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.

5. Choices: Decision I

Choices: Decision, part one.

by Michael Noakes

The rain drummed a staccato beat against the windowpane. Hiroshi stared listlessly outside, watching the falling rain, watching the trees sway noiselessly in the distance. He traced the path of a single drop with an idle finger, its seemingly random path, and the glass felt cool beneath his skin. Under his touch the bead of water changed course; it was absorbed by a larger droplet and carried away.
The boy sighed and leaned his forehead against the window. He closed his eyes. Ms Hinako droned on somewhere in the background, and despite being in her adult form she sounded just as weary as he felt. Half the class was already asleep at their desk as the clock continued its heavy ticking march towards the end of fourth period. Then lunch. Free time followed by cleaning the school. Back to class, two more hours, club activities. Home then dinner, study then sleep. Lather, rinse, repeat. Hiroshi sighed again: even in a school like Furinkan it sometimes seemed all so predictable.
In quiet moments like this, Hiroshi felt he could see the entire sequence of his life stretching before him. Sometimes he enjoyed imagining the possibilities. For example: his relationship deepening with Sayuri, they marry soon after graduation; supporting him as he struggles through a second-rate Tokyo university, she eventually quits and stays at home and raises their children as he joins with a large firm, another be-suited soldier of human resources. A good husband and father, he retires after forty years of hard work and recollects the golden days of his youth in high school.
These are my golden days?
Maybe soon after graduation Sayuri would realize how much of a geek he was and dump him. Left reeling, he'd redirect his agony into effort and lose himself into study and manage to enter a top-flight university. With these heightened prospects he would be recruited by a major international corporation. Rising swiftly through the ranks, he would nevertheless fear that adolescent pain and never again connect deeply with another woman. Older and richer (and possibly with an ulcer, though Hiroshi wondered if that might be over-the-top), he would one day retire and cynically reflect on his high-school heartbreak.
Yeah, sure, Hiroshi thought, grinning ruefully. Who am I kidding? Top-flight university? Unlikely. Getting dumped? Quite probably.
These unexciting thoughts appealed to him more than the occasional wild flights of fancy. It was fun imagining himself being bitten by a strange radioactive insect and suddenly gaining superhuman powers allowing him to go toe-to-toe with Ranma and his friends in hand-to-hand combat . . . but it also seemed silly. Hiroshi knew he was not a hero. Enough sideline encounters with the daily insanity of Ranma's life had taught him that. However: something inside yearned terribly for a chance--just _one_ chance--to test and prove himself. To Daisuke. To his parents and to Sayuri. To himself.
I had my chance, he told himself, and I missed it. I wanted to be a hero, but I always imagined it would be something grand, something obvious: grabbing a cute girl out of the path of an out-of-control truck, maybe. But when Ranma was hurting, and my buddies were insulting him behind his back, and making rude comments about his curse, and talking about making a _real_ girl out of him; and all those girls spreading rumors and lies: _that_ was my chance to prove myself. I could have stood up and taken his side. I could have said something--anything!
But when the person at the front of the whole campaign is your own girlfriend, what can you do? I really like Sayuri, he thought miserably, and I _think_ she really likes me too. Ever since the party--ever since Ranma's absence--their relationship had been steadily deepening. Who would have thought, he added with some wonder, that a popular girl like her would see something in a dork like me? But she does, and when we're together and alone it's great.
Being her boyfriend at school was a different matter. She wasn't exactly _cold_ to him, but compared to the affection she showed when they were alone, it felt chilling, and almost painful--that it even pained him came as a surprise. Not that he could blame her: he'd probably be embarrassed to be seen with himself too, if he was that popular. Then there was the way she tore into Ranma today and ended up hauling buckets. He knew he would be hearing all about it at lunch. He remembered the stupid bet he made with Daisuke a week ago and felt like a jerk. He felt like a loser. Not like someone he'd want to have as a friend.
Hiroshi shifted, the cool spot where his forehead touched the window growing uncomfortable. A break in the teacher's monotone recital pulled his eyes forward. The students at the head of each row were passing back worksheets. Woo hoo, he thought. More mindless busywork. At some time during his distraction Hinako had reverted to her youthful form. In the brief free time while the students collected their class work, she stared outside with such a serious, pensive air, the skin between her eyes pinching into a cute little 'v', that it appeared comic on such a childish face. He followed her gaze, and saw only the falling rain and half- concealed trees.
He turned slightly, and saw himself vaguely reflected in the window. A slight shock ran through him at the expression on his face--
_"But, really," Ranma said, "don't worry about it."_
--and he realized that maybe Ranma had been feeling something very similar as he waved off the earlier apology. Feeling something similar--to what? Hiroshi suddenly lost confidence in his friend's reassurance. Something in Ranma's expression, something in his _own_, left Hiroshi uncertain.
It was usually at home, in the mornings during his shower, at night in those empty minutes before sleep claimed him, that he allowed his mind to wander and craft silly visions of a mundane future. He never did it at school. Every time he tried, the possibilities seemed to unwind and fall apart, the myriad paths different friends and encounters allowed for, the choices, proving too much to hold in his mind. His imagination couldn't cope.
I wonder how Ranma is doing, Hiroshi thought, watching the rain grow stronger. I sure hope he's okay.

With each step, the water captured in the folds of her furled hood overflowed and trickled coldly down her back. The skirt of her uniform was soaked through to appear nearly black; her wet hair clung tenaciously to her scalp. The rain stung her eyes. Blinking rapidly as she hunched into the storm, she walked home. Through the fence she watched the canal's swift flow, its rain-dappled surface, and the refuse riding the water away. The metal tip of her umbrella scraped the pavement at her side.
I can't do this, Akane Tendo thought. I can't--how can I just walk home? She imagined herself at home, dry, with her sister, comfortable, with a steaming cup of green tea clutched between her hands, warm, and with her father, safe. . . . Her already trudging walk faltered. She suddenly felt weak and had to lean heavily against the fence. The metal was wet and slick and coarse against her skin. Her fingers found purchase among the chain links and kept her propped up as she sank into a crouch. She suddenly realized that she was crying, but the downpour made it impossible to tell.
_"Akane is really okay?"_
Under the rain's incessant fall, her plaintive cry went unheard.

"Then I have to go," Ranma said. Without another word, he turned away and left. The noise of the door sliding in its railing, wood against wood, metal rollers, sounded clear in his wake. A windowpane rattled in its frame as the wind outside gained strength.
She stood next to Doctor Tofu. The man groaned as he regained his feet. Her mouth opened and closed wordlessly, struggling to speak. One hand, raised in vain to-- she didn't know, to stop Ranma from leaving, maybe, to reach out and comfort him-- how do you comfort someone in a time like-- he's been ra-- how can he be pre-- was he worried-- I just wanted to touch him and let him know he isn't alone! she thought, and her arms fell limply at her side.
"Ranma. . . ?" She found her voice, barely above a whisper, but too late.
The wind breathed through the room, its sound hollow and quavering. Tofu stepped past her and closed the door the rest of the way. He did not look outside. Wind severed, the room sank back into deep silence. The doctor stayed at the door, his back towards her, his hand resting heavily against the dark grain of the doorframe. His shoulders trembled slightly.
"Don't go," Akane finished, louder but too late.
Bikini bottom twisted around a girl's ankles. Naked, bra-like top tangled in the crook of one elbow. The smell of the room had been pungent, the air heavy. Even after two weeks, the image remained painfully clear in Akane's mind. She feared it always would. There had been details she had refused to see at the time. Marks across the girl's shoulders and upper arm, and back, parallel lines pale against her skin, reddening at the edges: scratches, and heavy grip marks that her training told her fell just short of bruising. Straightening out and pulling the swimsuit up the girl's legs, how could she not notice the blood, still not quite dry, speckling the inside of her thighs? I should have told someone earlier, Akane thought. Tugging the bottom over her hips, the matted hairs of the girl's pubic region had glistened in a way that Akane's inexperience could not then understand.
I should have told someone about her! she thought, and took a weak step forward. She suddenly felt ashamed. Ranma's _not_ a girl, she told herself. She tried to draw some strength from that fact. Another step. The image would not leave her mind. Ranma, half-unconscious on the bed. Naked flesh obscenely vivid against the sheets, a pallid contrast in the dark. The room had seemed so _hot_. Akane had never seen Ranma spread out so defenceless before, nor seem as weak and helpless as he had then; her stomach twisted and dropped at the thought. Tightly balled fists pressed forcefully into her sides, straining in vain to reach the source of her pain. Akane's vision dimmed, and a rushing sound assaulted her ears. She fell to her knees. She felt her bile rise. She vomited on the floor of the clinic.
A solid hand on her shoulder brought her back. She looked up through blurry eyes at Doctor Tofu. His cheeks were moist but his features were reassuring.
"She's a boy," Akane insisted firmly.
"Yes he is," Tofu agreed, and pulled her up.
"But that doesn't make it any better," she said. With the back of her right hand, she absently wiped the bile from her chin. Her wrist ached where Ranma had slapped her away. "It doesn't make a difference."
"I don't think it does, Akane," Tofu said.
She stared at the closed door. She remembered Ranma's departure. He had seemed so lost and confused. His eyes had never been that empty. An uneven beat started against the ceiling: the first heavy drops of the incipient storm.
"It's raining," she said numbly. "Ranma shouldn't be out in the rain. Not without a coat." She went to take a step forward but found her movement arrested by a strong grip on her arm. She glanced back, confused, and gazed blankly at Tofu's hand.
"The rain is the least of his worries," he said.
"I-- I know," she said. "But I should go . . . ."
"I think," Tofu said, "that even if you could find Ranma, it might be best if no one was with him right now." His grip tightened slightly as she tried to pull away.
"No!" she yelled. "No! Ranma _needs_ me, I have to _help_ him-- let me go!" She turned away and tried to yank herself out of the doctor's grasp. She twisted free of his hand but the doctor's soft touch followed her, easily moving to the opposite shoulder, her elbow, gently restraining her. Akane cried out in frustration and redoubled her efforts, her mind consumed with the image of Ranma, in the rain, Ranma, unconsciously supine on the bed, Ranma, a shadowy figure poised between her splayed legs; "No!"
The doctor's arms wrapped around her from behind, pinning Akane's arms to her side. He held her tight as she thrashed within his grasp. Her elbows smacked his side, her heel sought his shins. His grip did not weaken, nor did he say a word. "Ranma's all alone!" the girl cried out, "She's all al. . . ."
Akane's struggled abruptly ceased. Akane sagged in the doctor's arms, and he gently eased her to the floor. She held herself tight, eyes squeezed shut. The first wracking sob tore through her, then another, and finally the tears, hot and heavy. "Ranma's a boy!" she wailed, and buried her face against Tofu's chest. He held her comfortingly, her weeping muffled by his body. His shirt became wet with tears as she clung to him. The doctor was something strong and solid, as everything else fell apart. She tried to come to terms with what had happened. Someone--no, not just _someone_, she insisted, _Ranma_--that she . . . knew, no, more than that, cared for--had been . . . hurt. She choked on her own tears, a grim laugh mingled with her cry: she's been more than just hurt, 'hurt' doesn't _begin_ to describe what's been done to her! And then: no, Akane persisted, not _her_; him! Him, him, Ranma's a guy, a guy, no matter what happened! But try as she might, huddled in the doctor's consoling embrace, she could not disassociate the idea of Ranma, the boy she had come to know over the last year and a half, from the image of the girl she had found sprawled on a soiled bed in a dark room two weeks ago.
As her tears subsided, Akane gradually became aware of a growing wetness in the doctor's side. She pulled away from his grasp. His face was pale, and his shirt stained with blood.
"Doctor?" Akane said, eyes widening.
Tofu smiled wanly. "Ranma was fairly insistent we leave him alone, don't you think?" He carefully stood, and Akane joined him. "It's not so bad. Nothing worse than a cracked rib, maybe, and some minor lacerations." He nodded towards the corner Ranma had shoved him, and the shattered end table that had broken beneath his fall.
Akane recalled how she had flailed within his arms. "I'm sorry," she said, but the doctor waved it off. He walked stiffly to the back of the clinic. Akane trailed after him as he tended to his wound.
"Doctor," she started, hesitatingly, but her voice trailed off to nothing. She sat down heavily on one of the clinic beds. Hugging herself, she focused on the doctor's actions, watching as he peeled back his shirt and applied a dressing to his side. He paused and looked at her expectantly.
"Akane?"
She shook her head slightly, orientating on his voice. She tried to focus on the doctor. In trying to avoid reliving the scene fresh in her mind, Akane found it hard to keep her thoughts from slipping away.
"Doctor," she tried again. "Is she-- is _he_ going to be okay?"
Tofu paused, and smiled reassuringly. To Akane, the attempt seemed weak and transparent. Beneath the reassurance, his features were sad and tired. "I don't know," he answered. "Ranma is a strong boy. He's already survived some amazing things. But this. . . ." His smile slipped, and he turned away. His voice sounded thick and doubtful when he continued. "I'm . . . sorry, Akane. But I really don't know."

The storm grew stronger.
Akane pulled herself to her feet. Under the pouring rain, there was no point in wiping her tears away. She wobbled unsteadily for a moment, her legs weak. A deep breath helped settle her brimming emotions, but her entire body shivered from the dampness. Her clothes were wet and cold against her skin. As the rain grew more intense so did the noise, and she soon found herself surrounded by its dull hissing roar. The young woman felt very lonely.
She absently rubbed at the soaked and torn bandages wound tightly around her hand. Doctor Tofu, after tending to his own wounds, had turned to her sprained wrist. Akane had not realized she had been hurt. After securing the wrappings in place, he had told her to go home. "You should wait for him," Doctor Tofu had said. "You should be there when Ranma returns."
Akane wasn't sure Ranma would.
Trudging along the canal, head bowed before the rain, one hand trailing along the slick fence, she had to ask herself: Why should he?
_Get out of my house._
And he had stared back at her wide-eyed, with a face suddenly pale, and answered with that enigmatically whispered, "Yes". To what question, she wondered, had he replied? Then came the guilt: how could I throw him out, she asked herself, when I knew what was at stake? No matter what he said--and even now, beneath the dark clouds, rubbing at her dully aching wrist, fragments of a memory roiling at the edge of her thoughts, reds and pale flesh and threatening shadows; even after all that, she _still_ felt residual anger at his insults from the party--I should have kept my temper in check and made sure he stayed. But balancing between her concern for Ranma and her intense anger at his actions and words had been too difficult, that knife's edge too thin; in the end she had fallen and in that brief moment given vent to her rage. How could I have been that weak? she asked herself.
Akane paused in her slow walk. Despite the miserable cold, she could not bring herself to go any faster. She finally noticed the umbrella held loosely in her hand, but somehow the effort of raising it over her head seemed more trouble than it was worth. She attempted a few more steps before grinding to another fatigued halt.
At least talking with Nabiki had helped, she thought. Her sister helped share the burden. She had known what to do, had been the one to call up Doctor Tofu and set up the bogus appointment. And because of that, Ranma thought I was sick. Even after what he said in the bathroom yesterday, all those horrible things--he stayed longer, just to make sure I was okay.
Akane shivered violently from the cold. I _won't_ be okay, she told herself, if I don't get out of this rain soon. But her house felt so far away, an impossible journey in her current state. She forced herself to look around, and realized with a start that she had long missed the turn toward home. A bridge--one of Ranma's hangouts--was nearby. Had come this way unconsciously in search of him?
After a brief hesitation she clambered over the fence. Her efforts were clumsy and she slipped on the slick metal. Her wrist began to ache. With a final grunt of determination she lifted herself over and fell heavily on the other side. The water level was high, overflowing the lower canal and swallowing up the earthen bank. Akane carefully made her way along the edge, slipping occasionally on the slick concrete but avoiding the water. In focusing on not falling into the rapidly flowing water, she was able to avoid looking at the small space left beneath the bridge. Her heart was beating rapidly as she approached.
When she looked up, there was nobody there. Only then did she realize how much she had hoped to find Ranma--expected to find him, even; and she released a breath unconsciously kept trapped until that moment. She stood there in the pouring rain, staring blankly at the empty space before her, blinking rapidly. Another strong shiver forced a few steps forward, and she ducked down and took cover beneath the concrete arch.
She dropped onto the pebbly ground. The protection overhead dampened the sound of the rain, but the rushing water in the bloated canal seemed even louder. Akane breathed deeply, smelling old stone and wet grass, and hugged herself for warmth.
Is he out there in the rain? Akane wondered. That means he's a she right now, and she pictured the young girl walking through the rain, or maybe running, the doctor's words still ringing in her ears, holding herself, small. That very image in her mind brought with it a sudden pang nearly more vivid than anything thus far: Ranma, small. Her fiance had always seemed so large, with an exuberant energy that easily filled a room. Now she seemed diminished. Akane knew how unfair thinking that way was, and hated herself for allowing the idea to creep in. In fleeing her own judgment, she morbidly tried to imagine how Ranma must feel at this very moment; she tried to imagine herself in that pained flesh and shuddered. She couldn't.
For when the suggestion of that dark figure arose in Akane's mind, poised between the petite girl's spread legs, all she could see was Ranma's face. "I'm too weak," the girl said, and Akane flinched away and buried her face in her hands, and wept.

Overhead, another figure trudged through the rain. Short and black, it wore a chequered bandanna. It was a pig and it was steaming angry-- literally, for the falling water erupted into tiny sizzling wisps upon contact with its porcine skin. Cloven hooves found difficult purchase on the pavement and it struggled against the fierce winds as it crossed the bridge. With relentless determination it crept forward. Clenched fiercely in its tiny fanged jaw was a crumpled and rusted bottle-cap.
Just you wait! seethed Ryouga Hibiki. I'm almost there! For insults to me and injuries to Akane, you will pay. Ranma! When next we meet, I'll send you to hell!

Akane lost track of how long she sat beneath the bridge's cover. Long enough for the rain to slow and then weaken, and finally stop. The clouds thinned and broke, and the sun beamed down in gently drifting shafts. The level of the canal was quickly rescinding, and a few ducks even fluttered by, dipping their heads beneath the surface. The wind, still moist and cool, no longer chilled her as deeply. She had stopped crying quite a while ago.
The sky was already darkening. It's getting late, she thought. Kasumi must be wondering where I am. She tried to push the thought from her mind, because it was a further complication she did not know how to deal with. This thing that happened to Ranma--how would the others react? I can't tell them, she had decided, during her long wait beneath the bridge. That's up to Ranma.
She climbed out from beneath the bridge and returned to the street, and began the long walk home. Nerima seemed beautiful after the storm, somehow more alive and healthy: the leaves sparkled in the dwindling light, and everything smelled fresher. It made her angry. It's not fair, she thought. Not after what happened. But it gave her something to focus on other than her own unpleasant thoughts, and for that she was thankful. As Akane approached her home, her anxiety grew. She wasn't sure she could maintain her composure before her family. As she slipped through the outer gate and secured it behind her--an unconscious yet unfamiliar action, since they almost never locked the door--she felt an unexpected relief to be off the street.
"I'm home," she said softly, sliding the door shut.
The house seemed ominously silent at that moment, and while Akane felt relief at not being immediately accosted at the door, she also felt a brief tremor of anxiety, the source of which she could not entirely place. She slipped off her shoes and left her soaked book bag in the entranceway, and slid down the dim hallway. It was with some pleasure that she heard the normal bustle of another of Kasumi's dinners in progress; she must have stepped in during a lull in the conversation. The shoji were shut against the moist winds, but the light shining through the thin rectangles was cheerful and reassuring. For a long moment, Akane simply stood there watching the shadow play of her family's evening, silhouettes cast against yellowed paper. Her father's occasional words, complimenting the taste of the food; the eldest sister's demure denial that it was anything special; Genma's booming voice insisting otherwise; a wryly voiced cynicism undercutting them all from Nabiki.
Akane turned away and the dark lines in the smooth wood pulled her eyes along the length of the floor. She took a few shuffling steps and stood outside the dining room. The soft light spoke of warmth and comfort.
She turned away and stared out across the backyard. She found comfort in the solitude of the small garden and the tiny pool with its languidly swimming carp. Even the wind, with its heavy, sullen movement, proved more welcoming than what lay behind her. It ruffled her drying hair and tickled the nape of her neck. I don't deserve to step in there, Akane thought.
Lost in empty contemplation, the sound of the door sliding open behind her went unheard. The soft touch on her shoulder surprised her, yet she didn't jump. Akane looked back at Nabiki standing next to her, at her serious and pensive eyes, dark and brooding. Behind them both, sitting in the bright light of the halogen lamp above, the rest of the family watched her with concern.
"Were you planning to join us, Akane?" Nabiki asked.
"I didn't think anyone heard me," she said, turning away.
"It's not easy to sneak by a family of martial artists," her older sister answered. "Don't worry, I explained to Kasumi that you called me to let the family know you would be late."
"Thanks, sis," Akane answered softly.
"Don't mention it," she answered just as quietly.
They both stared out across the garden for a long moment before Akane finally turned back to Nabiki, and with a voice thick with emotion, said, "We have to talk."

Nabiki perched at one end of her bed, anxiously watching her sister sitting opposite her. Akane held her head low; drooping bangs veiled her eyes like a dark curtain. The scene was entirely too much like last night's for Nabiki's comfort. She didn't want to hear what her sister had to say. The painful hollowness of her own stomach told her that she already knew what the result of the boy's visit to the doctor's clinic had to be.
No, the middle sister insisted, growing angry. Not that: it's ridiculous. That kind of shit doesn't happen. Not in Nerima. Not to my family. Not to Ranma.
When Akane finally looked up, Nabiki's feeble anger masking her deeper fear disappeared. Her sister wasn't crying--in fact, she seemed remarkable composed--but Nabiki knew her sister too well. There was hurt in her sister's eyes, and a deep hopelessness she hadn't seen in a very long time--had only seen once before. Akane was a girl of extremes--she cried easily, and angered even easier, and smiled and forgave easiest of all; but when she grew quiet and withdrawn her pain reached deep, and endured.
"Akane?" Nabiki called out softly, only to discover that her voice hadn't escaped, that her own throat seemed swelled shut, her words too thick to slip free. Keep it together, she scolded herself. "Akane?" she tried again. She inched closer to her sister. Nabiki began to feel distant from her own actions, as if watching herself from outside, on a stage or a screen. She felt she already knew how everything would turn out, and was stuck in a role she didn't want to play. Why should she be the one to hold everything together? She wasn't the emotionally comforting one; wasn't that Kasumi's part?
Her sister had insisted that they talk, but obviously needed some help getting started. Nabiki touched her softly on the side of the head. She smoothed down her sister's hair, still damp and wild from the earlier storm, and finally rested her hand on Akane's shoulder. She gave a firm but gentle squeeze and forced her sister to meet her gaze. "Please listen to me, Akane," Nabiki said.
And then the older sister watched herself ask, "Akane, was Ranma raped?"
One of Akane's hands flew to her lips as if in fright, and then she nodded, once. Her eyes were wide.
"Where is he now?" Nabiki asked, surprised at how steady she voice sounded.
The response came slowly. "She--_he_ ran away when he found out." Her other hand fluttered uselessly for a moment, until Nabiki noticed the torn and dirty bandages there. "I tried to stop him."
"Did he hurt you?" Nabiki asked, tone carefully neutral.
"No!" Akane insisted, her reply quick and sharp.
"Does anyone else know?"
"No," she said, in a softer voice. "I asked doctor Tofu to keep it secret for now."
Nabiki nodded. She couldn't imagine how this would impact her family. Badly. She wondered where Ranma was. There was guilt in Akane's voice, and fear: she probably suspected that the boy wouldn't come back, and blamed herself. Nabiki felt otherwise. After all, where can he go? He's not tough enough to deal with this on his own.
Akane raised her voice again, tentatively at first but finally with wavering strength. "There's more, Nabiki," she said.
"More?" She hadn't thought her stomach could drop further, but it did.
"I was right, last night."
Nabiki tried to remember their conversation last night. It was a blank. Strange, Nabiki thought dully, I'm normally really good at remembering stuff. "Last night?"
"Nabiki, Ranma's pregnant."
A corner Nabiki's mouth quirked into a smirk, as if at a wry joke; then her smile died and her mouth fell open at the total seriousness with which Akane held her gaze.
"Don't be stupid," Nabiki mumbled. "He couldn't possibly. . . ."
"She is," Akane said firmly. "Tofu took me aside before Ranma got there. He explained it to me. I--I can't really remember most of it right now. Something about a chemical in the blood. I couldn't concentrate. He said he almost missed it, it's so early, but it's definitely there."
"Ranma's . . . pregnant." Nabiki repeated the words slowly. She felt stupid saying it. How could a guy be pregnant? But Akane had said 'she' was pregnant. Ranma, the girl. Her mind balked at the idea. Somehow over the last year and a half, she had stopped ever thinking of Ranma, even in his cursed form, as a girl. After that first encounter so long ago--when she'd grabbed his breasts with a familiarity that still made her blush, at times, when she thought of it--every encounter with the boy- turned girl convinced her further of his masculinity. Even at his most feminine, at his most ridiculous. . . he still resembled a caricature rather than the real thing. Not a girl; a man with tits, a very curvaceous, convincing cross-dresser, maybe, but a man nonetheless.
How could a man be pregnant?
Nabiki looked at her sister and saw the confusion in her eyes, and understood that Akane was struggling with the same question. Her doubts ran deeper, the uncertainty hurting her badly. "Tofu said--," her sister was saying, when Nabiki suddenly drew her into a tight embrace. She threw her arms around her younger sister and held her tight. She held her as tight as she could and wished she could offer more.
"He'll be okay," Nabiki whispered. "He'll be okay."
"It's how he knew," Akane continued, her voice hoarser now and muffled. "It's how Tofu knew. How could Ranma be pregnant? Only if someone . . . if some guy had. . . ." Nabiki felt her sister tremble.
Forced himself on Ranma, Nabiki finished mentally. But how do we know it was forced? The thought, as brief lived as it was, made her flush hot and angry. How can I even _think_ that? she demanded of herself, but the thought had come, unbidden, of Ranma submitting his female body to a boy's advance. How many times had he flirted shamelessly with guys, flaunting his tits and ass with bizarre pride that bordered on the neurotic? A caricature of femininity rather than the real thing, sure, but still sexy as hell. How many men would prefer a cartoon girl to the real thing? Ranma had been at a party, and he'd been angry, and he'd been depressed and vulnerable, and he'd been drunk and he'd been surrounded by friendly guys who would have been happy to offer a shoulder to cry on, and more, certainly, if he asked for it. . . . Was it really that inconceivable?
Yes, it was. Nabiki believed this beyond any doubt. The boy was so neurotic he couldn't even bring himself to kiss a girl, let alone . . . anything more. But Nabiki realized that if the thought occurred to her, it would occur to others--to others who did not know the boy as well, or who would like to believe he had 'gone girl', or who would take pleasure in seeing him humbled and ruined.
"He'll be okay," Nabiki repeated, and she did not believe her own words. The two sisters held each other for a long time. The older sister became aware of the gentle sobbing of her sibling, of a growing wetness against her shoulder. A moment later Nabiki realized tears streaked her own cheeks. She was afraid. She felt filled to brimming with a diffused dread that lurked just beyond recognition.
A moment later, a soft knocking intruded and the two girls drew apart. The door opened, and Kasumi poked her head into the room. Her usual smile grew brittle a she saw the state of her two sisters. They stared at each other in tense silence, and then Kasumi suddenly blurted out, with unusual urgency:
"Ms. Saotome is on the phone." When Akane failed to respond, she quickly added, "She wants to talk to you. She says that Ranko is at her place."

The hurried walk to Nodoka's home would later remain a blur to Akane. There was a definite sequence of events, of course--phone call, rush from the house, walk and arrival--but somehow it all seemed disconnected. Rather, she found that she could only remember disjointed images or sounds and scents: the wet slap of her run through puddles, the slam of the door sliding shut behind, Kasumi's face pale and concerned, scattered wispy clouds tinted pink, sunset. The air had been fresh and cool against her face as she ran to Mrs. Saotome's home. She remembered that most of all: following the storm, the dusk sky had been painfully clear and the emerging stars, bright.
Then her memory hiccupped, skipped forward, and Akane found herself staring down at the huddled shape of her former fiance.
Ranma sat in the corner of the room, female. He sat curled in a little ball, hugging himself tightly. Head held low, he stared at the floor. Hair undone, it fell in straggly wet coils across his face. His features remained hidden from view. The ragged clothes he wore were still wet and clung to his female contours. He shivered violently at times despite the heat of the room. A heavy blanket lay crumpled at his side. His forearms were marked and torn by ragged scratches, red and painful looking. There was no reaction from him as Akane stopped at the threshold of the room.
"She's been like that for over an hour," Mrs. Saotome said, and despite trying to speak in a low voice her voice was shrill with worry. "I tried to talk to her. I tried to change her clothes. She wouldn't even take the blanket I gave her."
Akane nodded dumbly, her eyes never leaving the girl crouched in the corner. She couldn't think of anything to say. She did not know what to do. This was--too much.
Mrs. Saotome continued to talk, relieved to have someone to share her fear with. "I found her on my doorstep," she said, "when I got back from shopping for groceries. I had been thinking about her, about Ranko, I had bought some ice cream and thought I could invite her over. And there she was, sitting by my door when I got home.
"But I could tell that something was wrong. When she looked up. . . ." She hesitated, but found her voice a moment later. "Ranko was crying. And her eyes . . . I've never seen . . . she seemed so _lost_, Akane, and wet and cold, and . . . .alone."
Ranma's mother had dropped her bags of food as the young girl uncoiled and hurled herself into the older woman's embrace. Akane had absently noticed the mess upon arrival, and thought it unusual; Nodoka always kept her home so clean. She vividly remembered a scattering of cherry tomatoes spread across the entrance. In the bluish light of twilight they had seemed so bright and red.
Mrs. Saotome seemed visibly shaken as she continued. "I held her tight and brought her in. She was crying so hard! She was crying . . . so hard, at first I couldn't understand. What she was saying. But Ranko kept repeating the same thing."
"What was she saying?" Akane said.
"'Help me, mom'. Over and over. 'Help me, mom'."
Akane suddenly couldn't breath. She felt cold.
"Ranko kept asking for her mother," Nodoka continued, and when Akane finally tore her gaze away from the huddled form of her fiance, she saw the woman's cheeks were streaked with tears. "She held me so tight! She buried her face and kept asking for her mom, and I kept telling her that her mother wasn't here, that she wasn't here, that I would do whatever I could to help, but she just kept crying, Akane, she wouldn't stop and I didn't know what to do. . . ."
So you called me, Akane thought. But what made you think that _I_ would know what to do? An overwhelming sense of both relief and sadness held her paralysed. Ranma's mother still didn't know the truth about her son. But when Akane pictured Ranma so desperately grasping for consolation that he could feel and touch and yet that remained beyond his reach. . . .

Oh, Ranma, she thought, and began to silently cry. What are you going to do? A moment later, though the tears remained, she felt herself relax. She began to breath normally, because she knew she had to. Mrs. Saotome always seemed so strong, a pillar of authority and confidence, and seeing her so shaken and . . . ineffectual, was disconcerting; but Akane knew that it was now up to her to help Ranma. It was her responsibility. What are _we_ going to do, she thought, and stepped into the room. At that moment, it all became clear to her. This whole situation was largely because of the choices she had made. Now it was up to her to set things right--or as right as could be expected.
If I hadn't lost my temper, Akane thought, kneeling in front of Ranma, we wouldn't have fought. If we hadn't fought, she wouldn't have drank so much. And if she hadn't become drunk. . . .
_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. The half-naked unconscious girl curled into a tight, small ball in the middle of the bed._
It's all my fault, Akane thought, and took one limp hand in her own. She softly brushed the damp strands of hair that hid Ranma's face from view. The girl continued to stare blankly at the floor. With gentle pressure Akane forced her to raise her head. Akane stared straight into her blue eyes.
"I don't know how," Akane said in a low but steady voice meant only for his ears, "But everything will be okay." She squeezed the lifeless hand in her grip. "Ranma? You're not alone."
Ranma's eyes focused on her. For a moment it seemed he might even speak. She saw in his eyes a depth of misery and hopelessness unlike any she had ever known; it was too much for her to match his desperate stare. Her eyes flickered away briefly, and when they returned Akane thought she could see her own gaze mirrored there--the full reach of the sympathy and pity she felt for the poor girl before her.
Ranma's eyes turned glassy, empty and withdrawn. He would not speak. But when Akane took his hand and pulled him to his feet he didn't resist. The broken and silent girl would docilely follow Akane all the way home.

It slowly dawned on Genma that something was wrong. It took him quite some time to pin it down. His day had followed an almost perfectly normal routine: an excellent breakfast from Kasumi followed by a couple of stimulating games of go with Soun; a hearty lunch followed by some training in the dojo and a light nap; and finally a delicious dinner and a few cool, refreshing beers. The only thing missing was a little early-morning sparring with the Boy, but a little taunting over breakfast had nicely made up for that.
Genma pulled back from the low-set table with a deep sigh of contentment that belied the anxiety he felt. His breath grumbled deep in his chest as he took an unusually contemplative pose. Legs crossed and sitting straight-backed, eyes closed, he focused his thoughts. Something was amiss. Soun was taking a bath and Kasumi was cleaning in the kitchen and who could keep track of all those daughters, anyway? That Ryouga boy had shown up about an hour ago, but there wasn't anything particularly strange about an angry black piglet wandering into the house to be replaced by an angry martial artist. Genma liked it when the boy turned up; he made a good sparring partner for the Boy. Not that he felt any urge to talk to the young punk. He was happy to leave Ryouga alone watching the television, though the older man wished the boy would stop his incessant flipping of that bottle cap.
Ranma hadn't returned from school yet, but that wasn't unusual either. The life of a martial artist was fraught with peril, as Genma liked to say, and even if he preferred a life of leisure supplemented with copious amounts of food, it did Ranma good to lead an exciting life. It kept him on his toes. Oh, sure, the Boy might grumble and complain about all the trouble his father threw his way, but it was all in his best interest, after all, and one day he'd look back on these years and smile wistfully. Just like he and Soun often did. Like the time they chased that prince Happosai angered all the way to Hokkaido and. . . .
Smiling briefly, Genma pushed the thought aside and concentrated on the matter at hand. Whatever was wrong involved his son. He knew this with a certainty that reached from deep in his belly. He knew to trust his gut; his stomach's instincts rarely led him astray. But what could be wrong with Ranma? True, he hadn't seen much of his son recently, what with taking off for a week of training (the nerve of the Boy; such arrogance!) after his mother's visit. The school had called about some problem or another, but that's what government employees were supposed to do: complain. No new girls had shown up recently. No new rivals. Genma mentally ticked each reason off on a finger: Akane, other girls, rivals, sex-changing curse, school, mother . . . nothing new, his son's life was as ordinary as ever. And yet the Boy had seemed unusually unfocussed this morning over breakfast, as if mulling over a difficult decision. . . .
His eyes snapped open. Genma rushed from the family room to the guest room he and Ranma shared. Entering the room he was suddenly struck by how empty it seemed. Two folded futons in the corner, a single dresser, and the calligraphy scroll placed by Kasumi; plain tatami, beige walls, and white closet door. He threw the sliding door open and stared at the empty spot on the floor, his heart sinking.
His son's backpack was gone. His own pack lay slumped to one side without his son's next to it to prop it up. He crossed over to the dresser with two quick strides. He noted the bottom drawer was slightly ajar and pulling it open he reached for Ranma's little stash of secret possessions. Genma liked to keep tabs on what the Boy kept hidden. There were already too many girlish and weak things that he saved, thing unbecoming a man among men. He threw aside his son's collection of lingerie and feminine costumes and pulled out the box hidden at the back and knew at a glance that they had been looked at recently.
Ranma only mooned over his little collection when something was really bothering him, and keeping track of that little box was almost as useful as reading through a diary--if the Boy kept one, which thank goodness he didn't; only girls kept diaries. The box was bad enough, useful as it might be at times. At least he had the sense to keep it hidden. If his mother found it . . . although the pile of lacy bras and stocking would probably be enough to sink them both. . . . Genma growled and shook his head.
His son was gone.
Genma mused over this as he wandered back to the family room, planning as he went. He'd have to follow, of course, and track his ungrateful excuse for a son down. The Boy thought he could leave without him? Arrogant! Selfish! He felt his fists clench at his sides as he walked with heavy steps, the night air cool in the hallway. How dare his son just take off without a word? His anger grew with each step until he reached the sliding door and he suddenly stopped, trembling, and forced a deep breath and realized that he wasn't just angry. He was also very, very scared.
Something was terribly wrong with his son--he didn't even know _how_ he knew, only that some instinct developed over a decade of constant contact insisted there was--and Genma was furious not with his son but with himself, because in all honesty he didn't _want_ to know what was wrong with his son. His innards churned with a discomfort he had felt only a few times before: after the mess with the Neko-ken or when his son's strength had been stolen and seemed forever gone, times when Genma saw his son withdraw in pain. Times when he didn't know how to reach him, or help him, and suspected he was somehow to blame. Times that left Genma feeling useless and full of doubt. He had taught his son how to fight, how to be strong, how to be a _man_--how could that not be enough? It was more than his own father had ever given him.
Genma went to step into the main room and suddenly realized that people were arguing, and loudly, and there he caught a glimpse of his son. His son had finally returned--but still female, and wan and withdrawn, hurt, with eyes so very far away, and he knew that his instincts had been right, painfully so, and that this was something he didn't know how to deal with.. . . . Ranma's father pulled back before anyone could see him and silently crept away.

Nabiki checked the front gate from the second floor window every five minutes or so. She didn't want to and she scolded herself every time she found herself staring down at the household entrance, but no matter what she did to distract herself she found herself rushing back to the window at every sound, imagined or real. Staring down at the gate helped clear her mind, or at least focus it on a single thought: where were they? Otherwise, her thoughts turned unpleasant. Darker. The questions she asked herself could only lead to unpleasant ends.
What if Ranma had told his mother the truth--of nearly two years of lies and avoiding responsibility and keeping his identity hidden from her by playing at 'Ranko'? He was pregnant!--what surer sign of unmanliness could a woman like Nodoka ask for? What kind of woman would force her own son to commit suicide, especially after what he had just been through?
Nabiki wondered if Ranma would even care.
Turning to her ledger provided none of the relief money usually brought her, nor the thought of collecting past due accounts (of which there were quite a few). Nabiki felt a need to go to the bathroom and left her room; passing the window she stopped, stared outside, and a few minutes later wandered straight back to her room. She flopped down on her bed and started idly leafing through a borrowed manga, but hearing a noise she rushed back to the hallway. Nothing. She returned to her room and stared down at her homework for a full ten minutes before throwing her pencil down in disgust.
None of this was accomplishing anything. She felt the need to be helpful. It was a new and unusual sensation for Nabiki, and somewhat disquieting. Somehow comforting her sister didn't seem enough, but what else could she do? Comforting Ranma wasn't going to happen. . . he didn't trust her, and considering that less than a week ago she had been ready to exploit the boy for every yen he could earn, she didn't blame him. So what could she do, wander from the house in search of her younger sister?
An unpleasant awareness began to well up inside, one she wasn't used to feeling. Helplessness. Nabiki closed her eyes. Her head drooped into her hands as the feeling washed over her. But when she shivered she realized that it wasn't just helplessness she was feeling: she was afraid. She suddenly realized that she didn't want to leave the house . . . that returning home, she had breathed an unconscious sigh of relief at finally passing through the front gates. She was safe here, protected by the love of her father and by a household full of some of the best martial artists in the world.
Out beyond those walls there was a rapist. When she focused on that thought her heart beat faster and she felt genuinely afraid, but she couldn't turn away from the recognition that her world--as dangerous and absurd as it was, filled with perverts like Happosai and violent weirdos like Tarou--had been invaded by something far more sinister and evil than she had ever encountered before. And as she raised her head and her hands clenched at her side, Nabiki realized that the thought made her angry. Very, very angry.
What kind of bastard would do something like that to a woman--a helpless one, passed out on a bed in a friend's house? Did he think he could get away with hurting a member of her family? Who was he? Nabiki understood then how she would help. She was going to find the bastard responsible for what had happened to Ranma and make him pay. All the necessary materials were at hand: a phone, a list of phone numbers, and most importantly of all her carefully constructed framework of that night two weeks ago, still fresh in her mind. So intensely was she focused on the new task at hand, on preparation and organizing her thoughts, that she was the last one to reach the family room when all hell broke loose upon Akane and Ranma's return.

Kasumi hadn't been expecting a houseguest but was rarely caught unprepared. Within five minutes of Ryouga's arrival she had a warm cup of tea set before him; three minutes after that she had a bowl of rice, some hot miso soup, and some pickled daikon ready as well. She regretted that it wasn't up to her usual standards, but had prepared it distractedly. Something was amiss within her house. She didn't know what it was. Whatever happened beyond the boundaries of the household was rarely her concern. But when it impacted upon her family she had to take notice. Both her sisters were acting strangely, and Mr Saotome too. . . well, stranger than usual, that is. After totally ignoring their houseguest he had dashed upstairs without a word. There was a disquieting presence intruding upon her home and Kasumi didn't like it one bit.
Still, there was a houseguest to attend to and her own concerns, for the moment, had no bearing upon that. "How are you feeling, Ryouga?" she asked. He seemed half-famished, devouring the food rapidly and breaking only to toss cupfuls of tea down his throat. His obvious enjoyment of her food brought a smile to Kasumi's lips.
He paused in mid-gulp, and actually blushed. "Fine." He hastily wiped his mouth clean and flashed a toothy grin. "I mean . . . better now, thanks to your food."
Kasumi accepted the compliment with a small nod. "Thank you." Of all of Ranma's friends, Ryouga seemed the most polite. He was easier on the furniture than most of the others as well. His usual yellow-and-brown clothes were clean, if somewhat rumpled. Considering the recent weather, she decided he must have changed just before arriving. She approved of that kind of consideration in a guest.
The boy shrugged. He seemed at a loss for words, and looked around the room expectantly. Finally he turned back to Kasumi. "Umm. have you seen Ranma by any chance?" he asked. "Or Akane?"
"Not in the last hour or two, I'm afraid," Kasumi answered. "Akane received a call from Ranma's mother. He was visiting, I think."
Ryouga seemed a little surprised at the very prospect of Ranma having a mother. He stopped rolling a rusted beer cap across his knuckles for a moment and clenched it in his fist. The boy shrugged. "Any idea when they'll be back?"
None whatsoever, and that concerned her greatly. Kasumi kept track of her family, as best she could--she knew when they left for school and when they were due back; on what days there were club activities and when her father was out meeting the members of the neighborhood council; the dates of doctor appointments and special school activities and when all the festivals came to Nerima. Her household was anything but quiet but she still knew where her family was. . . usually. She had seen the empty closet in Mr. Saotome's room.
"Quite soon, I should think," Kasumi answered.
"Would you mind if I waited here until they got back?"
She smiled warmly at him. "Of course not."
Kasumi picked up his dishes and carried them back to the kitchen. She felt uneasy. She felt that she didn't fully understand what was happening within her own family, and Kasumi didn't like the loss of that control one bit.
As she left the room she glanced back. Ryouga was leaning back against the wall, staring into the distance and smiling. His fangs glinted from his bared grin, and the bottle cap danced across the back of his hand.

The trip home had been a long one, longer than any Akane could remember. Ranma had held her hand the whole way, with the insistent temerity of a young child. He stumbled along behind as she led the way, eyes downcast and hidden by the fall of his unbound hair. Once or twice she thought she heard him mumble something but was unsure, and stopping to check he offered no answer to her queries and refused to meet her gaze. The walk had been otherwise silent.
Now they stood before the front door of her home and she hovered at the threshold, unsure as to what to do. Step in, Ranma trailing behind wet and quiet, and announce in a sunny voice, "I'm home"? If she didn't bring him home straight away, life could continue under a facade of normalcy for a few more days, at least, much as it had for the last week or two with the ending of the engagement still a secret, the horrible consequences of that party so long ago still unknown . . . no one but Nabiki knew, her father was still blissfully ignorant, Kasumi as well, and Mr. Saotome. . . .
Akane shuddered at the thought of how Ranma's father would react when he discovered that his son had been raped. When he learned that Ranma was pregnant. The man lived in constant fear that his son would be discovered as anything less than manly . . . glancing at the boy-turned- girl standing listlessly behind her, she allowed herself to briefly see Ranma the way his father must see him: as a girl lost within herself, weak, delicate even . . . helpless, with none of the boundless energy or fierce pride he usually exhibited. The girl stared at the ground in a pose that would seem almost demure were she not so wet and bedraggled and with those horrible welts marring her forearms. Akane's stomach churned in anticipation of their reception.
Ranma must have felt her indecision, for he raised his head to fix her with a blank stare. She could barely see his eyes behind the veil of hair that obscured his face. With a tentative reach she brushed the hair away and fixed it behind his ear. Confronted with the full emptiness of his gaze she found that she could hardly keep herself from looking away. Ranma offered nothing more than an unblinking stare, demanding nothing, hoping for nothing.
"Ranma," Akane stammered, but as soon as the words left her mouth his gaze dropped once again to remain fixed upon his shoes. He swayed slightly and remained silent.
She took a deep breath. Hopefully the entrance would be empty and she could lead him upstairs without anyone noticing. Nabiki would know what to do. She could help control the family, or break the news to them in some way that didn't seem as bad, she was so good with words, phrase it gently, deflect the full awful reality of what had happened--how could you break the news of a rape gently?
Akane opened the door and stepped through and turned around to slip out of her shoes and stepped back to make room for Ranma to follow her in. When she turned around again Ryouga was standing at the far end of the entrance.
"Ranma," the boy said, his lips curling into a toothy grin. "How good to see you."
Ranma still stood by the door, where he made no motion to remove his shoes. He offered no reaction to his friend's greeting. Ryouga's welcome didn't seem very friendly. This wasn't the time for one of their silly brawls. Ranma was in no shape to fight. He needed to be protected. Akane moved to fully interpose herself between the two boys. "Ryouga, wait. . ." She started to speak but even as the words left her mouth the martial artist was moving.
Ryouga's smile twitched into a smirk. He flicked something into the air, snatched it and, his hand a blur, sent it flying towards his rival.
His target made no effort to dodge. The projectile landed with a painful-sounding thud high on Ranma's brow. Only once it fell to the ground with a metallic ping did Akane recognize it as a bottle cap.
"I've been saving that for you for weeks!" Ryouga snarled. "I knew it had to be your fault when it hit me!"
The impact had snapped Ranma's head back. A moment later his head lolled forward. A thin line of blood trickled down his forehead. His vacuous gaze and languid lips remained unchanged, but his complete indifference at the attack seemed to take Ryouga aback. Still wearing his sopping-wet shoes, Ranma wordlessly shuffled past his attacker.
Instinct obviously overcame his shock: one arm snaked out, seized Ranma by the wrist, and pulled him back. The flesh whitened and the jagged scratches stood out lividly beneath the tight grip. Ryouga's thin smile tightened, though uncertainty seemed to tug at its edges. He grip ground the thin wrist in his grasp. "Well, Ranma. . . nothing to say?"
Ranma's eyes flickered down to his wrist then up to Ryouga's face. His rival's face was rapidly reddening. He answered those furious eyes with a gaze of placid indifference that seemed to only infuriate Ryouga further. The faintest hint of a smile seemed to threaten to overtake Ranma's lips. Blood beaded down the lines of his face.
Ryouga was never one to enjoy being laughed at. He couldn't see that if there was any mockery, that it was aimed inward; Akane wasn't sure if her former fiance was even aware of the boy before him. The martial artist gave a savage tug on Ranma's arm, unbalancing him. "Answer me, dammit!" he demanded, but the boy remained silent, impassive, and didn't even try to catch himself as he stumbled forward. He fell against Ryouga. Without the grip on his arm he might have slumped to the ground.
The larger boy endured the presence of his rival against him for a surprisingly long time, as the redness of his face gradually shifted from anger to acute embarrassment. It looked like he was holding a young girl to his broad chest, one who made no effort whatsoever to remove herself from his embrace. "What the hell are you doing?" Ryouga hissed, releasing his grip but seemingly at a loss at what to do about his limp opponent. "In front of Akane!"
In front of Akane, but she found herself unable to move or react, frozen in place as she watched with growing horror as her friend's face suddenly resolved itself --as he reared back and formed a hammy fist --as he pushed the girl before him away and held her steady with the other hand --as he punched forward. . . .
"Ryouga, no!" she cried, but too late, her voice finding itself well after the attack was thrown . . . the punch took Ranma squarely across the jaw. Again, he made no attempt to avoid or soften the attack. Akane watched in what seemed like slow-motion as the punch sunk into flesh and connected with bone; as the head snapped around and the neck twisted back and the whole body followed after, corkscrewing through the air, lifted clear off the ground and sent soaring down the hallway. Ranma hit the hardwood floor face-down, flopping bonelessly and sliding several feet. But Ryouga was already launching himself after his target, face purpling with continued anger. With one hand he hauled the unresisting girl up by the hair. "Fight back!" he demanded, his voice cracking around the edges, unsettled by Ranma's refusal to fight. He didn't wait for an answer; with a savage twist he drove his shoulder into the girl and sent her sprawling into the family room. She slammed into tatami and tore a grove into the mat and left it bloodied as the fine-edged bamboo lacerate her cheek; and even before her momentum was through Ryouga was in pursuit, pinning Ranma beneath his foot and drawing his fist back for a final blow. "Fight!" His eyes were red and nearly bulging with unrestrained fury--or something equally unsettling.
And suddenly Akane found that she could move, and leapt after the martial artist and his downed target, her voice finding itself again: "Ryouga, stop!" He paused, his eyes briefly turning her way, long enough for her to catch up. "Leave her alone!"
"Her?"
Ryouga seemed genuinely surprised, unable to associate the idea of pummelling Ranma with that of punching an actual girl. His looked at Akane quizzically. She flushed red herself, ashamed at her mistake, angry at having thought of Ranma as a girl again. . . furious at Ryouga for having led her back into that error. As had often happened before Akane found that, once ignited, it was terribly easy to tag her anger onto the nearest available target; and for the first time that target proved Ryouga. Ranma should have been her victim: he was the strong one, the one always picking on those weaker than him, the cocky arrogant one, so full of life, so full of himself, so . . . alive.
Ranma lay spread-eagle on the floor, lips twisted in a curious half- smile, and stared sightlessly at the ceiling.
"Leave HIM alone!" Akane howled. She hurled herself at Ryouga. Though his eyes widened with surprise--he must have seen her haymaker coming from miles away --he simply watched the attack approach with the same quizzical look to his face. Her fist connected solidly with his head, powerful enough to shatter brick; he staggered back a few steps.
"Akane?" he said, sounding hurt.
"Get out of here!" she screamed, trembling with anger. A bubble of hysteria swelled up from deep inside: tension stretched to its final limit, the emptiness it barely contained threatened to overwhelm her. . . would she collapse in tears? . . . erupt into violent anger? . . . or simply laugh out loud? She had thought herself strong, in control and able to take care of Ranma, but already she felt her tenuous hold slipping away. Ranma had been _raped_, there was some kind of . . . monster, out there, a predator on the loose . . . he was _pregnant_ . . . it's my fault . . . how could he let that happen to himself . . . how can I think that? "Get out of my house!" Hadn't she said the same thing to _him_ just days ago? Fists clenched at her side and breathing heavily, she stood over the unmoving Ranma. Ryouga seemed to wilt under her furious gaze, confused but unwilling to argue. Shoulders bent he turned towards the exit.
"Stay where you are, Ryouga." Kasumi stood at the entrance to the kitchen, arms crossed. Her voice remained low but held a steely edge; she fixed Akane with a stern look as she spoke. "That's no way to speak to a guest, Akane. I've welcomed Ryouga into our home, and I won't have you speaking to a guest in such a manner."
Akane stared at her older sister, dumbfounded. How could Kasumi contradict her like that? After what Ranma had been through. . . he needed protection from the likes of Ryouga. What if all his other rivals suddenly showed up: Mousse demanding retribution for slurs against Shampoo, Kuno demanding the same for insults to the pigtailed girl; or even worse his suitors, Ukyou, Shampoo, or Kodachi; or Happosai, or Tarou, or. . . or. . .
The full immensity of what had happened suddenly came crashing down upon Akane. Ranma's life was anything but simple or solitary--anything serious that happened to him impacted on so many other lives. How many would learn of his debasement with unadulterated glee? With shock and disappointment? With tears or laughter or derision? Each one would be a terrible blow against her former fiance, far worse than what he had suffered at the hands of his peers a few weeks ago at school. He'd be emotionally defenceless, and she wasn't sure she could protect him from all that. Akane felt an overwhelming surge of hopelessness again and it was all she could do to stop herself from sinking to her knees or burst into tears. With reddening eyes she glared at Ryouga, then at Kasumi, and back again, and she couldn't think of a single word to express how she felt.
Ryouga stood frozen between the two Tendo women. He offered a nervous chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "Umm. . . maybe I should go take a little walk."
"No, you'll sit down and enjoy your tea," Kasumi said, in tone that brooked no argument.
"Kasumi, please. . . ." Akane found her voice, and it came out soft and pleading. She didn't know what she was asking for.
Her sister's countenance softened slightly, though her voice remained firm. "Akane, you're acting very strange."
What answer could she offer to that? Strange? Nothing in their life had been normal since Ranma's arrival over a year ago. Maybe life in the Tendo household had always been slightly unusual before that, but nothing compared to what the Saotomes carried with them, wrestled with and took part in every day, insisted was the way a life should be led--insisted that Akane learn to live with as well. Well, for a week she had sampled what life could be like without Ranma and all the other nutjobs he knew; she'd led the life of an ordinary Japanese teenage schoolgirl, going to class and hanging out with friends and taking part in club activities and even throwing a sleepover at her place. No one had attacked the school or broken down the door of the house or kidnapped her--no one had changed sex unexpectedly or called her fat or stupid or clumsy. Everyone had been very friendly and kind and supportive. She hadn't gotten angry with anyone. She'd even slept well. It had been a very nice week.
A few years ago, before Ranma had appeared, the whole family had taken a vacation trip as a reward for Akane passing her high school entrance exams. The Tendos had gone to Shikoku, to Tokushima prefecture and the 'hidden' Iya valley. There were old stories of villagers who'd lived in isolation for decades, and of shattered samurai armies living in hiding, waiting for the day to avenge their fallen master and totally unaware that whatever war they had fought was long over . . . the thought of meeting an ancient master of a forgotten martial art had been exciting to Akane back then, and she'd carried that hope with her on the trip. Of course, other than visiting a few reconstructed vine bridges and semi- historical sites, most of the trip had been spent at the rented cabin, relaxing and enjoying the nearby hot springs. She remembered Nabiki sitting outside on the deck, totally relaxed in her yukata and with the full splendor of the mountain forests wreathed in mist before her, and the sound of the river rushing through the gorge coming from far below.
"This is nice," her sister had said. "But, man, I'd hate to live out here."
Akane wondered, even if she had never met Ranma, would she have been happy with a life like she'd just experience for the last week?
Martial arts were a part of her life. She'd encountered the fantastical creatures of Ryugenzawa on her own when she was but a child. Happosai would have come visiting whether the Saotomes were living with them or not. She'd already had her own challenges: Kuno and nearly every male club member, for one. Her life certainly hadn't been boring before. Before . . . Ranma.
But he'd brought so much more with him, and before she'd made any kind of choice he'd inadvertently dragged Akane along with her. Would she have chosen to follow had she been given time to decide? It didn't seem to matter anymore.
Ranma was slowly rising to his feet, seemingly oblivious to the tension surrounding him, Kasumi and Ryouga's stares, Akane's own held breath. Without meeting anyone's face he slowly shuffled towards the bathroom.
"Stop acting like a girl!" Ryouga demanded.
There was a sharp intake of breath: Nabiki, standing at the bottom of the stairs. Had she watched the whole thing? Ranma gave no indication that he heard his rival. He didn't slow or turn back. Not even when Akane called out after him. In silence, Ranma slowly left the room.

Nabiki had seen the whole thing: Kasumi trying to hold on to a domestic authority she must feel slipping away without knowing why; Ryouga overcompensating for a fear he couldn't understand through aggression; Akane, calling out to Ranma in a soft, fearful voice, so full of concern and pity; and Ranma. . . .
Nabiki saw in his eyes a look she was all too familiar with: resentful hatred, burning but impotent. It quickly turned inward, twisting into self-loathing, but there was no mistaking the hateful burn at hearing her sister's voice. Nabiki had had similar looks directed at her often enough, as she collected fees from debtors unable to afford to costs, or fulfilled a threat against someone who doubted her ruthlessness. Always the same useless rage as their loss turned into her gain. But what was he losing, or her sister gaining, that, even briefly, he could hate her so?
She'd only had a brief glimpse of Ranma's face, but hadn't liked what she had seen there. There was also a dangerous tension to the boy's features, a tautness to the lines of his face that suggested, to Nabiki, barely repressed violence. She'd felt an unpleasant thrill run through her, a unconscious shiver of fear at the look he'd given her before turning away. She'd never seen Ranma angry--not _really_ angry, though she'd heard a few stories of him getting serious in a fight; she suspected in those brief moments he looked something like he did now. Now wasn't a good time for anybody to be near him. Even Akane, though Nabiki firmly believed that he'd never purposefully do anything to harm her.
"Where do you think you're going, Ranma?" Ryouga yelled after his retreating rival.
"I told you to leave him alone!" Akane said, her voice shrill.
"Akane! That will be enough!"
"Where has that lazy son of mine gone?" When the hell did Mr. Saotome show up?
"Mr. Saotome, no, Ranma needs to be left alone right now!"
"What's happening?" Great, Dad would have to get involved as well.
"What, is he moping girlishly again?"
"Don't SAY that!"
"I won't have you speaking to a guest--"
"He's such a girl--"
"Um, what's happ--"
"What'd you say, boy? I'll--"
"People, people!" Nabiki called out.
Suddenly all the chatter stopped, all eyes turning to her. She had no idea what to say next. She only knew that she needed to calm everyone down. "Some people are trying to take an afternoon nap, you know!"
There was a brief silence. Her father ended it with, "Nabiki, really." And she could see that everyone was ready to erupt into argument again: Ryouga taking a step towards the stairs, Akane flushing red with anger, Genma looking ready to bluster and throw his bulk around, and her father confused and suddenly on the edge of tears. . . only her older sister seemed to remain calm, suddenly seeming far more aware of what was going on than Nabiki would have given her credit for. Well, Nabiki thought, if I can't get them to listen to me, I can at least get them to hate me. I'm good at that.
"But while I'm up," she continued, and allowed a smirk to creep onto her face, "we might as well talk about a number of outstanding debts and allowances . . ."

Nabiki seemed to have everybody briefly occupied, or at least confused. She was talking quickly and gesturing animatedly and keeping the attention focused on herself as she blocked everyone's path to the bathroom. Akane took the opportunity to slip away and out the front door. As she ran around the house towards the side the bathroom faced, she thought about Ranma: she wanted to reach him before anyone else did. Bringing him home had obviously been a mistake. He needed peace and quiet now, not loud bickering and violent threats.
She opened the bathroom window without hesitation, but the sliding door separating the bathtub from the sink and laundry basket was closed. A blurred feminine silhouette stood silently on the other side. There was the sound of running water. The shape opposite her shifted and grew taller and suddenly seemed stronger. The water stopped but Ranma otherwise didn't seem to react. Akane quickly pulled herself through the window and crossed over to the door. She pulled it over.
He stood there, a man once again, with his shirt off and for one fleeting moment Akane could nearly fool herself into thinking that everything was fine, their problems were solved--he was a man! A man couldn't get raped, and he couldn't get pregnant. But he didn't react to her arrival, didn't even seem to notice. He stared deeply into the mirror. One hand hovered lightly over his lower abdomen. He eyes flicked back and forth, as if looking for something in his own reflection.
He shuddered, his whole body convulsing, it seemed, around his belly. One hand clenched the edges of the sink with dangerous strength, but the other grabbed at what little loose flesh there was at his stomach . . . his fingers sunk into his stomach and grabbed and twisted and released and grabbed again; and with his eyes squeezed tight he sunk to his knees, still holding to the sink as it cracked beneath his grip but now he wasn't grabbing at his stomach anymore . . . his hand curled into a tight ball and suddenly he was hitting himself, his fist connecting with a loud smack with his side, his torso. . . .
"Ranma, no!" Akane cried, moving to stop him; but he'd already stopped, looking past her with unseeing eyes. He suddenly sprung forward, catching her by surprise. He clipped her with his shoulder and sent her sprawling, and smashed through the doors behind her. She felt a dull pain in the side of her head and heard something shatter; she fell stunned to the ground, something wet trickling down her forehead, and she dazedly noticed the broken pieces of mirror around her.
In what seemed like mere seconds later, Ryouga stood framed in the doorway. His eyes bulged as he took in the broken doors and shattered glass and cracked porcelain; at Akane on the floor, her forehead slick with blood.
"He hurt you!"
"Ryouga, no," she tried to say, but her voice came out as a whisper, her vision still swimming.
"That bastard hurt you!" Louder, angrier.
"He didn't mean--"
"I'LL KILL HIM!"

Ryouga found his nemesis standing silently in the middle of the dojo, in the dark, illuminated only by the dim light slanting in from outside. It was a miracle that Ryouga hadn't gotten lost while tracking his foe. The thought hadn't occured to him. His mind was too full of rage to think rationally. Tracking Ranma down because of the insult of the bottle cap had been a pleasant divertissement--something to occupy his mind during the long hours on the road. A pleasant reward for the end of a long trip. But this. . . Ranma had hurt _Akane_!
Ryouga didn't bother with insults or declarations as he launched himself at his rival; the anger he felt was beyond anything he could remember feeling. He didn't pull his punch. Ranma didn't dodge. The attack caught him solidly in the face and sent him tumbling across the dojo. Even as he hit the polished floor Ryouga was after him; he buried a kick in Ranma's side and felt with grim satisfaction ribs that nearly splintered beneath the impact. The kick lifted the unresisting body off the ground; with an iron grip he grabbed Ranma by the throat, lifted him into the air, and smashed an elbow into his face. The boy collapsed back to the ground in a silent heap. The only noise in the hall was Ryouga's heavy breathing and the heavier sound of his fist smacking into flesh.
That, more than anything, cut through the red haze that filled his mind. Fights with Ranma weren't supposed to be quiet: there were insults and taunts; the exchange of blows and the declaration of technique names; what was going on here? Panting, he watched as Ranma slowly regained his feet. His rival's face was streaked in blood that gushed from his nose and seeped from cuts along his brow. Skin was already purpling in places, yellowed and black in the centre. Ryouga stared at his passive victim. His gaze was matched in silence. Blood dripped from chin and nose and trickled down Ranma's bare chest. As Ranma held Ryouga's gaze his lips slowly curled into a mocking smile. Both arms hung loosely at his side, but then spread slightly--it was an open invitation to strike at his undefended torso.
Was this some kind of trick? It had to be . . . some new bizarre technique of passive resistance. He'd suck up all the power of his attacks and return it in all in one apocalyptic punch . . . or something. It had to be. Why else would he just stand there?
"Why won't you fight me?" Ryouga demanded. No answer came. "What's wrong with you?" Again, nothing. "You think you can just ignore me, is that it? You think that'll save you? After what you did to Akane?" Ryouga thought he saw a flicker of--something, recognition maybe?--flash through his rival's eyes. It was something he could follow up on; pulping an unresponsive opponent wasn't much fun, and while it didn't make Ryouga feel terribly guilty there was little honour to be had in finally defeating Ranma if he wouldn't put up a fight. "Yeah, you bastard, I've always known you didn't deserve her but I didn't think you'd stoop so low as to _hit_ her! " Again, a reaction buried deep within his eyes; and his arms fell back to his side. Ryouga took a deep, happy breath. "You're the worst thing that ever happened to her! And I bet you don't even care! You probably enjoy stringing her along like the rest of your girls, right? Well, it stops tonight!"
Ranma took a step forward--it was slow and loose but almost contained a hint of aggression.
"Don't like what I'm saying, Ranma? The truth hurts, doesn't it! But you don't have anything to say . . . maybe you finally get it. You're scum, Ranma--you're insulting and violent and abusive and perverted." Something started to smoulder deep inside his rival's eyes. "She should've dumped you ages ago, you know that? Well after tonight, I don't think you'll be wanted around here for much longer. Fiance? Ha! Like she'd marry a freak like you!"
Unexpectedly, those final words seemed to siphon the growing anger away from Ranma . . . he went limp, his gaze dropping to the floor. Ryouga felt an unexpected panic . . . something was really, really wrong here. But he couldn't stop. The need to avenge Akane ran parallel with the fear that he'd just been thrust into something way over his head. He fumbled slightly before finding his way again. "Hey . . . no, wait . . . you think you can just ignore me, Ranma?" He stepped forward and backhanded his opponent across the face, but compared to his earlier assault it was barely a tap. "Stop acting like a girl!"
Ranma's head suddenly snapped up. His eyes narrowed and his lips grew thin and tight.
"You don't like it when I say that, do you?" Ryouga said, sneering and stepping closer, and inside he felt a personal triumph at having finally gotten through to him. Maybe now they could finally have a proper duel and he could win Akane's affection! "Well, if you're going to act like a girl," Ryouga said, and rearing back he delivered a savage side- thrust to Ranma's midriff, "you should look like one, too!"
The kick sent Ranma flying once again, but this time he slammed into the bucket full of water the Tendos' kept in case of a fire within the dojo. The container upended and its contents splashed all over Ranma. A wet and bedraggled and female Ranma lay in the heap on the floor.
That ought to do it, Ryouga thought, and he smiled.
The pigtailed boy's head snapped up. Ryouga gave an involuntary gulp at the look in his eyes. They were far from dead or blank. They burned with a rage unlike any he had ever seen there before. His rival rose in a crouch that was nearly feral. His lips curled back and even at several meters away he could hear the heavy, gulping intake of breath.
Ranma howled. There were no coherent words, only a primal expression of anger and hate and loss that filled the dojo with its fury. His head was thrown back, his eyes squeezed shut and arms wide as he rose, and tears poured down his face and washed through the blood as he continued to scream. Finally his voice died out, in the trailing screech of a throat stripped raw. He stood there panting. He focused on Ryouga once again.
"Because of you, I've seen Hell?" Ryouga said, suddenly feeling a lot less sure of himself.
With a savage, inarticulate cry, his rival flew at him. Ranma was a flurry of punches and kicks, slamming into Ryouga with unmitigated rage, screaming all the time, face twisted with anger, teeth bared, blue eyes wide and staring madly through a streaked mask of tears and blood and bruises . . . Ryouga fell back beneath the onslaught and suddenly feared for his life--in a very real and panicky way that he had rarely known before, and never when fighting Ranma. The strikes came fast and strong and Ryouga tried to take as many as he could on his forearms, throwing up what defence he could, but Ranma seemed everywhere, half-naked and female and clawing and kicking and grabbing and howling like a deranged animal.
Ryouga didn't know what was going on--this wasn't the way it was supposed to be. Ranma was the smooth, controlled fighter, the one who dodged and avoided until the last moment then threw the final attack that ended it all; or who matched his opponent with steely determination until that inevitable weakness presented itself, the flaw in the technique. . . But this, this was fighting like. . . .
Like me, he thought, and with a roar of his own he dropped his defences and launched himself forward. A dozen nearly crippling blows left him numb and almost blind with pain but then he passed through the storm of attacks and slammed bodily into his smaller opponent and sent him sprawling. Ranma was back on his feet immediately, but now Ryouga had regained his footing he was better able to meet the attack. They were undisciplined, ungodly fast and terribly strong but almost entirely unskilled; they were the furious thrashings of a child and not the controlled strikes of the master martial artist that he knew Ranma to be. Ranma had gone silent, panting with exhaustion but still pressing the attack, only now Ryouga was able to deflect and outright dodge the worst of the onslaught. He sidestepped a kick and ducked beneath the following punch and slapped the next few away at the elbow; and weaving in close he slammed a punch into his rival's shoulder that staggered him. He stayed close and with grim efficiency continued to pummel Ranma whenever the opportunity presented itself: a kick to the thigh, a punch in the ribs, a ridge-hand to the collarbone; and finally Ranma was slowing down, the unrelenting speed of his attack exhausting him, the damage of Ryouga's attacks finally catching up. . . .
The opportunity Ryouga was waiting for presented itself: a brief window in which Ranma was forced to catch his breath and was left wide open. A swift hooking kick to the back of the knee buckled Ranma's legs. Ryouga rushed forward, hauled him forward by one shoulder and cracked his elbow into his face. Ranma slumped backwards to the ground but Ryouga wasn't going to give him a chance to recover; he followed his opponent down, dropping onto Ranma's thighs and trapping his legs and forcing them apart and denied him any leverage, while keeping the body pinned down by pressing his weight down on one shoulder. His free hand pulled back for a finishing punch.
"This is the end, Ranma!" Ryouga cried. But before he could deliver the blow he could tell that the fight was over--Ranma was again retreating into himself, seeming to withdraw as far from his own body as was possible. "No you don't," Ryouga demanded, and pounded him in the shoulder. "You won't ignore me again! You'll pay for everything you've done to me! You'll know the hell that I've known!"
Ranma was suddenly horribly awake and fully present before him, thrashing madly beneath his grip but unable to break his pin, eyes staring wildly around as if seeking an escape, and Ryouga realized that his opponent was speaking in a terrified whisper: "not again, please, not again. . . ."
Ryouga grabbed him by both shoulders and lifted him up and slammed him back down. He held him there but suddenly felt strangely aware of his opponent's naked breasts, that it was a half-naked woman he held pinned beneath him. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

***

What answer could possibly suffice?
The air felt hot and stuffy despite the coolness of the night. The floor, wooden planks running lengthwise beneath, their waxy grainy coarseness. An absence of light, only a feeble glow reaching from the house that seemed intrusive, unwanted, highlighting Ryouga like a dull halo. Ranma suddenly could no longer deny an immediacy of being, that it was _him_ pinned spread-eagle to the floor, his rival hunched over him panting, bleeding, angry, confused, worried.
Not that Ranma had been entirely absent from the day's flight. He could remember running through the streets, the lashing rain, punches, blood. His mother's home, his mother, holding him but holding Ranko, not her son, failed offspring. Akane, coming to bring him home. Sad eyes laden with pity. He could remember but he couldn't feel those events. They were disjointed, a series of images in somebody else's photo album without anyone to explain them. Memories were supposed to be more than just scattered pictures in his head. Shouldn't there be emotions connected to them? He couldn't feel anything. He saw himself desperately clinging to his mother and felt nothing. It might not even have happened.
Pain. Heavy weight grinding into each thigh. A hand gripping his shoulder. Dullness across his side, a prelude to bruises. He could taste blood. Someone was over him. Ryouga. With one fist held back, eyes wide, snarling through cracked lips and a bloodied face. They were fighting but Ranma couldn't remember why. It must be serious, he thought. He looks pretty beat up, I don't think I've ever gone at him that hard before. Not even after he used that stupid fishing rod on me.
_trust me, no boyfriend. No guy'll ever go out with her._
_ aren't I your friend?_
_ everything was going fine, and you just had to screw it up!_
How about that time they'd fought over Akane, back when the Bakusai Tenketsu was supposed to kill people--that had been a tough fight. It had taken a lot to put the moron down. He still couldn't believe the guy had been willing to use a technique he thought was deadly. But he'd saved him anyway. Pulled him from the water. Then collapsed by the river, exhausted, battered and bruised. Female.
_ yes, Ranma, you are, please be a girl_
_ you want to stay, don't you?_
The best of his rivals. An enemy to measure himself by. Anything he learns I can do better. He might beat me once but I'll get him the second time around. Nobody keeps Ranma Saotome down.
_I would never hurt you._
"What's wrong with you?"
And he was on his back in the dojo half-naked with Ryouga towering over him, one hand pinning him down and his legs were spread, pinned to the floor, beaten and terrified, weak, weak . . . what was the point of struggling? But the eyes that stared down at him revealed only confusion, anger and victory.
"I was raped," Ranma said.

They were sitting in the dojo. Silence between them, in the dark.
"You were . . . raped?"
A single jerky nod.
"How?"
An answer was needed but none would come. "I don't know."
"You don't--"
"I don't remember. I was drunk. I don't remember."
"Then how do you. . . .?"
Akane was sick. "Tofu ran a test."
"A test."
A long silence beneath the empty vaulted ceiling.
"I don't understand."
"With blood."
_ there was blood. Your blood. On the bed sheets. On your legs._
"I don't--"
"I'm pregnant, Ryouga."

Why am I telling him this? He's my enemy. He wants Akane. He doesn't care.
"That's . . . wow. Shit. You're pre-- shit. Shit."
Nothing to say.
"When did you find out?"
_Akane is really okay?_
"Today. This morning."
"This morning. Ranma, I'm. . . ." He looked away.
The dojo was cold. Sounds filtered in from outside, beyond the walls: a woman's voice, softly singing. Nothing was said for a long time.
"What?" Ranma demanded.
"Heh."
Was the bastard laughing?
"I'm sorry, Ranma." Ryouga stood up, his features hooded by the dark. "We shouldn't have fought." A glint of light, from a bared fang. "I don't pick on the weak."

The tree against his back, bark cutting into his hand, lungs burning hot in his chest. Surrounded by friends and peers, all watching as he lost, as he finally got what was coming to him. Everybody likes to see a winner lose. They'd been waiting for it to happen. Now thanks to Happosai and his damned pressure point chart they were about to. Kuno with bokken raised, Mousse and his chains, the principal, even Gosunkugi--and he was too weak to defend himself, already battered and wounded. Arms raised to fend off blows that never landed.
"If it's not one, it's another." Ryouga. He was strong; they couldn't get past him.
Was he supposed to be grateful? "What . . . you're saving me for yourself?"

Is that what he thinks I am?
He was right. Which is why he had ended on the floor. Almost naked, exposed. He'd tried to fight, launching himself at his rival. Only to be pinned, legs splayed open. Was that how it happened before? He couldn't remember. Shouldn't that bother him? Shouldn't thinking about it bother him? There was nothing there. Only Ryouga standing triumphant over him. He deserved it. Ranma didn't stand. He had nothing to say.
His rival squatted next to him. Ranma found it hard to meet his gaze. There wasn't any of the anger he was used to seeing. But it wasn't a friendly gaze, either. He was enjoying this, probably. The winner had lost.
"What were you expecting?"
Ranma looked away.
"You thought I'd take pity on you? Try and ease your pain?"
"Go 'way."
"I told you that one day I'd destroy your happiness, Ranma. But it looks like you managed it all on your own."

The umbrella flashed red in the bright sunlight. He snatched it from the air effortlessly--almost as easily as Ranma had dodged its razor edge.
"No matter what it takes," Ryouga snarled, "I shall destroy your happiness."
Ranma looked askew to Akane. "Am I happy?"
"Don't ask me!"
But he had been, then.

Ryouga kept talking. In the dark under the vaulted ceiling, as Ranma remained silent.
"Seems like your curse finally caught up to you. You always liked to complain but you never really knew how bad it could be. For the rest of us. Mousse and Shampoo, and me. You always had it so easy. Cold water and you lost a few inches, turned a little curvy . . . big deal. So what. We turn into animals, Ranma. Animals! And you have no idea of what that's like. How helpless we feel. Defenseless. You can't even--well. I had nightmares, you know, for weeks after the fight with Herb. I'm sure Mousse did as well. We were trapped! Trapped as beasts. What kind of life could we have had? But you saved us, Ranma.
"--have any idea how many times I've almost been eaten? Eaten. I've almost ended up a meal. Can you--
"--so you'll have to excuse me, Ranma, if I don't have much pity for you."
Ranma pressed his thighs together tightly and hugged his knees to his chest. He looked up at Ryouga. He could see him a little better despite the dark. His rival looked away and stood and took a few steps.
"This isn't how I wanted to win, Ranma," Ryouga said, speaking over his shoulder. "There was no honour to be won tonight."
He couldn't think of anything to say other than, "Sorry." For not giving a damn. For being pregnant. For getting himself raped. For not fighting better. For letting everyone down.
A short, cold laugh. "I'm going to take a walk, Ranma."
"Bye."
"I'll be back in a month."
I tried going away too, Ranma thought. And everything was so much worse when I came back.
Ryouga turned sharply and fixed him with a gaze that seemed to glisten in the faint light. "I'll . . . I'll be back in a month! For a rematch. Another fight. You understand? I can't accept this. I won't accept this! When next we meet, I'll send you to Hell, Ranma! But it'll be the hell _I_ choose for you. . . ."
Ranma watched as his friend fled from the dojo into the empty night.

Ranma decided to stand up and go for a walk himself. It didn't occur to him to head back into the house. Or to find a shirt or grab his shoes. The air was cool and refreshing against his bare torso. He walked with a slight limp. As he walked he examined himself with some wonder. The angry red welts from earlier were almost hidden within the bruises Ryouga had given him. They spread across his sides and stomach. The pain was dull but persistent, and somehow didn't seem to matter. He would heal. Looking down at himself he had to look past his breasts. They were bruised as well. He hefted one in his hand and felt its soft weight in his palm. The nipple stood partially erect in the cool air. Is this why he wanted me? Ranma wondered. Because of this? Did he hold them in his hands like this before he . . . before he . . .
No. He blinked rapidly against tears he felt forming. No. Ranma kept walking, but found himself stepping down a side street. He suddenly didn't want to be seen. Not all battered and bruised like this. He felt exposed, vulnerable. With tears in his eyes. What would people think?
They'd think that the winner lost. They'd think you look like a rape victim.
He broke into a run, and managed only a few steps before the pain in his leg sent him sprawling. He hit the wall hard and crashed into a garbage can before falling to the ground. The metal lid hit the ground with a resounding clang. Terrified of being seen he scrambled away on all fours and regained his footing and fled down the alley. He found himself huddled behind machinery in an alcove behind some business--the hum and vibration of the machine and the hot, curling wisps of steam that escaped the vent comforted him. At first Ranma couldn't hear much. He held himself and shivered. Then there were voices: the voices of men raised in cheer, businessmen drinking in a bar. A little down the alley a door stood open, shedding light and happy sounds. It was too much to take; Ranma ran again, as quickly as his leg would allow him. He gave up on trying to wipe the tears from his eyes, not even knowing why he was crying, not caring, not understanding what he was feeling but suddenly inexplicably afraid of the dark.
Instinct led him through the shadowed streets of Nerima. Once he stopped he slumped to the ground and thankfully leaned back against the smooth concrete behind him. Slowly the furious pounding of his heart subsided. He looked around but it took a few moments to recognize his surroundings. Shallow water flowed sluggishly by. Pebbles rolled beneath his bare feet. The underbelly of the bridge stood stark and gray against the starry night overhead. The ground around him had been disturbed recently. Other people escaped to this place as well. He felt comfortable and safe. Ranma decided to rest here. At this moment he couldn't think of anywhere else he would rather be. Other than the quiet murmur of the canal it was quiet. Light spilled over the side of the bridge overhead and sent scuttling glimmers along the edge of ripples in the water. He lost himself in the play of light and sat there without thought.
Stones crunched underfoot at her approach. The weight of her step, a faint smell: he knew it was Akane. He didn't acknowledge her presence; he had nothing to say. He watched the water flow past. After a storm like today it would take some time for the canal to drop back to its normal level. She seemed to carry with her the presence of the world he had left behind: the wind, murmuring to him softly, the city, distant and full of harsh, angry noises, the footsteps of a couple crossing the bridge. Ranma felt little need to add to the multiplicities of sound intruding on his retreat.
"Ranma?" Her voice was tentative. He picked at the stones between his toes. "Ranma, I brought some things for you." She moved in front of him. Her steps were as hesitant as her words. She had a bag with her. She pulled out a shirt and some shoes. "I found Ryouga lost in our kitchen." Akane gave a wan smile. "He looked pretty rough. He told me that you two fought, and that he left you in the dojo. But you weren't there." She offered up the shirt. It was one of hers. Black and pink, cute. She looked sheepish. "I left the house in a hurry and grabbed the first things I could find." The shoes were his, though. She hesitated. "And . . . I brought a thermos. Hot water."

". . . then maybe I'll just throw it away!"
"No!" he cried out. "Meanie! Meanie!"
The sky a startling blue. An argument, battle, a wound, late for class, bucket duty, another fight, a three story fall into a swimming pool: his first day at school. Sitting in a tree ringing out his pants. His breast smarting where Kuno had mauled it. Later it would purple slightly, a bruised reminder. The first time a man had touched him there.
"Whither Ranma Saotome?"

Akane was waiting for an answer. Holding the thermos and clothes, watching him expectantly. Ranma understood that he was supposed to say something now. He had nothing to say. He thought back to what he said to Ryouga and wondered that so much was spoken aloud. But then, Ryouga had earned his answers through pain. Not that my words hold any value. My words aren't precious. A man's words are only worth as much as the man himself.
"Ranma? Aren't you going to say anything?"
No. Because nothing he could say would help. Could only make things worse. There was something gnawing inside of him. Staring at the waves drew him outside of himself and helped him forget. The backlit clouds scuttling across the sky, grey on black. Insistent curls of green pushing their way through the stones at the water's edge. Akane's voice pulled him away from all that. What was he trying to forget? He only had her word that anything had happened. Except that he had known all along that something was wrong, not just with Akane but with himself. Nightmares, images flashing across his mind he tried to ignore, the physical feeling that something wasn't right: these had been haunting him for the last two weeks. When Dr. Tofu and Akane had fumbled their way to telling him the truth. . . he hadn't doubted them for a second. His own doubts, unspoken, buried away, had been confirmed.
But I don't _remember_ anything, he thought. I don't want to remember. But her voice insisted that he _should_ remember; and staring into the water his own shadowed reflection seemed to turn sinister and a darkened face somehow familiar stared back at him. He shivered and hugged himself tighter.
She reached out to touch him.
"Don't touch me," he said.
Akane stayed her hand. "Can't you trust me?"
He looked at her directly for the first time since her arrival. Kneeling next to him she watched him with brown eyes large with pity and concern. Ranma felt something burgeoning inside, a feeling rooted deep within that reached past the gnawing emptiness. It blossomed slowly but steadily as he stared into those limpid eyes, a diffuse warmth that felt all the hotter after the nothingness that had preceded it. Only once he found his fists clenched tightly at his side did he realize his whole body hummed with fury. He stared at Akane and felt such hatred that he almost felt physically ill. His vision swam with the effort of restraining what he felt. She probably thinks I'm crying again, Ranma thought.
"How can I?" he said, the words sounding venomous to his own ears.
The hurt that filled her eyes brought him pleasure. How can I feel this way towards you? he wondered. How can I want to say or do something to hurt you so badly? How can I trust her when she looks at me like that? With sudden insight he saw how open her pity left her. She was focused entirely outwards, all the guards she normally kept between them were laid low. It would be so easy to reach out and emotionally tear her apart--to twist that pity into hatred, or bitterness; he understood what pleasure causing that pain could bring him. He would rather see hatred in her eyes than pity. Anything but that.
Her gaze underwent a subtle shift, a slight hardening: like a pane a glass tilted under light, her eyes were no longer clear but rather mirrored. He though he saw himself reflected there for a moment, his own anger thrown back at himself.
"I'm sorry, Ranma," Akane said, though he couldn't imagine what for.
Ranma didn't want to deal with all this: thinking, emotions, what was going through other peoples' heads, or through his own. "Go away," he said, looking away. His voice was calmer than he would have expected. Already he could feel that flash of rage draining away. "Leave me alone." He suddenly felt exhausted, pushing these few words past his lips more tiring than he would have imagined.
"You have to talk about this, Ranma," Akane said. "You can't keep it all inside."
"No," he said. Somehow that didn't seem enough. "It's been . . . a bad day," he said, and gave a dry, empty chuckle. "One really bad day, Akane." He took a deep breath. "I don't want to talk."
But she didn't go away, and for a long time just sat there next to him. He wondered if she was watching the play of light across the waves as he was. Ranma felt himself withdrawing once again; the sounds of the city retreated further away. Yet her presence continued to intrude. He could smell her. Her girl's scent. When she finally spoke it came almost as a surprise.
"Fine," Akane said. "Don't talk, then. I'll do all the talking. And then I'll leave you alone if you want me to. But I hope you won't, Ranma. Because you shouldn't be alone right now." Yes, I should be. "I . . . I can't imagine what you're thinking right now. What you feel." Nothing. "And I wish I could offer you more. Say something that could make things better somehow. But . . . but I don't know what to say, Ranma, I don't know what to do and I'm scared, I'm scared of what's going to happen to you and I'm scared that you'll just take off and and . . . and that it'll be all my fault, because I had this one chance to say the right thing and I wasn't smart enough to know what it should be.
"But I know there's nothing I can say, not really. I don't know what you're feeling right now but I know that. Words aren't enough. Not for this. But . . . but maybe they can help. Ranma. I'm not very good at this. I'm sorry. I'm not Kasumi, or Nabiki, or your mother or . . . or even Ryouga, I guess. And you probably hate me right now." Yes. "I deserve that. I do. For everything that's happened." No. "Us fighting at the party. For you getting drunk." No. "And . . . for everything else, for what happened after, for what happened," no!, "for . . . oh, Ranma, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, it's all my fault--"
"NO!"
He hadn't realized he had moved until he felt Akane tremble beneath his grasp. Standing, he held her by the shoulders in a grip that had to be painfully tight, his face pressed closed to hers. Her eyes were wide with surprise and fright. Ranma wanted to shake her, he wanted to throw her down, he wanted to run away, he . . . he didn't know what he wanted to do but he couldn't bear to hear her speak another word.
"Ranma?" Her voice was small and frightened.
"Don't say that! Don't say any of that!" His whole body shook with indecision, but then he released her with a spastic jerk. She fell back a step before finding solid footing. "It's not your fault!" He stalked away from her, quick angry steps that brought him beyond the shadow of the bridge. He spun and stared at her. His breathing suddenly felt laboured. She stood there uncertainly, pale in the faint light. "It's not your fault, it's mine!"
"Ranma, no!" she started to say, stepping towards him. "You can't believe--"
"Shut up!" he screamed at her. "Shut the fuck up! This isn't your fault! This has _nothing_ to do with you! These were _my_ decisions, not yours! It was _my_ choice!"
Ranma could see it in her eyes, the concern and the sympathy, a shimmering prelude to tears. He didn't want to see her like that. He never wanted her to look at him like that, couldn't bear to be pitied by her. He wanted to pluck out her eyes, wanted to bash her to the ground. He wanted her to leave and get as far away from him as possible because at this moment he couldn't trust himself. He wanted her to run away and look back over her shoulder at him in any other way, with anger or hate or fear or disgust or . . . love.
"Please," she tried to interrupt.
"Leave me alone!" he yelled at her. "Don't you understand? This isn't your fault and this isn't your problem and I don't. want. your. help! Go away!"
Akane's face drained of colour. She stared back at him through tear- filled eyes, and then dropped the bag she was holding. "Fine." Without another word she turned and ran.
The moment she twisted away Ranma regretted everything he had said and wished he could take them back, no matter how true his words might be. As she pulled away he suddenly felt alone . . . terribly alone, and the emptiness within threatened to overwhelm him again. It was tempting to slip back into that non-being again, empty of thought and feeling. Only now something nebulous and threatening hovered just beyond the edge of darkness . . . Ranma thought he could hear faint steps, or whispers.
_aren't I your friend, Ranma?_
He slapped his hands over his ears and whimpered. No.
_yes, yes, Ranma, you are, please be a girl_
He could feel it, the phantom trace of fingers passing across his stomach. Shuddering, Ranma squeezed his eyes shut. No, please . . . go away.
_I'm sorry, Ranma_
Hands on his breasts, the small of his back. Drifting lower. A heavy weight pushing him down. Couldn't breath. Paralysed with fear and remembrance. Of what was coming next. . . .
_don't be scared_
"Don't be scared." Arms encircled him, held him close.
"Don't leave," he whispered. "Thank you for not leaving."
"Not even if you ask me to," Akane said.

The relief he felt at her presence quickly turned to bitterness, at her having seen him so weak, frightened, and blubbering like a little girl with a skinned knee. He hated her for hearing, coming back, and holding him tight as he trembled and whimpered until the memories receded. He loathed himself for hating her. He despised the glimmer of pity she couldn't conceal in her eyes. But he didn't want her to leave after all.
They sat side by side beneath the bridge once again. He slipped on his shoes and pulled her shirt down over his head. It was a tight fit across his chest and brought the bruises Ryouga had left there back to mind. He didn't touch the thermos. His unbound hair hung in straggly lines across his face. Ranma suddenly felt exhausted and wanted nothing more than to sleep.
"Are you hungry?" Akane asked.
Ranma knew he ought to be but didn't have any appetite. The last time he had eaten had been breakfast, which now seemed ages ago. His father had stolen most of his food, even. He shook his head.
"I know you don't want to talk about it," Akane said. "Maybe we should head home, then?"
Again, he shook his head. "No," he said. "I don't have a home, remember?"
He noticed her guilty wince. "That's not true."
"'Get out of my house,' you said. Remember?"
"I didn't mean it. I was angry. That was before--."
"No!" he insisted. "Nothings changed."
"Everything's changed, Ranma," she said softly.
He watched her from the corner of his eye. She looked tired, her features drawn and wan. No wonder she wanted to go home. Of course, she wouldn't leave without him. I don't have anywhere else to go, he thought. But I can't follow her home either. There's too much there. Too many people.
"I can't accept that," he said. "This morning you hated me--"
"I didn't hate you."
"You wanted me out of your life."
"No. Yes." She took a deep breath. "I don't know. I was confused and didn't know what to do. I thought something horrible had been done to you. I was sick with worry. And I was angry with you. And you said those horrible things this morning and I thought you hated _me_ and . . . I made a mistake. I shouldn't have thrown you out. I should have--"
"Stop it!" he cried. "Dammit, Akane, stop apologizing!"
"But--"
"You're saying this because . . . because of what's happened. But your feelings haven't changed. You just think they have, because when you look at me now you see . . . you don't see _me_, you see what happened to me. And all you feel is pity. I don't want your pity, Akane. I don't want anyone's pity."
Some of what he said hit home. She dropped her gaze and fiddled with the strap of her bag. Eventually she stopped and in a low, defeated voice said, "I wish we had never gone to that party."
There was nothing he could add to that. The different possibilities of the past were closed to him now. Nor could he imagine a future for himself after what had happened.
Akane pulled a small white box with a green cross from her bag. "I brought this, too." It was a first aid kit. "Ryouga said he beat you up pretty bad."
Yes, because I'm weak, he thought. And then: I'll get him back in a month. The very idea took him by surprise and he didn't know where it came from. It was impossible.
She opened the kit and started to pull out bandages and ointment. "Let me have a look at those cuts on your face."
"Don't bother," he said. "It won't make any difference."

"It doesn't make any difference at all."
Outside the wind blew heavily, rattling the sliding doors of the dojo. He sat cross-legged, still smarting from the dozens of punches and kicks received this morning. And from a single disgusting kiss he hadn't been able to stop.
"But really, to let yourself be kissed so easily!" The antiseptic swab stung as she cleaned a cut across his left cheek, and covered it with a square plaster. Mikado's skates had left their mark.
"Ouch."
She stuck a bandage across the bridge of his nose. "You haven't trained enough."

I trained my whole life, he thought, and it wasn't enough.
"Sorry if that stung," Akane said, cleaning a cut over his eye. The pasting Ryouga had given him was far worse than anything Mikado was capable of.
"If you don't mind, then I don't," he said. He gave a hollow laugh.
"Excuse me?"
Everything had been so much simpler back then. Or had it? He looked at the girl kneeling across from him, eying him quizzically. It had been so difficult. She had been so close. And he had wanted to kiss her then, badly. For so many conflicted reasons. The risks and possibilities had lain between them so thickly.
Ranma took Akane by the shoulders, this time gently, and leaned forward and kissed her. Their lips met and he felt her surprise, but then she relaxed and her lips softened into his kiss. It was so easy now. Their lips parted; her tongue brushed his. He breathed in through the curtain of her hair. His hands curled through the thinness of her shirt and gripped the strength beneath. She submitted to his embrace, arms limp at her side. He held her for a long moment and slowly drew back.
She passed the back of her hand across her lips, slowly, and as she did she looked at him with eyes that were hopeful and confused, then hurt, and finally sad. Akane looked away and closed the first aid kit. "Why now, Ranma?"
Because I don't have anything to lose anymore. "I don't know."
"I wouldn't have minded, back then."
"Same here." He sighed. "I was afraid, I guess. I loved you so much."
A sharp intake of breath. She spun on him; gravel crunched loudly beneath her foot. "What did you say?"
He shrugged. "It doesn't matter."
"How dare you," she hissed. "How dare you say that now?"
"Would have saying it earlier made a difference?"
She stared at him with mouth agape. "Would it-- how can-- you--," she finally managed, before sputtering into silence. He watched with fascination as her jaw tightened. Something hot began to smoulder in the depths of her eyes. Ranma felt a sudden and unexpected elation at the notion that he had angered Akane. He wanted to see her in the full bloom of anger; he wanted her to scream. He wanted her to hurt him.
"Why do you care?" he asked, with a hint of the taunting voice that never failed to enrage her.
Akane surprised him by visibly restraining herself. "I . . . don't know," she said. She suddenly seemed distant from him. In the pale moonlight the lines of her anger were removed, and she appeared cold, almost uncaring. But when she asked, "How long have you known?" her voice trembled slightly, like someone asking with sick fascination about a terrible accident involving someone they knew.
Since this morning, he was going to say, but he hesitated. He wasn't going to lie to her--not about this, not right now. The varied and tumultuous emotions her presence triggered briefly quelled . . . anger, sadness, bitterness faded and he felt an unexpected moment of tranquility as he looked over at her. What he had felt this morning was only an expression of something that had existed un-admitted for far longer. Ranma's mind slipped back, touching on the shared experiences between them. Valentines' Day and a chocolate heart. An encounter in a closet over a jealous dogi; is that where it started? No, much earlier. A hot spring resort and the curse of an offended doll. The magic of a legendary umbrella--a brief moment, hesitant smiles shared beneath tattered cover when the myth nearly seemed true. A glimpse of something that had already been there. Further back. Ryugenzawa. Yes, Ryugenzawa. The emptiness left by her choosing Shinnosuke . . . the submission to her decision, the sudden willingness to die for her so she could live happy with someone else; wasn't that love? Maybe, but it hadn't started there. Returning from his battle with Herb, an embrace shared without defences between them. Another embrace: attempted revenge on Nabiki that became something unexpected, something precious. Before then, even. What he felt for her as she hefted her own pack to join him when it seemed his strength was gone for good. But that memory was tainted with the pity she felt for him, the resentment he felt for her, emotions that returned to him with the clarity of an echo. Even then he couldn't bear to appear weak before her, couldn't accept her pity, refused to fail her in any way . . . but if he hadn't cared for Akane, what would her opinion have mattered?
With a clarity that momentarily seemed to overwhelm his present surroundings, he suddenly remembered the precise moment when he first realized that he loved Akane. There was nothing exceptional about the moment--other than the realization itself--no heroic rescue or declaration of passion . . . just a moment much like any other, a quiet, relaxed time spent in her company when he looked over and saw her by the soft light at night and felt a sudden, inexorable tightening in his chest. She was sitting so close to him. He couldn't continue looking at her. He felt faint, his mind reeling, and dropped his gaze. Brightly coloured leaves. Vivid yellow. Her sundress. The wood of the floor solid beneath his palm. Faint wisps of smoke wafting from the hollow porcelain pig set behind them. Sakura blossom pattern scattered across the paper fan in his hand. Bright red slices of watermelon sitting on a plate next to Akane. The house was quiet as they relaxed by the entrance. The garden was calm in the summer air. Moonlight glistened in silvery drops against a stone lantern. When he looked back she tilted her head and gave a little smile, a cute wrinkling of her nose.
"Ranma?"
It was loose stone beneath his feet, not wood, and the wind was far colder tonight than it had been then. The woman sitting across from him wasn't smiling. "Remember a year ago, maybe a bit more, when Ryouga came after me with the breaking point?" She nodded and he continued, relishing the memory. Rancid curry. The Dodge of a Thousand Bees. A real fight-- one of the first to force him to his limits and beyond. Flitting through the trees, mind racing faster than ever before, Ryouga waiting strong and nigh indestructible, and the sudden creation of a new technique, knowledge and practice coming together with such seeming simplicity that it was all he could do to keep himself from laughing out loud as he launched himself at his rival--
"I remember," Akane said. He took a deep breath, forcefully relaxing muscles that felt ready to spring forward. "It was a few days after that. I don't know. Ryouga had left. We were sitting and looking out over the garden. There wasn't anything special, really." He shrugged. "But that's when I knew."
In the weighty silence that followed he suddenly realized how much her response would mean to him. He watched carefully for any reaction, the faintest of smiles, a slight blush, a hesitant shifting of her eyes. What do I want her to say? That she loved me too, and I lost her because I never said anything? If I'd told her the night of the party we wouldn't have fought, I wouldn't have drank, I wouldn't have been-- been-- Her loving me then, would make all this so much worse. And if she didn't love me? His mind quailed at the thought. No answer would suffice. He felt himself withdrawing from her. He needed to distance himself. From her, away from everything. Emptiness. He wanted to be numb to these conflicted feelings. So very tired, Ranma no longer wanted her to answer.
Akane leaned forward and pulled him into an embrace. She kissed him tenderly on the forehead and held him close. "Come home with me, Ranma," she whispered into his ear. "Please, just . . . come home."
The physical contact with her brought back a swell of emotions he could not repress. "I can't," he said, but the words caught in his throat. "I--" Ranma felt so small in her arms. He wanted nothing more then to lose himself into Akane. The briefly enjoyed clarity and peace of memory slipped away nearly as quickly as it had come, and the contrast between what he had been _then_ and what he was _now_--it was more than he could handle. How much was lost in a moment he could not even remember? What was he now? A broken, empty girl. A victim. Weak. He felt the tears well up in his eyes, the sobs that threatened to overwhelm him. "I--" I won't cry. I won't break down. I won't be a loser, not in front of Akane not again after what I said as a girl I can let go, no, let go, "Let go!" With a strangled sob he tore free of her hold and fell to one side, scrabbling into the gravel, chest heaving with each breath. He could still feel the hands sliding across his flesh, holding him, possessing him. "I can't!" he wailed. The tears came then and wouldn't stop. Trying to pull away his strength gave out and he collapsed to the ground. Cold earth between his fingers, pressing into his face, the taste and smell in his mouth and nose. He couldn't stop crying. He couldn't escape the feeling of someone holding him. Pressing down on him. The nauseating ache deep in his belly. The need to curl tightly around the violation and squeeze until it ruptured; the impulse to tear the infection out. Half-crawling half- scrambling, he instinctively withdrew back into the comforting shadow of the bridge. His cries grew quiet, though no less intense; and a corner of his mind that briefly escaped the loathing and despair consuming him thought, I won't go back, I can't go back.
This is all I deserve.

Hiroshi looked out across the water. Sayuri's arms encircled him as she held him from behind. She laid her head against his back and released a contented sigh. If only Daisuke could see us now, he thought wryly. He felt like . . . like he was so much _more_ when he was with her. He felt something new and exhilarating and frightening when he held her close. I'm not sure, he thought, but there's a definite possibility that I'm falling for her badly.
It was more than he could have ever hoped for: a sexy, smart, popular, funny and . . .well, sexy girlfriend who really seemed to like him. He kept waiting for things to go horribly wrong but so far nothing had; he wasn't screwing up or saying stupid stuff. (Or at least when I do, he thought, I can usually stumble my way through the right thing to make it better). He knew he ought to be elated. It was more than he deserved, certainly. He was out on a date with his girlfriend. He was out on a date with his _girlfriend_! The thought almost brought a smile to his lips.
But it didn't.
"I had a really good time tonight." Sayuri spoke softly into his back. He could feel her voice against his skin. "I didn't think I would, after a day like today." She gave him a quick hug. "But you made everything better. Hiroshi."
A few meters below the water flowed by. After a storm like today it would take some time for the canal to drop back to its normal level. The night breeze was refreshing and the metal railing beneath his grip was cool. He suddenly realized that his grip was strong enough for his knuckles to whiten. He forced himself to relax. He turned within his girlfriend's grip, his mouth open to speak--he didn't know what he was going to say but the words were heavy on his tongue.
Sayuri pressed into his chest and looked up him with a sultry gaze that robbed him of his words. She tilted her head up and her eyes closed languidly. Lips parted tentatively around the hint of a smile. Hiroshi leaned down and kissed her. One arm snaked around her waist and pulled her in. As their kiss deepened she squirmed closer, sighing contentedly into Hiroshi's mouth. It was with some surprise that he felt his other hand continue to squeeze the railing with an ever-tightening grip.
She must have felt that something was wrong; she pulled away. Sayuri passed the back of her hand across her lips, in a gesture that Hiroshi always found curiously cat-like, and watched him with inquisitive eyes. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." Which was a lie, of course. He sighed and turned away and looked out across the water again. The canal was a dark line cutting its way towards the horizon, outlined on both sides by the glitter of house windows, pale street lights, and far in the distance the false dawn of Tokyo proper. Sayuri stood by him but didn't look away; he could feel her gaze upon him. He had nothing to say. He only had the faintest of ideas what was bothering him.
Sayuri sighed herself. "Hiroshi," she said, with a faintly exasperated tone. "If something's wrong we should talk about it."
He shook his head. "I'm not sure there's anything to talk about."
"Something's bothering you."
"It's nothing."
"Is it Ranma?"
His continued silence was probably answer enough. That was part of it. Something had changed--so much had changed--in the last few weeks. Since the party. Having Ranma open up on him. Growing closer to Sayuri. The viciousness of former friends towards the martial artist. Watching-- and not doing anything to stop it. An unexpected complexity to Uehara. Ranma's forgiveness. And now tonight. Hiroshi suddenly felt an unexpected potential to the night air, as if saying the right thing--or the wrong thing--right now could lead to irrevocable change. It was an exhilarating feeling, a frightening feeling. High school always felt static, so preordained, empty of real choice; did he really have the power to change things? Hiroshi suddenly realized that the entire evening had been working up to this point. He had made a bet with Daisuke not long ago.
Without any clear idea of what he was going to choose, he turned back to Sayuri.
"You're right," Hiroshi said. "There _is_ something we have to talk about."

Beneath the bridge two girls sat in silence. The smaller one was asleep in the arms of the other. She shivered often and moaned softly in her sleep. Her face was streaked with dirt. The other girl leaned back against the arch of the bridge and held her companion closely. The voices overhead eventually left. At first she wept quietly but eventually she stopped. The night grew quiet and still. The two would remain there until the dawn streaked the sky red and the canal waters ran shallow once again.

Continues in Choices: Decision, part two.

Jan 12, 2004.

***

This chapter has been nearly two years coming, which I admit is somewhat ridiculous, and I apologize for the wait to those few who might still be following this story. I never expected this chapter to be so long (nor the whole story, really), which is why it's only 'part one'... I'll be getting a start on Decision, part two soon, and hopefully it won't take as long. It's funny how I can trace broad periods of my life through this story... in the case of this chapter it saw me leave Japan, go back to Japan, come back once again, and return to school; I guess it's a well traveled chapter. Some other fun stuff happened, but I'll leave that to my webpage.

This is a draft. There's some stuff I would like to add after it's sat for a bit and I give a final revision. Kasumi needs to be tweaked a bit. I wanted to add a little insight into Sayuri with her own scene. The ending with Hiroshi and Sayuri could probably be fleshed out some more. I'm not entirely satisfied with the final couple of pages between Ranma and Akane-- how much is too much, when writing a character in Ranma's state?

Decision, part two will wrap up some important loose threads and set the stage for what should be the final chapter, Consequences.

-Michael Noakes

e-mail: noakes_m@hotmail.com homepage: blog!: