Disclaimer-Haven't you figured this out? I own nothing of consequence. Ranma 1/2 and the Ultima game series are of consequence. Thus, logically, I own neither. All original characters are mine, as are my interpretations of characters who are not my creation. The plot, that's mine. If any of these things belonging to me are of consequence, then have fun with the logical paradox. (I just came out of a Philosophy class, sue me.)
Warning-You will probably be confused by this prologue. Violence warning: big time. Swearing: probably. Don't read if you don't consider yourself mature enough to handle the content. Spoiler warning. Ranma spoilers are a given. Also for the Ultima games series, although you don't need to know them to enjoy this.
(Font specifics:"Speech"
Thought or stressed
-Interruption-
/Mental Communication/
(0) OOC Number notes. Will refer to a like number around the author's notes, but are not necessary for enjoyment or understanding of the story.
Revolution Against Infinity (Tentative Title)
By Pale Wolf
Prologue
Souls of Defiance
It glowed in the pitch blackness, a rich sapphire sphere that lit only itself.
It had never been far from the hand of a god. It had provided and channelled arcane powers beyond the dreams of modern man. It had struck down servant after servant of a corruptor beyond all mortal corruption. It had served to save a world three times. The mere mention of its name had struck fear into its master's enemies.
It had been great. Legendary.
But that was a long time ago.
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She growled, ducking under the swipe from bony claws, and jumping back as the skull's teeth snapped shut. She straightened, putting her right hand on the sword hilt at her left hip, the left on the dagger sheathed at the right. Her green eyes took in the foe before her: a large dragon. Or the skeleton of one, at any rate.
Despite the ancient, chalk-white bones, however, it seemed not to be troubled overmuch by being dead, considering it was moving quite well, glaring down at her with empty eyeholes. And then, in a resonating voice from nowhere, it spoke. "I will admit, there are few who would answer the question 'Why art thou here?' with 'To kill thee'. Most especially regarding mine self."
She smirked. "Well, I was always taught to be honest."
The undead dragon cocked its head in such a manner that, if it had eyebrows, they would be raised. "Another virtuous knight out for mine head. Well, thy predecessors were no more successful than thou wilt be." It indicated a rather large collection of bones and metal off to the side.
She raised an eyebrow.
It shrugged. "I didst need somewhere to put them. They were getting in mine way. And thou dost look rather undersized to follow in their footsteps."
She shrugged. "Then it is fortunate that my intent is very distinctly different from that."
"Oh? Thou shalt have to tell more when thou art a ghost." It rose onto its hind legs, raising its claws, one charged with lightning, the other cupping a large fireball.
She was entirely unruffled, simply chirping, "In Grav An Ort." The magical power in the dragon's hands vanished, both attacks ceasing to be.
If the dragon had possessed the muscles involved, it would've gaped. It tried to perform another spell, but nothing happened. It glanced at her. "Thou art, indeed, quite different from the usual dragon slayer. Mine apologies." It dropped onto all fours, tensed back in an old fighting stance. "I must ask, why didst thou not simply annul the magic that maintains mine 'life'?"
She met its eyeholes. "Because my goal is not to kill thee. I have made no claims to virtue. What I want is thy power. Thy life stands in the way of that, for which I offer my humblest apologies. But I need thy power."
It cocked its head. "And what dost thou intend to do with it?"
She smirked. "Fix everything. The whole world."
"High aims for such a short human. Tell me. What is the name, of the one who wishes to change the world?"
She grinned. "Reltym. Reltym Ansadis, student of the Vaswislem and bearer of Soul Cutter." She drew her weapons.
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He sighed, weaving aside from an umbrella thrust, ducking the follow-up kick, jerking his head back up to catch his would-be rival right in the area he'd left exposed: the groin. Squealing rather like a pig (an observation he kept to himself) and clutching the bruised area, his 'rival' crumpled to the dirt. Apparently none of that vaunted endurance training had focused there.
His father was behind them, at the shogi table. He knew this, even before the overweight man swelled up with self-importance, in preparation to bellow, "BOY!!! How dare you use such an honourless attack! Oh, to think that despite all my efforts, the boy has fallen to such depths that he would use that strike!" The usual crocodile tears, and his father's even more brain-dead friend, trying to soothe him, was taken in as usual.
Funny. He remembered getting hit like that quite a lot in 'training'. 'To see if it was there', if he remembered correctly.
Then his fiancee came into the main room, spotted his rival huddled and whimpering on the ground, and came to a fast conclusion. "Ranma, how DARE you pick on Ryouga?!!!" She hefted the shogi setting (completely ruining the game) and whipped it at his head.
He let out another sigh. He'd learned, through long experience, that it was better to let it hit. Then they usually considered that the end of it.
And so the game board crashed into his skull with enough force to crack that of a normal human, propelling him into the koi pond. The change washed over... her, but before she could even start to drown, something looped around her ankle, snapped taut, and then pulled her out of the pond, dragging her along a rather bumpy path over the rooftops in a cackling gymnast's wake.
Suffice to say, when they came to a stop, quite a distance had been covered, and her head was in a substantial amount of pain. Which was why she winced when the gymnast took one look at her and yelled, "What have you done with my Ranma-sama, harlot?!", whipping out a club and drawing back her ribbon.
She closed her eyes. "Ain't done a thing."
Kami-sama, she'd hoped for a bit of calm after the fouled wedding, with the gymnast's kendoist brother skipping town.
"You lie!!!" The gymnast lunged with the club, looping the ribbon around to her opponent's back in a typically pathetic display of subterfuge.
But no, the psycho gymnast apparently felt the need to fill in her brother's annoyance quota, too. And was doing a better job than the original.
She slipped aside from the club, letting the ribbon loop around her wrist from behind. She twisted her hand quickly to roll more of the ribbon around herself, shortening the amount in play, then yanked the gymnast forward, onto her knee.
And the others hadn't even paused before redoubling their efforts.
The gymnast crumpled around the knee embedded in her gut.
As for her fiancee... she'd taken the near-wedding as a sign of complete submission to her will.
"I'm not in the mood, Kodachi."
The gymnast gurgled in... agreement?
Meh. She dropped the real girl, turning to leave.
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She tapped the remote's channel button, sighing. Was there any meaning on Earth?
On the screen, Jerry Falwell was denouncing the gay Teletubby.
She sweatdropped, changing channel again and stretching out on her sofa. That was just it. This world... it was... lifeless. TV supermen could never replace friends who had fought and died by her side! (1)
She snorted, rubbing a small black stone between her fingers. The idea was preposterous. She hated this place, but it was her home. She shook her head. Hatred and love all at once.
Actually, that wasn't true. She didn't hate Earth. She felt... exasperated by it. Like a parent with an unruly child. She loved it, and wanted to see it do well, so much that... it hurt every time it made the wrong choice. Every time it let her down, she was honest enough to admit that. And yet, just like a parent, she had to back away, let it grow on its own.
And then there was her other home. Britannia... Britannia was the good child, the one that never seemed to disappoint... but got into trouble a lot, and needed her help.
Her ankh pendant felt heavier than usual.
She sighed. But Britannia... she'd admit, it just had something about it that she loved, more than the world of her birth. And she hated herself for it, directing that emotion to Earth... and through her sword, whenever the time came. This was a world that was blind to its heroes. Blind and unappreciative. On one hand, she hated that... on the other, she preferred it that way. Although, even as a hero on Earth, she wasn't really 'Earth's hero'. She wouldn't know where to begin.
She smirked, stretching out again. If her co-workers only knew what was in her head...
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He blinked. No way. No fucking way. "...Sir? With all possible respect... are you nuts? You're giving me free reign over a whole ward for my internship?"
The man smiled. "I'm aware that this may seem a bit... unusual. However, you possess rare qualities that make you perfect to cover the Nerima ward."
He raised an eyebrow, settling back. "Those being?"
"Your openness to... odd occurrences."
The eyebrow climbed higher. "Like those ghosts in the Shimonoseki Strait?"
"Bishop, you're the only person on the Japan Times staff that could meet the ghastly, tortured shades of a former imperial family with a raised eyebrow and an 'Ah'."
He shrugged. "I lived in a haunted house."
The man sat back in his chair, rubbing his temples. "Plus you took their attempts to deify you pretty well."
He snorted.
"It's not funny, Bishop!" He gave the man a look. "Okay, it's not that funny. My point is, you recovered, and used, a sacred Imperial treasure."
"What? Mythological research is a hobby of mine. I knew what it was supposed to be capable of, it was there, so I figured it couldn't hurt to try."
The man pointed a thick finger at him. "Exactly!"
His eyes crossed for a moment to stare at the finger, then refocused onto the man. "... Umm... I think I missed...?"
The man shook his head. "No! You see, what you just said, it's why you're perfect for the Nerima ward!"
There was silence...
...which the man ended up filling. "You see, you can think on your feet, keep your cool under fire, whatever way you want to put it. That's vital to being a reporter. Plus, your unconventional interests make another good case to give you the Nerima slot. You're more likely to be able to handle that madhouse than most..."
"Normal?" he offered.
"It works. Better than most normal reporters."
He gave the man a level gaze, carefully noting his eyes flicking to the left. He smirked. Caught him. A few more seconds, just watching the fidgets, then, "...And?"
The man's eyes gazed off to the left. (Unlike most people, his editor's eyes flicked left when accessing the creative centers, rather than right (2). Something he'd found out the hard way when he ended up in Shimonoseki.) Gauging the results of each choice. But he knew what the choice would be. His editor wasn't perfect, but he wasn't stupid, either. Between lying to his face with him aware of the lie, and telling the truth, no matter how damning, there was only one choice.
The editor let out an explosive sigh. "All right. But tell no one I told you this." He paused. Taking his silence as assent, he continued. "To be frank: you're expendable. You're a good intern, but it's a lot cheaper to lose an intern than a fully trained reporter."
His mouth twitched as he filed that away. Even if personally annoying in the extreme, that was good business sense. "I really think you're blowing Nerima out of proportion."
"Bishop, I respect your courage. Buteighty percentof the Times medical fund goes to cover the Nerima reporters. And only one person gets assigned there at a time. The ones that don't get reduced to a gibbering mess get injured in the crossfire."
He quirked an eyebrow. "You're damaging your own point, sir. But I'll go." He shrugged. How bad could it be?
He really should've known: the universe took questions like that as a challenge.
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She held her eyes shut, feeling the blood drip off her blade.
Again. Again, she'd had to finish it.
She raised the sword, and slashed to the side, splashing off the blood, then slipped it into its sheath. She opened her eyes. "I'm sorry. But... I can't let anyone else stop me. Otherwise... it's all meaningless. And until I'm done... you don't want this." She shook her head. "You fell to the sword. Maybe I have too." She turned from the young travellers body, and, in a calm, measured pace, walked away.
This had gone on too long. Perhaps it was arrogant... but maybe, just maybe, she could end it.
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He tilted his head aside from the dying man's stream of assault rifle fire, twisting the glaive blade in his belly before jerking it out, just to make sure the guy was dead. He spun the glaive butt to crunch the still-firing fun into a useless metal mess... one which promptly exploded under the stress of firing with a closed barrel. He twirled the glaive into a position just in one hand, tapping the butt against the ground as the man's body fell to the dirt.
A pale, translucent woman stood from the tree she was 'leaning' on. "Take long enough? That's another second longer than usual."
"I failed. Wasn't soon enough." His gaze flicked to the bodies scattered around - both soldier and villager. "Just an avenger. As always." He rubbed the glaive's blade, to work out some of the blood.
She moaned, loudly, prompting him to jerk his hand away and glare at her. She dropped the act and shot him a grin and a wink.
He shook his head. "Smart-mouthed angel."
"You know you love me."
"Sometimes, you tempt me to leave you behind."
She just grinned at him.
He gave a short laugh and walked away, tapping the glaive to the ground with every other step. "...By the way... Thanks."
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...Light? Was that... light?
For a moment - just a moment - a narrow, vertical-slit pupil could be seen in the blue orb. But that may have just been a trick of sight.
As the light leaked into the musty, cobwebbed room, the paper wards were visible, covering every inch of it but the orb. It was a two-handed sword, long, trapped in a rusted, ancient scabbard, mounted at the end of the room furthest from the light's source.
That source was an open door, where a girl dressed in the robes of a Shinto miko, holding one hand over her mouth to keep out the dust, was holding the door open for a man - No, a boy, regardless of age - dressed as if he believed himself a samurai to stride in, trailed by a midget dressed in stereotypical ninja 'pajamas'.
The boy struck a pose, proclaiming (there was no other word for his tone), "Though it pains me to resort to such measures, the Heavens hath made it clear to my sight that I must help even my great self in vanquishing that foulest of foul ones, Saotome Ranma. It was enough that they allow myself to see the truth."
The miko frowned, leaning back against the door. "I don't have to tell you I don't like this, Kuno-san. The stories of the Demon Sword... Breaking the seal could be insane."
He adjusted his pose. "Dear pure soul, fear not mine ability to control this unhallowed blade." Ignoring (or not noticing) her disgusted look at his form of address, he continued. "And thou may rest assured, it indeed be necessary. Saotome's sorcerous power is exceeded only by his foulness. No mortal power has been able to defeat him... not even mine own legendary skill. Allow me to compensate thee for thine trouble." The 'samurai' snapped his fingers. "Sasuke!"
The ninja pulled a wad of yen notes out of... somewhere... and moved to give them to the miko.
Until she yanked something out of her sleeve and the ninja found his eyes crossing to lock on to the golden blade of a short spear tapping his forehead, drawing a bead of blood that trickled down his nose and onto his lips. Her eyes bored into him. "Ninja. Tell your master that if that money so much as touches me, I will ward the both of you in here to rot."
The ninja backed away, nodding as soon as he was far enough away from the blade.
The boy took an 'offended' pose. "Is the generosity of the great Kuno family not good enough for thee?"
The miko ignored him, waving a hand in the sword's vague direction.
It rose smoothly out of the scabbard, wards covering its blade as well. As the wave came to an end, the wards peeled themselves off the blade and hilt, revealing dark stone, a finely made weapon of obvious European style. It was apparently still in perfect condition, looking like it had been forged minutes ago. Then it fell back into the rusted, ancient scabbard.
The miko met the boy's eyes. "My loyalty is not yours to buy. For all that your family has done for mine, Kuno-san, I will trust your judgement. You have a week. Deal with the evil and bring the Demon Sword back in that time, or I will come to retrieve it. You know the way out." She whirled away, robes swirling, and stalked out.
As the door began to fall shut, the boy looked at his ninja.
The ninja scampered over to catch it and hold it open.
The boy adjusted to a triumphant pose. "At last, the gods have shown my noble self the way to vanquishing Saotome's evil! The legendary sword of death and fire..." He strode up to it, putting a hand on its hilt and pulling it back out of the scabbard.
Its aura touched his, running through it. He was unworthy.
"Though it is an inferior gaijin blade, the demon within should counter Saotome's power. Come, Sasuke!"
Unworthy. But there.
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Next: Chapter One! Kuno returns to Nerima with a new weapon, one powerful enough to enable even him to beat Ranma. But what happens when the Shade Blade touches his soul?
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OOC Notes
(1)-Players of Ultima VI should recognize this line.
(2)-There are cases where this occurs. About 10 of the time, if I remember correctly.
Author's Notes (I don't feel like coming up with a cutesy remark)
Contact is, as always, miraclewolf at
Welcome to yet another new story. Don't worry, the actual chapters will, among many other features, include proper ways of addressing characters! Anyway, this is a wierdo crossover between Ultima and Ranma (in fact the only one on the Internet that stays true to Ultima lore (excepting the points where it contradicts itself) and doesn't just have it as a sideshow). Anyone who plays Ultima should have a very good idea about more of these little scenes than anyone else, but it will all get explained, Ultima knowledge is totally unnecessary. Now, the Ultima timeline is... wierd, in where I set this. Simultaneously after U9 and before U7, and also before U1. It'll make sense. Eventually. And I'm not using the game Ultima IX plot. It was a betrayal of all that is Ultima. I'm using what would have been the game's plot if Electronic Arts hadn't decided to set the due date far too soon for the real game to be made. This is called the Bob White Plot. Anyone who desperately needs to know it, may find it at:
http:members.aon.at/ hacki-ultima/ english/ articlesorigplot.htm
Remove the spaces after slashes.
Okay, other issues: the Japan Times. This actually exists, it is the largest of many English-language newspapers in Japan. And they accept international students there for internships. If you're wondering what artifact Mr. Bishop used... heh. There's only one major ancient Japanese artifact in the Shimonoseki Strait. One hint: it was part of the imperial regalia, and since it wasn't found, a replica was made. Anyway, if the story about that never comes up in the story, I'll explain it down here.