Choices

by Mike2

It began with a simple high school party, but the consequences of choices made by Ranma (and others) at that event prove far-reaching.

3. Choices: Contemplation

Choices

Part Three: Contemplation by Michael Noakes

Burning embers floated high on the night wind to flicker briefly among the stars before flaring, fading, dying. Their dizzying dance twirled amongst the smoke and silence as they drifted into the sky. A cascade of sparks flared, the result of an idle poke at the source, but the sudden intensity dulled quickly and the fire returned to a slow, crackling simmer. The young man beneath the tree leaned back and stared up at the evening sky through a thick canopy of shifting branches and leaves.
Earlier that day the variety of sights and wilderness colours had struck him with their vividness and acuteness. Now all was shades of grey and black, the fire providing the only colour with its flickering oranges and popping reds. Beneath the softly flowing wind, even sounds were subdued: the night was quiet, and calm, and Ranma Saotome felt at ease.
Aching muscles and sheer exhaustion urged rest, but he resisted the lull of sleep so as to enjoy the moment, even if but briefly. It was his first night in far too long spent outdoors, the firmament his ceiling, this bower of trees and interlaced branches his chamber, a knotted root his pillow, the earth his bed; cursing, he pulled a rock from the small of his back and wished that nature included more creature comforts -- he felt cold, and hungry, and uncomfortable, and began to question what he was doing out in the middle of nowhere.
I must be getting soft, Ranma thought. This is just what I need: a training voyage, to regain my edge. Get strong again. Just like the old days, me and Pop wandering and training. But a glance to the side revealed a conspicuous absence. No, not like the old days, amended the boy, this time I'm alone. Genma had to be left behind, of course. He wouldn't have understood, and even if he had, would have interfered. Weird, he thought. He's made my life hell, got me engaged, got me cursed, made rivals of possible friends, made of me a shame to my mother; he beat me and threw me to the cats and never took it easy on me for one day out of those ten years of training . . . and yet I think I miss the idiot. Thing was, he's always been there. Now I'm alone.
Yet nevertheless at ease, since despite the weariness the day's hike had worn into his bones, for the first time in far too long -- for perhaps the first time, period -- no one was imposing demands upon him, no death threats, no wedding threats. For the first time he could remember, he felt free.
The opportunity would be put to good use, too, he decided. Without his father to cook up bizarre and potentially dangerous -- but, Ranma had to admit, ultimately very creative and efficient -- techniques, it was up to himself to design his training agenda for the next week. He had brought a minimum of supplies: everything he ate, drank, slept on or under, would come from his own efforts: hard, straightforward work, he figured, as much as he disliked unnecessary labour, would establish a strong foundation for further practice. Then perhaps some perfection of his technique. Some speed training. Physical conditioning. Maybe some deep meditation, if not for his chi techniques, then at least to move beyond the events of the last few days. He closed his eyes, soothed by the scents carried on the breeze, settling deeper into the ground, his mind passing back over the terrain he had covered, picking out likely training spots, forming a tentative regime for the week. And at the end of those seven days. . . .
It would be time to return ho- to the Tendos. He had promised: would he remain beholden to his word? He had seven days to decide. This morning, he would have denied ever going back, but by the afternoon his resolve had wavered. And now?
Ranma slept.

Decisions once made impart passion and clarity of mind, but such singularity of purpose endures but briefly; and so it was that, as Ranma Saotome walked home that afternoon, the first stirring of doubt assailed him. The open stares and gawking of the pedestrians at the pigtailed boy that passed them by wearing a school skirt and blouse disturbed him not -- he was inured to mockery, for the opinion of such as them currently meant nothing to him -- but the reality of what he intended to do intruded upon his detached calm.
To leave the Tendos was one thing, but where would he go? As he passed along the Nerima canal he ran options through his mind. Ukyou, the Amazons: not likely; leaving one fiancee's house for another would simply compound his problems. The Kunos? The thought of fleecing Tatewaki and Kodachi for a few weeks brought a smirk to his lips, but he doubted he could do so without losing his mind. Maybe his mother's house? As a last resort, perhaps, but the idea of spending a week or two as a female -- and putting up with her efforts to redeem 'Ranko's' femininity -- was almost as unappealing as living with the Kunos.
He wondered what normal kids did when they ran away from home, whether they had plans or goals or a clearer idea of what they were doing -- then frowned at the implication. I'm not 'running away,' he told himself. I'm moving on.
Not knowing where he was moving to did not subdue the memory of where he was coming from, or of what he was leaving behind. Furinkan High School. The guys, false and perverse, one night calling him friend, the next day insulting and mocking him; the girls, shallow and cruel, believing lies, perpetuating worse exaggerations. So what. I was an idiot, Ranma told himself, to try and fit in with those jerks. Who needs people like that? My enemies make better friends than those people at school. At least with Ryoga and Mousse, I know where they're coming from: they're rivals, and sneaky, and liars and cheats and. . . . For a moment he forgot exactly _why_ they were better than the people at school. Oh yeah: because at least they were _honest_ rivals: they never hid the fact that they'd take any opportunity to kick his ass (Ranma sneered at the idea) and steal both fiancee and cure from him given the opportunity. Yet despite this -- perhaps because of this -- they made the best of allies when the going got really tough. He'd never turn to those idiots back at Furinkan for help. For anything. He'd never go back to that school.
He kicked a wayward pop can lying on the street and watched it bounce, clattering, down the pavement. How did it happen, he wondered, why did they turn on me like that? That some people would insult him came as no surprise: Sayuri, for instance, had obviously disliked him from the day he arrived in Nerima, for reasons he simply could not fathom. But why Yuka, when they had got along so well the night of the party? And then Hiroshi: the guy had professed to be a good friend, had listened and offered advice, had 'bonded,' as he put it -- and then went and spread secrets given in confidence, and allowed lies to propagate by keeping silent, when he damn well knew those stories going around were untrue! If that was the kind of friends one made in high school, then screw it, Ranma told himself. At least when Ryoga pounds me in the head, I know he's being genuine about it.
And then, with little awareness of either time or distance having passed, Ranma stood before the Tendo residence, and his previous concerns became inconsequential. Having arrived, he now had to decide whether he was to stay; to his surprise, he found very little remorse over the idea of leaving this place forever. After all, what was there to keep him here? Not Akane, certainly, for whatever feelings he had for her were obviously never to be reciprocated; though it galled him to admit defeat in any battle, he knew this one was hopeless. The other sisters? Nabiki he would gladly bid good riddance to; Kasumi would be missed, and Ranma wished there was some way to thank her before leaving. As for Soun and his father -- well, he'd find some way to make it up to them, although considering the trouble they'd caused him in the last year, it wouldn't take long to pay up _that_ bill. The dishonor of leaving his marriage promises unfulfilled bothered him, but why should the onus always fall on _him_, he decided. Akane was the one who broke our fathers' oath this time, let her deal with the consequences for once! 'Cus by the time our parents figure out what's going on, I don't plan on being here no more.
With a dismissive shrug, he stepped into the house.
He ignored the two fathers playing shogi, offered a greeting in passing to Kasumi, and headed straight to his room. Only it wasn't his room anymore, of course; looking around, he realized it had _never_ been his room. Where were the dozen little touches that marked a place as belonging to someone, the character identifiers and knick-knacks of personality that said, 'Ranma Saotome lives here'? Aside for the few outfits he had hanging in the closet (into one of which he quickly changed, tossing the Furinkan schoolgirl uniform aside), the camping gear stored beneath it, the few personal items shut away in the dresser, there was little to nothing. One had to own stuff to display it, and everything he had ever left out had either been repossessed by Nabiki (if valuable), inadvertently thrown out by Kasumi (if ugly or clashing with the room's original decor), or broken by Akane (or by any number of suitors or rivals). Even necessary items, such as school books and training equipment, were either kept out of sight or in the dojo. For the first time it occurred to him that, whether consciously or not, the Tendos had made every effort to minimize his impact upon his own room. He wondered if the effect extended throughout the entire house. Of course, erasing his presence wasn't possible, the sheer property damage he had either directly or indirectly caused to the household ensuring that. But once the fresh paint faded, the holes were patched, the scars healed -- once the only visible signs that a Ranma Saotome had ever spent a year-and-a-half within these Tendo walls were gone, would he be forgotten?
Then he thought, did I bring anything to this household other than violence?
What about to the school?
He looked around the mostly empty room. Listened to the sounds of the house: Kasumi, softly singing to herself as she passed by; the clink of mugs raised in cheer; the banging of a door. Zephyrous whispering of wind slipping in through an open window, coiling across the room, extending, breathing down the hallway, up stairs, touching on closed doors -- three sisters, clapping of a wooden duck -- and now down, stirring hanging beads and the aromas of the oft-visited kitchen, then through a family room that never was, and finally. . . .
Out the back, free once again.
A lifetime of short stays and hasty departures made him a quick packer. It took mere seconds for his dusty and worn pack to be retrieved from the closet and laid out upon the floor. It had not even been disassembled, Genma having taught him the value of foresight and preparation when it came to unexpected travel. Meager possessions were quickly sorted through, absolute essentials chosen and trivialities tossed to the garbage -- he wouldn't be returning for them, so why bother putting them away? Into the pack he shoved his gi, intact but so worn and used it had begun to turn grey; it was followed by an extra set of black pants and red shirt, his last pair considering what Nabiki had done to his clothes at school. Some underwear and socks, stored in a plastic bag, completed his traveling wardrobe. The surprisingly numerous dresses, gowns, skirts and blouses he had somehow accumulated over time he fastidiously ignored, and the feminine underthings obviously remained behind.
As he continued filling his packsack, he considered possibilities. Should he travel Japan, in search of martial instructors? Or better yet, China? If required, he could find work to finance the trip -- though if push came to shove, simply swimming the distance was possible. Not pleasant by any means, but he had done it before, and if necessary, would do so again. His eyes widened: how could he have not thought of it earlier: what else was there to do once in China but return to Jusenkyo? Too long the search for a cure had been put aside by his responsibilities here in Nerima; now that every last connection to this house and little city had been absolved, he could finally be rid of his cursed girl-side.
He secured the final tie on his backpack. Good. He hefted it and found it light enough for easy travel. One last thing to check. In the bottom drawer of the dresser -- the drawer assigned to him, his father having claimed the ones above -- was stored his small collection of racier female clothing, lingerie, and embarrassing accessories. Digging quickly through the odd accumulation of articles -- an iron corset, a worn yet intact skimpy bunny outfit, his tattered but neatly folded tea-ceremony wedding kimono -- he pulled out a nondescript shoebox stashed at the very back. His intention was to sift through it quickly, yet each item he touched upon forced recollection. A few strands of long, black hair, tied with a shred of yellow ribbon: an early encounter with a rival, a fiancee held close, a bad cut. Ragged piece of cloth: ice and skating and an unwanted kiss, makeshift bandage, unexpected kindness and ministrations. Yellow scarf that closer resembled a fishing net. Iridescent-green dragon- like scale. Picture of curiously cat-like Ranma rubbing nose against a surprised Akane's cheek.
Junk, all of it.
Carefully closing the box, he tenderly returned it to its position, replaced the oddities that concealed it, softly closed the drawer, grabbed his bag and hoisted it over his shoulders and turned to leave; and then the door to his room slid open quietly on its railing and Akane was standing there on the threshold with eyes widening with sudden realization, and Ranma knew he had wasted far too much time on pointless reminiscence. In that first moment, eyes locking and full awareness of what Ranma intended dawning upon Akane -- he could tell, he could see it in her face, he knew her at least that well after a year -- he considered simply running away, jumping out the window and making his escape.
No. No more running. If he had learnt anything this afternoon at school, it was that you could never turn your back on these people. I'm leaving here by choice, not like some thief at night, he told himself. I'm leaving by choice and moving on. Akane stepped into the room, closed the door behind her, and slowly looked around. He watched her take in the details: the open closet, the missing clothes, discarded items on the floor, the pack on his back. Dumb as a stump when it came to P-Chan, he thought, but observant enough when she has to be.
"You're leaving," she said, eyes still sliding across the room.
It wasn't really a question.
"When are you coming back?"
So maybe she didn't get it after all. He didn't answer.
Hazel eyes sharply fixed cerulean. "You're not, are you?"
He shrugged and moved towards the door. Akane blocked the exit.
"Outta my way, Akane."
"Or what, you'll hit me?"
Ranma snorted.
"Nice show you put on back at school."
"Wasn't a show." He stared at her for a moment and, realizing she wasn't about to move, turned away.
"So what if someone had got in your way? What would you have done?"
"Dunno." Answering over his shoulder, he pulled the curtains aside from the window. "Hit 'em, I guess. Prob'ly regret it after, but, hey, didn't happen, so no worries, right? After all, nobody tried to stop me from leaving, did they? Not the teachers, not the guys -- not even you, Akane." He glanced back at her but found her now standing next to him, pressing down hard on the window frame.
"They were scared, Ranma. _I_ was scared."
"D'ya really think I'd ever hurt you, Akane?"
"You did two nights ago."
"No, I didn't." He yanked the window open, overcoming her initial resistance to his effort. He took a deep breath of air, then hoisted himself up into a sitting position on the sill. He faced her. "What I did, Akane, was give ya what you've always wanted: I took you seriously for once. Isn't that what you're always goin' on about, how tough you are, you're a martial artist too, you can take it?"
"That's diff-."
He cut her off with a glare. "No it's not, and now you know why I never did. One move -- shit, I didn't even apply pressure! -- and now you're whinin' and everybody's callin' me a jerk and an abuser an' worse. I try an' tell 'em otherwise, but no one ever listens. Well I've said I'm sorry already. I've said it so often I'm sick of it. I'm not gonna say it again."
Akane visibly restrained her anger, and instead offered up an unusually subdued posture, eyes downcast to the floor. When she finally spoke, her voice seemed quiet and nearly timorous. "I didn't say any of that stuff about you, Ranma."
"Yeah, maybe not." He shrugged. "But you sure as hell didn't speak up at school."
"Do you think it would've made a difference?"
"Probably not. Not with those jerks. Woulda meant somethin' to me, though. I was kicking myself, thinkin' I'd hurt you. Not goin' to do that anymore, tho, 'cus I know I didn't."
"But you did."
"Yeah. Whatever." He began to turn away, feet raised to clear the window. "I'm outta-."
"You did hurt me, you jerk!" Now Akane looked up, and her eyes were anything but tame. The front of Ranma's Chinese shirt twisted in her grasp as she grabbed him and hauled him off the window sill. "You did, and it's got nothing to do with your stupid technique! Here, take my wrist -- go ahead, take it! Twist my wrist. Do it. You think that's what this is all about?"
He pulled his hand free of her grip. "I don't got time for this."
"Yeah, I'm sure running away has a tight deadline."
"I'm not running away!"
"Sure looks like it."
"I'm moving on."
"Mo. . . is that what you call it? What, you milked us for all you could, and now it's time to live off another fiancee? Hell, Ranma, why only a year, I'm sure you could've strung us along for at _least_ another six months!"
"It's not like that!"
"Then why?"
"Shit, Akane, isn't it obvious? I know where I'm not wanted."
"Who are you to judge that?"
"You want me to stay, then?"
Silence.
"Right. I'm gone." Again he headed for the door; again, Akane moved to intercept. With a sigh he threw his pack to the floor and sat on it. "Listen, I'm gettin' really tired of this. If ya got somethin' to say, say it. If you don't want me to stay, then get the hell outta my way."
She settled into a kneeling position across from him, her back to the sliding door. A deep breath, eyes briefly closed as if to signal a collecting of thoughts, and then she spoke. "I don't want you here. I can't stand seeing you right now. Seeing you almost makes me feel sick. But I don't want you to leave. Not now, not yet, not like this."
"Heh. And they call _me_ the indecisive one."
"This isn't a joke!"
"Oh, it's a joke all right, it's always been one; only now, I'm just getting the punch-line. Think about it, Akane: a macho-jock jerk guy who turns into a _girl_, ain't that the funniest thing you've ever heard? But there's more, 'cus this guy, see, he's got these three girls engaged to him, and. . . ."
"Ranma."
"Then there's the guys who love his girl-side, and the guys who hate his guy side, and the guys who want him to stay a girl, and the guys who just want his fiancees."
"Ranma!"
"But it's all his fault, of course. Then one day, he thought he'd try and change, you know, make some friends -- but damned if anyone was gonna let _that_ happen. And the punchline, if you didn't get it, is: _that's me_, and my life's a joke." Teeth flashed through his thin-lipped laugh, the gesture bereft of any sense of merriment, and Akane winced at the sound "Why aren't you laughin', Akane? Everyone else does."
"Stop it!"
"Why should I?"
"What's wrong with you, why are you acting like this? This isn't you, Ranma!"
"So you've got me figured out too, huh, just like everyone else. So what am I, then? Am I the perverted macho jerk everybody says?"
"You're-."
He leaned forward, cutting her off with an exaggerated hiss. "It's true! I _am_ a macho jerk." Sitting back again, he shrugged. "But that's okay, 'cus it ain't my fault, it's theirs. I figured that out today, standin' out there on the baseball field, all those girls makin' fun of me and making it quite clear what they thought of me -- thanks, by the way, for standing up for me, I _really_ appreciated that -- and getting me kicked off the team.
"See, for the longest time, I couldn't figure out why people kept sayin' all that crap about me behind my back. For a year it bugged me and worried me, the insults and gossip and stuff. What was I doing wrong? Don't look at me like that, Akane -- I'm not talking about the obvious, here: the fightin' and fiancees and curse. 'Cus even when things were normal they'd make fun of me. You know what I'm saying, you've heard enough of it, heck, Sayuri and her friends are probably the main source of half that shit."
She didn't say anything, her slight wince answer enough in itself.
"For a year, Akane, a _year_! When I wasn't fighting or training or dealing with somethin' weird, it'd eat away at me, worryin' about what was wrong with me. But it ain't me, it ain't never been me; or maybe I oughta say, it's always been me, but those jerks tried to make something outta me that I'm not. You know why? Fear." He chuckled dryly. "Who would've guessed -- that bastard Uehara was right."
"After today, you wonder why they were afraid of you?" Akane said. "You vindicated every worry they may have had."
"They erased every doubt I had about them, saying the crap they did about me!"
"That was a surprise, after getting drunk and acting like an idiot at the party?"
"I wouldn't have _been_ drunk if you hadn't started that fight!"
"Me -- I started the fight? You're the one who-."
"If you'd bother. . . ," he began, then scowled. His blood was pounding, voice steadily raising, face flushed with the intensity of the argument, and the whole scenario sickened him. "No. I won't play this game, Akane, I'm not gonna argue with you. Hell, I wanted to be gone before you even got back from school." He stood up, shouldered his pack once again. "Doesn't matter, I suppose. Just ask yourself this: sure, maybe I acted like an idiot at the party, made a fool of myself -- but did I deserve the bullshit I got today?"
"You-."
"Careful, Akane. Did you listen to the rumors, heard what they said? Some were sayin' I like to beat up girls, that I get some kinda sicko thrill outta it. Some said I was buddies with Uehara, that I set the whole thing up. Hell, some guys were sayin' I was just actin' drunk, using it as an excuse to screw around with guys and stuff." His jaw tightened, thick cords of his neck standing out. "So tell me, Akane, did I deserve those kinda lies following me around at school? Did I deserve to be kicked off the sport teams? Did I deserve to have every one I know at that whole fucking school turn on me like that?"
A long silence in which she matched his angry, cold eyes with an enigmatic gaze of her own, before answering. "No," she half-whispered. "No."
"Damn straight," he said, stepping past her, yanking the door open.
"Do you want to know why I didn't say anything?"
He hesitated, held by her query, one foot past the threshold; held his position but refused to look back.
"Because I enjoyed seeing your hurt," she said, quickly, almost desperately, it seemed. "Because I wanted you to feel what _I_ felt that night at the party! I wanted you to hurt the way I did -- the way I still do!"
Ranma slowly turned and reentered the room, silently sliding the door shut behind him. "You what," he asked, very, very softly.
Akane looked up at him from her position on the floor. "All day, people have been asking me what happened, did we fight, were we really broken up, and why. I never answered them, at least, not directly. I knew that they would take my silence whatever way they wanted, and probably in the worst way possible -- and I didn't really care. I didn't expect things to get so out of hand . . . but probably would have acted the same if I had."
"Akane, you . . . how could you?"
He despised how weak his own voice sounded, but a palpable sense of betrayal arose at her words and undercut his previous authority and righteous anger, leaving him feeling off-balance and momentarily vulnerable. The pain, he realized, had been a burgeoning presence within him all morning: her refusal to come to his aid earlier this day had left the seeds of uncertainty within, but her current direct admission staggered him -- how could she be so cruel?
"I could ask the same question of you," she answered.
Shaking his head in disbelief, he once again sank into a sitting position across from her. "Me - Me? Do you have _any_ idea what I went through today?"
"Yeah, Ranma, believe it or not, I think I've got a pretty good idea."
That she thought she could empathize with the myriad emotions he had undergone this day provoked outrage, even as he tried to accept that she could so callously seek to hurt him. "You -- you don't got no idea, Akane! What I felt -," trust, friendships betrayed; anger, humiliation, pain compounded by confusion; the constant growing stifling greyness that demanded release but with relief ultimately denied, "how could you _possibly_ know?"
"You really don't get it, do you?"
"Get? What is there to-."
"Who the hell do you think you are, Ranma? Is this your world, huh, you think Nerima revolves around you? You corner the market on feeling like shit? Well, guess what, Ranma, big news flash: you're not the only one who's been hurt here!"
"No way! Not like this, I've put up with a hell of a lot more than -- than you, or Nabiki, or anyone else at that damn school! -- has ever had to deal with." And then, because he refused to keep it in, "And I _never_ go out of my way to hurt others and spread lies like that about 'em!"
The look of disbelief that overcame Akane would have almost been comical in any other situation. Here and now it simply furthered his annoyance. She recovered quickly. "Never? Never! Ranma, you _always_ go out of your way to hurt others. If you're not insulting your dad, you're picking on poor Ryoga -- don't interrupt me, dammit! -- or beating up Mousse, or insulting my cooking, or the way I dress, or the way I look, act, talk, or. . . everything! First I work out too much, I'm a tomboy, but then I'm too weak, a terrible martial artist. Sure, Ranma, you never insult _anybody_."
"But-."
"Let me guess, you're joking," she said. "Guess what, Ranma, once is a joke: after a couple dozen times, it's insulting."
"Yeah?"
"Yes."
"Then I guess you must've really meant it all those times you called me a jerk and a pervert, huh?"
If she felt any guilt whatsoever, she hid it well; then again, he was doing a fair job of that himself.
"Whatever, Ranma. I could say that every time I called you those things, you deserved it, but I know you will just turn it around and say the same thing to me. So what's the point?"
"Yeah."
Silence.
"You know, Akane, if you're trying to convince me to stay, you're doing a pretty lousy job of it."
Akane sighed. "I don't know. Maybe you shouldn't stay. Maybe you're right, you need time away. But not permanently, not forever, not like this, not for something as stupid as today."
"Why should I come back? What would be the point?" Then, fixing her with a piercing gaze, "Why would you even want me to come back?"
"Why do you think?"
"Frankly, Akane, I haven't got a clue, I never have. Way I have it figured, you don't like me and never have, and with good reason: I'm an unwanted perverted sex-changing freak of a fiance who bullies your friends and fools around behind your back, and who's brought nothing but chaos and violence in your life. . . why on earth would you want somebody like that around?"
"Is that how you think I feel about you?"
"Pretty much."
A certain wonderment tinged her voice. "And yet you stayed? Why?"
"I dunno. Family honor and obligation? Maybe I thought I liked it here in Nerima? Mostly 'cus I didn't want to admit to myself that that's how you felt." He shrugged. "Now I know that's all bullshit. My honor is my own, not my father's, nor Tendo's; Nerima has nothing for me; and as for you, Akane, I think you've made it abundantly clear what you think of me.
"You. . . hate me, and I'm sorry, so very sorry, I've made your life what must have been a living hell for the past eighteen months. Well, hopefully when I leave, all the crap that came with me will leave too. I'll have to come back to Nerima at some point, I suppose -- I've got stuff to settle with my mom, and Ryoga, and with Ukyou and Shampoo and the Old Ghoul, but I'll make sure to leave the Tendos out of it."
"And so now, you just leave?"
"Yup."
"No."
"Dammit, Akane! Why the hell won't you let me go?"
"Because things aren't that simple, you can't run away from this, because I. . . don't hate you, Ranma, I never have. Right now, I don't like you -- but that's not the same thing as hate." She rose from her sitting position and slowly approached him. Her features softened, recalling an incident from not long ago: at the party, soon before she left, exchanging easy banter and a relaxed shared moment. A smile, something so rarely received, it seemed, but all the more precious for it -- would he ever be privy to that aspect of her again?
She took his hand in hers as he stood there momentarily at a loss. "Ranma, we've lived together and been fiances now for a year-and-a-half. Maybe that's all over now, and I doubt we can ever go back to the way things were before -- but do you want to end what's between us, whatever that may be, like this, in anger?"
"Akane. . . ."
"You're right, of course, you need time away. To cool off. But you have to promise me, Ranma, that you'll come back. In a week's time. By Sunday, say."
"But-."
"If you come back, and still want to leave, I promise I won't stop you. Think about it, about what you're leaving behind. About what happened. Maybe you'll even understand why I'm hurting too."
"I don't think I'll ever understand you, Akane."
Did that secret smile flicker across her lips? "Probably not, Ranma."
"I have to go now."
"Do you promise to come back?"

Ranma Saotome awoke to the scent of wild sage wafting on the summer air and the early morning light shimmering through the canopy of leaves, with the echoes of a promise offered fading from his mind. The anger of yesterday -- was it only twenty-four hours ago that everything had gone so wrong? -- had largely dulled, but the possible ramifications of his actions were just beginning to emerge. Could he return to the Tendos' after leaving; could he return to Furinkan after lashing out; would either of them accept him back? The temptation to simply never find out, never return, was very real, yet the promise Akane had extracted from him (so easily, it seemed, why had he capitulated so quickly to her request?) seemed to exclude that possibility. The full implications of yesterday's conversation with her were yet beyond him: how had he hurt her, and if so badly, why did she want him to return; and why the unexpected tenderness at the end?
As he rose from his makeshift bed, he cast such thoughts from his mind. Now was the time to train, and to eat as well, he realized, his stomach grumbling loudly. Stretching to work the night's knots out from his back, he walked deeper into the forest, martial patterns and training techniques filling his thoughts. All other concerns he could address later -- in a week's time.

******

The mental shade of the night's dream (resplendent with intimations of red, pungent scents, hurt mewling) faded rapidly, giving way to the now-familiar worry tightening her stomach as Akane Tendo awoke. This time, however, that concern was quickly supplanted by a sense of relaxation not known for several months. Despite the risk to her morning schedule, and repeated calls by her eldest sister to wake up, Akane remained buried snugly beneath the bed sheets, basking in the suffusive peace that warmed her body. The faintest of smiles played across her lips. At last.
Eventually necessity drove her to full wakefulness, and she grudgingly swung her legs out of bed. A luxurious stretch and full yawn, then she threw the curtains wide and allowed the sunlight to beam in, setting her room aglow in amber softness. As she traded pyjamas for her school uniform, her mind wandered forward over the day's activities: breakfast, school -- one test, in English, but nothing to worry about -- and then drama club after classes. Following that. . . she was free, free to do whatever she liked, maybe visit a kissaten with a friend, take in a movie, or simply walk the length of a shopping arcade and take in the sights. It was with a smile that she made final adjustments to her uniform, picked up her bookbag, and strolled downstairs.
A still-sleepy Nabiki was the first to confront her, still blinking blearily through half-closed eyes. "Gee, aren't we happy this morning," she said, sounding grumpy in the face of such cheerfulness.
"Why shouldn't I be? It's a beautiful day."
"Guess you haven't heard."
Akane's smile took on a strained aspect. "What?"
"Seems that our houseguest took off yesterday, after his little display at school."
Akane took some pleasure in watching the slightly-malicious smirk on her sister's lips disappear as her own smile returned in full strength. "Oh, that -- I already knew."
"You-."
"I had a big talk with Ranma yesterday, told him he should take some time away, go on a training trip or something." Akane brushed by her older sister. "He'll be back in exactly one week."
"One week?"
"Yup. I made him promise."
Akane moved on toward the kitchen, exulting in her victory. Even her cynical sister had not been able to ruin the giddiness that still filled her.
"Yeah, after last weekend, we know how much that's worth," muttered Nabiki as she mounted the stairs, her words just loud enough to be overheard. "He's probably just trying to skip out on our deal, the cheat."
A less buoyant Akane determinedly entered the dining room, where she was immediately accosted by the household's two adults -- or, to be more accurate, the two eldest men on the premises -- or more accurate yet, one man and a panda.
"Oh, my poor daughter," wailed her father, "your fiance has disappeared!"
Where is that ungrateful son of mine, asked the panda in sign language.
"What will become of the dojo?"
Lazy brat, skipping out on practice!
"You must find him, Akane!"
He stole my backpack!
"He might be in trouble!"
Made a mess of my room, too.
"Saotome?"
Tendo?
"Why are you still a panda? Your wife left yesterday morning."
!, exclaimed the sign, before being tossed aside as the bear lumbered upstairs.
Gritting her teeth, Akane pointedly ignored the pair and sat at the table, at which point Kasumi emerged from the kitchen carrying breakfast.
"Good morning!" said the eldest sister, offering a smile that immediately helped to restore Akane's spirits.
"Morning, Kasumi! Mmmm, smells delicious, what is it?"
"Well, I thought Ranma might be feeling a little depressed after his mother's visit, so I cooked his favorite -- a bacon omelette, thin and light and made with duck's eggs, just the way he likes it -- but it would seem that he is not here this morning." The smallest of frowns creased her brow. She's probably upset that her little gift can't be properly received, Akane thought. Especially since I don't like pork -- the only reason that jerk likes this stupid breakfast is because he knows I don't, he just likes to taunt P-Chan with it. The grip on her chopsticks whitened her knuckles.
"Mrs. Saotome's visit must have been harder on him than usual," continued her sister.
"Hmmm, yes, he did remain 'Ranko' for quite some time," added her father.
"Although he plays the part very well."
"Yes. Slightly worrisome, that."
"Too bad there really isn't a Ranko. Wouldn't that be fun? Maybe we should make a copy of Ranma!"
"Ha ha ha! Very original, Kasumi!"
"Do you know where he is, Akane?"
"Yes, daughter, did he mention anything before leaving?"
She slowly counted to five before answering. "He's gone on a training trip," she said, making of each statement a declaration. "He'll be back in a week. He promised." None too delicately, she returned her plate, food hardly sampled, back to the table. "I have to go. I don't want to be late for school."
Without another word, she left the house.

"Hey, Akane! Sis, wait up!"
Akane stopped in her determinedly meandering walk to allow Nabiki to catch up. There really was no need to hurry, of course, since she had left home so early. Instead she had stopped at every distraction she could justify, wishing good-morning to passing junior-graders, and even pausing to talk to the old woman who washed the sidewalk every morning. Her name was Himiko, Akane had discovered, and had enquired about the whereabouts of the nice young man -- or was that young girl? -- that always walked with her. She wanted to apologize for accidentally splashing him -- or was that her? -- so often. The youngest Tendo's mood was steadily diminishing.
"You sure took off in a hurry this morning," said Nabiki, pausing between words to reclaim her breath.
"Yeah, I guess."
"You forgot your stuff."
"Damn!"
"Here, I brought it."
"Oh, thanks." She accepted the offered school bag and resumed walking, falling in next to her sister.
"Gee, don't act _too_ grateful, now."
"How much?"
"Aw, forget it, it's a freebie. Just this once."
"Really?"
"Yup."
"I don't suppose you brought lunch, too?"
"Nope."
"Guess I'll have to buy it at school."
"Some things never change, eh?"
"Excuse me?"
"C'mon sis, you were always forgetting stuff back in junior high, and either Kasumi or I had to chase after you with it. Your books, your bag. . . your uniform!"
"Hey, it wasn't my fault if I was late because of Dad's kempo lessons. . . you know, I kinda wish Furinkan served lunches the way junior high did, at least then I didn't have to worry about forgetting it."
"I don't. School lunches suck, and I didn't trust other kids handling my food. If I remember, you weren't even allowed to serve. . . something always happened between them preparing the food, and you scooping it out. How many kids were sick that one time?"
"Hey!" Akane gave her sister a mock shove, frown undermined by the twitching of her mouth. "Like you said, the food tasted terrible, I just wanted to liven it up a little."
"Ha!"
"Beside, it got me out of lunch duty. If I remember, you were even jealous."
"Only 'cus you stole the idea from me!"
Laughing, and relaxing into simple chatter, the two sisters continued on their way to school. Akane felt her earlier mood returning, and had to admit surprise that Nabiki would be the source of her happiness. But then again, why not? Her sister, despite the many rumors to the contrary, wasn't entirely the money-hungry heartless manipulative extortionist many made her out to be. Certainly, she was a little of all those at times, and sometimes she could be downright mean -- but she was also her sister, and they had shared many a close moment, often on this very path.
"When was the last time we walked to school together, Akane?"
"I was just wondering the same thing."
"We used to do this every day."
"Yeah."
"We used to talk about everything and anything."
"I kinda miss that."
"Won't happen again very often. Another month, and I'm done with this place."
Akane stopped in her tracks. "You -- that's right, entrance exams are coming up. I don't know how, but it never really occurred to me. . . you're graduating!"
"Yeah, imagine that."
"How could I have. . . ?"
"It's been a busy year for you. No big deal."
"Are you ready? Worried?"
"Honestly? Absolutely terrified."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Of falling asleep during the test. This stuff's a breeze. I could've passed those exams at the _beginning_ of this grade, let alone now. This last year of school would've been dreadfully boring without Ranma to spice it up a. . . oopsie, wrong thing to say, huh?"
"No, it's nothing," answered Akane through her grimace. "Please, go on."
"Akane, my dear sister, you are many things, but a master of subtlety you are not. It's Ranma, right?"
"It's. . . yes, it _is_ him, dammit! Can't I go for more than five minutes without hearing his stupid name? He's not even here! He's all anyone ever talks about!"
Nabiki nodded, then checked her watch. "Listen, sis, thanks to your storming off this morning, we're still way early. I heard Kasumi worrying about you -- you skipped breakfast, right? Let's stop at the Mister Donut, it's on me. I think we need to have a talk, sister to sister."

The sigh she released was fatalistic at best, and the gaze that peered into the inky depths of her coffee was utterly despondent. To be expected to attend school while in the midst of such sorrow, thought Hiromi, how could her parents be so unreasonable? Didn't her mother realize that, just last night, she and Kokichi had broken up. . . again? She felt like dying, the pain so real, the heartbreak so palpable, and it was with another deep sigh that she wiped an errant tear from her eye. Her coffee offered no advice, her doughnut little solace, and she wondered how anyone could expect her to survive this day, bereft and oh so alone, as she now was.
Of course, going to school today held a certain attraction, if only to see the fallout from yesterday's Ranma debacle. No one had expected him to freak out like that, and it reinforced her belief that the guy was both weird and dangerous. She wondered if Kokichi would've done the honorable thing, would have stepped forward in her defense had the martial artist turned on her, and sacrificed himself so that she might escape unharmed. Such heroism, so romantic and brave -- the stupid wimp would never do that. The bruises from his last encounter with Ranma were still fresh on his neck, after all.
"Welcome!" chimed the Mr. Donut girl behind the counter.
"Yeah. One coffee, and a -- what do you want, Akane? -- and a hot cocoa, and two honey glazed. Hey, don't worry, sis, I'll cover it, just don't expect me to make a habit of it."
"Thanks."
Hiromi broke out of her melancholic musings as the two Tendo sisters slid into the booth behind her. Interesting. Everyone had been wondering, yesterday after school, where Ranma had gone and if Akane had followed him, and the speculations about what happened ranged from the two enjoying a simple conversation, to the two making up and consummating their love in a frenzied coupling of amorous affection. Daisuke had offered his usual 'evil-prince-and-kidnaping' theory, but no one took that seriously anymore. Here was a chance for the inside scoop. She put aside her cooling coffee, hunkered down in the seat, and cast an attentive ear toward the conversation.
"So. Ranma," started Nabiki.
"Yeah." Akane's reply was only a step above a growl.
"A little bitter, are we?"
"No. Well, a little. Yes."
"He really pissed you off at the party, didn't he? Normally you get over his crap quicker than this."
"That's just it!" exclaimed the younger sister. "It's not that! Or at least, that's just a part of it, the latest, and, yes, biggest part of it, maybe, but still only a part. The fight we had, have been having over the last few days, it's not just because of a single weekend. It's been a year-and-a-half coming!"
"Well, duh, I could have told you that."
"What?"
"Hey, I've already given you my opinion of your dear ex-fiance. I told you he was 'wishy-washy, and careless, and insensitive, and stupid, and cheap,' and I maintain that truer words have yet to be spoken. You did the right thing dumping him at that time, and, really, it's no big loss if you ditch him now."
"Wow. You really do hate him."
"Hate him? Not at all. I actually kinda like the clod. Beneath the macho jock exterior, he's a pretty nice guy -- never tell him I said that, by the way -- but you can do _so_ much better, sis."
"Oh."
"Let's face it, since the day a panda arrived carrying a certain red- haired girl over its shoulder and stepped through our doorway, you and she haven't exactly gotten along."
"That's because he's been annoying me since he forced his way into our house!"
"Right. And you've fought, and fought, and the anger built up and finally boiled over, and eventually you'd break up with him and kill the engagement. I mean, how many time has it happened? Three, four? Mr. No- Backbone even ended up engaged to me at one point. Yet, here we are, a year-and-a-half since he arrived, and until two days ago, the two of you were still fiances."
"Family honor, Nabiki. You know that. I never had a choice."
"Obviously you did. Family honor or not, this time you don't seem so willing to go back to the way things were before."
"It's different this time. Ranma went too far."
"Ah, that's what I wanted to know. What he did do to make you so angry?"
"Come on, Nabiki, you've already heard it all at school. You know what happened."
"I learnt long ago not to trust second-hand witnesses, sis. I've heard a lot of different stories from a lot of different people: some is obvious bullshit, some has the truth buried in there somewhere. . . but none are the whole truth. Only two people can give me that, and wonder-boy isn't here right now."
There was a hesitant pause, in which Hiromi surreptitiously slurped down the last of her coffee, before Akane answered.
"Why are you so eager to help me, Nabiki?"
"You asked me for advice first, remember?"
"Actually, you offered."
"Semantics. Is it so hard to believe I'm expressing sisterly concern?"
"Yes."
"You wound me."
"More likely, you're just looking for the 'authoritative version' of last weekend to sell at lunch."
Nabiki's laugh rang clear across the donut shop. "Ha! You're learning, sis!"
Hiromi heard shuffling sounds, and risked a peek around the bench. The younger Tendo sister, face flushing with anger, was in the midst of standing and looked ready to leave.
"Thanks for the love, Nabiki," said Akane, turning away.
"Oh, sit down, and lose the wounded act. Would you rather have rumors flying around your head all week, or have the truth settle things down?"
"I don't need you for that, I can tell people myself!"
"Akane, Akane, my poor naive little sister, you think people are going to believe you? People aren't just talking about him anymore, you know, they're gossiping about you, too."
"What?"
Akane sat down quickly. Hiromi sat back into her seat. She hoped they hurried up, otherwise they would all be late for school!
"Well, gee, sis, you sure took off after your 'ex'-fiance pretty quick yesterday, especially considering how you completely ignored him otherwise. Gets people thinking, you know? What happened, they wonder, where are they off too? Did they just have a nice, pleasant conversation? Or something far more sordid?"
"We just talked! We just talked!"
How disappointing, thought Hiromi. She rather liked the sordid alternative.
"Oh, I know that, but they don't. And since you're involved in these rumors, no one is going to accept anything you say, especially when it's something as boring as the truth."
"But they'll believe you?"
"But of course! I'm Nabiki Tendo, the ever-reliable, objective source of information: my morals lie with the flow of hard currency, never with anything as fallible and intangible as shifting schoolyard allegiances and popularity contests. People know I speak the truth, even when it concerns my own family -- I charge triple when it's family."
"You're sick, you know that?"
"I've said it before and I'll say it again: 'I'm a slave to money'. So how about giving me the exclusive interview? What _really_ went down at Kiyoshi's party? What really happened yesterday afternoon between you and everybody's ex-favorite Casanova?"
Another lengthy pause. Hiromi checked her watch again.
"We'll be late if I start at the beginning."
"I'm stricken by sadness at his departure. How can I be expected to attend school in such a state?"
"But I feel fine!"
"Believe me, sis, you're stricken too."
"Oh."
"So," said Nabiki. "Shall we begin?"

Only after several donuts, coffees, and hot chocolates did the full story emerge, and only after a number of piercing questions was Nabiki satisfied with Akane's retelling; at which point the younger sibling left for school, while the elder remained to 'put her notes in order,' as she put it, and settle the bill.
Smiling slightly, Nabiki ran through her mental chronology of the weekend's party, filling in the gaps that Akane's version made clear, adjusting for her sister's anger-skewed perspective, noting curious holes she left uncovered, wiping away information now made redundant or otherwise proven fraudulent. In a way, it was more fun than actually attending the event. This way, she could sift through the entirety of the evening, partake in any of myriad interlaced plots, examine the tight weave of high school dynamics and enjoy any particular thread at her leisure. Oh, certainly, actually being there was fun as well, and last year's party was a night she would remember fondly forever -- but one got so involved, so caught up with one's own affairs and immediate situation, that it was easy to lose sight of the big picture.
Nabiki loved the big picture.
Vertices, nodes, ties, lines, threads, connections: how much of Furinkan was contained within her mental construction of that single night? Connections reached out, ensnared other schools -- Tomoboki, Furunerima, St. Hebereke -- split, spread, intertwined, looped back: how much of the teen population of Nerima could she now trace: could she place a finger lightly against their collective pulse and know their story?
An anthology, really, though an incomplete one; for even her knowledge of it, Nabiki grudgingly admitted, was far from total. Nor would it ever be even remotely comprehensive, the beginning reaching too far back, too many causes for each event, the ending yet to be written and always so very far away. Yet at times even an approximation would do, and Nabiki could still enjoy so many individual aspects of the whole, knowing each was a potential source of both knowledge and currency. At times, the two were virtually interchangeable. She felt something akin to grief, knowing she would be leaving all this behind when she left for college.
For now, as she drank the last of her caffeine breakfast, she contemplated the narratives of the players foremost in her interest: Hiroshi, Hiroshi and Sayuri, Sayuri and her girlfriends; those friends and the guys, the guys and Hiroshi, Hiroshi and Daisuke, Daisuke and Ryuta Uehara; Uehara and Ranma. . . .
Ranma Saotome and Akane Tendo: throughout everyone else's interwoven threads pierced a string that belonged to those two only. Certainly, the tapestry could exist without, and had done so for many years before the intrusion of that new element: but the jagged, disruptive addition of that single foreign detail was the artist's masterstroke that threw the entire work into perspective and rescued it from unforgivable blandness. Remove that stroke and the rest, though still strong and durable and of noteworthy complexity, might as well be tossed aside.
With Ranma gone, Furinkan would once again become average and dull, of that Nabiki was certain. How long before Nerima followed, all the Amazons, magics, chefs, princes, demons, warriors, and lunatics fading back to their manic fringes and frayed corners? Her sister's ex-fiance might be an idiot, but he was fun, and his 'secret-techniques' were a hoot.
She'd miss them; she'd miss him. Nabiki doubted strongly that, even with his promise, Ranma would ever return -- or if he did, that he would remain long. There was no longer any reason to stay. Akane, the only real tie he had to the city, would never allow things to return to their previous state, of that Nabiki was sure. If she understood the situation properly, her little sister had proven capable of surprisingly complex feelings and motivations, even if not consciously fully realized: old emotions had been superseded by newer freedoms and subtler impulses, and perhaps even a little growing up had been achieved in the last few days. Depending on the decisions Akane made in the next few days, there could possibly no longer be room for the pigtailed boy upon his return. This made the final insistence on Ranma's return ring false: why bother? A final grasping onto the way things had been?
Ultimately pointless, of course. Ranma, she suspected, had done his fair share of growing up in the last few days as well. The boy who had defied an entire school and torn the door off her locker was not one who would forgive or forget easily -- who would submit, for instance, to embarrassing lingerie photo shoots at the slightest threat, anymore. Unfortunate, really, she'd miss that income and those sessions. The guy was too nice for his own good, and it was time he learnt that. In his place, she would have told everyone (including herself) off long ago. . . and extorted them all into poverty soon after.
On the matter of extortion. . . .
"Hey, Hiromi, how's it going back there? Little late for class?"
Short pause.
"Na- Nabiki?"
"Let me guess, in mourning for Kokichi, right?"
"Ah. . . ."
"Let's talk. There's a few things I'd like to teach you, such as 'exclusive storytelling rights,' 'copyright infringement,' and 'eavesdropping fees.' C'mon over, I'll buy you a coffee. Let's make that a decaf, you look a little jumpy."

The fervor that underscored lunch that day at Furinkan high excluded Hiroshi. Sitting on the sidelines, he wanted nothing to do with it, and the attitude prevalent among his friends and peers left him feeling sick. He left himself feeling sick. A victim of his own cowardice and lack of conviction, he wished to somehow go back one single day and do things over again. Perhaps it would have made a difference.
He's not coming back.
Akane came today, but Ranma never showed up.
Why should he?
There are no friends for him here, he told himself. You proved that all too well yesterday. Even if it had not made a difference, at least it would have shown Ranma that not everybody believed the crap going around about him. But you stayed silent, and why? Because you didn't want to stick out; didn't want to risk insulting your girlfriend; didn't want to associate yourself with a loser. Didn't, didn't, didn't. . . you didn't do the right thing, and the only loser here is yourself.
"Yo, 'Roshi, are you, like, in there somewhere?"
Startled from his musings, he looked up to see Daisuke sitting down next to him. "Sorry. Just thinking."
"Gee, really? Hadn't noticed, what with you ignoring me calling you across the field for the last five minutes."
"Oh." Hiroshi offered up a sheepish, apologetic grin.
"No prob, bud. Let me guess, Ranma, right?"
"Mostly."
"Yeah, I wonder where she's at?"
The look the black-haired boy received was nearly disbelieving. "Where's she at? Don't you get it, Dai? He's not coming back!"
"Of course she is. Why wouldn't she?"
"Why wouldn't -- c'mon, man, the way people treated him, why _would_ he come back?"
"Well, duh, 'cuz she's still just a student, like the rest of us. She's gotta finish school, right? She's needs a home, doesn't she? And, last but definitely not least, there's Akane. . . ."
"And Akane wants nothing to do with him. Ranma doesn't need a school or a home, Dai, that's one thing I figured out this weekend. If there's anything he needs, maybe, it's friends -- and there's none of those here, so why come back?"
"Hey! We're her friends!"
"Yeah, sure. Great friends."
Silence settled between them as they began to eat, onigiri systematically falling before lunchtime cravings. He watched his peers as they played games during the brief free time between lunch and cleaning period. Games, baseball, volleyball, soccer, stupid meaningless ignorant games, as if nothing had happened, as if they weren't responsible -- as if they _all_ weren't responsible for possibly destroying a man the day before. Nothing had happened.
I did nothing, he whispered to himself. But what could I do?
"Yen for your thoughts, buddy."
"One yen? One crummy yen? Yeah, I guess you're right, that's about all I'm worth right now."
"Ouch."
"Sorry. Still pissed off about the whole Ranma thing."
"Take it easy on yourself, man. There's nothing you could've done."
"That's not true, and you know it."
"Fine. Nothing that would've made a difference."
"To him. To myself, maybe."
"She wouldn't have noticed. And you'd still be depressed."
"Shut up!"
"With good reason. I'm going to miss her."
"You're just going to miss her body, you perv!"
"Heh! So says pervert number two."
"Whatever."
Hiroshi put his lunch aside and leaned back in the grass. What would happen, now that Ranma was gone? He supposed life at Furinkan would return to normal. . . would he? Somehow, he felt he had touched upon something special, scratched the surface of an entirely different world. No. Not a different world, but simply a divergent way of living and perceiving it. There were alternatives, he now suspected, to the expected routines: school, college, salaryman, death was one possibility; dropping out and pointless rebellion another; but then Ranma seemed set on a different path, defined by his own passions, desires, and uncaring of whether others had trod the road before him -- his steps making the way fresh anew.
That was Ranma, but he was only Hiroshi, whose life had until only recently been bereft of martial arts, duels to the death, ancient artifacts, and powerful rivals. How could he expect to live up to that standard? Confined within the realities of his own life, the room to maneuver, defy boundaries -- to be the central player, instead of the comic relief, simply did not exist. Likely, he would always fall within the limits of the expected, the normal, the dull.
"Looks like something's interesting happening over there. Nabiki promised an update on the Ranma situation, bet that's probably it. Better rush over and get myself a copy before they sell out," intruded Daisuke. The dark-haired youth, staring off towards the central schoolyard, began to stand.
"I think I'm going to dump Sayuri."
"What!"
"I think we're through."
"Shit -- that's unexpected."
Hiroshi smiled.
"You're giving up a lot."
"Not as much as you think."
"Bullshit. Where to start? Well, first, there's the obvious: her breasts, followed closely by her ass."
"Hey!"
"Then there's the popularity factor: we're losers, 'Roshi, and you hooking up with her has lifted you into a whole new echelon of chicks, man. Dude, I urge you to reconsider, I've hooked my wagon to your star. . . I don't wanna be a loser again!"
"Get a grip."
"Did I mention her breasts?"
"That's my girlfriend you're talking about there!"
"What about the sex?"
"What sex?" exclaimed Hiroshi. "You know we haven't. . . ."
"Yeah, but you're getting there, I saw you at the party."
"You didn't see anything," he insisted, yet blushed.
"You don't know what you're missing."
"And you do?"
"Ah. . . ."
"Anyway, she's been pissing me off with this whole anti-Ranma crusade. I don't get it, but I don't think I can just ignore it. He's a friend, right? Didn't we once swear we'd never let a girl get between our friendship?"
Daisuke laughed. "We were both single losers! It was an easy promise to make. You know damn well we were both ready to stab each other in the back, first sign of an interested chick."
"But-."
"You just got a girlfriend first, you lucky bastard!"
"That's not. . . okay, you're right, you've got me pegged." Hiroshi chuckled. "But things have changed. Having a girl isn't everything."
"Sure. Very convincing. You've tasted the manna, man, you think you can go back to living on bread and water? You can't do it. I'm even willing to bet on it. By the end of this week, you'll still be blissfully dating Sayuri, whether you want to or not. You don't have the balls to break off with her!"
"Do so! I'll be single by Friday!"
"Shake on it?"
"Deal!"
"Deal!"
A moment later, Hiroshi felt profoundly stupid, wondering how he could've bet on something so infantile. How shallow could one get? It tainted the profundity of the moment in which he had first made the decision to break up with her -- a moment in which, if only briefly, he had felt the first phantom step on a unique path . He was spared further introspection, however, by an unexpected intrusion.
"Well well, who do we have here?"
The voice, coming as it did from behind and close, with no signs of approach having been given, both surprised them and filled them with instant dread. Turning as one, they saw Ryuta Uehara emerge from the bush behind them, tall as ever, perpetual dangerous glint to his dark eye, grinning wickedly. Aside for two small bandages forming an 'x' centered on his forehead, he seemed otherwise none the worse for wear. Somehow, on him, the Furinkan boy's uniform seem designed for brawling, edges frayed and seams stretched. Whereas the jacket made most boys seem either formal or stifled, it simply looked cool stretched too-taut across his chest, cuffs rolled back and flared, collar flipped up but front unbuttoned beyond school policy. Raking calloused fingers through lanky blond hair, the Furinkan youth took a step -- Hiroshi could only interpret it as threatening -- towards the pair. The pop of cracking knuckles sounded ominously in the air
"Hi and Dai, right? How. . . nice, to see you two again."
Hiroshi backpedaled away before scrambling to his feet, trying to maintain a safe distance from the bully. "Um, er, listen," he offered.
"Yeah, heh, ah," suppled Daisuke.
"So, where's your protector, huh? Where's that pervo freak-bag Saotome? Him and I hafta have words."
"You, ah, haven't heard?" Did I just say that, wondered Hiroshi.
Ryuta turned towards the source. "I just got here. Heard what?"
"He's, ah, that is, Ranma's not here. Ummm, I don't think he's ever coming back."
Unexpectedly, Ryuta looked disappointed. "What? Why the hell not?"
"Weren't you here yesterday?"
"No."
"Oh, ah. . . ."
"You got a problem with that?"
"No no!"
"What happened?"
Hiroshi's account of yesterday's taunting, once the nervous tics, swallows, and pauses were removed, was by necessity remarkably brief. Ryuta's reaction, again, was unexpected: he laughed.
"Ha! I told him, didn't I?" he said. "Didn't I tell him?"
"Umm, er-."
"Oh, relax, I'm not gonna beat you up. Hell, I'll even apologize if it'll make you feel better. I was drunk at the party, 'kay? Alcohol makes me kinda nuts, you know? I do all kinda crap I regret later, or can't even remember. I didn't mean half that shit I said."
"Ah. Oh."
"Hey, I said relax! Do I hafta pound you to get the point across?"
Hiroshi took a deep breath.
"Well, this sucks. Got a tough fight comin' up this aft', was kinda hoping Saotome might show me that kung-fuey shit he flattened me with." He shrugged. "Ah well, guess I'll rely on the old 'boot to da head,' huh? See ya around, chumps."
They watched the larger boy leave.
"Man, I'm sure glad he didn't kill us," said Daisuke.
His friend whole-heartedly agreed.

The day had gone surprisingly well.
Akane acknowledged this as she made her way toward the drama club. Having expected unending questions, she had been mostly left to herself; anticipating rumors and whispers, they had all been quickly laid to rest by Nabiki's lunchtime sales. A few unavoidable problems had arisen to be dealt with -- a visit to the vice-principal's office, to explain her tardiness and Ranma's absence; a make-up test for the one she had missed; Tatewaki Kuno -- but for the most part, life had seemed nearly. . . normal.
Quiet, even.
It perturbed her, to a certain degree, that so few people had talked with her this day. With Ukyou absent, she had eaten lunch alone; between classes she only received the most cursory of greetings and farewells; and everywhere, a veneer of artificial politeness from her peers seemed to confront her. She could only assume that things had moved too quickly for people to immediately adjust, and that, for now, she existed in a sort of limbo state. The social dynamics should readjust themselves soon, she hoped, and perhaps once people accepted her again as 'Akane Tendo, second grade, single, youngest-sister, likes martial arts,' as opposed to 'Ranma Saotome's fiancee,' perhaps life would return to the way it had been nearly two full years ago.
Turning the corner to the drama classroom, she came across Sayuri and Hiromi sitting by the door, talking. The latter started at her arrival, but the former merely offered a large, welcoming smile, smoothing back her brown ponytail as she stood from the single chair by the door.
"Akane!"
Akane smiled in return. "Sayuri. Hiromi. What's going on?"
"Nothing much. Hiromi was just leaving, right?"
"Er, yeah," said the girl, scrambling to her feet. "Hafta get home. Call Kokichi. Later!"
The girl scampered off, a rather bemused Akane watching her retreat.
"Shouldn't she stay for drama?"
"Guess you haven't heard," said Sayuri. "It's been cancelled for today."
"Really?"
"Well, we are sort of short a leading guy, now. They're holding an emergency male audition."
It had become such a commonplace occurrence for Ranma to worm his way into any male role opposite Akane (despite the fact that, strictly speaking, he wasn't even a part of the club), on the off-chance that the play involved a kiss, that it had never even occurred to her that his departure would rob the club of its masculine lead. Not that he ever kissed her, of course, but no one else would, either, and even understudies were scared away by his implied threats. Despite the failure of the club to successfully perform a romance play as scripted in the past two years, they nevertheless always accepted Ranma's unofficial involvement: he drew a great crowd, staged excellent fight-scenes, the real-life tension between him and Akane made for great on-stage drama, and in a pinch he could easily be substituted into any minor female role as needed.
"Hey Akane, why don't we go check out a movie instead?"
The idea appealed to her. When was the last time she had seen a movie without it being somehow disrupted or ruined by her ex-fiance?
"There's that new horror film," suggested Sayuri.
Akane shook her head. "I'm not too big on horror. I've seen enough real ghosts and goblins to last me a lifetime."
"What about a romance?"
"You're kidding, right?"
"Well, what then?"
"I dunno. How about some action?"
Sayuri sighed. "Let me guess, martial arts."
The movie, however, had several hours to go before beginning, and so they stopped by Sayuri's house to pass the time. Though not as large as the Tendo household, it was nevertheless quite spacious, and sacrificed both yard and dojo for extra living room. Nor was it as sparsely decorated, exhibiting an expensive if somewhat Western taste. Her friend's father, Akane remembered, was quite the successful businessman, often busy and away but very generous with the money. Climbing the sharply polished stairs that led to Sayuri's bedroom, Akane saw none of the scuffs and scars and patches that a century-long history of combat had left upon her own house.
"It seems like forever since you've been here, Akane."
"A long time."
"It's too bad, really. You've missed out on a lot of good times: some great sleep overs, get-togethers, and parties."
"I know."
"But not anymore, right?"
"I. . . guess not."
"Of course not! Why would you? Now that _he's_ gone, you can start doing normal things again."
Akane sighed. "He is coming back, you know."
"So? You're through with him, right?" Stopping, Sayuri turned to her friend and fixed her with the most serious of stares. "You _are_ through with him? You're not thinking of engaging yourself to him again, are you?" The horror expressed in her voice made it clear what she thought of that idea.
"Of course not!"
"Then you're free of him."
"There's still the family engagement. If he still feels responsible, he might end up married to one of my sisters."
"Then I pity your sisters, but better them than you." Grabbing her by the hand, Sayuri led Akane into her bedroom. "C'mon, let's get changed for the movie. I've got some great new clothes, and I bet they'd look great on you, too!"
Soon after, Akane found herself kneeling in her friend's spacious bedroom, piles of clothing growing before her and awaiting inspection. Akane knew a thing or two about clothes; she had quite the sizable wardrobe herself; but for a moment, she felt overwhelmed by the flurry of fabrics, colors, and styles. She didn't know where to begin.
"Hey, Akane, snap out of it!" Her friend knelt next to her, a tie- dyed minidress draped over one arm. "You okay?"
"Yes. Yes, I'm fine." She fingered the dress. "Umm, I don't think so. A little too daring for me."
"Ha! If you don't take a few risks, you'll never attract the guys."
Akane scowled. "The _last_ thing I'm interested in right now is a boyfriend."
"Yeah, I guess so. Must be tough coming out of a year-and-a-half relationship."
"Rela. . . he was _not_ my boyfriend!"
"But you two were together for so long."
"We were engaged by our parents -- it wasn't by choice!"
"But wasn't it just so romantic?"
"Romantic -- that twit wouldn't know romance if it kicked him in the head!"
"Right!"
"Yeah!"
"Feel better?" Sayuri was all smiles.
"I. . . hey!"
"And the point of all that," elaborated the brown-haired girl, "was to get you to stop moping. Tonight, you're going to forget the last few days ever happened. You're free of that jerk, Akane, it's time to reenter the real world."
For a short while, at least, Akane almost felt like she could forget the last few days and pretend to be a normal teenage girl spending time with a friend. She tried on many outfits. Talked and laughed. Looked in the mirror. Killed time.
The moment could not last.
How weak she seems, she found herself thinking at one point, as Sayuri slipped out of a tight, long-sleeved top. Her arms are so thin, look how her collarbone stands out, does she even have any muscle-tone? Look at her pull that box down from the closet, she's struggling with the weight. I've picked up _boulders_ three times the size without straining. Look at those boots she's wearing. The platform must be at least ten centimeters, she can hardly walk in them. What if she got into a fight? Then she thought, what's wrong with me, who cares how strong she is, why should she get into a fight, what does it matter? A year ago I never noticed these kind of things.
A year ago, however, she had not seen the massive and wonderful animals of Ryugenzawa, padding lithely through the deep forest, nor the eight-headed Orochi of legend rising from its watery depths. She had never heard of the Musk dynasty and its fearsome dragon-blooded heritage. The Hiryu Shoten-Ha and its awesome destructive power had still been a secret, unseen, unfelt. Now? She had witnessed and lived them all, and the memory of those events contributed a disjointedness and surreality to her current activities. Sitting in another girl's room, trying on clothes in preparation to walk a mall, chattering on about everything, anything. . . nothing, really -- it all seemed somehow insignificant compared to the experiences Ranma had shown her.
That's not fair, she told herself angrily. This is what I am, too: an ordinary teenaged girl. Wide brown eyes, short black hair, small nose; average height, maybe a little on the muscular side, but nothing unusual; black skirt, oversized socks, blue mini-T with a corporate white swish centered over the swell of normal-sized breasts: in what way did this reflected image deny that she was in any way different from millions of other Japanese girls? How many stood just as she did at this very moment, before a mirror in contemplation?
How many wished to be anything _but_ normal?
I should go home, she thought.
"It must have hurt," intruded a voice.
Akane started from her unseeing contemplation of the mirror to find herself lightly rubbing the wrist of her right hand.
"Is that what you were thinking of?" asked Sayuri.
Akane forced a small laugh. "What, my wrist? No, no, it's okay. Ranma didn't really hurt me. I'm tougher than that."
"That's not what I meant."
"Oh?"
"The betrayal," said Sayuri, and took the wrist gently in her hands. "For so long, he was always there, always protecting you. Of all the boys you knew, he was the only one who would never, ever, hurt you. No matter what happened."
"Yes," Akane whispered.
"Then in one moment, he became the same as all the rest. He hurt you, or threatened to, and all his promises and declarations suddenly meant nothing."
She could only nod.
"The one and only boy you had ever felt safe or comfortable with, the only one with whom you let your guard down, actually allowed yourself to trust -- and he betrayed you. He betrayed your trust and confidence, and that, more than anything else, more than his grip or pressure on your wrist, hurt, didn't it, Akane?"
Everything she said was true. Akane knew this. She had all but admitted so to herself in the days immediately following the night where everything had gone so wrong. At first her terrible pain at Ranma's attack -- and it had been a pain, a most palpable and physical one, though originating in neither muscle nor bone -- had both confused and frightened her. Only through bitter contemplation had the source of her misery come clear. She had even explained as much to Nabiki this morning.
One truth, however, she had continuously shied away from; only now, forced by Sayuri's empathic explanation to fuller comprehension, could she consciously understand the full extent of her loss. With the old Furinkan crowd trying to date her through violence; through repeated examples from Kuno; even perceived failures on the part of her father, especially following the death of her mother: her conception of boys had been consistently negatively reinforced, and she had decided very early that she wanted nothing to do with them. Then Ranma Saotome had appeared, and he was one boy -- even if occasionally a girl -- who resisted any attempt at being ignored. Even her kempo talents failed as a defense, his undeniably superior skills driving home since the first day that her training would avail her nothing should he decide to attack -- yet the possibility of violence originating in him had always seemed so very remote. Quite the opposite: how often had he gone to ridiculous lengths to protect her, or had taken a blow, no matter how savage or possibly crippling, on her behalf?
Through him, as strange as it seemed, the opposite sex began to be redeemed in her eyes. More importantly, though, with him, Akane found someone in which to trust. There were the little betrayals, of course -- the times spent with other women, the insults -- but always she believed that, no matter what, he could never turn on her. She felt, if not love for him, then at least security with him; that faith had been a long time developing and most grudgingly given; and then the whole thing had been ripped and torn away in a moment of carelessness lasting less than a second. What had she lost in that moment? The betrayal had come from him, but they had both created the circumstances leading up to it. Some of the blame, she now knew, lay with herself. She had seen his vulnerability and ruthlessly attacked it. . . but I was so sure, she cried, so very sure nothing could push him that far. Push him away. He betrayed; I betrayed myself. Did my own faith in him frighten me?
A pain previously only understood empathically could now no longer be denied.
"Akane?"
"Sayuri. . . ." She turned to her friend, deep grief etching her face, a thickness rising through her chest and threatening to tear her apart. "Oh Sayuri, why?"
She collapsed into her friend's embrace, the first sob ripping free.
"Shhh, Akane. It's okay."
How long did she cry, lost in her friend's arms -- long enough for the hurt to ease, it felt, though both her realization and acceptance remained raw in her mind. Finally, though, her throat unclenched enough for words, pained and gasping though they were.
"Why did he. . . ?"
"He's a jerk, that's why."
"No- no. He. . . we did it. . . why did I?"
Sayuri pulled away with a sudden jerk, her face contorting with vicious anger. "What. . . you're not supposed to. . . Akane, Akane, this isn't your fault, you didn't do anything wrong, this is all his fault, Ranma's fault, he's the bastard who betrayed _you_, not the other way around!"
"No, no, I led him; I said. . . ."
"It doesn't _matter_ what you said! He _attacked_ you!"
"But-."
"Dammit, Akane, there's no room for 'but' here."
"I, we set it. . . I made him. . . ."
"What, hurt you? It's your fault?"
Akane swallowed, stifled a sob. Took a deep breath. "Yes."
"I can't believe I'm hearing this crap."
"What?"
"It'd almost be funny if it wasn't really happening; it's like watching a bad after-school drama, or reading it out of a textbook. You're turning him into the victim. Oh, poor Ranma, it wasn't _his_ fault he hurt you, was it? You made him do it!"
Akane fell back a step before her friend's sudden fury.
"You throw out a couple of words, and suddenly he's free to do what he likes? Is that it, Akane? What did he call you, ugly, violent, a bitch? He hurt you. He strangled Hiromi's boyfriend. He punched in Kiyoshi's wall. Nearly crippled Uehara. Yesterday he threatened the entire girls' class, wrecked school property, tore your sister's locker apart. Yeah, Akane, it's all your fault. He's the victim here." She spat out the next three words: "Poor. Fucking. Ranma."
But Ranma only knows how to defend himself physically, thought Akane, suddenly finding herself protecting her ex-fiance. Were our attacks any less violent, less brutal, for being merely verbal and social? Three days ago Ranma put a hole in somebody's wall; yesterday, we all punched a hole in someone's soul.
"The guy is dangerous. How much more violent has life become around Nerima since he showed up? How many fights a week does he get into? I'd say castrate him to keep his temper in check, but the curse just proves he's beyond help."
"Sayuri. . . ."
"Instead of a violent asshole, she's an aggressive bitch!"
"Sayruri, please. . . let's not talk about Ranma anymore."
"But-."
"I thought you wanted me to forget the last few days. Tonight, I just want to be an ordinary girl out to see a movie. I don't want to think about engagements, or cursed fiances, or violence. I just want to walk through a mall, watch a movie, and eat some popcorn."
"I-."
"Please?"
"I. . . ." Sayuri visibly restrained herself before releasing a giant breath. "I'm sorry. I guess he brings out the worst in me. This isn't over, Akane. What happened wasn't your fault. But for tonight -- I'll let it drop." A smile slowly eased itself onto her face.
"Thanks." Akane twirled before her friend. "How do I look?"
"Good!"
"I do? Thanks." She looked herself over in the mirror once again: the girl who looked back now struck her as anything but normal. . . but she could pretend, for now at least, and at times that was better than the real thing. "Let's go."

She came in late that night, and having appeased the worries of both her father and eldest sister, Akane retired to her room feeling calmer and more at ease than she had in a very long time. Having met up with a number of friends at the shopping arcade, the general consensus had been to skip the movie in favor of hanging out at the local park. Among these girls gathered under a slowly darkening sky, unified in their guilty pleasure at ignoring semester-end schoolwork and determined to simply loiter and enjoy time together, the problems of yesterday, the last weekend, month, year, seemed impossibly distant. Of what concern were arranged marriages and martial artists when sprawled across a wooden bench by a stone fountain, talking reflexively with a girlfriend; why worry about someone's return while collectively laughing at some strutting foolish boy who can not understand that his targets were no longer laughing _with_ him?
For a time, entire hours, the stress of a year was forgotten. For a time, Akane felt that her life was her own once more. For a time, the future not only seemed limitless, but immaterial: bound in the pleasure of the present, the possibilities of tomorrow became irrelevant. Now, undressing for bed, carefully laying Sayuri's clothes aside -- she would have to remember to return them, perhaps Kasumi could even clean them first -- the heady glow with which she had started today still buoyed her, and it was the first day she could recollect in quite some time in which she had both awakened and returned to bed feeling content.
Final toiletries finished, lights off and snugly lying beneath freshly cleaned sheets, she looked back over the day. A full day without Ranma, Akane thought. Not the first, of course: many times his father and he had left on training voyages alone, or Ranma had left on some quest or another without her. Always in those situations, however, was the unconscious assumption that, sooner or later, he would return, and life would resume as before. Not this time, for even if he returned -- even with his promise, that was in no way guaranteed -- there was even less chance that he would remain.
Did she even want him to come back?
There was the matter of responsibility, and she felt her stomach tighten at the reminder. Whatever I think about him, she reminded herself, Ranma's been hurt. Maybe badly, and I'm partly to blame. Until that is resolved, I have to at least watch out for him.
Yet the temptation remained to simply never allow any aspect of that life to return, to block him out utterly, for she understood the tenacious and insidious capacity her ex-fiance had for unconsciously insinuating himself into the lives of others. Had he not been here for nearly a full year and a half, despite early and incessant protests by both of them that neither was interested in marriage? Only now he left, yet tendrils of his presence still enwrapped much of Nerima. As long as his absence was felt in the city, could she ever forget him?
Do I ever want to?, she suddenly thought, and blushed: a sudden cascade of snippet memories (near kisses, a fleeting touch of hands, defiant protective cries) overwhelmed her, and for the first time of the day she felt momentarily exhausted.
She suddenly yearned for the presence of P-Chan, and wondered where her little pet pig had been for so long. She felt the need to talk to someone, the need to confide in someone. Ideas needed to be put into words; held within her mind they betrayed themselves, were easily disrupted by errant recollections or swayed by random feelings. I need somebody to understand how and why I feel, she thought, and if the only one I can trust is a pig. . . well, maybe that says more about my problems than anything I possibly could. There was nobody else she could trust: not her sisters (one too mercenary, the other too traditional), not her father and certainly not Genma; Ranma's friends and rivals were biased, even Ryoga; her friends had been too distant too long to be confidants. Even Sayuri, though Akane hoped that in time, maybe soon, that friendship would return to what it had once been. It would be good to have a best friend once again.
A diary would have been a nice alternative, but she learnt at a young age that with sisters like hers, such things were fundamentally unsafe -- one would read it for profit, the other out of genuine concern. Add a Ranma to the mix, and she might as well yell out her innermost feelings to the world. That left her with a pig, a very compassionate and empathetic one, perhaps, but a pig nonetheless: and he wasn't even here, anyway.
Dammit, I can't sleep, she thought. Akane turned over in her bed, grappled with her pillow. She simply wasn't tired. Sleep would blanket this pointless meandering of her thoughts and lay her concerns to rest (at least for another night,) but deep rest eluded her. Why, especially after such an ordinary day?
She thought about getting up and taking a walk. Eating a snack. Working out in the dojo. Starting a diary and hiding it better. Watching late night television. Reading manga. Listening softly to some music. Doing some homework. She remained in bed and didn't sleep, mind one step ahead of body.
Tap.
The sudden sound, light as it was, electrified her and banished extraneous ideas other than those related to immediate physicality. School, friends, trust, ideas burned away like mist before the sudden beating of her heart, rush of blood, tensing of muscles: all within a moment in which she neither blinked nor twitched but achieved a sudden awareness of her room. There -- again! Akane risked a glimpse through one eye: boyish silhouette outside her window, dim light of partial moon casting his pale argent shadow against one wall.
Ranma?
No. Not-Ranma, but an consequence of him nonetheless. Ukyou.
Akane sighed. Sat up in her bed, letting the covers fall away. Clicked on her nightlight, dispelling the spatula-carrying shade in her room, gestured for the one outside her window to enter.
"Do you have any idea what time it is?" Akane checked for herself. It was near midnight.
The okonomiyaki chef lifted the window open and slid quietly into the room. Dressed in her traditional black combat tights, bandoleer across her chest and fully loaded, spatula strapped to her back, and bearing the most serious countenance, Ukyou fixed Akane with a piercing gaze. "Where is he, sugar," she said, her voice making it quite clear it wasn't a question, but a demand. "I want to keep this civil, so just tell me and I'll be on my way."
"Hey, this is my house! Don't try and threaten me."
"And this is my fiance. What've you done with him?"
Akane shrugged. "Nothing. He's taken off."
Her rival's eyes narrowed. "Where?"
Akane knew she wouldn't believe her, and took some pleasure out of it. She wasn't tired yet anyway. "I really don't know."
"You're not making this easy. . . ."
"Don't you have a restaurant to run? Shouldn't you get some sleep?"
"Everyone saw you run after him yesterday. I've heard the story your sister spread around. I want the truth. Where is he, Akane?"
"You want the truth?"
"Yes!"
"You can't ha-." Akane took a deep breath. "The truth is, I really don't know."
"Listen. . . ."
"He's left on a training voyage. Mostly to cool down, though. If it'll make you feel better, he'll probably be back in a week."
Ukyou eyed her suspiciously, but visibly relaxed after a moment. She passed a hand wearily across her eyes. "You mind if I sit down a moment, Akane?" she asked, gesturing toward a chair. Akane shrugged. "Thanks. I'm going to feel this tomorrow. The morning rush is going to be hell."
"You'll understand if I'm not very sympathetic."
The chef stripped off her giant spatula and carefully placed it aside before sitting. "Hey, I have a vested interest in wherever Ranma-honey goes and whatever he does. It's been busy at work so I've only been getting the info second hand, and a lot's been happening in the last few days."
"So you come here looking for a fight at midnight?"
Ukyou smirked. "Hey, a girl's always gotta be prepared, right sugar?"
A slight smile grudgingly escaped as Akane relaxed. "Sure."
"So you really don't know where he is?"
"Nope."
"Is it true?"
"What?"
"That you two are splitsville?"
Akane didn't quite like the way her rival -- no, ex-rival, she realized -- put it, but shrugged. "I guess so."
"So you don't care if I take off and hunt him down?"
"It's your life."
Good luck finding him, Akane thought.
"What about comforting him in his time of need?"
"Feel free."
That would be an interesting scene to see.
"I will find him, you know."
"Go right ahead."
The last thing Ranma would want right now is a fiancee with him.
The girl sat back in her chair, gazing contemplatively over interlaced fingers at her. Akane waited patiently. How long before she clues in, she wondered. She was surprised how little the situation angered her -- surprised that it did not anger her in the least -- in fact, she was rather enjoying playing out the little scenario. For the first time, her own words rang true even to herself. She really did not care. A slight frown creased her brow. No, that wasn't quite right.
"You really mean it this time, don't you?" said Ukyou.
"Didn't I say so?"
"It's not exactly the first time you two have broken up, you know."
"It's different this time."
"No shit, sugar. But why? What did you do to him?"
"Me?" Akane felt a twinge of anger -- an all too familiar companion when dealing with the likes of her former rivals -- returning. "Sure, blame me."
"Wouldn't be the first time you hit him without provocation."
"You're not guilty of the same?"
"Hey, I only hit Ranma when he deserves it."
"Right."
Ukyou grinned sheepishly. "Well, okay, maybe sometimes I get carried away."
"Exactly. And that's what happened this time. I got carried away -- we both got carried away. We both said stuff we didn't really mean -- or maybe stuff we've always wanted to say finally came out, but never should have. Either way, none of it can be taken back, and some of it hurt me really bad. That's why we've broken up."
The okonomiyaki chef was slowly shaking her head. "I find that hard to believe. Ranchan can be an insensitive jerk sometimes, but he's never mean."
"Are we talking about the same Ranchan here?"
"You're the one who's always been thin-skinned. You probably just took a joke of his the wrong way."
"Really?" Akane leaned back against the wall, watching for Ukyou's reaction. "Maybe you're right. Maybe there's some other meaning to being called a 'bitch' that I wasn't aware of. Oh, and 'ugly,' 'mean,' and 'cruel,' too. Uncute didn't hurt much, but telling me I didn't have any friends did; and threatening to hurt me certainly didn't help. Was he joking? If he was, I sure missed the punchline."
Eyes widening with each word, Ukyou stared back in disbelief. "No way he said those things."
Akane shrugged. "He did. If you don't believe me, Nabiki's report says pretty much the same thing. To be fair, I'll admit I said some nasty stuff in return: I called him a pervert, and unmasculine, and a girl, and he took it really badly."
Siting up in her bed past midnight, talking with an old rival across a darkened room only faintly illuminated by glimmering moonlight: certainly not the conclusion Akane had anticipated to her day. Yet -- hadn't she hoped for someone to talk to? Again, perhaps it said something about her life when friends and family failed as confidants. . . but a rival could be trusted; or, if not trusted , then at least expected to understand and even sympathize. Ranma had been the one to bring them together -- to bring them all together, Ukyou, Shampoo, Kodachi -- but perhaps with him removed as an item of contention, something akin to a friendship could now form. Such a relationship of sorts had existed between Akane and Ukyou in the past, but always suspicion on the part of the first, and opportunism on the part of the second, had remained between them. Now?
It would be nice to have a friend who understood the other side of her life, the one that involved martial arts, duels, and the desire for independence. And once Ranma returned. . . if things took a turn for the worse, both support and help would not only be appreciated, but needed.
Akane swallowed against the sudden tightness of her stomach.
Now was not the time, however. Not for expressing feelings and concerns, or motives and desires. Perhaps one day she and Ukyou would be good friends, and tonight might have been the first step in that direction; but at times a single step was enough, and both had enough thoughts to digest for the remainder of the evening. Akane could feel the first yearnings for sleep spread through her body -- the encounter with Ukyou apparently had been just what she needed to settle her mind and body sufficiently for rest.
The chef seemed content enough to let the subject drop -- for now. Weariness was apparent in her features, and she turned away with a wide yawn.
"Later, 'kane."
"Night. You know, you can use the front door if you want."
"Heh. Thanks."
"You coming to school tomorrow?"
"Yeah. It'll be hell, but I'll be there."
"Meet for lunch?"
Her smile broadened. "Sure. I'd like that. I want to hear the rest of this. The inside scoop could give me the edge I need to finally snare by boy."
A final farewell, and she quietly left. Akane settled into her bed, covers pulled up to her neck, eyes closed, breathing deepening, slow numbness spreading across her body. There would be other encounters with ex-rivals in the next few days, of that she was sure. Doubtless neither Shampoo nor Kodachi would be half as reasonable as Ukyou. Those, however, were concerns for another day.
Akane slept.

The week passed quickly.
This proved a source of both relief and anxiety for Akane. With the passing of each day she grew more tense in unconscious anticipation of Ranma's return. As her uneasiness matured and came to occupy more of her conscious thought, and overwhelmed her unconscious mind in dreams, she came to count the days until his supposed return. She hoped then that her worries would be proven unfounded. The alternative was not something that she liked to think about.
The first few days following Ukyou's nighttime visit, however, were busy enough to keep her from thinking of her ex-fiance. First had been Shampoo's appearance on the way to school: though made more difficult by the language barrier and the amazon's somewhat more violent ways, the conversation had proven very similar to the one with the okonomiyaki chef; except that, with a look of surprising comprehension in her eyes and a subtle enigmatic smile, she had pronounced, "Ranma finally learn, Shampoo wait now" before turning away and biking back towards the Nekohanten. Akane had watched her former rival disappear down the street, lavender tresses swaying in counter-time to her cycling, and suddenly felt small.
Kodachi had required more convincing. Only violence, and some poetic intervention on the part of her brother dissuaded her from an attempt to assault the Tendo sister at lunch. Her threat rang clear in the air as she left, however: beware, if Ranma did not return by the week's end! Confronted with this, watching the leotard-clad lunatic fly across the rooftops, Akane had felt suddenly content and mature.
Somehow, or perhaps unsurprisingly, neither her father nor Genma realized that something was amiss, Akane's explanation that he had left on a week-long training voyage after his mother's visit ("to reclaim his manliness," she had said) proving sufficient to satisfy their curiosity. With her ex-rivals momentarily calm, and Nabiki agreeing to remain silent (for her own reasons, she assured Akane, and not out of sisterly kindness), the fathers somehow never realized that their life-long dream of family union was in serious jeopardy.
Life, otherwise, had proven delightfully normal, and she had immersed herself completely, and with some joy, into the routine of an ordinary schoolgirl: there were classes to attend, tests to study for, clubs to participate in, and friends to hang out with. She found herself spending time with Sayuri, and felt their friendship swiftly returning to its former closeness. Ukyou she saw far more of as well, and their sometimes-animosity slowly transformed into an almost camaraderie -- more than a few lunches and after-schools were spend at the Ucchan, and only rarely did they speak of Ranma.
The week came to an end. Akane decided to have a sleepover. She remained unsure until the very end whether it was a final clinging-on to the normality she had recently enjoyed, or a mask for the gnawing anxiety that haunted her in anticipation of Ranma's return. The idea was received with enthusiasm. The party went well -- mostly. Many friends came, Sayuri, Yuka, Naomi, and even Ukyou, and more, and they watched movies in the house and slept in the dojo and talked until two in the morning, and did all the ordinary things that girls do at such occasions: and yet, faint echoes of what had disturbed her at Kiyoshi's party returned to do so at her own affair. She spent most of the night talking with Ukyou, found the gossip confusing and often dull, and came to wonder if there was something wrong with herself. When her friends left the next morning it came almost as a relief -- until the memory of Ranma returning, which had lurked at the back of her mind all night, brought back with it the worries of the week.

******

Understanding came to Ranma Saotome during the moment of greatest intensity of that early morning's training, and instead of shattering his fragile focus underscored it with inexplicable poignancy. With a timorous mental hold he retained possession of the idea lest it slip away, as he slowly, beautifully, completed an equally elusive technique. He rose to his feet, still gripped by the residual euphoria of his workout
So that's why she's hurting, he realized. The sun's ascent overhead went unnoticed as he mulled the idea over. It came as some surprise -- not the cause of her pain, for some reason it now made perfect sense -- but he had not been aware of having even contemplated the problem. The last week had been one of both perfect simplicity and the utmost complexity. Only one thing had dominated his time: intense, single-minded training; but each technique and exercise and form had been dissected and studied with thoroughness. Such concentration had left little room for other considerations.
At night, however, lying on his hard earthen bed, there were those brief moments before utter exhaustion and body weariness overtook him: in that brief time, what did his mind turn to? He could never remember by morning, and his dreams faded quickly -- snapshot images of Akane, perhaps? Certainly not of Furinkan, and of those who had betrayed him.
There's nothing for me there, he reminded himself.
He felt sluggish, and the clarity he possessed during training eluded him once he began the necessary mundanities of morning. With a fresh fire crackling and his kettle set over it, he walked down to the shallow forest stream that flowed nearby. The water was icy-cold, he knew from previous experience, and after stripping out of his clothes a quick dip served to dispel errant thoughts and shock him to full wakefulness. His dirt-and- sweat encrusted clothes he washed and scrubbed and hung to dry, then turned to his morning ablutions. Squatting by the river-side, he wished he'd thought to do so before turning female.
Glinting in the rising sunlight, a reflection caught his eye: a young red-haired girl, naked and squatting by the water -- himself, of course, and normally he would have shied away from the image. This time, however, he paused: something felt strikingly familiar, and he grasped for recollection. Unlike earlier, however, the memory this time eluded him, and suddenly ashamed by his own female nakedness, he turned away.
It's probably nothing, he told himself. Something left over from a dream.
Returning to camp he pulled his other set of clothes -- equally dirty as the others, it seemed -- from his pack and dressed. What to do next, he wondered. Strength, speed, endurance, reflex, form, stance, and attack training: he'd tackled them all, and every muscle and joint still ached from the effort. No new techniques learnt in the last seven days, perhaps, but a further perfection of what he already knew. Maybe now he should focus on his female side?
You could go home, drifted through his mind.
He had neglected his cursed form all week, reverting to male form as quickly as possible each time circumstances had forced a change. Well, maybe another week of training focused entirely upon his female body's strengths and weaknesses was necessary. How often had he needed to resort to shameful feminine trickery due to a lack of confidence in the abilities of his woman's body? Again his mind began to draw together abstract ideas and concrete knowledge, and build a potential training regimen.
"What am I training for?" he suddenly asked himself, out loud he realized, and the sound of his own voice and the very question itself shocked him into sudden stillness. It seemed the question hardly required asking -- and yet having done so, he began to doubt. I've trained this hard before, he told himself, this is nothing new. But this time was different, and he knew it: for while the near-desperation that had underscored the week's effort was familiar, this time there was no tangible enemy confronting him. This perfection of his technique, against whom would he apply it? This dispelling of all thoughts not immediately related to martial arts -- what was he avoiding?
Akane, he told himself. A moment later he realized that wasn't true. There were issues yet unresolved between him and her, yet the thought of confronting her held little fear for him now -- held, even, a certain attractiveness. Somewhere, amidst the confusion and hurt of recent events, that wall of hesitancy that had always hindered and made any attempt to speak honestly with her ultimately fail, had simply disappeared. At a cost, of course. . . what else had been lost?
All week he had danced about and studiously avoided the question of whether or not to return to Nerima. This he recognized, but again, settling upon the idea at this time brought little unease. Quite simply, he didn't want to, and could see little reason to do so, his promise notwithstanding. Return to those bastards at Furinkan? Deal with his remaining fiancees? Face off against more rivals? His parents? He snorted. Not likely. He might only be seventeen, but he could get by without any of them, he could take care of himself just fine.
And yet. . . .
He was lonely. So very lonely.
There it was. Finally accepting the truth he had tried to bury beneath incessant physical exhaustion was enough to drop him to the ground, legs curling up to his breasts as he released a deep sigh that seemed to resonate from impossibly deep within. Damn this stupid body, he cursed himself, holding back on a sudden wetness of his eyes, but again he knew that being female had little to do with it. When was the last time he'd been so truly alone? Ten years of traveling, but during that entire time, his worthless idiot of a father, despite any other shortcomings he may have had, had always been by his side, morning, day, and night. In the last year-and-a-half, since his arrival in Nerima, he had often felt lonely: surrounded by people but seemingly understood by none, their presence had served to only heighten his isolation: but now, truly isolated with no one around, he understood how the former paled in comparison to the latter. At least in Nerima, there were voices to be heard other than his own -- even if those voices were usually underscored with anger and carried only curses and threats. It was attention, at least.
"Guess I'm not the noble wandering martial artist I thought I was," he whispered to himself, and smirked in self-depreciation. How does Ryoga do it? I'll have to ask him next time I see him. It's probably why he hates me so much: what else does he have to think about other than revenge? Anything, even hatred, would be better than focusing on being alone.
Finding his feet once more, he knew a decision had been made. What choice did he have but to return to Nerima? His training had not been in vain: it had served to bring him to this precise point: now he felt prepared to confront the people he thought he had left behind -- from fiancees to schoolmates, things as they had been could now come to an end.
"Time to finish this," Ranma muttered, and then nearly laughed at his own conceit. It helped to think of his return as a final showdown. It was a concept he felt more at ease with.
He returned to maleness, and as he gathered his few possessions and began to pack once again, his stomach churned uneasily. The wild food he'd caught and eaten had been anything but delicious, and his stomach had reacted most negatively. Now _there_ was a reason to go back: Kasumi's cooking. He smiled at the prospect and, hefting his backpack over his shoulders, Ranma took the first step towards returning home.

****** ******

In the brief interlude during which the pain abated slightly, he had time to morosely contemplate the water before him and think, why do I put myself through this shit, before his stomach clenched up, his throat spasmed, and he again forcefully and noisily puked up more of the night's meal. This time, at least, he remembered to hold his pigtail clear with one hand -- its length was already wet and dotted with clingy pieces of half-chewed rice -- and with the other he shakily reached up to flush the toilet once again. The brownish, chunky water swirled and carried its load of curry and vegetables off to a better place.
Bent double over the Tendos' toilet, long, stringy strands of saliva looping from mouth and chin, Ranma Saotome turned his head and leveled a glare at the girl standing in the doorway.
"Um. . . would it help if I said I'm sorry?" said Akane.
He wiped his mouth clean with the back of his hand. "No."
"Well I am."
"Is this why you wanted me to come back so badly?"
"I didn't mean-."
Ranma raised one hand to forestall her protest, and returned his attention to the water before him. With something closer resembling a hiccup, he brought up another dollop of bile, and it landed wetly in the toilet. "Akane. I really, really don't feeling like talking right now."
She left without another word, and he barely noticed the door sliding silently shut. Nose filled with the acrid scent surrounding him, throat burning and raw, Ranma returned to his not-so-silent contemplation at the porcelain throne.

"Oh, hello Ranma, you're home."
Kasumi's soft and gentle welcome momentarily threw him off guard as he returned from his week of training: a greeting he had most certainly anticipated, but his expectations had ranged from cold indifference to various levels of violence or parental screaming. Despite his confidence of that morning he felt nervous, but the eldest Tendo sister's few words abated his concerns and immediately put him at ease.
"Um, yeah," he answered, slipping off his shoes and stepping through the door. He was well aware of both the appearance and scent he projected. His shirt and pants were encrusted with dirt and sweat stains, and his hair clung to his scalp with a slick tenacity that the hot weather hardly warranted. He shrugged off his pack and dropped it by the door, and followed Kasumi into the kitchen.
"So how was your training?"
"Pretty good. Excellent, even. I think I nailed down a few techniques I was having trouble with." As he talked he peeked into the fridge and nabbed a few sticks of leftover yakitori. "How've things been here?"
"Oh, fairly quiet for the last week," Kasumi answered, returning to her domestic routine. "A nice new little shop opened a few days ago. The owner's really sweet. Miss Nakamura a few doors over was feeling a little ill, so I helped out. . . but I don't want to bore you, Ranma, you must find all this terribly dull."
Leaning up against the wall, he smiled. "Naw, not at all."
So the eldest sister continued to fill him in on the details of the week as she worked at cooking and cleaning about the kitchen, and the smoothness and surety with which she moved struck Ranma as appearing nearly martial in its expression. Domestic trivialities -- the sickness of a nearby pet, the small bird that accidentally flew into the dojo, the favored bowl recently broken -- that had never concerned him gained a significance beyond their prosaic value through her retelling. When was the last time he had truly listened to Kasumi, he wondered, or taken note of the undercurrents of life running through the neighborhood? It had never seemed important before. After a week alone in the wilds of Japan, however, the sudden feeling of a community surrounding him was reassuring. Kasumi, on her part, seemed to enjoy the unexpected audience. The tension slowly drained away as he gave himself over to her voice.
"And that's it, really. Nothing compared to your week, I'm sure."
"I dunno. Sounds like you've been busy. I never realized you did so much out of the house."
Kasumi smiled. "Oh, it's nothing, really. But thank you."
"For what?"
"Listening."
He shrugged, suddenly feeling slightly embarrassed. "Um, so, where's everybody else?"
"Well, Father and uncle Saotome are out chasing grandfather Happosai again: they said they got an urgent call for help. Nabiki is spending the day at a friend's, and she said she wasn't sure if she'd be back for supper."
"Oh, okay." He felt somewhat relieved that Nabiki wasn't home. The debt he supposedly owed her returned fresh to his mind upon hearing the name. "And. . . ."
"Akane's just gone to pick up some ingredients she needs for supper tonight," continued Kasumi. "She should be back soon."
A curious mix of pleasure and anticipation arose at the realization that he would soon see, and confront -- possibly for the last time -- his ex-fiancee. Then the full portent of Kasumi's words registered, and his stomach, already uneasy, flopped and sank.
"Akane's cooking supper?"
"Oh yes! She seemed rather excited that you were returning, and insisted on preparing the main course."
Anticipation turned to dread. Urgent call indeed. Might not be back for supper, sure. Apparently everyone else had bailed, leaving him the sole target of Akane's latest culinary attempt. I suppose I should be flattered that they trusted me enough to come back when I said I would. It was small consolation in face of the upcoming meal. He muttered a few choice invectives against fate in general and resigned himself to a night of possible torture. After all, how bad could it be?
Collecting his possessions by the door, he dropped them off in his room before trudging off for a bath. A vague unease began to gnaw at him, and it was a deeply preoccupied Ranma who stripped out of his clothing and stepped into the furo. He soaped and scrubbed and rinsed and hardly even noticed turning female. Only after sinking into the bath, the hot water easing muscles even as it flared half-healed training scratches and cuts into clean but smarting awareness, did the source of his distraction become clear.
Kasumi. The house. The bath. His bedroom -- _his_ room, when a scant week ago he had denied any attachment to this building and its residents. Just now, the path from kitchen to room to bath: how often had he traced that very same route, with the same instinctiveness and comfort? Seven days ago he had felt a stranger in this house, unwanted, eager to leave. The urge to move on remained, yet the same urgency that had led him to that decision was now lacking, and he questioned the imperative that had led him to depart so quickly. He cursed himself and sank deeper into the water and tried to silence the hinting doubts arising in his thoughts. Too much of that lately, he decided. Thinking. Oh, sure, the week of training in the forest had been blissfully quiet, but ever since his awakening this morning, his mind had been abuzz with nettling half-formed ideas. Perhaps that was why I latched on to Kasumi's words so quickly, he thought. Hearing her words, I could ignore my own; focus on her images, not mine. After all, why else would I care about what happens around here?
But strangely enough he found that he did, and after a few more minutes of forcefully trying to deaden his own mind -- stopping just short of actually banging his head against the ceramic tiles of the wall -- he decided he was just wasting his time and vowed to head over to the dojo for a purely-physical workout; and rising from the cooling waters, he returned to his senses just in time to hear the door slide open on its rollers, and he turned to face a very naked Akane stepping into the room. The small white towel, with its delicate edge of embroidered blue leaves and scattering of carefully rendered sakura blossoms, the one he remembered was given to Kasumi as a gift for help in a neighborhood bake sale -- he had helped too, running interference to keep Happosai away, and so had Akane, though nobody bought her attempt at cookies (something which, obviously, had annoyed her to no end, with the eventual result that he'd been forced to eat most of them) -- did very little to cover her modesty.
Their eyes met. For far too long, it felt, they simply stared at each other. He found it impossible to read anything from those brown, slightly startled eyes, yet looking away never occurred to him. She stepped back through the threshold and slid the door shut once again.

She waited in her room.
The inevitable knock came, stronger and more confident than she expected. Akane struggled between distinct urges to simply remain quiet and pretend she didn't hear, or screaming and smashing her chair through the door. She chose instead to utter a curt, "Come in."
It was Ranma, of course, still slightly wet around the edges and wearing a bath yukata. He bobbed his head as he entered but otherwise didn't seem the least bit apologetic. She felt an echo of that very special anger that only he seemed able to generate, rise within her. Well, she told herself, there goes a week of peace and tranquility out the window. Amazing, it took him less than a minute to piss me off, too.
"Hi, Ranma," she said, though her tone was anything but welcoming.
"Hi," he answered. "Er, well. . . I'm back."
"Yeah, I noticed."
He tried a little grin, and Akane watched with some satisfaction as it died under her steady stare. After a moment of heavy silence, he shrugged.
"Fine, whatever. Let's just get this over with. You wanna slam me over the head with the table again, or will a simple scream suffice?"
"Excuse me?"
"How 'bout calling me pervert? Will that make you feel better?"
"You are a pervert! You ogled me!"
"Hey, you took a pretty damn good look too!"
"As if -- you're the voyeur here!"
"You walked in on me!"
"You left the sign off the door!"
"That's 'cus. . . oh, screw this, man." He turned back toward the door. "Didn't we already do this a year ago?"
"Where are you going?"
"To hide in my. . . in the guest room until my clothes are dry. Then I'm leaving." He glanced back. "You wanted me to come back? Fine. I came back. I don't know why. Obviously nothing's changed. I'll be out of your sight as quickly as possible, 'kay?"
"Oh, cut the theatrics, Ranma. It made sense a week ago; now, you just sound petulant. Grow up."
The words were slightly more barbed than she wanted, but they did stop him in his tracks. Good. She didn't want him to leave just yet: there were still so many things to resolve, things she needed to know. Already she could feel her anger of earlier subsiding -- she could even grudgingly admit that he had a point, she was the one who had walked in on him. And taken a rather good look.
Surprisingly, she even found herself enjoying, in an angry sort of way, the verbal sparring between them. No one had really argued or tried to annoy her all week (except for maybe the ex-rivals), and while the respectful friendships had been genuinely pleasant, they had also been just a little. . . dull. It was almost fun, seeing whether she could push Ranma's buttons.
"Grow up? You're the violent tomboy who looked ready to pound me when I stepped in the room."
Of course, he was remarkably good at pushing _her_ buttons, too.
"Still, I'm glad this happened," he continued, leaning back against the closed door. "Helped me figure out something that's been bothering me since I got back."
"Oh really?" she said. "I didn't know you were so easily bothered."
The look he gave her was odd. "Yeah. Sometimes. See, when I stepped through the front door, and Kasumi greeted me, and I walked around the house -- everything just felt so. . . normal. Nice. Kinda like, well, home, I guess -- not that I really know, since this is the closest I've ever come to having something like that."
"You _have_ been here eighteen months, Ranma. That's not surprising."
He shook his head. "You don't get it, Akane, you've always had this place. I've lived in other places for long enough, before: maybe not as long as here, but six months, eight, a full year here and there. . . and they've never felt like home before."
Akane found her urge to nettle Ranma quickly dying, as he offered up a surprisingly honest. . . pain?, desire?. . . of his. How often had she wished for this -- how often had she denied it -- why did it have to happen once it was too late? For him to open up like this: something had happened during his week of training; he had changed in the last week, grown up, maybe. She suddenly wondered if she could say the same -- wondered if she suddenly felt intimidated or frightened by his openness.
"But here. . . I dunno. Maybe it was 'cus I knew, those other places, they were only temporary, that I'd be moving on again eventually. Here was different. I know, we both hated the engagement, but for the first time, I couldn't clearly see a day ahead, some date circled on a calendar, where Pop and I'd be leaving. Or maybe it was Kasumi, or even Nabiki, or your dad. . . something made it feel like. . . well, if not my own home, something a hell of a lot better than just a house."
But not me, Ranma, Akane thought. Never me.
"But it wasn't that," he said, fixing her with his gaze. "When I got back today, I couldn't understand. Why had I been in such a hurry to leave last week? Even with all that shit back at Furinkan, it wasn't enough. But I remember coming back here that day, and this place feeling so alien, so unwelcoming -- like it does now. It's not your sisters, or your father, or the house itself. . . it's you, Akane."
Her breath caught in her throat.
"It's you. You don't want me here. And as long as you still hate me, or can't stand me. . . or, hell, feel the way you have about me for the last year -- this place can never be a home for me."
He held her gaze for a moment longer, and the faintest expression of sadness seemed to wash across his face; but she blinked and it was gone. Finally he turned away. "So that's why I'm leaving."
"Ranma. . . ."
"Akane, please. . . don't."
"Ranma, did you mean everything you just said?"
"You think I'd lie about something like this?"
"I don't know, Ranma," she said. "At one time, yes. To get out of eating my food, certainly."
Despite his best efforts, a slow grin crept up and replaced the scowl that had been there just momentarily. "Damn, you know me too well. I'd considered it, yeah." He shrugged. "But, no, I'm being serious about this. I hafta. I have to leave -- I'm not sure I still want to, but I won't stay here, not the way things are. Not with you hating me."
His words had an intensity of effect upon her that came as a surprise, and she suddenly knew that something had changed within her during the week as well. That he could admit to not wanting to leave -- that this house, family, home, meant something to him -- that she was the deciding factor in whether he stayed or not, though he had nowhere else to go: how could he admit this with such honesty, and she not do the same?
But not yet.
"Ranma. . . I already told you, I don't hate you. I don't think I ever have, not really."
He sighed. "Not hating someone isn't enough, Akane. You don't hate Kuno -- but do you want him living with you?"
"I know. I know. I. . . just, don't leave, Ranma. Not yet, please, just wait a little longer. After supper, we'll talk. I need time to think. I've been doing a lot all week, and now. . . I think I'm ready to make some choices."
The look on his face was doubtful, yet she thought she could detect the faintest glimmering of hope within his eyes. Signs of an internal struggle were visible across his face -- she wondered how much the prospect of eating her food played in his deliberation -- before he apparently settled upon a decision.
"Fine. I'll stay."
"I'm glad."
"And we'll talk after supper."
"Yes. Please."

Ranma, after his time in the bathroom, had retired to his room for the night, slightly feverish, exhausted, and in ill-temper. The fathers were back, slightly drunk and somewhat apologetic. Kasumi cleaned the kitchen and sang softly to herself. As for Akane: the youngest sister sat on the edge of the bed of the middle sister's room with burgeoning tears springing to her eyes, seeking comfort that was not entirely forthcoming.
"Sis, I'd like to help, really," said Nabiki, "but you know I'm no good at this stuff. It's Kasumi's department. Wouldn't you be better off talking to her?" The middle sister leaned back comfortably in her chair, one arm propped up against her desk and supporting her head, legs crossed at the knee with one leg swinging casually with metronomic regularity. It was the only indication, really, that she was anything _but_ relaxed, and as aware of the nervous habit as she was, there was nothing she could do to still the sway of her foot. She hated giving advice, especially to family, especially when it was important. Manipulating people, having a little harmless fun at their expense was one thing, but offering a solution to a serious problem? What if she gave the wrong advice? Nabiki recognized that, for all her skill at reading people, she was if anything less experienced (if more forthright) than her younger sister when it came to affairs of the heart. Who was she to be giving advice?
Beside, she distrusted people who easily offered advice, and that translated into a deep dislike of doing so herself. Most people offering help, she felt, were more interested in vindicating their own beliefs, or in some way reaffirming their own self-importance, than in any actual act of altruism. Never trust anyone giving free advice, she believed, they've got their own angle, even if they don't recognize it themselves. Yet here she was, being called upon, if not forced, to give some of her own.
"I can't," answered Akane. Her voice quavered slightly, and she stopped frequently for short swallows or quick breaths. Her eyes glimmered with half-formed, unshed tears, a slight puffiness along the bottom eyelid revealing inceptive redness. Her entire expression and comportment exhibited extreme distress, to a degree that Nabiki had not seen in her younger sister for a very long time. The reason, however, eluded her, for aside from the usual problems, what had changed so significantly in the last few hours; or perhaps she should say, what had Ranma done this time? "Kasumi doesn't know about how things stand between me and Ranma," continued her sister, "and I can't tell her -- she'd tell Dad, or let it slip, or something. But I have to talk to someone, Nabiki, I have to. I can't keep this to myself, not any longer, I have to talk to someone, but there's nobody, nobody close enough or who knows or that I can trust. . . but I need help, he does too, and, and. . . ." She cut off suddenly, pressing the heel of her palms against her eyes, and slowly crumpled forward until her elbows rested against her thighs.
Nabiki watched in shock as her sister seemed to collapse inwardly. She wondered if her sister was crying, for though Akane's body trembled all over, neither sob nor tear escaped. I must've missed something, she berated herself, there's something going on here that I don't understand. She was fine this morning, even with the idea of Ranma leaving forever, and now she's falling apart. I have to find some way to figure out what's happening. Unsure of what to do, she simply watched as her sister sat there, shaking silently, until time drew out and the tension became unbearable; and suddenly Nabiki knelt next to Akane and hesitantly pressed a hopefully comforting arm to her back. "There, er, there. It's okay, it'll be okay," she said, deeply hoping that everything _was_ okay, and knowing that things obviously were far from being so.
Suddenly her little sister's tremulous movement stopped, and she sat up straight, Nabiki's encircling arm falling aside. Akane took a deep breath and seemed to compose herself. She appeared fine aside for a reddening around her eyes where her palms had pressed. The youngest Tendo looked around for a moment, as if momentarily confused as to where she was. She then stood up. "I'm sorry, Nabiki. I'm fine. Really. I'll be okay. I should go." An obviously forced smile crawled across her lips, quickly disappeared, and then Akane stepped toward the door.
The signs which had been obvious all week but that she had somehow missed -- or not allowed herself to recognize -- were momentarily fully apparent as Nabiki caught a look of her sister's face as she turned away. Akane was anything but fine. The slight pallor to her features, a deep-set nervousness or distraction lending an unpleasant jerkiness to her movements: these elements had been there all week, if not so clearly exhibited; subliminal, perhaps, unconscious, but nevertheless existent, and once again Nabiki berated herself for having not noticed. Or had she noticed and simply chosen to ignore the signs -- would she, the mercenary Tendo sister, have overlooked the same telltale signs in an opponent during a monetary transaction? Now brought to the fore by. . . something, Ranma's return, a change she was yet unaware of, Nabiki could no longer overlook the tensions pulling at her younger sibling. Akane was falling apart -- or, more likely, tearing herself apart.
"Don't you dare leave this room, Akane," she found herself saying, just as her sister's hand closed around the doorknob. "Don't you leave this room."
"I'm okay," was the answer, given without turning around. "I'm fine."
"Bullshit. Bull - shit, you're fine. You just fell apart in my room, Akane. You broke. I've seen you cry, scream, yell, pound the wall, but you've never. . . collapsed." She allowed some of the genuine fear she felt slide into her voice. "You scared me, sis." She took a deep breath. "Please. . . tell me, tell me what's going on."
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Dammit, Akane! Yes you do, or you wouldn't have set foot in my room. You want to talk about this, you _need_ to talk about this."
"I can't."
"You will! If I have to blackmail you, if I have to tell Daddy about you and Ranma . . . I'll make you talk! You have to!"
"I can't!" Akane finally turned, spinning back toward her sister, first tears streaking down her cheeks as her voice escaped in a startled gasp. "I can't!"
Nabiki didn't answer, she didn't know what to say, but simply moved forward and collected her sister in an embrace. For a moment she felt Akane tense up -- how strong she was, muscles hard and taut beneath her grasp, and for a moment the older sister felt afraid -- but then release herself to the hug, going soft, giving herself over to the comfort offered.

Without letting go, she moved the two of them over to the bed and sat next to her sister. Tears turned to sobs, deep ones that made Akane's entire body shudder as she buried her head in Nabiki's shoulder. No words were given nor needed, as the elder sister waited for the crying jag to run its course. It was getting dark outside, she noted, the vivid sunset hues streaking across the March sky fading into the blues and greys of dusk. The last errant sakura blossoms, withering and fading as the season ended, fluttered past her window on the evening wind. It suddenly felt unnaturally quiet, for aside from the muffled and lessening sound of Akane's weeping and her own soft breathing, Nabiki could hear nothing from the remainder of the household.
There was a stirring from within her embrace, and Akane slowly and quietly pulled away. Her face was red and tear streaked, eyes bloodshot from the fierceness of her crying, yet already some of the nervous tension that had underscored her demeanor seemed to have faded. Nabiki wordlessly passed her the tissue-box. Akane wiped her eyes and blew her nose, and finally sat back on the bed, leaning back against the wall. The older sister waited.
A deep sigh, and Akane spoke. "Thanks."
Nabiki nodded. "No problem."
"I really fell apart there, didn't I?" Hint of a wry grin.
"To pieces. Total collapse. You were a mess."
"Guess you were right."
"I've told you before, never argue with big sister."
"Yeah."
Silence. Akane wiped at her eyes again, closed them, curled into a small ball, thighs to chest and chin resting on knees. Nabiki, at the opposite end of the bed, stretched out her legs and waited some more.
"I'm sorry," Akane finally said, eyes still closed. "I didn't mean to. . . ."
"Hey. Don't worry about it. I'm no Kasumi, but that doesn't mean I don't care."
"I know."
"So are you ready to talk about it?"
"No."
"Will you?"
A pause.
"Yes."

Ranma dreams: I walk along a cobblestone path toward shimmering depth of blue. There is nothing else: no light no sound, neither scent nor sensation: only the path, the pool, and I. Darkness all about. Yet with each step a concurrent reality intrudes itself upon my march. First: voices, ephemeral, their source just beyond the limits of vision, incomprehensible. Then: phantom traces of others along the path. Recognition accompanies the intrusion of cloying sweetness wafting on the night's wind, sakura's short blossom'd end: I walk a chosen path clad in female body and female clothing, and as always my feminine form forces a disjointed nightmarish aspect upon the scene. My orange bikini sheds crimson as a duck sheds water, flies four times about my head and joins the embers floating skyward. I have returned to the party. I am not alone. I join my friends, they ply me with drinks and jokes and sexual innuendo and observing the scene from without I see myself shudder at each, for I have just noticed the cracks in their face through which the curry of their minds flows. I step up to the edge of the pool; every broken, immobile bodied seeping face turns to follow; and I leap into the air, high above them, into the darkness, suspended, above a coalescing pool of bloodied red- spattered brown curry every grain of rice a sharp, serrated-edged tooth flowed free from friends' gaping yawning maws and pointing straight at the me suspended above their putrescence, suspended and spinning curled-up cannonball-dive ball,
and I grasp the ball in my hand and for a moment, gaze off into the distance, into the clear unspotted sky punctuated only by the single bespectacled duck hovering on the horizon. I toss up the ball and it seems suspended, blocking the sun, and in the swelling darkness the girls and boys form a ring about me, hands linked, drawing closer, circle closing, looming faceless, restraining me. I laugh out loud triumphantly. They have no idea of what is coming. Restrain me, who blocks the sun and becomes that very orb of light and heat from which they cower? I hoist the bat and swing,
and I hit the ball just -so-, with all the strength I can muster with all the control and fluidity and power that seventeen years of martial training has wrought and I watch the ball disappear into the distance with a resounding crack,
and it's all so clear as I watch myself plunge arrow-like into the slough of Furinkan's decay spewed forth of the phalanx of faceless cracked gaping students lining the pool's edge and standing row after row into the unending distance.

It was some time before Akane felt ready to continue. Despite her threat, Nabiki nevertheless allowed her younger sister to leave the room, on the condition that she promise to return. Word given, she took her time in the bathroom; seeing her puffy eyes and reddened nose, and the other visible signs of her sadness that still marred her face, Akane marveled at how quickly the tranquility of an entire week could be so thoroughly destroyed. But she couldn't muster anger, not at this point, not at Ranma. Even the memory of his betrayal failed to pierce the lethargic blanket of melancholy that settled softly and numbingly around her, as she stared at herself in the mirror. Face: limpid unblinking hazel eyes: shallow pools. She blinked, turned away, feeling sudden disgust.
That betrayal. It failed to anger her, but she hadn't yet forgiven him. She wondered if she ever could, wondered if others could ever understand how deeply his unthinking simple -- incredibly complex -- action had scarred her. Unthinking? Hardly, and perhaps the wound cut all the deeper for having been so obviously considered. How much had been decided in that impossibly brief moment, hand on wrist, twist, tightening of muscle, psychic spasm of pain that yet reverberated throughout. The eyes showed it. Had shown it. A choice. . . .
She was back in her sister's room, now dressed in her yellow fishcake- design pajamas, hardly aware of having changed. Her sister waited patiently, idly flipping through a year-old manga, one leg casually swinging with monotonous regularity over the edge of the bed. Akane quietly sat at the edge of the mattress.
"He knew exactly what he was doing," she said, almost startling herself with the recognition that she had begun speaking. It was a sudden realization, and she pursued the new idea even as she spoke. "When he hurt me that night."
Nabiki snorted indelicately. "No shit, Akane. Of course he did. You don't twist somebody's wrist by accident."
"No, no, not that," answered Akane, shaking her head. "That was nothing."
"Nothing? He hurt you, sis."
"That's the thing. He didn't. He didn't. I pulled away before he actually applied enough pressure for it to cause pain."
"So what? He meant to, and that's what counts here, drunk or not. Intent, right?"
"Did he?" Akane focused for a moment on her sister, before returning her gaze to the wall opposite her. "Mean to hurt me, that is? I'm not so sure, now. I mean, that's what's been eating at me all this last week. The idea that he'd actually hurt me. Betrayal. I trusted him -- I never realized how much -- even when I accused him in the past, I still believed in him -- he'd always protected me, absurd lengths, never retaliated, built a trust. . . ." The word tumbled out, quickly, half-spoken as she rushed along a new idea towards an unknown destination; then she came to an abrupt halt, took a deep breath, before continuing with sudden deliberateness. "And then he cut all that out from beneath me with a few words and his hand on my wrist.
"But what if. . . ." Brown meeting blue over crossed hands, a year reduced to a heartbeat, myriad possibilities to a single inevitability. "It wasn't about the party, or going swimming, or doing what either he or I wanted to do that night."
"Then what?" Her sister's question nearly startled the answer out of her mind, so intent had she been on it.
"It was about making a choice."
"Yeah, to hurt-."
"He made his then and there, offered me the same. . . ."
"Huh?"
"It's been eating at me all week, trying to understand. He chose without me."
"Sis, what the hell are you talking about?"
"And tonight I ruined everything."
"Hello?"
Akane suddenly felt the same staggering sadness of earlier well up within. Tears sprang once again to her eyes. An overwhelming crush of emotion. She recognized that the decision that had tormented her all week had likely been made long ago; and given a chance to reverse her choice, she had unconsciously undercut that very possibility. It was the only explanation, and now she wept at her own weakness of spirit -- and yet, it seemed, she felt a slight relief that the ambiguity was now resolved.
"Okay, you've got me," a dry voice interrupted, "I've got _no_ idea why you're crying this time."
A giggle, with an undercurrent of hysteria, cut through her tears. Akane turned back to her sister. Nabiki was watching her with a hint of a wry smile. Of course you don't, she thought, how could you, you too decided long ago.
"Don't you see, Nabiki? Tonight!"
"So we're back in the present?"
"We were supposed to talk!"
"Um, aren't we?"
"Not you, Ranma! Ranma and I were supposed to have a big talk tonight, after supper."
"I dunno, sis. He didn't look up for too much after puking his guts out. I can't really blame him for heading off to bed."
Akane frowned. "Thanks, Nabiki. I can see you're taking this very seriously."
Her sister shrugged. "Hey, at least you stopped crying. I told you: I want to help, but I suck at giving advice. And when you walk into my room, burst into tears, leave, come back, get all cryptic, then burst into tears again -- well, what do you expect? I need full sentences here, sis, give me something to work with!"
Akane blew her nose, wiped her eyes dry. Well, she thought, although the sarcasm was something she'd rather do without, she couldn't fault her sister for at least trying. At least the irritation Nabiki provoked was better than the overwhelming sadness or stupefying apathy she felt when on her own.
"Okay." She decided to try again. "Earlier today, Ranma and I had a short talk. He -- well, he's changed a bit in the last week, I think. He admitted some pretty serious stuff to me. And I wanted to answer back, meet him halfway. After a year-and-a-half, we were finally talking, Nabiki, we were really talking, and not just arguing or swapping nonsense. But I needed time. I told him, later tonight. After supper."
Nabiki nodded in comprehension. "Right. But that never happened, because he got sick."
"Exactly. And. . . oh, Nabiki, it was _so_ important for us to talk! He was ready to leave, for good, forever. I told him to stay, to wait. Tonight was my last chance to convince him."
"Yes, but sis," her sister interjected, leaning forward, "do you _want_ him to stay?"
That, of course, was the crux of the matter. How many issues were concentrated into that single question? What did it mean for him to stay; what did it mean for him to leave? But she had a ready answer -- not _the_ answer, but one that would do.
"Yes, Nabiki, I do." Her reply came with only the briefest of hesitations. "I don't have the right to make him leave. He made it very clear: the only thing making him go away was me. But that's not fair. If he leaves, what does he lose? Home, family, friends, his education: everything. What kind of life can he expect to lead, if I send him away?"
"I dunno," Nabiki said, and shrugged. "The kind of life he wants, maybe?"

Ranma dreams: I step from the river onto solid earth. The swim was refreshing. It eased the heat of the day and cleansed the sweat from my body. I take a moment to exult in the simple glory of being alive, in breathing deeply and feeling the swell of air within my muscle-hardened chest. I exult in the vibrant life of the forest around me. I exult in the knowledge that I am myself -- for what else could I possibly be? Content, I step,
from the river onto solid earth. The swim was refreshing. It eased the heat of the day and cleansed the sweat from my body. I take a moment to exult in the simple glory of being alive, in breathing deeply and feeling the rush of air beneath the swell of my soft rounded chest. I exult in the vibrant life of the forest around me. I exult in the knowledge that I am myself -- for what else could I possibly be? Content, I watch the man follow the path leading into the woods, choose to follow, and I step,
from the river onto solid earth. The swim was refreshing. It eased the heat of the day and cleansed the sweat from my body. I take a moment to exult in the simple glory of being alive, in breathing deeply and feeling the intake of air beneath incipient breasts, within my youthful chest. I exult in the vibrant life of the forest around me. I exult in the knowledge that I am myself -- for what else could I possibly be? Content, I watch the woman follow the man follow the path leading into the woods, choose to follow, and I step,
onto the path leading into the woods, alone yet fulfilled. I feel that I am missing nothing. The trees surround me, teeming with wildlife: a duck darts from the brush, quacks urgently at me once, and soars into the air, the bright sun glinting off of his glasses. On a whim I choose to follow the bird, for I am free to do as I choose.
I walk along this new path, through a steadily darkening forest, and the multitudinous sky-reaching trees begin to give way to ground that squelches underfoot and reeks of rot. Fetid water squeezes its way through the healthy soil and corrupts. I no longer wish to find what lies at the center of this mire, for I am alone. It calls to me. No challenge can be refused.
I am afraid.
(I am afraid.)
(I am afraid.)

Another brief pause, her final question seeming to have stunned her sister into momentary silence. Nabiki found that, despite herself, she was actually enjoying this little sister-to-sister moment. They were all too rare. It was great fun watching her little sister's mind run through loops and blow the occasional fuse. But it was tiring work, and so while Akane pondered, the older sister padded downstairs for a snack.
The fathers had given up on shogi and turned to igo, although a quick glance at the board left her wondering what purpose the red, green, and plaid stones filled. The kitchen was empty but had been left immaculate, and Nabiki almost felt guilty disrupting its pristine state by daring to pour herself a glass of milk. The fridge revealed a bowl of leftover rice and curry, and she carried the late-night meal back upstairs with her.
"So, what're you going to do?" Nabiki asked, as plopped down on her bed across from Akane.
"I don't know," her younger sister answered, "I feel like I ruined everything."
"I really don't see how you're to blame in all this."
"The food, Nabiki. I made him sick."
"Oh, big deal. It's not the first time you've nauseated someone with your cooking."
"Thanks."
"C'mon, you know it's true. But that just goes to show you, it's nothing to worry about, it's not like you spiked his tea or poisoned him on purpose, or. . . hey, what's wrong?"
"But that's just it," Akane yelled, "I did poison him on purpose!"
Nabiki opened her mouth, thought better of it, closed without saying a word. She took a sip of milk. Tried again. "Um, excuse me?"
The anger that drove Akane to raise her voice now abruptly seemed to transform into shame, eyes dropping and fixating on the floor. Her fingers found folds in the bed sheets and hid from sight. No answer was forthcoming.
"Akane?"
"I-." The younger sister glanced up before looking away again. "Well, what else could it be," she said in a quiet voice. "I must have done it on purpose. I know what my cooking's like, Nabiki. Maybe it's getting better, but I still know how bad it really is. I taste my own food now -- you have no idea how many meals I've thrown away because I knew they were inedible. But not this time.
"Not this time," she repeated, and sighed. "And why not? I said earlier I wanted to talk to Ranma, it was my last chance to set things right, maybe, or convince him to stay; but it's a lie. It's all lies. I might say it, but obviously I don't mean it, or I wouldn't have insisted on cooking. I wouldn't have forced him to eat my food. I wouldn't have walked in on him in the bathroom. I wouldn't have turned away from the opportunity to talk when it came up -- not if I really wanted to do so. Time to think, I said. Ha! I'd already had a week to think. It was enough for him, it should've been enough for me, too.
"I'm a coward, afraid of finally having an open conversation with him, and I delayed and hid behind my cooking until the threat Ranma represented was gone, and. . . ."
"Oh, will you shut up," said Nabiki, and leveled a glare of disgust at her younger sister. "Have you gone loopy or something?"
"What?"
"You give yourself too much credit, sis. I hate to break it to you, but, frankly, you're not that deep."
"Hey!" The look of sudden indignation on Akane's face was nearly comical. "I am so deep!"
"Sorry, Akane, you just don't work on that many levels. Trust me. Many things you are, sis: kind, and caring, considerate. . . and, let's face it, just a tad violent; but you're also forgiving, so that's okay. But most of all, Akane, you're honest. Heart on your sleeve honest. You're not capable of that level of self-deception." Well, maybe, thought Nabiki, at least when it comes to matters of Ranma and love. But she wasn't even sure of that anymore. You said Ranma had grown in the last week Akane, but I think you may have as well. I don't think we'd be having this conversation otherwise.
Her sister had the oddest look on her face, a cross between desperately wanting to accept what had just been said, and anger at the somewhat belittling -- Nabiki took some pride in the carefully calculated tone of her voice, half-reassuring, half-condescending -- judgment of her character. Apparently consolation won out, as she released a deep sigh and much of the tension visibly drained from entire body.
"I. . . do you think so? Maybe I am reading too much into this."
"For sure," agreed Nabiki. "With Ranma too. I don't know what you were babbling on about back there, with all that nonsense about choices and decisions and whatnot, but I'll tell you this: the only thing he was thinking about at that point was going swimming. If he hadn't been so drunk, he probably would've backed down, too."
"You really think so?"
Nabiki nodded. "He's even more straightforward than you, sis. The guy couldn't deceive if his life depended on it. He's an open book." But even as she said so, a little doubt gnawed at her: the Ranma she had confronted a week ago was not the same as the one she'd dealt with and swindled and toyed with for the last year. There had been a hint of a backbone beneath the genuine contrition over what had happened with her sister. If he had changed as much in the last week as Akane seemed to think. . . things could prove interesting. But that was neither here nor there, for what her sister needed at this time was comforting, not further doubts. Constant self-questioning never came to any good. That she knew all too well.
"I guess," Akane said, and flopped back onto the bed. "I hope."
"No doubts. Don't worry."
"I just really wish he had liked the food tonight. I even cooked rice curry for him. I thought he liked my curry."
Nabiki paused, glanced down at the nearly empty bowl cradled in her lap. "That's odd," she said, mainly to herself. She felt inwardly, checking for imminent stomach cramps, convulsions, cold sweats. . . death. Everything seemed fine.
"What is?"
She took a tentative bite, which felt a little silly after having already taken in the entire bowl. It tasted. . . fine. Almost. . . good. Poor by Kasumi standards, maybe, but probably better than anything she could serve up on her own. "Did you serve anything else?"
"No, just curry. I didn't want to overdo it." Akane propped herself up on one elbow and looked curiously at her. "Why?"
"It's just strange, that's all." She showed her sister the bowl. "I just finished off the leftovers. It tasted fine. I'm surprised Mr. Iron Stomach couldn't handle. . . sis?"
For even as she trailed off, she watched the most remarkable transformation overtake her young sister's countenance: she paled, immediately, features turning white, even as suddenly bloodless lips yawned in a soundless 'o'. Her eyes resembled those of one who, turning a sharp corner on a mountain road, suddenly finds a truck bearing down on her; eyes wide and unblinking, yet not so much surprised as resigned to the nearing inevitability, unwilling to accept yet unable to deny the reality of what was happening. A slight tremor overtook Akane, seeming to start from deep within, but building as it spread outward, so that within moments she was shaking hard enough that Nabiki, at the other end of the bed, could feel a slight shiver through the mattress.
And then the silence was broken, as a low, pitiful moan tore itself from Akane's lips, ending only when she buried her face in her hands, at which point the only sound Nabiki could make out was her sister's constant, broken repetition of a single word: "Oh Ranma, Ranma, Ranma. . . ."

Ranma dreams: Lightning crashes in the distance. A tree is split in two, from drooping head to sunken bulbous base. Earth is thrown up and scattered. Indistinct from afar, an object upon the horizon reveals itself to be a thick stone slab set upon short, thick legs. Up close, the detailing is meticulous, chthonic, disturbing, grey-stoned carved and age- pitted. Slippery rotted vegetation droops limply over the edges, curls along the dulled relief and reaches for the moist earth. Darkened crimson streaks sunken into the top slab's sides look well used. Life crawls along the altar's massive clawed supports, scurrying through ctenophore canyons, cilia crevices, feelers a-twitch, mandibles snapping, a thousand thousand chitinous legs raising a seething sibilant shivering rustle.
Someone lies bound to the altar: a young girl, naked, arms and legs spread and lashed down by blackened creepers no longer verdant. Her red hair is unbound but twined with stalks of wheat, and falls half across her face. Her mouth is opened to scream but no sound escapes. Twisting vines leaking fluids choke her cries.
Someone stands next to the altar: a woman, tall and frigidly beautiful, bearing a strong resemblance to the child lying before her on the altar. Crimson sakura blossoms dripping blood flow across the midnight- pitch fabric of her kimono. She holds a drawn katana in her hands, overhead, point aimed towards the helpless figure before her.
"No!" The cry tears itself from my throat as I see my darkly-clad mother lift her katana overhead. I can not make out the figure lying before her, but I know beyond all certainty that she must be saved. Fear becomes immaterial once that decision is made. I sprint forward, across the wet earth, faster than I have ever moved.
(I watch myself move forward; I watch myself follow; I watch myself stare in terror as my mother lifts the family blade overhead and aims it straight for my core.)
But suddenly dozens of Ryuta Ueharas and Sayuris and Hiroshis are blocking my path, splashing me with sticky sweet drinks and slowing me with insults and stopping me by bonding. They go down quickly, a single kick or well placed punch eliminating the delay, but there are hundreds, it seems, far far too many to simply plow through. And the sword rises ever higher and gleams ever sharper, and sudden fear chills my soul at the thought of it slicing me to the very core. Yet even as tears of frustration spring to my eyes the opposition melts away before me, and a loud, insistent voice urges me forward.
"Go, dammit! I'll hold them off," yells my female half, tearing Sayuri's head off with a vicious knife-hand, swinging the head by its long hair and knocking a half-dozen foes aside. "You have to save us!"
Even as a leap forward I know it's too late: glint of argent steel; spray of red; scrape of metal, bone and steel.
I didn't make it, I failed, the scream of loss escapes before it twists into one of pain. The sword follows a straight path, as it was designed to do: from my mother's hand, through the soft flesh of my inner thigh, through the softer belly of the girl beneath me, into the thirsty stone of the altar. Staring up in disbelief at the woman responsible reveals only piercing eyes and thin lips curled into a malicious smirk. Bloodied hands -- mine -- curl about the wet shaft piercing me and I. I pull. There is resistance. I will not be denied. The sword slides free with a slick slurping sound. My mother stumbles back and falls, and for a moment resembles someone else, a man, perhaps, face briefly obscured by shadows. And before I can look closer, the altar crumbles away, and I fall into the gaping, collapsing earth, followed by stone and blood, into darkness.

It was her sister's urgent shaking and forceful urging that broke Akane's incessant, quiet sobbing, and she looked up with red, though tearless, eyes into Nabiki's concerned face.
"Shit, sis, what's wrong?"
How to explain: the pain, the twisting hollowness within as her worst fears were confirmed; that the possibility she had denied herself even contemplating all week was now all but certain. It couldn't be, impossible, not to -- another explanation, had to be, he'd been sick -- somebody else would've seen, known. . . but even as her mind shied away from the idea, she found herself finally unable to deny the reality of what was happening, and it made her sick, she swallowed against the rise of bile in her throat, eyes squeezed shut, cold sweat; and an abiding sense of dormant panic awoke and seized her in its grip.
"Akane. . . Akane!"
She wouldn't explain, couldn't, giving voice to what she had finally consciously realized would make it too real. It was too dangerous. Could destroy the household. Ranma. Oh, Ranma. . . .
"I can't. . . ," she started to say, voice hardly a whisper, but even as the words escaped she suddenly knew that it was inevitable, she _had_ to share what she knew. Her stomach twisted again. She wasn't strong enough to carry this in her own, Akane now realized, even a single week had proven too much. Not on her own.
"Akane," tried Nabiki again, "what's going on?" Then Akane grabbed her by the shoulders and pull her close, and suddenly tearful hazel eyes cleared, hardened, demanding her attention.
"Nabiki. What I'm about to say, you can't ever share with anyone. No one. Ever."
"Sis-."
"Promise, Nabiki," Akane insisted. She saw her sister wince in pain, and realized that she had tightened her grip. She didn't relax. "I have to share this, I can't do this on my own, I need your help. . . but I need to know that what I say won't leave this room. That it'll stay between us."
She watched as her sister momentarily hesitated, biting her bottom lip in indecision. Akane couldn't and didn't guess at what was running through Nabiki's mind -- her own was in far too much turmoil to do so. But finally, still caught in the younger sister's painful embrace, Nabiki gave a small nod of consent.
"You promise, Nabiki?"
"I. . . promise. I do." And then, a moment later when Akane had yet to release her, a touch of anger tainting her voice. "Dammit, Akane, I said I promised!"
Only then did she let go, and fall back, and watched as Nabiki pulled away and gently rubbed at her shoulder. Already she felt some of the tension -- if none of the queasiness -- abate. "I'm. . . I'm sorry," she offered.
"I hope so!" Nabiki said, frowning, obviously pissed off, voice loud. "That's going to bruise, you know! This better be good, sis, first you send me in a panic, then you hurt me, and now. . . ."
"I think Ranma's been raped," Akane whispered.

She was totally unprepared for the sight that awaited her when the lights flickered into life. Untidy disarrayed sheets. Dishevelled Chinese shirt. Bikini top crumpled on floor. Mussed bangs and unravelled locks. Red -- red. Pungent reek of bile and sweat and alcohol. Stifling unaired cluttered over-bright room, and Akane finally, forcefully focussed on the centre of the scene: the half-naked unconscious girl curled into a tight, small ball in the middle of the bed. Whatever anger had carried her back this far faded immediately as her eyes lingered disbelievingly over Ranma's shivering form. "Ranma?" she whispered and then, when he failed to respond, again, louder, "RANMA!"
The redhead uncurled slightly, eyes flickering open. He smiled. "A - Akane," he sighed, and struggled briefly to reach towards her. Then his whole body trembled, convulsed once, and he collapsed, pitching forward onto the mattress. The bed bounced him up once and then he remained motionless, laying face down. Akane was at his side a second later, kneeling next to the bed.
"C'mon, c'mon, Ranma. . . ," she whispered, desperation tainting her voice, lightly shaking the redhead. This couldn't be happening; not this, not to Ranma. . . . A tight, tight knot formed in her stomach as she looked him over, wash of guilt and fear and worry. "C'mon, Ranma, please. . . ."
His head lolled limply to one side, but after a moment she was rewarded with a glimpse of slitted blood-shot cerulean eyes. "Akane," he moaned, and one hand fluttered feebly towards her.
"Wh - what happened," she asked softly, taking his hand in hers. It was cold and clammy.
"You came back," he mumbled, voice so thick and slurred it was practically incomprehensible. "I don't feel s'good, 'kane. . . ."
"Ranma. . . ."
"It hurts, Akane. It hurts." His voice was almost a whimper.
"I - I'm sorry."
"S'not your fault," he whispered, "s'mine," and his eyes closed and his dirty, smudged female face relaxed into something nearing sleep.
Akane stood up. After a moment of staring down at Ranma, she slowly reached down and picked up the fallen bikini top. It was awkward, but she managed to pull the thing back over his generous bosom. Then she straightened out his shirt and tied the front up. Finally she took hold of the bottom, tangled loosely around one ankle, and slide it up his legs. Oh, she noted absently, I guess she's already started her period. His period, she corrected herself, looking numbly at the redhead.
For a long time she stood there, feeling lost, eyes slowly sweeping across the room without any clear of idea of what she was looking for. Finally they settled on the form of the young, redheaded girl snoring softly on the bed before her. She didn't know what to do. But there really was only one possibility. Akane made the only choice she could think of. She picked up the unconscious form of her fiance and made her way through the darkened, empty house, finding her way home.

"No, Akane, no," said Nabiki, after listening mutely to her sister's story. "You're wrong, there's no way. . . no fucking way. . . that he could've been. . . that kind of shit doesn't _happen_, not here, not Nerima, and not to Ranma! There's no way!" Gone was the assurance of the night, the cynicism, the enjoyment. Nabiki couldn't remember the last time she felt this exposed, raw -- in some way she felt angry, at having her control torn away, and that anger fueled her denial. "No _way_! You saw it wrong, or. . . ."
Surprisingly, it was Akane who now seemed calm, having delivered her recollection with an even, almost monotonous, voice. "I know what I saw," she said, "I told you everything I saw."
"Then it was just like you said. He was having his period -- shit, can't believe I'm talking about some guy's fuckin' period! -- and that's it. Nothing more."
Akane shook her head. "You think I don't want to believe that? I tried. All week. It's been killing me, when he was here, when he was gone, in my dreams, at school, always in the back of my mind. When I was talking to him. It made me sick, Nabiki! The thought of it, of what it would do to him -- sick!
"The next day, I didn't know what to do. But there he was, he seemed fine, he didn't say a thing. . . and if he'd been. . . if someone had. . . he would've known, right? That's what I told myself, I made it easy to convince myself. After all, I was angry, I was still so angry at him, for everything else, and I tried to use that to forget. I tried to make him go away so that I could forget. But even as I wanted him to leave, I couldn't let him go, I had to make sure he came back: what if something _had_ happened? And now he's back, and I know, and. . . ."
"And you know _nothing_," Nabiki insisted. "Nothing! You found him drunk, and naked -- okay. Okay. Looks bad. Could also be a prank. Maybe someone took pictures. There was blood. It was his period. Doesn't mean a thing. Nothing."
"No, Nabiki," said Akane, eyes sad. "I checked. I had to, even if I didn't quite let myself know why. If it was his period, it would've shown somewhere. He stayed girl for a long time, his mother was here. I went through the laundry, before Kasumi got to it. Aside from the bikini, nothing."
"That doesn't. . . maybe he. . . ."
"What, used a pad? Ranma?"
"Then. . . then," Nabiki stammered, inexplicably angry, hurting, unsure -- not used to having her argumentative defenses so easily swept aside, and by her sister no less. This was _her_ battleground, an arena of logic and rhetoric and information: and this time, the information was lacking, her logic failed, and what place did rhetoric hold before the stark reality of what her sister suggested? Even as she resisted, she realized that Akane's story was filling holes, removing the gaps in her carefully researched construct of that night's events; but now the full truth was something that she could bring herself to believe. Nabiki could neither back down nor accept what she was being told, not without another try. "Then -- pain. If what you say happened, then there's no way Ranma wouldn't have noticed, especially if there'd been. . . blood. He would've been hurt, would have felt the pain the next day, down. . . ," she swallowed the sudden rise of bile that stung her throat, "there."
Akane blinked slowly, as if taken by surprise and now mulling the idea slowly, and Nabiki thought she had scored a convincing counter, until her sister slowly shook her head in denial. "Nabiki, this is the same person who's been tossed across a skating rink and left an impact crater in the concrete wall; who's been imbedded two feet deep into a rock face by a punch from Ryoga; who's had everything from explosions to poisons lay him flat: and given a few minutes, hours, a night at most, he's back up and running. He heals quick, quicker than anyone I know. Why would it be any different in this situation?
"And it did hurt him," she continued, this time her eyes dropping and her voice lowering to a whisper. "He whimpered when I found him. Told me it hurt. I tried to believe it was the alcohol, the throwing up, or maybe something emotional, the break-up; but I was being weak again and hiding from the truth. But I can't do that anymore."
Nabiki sank back, shocked. This couldn't be happening. Have happened. She just needed to step back, think it through, analyze -- but it was too immediate, demanded to be felt, not reasoned, and left her so profoundly shaken that she couldn't get an angle on it. She wasn't on the outside, now, Akane had dragged her in and made of her a participant. She stared at her sister, sitting opposite her, somehow looking more relaxed, if still obviously in grief, then she had all night.
"But. . . sis," Nabiki tried. "I mean, why now, why not anymore? If you went all week, and weren't ready to believe. . . why now, tonight? What happened?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Akane said, and pointed at the bowl lying upside down next to her. "The food. You said it was fine, you just ate it all, but you're not sick."
"So?"
"But don't you get it? It can only mean one thing. Morning sickness: he's been raped, and now he's pregnant, and now he's suffering from morning sickness!"
It was too much, from the overwhelming gravity of a moment ago, to this absolute absurdity: making the sudden switch forced sharp, loud laughter from her. The suppressive atmosphere that had pervaded her room to the extent that even her breathing had felt labored immediately lifted. The rush of relief in its wake almost left her feeling giddy.
"Nabiki, this is serious!"
"Oh, I know, I know," she said, wiping a tear from her eye. "I know. It's just. . . oh, Akane, sis, you are just _so_ naive."
"Excuse me?"
"Morning sickness? This is why you're so sure? Sis, even admitting that he -had- been. . . and was now pregnant -- which is just crazy -- it's barely been a week! It doesn't happen that quick."
"He was sick!"
"And he ate your cooking! Maybe it was a reflex action. Or who knows what kind of crap he ate while hanging out in the bush. He might've been carrying around a mild case of food poisoning. Even Kasumi's cooking would've set him off."
"But. . . ."
"No." Nabiki cut her off. "It's not even worth thinking about. I mean, it doesn't make sense. How about this: he's been a guy since he has gotten back. Probably spent most of the last week as a guy, too. If he was pregnant," and saying it, she had to suppress a giggle, a half-hysteric bubbling up of released tension, "wouldn't that screw up the curse? Wouldn't he be stuck in his female form, or something?"
"I don't know," said Akane," sounding doubtful but looking desperate to be convinced. "I don't know how the curse works. But then, how do you explain what I saw, then? In the room, after the party?"
"I can't," Nabiki admitted. "That's. . . pretty heavy shit. I don't know what happened. Maybe it was only a prank. Maybe. . . something worse. But we have no way of knowing. Short of asking Ranma himself."
"No!" exclaimed Akane, eyes wide. "No, never! We can't ask him, we can't tell him! Even the idea -- it would destroy him! You promised!"
"I don't need you to remind me of my word, Akane," said Nabiki, coldly. "But do you seriously intend to keep this secret from him? If he's been taken advantage of, he needs to know. If you seriously think he might be pregnant, shouldn't he be aware of the risks? If anyone's got the right to know what's going on, it's him."
"No! No, there has to be another way."
"Well, then you better think of something quickly, because from what you've been telling me, he'll probably take off tomorrow, and that'll be that. For better or for worse, it won't be your concern anymore." Nabiki inched forward and grabbed her sister's hands in her own. Nabiki could feel the tightness in her stomach, the tension wrought by the very idea of what might have happened, and wondered at her sister's strength, that she could carry the secret, alone, for so long. She felt closer to Akane than she had in a very long time, brought together by the shared knowledge and responsibility of unwanted possibility.
"You have a decision to make, Akane."

Ranma dreams:
i float along a river in darkness alone
behind me an upward hole to rot and sickness
further lies a pool corrupt of broken friends
before me lies nothing.

cradled in arm is myself slain and young
blood of her womb leads to blood of my thigh
she and I alone on the water dark
before lies nothing

forever silent clutching me
dark retreat upon darker sea
then (before nothing)
from sunken depth sudden light
above, unreachable, blinding: and a figure hovering in the unexpected egress: a duck. Chains from voluminous wings offer escape, for one. Leaving the ruined body to sink into silent waters aboard a broken raft, he grabs the link to above and hoists himself away. But at the apex of his climb his strength abandons him, the throbbing pain in his thigh resonates throughout and weakens his grip. With nothing more than a sigh he lets go, to fall back into obscurity; and before he can stumble a hand reaches out and pulls him the remaining distance, back into the light above ground.
"Hey, watch that last step, man," said Ranko, smiling through a face bespattered with blood. "It's a doozy."

"What are you going to do?"
"Was there really any choice?"

Ranma woke with a start, lingering traces of a dream fading from mind. An abiding sense of wrongness settled in its place. His ready backpack lay next to him. It was the first thing he saw upon opening his eyes.
He stared at it for a very long time.

*** Contemplation Ends ***

Continues in Choices: Complications