Well, I got this far, and I'll get no chance to write tomorrow.
So here's part one of an estimated three parts of chapter 2. Read, enjoy,
C&C and guess what's cpming next.

Disclaimer: The playground is by Rumiko Takahashi, I'm only swinging on
the monkey bars.  Remember to leave the grounds cleaner than you found 
them and please don't feed the Troll.

*This is a sound.*
'This is a thought.'
_This is emphasis._
{This is a sign.}
<This is Chinese.>


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Ranma & Akane: A Love Story. 
Chapter 2 :The Second Day
Part A: Duel of Engines: A dream of blood and foxes.

   Nerima ward, darkest early morning, the time when old men die. 

   Focus in. A large maison in the newer, outer part of the ward; where
the transients go, and those who can't afford a _real_ Nerima address 
find space to live. It's been here for 40 years. It's been dying, 
slowly, for 35.

   Focus in. The eighth floor, on the corner, in the back. There is no
elevator to this floor, (there was one once but it broke beyond repair-
ing, the rent charged on these minuscule boxes won't pay to replace
it) only rickety stairs. There is no hallway light, but then no one 
here should be going in or out when it's dark, anyway (there's no 
_stairway_ light either).

   Focus farther. The apartment has one main room, one bathroom, no 
furo (there's a small shower in the bathroom), one room that combines
kitchen and breakfast nook, and one closet. Most of it was furnished
by the building owner in a style that can be described as 'severely
minimal' and the current occupant hasn't added much.

   Take a look at the main room. Perhaps 12 feet on a side, floored in
a dingy parquet linoleum, it holds two pieces of furniture. Against one
wall, underneath the only window, a footlocker. The door in the wall to
the left leads to the kitchen. The door to the right, to the bathroom.
In the corner formed by the back wall, and the left is the other piece
of furniture, a futon.

   Look a bit longer. To two pieces of furniture, add three other items 
of interest. The first, placed just in front of the leather bound chest,
is a sword stand. On its upper tier, edge upward, as is proper, a sword.
A blade about 35 inches long, of the ancient pattern called /tachi/,
chisel pointed, strait backed, uncurved. Its hilt is of wood, wound
with steel wire, its tsuba of plain, unmarked brass. Its scabbard, 
resting beneath it on the stand, is of plain steel, lacquered black;
its wooden inserts of common pine. A more commonplace, workaday weapon
would be difficult to imagine. No flamboyant artwork on _this_ blade,
no feeling of legendary glory waiting to be won. The only feeling an
observer receives from this blade is: 'Gee, that looks really sharp'.

   Look behind it. On the chest, precisely in the center of its top,
and precisely in the center of the moonlight streaming through the
window, is a small bowl made of silver. In it floats a pool of softly
luminescent liquid, reminiscent of quicksilver, but more fluid.

   Look deeper. See the small assemblage suspended slightly above the
surface of the liquid: two pieces of carven ivory flanking a ring of
palest jade. See how the ivory pieces, if fitted together, would also
form a ring, fitted tightly around the jade core. See the sandalwood
cover waiting patiently to the side of the chest lid; if it was placed
over the bowl it would fit perfectly around it's rim, and cover the
whole without disturbing it in any way. 

   Wait; look; did you see? Did you see the bead of soft light that 
fell from just above the bowl? Look above the rings above the bowl, 
about 6 inches, do you see? A pale circle of light hangs almost 
invisibly in midair, a slight thickening of the flowing moonlight.
Now watch the two small beads of light at the top of the circle; see 
them travel slowly around its circumference to the bottom. See them 
gain in brightness, so slowly, ever so slowly, as they flow. See them 
gleam as they pass, one by one, the geometric lines that cross and 
recross the design. Watch their color change, ever so faintly, as they 
pass each of the tracings of ancient chinese ideograms that form an 
inner ring of pale, translucent, radience. Watch them meet at the very 
bottom of the circle, meet and join. Watch the newly formed bead of 
luminescent liquid hang breathlessly a moment, then fall *blip* the 6 
inches to the rings above the bowl. Watch it seem to pass through the jade 
ring, then watch the jade, and then the ivory, glow. Ever so faintly, ever
so briefly. Watch the cycle begin again.

   Now turn to the futon. See the masculine figure sprawled in sleep.
So inelegant for one who, awake, is so graceful.

   Look closer again. See the scars on face and arms. Trace the blow
that must have fallen to lay that path across larynx and shoulder.
Contemplate the tracery of past violence across his bare chest and the
portions of his legs that lie beyond his boxer shorts. Scars like
wide, raised, ridges 6 inches long; scars like nearly invisible threads,
white against the tanned skin; scars of all dimensions in between.
Marvel, lastly, at the tattoo. A dragon, marked with the symbols of 
yang power. Sprawled across chest and stomach, winding around his left 
shoulder and across his back to flirt with his right scapula with its
tail. Every scale and claw perfect, detailed in line, marvelous in 
color, drawn by a master's hand. So perfect that the simple act of
the man's normal breathing seems to make it live and breathe alike.

   Observe. See its fierce whiskers, its masculine lines. See the eye
closed in sleep, the coiled body peaceful and still. It is fortunate,
no doubt, that it sleeps so peacefully; were it to awaken, its wrath 
would surely be terrible. No doubt. No doubt at all.

   Fortunate, then, that the sleep of its bearer is likewise deep, and
peaceful. Fortunate that he is locked, deeply and thoroughly, in dreams.
Fortunate for the dreamer, and also, perhaps, for the observer.
Look deeper, you can see into the dream itself. But be cautious, as you 
do: it is all too easy to become lost in dreams, all too easy to give
them too much credence. In the end, remember this: however exact the
remembrance, however complete the illusion seems, you, yourselves,
are but also dreaming. Indulging in a metaphor, so to speak, for a 
somewhat more ... complex ... reality.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

   Gentle sunlight first, midmorning in the middle of spring: late 
April, or early May. An open field, uncultivated; spring grass as tall
as your horse's knees, spotted with wildflowers, strewn with butter-
flies. A hundred yard away to left and right the forest rises, dark 
with many pines, but drifted gold with their pollen. Horse beneath
you: coat black as night, mane and tail twin charcoal sprays. 

   Then birdsong like a many-voiced silver cataract, staccato tattoo
of several horses cantering, gentle rustle of the wind. Usagi's roan,
10 yards to your left, his straw hat thrown back off his head, his ears
streaming back in the breeze of your passage. Noriyuki-sama's bay 5 
yards behind and between you, his plump, cheerful, panda face popping 
up above the head of his warhorse with the enthusiasm of the 12-year-old
boy he is. Ame-san's dappled gelding 5 yards behind her lord, her cat-
ears pricked forward, face earnest and alert. Always devoted to her
lord's safety, no matter her delight in the sunlit day, no matter her
discomfort in the storming, bitter night. Odd how her cat's face causes
no fear in your dream, odd how a cat grown man-tall and stood upright
is, somehow, not the kind of cat your subconscious so reviles. Poetry
from Usagi, chuckles from Tomoe and yourself, delighted laughter
from Noriyuki-sama, each close enough to speak, close enough to laugh,
but far enough away that danger cannot take two at once.

   Next dew-smell, and bruised grass, delicate scent of wildflowers,
honest smell of horse, and leather, sharp tang of steel and lacquer from
the light breastplate hidden beneath your outershirt. Smells of spring,
overlaid by smells of travel, sadly intermixed with smells of danger, 
and of threatening war.

   Last the sun's gentle warmth, slanting from above; caressing breeze
across your face, gentler than the wind of your passage. Rythmic pound-
ing of hooves, the saddle's steady rise and fall. Thump of braid to your
back, followed by the click as the ring at its end slaps home. Flex
of saddle-leather, slap of stirrups, bind and loose of breastplate, 
thump of sword. 

   Just beside your track a fox starts a mouse, pounces, grips his 
prey and kills. Pounding hooves disturb his meal, his jaws drip blood,
his eyes glow green: his pounce is intercepted by your sandal, he 
sprawls before your progress. As the hoof comes down, a viper takes
his place; too late: crunch under hoof, writhing rope behind, Tomoe's
naginata snaps downward, rises coiled by serpent, snaps to throw the
corpse away.  

   Suddenly pounding down a steep slope towards a lonely road, dark 
pines grow close on either side, dark clouds and bitter wind. Before
you a party of horsemen. The war mask of the leader makes their identity
unmistakable - Hijiki, and a dozen of his guard. 

   Closed view from helm, O-yori heavy on your limbs; no daikyu, so a
charge will have to do. Yari straight before you, parallel with Usagi's
charge; behind you, Tomoe's naginata spins in a blurring circle as she
gallops past Noriyuki to shield him from his enemies. First contact, 
and your enemy's throat sprays blood, a deviation as you break your 
foe's wall rips open the side of another. Tomoe's naginata takes the 
heads of the two guards in her path; Usagi has collapsed the other 
corner and converges on Hijiki. Rein left and launch your yari at 
Hijiki, he will dodge but the guard behind him will not. 
  
   Tenchuu flashes from its scabbard in an arc that takes it through
two enemies' necks; Usagi has downed his foe, throwing him into another.
Tomoe overmasters her last opponent, beating down his guard. Hijiki
waits: unbowed, but now alone. 

   Move to meet him, Tenchuu held low beside you. Then the fox springs,
leaping from the trees. It is larger now, and crueler; already its
jaws drip poison spittle and its eyes blaze hatred and rage. Tenchuu 
chops it from the air and it tumbles broken to the ground, but it rises
to its feet, healed again in an instant, and now it is on your off 
side. Armored in steel, your foot kicks free of it's stirrup and meets
it in midair; flailing, it flips over your head, Tenchuu blurs through
its diseased form a score of times at least: scattered in many places,
no healing will save it this time.

   Yet the delay is costly: Hijiki cuts through your defense, a stream 
of fire across your throat and shoulder, falling from your mount to 
roll frantically across the ground. Tomoe is down on one knee, injured, 
defending Lord Noriyuki from half-a-dozen foes. Usagi kills his op-
ponent and you rise to your feet, Tenchuu hissing in the pattern called
'fire wheel', the three enemies about you falling back slain. You turn
toward Hijiki, as Usagi turns to the window in alarm. You turn away 
from the bodies piled in the center of the floor as you sniff the air 
in alarm: smoke! They're trying to burn you out! 

   Quickly you string your daikyu, eight arrows in your fist: the most
that you can put in the air at once. A burst of archery drives the en-
circling foes on one side of the inn into cover, cowering. Now, out the
window, through their weakened line, run!

   Around the corner now, galloping over treacherous shale, flakes of
rotten stone spraying back from your horses' hooves. Single file now,
the mountain track is too narrow for more. Behind, a small army, but 
they are at least half-a-mile back and if you can get past the towering
rock ahead they will never catch you.

   Rain-slick cobbles *rutch* beneath your flying, sandaled, feet;
around the outbuilding now, Tenchuu naked and rain-flecked in your 
hand. Straw rain cape flapping as you bring the fox and Hijiki to bay
before the tower looming black and monstrous in the storm. The fox
stands manlike and erect now, robed in black, carrying a spear. Your
opponents are spread out too far for the move to succeed: dash between
them, cutting at Hijiki as you pass, steel belling harshly against
steel. Turn to face him and feint to his torso, waiting for the flow
of ki from behind. Now, leap reversed over the fox's head, thirty feet
of backwards somersault; feel the power flow through ground and storm, 
call it to your hand. Now! they are concentrated, pinned against the 
tower, their defenses momentarily down; now, hold within the power and
weave a web of intent, now release the leash of will close-held and
call the Dragon Wind.

   Storm erupts: sand caught by the wind and swept up as a thousand
miniature knives, lightning riding the fist of wind like a corona of
supernal fire. It washes over Hijiki and the fox, overwhelms them, and 
blots them from view; debris sprays from the tower's base with the
power of the storm. Rising from the wrack, the fox's lifeless, skeletal
jaws howl in futile rage in the moment they are given before the fire
consumes them, before the avalanche of stone from the falling tower
buries them, before you turn and jump for distant safety, before the
tons of gunpowder stored below Hijiki's fortress destroy themselves, 
and all around them, and the titanic eruption reaches out, gaining
speed behind you...

  And the mass eruption of butterflies passes you by in a varicolored,
softly scintillating cloud of fragrance and you ride up the last hill,
amid a carpet of wildflowers. Usagi is beside you, Noriyuki-sama just 
behind, carrying the sword, and Ame-san brings up the rear. And you all
laugh with joy, and awe, and delight as you top the rise to see before
you the rice fields on the outskirts of the new capitol. This area
is firmly under the Shogun's peace, patrols will escort you the rest
of the way to his palace, the presentation will be performed without
delay, and there remain before you no obstacles. No obstacles at all.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

   Bushiko Ranma, whose name had once been otherwise, awoke suddenly,
and turned over muzzily on his futon. Looking across the darkened room,
to the pale circle of magic dripping light into a silver bowl, he shook
his head and sighed. "Man, I haven't dreamed about _him_ in a _long_
time", he yawned. "I've got to stop making myself those midnight
habanera-and-teriyaki beef snacks. That, and hope that wasn't an omen."

   And then he turned over, and went back to sleep. Warriors soon learn
to prize the commodity, they know that morning will come soon enough.
And there will always be something to do in that morning. And you'll
always need your sleep.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Next: part B
Akane greets a new day, silly people try for revenge, and Nabiki makes
more money. Be here for Battering Pieces, coming soon.

--
When Novell used to mail us nice things, like parcels not containing any
of their products,...
 -Simon Cozens,a.s.r
-Eric Hallstrom, Sept. 24, 1998
Eric Hallstrom  hallcon@mindspring.com