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.

3. Fresh Scars

What has gone before:

While visiting a possible future university, Ranma ran afoul of Happosai.  During the inevitable fight, a strange book was slipped into his possession.  Upon inspection, the book hinted at both Jusenkyo and the possibilities of a cure.  Heading to school the next day in the hopes of finding someone to help translate the text, he instead was confronted by two other individuals seeking the book.  Their names were Zara and Karadoku.  A battle ensued, which Ranma lost.  The book, however, was not on him, and Ranma realized that Akane had taken it from him during a moment of distraction.  Running home, he discovered his fiancee entrapped by magics she had unwittingly released from the book.  He rescued her, but in the aftermath a strange sigil flared briefly upon her brow.  Gabriel, a man watching from the sidelines, warned of worse to come.

***

The thin line, pale against his skin, started a centimetre or two above the left nipple.  It followed the inner pectoral curve halfway down, before twisting sharply and slashing straight across the flesh of his right breast.  It ended abruptly, in a mottled ridge of hardened tissue.  Ranma Saotome shifted this way and that, examining the fresh scar in the mirror, and estimated it to be nearly forty centimetres long.  A scar, he thought, not entirely displeased but rather surprised.  I've never had one before.  I wonder what Akane will think of it.

                He never scarred.  He healed too quickly.  Despite the frequent and savage beatings he had suffered throughout his career as a martial artist, there had yet to be a wound from which he could not recover quickly.  And yet, there it was, the long, slightly jagged line curving across his chest.  That guy from yesterday, Karadoku, he did this, Ranma thought.  At the end, when I was already down.  He cut me deeper than I thought.  And before it had time to heal properly, I wrestled with that barrier, and the heat must have burned the gash into my chest.

                Curious, he splashed his face with water, and the shift into girlhood did far more to dispel early morning sleepiness than the bracing chill.  The scar remained but followed a different path across his fuller chest.  The scar's beginning stood in sharp contrast against the dark skin of the larger areola.  Made sinuous through stretching, the wound now coiled from the top of one full breast and curled out of sight beneath the curve of the other.  He slowly traced the line and rolled the skin between two fingers, feeling the different texture of the rawer tissue.  A slow smile crept across his face.

Let the Curtain Fall

by Michael Noakes

                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 Two:

Fresh Scars

He sneaked into his parents' room with all the subtle prowess that his own father had taught him.  In the empty quiet and pale darkness of the very early morning, Ranma Saotome crept soundlessly across tatami as he approached Genma's supine form.  The spring air was cool, its scent fresh, the slight breeze an exhilarating backdrop to his subterfuge.  His mother's form was all but hidden behind his father's massive bulk.  Neither stirred as he knelt next to their shared futon; Genma's deep human snores didn't lessen.  Ranma knew that snore well, he had lived with its nightly snorts for more than a decade.  How many times had he lain awake in the pre-dawn dusk on some foreign soil, listening to those rumbles, reassured by their continuance?  As the sun would slowly rise the sound would falter, die out, and within minutes his father would be up, dragging Ranma from beneath his blanket, and the morning's training would begin.

                Now?  No more snores; no more training.  That was about to change.

                "Hey, Pop," he whispered.  "Get up."

                No response, nor had he expected one.  Ranma smirked.  He cocked one arm back.  Time to wake up, he thought, and brought the fist smashing down.

                Genma's large hand snapped up and caught the attack.  A moment later his eyes opened and focussed on his grinning son leaning over him.  "What," he asked, anger underscoring his loud whisper, "do you think you're doing?"

                "Getting you up, old man."

                The Saotome patriarch released his son's fist and glanced at the alarm clock at his side.  His eyes widened in surprise.  "Ranma, it's only four o'clock!  What the hell are you doing here?  I thought you stayed the night at Tendo's."

                "So I came home early."

                "Early?  I don't have to get up for another hour!"

                "Sorry, Pops, but you have to get up now."

                "Why on earth would I do that?"

                "Training time."

                "What?"  Genma's eyes narrowed.  "Your arrogance knows no bounds, Boy.  You think it's your turn to dictate when we train, now?"

                "Yeah, Pop, I do," Ranma answered, smile dropping.  "'Cus you sure as hell ain't dictating nothin'.  We haven't sparred in weeks."

                "You spar with Akane.  That should suffice."  He rolled over, turning away from his son.  "Now leave me alone.  I've still got an hour left."

                Ranma watched his father's unmoving bulk for several minutes.  Severe disappointment rose within; accompanying it were the first inklings of contempt.  Pathetic, he thought.  But then he remembered the tired eyes of two days ago and his own arrogance turned bitter: perhaps something unseen, something he couldn't understand, lay at the root of his father's apathy.

                But, no, he told himself, no excuses.  The Art before all else, that's what Pop taught me.  Train hard in times of health; when sick, train to get better.  Train hard when focussed; when troubled, train to dispel the distraction.  How to remind his father of this?  Would the old hypocrite even listen?

                Sighing, Ranma left the room.

                The attack, coming from behind as it did in the midst of his training, almost took him by surprise.  As it was, he just had enough time to twist around and cleave the incoming log from the air with a swift chop.  Genma stepped from the doorway that had concealed his presence, and frowned.

                "Pathetic," he said.  "You've got a girl's predilection towards self-absorption and obliviousness."

                Ranma faced his father, and concealed his happiness at Genma's arrival behind a scowl.  "Yeah, whatever.  I've got training to do, so if you don't mind. . . I don't got time for old men."  Turning away, he began the first moves of an intermediate kata.  At around the fifth step, Genma's flying kick caught him in the side and sent him crashing into a wall.  Bouncing back, Ranma ducked beneath the follow-up strike, stepping in and past his opponent.  He turned and faced his father across the small distance between them.

                "So you've still got some fight left in you, eh, old man?"

                "I'll show you just how much I've got left, Boy!"

                And then they both smiled, and with a battle cry that rang loud and clear through the quiet morning dusk, father and son found themselves amidst a flurry of punches and kicks.

                Ranma almost skipped along as he made his way towards his fiancee's house.  In a moment of weakness he even whistled a nameless happy little tune.  He threw a few cheerful punches at an unseen opponent, danced around imaginary attacks.  Catching a few odd glances, he smiled in return and slipped back into a normal walk.

                What a great way to start a day, he thought, and felt like shouting it aloud.  Had he ever missed sparring in the morning!  With his old, fat, cheating lazy panda of a father.  His lying stealing hypocrite of a shitty old man.  His dad.  Still full of surprises.  Ranma felt the new bruise on his side and grinned.  He wouldn't fall for that sneaky little attack again tomorrow.

                Only thirty minutes, and in that brief time the dullness that had pervaded Genma's eyes for weeks had faded and been replaced by the familiar sly twinkle that Ranma had so missed.  Later, at the breakfast table, they had traded covert strikes at each other's food, snagged morsels behind his mother's back.  Innocent grins hiding stuffed mouths was all she found when turned to confront them.  Man, Ranma thought, I don't think Pop's been this happy in months.

                Not entirely happy, Ranma reminded himself.  For at the end of their sparring session, Genma had levelled a serious expression at his son and demanded an explanation.

                "An explanation?" Ranma had asked, reaching for his shirt.

                "The scar."

                Which had come as a surprise to the younger Saotome.  After the events of last night, he had called home to tell his parents about what had happened.  It was at his mother's urging that he had stayed the night at the Tendos' -- not that he had had any intent of leaving the household unguarded for the night.  He had wanted to tell his father, but he had not yet returned from work; he had assumed Nodoka would pass the information along.  Yet the full explanation had come as a complete surprise to Genma.

                "That's no good," he had said, and frowned.  "You shouldn't have lost."

                "That's what I say."

                "You need to step up your training.  You've been lazy."

                Which had just been an invitation for a beating, and they had fought some more, and insulted each other some more, and finally ended with an agreement that they would return to their morning training.  Ranma had no delusion that it would be easy.  Once the initial excitement faded, he wondered if he would be so ecstatic about getting up at four in the morning, every morning.  But we need it, he thought.  He absently traced the new line decorating his chest through the material of his shirt.  I have a debt to repay.

                After the second fight, they had leapt to the top of their apartment complex to watch as the rising sun dispelled the curtain of night and tainted the far horizon in bloody hues.  Neither had spoken, nor had there been any need to.  The moment had been a reminder of simpler days, long ago, spent together watching similar dawns in the euphoric aftermath of successful training.  Only after, once they had returned to the ground, had Genma continued his questions.

                "Is Akane alright?"

                 "Yeah," Ranma had answered.  "She looked a little dazed when she woke up last night, but fine.  Kasumi sent her straight to bed."

                "And you left her alone?"

                "Hey, I didn't have a choice!  The weird guy said we had some time -- and if bad things are coming, I need to be ready.  I'm gonna head back as soon as we're done here."  Then he had shrugged, and grinned sheepishly, and added, "Besides, I stood guard by her door all night.  I haven't been to sleep yet.  I'm bushed."

                And Genma had laughed and slapped him hard across the back.

                Breaking out of his musing, Ranma slowly became aware of a commotion up ahead.  A small crowd was clustered together at the next street corner, and amidst their number he could see police officers moving about and controlling the people.  Well, that's strange, he thought, the police don't come around here all that often.  I wonder what's up?  He moved closer.

                "There's no point," said a tremulous, familiar voice from behind.  "They've already cleaned everything up."

                "Gosunkugi?" Ranma exclaimed, surprised and, if not entirely pleased, not quite displeased to see the scrawny, pale-faced guy again.  "Hey, man, what's up?  I haven't seen you in months."

                "I've been around.  I've also been busy," the boy answered.  "Getting a portfolio together.  For university."  He gestured at the expensive-looking camera at his side.

                "Ah," Ranma said, craning his neck to see past the people blocking his view.

                "I like taking pictures in the early morning.  It's quiet.  And honest."

                "How interesting."

                "You're not going to see anything."

                "Un."

                "I have to go now."

                "Bye."

                Ranma didn't really notice Gosunkugi's departure.  His efforts to find out why the police were around, however, came to nothing.  "Nothing to see here," one officer insisted, and indeed it seemed that whatever had happened was long over.  Minutes later the crowd dispersed and, slightly bemused, still curious, and somewhat disappointed, Ranma continued on his way.  Whatever it was, he told himself, it couldn't have been all that important.  Maybe it'll pop up on the news tonight or something.

                He hesitated momentarily at the front door, as he always did, before entering without knocking.  It's strange, Ranma mused, but this house still feels more like home than the new place does.  Or at least as close to a home as I've ever known.  Thinking that way made him feel guilty, like he was betraying his mother or something; but the familiarity he felt as he slipped out of his shoes and stepped into the house remained both comforting and welcoming.  The atmosphere here was simply less stressful than at home.

                "Ranma," howled Mr. Tendo, the moment he laid eyes upon the boy, "where have you been?"

                "Mr. Tendo?"

                "My daughter was nearly ravaged by arcane forces from beyond the pale!  Evil beings sworn to destroy us all are coming!  And you go and take a _morning stroll_?"

                "Don't worry about him," added a dry voice, "he's been like this all morning."

                Ranma turned as Nabiki slid into the room, can of cola in hand.  He was surprised to find her here, for he hadn't seen much of her lately.  She rarely visited.  The middle Tendo daughter, now nineteen, looked as if life was treating her very well indeed.  Whereas Akane, in growing up and filling out, had lost some of the tomboy edge from her appearance, Nabiki had most certainly made the shift into sexy -- and she damn well knew it.  The hair was shorter, the clothes sharper, the mannerisms more refined; rumour had it she had a boyfriend now, a starving artist, even; but it was the same mischievous Nabiki that levelled half-lidded eyes upon her future brother-in-law, and caused the return of the familiar shiver that two years of living with her had conditioned into him.

                "Kasumi gave me a call last night," she offered by way of explanation, taking a seat.  "So I thought I'd come by for a visit.  And before you ask, yes, Tokyo U's great, having fun, doing well."

                "Happy to hear. . . ."

                "Kuno says hi.  Well, not really.  He says 'a thousand black plagues upon the vile Saotome and the entire lineage that spawned him.'  He also says, 'a thousand thousand sweet kisses to the radiant angel who holds my heart, the boisterous pigtailed girl.'"

                "Gyah."

                "Would you believe he's actually calmed down a lot?  But that's not important.  The _real_ question is: what have you gotten my baby sister into _this_ time?"

                "Hey!" Ranma flushed red, in protest and some anger -- while feeling the stirring of familiar guilt.  "I didn't do anything!  She's the one who stole the book from me!"

                Nabiki arched an eyebrow.  "And who's the one who found the book in the first place?"

                "But-."

                "That's enough, Nabiki," interrupted a soft voice.  "It's not nice to tease Ranma like that.  I'm sure he feels bad enough as it is."

                Kasumi, coming down the stair carrying a tray of dirty dishes, offered up her usual warm, welcoming smile.  She had entered adulthood with grace as well, gathering an unaffected serene beauty about her.  It was hard to believe that Kasumi was now in her twenties, Nabiki nineteen -- but then, he was eighteen, and sometimes he found himself wondering where the last two years had gone.  "And I'm sure," the oldest sister continued, "that he'll do everything he can to get Akane out of the trouble he caused, right, Ranma?"

                Ah, geez, he though, grousing silently.  I'd forgotten why I hated it when weird stuff happens around here: the guilt trips.  Soun's half-angry, half-tearful glare; Nabiki's knowing smirk; and worst of all, Kasumi's understanding smile.  The only thing missing is Akane's angry ranting.

                "Um," he said, looking around, "Where's Akane?"

                "She's dead," Nabiki said, flatly.

                "Nabiki!"

                "Just kidding, Kasumi."

                "That wasn't very funny."

                "Really?  Personally, I think seeing Ranma go into spastic shock is _very_ amusing."

                Ranma picked himself off of the floor and levelled a baleful glare at Nabiki.  "Cute."

                She shrugged, smiled, and pointed upstairs.  "She's in her room.  Kasumi confined her to bed until she's feeling better.  Why don't you go say hi?"

                The early-morning construction crew, he noted, had to be commended on an excellent job.  If you didn't know where to look, you wouldn't be able to tell that he had blown half the room away the night before.  The wall was repaired and painted and looked as good as new -- even the door was back, complete with yellow duck nameplate.  Ranma gave a soft knock, waited a moment, then quietly let himself in.

                Much of the internal damage of last night had been cleared away as well, no doubt owing to Kasumi's supernatural cleaning abilities.  A few signs remained of last night's struggle -- an oddly dark, oily stain tainting Akane's shinai; a very slight, acrid taste to the air that the open window couldn't quite dispel -- but otherwise Akane's room looked as normal as ever.

                "Oh, thank goodness!" Akane exclaimed as he entered, sitting upright in bed.  "You came!"

                "Akane!" he said, rushing to her side.

                "You've got to get me out of here!"

                Sudden fear seized Ranma.  Did she sense some imminent danger, was she somehow attuned to the implied threats of last night?  He looked around again, this time more attentively, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.  "What's wrong?" he asked.

                "I'm going insane!  Kasumi's smothering me to death!"  She threw her sheets aside and went to stand.  She was still dressed in her pyjamas, the yellow ones with the fishcakes.  Ranma had to admit that, aside from the look of desperate annoyance on her face, she looked none the worse for wear.  Still, one couldn't be too careful. . . .

                "Ranma, what do you think you're doing?"

                "Nothing."

                "Will you please stop groping my forehead?"

                "Um, okay?" he answered, and gingerly retrieved his hand from her wrist-lock.

                "I'm telling you, I'm fine!"

                He shrugged, and took a seat on the floor, and a moment later she slumped back down onto her bed.  "I dunno, Akane.  You had some pretty nasty shit happen to you last night."

                Akane's face clouded slightly.  "But that's just it.  I don't remember any of it!  And Dad and Kasumi haven't helped, they've been really vague.  She's keeping me cooped up in my room, and I don't even know why!"

                "You don't remember?" he said, surprised.  "Any of it?"

                "No.  But you're going to tell me what happened, right?"

                He paused, though only momentarily.  Should she know?  The events of last night had been strange, even for him, and the implied threat worrisome -- should she be burdened by these concerns? Her life was running so smoothly now, and she had so many normal things to deal with as it was: school, university, moving on.  She was happy like this, and what right did he have to steal that pleasure from her?  Why pass the worry on, when he could shoulder the burden for her?

                Only. . . he didn't like lying to her; and if she was in danger, she could better defend herself if she was forewarned.  That was reason enough in itself.

                So he filled her in on what had happened, and if she noticed his initial hesitation, she didn't comment on it.  As he fleshed out the story, he saw her eyes slowly light up with recognition -- and muted horror.  Akane interrupted him as he began to describe how he had leapt through the barrier.

                "I. . . remember now.  It's hard, but I can if I concentrate.  It's like it was a dream or something.  A bad dream.  But I remember, I was awake, and frightened, and these. . . things were grabbing me, and I wanted to throw them off but I couldn't move, I couldn't move a muscle.  And the voices. . . ."

                "Voices?"

                Akane nodded.  She slipped off her bed and curled up across from him on the floor, legs drawn up to her chest.  She peered at him with anxious eyes over her knees.  "I couldn't understand them, what they were saying.  There were a lot of them.  Whispering, nonstop, filling my head with their sound. . . ."  She trailed off, then shook her head as if to dispel an errant thought, and returned her attention to him.  "What happened next?"

                "Not much," he answered.  "I hacked at a few of those tendrils, and suddenly everything just went away."

                "The book!" Akane suddenly exclaimed, looking around.  "Where is it?"

                Ranma shrugged.  "It's gone.  It disappeared along with everything else."  He noted the crestfallen look that came over her.  "Hey, what's wrong?  I'd think you'd be happy that that thing was gone."

                "Yeah, I guess so. . . ."

                He watched her in silence, as she seemed to dwell upon her disappointment, and wondered why.  Then, as loath as he was to do so, he realized there was more that had to be said.  "There's something else, Akane.  After everything was gone, you passed out.  Something flashed on your forehead -- some kind of symbol or something."  He smiled slightly as she reached anxiously for her brow, fingers tentatively extended.  "There's nothing there now.  But some strange guy said that you were in danger."

                She started.  "Danger?"

                "Yeah."  Ranma glanced aside and frowned.  "He wasn't too specific on the details.  I'm not sure if I even understood him.  Or believed him.  But he said you almost summoned something, and because of that, things were coming to get you."

                "Things?"  Her voice wavered.  "Like last night?"

                "I don't know.  He just said things were coming."  Ranma didn't add that Gabriel had also said that they couldn't be stopped.  Because he refused to believe that.  If things really were coming, he would stop them, no matter what they were.

                Akane slowly digested this, before falling back against her bed and throwing one arm across her face -- and laughing.  "No wonder Kasumi's so worried!  Ha, she must have been really freaked out by everything.  It's been so quiet here lately!  And poor Dad!"

                "It's not really funny, Akane."

                "Of course it's not," she answered, and leapt to her feet.  She rushed over to her mirror.  She felt and rubbed at the skin of her forehead.  "A symbol, you say?  Where did it go?"  She glanced back at him, then back at the mirror.  "Maybe it only glows when I activate my magical powers, like one of those magical girls on the news, right?"  She turned, struck a ludicrous pose, and jabbed a finger at her fiance.  "Beware, Ranma!" she exclaimed.  "For I am now. . . Sailor, um. . . Mallet!  Fighting for justice and, um, piglets, and really cute things!"

                "This is serious, Akane," Ranma insisted, getting to his feet.

                She sighed.  "I know, I know.  But what do you want me to do?  Cry?  Move to Canada?  Some stranger tells you I'm in danger, and I should put my life on hold?"  She shook her head.  "No way.  Nothing's going to change.  And I'm certainly not going to stay in my room all day.  I'll keep an eye out for danger -- more so than normal, that is -- but I've got exams to study for, and stuff to do."  She levelled a glare at him.  "And you're not going to stop me!"

                Ranma smiled, and raised his hands placatingly, and promised that he wouldn't, and thought, you do what you want, Akane, but I'm not leaving your side until this thing is over.  You might not take this seriously, but I do -- and nothing's ever going to hurt you.  Not so long as I live.

                Ranma stepped into the dojo, now dressed in his dogi, and noted that Akane was ready.  But then, noticing her surprised stare, he stopped and looked around.

                "What?"

                "Your chest," she said, and pointed.  "Where did that scar come from?"

                He glanced down and saw that the white line was clearly visible in the V that his dogi left exposed.  Ranma blushed, but felt pleased that she had noticed, and then remembered that she probably hadn't heard about yesterday's fight, either.

                Shrugging, he walked forward to meet her, stripping off his top as he went.  "I got into a fight yesterday," Ranma began, and quickly filled her in on the details.  "So he slashed me when I was down.  Then I rushed here and forced my way through that barrier.  I think it burnt the scar into me before I had time to heal."  He passed one hand across his chest.  "So, um," he said, suddenly hesitant, "what do you think?"

                "Not bad," Nabiki said, appearing behind him.  "Impressive enough, and it's got a cool story behind it, so that's worth something."  She traced the line with one finger, and smiled as he shivered.  "Not very aesthetic, though.  Doesn't have the panache of a, Kenshin, say."

                Akane nodded in agreement.  "Or a Kenshiro."

                "Captain Harlock's. . . ."

                "Manji's."

                "Oh, and Sagat!"

                "Why, even Recca's is better," added Kasumi, entering the dojo.

                "Well I think it looks cool," Ranma retorted, and pouted.  Then he saw what the oldest Tendo sister had cradled in her arms.  "Porker!" he exclaimed, pointing.

                "What?  Where?"  Akane looked.  "P-chan!"

                "I found him wandering around the living room," Kasumi explained, "so I thought I'd bring him to you.  It has been awhile, hasn't it?"  She gently scratched the pig beneath the snout and laughed as it blushed.  But Ranma's transformed rival, and Akane's occasional pet, kept his eyes fixed on Ranma, and pointed at his chest with one cloven hoof.  "Bwee?" he asked.

                "It's a scar," explained Akane.  "He lost a fight yesterday."  Then she turned to Ranma.  "See, Ranma?  He cares!  He's worried about you!"

                "He doesn't sound too worried to me," said Nabiki.

                "Bwee bwee buki bebweeee!" added P-chan, and it sounded suspiciously like laughter.

                "Shut up!  Who asked you, anyway?  I still look cooler than all those other guys, anyway."

                "Buki!" disagreed the pig.

                "He has a point," said Akane.  "Grappler Baki's scars are a lot more impressive than yours."

                "Oh, I can't believe this," muttered Ranma.  "I'm losing an argument to a pig.  Enough with the scars already!  Are we going to practice today, or what?"

                "What," said Nabiki.  "Sorry, but Daddy dearest wants to have a little talk with Akane."

                "Really?"  Akane turned to Ranma.  "Do you mind waiting?"

                He shrugged.  "Why not.  But could you leave the pig here?"

                She narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him.  "Why?"

                "Mr. P and I just wanna have words, ain't that right, P?  It's been a while."

                "He better be here when I get back!"

                "Hey, don't worry!  Bacon-breath and I get along great, don't we, now?"  He pried his finger from between its clenched jaws and tossed the animal into a wall.  "We'll be fine!"

                A minute later, nursing the bruised cheek Akane's fist had left, he sat down opposite the grinning pig and pulled out a thermos of hot water.  He glanced around to make sure there was nobody watching.  "Alright, Ryoga, we hafta talk."

                The pig gave a small nod, and a moment later, a heavily-built young man stood in its stead, still wreathed in wisps of steam as the hot water rolled down his back.  A few years of growth had made him ever bigger, and Ranma noted the muscles rippling as his rival pulled on his usual yellow shirt.  But while growth and further travel had hardened his body, the face remained the same: same shock of black hair, same bandanna, same haunted, naively innocent eyes.  "This better be good, Ranma," he said, as he finished getting dressed.  "It's not you I'm here to see."

                "Yeah, yeah, I know, you're. . . hey, wait a second, you better not be here for Akane!"

                "And what if I am?" answered Ryoga, indifferently.

                "Aw, geez, c'mon, man, I thought we were past all this crap!  You've been with Akari for, what, the last year?  Don't tell me you're _still_ thinking of two-timing her?"

                "I'm not two-timing her!" shouted Ryoga.

                "Then you don't love Akane anymore?"

                "Of course I do!  I swore I'd always love her!  An oath like that, I don't just forget!"

                "Yeah, sure, whatever," said Ranma.  "Listen, you try anything with Akane and I'll kick your ass again, just like last time."

                "Is that right?"  Ryoga smirked, but his eyes were serious.  "Just like that?  Who's the one with the scarred chest?  Sounds like you're the one who's been losing the fights.  A little out of shape, are we?"

                "Sure.  A little," admitted Ranma.  "But my out-of-shape is still a hell of a lot better than your top-of-the-line."

                "Is that so?" he replied, inquisitiveness losing to anger.  "Is that so?  I'll show you, Ranma!  I've been wrestling sumo-pigs for the last year!  Working hard on the farm!  Training in the furthest reaches of Hokkaido!"

                "Lost in the furthest reaches of Hokkaido is more like it," muttered Ranma beneath his breath, and then, louder, "So you _did_ come here to fight me, then."

                "No!" shouted the lost boy.  "I came here to admit the truth of my curse to Akane!"

                "You. . . really?"

                "Yes."  Ryoga suddenly fell quiet, and sat down on the dojo's floor.  With downcast eyes, he continued.  "Things are really good between Akari and me, Ranma.  Really good.  I don't want to lose that.  And yet. . . and yet. . . ."  He looked up, the sudden image of misery, eyes brimming with tears.  "The love I still feel for Akane holds me back!  I have to move on, yet I can't forget her caring smile, her tender arms as she picked me up, that wonderful, sweet first kiss she lay on my snout. . . ."

                Ranma bopped him over the head.

                "So I need to come clean.  Perhaps once she knows the truth about me, Akane will push me away.  Maybe she'll hate me.  I don't like to do it, but if so -- then maybe I'll be able to stop loving her as well."

                "What's this 'as well' crap?" Ranma said.  "Sure, whatever, Ryoga.  Sounds stupid to me, but if it gets you over Akane, great.  You've got my blessing."

                "I don't need your blessing!"

                "But I need you to wait."

                "I don't want to. . . what, wait?"  Ryoga eyed him suspiciously, though, Ranma noticed, with a certain eagerness.  "Why?"

                Perhaps it was the gravity of expression that Ranma took on, or something in his voice, or maybe even the unconscious way in which he began to trace the new scar along his chest; but as Ranma began to explain the events of the previous day, Ryoga listened without interruption or antagonism.  At the end of the story, in which Ranma explained the supposed threat to Akane, Ryoga nodded.

                "What do you want me to do?" he asked, simply.

                "To watch over her.  Protect her if you have to.  Don't get me wrong," added Ranma, "I'll be doing the same.  But I doubt I can be with her every minute of every day.  And when I'm not around to keep her safe, I want somebody who can to be.  You're not as good as me, of course. . . ."

                "Of course," Ryoga said, and smirked, cracking his knuckles.

                "But you're the strongest in these parts.  And as P-chan, you can be with her when I can't."

                "Of course," he said, nodding solemnly.

                "But if I find out you've been peeking on her at night, I'll jab your eyes out!"

                "I'd like to see you. . . Akane!"  He jumped to his feet, Ranma slowly joining him, as Akane returned to the dojo.

                "Ryoga!" she exclaimed upon seeing him.  "It's so good to see you!  It's been too long."

                "I've been very busy on Akari's farm."

                "And, how's. . . hey, wait a second -- Ranma, where's P-chan?"  A menacing tone entered her voice.

                "He's, ah. . . well, he, that is­ -- he took off when he saw Ryoga!  One glance of the guy, and he ran away.  Isn't it strange the way that happens?  Guess he doesn't like him, must be why they're never in the same room together."

                Akane still looked suspicious, until Ryoga unexpectedly added, "It might be the smell of the sumo-pigs on me, Akane.  He's such a small (but tough, smart, and attractive) pig, that he's probably got an instinctive fear of them.  I've been working on the farm so much that the scent tends to cling with me wherever I go."

                "Really?"

                "Really?" mirrored Ranma.  Damn, he thought, that's good. . . .  'Yo, Ryoga,' he whispered aside.  'Where'd you think that one up?'

                'I spent the whole trip here working on it.'

                'I thought you came here to come clean.  Why would you need an excuse?'

                "Shut up, Ranma!"

                "Make me!"

                "Damn straight I will!"

                Ryoga threw the first attack; Ranma blocked and backed off.  And then they both smiled, and with a battle cry that rang loud and clear through the Tendo residence, friend and rival found themselves amidst a flurry of punches and kicks.

                The brief glimpse he had was enough; no, it had been far, far too much.  The girl's body was mangled, mauled, long jagged strips of flesh torn away, entrails bulging out through the gaping flesh.  Blood, far too much of it, sprayed and splattered everywhere, staining the asphalt and alley walls red and black.  Limbs were snapped backwards like twigs, splintered bones poking through skin, and the back twisted wrongly in the loose confines of the shredded school uniform.  Empty eyes stared blankly at the rising sun, and somehow conveyed final moments filled with pain and terror.

                The police were doing an excellent job of concealing the carnage from the public, but they hadn't anticipated observers from above.  From his perch on the roof, Ranma Saotome pulled back, turned away, and silently retched.

                It was the crowd that had attracted him, just as it had three days ago.  People and police, gathered near a narrow alleyway, slightly off the route between his place and the Tendos'.  Unusual activity for this part of Nerima: aside for the martial artists, there were few reasons for law officials to show.  But today they were out in force: cars, an ambulance, blocking the street, controlling the crowd, assuming authority of the area.  Curiosity had brought him closer -- and once there, he had once again encountered Gosunkugi.

                The thin, awkward student had looked even paler than usual.  "Don't bother," he had said, trying to push past.  "There's nothing. . . they've blocked it off. . . you don't want to see."

                "See what?"

                "She's dead," Gosunkugi whispered.  "She's. . . dead."  He had rushed off without another word.

                So Ranma had gone around the side, leapt to the top of the building, worked his way across the roof and back to the sealed alleyway.  And saw the body.  The blood, the bone, the look on her face. . . .  Once his stomach recovered, he huddled up against the cool metal of a rooftop exhaust fan.  Jets of steam coiled above, obscuring the dawn, and he closed his eyes against the bloody image embedded in his mind.

                Who could have done such a thing? he thought, and immediately realized that it wasn't a 'who,' but a 'what'.  Nobody human could have done such a thing to that girl.  He had to admit that there were a few people he knew with the necessary strength: Ryoga, possibly, Lime of the Musk Dynasty, maybe, and certainly Tarou in his monster form -- but none of them were this brutal, none of them were outright killers.  Not of helpless teenage girls.  The person -- the _thing_ that had done this had desecrated the body with the outright savagery of a wild animal.

                Was this the threat of which that man, that Gabriel, had warned against?  If so, then why attack this helpless girl?  The mental image of the girl's body reared up once more, and Ranma suddenly wondered if this was the fate that awaited Akane.  No way, he vowed once again, leaping back to the ground and resuming, at a hurried pace, his way towards the Tendos'.  No way will that happen to Akane.

                "There were even gouges in the concrete," he said, "and they didn't look like a weapon made 'em.  It was strong enough to rip through the wall.  This thing is dangerous, Ryoga, whatever it was."  Ranma glanced once towards the open door of the dojo, through which he could see Akane practising her strikes on the wooden post.  It reassured him that he could see her.  "This thing is dangerous," he repeated, turning his attention back to his rival, "and there's no way we can let it get close to Akane."

                Ryoga nodded, once.  He let out a deep, heavy breath.  He had visibly tightened up during the story's recounting, jaw clenching tighter, thick cords of his neck tensing, and Ranma wondered how vividly his friend had imagined the event.  "Is this what you were afraid of?" he asked.

                "I don't know," answered Ranma.  "I really don't.  Maybe this was a freaky one-shot kinda thing.  Maybe it has nothing to do with Akane, or that book, and the shit that went down last week."

                "Maybe."

                "But we're not going to risk it."

                "No." 

                "Are you going to tell Akane?"

                "No!" Ranma said abruptly, a little too loudly.  "No," he repeated, softer this time, and glanced outside.  "Are you crazy?  She doesn't need to know about this."

                "But, Ranma. . . if she's in danger. . . ."

                "She already knows she's in danger.  That's enough.  We don't even know if this has anything to do with her.  She has enough to worry about as it is.  You know what Akane's like.  If she thinks this has some connection to her, she's likely to run off and try and challenge it to a duel, or something stupid like that.  Well, not this time.  This is serious, and I'm not letting her put herself in -- A-ha, I have you now, Ryoga!"

                "Huh?" Ryoga said.

                Ranma's strong right cross to the chin dropped him.  "Ha ha!  That's what you get for dropping your guard!"

                "Ranma," growled Ryoga, climbing to his feet.  "I'll. . . ."

                "Oh, Akane!" the pigtailed boy exclaimed.  "I didn't see you come in!"

                Akane stood at the threshold of the dojo, dressed in her dogi, covered in a thin sheen of sweat.  She looked very much annoyed.  "Ranma, we need to talk."

                He glanced at Ryoga, who stared blankly back.  "Um, sure, Akane.  Shoot."

                "In private," she said.  "No offense meant, Ryoga."

                The bandanna'd boy shrugged.  "None taken."

                "Don't go anywhere," Ranma said, as Akane grabbed him by the arm and started to drag him from the dojo.  "And don't get lost!  I haven't finished kicking your ass yet!"

                Akane's idea of private turned out to be rather different than Ranma's: a midday stroll through the park.  He felt uncomfortable having her so in the open.  If anything were to attack, how could he properly defend her?  The image of the slaughtered girl from this morning returned.  Unwittingly, he pictured Akane in that same state -- bloodied, gored --  and his stomach churned and his blood raced.  One fist clenched at his side and he again scanned the area.

                "Right, that's it."  Akane's voice, filled with barely restrained impatience, interrupted his search.  She stepped in front of him, and glared up at him with angry eyes.  "Will you stop that!"

                "Um. . . what?"

                "Don't 'what' me!  The hovering!  The paranoia!  You're driving me nuts!"

                "I don't know what you're talking about, Akane," he said, sounding unconvincing to his own ears.  "I ain't been doing nothing!  I'm not trying to drive you to anything -- I've just been putterin' around, that's all!"  He tried a hopeful grin.

                Akane released a very deep, very weary sigh.  "Ranma, I've seen you day and night for the last three days.  I didn't see you this much when you lived with us."

                "Is it so wrong to want to spend some quality time with my fiancee?"

                She boggled at him.  "Excuse me?"

                "The pain!" he exclaimed, clutching at his chest dramatically.  "The distrust!  Here I am, trying to be nice, and. . . ."

                "Oh, shut up," she said, though a hint of a smile appeared.  "You're creeping me out."

                He shrugged and resumed walking, Akane matching his stride.  "I dunno, Akane, I guess I just felt like hanging out more.  With Ryoga around, too, it's kinda like old times.  I've just been in a good mood."

                "That's the first true thing you've said today," she answered.

                "What?"

                She gestured towards a nearby bench, and they took a seat next to a gently burbling stone fountain.  The sun was high overhead, but a soft breeze dulled the edge of the day's heat.  Surrounded by the park's un-blossomed sakura trees, happy shrieks of playful children ringing out, it was easy to believe that today was nothing more than a perfectly normal day.  Ranma wanted no more than to forget the scene from this morning.  He could not let the normalcy stretched before him lull him into a false sense of security, though -- for Akane's sake.

                "See, you're doing it again!"

                "What?" he said, snapping his gaze back to his fiancee.

                "Watching.  Guarding.  Dammit, relax, we're in the middle of a park!  It's a beautiful day."

                "I'm sorry.  Fine.  I'll admit it:  I guess I'm a little worried about what that guy said.  Is that so wrong?"

                She sighed.  "You know, it wouldn't be so annoying if you weren't so obviously enjoying yourself."

                Ranma started.  Enjoying himself?  Here he was, in a near paranoiac panic over her possible well-being, constantly on edge watching out for her safety, and she thought he was -enjoying- it?  "That's the stupidest. . . ."

                "Ranma," she interrupted, "you've been a nearly insufferable jerk for the last six months.  You've been grouchy, and short-tempered, and sulky. . . ."

                "Hey!"

                "You've been annoying and distant and cranky. . . ."

                "Have not!"

                "Have so," she insisted.

                "Yeah, well, you've been, um, an uncute tomboy, yeah."

                She snorted.  "Whatever."

                Ranma jumped to his feet, suddenly caught between anger, insult, and protectiveness.  He glared at her, tried to think of suitable insults, and came up blank.  He wanted to turn his back on her and walk away, but couldn't risk leaving her alone.  He took a step, spun in place once, opened his mouth, closed it, and finally sat down again in a huff.

                "That was interesting."

                "Shut up."

                "You know I'm right."

                "Believe me, I am _not_ enjoying myself right now."

                "Sure.  Ranma, you've been walking around with this -- I don't know, sulking maybe? -- look on your face for months now.  We've barely talked.  And when you did, it was barely civil.  Nothing rude, but like nothing anyone said was of any interest."

                "Hey, I'm not the only one who's been distant, you know," he retorted.  "It's not like you've been all that available.  You've been studying non-stop.  You never have time for anything else anymore."

                "Ranma, we're graduating in a few months!  What do you expect?  I want to get into a good university."

                No, Akane, he thought, a great university.  Which is what you deserve: something better than the crap school I'll be going to, right?  Yet somehow his own thought felt devoid of bitterness.  He wondered why.  Then he wondered why he should feel angry in the first place.  Why should it matter where Akane went?

                "But that's beside the point," Akane continued.  "What I've been trying to say is that you've changed this last week."

                "I've got no idea what you're talkin' about."

                Akane sighed and rolled exasperated eyes to the sky.  He looked at her, smiled, and offered a helpless shrug.  "Sorry."

                For a moment it looked like she had something more to add.  She held his gaze, searchingly, contemplatively, before returning a small smile.  "Oh, forget it.  Let's just go home before you sprain your neck scanning the bushes for assassins."

                "Okay!" he answered happily, springing to his feet.

                "And wipe that smile off your face!"

                It took them over an hour to return home, but as they approached the Tendo residence, Ranma Saotome found that a genuine smile had somehow made its way onto his face.  The day had started well, with the four AM sparring session with his father; but the scene he had stumbled across while returning to the Tendos' had shattered the peace that practice brought.  Then more training, an equally satisfying fight with Ryoga, and then. . . .

                An afternoon with Akane.

                He considered her words as they walked side-by-side along the canal.  Had he really changed in the last week?  Had he really been that insufferable prior to that?  Surely not as bad as Akane suggested, but perhaps there was a certain truth to her exaggeration.  But then, he thought, should even that be of any surprise?

                Everything had changed so quickly after the last visit to China.  After Saffron.  After Akane had almost. . . .  Or perhaps the changes had not been so quick, but drawn out, for the last six months, in retrospect, had felt long and dreary and empty.  Or maybe the changes had been immediate and too consequential to be understood at that time, and in these final months an understanding of some kind had been achieved.  Or maybe. . . .

                Maybe I'm thinkin' about this too much, Ranma told himself, and grinned.  He looked up at Akane, and she glanced down, and his own smile slipped slightly.  Great afternoon, he thought -- too bad I'm currently a girl, though.  He hated the loss in height his transformation wrought; he had never noticed how people respond to differences in height until he lost his own.  Even being a few centimetres shorter made a huge difference when you're used to looking down at people.

                "Hey, it's your own fault," she said, somehow reading his thoughts.  "You didn't have to turn girl."

                "Aw, c'mon, Akane.  Real guys don't do print club!"

                "Whatever," she replied, smiling at his posture but obviously unsympathetic.

                A walk through the park.  A quick stop for a few chili burgers at a convenient Mos Burger, and a drink at the kissaten next to it.  Then, at Akane's insistence and to the detriment of Ranma's wallet, a few rounds of print-club.  He pulled the sheet of picture-stickers out and had to admit, despite himself, that they were worth the discomfort.  Various poses, him and Akane side by side, smiling and blinking and making funny faces and peering through the different cutesy frames she had chosen.  One in particular he liked: the last one taken in a sequence of shots, when they had thought the session over.  He was staring at the camera, looking slightly confused, his feminine brow furrowed with perplexity; but Akane was looking at him, face in profile, cute upturn of the nose highlighted, and in her eye was an enigmatic glint that offset the slight smile of her lips.  She somehow looked both serious yet pleased, and the ambiguous nature of her expression intrigued him.

                Taking advantage of a momentary distraction on Akane's part, he peeled the sticker off and stuck it to the inside of his wallet, then pocketed the sheet of images.  They were nice, he was glad that he had agreed to do them, even if as a woman; and as he walked alongside his fiancee he reflected on how relaxed and enjoyable the last few hours had been. . .

                . . . and then they turned the corner, and the sense of security he had lulled himself into shattered with all the shock and disjointedness of a dream abruptly ended.

                The concrete walls were shattered in places, great gouges ripped out in others.  Asphalt was torn up, cracked and cratered.  One tree was splintered into shards; another cleanly cloven in two.  An intense battle had been fought here, and recently: Akane had seen enough fights in recent years, many within this very district, to recognize the signs.  Not that anyone short of a blind man would mistake the carnage for anything else, but among the wreckage she recognized hints as to who had been involved.  Long, strangely ringed furrows torn into a wall here, the ground there: bonbori marks: Shampoo.  A half-dozen knives imbedded in a mailbox, a giant mace discarded by the street, yo-yos entangling a stone lantern: Mousse.

                She barely had time to register the scene in front of her before Ranma grabbed her in a firm grip by the arm and pulled her forward.  He didn't say anything but kept her close, eyes suddenly intensely sharp.  She could almost _feel_ his awareness stretching out as he absorbed details.

                What happened? Akane almost asked, yet bit back the question upon seeing the expression of utmost seriousness etched into his features.  It looked like nothing more than another fight, a not uncommon occurrence in Nerima despite the recent lull.  So maybe the Chinese contingent of the local chaos had gotten themselves into trouble again: why was Ranma getting so intense?

                "Ranma," she started to say, but then he was yanking her forward, towards a small house whose front wall had been smashed to pieces.

                "Shit!" he exclaimed.  "This way!"

                Only then, following in his wake, did she spot the spattering of blood.

                Across a small blasted yard, clods of earth and grass scattered everywhere.  Stepping across the broken wood and plaster, shattered glass, wrecked furniture, and a single forlorn pink flamingo, into someone's unfortunate house, and then:

                Shampoo, lying face up on the ground, broken shaft of bonbori next to her, the tattered remains of a red dress barely clinging to her supine form.  Red, or another colour stained so, for Akane then noticed the terrible abdominal gash to which Shampoo clutched her hands.  One eye was blackened and swelled shut, and blood trickled from the corner of the Chinese girl's lips.  Her head lolled to one side in near-unconsciousness.

                Mousse, kneeling next to her.  Robes in tatters, upper-body bare and bruised and lacerated.  His blind gaze held equal parts desperation and determination as he cradled Shampoo's head in his arms and sought to keep her awake.  Then the crunch of glass under her foot, and the Chinese boy's eyes snapped up, one hand reaching towards his concealed leg.

                "Easy, Mousse," said Ranma, stepping closer.  "It's us."

                "Ranma?"  The wounded boy reoriented towards the voice.

                "And me," Akane offered.

                Ranma crouched next to his two Chinese friends.  "What the hell happened here?  Who did this?"

                "There's no time," Mousse answered, and shook his head.  "You have to hurry.  The thing -- the thing that did this; Ryoga's still fighting it."  He pointed towards deeper into the house, at a path of wrecked walls and furniture.  "He showed up just in time.  He led it away.  But he won't -- he can't last long against that thing."

                Akane watched as Ranma regained his feet.  He looked down at Mousse and Shampoo, then, to her surprise, at her.  Sudden fierce indecision warred across the feminine features of his face, before resolving into resignation.  "You going to be okay?" he asked.

                Mousse nodded.  "I'm fine.  But I won't leave Shampoo here alone.  I won't let her slip into unconsciousness."

                "Fine."

                Ranma turned back to Akane, grabbed her by the arm again.  "C'mon, Akane, you're staying with me.  We can't let this thing get away."  Before she could say anything, agree, refuse, he was rushing forward, following the trail of wreckage that his rival had pointed out and pulling her along.

                Behind them, Mousse's angry voice called out: "Ranma!  For Shampoo!  Kill it!"

                The path was a disturbingly easy one to follow, Ranma noted.  Out the back of the house, across the back lot, through a stone wall, back into the street: everywhere, displays of intense battle, the wrecked signs of Ryoga and his opponent's passage.  The lost boy had to be moving fast, and had quickly covered a lot of terrain.  That's strange, Ranma thought, that's not Ryoga's usual way of fighting.  He's more of a 'stand-and-pummel' fighter.  Why's he drawing it so far away?

                As he hurried along the trail, he spared a glance at Akane.  He hated to bring her with him into potential danger.  There was little doubt in his mind that this was probably in some way related to her, to what that strange man had warned of.  But he could not risk leaving her behind.  What if this mysterious attacker doubled back?  Neither Shampoo nor Mousse were in any condition to defend her, and if they had both fallen before their attacker, then Akane wouldn't stand a chance.  No, her best chance lay with him: whatever it was, there was no way it was going to get past him.

                Down the street, through a park, over felled telephone poles.  A sudden explosion nearby, and dirt and debris fountained ahead.

                "That's Ryoga!" Akane exclaimed.

                Without replying he gathered her into his arms, ignoring her indignant squawk, and leapt for the site of the blast.  Only when Akane gripped him tighter, pressing herself into his breasts, did he remember his current form.  He almost cursed aloud.  Something like this, he wanted to tackle as a man.  But there was no time. . . .

                He softly landed to surprising quiet.  Immediately absorbed the scenario.  Registered no signs of an enemy.  Saw Ryoga's form lying face down at the edge of the street.  An unknown girl knelt next to him.

                "Ryoga!  Oh no, Ryoga!"  Akane, shrugging free of his hold, rushed towards her fallen friend.

                "Akane, wait!" Ranma yelled, but she ignored him.  He followed after her, senses reaching out, and felt nothing.  No threat.  Nothing.

                The girl at Ryoga's side looked up with imploring, tear-streaked eyes at their approach.  Ranma did not recognize her.  She was slightly taller than his female form, with hair in a style similar to Akane's.  Her clothes were frayed and dirt-stained, and she bore numerous minor scratches, but looked otherwise none the worse for wear.  "You have to help him," she said, swallowing down a sob.  "You have to -- he saved my life -- oh, please, help him!"

                Ranma knelt next to his friend and rival.  He looked even worse off than Shampoo and Mousse had.  His clothes were a wreck, his back a mass of bruises and deep gashes.  A thick, chitinous barb of some kind was impaled in his thigh.  His thick mass of unruly hair clung slickly to his scalp, near his temple, and Ranma knew it wasn't from sweat.

                "Oh, shit," Ranma muttered.  "Shit, Ryoga, are you. . . ?"  He reached out with one tentative hand.

                One strong arm slammed down, and, groaning, the lost boy pushed himself up onto his side.  Shreds of his yellow shirt hung loosely from his neck, and large welts decorated his chest.  His head drew up and slowly focussed on his rescuers.  Ryoga's face was a mess, one eye swelled shut, nose flattened, blood seeping from a cut across his brow.  Akane gasped at the sight.  Something akin to a smile peeked through the boy's swollen cheek and blackened lips.  "Ranma. . . glad you could make it."

                "Ryoga. . . what the hell. . . ?"

                "I almost got it," he said.  "Almost."

                Akane helped Ryoga into a sitting position, wincing as he gasped in pain.  His other arm hung limply, and Ranma guessed it was dislocated at the shoulder.  He had never seen Ryoga in such bad shape.  The guy was a tank.  He didn't go down easy.  And judging from the recent sparring, he was far tougher than before.

                Ryoga turned his good eye onto Ranma.  "You've got to go after it, Ranma."

                "What?"

                "It escaped."  He pointed.  "That way."  Crack in the street, result of the final blasting point technique.  "It's wounded.  You have to finish it off."

                "But. . . you're. . . ."

                "Dammit, Ranma!"  With his only working hand, he grabbed the pigtailed boy by the collar and pulled him down.  "That thing's not after Akane!" he hissed.  "It was after the girl.  This girl -- the other girls!  This has nothing to do with Akane!"

                Ranma stood, his friend's hand falling limply away.  He looked towards the hole in the ground.  It probably led into the sewers.  He wondered what kind of shape the creature was in.  Was it strong enough to. . . .

                "No, please, don't go -- don't go!"  It was the girl, the unknown one that Ryoga had defended, suddenly speaking, her voice shrill.  "Don't leave me alone!  What if it comes back?"

                What if it came back?  How far had it gone?  Was it determined enough to return and try again?  Even if it wasn't after Akane, if she stayed behind, and it returned, she would try to fight it --even after tackling Ryoga, he suspected it was still tougher than her.  What if it doubled back and he was searching for it underground and he wasn't here to stop it when it attacked and it finished off what it had started?  His indecision was brief.  No way he could risk leaving Akane behind, but he wouldn't bring her into the sewers with him.  He shook his head.

                "No," he said.  "I'll get it next time."

                Ryoga glared at him.  "Dammit, Ranma, no!  You have to. . . ."

                "I have to get you to a hospital!  Have to get Mousse and Shampoo help!"

                "Ranma. . . ," growled his rival, struggling to stand, anger and frustration flushing his injured face an ugly red.  "Fine, then.  I'll finish it off myself."

                But Ranma pushed him back down, easily, and grinned.  "Sorry, man.  Can't let you chase that thing into that _cold_, _wet_ sewer.  Besides," and his voice darkened, and his face turned serious and mean, "It's only a delay.  Don't get me wrong.  I'm going to hunt that thing down.  I'm going to find it.  And I'm going to finish what you started."

                The image from this morning reared its head: bloodied, savaged corpse; torn concrete and ground.  No way that's going to happen, he told himself.  Not to Akane, not to any other girls.  It may have been able to defeat Shampoo and Mousse.  Even Ryoga.  Maybe it would even have time to heal.  But you haven't met Ranma Saotome yet, you bastard, he swore, and you'll regret the day you do.

                Only later in the evening was he able to draw together the separate threads of the afternoon and draw a coherent image of what had happened.  A call by Akane had confirmed that, before the arrival of the authorities, Mousse had carried Shampoo back to the Nekohanten, where Cologne was tending to them.  Ryoga, vehemently refusing to be brought to the hospital, was recuperating on Akane's bed; Ranma had to admire the guy's resilience.  The girl introduced herself as Akako Nishin, and at Akane's insistence, was recovering from her ordeal at the Tendos' with a cup of Kasumi's most relaxing tea in hand.  Akako spent most of her time at Ryoga's side, concerned for the man who had saved her life.  Apparently, the worst of the wounds on his back had happened when he shielded her from one of her attacker's more dangerous strikes.

                "I don't know where it came from!" she had said.  "It just attacked out of nowhere and tried to carry me off!"

                Luckily for her, Shampoo and Mousse had been making a late-afternoon ramen delivery.  And lucky for them that Ryoga had taken a wrong turn on the way to the bathroom and ended up where he was most needed.  He had not yet had a chance to speak at length with Mousse over the incident, but Ryoga's broken telling proved enough.

                "It's got a bunch of those lining the back of one of its arms," Ryoga had said, pale-faced and gasping for breath, gesturing at the thirty-centimetre barb they had just pulled from his leg.  Slowly a description emerged, of a lanky humanoid creature slightly shorter than Ryoga, stoop-backed and green-skinned.  Long gangly arms lashed out with stunning speed and strength.  "I didn't get a really good look at it," Ryoga admitted.  "And I don't think Shampoo or Mousse did, either.  We were too busy fighting for our lives."  Then he had levelled a very serious look at his friend.  "If you find this thing, Ranma, don't underestimate it.  It's fast, and tough, and strong -- and you're not exactly in top shape right now, either."

                No, maybe not, Ranma agreed, now sitting alone on the roof of the Tendo household, deep in thought.  But I'm getting there.  Morning sparring with his father, and training with Ryoga over the last few days, had done a world of good.  Only now could he recognize how much he had let himself slip in the last six months; the fight against Karadoku had proven that.  He absently rubbed at the scar beneath his shirt.  Then again, that hadn't been an important fight; or maybe he had underestimated the seriousness of the conflict, but it nevertheless paled in comparison to this thing now stalking the streets of Nerima.  He took small comfort that it apparently wasn't searching for Akane.  But why the other girl?

                He glanced down at the newspaper in his lap, and his expression turned grim.  In the fading light of sunset, he could hardly make out the words; he didn't have to: the front page headline reported the death of the girl he had seen that morning.  Her name had been Momoko Ikura, a first year student from Furinkan.  A girl from his own school.  A friend of Akane's.  The article linked her death to a similar killing three days prior: the other police scene he had stumbled across.  And another, yesterday, that he had not known about.  Three girls killed within the space of a few days.  The papers suggested it was the work of a particularly savage serial killer, though the single picture the press had acquired and the subdued descriptions written concealed the full violence of their deaths.  Ranma knew better.  A killer, certainly, but not human.

                The horizon flared a final time in crimson hues as the sun slid from sight.  Soon night would fall fully.  Something had drawn the creature out into the light of day, despite its seeming tendency to strike at night.  Ranma wondered: even wounded, will this thing try again, tonight?

                "Not if I have anything to say about it," he said.  With Akane safe here, I'm free to head out.  I don't know how, but I'll find this thing, and put an end to its killing.

                When Ranma returned inside, he was surprised to find an assembly waiting for him: Akane, their fathers, her sisters, and, more surprisingly, Ukyou as well.

                "Hey, Ranchan, what's up?" she said, though the gravity of her expression belied her casual words.  Ukyou, too, had developed well in the last few years.  Her masculine clothing ill-concealed her full womanhood, and even at school, now, she rarely bothered with the boys' uniform -- although she still refused to wear the girls'.  She had grown in height, too, standing a few centimetres taller than he did even in his male form -- and she took great fun in teasing him about it.  The tension that had lain between them in the immediate aftermath of the failed wedding had not lasted long: their friendship reached too far back, and he found it difficult to remain truly angry with anyone, let alone her.

                Today, she was dressed for combat.  Full bandoleer of spatulas, with the massive version strapped to her back.  She noticed his acknowledgment of her weapons, and pointed at the newspaper rolled in his grasp.  "A girl can't be too careful.  The TV's calling for people to stay in tonight, especially women.  People are getting scared.  They say there's some psycho going about.

                "Then Akane called me. . . ."

                "I thought it might be safer for her here," Akane offered.

                "It's not just some weirdo, is it?" Ukyou asked.

                He shook his head.

                "You going after it?"

                Ranma nodded.

                "I want in," she said.

                He was about to vigorously refuse and insist that he had to do this on his own, when he realized he could use her help after all.  He didn't like to bring his friend into possible danger, but saw no other way.  This thing was apparently after that girl, Akako, now.  Or so he hoped.  For he could see no other way to draw the creature out.  But if they went out tonight, perhaps she would be enough to lure the killer into the open.  Then Ukyou could immediately take the girl to safety. . . and leave the monster to him.

                He didn't like the plan.  He didn't want to put Ukyou, or this helpless girl, at risk.  But what other choice did he have?  "Thank you," he answered, and saw the surprise in her eyes when he agreed.  "I have a plan, and I need your help."  He quickly explained.

                Ukyou nodded.  "You can count on me."

                "But as soon as that thing shows -- if it shows -- you're out of there.  You grab Akako and you run, and leave the fight to me."

                "And if it doesn't show up?"  His father, this time.  Akane had called him and his mother as well; Nodoka was currently with Kasumi in the kitchen.

                "Then we do it again tomorrow night.  We do it again and again and again until we find this thing."

                Genma nodded approvingly, as did Mr. Tendo.  Ukyou loosened her mega-spatula and brought it to bear.  Akako gave a very nervous acquiescence.  And then Akane stepped forward, and before she could even open her mouth, Ranma gave the vehement refusal he had meant for Ukyou.

                "No, Akane!  You are _not_ coming!"

                "You can't tell me what to do," she answered, face flushing with anger.  "I want to help too!  Ukyou can, but I can't?"

                I should have seen this coming, he berated himself.  Of course she would want to help.  But this isn't her fight.  I want her here.  Because if this isn't the danger that Gabriel warned of, I want her safe; and if it is, I don't want her anywhere near it.  But how to explain this to her?  How to tell her this is out of her league?

                Fortunately, he was saved that tricky piece of diplomacy by the timely intervention of her father.  "No, Akane.  I will not have one of my daughters running around at night when a psychotic monster is on the loose."

                "But. . . Dad!  It's my duty as a martial artist. . . ."

                "To protect your home as well.  And to listen to your father.  And your father is telling you that you are _not_ going out tonight."  It was rare that the normally passive Soun Tendo revealed the steel core that had enabled him to survive Happosai's tutelage.  But it most certainly is there, Ranma admitted, the old guy's got a tough edge to him, when he wants to.  I guess you don't get to become a master of Anything Goes without it; and nothing brought out the steel in Mr. Tendo like a threat to his daughter.

                Surprisingly, Akane gave in.  A half-dozen insults and arguments died on his lips as he watched her frown, then nod and step back.  The expression on her face left him feeling. . . worried?  Not that she might sneak after them despite her submission; perhaps it was the ease with which she had backed down that concerned him, or the enigmatic look she revealed before hiding it beneath a thin-lipped frown.  Then he pushed the thought aside.  Right now, he had a monster to catch.

                "Alright then," he said.  "Everybody ready?"

                It took nearly a half-hour for them to actually leave.  Ukyou had a phone call to make to Konatsu. Akako suddenly realized that she ought to call her parents as well; it turned out they were frantically worried about her, and gave her a very thorough, very long berating over the phone.  Ranma gave his farewells to the recovering Ryoga, and asked for any last suggestions.

                "Hit it hard," the wounded boy had offered.  "Again and again and again until it stops moving."

                Most of all, he wanted to say goodbye to Akane, to maybe apologize for not bringing her, or to explain why he couldn't, at the very least; but she seemed to be avoiding him, always leaving a room just as he was entering.

                Now, Ukyou and Akako and he walked the streets in a haphazard pattern, loosely working their way towards the site of the battle earlier today.  They moved stealthily, for the police were out, patrolling the streets, and explaining why they were walking the streets themselves could prove difficult.  The night was unusually dark and overcast, which helped, the few streetlights lining the back roads casting pale light pooling feebly near houses and in street corners.  A strong wind was picking up, blowing detritus in billowing patterns across their path.  The air was heavy, and Ranma suspected rain, if not a stronger storm, was coming.  He offered a silent prayer that the rain would hold off.  He needed to remain a man for tonight.

                At first, Ukyou tried to alleviate the oppressive silence that had settled upon the trio, but her words went unanswered, or sounded shrill against the quiet of the night.  The gravity of the situation soon silenced her.  Perhaps she realizes, Ranma thought, that now isn't the best time for the 'cute-fiancee' angle.  Not when hunting for a monster that had already torn apart three helpless girls.  That had fought off three of the best martial artists in Nerima.

                But not _the_ best, Ranma added.

                They continued to walk, the infrequent random sounds of a suburb at night -- the bark of a dog, the laughter of a television comedy turned up too loud, the passing of a car one street over -- the only interruption to their silence.  Yet worry began to settle in as they moved on, past the scene of today's conflict, past the locations of the earlier killings he had either seen or read of.  Worry that the creature wouldn't show.

                He paused in his steps as he considered it further.  Maybe their enemy was far too wounded to make another attempt tonight, he thought.  Or maybe it's too far away, too far to pick up Akako's trail.  It could be on the other side of Tokyo, for all we know, killing someone else while we're wandering around Nerima.  Only the realization that the other three killings, and the battle today, had been in relatively close proximity to each other, worked to subdue his growing sense of frustration.  But, then. . . what?  How were they going to find this thing?  Maybe it. . . .

                Ranma glanced up, at the figures of Ukyou and Akako ahead of him.  He blinked, momentarily confused.  For a second. . . .  Ukyou, walking, long hair swaying in gentle counterpoint to her steps, her combat spatula resting easily over one shoulder.  Akako walking next to her, wearing some borrowed clothes of Akane's that fit her perfectly; and briefly, he'd thought it had been his fiancee there ahead of him.  The resemblance was minimal, but certainly there: and suddenly he thought he understood, and his heart skipped a beat and dread gripped him.  For a moment he was at a lost, unsure of what to do.

                Ukyou turned back and, called out inquisitively from the dark.  "Hey, Ranchan, you coming?"

                Her voice broke his indecision.  Without further hesitation he ran forward.  "Ukyou -- we're doing this all wrong.  We're. . . it's not here.  It won't show.  I think.  I have to make sure."

                "What?"

                "There's no time.  Take Akako home, I'm sure she's safe, and she'll be safer at home than with us, anyway.  This isn't any place for non-martial artists.  Take her home, Ukyou, than go back to the Tendos; go back as fast as you can!"

                "But, Ranchan!  Ranchan, what's. . . ."

                "Just do it, dammit!" he yelled back, already halfway down the street, speeding up.  "Go!"

                Without another glance back he leapt away, over the houses, sure of his destination and afraid that his sudden suspicion would prove correct.

Oh, please be home, Ranma whispered to himself, banging on the door, please answer.

                And he did, and Ranma let out a deep sigh of relief, much to Gosunkugi's surprise.  Ranma imagined that the pale-faced young man must be quite shocked to see him, indeed: the martial artist did not make it a frequent point to visit.

                "Ranma?" Gosunkugi asked, and gaped.

                The pigtailed teenager realized he must present quite the sight, sweaty, breathing hard, and probably looking both desperate and half-panicked.  Which was close to how he felt.  He had crossed the Nerima rooftop highway at top speed, and made it here in record time.

                "Yeah," Ranma gasped.  "Yeah.  Let me in, I gotta. . . ."

                Gosunkugi let the door swing open, obviously confused but not about to try and stop a desperate-looking Saotome.  "What's wrong?  What. . . come in, what can I. . . ."

                Ranma stepped into the house, looking around but not really caring about the background to his creepy schoolmate's life.  He focussed on the boy.  "Pictures," he said.  "I've gotta see your pictures."

                If possible, Gosunkugi turned even paler.  "Um, my pictures?  Why?  I didn't think you'd be interested."

                "I wasn't.  But you took them early in the morning, right?  And you were at both scenes I was at.  How early do you go out for your pictures, Gosunkugi?  How early did you get to those scenes?"

                The scrawny photographer tried a feeble grin.  "I don't know what you're. . . ."

                "Dammit, Gosunkugi!  I don't give a shit what kinda creepy hobbies you've got, or why you take pictures of dead girls.  I don't _care_!  But Akane's life might be in danger, and. . . ."

                And that was all it took.  The nervousness and hesitation lifted from Gosunkugi's body, and without another word he led Ranma upstairs.  "This is my studio," he explained, as they entered a large, cluttered room.  There was a bed and dressers and the normal accoutrements of a bedroom, but it was the walls that immediately seized one's eye: they were plastered with images and photographs, and among them Ranma recognized a number of Akane.  The majority of them, however, were of other people, in innumerable random poses, seemingly unaware that they were being photographed.

                Then a folder was shoved into his face, snapping his attention away from the photographs and back to the photographer.  "These are the pictures I've taken," Gosunkugi said, pulling sheets of images and scattering them across his bed.  "I only made it to the same two places you did.  I normally head out at four AM, and from what I've seen and read, the girls were killed around that time.

                "Total luck, really, that I made it there before the police did."  He paused as if in thought.  "Also luck that I didn't get there when whoever did this was still around, I guess."

                Ranma was hardly listening, rifling through the images.  He pulled a picture of the slaughtered girl he had seen that morning.  Found another similar to the picture he had seen in the newspaper, but in colour, and closer up.

                "That's one of the ones I sold to the newspaper," Gosunkugi offered, voice tinted with pride.  "But they went for the print that showed less blood."

                Ranma held the pictures side-by-side, of the two different girls.  He conjured up a mental image of Akako, as he had seen her this evening.  And there it was.  Hardly noticeable, but certainly there, if you knew where to look.  The resemblance.  Not to each other.

                To Akane.

                "It's not after Akako at all," he whispered.  "It's after Akane.  It's always been Akane. . . ."

                Gosunkugi started.  "What?  What kind of danger is she in?"

                But Ranma was already gone.

Who knows how this thing tracks? Ranma thought, as he flew across rooftops back towards the Tendo residence.  Who knows what impression they got of her when that book tried to suck her in, or whatever it was trying to do.  Gabriel said things were coming for her; but how would they know where to find her?

                He hardly noticed as, without fanfare, the night sky overhead opened up and a gentle rain began to fall.  There was no time to acknowledge his own change as he raced back to his fiancee.  Dammit, he cursed, why did Gosunkugi have to live so far; why couldn't I have seen it earlier?  I shouldn't have left her alone!

                Maybe, wrapped in the book's embrace, whatever force that had driven the cursed text had received some mental image of its prey: an image of Akane, incomplete, perhaps, but enough to begin a hunt.  But being incomplete, the thing that had attacked Akako this morning, and been driven off by his friends, had been attacking the wrong targets.  All girls, and all of them bearing a slight resemblance to Akane.  Not just physically, though: the other girl had died while wearing the Furinkan girl's school uniform, and had probably met his fiancee more than once.  Perhaps it had some kind of mental imprint of Akane as well -- vague impressions of the girl, of her clothes, of what she liked.

                It doesn't matter, Ranma scowled, whatever trick it used, it's still after Akane, and I'm not there to protect her.  Hell, maybe it hunts by scent, even -- and after fighting Ryoga, it has a solid trail straight back to Akane.  After all the time Ryoga's been spending with her, no one else could offer a clearer lead to its target.  He leapt from a rooftop back onto the streets, nearly two-thirds of the way to the Tendos', and continued to hurry along the ground, desperate race kicking up a spray of water behind him.

                So preoccupied was he on getting back that he didn't notice the attack until it was far too late.

The assembled household started at the sound of the door sliding shut, and turned to watch as Ukyou came in out of the rain.  Even Ryoga had made his way downstairs, still obviously in pain but able to move -- albeit slowly -- on his own.  They all sat surrounded by the oppressive air of ineffectual waiting.

                "I'm back!" Ukyou announced, flicking water from her hair.

                "Where's my son?" asked Nodoka, concerned.

                "I don't know.  He ran off, yelling at me to bring Akako home, and to get back here."  She loosened her weapon and knelt next to the table, gratefully accepting the cup of hot tea Kasumi offered her.  "Anybody know what's up?"

                Nobody did, and Ukyou shrugged.  "Well, I'm sure Ranchan knows what he's doing."

                "But. . . ," Ranma's mother continued, and bit her lower lip.  "But now he's alone."

                "Maybe," Ukyou said, and grinned.  "Maybe not.  But he can take care of himself.  Your son's a tough boy, Ms. Saotome."

                "But he's not a boy anymore," she said, and gestured towards the increasingly strong rain.  "Now he's my daughter. . . and that thing, it likes girls, doesn't it?"  Eyes wide with concern gazed outside.  "Tonight's no night for a young girl to be outside alone -- and my daughter. . . she's all alone, isn't she?"

Sudden pain lanced through his side, followed by a numbing blow that halted his forward run and sent him crashing into a wall.  The stone shuddered under the impact, then crumbled beneath him, and he slumped to the slick asphalt stunned.  Ranma Saotome stared through the falling rain at the thing that had attacked him.  Man, I'm gonna have to give Ryoga shit, he thought dazedly.  Pig-boy's description was _way_ off.

                It approached slowly, ponderous steps that vibrated the earth and reached up through the rubble in which Ranma lay.  It stood maybe two metres tall despite a slight stoop, thick of body and limb.  Thick, puckered brownish skin glistened in the faint light, rainwater running along the thousands of crevice-like folds crisscrossing its flesh.  Long, straggly black hair hung in oily locks down its chest and back.  With its great size it covered the distance between them quickly, stepping through the ever-strengthening rain.  The first attack had come from the left arm, abnormally long and disproportionately  scrawny; with each step, the long claws of each finger scraped along the street, and Ranma saw his own blood glisten there.  In comparison, the other arm was short and stocky, muscular, with thick stubby fingers.  One blow from that massive fist had sent him sprawling a half-dozen metres, to where he now lay.

                Ranma struggled to his feet.  Sharp-edged rubble dug into his palm as he lifted himself up, and he used the pain to dispel the last of his stupor.  One hand clutched his lacerated side.  His ribs burnt, wet with blood.  Not good, he thought.  Bad way to start a fight.

                It stopped a few metres away and seemed to study him.  Large, dark eyes set too far apart squinted from above a wide, ugly slash of a mouth.

                "You want some?" Ranma yelled at it.  "Huh?  C'mon!  Now it's my turn, you ugly piece of shit!"

                It cocked its head, as if in contemplation, long clawed fingers curling and uncurling.

                "You ain't gonna get her, you hear me?  You ain't never gonna touch her!"

                It took a single step forward; he stepped back, finding awkward footing amidst the remnants of the wall behind him.  In that brief moment with the least purchase, the thing rushed forward.

                Ranma threw himself to one side, and his foe smashed into the concrete wall.  The young martial artist landed roughly on slick grass, shoulder taking the impact, then he twisted and regained his feet.  Just in time to meet the next charge.  A quick sidestep, its side briefly exposed, and Ranma countered.  A half-dozen punches smashing into its ribs; quick dodge as it twisted around, massive fist swiping through the air; back in, flurry of strikes thudding against its hide.  The second arm swept down, this one quicker, and he leapt back.  Its sharp claws tore a triple row of long, narrow furrows in the wet earth.

                I can win this, Ranma thought, dancing back to give himself some room.  Red bangs clung to his face, his clothes hung heavy with water.  Rain dripped into his eyes and he blinked and breathed heavily against the pain in his side.  It's fast, but I'm faster.

                Suddenly it surged out of the darkness and rain, charging him quicker than before.  He flipped back, onto the road; landing, he leapt forward; met its charge with his own, slipping beneath its reaching grasp and slamming a dozen more punches into its stomach.  Stepping past he twisted and attacked its exposed back.

                Too late he saw the thin, whip-like tail, coiled against the beast's rear.  It snapped out as he descended with a kick.  He threw his arms up to block, desperately, and felt the sting as it lashed through his shirt and hit flesh.  His kick connected, but awkwardly, and he faltered; and the tail snapped again and again as he stumbled back.  Pain blossomed as one strike got through, leaving a deep gash above his right eye.  In that brief moment of blindness, blood coursing into his eye, his enemy spun and connected with a punch.  The impact caught him square in the chest, fist nearly as large as his rib cage, lifting him and sending him flying.  He hit the pavement hard, sliding several metres along the rough ground before stopping.

                Even as he recovered, back of his shirt in tatters, he felt and heard the beast barrelling towards him, suddenly emerging from behind the curtain of steadily falling rain.  Claws glinted in the faint light as it reared back to strike.  Ranma twisted aside, shower of sparks as steel-sharp nails tore the asphalt asunder; rolled back as the massive fist slammed into the ground behind him, felt the street shudder and crater with the impact.  He coiled out of his tight roll, leapt forward, ignoring the dull throbbing pain in his chest; slipped past the claw swiping back up, bounced off the fist still imbedded in the ground.  With a savage yell, he slammed his knee into the middle of the thing's face.  It shuddered and staggered back, and before it could recover, Ranma pushed the assault.

                "Kami Hame Ha!" he screamed, both hands tightly grabbing fistfuls of greasy hair.  Braced solidly against his enemy, he kicked down, again, and again, and again, dozens of solid heel thrusts slamming into its sternum within the space of a second.  With the last one he pushed up, knee connecting solidly with its chin; then his other foot shoved off of one massive shoulder and he flipped away, clearing a half-dozen metres before landing amidst a splash of water.  He tossed aside the two giant fistfuls of stringy black hair he had torn from his foe's head in jumping back.

                Ranma's chest heaved as he gasped for breath, once again clutching at his wounded side.  Had any of his attacks been effective?  Striking that thing's hide was worse than punching Ryoga; its skin was rough and gravelly to the touch, and blood flecked his own torn knuckles.  He needed to push the attack; he needed to catch his breath, to reach past the burning pain in his side. . . .

                His opponent reared back, arms thrown wide, and raised its head to the skies.  It howled into the pouring rain, bestial release of anger and frustration, cat-like yowl that set Ranma's flesh crawling.  Then it stopped, and in the deathly silence following its cry, the steady patter of falling rain sounded unnaturally loud.  It lowered its head, and its eyes flared red as it levelled its inhuman gaze at Ranma.

                A moment later, Ranma heard the sound: a car, approaching from behind, headlights cutting a  bright swath through the rain, the source of his enemy's eyes' feline blaze.  Just as he acknowledged the vehicle's approach, the monster charged, massive fist tearing up the street as it drew near.  Ranma jumped back, away and off the street, but even as it ran past it attacked.  The collected earth and pavement scooped up in its paw flew towards him.  He rolled aside and saw it continue its charge -- into the approaching vehicle.

                Ranma chased after it, even as it suddenly loomed into full sight before the car's headlights.  Sudden screech of brakes and tires locking on slick roads, and the car spun and turned aside in a desperate attempt to avoid the thing.  Too late, though, as the monster rammed into the rear of the car, sending it spinning away.  The car crashed sideways into the wall lining the street, and stopped, one headlight beaming askew, and the horn wailing incessantly.  As he approached he heard the shriek of tortured metal, and saw as his opponent ripped a door off the car.  The large slab of metal and glass was sent flying his way, and he leapt forward and beneath it, rolling out and back into a run.  Just in time to see the driver stagger out of the car.

                The man, whoever he was, had enough sense to look back -- and see the thing that had just torn off his door looming over him.  The monster paused for a moment, and then it swung down, claws scything towards the helpless man who screamed and cowered in fear.

                It was the pause that saved him, maybe.  Gave Ranma enough time to leap in front of the attack.  He cried out in pain as he felt claws slash diagonally across his back, even as he shielded the man.

                "What. . . ," the man stuttered.

                "Go!"  Ranma gasped, then fell to the ground on all fours.  "Run!"

                The man needed no urging, scrambling to his feet and running away down the street.  The monster didn't follow.  Before the martial artist could move, he felt the massive hand grab him from behind, fist large enough to reach around his entire chest, wrist-sized fingers griping him and palm tight against his mauled back.  Its strength was stupendous, crushing the breath from him, resisting his efforts to break free.  Suddenly he was suspended in air, as it lifted him up overhead.  Then: dizzying downward rush; sudden impact, as it crushed him into the ground.  He went limp, spots dancing before his eyes.  Again, single-fist tight grip, this time around both legs, and it swung him effortlessly overhead and slammed him into the roof of the car.  Then swung him about and sent him flying a dozen metres, spinning in the air, limbs flailing wildly, further off the road.

                He blacked out on impact; he returned to consciousness seconds later, he hoped, to shuddering vibration as his enemy slowly approached.  He lay amidst branches and splinters, and realized he had hit a tree, and shattered it upon impact.  For a moment he lay insensate, and breathed deeply of the scent of wet grass, new earth, fresh wood, and found the smell exquisite.  One elephantine foot stomped down a mere metre away, jarring him back to his senses.  He rolled onto his back, and even that minor effort drew a deep gasp of pain from him.  Amazingly, nothing was broken, but it hurt -- everything hurt, a deep, resounding ache; and his side remained a pulsing fire as the blood continued to seep into the rain.

                It towered over him and gazed down with black, impassive eyes.  Again, it cocked its head aside, as if in contemplation.  To Ranma's surprise, it spoke:

                "You are not her," it said, in a voice that sounded impossibly normal for such an inhuman creature.  Something like confusion or disappointment underscored the words.  "You are female; her scent is stronger upon you than any other; and you bear her mark.  I have followed you all day, and yet you are not her."

                Ranma stared up at it with impotent fury, struggling to move but finding that his body refused to respond.  "Damn straight I'm not her," he growled.  "I'm as close as you'll ever get to Akane, you bastard!"

                Whether it understood or cared, he didn't know.  It stared down at him for a moment longer, than did something resembling a shrug.  It reared back with viciously long claws. 

                Ranma knew in that moment that it was about to stab down; that if he didn't move he would end up like those other girls, torn apart and slaughtered in some alleyway; and he strove to dodge aside or block with all his might, and even as he moved he knew it was far too late and far to slow, and felt a surreal panic that he'd only felt once before seize his heart. . . .

                And then heard a loud shriek of pain as the beast staggered back, clawing at its own face, dark crimson blossoming from one eye.  A single figure landed next to him, a slight, long-haired silhouette against the night sky.  One hand reached down to assist.

                "Are you okay, Mr. Ranma?" Konatsu asked in his soft, feminine lilt.

                "Listen, Mrs. Saotome," Ukyou said, shuffling in next to the Saotome matriarch.  "Don't worry about your son."

                The older woman still stared outside apprehensively.  The first roll of thunder crashed across the sky; a moment later a finger of lightning touched down and made the horizon flare.  "But, he's all alone. . . ."

                The okonomiyaki cook chuckled.  "I'm tellin' ya, Ranma's more than enough to handle whatever's out there.  But even if he isn't. . . well, I asked a friend to watch over him."

                The relief that passed over Ranma's mother was nearly palpable.  "You did?"

                "Yeah, sure.  He's a ninja, too, really skilful.  I told him to hang back -- Ranchan's pride is a bit touchy at times -- but if things get serious, he'll bail him out."

                "Oh, thank you, dear," Nodoka said.  She turned her eyes back to the falling rain.  She knew her son was a man among men; but now it was raining, and Nodoka couldn't bear the thought of anything happening to her daughter.

                Ranma accepted the offered hand and struggled to his feet.

                "What are you doing here?" he said, loudly, the heavily falling rain now a background roar that seemed nearly deafening.  He wondered if it was really all that loud; he was surprised he could hear anything over the ringing in his head.

                The effeminate ninja quickly scanned him over.  "Ukyou sent me to watch over you.  I'm sorry I stepped in so late."

                "Bah," Ranma said, and coughed, and found his lips flecked with blood.  "Another second, and I woulda. . . ."

                Their enemy stopped its high-pitched keening and mad thrashing.  It turned back towards them.  A single shuriken remained imbedded in one eye, ichorous blood staining half its face black, though the flow itself had ceased.

                "Nice shot," Ranma said.

                "Many thanks."

                "I think you pissed it off."

                "I think you are right.  How are you feeling?" Konatsu asked.  "Can you still fight?"

                "Yeah, sure, no problem," he said, thinking quite the opposite.  Everywhere throbbed with pain, and he began to feel a curious detachment from his own body.  He tore the tattered remains of his shirt off and hastily tied it across his chest, which barely served to conceal his feminine breasts.  At least the bleeding in his side seemed to be slowing.  He tried a hesitant step and found his balance off.  "I just need a minute."

                "I will buy you the time, Mr. Ranma," Konatsu said, and unsheathed one short, curved blade from his back.

                "No lipstick attacks?" Ranma asked.

                "This thing is killing helpless women.  It could hurt Ukyou.  No.  This thing dies tonight."  The look on the pretty ninja's face was nearly cruel, his eyes slitted and cold, and in that moment Ranma remembered what Konatsu truly was.  Beneath the layers of servile behaviour and gentle words, he remained a highly trained and dangerous killer.

                Then the transvestite waiter was gone, charging swiftly across the rain-soaked grass, passage leaving no trace, sword gleaming as he neared the creature in a zig-zag approach.  Ranma watched as his unexpected ally dodged and leapt and twisted around their enemy's wild swings, connecting with quick slashes of his ninjato.  Ranma took a few feeble steps closer to the conflict, feeling his strength returning.

                He soon noted that, despite the ninja's efforts, the beast seemed unaffected.  It was neither slowing nor showing signs of weakening, and Ranma began to wonder how they were going to stop this thing.  Konatsu was quicker than their enemy, and landing many solid blows, but for how long could he keep it up?

                The ninja danced back, nearer to Ranma.  "My strikes do nothing!" he called out.  "The wounds close nearly as quickly as I make them!  What do we do now?"

                Why're you askin' me? Ranma wanted to answer.  'Hit it hard.' Ryoga's words echoed in his mind.  'Again and again and again until it stops moving.'  And maybe that's all there was to it.  Both he and Konatsu used, to a certain degree, a similar style of fighting: speed over toughness, rapidity over strength, dodging and attacking with many small strikes until the enemy went down.  But this new enemy seemed to heal too quickly for that to work.  Maybe this thing needed more of brute-strength approach, a single debilitating blow. . . .

                "I have an idea," he yelled back.  "Keep it busy!  When you see me coming, get the hell out of the way!"

                His ally's only response was to once again charge and engage the enemy.  Ranma did not spare him a second glance, and stopping only to grab a large broken branch from the ground, ran towards the crashed car.  It took longer than it should have to get there; a limp slowed him down, his breathing was ragged, and he found it hard to walk straight.  But finally he made it, and slipped into the driver's seat.

                Ranma didn't have a driver's license.  Genma had allowed him to try the wheel a few times during their travels, when laziness or terrain had required the rental (or theft) of a vehicle.  Now, he hoped it wasn't much more difficult than the few television dramas he had seen made it look.

                The car was still in drive, engine running, windshield cracked, the roof caved in from his earlier impact.  He tried the gas; for a moment, the wheels spun uselessly in the muddy ground, then suddenly grabbed.  The car lurched forward with a scream of metal on stone, as he pulled away from the wall.

                Alright, you bastard, Ranma thought, spinning the car around, let's see how you like this!  He fishtailed wildly across the grass, throwing up a sheet of rain and mud before aiming it towards the monster.   It suddenly appeared ahead in the crazily swaying beam of the broken headlight, the battle with Konatsu having carried it a surprising distance away.  Ranma slammed down on the accelerator with the thick branch he carried, jammed the other end into the seat.  He crouched in his seat, coiled and ready, as the car picked up speed and hurtled forward.  Hurtled forward, faster, adrenaline pumping as his target loomed closer, muscles tense, and he gripped the wheel tight, and suddenly screamed, "Anything-Goes Motor Vehicle Martial Arts Special Attack!" the words tearing themselves free from his throat.  The hulking beast turned towards him.

                The car crashed into the monster and sent it reeling.  The collision sent Ranma flying through the windshield, even as he sprang forward under his own momentum.  "Shariki Mouko Totsu!" he yelled, uncrossing arms that absorbed the impact of breaking through the windshield.  Before he hit his bellowing enemy, he unleashed as massive a chi-blast as his battered body and wounded confidence could muster.

                The momentum of both the car and the Moko Takabisha knocked the creature into and through the stone wall.  It crashed back -- and disappeared from sight, the car following.  Ranma realized why a moment later, as his own flight through the air carried him over the wall: a few metres past, the ground fell away into a twenty-metre drop to the houses below.

                "Oh shit!" he exclaimed, tumbling into darkness.

                Konatsu slid beneath the monster's outstretched arm and left it a metre-long slash from wrist to armpit for its efforts.  Yet even as he danced back, imbedding a trio of throwing stars in its chest, he saw his last strike close and seal up.  Nothing he tried worked, and even as his movements slowed and his escapes became more precarious, his enemy seemed to become more enraged, more powerful.  Where is Ranma? he wondered, and dodged an attack and avoided countering in favour of keeping his distance.  I don't know if I can keep this up much longer.  I've tried to lure it as far away as possible, but. . . .

                Then he noted the light cut through the rain and heard the roar of the engine.  Saw as Ranma, crouched in the driver's seat, spun the car around and pointed it at their enemy; and then the vehicle was speeding straight for them.

                "No!" Konatsu yelled, even as he jumped aside.  "Not this way!  The cliff!  The cliff!"

                Whether or not Ranma heard, and ignored, or simply could not make out the words, Konatsu did not know.  He landed just as the front of the car impacted with the monster amidst a sickening crunch of bone and metal.  Blood geysered from its mouth as it crashed backwards through the wall.  For a moment the ninja thought that would be it, but then Ranma came flying from the car, yelling:

                "Shariki Mouko Totsu!"

                And the added attack sent it flying over the edge.  The car followed, with Ranma close behind.

                "Oh shit!" the young man exclaimed, clawing wildly at the air.

                Without hesitation Konatsu ran forward and leapt from the cliff.  In his wounded state, flailing as he was, Ranma's fall could prove fatal.  Arrow-like, the ninja dove through the air and grabbed the surprised martial artist in his arms; grabbed him and flipped beneath.

                They hit the wet ground at an angle, nearly uncontrolled, and Konatsu absorbed the worst of it.  A sudden sharp pain, and he felt something snap; his leg gave out beneath him and he collapsed, dull impact numbing his side, and Ranma went flying from his grasp.  For a moment he lay there, immobile.  Then he tried to rise and realized that his right ankle was broken, and gasped softly from the pain.

                Ranma rose a few metres away and crawled across the grass to join him.  "Konatsu. . . hey, Konatsu, you okay?"

                Konatsu winced but forced a wry grin.  "I'll live.  But my ankle is broken."  He tried to move his right arm and realized his shoulder was dislocated as well.

                A scream: they turned to see a man and woman run from the house, half-naked.  From inside they heard a fierce bellow of pain and anger.  They had landed outside; apparently both the car and their enemy had gone through the house's roof

                "Hit it hard," Ranma said.  "That's what Ryoga said.  Again and again and again until it stops moving."  He climbed to his feet, face set with determination, somehow pushing back the pain and weariness.  "We can't give that thing enough time to heal."  He took a single step towards the house, another, and another, each pace stronger and firmer than the last.  He glanced back at the ninja.  "Can you make it?" he asked.

                Konatsu nodded and rose as well, weight shifting to his good leg.  "You go," he said.  "I will catch up."  He took a limping step.  "Let us finish this," the ninja said.  "For Ukyou."

                Ranma nodded, and hurried away, and for a moment, uncertain in the rain, it seemed that the young martial artist who looked like a girl answered back, "For Akane."

                The monster was crouching on one knee when he found it.  Blood poured from its eye, from a half-metre shard of metal imbedded in its scalp, from terrible wounds across its body.  The combination of the car hitting it, then landing on it, and Ranma's own blast, had crushed the front of its chest and thick, white bones pierced the brownish hide.  The long, spindly arm hung limply, and three of its steely claws were sheared at the base.  Worst of all, it had somehow impaled itself in crashing through the roof, and a broken wooden beam pierced it through the stomach.  He could see the flesh twist and crawl around the wood, trying to close and heal, but to no avail.  Behind it, the remains of the car lay amidst the wreckage of what had been a kitchen.

                It can't heal something still stuck inside of it, Ranma thought.  That's why its eye is still out, it can't pull out Konatsu's shuriken.  Yet even as he stepped into the room, rain pouring through the hole in the ceiling, he saw it rise fully, the massive damage it had taken slowly healing before his eyes.

                "No way," he whispered, "No way you're getting up again."  He flowed forward.

                It swung its giant fist and hit nothing but air.  It, too, was slowed by its wounds, but at that moment, Ranma felt faster than he had in months.  A savage thrill coursed through his veins.  His strikes were precise and strong, and he felt his opponent shudder with every hit.  It fell back with each kick that cracked bone, roared at each punch that pulped freshly-healed wounds.  The martial artist felt something hovering at the edge of his battle consciousness, something tenuous that danced amidst instinct,

                _glorious suspension between Heaven and Earth_

                and he struck forward, screaming battle cry resonating through his chest, and hurled his body against the monster.  It fell with the impact, crashing hard against the wall, and collapsed.

                "Mr. Ranma, here!" a voice called out, from behind, even as, breath raw and rasping and hot in his chest, he leapt towards his fallen foe.

                He didn't look as he landed on the monster's chest, feet braced against its shoulders, reached back and snagged from the air what Konatsu had thrown his way.  It was light and balanced in his grip, and he twirled it once overhead before gripping it with both fists and slamming it down into his enemy's chest.

                Blood spurted out, spraying him in its ichor, and only then did Ranma realize he had just pierced the monster's chest with Konatsu's blade.  The entire body heaved mightily once, back arcing and thrashing in pain, before crashing back to the ground.  The flesh writhed about the steel of the sword.  Its one eye focussed on the young man still sitting on its chest.

                "Her mark on you is strongest," it said, voice now a wheezing gasp, far too human-sounding for Ranma's tastes.  "And we know you now as well.  Through you we shall have her."

                "You ain't got nothing," Ranma said.

                It twitched one last time, and then was still.  A great sigh escaped from it, and the head lolled to one side, and whatever light that strange, dark eye had held dimmed forever.

                How long did he kneel there, astride the great chest of the felled beast, numb and staring sightlessly down at that ugly, lifeless face?  In the immediate aftermath of his victory, the fire that had carried him in those final moments drained away and left him incredibly weary.  Only when he heard the uneven steps behind him and felt the hand fall softly on his shoulder did he pull his gaze away.  He absently realized he was still grasping Konatsu's sword with both hands.  He forcibly let go and was numbly surprised at how he tight his grip had been, at how his palm ached.

                "You did it," the ninja said.

                I won, Ranma dully repeated to himself.  He stared at the sword piercing the monster's chest.

                With stiff, wooden movements he rose to his feet.  Wordlessly pulled the sword free -- it slid loose with little effort -- and returned it to his ally.  He stumbled and Konatsu was there to catch him.  Supporting each other, they limped towards the exit.  As they stepped outside the rain faltered, lessened, and within seconds stopped.

                "Sure, _now_ it stops raining," Konatsu muttered, for a moment sounding distinctly unfeminine.  Ranma snorted, then chuckled, and finally laughed.  He nearly collapsed from the pain.

                "Aw, shit," he said, and wiped the blood and dirt and water from his mouth.  "Let's get the hell out of here."

                The ticking of the clock sounded absurdly loud in the tense silence in which the assembled people sat.  Akane tried to peel her eyes from the slowly moving hands, but again and again they slid back to the timepiece.  It's so late, she thought, as the minute hand clicked forward another notch, and he's not back yet.  Deep concern gnawed at the pit of her stomach.  Don't worry, she tried to tell herself, he's got Konatsu with him.  He probably hasn't even found anything.  Of course he's okay.

                But then why isn't he back, why hasn't he even called?

                Her anger and frustration with him had been so vivid before he left; her self-loathing at that moment had only accentuated her rage towards him.  To assume she would only be a hindrance in his search; to presume that he could order her to stay behind!  And yet, behind the resulting anger, a certain relief that she was released from the responsibility of actually hunting this killer--for now, she could admit that she had been terribly frightened.  Three girls already dead, in the dark, in some lonely back alley, and she knew that they had not been easy, normal deaths, despite Ranma's efforts to hide the full details from her.

                But she was a martial artist! she berated herself.  It was her duty to confront these horrors in the dark, to overcome her own fears.  Ukyou had not been afraid.  The intense jealousy she had felt at _that_ had only soured her mood further.  Am I really so petty, she thought, to be envious in a situation such as this?

                Now, though, all that was left was a hollow fear that somehow everything had gone horribly wrong, and if the worst had somehow happened to Ranma, her final memories of him would be angry ones; and even as she cursed herself for such melodramatic excess, the worry remained and grew with each passing minute.

                The door slid open and everyone held their collective breaths.  Two figures stepped wearily into the living room.  "I won," Ranma announced.  He flashed a cocky grin before collapsing in a half-naked battered heap on the tatami floor.

                He awoke slowly to bright light and the sounds of chirping birds, dream-images of primal flame and deathly chill fading from mind.  He went to sit and sank back into the soft bed with a groan, and Ranma realized that he was in a great deal of pain.

                "About time you wake up," said a voice, though muted concerned belied the words.  Ranma looked and saw Ryoga sitting against the wall opposite him.

                "What time is it?" he asked, pushing aside the pain and successfully sitting up this time.  After the initial shock of pain, it really wasn't so bad.  But I'm still a girl, he noted, and sighed.  You think somebody would've changed me back.

                "Almost noon.  You've been out for thirteen hours or so."

                "Wow."  His stomach grumbled.  "Guess I needed it."

                Ryoga pulled himself closer.  "Ranma, we've got a problem."

                "Yeah.  I'm hungry.  Big problem."

                "No, you moron.  Bigger.  I had a talk with Konatsu."

                Ranma nodded.  "How is he?  He really saved my ass last night."

                "He's so-so.  Listen, the thing you fought. . . ."

                "Yeah, what was up with that, Mr. P?  You idiot, it wasn't anything like what you described!  I mean, Mousse, I could understand, he's blind, but. . . ."

                "Will you shut up!" Ryoga yelled, turning angry.  "You didn't stop it!"

                The pigtailed martial artist frowned.  "Yes, I did," he said.  "I grabbed Konatsu's sword and I. . . ."  His voice choked for a moment.  "I stopped it."

                "No, no, no," Ryoga insisted.  "Maybe yours.  But not mine.  I'm telling you, I know what I saw.  What I fought was nothing like yours.  Mine was short and green and fast.  And it got away."

                "Well, then. . . maybe it evolved or something, or, like, it's a shapechanger, and knowing I was so much tougher than you guys, changed, or. . . ."

                "Or maybe there's more of these things," Ryoga finished.  His fixed Ranma with dark, serious eyes.  "Maybe there's more of them out there."

                Ranma slumped back into his futon.  "Shit."

                "Exactly."

                "No, man, you don't understand.  This is bad, really really bad.  Right before that thing. . . died, it said something about a 'mark'.  That it could get to Akane through me."

                "Yeah, but it's dead, right?"

                "What about the others?  It said Akane's scent was on me, stronger than anyone else.  It was dying, but still threatened me.  I think it knew its friends would be able to track me as well."

                Ryoga sat back, blood draining from his face.  "But you came. . . ."

                "Straight home, dammit.  I led them straight to her!  There's more of them out there, Ryoga, and now they're coming!"

Continues in

Chapter Three: The Nature of the Beast

***

Chapter Notes:

Akako Nishin: Ranma ought to have clued in.  Her name translates as Aka (red) Ko (girl) Nishin (herring).  She's a red herring!  Isn't Kanji fun?

Kami Hame Ha: Ka(harsh) Mi(increasing) Ha(grip) Me(number) Ha(rip) - Increasingly Harsh Hair Grip and Rip (with the 'number' kanji, misused, referring to the 'kami' (hair) pun).  A somewhat tenuous Dragonball pun.

Shariki Mouko Totsu:  Sha (car) Riki (power) Mou (fierce) ko (tiger) Totsu (strike) - Car-Powered Fierce Tiger Strike.  The 'Totsu' kanji is also used in the word shoutotsu (collision / crash) which is nicely appropriate, I think.