Ranma hadn't realized just how fast Ryouga'd gotten. Ryouga might never be as fast as him, but his opponent's speed was enough to surprise; then he cursed himself for not expecting the Bakusai-Tenketsu. Ranma jumped backwards, the fringes of the cloud of rock shrapnel grazing his arms and shredding his clothes, and landed inches away from the pit's gaping mouth. Through the explosion, he could barely hear Akane, screaming at his adversary.
"Ryouga, please! Stop it! It's not Ranma's fault!"
Ryouga either didn't hear, or he flat-out ignored her. He charged, fist pulled back. Should be easy to avoid that punch, Ranma thought, and leapt into the air. Ryouga ran beneath him--and pivoted on his heel, right at the edge of an empty Jusenkyou spring. For an instant, Ryouga had his back; Ranma twisted in midair.
There was a maniacal grin on his face that sent shivers down Ranma's spine. "Die, Ranma." Ryouga's fist went up, directed toward the underside of his nose: he wanted to kill him.
"No!"
There was a flash of pale blue: a dress. Ryouga quickly pulled his punch, but still, he struck the wearer of the dress--Akane.
Stunned, Ranma caught the limp body in his arms, staring blankly at the inert face. He noted the red area on her forehead where Ryouga's fist had connected. A... Akane? His gaze whipped up, and his eyes were trained on the Hibiki boy even while his body gently lay Akane down over the dry soil... except for when his lips briefly brushed over hers.
Again, he looked up. The madness in Ryouga's eyes was gone; in its place was horror. What had he done to Akane? The two blue eyes broke the contact and caressed the pale face again. Akane's pretty--beautiful--face, and then, to her breast, rising and falling... Akane was alive. But no one hit her like that.
Ranma snarled.
~~~~~*~~~~~
Ranma stared at his hands as he sat in the waiting room in the hospital. His hands were big, he noted, stretching his fingers. They should've been able to protect Akane. Like his heart, they didn't want Akane to be hurt.
They had nearly killed Ryouga.
He looked up through the window set in the wall across from where he sat. Somewhere behind the thick glass and the half-open venetian blinds, Akane lay in a bed, a breathing mask or something strapped across her face. According to the doctor, that--slowed breathing--was normal for a concussion, which, when he'd asked for details, was usually caused by a fall or a blow to the head of some sort. After taking in the tears in his clothing, the doctor'd cocked her head and gone so far as to ask, in heavily accented Japanese, if there were any problems--she couldn't have meant between the two of them!
He... cared for Akane too much.
Around him, there was white, white, white, white, red, white, white, white. The smell of freshly cleaned and dried bedding--which also smelled like emptiness. There were murmurs in Chinese. Occasionally, words and bits of phrases registered in his mind, picked up from his prior training journey. Most of them were pessimistic. A little girl looked at him curiously before turning to answer a woman whom Ranma assumed was her mother.
His head drooped, although his torso was supported by his arms on his knees. He didn't like this place at all; it meant something was wrong with someone, somewhere, that that someone was so weak as to need care. Akane wasn't weak, though. Ryouga was to blame. No girl could withstand the guy's punch, pulled or not!
Ranma had killed before--he'd killed Saffron... but not in that way. Saffron had been reborn a baby, at least. Ranma had worried, then, but hadn't done anything more about the problem, because Akane had awoken. It was the damn girl's fault he'd been so angry at Saffron. She'd probably only pretended to be dead, so he'd do or say something stupid, and she could hold it against or to him... But he'd been glad.
This time, his hands had tightened and tightened around Ryouga's neck. He remembered spitting in the guy's face. "You bastard! You say you love her, and still, you fucking knocked her unconscious!"
Ryouga'd wheezed; it was all he could do.
It was when he stopped struggling that Ranma came to his senses, and he fled, Akane's body cradled in his arms.
He had no idea what kind of condition Ryouga was in, right then.
By then, most of Ranma's body had gone numb. He needed to move. Ranma got to his feet, at last, and looked uncertainly around him. Too many people, even in this section of the hospital. A few eyed the rips in his shirt as they strode past, but he knew that he'd just as quickly be gone from their memories as they had from his vision. Briefly, he wondered if they too had dear ones here.
He found that his body had unconsciously moved toward the window, which his breath fogged. "Akane," he whispered, as if believing that, once she heard him, she would wake... but no, still, she slept, a splash of black-and-blue spread over the pillow where her head rested. His hands, wanting to smooth out that hair, were placed against the window.
They were big hands.
~~~~~*~~~~~
A floodlight shined in the girl's pale face-- and yet, she could not see. Air that seemed permeated by ink surrounded her, except for that stark, blinding whiteness. Her feet knew no ground; a chill seemed to seep over and under them, tendrils of cloud embracing her naked body.
Above her, infinity.
Below, oblivion.
Whispering voices circled her, taunting her. They darted to her ear in one second, then away again, in the next. Who is this? they demanded. Who is this? Who are you? You are whom? Who is this?
"I-- I am Tendou Akane," she answered loudly, "third daughter of the Tendou doujou. I am seventeen-years-old... a junior at Furinkan High School in the Nerima Ward of Tokyou, Japan."
They laughed at her. You are nothing, nothing, nothing, little one. You are a grain of sand in the desert you call the world. You are insignificant.
You are nothing.
~~~~~*~~~~~
The dream slipped away as soon as consciousness loomed near; she did not grasp for it and instead let it flee. She opened her eyes... and cold confusion settled, weighing down and making heavy her heart.
Where was she?
Hostile white walls surrounded her, though glass hemmed her in on two sides. The window on her right was strangled by several pairs of blinds; she almost thought she saw a shadow flicker there... The air was cool, though not fresh, though not from the outside, where the moon peeked out from behind thick grey clouds and the wind murmured. A small television had been mounted in the far corner near the ceiling. A soft buzz came, slipping between the white-painted wood and the floor to carry voices to her ears.
Was she in a hospital? More importantly, why was she in there? An unvoiced question danced beyond her mind's reach; giving up, she decided that it would come, sooner or later, with answer in tow.
She slid from the bed, bare foot tingling at the frigidity of the tiled floor. Awkwardly, she took several steps toward the shallow counter where the sink and the mirror were. In the process, she bumped against the dinner tray, and it rolled aside, as if it wanted nothing to do with her. On the other hand, what she guessed to be her hospital gown seemed quite taken with her: static caused the sickly green fabric to cling to her body.
At last, she managed to reach the counter, her hands stretching out for a hold to steady her quaking body. Her head was throbbing, and she rubbed at the back of her neck, grimacing, before the pounding of the drums faded quietly away.
Then, she looked up into the mirror hung above the sink, and her heart writhed in her chest. Shaking, a hand reached up and fingered the shorn tips of black, black hair. Had it always been so short?
From the glassy reflection, large brown eyes stared at her blankly, flickering from mussed hair to pink lips. The body beneath the face was unfamiliar, as well, though it seemed that she had kept it in good shape, some time ago: it was lithe and a bit muscular... Very nice, yes...
Once again, she searched the face of the girl in the mirror, in hopes of finding any one aspect that she could cling to. There was none. Perhaps, perhaps if she washed her face--the person in the mirror would vanish, and her true self would appear. Whoever she was, added the quiet hum of the ventilation system.
Frenzied, she gripped the handles of the faucet and twisted. Steaming water gushed forth from the tap, spattering her gown with tiny droplets. Her hands didn't seem to notice that the water was scalding as they threw water up into her face and scrubbed it raw with a coarse paper towel. Tears of desperation were wiped away as soon as they trickled forth; her own ears did not catch her whimpers of pain.
There was a shout, and hands, not her own, killed the water. ...They slapped her across the face. Once again, the water was revived as a patient trickle, though she could plainly see, even through a veil of tears, that, this time, it was not steaming.
The hands dipped beneath the faucet with a small rag and wrung it loosely before moving toward her. They had slapped her before, and so she shied away, crying out. Her cheek burned--whether from the slap or the temperature of the water was unknown.
A red-clothed arm encircled her, firmly pulling her body close. She became uncomfortably aware that the gown was awfully short: she could feel the air conditioning caress her bottom. What was this person going to do to her?
"G-Get away from me!" She gave a shove, but it was like trying to push the nearby wall, albeit the man's chest was not quite as hard. He was strong--he could do anything he liked, it appeared! Her fists were not going to be enough to hold him off. Already, the burns were beginning to sting.
"Dammit, Akane," her assailant whispered fiercely. Curiously enough, his hands were every bit as gentle as his voice was furious, as they trailed the damp cloth across her bright red skin. Just as curious, she lifted her face and welcomed the coolness, the fear having dissipated. Here was someone who recognized her! Maybe he could help her--he had already told her her name. "How could you be so stupid?"
She did not hear this. "Akane," she mouthed as he carefully took her hands and placed them beneath a trickle of cool water. Even her name was not familiar, but then again... She met gazes with the man, not noticing the faint clip-clop of heels on the tile outside her room. A beautiful blue, she noted of his eyes, absently, before she spoke.
