Ryoko had been gone all morning, and Washu was worried. Everything she had was gone. Even her tiny creations she had made from food when she was particularly bored had been taken. It was time to search. She took her backpack and some food, and began to walk down the one road leading away from Tenchi's house. It did not take her more than an hour to find her wayward daughter, tossed like a doll on the roadside, splayed awkwardly as if she had been thrown for more than a few yards. Thankfully, her lifesigns were still readily evident, and no bones were broken, at least not after the healing had taken affect before she went unconscious, but her head was seriously injured, and she could not be woken from her death like state. Washu instantly transported Ryoko back to her lab, and set to work repairing her daughter.

~~~~~~~~~~

"Where's Ryoko?" Tenchi asked abruptly about the time when their lunch began. "And for that matter, where's Washu?"

As if to answer his question, the miniscule genius stepped out of her lab and walked slowly to the table. She sat down without a word, but the tears in her eyes and the evident grief in her face told him everything.

"Washu... Where's Ryoko?"

"In my lab."

"Why?"

"She's... not well. Tenchi, do you know what a coma is?"

"Of course I do! It's... no... No, that can't be." Washu slowly nodded her head, and Tenchi shot up, almost upsetting the table, and streaked into her laboratory. It didn't take him more than a minute to find what he wanted. Ryoko lay comatose in something resembling a glass casket. Her head was the only thing not within, and wires ran from everywhere on her body to a massive machine measuring her life precisely, to the very amount of cells within her. "Ryoko..." whispered, amazed. "Ryoko..."

~~~~~~~~~~

Tenchi ran down the hall as fast as he could. He opened the door to his room and dashed inside with such haste that he accidentally knocked the picture right by his doorway to the floor. He dove into his closet, frantically digging through its contents, looking for something. He tossed everything out onto his floor, disregarding the mess it made entirely, so absorbed was he in his search. Finally, he pulled back from the closet with a sigh. In his hands rested a small brown book. He opened it, and scanned its pages. They were all blank. He sat back on his bed and began to write.

Dear Diary...