Let the Curtain Fall

by Mike2

Lo! thy dread Empire, Chaos, is restored; Light dies before thine uncreating word: Thy hand, great Anarch, lets the curtain fall; And universal darkness buries all.

2. Higher Education

Let the Curtain Fall

            Lo! thy dread Empire, Chaos, is restored;

            Light dies before thine uncreating word:

            Thy hand, great Anarch, lets the curtain fall;

            And universal darkness buries all.

            The Dunciad

Act One,

Part One:

Higher Education

Staring indifferently out the window, watching the urban landscape blur past, he wished for the intermittent wooden clacking of an older train, but heard nothing from the bullet train that carried him away from Nerima.  The terrain they passed was unfamiliar to him and he found that strange, for he must have come this very way at some point in the past with his father during their training voyage.  But that had been by foot, of course, or by bike, or by local line if finances had allowed for it; either way, it had all been a very long time ago, and never at these speeds that reduced the wealth of details to insignificant phantoms.  He yearned for those personal minutiae, the touches that salvaged the otherwise mundane and identical locales from irrelevance; he yearned yet didn't dare suggest slowing the inevitable progress of the train that carried him towards a future his parents assured him was both exciting and necessary, and the achievement of what he had thus far worked towards all his life.

            He pulled his gaze from the window.  Across from him sat his mother, looking small but refined in contrast with the bulk of his father squeezed into the seat next to her.  His mother flashed a brief smile his way before returning her attention to the magazine at hand; his father released another snore.  In the seat beside Ranma sat Akane.

            Eyes lingering longer than any single glance warranted, he searched her over for indications of harm, and frowned at the fading bruise still marring her left forearm.  He noted that the ugly yellowed centre had finally faded to a diffused brown.  He still felt angry at himself for having caused it.  Otherwise, she seemed fine, and Ranma had to admit that, on this trip to decide their collective future, she appeared far more at ease than he currently felt.  In fact, she looked far more rested than he could ever remember seeing her.  She sat, leaning back slightly, legs crossed at the knees, reading attentively from some book, the sun streaming in from the window highlighting the yellow trim of her skirt, the detailing on her sleeves, a brief flash of white as she smiled at something she read.  Uncute?  Hardly, nor had he had occasion to call her such in some time.  School was all but over now, but in the incessant studying demands of the final stretch leading to the university entrance exams, it seemed there had been little reason to fight at all.  Little reason, and even less time, to do anything.  Pulling away momentarily, so that his continued staring wouldn't draw anyone's attention, he returned his gaze to the rapidity-dulled landscape passing by.  Listening to the silence of their passage (broken only by his father's snores) quickly proved boring, and suddenly heavy eyelids drooped as he leaned against the smooth plane of the window.

            Life had been peaceful since their return from China.  Peaceful, if you discounted the part with the wedding, and a rueful grin sneaked onto his face at the memory.  What a mess that had been.  But the next day had been business as usual, there were classes to attend, tests to prepare for.  The brief furor owing to the explanation of where they had been, and what had happened at the wedding, died down quickly, and Ranma's smile faded as he remembered the tedium that then followed.  Studying, school work, reading, the everyday demands of everyday life.  Not that he minded, at first.  Jusendo had taken a lot out of him, and if his stupid nightmares were any indication, he was only now realizing just how much the experience had truly demanded.  School had proved a welcome distraction, and contrary to popular belief, he wasn't half the academic nitwit so many people (Nabiki, for sure, and sometimes he suspected Akane as well) thought he was.  Hadn't he passed the very same entrance exams as they, to gain entrance into Furinkan?  Hadn't he pulled off passable grades despite the frequent interruptions of his unique lifestyle?  Let's see anyone else master the intricacies of algebra while a pig with a grudge gnawed on their big toe!

            But as a sustained effort, studies soon grew dull. . . and no one seemed willing to entertain his desire to spar.  Following Jusendo, his numerous opponents seemed to melt away.  Ryouga was rarely around following the failed wedding, and he suspected the lost boy was spending more time with his other true love, Akari.  Mousse seemed reluctant to challenge him, and Kunou was already graduated and gone, and Ranma was surprised at how much he missed both the duck and the dunce.  More telling, perhaps, was that in moving back into his parents' house (repaired a few months after the wedding attempt) there were fewer opportunities to antagonize Akane.

            Most surprisingly (and here, his eyes glided over to his father's sleeping form) even his father had eased off on the training -- eased off considerably, and it showed in some of the extra girth Genma now carried with him.  At first Ranma took it as a compliment, for obviously his father finally recognized his son's skill after what had been displayed at Jusendo; but now, he saw his father's skills flagging, and while his own abilities might be as excellent as ever, the loss of the morning training sessions left a hollowness to his day.  He barely ever saw his father any more, it seemed, what with the old man working those absurd hours his mother had insisted Genma take, and spending his free time with Mr. Tendo.

            His eyes slid from his father and were, once again and this time almost unwillingly, pulled back to his fiancee.  Where he had found boredom, she seemed to have prospered, pulling off great grades and returning to an active social life, hanging around with Sayuri and Yuka, Hiroshi and Daisuke, while he usually seemed to somehow miss the call to go out.  But he couldn't begrudge her enjoyment of the unusual peace of the past few months, nor regret how relaxed, how comfortable, how damned -cute-, she now looked.  Far less the tomboy, and if not quite an adult, nevertheless someone who seemed very assured in what she was doing and with where she was headed.  Somehow, he was positive he hadn't quite achieved that same level of maturity she now seemed to exhibit; somehow, he wasn't positive he ever wanted to.

            And besides, he told himself, and grinned, she might've matured, even physically, but she still ain't half as good-looking as I am!  Oh sure, he had to admit, not too many people would make the mistake of calling her a tomboy anymore -- but she wasn't the only one who had developed.  Weren't his breasts still larger, his body's curves softer, more sinuous?  His smile grew.  And as for his real body. . . well, it wasn't like he'd been short on invitations to the Furinkan prom.  (Akane hadn't been happy about _that_, and his smile grew further at the memory.)

            In comparing his own form to Akane's, his gaze passed along the lines of her figure before slipping down to the book that she was reading; and his grin twisted into a scowl.

            She glanced up, and he swallowed his grimace and slipped a forced smile into place.  "Yes?" she asked, eyes curious but, it seemed, filled with a certain apprehension or guilt.  He didn't fail to notice as she surreptitiously shuffled the thin booklet in her hand to the bottom of the pile she had sitting in her lap.

            "What are you reading?" he asked, pretending not to notice.  She must realize I saw, he thought, but will we play this game one more time?

            "This?" she said, gesturing at the booklet that now sat on top.  "The university's guide.  Doesn't it look fantastic?"  And the way she said it, he could almost believe the enthusiasm in her voice.  "It really looks like a great place.  Full range of faculties, some nice residences, they've even got a number of decent martial art clubs.  I think we were lucky to be accepted.  I can't wait to get there and see it."

            He agreed with her, and played along, and looked through the guide book with her, and feigned interest at the highlights she pointed out, all along aware of the other booklet that peeked out from beneath, the one she had so attentively been reading before: the book from Tokyo University, to which she had been accepted, and he had not.

            As Ranma Saotome looked about the campus through which his parents were leading him, he felt filled with a curious mix of both interest and apathy.  It was his first time visiting a university campus.  It was busy.  People, rushing about with sharp eyes, an intensity of expression, harried but somehow content with their burden.  A vibrant energy, alien yet somehow tantalizingly familiar, underscored their action, drew them in and in combination created a lively undercurrent that made the campus appear as much more than the simple collection of buildings and concrete and students that it truly was.  That sense of purpose appealed to him, even if he could not fully understand it.  It was an unconscious appraisal of this strange place, and at that instinctive level, it interested him greatly.

            He hadn't known what to expect.  Furinkan, on a larger scale, perhaps?  His apathy returned and grew alongside the suspicion that if he looked past the welcoming banners, the displays of art and impressive building fronts, and the few among the many who moved with attentiveness of being; that if he looked past the gloss of all those things, all he would find would be his old high school -- fatter, older, mostly unchanged --  all over again.  After three years of that, he had no intention of repeating himself.  He needed to move forward.

            Yet how could university be a step backwards, if it caused such enthusiasm in Akane?

            "Ranma!  Ranma, come look!"  She called to him from across the walkway, gesturing for him to join her at the base of a tall, brick building.  He could hear the excitement that bubbled beneath every word, even at a distance.  And as he trudged over to her, shouldering his surprisingly heavy pack and shielding his eyes from the bright sun overhead, he could clearly see the happiness infusing her features.  If this place makes her smile like that, he wondered, can it really be so bad?

            But then, she's just acting that way for your benefit, he reminded himself.  This place, what does it have to offer her, really?  Very little, in the end, and certainly nothing she couldn't get better, elsewhere.

            He looked up at the building when he joined her.  It reached twenty stories up into a cloudless, sunny sky, row upon row of small windows gleaming painfully with reflected light.  Student housing, he guessed, from what he could glimpse through the glass of the lower floors, and from what he could see of the people entering and leaving through the first-floor door.  This could very well prove to be his future home.  I could do worse, he told himself.

            "Doesn't it look great?" Akane asked, gesturing at the building.

            He shrugged, and ignored the brief flash of -- annoyance, disappointment -- that crossed her eyes.  "I dunno.  Guess so.  Seems a strange way to live, so many people stacked one atop another."  He tried to gauge the size of a room from what he could see of the outside.  "I don't suppose there'd be all that much room to train."  He thought another moment, scratching at the nape of his neck.  "There's probably enough room on the roof, 'though I don't suppose they'd be too happy with that kinda thing."  Thinking the concept funny, he offered up a grin to Akane, only to receive a dark glower in return, and a muttered 'jerk,' before she turned her back on him.

            "C'mon," she said over her shoulder.  "Your parents are trying to set up a tour of the residence.  It'll be fun."

            Don't do me any favours, he thought darkly, and followed her in.

            Through a crowded entrance lined with pigeon-hole mailboxes, past a bored-looking receptionist who greeted them with nothing more than an indifferent glance, and finally Ranma joined his parents and Akane in the lobby.  Twin elevators offered access to the floors above, and after a brief description of some of the building's facilities (to which Ranma lent only half an ear) the patiently smiling guide pressed the button and explained that he would now bring them to see one of the rooms.

            "What floor?" asked his father.

            "The seventeenth," answered the guide.

            "We'll meet you up there," he said, and grabbed Ranma by the arm and dragged him towards the stairs.  "A martial artist always takes the road less travelled."

            "Hey, old man, I don't wanna-"

            "Shut up, boy!" answered Genma, with a slap across the back of Ranma's head.  "Enough of your laziness."  Only once the elevator doors closed, carrying a bemused Akane and Nodoka up and away, did he loosen his grip.

            "What's up?" asked the younger Saotome, knocking his father's hand off.  "You see someone drop five yen in the stairwell?"

            "Enough backtalk," growled Genma.  "Come on, we don't want to keep the girls waiting."

            Ranma followed his father as they began climbing the square, featureless concrete stairwell up to the second floor.  "If we don't want to keep them waiting, why didn't we take the elevator with them?"

            The only answer was silence, which lasted until the fourth floor, at which point his father paused, levelled a disgusted glare at him, and asked, "What the hell's wrong with you, boy?"

            "Whadd'ya mean?  There's nothing. . . ."

            "Your attitude stinks," Genma stated, then resumed climbing.

            Sixth floor, Ranma: "There's nothing wrong with my attitude."

            Seventh floor, Genma: "Ungrateful!  Spoiled!"

            Eight: "Spoiled?  When the hell have you -ever- spoiled me?"

            Nine: "You think your mother and I paid all that money to put you through high school for nothing?"

            Ranma stopped, and his father didn't notice until rounding the corner and reaching the tenth.  Yelling up to Genma, he demanded, "What's that got to do with anything?"

            "Try to show some enthusiasm, boy!  This is supposed to be the best time of your life!"

            "Says who?"

            "Your mother."  Fact established, Genma returned to climbing.

            A moment later, Ranma jogged and caught up with him on the eleventh floor.  "-Mother- says?  What about you?"

            Genma shrugged.  "What do I know?  I didn't even finish high school.  University seems a waste of time to me, but your mother insists it's for your own good.  'It's the modern age,' she says, 'a man without a diploma in Japan is nothing.'  Who am I to argue with your mother?"  He continued his ascent.  "I mean, what use is a degree in History when the boy's going to teach martial arts, I said," he muttered under his breath.  "But what do I know, I'm just a big, fluffy panda bear!  Not like I didn't spend the last ten years raising the kid, I mean, why should -I- have anything to say in the matter?"

            "Don't -I- have any say?" asked Ranma.

            "No," answered his father, passing the thirteenth floor.  He stopped on the fourteenth when Ranma, leaping up a story through the stairwell, landed ahead of him and grabbed him by the front of his shirt.

            "What the hell do you mean, 'no'?" he yelled.  "When the hell do I get to make a choice, then?"

            "Don't ask me, ask your mother.  You want to disappoint her?  You go talk to her.  Don't you want to go to university?"

            Ranma released his father, arms falling limply at his side, and offered no resistence as Genma shrugged by.  "I dunno."

            "Then quit your complaining.  And stop moping.  All you're managing to do is hurt your mother and anger your fiancee.  Stop whining like a girl and suck it up like a man."

            Is that what I've been doing, Ranma wondered, silently falling in behind his father, whining?  Everyone else seemed to be enjoying this outing, far more than he was, anyway.  Perhaps Akane's enthusiasm was genuine, his mother's hope real: maybe university was the next logical step.  Why else did he go to high school, if not this?  And yet, as he rounded the corner of the sixteenth floor, he couldn't help but wonder: what would be the next 'logical' step after university?

            He pulled his father back at the door to their destination floor.  "Old ma. . . er, Pops.  Dad.  What do -you- think I should do?"

            "The truth, son?" Genma answered, and for a brief moment he looked far older than Ranma ever remembered seeing him, eyes duller, skin greyer.  "It doesn't matter what I think anymore.  All I want is for you to marry that girl and to start teaching our Art.  All I want is to retire and play shogi with Soun.  That's all I want."

            The door opened easily on well-oiled hinges.  Genma passed through and rejoined his wife and future daughter-in-law, and the door closed silently on his son, still standing quietly on the landing at the seventeenth floor.

            "So, as you can see, each floor has its own kitchen and dining area," the guide was saying, "as well as a coin-operated washing machine and dryer."  Ranma, hanging back from the group, was barely paying attention.  He adjusted the straps on his pack, now uncomfortable, and thought of the brief exchange he had shared with his father.  He had seen so little of him lately, and only now he began to suspect it had not been entirely of Genma's doing.  But why would his mother want her own husband to stay away from their only son?

            Well, you don't need to be a genius to take a shot at that one, he mused.  Pop's a bit of an idiot, and he's made some pretty stupid decisions in the past. . . but he -is- my father, and he's been with me for the last ten years.  I mean, I don't really miss sharing a room with him anymore, but. . . what, no sparring, even, anymore?  Mom wants me to be a martial artist too, right, and even if Pop's not that great anymore, he's still got some tricks up his sleeve, he's still a great teacher, why deprive me of that?

            As Ranma considered it further, he came to realize just how much he had missed his shitty, lazy old panda of a father.  It seemed a strange place to make such a discovery.  He took in the cramped room, the dim illumination, the months-old notices on the display board, the musty smell of haphazardly-washed old walls, and wondered how no one could realize that, in this mundane hallway that had seen the passage of thousands, one young man had just discovered the simple fact that maybe he truly loved his father.  He wondered why he did.  It wasn't a simple matter of shared appreciation for an Art, though that was certainly part of it.  Perhaps it was a matter of companionship.  After travelling for so long, he had come to believe it normal for a son to spend so much time with his father: day after day, weeks, years, across the length of Japan and even China, spent in constant contact with one another.

            What a surprise, then, when he discovered how many of his friends came from broken families, or families where the parents and children rarely talked, or even interacted.  Families where the father was nothing more than a distant figure, regularly bringing back money, perhaps, and demanding certain basic formalities, but otherwise a non-consideration in their lives.  One thing my father's never done, Ranma thought, was ignore me.  He may have been stupid, crude, even brutal at times, but never once did I know the fear that he might some day leave me, abandon me.  His low, deep rumble as he slept by my side was a comfortable reassurance, no matter what strange place we happened to be.

            Why would Mom want to break that up? he wondered.

            "Bathrooms and showers, of course, are communal, one for males and another for females," said the guide.  Ranma saw the slight, unconscious tensing of his mother's back, and suddenly understood why he now saw so little of his father.  The curse, of course.  A serious problem if one had to share bathing facilities.  And a severe disappointment, Ranma knew, to a mother who expected after ten years of separation that her son would be a man among men; no matter what she said to the contrary, he could see the regret gnawing at her in moments of weakness, when she looked at him.  It didn't matter that, for the most part, he had mostly resigned himself to having a female side for the rest of his life; the aftermath of the battle at Jusendo, and the terrible damages wreaked upon Jusenkyo itself, had left little choice to that decision.  But if he could bring himself to forgive his father -- and it was only at this moment that Ranma realized that perhaps he truly had forgiven Genma -- then certainly she could as well.

            "And now we'll move on to an actual room," said the guide.  "If you'll just fo -- oh, excuse me."

            Ranma snapped back to attention at a sudden interruption.  As the guide moved to lead the group towards one of the rooms, he nearly bumped into two men blocking his way.  The first person he barely noted, catching a cursory glimpse of a tall, thin man with greying hair, narrow glasses, a hat; he barely noticed the first because the second immediately demanded his full attention.

            He's a martial artist, he thought, and he's damn good.  Without conscious thought the reflexive looseness with which he carried himself in the face of potential, serious danger filtered throughout his body, and he held himself in that deceptive state of readiness that left him able to react instantly without suggesting threatening intent.  Without shifting focus, he noted that his father had readied himself similarly, if not as subtly.

            Who is he, Ranma thought, another potential student, like me?  No, too old for that, he's already in his twenties.  A student, then?  Doubtful; the undercurrent that drives this man, I can understand.  Japanese -- no, something else as well.  Strong, tough, the loose shirt doesn't fool me, there's serious strength being restrained there, coiled, ready, he's deceptively relaxed.

            Their eyes met, briefly, and in that moment Ranma knew he was being sized up as well.  The heir to the Saotome school of Indiscriminate Grappling stared into yellow-green eyes, and read nothing of intent, of either fear or hostility.  The curious game of concealment and identification lasted but for a second -- the shortest of hesitations in the man's smooth, measured stride -- and then their gazes separated, and with that contact broken Ranma felt the match end.  He followed his mother and Akane away.  The stranger passed close as he stepped the other way, and as they crossed paths, they gave each other the slightest of nods of acknowledgement.  Two practitioners of similar arts recognizing and respecting the other's achievement, before going their individual ways.

            Only several seconds later, the blood still singing through his body, feeling invigorated and alive in a way he hadn't all day, did he allow himself to truly relax.  This, he told himself, is what I'm looking for, this is the education I want.  What school can offer an experience such as I've just felt?

            "Did you notice the man?" asked his father in a low voice, falling in next to him.

            "Tall, young guy," answered Ranma, "half-Japanese.  About eighty, solid build, wearing black jeans, boots, muscle-shirt, leather jacket.  Green eyes.  Ugly-looking.  Something wrong with his left arm, he carried it oddly and kept it close and hidden inside his jacket.  Definitely a martial artist, and a good one, too -- I couldn't read him at all."  Ranma grinned.  "Yeah, you could say I noticed him."

            "Don't be cocky, boy," said Genma, and the heavy seriousness of his voice silenced the younger Saotome's protest.  "That boy was strong; the man was dangerous."

            "He was old.  He wasn't even a martial artist, Pop."

            "You've still got things to learn, son."

            Ranma glanced back, wondering if he'd missed something, but they were already gone.  When he returned his attention to his father, Genma had already stepped ahead to stand by his wife; following his lead, Ranma joined Akane, and wondered why he suddenly felt the need to be protective.

            "So, what do you think?" asked his fiancee, as she curiously examined the room, looking in from the doorway.

            "Un."

            "Ranma?"

            "Yes?"

            "So?"

            "Un."

            She nudged him hard with an elbow to the side.

            "Hey!  What was that for?"

            "Pay attention.  This might be your home in a few months."

            "Yeah, yeah," he muttered.  He wondered if she had even noticed that a potentially very dangerous martial artist had just passed by.  He would have to remember to ask her next time he went over to her house to train with her, and berated himself for not having considered her skills in that area previously.  With these things on his mind, he slid forward to peek into the room.  Nothing special, really, a little on the small side, compared to what he had grown used to at the Tendos', with a single bed, a small desk, a closet, and a tall bookshelf.  He wouldn't be practising any moving katas in there, that was certain.

            "This is a single.  We also have doubles, of course, for requested roommates and married couples."

            He didn't fail to notice the exchanged glances between mother and father, before Nodoka turned to the guide. "We'd like to see one of those, please," she said.

            Ranma turned to Akane and met her enigmatic look.  Was she going to protest, he wondered, or should he?  He wished she'd make it clear whether she wanted him to or not.  Lately, he had found her to be impossible to understand -- even more so than before -- although perhaps that wasn't entirely surprising, considering where they now were.

            This wasn't the first they'd heard of joint rooms, of course: how many hare-brained plans had passed back and forth since learning that he'd been accepted to university?  From renting an apartment together (too expensive) to living together as roommates in an all-girl dorm (Ranma's reaction to that had been rather vehement), he had pretty much expected another attempt at the idea during this visit.

            "Mom," he started, a touch of impatience in his voice, when a sudden shifting in his pack pulled him off balance.  He stumbled against the wall.  Stupid thing, he thought, dropping the bag to the floor.  What the hell was in there, anyway?  He didn't remember packing anything that heavy.  He loosened the ties.  The top dropped open.  A cold spray of water jetted out and caught him square in the face.

            "Heya, Sonny-boy!" said the withered old man squatting within.  "So this is higher education, eh?  Sweeto!"

            Tada Hiroshi was a very patient man, which was why he was so good at giving guided tours of the university's residences.  He didn't mind fielding dozens of questions, all of them minor variations on a single theme or two.  He didn't even mind standing aside as the family discussed among themselves whatever new problem had arisen due to his latest demonstration of university policy.  It was a job, it paid decently, it was easy, and most importantly, usually relatively stress-free.  Hiroshi knew a thing or two about stress.  He was finishing a double degree in psychology and literature.  He had a girlfriend who felt neglected, and a barely-started paper in cognitive studies due next week.  Nearly a thousand pages of reading to get through by month's end -- and that wasn't counting the psychology texts.  He maintained a relaxed attitude, steadfastly believed that, like every other year, he'd somehow make it through in the end, and ultimately simply grinned and bore it.  But, that being said, the last thing he needed was more stress.

            He felt the mother of all headaches coming on.

            A short, curvy, red-headed girl, water dripping from the tip of her pigtail, faced off against an impossibly short, withered-looking old man.  He didn't remember bringing either of them up here.  And they were yelling.  Loudly.  In a matter of seconds, students would be poking their heads out of their rooms and demanding to know what all the noise was about.  Who would be the first person they demanded an explanation from? he asked no one in particular, and whimpered.

            "Um, listen, could you keep. . . ," he tried, but was ignored.

            "You freak! _Now_ you show up?" yelled the girl.

            "Ah, Ranma m'boy, how good to see you again."

            "But - but, Master, what are you doing here?"  This from the larger, older man.

            "Genma, I'm really disappointed in you," answered the old man referred to as 'Master', turning strangely luminous eyes upon his balding pupil.  "Heading off to a place like this, and not even inviting me along."

            "Never took you for the studious type," muttered the pigtailed girl.

            "Study?  Who said anything about studying?  I've just grown tired of those high school types.  Ah, but university!  The fountain of knowledge to which youth comes to drink -- to venture tentatively into the shallow waters of experimentation -- from which girls learn to wear racy lingerie!  Would you deny me a maturing of my tastes?"

            "I shoulda known," answered the girl.  "You pervert.  If your tastes were any more mature, they'd need embalming!  Well, I'm not gonna let you stink up my future home, you shitty old man!"

            "Ranma, no!" interrupted the other young girl.  "You'll wreck the place!"

            "Nah," said Ranma.  "It's only Happosai.  I'll be careful.  Besides," she added, cracking her knuckles, "I still haven't properly paid him back for ruining our wedding -- and drinking my Nannichuan!"  Her eyes narrowed dangerously and she stepped forward into what looked like a fighting stance.  "You're going to pay for that, Freak."

            "Your time in China's made you uppity, boy," growled Happosai.  "I'm still the Master here, and it's high time you re-learnt your place!"

            Unsurprisingly, every door along the hallway popped open.  Loud voices rose in complaint, demanded to know what was going on, said they were trying to study, began a philosophical treatise on the nature of violence.  As Hiroshi backed away from his guests, head throbbing painfully, he was assaulted by angry demands to control his group.  He whimpered again.

            "Um, people. . . ?"

            The big, bald man picked him up, threw him over a shoulder, and said, "I don't think you want to hang around for this," before carrying him away into the stairwell.

He couldn't help the feral grin creeping across his face.  Staring down at Happosai, ready and waiting for the first attack, prepared to receive and deliver serious pain -- all he felt was anticipatory pleasure.  He abstractly noted his father pulling his mother and various students away, heard Akane warning him against violence.  Ranma ignored her.  He'd put Happosai down, for good this time, without damage to. . . .

            Quick arc through the air before slamming into the floor, sliding its entire length before colliding with the wall at the end of the hallway.  Embarrassing position, upside down, legs sprawled, rolls of carpet gathered against his back where he'd torn it up during his tumble.  Damn, but he'd forgotten how fast the little creep could be.

            "Heh heh," chuckled said old man, idly emptying his pipe with a swift tap against the wall.  "Slow as ever."

            "You!" he muttered, regaining his feet.  "Look what you did to the floor!"

            Eyes glistening with puerile innocence, Happosai said, "But it was your ass that ripped it up, Ranma!"  And then, swapping innocence for lecherousness, he added, "Which reminds me, it's been far too long since I've copped a decent feel of that nice, ripe butt of yours."

            "Die, Freak!" he yelled, springing forward.  He slammed his fist down where the short man was, connected with nothing but air.  Leaning back he avoided a counter, twisted as he rose, leg lashing out, again hitting nothing.  Happosai bounced off his outstretched foot and leapt for the face, encountered an elbow for his trouble, ricocheted off the ground, a wall, clipped him in the shoulder.  Ranma spun with the impact and nailed the old man with a savage backhand as he sailed past.  With a squeal he reversed trajectories and punctured a hole in the wall.

            "You little punk!" echoed a voice from somewhere behind drywall.  "I'll. . . uh. . . damn, I'm stuck!"

            "Not for long," said Ranma, smiling, lunging for the hole and grabbing his prey.  A second later he slammed back against the concrete stairwell wall behind him as the short-fused, tape-wrapped bomb he retrieved went off in his hand.  He slumped to the ground, charred and blackened.

            Happosai popped out of hiding, looking none the worse for wear.  "Hmph," he snorted, "I'm disappointed.  I expected better."

            "I'll show you something better," said Ranma, again climbing to his feet.

            "Really?  A little cleavage, maybe?"

            "Shut up!"  He leapt for his prey, who, with a disdainful shrug, turned away and sent a couple of Happodaikarin tumbling over his shoulder.  Shit, Ranma thought, the residence, it's gonna get ripped to shreds.  He's counting on me to absorb the blast and save this dive.  Unless. . . spotting his discarded pack crumpled against the wall, he snagged it with a well-timed grab as he rushed forward to meet the attack.  Bag open, swing forward, and scoop, one, two, all three bombs, into his pack -- and finish by slamming it down over the old man's head.

            "Who turned out the lights?" Happosai asked, before the thunderous detonation silenced him.

            The explosion blasted Ranma upwards and away, still clutching the pack in his flailing grasp.  He felt a jarring impact as he first smashed into the concrete ceiling (leaving a nice impact crater), then rebounded and tumbled wildly down the hallway, before finally crashing though an inner wall.  Everything went momentarily black.

            "Hey. . . hey, you alright?" a voice asked him through a haze.  A sudden, sharp poke at his breast snapped him back to awareness.  He sat up with a start, and groaned as many very bruised muscles immediately signalled their displeasure.  Rubbing his head revealed a very nasty bump, and it took a few moments for the bleariness in his eyes to clear.  A frail, pale-faced man was squatting next to him, holding an odd-looking stick.  He looked somewhat like a taller, older Gosunkugi.  "Wha - what's going on?"

            Ranma grunted as he stood.  "Have I been out long?"

            "A few seconds."  The man ran trembling fingers through slick, dishevelled hair.  "Um, you, ah, well, you kinda fell through my. . . wall."  He pointed at a big hole next to the door of his room.  "You sure you're okay?"

            "Yeah."  He glanced through the body-shaped breach, saw the curious faces peeking in.  "Sorry 'bout the hole."  He shrugged apologetically.  "Um, I've gotta go finish something off, okay?  I dunno, I'll come back later to help clean up, or something."

            "Don't bother," the man said, and thin, bloodless lips curled back from stained teeth in a parody of a grin.  "I won't be here."

            "Oh," answered Ranma, turning away, thinking, Weirdo.

            "Don't forget your bag."

            "Thanks."

            A few minutes later, he caught up with a woozily stumbling Happosai, who was drifting into walls.  He was soot-darkened and looking very much frayed around the edges.

            "I don't feel so good," mumbled the old man.

            "Maybe you need a breath of fresh air," Ranma suggested, and promptly booted him out the window.  The seventeenth floor made a very nice vantage point from which to watch his flight path.  Once out of sight, he shrugged, turned away, and went off in search of his parents.  Smiling broadly, revelling in his aching muscles and throbbing head, he decided that maybe university wasn't such a bad place after all.

            "I can't believe you blew up the student housing."

            "I didn't blow it up!  There were only a few holes!"

            "I told you not to fight, but did you listen?"

            "It was Happosai's fault!"

            "You couldn't just leave it alone, could you?"

            "What, I shoulda just let the freak run off and molest the whole campus?"

            "You didn't need to fight him, you could have distracted him."

            "Oh, sure, next time I'll just pop my shirt open and give him a free fondle -- is that what you want? -- you call _me_ pervert?"

            "Just forget it," said Akane, and turned away.  He just stared at her back, an angry retort dying on his lips, before releasing an inarticulate exclamation of frustration and returning his stare to the window.  He watched the darkness, punctured by innumerable cityscape lights, fly by as the bullet train made its way back towards Nerima.  What a great end, he thought, to a wonderful day.  His expression, reflected in the the night-opaque window, surprised even himself.

            There was little else to say, either to Akane or his parents.  He suspected his mother and father had been arguing as well, albeit quietly, for his mother seemed in her own way to be rather vexed with Genma.  He decided that if he was the source of much of the tension between his parents, perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad thing for him to leave.  Perhaps their relationship could then improve.  Thinking of the talk in the stairwell, Ranma certainly hoped so.

            With nothing to do and hours yet to go before arrival, he decided he might as well emulate Akane and get a little studying done, and reached for his poor, battered carrying bag.  Noting the burn stains, many holes, and general tattered appearance, he suddenly had an ill feeling regarding the likely condition of his homework.  His travel-blanket.  His wallet.  He opened his pack and upended it.  A rain of fine, greyish powder formed a largish pile on the train's carpet.  Ranma sighed.  So much for that idea.  He gave the bag a solid shake and, much to his surprise, an unfamiliar book fell free and landed with a thud on the ground.  That's not one of my textbooks, he thought, and picked it up.

            The book was large, encyclopaedia-sized and heavy, with a thick, burgundy leather binding.  A small latch, pitted and made of iron, perhaps, ugly against the rich colouring of the material, kept the broad volume squeezed shut.  Some writing, small and fine and done in gold lettering, adorned the spine, but the characters were unknown to him.  Otherwise, the book seemed rather ordinary; and yet as his hand passed along the covering, traced a number of hairline cracks and crinkles in the leather, it seemed to radiate great ancientness.  Strange, he thought, I wonder where it came from?

            "What's that?" interrupted a voice, and an inquisitive Akane looked over his shoulder.

            "A book," he shrugged.  "I just found it in my bag."

            "I can see that.  How did it get in there?"

            "Beats me."

            "Maybe Happosai dropped it?"

            "Before or after he blew up?  Nah, I doubt it; before and it'd be dust on the ground, and I don't think he had time while exploding."

            "Well, where did it come from, then?"

            "Dunno."  He thought about it: the moments immediately after catching Happosai in the bag, aside from the explosion itself, weren't terribly clear.  "Wait a sec'," he said, snapping his finger.  "Yeah, I got it!  It musta been that dork back on campus!"

            "Dork?"

            "After the explosion. . . ," he started, and explained how the man had handed over the bag before Ranma left.  "I was kinda busy at the time, but thinking back, there was something odd about the guy.  He was dressed all in black, and acted all nervous and creepy-like, and. . . hey, that's right, the pervert even poked my boob with a stick to wake me up!"

            Akane giggled. 

            "It's not funny!"

            "Of course not," she said, and composed herself.

            "Hmph.  Well.  Anyway, I think he must've been some kinda freak.  Books all over the place, weird posters. . . see, that's what happens when you study too hard!"

            "Like you'd know," she said, grinning, and eased in.  "So what's the book about?"

            "How should I know?  Let's take a look."

            With the book sitting in his lap, she needed to lean in to get a proper view, and Ranma was suddenly acutely aware of her closeness, of the contact as she supported herself against his shoulder, of the sparkle in her eyes and the smile on her lips. . . .

            "So, open the book already!"

            "Um, uh. . . yeah."  He reached for the latch, and was surprised to find it locked shut.  "It's locked.  Must be a trick catch or somethin'," he said, but he found nothing as he felt around the latch.  It was a smooth circle of greyish iron set into the leather, with a single metal strap reaching over to the other cover, and he saw no obvious way of making it release.  "I don't even see a keyhole or nothin'!"  He shrugged.  "Well, guess I can just snap it off. . . ."

            "No, wait, let me have a look," insisted Akane, reaching in.

            "Aw, c'mon, you're not gonna find-," he started to say, but the moment her finger came in contact with the lock it made a 'snuck' sound, and the latch released.  Startled, she drew her fingers back, and Ranma, still feeling for a way to loosen the ties, quickly pulled his hand away as well.  They looked at each other, eyes wide, then stared back at the book.  It sat there innocently, looking like nothing more than a big red book.

            "That was odd," said Ranma.

            "It unlocked when we both touched it," said Akane.

            That hadn't occurred to him.  "You think?"

            "What else could it be?"  She hesitated, and when she spoke again Ranma could detect a faint undercurrent of nervousness.  "Maybe. . . maybe the book's magical or something; maybe it's cursed!"

            Ranma snorted.  "A magic book?  C'mon, who's ever heard of a magic book?"

            Akane gave him the arched eyebrow.  "Magic springs, rings, pills. . ."

            "Yeah, yeah."

            ". . . mirrors, compacts, dogi. . ."

            "I get the point."

            ". . . glasses, lockets, fishing rods. . . ."

            "Ah, yes, perhaps," interrupted Ranma, looking wise, "but no books!"

            "Baka."

            "Oh, c'mon, it's just sitting there!  How can a book possibly be dangerous?"

            "You're kidding, right?"

            "Well, fine then, you don't want me to open it?"

            "I didn't say _that_!  Just. . . be careful."

            "Yeah, whatever," Ranma said, and reached for the book.  He actually did feel a moment's hesitation, berated himself for allowing his fiancee's silly superstitions to get to him, lifted the latch away (it opened without resistance), and slid his fingers beneath the edge of the top cover.

            "Careful," whispered Akane, voice belied by her wide grin and curious eyes.

            "Weirdo," he replied, and opened the book.

            The old leather creaked as he turned the cover over, and particles of dust puffed out of numerous cracks lining the spine and inside of the volume.  A slightly unpleasant and strangely animal scent escaped.  At first look he could tell the book, despite its size, had relatively few pages: each leaf appeared to be thick and primitive, in marked contrast with the exterior lining.  They certainly weren't made of paper as he knew it, and he suspected some kind of rough animal hide.  Although crude, the pages were nevertheless sturdy, and despite an ominous crackling as he turned the first page, he suspected his delicate handling was unnecessary.  Unfortunately, once he saw the actual text, he couldn't understand any of it.  The writing seemed either a meaningless jumble of scribbling in different handwritings, or a chaotic mix of half-recognizable characters and strange alphabets.  Occasionally, drawn images, some hardly more than sketches, others remarkably detailed, would be interspersed among the writing, but even these made little sense to him.

            "I dunno about you," he said, after staring at the page before him for several minutes in deep thought, "but I can't make heads or tales of this!"  He grinned and looked inordinately proud of himself.

            "Shut up, you," she said, exaggeratedly disgusted, then a moment later she abandoned her own seat to slide in next to him.  "This is cool!"

            Ranma found it difficult to focus on the book, suddenly painfully aware of her body pressed next to his.  He could smell the freshness of her hair, and what musty old thing could compare with that?

            "I think this is English," Akane was saying, drawing his attention back to the page.  "But I can't read any of it, maybe it's really old.  And. . . oh, look at this, this is Japanese!  Really old, though."  She pointed out a double-row of characters lining one edge of the page.  "And these," she added, tracing the second line of kanji, "I think are old Chinese."

            "Hey, I think I recognize some of these," he said, surprised.  "They look familiar."

            "You know Chinese?" she asked, dubiously.

            "Ancient Chinese technique scroll Pop picked up at an antique store while we were travelling," he said, nodding towards the slumbering form of his father.  "He insisted I figure it out and stole me a dictionary.  Turned out to be an old recipe for dim sum, but I picked up some old characters in the process."

            "Well, what does it say, then?"

            "Um," he answered.  He thought as hard as he could, cast his mind back, tried to summon up the image of himself, younger and in China, poring over a crumbly old scroll written in a language he barely understood; he even tried to bring up the memory of the food he'd prepared afterwards, recalled the recipe, created a mental image of the dictionary.  "Er. . . ."

            "Is something burning?"

            "Shut up."  He turned to the lines of text, focussed on them so hard the characters almost seemed to swim before his eyes, little lines and dashes and squiggles crawling across the page.  "It means. . . ah. . . ."

            "Oh, give it up, let me have a try at the Japanese."

            "No!" he said, voice unexpectedly sharp.  "I'm not finished."  He jabbed at the first kanji and slowly traced his finger down the page along the sentence.  "This. . . this is. . . Aha!  It's-"

            "It's. . . ?"

            "It's _not_ an ancient recipe for dim sum!" he declared, smiling broadly.

            "Moron," Akane muttered, and swiped the book from him, ignoring his exclamation of protest.  She flipped forward through a couple of pages, one finger keeping their earlier place.  "Wow, just look at all this stuff," she said, although with the book in her lap and slightly tilted away, Ranma found he couldn't see much of anything.  "These drawings just get weirder and weirder."  She turned another page, and her eyes widened.  "What the. . . ?"  Her voice trailed off as she scanned the new page with sudden intensity.

            "Akane?" he asked.

            Before she could respond, a soft voice intruded.  "May I have a look?"

            Ranma looked up, surprised.  His mother leaned forward from her seat across from them, and behind her politeness she seemed genuinely curious.  He wondered, suddenly inexplicably nervous, how long she had been watching and listening to them.  He glanced at Akane, who was still staring intently into the book, shrugged, and returned to his mother.  "Yeah, sure, Mom," he answered.  He nudged Akane, and his fiancee, startled, looked up, blinking rapidly.  She flipped back to the first page and turned the book toward Nodoka.  "But I don't think you'll be able to. . . ," Ranma started to say.

            "He first created man," Nodoka read, eyes narrowed in concentration but finger smoothly tracing down the lines of Japanese text.  "He first created man, and a noble race, the angel princes, which later perished utterly.  For, it seemed to them in their hearts it well might be that they themselves were lords of heaven, princes of glory."

            She looked up and smiled happily at them.  "Well, I think that's what it says, near as I can tell.  I haven't tried reading old kanji in quite some time, I'm afraid.  My, that certainly was strange, wasn't it?"

            Ranma boggled at his mother for a few seconds before recovering.  "You can read that stuff?"

            "Well, I've tried to keep myself busy over the last ten years, Ranma.  I've read a lot and studied all kinds of subjects -- there wasn't much else to do with you gone for so long."

            "Oh.  Yeah, I guess not."

            "There were always classes available at the community centre, or I'd have a tutor teach me at home.  It was a bit expensive at times, but it helped me keep my mind off of-."

            "That was really cool, Auntie Saotome," interrupted Akane, a little too enthusiastically.  She jabbed her finger at the section of Chinese text.  "Can you read this, too?"

            Nodoka glanced down at the book.  "Well, I didn't study much Chinese," she said hesitantly.

            "It's not a recipe, if that helps any," Ranma offered.

            "But, wait," Nodoka said, looking up and eyes wide.  She turned the book back towards her son.  "Isn't this. . . ?"

            Ranma looked at where his mother was pointing.  He recognized a string of characters that spelled a place-name he could never forget for as long as he lived.  Looking up he met the surprised expressions of both his mother and Akane.

            "Jusenkyo. . . ?"

            Sitting at the breakfast table with Akane opposite him, an almost forgotten sense of burgeoning excitement fluttering within, brought back fond memories of living with the Tendos.  In the last few months, so few days had begun without him knowing precisely what would happen.  Now, unexpected possibilities abounded, represented by the book in his (somewhat repaired) bookbag held closely at his side, and his heart thrilled at the potential.

            Aside for the single obscure reference to Jusenkyo, little else had been discovered from the tome during the rest of the trip home the night before.  His mother hesitantly suggested that it made reference to curses, and several types of animals, often in conjunction with people, but she had repeated quite often that her Chinese was very limited.  Ranma didn't care.  The book wasn't leaving his sight until it had revealed its secrets to him, and the first step towards that, he decided, was a quick visit this morning to Furinkan.  Classes may have been technically over for the third-graders, but the teachers were still available for help, and hopefully someone there could help him decipher the book.

            "Well, you're sure in a good mood this morning," said Akane.

            "I guess so."  He patted the bag propped up against the table leg.  "It's this thing.  I mean, who knows what it really is, or why that guy put it in there -- but, if Mom's right, this might be another chance at a-."

            "Don't say it!"

            "Cure," he finished, then looked at her quizzically.  "Why not?"

            "A cure, Ranma?" she said, half-exasperated.  "How many times have you tried?  I just don't want you to get your hopes up, or to jinx yourself."

            "Oh, c'mon, it's not like I'm gonna get myself killed, or end up with another fiancee, or make some kinda new enemy who can flatten the city, or something."

            She looked dubious.

            He shrugged.  "Can't hurt to check, can it?"

            Her expression didn't change.

            "Besides," he said, pointedly ignoring her, "that's only half the reason.  Truth is, I'm pretty okay with the whole curse thing now.  But aren't you the least bit curious about this?  I mean, why'd that guy put it in there?"

            "Maybe it was an accident, maybe it fell in."

            Now it was his turn to look dubious.  "Doubt it.  Either way, I wanna know what this book's about, and what it's got to say about Jusenkyo."

            As they continued eating the conversation turned to more mundane things.  He found he enjoyed having the company.  Normally, at breakfast, his mother was busy in the kitchen, and his father had already long since departed for work.  Of course, as much as he appreciated the company, it did not stop him from quickly noticing what topic did not arise as they spoke: university.  Oh, sure, a few references to yesterday, but never did she mention the _other_ university that had accepted her.  Somehow, though, today it all seemed rather irrelevant.

            "Oh, Ranma, could you come see me in the kitchen, please?"  His mother's voice interrupted his musing.

            He joined her in the kitchen, where she was washing dishes.  "Yeah, Mom?"

            She smiled at him.  "I was just wondering what you were planning to do today."

            "Dunno," he answered.  "Swing by my old high school and see if anyone there can help with translating that book.  Or tell me who can.  Study a bit, of course.  Maybe get some training in after that."

            Nodoka nodded.  "That's nice, dear.  Did you sneak into Akane's room last night?"

            Yesterday's visit had originally been intended as an overnight trip, but the damages to the university had awakened old reflexes in Genma, and he had strongly suggested they make an earlier return ('run for our lives,' was how he put it).  Having arrived quite late, Akane had spent the night sleeping in his room, while he slept on the tatami floor of the living room.

            "What?  No!  I'm not some kinda. . . ."

            "That's too bad.  I'm sure she would have enjoyed the company."

            "Enjoyed?" he sputtered.  "She would've killed me!"

            "Yes, but she would have enjoyed herself doing so," answered his mother, smiling knowingly.  "The best way to a woman's heart, Ranma, is to make her happy."

            Ranma sighed.  "Yes, Mom."

            "Now why don't you bring her some more tea."

            He returned to the table just as Akane was sitting down.  She appeared a little flushed.

            "Akane?"

            "Just returning from the lady's room," she said, somewhat quickly.  "What did your mom want?  Is everything okay?  Any problems?  What's up?"

            "Um, nothing.  Everything's fine," he said.  He placed the fresh pot of tea down.  "She just wanted to know what I was up to today.  Which reminds me," he added, sitting down himself, "you coming with me to Furinkan?"

            "No, sorry.  I. . . promised Kasumi I'd help her around the house a little today.  And I don't have any questions for the teachers, so I'll just study at home today.  Besides, I also really need a change of clothing."

            He shrugged.  "I dunno, you look fine to me," he said.

            "You really -are- in a good mood today," she said wryly.

            "If it's clean underwear you need, I'm sure I've got some you could borrow."

            "You know, coming from any other guy, that would sound either really weird or really perverted."

            "Might be a bit loose around the chest, though," he added, grinning.

            "My hands around your throat won't be," she said, smiling sweetly.

            "So you can't come?"

            She shook her head.  "In fact," she added, standing up.  "I really should be going."  She grabbed her bulging overnight bag.  "Maybe see you later for some training?"

            Ranma nodded and watched her leave.

            He walked the familiar path between his house and Furinkan, smiling broadly and feeling content.  An impromptu decision had led him to wear the proper school uniform for once: perhaps because of the cool late-February weather, or simply because no one ever expected him to do so.  Bag slung over one shoulder and held protectively, collar undone, walking with long, confident strides, Ranma expected that the day could only get better.

            Once his path met the old route he used to take between the Tendos' and school, he hopped up onto the fence to continue on his way.  He drew a few surprised glances from earth-bound students: not because of his fence-walking, he suspected, but because he was actually heading to school.  Aside for club activities (which, truth be told, he missed rather frequently as well) he simply wasn't a common figure at Furinkan these days.  Like the rest of the third-graders, he was supposed to be studying at home, preparing for the entrance exams; unlike most of those, however, he rarely bothered to come in to ask his teachers for help or explanations.

            He ignored the stares of his fellow students and basked in their confusion.  Even the simple act of walking to school like this reminded him of earlier, more exciting times -- all that was missing was Akane at his side, and a certain kendoist waiting for him at the front gate.  He smiled as he passed familiar sights: the old lady, still ladling water after all these years; Tofu's clinic, closed during his training sabbatical but recently reopened; the canal in which he'd inadvertently bathed far too often.  Lost in reminiscence, he indulged in a few playful hops and twirls as he made his way toward school.  He arrived at Furinkan earlier than he ever had when he used to attend school every day, and almost surprised to find himself at his destination, he shook free of pleasant memories and sauntered up to the entrance.

            "Well, Mr. Saotome, how good to see you," greeted Mr. Maeda, his science teacher, standing at the front gate.  His voice dripped sarcasm but behind the exaggerated surprise lurked honest friendliness.  "My, and in uniform, to boot!  Didn't think I'd ever live to see the day."

            Passing through, he met and greeted students and friends and acquaintances, nodded and waved as he caught their eye:

            "O-ha, Ranma!  Wazzup?" 

            "Same old, same old: studying and ass-kicking."

            "Sa-o-to-me!  See you in club tonight?"

            "Heh, maybe.  Lookin' a little soft there, Baba."

            "Shit, man, in uniform?  Damn, guess no point in soaking you, eh?"

            "Wouldn't be much point outta uniform either, Daisuke."

            "Long time no see!"

             He suspected that maybe he should not have turned his back on school so completely.  He missed this, the casual friendship and social atmosphere that school brought.  Maybe I ought to swing by more often, Ranma thought.

            "Ranma, wait!" called out a voice.

            He turned and saw Hiroshi.  He smiled and beckoned him over.

            "Hey, man," he said, once his friend was close enough.  "What's up?"

            "Same as everyone else," Hiroshi answered, grinning.  "Studying my ass off, now that I know what I've got a chance at.  You?"

            "Yeah, pretty much.  My parents took me and Akane to check out the university I've got the best shot at, last weekend.  Cool place, I guess."

            "Really," said Hiroshi, surprised.  "Akane too?  I heard she had a solid shot at Tokyo U, no?"

            Ranma's smile slipped a notch.  "She did.  Does."

            Obviously his friend picked up on the change in the conversation's tone.  "Ah, right.  Gotcha."  Hiroshi turned and nodded towards the school.  "So who're you here to see, then?  Problems with English again?"

            "Nah," Ranma answered, and patted the bag at his side.  "Found this old book yesterday, and it might have some hints about Jusenkyo in it - maybe even a cure.  Problem is, I can't actually read it, so I thought maybe somebody here. . . ."

            "Here?" said Hiroshi, sounding sceptical.  "At high school?  Dunno, man, seems unlikely.  Isn't that more up that old lady's alley -- what's her name -- Cologne, right?  Couldn't you ask her?"

            Ranma frowned.  "I'd rather not.  Me and the old hag aren't on the best of terms right now."

            "Ah."  A beat later, he added, "Well, gotta go.  Want to get to the teachers' lounge before the bell rings.  Later."

            Ranma nodded, and smiled, and watched his friend go, suddenly preoccupied.  Why hadn't he thought of that right off?  Cologne probably would be the best person to see, as far as translating the book went.   He suspected he'd have to see her at some point, no matter what.  He loathed the very idea of turning to her for help.  Well, nothing I can do about it now, he told himself, and shrugging, went to follow his friend into the school.

            A sudden, unconscious sharpening of awareness forced hesitation; he swivelled back toward the front gate.  Two figures stood at the threshold of Furinkan, dark silhouettes against the sky.  Ranma blinked into the early morning sunlight as they slowly walked toward him.  There was no mistaking their intent nor their destination as they approached.  To his surprise he recognized them.

            "Hey, you're those guys from the university yesterday, aren't you?" Ranma called out.

            The younger of the two men nodded, and they both stopped at a distance.  Ranma eyed him critically, and didn't bother to conceal his appraising look.  His earlier glance had been mostly accurate: still wearing black jeans and travel-worn boots, though the muscle shirt had been swapped for a simple grey t-shirt, the man stood slightly taller than Ranma did and obviously outweighed him by a solid ten kilos or so.  A shock of blond hair, dark at the roots, spiked away from greenish-yellow eyes.  The young man's face was undeniably ugly, angular and big-jawed, shotgun-scattering of pockmarks and blackheads sprayed across his cheeks, the underlying skin unpleasantly pasty.  Ranma noted that he still favoured his left arm: he wore the same heavy leather jacket, but the left sleeve hung empty.  Arm broken? Ranma wondered, but he saw no sign of the bulk a cast would demand.

            "How did you find me?" Ranma asked.  He noted that he had been subject to the same examination.  Look all you want, buddy, he thought.  I ain't showing you nothin'.

            The man smirked and pulled a wallet from his pocket.  He snapped a card out; Ranma snagged it from the air and found his school id.  "Seems somebody dropped their wallet at the university."

            "And out of the kindness of your heart you came all this way to return it.  How sweet," Ranma said.  "Right.  What do you really want?"

            It was the second man who answered, and Ranma noted him for the first time.  He remembered his father's warning and watched him attentively.

            "All we are interested in," the man said, voice low enough that Ranma had to strain to hear it, "is the book that was given to you yesterday afternoon by the man at the university.  Hand it over and we will be on our way.  You will be compensated for your troubles."

            The man was a foreigner but spoke in perfect, unaccented Japanese.  He appeared to be quite old, in his sixties at least, Ranma guessed, with shockingly white hair that peeked from beneath a battered wide-brimmed hat that sat precariously on his head.  Startlingly blue, clear eyes peered from behind thin, black-rimmed spectacles, set amidst a face of lean, sharp features.  He was tall, nearly two metres, but Ranma suspected he was rail thin beneath the old-fashioned beige suit.  Bloodless lips settled in a thin line that turned down at the edges, in what appeared a look of perpetual mild displeasure.  Try as he might, Ranma could not see what had nettled his father so.  This man's not a threat, he thought, he's just some old man!  Pop's just playin' with my mind or something.

            "Zara's talkin' to you, kid," said the younger man, voice sharp, condescending.  "Pay attention!"

            Ranma turned his attention back to the greater of the two threats -- and there was no denying that the man opposing him was taking on an aggressive pose.  "Sorry, bud, but the book's staying with me," he said, and patted the bag at his side.  "I've got uses for this thing.  Can't give it back just yet."

            "We're not asking," said the younger man.  "We're telling.."

            He took a step forward, and Ranma mirrored him, shifting his weight back and readying himself.  The younger man stopped, though, at a touch from the older one named Zara.

            "I assure you, that book contains nothing you have need of."  His words remained as soft as before, but now somehow carried clearly across the distance.  Monotone as it was, Ranma still found the man's words strangely compelling, sonorous undercurrent captivating and suggestive of great import.  "It is a dangerous and deceptive text.  It contains nothing but lies, no matter what you believe you may have found within.  You would be far better off simply handing it over.  I assure you that I can reimburse you generously for your efforts."

            Zara's words seemed reasonable, and Ranma found his hand half-way to unbuckling his bookbag before he caught himself.  What the hell was he doing?  His eyes narrowed as he suspected some trick.

            "Thanks, old man," he said, "but no thanks.  The book's mine.  I'm keeping it.  You want it, you come get it."  Ranma was surprised at how hostile his own voice suddenly sounded.

            The man's response was to slightly cock one eyebrow; Ranma realized it was the first expression he had yet seen cross the otherwise impassive face.  "Very well."  Zara nodded toward his companion.  "Go get me that book, then."

            "Excellent," the young man answered, and smiled viciously.  "I was hoping for a decent fight.  That geek back at the dorm wasn't no fun at all."

            "I promised you your fill of challenges, and you shall have them.  But for now, time is of the essence.  Finish him quickly and retrieve my book.  Understood?"  The younger man nodded and resumed his advance, and the man added, "Be careful, this boy is surprisingly strong-willed."

            Ranma watched and listened to the exchange as he unbuttoned his tunic.  Now he wished he'd worn his normal clothing, not that it made any real difference; he just hated to get his school uniform dirty, the thing was so damned expensive.  A smile crept across his face as his opponent slowly moved closer.  A number of students drew near, forming a ring about the two fighters, leaving the old man named Zara at the edge.  Ranma could hear the cry going out, summoning more spectators, drawing the crowd, Nabiki's successors working the field; and his smile grew and his pulse pounded in response.  As the man drew closer, he could see the same smile and same appreciation mirrored on his face.

            He stopped several metres away.  "You sure you don't want to just hand the book over?  I'll have to brutally hurt you otherwise."

            "Well, since you put it -that- way, yeah, sure, here you go," answered Ranma.  "Not."

            "Good.  By the way, the name's Karadoku."

            "Saotome Ranma."

            "You any good?"

            Ranma smirked.  "The best."

            "The arrogant ones are always fun to take down."

            Ranma tossed his school tunic aside, next to his bookbag.  "It's not arrogance if you're as good as you think you are."

            "Hadn't realized," the man replied, and yanked off his leather jacket with one hand.  As it fell away, his second limb was revealed: thin, withered, and pale, his left arm hung limply from the shoulder, misshapen and strangely bulbous at the joints.  The flesh stretched tautly across sinew and muscle and met in the gaps between bone.  The hand was twisted and clawlike.  An audible gasp escaped as the crowd noticed the handicap, and Ranma fancied he could hear some of the betting odds shift.  "What are you staring at?" Karadoku demanded, eyes narrowing.

            "You're crippled!" Ranma exclaimed.

            His opponent scowled.  "And you put it so tactfully, too."

            Ranma shrugged.  "Sorry."

            "I'm not looking for your pity."

            "Good," answered Ranma.  "'Cus I ain't giving it.  You try and take my book, I'll still kick your ass across the schoolyard, one arm or not."

            "Glad to hear it.  Wouldn't want you to go easy on me.  That way you won't have any excuses after I beat the crap out of you."

            "With one hand tied behind your back?"

            The man smiled nastily.  "Oh, that's a good one.  I'll remember that.  While I'm smashing your head in."

            He drifted in, good arm held before him, palm open and facing upward, smooth circular stepping carrying him closer.  With dozens of friends and Furinkan students surrounding him, chanting his name, urging him on, Ranma Saotome stepped back into a fighting stance and raised his hands defensively.  His eyes shone eagerly, and his smile was that of a predator.

            Shori Ryu was a very patient young man, which is why he made an excellent team captain of Furinkan's kendo club.  He sat in contemplation, posture and position nearly identical to that of his predecessor, and thought of the past.

            Kuno Tatewaki was a brilliant man, he decided.  He was also, he ruefully admitted, a complete idiot and totally delusional -- but an absolute master of Kendo.  He still remembered the stories of how the Blue Thunder (then the Steel Zephyr) had assumed the role of team captain of the club, a mere two weeks into his first year.  The first step had been effortlessly defeating the current captain; then, the entire team (at once); and once the club's teacher still resisted the idea of placing an arrogant, ignorant first year in charge, Kuno had offered up a challenge: "I shall challenge the entire student body," Kuno had supposedly said, glowering darkly at the oppressive educator, "and should they fail to lay me low, I shall take on the mantle of team captain.  Should I fail. . . the untold depths of the Kuno fortune shall be applied to the betterment of this fine educational institution -- and of the individual who succeeds in overcoming me."

            What a battle that had been, one inscribed in the illustrious annals of Furinkan history!  Legend had it that, over the course of an hour, Tatewaki Kuno defeated every one of his many challengers, before finally meeting the teacher himself in one-on-one combat.  After his inevitable victory, there had been no denying his right to leadership.  And thus the Kendo club had entered its very own Golden Age.

            The only problem being, Ryu thought, that gold is soft -- like Kuno's head.  There wasn't a school competition that they couldn't win -- if they were actually able to compete.  Too often, the club was used for the captain's own loony objectives.  Demanding and exacting in training, absolutely insane in application: that had been Tatewaki's method.  Such as when Tatewaki had taken him aside that one day, the first indication that he was being groomed as a potential successor; on that day. . . .

            "Captain!"  An urgent voice interrupted his revery.  "There's gonna be a fight!  Saotome's back, and some stranger challenged him!"

            Ryu nodded.  "Very well.  Go and watch.  I will be out momentarily."

            He rose from his seat, still reflecting on what had been.  Saotome: Kuno's nemesis, and undeniable better in combat; unfortunate that his former captain had never quite realized that.  Nevertheless, there had also been no denying the unbelievable achievements the kendoist had realized through association with his pigtailed foe.  The speed and skill and (especially) endurance he exhibited by the end of his third year!  Ryu could only dream of such ability.

            As he stepped from the dojo, Ryu could see the gathered crowd, hear the raised voices.  How long has it been, Ryu mused, since the last fight?  Months?  No wonder things had seemed so quiet around here recently.  He could never shake the feeling that he had started school at Furinkan just as a very special age was coming to an end.  Now, in his second year, and first as team captain, heir to Kuno's legacy, he lived with the oppressive knowledge that he could never bring his friends and club to such illustrious heights as his predecessor had.

            "Over here, captain!"  Ueda, his second, beckoned him over.  "Great view!"

            Saotome squared off against his opponent.  They circled each other warily, throwing out easy attacks meant to probe the other's defences.  Words were exchanged, though Ryu could not quite make them out.  He inched closer.

            "Let's see what you've got, high school boy."

            "Well, I've got two arms," Ranma said.  He tried a quick jab; it was lazily slapped aside.  "More than you can say."

            "Funny," grunted the man.  He darted in with a straight punch; danced back as Ranma leaned aside and countered with a snap kick.

            "Who's the guy?" Ryu asked his friend.  "What does he want?"

            "His name's Karadoku, I think.  He showed up a few minutes ago, with that old guy over there."  Ueda pointed at an old man, standing impassively at the opposite end of the circle.  "They want some book Ranma's supposed to have, or something.  Dunno.  Who cares?  It's a fight, man. . . it's been too long!"

            Ryu nodded absently.  He watched the fighters intently.  It seemed the playful testing was over.

            Karadoku, in mid-hop back, suddenly blurred forward, stunningly quick.  A foot lashed out; Ranma twisted aside, barely caught the elbow with his forearm as his foe passed by; snapped his hand down on the limb and went for a side-thrust to the ribs.  Karadoku's arm slid free and forced the kick aside as he stepped back.  Ranma leapt forward with a cry, perfect jumping circular kick forcing his opponent back, rising as he landed with a savage uppercut.  Again the stranger stepped back, blocking with his one arm.

            "Shit," said Ueda, breathless.  "They're so fast!"

            And good, Ryu wordlessly added.  No wonder Kuno always lost.  He watched as more blows were exchanged: no hits were landed, but the newcomer was being constantly forced back, his single arm a big disadvantage.  His style had obviously compensated, absorbing many attacks with his legs: but the missing arm remained a hole through which a smart attacker could slip a blow.  It was a hole, Ryu suddenly realized, that Saotome wasn't taking advantage of.

            Ranma threw out a flurry of attacks; Karadoku turned and twisted and absorbed a number of hits with his shins and single arm, the crippled limb twitching uselessly as he avoided the barrage of strikes.  His counters were amazingly fast, on par with Saotome even, but he managed far fewer attacks.

            Then Ranma wove in between a punch and kick, trapped and pulled aside the single good limb, hands slapping down the defensive knee; and suddenly snapping in, double palm-strike smashing into Karadoku's abdomen.  He went flying with a cry, hit the ground hard.  He rolled with the impact and half-rose, crouching on one knee.  Seen through the rising dust left in his sliding wake, his face twisted with anger before settling into hard determination.

            So fast! Ryu thought in wonder, Saotome's move, hands an impossible blur as they seemed to block and trap and pull and strike all at once.  Who among this crowd were even able to see the technique applied?  Without Kuno's training, he thought, no doubt I would've missed it as well.  Seen or not, there was no mistaking the result.

            "I think he's angry," Ueda said, pointing as Karadoku rose to his feet.  The fighter dusted himself off, seeming indifferent to Ranma, who danced from one foot to the next at the opposite end of the ring of students.

            "Nice hit," Karadoku called out.

            "I know."

            With a loud yell, the taller man charged forward.  Ranma mirrored him, racing across the field to meet him.  They both suddenly jumped, their cries echoing across the schoolyard; they engaged, high in the air; meaty thud of flesh against flesh; a sudden cry of surprise and pain; and they landed, metres apart, facing outward.  Karadoku smiled and wiped away a trickle of blood from the side of his mouth.  Ranma collapsed, face first, to the ground.

            "What?" exclaimed Ryu.

            Flight through the air, incoming opponent, riding the confidence of certain victory, the full range of attacks of the Anything Goes school's specialty flitting through his mind: Ranma's anticipatory grin faltered only slightly as he recognized the same look in his opponent's face as they met in the sky above Furinkan.  Uncoiling, spring-like tension released, success as first strike slipped past and fist connected with his opponent's face, head snapping back.  Other arm guarding against opposing arm, leg blocking leg: expected attacks countered, knocked aside, knee smashing into man's stomach, elbow crashing down against skull. . . and sudden, impossibly savage pain tearing momentarily across his chest, resounding throughout the entire left side of his body.

            The other arm, Ranma thought, the bastard tricked me!  Even as he fell, out of control, the pain faded into numbness, and he suddenly understood that Karadoku's crippled, withered arm was not only fully functional and blindingly fast, but deadly accurate as well.  He hit a pressure point, I can't feel my arm!

            He landed, awkwardly, before his left leg gave out as well, and he collapsed to the ground.  The numbness spread and consumed the left side of his body.  Ranma struggled to one knee and stared angrily at his opponent.  Karadoku turned, smiled, and slowly began walking towards him.

            "Give up?" he called out.

            "No.  Do you?" Ranma answered.  Get it together, he told himself.  It's only a setback, you're not losing to this jerk.  You're better than him, faster, stronger.  Get up, get up!

            He forced himself to stand, full weight on one leg.  His left arm hung limply.  His opponent's did not.  The twisted limb was now held forward, swivelling wrongly in the joint but obviously functional.  He glared at Karadoku as his enemy approached.  Ranma briefly considered retreating, at least until he regained control of his limbs: but even as the thought crossed his mind, he heard a cry taken up across the playing field, shouted out by the assembled students:

            "Ra-n-ma!  Ra-n-ma!  Ranma!"  The brief silence caused by his stumble shattered as he regained his footing, and their cry bolstered his determination.  He couldn't retreat, not now.  Focus on defence, he decided, until the limb unfreezes; dodge and block, read his intent, hold him at bay -- and when I've got my arm and leg back. . . .

            "Hate to disappoint a crowd," Karadoku said, pace unhurried and seeming undisturbed by the chanting, "but fun time's over."  He stopped and smiled.

            Ranma matched the grin with one just as frosty.  "Not yet it's not."

            Karadoku blurred forward, suddenly so much faster than before, crossing the distance in a heartbeat.  He attacked relentlessly, fist and bony claw and foot lashing out.  Ranma blocked furiously, single arm a blur, slapping strikes aside, guarding against the sharp, slashing crippled arm, absorbing blows he couldn't stop with his deadened side.  His unresponsive limb hindered him; he tried pulling back and stumbled as his leg failed; and suddenly he was falling, good leg hooked out from under him.  A heavy boot heel smashed into the small of his back like an axe.  Ranma gasped at the jarring impact, breath driven out as he crashed into the ground and bounced back up -- only to receive a savage elbow to the side of the head.  He went sprawling into the dirt, momentarily dizzy.

            Purely by instinct, Ranma swept out with his good leg and felt a solid impact.  Split second secured, he jackknifed his body away, avoided the foot that smashed down where his stomach had been; then, jerking forward, he threw his body into his enemy's legs.  The man stumbled, and with a yell Ranma slammed his good hand into the ground.  The ground shuddered as he pushed off, flying backward, landing several metres away in a half crouch; and even as he landed he pushed off with his good leg, flying back the way he came, arm cocked back for an all-or-nothing blow, breath heavy in his throat, knowing that fighting defensively simply wasn't going to work with one arm and one leg out of action, that he had to put Karadoku down -now-, before he recovered. . . .

            The first kick took him in the chin; the second in the stomach.  As the impact threw him up he felt a fist hammer down into his kidneys, and he dropped like a rock -- into the knee rising into his stomach.  Ranma felt the sharp, acrid taste of blood as he collapsed to the ground.

            Everything hurt.  The man was impossibly strong: maybe not a Ryoga, but close, and so much faster, almost as fast as him, even.  Ranma struggled through the pain, but the paralysed limbs still failed to respond.  The cheers stopped, ending as they watched him get helplessly battered; a few despairing, encouraging cries died in the resounding silence.  Ranma felt a single hand grab him by the neck in an iron grip and effortlessly haul him off the ground.

            "So," asked Karadoku, staring him straight in the eyes, smiling grimly, "who's the cripple now?"

            Ranma's feet dangled off the ground.  "Dirty. . . trick," he gasped.

            "And you fell for it."  He laughed.  "I didn't think you would.  You were smart.  You guarded against it.  At first.  But you didn't take advantage of it.  I left a hole there, and you didn't use it."

            "Not. . . honourable."

            "Stupid is what it is, you dumb shit.  And now look at you.  Beaten.  Arm and leg out."

            "The. . . arm. . . ," Ranma wheezed.

            "Yeah?"

            "Works fine!"  Feel through the pain, shatter the cold with rage.  Even as his enemy's eyes widened in surprise, the heir to the Saotome school of Indiscriminate Grappling slammed a fierce cross into Karadoku's head -- with the unguarded left arm.  Planted his right foot into the taller man's gut as he staggered, pushed off with all his strength, broke free of the grip, catapulted up -- slamming his heel into his opponent's chin, leg's dead weight dangerously heavy as Ranma cartwheeled overhead.  Even as he descended he twisted, good leg scything across, roundhouse connecting solidly against bone.  Ranma landed on the bad leg, collapsed, scrambled up again. . . .

            Into a downward punch that nailed him between the eyes, sending him sprawling.  Oh, man, Ranma thought woozily as a furious Karadoku, bleeding profusely from a broken nose, descended upon him.  This is gonna hurt. . . .

            It did.

            Ryu watched breathlessly from the sidelines, watched as Ranma made his final attempt, saw how Karadoku's head snapped back with the impact.  The larger man charged through the attack and smashed his fist into Ranma's head, then wailed away on his dazed, defenceless opponent.  Ranma absorbed the final blow of Karadoku's angry retaliation and collapsed to the ground like a rag doll.  The battle was over.  Ryu's own shock was mirrored in the face of the assembled students.  Saotome. . . lost?  But the stories, he thought, the fights I've seen with my own eyes: Furinkan's legend -never- lost!  Against his rival, the battle of chi-blasts; against the old man, fighting without strength; and rumours spoke of even greater accomplishments abroad: stunning victories, tarnished by this defeat?

            No one moved as the old man named Zara left the crowd to join his fighter, the students' incessant whispering a sibilant testimony to their surprise.  Ignoring the downed Ranma, they retrieved his book bag.  Opened it and pulled out a largish book.  Even at this distance, Karadoku's surprise was obvious.

            "'Ten Easy Steps to Non-Lethal Cooking'?" he asked.  "This is the book we've been after?"

            Zara, sighing, said, "No."

            "But. . . ."

            "Obviously we have been tricked."

            The younger man's surprise twisted into anger.  He turned back towards Ranma.  The pigtailed boy was just struggling to his feet, propped up by a single shaky arm, when a savage kick to the ribs by Karadoku dropped him once more.  The crowd's murmuring turned angry.

            "Where's the book?" Karadoku demanded, stomping down on Ranma's back, grabbing him by the pigtail, hauling his head up.  "Eh?  Where'd you put it, you piece of shit?"  He shoved Ranma's face into the book.  "You think I let you bust my nose for this?"

            Obvious, unfeigned surprise flashed across Saotome's face, before disappearing behind a tight-lipped smile of resolute defiance.  He said something, voice hardly above a whisper; Ryu could not make it out, but whatever was said had a clearly angered the victor.

            Karadoku responded by slamming the boy's head into the ground.  He kicked him again.  And again.  Yanked him off the ground by the shirt and reared back with his crippled arm.  And before he realized he had taken a single step, Ryu found himself halfway across the yard to join Ranma, bokken materializing at his side and held low and ready.

            "Leave him alone!" he yelled.  "You've already beaten him!"

            Still holding a limp Ranma in one hand, Karadoku turned on him.  "You going to make me?  With that stick of yours?"

            Only then did he realize he was hopelessly outmatched.  This man had defeated Ranma; Ranma defeated Kuno on a regular basis; and Ryu had always known better than to challenge his sempai.  Had Kuno felt this fear, facing Ranma every morning?  How did he continue, knowing defeat to be all but certain?  Fighting down burgeoning panic, Ryu raised his weapon.  "If I have to," he said, mouth suddenly dry.

            Karadoku laughed.  "Said the boy, ready to piss himself."

            "Leave them," intruded a voice: the old man, walking past, either oblivious or uncaring of the standoff taking place.  "The boy obviously knows nothing as to the book's whereabouts.  He was as surprised as we.  It is in the book's nature to change hands quickly.  I suspect that if he has lost it so soon, then it already too late.  Pity the weak one who now holds the book."

            The younger man spared a glance at Zara, and though Ryu saw an opportunity to attack, he did not dare try and take advantage of it.  Karadoku seemed to have entirely forgotten about his presence.  "Then what do we do now?"

            "There are alternative methods that I know of."

            "Right."  Karadoku returned his attention to Ryu, and the kendoist knew he had not been forgotten, he simply hadn't been worth consideration.  "You're lucky, Stick-boy," he said, and smiled.  Then, looking down at Ranma, his shirt still clenched in one fist, he scowled.  "As for you. . . ."  His withered arm, still held ready, flashed down, faster than the watching kendoist could follow, before he could cry out; the arm slashed out and the bony, hooked hand plunged into the pigtailed martial artist's chest; twisted, and ripped across.  Ranma cried out, blood spattering out from his wound, and fell to the ground.  "As for you," continued the victor, "you were a real disappointment."

            Karadoku turned and walked away.  He rejoined his companion even as Ryu knelt next to Ranma.  Ranma, who was clutching at his chest, body curled around the wound, gasping in pain.

            "Are you alright?" asked Ryu.

            Not gasping, he realized, as Ranma straightened out, struggling up on one arm and one leg, to glare fiercely at his receding opponent.  Not gasping: rather something between a laugh and a sob, tears of pain and rage springing to his eyes, and through the contorted features of Ranma's face curled a vicious smile unlike any Ryu had ever seen.

            Ranma Saotome later lay face up on the ground, eyes open and unblinking, and contemplated his defeat.  Someone was at his side, nudging him, an incessant voice in his ear that was to be ignored.  The ground beneath him vibrated with the steps of many people, charging across the yard to surround his unmoving form.  He ignored them.  His chest throbbed with pain, breathing hurt, and his numbed leg tingled with the discomfort of a thousand sharp pins.  The pain was ignored as well.

            'Leave him alone!  You've already beaten him!'

            A slight frown creased his brow.  He had lost.  Badly.  To an ordinary man: not a god, not a descendant of dragons -- only a man, much like himself.  Another martial artist.

            How did I lose?  The first, and easiest answer, galling though it may be: I underestimated him, Ranma thought.  I guarded against the crippled arm, but when it didn't move, I ignored it.  I underestimated his speed, his strength, his skill.  I fell for his trick, for that arm of his; that surprisingly quick, oddly-moving limb, the tearing bony hooked hand that struck with uncanny precision.  I retreated at the wrong time, failed to compensate for his switch from earlier defensive fighting to aggressive assault.  I thought him weak and was proved wrong; he wasn't even going full out, and I read him wrong and paid the price.

            'As for you, you were a real disappointment.'

            No kidding, Ranma thought.  For despite the reasons above, he understood the true reason for his loss: not that he had underestimated his opponent, but that he had overestimated himself.  Even with one leg and one arm out, he ought to have been able to fight his enemy to at least a stalemate.  Ranma knew he was at -least- that good.  But his timing had been all off.  His strikes weak.  His stamina pathetic, his endurance worse.  No way he should have fallen so quickly; no way his final strike, desperate as it had been, should have been shrugged off so easily.  That bastard should've been at least stunned, Ranma thought, I put everything I had into that, and he walked right through it.  No way.  I'm off my game, I'm way off my game.  Time to train.

            And then he remembered something said by the old man:  'Pity the weak one who now holds the book.'

            He turned his head and saw the cookbook laying next to him.  Why would a cookbook be in his bookbag?  His eyes widened as sudden comprehension dawned on him.

            Akane.

            Pain suddenly forgotten, Ranma leapt to his feet, seized by panic.  The cries of surprise around him went unheard.  He almost knocked over the boy crouched next to him and only marginally noticed.  He broke into a run, heart pounding.  Stupid tomboy! he swore, increasing his speed.  How dare she, he thought, stealing my book like that, she must've swapped it when I wasn't looking or something.  Why would she do something stupid like that?  He ignored the insidious little voice that suggested that, had she -not- swapped the book, he would have just lost it.  Instead he cleared the wall surrounding the school with a single jump, and made for the Tendos' as quickly as his legs would carry him.

            Ryu Shori watched in amazement as Ranma bounced back to his feet and, without so much as a glance back, left the school at a gallop.

            "Wasn't his leg paralysed?" someone asked.

            Ryu shrugged and wondered at the look of sudden consternation on Ranma's face.  Wondered who the two strangers had been and what this book they were after was, and where the book itself has disappeared to.

            "What's the hell's going on?" he said out loud to no one in particular, knowing full well that he'd probably never find out.

            It took him longer than expected to cross the distance between Furinkan and Akane's home, the wound to his chest forcing him to stop halfway, lungs burning, until the pain subsided.  Through the tattered remains of his shirt a massive bruise dappled his flesh blue and black; at its centre a jagged, scabby slash peeked angrily.  Minutes were lost before, clutching his chest, he forced himself to continue.

            With his breath rasping and the wound an almost debilitating pain, he leapt through the front door of the Tendo household, nearly crashing into a very surprised Kasumi Tendo.

            "Oh my!" she exclaimed, falling back a step.

            "Where's Akane?" he demanded.

            "Ranma, are you alright?"

            "Akane, Kasumi!" he said, voice urgent, forceful.  "Where is she?"

            Eyes uncomprehending but filling with sudden concern, she nodded and pointed toward the staircase.  "She's in her room.  She's been there all morning, studying.  She said she didn't want to be disturbed."

            "Get Mr. Tendo," he shouted, springing by her.  "Trouble might be coming!"  He took the stairs three at a time.  Akane had the book; Karadoku and Zara wanted it, and if they found him, they might be able to trace it back here; the book itself might be a threat; 'pity the weak fool who. . ." indeed.

            Clearing the last step and turning the corner, he halted at an unexpected sight.  A tall, slender man stood outside Akane's door.  Dirty blond hair flowed down his back in a pony-tail, startling white in contrast with his long, dark coat.  He turned his head at Ranma's arrival and gazed enigmatically at him from behind dark, round glasses.  A slight smile curled his lip.

            "You're too late, you know," he said.

            Ranma approached cautiously, despite his concern for Akane.  He'd already tangled with one freak interested in the damn book; who knew what this new guy's story was.  "Who are you?"

            "My name is Gabriel," he answered.  "But it doesn't matter.  I don't imagine we'll ever meet again."

            The pigtailed boy shuffled closer to the door, back to the wall.  The man nodded slightly and, without losing his sardonic grin, stood aside.  "Go ahead."

            Keeping one eye on the man, Ranma grabbed the doorknob.  Sudden electric agony tore through his body, standing his hair on end.  His muscles clenched up, held him there and in pain, until a muscle spasm sent him flying back, crashing into the opposing wall.

            "The room is sealed against entry," offered the man.  "It's her own fault, too."

            "Like hell it is," Ranma said angrily.  With a loud cry he smashed his fist into the door.  It shattered into splinters and fell away.  A greenish barrier shimmered transparently in its place and cracked ominously as the broken door rebounded off.  Smaller shards struck once and burst into brief lived flames.

            "It goes all around the room," added the stranger behind him.  "Behind the walls, across the windows; the only way in is through, and I've seen very few people capable of managing -that-."

            The barrier tinted everything he saw beyond with its flickering greenish light, imbuing it with an otherworldly semblance.  His breath caught in his chest as he saw Akane sitting in the middle of her room.

            She sat cross-legged and unmoving, still in the same worn clothing of this morning and the day before.  The book lay cradled in her lap, and the open pages glowed a deep luminous green.  Greyish tendrils uncurled slowly from within the light's depth.  Thick, mottled grey and seeping viscous fluid, they slithered across the floor and reached up the walls; reaching from within the book, they crept along Akane's fiercely clenched arms and coiled about sweat-drenched legs.  They ensnared her in their embrace and stretched towards her face, where her mouth gaped open in a silent scream, eyes wide and unseeing; sought to envelop her fully within their grasp even as Ranma watched on in silent horror.

            "It won't be much longer now," noted the stranger.  "The key's almost fully emerged."

            Ranma bounced back into a ready crouch, face set with fierce determination.  "Only way in is through?" he growled.

            "Don't!" the man exclaimed.  "You'll kill yourself!"

            "That's my fiancee in there!"  Ranma sprang forward.  His yelled "Akane!" resounded throughout the household; a moment later so did his tortured scream as he grappled with the scintillating wall.  Fierce pain seized him as he strove to force his hands through the barrier, fingers clawing with the unyielding energy that crackled and arced beneath his body and burnt welts across his skin.  His hair rose and danced about his head in a halo; his torn shirt snapped back and about him.  An acrid, unpleasant scent assaulted him and he realized it was the smell of his own smoldering flesh and clothes.  His fingers, it seemed, sank a fraction of a centimetre through the wall.

            Deeper pain seared across his torso, piercing deeply into his already torn chest.  The sound of his own cries echoed in his ears and twisted and suddenly sounded much like the tormented mewls of a dying cat, and even as he sank another fraction forward the outraged thought flashed across his mind:

             -- I won't lose again!  Not again! --

            even as excruciating hurt demanded he pull back, even as his clothes burst into flames about him, even as his vision faded before the electric charge that threatened to tear him apart.  Then, a voice, a half-strangled moan, impossibly heard through his own voice: Akane's soft plea for help:

            "Ranma. . . ."

            "AKANE!" he screamed, and pushed and strained with redoubled effort, pushing aside the pain, the green glow falling back before the blaze of his own surging aura; and suddenly his hands were through, he lurched a step ahead, his face smacking into the barrier as he sank forward up to his wrists.  Without hesitation he reached down, palms slapping flat against the inside of the wall.

            "Moko Takabisha!"

            Twin massive blasts impacted against the surface, and it flared brightly and rippled beneath his hands.  For a brief moment his world was a crazy mix of strobing green; twin tigers striving for domination over opposing strength; and of excruciating pain as his own technique launched him forward through a barrier that pushed him back; and then the strain disappeared, the tearing flames were gone, and he catapulted forward into Akane's room.

            The ecstasy that followed the cessation of pain was nearly as debilitating as the pain itself, but Ranma, operating purely on instinct, vision still spotty and every muscle protesting every demand, rolled out of his landing; snagged a shinnai as he rose and twisted back towards the centre of the room.  His weapon slashed down in a savage arc at the nearest writhing thing.  Something thudded wetly to the ground as he connected.  Even as his eyes cleared and he sailed forward, past now-wildly trashing puckered tendrils, cutting an ichorous path out of the forest of limbs that blocked his way, a high-pitched keening scream filled the air.

            In an instant every foreign limb flowed back into the book, releasing their grasp upon the room.  The light faded.  Akane suddenly slumped to the side.  Ranma leapt forward and caught her before she hit the ground.  Cradled in his arms, he watched as the last tendril uncurled from about her forehead; and as it slid away, mucous fluid slick across her skin, he saw a unfamiliar sigil flare to life upon her brow.

            Its light was brilliant, and through slitted eyes Ranma momentarily saw nothing.  Yet as it dimmed, and the symbol itself faded from view leaving no visible marks upon her skin, he was surprised to see both the book, and everything that had emerged from it, gone.  Green glow, hacked flesh, slimy trails: nothing, other than his own abiding pain and the hole in the wall, suggested than anything had happened.

            "Oh my," whispered a voice from behind.

            Looking back, Akane still held protectively in his arms, he saw a stunned Kasumi and Mr. Tendo step through the shattered remains of his entrance.  The same blast that had propelled him through the barrier had destroyed most of one wall of the room.

            Mr. Tendo seemed unaware of the damage.  "Akane. . . ?" he asked.

            He glanced down at her and looked back up with a smile.  "She's fine, Mr. Tendo."

            Ranma noticed the stranger standing behind the two Tendos, watching from outside the broken room.  The man's impassive gaze of earlier was now one of surprise.

            "What the hell is going on here?" Ranma demanded.

            "You made it through," he half-whispered, voice tainted with grudging surprise.

            "What happened?" Ranma repeated heatedly.

            "You interfered with the ritual.  I've never heard of that happening."

            "Ritual?  What ritual?  What the hell are you talkin' about?  It's just a damn book!  What the hell were those things?"

            The man stepped into the room, looking about with obvious interest.  "That 'damn book,' as you put it, is a very old, very dangerous text, that ensnared the will of your fiancee and led her to begin the summoning of what you saw."

            "That's crazy," Ranma shot back.  "Akane'd never bother with stuff like that!"

            The man spared him a glance, eyes somehow mocking behind his dark glasses.  "Of course she wouldn't -- unless the book offered her something she wanted, something she yearned for desperately.  Who knows what it was.  Doesn't matter.  It was enough for her to hide away into her room and begin -- this.  I arrived too late to prevent her from beginning; apparently you arrived in time to prevent her from finishing."

            Ranma felt a moment of hopeful relief.  "So she'll be okay."

            And the man threw his head back and released a harsh, mocking laugh.  "Oh no," he said, smiling bitterly.  "No, at best, you've bought yourself some time.  A week, maybe two; but already things have felt her call and will awaken and come to retrieve what is now theirs; they will come and they will take her, and they will kill you if you try to stop them.  As for her. . . death will be something she comes to envy."

            "Who do you think. . . ."

            "It doesn't matter," the man said, and his sharp, angular features faded back into their earlier impassiveness.  "There's no point in talking any longer.  You're all as good as dead, anyway.  I'd wish you good luck, but there's no point.  I suggest you enjoy the time you have left."

            He turned away, straight into Mr. Tendo, whose eyes brimmed with unshed tears and a silent plea.  "If you know so much," he said, "you must be able to help."

            Shaking his head, the stranger pushed past the older man and stepped back into the hallway.  "It's not my place to interfere," he stated, voice flat.  "Only to watch."  He walked away without another word.

            But Ranma was no longer paying attention, focussed entirely on the figure cradled in his arms, her features relaxed into sleep, the slightest of smiles playing about her lips.  She was so unbelievably cute.  Beautiful, even.  He brushed back an errant strand of hair, and looked up at his future father-in-law.  "Don't worry, Mr. Tendo," he said.  "Akane's alright.  Don't worry 'bout nothing that weirdo said.  Nothings ever gonna hurt Akane, not so long as I live."

            Mr. Tendo nodded and backed away, worry and hope vying for domination across his features.  As he left his eldest daughter came forward.

            Kasumi knelt next to him, first-aid kit in hand, and asked, "How are you feeling, Ranma?"

            Her question reminded him of his ordeal, and pain flared up across his body as he suddenly took stock of his many wounds; but the smile he turned on her was happy, and he replied:

            "Fine, Kasumi.  It's been a great day."

Continues in

Chapter Two: Fresh Scars