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.

4. Guilt Made Over

What has gone before:

While visiting university, Ranma came into possession of a strange book.  A man named Karadoku fought him for it.  Ranma lost, and received a scar to his chest for his failure.  The book, however, lay with Akane, who unwittingly ensnared herself in its magic.  Ranma returned in time to save her, but not before a man named Gabriel warned of future dangers.  In the following week, a string of savage murders swept Nerima.  Ryoga, Shampoo, and Mousse managed to accidentally interrupt the latest attempt, but nearly died in doing so.  It became clear the killer was not human.  Ranma sought to end the slaughter, and was attacked.  Only with Konatsu's timely intervention was Ranma able to overcome his enemy.  Recovering from his wounds, however, he realized that there may be more enemies out there--and that he had led them straight to their true goal: Akane.

***                                                                                                                  

The beast slunk through darkness and rot and filth towards safety, leaving a faintly luminous trail of something akin to blood behind it.  Rain sluiced in from grates above, and the occasional muted crack of thunder sounded overhead, echoing eerily along the narrow sewer tunnels.  It waded painfully through murky waters, and the scales of its flesh and spurs of its arms rasped painfully against stone as it stumbled into walls.

            It had a name, a human name, though at this time it lay beyond him.  She knew herself as human, something above a beast, though her appearance and actions belied it.  Even thinking did not come easily, not now, and the great pain and rage she felt made doing so a near impossibility.  Instinct drove her towards safety so that she might rest and lick her wounds and contemplate revenge.  A bestial rumble began deep in her chest.

            They were not to strike during the day: she understood Father's instructions perfectly.  But the Key's presence had been so strong!  Others were closing in upon it as well; the scent of Ryukiko's pathetic brood had been there.  The Key had to be taken, time was of the essence, and the opportunity had presented itself; certainly the risk had been justified!  And though the Key had not been there, the mark of its mortal shell had been on those others--their slaughter would have left a strong sign for the one she sought.  But who could have predicted the resistance?  Children!  Mere human children who fought with skill beyond reason, with enough ferocity to resist even her devouring hate and strength.  Especially that last one, who made the earth explode and struck with the strength of ten.  She would enjoy tearing that one apart later, and devouring his innards.

            'No.  You will not.'

            Nothing but the sound of wind whistling through stone tunnels, and water dripping down.

            She resumed her slow walk.  Nearly there.

            'Forever too far, little twisted one.'

            Undeniably a voice, this time.  The rumble in her chest rose to a growl in the throat, and her lips curled back like a dog's.  There, a presence ahead, stepping from a side passage.  Alone, and all too human, and weak.  Fresh flesh with which to heal quicker.

            "Not so weak," the figure said, approaching, and the dim light cutting down from the holes above seemed to cascade like droplets off the impossibly silver length of its hair.  "Nor shall you heal."  Flame erupted from its hand, painfully bright; flame that swept down in a cleansing arc that burned, briefly and painfully, and left nothing in its wake.

            "Your name was Jun," the figure said, almost sadly, before turning away.

Let the Curtain Fall

by Michael Noakes

An epic fanfiction set in the Ranma 1/2 world of Rumiko Takahashi.

Previous chapters at http://www.geocities.com/noakes_m

            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,

Chapter Three:

Guilt Made Over

Akane Tendo climbed the stairs slowly, careful with the tray she carried and the food it bore, though her thoughts lay elsewhere.  The day was a beautiful one and this was not lost on her: the afternoon breeze carried with it a moist scent of grass and earth, the trilling of birds rang clear through the house; and in the aftermath of the storm everything seemed swept up in an impulse towards renewal.  The oppressive atmosphere of last night's waiting had dissipated like dew after the sun's ascent, and the entire household virtually hummed with relaxed happiness.

            Kasumi's gentle presence followed her throughout the house as she cleaned and spoke softly with Ranma's mother, the two occasionally giggling.  Ukyou and Nabiki argued cheerfully at the table, pitting university economic theories against small-business financial realities.  The two patriarchs swapped happy platitudes and shogi playing pieces and laughed with the ease of old friendship.  It was a day that recollected early times.  It was the day following a great victory by her fiance, signalling an end to a string of terrible killings that had plagued Nerima.

            A great victory, certainly, proving once again beyond a doubt that he was a man among men, as Nodoka put it, despite the fact that her son had been a woman throughout the entire fight.  My hero, Akane thought darkly.  The idiot.  He just had to go at it alone, didn't he?

            How her heart had jumped when she saw him return; and how it fell when he collapsed in a bloody heap on the floor.  For a moment, the briefest of times, she thought him dead; and in that split-second, how unbelievably strong the paralysing grief that had seized her!  Enough that she could only watch as others rushed to his side, Ukyou and Genma arriving almost as soon as he hit the ground, while all Akane could do was stand and gasp with sudden chill, one hand pressed tremulously to her throat.

            Ranma had pulled through, of course, as he always did, despite the tremendous injuries he had taken.  Kasumi had tended them well, cleaning the massive wound in his side and the gouges along his back, washing the fantastic quantity of blood from his body, bandaging him tight and then putting him to rest in the guest room.  Even then, Akane had stayed by his side all night, sitting cross-legged next to the futon and watching him breathe, fists clenching tightly every time it seemed he might falter.  But the tension proved too much and she eventually fell asleep.  She woke that morning in her bed with faint memories of her father having gently carried her there.

            Konatsu had given a very quick accounting of the conflict before Ukyou had taken him away to the hospital.  An inhuman thing that healed impossibly fast possessing fantastic strength: where could it have come from, and why?  I suppose it doesn't really matter anymore, she mused, approaching the room in which Ranma lay.  It won't be hurting anyone ever again.

            She went to enter the room and noted the door was ajar, and heard voices speaking from within: Ranma and Ryoga.  Her name was mentioned, and she paused to listen further.

            "No, man, you don't understand," Ranma was saying, his feminine voice underscored by equal parts of frustration and worry.  "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?" Ryoga answered.

            Akane felt a thrill pass through her at the mention of further danger.  That monster had been after her?

            "What about the others?"  Ranma continued.  "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."

            "But you came. . . ."

            "Straight home, dammit."  Strong anger marked Ranma's words, and Akane realized it was entirely directed at himself.  Friends? she wondered.  Scent, a mark?  What hadn't he been telling her?  "I led them straight to her!  There's more of them out there, Ryoga, and now they're coming!"

            Akane stifled a gasp.  More coming--more of the things that Ranma had fought last night?  One, on its own, had almost proved too much for both him and Konatsu, fighting together; one, on its own, had successfully fought off Shampoo, Mousse, and Ryoga.  How many of these things were there?

            There was a long pause.  Then Ryoga's voice, sounding suddenly tired.  "What do these things want, anyway?"

            "I don't really know," Ranma answered.  "That weird guy I mentioned before, Gabriel, well, when Akane used that book I found, he said that she 'called' something to her.  That things would wake up and come to get her.  Well, the thing from last night was damn sure a . . . 'thing', and it was looking for a girl.  Akane.  Yours was too, probably.  All the girls that died had, in some way, something in common with Akane.  I think.

            "Way I see it, something tried to grab her through that book.  I stopped it, so now things are trying to do it the hard way.  But these monsters she summoned, they didn't know where she was before, so they grabbed the wrong girls and killed them when they realized their mistake.  But now. . . ."

            The tray nearly fell from her grip but, catching it in time, she knelt and placed the food quietly down with trembling hands.  Oh no, she thought, eyes open wide in horrified disbelief as she backed away.  No, no, no, say it isn't true. . . .  She stumbled against the wall, turned, and fled to her room.  A single thought raced through Akane's mind: It's my fault, it's my fault, I killed them, I killed them!

            "They know where Akane is," Ryoga finished for him.

            "Yup.  That's about it."  Ranma curled his legs beneath him and sat up fully on his futon.  A dull ache throbbed from his side, but it was nothing he could not ignore.  He stretched wide, wiggled his fingers, and felt a brief fire in his back from the wounds there.  Not quite in top shape yet, he thought, still a little sore and stiff, but strangely enough, still better than I've felt in far too long.

            "I wish you wouldn't do that," Ryoga muttered.  His rival looked away, blushing and scowling.  "At least put a top on first!"

            Belatedly realizing he was still female and slightly embarrassed by his little show, he quickly crossed his arms across his jiggling chest.  "Um, sorry 'bout that," he said, grabbing a shirt.  He pulled it on.  "Didn't realize."  As he did up the ties, he looked his friend over.  A day of healing had done him wonders: aside from a scratch above his eye, he seemed fine.  Ranma wondered if Ryoga's leg had healed; the barb he had taken in the thigh had been his worst injury by far.  "You'd think you'd be used to it by now."

            "To what, a naked girl's chest?  What kind of pervert do you think I am?"

            "Hey, I ain't no real girl!  Not like it's the first time I've ever flashed you."

            "That makes it better?  You really don't have any sense of feminine modesty, do you?"

            Ranma scowled.  "No, man, I don't--despite Mom's efforts.  I told ya, I ain't no girl!"

            "Well you look like one, dammit!  So hurry up!"  A few moments later, once the martial artist had covered up, he noticeably relaxed and continued.  "So now what?" Ryoga asked.  "What's the next step?"

            "I dunno.  I really don't," Ranma answered.  He sighed, a deep exhalation of mixed weariness and frustration.  "I don't know what's happening here, Ryoga, no better than anyone else.  It's just. . . ."

            "Yeah?"

            "I can't help but think we've gotten ourselves involved in something big, man, really big."  He fixed Ryoga with a serious gaze.  "Or should I say, I've gotten myself into.  You don't hafta do this, you know that, right?"

            Ryoga snorted.  "Yeah, right.  Akane's life is on the line.  You think I can just go home?"

            A wry smile; Ranma grabbed Ryoga's hand in a tight grip.  "Thanks, man."

            A brief moment; flustered, the larger boy knocked the hand away.  "Hey, I'm doing it for Akane.  Some scaly green guy wants to make a pigtailed ornament out of you, I'll help hold you down."  Nearly imperceptible, an ironic smile of his own crept onto his face.

            They sat there in silence for a little longer, though whether in thought or sudden embarrassment Ranma could not tell.  Finally, with a loud clearing of his throat, Ryoga stood.  "Well," he said, "I should let the others know you're awake."

            "And tell Pop and Mr. Tendo about what's coming, too.  But one sec'," Ranma said, motioning for him to wait.  "Something else happened last night."

            Ryoga looked at him quizzically.  "Konatsu didn't mention anything."

            "I don't think he noticed.  When we left the house, well, for a moment--and I was pretty out of it by then, so who knows--I could've sworn I saw that Gabriel guy, standing by the road.  Watching.  Then it's like he disappeared."  He suddenly shivered.  "But maybe I was seeing things."

            "Maybe."

            "Yeah.  Maybe not.  That's what's bothering me.  There's too much here we don't understand.  I mean, who is this guy?  And those losers from last week, why'd they want the book?  What was that stupid thing, anyway?  And why Akane?"

           "Does it really matter?"  Noting Ranma's expression, he shrugged.  "I mean, really?  Not right now, it doesn't.  Right now, all that matters is that in less than twelve hours, some really strong monsters might be showing up looking for Akane.  And we've got to stop them.  That's all there is to it."

            He was absolutely right, the young martial artist realized.  Those other details could wait until later--could wait until the threat to Akane was stopped.  Maybe then they could go hunting for answers.  Until then, such questions were nothing but unimportant distractions.

            "Hey, you want breakfast?" Ryoga asked, standing by the door.  He picked up a tray of food.  "Somebody left this by the door."  Ranma's stomach grumbled and he reached for lunch.  "I'll go get the others."

            Ranma Saotome sat back in bed and began to methodically eat the food before him, and as he absently munched on an onigiri his thoughts turned to the previous night.  Almost unconsciously he started to analyse the progress of the battle, from the first nearly debilitating surprise attack to the final double-handed sword strike that had ended it all.  Noted the beast's tactics--or relative lack thereof--and his own responses.  Konatsu's timely arrival.  The fall over the cliff.  His own, final flurry. . . .

            Only then did he realize he was trembling, ever so slightly, and he swallowed against a throat suddenly dry.  What's wrong with me? he thought, and took a deep breath.  I won the fight, didn't I?  Again he replayed the fight, comparing his movements at the beginning of the combat to his actions at the end.  Even after that first wound to the side, he had known he could win; or at least, thought that he could.  The speed difference had been so great.  And then his punches and kicks had glanced off without effect, and he had realized that his opponent was adapted to its relative slowness, and maybe immune to his efforts.

            And yet, in those final moments: flowing forward, smooth movements despite his own terrible wounds, attacking with a surety and vigour he had rarely known.  Such power, then: punches, strong enough to shatter stone, pummelling his enemy's flesh to pulp; kicks, able to fell trees, cracking his enemy's bones.  It could heal, quickly, but not fast enough to overcome the grievous damage he had inflicted.  He had attacked it with lethal abandon, and the only thoughts rushing through his mind had been of its death.  Of sword, held overhead, and driven down hard into the monster's chest, hard enough to embed into the concrete below.

            The fact that he had killed it disturbed him, though not greatly.  It had been a monster, after all.  What else could he have done, handed it over to the police?  Yet even while hunting, he had tried to avoid the reality of what he had set out to do; tried to avoid it despite everyone else's demands.  'Kill it!' Mousse had demanded; 'Finish it off,' Ryoga had said; and Konatsu last night had suffered neither illusion nor hesitation as to what had to be done.  Why were they so quick to assume he would, that he even _could_ kill--kill anything, whether monster or man?

            Because you've killed before, he told himself.  You've killed before--

            _soul of ice; colder yet chill pressed to heart_

            --and they all know you can do it again.  Why else have they all avoided you these past six months?

            The realization of his own capabilities for killing at that moment struck him like a physical blow, and he shuddered and fell back into the embrace of the futon.  Ranma lay there as if insensate, while his mind turned in upon itself.  These thoughts he had avoided ever since battling Saffron, reawakened by last night's events, could no longer be silenced.  Is this what I have trained for all my life, to kill? he questioned, then pushed it aside as irrelevant.  He had always known the Art's capacity for death; it was his own capacity that had lain dormant.   Is it becoming easier, then?  Yet that too was an evasion: the lethal intensity of purpose that had overcome him at the end of last night's battle had not descended upon him like a shroud, had not been summoned through an effort of will.  Like the battle against the king of Phoenix Mountain, he had suddenly realized what needed to be done to win--and had done it.  If anything, his focus had come nearly too late, and but for Konatsu's arrival, he would likely have died.

            What, then?  He recollected the final minute of last night's combat with the utmost vividness, embracing the wash of visual flashes, rushing sounds, the surprisingly strong scents that all lay on the periphery of sensation as he fought; and sinking into the memory he could feel the thrilling rush of life through body and limb, the pounding of his heart, and he suddenly found himself smiling--and understood.  The joy of relived excitement died with the recognition of that joy.

            "I enjoyed it," he whispered to himself, abruptly sitting up.  Isn't that what really makes a killer, he asked himself, liking it?  But no, he added, and vehemently shook his head though there was no one to see it, that's not true, that's not true.  It's not the killin' I liked.

            It's the fighting.  No, more than that: the perfection of the Art.  Losing myself to it.  In those final moments, when his movements were surest and his strikes strongest, he had approached a singularity of thought and action that he had truly felt only once previously: when he had soared above the ground amidst winds of his own making, resisting the fires of a god with the ice of his own soul and the knowledge of what had to be done.  His greatest opponent had inspired his moment of greatest glory.

            And underscoring that glory had been death.  Had the intensity of true Art come upon him only with the acceptance that he must kill?  Perhaps only then could he truly capture what he so yearned for--had yearned for during the last six months, leading to the confused unwilling distraction of which Akane had only understood a fraction.  The greatest achievement of my life, he realized, and nearly laughed and sobbed with the irony, was rooted in death.  Must I be willing to embrace another's death to embrace my own life?

            The very idea terrified him.  The fight above Phoenix Mountain, the final moments of last night: Ranma considered these to be among the greatest experiences of his life, and he yearned, deeply, with the entirety of his being, to lose himself within such sensations again.  But if it could only be achieved through the necessity of killing. . . .

            No! Ranma thought.  This is insane, I ain't no killer!  I'm thinking about this too much, I'm getting all melodramatic.  That thing was a friggin' monster, it killed three helpless girls and tried to kill me, it was after Akane.  It's not like I could reason with it.  I only did what needed to be done, what I had to do. 

            With these thoughts he quickly and forcefully dispelled the unease of his earlier musings.  'I had to do it,' became a mantra he repeated as he returned to quietly eating the last of his lunch.  He tried not to think, nor to notice the grim satisfaction he took in every brief ache and pain that recalled the events of last night.

            Genma Saotome was not the first to enter the room in which his son-turned-daughter lay recovering, and so he only caught a brief glimpse of the far-away look in his eyes that was quickly concealed.  The larger man nodded with satisfaction as he stepped through the threshold, thinking, now he's ready.  As he entered the room he noted Akane's absence; more importantly, he noticed Ranma's momentary disappointment upon observing the same.  His lips curved in a smile.

            This became a frown as his wife ran to their son's side, kneeling next to him and pulling the boy into a firm embrace.  "Oh, my son!" she said, and he saw Ranma wince, though more from the overwhelming pride she exuded than from aggravated wounds.  "My manly, manly son!"  She's spoiling the boy, he thought, but refrained from making any comment.  "Are you okay?"

            His son smiled and nodded.  "Yeah, Mom, I'm fine."

            "That strange ninja. . . boy," she said, "told us how bravely you fought.  You gave us quite the scare, the state you were in, when you returned."

            Ranma blushed slightly.  "Yeah, sorry 'bout that."

            "No problem!" Kasumi chimed in, smiling broadly.  "The blood cleaned right out of the tatami!"

            "Er, right," added Nabiki.  "But I suppose congrats are in order," she said, and snapped off a sharp salute.  "Well done, guardian Saotome!  We declare you hero of Nerima, and offer you the Kettle of the City."  She offered up a battered bronze kettle, steam escaping from its spout

            "Thanks, Nabiki," he answered, smiling wryly but accepting the proffered water.  A moment later he shifted back to maleness.  My son, Genma thought, and felt a brief swell of pride.

            "The pleasure's mine.  Now if this heart-warming scene is over, I'm missing the financial report," she said, and wandered off back downstairs.

            "Don't mind her, honey," Ukyou said, taking her place.  "I'm sure young girls across Nerima appreciate what you did for them last night--even if they don't know it was you, that is."  Nodoka's expression, which had darkened slightly at the okonomiyaki chef's approach, positively glowed at her last remark.  Genma sighed.  If the girl was trying to ingratiate herself with his wife, she was succeeding.

            It went on like this for some time, a flow of compliments and inquiries into his son's health, and he watched as Ranma blushed and squirmed under the attention.  Finally the Saotome patriarch, having given the women their time, had enough and pushed his bulk forward, taking an intimidating pose before his son.  He glared down at the boy, arms akimbo.

            "Well?" he asked, in his firmest voice.

            "What?" his son answered, and Genma scowled at the insolence.

            "Where were you this morning?  You missed our training session, boy!"

            "I what?" he exclaimed.  "I lost, like, a litre of blood or somethin' last night!"

            "No excuses!  I thought you were serious about our training!"

            "But-."

            "No buts," Genma said, and roughly threw his son's dogi into his lap.  "Ten minutes.  In the dojo," he said in a voice that would brook no disagreement, and without another word he turned away.  He heard that girl, the okonomiyaki chef, angrily mutter, "Sugar, your dad can be a real asshole at times."  Though there was no one to see, he smiled broadly as he left the room.

            "Police are baffled by the scene revealed after last night's fierce thunderstorm," said the anonymous television announcer.  "Details remain sketchy at this time, as police officers try to draw together a coherent picture of what exactly occurred."  The image on screen changed to a slow scan of a street, torn up in numerous places, and a wrecked house, the tail end of a car sticking out through the roof.  "Mr. Tanaka, the owner of the car, said he nearly crashed into some giant 'beast' standing in the middle of the road."  Now the screen showed a portly, nervous-looking man bearing a number of minor scratches to his face.  "I was just driving along, minding my own business," the man said, "when this _thing_ appeared ahead of me!  I swerved out of the way and hit a wall.  When I got out of my car, it tried to kill me!"  Tanaka got this sudden, far-away look in his eyes.  "But then this beautiful girl with hair like living flame descended from the skies above and saved me!  She must have been some kind of angel!  Or one of those Magical Girls!"

            Nabiki snorted indelicately and almost coughed up a bite of muffin.

           "Soon after," the reporter continued, "someone drove or pushed Mr. Tanaka's car over the cliff's edge, crashing it into the roof of the house below.  Mr. and Ms. Suzuki, already in bed for the night, were shocked awake by the car suddenly falling through their kitchen roof."

            Yeah, I'll bet, Nabiki thought.  But you'd be surprised how quickly you get used to that kind of thing.  "It was terrible!" Ms. Suzuki said, nearly in tears.  "Hiro-chan and I were cuddling, it being a Thursday night, you know, our special night, and. . . ."  The middle Tendo daughter laughed at the beet-faced man cringing in the background.  "There was this sudden loud noise, and then roaring!  Hiro-chan went to investigate--isn't he just _so_ brave--and there was this giant animal standing in our living room, all covered in blood, with a hubcap stuck in its forehead!  And a car in our kitchen!  It was the most horrible thing I've ever seen!"

             Oh, don't be so melodramatic, Nabiki thought, munching on some potato chips.  I've seen worse.

            "What has the police most confused, however," continued the even-toned announcer, "is the body left in the wake of this inexplicable carnage.  One Mr. Takeshi Hirano, prominent Ginza banker, was found dead at the scene.  Despite many grievous wounds to his body, it has been determined that death occurred from internal bleeding caused by a single stab-wound to the chest, by what was likely a sword of some kind."

            Oh my, Nabiki thought, Ranma's not going to like this at all. . . .

            A half-dozen urgent thoughts and desires passed through the son as he knelt opposite his father in the middle of the wide expanse of the dojo floor, and only through the strongest effort of will was he able to deny the impulse to simply stand up and leave.  Patience, Ranma told himself, though he had very little of it at the best of times, Pop'll get to the point eventually.  His father could be a moron and a cheat and a lazy bastard, but when he was in 'the mood'--and he most certainly seemed to be in it now--then there was no denying nor resisting him.  This was the side of his father few ever saw, the side that devised outrageous but surprisingly effective training techniques; created innovative, if occasionally stupid, fighting styles; this was the side of Genma that was truly 'Teacher'--and damn good at it, too.

            Today, he had sealed the dojo to all outside prying eyes, something he had done only once previously.  Even now, Soun stood fuming outside, but would nevertheless not dare enter.  Ranma understood his father and teacher wanted to pass on something important, and for this reason alone did he wait, stewing in impatience.

            "Ranma," his father suddenly said, startling him back to attention.

            "Yeah, Pop?"

            "Tell me about the fight."

            Ranma shrugged.  "Sure," he said, and began a quick rundown of the night.  His hasty retelling slowed substantially as his father interrupted, asking for an elaboration of several points.  Genma insisted on knowing every step and stage of the combat in exacting detail: every punch, fall, stance that his son had used.

            "Then I reached back," Ranma finished, "and snagged Konatsu's sword from the air, and stabbed it into the monster's chest.  I used both hands, and it went right through, and hit concrete on the other side.  And that was that."

            His father nodded, once, and made a deep rumbling sound suggesting comprehension.  Without a word he stood, turned, and walked several paces away.  Ranma watched from his position on the floor and wondered what was up.

            Suddenly Genma spun in place, stabbing a finger at his son, and his glasses glinted sharply in the afternoon sun.  "Today, I retrain you from the beginning!"

            Ranma sighed.  "Jeez, again?  Think we could skip Jusenkyo this time?"

            "Such arrogance!  Do you not see?  You have learnt nothing!  The final step to mastery of Anything Goes eludes you!  You have failed, Ranma; or perhaps my teachings have failed you.  You have fallen from the path, and today I correct the mistakes of a decade!"

            In the space of a second, Ranma rose from his kneeling position, launched himself across the room, and slammed a flying kick to the side of his father's head.  "Retrain this, you goof!" he said, landing softly, as Genma went sliding across the room.  "Sheesh.  Important shit's happening; I don't got time for this crap."

            "You will _make_ time," his father growled, rising to his feet and looking genuinely angry.  "What I am trying to teach you is more important than anything else you could possibly have to do."

            "There's more of those things coming!" Ranma yelled back.  "Maybe lots of them, and maybe tonight!  We have to prepare--what could be more important than that?"

            "What could be more important?" Genma asked, softly, walking closer.  "What indeed. . . .  You have no idea, boy.  Very well, then.  Answer me one question, and then you may leave."

            "Fine," Ranma said.  "Shoot."

            "Why did you not use the Umisen-ken?"

            "Huh?"  The younger Saotome gave his father a quizzical glance.  "Well, duh, because after that whole thing with Kumon Ryu you made me promise not to.  You wanted the techniques sealed away."

            "Because the styles were dangerous," his father answered.  "Yes.  Innocent people could be hurt.  Yet last night you fought a monster.  An inhuman beast who tried to kill you; who has already killed innocent girls; who is after your fiancee: do you not think that warrants the use of extreme force?"

            "Hey!  I still won, didn't I?"

            "Through luck.  You came this close," Genma said, holding his thumb and forefinger a fraction of a space apart, "to dying.  Once you decided to overwhelm your opponent with sheer force, you should have immediately used the techniques you know are strongest.  You could have torn its heart from its body with your bare hand, shattered its back, severed its limbs. . . ."

            "Shit Pop!" Ranma exclaimed, eyes wide.  "Listen to yourself!  You sound like some kind of psycho!"

            "No, boy," he said, and his eyes were dark, "I sound like someone taking a very serious situation very seriously."

            "But--"

            "No," Genma interrupted.  "This is the final lesson I have to teach you.  The correction of the final flaw in your technique; or perhaps a flaw that lies within the Anything Goes Art itself.  I don't know if you are yet ready to learn what I have to offer.  But as you said, there is little time left.  So now you will sit, and you will listen, and if you are capable, you will learn."

            Ranma knelt, and Genma resumed his position opposite him.  The young martial artist listened with rapt attention as his father and teacher began to speak on the last lesson he would ever pass on to his son.

            The middle Tendo daughter slowly absorbed the details of her surroundings, and in losing herself to the memories the household evoked she felt a momentary pang of sadness.  She was happy at university, of course, and thrived there in a way that Nerima and high school had never allowed her to do; but nevertheless she missed some of her earlier days.

            For most people at Tokyo University, their previous small-town life had been easier and simpler.  Nabiki laughed at the idea.  Life in Nerima had been _anything_ but easy, or simple, and at times she found she greatly missed much of the amusement that the chaos that was Ranma's daily life had afforded her.  University life had its own unique and very enjoyable challenges, but they remained, for her, very mundane and normal challenges.  There was almost no one at school to talk to about these feelings; she rarely spoke of home, for who could understand, or even believe, the fantastic incidents she had experienced, even if only from the periphery?  So even as she quite happily lost herself within her course of studies, or the challenges of her new social circle, or within the even greater challenge that was her new boyfriend, she always remained aware of the insane and humorous world that existed just beyond the walls of her ivory spires.  It was good to come home and reconnect with that, sometimes.

            But classes called and homework insisted that these visits be short.  It was time to say her farewells and return to her dorm and get back to writing her essays.  Her overnight bag was ready by the door.  With a sigh, she slipped it over one shoulder and began to hunt for her family.

            Her sister's fiance stepped into the room, a distant, thoughtful look on his face.  Nabiki grinned.  Ranma, thoughtful?  Not even on his best days.  "Yo, Ranma," she called out, snapping him out of his reverie.  "What's up?"

            "Just thinking," he mumbled back.  He noticed her bag.  "You heading home?"

            "Yeah," she answered, and shrugged.  "Gotta get back to school.  Classes to attend, essays to write, boyfriend to see."  She smirked as she placed emphasis on the last.  "I'm sure you know how it is."

            He nodded but looked like he hadn't heard a word.  "Sure, sounds great.  You can't leave."

            Nabiki allowed the slightest of frowns crease her brow, though she felt more curiosity than anger at his impudence.  "Is that so?  And why would that be?"

            "Because," he answered, and the look he turned on her was dark and serious, and made her shiver unconsciously, "if you step outside of this house, Nabiki, there's a good chance you'll be dead by sunrise."  He turned away abruptly, even as she let her bag drop to the ground.  "I'm sorry, but I need everybody together in the dojo, and quick.  We need to make plans."

            "Plans?" she asked from a mouth suddenly dry.  "For what?"

            "For a siege," he said.

            Ranma Saotome stood anxiously before his fiancee's door and hesitated only momentarily before knocking.  She has to be in here, he thought, slightly annoyed.  I can't find her anywhere else.  Everyone is waiting in the dojo.  This really isn't the time for her to be playing hiding games.

            There was no answer.  He knocked again, and waited, and slowly lost patience as the seconds dragged out.  Finally he tried the door and found it unlocked.  The room was a little dark, the lights out and curtains drawn shut, and the atmosphere within hot and heavy.  Even before his eyes adapted he knew Akane was in the room.  He could tell from the gentle sobbing that came from her bed.  Ranma knew that sound too well, and it never failed to pierce him deeply.  He closed the door behind him.

            "Get out!" Akane hissed at him, "Leave me alone!"  She sat at the foot of her bed, against the wall and with legs drawn to her chest, and as she looked up he could see her cheeks were wet with tears.

            "Akane?" he asked, and stepped closer.

            "Go away," she cried.

            He hesitated and stopped, utterly confused.  What was wrong with her? he thought, while deeper down a voice of irritation added, we don't have time for this.  He angrily quelled the thought.  As his father had insisted, he would make the time.

            "Akane, I. . . ," he stammered, and stopped.  I what? he thought.  I don't know what I'm doing here, I'm no good at this stuff, I've never been good at this stuff.  Guys suck at this.

            She looked at him a moment longer before burying her head once again into her knees, and sobbing loudly.

            "Dammit, Akane, just . . . just wait a 'sec!" he said, and fled.  Out the bedroom, down the stairs, and to the bathroom, nearly running over Nabiki talking on the phone in the process.  A quick splash of cold water, and as his clothes settled around his slighter frame, he hurried back upstairs.  Pausing only long enough to take a deep breath and shake the water from his red bangs, he softly knocked, opened the door, stepped back in, and closed it behind him.

            The youngest Tendo did not even look up as he entered her room for the second time.  Ranma slowly padded over to the bed and sat down near her.  For some reason it was easier to do this as a girl.  Less intimate or something, he thought, or at least more comforting.  Certainly less threatening.  He hoped.  What do I know?  I might be one at times, but I'll never understand girls.  Period aside, they're always cryin' for the weirdest reasons.

            He could see her tense up as the mattress shifted under his weight.  She didn't otherwise move, and though her crying stopped, she didn't say anything.  "C'mon, Akane," he tried, "What's wrong?"  She still refused to respond, and he sighed.  He eyed her critically, almost like an opponent, and tried to think of an approach.  Unfortunately, he admitted to himself, the emotional battlefield was one he had never quite figured out.  "Sheesh, Akane, you can tell me.  It's . . . like, it's only us girls here, right?"

            "You're not a girl, Ranma," Akane said, her voice muffled by her knees.  "You're just a pervert that turns into one.  Go away."

            He swallowed his irritation at the insult and tried again.  "No.  You wanna, I dunno, braid my hair or something?  That's what girls do together, right?  Braid and talk?"

            That, at least, got her to lift her head, and she glared at him with shimmering eyes over the curve of her knees.  "Your hair's already braided.  Leave me alone."

            He flicked his pigtail over one shoulder and undid the binding.  His hair fell in red locks about his neck and ears.  "Oops.  Now somebody's gotta do it up again."

            "Ask your mom," Akane answered, though one corner of her mouth twitched ever so slightly.

            "I guess I could," he said, then released an exaggerated sigh.  "But what about," he started, grabbing a makeup case from her dresser and returning to the bed, "this?  Conservative gu- er, girl that I am, I've never figured this cra- stuff out."  He uncapped a tube of lipstick.  "I mean, like this, whadd'ya do with it?"  He eyed it critically for a moment, then jabbed himself in the forehead.   "Darn.  That's wrong, isn't it?"

            "Hey, that's expensive!"

            "Sorry."  He started to root through the bag, dumping its contents across the bed.  "Wow, you've got a lot of stuff in here.  Wanna show me how to use it?"

            His forced smile turned real as she uncoiled slightly and wiped the back of one hand across her eyes.  She sniffed and reached for a tissue; he passed her the box.  "You're an idiot, you know that?"

            Ranma grinned.  "Sure.  And you're a tomboy."  He became serious.  "Akane, wanna tell me what's wrong?"

            She shook her head but shifted closer, sliding her legs beneath her; Ranma did the same, mirroring her.  "It's. . . ," she started, then frowned.  She pulled out more tissues and then leaned forward, reaching for his forehead.  "You look stupid like that."  He sighed but let her attack the red mark over his eyes, and winced as she rubbed rather too hard.

            "Akane. . . ."

            "Shh," she said, and finished she sat back and eyed him critically.  "All gone."  She smiled slightly, though to Ranma it looked like it concealed a deeper pain beneath.  Then she picked up the tube of lipstick he had dropped, and reached for him with it.

            He reared back, throwing up his hands defensively.  "Hey, whoa, what d'ya think you're doing?"

            "You said you wanted to learn," she said, and pouted--again, to Ranma, it looked forced.  "This is what girls do together, right?  They braid each other's hair, and give each other makeovers."

            "But--"

            "And they talk."

            Which is what I want her to do, he realized, so how can I say no?  He ignored the sinking feeling in his stomach at this little scene he had initiated and which she now wanted to play out to its end.  Why she wants to do it this way, I don't know, and I guess it doesn't really matter.  I gave up trying to understand her a long time ago.

            But he knew her well enough to recognize the pain crippling her, and the desire to share it that hid beneath the pride that wouldn't let her easily do so.  He couldn't refuse her, not when she hurt like this, and so he willed himself to patience, despite the knowledge that everyone else was waiting in the dojo and that potential danger crept closer with each passing minute; he willed himself to patience and pursed his lips as he shifted closer.

            "We're going to make you beautiful." Akane said, "You've got good taste, this colour just so goes with your hair."  Then she added in a more serious voice, "Are you really okay with this?"

            He nodded slightly and waited as she gently traced his lips, and hated every moment of it.  Then she looked him over again, and reached for another tube.  "Some sparkly gloss, too, I think."  Again, he bore it in silence, and waited for her to talk.

            Halfway through, she hesitated, eyes clouding over, and looked away.

            "Hey, what's wrong?" he asked.  "You don't have to stop."

            When she looked back, tears were in her eyes again, and her body shuddered with barely suppressed sobs.  As much as he hated her putting makeup on him, he suddenly realized he hated this a whole lot more.  Don't cry, he wanted to say, but had no idea what was wrong with her.

            "Ranma. . . ," she said.

            "Ye. . . yeah?"

            "It's all my fault!" she cried out, and then threw herself into his arms, burying her head into his shoulder, scattering tubes and bottles across the bed and onto the floor.  For a second he froze, and then his arms fell around her and held her close, protectively.  He was smaller than her now, and he was acutely aware of the feeling of his own breasts pressed up against hers, and of even the strange taste and waxy feel to his lips, and of every little detail that reminded him that he wasn't a man; and somehow, at this moment, it didn't matter in the least: all that mattered was that his fiancee was crying, and he was there to comfort her.

            She eventually pulled away, still sniffling, though her hands remained in his.  Her eyes slipped away, as if she could not meet his gaze.  "What's your fault?" he asked softly, and when she refused to look at him, he gently turned her head with a finger at her chin.  "Akane, what's wrong?"

            When she could no longer glance away, she locked her eyes with his, and said in a very low voice that quavered slightly, "Everything."

            "What?"

            "The book, the magic, the. . . killing," she said, and her voice choked on the last.  "It's . . . it's all my fault."  She forced her head from his gentle grasp and looked away.  "I'm the one who used that book, and made those monsters come, and because of me three girls are dead.  Because of me our friends got hurt.  Because of me, you . . . you almost died!"

            He could see that fresh tears threatened to overwhelm her, and he grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and once again forced her to look at him.  "Listen to me, Akane," he said, "That's just dumb.  It is _not_ your fault."  Yet even as he said it, that same impatient voice from earlier suggested otherwise: it _is_ her fault, now isn't it?  After all, she _is_ the one who stole the book, who made those things come after her.  If she had just left well enough alone, maybe nothing would have happened.  Maybe you'd even have a cure.  At the very worst, those guys would have taken the book, and it'd be their problem, not ours.

            But he couldn't say that; more importantly, he couldn't believe it.  But she saw the doubt flicker in his eyes, even if only briefly, and she cringed back.

            "No, Akane, no," he insisted.  "It's not your fault.  If it's anybody's, it's mine, for getting into that stupid fight with Happosai and getting stuck with that stupid book.  If you need to blame somebody, blame me."

            Akane shook her head, and he knew it wasn't going to be that easy.  "No.  No.  I can't hide from this.  You found the book, but I used it, I'm the one who. . . ."

            "Who was used _by_ it," he said.  "Dammit, Akane, it was magic!  We're dealing with stuff we don't understand!  That guy at the fight said the book was dangerous; that Gabriel guy said it 'ensnared' you.  Well, shit, I've had enough poisons and spirits and magic try to take me over to know just how helpless that crap can make you.  Remember those hugging mushrooms of Shampoo's?  The friggin' Love Pills?  How 'bout Pop and those Surikomi eggs?  He did a lot of stuff he regretted later."

            Ranma could see his arguments were working: Akane _wanted_ to be convinced, and why not?  Suddenly thinking oneself responsible for the death of innocent people, who wouldn't want their guilt appeased?  There's no weakness in that, he told himself, in wanting to escape the terrible knowledge of having killed someone.  Who wants to carry that with them for the rest of their life?

            "Are you okay?" Akane asked.

            "I'm fine," he said, and he thought of his conversation with his father and drove away his own nagging concerns.  "It's not me we have to worry about.  It's you."

            "I know.  I overheard you and Ryoga talking.  There's more of these things coming, aren't there?"

            He nodded.  "Maybe tonight.  Everyone's in the dojo, so we can make plans."

            "Sorry I kept people waiting."

            "Don't be," he said, and impulsively squeezed her hand.  She squeezed back, and he could see she had more to add.  "What?"

            "Am I. . . ."  Her voice trailed off, but at his curious expression, she tried again.  "Does this make me a killer?" she asked softly, and her hands trembled in his grasp.

            The question paralleled his own thoughts so closely that he briefly wondered how she could have known his mind, before realizing that it must be a natural question.  This is her first brush with death, he realized.  Not counting her mother, he added, but that was hardly the same thing.  She was involved this time, even if only indirectly, and he could see how terribly frightened she was.  Ranma suddenly felt the veteran, and weary, and wished his first encounter with death had not involved so intimate a connection, so that someone could have convinced him of his own innocence as well.

            "Am I?" she repeated.

            He looked at her, and smiled almost mockingly, though the bitterness was entirely directed within, and said, "No.  You're not, Akane.  Believe me, you're not."  Perhaps the sincerity of his voice, or the absolute conviction of his words, was enough, for she seemed to suddenly relax.  "Trust me, I know," he added.  He had to quickly look away to conceal his own brief pang of self-hatred.

            When he looked back, her expression had softened considerably, and her eyes glimmered, not with tears, but with something he fancied might be understanding.  Again that angry voice, scoffing within: how dare she presume to sympathise with what he felt?  She had never killed, not directly, never shattered a man to icy pieces, never stabbed a sword so hard into an enemy that it cleaved straight through and sank into stone.  She had never felt the heady thrill that accompanied the act, nor the debilitating guilt that followed.  Again he pushed the voice aside, for he refused to nurture that anger: Akane had enough of her own, he could tell, to still deal with.

            "I should go back to the others," he said.  "Everybody's waiting."  She nodded, but when he went to stand up to leave, her grip on his hands did not let go.  He looked at her inquisitively.  "Akane?"

            "Please," she said.  "Don't go.  Not yet.  Just a few more minutes?"  And as he sat back down, glancing anxiously at the thin crack of reddening sunlight he could make out through her curtains, she smiled slightly, and that made it worthwhile.  "Besides," she added.  "I'm not done with your makeup yet.  Can't leave a job half-done, can I?"  She raised one hand to forestall his protest.  "Hey, you started this."

            And then, so soft he barely hear it, she added, "Thank you, Ranma."

            Ryoga wandered listlessly around the dojo, careful to never leave the confines of the four wooden walls.  Nervous tension and impatience were riding high among the gathered members, but nowhere higher, he fancied, than within himself.  He knew what was approaching, had already fought with one--and lost, though he remained convinced that, had he not had to defend that girl, Akako, he could have still pulled a victory.  It was getting late in the afternoon, and no plans, whether to stay and fight or to run, had been made yet.  Where's Ranma, he wondered, what's taking him so long?  Ryoga itched to do something--itched to do anything, to practice, to wander, to talk to Akari, to speak to Akane. . . .

            No, not to Akane, he forcefully reminded himself, not Akane, only Akari.  Those feelings I have for Akane, I can no longer allow to remain inside of me.  That she happens to be the most beautiful, kind, and wonderful woman on Earth is irrelevant.  I already have someone I care very deeply for, and who loves me in return.  It should be easy to forget about Akane, he continued, after all, there's so many reasons _not_ to love her: she only thinks of me as a friend, she only loves me as a pet, she doesn't _know_ that I'm her pet, she's already engaged to a guy she . . . maybe kind of doesn't really hate; a man who rode the winds above a mountain and duelled with a god there, and doused its fire with the ice of his own soul.  Ranma.

            How magnificent that fight had been!  Only then, watching from the cavern's edge as the two had clashed, incandescent spheres of power duelling within the howling cyclone above--only at that time could Ryoga no longer deny the awe he felt at watching his nemesis fight unfettered of concerns for his enemy.  Envy would come later; but on Phoenix Mountain, as Saffron levelled a mountain range and Ranma kept on coming, the lost boy had had no choice but to accept one stark fact: had that been him up there, duelling within those winds, he would have long since been dead; and should Ranma ever come at him with that same degree of seriousness, his chances would be equally as slim.

            Dammit, Ranma! the lost boy swore.  What was I to you in all of the many fights we've shared?  A joke, a toy?  You humiliated me often enough--and saved me often enough as well.  You've taken advantage of me without hesitation--and just as easily forgiven a betrayal and sacrificed yourself to save me.  Laughed at my sense of direction yet helped me when I needed it.  Mocked my curse but kept it a secret.  You're an utter jerk, Ranma, Ryoga thought, but somewhere in all that, you've become my friend.

            And now it's friend-in-need time, right?  Well, I'll stand by you, Ranma, even if I don't like you.  Because we've been through so much together already, and if anyone can maybe understand who I am, understand my depression and our rivalry, it's you.  I guess you'll always get to be the hero, in a way that I never will; whenever it comes to an ending, you'll be the one to strike down the god from the heavens while I throw rocks at him from the sidelines.  But our rivalry isn't over, Ranma, you bastard, my friend: you've pushed me to excel, but I've pushed back just as hard; and maybe someday still, I'll push back so hard that I'll get to be the hero, just once.

            Ranma had heard, hanging around with friends, of the many relationships at school, and the different things people did with each other.  He only listened with half-an-ear, since he told himself he was neither interested nor a pervert; on the other hand, he had never had a real date, nor even a real kiss, and despite his reputation as a local playboy, he sometimes wondered what normal boys and girls did with each other.  A lot of what he heard made him blush, and a lot of it he knew was untrue, just from hearing or by virtue of having a slightly more intimate understanding of the opposite sex than most men; and some of it made him yearn for a date, someday, an ordinary, simple date with a single girl.  An impossibility, of course, since taking only one girl out would incite the others to try and kill him; but one could dream, right?

            He suspected, however, as Akane drew the blusher across his cheekbones, that few boyfriends put up with a full makeover from their girlfriend.  Especially when certain death from the realms beyond approached in the form of many big monsters with really nasty teeth.  Oh, sure, he mused, I've heard of guys letting girls do their toenails, or something, but that didn't really compare; and though it wasn't the first time for him to wear makeup, he felt vaguely ridiculous.

            Yet, as his fiancee focussed on the task, she visibly relaxed, the guilty tension of the day draining away.  Certainly a few minutes, and it hadn't even been ten yet, of indignation was worth that, right?  He surreptitiously licked his lip and felt the strange substance there, and wondered.

            "Hey, I saw that," Akane said.  "Stop it."

            "Akane," he said, patiently.  "You do know that bad things might be coming, right?"

             "Yes," she said.

            "You're not worried?"

            "Terrified.  Now lean forward a bit.  Blink a few times, so your eyelashes rub against the brush.  Be careful, you don't want to poke out an eye."

            "I know how to put on makeup, thanks.  If you're worried, then don't you think--"

            "Why didn't you tell me any of this earlier?" she interrupted.  "If I hadn't listened in on you and Ryoga, I never would have known."

            "And that's a bad thing?" he asked.  "You _wanted_ to spend the day crying in your room?"

            "No, of course not!  The other eye.  But if you had told me everything from the beginning. . . ."

            "You would've just worried more.  Listen, Akane, I didn't really know any of this was going to happen.  Some weirdo tells me death is coming, and I should listen?  I had to make sure.  And you were so busy with studying and exams and trying to get into . . . university, that. . . ."

            "What?"

            "Nothing."

            "Ranma," she growled.  "Don't keep secrets from the girl smearing colours across your eyelids."

            "Akane, what did the book offer you?"

            She started.  "What?"

            "That Gabriel guy said the book got to you because it promised you something you really, really wanted.  Now me, I'm sure it would've been a cure for my curse.  Heck, there was even a mention of Jusenkyo in there, remember?  It probably made that up to get me to keep reading it or something.  So I wonder: what did it offer you, Akane?"

            "I have no idea what you're talking about," she said, and snapped her compact case shut.  "Well, all done.  You look fantastic."

            "I'm sure," he said wryly.

            "Let that be a lesson to you.  Next time you hold the truth back from me, I'll pluck your eyebrows too."

            "Fine.  Can I go now?"

            "Of course," she said, and smiled broadly.  "Let's go."

            Where is that jackass? Ukyou wondered for the nth time, levelling a baleful glare through the dojo's door, across the yard, and straight at Akane's window.  How long can it possibly take to drag that girl back here?  What could they possibly be doing?

            The okonomiyaki chef, however, did not like that line of thought, and therefore curtailed it.  Lately, she avoided thinking about many things concerning her fiance, or of a future including him in her life that seemed increasingly unlikely as time passed by.  She tried to deny it, but a year did a lot to drive the inevitable home; and while she refused to ever give up, Ukyou had begun to doubt even her own drive towards capturing her childhood sweetheart.  When she thought of losing the fiancee war, the emotions that welled up within disturbed her greatly: for the very lack of depth to her feelings suggested that something fundamental had changed.  Certainly, the thought of losing Ranma brought feelings of disappointment, and anger, and sadness--but where was the savage intensity of before, that drove her to violent outbursts at the least sign of possible affection between Ranma and any of her rivals?  Where was that impetus that led her to delve into the Dark Side of her Art and to cook up evil explosive okonomiyaki that helped destroy a wedding?

            The wedding.  Now _there_ had been a mistake, Ukyou mused, both in trying to get those two together, and for the rest of us to try and stop it.  Ranma certainly hadn't been very happy about losing his chance at a cure, which was why (she was sure) she saw so little of him in the days afterwards.  Not only did I piss _him_ off, but I got on his mom's bad side as well!

            Surprisingly, that distancing from Ranma's mother disturbed Ukyou deeply.  They had gotten along quite well, before, and Nodoka had been a not-infrequent visitor at the Ucchan's.  The chef would not deny that her intentions in approaching the Saotome matriarch had been at first less than altruistic: after all, how better to get closer to her love than through his mother?  But over time, something akin to a genuine friendship had formed.  The woman was completely batty, Ukyou admitted, but nevertheless a wonderfully warm, caring, and interesting woman.  Conversations that had been completely centred around Ranma gradually migrated to other topics: first, okonomiyaki, and then . . . the world.

            That ended with the wedding.  Nodoka no longer visited the restaurant, and in their few encounters, her withdrawn manner had been, in comparison to her earlier friendliness, positively chilling.  Ukyou mourned that loss of what had been the closest, perhaps, to a mother she had ever known--and she was determined to regain that closeness again.  So she turned back towards the woman, doing what she could to avoid the fat man standing next to her, and tried to strike up a conversation once again.

            Just then Ranma entered the dojo, Akane trailing a few steps behind.

            Ranma stood before his collected friends and family with anticipation and concern sitting like a heavy stone in the pit of his stomach.  So much time lost already, he thought, it'll be dark soon.  Speaking with his father, helping Akane get over her guilt: he refused to consider this wasted time, but it had used up a lot of the late afternoon, and if his fears were right, their enemy could be here at any time.  If they even attacked tonight.  Of course, the meeting would have started even faster if everyone had not burst into laughter the moment he walked into the dojo.  Stupid makeover, stupid Akane, he grumbled.  Trust the tomboy to suck at every other feminine skill except this one.  Why do I have to be so damn beautiful?  A few people hadn't laughed, though their reaction hadn't been any better: his father had flushed red with anger, and his mother had offered up a proud, if hesitant, compliment.

            But a veneer of seriousness finally returned, and taking a deep breath, Ranma started over.  "Right.  Let's try this again.  As I was saying," he started, and then shifted into a quick retelling of the relevant details of last night, adding his own theory as to their enemy's--or quite possibly enemies'--motivation.  Ranma noted that Akane paled slightly as he explained, but also saw the hard glint of determination in her eyes that held the guilt back.  Good girl, he thought, before turning his attention back to his speech.

            "So that's where we stand," he said.  "We've got more of these things coming this way.  Maybe even tonight.  If they're anything like the one I fought--and judging by the one Ryoga met yesterday, they probably are--then these bastards are tough.  They're only after Akane, but they don't seem to mind taking out anybody else that gets in their way.

            "So: what do we do?  Do we stay and fight?  Or do we make a strategic re. . . ."

            "Sounds good to me," Genma said, hefting his backpack over his shoulders and making a quick beeline for the door.  "Running sounds _very_ good to me."

            "SA-O-TO-ME!" growled a very angry Soun Tendo, stepping in front of his lifelong friend and looming threateningly over him.  "Where do you think you're going?"

            "Um, somewhere very, very far away, where it's safe?"

            "My daughter's life is in mortal danger from minions of evil, and you want to RUN AWAY?"

            "You could all come with me?" added Genma, meekly.

            "Right," said Soun, hefting his own pack.  "Pack your bags, girls, we're going on vacation."

            "Dad!" yelled Akane.

            ". . . treat," Ranma finished, and sighed.  "The problem with retreating," he continued, "is, of course, that these things can track us.  Wherever we go, they'll probably follow--if they haven't already found and surrounded us.  After all, I think they like nighttime, but Ryoga's didn't seem to mind jumping into the sunlight."

            "Of course," Genma said, dropping his load, "staying and fortifying. . . ."

            "Might not be such a bad idea," finished Soun, kicking his bag aside.

            "That's what I thought," Ranma said, shaking his head.  "Personally, I think staying's the better idea.  Fight them on the ground we know, or whatever.  At least they won't be able to surprise us."  He unconsciously rubbed his injured side.

            "Um, yeah, sure, sounds great," said Nabiki, raising her hand.  "Except in all the ways that it doesn't.  Like, hello?  Non-combatant here.  Non-martial-artist type, right?  I've got essays to write, and I'd rather not have to ask for an extension due to an unforeseen case of being dead.  Know what I mean?"  She gestured at her older sister and Ranma's mother.  "I'm sure they'll back me up on this."

            "It's a martial artist's wife's duty to stand by her husband in the face of certain death," said Nodoka, nodding sagely.

            "Oh, I'm sure everything will turn out just fine," added Kasumi.

            "Great," Nabiki groaned, slapping a palm to her forehead.  "I'm doomed."

            Ranma spared an anxious glance towards Akane, looking away before she noticed.  "I know what you mean, Nabiki, and I ain't happy about it either.  But if you leave, I think there's a good chance one of them might follow you home--the thing last night kept going on about scents, and let's face it, there's probably enough Akane on you after spending the night."

            "You just _had_ to hug me, didn't you, sis?" Nabiki said, throwing an evil glare her sister's way.  The middle sister pulled away from the group to glower in a corner, muttering all the way:  "Yes, professor, I know I'm late with my essay, it's just been kinda hard to write ever since that demon my sister summoned up bit off both my arms.  But don't worry, I'm learning to type with my toes. . . ."

            "This means we'll have to protect the non-fighters, as well as ourselves," Ranma continued, while throwing a significant look towards Ryoga.  His friend gave a small nod as his eyes darted towards Akane.  "And considering how tough just one of these things was . . . it's not going to be easy."

            "It's going to be a hell of a lot harder than that," said Pop, frowning.

            "Yeah, I know."

            "Mark my words, boy.  There won't be any leeway for mistakes.  We've stumbled into something very serious here, and somebody could very well end up badly hurt.  Even dead."

            "I know," Ranma repeated, but this time he gulped nervously.

            "This means going all out."  Ranma found himself fixed by his father's sharp, dark gaze.  "No holding back."

            The young martial artist slowly gave a single, reluctant nod.  "I understand."

            "Good."

            Outside, the setting sun touched the horizon.  In the light's heavy red hues, the clouds seemed ignited and streaked like blood across the firmament; and the sky's violent excess spilled across the silhouetted cityscape that lay beyond the dojo's walls.  For a moment he felt isolated, as if on an island, and everywhere that lay beyond this house became dark and hostile.  How many of these things were out there, how strong would they be?  Ranma shivered and felt suddenly afraid, and berated himself for such weak feelings.  But if an attack was coming tonight, it wouldn't be long now.

            The others were huddled together, talking quickly, exchange ideas, glancing nervously towards the window, the closed door, each other.  Ukyou wanted to start cooking attack-food as soon as possible; Genma and Soun were sifting through the dojo's collection of weaponry and armour; Nabiki was grumbling in the corner, levelling nasty glares at anyone who dared look her way.  A hand fell on his shoulder, and he turned away from the crimson view outside.  Akane looked down at him with large brown eyes filled with concern.

            "Are you okay?" she asked.

            He looked outside and watched as the heavy sun sank lower, and sighed.  "Yeah."

            "What do we do first?"

            "We--"

            Just then, he snapped to attention at a flicker on the periphery of his vision.  Something outside.  Eyes narrowing, he focussed on the suspect area.  The stretch of the wall surrounding the Tendo Residence, just beyond the large tree that grew next to the pond behind the house.  Early blooming decorated the bare, craggy branches green and brown, and the glassy crimson-tinted water of the pool rippled with the unseen movement of carp beneath the surface.  Perfectly normal.  And silent.  Even the wind seemed stilled, and nothing could be heard from outside.  Amidst this eerie silence, an oppressive sensation of being watched descended upon Ranma: as if he were a specimen beneath some unseen lens, exposed and vulnerable and completely helpless.  There's something out there, he thought, and shivered.  I can't see it, but it's out there and watching us even as we get ready.  People are asking me what to do, but how the hell should I know?  I fight, I don't plan, but somehow everyone's expecting me to lead 'em or something. . . .

            He turned back to his fiancee.

            "Ranma?"

            "What do we do?" he said, and swallowed nervously.  "We call for help."

            The phone rang many, many times before finally being picked up.

            "I'm sorry, but the Nekohanten is closed for business today," a woman's voice said tersely, and then hung up.  The next time, the phone was answered much more quickly.

            "I'm sorry, but--"

            "Old Ghoul!  Waitasec, don't hang up," said Ranma.

            There was a brief pause, then the Amazon matriarch's voice, sounding tired, a little angry, and just a touch sarcastic.  "Oh, well, Son-in-law.  How nice of you to call."

            "We've. . . ."

            "My, it certainly has been a long time, hasn't it?  I suppose you're calling out of concern for my great-granddaughter.  How very touching.  Calling a full day after she was very nearly mortally wounded shows a great deal of care."

             "Hey, I--"

            "Between the concussion and the blood loss--"

            "Dammit, Old Ghoul, I don't got time for this!  You know I don't wanna be talking to you.  You think I'd be doing this if I wasn't desperate?  We're in a deep load of shit!"

            Another brief silence on the other end of the line, during which Ranma quivered with impatience.  "Explain," the older woman said.

            "The thing that attacked Shampoo and Mousse; last night I hunted for it.  I didn't find it, but something else like it found me.  We fought, I won.  But there's more of them.  They're after Akane.  Or anyone who's had contact with her, or even looks like her.  I think.  Now they know where she is--where we all are.  And they're here, Cologne . . . these friggin' monsters are here, right outside our walls!"

            "And they haven't attacked yet?" asked the old woman, her voice now utterly serious, the earlier annoyance dropping away.

            "No.  But I felt something watching us a few minutes ago."  He shivered again, convinced that his impulse had been correct.  "I don't know why they haven't attacked yet, but they could at any second.  We need reinforcements!"  A touch of desperation entered his voice, and while he detested the weakness of it--especially before Cologne--he could not deny the honesty of it.  "We . . . dammit, _I_ need your help, Cologne.  We're over our heads here; way over our heads."

            There was no longer any hesitation in her response.  "We will be there as quickly as possible."

            The relief he felt was nearly palpable, and showed in his voice.  "Thanks."  He suddenly thought of the thing lurking beyond the walls.  "Except . . . how will you get in?"

            "A very good question," the Amazon answered dryly.  "Although. . . ."

            Just then Ranma felt a foreign presence approaching.  He heard the front door slam open.  Everyone was indoors, preparing, keeping watch, and since the phone lay just beyond the entrance, he was guarding the most obvious way in.  It's beginning, he thought, mixed sensations of dread and eager anticipation sweeping through him, and as the phone dropped from his hand he turned towards the door.

            "Son-in-law?" rang faintly from the receiver.

            "Who's first?" Ranma growled, as heavy steps left the entrance.  His opponent stepped into view.  Sudden intense fear and loathing gripped Ranma.

            "Pig-tailed girl!" exclaimed Tatewaki Kuno, rushing forward to grab him in a tight embrace.  "My heavenly beauty, my vision of eternal radiant beauty, how I have missed thee, how I have yearned for thee, how. . . ."  He paused in mid-appreciation and blinked.  "Are you wearing makeup?"

            The pig-tailed girl sighed and nodded.

            "Oh, glorious day!  That thou has finally embraced thy true feminine nature, 'tis a. . . ."

            "'Feminine nature' this, bub," Ranma muttered in disgust, and floored the older kendoist with a quick clout to the head.  "Put a sock in it."

            "Son-in-law?"

            He picked up the receiver, even as Kuno picked himself up off the floor.  "One 'sec, 'kay?  It may be easier than we thought for you to get in."  Covering the mouthpiece, Ranma called out loudly.  "Hey, somebody order a moron on a stick?  We just had one delivered."

            "That'll be mine," Nabiki said, coming down the stairs.  "Yo, Kuno-baby.  Glad you could make it."

            "Greetings," the new arrival said, waving feebly with one hand while clutching his head with the other.  "I received your call and came as quickly as possible."  The look he cast Ranma's way was pained.  "That hurt, you know."

            "Aw, man," the pigtailed girl sighed, "Nabiki, can you take care of him?  I've got the Ghoul on the line."  He returned his attention to the phone as the Tendo sister led her university peer away.  "Sorry 'bout that," he said.

            "I gather that getting in won't be so difficult, then?"

            "I guess not," he answered.  "Kuno seems to have just walked in.  I don't understand."

            "Whatever the reason," said Cologne, "we will be over within minutes."

            "Thanks," said Ranma, and hung up the phone.

            Nabiki sat in the living room across from Kuno and watched the bustle of preparation.  Ranma's belief that something lurked beyond the wall had only served to increase the hectic energy within the room, and while the middle sister wasn't convinced anybody was accomplishing anything of much use, everyone certainly seemed busy.  As for her, she was explaining the situation to Tatewaki.

            Whether by fate or by chance, he had ended up at Tokyo University in business studies as well, surprising both her and the rest of the Furinkan high school population; who would've thought that behind that moron exterior there had also been a keen academic mind?  At first Nabiki had been annoyed that the boy had trailed after her to Tokyo--she had been hoping for a clean break from the looniness of her past--but eventually came to appreciate his presence.  He was maybe the only one of her circle of friends at university who could understand the uniqueness of her Nerima days, and he seemed to share the same sardonic view of their peers' concept of stress.  Stress wasn't a fifteen-page paper due the next day when you hadn't started yet: stress was having a fifty-kilogram phoenix sitting on your head.  Though she had scorned him at first, she now saw him several times a week, and they shared a dinner together (his treat, of course) most every Friday night.

            Even more surprisingly, a year at university seemed to have done him a world of good.  Away from the crazy house that had been his home, away from his Hawaii-obsessed father and lunatic sister and her rather suspect cuisine, his demeanour had improved no end.  He even spoke normally most of the time, with only the occasional burst of poetry escaping.  Sure, Nabiki admitted, he still thought himself a modern-day samurai, but at least it was _modern_ day; he gave up living in some fantastical pre-Meiji period of his own invention somewhere during his first semester of school.  Nothing showed this better than his current clothing: gone was the martial garb, and instead he wore a rather fashionable, very expensive, and, Nabiki had to admit, very good-looking casual shirt and trouser set.

            "So, foul creatures seek to do the fair Akane harm?" he asked.  "Then I had best change into my warrior's garb.  'Tis a good thing I brought my hakama!"

            Of course, Nabiki sighed, he still slipped up occasionally.

            As Kuno stepped off to the bathroom, she glanced down at the newspaper she held folded in her lap.  She knew what the front page story was without looking: an article about the surprise slaying of one Takeshi Hirano, Ginza banker.  Killed in the same way that Ranma had put down the beast of last night.  Could they be one and the same?  Nabiki had little doubt; if a fat man could turn into a fatter panda, then why couldn't a philanthropist banker turn into a vicious, hulking monster?

            The dilemma that twisted within her mind was, rather, what to do with the information.  No one else had seen the news report on television, nor read the newspaper--and she wasn't about to let anyone else see it now.  Should she let Ranma know that the monsters coming were possibly all transformed people, with jobs and families and household pets?

            Should she?  Yes, she told herself, I should.  That would be the morally right thing to do.  The very thing they droned on about back at school.  But will I?

            No.

            For she had every intention of coming through this mess alive, with her family intact, and if that meant keeping the truth secret from Ranma--a truth that could only serve to confuse him, to make him hesitate--then so be it.  Her conscience could deal with those unknown people's demise.  Rather their blood on her hands, than her own family's.

            Ranma had just finished explaining the latest of many needed preparations to Kasumi when the Chinese reinforcements arrived.  As the eldest Tendo sister headed off to her bedroom, carrying several boxes of foodstuff and other sundry items--he shuddered at the very thought of them--he returned to the entrance to greet them.

            "Son-in-law," Cologne said in way of greeting.  She looked the very same as she had at their last encounter: old, dangerous, ugly, and very cunning.  She balanced atop her battered walking stick and somehow made it seem more stable than the floor he stood on.  Behind her stood Shampoo and Mousse.

            The long-haired boy looked the same as always, thick glasses set atop his brow, his arms folded into the voluminous sleeves of his robes.  Compared to the bonbori- and sword-carrying Shampoo standing next to him, he appeared unarmed, but Ranma knew by now just how deceptive that was.  Judging by their last little tangle a few months back, the master of hidden weapons was better at his trade than ever before.  Mousse nodded once in silence, and his countenance was grave.

            Shampoo, standing a step behind her great grandmother, appeared far from her usual dynamic self.  She was in obvious pain, though her only concession to it was a tight pursing of her lips.  The superficial damage of yesterday had healed, but her stomach was still giving her great difficulty, and her head remained swathed in bandages.  Cologne's Chinese medicines had obviously done a great deal of good, but the wounds that the beast had given her had been severe.  But the very hard, very cold glint to her eyes spoke volumes: no wound would keep her from exacting a harsh revenge.

            "Old . . . Cologne," he said, and bowed deeply.  "Thank you for coming."

            "Bah, enough of that," she said, hopping past.  "You don't carry respect well.  Now, explain to me exactly what is going on here, and why something tried to kill my great-granddaughter yesterday."

            "Sure," he said, leading her to the living room.  Quickly, sparing extraneous details, he filled Cologne, Shampoo, and Mousse in on what was happening.  Once he was finished, he sat back, and shrugged.  "That's about it, really.  I know it's not much, but. . . well, do ya know what's goin' on?"

            The Amazon matriarch laughed.  "It never fails to amaze me, the naivety of youth, and what knowledge people seem to assume I have.  I have lived a very long time, and seen many things beyond your imagining," she said, "but the greatest lesson of all I have experienced is that there will forever be far more that remains beyond my understanding."

            Ranma puzzled that over for a moment before saying, "So you don't know nothin'?"

            "You told me a big monster attacked you last night.  What kind of conclusion do you want me to draw: that it had a predilection for arrogant, bull-headed boys who change into girls?"

            "Thanks."

            "However, these enemies of yours, they are skilled.  Entering this house felt like stepping into the lions' den.  You were right: something lies lurking beyond those walls.  How many, I could not tell, for their presence was concealed very well."

            "But that's what I don't get!" said Ranma.  "If they're already out there, why not attack?  Why let more people in?  Are they waiting for reinforcements of their own?"

            "Or maybe," added Cologne, "they simply want to put an end to all this tonight.  Eliminate everyone associated with these events with a single strike.  No need to hunt loose threads down, when you've already done an admirable job of bringing everyone together."

            "You mean they _wanted_ me to. . . ?"

            "So I assume," Cologne said, and nodded.  "However, we can only hope that they have overestimated themselves in their arrogance."  Her eyes narrowed.  "For on this night, they shall learn what it entails to attack a sister of the Joketsuzoku."  At her side, Shampoo smiled cruelly, and Mousse's glasses gleamed in the electric light that kept the night at bay.  "And now, Son-in-law," Cologne continued, "how about showing me these preparations you have made."

            Akane sat in the central room of her home, and though she tried to maintain an appearance of calm composure, her heart was aflutter with nervous anticipation and excitement.  Twisting beneath that was a gnawing sense of guilt: after all, everyone had come together because of her inadvertent actions, and though they now fought to defend their own lives as well, she was the true goal of their unknown enemies' attack.  She felt a certain warmth, knowing that these people were willing to fight to defend her.

            Well, maybe not their Chinese friends.  Akane was pretty sure Shampoo fought for her own personal revenge--when the Amazon had heard that the one responsible for wounding her yesterday was still at large, her smile had only turned thinner and crueller.  Of course, wherever Shampoo fought, Mousse stood by her side and one step behind; and as for Cologne, who could guess that inscrutable old woman's motivations in anything?  The Amazon matriarch had essentially taken control of the situation upon arrival, and had her wards patrolling in pairs, Shampoo with Ukyou, Mousse with Genma.

            Her father looked as gallant as she had ever seen him, wearing the old brown dogi which had carried him through his travels with Genma and Happosai.  He stood stoically by the sliding doors that led to the back, silhouetted against the twilight sky outside.  It frightened her to think he would willingly lay down his life to defend hers; but it won't come to that, Akane thought, because if anything tries to hurt Dad, I'll pound it into dust.  Ryoga stood watching from the top of the stairs, just in case anything broke through the barricaded windows on the second floor.  Kuno remained with the non-combatants, Kasumi, Nodoka, and Nabiki, huddled together near the kitchen.  He played the role of samurai guardsman to perfection, despite her middle sister's frequent belittling comments.

            As for Ranma: he stood next to her, back in his male form, and the hovering protectiveness that had so annoyed her during the last week was nothing compared to the loose readiness with which he now held himself.  The look in his eyes was one she had never seen before, or maybe only once in a half-remembered dream.  It was hard, and cold, and behind that lurked something very, very mean.  Even though she knew it existed in defence of her, she realized she did not like seeing such a look on Ranma's face.  But how long could he hold himself in that ready, angry state?  Already it was getting late, past seven, and though both Cologne and Ranma remained certain that something--possibly many somethings--waited outside, nothing more had been seen.

            Cologne pogoed into the room.  "It would appear that they wish to play a waiting game with us.  Likely they expect us to get either tired or impatient."

            Ranma nodded and smiled grimly.  "Not me.  Soul of ice."

            Akane shivered against a night breeze, and the night suddenly seemed darker and colder.  Cologne tensed.  "What was that?"

            The pigtailed boy shrugged.  "I dunno, I didn't feel nothin'."

            "Nevertheless, remain on guard."

            "What do you think I've been doin', sleeping?  I told ya, there's nothing out there or I would've felt it."

            "You questioning me, boy?"  Cologne turned on Ranma, and the younger martial artist glared back.  "You doubt my talents?"

            He snorted.  "You doubt mine?"

            Cologne laughed, and the sound was unpleasant.  "I thought we settled this six months ago, son-in-law, or have you forgotten the lesson I taught you?"

            Ranma scowled and flushed red.  "Oh no, Old Ghoul, I haven't forgotten.  Not at all."

            Akane watched as they began to argue, becoming increasingly hostile, and wondered, what's wrong with these two?  She knew that they had had some kind of falling out soon after his return from China, though the details remained uncertain: he had made it abundantly clear that he didn't want anybody prying into his business, and had proven extremely touchy when the subject was brought up.  Did this level of resentment still remain between them?

            "Arrogant whelp, flying so high," said Cologne, smirking disdainfully.  "You ought to thank me.  You came close to burning those young wings, but I certainly brought you down to earth, hard, didn't I?"

            "That was then, you old bitch," he growled, and took a step towards her.  "And this is now."

            This is crazy, Akane thought, what are they going to do, fight?  "Hey, wait a second," she said, standing up.  "What do you think you're doing?  Calm down!"

            "Shut up, you silly little girl," said Cologne without taking her eyes off of Ranma.  "This does not concern you."

            "Don't you talk to her that way," said Ranma.  "Don't you _ever_ talk to her like that."

            "Hey, what's going on down there?" called Ryoga from upstairs.  "What's with all the yelling?"

            "Shut up, Piggy!" answered Ranma back.  "Stick to your own business."

            "Hey!"  The lost boy's heavy steps descended the stairs, and turning the corner he joined the group.  "I was only asking a question!"

            "What the hell do you think you're doing?" yelled Ranma.  "You left your post!"

            "You think you're doing a better job than me, eh, Ranma, arguing with the mummy?" answered Ryoga, flushing red.

            "Whom are you calling a mummy?" said Cologne, rapping his head with her stick.

            "Ouch!"

            "Stop it!"  Akane started as her father, thus far silently and steadfastly maintaining his guard, suddenly turned and glared at the bickering crowd.  "My daughter's life is in danger and all you can do is argue amongst yourselves?"

            "Oh, big surprise," muttered Nabiki from her corner of the room.  "With this crowd?  I'm surprised it took this long."

            "Now that's not nice," admonished Kasumi, frowning ever so slightly.

            "Now, now, girls," interrupted Ranma's mother, and her hand fell gently onto the grip of her sword.  "Sisters shouldn't argue."

            "I will brook no more arguing in this house," insisted Soun, cracking his knuckles.  "Not when my dear Akane's life is at risk!"

            "Is violent girl's own fault," added another voice from behind, and Akane turned to see the four people who were supposed to be on patrol standing outside the entrance her father had been guarding.  "Why we risk our life for stupid girl's mistakes?"

            Akane would have protested, but Ukyou beat her to it.  "What the hell are you jackasses doing?" the okonomiyaki chef demanded.  "We could hear the yelling from the other side of the house!"

            Kuno stepped in, having heard the earlier slur against Akane.  "Peasant," he said, levelling his bokken at the purple-haired Amazon, "how dare you, simple girl that you are, slander the fair Akane's name in such a way?"

            A barely audible 'snick', and suddenly Mousse had a long, jagged curved blade in his hand.  "I wouldn't point that at her if I were you," he said softly, "if you want to wake up tomorrow morning."

            The drawing of the first weapons seemed the signal for others to make an appearance.  Spatula, bonbori, and walking stick were brought to bear, even as others shifted into combat ready stances.  Akane watched in stunned disbelief as she saw her friends square off, each against all the others.  Arguing reaching a new fevered pitch, and everybody's face was red and horribly disfigured in anger.  Threats were thrown around indiscriminately, weapons and fists were pointed almost at random, rage redirected at the slightest provocation.

            Why am I the only one who isn't angry? Akane thought.  Aren't I usually the first one to lose my temper?  This just isn't right. . . .  She looked up at Ranma, and saw how the normally relaxed, cheerful features were distorted and ugly in his wrath, and saw that terrible hardness in his eyes turned on Ryoga; and Akane knew that if she didn't act now, things were about to get very, very ugly.

            "STOP IT!" she yelled, and when her words had little effect on the already screaming crowd, she jumped up and grabbed her fiance's arm.  "Stop it, Ranma!  This isn't right!"

            For a moment he turned away from his target, and his eyes focussed on her.  She quailed and her knees felt week at the horrible coldness of his look, and Akane suddenly wondered, is this what Saffron saw in that final moment, when Ranma fought for my life?  She gasped in pain at the tightness of his grip, and a more pressing concern took precedence: is he about to hit me? she asked herself.  Just as it seemed Ranma was about to rear back with one fist, something akin to indecision softened the hardness of those eyes, and he turned away.  He shoved her back, roughly, saying, "Stay outta this, university girl.  This don't concern you."

            Akane stumbled, fell, and her head rapped painfully against the living room table.  Tears sprang to her eyes, though whether from the pain or Ranma's callous treatment she couldn't tell.  Lying briefly among the shuffling, violently moving legs of her friends and family, she thought in desperation, what's going on?

            And then: through the blurriness of her tears, a red haze at the periphery of her vision, an indistinct crimson cloud that hovered in the corner of her eye.  She blinked and shook her head, and even though the tears cleared the haze remained, and as she sat up, it seemed her view of the room was seen through a bloodied filter.  What the hell, she thought, and winced as a sharp pain lanced through her head.  She gasped as the pain redoubled, as a high keening assaulted her ears, steadily increasing from an indistinct background hum to a deafening wail; and she clapped her hands over her ears and screamed for it to stop, and her cry went unheard in the sudden clash of weapons and fists and feet above her; and then, so abruptly it came as a surprise, the sound and pain reverberating within her skull stopped.

            She opened her eyes and uncovered her ears, and scrambled away from the sudden chaotic battle forming around her.  She choked down another scream at the scene revealed before her.  Everywhere, her friends and family were at each other's throat.  And beyond them: a single, luminous eye the size of a dinner plate hung suspended from the ceiling, and unblinkingly it stared at the scene below.  Some kind of gelatinous fluid surrounded it, forming its liquid body, and it flowed eerily along the entire surface of the ceiling.  What the hell re we fighting here, Akane thought, how the hell did this thing sneak in?  Staring at it through the persistent red haze that seemed thickest about that translucent creature above, she suddenly understood that it was somehow responsible for what was happening to her friends.  The eye shifted and focussed on her, and in that alien gaze she saw both intelligence and malevolence.  Wet tendrils emerged from the mucous mass suspended above and reached toward her.

            I need a weapon, she thought desperately, drawing back from the wall, and just then one was presented to her: the Saotome family katana slid across the floor as Genma knocked his wife down, and Akane stamped down on the blade with her foot.  It flipped up and she grabbed it from the air.  It sat comfortably in her hand.

            "Leave my friends alone!" she yelled.  Bracing herself against the table, she launched herself into the air.  She flew straight for the eye.  At the apex of her leap she threw the sword spear-like, and her aim was true: the blade pierced the lidless eye straight through the slitted pupil, and buried itself to the hilt in its fluid mass.

            In mid-swing, the fighting ended, even as the creature suddenly lost its cohesion and fell from the walls and ceiling in a stringy, goopy mess, leaving the katana imbedded in the ceiling above.

            "What the hell?" Ranma muttered, shaking his head, as Cologne swore vehemently in rapid Chinese at herself.  Others picked themselves off the floor, cursing or blinking in confusion, or retrieving their scattered weapons from the warm, sticky fluid that now coated everything, including themselves.  Akane could tell at a quick glance that no one had been wounded, not seriously--but it had come so very, very close.  If she hadn't . . . but then, she was the only one that had not been affected by that strange red haze.

            Ryoga was staring at her in wonderment.

            "What?" she asked.

            "Your . . . forehead," he said, and pointed.  "It was glowing!"

            She tentatively reached one hand to her brow, and felt nothing there.  She shrugged, and was about to tell him that she had no idea what was happening, and try to explain to the others what she had seen and done, when she saw movement: suddenly looming out of the darkness behind Ryoga, a figure approached rapidly, light gleaming off a toothed maw most certainly inhuman; and behind it the darkness swelled with the forerunner's brethren.

            "Here they come!" she screamed.

Continues in

Chapter Four: The Siege