This takes place sometime during the two week period between the last chapter (Chapter 16) and the next (Chapter 17), if you're wondering.


Interlude II-a


He remembers when things used to be simple.

Go to a new place, train like hell to develop his art, meet new people, fight them, then go to another place and do it all again, rinse and repeat.

Putting it like that made it sound stupid; he hated how it gave that impression but there was really no other way to put it. There was more to it, of course there was, but that was pretty much the core of it; the most important thing. The rest was just noise, entertaining noise, annoying noise, sometimes necessary noise, but just noise.

Things aren't that simple anymore.

The core was still the same, but there wasn't that much noise anymore. Stuff not related to his art could not be easily dismissed— no, he found himself not wanting to dismiss them.

He discovered that he actually liked studying of all things, not sitting in a classroom while an old guy droned on at the front, that just put him to sleep, but having someone who had magically memorized the entire curriculum shout lessons at him while they fought was a pretty fun way to study, nothing beats associating his punches and kicks to math problems or geography facts. For the first time in his life, he had more money he knew what to do with, and that lead him to experience the incredibly empowering feeling of seeing something you like or a nice-looking place to eat and just go and get it, no fanfare, no bullshit, no need to challenge someone for food, cash or service– though he still did it on occasion for the fun of it – or get into one of his pop's schemes to get resources. Friends weren't just some randoms to he could have meaningless conversations with to pass the time anymore, they actually listen to what he said, go the extra mile simply because they wanted to help him, look at him like he was a better person than he actually was and make him want to strive to meet their expectation…

His opponents also aren't what they used to be. They were creatures of claws, fangs, blades, and much, much worse. Losing to them doesn't just mean a wounded pride anymore.

He felt his skin prickling at the thought, it distracted him just long enough to have a kick break past his improperly raised guard, a naked heel brushed painfully against his temple.

"Hah! Are you going daft, boy!? Has losing affected you so much!?" His shitty old man pirouetted over his counter and into the air, making a point to land on a higher part ceiling. "RANMA! You shame your father with your weakness!"

"Shut up, old man!"

Ranma was on to him immediately, his body flowing in movements and patterns that had been long carved into his very soul, not caring one bit if solid ground was below him, above him, or going sideways in a spiral around him, his racing mind considered, calculated and deciphered over a thousand moves from the smallest hints and impression, his ki circled inside him, flaring and waving according to his subconscious will. His whole being put at work for a single purpose—

And few of that even reached the conscious part of his mind. His long-honed instincts took care of most of the work leaving him to focus on the most important thing— like an experienced driver pushing aside all the hundred little nuances it takes to operate a car and focusing only on driving.

And that most important thing he was wholly focused on was, of course, kicking his shitty father's ass.

"HAH! HAYH! AH!" Ranma let out battle cries like a steam engine let out steam, his barrage of attacks only accelerating as he pressed on.

"OUHH! HAH! HYYY!" Yet Genma met him on even grounds, parring, avoiding, and countering everything Ranma threw at him.

The pig-tailed martial artist growled as his efforts did not yield the expected result. Pops has gotten faster again, he cursed inwardly.

With all their banter, all their bickering, all the time he managed to physically fight him off, it was easy to forget that his old man was a genuine master at his craft and really knew his shit when it came to fighting. Usually, trading blow with him wouldn't be difficult but then, out of nowhere, there were these times where his abilities would just suddenly spike, and Ranma was left scrabbling to catch up.

On a base level, Ranma understood that the point was to catch up, to get good so he could reach that stabilizing point again. What the old man was doing right now was trying to light a fire under his ass so he could break through his current limits, like he had done so many times in the past.

Or he was doing it to rub Ranma's recent loss in his face. It pissed him off all the same.

"STAY PUT, OLD MAN!"

"MAKE ME, BOY, HAHAHAHA!"

He hated when that happened; being able to match his pops and then suddenly not, to fail and fail, again and again. It made him feel like shit, like a loser, like all his past training had been for nothing. He wondered if seeing his reaction was the reason the old man let him get comfortable in the first place, it seemed like something the bastard would do— and yet he keeps failing for it each damn time!

Hiroshi doesn't, his mind thundered with the realization, when that guy hits a wall he just—

Smile.

Ranma's leg shot from under him, and his feet noisily dug a long line at the tiled ceiling, arresting the strong momentum he was thrown into. This time he didn't immediately leap back into action.

Use your head, idiot! Don't just rush in! Do something he would never expect!

He was working on something like that, wasn't he?

He inhaled a long breath, stoically bringing up some memories he didn't like recalling. The smell of rotting flesh filling his lungs in each panting breath, the world shattering around him by an endless volley of unseen slashes, putting on a brave face over the possibility of really dying, his best friend sitting armless against a half-collapsed pillar, bleeding like a damn fountain. He relived it all in a second.

His exhaling breath came out as a long, icy mist.

"TOO SLOW!"

For the first time since the fight started, he clearly saw his father coming.

Ranma didn't feel victorious for it, or even smug for getting the move right this time around, he kept a tight rein on these emotions for he knew they would mess with the cold tranquility he finally managed to recreate. He saw his father going for a fast and vicious strike to the chest he was painfully familiar with; it never failed to take him out in his female form – He forced his annoyance down – He knew how hard it would be to avoid it with the speeds it was traveling, but he could easily parry it.

Impossibly, he saw what he, by all means, shouldn't have; the strike underneath the strike, one meant to humble him after the parry. And he knew exactly what to do.

His father's fist was sent to soar above him as he twisted his whole body with the parry and then blocked the under layered kick in the same movement. Still riding through the complex momentum, he shot his arm upwards, delivering his first right at the center of his father's surprised face.

A pair of round glasses were knocked flying, and a fat body abruptly bent backward— grazed hit, shit—

The old man's foot impacted against his chin, loudly making his teeth clap together before sending him flying. That was good, actually, rushing winds and high altitudes were something that felt intimately familiar to him, it never failed to help him center himself. With his head not plagued by disorientation, he straightened his form mid-air and landed at the edge of the Tendo's rooftop. The world wobbled around a bit when he had something solid under his foot, so he stayed crouched low to not show his lack of balance.

Shitty old man with his shitty underhanded tactics!

Got a hit in though.

"Bahahaha! So that's what you've been doing, hein?" Aggravatingly enough, Genma didn't even look angry, and his glasses were back on his face somehow. Damn. "I'd never thought you'd stumble into that! And without guidance too! Haha, as expected of my son!"

Ranma couldn't believe the galls of that asshole, "What you're on about, pops!? I'm makin' that technique myself!" He tried to stand, only to almost stumble forwards. What the heck was that kick!?

"Is that what you believe? Naïve!" Genma huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. The proud grin still insufferably on. "No Ranma, the technique you managed to discover had already been made, in fact, several styles have variations of it in their arsenal, including ours, of course. In every single one of them, it is considered an advanced technique." He chuckled.

Ranma grumbled and stomped his foot on the rooftop tiles, finally steading the wobbling in his head. His mood soured as he learned that he wasn't treading unexplored grounds, but the thought of an advanced technique intrigued him. Right now, it was exactly what he needed.

"Teach me." Naturally, he demanded.

"Humph!" The older martial artist snorted, throwing his shoulders with a laugh. "Arrogant, aren't you? Don't you remember that you lost! What makes you think you are worthy of it?"

"It's exactly because I lost." Ranma's fists paled as he tightened his grip before he eased up. "…That I need to learn it."

Genma lost his smile, looking at his son with a judging, analytical gaze for a few long moments. Then, he sighed, shaking a derisive hand. "Mah, mah, if you're going to keep playing around with it, might as well show you how it's done."

The older man thrust his hands forward, his palms folded inwards. Then, slowing, he waved his arms in a blossoming spiral, his legs mirroring his movements under him. All while a long "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" resonated out of his mouth.

"HAH!" With a last, exhaling breath, he finished getting into position.

Ranma… had never seen pops like this before. Locked in one of Anything Goes' many starting kata, his every muscle rigid with tension, his face glaring ahead with focus so intense veins on his forehead were clearly popping up, his mouth trembling as it struggled against what appears to be a rather unhinge sneer.

"Come at me, Ranma!"

He felt himself hesitating, the old man was looking almost intimidating for once. Resolving to take this observation to his grave, he hid his reaction behind a deep frown and an accusatory finger.

"Oi, that's not what I do at all!" He recalled the state of mind he had to get into to bring forth the cold even for a fleeting moment. "It's like, the opposite of what I'm doing."

Genma boomed with a short laugher, one that showed a lot of teeth. "My ki is the complete opposite of yours, boy! Now come! Or I will go to you!"

Ranma closed off his expression and almost instinctive got into a fighting stance himself. The intent behind Genma's words was clear, there would be no more talking.

Leaping forward in a burst of speed that would boggle the normal human's eye, Saotome Ranma went on the attack.

Then he tried again.

And again.

And again.

It was like hittin' a giant bounce ball. Ranma's mind made the odd connection after a few minutes of getting absolutely nowhere. Only I'm the one who bounces.

It wasn't strange to see his father parrying his attacks, in fact, that's what the old man had been doing earlier for the most part. But Ranma never experienced anything like this. His attacks weren't being parried they were being freaking deflected. No matter how fast he moved, how much power he put behind it, how unorthodoxly he chose to strike, his father slapped away all his efforts, his hands always seem to be at the exact place they need to be to intercept him and fling him away, and worse, he did so trivially, like it took barely any thought.

And of course, he did all of that while also loudly insulting him and criticizing his efforts, the bastard.

Ranma tried to use the constant flipping in his favor, bouncing back to the next attack the instant he hit the ground, he tried for odd angles and improvised strikes, he tried to deliberately not think about attacking and let his instinct do all the work – a cheeky trick he used against a psychic chick a few years back on Hokkaido – but none of that even came close to working. Absolutely nothing was getting past Genma's guard.

He even had the momentary impression that shitty old man had up the scales again. Abruptly putting more distance between their levels to make a point. But no, that wasn't it, his abilities and physical attributes remained the same, it was the way he moved that had changed.

"HAHAHA! SO, BOY HAVE YOU FIGURED OUT YET!?" Genma boomed, clearly relishing the opportunity to teach some humility to his arrogant son.

Ranma bit back the creative curse he had on the tip of his tongue – he'd picked up a bunch of new ones lately as consequences of hanging with crazy delinquents – and had to visibly restrain himself. Lowering his trembling fists, he actually got out of the fighting stance and spoke before his father had the opportunity to gloat about that.

"You're controllin' an entire area around you, 'bout the length of your arm, everythin' that breach this radius you can sense it and counter without any problem or wasted movements."

"AS IF—" Genma stumbled in his words and nearly physically stumbled himself. The oppressive intensity of his battle aura left him at the same instant. "I mean." He loudly cleared his throat, his fist over his mouth. "Yes, of course! Getting it right the first time, as expected of my son. Now the merits of this technique…"

Ranma only half-listened as Genma droned on, he was too busy thinking.

Now that he had a reference, it was clear that it really was the move that he managed to pull off against spider brat – He'd been privately hoping that it wasn't and that he really stumbled into something new, but ah well – He remembered that It wasn't nearly as stable as what his pops just showed, but he did manage to get a better feel of the paranormal assault coming his way and found himself managing to avoid it so well that he didn't get any more injury past that point – though the piece of arm bone lodged inside the little monster probably helped. Seriously, an arm bone!? How much badass can you get – He forced himself to focus on how would he deal with it, what are the weaknesses? Because the old man sure as hell wasn't going to tell him until he learned, as it took away the chance to bully him some more. He guessed the legs, the old man pretty much turtled up while using the thing, so maybe an attack to the stance, or the foundation, or the ground under him. Ranma doubted Kasumi or the tomboy would appreciate another hole in their roof though.

"And that boy." Genma trail off, clearly setting off a dramatic reveal. "Is Seikūken."

"Seikūken?" Ranma repeated while tilting his head, it had a cool name at least.

Genma gave two sagely nods. "I was planning to teach you eventually. But I didn't know how well you'd take to it giving your preference to bouncing around like a blasted hummingbird but if you've already taken the first step…"

"Yeah." Ranma hadn't paid complete attention, but he did listen to that part of the lesson. The requirement to stay put to draw out the best of the technique did crash heavily with his preferred fighting method. He'd already made up his mind though, so it didn't matter. He'd come up with something later.

"I'm ready." He said, falling into a stance.

"Hum!" Genma nodded. "Very well. First, clear your mind!"

He was doing that already! Shitty old man.

And so, Ranma listened to the instruction, internalized the lesson, and began to practice. He practiced between the continuous jeering and insults his father threw at him – though he gave just as much as he took, and he did listen to the legit feedback – He practiced under the oppressive heat of the sun as it slowly made its way across the sky. He practiced over the many calls for his attention and incessant feminine shouting from below. He practiced through the hours and the turning of day and night.

As the lights of the next day began to punch through the Nerima's skyline, Ranma continued moving across the Tendo's house's rooftop with steady steps. His hand flowed around him, forming a geometrically perfect radius that was almost visible to see, so clearly he had made it. Then, he proceeded to try to change its size and shift its center, almost like a child playing around with a new toy.

He deflected a hundred thousand blows, from simple crushing punches to complex, weaving formations that had once broken his bones and bruised his body.

He battered away a thousand common, unusual, and downright crazy weapons that had once bitten deeply into his skin and drew his blood.

He countered a hundred bestial assaults, of teeth, of claws, of fangs, and manta ray stings, all that had once lunged for his most vulnerable, vital parts and left him reeling.

He dealt with an angry bokken, ultra-heavy umbrella, odd dancing kicks, and a baseball bat that was starting to pack a lot of punch.

In the end… he faced the tentacles that had bound his wrists, crawled over his flesh, ripped through his clothes, and made him feel things a true man should never feel, yanking pathetic sounds out of his throat and making his eyes water in humiliation—

And he pushed them back.

After an entire day of constant movement, Saotome Ranma finally stopped. The Seikūken not only fully learned but fully mastered.

"Humu!" Genma let out a stoic hum of acknowledgment. He didn't stay the entire time, of course, Soun wasn't going to beat himself at shogi, but by a stroke of luck he managed to be here when the boy finally got it. "About time, boy!"

Ranma took a few moments to get his breathing under control, and then he turned to his father to insult him and rub his recent achievement on his face. His remark died on his lips as he zeroed in on the tray sitting beside the old man.

"Ah yes, Akane took the time to leave this here after you missed dinner, boy. You should be grateful!" It was actually Kasumi who cooked and took the stairs to bring it here, but the truth sometimes needed to be embroidered for the greater good.

"Yeah, yeah whatever." Spoke Ranma with his attention focused solely on one thing and already kneeling in front of it. A big, silly grin spilt his face. "Itadakimasu!" He cried out happily before pulling the cover.

"But you were taking too long so I ate it in your stead," Genma informed in the same beat.

This... Shitty... Bastard!

In all honesty, Ranma was too damn tired to start a confrontation like he normally would, so he just promptly told his father to go fuck himself and laid down beside the empty tray, keeping it between them. Genma gave him an odd look for his unexpected use of the English language, but didn't make any comment.

The two just stayed there for a while, watching the sun slowly appear on the horizon.

Genma was letting out puffs of smoke, Ranma could help but notice. When was the last time he saw pops smoking? Years at least. Ranma was amazed he still had that ugly little pipe.

"Ranma." Pops started with his serious voice, it made him want to roll his eyes. "Do not seek revenge against that creature."

W-What— He knows!?

But he hadn't told him he hadn't told anybody. He'd said he lost a big fight he made Hiroshi swear he wouldn't tell, he shouldn't know, couldn't know!

Ranma was on his feet within instants.

"You know!? How do you know!? You know about them!? About NOMAD!?"

His father's eyes boggle at him and his sudden barrage. "How in the world did you—!" He choked, but then shook his head and threw his arm to the side. "No matter! Ranma! As your father, I forbid you to go after them!"

Ranma felt the creaking of something pulled taut at the back of his head.

"As if!" He exploded. "Do you even know what they do to people!?" Ranma's mind raced, he considered every possibility, every past interaction he could remember. A particular stretch of skin on his arms going up to his chest and then up to his neck and down to his belly was prickling intensely, it only made him more agitated. "You do know somethin', don't you!? Tell me!"

"I will not!" Genma practically roared, having also jumped to his feet to face his son. A complex mixture of emotion boiled to his expression, most of all anger. "Foolish boy! If you know to this extent you should have an idea of the scale of what you're trying to do! You can't solve everything by punching it Ranma!"

"I know that! I'm not stupid!" He hated when people thought he was. "I'm goin' to be smart about it, pops! Properly prepare myself and everythin', and guess what!? Everythin' you share will help immensely with that. So, spill already!"

Genma crossed his arms, his face implacable. "I will not endorse this foolishness! Ranma! You should focus only on marrying Akane, joining the schools, and getting stupidly wealthy!"

"So that's what this is really about!"

Their argument continued, growing louder with every thrown insult. It got to the point that people in the vicinity started taking notice – usually by being rudely awakened by it – and at the end, Genma and Ranma were quite literally butting heads and growling at each other.

Amazingly enough, the shouting match didn't end up with them trading blows, practically a miracle as far as the two were concerned. Instead, Genma simply stopped pressing his forehead against his son's – nearly making Ranma topple over – inhaled a long breath, and then let it out slowly. Flashes of an internal conflict crossed in his eyes for a single moment before he steadied himself. "Enough! I will hear no more about this matter!" He held his hands on his back like he was some kind of respectable master or something, and then turned away from his son before he could rebuke. "You should use what you learned and cool off. Come talk to me once you cease this madness."

Ranma couldn't believe this; he was walking away. His father didn't walk away, he transformed every losing argument into a surprise attack or a sudden throw. Ranma has been preparing for exactly that since the shouting started. Yet now he was looking at the old man's back as he retreated.

He called him a coward, hulled more insults, but the old bastard showed no signs he had even heard it, not even an angry flinch on his shoulders or a pause in his steps. It was so unlike him Ranma questioned if this really was his pops.

Real or not, he dropped down from the rooftop, leaving Ranma alone with his thoughts.

He did not want to be alone with his thoughts

He began pacing around the roof, tensing and relaxing his fists, trying to force his breaths into a rhythm. He had been dealing well with all this bullshit; demons who use underhanded tactics and wanted to rape you more than kill you, a secret evil organization of them operating in the dark, turning people into freaking sex slaves, a group of ninjas in tights that were fighting them for generations. Alright, ok, he got it, he sees that this requires finesse, he can't just rush in if he wanted to deal with them like he vowed he would, he had to prepare himself and learn more about his enemy… But never in his life he would have thought pops of all people would know something about them, it made them feel too close, it made him feel sick, made him want to throw up, made h-Fuck no he was not crying who said anything about crying fuck you!

His paled fists began to ache as his fingernails bit through his skin. He just wanted to punch them so bad… so bad… he… he had to make up for…

He vigorously shook his head, trying to prevent the raw memories to come, but they crawled back anyway, slipping past the tight hold he was keeping than in. And he was there again, skin burning against too many clothes, lightning running through his spine, blurred vision, and stupid sloshy head that was focusing on all the wrong things in the middle of a damn battlefield and making him think and act all weird.

Hiroshi with his wide, powerful, hard-to-look-away back was ahead of him, always ahead, never slowing down no matter what the creature threw at him, moving at a pace Ranma found himself struggling to match.

And in the end, he couldn't. He'd fallen down to his knees while his best friend continued ahead, Ranma wasn't able to be there for him when he needed, even after everything he'd done for him.

What good is he for then, if he can't keep up with Hiroshi in a fight? He has nothing else to offer.

Ranma's right fist crashed on his own face as he used the impact to get out of this damn mental spiral. He had no time to whine or feel sorry about himself. Damn it! this must be the lack of sleep speaking. He was getting soft, the Ranma of the past who could function for three days straight while running from crazy purple-haired Chinese chicks would have laughed at him.

He had lost, simply that. As difficult as it was to associate this whole mess with a normal loss, he revolved himself to do exactly that. Because if it was a loss then he could compartmentalize it and deal with it. He knew what to do then; calm the heck down, look back on what you did, find your mistakes and fix them, train, train harder, train even harder, get stronger, get faster, get wiser, develop his art.

Ranma finally stopped pacing. Only then noticed he had fallen back to doing his newly mastered kata while he moved. His Seikūken forming a barrier as solid as any shield around him.

It was not enough, he realized, the Seikūken was not enough.

Hiroshi will have three new types of bullshit by the next time they met, Ranma just knew it. Who was he if he didn't strive to match him? No- that's loser talk, he was Saotome Ranma, damn it, he will surpass him!

He shall master eleven new moves by their next meeting!

But how, though? He had mastered pretty much every move he knew so he didn't really have anything he needed to work on, plus, he doubted his pops would be willing to teach him something else right now, not without a good bribe, at least. Arck! How the heck does Hiroshi does this again!?

… By plainly asking people to teach him. And with a straight face too.

Ranma recalled that the fact Hiroshi didn't have a single master had boggled his mind when they first met, before he just kinda rolled with it. Like, could this even be done? Wouldn't the people he learned from be angry that he was learning from someone else? … Though now that he thought about it, Hiroshi was learning from him too, right? And Ranma didn't feel particularly angry at his going to someone else, so… it works?

It did work, Hiroshi was living proof of it. Ranma didn't have to restrict himself to his father or rely on the things he picked up himself, he also didn't need his direction and permission on what to learn, as long as he didn't become the disciple of somebody else.

Probably.

Maybe.

Ranma decided to go with that logic.

But who the heck could he… He didn't need to even ask; his mind had already provided the answer.

A gorgeous Amazonian form wearing little more than the scraps of underwear came to the forefront of his mind. The same terrible cocktail that had made him falter instead made her lash out, and from her fists came fire.

He often found himself thinking about that image, ever since that night, going through the what-ifs or just… thinking about her, the way she moved, her perseverance… This only served to solidify his decision on his mind.

So, with a determined expression, he stepped to the edge of the rooftop and curled his legs in preparation to leap to the next one.

He had someone to track down.

GROWLLLL!

… After he get something to eat… and maybe changed out of his clothes, he was sweaty as hell.

Can't meet a pretty girl like that, he knew that much at least.


A/N: I broke the interlude into parts because I think they fit better as a single chapter format, I'll be posting these parts once a day starting with this one. If you're interested in reading all the parts already check out this story on Questionable Questing forum