Here is a new one....

Authors Forward:

Howdy folks, here we are with another installment of Hidden Talents. This
one is a rather short one that just came to me. I derived a few of the ideas
from a Steve Perry book titled 'The 97th Step'. I guess this story is
probably the closest I'll ever come to a darkfic, and it wasn't meant that
way, but it just kinda grew into one. C&C is appreciated. Flames are taken
so long as you give me a bloody good reason to flame me. uuhhhh.... oh yeah,
Ranma 1/2 and all characters are the creation of Rumiko Takahashi and
property of Viz Video and Shogakun.

(Visit my page and see my art and stories!! at
http://www.geocities.com/Tokyo/Garden/5220)



Ranma 1/2

Hidden Talents

part, the third

	The sirens song called to him. Dr. Ono Tofu bolted upright in his bed. It
wanted him. He wiped cold sweat from his brow and noted the early hour.  He
could feel a compulsion starting to take control of his body. For a moment,
he attempted to breath deeply and clear his mind, but to no avail. Wide
eyed, he turned toward his wall and found himself climbing out of bed,
unable to resist the luring compulsion of his nemesis. He slowly walked
toward his shelf and took down a row of medical books. With shaking,
faltering hands, he reached into the newly opened space and gently lifted
out the flat metal box that had been pressed to the wall. The box seemed to
almost pulse in he dimness and he suddenly realized that it was the pounding
of his own heart. His hands slowly roamed over the cool, smooth surface, and
he was almost overwhelmed by a near sexual desire to open the box. With a
sharp cry of disgust, he threw the box away from him and collapsed to his
knees. As he watched it strike the wall and clatter to the ground, he fell
back onto the floor and covered his tear-filled eyes with his hands. He
desperately attempted to exorcise the part of him that wanted to fling the
grab the box, fling it open, and use its contents. Groaning aloud, knowing
he was losing, no, had already lost that battle of desire, he closed his
eyes and slept where he lay until morning.
	Tofu woke to sunlight. He gazed around confusedly, wondering why he was
lying on the floor when his eyes fell on the box. Immediately it all leapt
back, the nightmare struggle with his emotions and his loss. He felt the
compulsion grip his mind with renewed fevor and spat through gritted teeth,
" All right, you win." He lowered his head into his hands and hoarsely and
tiredly repeated, "You win.Damn you." A sob.
	After a brief shower, the morning ritual of brushing teeth, combing hair,
and cleaning glasses, Tofu stood in the doorway of his small clinic. With
slow, studious motions, he placed a small, neatly lettered sign that read,
'Sorry for any inconveniences, will be back by 2.' , over the door. His back
ramrod straight, he purposely strode toward his car, hating himself with
every step, and hating the part in him that was like a small boy and eagerly
joyed by those selfsame steps. He held the metal box securely under his left
arm, to his ears, it seemed to chuckle.
	
	*BLAM*
	The Russian made Tokarov 14 millimeter bucked, coughed and spit its wad of
metal downrange. In the center of the silhouette targets head a neat, round
hole suddenly appeared. Two shots later, the head had eyes. Eight shots
after that, a fist sized portion of the upper left chest was simply gone.
The slide locked back on the eleven round magazine and Tofu continued to
hold his two handed firing stance, motionless, as a waft of smoke drifted
out of the large pistols barrel. He slowly released a breath and lowered the
weapon while he rode the rush of emotions. He smoothly ejected the clip and
inserted a fresh one, automatically working the action with a natural grace
and speed. As he sent another eleven rounds downrange he felt the call, the
pull, the feeling of complete excitement and perfection with each pull of
the trigger. The eleven rounds he fired all struck dead center chest, in a
grouping no more than an inch and a half wide.
	Taking in a shuddering breath, he laid the pistol down and reached up to
activate the pulley to bring the target back. His eyes never left the gun
and as he gazed at it, he felt he could almost see it panting, begging for
another magazine, or was it him? For a moment, he studied his own feelings.
As a doctor his express point in life was to heal, to help. All his studies
in life had been directed toward that goal. His training in medical school,
his private studies in herbalism and acupuncture, even his personal
understanding of chi through akido was to gain a better knowledge to heal.
Using a gun had absolutely no place in such a realm. It was anathema to it.
But he could not deny his desire for it. At least once a month he was
overcome by the urge to come to the shooting range, to almost reverentially
take up his weapon, and with every round, to hate himself a little more. And
at the same time, to fiercely exhult in a primal joy.
	He had tried to deny the emotions many times, but it had always been as
futile as trying to stop breathing. He didn't like guns, he abhorred what
their purpose was. He despised any who might use them on their fellow man,
and yet he could not stop himself. A gun, any gun, no matter the size or
caliber or design felt natural in his hand. He would heft it in his hand and
it would feel like a natural extension of his arm. He would slowly go
through the ritual of firing, the easing off the hammer, the inhaled half
breath, the moment of total stillness, the sudden crack of thunder and
action and it would feel as though he was alive in that one instant.
Inwardly he railed at himself and fervently wished that he felt some other
way, just as fervently as he wished for no other feeling in the world then
the one he gained when firing a gun. He half bowed his head in mingled
self-disgust and self-helplessness. Instead, he found himself in a Kyoto
shooting range, a good our and a half from his clinic in Nerima. If he
couldn't control his passion, he could at least hide it from all those he knew.
	 The range owner came walking up with a new target for him. He clucked as
he saw the target Tofu had shot and shook his head. "Damn, Ono. That's some
impressive shooting. I have never seen anybody able to pack that hand cannon
the way you do."
	Tofu nodded, "Thanks Shiro, " he said, absently taking the new target and
hanging it.
	The owner continued, holding up the target at arms length and whistling as
he stared at the tight grouping patterns. "You know, you ought to try out on
one of the national teams or something, Doc. This is really great work. I
mean, you are just awesome with that thing. I watch you and I can tell you
really get into it."
	Dr. Tofu shook his head as he reloaded his weapon, "No thanks Shiro. I
kinda like to keep this as a... I don't know," he paused trying to think of
a good phrase, "maybe a.. hidden talent. That's why I always come in here at
the top of the morning. I like the privacy." He turned his head towards
Shiro, gun pointed downrange, "Two more clips and I'll get out of your way,
okay?"
	Shiro nodded amiably and ambled back to the desk, taking the shot up target
to dispose of. He shook his head, thinking to himself. Damn shame that a
shot as good as that never really tried out for the Olympics or something.
Oh well, takes all kinds. Behind him, another eleven shots rang out in rapid
fire and Dr. Ono Tofu hated, and enjoyed, a little more.


Fini


	Post


I have no idea where this story came from. I just had a vague notion of
making Tofu's hidden talent an almost scary ability with a gun and then this
just came out like this. When I wrote this story, it was much the same as
the first paragraph, a near compulsion came over me and I just let my
fingers fly over the keyboard. C&C to raymond.haney@mohican.mwsu.edu