------------------------------------------------------------------------- * Ranma 1/2 Fan Fiction * Ranma 1/2 Fan Fiction * Ranma 1/2 Fan Fiction * ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Switch: Herbs and Spices: Chapter 19 (/22) by Nikholas "Switch" F. Toledo ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Please do remember that Ranma 1/2 is a trademark and a copyright of and by some big name people and companies I am not even worthy to introduce. Anybody who says that I took any of their stuff better not find me hiding. Also, great thanks to whoever reads this and likes it, good thanks to whoever reads it anyhow, and teeny-weeny thanks to whoever else even saw this. The seeds of the righteous... never mind. It's Day 3. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- "I believed in you." He stared at the head that did not speak. "I believe you, Dad." His father stared back at him, with soft eyes. In a female voice, Genma didn't say, "what does this mean?" His father stared back at him, with soft eyes. In a female voice, Genma didn't say, "eep?" Something good was burning up. Someone was singing: "how would we have loved to be the other choice?" There was a boat sailing into the horizon, where the sun was already setting. He tickled the chin of the one he loved with his right hand. His fiancée stared back at him, with soft eyes. In a female voice, Akane didn't say, "eep?" "How would it have been in the other hand?" Someone tugged at his left hand. The bokken seemed stiff as Ranma said, "I believed in you." Irritated, he took a clump of her red hair in his hand and purred. The sizzling sound increased. "How I've wanted to hear, in your voice." His fiancée stared back at him, with soft eyes. In a female voice, Akane didn't say, "what does this mean?" He screamed at the flaming sun, sailing into the horizon. "I believe you, Dad." The sun boiled back, and he felt a sunbeam swipe at him, like a katana thrown at light-speed. Akane was burning, "leave me again, will you?" Ukyo painted her face with dribbling sauce. "All the songs which rhymed my name." He melted in the heat of their blazing tongues. "Finally!" The doors boomed closed in Kuno's Regal Domicile. Kuno, as do most eccentrics populating the Kuno Residence, had more than one bedroom that he called his own. His Samurai's Slumber, his Poet's Purchase, his Old Room... and this, the Master's Bedroom. (Actually, the Master's Bedroom is what Kodachi calls the basem...) Here, and only here, will he receive the attentions of... The bed - sparse, clean and untainted. He had had the oddest sensation - the most peculiar sound... like the breaking of hems... or - "Of course!" he shouted. "The sound is only," whip! the motion of a fast-moving sleeve, "the rumbling of the very heavens!" Maniacally, he hefted the battered noodle cup in one hand, defying the godly decrees in their elemental grumblings. "Bray! Stamp the heavens underfoot in your jealous rage!" He himself took to the bed, not even bothering to balance himself rightly, soon doing so anyway. "Not even your lightning tridents and your creaky ceiling boards can stop true love!" Kuno guffawed as he stared at the highly-regarded instant meal, and saw... creaky ceiling boards? *ssssszzzzzkkRACK!* Stunned by the evident multi-colored moon hanging slightly above his bed, Tatewaki Kuno was unable to deflect the falling Tsubasa's hindquarters as it hit the ramen cup, tipping it in the now very unbalanced Kuno's hand. All the mighty Blue Thunder could say as he saw Tsubasa's blue boxers falling into his face was "AH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAG- glmph?!" Without malice. Without malice, her mind insisted, as she dredged it up from the gutter, along with some other aspects of her. I don't care whatever the hell he does, or who he does it with. I don't care, she lied. Slowly, deliberately, Shampoo lifted herself out of the trash bin (comforted slightly by the fact that it did not make any moves on her). She barely bothered to shake the shit out of her hairs - a hot bath would make her change her mind about that. About... him, though - that was a different matter. Something had to be done - soon. She jumped onto the quickest path to the Cat Cafe, barely avoiding a rushing blur in apron strings. This is just so #$%$ kewl! It was just so much like Saotome to not understand the power (!) he had been throwing away and had been taking for granted. Knowing him, he'd be using his "curse" to sate his carnal instincts - or maybe to force Aka- NO! "H-how dare you, R-Ranma!" Pulling on his sleeves, he tied his candle headdress on, and started to pound a well-oiled nail into a straw Ranma-quin. "Hikaru! Stop that racket and come down here this instant!" The implements of symbolic (and hopefully representative) pain and torture quickly disrevealed themselves as Gosunkugi meekly replied. "Yes, mother." He'd already stepped in on her today - trying to be on the safe side was always a good deal [2]. Strangely enough, Mrs. Gosunkugi was more concerned in a positive manner than usual, that is, concerned in a negative manner. "A letter just arrived from a little girl for you." She handed him a light pink envelope, with just a hint of perfumery. "A-A little g-girl?" Had he not been tripping over the last word, he might have gone several ways: he might have realized "a girl, for me?"; he might have realized "a girl gave me a note?"; he might have realized "a girl gave me a PERFUMED note?"; he might have realized "wait - do I know any little girls?"; after the last thought, he would have realized, "that must have been Miss Hinako...", which would have gotten him nowhere, unless he asked his mother (politely, of course), "did this little girl have long brown hair?" to which his mother would have replied, "yes, Hikaru, she did," then she would have slyly added, "is she someone I should know?" - he would have then shrugged it off by saying, "oh, she's my teacher," and his mother would have gotten the completely wrong idea that Hikaru had been taking Home Ec class. Instead, he took the note, said, "thanks, mom," and trampled on upstairs. It was in his room when he eventually ran through the trouble mentioned above (having to peek downstairs at the last). At last, he read the note. [2] The myth of the good deal is prevalent throughout different schools of thought and crosses cultural boundaries. For a more elaborate discussion of its related pantheons, read "The Wealth of Nations" by Sainted CEO Adam Smith. "Oh dear." She pulled away from him slowly, but firmly, holding him with her eyes. "Don't, don't move. I'll be right back." He noticed it much sooner than she did - lightly fried fish, doubtlessly blistering lightly over a very thin layer of vegetable oil. A bottle of pickled radishes standing near the pan and, yes, two eggs, scrambled. He crept out of bed, inching by the wall, checking on his toes and the floor and made sure that nothing was coming between them. He edged to the doorframe and dared to peek out into the short corridor. There she was, apron all ready, whipped around her bodice - you could not tell it was whipped, hastily at first. It was the single most attractive piece of clothing she had - the broad frills would make lace blush - the sweet, sensual curves of the simple cloth, accentuated by the subtle artistry of the tones of the burn stains, the tints of condiments spilled with the greatest care, amongst the oily kissmarks flavored with spice and appetite which begged for more than bread and circuses, all arranged across the canvass spanning her body, her heart, her soul. But that was to the further side, as she had her back turned to him. At this moment, it was the strings of that self-same apron that were taunting him, begging him to release them. Her focus was on the pan an the spatula - she would not notice him taking off the fabulously daring *phsh*. "Oh, you cheat!" She assumed the position: arms akimbo, hips set back, face readably unreadable. "Didn't I tell you that you needed to wait in bed? You're such a naughty boy!" "I'd rather show you," he said, grabbing her fully in his arms, keeping the culinary lingerie between him and her bountiful... "Show me what?" Genma's grin disappeared. He stopped his turning, cocked his head to one side, noting that Nodoka was wrestling with the eggs she had barely saved from severely burning, and that the apron had been discarded in a heap on the edge of the sink. He had not noticed in front of him - it was probably a new old addition, and the child before him would have been familiar to his estranged wife, had they known each other longer - the child he had once been, when he was of the age of Ranma when he... "Oh... I'm a little too dizzy... don't, mind, m-" Somewhere, someone really smart was keeping tabs on the population of Nerima. That is to say, probably. The conspiracy theorists have been adamant that if Tokyo was monitored with eagle eyes, Nerima would not be looked over. Rife with overpowered overnight visitations and tremendous wastes of energy and manpower, Nerima was the distraction under which the whole world played cricket. You would imagine the Kunos would have their hand in that - paranoia is kind of their shtick - and it would be within their budget and reasoning - although it would seem a little too devious for the principal or any of the younger Kunos. It wouldn't, however, be such a wasteful investment - especially for large companies with an interest in the anomalies plaguing such an unassuming piece of surreal estate. Amazingly enough, it also would not have to be done obviously or overtly - and it needn't even be done in chronological order. Hanayoshi Mansion, morning. "Click." A pair of eyes opened, the shutters of a keen analytic machine drawing open with the hair-trigger trap set by one who really, really didn't know why it had to be set in the first place. "Unnnnghhh." Barely-focused eyes could scarcely detect anything of importance. However, details do not need to be seen for a suspicion to be founded - foremost on detection is motion, followed by color. What she saw was a blue-shifting brownish blur passing across the plane of her vision, from left to right. "Wha-?" she was in the middle of saying, when she was lifted into the air. Lifted, of course, was literal, but she fell (again, really) onto her couch (only by definition), which cushioned (two-way literal) her bottom (figurative - lit. dorsal end) - which was very strange, because her "couch" was notorious for resembling a pagan sacrificial altar with its stiffness and the hell you feel sitting on it; her back still bore the marks of a cramp it had kneaded over the night. It felt fluffy. "Whaaaaaa..." was what she said, the unusual softness blunting her cutthroat response. Having to remind herself that her apartment was being invaded by a rampaging washing machine, she fought sleep and rolled off of the sitting-thing. Before she landed on the wooden floor (which now shone with a clean that had never before been seen by the floor itself), she engaged her onboard Shuffle mechanisms, and sped after the chirping ruddy blur. As Hinako sped behind the other, details were beginning to make themselves out and the voice was coming to intelligible pitch, with Doppler and relativistic effects reduced significantly. The other girl was obviously highly displeased with the care and maintenance of the "household" and was adamant about the immediate rehabilitation of the area, while she was around to do something. "Stop it!" she yelled. Despite the remarkable speeds that they were going, the intruder stopped immediately, turned, and saw Hinako's wide-eyed expression as they nearly crashed into each other. "Are you okay, teacher Hinako?" Kasumi asked as she held out a hand to the disciplinarian English instructor. Not even bothering to brush the dust from off of herself, she immediately started to look for one of her coins. "Who are you, what are you doing here, why are you-?" "Here," Kasumi simply said, smiling, leaving her with an invite, and zooming off to the next stop. "H-hey! Hey, you, miss!" She clutched the card, and stared, more than slightly afraid, of the strange, wide-open space she had in which she ended up, in her apartment. "Where am I?" Strangely, Ryoga knew exactly where he was. He longingly looked at the peaceful calm that was Ukyo's sleeping form. Her breathing had finally lost the stutter of her hiccuping a half-hour ago. He wanted - even tried to will - her to wake up. He wanted to tell her how sorry he was about all this, how he wanted to leave now, rather than cause her distress, respiratory or otherwise. She'd always have Ranma - well, actually, she'd never have Ranma, but she'll always have the thought of him. He wondered if she would be happy to trade thoughts with him - she, with her perfect impression of a void - he, with his endless embarrassments and humiliations. Would she still love him, knowing full- well how much a jerk Ranma really is? He wanted that peace of mind, a trade for a piece of his mind. He wanted a piece of her mind. And what would he see, through that shard of her soul? Dedication, hard work, a list of options of which he was a pathetic bottom-liner. Did it matter? He was just a viable alternative - she was just rebounding from a depressing episode. He was a friend, a good friend and - at least, this time - a real friend. She'd always been there for him - or had she? Was he? He shook his head - sentimentality made for a poor martial art. From his angle, he just noticed a glow. A nearly invisible trail from the side of Ukyo's eye, to the side of her cheek, and down the side of her face glittered, a pure facet of her heart making itself known. Somewhere between tentatively and eagerly, his fingertips traced the texture of the teardrop stretching itself into disappearance. It was then he promised to watch for each tear as it became too heavy for her to keep. The blue void screamed obscenities at about fourteen hundred syllables per second, howling at frequencies that could be felt by the fingertips, if one dared to touch his nemesis. It blared out its oaths through thousand-watt speakers, woofers and tweeters, focused intently on the confines of the room. Beneath it, a warning light blinked unheeded, unconcerned with the particulars and the circumstances. Steady, calming gusts of wind at nineteen degrees fell much like rainclouds, stoking the dying embers, keeping them from erupting into chaos and heat. Had they just blown in, they might have smothered the flames, killed the senses at their source. Hulking monoliths and precariously piled-up mounds of plastic, fabric and paper sat to obstruct and to obfuscate, a miniature labyrinth that often came to shin-high, often to knee-high, jutting out to snag at the hips. Under such terrible curses as flooded this ravine, they shook with the littlest of indignation, resonating only because they must, indifferent without the air of carelessness. The only hint of metal came from a gentle creaking of an overused door, a nervous chattering between jealous lovers. Footsteps - cautious, steady, as though not to upset the very hairs of the muffling carpet. Cautious, as they trod lightly, respectfully - cautious, or familiar. Eyes flew lightly on the bright whistles and the red blares, set in a black box that has known of all sort of experience. A clucking - the filled capsule is replaced, not even ejected, by one, empty - the alarms ceased. Slipping the jacket onto the incriminating module, the intruder turned his attention to the slumbering mound huddling near a wall. "Moron," he said, turning off the television set, then making his way out of his younger brother's room. Winter silence ruled. The door blasted open, sending stacks of manga and CDs into beds of used clothes. "HEYA, FRECKLES!" 'Freckles', unfortunately, had only one mouth. His one brain, which suddenly found a way to assert its control, needed to say several different things: "what time is it?" for waking up; "what do YOU want?" for the hour; "watch it!" for the door; "watch it!" for the stuff on the floor; "don't you know how to knock?" for his sister; "can you say that a little louder, some people in Hokkaido didn't hear you" for the volume; "'room' to you, too" for the pun; "eep!" for when he realized that he fell asleep watching. He ended up sitting and stretching, with one foot lashing out, the other foot reaching for his VHS player, a hand scratching head through his perpetually brown tumbleweed hair, the other pointing to the sibling then to the door then to the floor, his mouth engaged only in saying "geez!" However, Hiroshi's mouth could not even be trusted to such a simple task as that; besides, it wasn't even everything - some people are just so impatient. "Geezzzz, Mary Louise albino!" It wasn't really such a big slip. His sister did her part in shutting him up with an envelope. He eyed the squarish note, noticing the sweet smell that was wafting into his nostrils. "Open it!" she suggested. He took the invite slowly, edging when his sister leaned on her arms, extremely intent on the contents of her errand. "Who's't frrom?" "Dunno. This kid brought it, said it was yours." She leaned again, not even wary of his morning breath. "So, who's it from? Is it Sa-?" He shot her a look that said nothing nice, and pulled the flap. She sat across the table from him, eyeing him as he devoured the portion of breakfast that she had given him. He had discarded the glasses he had been wearing the night before, not needing them to see clearly. She herself had no appetite, quickly losing both direction and conviction, as feelings of sympathetic maternal concern washed over her. The child had obviously come to her after she had yelped (screamed, most likely) in a mixture of fatigue and despair from brutally training with the sword. Although he seemed vaguely familiar, she could not assign a name to his face - peculiar, as he would have had to be a neighbor's child. But what mother of this day and age would not be anxious over the overnight disappearance of her little boy? And, yet, her longing increased, the sharp double-edge of her razor-sharp hurt ebbing, dulling into that throbbing pain in her temples. A part of her wanted replacement, a filling-in. Selfish, so selfish, she chided herself, but she still fantasized about the child in front of her, watching him grew, blossom, live his years with her... She hadn't even noticed the tears, until she saw him shuttle between forced inattention and concern. She demurely sniffed, bringing a tissue to her eye. He mumbled something she didn't hear, as she was drowning herself in sigh and he had his head bowed, but at her prompt, he turned to look at her with his hawk-like gaze and repeated: "Do you miss him that much?" She could not stutter. "Yes..." She heard the chair move backward, and the pitter-patter of his steps began, and began to recede. "Wait!" "No." Genma halted, nonetheless. "If I do, all you think of if the child you've been missing." He walked, dreaming to be faster, but whispered, at the door, "but I missed you, too." "Now, now, what could that racket be?" The caterwauling in the alley was definitely louder than yesterday's clanging, and definitely more disquieting - it was the sound of an Amazon warrior in hell. Cologne opened the back door to the knocking that was barely heard over the din. "Eh?" Shampoo hung drained, bloodied, hair in clumps, yet still kicking, clawing, squirming in the grasp of her diabolic tormentor, screaming bloody murder. She reeked of defeat, of gutter madness, of slowly, stolidly amassing power - concentration which would be her be-all and her end-all. The vile torturer merely smiled, and scrubbed the cat with a rough cloth, taking care to avoid the vicious claws, which had already broke their owner's flesh. "Here," Kasumi said, handing the noisy feline and two letters. "You might want her cleaned up first." With that, Kasumi zoomed off. "... this just in: a full-grown alligator has been caught in the Nerima district of Tokyo just minutes ago. This large adult specimen was captured with much difficulty and only through the efforts of ten brave zookeepers from the local district zoo. "The zoo superindentent has denied the suspicions of a fresh outbreak of a yet undiscovered freshwater strain of Mad Cow Disease. Several such incidents of the disease have been reported in the said district within the last year. "A reliable source has mentioned strips of cloth hanging from the beast's mouth, indicating one or more casualties. More news in an hour. Good morning." "Honey?" He tuned down the TV. "Yes." "Is Daisuke still in his room?" Footsteps. An opening door. "Nope." "Well, this girl came and - wait." A smile slowly resounded. "Dad! Do you know anyone named Yuka?" Eventually, of course, he had to come back to the scene of the crime. After all, Sasuke Sarugakure was the loyal and humble servant to the great Kuno clan. No matter what the circumstance, he would have to fulfill his duty, even in the face of the most lethal of punishments awaiting. Case in point: it was time to fix the sheets. Not to say that he couldn't be nervous - he waited just past the large doors to Tatewaki Kuno's, err, the Kuno master bedroom. He had almost mustered the courage to step up to the door and wonder whether he would knock on it or not, he heard a rumbling just outside the gate. "That must be the people come to repair the piping." However, instead of stopping outside the gate, the rumbling grew closer. "Eh?" He turned about, and gaped in horror at the monstrosity that was heading his way along the corridor. "Saaaaaasssuuuukkeeeeee..." "ack!" He stepped backward, knowing full well that there was no way to turn. He would valiantly stand ground, protecting lord, liege... "Sorry, Master." He opened the door and slammed it behind him. Moments later, a mob crashed into the largest room of the Kuno mansion and made a big mess, too. If she was asked, she would have never been able to tell a soul why she danced like she did with him: slow, effortless, head lain on his shoulder. Maybe, for that moment in time, she never existed. That it was a moment skewered, not connected to the past, not possessing a future. Whatever enchantment was cast, she shrugged it off at the end of the wordless song. Forcing herself to look him in the eye, she started, "I..." "I love you." She blinked. He blinked. They smiled. Smiled at the slip, smiled at the mistake they almost made, over a shared moment. They both knew, of course, knew of the love that had blossomed between the two of them, knew of the sacrifices they were making for the true loves they were questing. Positively poetic - their greatest obstacles were themselves. They parted, fingers and tails turning into smoke, indifferent gray in the black and white of love and hate. She began to panic. Was this pain? An error? She sought his face, a sign to assure. but she could not see further than his lips... blooming, spitting, cussing, praising, calming, shouting, moaning, being closer and closer and closer an closer an closer n deeper n smoothern kis Ukyo woke with a yelp. She gulped breaths as she sat up - immediately assigning the pain to her temples. The room glowed with ambient sunlight, setting the time to about half-past ten in the morning. It made the gloominess stick to the walls and the floor and the wood, aerating with authority and timeliness. A hand covered her forehead - the heat did not come from fever - and rotated the flesh at the sides of her head. The other hand traced the dryness of her lips, a side effect of not being out in the sun for how long. Without turning, the second hand roved the sheets, blindly crossing silk dunes - finding a familiar set of calluses and weatherworn knuckles. Had he always been there? Had he been waiting, all this time? She traced the fist, its texture - the skin was unyielding to her probing, unpliable and broken in spots. It was an unfriendly hand, one which did not trust its world. Even her own hand, hardened by circumstance and preference, seemed delicate, pleading as it covered the extremity in fetal position. His fingers were coiled around cloth, but it was not the blanket, nor was it the sheets... she checked her neck and, sure enough, her keepsake was not there. The flesh seemed raw, though, and she was thankful. She lay the hand by the young man's side as she extracted from the second-hand kiss, and she softly exited the bed on the other side as a noise made itself evident from downstairs. As the door closed, Ryoga moaned, turning on his side, keeping the arm with the hand Ukyo had caressed under, and ended up with his face on the bed. He lashed out with his other arm, and it landed in the middle of the bed, his hand still gripping Ukyo's half of the ribbon. How could he? Genma walked barefoot under the midmorning sun, not caring that he was on the way to the dojo. How could he have been so cruel? He could not feel the blistering on his soles, deafened by the blustering of his stupid ego. He was defeated by his pride, his stupid pride, and now he could never be with her, the one he had loved. Of what use was he now? Of what use had he ever been? "Oh, Kami-sama," he fell to his knees, "take me now." He disappeared in a gust of wind. Exactly three minutes and forty-nine seconds later, Nodoka Saotome passed by the spot the earth had last noted Genma Saotome. "Yes, thank you, I will." The man closed the door softly, moaning as his back began cramping. Inadvertently, he had the fleeting thoughts of Thai massage to comfort him - yet another vice he would have to give up. He wasn't really a snoop, but the envelope was not really sealed and the ribbon caught his pinkie and - well, okay, so he was curious. He took a short time digesting the gist of the note and sat down at the kitchen table as he passed by it to mull it all over. There was a story here, wasn't there? The girl had to be pregnant or something - why else would she be marrying at such a young age...? "That's it!" He stood, slamming a fist to the wood, and sped off to his room. The far door opened, and Sayuri came in, arms full of vegetables. "What was that all about?" She noticed the note as she set her groceries on the table. She leaned back as far as she comfortably could, as though the physical distance would aid her mind from properly focussing on the here and now. Indeed, her eyes were closed, and she felt flight in her veins. Already, she could hear the unearthly silence threatening to fall in sheets, broken by the bright rays of laughter, and of song. Peals and shimmers followed the cherry blossom petals as they danced along a gay breeze. "Break the breeze," they cheered, catcalling and jeering like children following a dream-being. But the breeze, indeed, could not be broken - it shook the decorations hung about - it winged its way through the crowd, weaving its hypnotic hymn - it lifted a pair of turtle doves celebrating their mating quite appropriately - and found itself smothered in the bride's kimono. It seemed as though the white butterflies concerted to fly from the blue fabric. Ukyo glowed as she wondered, "no one thought this would even be possible." Ryoga smiled, fangs smoothening his demeanor, "no one thought of being happy." She stood, the note addressed to "Ukyo Kuonji and Ryoga Hibiki" left on the grill, and went back to her bed and to her lover. "What a big mess!" Kasumi set down the batch of invites on the misplaced end table, immediately marking it to be the last piece of furniture to be replaced. She made a show of pulling up her sleeves as she turned - When Kodachi moaned. - and she gaped. The trench made its way through the center of the room, where most of the bed was. It swerved near the far wall of the room, causing floor boards to curl upward, crashed into a new walk-through window, and continued along most of the roof before turning one last time, making its last architectural modification. In its wake, wood, shingling and assorted pieces of clothing were strewn haphazardly. That was not what shocked her. What made Kasumi gape (and stare and balk and) was the evident ménage à trois that was interrupted by the twister. It was clearly evident that the way Tsubasa's hand had lain was the cause of Kodachi's moan, but it could be because of the way Kuno's face was in his... Kasumi did an immediate about-face, left three envelopes on the end table and reddily sped away. Terse quiet ruled the van. "Tranq ready?" "Y-yeah." No one complained that that was the fifth time in as many minutes. Turn... slowly... "Eh, what's that?" They stared at the pink, peach and dove white spectacle that had apparently overrun a household. "Sweeto!" Happosai merrily followed the chaos caused by the mob. He was surprised to find a brown blur rushing from beyond the destroyed doors of Kuno's master bedroom (not that it was still recognizable as such). "Was that...?" He said no more as he made the error of turning his head, thus slamming right into the pillar just beyond the bedroom. The water guns in his hands flung obediently followed momentum into the room. The doorbell rang again. Soun opened the gate and saw one of Akane's friends dragging another girl behind her. "Um, good m... is Ranma in?" Yuka looked confused. "He's still sleeping," Nabiki said. Soun quickly came to the conclusion that the girls were there to give Ranma last-minute advice on Akane, vis-à-vis Nabiki's invitation. He smiled in approval. "Would you girls like to come in for some tea?" he added. He did not realize that, with him and Nabiki outside, Nodoka had no one keeping an eye on her. She slumped, tiredness finally taking its toll. As a final try, she rang the doorbell one last time. Kasumi dropped the wedding invitation in the mailbox and trudged onto the last stop, the stop farthest from this one, leaving the empty house to dream by itself. Dr. Tofu wanted to step out into the day. He had no reason to worry that the materials had been used in some sort of mischievous plot to drug key figures in the district, to influence and to sway the vanguard athletes of the community into distraction - possibly petty argument or even self-destruction. After all, who in their right mind...? He opened the door. "Hello, Dr. Tofu," greeted the Mth volume of "Flora, Fauna and What-Not". "Hello, and good morning," he said - he didn't have a reason not to say it. The book fell back to reveal bright brown eyes, set in a smiling face. She gave him the book but did not wait for him to leave it behind as she tugged at his hand. Taking Kasumi's tiny hand in his, they walked hand in hand to destiny. The doorbell rang again. Nabiki opened the gate for the Shinto priest. "I'm sorry, I'm early, right?" ------------------------------------------------------------------------- (Detach here) I have always been a science fiction writer. Some of you would have noticed all that in the writing of this fic. My collection has been filled with the like of Star Trek, and Douglas Adams's Hitchhiker trilogy (yes, all five of them) and... well, that's it. Well, a lot of Star Trek novels, I guess. From there, I went to comic books, then to manga, then, well, it's like I've gone full circle. The first effort I have made was science fiction, but it still hasn't seen the length I've gotten here. I guess I've always been a fantasy writer, then. I mean, sci-fi is a special field of fantasy, right? The first novel I read was the Hobbit - man, was that a shocker. After that, well - Good Omens comes to mind. There's most of the Pratchett that I've read so far. (So forgive me: I still haven't gone through Act I of Discworld II, the game, that is.) I mean, I love the feel of a good descriptive epic between my - erhm. So I've always been partial to long, drawn storylining, tapestries and detailed characterizations which swam above, below and around you, swallowing you up in its grand But, I digress. For all intents and purposes, I have ended my writing of this fanfic - the next two parts will have to write themselves out, or they'll never come out at all. I thank you who have come down the road with me for this, the homestretch of the storyarc. I have been trying to keep most everyone in the dark about the eventuality of the story - I mean, I've been writing most of the story, as in the dark as you, in the details, at least. I mean, I wanted to write something I wanted to enjoy reading as well (from a writer's POV). But, I'm lying. I've always been a bad liar - there are, after all, two more parts in this book to write, plus the second storyarc itself (to direct, I had hoped, but apparently I will write it as it comes - if it comes...) and still several anecdotes in the third compilation. But I have enjoyed writing this story - playing around with people's minds has become such an interesting pastime. [summary insert] Finally, the food fight to start all food fights. When they meant pot luck, they did not know what Goddess had been summoned - but don't get any wrong ideas, I'm not planning on any crossover soon. Will three entrées be enough? The first two will be served in part eleven, rounded out with the main course in the last chapter - with dessert in the epilogue. Grab a hold of a napkin holder - you'll use them for more than just the tips of your mouth. (Detach here) -------------------------------------------------------------------------
