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Chapter Twelve: The Unraveling
“As fickle as the mountain gusts
That on the moor I’ve met,
’Twere best to think no more of thee,
And let thee go. But yet
I never can forget.”
—Daini no Sammi, Kamakura Period
* * * * * *
“NO!”
Ranma Saotome woke up screaming.
The memories of the events of the past few days came back to him in a dizzying rush, and his hand flew to his forehead. But instead of brushing against the cool, smooth stone of the jewel, his fingers met warm skin.
He blinked and ran his hand over his brow again.
There was nothing there.
A dream, he thought, leaning on his elbows against the floor. He tilted back his head and exhaled slowly, trying to calm his frenetic breathing. The magatama, the Dragon Dynasty, the Chosen-Born...all of them, nothing but a dream...
Thank the gods.
He opened his eyes.
And found himself staring up into a jagged stone ceiling.
What the—
He sat up quickly and glanced around.
From what he could tell, he was inside a subterranean chamber of some sort, perhaps a cave. Charcoal-colored slabs of rock with strange psychedelic highlights reflecting off their craggy surfaces surrounded him on all sides. The air was cold and dank, weighing down on his soul like an oppressive cloud. In spite of the fact that there seemed to be no source of illumination whatsoever inside the cave, the interior seemed to pulse with an empyreal blue-green light.
Blue-green. He was beginning to hate that color.
Come to think of it, the whole place felt familiar. Was he back in the Cave of Yasakami?
Ranma frowned, knitting his eyebrows together. No—this place was way bigger than the cave. But if that were so, then where exactly was he and how had he arrived there?
He was racking his mind for answers when a soft noise startled him. There was someone else in the chamber.
His nerves were practically shrilling as he scanned his surroundings. The next moment his widened as they locked onto the figure genuflecting a few feet from where he lay, its back to him.
Who the heck is tha—oh.
“A-Akane?” His voice came out raw and scratchy, as if he hadn’t used it in a while. Absently he wondered how long he’d been unconscious.
The form turned around slowly, and Ranma gaped.
It was Akane, all right, but there was definitely something wrong. Everything about her appeared perfectly normal—except for her face, which was streaked with rivulets of tears.
She was crying.
Akane... Ranma gulped, trying to smooth out the potpourri of thoughts that flooded through his mind.
He’d never seen Akane cry. Well, he corrected himself, maybe he had, once or twice. But that was only during the bleakest of circumstances, during which even he had been tempted to cry himself. She was a tough girl, his Akane. She didn’t cry over trivial things.
And that was why seeing her like this scared him.
It scared him a lot.
“Akane...” He crept out of his futon and crawled over toward her cautiously, half-expecting her to lash out at him if he made one wrong move. “Is something the matter?”
She watched him as he sat on his haunches across from her, then drew her hand roughly over her red, puffy eyes. There was no answer from her.
“Hey. Come on, Akane. I’m all right,” Ranma stammered as he noticed the dark rings under her eyes. He attempted a jovial smile—and failed miserably. “Akane, it’s me. Ranma. I’m okay. Really. I am.” He bit his lower lip as a notion took up residence in his brain. “Are y’still mad at me for what I said? Y’know, I said ’bout you always holdin’ me back? And sayin’ all that—all that dumb stuff ’bout real martial artists and—”
His stomach twisted unappetizingly as the details of their earlier contention came flooding back to him. Gods...he couldn’t believe what he’d shouted at her...so cruel...how could he have...
“It’s not that. I know you didn’t mean those things.”
He felt his spirits rise at her statement, then sink a moment later as he saw her observing him with empty, desolate eyes. Another thought occurred to him. “Were you worried that I’d never wake up, Akane? Is that why you’re cryin’?”
She looked down at her hands. “I never doubted that you’d wake up, Ranma.”
“Uhm. Right.” He leaned back, a little disconcerted by her dispassionate tone of voice. Yes, there was definitely something he was missing here.
“How long have I been out?” he queried.
Akane raised her eyes to him again, and the infinite sadness he saw reflected in their depths shocked him. She looked so tired, he thought. So defeated...
“Not long,” she replied.
“You sure?”
She sniffled and turned away, nodding. The motion caused her short indigo hair to glint in the weak light.
Ranma gritted his teeth. “Akane.” Was that a tremor in his voice? “Akane, I—I’m sorry if I scared you like that...I—I didn’t think that you—”
He wanted to kick himself. The apology sounded feeble, concocted, even to his own ears. Like he was being made to say sorry when he didn’t mean it.
But he did. He really and truly did.
To his bewilderment, she only waved off his apology. “I know you didn’t mean to, Ranma.” Her eyes glistened anew with a supply of fresh tears, and she lowered her head, as though in shame. “But it doesn’t make any difference now, does it?”
Ranma felt frigid fingers clamp over his heart. “What’re you talking about?” He stood up, his hands balling into shaking fists as they angled at his sides. His gaze was smoldering as he looked down at her kneeling form. “What happened after I passed out, Akane? Where’re the others? An’ who the heck put us here?” Frustration crept into his voice. “Tell me!”
“What good would that do, Ranma?” she countered hollowly, a gauzy film dropping over her dark pupils. “After all, you’re just going to leave me...”
His blood ran cold at her words.
Say what—?
“L-leave you? What’re you talkin’ about, Akane? I’m right here—I-I’m right here beside you...!”
Akane shook her head violently, causing disarrayed strands of hair to stick damply to her cheeks. “It doesn’t matter,” she choked out. “Sooner or later, you’ll leave me...and I’ll lose you. I...I’ll lose you, Ranma...”
And somewhere within the deepest recesses of Ranma’s brain, a memory stirred and came to life.
{She’s going to lose you, Ranma Saotome...}
Ranma growled as he tuned out the voice in his head. He had more important things to worry about now.
“Akane, listen to me.” He gripped her shoulders, forcing her up so that she could meet his eyes. “I ain’t gonna leave you. We can get through this—whatever this is. You got that, Akane? An’ ya ain’t gonna lose me. Not now. Not ever...”
His hands grew limp as he became aware of the words that had poured out of his mouth. And suddenly he was consumed by fear.
Had he sounded too desperate? Had he said too much? Had he really overdone it this time? Had he said it in a way that would make her realize that—
He glanced up into her countenance, his heart in his throat. The look of sheer hope in her eyes nearly made his knees buckle.
“You promise?” she asked, peering at him through her matted bangs. She looked unsure. Hesitant. Afraid to trust.
What had happened to her? Ranma wondered wildly. This wasn’t the Akane he knew. And yet...
“Yeah,” he said. “I promise.”
She studied him, speechless. Her eyes continued to glitter eerily in the semi-darkness.
He hesitantly reached out to her, wanting so badly to comfort her, tell her that everything was going to be all right so long as they were together.
“Akane...”
A flash of blinding scarlet light manifested behind him, and Akane threw her arm up impulsively, throwing a swift glimpse over his shoulder.
To Ranma’s alarm, a look of horror descended upon her features, and he tried to swivel around to see just what she was looking at, to find out what could possibily scare her so.
Akane’s scream was sharp, anguished. “Ranma, no—!”
Too late.
All it took was one fleeting glance at the luminous sight behind him, and all thoughts of Akane Tendo shriveled away. An expression of utter awe flooded his face as he gawked at the form in the midst of the corona.
It was a woman—or, more accurately, a young girl the same age as he. Her eyes were huge and crystalline and startling against her smooth, delicate features, and her lips stood out moist and red and enticing against her creamy skin. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders and past her waist and bottom in long, silky waves, rippling and shimmering in the slight breeze like foxfire. There was a cool, almost indifferent, expression on her visage as she surveyed the cave.
Ranma made a hundred-eighty degree turn, his body twisting slowly about as though she were the magnetic north of his compass, and took an unsteady step toward her.
Akane seized his sleeve, her tears beginning to flow in earnest. “Ranma, don’t!” she sobbed. “Don’t leave me!”
He turned to her, looking thoroughly dazed, then swiveled back toward the vision of radiance at the opposite side.
{Don’t fight it, Ranma.} The voice caught him off-guard for a moment. Strangely enough, it hadn’t seemed to come from the girl at all. Rather, the source seemed to be coming from his head.
{Don’t fight it...} it said, sweetly and melodiously, and Ranma found it hard to do otherwise.
He took another step and wobbled at the attempt, as if his legs had transformed into jelly. The girl glanced down at him, and in response a tingle of pleasure shivered through his body. His body was thrumming with anticipation and awareness, while tiny electric bolts ran through his nervous system. Her eyes were fathomless twin pools, beckoning him to drown in them...
It felt incredible.
She felt incredible.
Dimly, he heard someone shouting something behind him.
“You can’t take him! I won’t let you! Ranma, wait! You mustn’t—you can’t—Ranma, you have to listen to me! Oh, gods, please...”
And somewhere in the mist that was suffocating his brain, Ranma remembered.
W-what...? His will wavered for one agonized second. He turned his head and gave the shorthaired girl behind him a last lingering glance over his shoulder.
And then his gaze landed again on the maiden standing behind him with her feet submerged in ruby light, and suddenly the shorthaired girl was the furthest thing from his mind.
{Do not worry about the girl. She will understand,} the voice crooned in his ear. {After all, no one should ever stand in the way of destiny...}
He nodded dumbly, eyes glittering with rapture as he started to follow the silent maiden into the crimson halo.
“Ranma—!”
The two forms were devoured by a blink of white brilliance, and then they were gone.
Akane collapsed onto her knees in front of where the portal had been. For a minute she stayed there, stunned, disbelief and dismay written upon her visage. Then she flattened her palms on the cold floor and bowed her head low in grief.
“Oh, Ranma,” she whispered. “You promised me. You promised...”
Her broken weeping was the only sound in the huge cave.
A ghost.
She had lost him to a ghost...
* * * * * *
“NO!”
Ranma Saotome woke up screaming.
Again.
“Ranma, you’re awake!”
“Ranma, m’boy!”
“Thank the gods!”
“Oh my!”
“See? Was I right or what? Now hand me my yen.”
Ranma felt the soreness on his forehead even as he hefted himself to a sitting position. Bright light filtered in from the other side of his closed eyelids, making his features contort in a grimace. He rubbed his eyes with his hands.
And froze as the tips of his fingers met cold stone.
The magatama was back on his forehead.
“Dammit,” he mumbled.
Someone scuttled over to his side, and he tensed. Even without opening his eyes, he knew it was her. An overwhelming guilt washed over him, the reason for which he could not fathom at the moment.
Suddenly there were other figures crowding around him, checking his neck, trying to take his pulse, trying to shove a thermometer into his mouth...
“Gah! Get away from me! I can’t breathe!”
The crowd withdrew a little—probably to avoid his flailing limbs, and Ranma opened his eyes.
They were all seated around him in a circle: Akane, Genma, Soun, Kasumi, and Nabiki. Their faces were host to a miscellanea of emotions: trepidation, amazement, weariness. Ranma let his gaze rest on Akane, noting that in spite of the fact that she appeared vaguely annoyed with him, there was a look of sweet relief in her eyes.
Akane...?
“This ain’t another dream, is it?” he croaked.
Someone pinched him on the posterior. Hard.
“Ow!” he yelled, slapping at the offending hand.
Nabiki sniffed as she rubbed her fingers. “Somehow, I think that’d be enough to wake you up from any nightmare,” she remarked.
Now fully awake, Ranma took time to scan the room. He was sprawled on a futon on the floor of the main room of the Tendo dojo. The lights on the ceiling were on, and through the half-ajar doors leading to the patio, he could see that it was evening.
“How long was I out?” he asked in confusion.
“Nearly twenty-four hours,” replied Kasumi.
He did a double take. “What?”
“You passed out when after you got that...that...thing on your forehead,” Soun informed him.
“We had to haul you back into the dojo,” continued Genma. “You were running a high fever, so we let you stay home from school today.”
Ranma exhaled heavily. He never got sick. Well, almost never.
“Oh, don’t worry, Ranma,” Nabiki reassured him. “Nobody forgot you. In fact, a couple of them dropped by with some goodies.” She gestured at the corner of the room, where an exorbitant rose arrangement, a box of ramen, and a heart-shaped okonomiyaki were lying. Genma’s panda counterpart was gnawing at the corners of the okonomiyaki and ramen containers, until Genma shooed him away.
“I’ll just save this for later,” grunted the elder Saotome, furtively tucking the boxes of food behind his back for later personal consumption. “I swear, that panda’s going to eat us out of house and home.”
“Not if certain people don’t do it first,” muttered Soun under his breath.
“Eh? Did you say something, Tendo?”
“Well, I—I was just thinking...perhaps we should give it to the zoo...”
Genma spun toward him, aghast. “How could you even think of doing something like that? You just can’t send him away to be locked up like that! Why, he’s—he’s like family!”
“Judging from the way he eats, you’ll get no argument from me,” quipped Nabiki.
Ranma shook his head at the exchange, then frowned as an idea occurred to him. “So, uh, did anyone else...?” He let the question trail off as he saw Genma slowly shake his head.
“No. So far, m’boy, you’re the only one.”
His son gulped.
Nabiki poked experimentally at the jewel on his forehead. “Well, that’s weird. It hasn’t been glowing since it appeared on you.”
“Do you mind not doin’ that?” yelped the pigtailed youth, shrinking away from her enthusiastic examination.
The second Tendo daughter tossed him a fiendish grin. “You know, Ranma, this new look ain’t bad for you. Reminds me of an anime character.”
“Yeah, well, that’s me—always fashionable,” he grumbled, raising his own hand to gingerly caress the tiny gem. He was beginning to get accustomed to the sensation of cold stone against his warm skin, which disturbed him. “I don’t wanna walk around with this thing stamped in the middle of my forehead for the rest of my life!”
Genma avoided his son’s eyes. “Tenkei was right,” he murmured. At the other’s questioning looks, he added, “About the Yasakami curse.”
At his father’s words, the oracle’s words trickled back to him, hazy and ominous. “So...what does this mean?” Ranma asked tightly, trying to smother the churning in his stomach. “What happens to me now? Do I have to go to—” He trailed off, unable to donate words to the fear that now niggled at the corner of his mind.
There was a strained silence, and then Soun Tendo stood up and began to walk out of the room.
“Where’re you going, Tendo?” Genma queried, puzzled.
“To call the Nekohanten,” the other man replied without looking back. “The old woman told us to contact her the minute Ranma woke up.” He paused. “She’s been conferring with the oldest of the Amazon elders. Apparently, they have more knowledge of this situation than any of us can comprehend. Hopefully Cologne will know what to do next.”
Ranma stared after the man as he exited. For some reason, he knew that Cologne didn’t have all the answers to his current plight. A little shudder ran up his spine as he realized that if he indeed was the only one with the curse of Yasakami upon him, there was a possibility that he would have to handle it on his own.
Akane moved beside him, and he started. He’d almost forgotten that she was there; she’d been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the entire conversation.
Does she know about the dream? he wondered. Gods, he hoped not. Besides, it was nothing. He filched a glimpse of her out of the corners of his eyes. It was nothing but a stupid dream. Yeah, stupid...
“Did you dream about something, Ranma?”
He nearly flew out of his futon. “Wh-what? What makes you say that? Of course not! I didn’t dream about nothin’! ’Fact, I didn’t dream at all! What makes ya think I dreamed anythin’, anyway?”
Okay, so maybe that was a bit over the top, he thought.
She peeked up at him. To his amazement, there was no sign of anger or betrayal on her face.
But of course there shouldn’t be. She didn’t know about the dream, right?
Right?
“When you were asleep, I—I heard you calling a name,” she offered. She glanced down at her folded hands, then up again. “And it—it sounded like...”
He could only gawk at her, paralyzed. Oh no oh no please tell me I didn’t say anythin’ you weren’t s’pposed to hear—
“...mine,” she finished meekly, a blush coloring the bridge of her nose.
Ranma nearly swallowed his tongue. “No, actually I was, well—”
“Yes?” she prompted.
He scratched the back of his head. “Well, I—I, ah, well, it was...I wanted...to say...”
Gods, why was it that whenever he needed to say something important—something relevant—his tongue kept tripping over the simplest of syllables?
“Akane, I guess...I...I’m ssss...I’m s-s-so...I’m sor—”
“I know, Ranma.” Her head was tilted to the side, and there was an all-too-rare softness in her expression. It was a look that Ranma had learned to treasure, especially if it was directed toward him. “I know you didn’t mean those things.”
He stared at her, feeling an odd melting sensation around his heart.
Someone coughed in the background, and quick as lightning they both spun their heads around, goggle-eyed.
It appeared they had an audience. Kasumi was smiling, her hand curved daintily over her mouth. Genma was sitting cross-legged, his torso bent eagerly forward as he watched his son’s little exchange with his fiancée. Nabiki was casually inspecting her nails.
“Oh, please, go on,” Kasumi urged.
“Yes, Ranma, please continue!” prodded Genma, practically foaming at the mouth.
“Yeah, don’t mind us,” seconded Nabiki.
Ranma looked at Akane, she looked back at him. Then they both scowled and turned away from each other, though there was a telltale redness on both their complexions.
“So where’re the others?” Ranma blurted out, anxious to change the subject.
“Mousse and Shampoo are with the old crone at the Nekohanten—at least for the moment,” replied Nabiki, her attention still focused on her perfectly manicured cuticles.
“It appears that the Dragon clan’s not after them at the moment,” Genma answered in response to Ranma’s unspoken inquiry. “So I assume that it’s pretty much safe for them.”
“Ukyou’s back at Ucchan’s,” volunteered Akane. “And Ryouga’s in the guest room, sleeping.”
Ranma raised an eyebrow. “Ryouga’s here?”
“Oh, my, yes,” Kasumi chimed in. “Apparently, he was exhausted from last night too, so we let him stay. He’s been asleep nearly as long as you.”
Ranma scanned the room again. He was missing someone. “If that’s so, then where’s—?”
Kasumi beamed at him, reading his mind. “In the spare bedroom, across from Ryouga’s.”
* * * * * *
There was a tiny creaking of hinges as the bedroom door slowly swung open, revealing the shadowy form standing out in the hallway. The door bumped against the wall, making a scraping sound as it did so, and the form slunk in.
The moon stretched its pale fingers across the bedroom floor, letting the tips rest upon the futon that had been hastily unfurled at the corner. An enormous traveling backpack was nearby, and next to it was propped a red Chinese umbrella. At the foot of the makeshift bed was a pair of soft black shoes and a worn yellow tunic.
The figure moved in front of the half-open window, momentarily snuffing out the room’s only source of illumination. There it paused for a moment, contemplating the boy on the futon.
He was sound asleep and sprawled on his side, his blanket and sheets rumpled over and underneath him. His right leg was folded up so that his knee was level with his stomach. Curled up beside him was his left hand, while his right was tucked stiffly behind his back. His cheek was pressed into the pillow, and his lips were parted slightly in the middle of a soft snore.
The trespasser also noted, rather amusedly, that the bangs falling over his checkered bandanna and the hair curling at the nape of his neck were damp.
Well, well. Doesn’t he look content. So peaceful. So naïve...
Slowly, slowly, the form raised its arms over its head.
And in its hands, an object glinted in the weak light.
* * * * * *
He didn’t dream.
Strange.
The sensation of being submerged in the midst of a nameless, swirling limbo was, to say the least, disturbing. Even as he floated there, he saw nothing. No blackness, no light, no faces, no scenes from times past, no Ranma, no mysterious blond girl.
No Akane.
His sense of foreboding grew, and he clawed his way up, slicing through the sea of sleep, gasping for air, for reality.
And woke.
The first thing he saw through his bleary eyes was the shadowy form standing right beside his bed, its stance rigid, its face all but obscured by the shadows.
It was also raising something high up above its head.
Something smooth, sharp, and gleaming...
He blinked foggily. N-no...jus’ a dream...nothing but a dream...
*SWISH*
It wasn’t.
* * * * * *
“Who that on phone, great-grandmother?”
“That was Mr. Tendo. Apparently, son-in-law is finally awake.”
“Ai-yah! Then Shampoo go see airen right now!”
“Hold on, granddaughter. I will come with you. I have a feeling that they will not be adverse to some explanations upon our arrival.”
“You mean explanation about Yasakami curse?”
“That...as well as some other things. Fetch me my staff, child. We must leave at once.”
“But great-grandmother—who take care of store?”
“Mousse can handle the Nekohanten for a while.”
“Mousse—?”
“I gave him some chores to do in the kitchen. He will not even notice that we have departed.”
Mousse scowled as he flattened his ear to the wooden door that separated the kitchen from the main dining area of the Nekohanten. Not even notice, huh? Well, tough luck, old prune.
So that dried-up piece of jackfruit was going to see Ranma now, was she? And she was taking Shampoo along with her, too. For what?
Mousse began to ponder. Did the old woman know something that would be of use to Ranma and his predicament? And what about Shampoo? She’d made contact with the Yasakami water, too. Wasn’t Cologne even the slightest bit anxious about her?
He knew he was.
But then again, he had made contact with the water as well. His scowl deepened. But the oracle said that there was only one Chosen-Born, didn’t she? And that turned out to be—no surprise here—that accursed Saotome. Which means the rest of us should be safe...
Mousse scratched the back of his left palm, a bit vexed. He’d woken that morning with a pounding headache and an infuriating itch on his left hand. Though he’d been smothering it with herbs and oils and such the whole day, the irritation hadn’t faded any. Perversely enough, it had magnified.
“Now come, Shampoo. No time to waste.”
He was only dimly aware of the voices on the other side of the door as he scratched even harder at his skin. Strangely, the spot wasn’t itching anymore—the tingling sensation had given way to an intense, burning pain.
Pain...?
Mousse hunched over as though he’d been pummeled in the solar plexus. His legs doubled up underneath him as he sunk onto the floor, right hand wound tightly about his left one as though it had been wounded. Nostrils flared as his breath came in fast and labored bursts.
What the devil is happening to me—
Waves of fire ripped through the nerves underneath his epidermis, racing a path of agony from his fingers to his arm, from his arm to his heart, from his heart to his entire torso...
His mouth was open, and there seemed to be a sound coming from it. He couldn’t hear whatever it was that was coming out—not over the inferno that was raging underneath the skin of his hand. Someone was yelling. Was he yelling?
He hoped like crazy that he wasn’t.
Shampoo’s voice drifted over from the other side of the café. “Mousse? That you?”
Damn it. She had heard.
The longhaired Chinese Amazon cursed himself for his weakness. With excruciating difficulty, he opened his mouth again to answer her, to reassure her that nothing was wrong with him, that she shouldn’t worry.
But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.
The door burst open, the corner slamming neatly into the base of his skull as he writhed on the cool kitchen floor.
“Mousse!”
The last thing the Amazon known as Mu Tsu saw before the world faded into blackness was the look of abject terror in his beloved Shampoo’s maroon-hued eyes.
It was a bittersweet realization, he thought, just before he lost consciousness.
* * * * * *
Cologne pogo-sticked through the door. “Shampoo, what is it—”
She trailed off at the sight before her.
Shampoo was half-kneeling, half-crouching. Sprawled on the floor, his gangly limbs twisted in awkward angles and his head on Shampoo’s lap, was Mousse.
Out cold.
“Shampoo? What is the meaning of this?” she hissed. “Has that idiot been experimenting with the spices again?”
Her great-granddaughter lifted her head and stared at her. Her peaches-and-cream complexion had been reduced to an ashy white.
“Stupid Mousse,” she whispered, and her voice was taut, wavering. “I told him he not have to go in Yasakami Cave, but he no listen! Stupid, stupid Mousse...”
Cologne frowned. “Shampoo...”
The girl didn’t reply; instead she wrapped her slender fingers around the unconscious boy’s wrist and raised his limp hand up for the old woman’s inspection.
“Look,” she said.
Cologne looked. Her already huge eyes widened alarmingly.
“No,” she breathed. “No. It cannot be...”
But the tiny blue-green gem glimmering at the back of Mousse’s left palm did not go away.
* * * * * *
*SLASH*
The blade sliced through the tangled blanket and sheet of the futon, landing on a spot just below the pillow—a spot where Ryouga’s neck had been about a quarter-second before.
*SLASH*
He rolled away again in time, feeling the blade whir at the nape of his neck.
“Hold still, damn you!” his unseen would-be assassin seethed at him.
Sounded awfully familiar, that voice. High-pitched yet dulcet, and undeniably feminine. It was just like...like...
“Ranma?”
The blade stopped moving.
Still groggy from this rather rude awakening, Ryouga staggered to his feet and stepped back. “Well, Ranma?” he growled.
She emerged from the umbra little by little.
First out was a pair of baleful sapphire eyes that stood out starkly from her porcelain features. Next came the glossy red hair that tumbled down her brow and the thick carmine-colored pigtail that dangled from one slender shoulder. And then there was that wicked-looking curved sword she was holding in her hand...
...which she suddenly thrust toward his abdomen.
Ryouga feinted backwards, neatly evading the blade. The last spider-webs of sleep were being chased from his mind, and he was no longer cranky or disconcerted.
Now he was just getting mad.
“Ranma, what the hell are you doing? How dare you try and attack me in my sleep!”
He ducked as the sword made an impressive arc above his head.
Ryouga was definitely pissed now—pissed and more than a little bit spooked. This was no ordinary grudge match. Fighting barehanded was more Ranma’s style, and Ryouga could handle multiple hits from the other boy’s fists. Being swiped at by a sword with a razor-sharp blade, on the other hand, was a different matter entirely. And the apparent ease and extreme proficiency with which she seemed to be swinging the weapon didn’t exactly boost Ryouga’s already well eroded confidence either.
He almost didn’t see her next move. Using her insane speed, she once again swung the sword again toward him. He was able to evade it, but not quickly enough to prevent the sword from nicking the flesh above his shoulder blades.
With a gasp, he stumbled back, sparing only a split-second glimpse at the scratch. The strap of the undershirt he was wearing was now ripped, and spots of blood were blooming on the taut threads of the white fabric.
When he looked up, she was bearing down on him again, sword held high.
That was when he decided that this wasn’t funny anymore.
His hand darted out as he spun around, scrabbling frantically for the assault umbrella he had propped up beside his backpack.
He froze as he felt something cold and smooth against his throat. Beside him, a foot spun out and snap-kicked his weapon out of reach.
Ryouga lifted his head, seething, and met the frigid gaze of the girl towering over his genuflecting form. “Ranma, have you gone insane?”
The cold blade pressed even harder against his hot skin, an almost tender movement. Beyond it, the girl licked her lips, her words spilling forth in a soft, angry purr.
“I’m not Ranma.”
* * * * * *
Ranma ran his hand through his hair for the fifth time, his annoyance escalating.
“Getting cooties, Ranma?” Nabiki queried.
Her only response was a glare of pure vexation. “No! This...this thing”—he jabbed his finger at the little yin-yang-half shape on his forehead—“is driving me crazy!”
Akane crawled forward and poked experimentally at the offending gem. “Does it hurt?”
He laid his palm protectively over it. “No...it’s just...it’s just there. Like it doesn’t want anythin’ else over it, you know?”
“You’re not exactly making sense, Ranma,” Nabiki muttered.
“I mean, it feels...weird every time my hair gets in its way.” As if to emphasize his point, he swept his unruly bangs away from his brow. Akane had to stare. “Like it needs to—I don’t know—breathe or somethin’.”
Nabiki’s features remained passive, although her mouth twitched in the effort to suppress her smile. “Now that’s something new.”
“Look, I want this thing off me,” Ranma declared stubbornly. “I don’t care if I gotta go to Takahashi—or whatever that place that oracle lady said I was s’posed to go—but I want this thing off, and that’s all there is to it, okay?”
“Then you are going.”
He swiveled around and met Akane’s eyes. “Of course I—I mean, no. I mean yeah. I mean—” He scratched his head, suddenly unsure. It was a disconcerting feeling, to say the least. “I—I don’t know.”
“You heard the oracle last night, Ranma.” Obviously, she wasn’t about to stop here. “She said that you were under a curse—that...that you were the Chosen-Born.”
Ranma tucked his legs up to his chin and turned away from her. “She could be wrong, you know.”
“And why would she?” argued Akane. “For crying out loud, Ranma, she knew that one of you was gonna be the Chosen-Born!”
He regarded her incredulously over his shoulder. “Tell me one good reason why I gotta believe that I’m supposed to be this Chosen-Born person.”
“If you aren’t it,” Nabiki interjected, “then how else would you explain that little push-button on your forehead?”
“It’s the sign of the Yasakami curse,” shot back Ranma. “That’s all it is!”
“No, Ranma.” Akane shook her head. “It’s more than that and you know it.”
She had scooted around so now she was in front of him. Ranma wagged his head from side to side, vainly trying to avoid her piercing stare.
Akane took a deep breath. “Listen, Ranma. I know you’re not too crazy about everything that’s happened around here lately, but you’ve gotta face up to this. The Dragon Dynasty, the Chosen-Born, the curse...everything. I can’t ignore them anymore, and neither should you.”
He was silent for a minute, letting her words permeate the jumble of thoughts circulating in his brain. Then he captured her gaze with his, and his gray-blue eyes were disturbingly dull compared to the vivid blue-green of the magatama.
“Do you really want me to leave that much?” he asked.
The question caught her momentarily off-guard. She knew what he was referring to: in order to take on the Dynasty of the Dragon face-to-face, he would have to leave Nerima—leave everything he knew, everything that he held dear to him.
Leave her.
“Ranma...” She stopped. There were so many things she wanted to say to him.
Of course not! If I did want you to leave that much, I—
The parting words of the Dynasty’s oracle replayed themselves over and over in her mind.
{“The jewel will steal away your soul—your very essence—until there is nothing left of you but a cold, empty shell...”}
If Ranma refused to undertake this mission and stayed, then he would be gone anyway. From what Akane could garner from Tenkei’s ramblings, the jewel would feed on his soul, little by little, and then the Dynasty would own him. He would be nothing but a puppet, a husk of a young man who had once been Ranma Saotome—one with no feelings, no thoughts, no smart-ass remarks. Nothing.
And there was no way in hell that Akane Tendo would allow that.
Even if it meant that he would have to go away from her for Gods knew how long. Even if there existed the remote possibility that he would not come back alive...
“Do you really want me to leave, Akane?” Ranma asked again. His eyes bored into hers. “Do you?”
She bit her lip. “You have to,” she whispered.
Ranma gaped at her, and he was wearing an expression she was sure she had never seen there before. Then he turned his head away from her, directing his words to the bamboo floor.
“Right,” he said gruffly. “I’ll talk to Pop, get things together tonight, and then if I’m lucky, I might be able to go first thing tomorrow morni—”
Akane interrupted him. “But if you want, I’ll go with you, Ranma.”
His head whipped up again, and there was a look of shock on his countenance.
“What?” he croaked, unable to believe his ears.
Akane smiled, and for a moment Ranma was sure that there was some inner glow emanating from within her. “I’ll go with you,” she repeated patiently.
Ranma stared at her. So did Nabiki.
She wants to go...with me? He felt lightheaded, and unreasonably giddy. I don’t even know where I’m supposed to go, what I’m supposed to do...but she wants to go with me so...
He choked down the lump that had formed in his throat. “Akane—”
*CRASH*
The three of them jumped, and immediately their gazes drifted upwards. Sprinkles of dust shook loose from the shuddering ceiling.
Nabiki glanced at Ranma and Akane and cocked a knowing eyebrow.
“Sounds like someone up there’s having fun, if you know what I mean...”
*CRASH*
The ceiling trembled even more alarmingly as the couple gawked back at the older girl.
“Maybe a little too much fun,” she amended quickly.
* * * * * *
Insane. She’s insane, insane, insane...
Ryouga was chanting madly in his head as he danced around the room, hearing the blade’s whisper a hairsbreadth away from his back. The sounds of splintering wood echoed behind him, proof of her murderous intent.
His mind continued to scream at him, invoking every ounce of self-preservation he had. Something...gotta do something...anything!
There was no place to utilize the Breaking Point Technique. A ki-blast was out of the question—he wasn’t about to stand still and concentrate on his depression with an eager sword-wielding maniac dancing about trying to slice off his neck. Through his mounting panic, Ryouga realized that none of his otherwise formidable techniques were useful at this point. He had almost always been the offender in his battles, but now that he had been thrust into the role of defender, he didn’t have the slightest idea what to do.
Except escape. Yeah, that was it. Escape.
His eyes riveted on the partially blocked door. He leaped, rolled across the floor, and scrambled for the exit.
She never gave him the chance.
The first thing he was aware of was the burning sensation that had manifested itself around his wrists. The next moment his torso was being jerked backwards, wrists first, and he was towed across the bedroom floor, not unlike an unwieldy sack of meat.
What the—?
Ryouga twisted his body fruitlessly, tugging against the stinging cord-like material. He winced as it hissed against his skin. It didn’t feel like rope. A whip, perhaps...?
Where the hell had she gotten one? And what had happened to her sword?
His turbulent thoughts all but vanished from his mind as he was suddenly, violently spun around—courtesy of the whip-like implement around his wrists—so that he was facing his foe. The hot, sizzling cord knotted about his flesh loosened and slid off his tender skin, leaving a raw, angry red mark.
He hit the floor hard. Shivers of pain streaked up his spine as he propped himself up on one aching elbow.
The next moment he froze as he felt something cold and knifelike slide across the skin on his chest.
Damn it—she’d gotten back her sword.
Ryouga flinched as the curved blade flashed silver a few inches before his eyes, hovering above his rapidly beating heart.
Flabbergasted, he stared as the blade slid down to rest just a centimeter or two above his stomach, grazing the flimsy cotton material of his undershirt. But she didn’t stop there. Instead she inched it upwards once more, letting the razor-sharp weapon slice through the material of his collar.
What kind of sick torture game was she playing on him?
He raised his head up, emerald eyes burning with helpless fury. And, in spite of himself, a torrent of angry words poured out of his mouth like venom.
“Well, what’re you waiting for?” he yelled. “ If you want to kill me so much, then do it already! Here’s your chance—now get it over with, damn it!”
The sword froze at his throat.
“No,” she managed. Her voice was trembling.
Ryouga blinked. No?
“No,” she repeated softly. “That would be too easy.”
The chant started up again in his brain. Mad, she’s mad. Stark raving mad...
Even so, he tried one last stab at reasoning with her. “Wait a damn minute! Why are you doing this to me? What did I ever do to you?”
Far from calming her, his words served to do just the opposite: her look of indecision evaporated from her countenance like mist on a mirror, and the ice in her eyes was gone, melted by cerulean fire.
“How dare you pretend that you’ve forgotten! Do you really think so low of me to assume that I would be swayed by what you tell me? Again, I ask—how dare you?”
Had he not been occupied with other things, Ryouga would have been dumfounded by the hundred-eighty-degree turn her patois had taken. As it was, he just trying not to squirm as the sword’s edge nipped his neck. A millimeter more, and he was certain that it would draw blood.
And then her voice dropped to an oddly voluptuous register.
“You have no idea. No idea at all,” she was murmuring, and there was a curiously wistful quality to that statement. “There was so much...so much that could have been...I should have known better, I knew it was not to be—but, damn it all, I did not care!” Just like that her veneer of melancholy vanished, and her anger reasserted itself over her pain. “And it is all your fault! How dare you show up and shatter my entire world—destroy everything I ever believed in...everything I thought I ever was! And now...and now it has come to this...”
He opened his mouth to speak, to ask her just what the hell she was talking about, but he never got the chance.
“Goodbye,” she said, and whatever came out of her mouth after that was rendered inaudible.
And the room turned crimson.
* * * * * *
“Why won’t it open?” yelled Akane, tugging futilely at the doorknob.
“Someone musta locked it,” decided Ranma, his eyes thinning into slits as he surveyed the door. “All of ya, stand back. I’m kickin’ this thing in.”
“Do—do you really think that’s necessary?” babbled a nervous Soun.
“Well it is the only way we’ll ever be able to stop whatever’s going on in there,” Nabiki pointed out. As if on cue, a thumping noise came from the vicinity of the locked room.
Ranma fell into a fighting stance, his countenance grim. “All right—here goes nothin’!”
And with that, he let loose a ferocious roundhouse kick.
*CRACK*
To his chagrin, the bolt came free, but the door remained steadfastly in place.
“What the—?” Akane began.
Ranma flattened his palms against the wood, grimacing. “Damn—there’s somethin’ blockin’ it...that’s why it won’t move!”
*CRASH*
Nabiki started a little at the ruckus behind the door. “There has to be a reasonable explanation for this, right?”
“There never is,” grumbled Ranma. As though to prove his point, he pressed his ear to the door, then frowned. The noise had ceased significantly, and an eerie silence reigned. “Hey. It’s stopped.”
Akane rolled up her sleeves in determination. “Will you quit talking and force this thing open already?”
Ranma stared at her. “Whaddaya gonna do? Push it open?”
“You have any other bright ideas?” she retorted.
“Well, no, but—”
“Oh, push already!” groused Nabiki.
“All right, all right! Gang up on me, will ya? Geez!”
The three of them were oblivious as Genma Saotome clambered noisily up the stairway, clutching the phone receiver to his ear and twisting the stretched-out cord around his index finger.
“What?” he droned into the receiver, straining to hear above the noise. “Huh? What’s going on, you say? Oh, nothing—the house sounds like this all the time! Hehehehehe...” He chuckled maniacally as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Eh? Uhmmm...no, that was nothing. What was that—?”
“C’mon, Akane! Let’s see those muscles of yours in action!”
“Why, you...”
“Will you two lovebirds please concentrate on opening this door?”
“Lovebirds?” shrilled Akane.
“Over my dead body!”
“Oh, be quiet, Ranma!”
Genma clapped a hand over the speaking end of the receiver. “Eh? No—hahaha...everything’s fine here. Wait—I thought you were coming over here...what? Why not?” Trenches appeared on his brow. “What do you mean, there’s been a change in your plans? Huh? Something’s come up? Like what, pray tell?”
“Push! Yeah, that’s it, Akane, push!”
“Uhm, Ranma...would you mind not saying that? You’re making it sound like she’s delivering a baby.”
“That was totally uncalled for, Nabiki.”
“Ooooh! If both my hands were free I’d—”
“Come over?” Genma was now yelling into the phone. “What do you mean, ‘come over’? Can’t you tell we’ve got troubles of our own over here? Huh? Hahaha—did I say ‘troubles of our own’? No, no, no—I was merely joking! Er, I mean—yes, ma’am, we’ll be right over...”
* * * * * *
The entire room was still as death.
She stood over him, a strange, indeterminate expression plastered on her face. Her arm was extended out toward his inert form, and there were wisps of carmine smoke curling out from her fingertips—and from the black-ringed hole she had blasted clear through the bedroom floor.
Somehow managing not to move a muscle, Ryouga shifted his stunned gaze from the smoldering crater an inch to his left and trained it on the girl now towering over him. To his bafflement, she seemed frozen in her initial stance, her hand outstretched and palm up, a glassy film forming over her eyes as they met his.
She looked wild. Abashed.
And so very lost.
It was the chance he’d been waiting for.
Ryouga lashed out at her with a swiftness that surprised the both of them, hooking his foot around her left ankle and giving it a good hard yank.
Emitting a strangled gasp, she began to topple over, and he launched himself at her, cannonball-style.
They collided in a crazy tangle of arms and limbs, rolling about the floor as each struggled to seize the upper hand. Without warning hot red sparks sizzled out from her palms, catching Ryouga off-guard long enough for her to take advantage of his distracted state. She flung him to the floor, securing him there by leveling one arm across his throat and the other one over his wrists. Her knees dug painfully into his thighs, rendering him once more immobile. He cursed under his breath.
She was panting from the exertion, her breath hot on his face, and the silhouette of a curved sword glowed faintly in her left hand.
The sword...how the hell did she—
But the weapon disappeared as unexpectedly as it had materialized, and when Ryouga glanced up at her he thought he saw that same rueful, unbridled expression he’d seen earlier on her...
Again her hesitation proved her undoing. Before she knew what was happening, he had flipped the both of them over so that she was the one pinned underneath him.
That was when the door broke.
* * * * * *
“Ryouga?”
From what Nabiki, Ranma, and Akane could make out, the guest bedroom had been reduced to an archetype from one of Soun Tendo’s worst nightmares. The place looked like a typhoon hazard: smashed furniture strewn every which where, dents decking the walls, and peculiar circles of soot on the floor.
Which, incidentally, was where they saw Ryouga. And there was someone else with him.
Or, more accurately, underneath him.
“Ryouga?” Akane repeated hesitantly, squinting into the room as her vision adjusted to the relative dimness. All she could make out was Ryouga, on his hands and knees, and the small pale hand curled up against his left bicep...
She was just about to ask what was going on, but Ranma had a different query.
“Ryouga—what the hell d’ya think you’re doin’?” he blustered.
Before Akane could react, Ranma had disappeared from her side in a red blur, and suddenly Ryouga was flying backwards like he had been yanked by invisible marionette strings. It took a full two seconds for her to process that it had been Ranma who had struck him.
“Ranma, what was—”
Akane’s incensed words died on her lips as she recognized the supine form that had been lying underneath Ryouga.
“Ranko?” she exclaimed.
The girl groaned and sat up, blinking dubiously as she recognized the newcomers. “Akane? Nabiki...Ranma...”
Ranma touched his hand solicitously to the small of her back, as though afraid her spine would collapse without support. “Easy there. You okay, Ranko?”
She gave him a brief, searching glance and raised a hand to her brow, smoothing away the disheveled bangs. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, her movements languid and almost drowsy in their execution—for all Akane knew, the girl might as well have just woken up from a bad dream.
“Ranmaaa! What the hell was that for?”
They all turned at Ryouga’s enraged tone. The lost boy was peeling himself off the wall he’d been punched into. His hair was mussed, undershirt badly torn, and his green eyes were ablaze with indignation.
Instead of replying right away, Ranma ignored him in favor of helping a sluggish Ranko to her feet. Thus done, he then straightened up to glare at the other boy.
“Like you don’t know,” he commented icily.
Ryouga tugged at the straps of his tattered shirt, painfully conscious of Akane’s gaze on him. “Huh? What are you talking about?”
“Don’t gimme that!” barked Ranma. “What the hell did you think you were doin’ attackin’ Ranko like that?”
“W-w-wait a minute!” Ryouga cut in, astonished. “You’re not thinking that I attacked her—”
Ranma cut him off with a brusque sweep of his arm. “Why not? We hear scuffling sounds comin’ from up here, and when we break down the door you’re there”—his features twisted in repugnance from the memory—“practically on top a’ her like...like y’were...g-gonna attack her or somethin’—”
“What the hell are you talking about?” sputtered the other boy. “She was the one who attacked me!”
Nabiki seemed only vaguely befuddled by the accusation, while her younger sister was taken aback.
“Man, I can’t believe you!” Ranma’s voice was laced with disdain. “I used to think that you at least had some code of honor or somethin’, Ryouga, but I guess I was wrong!”
“I’m telling you, Ranma, she attacked me! She was going to take my head off while I was sleeping! She even had a sword with her!”
Almost simultaneously, four pairs of eyes dropped to the redheaded girl’s hands. To Ryouga’s bewilderment, they were very much empty.
“Well...she—she must’ve dropped it when we were struggling,” he jabbered as he flickered his gaze over the shambles of the room, desperate to erase the incertitude on his beloved Akane’s face. “It’s probably just lying around here somewhere, I know it...”
Nabiki stood off to the side, wisely opting not to interfere in the ensuing drama. Ranma, on the other hand, was appalled at Ryouga’s behavior, and more than a bit mystified by it as well. Violent and headstrong as Ryouga tended to be sometimes, the idea of him assaulting an innocent girl—Ranma clone or not—was too ludicrous for him to absorb. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes...
“Gimme a break, Ryouga. Or at least try to come up with a more believable excuse. Come on, a sword? Please!”
“I’m not lying! She had a whip, too—”
“A whip?” echoed Ranma. Perfect, he thought. Not only does the kid get violent hallucinations—he gets violent kinky ones. “Uh-huh. Yeah. Right. Sounds more like wishful thinkin’, P-Chan.”
“Shut up! L-look, she even grabbed me with it! I-I’ll show you—” The bandannaed boy held up his wrists, only to halt in mid-action as he gaped at the flawless patch of skin where the ribbon-like weapon had supposedly left its stinging imprint. Undaunted, he pursued a new road. “Look, if I did attack her, why is she here in my room?”
“Maybe you brought her here—I dunno. How should I know how your hallucinations work?”
“Dammit, Ranma, I’m telling the truth here! She’s out to kill me!”
“Riiight. I believe ya.”
Akane observed her fiancé with a touch of worry. Ranma Saotome’s jaw was clenched, his hands balled into fists, and the jewel on his forehead...
The jewel on his forehead was alive—it was throbbing, emanating a distinct greenish-blue glow.
She shut her eyes, opened them, and looked again. Nothing.
It must have been a trick of the light, she reassured herself. Just a trick of the light...
“I know what’s going on with you—you’re defending her!” shot back Ryouga, now thoroughly fed up with Ranma’s intractability. “I should’ve known you’d take her side! I mean, you two are cut from the same cloth, so I really shouldn’t be surprised—”
“Will you just shut up!”
Everyone started at Ranko’s unexpected outburst, including Nabiki.
The petite redhead elbowed her away in front of Ranma and planted herself in front of the lost boy, poking her index finger into his chest.
“Now you listen to me, pig-boy,” she hissed. “I did not attack you. Why would I do that in the first place? Okay, so I know a couple of good reasons why I’d do that, but still...me attack you? I mean, what chance would little ol’ girly me have against a big strong martial artist like you, huh?”
A really big one, especially with that magical glowing whip-sword of yours, Ryouga wanted to say. He stifled the retort, however, well aware of how absurd it would sound. “Well, then, why don’t you tell them what happened?”
He expected her to concoct some sort of elaborate sob story—with their respective roles reversed, of course—but she didn’t allow him that satisfaction.
Instead the anger drained from her face, replaced by something like nebulous confusion, and she ducked her head away from him.
“I don’t remember,” was all she said.
Ryouga appraised her warily, uncertain on how to respond to this. She had to be faking it—surely she didn’t expect him to believe that she’d had a convenient bout of amnesia right after she’d chased him around the room in a bloodthirsty frenzy, did she?
“What?” Ranma stalked up to her, his countenance skeptical. “So you’re sayin’ y’don’t remember how you got into Ryouga’s room?”
She rubbed her neck, testily. “Look, all I know is that I went to bed, and then all of a sudden there’s screaming, I’m on the floor of someone else’s room, and for no reason at all, pig-boy here”—she tossed the bandannaed boy a malignant look—“is accusing me of attacking him in his sleep!”
Akane looked from a frustrated Ryouga to an indignant Ranko, weighing their varying accounts in her mind. For some obscure reason, Akane found it difficult to disbelieve either one, especially considering the solemnity on Ranko’s visage and the blood on Ryouga’s—
“Ryouga, you’re bleeding!” she exclaimed.
He glanced down almost casually at the crimson fleur-de-lis on his shredded shirt as though he had spotted it only now—understandable, Akane thought, since they had been rather occupied with the who-attacked-who debate, and the only source of illumination inside the room was the light trickling in from the outside hallway.
“It’s just a flesh wound,” he reassured her offhandedly, tearing off a bit of his undershirt.
“No, wait.” Akane stopped his hand before he could dab at the injury. “Let me get the antiseptic downstairs, and I’ll patch it up for you.”
He regarded her tentatively, the ghost of a blush tingeing his complexion. “Nuh-no, that’s all right, Akane—you don’t have to do that...”
Ranma let out a derisive “hmph”, promptly jolting Ryouga out of his Akane-induced Nirvana. “Geez, Akane, you don’t hafta make such a big deal outta this—it’s just a little cut. It ain’t like he’s gonna bleed to death.” Missing the rankled expression Akane threw at him, he bent closer to inspect the wound on Ryouga’s shoulder. “So where’d ya get that, Ryouga?”
“I already told you!” The other boy tipped his head toward a paling Ranko. “She did it. With her sword.”
His reply came in the form of a bap on the head, courtesy of an exasperated Ranma. “Will you cool it already with that sword crap? I’m tellin’ you man, that was probably just a hallucination or somethin’.”
“There you go again—defending her! You’re just—” Ryouga halted his diatribe when he caught sight of the other boy’s new forehead decoration. “Hey, Ranma, it’s still there...”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Ranma seemed irked that the other boy had noticed it.
“But it’s—that means—” Ryouga persisted feebly, aware of the significance of the yin-yang shape.
“Bingo, smart boy. It’s my very own magatama, and it’s obviously here t’stay. Kinda proves ya wrong ’bout me not bein’ the Chosen-Born, eh?” Ranma waved it off impatiently, steering his mind back to his original topic. “But we’re not talkin’ about that right now. Somethin’ weird just went on here, and I’m gonna find out what!”
“I’m telling you for the last time, Ranma—the only thing weird in here is that female half of yours—”
“Will you quit blaming me?” snapped Ranko peevishly.
“You heard her, Ryouga—lay off already!”
“But she tried to kill me!”
Akane turned appealingly to Nabiki for help, but her older sister hung back, evidently enjoying the show. Resigned, the youngest Tendo daughter was just about to whip out her trusty authority-instituting mallet when Genma Saotome’s corpulent outline appeared at the doorway.
“Ranma, m’boy, quit playing around! We need to be making tracks to the Nekohanten—on the double!”
The argument ceased instantly, and Ranma focused his attention on his frantic-looking father. “Huh? What’s wrong?”
Genma flailed his arms. “How should I know? All she said was that something came up and we’d better get our butts over there. Now get moving!”
Ranma darted one last look at Ryouga and Ranko. Grudgingly he supposed that this dilemma could be settled another time—for now, he wanted to know what had agitated Cologne. “You got it, Pop.”
“You too, Ryouga.” Genma spared him a perfunctory glimpse, then did a double take as he took in the young man’s appearance. “Ye gods! What happened to you, boy?” He scanned the ravaged surroundings, aghast. “What happened to the room?”
“Long story, Pop.” Ranma shoved past Ryouga. “C’mon, Pork Rind. Think you can keep up with us?”
Ryouga shoved him back. “No problem, Drag Queen.”
Old habits—particularly name-calling—apparently died hard.
“Uncle Saotome, wait. I’m coming with you,” Akane piped up.
“So am I,” chimed in Ranko, combing her fingers through her unkempt vermilion locks. “It’s not like I’m not gonna get any more sleep now as it is.”
“All right, all right,” relented Genma, obviously anxious to depart as soon as possible. “Let’s go.”
Foregoing any additional preamble, he herded them all out into the corridor, leaving Nabiki alone in the wrecked guestroom.
Expression thoughtful, the second Tendo daughter reached into her jeans pocket, extracted her multi-purpose penlight—an indispensable tool when it came to capturing those spontaneous nighttime shots that Tatewaki Kuno favored so much—and swept its beam into the gloom. She let out a slow whistle as she inspected the impressively sized hole on the floor, in a corner nearly concealed by shadows. The cavity was surrounded by a dispersing ring of blackened wood—the kind that occurred in the aftermath of a ki-blast.
Next her eyes fixated on the remains of Ryouga’s futon. The sheets had been sliced almost to ribbons, and the mattress had been neatly seared in half. Almost as if they had come into contact with a blade of some sort...
Nabiki leaned forward and ran the tips of her fingers against the suspicious-looking gashes that adorned the back wall. Common sense dictated that the marks could not have been possibly made by bare fingers—and certainly not Ryouga’s belt or one of his bandannas. They were too deep, too clean.
At that point she recalled how Ryouga had rambled about an imaginary sword. Could it be that it wasn’t so imaginary after all?
“Well, isn’t this interesting,” she murmured to the empty room.
* * * * * *
AUTHOR’S NOTES:
Whoo...and here I thought the hiatus between Chapter Ten and Eleven was long...shows how fickle circumstances (and yours truly) can be...
Anyways, this chapter was certainly a long time coming. One of the reasons for that was a temporary loss of inspiration thanks to the airport theft (to the creep who filched my Pullman: give my stuff back! And shame on you for stealing a dirt-broke teen’s junk; just what did you think was in that thing—gobs of greenbacks?); the rest should be attributed to the immutable mystery that is Real Life. I know there’ve been people who’ve sent me e-mails asking me everything from the status of my fanfics and sites to my current state of mind. All I can say is that I’m very sorry; I can no longer answer any letters sent to my AOL inbox. Just in case you missed the announcement on the front page, here’s my brand-new and hopefully foolproof address: sydneykyle@hotmail.com. That should be easy to remember, neh? ^_^
As of this time, I’m rewriting this fanfic’s outline (to replace the one that was taken…grrr…) and sketching upcoming original characters (and dear God, there are going to be a lot of those; current count’s fifteen). I already have chapter titles and brief summaries for Book II and the concluding Book III of “Dynasty”, and trust me—there’s still quite a ways to go. :) As for the graphic novel aspect, well, I’ve done some more trial doujinshis (the first of which includes a scene from “Doors Best Left Unopened” from “The Shadow Chronicles”—great scene, amateurish panels ^^;;) mostly as practice.
Oh, and thanks to Ben Bradley’s displaying my art on his fanfic site “A Feather in the Wind”, I got to have a short Ranma ½ doujinshi published in an amateur anthology! Woo-hoo! :) It’s currently out-of-print now, but that shouldn’t be any big loss ’cause my work there, in retrospect, leaves a lot to be desired (which is why I refuse to post art from it online). ;) I am, however, toiling on a new doujinshi, tentatively titled “Glass”, for another anthology—this one featuring stories that take place after the original Rumiko Takahashi series’ ending—and this piece should turn out much better. After that’s another doujinshi dealing with the Ranma ½ series seventeen years after, but that’s a long way off...
Okay, that’s enough rambling. ;) At any rate, thank you all for reading; I just have one more scene to finish in Chapter Thirteen before it’s done—honest! ^_^ After that, Chapter Fourteen should conclude Book I, and then I need to fix up some new “Dynasty” graphics for the beginning of Book II. Trust me, Book I’s just the tip of the iceburg.
Ja ne,
Sydney Kyle
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