
So it was then, that his father had asked him to go take a bit of
a walk while he negotiated with the bookie for his latest pay. Which
was why he was walking alone down a crowded street in downtown New
York at the tender age of twelve. His wandering attention causes his
eyes to rest momentarily on an old man crossing the street rather
slowly. His attention immediately shifts once again, this time to the
lights telling the man that it was alright to cross, and then to all
the other people who are just finishing crossing in front of the man.
This scene strikes him as slightly odd, as the old man is obviously
having trouble crossing and yet nobody seems to be offering to help
him, something unheard of to someone raised under the ideal that one
must always help those who couldn't help themselves. He chalks it up
quickly however to just another thing he didn't understand in a city
full of things he didn't understand, and quickly moves towards the
intersection in order to offer his aid to the man.
He is about halfway to the intersection when a noise to his left
catches his attention. Glancing over in the direction he catches sight
of a rather large truck heading towards the same intersection to which
he was headed. The speed with which the truck was moving severely
alarms the boy as there is no way it could stop in time to avoid
hitting the man who had yet to even notice his danger. Picking up
speed the boy sprints as fast as his little legs can take him towards
the man, trying to out run death as the truck barrels down on him. He
reaches the intersection just in time and without a second thought
dives out at the old man, his father's words echoing in his mind,
"It's a martial artists duty to protect the weak. You must always
protect those that can't protect themselves."
**********************************************************
Joe Marsh has lived a good life, or at least he likes to believe
so. He is always polite and kind to others, he gives to charities
whenever he can and he even tries to volunteer whenever he has time
for whatever cause needs him. He can't understand why it was then that
he seems to be being punished for some reason. He had a beautiful wife
who had died last fall from cancer; a wonderful job which he was laid
off from because he was "too old"; and his only son won't talk to him
because of a stupid argument they had after his wife's funeral. Not
only that, he has recently hurt his leg in a small accident, making
even the simple task of walking a chore and the kind citizens of this
city seemed content to watch him struggle rather than help him with
what should be the relatively simple task of crossing the street. He
is just about across said road when he feels a sudden, strong push
from behind, sending him flying rather unceremoniously onto his hands
and knees on the hard pavement. He is about to turn around and give
whoever had shoved him a piece of his mind when the crash of a vehicle
sounds behind him, shocking him out of his anger and causing him to
turn over and view the carnage to his back.
The scene was bad, the truck has swerved to avoid him and rolled
onto its side, spilling whatever it had been carrying all over the
road. The boy who had pushed him out of the way has been luckily
missed by the truck itself, the content of said truck, however, was
another story altogether. The site was enough to leave an impression
on Joe that will stay with him to his dieing day.
**********************************************************
He feels a moment of satisfaction as the man flies harmlessly out
of the way of the truck before the barrel strikes him out of the air.
He has a second to realize that the truck has missed him as well and
to know that he'll survive, regardless of his reckless bravery, before
he hits the ground hard, not having enough presence of mind to roll
with the landing as his father had taught him so many times. Time
seems to slow down as he sees the barrel that had struck him hit the
pavement hard, breaking open and spilling its thick brown liquid
contents over the street and himself. His first thought is that the
liquid is actually rather warm, before the pain strikes his eyes and
face and he screams out in his high, child's voice. He hears his
father calling his name and tries to answer, but it all seemed to be
through a haze.
"Ranma!" His father yells, as he feels the large man reach his
side.
"Papa, my eyes. It hurts!"
"My god, did you see that."
"Oh Christ, his face."
"...hurts, papa, it hurts..."
"Someone call an ambulance!"
"...pushed that man out of the way."
"Don't worry Ranma, it'll be alright. I promise, it'll be
alright." He feels his father hold him close, feels hot tears on his
face, wondering briefly whether they were his or his father's, before
consciousness finely leaves him and the peace of slumber claims him.
**********************************************************
When consciousness reaches him once more he finds himself in the
thralls of agony. Pieces of sandpaper rake across his skin, leaving it
raw. No, not sandpaper, sheets, heavily starched sheets. Odors assault
him from all sides, buckets of sweat poured in every part of the room
he is in, thickening the air in a heavy oppressive fog. The bitter
tang of disinfectants hangs in the air. The smell is familiar, if much
stronger, more nauseating then he recalls, and he finds himself
realizing that he is in a hospital. That thought is driven from him as
they begin to shove needles in him, pumping him full of drugs, useless
drugs, drugs that can't seem to mask the pain as they cut his face.
He wants to scream out, he wants to cry, he wants to yell at them
to stop, to leave him alone, to make the pain go away. His body
doesn't work though, all he can do is lay there and try not to go mad.
He wishes it would just end.
He wants to die.
**********************************************************
"RANMA. CAN YOU HEAR ME?"
*How can I not hear you when you yell like that?*
"THE DOCTORS SAY YOU'RE GONNA BE ALRIGHT, SON. YOUR FACE, THEY
FIXED IT UP REALLY WELL."
*Please, oh please be quiet. So loud, why does everyone have to
speak so loud?*
"I'M GONNA GO NOW SON, YOU GET SOME REST."
*I'd get better rest if everyone could just be quiet.*
But they're not quite. Every sound echoes in his head like the
bang of a steel drum and he finds himself wishing he could shut all
sound out. He hears people arguing outside his room, down the hall, on
the next floor, and it sounds like they are in there with him,
screaming in his ears. He tries to cover his ears, but that just sends
waves of pain shooting through him so, moaning, he lets his arms fall
back to the bed and prays for help, prays for answers and
explanations, prays for relief.
**********************************************************
His father doesn't understand. He tries to tell him what he feels,
tries to tell him about the smells and the sounds and the sensations
but he doesn't listen. His father just cries, though it's supposed to
be unmanly, and tells him how sorry he is. He tells him that he should
have been there, that he shouldn't have let him wander off, that he
should never have brought him to such a god forsaken city. But he
doesn't listen, he doesn't understand. No one understands. He's alone,
alone and afraid. Afraid of what he hears, afraid of what he smells,
afraid of what he feels, and most of all afraid of himself. And afraid
to be alone, but he is alone, because no one understands.
**********************************************************
He lays there on his bed, as he's done for the past days and tries to
shut out the noise, the incessant yelling, screaming in his ears; he
tries to ignore the smell of the doctors and the nurses as they walk
by and check on him in clothing they can't have washed in years; he
just tries to sleep when a new sound reaches his ears. Soft footsteps
travel up the hallway and end at his door, a wave of sweet smelling
perfume hits him: Jasmine, he thinks and he wonders who this person
could be, this person who doesn't assault him with foul smells and
harsh sounds. She walks in to his room, and now he's sure it's a
woman, no man could smell that sweet, and gently closes the door
before making her way to his bed. She sits softly in the chair beside
him and takes his hand in hers, soft and gentle, and whispers in his
ear.
"Hello little one. How do you feel?" She speaks softly, her voice
flitting across his senses like a summer breeze, quiet and refreshing.
He immediately feels better just being around her. Calmer, more alive
than he has in days.
"It...it hurts." He answers her truthfully. He knows that his father
always said that admitting pain was admitting defeat and no Saotome
ever admitted defeat, but a lot of his beliefs were being proven wrong
these days, so this one could be too. After all, if his father could
cry, couldn't he tell a kind lady the truth.
"What hurts, son? You can tell me." She doesn't push, and to him she
doesn't seem to be prying. She seems to genuinely want to help him, so
he opens up to her. He tells her all the things that have been
happening to him. The pain that raged through him after the accident,
the way every sound seems magnified a thousand-fold, how he can smell
things from hundreds of meters away, how everything he touches seems
to have a greater depth than it once did. He begs her to make it all
go away, to make it stop and let him be normal again. She doesn't
answer right away though, instead she leans over him and kisses him
gently on his forehead.
"Ranma," She quietly begins, "You mustn't think of this as a curse.
This is a blessing in disguise. So much greatness you can do with a
gift like this, if only you allow yourself to learn to use it. But you
must promise me something. You must not tell anyone else of this, not
even your father. No one will understand it, and it will cause you
great trouble if you tell people. Can you promise me this, dear?"
"I...I promise. I already know...that people don't understand." Ranma
sniffs a bit at this, but the lady leans down and puts a comforting
hand on his forehead. Ranma smiles a bit, the first smile he has had
in days, and reaches out to her only to feel something hanging off of
her neck. He feels a cross on a chain, a cross made of gold.
The woman then kisses his forehead once more and stands up. He can
almost feel her sad smile as she looks down upon him for a moment
before she turns and walks out the door. As she leaves, Ranma suddenly
feels stronger than he has since the accident. He no longer wants to
die.
He will live
**********************************************************
The days continue on and Ranma is eventually released from the
hospital under the condition that he takes it easy for a while to
recover. He is told that the doctors have done a great job and that he
will suffer no permanent damage to his face, that he won't even have
any scars. But his eyes will never heal. He'll be blind for life.
The soft-spoken woman never returns but it doesn't matter, she's
already done more than anyone could. He will live. He will continue
with his life. He will be the best, as he was going to be before the
accident.
His father no longer pushes him like he used to. He still tries to
teach him as much as he can, but they both become frustrated more
easily than they used to and give up more quickly. Despite his
determination, the lack of results begins to wear on him. For a boy
who used to learn faster than anyone should, to learn so slowly is
agony. For someone who only had to see a move to copy it, how does one
deal with not being able to see moves anymore. Not even his new senses
seem to help, they only confuse him as things seem to focus at one
moment only to be distracted by some distant sound or smell and
suddenly he is lost again.
He sits on the balcony on his father and his small apartment listening
to a lovers spat three blocks over, attempting to recognize the music
being played in the school yard two streets down and trying
desperately to tune out the conversation going on behind him as his
father discusses his next "job". He's known for quite sometime now
that his father does these little jobs for the local mob, collecting
money from people who owe them and "convincing" those who don't have
the money to pay. He knows why his father does it, fighting doesn't
pay as well as it once did and the hospital bills drained their
savings. Genma "The Devil" Saotome just doesn't draw in the crowds so
much anymore. He hasn't lost in two years of fighting and no one
believes he will. Who wants to see a slaughter, and no one can field a
fighter that can stand against him. So he does these jobs, hiding his
shame from his son. But Ranma is proud of him regardless, proud of how
strong he is, how he keeps going regardless of the troubles they have
seen, proud of how he bears all the trouble himself. He only wishes
they could go home. He may love his father, but he really wishes that
he had his mother around.
As he sits there, feeling the nearly non-existent breeze and trying to
block out the sounds of the couple who are now "making up" he decides
that he can't stay here any longer. The gym, he wants to go to the
gym. He always loved the gym, where he and his father used to train,
where they still do when they can, when neither of them are feeling to
frustrated by his lack of success. He used to go to the gym whenever
he was feeling down and just work on the bag; whenever the shouts of
the children became too much, as they called out that horrible
nickname they gave him, as the girls laughed and the boys shouted out
at him "Daredevil! Daredevil! Daredevil!" he would hit the bag as he
couldn't hit them and wish he could be home again, where he was sure a
loving mother would be waiting for him.
Yes, the gym, that's where he'll go.
**********************************************************
He lifts himself up once again and takes up a forward stance. He
begins. The form is sloppy, a form he once thought he could do
blindfolded he now finds that, put to the test, he has more trouble
with than the new forms his father was teaching him before the
accident. He throws out another punch and then twists around, throwing
himself into a jumping spin kick, only to misjudge the position of a
pile of mats and end up on his face on the ground. Pushing himself to
his hands and knees he tries to control the tear that form in his
eyes, tries to stop the frustration and anger from forming, but it is
too late as he begins to sob, tears beading in his eyes and falling to
the mats below his as the pent up feelings flow out of him. So wrapped
up is he that he doesn't notice the man standing on the other side of
the room from him. He doesn't hear the soft breathing or the gentle
beating of the man's heart. All he knows is the floor and his sorrow.
"Well, what are you waiting for? Get up, try again." He spins around
at the sound of the gravelly voice, hard and seemingly devoid of
emotion. He easily recognizes all the signs of there being another
person in the room with him now, now that he is more focused and he
berates himself for letting anyone sneak up on him. The man before him
is silent though, and he realizes why he had missed him. Even knowing
that there is someone there Ranma still has trouble spotting where he
is. His breathing is almost silent and even his heart seems to beat
more quietly than most, something that Ranma just can't figure out.
Ranma gets to his feet and faces the direction he is now sure the man
is in.
"Who are you?" He asks timidly, wondering who could possibly be so
quiet. The man doesn't answer right away though, just continues to
stand there, breathing softly. He is beginning to become impatient
when the man finally speaks.
"My name is Stick." The man says quietly, and Ranma hears him begin to
walk forward, quiet as a faint breeze. He briefly wonders about the
name, wondering who would take a name like Stick, as it obviously
wasn't given to the man by his parents, before Stick speaks again.
"And from now on, I'll be your Master."
**********************************************************
Stick takes him to a broken down basement, large and dusty and packed
high with garbage. Ranma walks in, reluctantly following the man who
has declared him his student as Stick once more begins to speak.
"While you're with me you won't be belly-aching about your blindness.
I've been blind all my life, growing up on the street, so I won't hear
any of your bitching." Stick walks up to him once more and just stands
for a moment, as of letting that sink in before continuing. "You'll
spend every spare moment here, learning what I can teach you and, if
you're good enough, I'll make you a warrior. It won't be easy, you
have discipline, I'll give you that, but the accident has made you
weak. You'll get over that, or you'll fail."
He stands there for a moment, absorbing everything that Stick has said
before responding in a slightly unsure voice. "Why...why are you
helping me?"
"Because we need help. And hopefully you'll provide." Stick sighs a
bit at this but continues to stand there, next to Ranma, thinking
things over a bit.
"Help?" Ranma repeats confusedly, "What kind of help?"
"Enough questions, boy, time to train. Hold your hands out before you.
I want you to feel the air." Ranma does as he is told and holds his
hands out, stretching his arms so that they are straight at the elbows
and walking around like he is trying to feel his way. He remains
confused by the man's words though and so speaks up again.
"But...there's no wind."
"Not the wind, boy, the air. The air is all around you, it fills up
all the space surrounding us. Feel it. There is a wall in front of
you, feel the distance between you and the wall in the air. Turn
around, there is another wall there, a little closer than the last,
feel it." Ranma again does as he is told, turning around in circles,
trying to feel the walls through the air but he quickly comes to the
conclusion that his "master" is either making things up or crazy,
however he tries to ask again what he means exactly.
"But there's nothing there." He states with conviction. This statement
quickly earns him a blow to the side of the head, which rocks him
slightly on his feet. The strike isn't as hard as some of the hits he
has taken during sparring with his father but it's certainly enough to
make him take notice.
"Can you feel that?" Stick grounds out, as Ranma rubs the spot he had
struck and yells out at him.
"What did ya do that for?!?" Rather than an answer, he receives
Stick's cane to the top of his head. Grunting in a bit of pain Ranma
swings his own cane in front of him in an attempt at retaliation but
it only finds air and he gains another hit to the side of the head as
a response. Again he swings, and again he is struck. This continues on
for several more hits until finally he raises his own cane just in
time and he feels the vibrations, hears the telltale "thunk" of wood
on wood and realizes that he actually managed to block a swing. More
than a little surprised, Ranma just stands there for a moment before
he manages to say anything.
"How...how did I do that?" He asks in wonder. Stick just lowers his
arm and snorts a bit.
"Don't get cocky, boy, that was just the first step. You have a long
road ahead."
**********************************************************
Days pass, weeks, months and true to Stick's word, he's there everyday
to train Ranma in his new senses. Genma is proud to see a marked
improvement in his son's skills as grace returns to his form and he
even begins to pick up the new techniques Genma wishes to teach him
with some of his old speed. All the while Ranma trains with a
determination he hasn't seen before.
One day, stick comes to him and asks him to identify what he is
holding. Ranma listens for a moment at the sounds the object makes in
Sticks hands, giving his analysis as Stick waits.
"Cord being stretched, wood creaking, some sort of leather...no,
catgut. A bow. You're holding a bow." He thinks about that for a few
moments before voicing the next most obvious question. "What the hell
are two blind me supposed to do with a bow?"
"This." Stick responds before Ranma hears the bowstring drawn back,
feels the arrow notched in it and listens as Stick lets the arrow fly.
A loud thunk signals the end of the arrows flight and he sends out his
senses, feeling the target and where the arrow lays, dead in the
centre. Stick then draws back and lets two more arrows follow the
first to group themselves with the first at the centre of the target.
Ranma allows his eyes to widen slightly in appreciation for the skill
shown by his mentor before realizing that the man would obviously want
him to show the same skill before too long. Resisting the urge to sigh
dramatically, he accepts the bow from Stick and notches an arrow,
easily pulling the heavy string back.
"Feel the target. Feel its shape, feel where you want the arrow to go,
and then send it there." Sticks words wash over him as he tries to
carefully aim the bow. Releasing the arrow, he awaits the sound of it
hitting the wood of the target. He is suitably disappointed therefore
when he hears the window well above the target shatter as his arrow
passes through it. Stick sighs, the sound of long suffering, and tells
him to try again.
Another arrow flies, a little closer this time, bouncing off the wall
instead of hitting the window above. This is followed by another, then
another and another after that. Time passes and he sends arrow after
arrow at the wooden target until his arms shake from exhaustion, but
still he keeps trying. Finally he is rewarded as he hears the sound of
arrow piercing wood and senses his arrow striking the bottom corner of
the target. Jumping in the air he shouts out in joy before turning
towards his master.
"Anyone can hit it once. Do it again." Is Sticks only response, but
Ranma can feel the slight smile on his face as he notches another
arrow. Again he begins the grueling attempts at archery, and he keeps
at it, hope renewed by his success until he can hit the target every
time.
**********************************************************
Over time his aim increases to the point where he can, not only hit
the target, but hit the bulls-eye every time and from any point in the
room. Then Stick pulls out the ninja stars. This is followed by darts.
In the meantime Genma continues to teach him in art of his family.
Genma still fights in the local matches but most of his money comes
from the jobs he does for the local mob. As long as he can keep Ranma
fed though, he is alright with what he has to do. Besides, soon he'll
have enough spare money to pay their trip back home and he won't have
to worry about such things again. He's proud of the progress his son
has made in the last little while as he seems to be back up to his old
standards, learning at a speed that Genma can barely comprehend, and
reacting with reflexes that almost rival his own, even at such a young
age. Genma doesn't realize that Ranma can react so quickly because he
can read his father's moves almost before he makes them with his
enhanced senses.
**********************************************************
The nights are his favorite time. He'll wake up before sunrise and
Stick will be there, waiting. They'll go up to the rooftops, and up
there, alone with the night, they'll dance. Running from rooftop to
rooftop, jumping and flipping. Somersaulting across the gulfs between
roofs. All the while he finds a strange joy in the freedom the roofs
provide.
Sometimes they fight across the house tops, mighty battles that range
for blocks in all directions, using moves that would make many martial
artists cry with envy. Sometimes train, throwing objects back and
forth while jumping from roof to roof in a perverse form of catch.
Usually though, they just dance, reveling in the night air, the
silence and the joys of the air.
**********************************************************
Genma Saotome jogs down the street, caught up in his own thoughts. He
wonders where it is that Ranma goes all the time, especially at times
like this. This isn't the first time that he has woken up for his
morning jog to find his son gone, but he normally just shrugs it off,
figuring that Ranma has gone off to train some more. He must be
training on his own after all, Genma realizes, he knows that he is a
good trainer but even Genma can't convince himself that his boy's
progress is all due to his teaching. No one could get better as
quickly as Ranma has just on the training Genma has recently been
giving him.
So caught up in thoughts of his son is he that it takes a moment
before he realizes that a can has pulled up beside him. Realizing whom
it is that is most likely within the car, Genma sighs to himself. He
hadn't heard from his boss in the mob for a while now, hadn't gotten
any new "assignments" for long enough that he had hoped that he had
seen the last of them.
The window of the car opens up and Genma stops running and looks
towards it. The man looking out at him is well known to him. The dark
skinned man with black hair, white at the temples and a cigar hanging
out of his mouth. The man who calls himself "The Fixer".
"You shouldn't push yourself so hard Genma, you're not as young as
you used to be." The Fixer says, smiling benevolently. Genma scowls
slightly but keeps any thoughts he's having to himself.
"I could run around this whole damned city and you know it Fixer."
Genma responds, earning a soft chuckle from the man in the car. "I
assume you have another job for me?"
"Not quite, Genma. I have something a little different in mind this
time." Fixer says, smiling evilly and causing Genma to shudder
slightly despite being warm from the run. "It seems that people see
you as something of a titan, an unbeatable fighter and that's going to
make me a great deal of money. Especially when you take a fall in
tomorrow's fight. The usual warnings apply should you not head my
'advice', of course. Have fun tomorrow."
That said, the window rolls up and the car drives off leaving Genma to
scowl at it as it leaves him behind. He stands there for a moment,
glaring at the receding vehicle before he lowers his head and, not
knowing what else to do, continues with his jog.
**********************************************************
The fight is probably the most exciting that any Genma fan has seen in
ages. The man that he is facing is actually standing up to him,
getting hits in where no one else has in so many fights. People cheer
as the two trade blows back and forth, blood flowing down both their
faces and spit flying with each successful hit. The only one in the
audience who isn't cheering is the only one whom Genma really cares
about, his son. Ranma sits there, "watching" the fight impassively and
wondering why his father isn't destroying the horribly slow fighter he
is facing.
The bell rings and another round comes to an end as the two fighters
sit down in separate corners, resting up for a moment as their helpers
mop the sweat and blood from their faces. Genma just sits there,
waiting for the bell to signal the start of the nest round, waiting
for the Fixer's man to tell him when to proceed. He doesn't have to
wait long for the second.
A shady-looking man with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth sidles
up next to the ropes on Genma's sided of the ring. He looks Genma up
and down for a moment before speaking.
"It's time. Just give him a nice, easy opening and go down. Don't do
anything stupid, remember your boy." Genma looks at the man for a
moment before lower his head and shaking some of the liquid off. He
then glances out into the audience to where he can see his son
listening to someone explaining what's happening in the fight to him.
When he looks back towards the thug there is a fire in eyes that
wasn't present a few moments ago.
"My son is exactly who I'm thinking of. My son and one of the only
truly important things I taught him. Never give up, a Saotome never
loses." With that, the bell is rung and Genma stands once more to meet
the other man. They bow slightly to each other out of respect and the
referee signals them to begin. His opponent leads with a quick two-
punch combo, which he easily evades. He ducks the first punch and
brings up his arm to deflect the second before throwing several
punches of his own, all of which connect with devastating results.
Spit and blood mix as both fly from the other fighter's mouth, as his
head twists about and his body collapses out from under him like a
puppet whose strings have been cut. The crowd goes silent as the
referee counts out loudly to ten, before holding Genma's hand up and
announcing him the winner.
In the back of the room near the door, the Fixer stares angrily at the
ring before he signals the dozen men with him and they all head out
the back way.
**********************************************************
Genma walks out the back door, his bag over his shoulder and his head
down. He finds himself strangely calm, knowing as he does what's about
to happen. He steps out into the calm alley and looks up at the dozen
or so men arrayed behind the Fixer. The Fixer has an ugly looking
scowl on his face and Genma can't help but smile slightly thinking of
how much money he has undoubtedly cost him this day.
"You're tired, Genma. Tired, hurt and outnumbered. Not even you can
fight all of them. Just give up now, it'll be easier in the long run."
The Fixer smiles that cocky smile of his, the one that says that
nothing you do will make any difference at all, that in the end, he
will win. Genma knows that he can't win this fight, knows that the
Fixer is right, but as he told his son, you never give up in a fight
or you've lost before you've begun.
The first two men go down easily to Genma, one falling where he stood
while the other made a meaty thwack against the far wall. The third
one managed to get a good hit in before he too fell to Genma,
receiving a roundhouse kick to the side of his head. The fourth man
however manages to get a hit to the back of Genma's head with the bat
he carries and the fight goes downhill from there. The men overwhelm
Genma's tired defenses and within moments have him on his knees,
beating him mercilessly with fists, feet and various weapons. One man
uses a knife to carve up Genma's face, leaving blood to fall to the
ground, pooling at his feet. Finally all the men step back and Genma
merely kneels there on the ground, too hurt and too exhausted to move.
The Fixer steps forward, one hand reaching into his jacket and pulling
forth a rather impressive looking revolver. Genma just stares ahead as
the Fixer steps in front of him and lifts his head, opening his mouth
to shove the barrel of the gun violently inside.
Genma's eyes flick to the Fixer's and he sees the smile on the Fixer's
face as he cocks back the hammer.
The trigger is pulled, the hammer falls and the deafening sound of
thunder fills the alley.
Genma Saotome falls.
To Be Continued......
Authors Notes: I got this idea while reading some of my brother's
Daredevil comics(Ahhhh, brother's, always a good source of comics to
read^_^). I don't think I've ever come across a fic with Ranma in Matt
Murdock's shoes so I thought I'd see what would happen. This is
actually based very much off of Frank Miller's "The Man Without Fear"
five-part mini-series, which I'd highly recommend to anyone who hasn't
read it. It ranks up in my top ten all time favorite comics(along with
at least three other of Miller's works, the best of which will always
be "The Dark Knight Returns" for anyone who cares). Please don't flame
me if you notice dialog that comes straight from the original comics,
since I'm admitting right now that I did in fact use some, especially
when he first meets Stick, but I did try to change most of it to be as
original as possible. Things will change more as the series goes on
and Ranma heads back to Japan, but it'll still be heavily based on the
events in the mini-series. As always, C&C can be sent to me at
ranikkoku@hotmail.com or in the guestbook of my website where this
will be archived as soon as I get around to it
www.geocities.com/ranikkoku
Thanks
Bob The Mutant Lobster