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Hey,

Fragment 3 of 3.  But I'm kind of shit at this, so there might be a fourth.

-Mike

***

She waited in her room.
    The inevitable knock came, stronger and more confident than she expected.  Akane struggled between distinct urges to simply remain quiet and pretend she didn't hear, or screaming and smashing her chair through the door.  She chose instead to utter a curt, "Come in."
    It was Ranma, of course, still slightly wet around the edges and wearing a bath yukata.  He bobbed his head as he entered but otherwise didn't seem the least bit apologetic.  She felt an echo of that very special anger that only he seemed able to generate, rise within her.  Well, she told herself, there goes a week of peace and tranquility out the window.  Amazing, it took him less than a minute to piss me off, too.
    "Hi, Ranma," she said, though her tone was anything but welcoming.
    "Hi," he answered.  "Er, well. . . I'm back."
    "Yeah, I noticed."
    He tried a little grin, and Akane watched with some satisfaction as it died under her steady stare.  After a moment of heavy silence, he shrugged.
    "Fine, whatever.  Let's just get this over with.  You wanna slam me over the head with the table again, or will a simple scream suffice?"
    "Excuse me?"
    "How 'bout calling me pervert?  Will that make you feel better?"
    "You are a pervert!  You ogled me!"
    "Hey, you took a pretty damn good look too!"
    "As if -- you're the voyeur here!"
    "You walked in on me!"
    "You left the sign off the door!"
    "That's 'cus. . . oh, screw this, man."  He turned back toward the door.  "Didn't we already do this a year ago?"
    "Where are you going?"
    "To hide in my. . . in the guest room until my clothes are dry.  Then I'm leaving."  He glanced back.  "You wanted me to come back?  Fine.  I came back.  I don't know why.  Obviously nothing's changed.  I'll be out of your sight as quickly as possible, 'kay?"
    "Oh, cut the theatrics, Ranma.  It made sense a week ago; now, you just sound petulant.  Grow up."
    The words were slightly more barbed than she wanted, but they did stop him in his tracks.  Good.  She didn't want him to leave just yet: there were still so many things to resolve, things she needed to know.  Already she could feel her anger of earlier subsiding -- she could even grudgingly admit that he had a point, she was the one who had walked in on him.  And taken a rather good look.
    Surprisingly, she even found herself enjoying, in an angry sort of way, the verbal sparring between them.  No one had really argued or tried to annoy her all week (except for maybe the ex-rivals), and while the respectful friendships had been genuinely pleasant, they had also been just a little. . . dull.  It was almost fun, seeing whether she could push Ranma's buttons.
    "Grow up?  You're the violent tomboy who looked ready to pound me when I stepped in the room."
    Of course, he was remarkably good at pushing _her_ buttons, too.
    "Still, I'm glad this happened," he continued, leaning back against the closed door.  "Helped me figure out something that's been bothering me since I got back."
    "Oh really?" she said.  "I didn't know you were so easily bothered."
    The look he gave her was odd.  "Yeah.  Sometimes.  See, when I stepped through the front door, and Kasumi greeted me, and I walked around the house -- everything just felt so. . . normal.  Nice.  Kinda like, well, home, I guess -- not that I really know, since this is the closest I've ever come to having something like that."
    "You _have_ been here eighteen months, Ranma.  That's not surprising."
    He shook his head.  "You don't get it, Akane, you've always had this place. I've lived in other places for long enough, before: maybe not as long as here, but six months, eight, a full year here and there. . . and they've never felt like home before."
    Akane found her urge to nettle Ranma quickly dying, as he offered up a surprisingly honest. . . pain?, desire?. . . of his.  How often had she wished for this -- how often had she denied it -- why did it have to happen once it was too late?  For him to open up like this: something had happened during his week of training; he had changed in the last week, grown up, maybe.  She suddenly wondered if she could say the same -- wondered if she suddenly felt intimidated or frightened by his openness.
    "But here. . . I dunno.  Maybe it was 'cus I knew, those other places, they were only temporary, that I'd be moving on again eventually.  Here was different.  I know, we both hated the engagement, but for the first time, I couldn't clearly see a day ahead, some date circled on a calendar, where Pop and I'd be leaving.  Or maybe it was Kasumi, or even Nabiki, or your dad. . . something made it feel like. . . well, if not my own home, something a hell of a lot better than just a house."
    But not me, Ranma, Akane thought.  Never me.
    "But it wasn't that," he said, fixing her with his gaze.  "When I got back today, I couldn't understand.  Why had I been in such a hurry to leave last week?  Even with all that shit back at Furinkan, it wasn't enough.  But I remember coming back here that day, and this place feeling so alien, so unwelcoming -- like it does now.  It's not your sisters, or your father, or the house itself. . . it's you, Akane."
    Her breath caught in her throat.
    "It's you.  You don't want me here.  And as long as you still hate me, or can't stand me. . . or, hell, feel the way you have about me for the last year -- this place can never be a home for me."
    He held her gaze for a moment longer, and the faintest expression of sadness seemed to wash across his face; but she blinked and it was gone.  Finally he turned away.  "So that's why I'm leaving."
    "Ranma. . . ."
    "Akane, please. . . don't."
    "Ranma, did you mean everything you just said?"
    "You think I'd lie about something like this?"
    "I don't know, Ranma," she said.  "At one time, yes.  To get out of eating my food, certainly."
    Despite his best efforts, a slow grin crept up and replaced the scowl that had been there just momentarily.  "Damn, you know me too well.  I'd considered it, yeah."  He shrugged.  "But, no, I'm being serious about this. I hafta.  I have to leave -- I'm not sure I still want to, but I won't stay here, not the way things are.  Not with you hating me."
    His words had an intensity of effect upon her that came as a surprise, and she suddenly knew that something had changed within her during the week as well.  That he could admit to not wanting to leave -- that this house, family, home, meant something to him -- that she was the deciding factor in whether he stayed or not, though he had nowhere else to go: how could he admit this with such honesty, and she not do the same?
    But not yet.
    "Ranma. . . I already told you, I don't hate you.  I don't think I ever have, not really."
    He sighed.  "Not hating someone isn't enough, Akane.  You don't hate Kuno -- but do you want him living with you?"
    "I know.  I know.  I. . . just, don't leave, Ranma.  Not yet, please, just wait a little longer.  After supper, we'll talk.  I need time to think.  I've been doing a lot all week, and now. . . I think I'm ready to make some choices."
    The look on his face was doubtful, yet she thought she could detect the faintest glimmering of hope within his eyes.  Signs of an internal struggle were visible across his face -- she wondered how much the prospect of eating her food played in his deliberation -- before he apparently settled upon a decision.
    "Fine.  I'll stay."
    "I'm glad."
    "And we'll talk after supper."
    "Yes.  Please."


Ranma, after his time in the bathroom, had retired to his room for the night, slightly feverish, exhausted, and in ill-temper.  The fathers were back, slightly drunk and somewhat apologetic.  Kasumi cleaned the kitchen and sang softly to herself.  As for Akane: the youngest sister sat on the edge of the bed of the middle sister's room with burgeoning tears springing to her eyes, seeking comfort that was not entirely forthcoming.
    "Sis, I'd like to help, really," said Nabiki, "but you know I'm no good at this stuff.  It's Kasumi's department.  Wouldn't you be better off talking to her?"  The middle sister leaned back comfortably in her chair, one arm propped up against her desk and supporting her head, legs crossed at the knee with one leg swinging casually with metronomic regularity.  It was the only indication, really, that she was anything _but_ relaxed, and as aware of the nervous habit as she was, there was nothing she could do to still the sway of her foot.  She hated giving advice, especially to family, especially when it was important. Manipulating people, having a little harmless fun at their expense was one thing, but offering a solution to a serious problem?  What if she gave the wrong advice?  Nabiki recognized that, for all her skill at reading people, she was if anything less experienced (if more forthright) than her younger sister when it came to affairs of the heart.  Who was she to be giving advice?
    Beside, she distrusted people who easily offered advice, and that translated into a deep dislike of doing so herself.  Most people offering help, she felt, were more interested in vindicating their own beliefs, or in some way reaffirming their own self-importance, than in any actual act of altruism.  Never trust anyone giving free advice, she believed, they've got their own angle, even if they don't recognize it themselves.  Yet here she was, being called upon, if not forced, to give some of her own.
    "I can't," answered Akane.  Her voice quavered slightly, and she stopped frequently for short swallows or quick breaths.  Her eyes glimmered with half-formed, unshed tears, a slight puffiness along the bottom eyelid revealing inceptive redness.  Her entire expression and comportment exhibited extreme distress, to a degree that Nabiki had not seen in her younger sister for a very long time.  The reason, however, eluded her, for aside from the usual problems, what had changed so significantly in the last few hours; or perhaps she should say, what had Ranma done this time?  "Kasumi doesn't know about how things stand between me and Ranma," continued her sister, "and I can't tell her -- she'd tell Dad, or let it slip, or something.  But I have to talk to someone, Nabiki, I have to.  I can't keep this to myself, not any longer, I have to talk to someone, but there's nobody, nobody close enough or who knows or that I can trust. . . but I need help, he does too, and, and. . . ."  She cut off suddenly, pressing the heel of her palms against her eyes, and slowly crumpled forward until her elbows rested against her thighs.
    Nabiki watched in shock as her sister seemed to collapse inwardly.  She wondered if her sister was crying, for though Akane's body trembled all over, neither sob nor tear escaped.  I must've missed something, she berated herself, there's something going on here that I don't understand.  She was fine this morning, even with the idea of Ranma leaving forever, and now she's falling apart.  I have to find some way to figure out what's happening.  Unsure of what to do, she simply watched as her sister sat there, shaking silently, until time drew out and the tension became unbearable; and suddenly Nabiki knelt next to Akane and hesitantly pressed a hopefully comforting arm to her back.  "There, er, there.  It's okay, it'll be okay," she said, deeply hoping that everything _was_ okay, and knowing that things obviously were far from being so.
    Suddenly her little sister's tremulous movement stopped, and she sat up straight, Nabiki's encircling arm falling aside.  Akane took a deep breath and seemed to compose herself.  She appeared fine aside for a reddening around her eyes where her palms had pressed.  The youngest Tendo looked around for a moment, as if momentarily confused as to where she was.  She then stood up.  "I'm sorry, Nabiki.  I'm fine.  Really.  I'll be okay.  I should go."  An obviously forced smile crawled across her lips, quickly disappeared, and then Akane stepped toward the door.
    The signs which had been obvious all week but that she had somehow missed -- or not allowed herself to recognize -- were momentarily fully apparent as Nabiki caught a look of her sister's face as she turned away.  Akane was anything but fine.  The slight pallor to her features, a deep-set nervousness or distraction lending an unpleasant jerkiness to her movements: these elements had been there all week, if not so clearly exhibited; subliminal, perhaps, unconscious, but nevertheless existent, and once again Nabiki berated herself for having not noticed.  Or had she noticed and simply chosen to ignore the signs -- would she, the mercenary Tendo sister, have overlooked the same telltale signs in an opponent during a monetary transaction?  Now brought to the fore by. . . something, Ranma's return, a change she was yet unaware of, Nabiki could no longer overlook the tensions pulling at her younger sibling.  Akane was falling apart -- or, more likely, tearing herself apart.
    "Don't you dare leave this room, Akane," she found herself saying, just as her sister's hand closed around the doorknob.  "Don't you leave this room."
    "I'm okay," was the answer, given without turning around.  "I'm fine."
    "Bullshit.  Bull - shit, you're fine.  You just fell apart in my room, Akane.  You broke.  I've seen you cry, scream, yell, pound the wall, but you've never. . . collapsed."  She allowed  some of the genuine fear she felt slide into her voice.  "You scared me, sis."  She took a deep breath.  "Please. . . tell me, tell me what's going on."
    "I don't want to talk about it."
    "Dammit, Akane!  Yes you do, or you wouldn't have set foot in my room.  You want to talk about this, you _need_ to talk about this."
    "I can't."
    "You will!  If I have to blackmail you, if I have to tell Daddy about you and Ranma . . . I'll make you talk!  You have to!"
    "I can't!"  Akane finally turned, spinning back toward  her sister, first tears streaking down her cheeks as her voice escaped in a startled gasp.  "I can't!"
    Nabiki didn't answer, she didn't know what to say, but simply moved forward and collected her sister in an embrace.  For a moment she felt Akane tense up -- how strong she was, muscles hard and taut beneath her grasp, and for a moment the older sister felt afraid -- but then release herself to the hug, going soft, giving herself over to the comfort offered.
    Without letting go, she moved the two of them over to the bed and sat next to her sister.  Tears turned to sobs, deep ones that made Akane's entire body shudder as she buried her head in Nabiki's shoulder.  No words were given nor needed, as the elder sister waited for the crying jag to run its course.  It was getting dark outside, she noted, the vivid sunset hues streaking across the March sky fading into the blues and greys of dusk.  The last errant sakura blossoms, withering and fading as the season ended, fluttered past her window on the evening wind.  It suddenly felt unnaturally quiet, for aside from the muffled and lessening sound of Akane's weeping and her own soft breathing, Nabiki could hear nothing from the remainder of the household.
    There was a stirring from within her embrace, and Akane slowly and quietly pulled away.  Her face was red and tear streaked, eyes bloodshot from the fierceness of her crying, yet already some of the nervous tension that had underscored her demeanor seemed to have faded.  Nabiki wordlessly passed her the tissue-box.  Akane  wiped her eyes and blew her nose, and finally sat back on the bed, leaning back against the wall.  The older sister waited.
    A deep sigh, and Akane spoke.  "Thanks."
    Nabiki nodded.  "No problem."
    "I really fell apart there, didn't I?"  Hint of a wry grin.
    "To pieces.  Total collapse.  You were a mess."
    "Guess you were right."
    "I've told you before, never argue with big sister."
    "Yeah."
    Silence.  Akane wiped at her eyes again, closed them, curled into a small ball, thighs to chest and chin resting on knees.  Nabiki, at the opposite end of the bed, stretched out her legs and waited some more.
    "I'm sorry," Akane finally said, eyes still closed.  "I didn't mean to. . . ."
    "Hey.  Don't worry about it.  I'm no Kasumi, but that doesn't mean I don't care."
    "I know."
    "So are you ready to talk about it?"
    "No."
    "Will you?"
    A pause.
    "Yes."


Ranma dreams:  I walk along a cobblestone path toward shimmering depth of blue.  There is nothing else: no light no sound, neither scent nor sensation: only the path, the pool, and I.  Darkness all about.  Yet with each step a concurrent reality intrudes itself upon my march.  First: voices, ephemeral, their source just beyond the limits of vision, incomprehensible.  Then: phantom traces of others along the path.  Recognition accompanies the intrusion of cloying sweetness wafting on the night's wind, sakura's short blossom'd end: I walk a chosen path clad in female body and female clothing, and as always my feminine form forces a disjointed nightmarish aspect upon the scene.  My orange bikini sheds crimson as a duck sheds water, flies four times about my head and joins the embers floating skyward.  I have returned to the party.  I am not alone.  I join my friends, they ply me with drinks and jokes and sexual innuendo and observing the scene from without I see myself shudder at each, for I have just noticed the cracks in their face through which the curry of their minds flows.  I step up to the edge of the pool; every broken, immobile bodied seeping face turns to follow; and I leap into the air, high above them, into the darkness, suspended, above a coalescing pool of bloodied red-spattered brown curry every grain of rice a sharp, serrated-edged tooth flowed free from friends' gaping yawning maws and pointing straight at the me suspended above their putrescence, suspended and spinning curled-up cannonball-dive ball,
    and I grasp the ball in my hand and for a moment, gaze off into the distance, into the clear unspotted sky punctuated only by the single bespectacled duck hovering on the horizon.  I toss up the ball and it seems suspended, blocking the sun, and in the swelling darkness the girls and boys form a ring about me, hands linked, drawing closer, circle closing, looming faceless, restraining me.  I laugh out loud triumphantly.  They have no idea of what is coming.  Restrain me, who blocks the sun and becomes that very orb of light and heat from which they cower?  I hoist the bat and swing,
    and I hit the ball just -so-, with all the strength I can muster with all the control and fluidity and power that seventeen years of martial training has wrought and I watch the ball disappear into the distance with a resounding crack,
    and it's all so clear as I watch myself plunge arrow-like into the slough of Furinkan's decay spewed forth of the phalanx of faceless cracked gaping students lining the pool's edge and standing row after row into the unending distance.  With I make it through to the other side, or will I drown in their filth?


It was some time before Akane felt ready to continue.  Despite her threat, Nabiki nevertheless allowed her younger sister to leave the room, on the condition that she promise to return.  Word given, she took her time in the bathroom; seeing her puffy eyes and reddened nose, and the other visible signs of her sadness that still marred her face, Akane marveled at how quickly the tranquility of an entire week could be so thoroughly destroyed.  But she couldn't muster anger, not at this point, not at Ranma.  Even the memory of his betrayal failed to pierce the lethargic blanket of melancholy that settled softly and numbingly around her, as she stared at herself in the mirror.  Face: limpid unblinking hazel eyes: shallow pools.  She blinked, turned away, feeling sudden disgust.
    That betrayal.  It failed to anger her, but she hadn't yet forgiven him.  She wondered if she ever could, wondered if others could ever understand how deeply his unthinking simple -- incredibly complex -- action had scarred her.  Unthinking?  Hardly, and perhaps the wound cut all the deeper for having been so obviously considered.  How much had been decided in that impossibly brief moment, hand on wrist, twist, tightening of muscle, psychic spasm of pain that yet reverberated throughout.  The eyes showed it.  Had shown it.  A choice. . . .
    She was back in her sister's room, now dressed in her yellow fishcake-design pajamas, hardly aware of having changed.  Her sister waited patiently, idly flipping through a year-old manga, one leg casually swinging with monotonous regularity over the edge of the bed.  Akane quietly sat at the edge of the mattress.
    "He knew exactly what he was doing," she said, almost startling herself with the recognition that she had begun speaking.  It was a sudden realization, and she pursued the new idea even as she spoke.  "When he hurt me that night."
    Nabiki snorted indelicately.  "No shit, Akane.  Of course he did.  You don't twist somebody's wrist by accident."
    "No, no, not that," answered Akane, shaking her head.  "That was nothing."
    "Nothing?  He hurt you, sis."
    "That's the thing.  He didn't.  He didn't.  I pulled away before he actually applied enough pressure for it to cause pain."
    "So what?  He meant to, and that's what counts here, drunk or not.  Intent, right?"
    "Did he?"  Akane focused for a moment on her sister, before returning her gaze to the wall opposite her.  "Mean to hurt me, that is?  I'm not so sure, now.  I mean, that's what's been eating at me all this last week.  The idea that he'd actually hurt me.  Betrayal.  I trusted him -- I never realized how much -- even when I accused him in the past, I still believed in him -- he'd always protected me, absurd lengths, never retaliated, built a trust. . . ."  The word tumbled out, quickly, half-spoken as she rushed along a new idea towards an unknown destination; then she came to an abrupt halt, took a deep breath, before continuing with sudden deliberateness.  "And then he cut all that out from beneath me with a few words and his hand on my wrist.
    "But what if. . . ."  Brown meeting blue over crossed hands, a year reduced to a heartbeat, myriad possibilities to a single inevitability.  "It wasn't about the party, or going swimming, or doing what either he or I wanted to do that night."
    "Then what?"  Her sister's question nearly startled the answer out of her mind, so intent had she been on it.
    "It was about making a choice."
    "Yeah, to hurt-."
    "He made his then and there, offered me the same. . . ."
    "Huh?"
    "It's been eating at me all week, trying to understand.  He chose without me."
    "Sis, what the hell are you talking about?"
    "And tonight I ruined everything."
    "Hello?"
    Akane suddenly felt the same staggering sadness of earlier well up within.  Tears sprang once again to her eyes.  An overwhelming crush of emotion.  She recognized that the decision that had tormented her all week had likely been made long ago; and given a chance to reverse her choice, she had unconsciously undercut that very possibility.  It was the only explanation, and now she wept at her own weakness of spirit--and yet, it seemed, she felt a slight relief that the ambiguity was now resolved.
    "Okay, you've got me," a dry voice interrupted, "I've got _no_ idea why you're crying this time."    A giggle, with an undercurrent of hysteria, cut through her tears.  Akane turned back to her sister.  Nabiki was watching her with a hint of a wry smile.  Of course you don't, she thought, how could you, you too decided long ago.
    "Don't you see, Nabiki?  Tonight!"
    "So we're back in the present?"
    "We were supposed to talk!"
    "Um, aren't we?"
    "Not you, Ranma!  Ranma and I were supposed to have a big talk tonight, after supper."
    "I dunno, sis.  He didn't look up for too much after puking his guts out.  I can't really blame him for heading off to bed."
    Akane frowned.  "Thanks, Nabiki.  I can see you're taking this very seriously."
    Her sister shrugged.  "Hey, at least you stopped crying.  I told you: I want to help, but I suck at giving advice.  And when you walk into my room, burst into tears, leave, come back, get all cryptic, then burst into tears again--well, what do you expect?  I need full sentences here, sis, give me something to work with!"
    Akane blew her nose, wiped her eyes dry.  Well, she thought, although the sarcasm was something she'd rather do without, she couldn't fault her sister for at least trying.  At least the irritation Nabiki provoked was better than the overwhelming sadness or stupefying apathy she felt when on her own.
    "Okay."  She decided to try again.  "Earlier today, Ranma and I had a short talk.  He--well, he's changed a bit in the last week, I think.  He admitted some pretty serious stuff to me.  And I wanted to answer back, meet him halfway.  After a year-and-a-half, we were finally talking, Nabiki, we were really talking and not just arguing or swapping nonsense.  But I needed time.  I told him, later tonight.  After supper."
    Nabiki nodded in comprehension.  "Right.  But that never happened, because he got sick."
    "Exactly.  And. . . oh, Nabiki, it was _so_ important for us to talk!  He was ready to leave, for good, forever.  I told him to stay, to wait.  Tonight was my last chance to convince him."
    "Yes, but sis," her sister interjected, leaning forward, "do you _want_ him to stay?"
    That, of course, was the crux of the matter.  How many issues were concentrated into that single question?   What did it mean for him to stay; what did it mean for him to leave?  But she had a ready answer--not _the_ answer, but one that would do.
    "Yes, Nabiki, I do."  Her reply came with only the briefest of hesitations. "I don't have the right to make him leave.  He made it very clear: the only thing making him go away was me.  But that's not fair.  If he leaves, what does he lose?  Home, family, friends, his education: everything.  What kind of life can he expect to lead, if I send him away?"
    "I dunno," Nabiki said, and shrugged.  "The kind of life he wants, maybe?"


Ranma dreams: I step from the river onto solid earth.  The swim was refreshing.  It eased the heat of the day and cleansed the sweat from my body.  I take a moment to exult in the simple glory of being alive, in breathing deeply and feeling the swell of air within my muscle-hardened chest.  I exult in the vibrant life of the forest around me.  I exult in the knowledge that I am myself -- for what else could I possibly be?  Content, I step,
    from the river onto solid earth.  The swim was refreshing.  It eased the heat of the day and cleansed the sweat from my body.  I take a moment to exult in the simple glory of being alive, in breathing deeply and feeling the rush of air beneath the swell of my soft rounded chest.  I exult in the vibrant life of the forest around me.  I exult in the knowledge that I am myself -- for what else could I possibly be?  Content, I watch the man follow the path leading into the woods, choose to follow, and I step,
    from the river onto solid earth.  The swim was refreshing.  It eased the heat of the day and cleansed the sweat from my body.  I take a moment to exult in the simple glory of being alive, in breathing deeply and feeling the intake of air beneath incipient breasts, within my youthful chest.  I exult in the vibrant life of the forest around me.  I exult in the knowledge that I am myself -- for what else could I possibly be?  Content, I watch the woman follow the man follow the path leading into the woods, choose to follow, and I step,
    onto the path leading into the woods, alone yet fulfilled.  I feel that I am missing nothing.  The trees surround me, teeming with wildlife: a duck darts from the brush, quacks urgently at me once, and soars into the air, the bright sun glinting off of his glasses.  On a whim I choose to follow the bird, for I am free to do as I choose.
    I walk along this new path, through a steadily darkening forest, and the multitudinous sky-reaching trees begin to give way to ground that squelches underfoot and reeks of rot.  Fetid water squeezes its way through the healthy soil and corrupts.  I no longer wish to find what lies at the center of this mire, for I am alone.  It calls to me.  No challenge can be refused.
    I am afraid.
    (I am afraid.)
    (I am afraid.)


Another brief pause, her final question seeming to have stunned her sister into momentary silence.  Nabiki found that, despite herself, she was actually enjoying this little sister-to-sister moment.  They were all too rare.  It was great fun watching her little sister's mind run through loops and blow the occasional fuse.  But it was tiring work, and so while Akane pondered the older sister padded downstairs for a snack.
    The fathers had given up on shogi and turned to go, although a quick glance at the board left her wondering what purpose the red, green, and plaid stones filled.  The kitchen was empty but had been left immaculate, and Nabiki almost felt guilty disrupting its pristine state by daring to pour herself a glass of milk.  The fridge revealed a bowl of leftover rice and curry, and after a few turns in the microwave she carried the late-night meal back upstairs with her.
    "So, what're you going to do?" Nabiki asked, as plopped down on her bed across from Akane.
    "I don't know," her younger sister answered, "I feel like I ruined everything."
    "I really don't see how you're to blame in all this."
    "The food, Nabiki.  I made him sick."
    "Oh, big deal.  It's not the first time you've nauseated someone with your cooking."
    "Thanks."
    "C'mon, you know it's true.  But that just goes to show you, it's nothing to worry about, it's not like you spiked his tea or poisoned him on purpose, or. . . hey, what's wrong?"
    "But that's just it," Akane yelled, "I did poison him on purpose!"
    Nabiki opened her mouth, thought better of it, closed without saying a word.  She took a sip of milk.  Tried again.  "Um, excuse me?"
    The anger that drove Akane to raise her voice now abruptly seemed to transform into shame, eyes dropping and fixating on the floor.  Her fingers found folds in the bed sheets and hid from sight.  No answer was forthcoming.
    "Akane?"
    "I. . . ."  The younger sister glanced up before looking away again.  "Well, what else could it be?" she said in a quiet voice.  "I must have done it on purpose.  I know what my cooking's like, Nabiki.  Maybe it's getting better, but I still know how bad it really is.  I taste my own food now--you have no idea how many meals I've thrown away because I knew they were inedible.  But not this time.
    "Not this time," she repeated, and sighed.  "And why not?  I said earlier I wanted to talk to Ranma, it was my last chance to set things right, maybe, or convince him to stay; but it's a lie.  It's all lies.  I might say it, but obviously I don't mean it, or I wouldn't have insisted on cooking.  I wouldn't have forced him to eat my food.  I wouldn't have walked in on him in the bathroom.  I wouldn't have turned away from the opportunity to talk when it came up--not if I really wanted to do so.  Time to think, I said.  Ha!  I'd already had a week to think.  It was enough for him, it should've been enough for me, too.
    "I'm a coward, afraid of finally having an open conversation with him, and I delayed and hid behind my cooking until the threat Ranma represented was gone, and. . . ."
    "Oh, will you shut up," said Nabiki, and leveled a glare of disgust at her younger sister.  "Have you gone loopy or something?"
    "What?"
    "You give yourself too much credit, sis.  I hate to break it to you, but, frankly, you're not that deep."
    "Hey!"  The look of sudden indignation on Akane's face was comical.  "I am so deep!"
    "Sorry, Akane, you just don't work on that many levels.  Trust me.  Many things you are, sis: kind, and caring, considerate. . . and, let's face it, just a tad violent; but you're also forgiving, so that's okay.  But most of all, Akane, you're honest.  Heart on your sleeve honest.  You're not capable of that level of self-deception."  Well, maybe, thought Nabiki, at least when it comes to matters of Ranma and love.  But she wasn't even sure of that anymore.  You said Ranma had grown in the last week Akane, but I think you may have as well.  I don't think we'd be having this conversation otherwise.
    Her sister had the oddest look on her face, a cross between desperately wanting to accept what had just been said, and anger at the somewhat belittling--Nabiki took some pride in the carefully calculated tone of her voice, half-reassuring, half-condescending--judgment of her character.  Apparently consolation won out, as she released a deep sigh and much of the tension visibly drained from entire body.
    "I . . . do you think so?  Maybe I am reading too much into this."
    "For sure," agreed Nabiki.  "With Ranma too.  I don't know what you were babbling on about back there, with all that nonsense about choices and decisions and whatnot, but I'll tell you this: the only thing he was thinking about at that point was going swimming.  If he hadn't been so drunk, he probably would've backed down, too."
    "You really think so?"
    Nabiki nodded.  "He's even more straightforward than you, sis.  The guy couldn't deceive if his life depended on it.  He's an open book."  But even as she said so, a little doubt gnawed at her: the Ranma she had confronted a week ago was not the same as the one she'd dealt with and swindled and toyed with for the last year.  There had been a hint of a backbone beneath the genuine contrition over what had happened with her sister.  If he had changed as much in the last week as Akane seemed to think . . . things could prove interesting.  But that was neither here nor there, for what her sister needed at this time was comforting, not further doubts.  Constant self-questioning never came to any good.  That she knew all too well.
    "I guess," Akane said, and flopped back onto the bed.  "I hope."
    "No doubts.  Don't worry."
    "I just really wish he had liked the food tonight.  I even cooked rice curry for him.  I thought he liked my curry."
    Nabiki paused, glanced down at the nearly empty bowl cradled in her lap.  "That's odd," she said, mainly to herself.  She felt inwardly, checking for imminent stomach cramps, convulsions, cold sweat . . . death.  Everything seemed fine.
    "What is?"
    She took a tentative bite, which felt a little silly after having already taken in the most of the bowl.  It tasted . . . fine.  Almost . . . good.  Poor by Kasumi standards, maybe, but probably better than anything she could serve up on her own.  "Did you serve anything else?"
    "No, just curry.  I didn't want to overdo it."  Akane propped herself up on one elbow and looked curiously at her.  "Why?"
    "It's just strange, that's all."  She showed her sister the bowl.  "I just finished off the leftovers.  It tasted fine.  I'm surprised Mr. Iron Stomach couldn't handle . . . sis?"
    For even as she trailed off, she watched the most remarkable transformation overtake her young sister's countenance: she paled, immediately, features turning white, even as suddenly bloodless lips yawned in a soundless 'o'.  Her eyes resembled those of one who, turning a sharp corner on a mountain road, suddenly finds a truck bearing down on her; eyes wide and unblinking, yet not so much surprised as resigned to the nearing inevitability, unwilling to accept yet unable to deny the reality of what was happening.  A slight tremor overtook Akane, seeming to start from deep within, but building as it spread outward, so that within moments she was shaking hard enough that Nabiki, at the other end of the bed, could feel a slight shiver through the mattress.
    And then the silence was broken, as a low, pitiful moan tore itself from Akane's lips, ending only when she buried her face in her hands, at which point the only sound Nabiki could make out was her sister's constant, broken repetition of a single word: "Oh Ranma, Ranma, Ranma. . . ."


Ranma dreams: Lightning crashes in the distance.  A tree is split in two, from drooping head to sunken bulbous base.  Earth is thrown up and scattered.  Indistinct from afar, an object upon the horizon reveals itself to be a thick stone slab set upon short, thick legs.  Up close, the detailing is meticulous, chthonic, disturbing, grey-stoned carved and age-pitted.  Slippery rotted vegetation droops limply over the edges, curls along the dulled relief and reaches for the moist earth.  Darkened crimson streaks sunken into the top slab's sides look well used.  Life crawls along the altar's massive clawed supports, scurrying through ctenophore canyons, cilia crevices, feelers a-twitch, mandibles snapping, a thousand thousand chitinous legs raising a seething sibilant shivering rustle.
    Someone lies bound to the altar: a young girl, naked, arms and legs spread and lashed down by blackened creepers no longer verdant.  Her red hair is unbound but twined with stalks of wheat, and falls half across her face.  Her mouth is opened to scream but no sound escapes.  Twisting vines leaking fluids choke her cries.
    Someone stands next to the altar: a woman, tall and frigidly beautiful, bearing a strong resemblance to the child lying before her on the altar.  Crimson sakura blossoms dripping blood flow across the midnight-pitch fabric of her kimono.  She holds a drawn katana in her hands, overhead, point aimed towards the helpless figure before her.
    "No!"  The cry tears itself from my throat as I see my darkly-clad mother lift her katana overhead.  I can not make out the figure lying before her, but I know beyond all certainty that she must be saved.  Fear becomes immaterial once that decision is made.  I sprint forward, across the wet earth, faster than I have ever moved.
    (I watch myself move forward; I watch myself follow; I watch myself stare in terror as my mother lifts the family blade overhead and aims it straight for my core.)
    But suddenly dozens of Ryuta Ueharas and Sayuris and Hiroshis are blocking my path, splashing me with sticky sweet drinks and slowing me with insults and stopping me by bonding.  They go down quickly, a single kick or well placed punch eliminating the delay, but there are hundreds, it seems, far far too many to simply plow through.  And the sword rises ever higher and gleams ever sharper, and sudden fear chills my soul at the thought of it slicing me to the very core.  Yet even as tears of frustration spring to my eyes the opposition melts away before me, and a loud, insistent voice urges me forward.
    "Go, dammit!  I'll hold them off," yells my female half, tearing Sayuri's head off with a vicious knife-hand, swinging the head by its long hair and knocking a half-dozen foes aside.  "You have to save us!"
    Even as a leap forward I know it's too late: glint of argent steel; spray of red; scrape of metal, bone and steel.
    I didn't make it, I failed, the scream of loss escapes before it twists into one of pain.  The sword follows a straight path, as it was designed to do: from my mother's hand, through the soft flesh of my inner thigh, through the softer belly of the girl beneath me, into the thirsty stone of the altar.  Staring up in disbelief at the woman responsible reveals only piercing eyes and thin lips curled into a malicious smirk.  Bloodied hands--mine--curl about the wet shaft piercing me and I.  I pull.  There is resistance.  I will not be denied.  The sword slides free with a slick slurping sound.  My mother stumbles back and falls, and for a moment resembles someone else, a man, perhaps, face briefly obscured by shadows.  And before I can look closer, the altar crumbles away, and I fall into the gaping, collapsing earth, followed by stone and blood, into darkness.


It was her sister's urgent shaking and forceful urging that broke Akane's incessant, quiet sobbing, and she looked up with red, though tearless, eyes into Nabiki's concerned face.
    "Shit, sis, what's wrong?"
    How to explain: the pain, the twisting hollowness within as her worst fears were confirmed; that the possibility she had denied herself even contemplating all week was now all but certain.  It couldn't be, impossible, not to--another explanation, had to be, he'd been sick--somebody else would've seen, known . . . but even as her mind shied away from the idea, she found herself finally unable to deny the reality of what was happening, and it made her sick, she swallowed against the rise of bile in her throat, eyes squeezed shut, cold sweat; and an abiding sense of dormant panic awoke and seized her in its grip.
    "Akane!"
    She wouldn't explain, couldn't, giving voice to what she had finally consciously realized would make it too real.  It was too dangerous.  Could destroy the household.  Ranma.  Oh, Ranma. . . .
    "I can't," she started to say, voice hardly a whisper, but even as the words escaped she suddenly knew that it was inevitable, she _had_ to share what she knew.  Her stomach twisted again.  She wasn't strong enough to carry this in her own, Akane now realized, even a single week had proven too much.  Not on her own.
    "Akane," tried Nabiki again, "what's going on?"  Then Akane grabbed her by the shoulders and pull her close, and suddenly tearful hazel eyes cleared, hardened, demanding her attention.
    "Nabiki.  What I'm about to say, you can't ever share with anyone.  No one. Ever."
    "Sis-"
    "Promise, Nabiki," Akane insisted.  She saw her sister wince in pain, and realized that she had tightened her grip.  She didn't relax.  "I have to share this, I can't do this on my own, I need your help . . . but I need to know that what I say won't leave this room.  That it'll stay between us."
    She watched as her sister momentarily hesitated, biting her bottom lip in indecision.  Akane couldn't and didn't guess at what was running through Nabiki's mind--her own was in far too much turmoil to do so.  But finally, still caught in the younger sister's painful embrace, Nabiki gave a small nod of consent.
    "You promise, Nabiki?"
    "I . . . promise.  I do."  And then, a moment later when Akane had yet to release her, a touch of anger tainting her voice.  "Dammit, Akane, I said I promised!"
    Only then did she let go, and fall back, and watched as Nabiki pulled away and gently rubbed at her shoulder.  Already she felt some of the tension--if none of the queasiness--abate.  "I'm . . . I'm sorry," she offered.
    "I hope so!" Nabiki said, frowning, obviously pissed off, voice loud.  "That's going to bruise, you know!  This better be good, sis, first you send me in a panic, then you hurt me, and now. . . ."
    "I think Ranma's been raped," Akane whispered.


She was totally unprepared for the sight that awaited her when the lights flickered into life.  Untidy disarrayed sheets.  Dishevelled Chinese shirt.  Bikini top crumpled on floor.  Mussed bangs and unravelled locks.  Red--red. Pungent reek of bile and sweat and alcohol.  Stifling unaired cluttered over-bright room, and Akane finally, forcefully focussed on the centre of the scene: the half-naked unconscious girl curled into a tight, small ball in the middle of the bed.  Whatever anger had carried her back this far faded immediately as her eyes lingered disbelievingly over Ranma's shivering form.  "Ranma?" she whispered and then, when he failed to respond, again, louder, "RANMA!"
    The redhead uncurled slightly, eyes flickering open.  He smiled.  "A- Akane," he sighed, and struggled briefly to reach towards her.  Then his whole body trembled, convulsed once, and he collapsed, pitching forward onto the mattress.  The bed bounced him up once and then he remained motionless, laying face down.  Akane was at his side a second later, kneeling next to the bed.
    "C'mon, c'mon, Ranma. . . ," she whispered, desperation tainting her voice, lightly shaking the redhead.  This couldn't be happening; not this, not to Ranma. . . .  A tight, tight knot formed in her stomach as she looked him over, wash of guilt and fear and worry.  "C'mon, Ranma, please. . . ."
    His head lolled limply to one side, but after a moment she was rewarded with a glimpse of slitted blood-shot cerulean eyes.  "Akane," he moaned, and one hand fluttered feebly towards her.
    "Wh - what happened," she asked softly, taking his hand in hers.  It was cold and clammy.
    "You came back," he mumbled, voice so thick and slurred it was practically incomprehensible.  "I don't feel s'good, 'kane. . . ."
    "Ranma. . . ."
    "It hurts, Akane.  It hurts."  His voice was almost a whimper.
    "I- I'm sorry."
    "S'not your fault," he whispered, "s'mine," and his eyes closed and his dirty, smudged female face relaxed into something nearing sleep.
    Akane stood up.  After a moment of staring down at Ranma, she slowly reached down and picked up the fallen bikini top.  It was awkward, but she managed to pull the thing back over his generous bosom.  Then she straightened out his shirt and tied the front up.  Finally she took hold of the bottom, tangled loosely around one ankle, and slid it up his legs.  Oh, she noted absently, I guess she's already started her period.  His period, she corrected herself, looking numbly at the redhead.
    For a long time she stood there, feeling lost, eyes slowly sweeping across the room without any clear of idea of what she was looking for.  Finally they settled on the form of the young, redheaded girl snoring softly on the bed before her.  She didn't know what to do.  But there really was only one possibility.  Akane made the only choice she could think of.  She picked up the unconscious form of her fiance and made her way through the darkened, empty house, finding her way home.


"No, Akane, no," said Nabiki, after listening mutely to her sister's story.  "You're wrong, there's no way. . . no fucking way. . . that he could've been. . . that kind of shit doesn't _happen_, not here, not in  Nerima, and not to Ranma!  There's no way!"  Gone was the assurance of the night, the cynicism, the enjoyment.  Nabiki couldn't remember the last time she felt this exposed--she felt angry at having her control torn away, and that anger fueled her denial.  "No _way_!  You saw it wrong, or. . . ."
    Surprisingly, it was Akane who now seemed calm, having delivered her recollection with an even, almost monotonous, voice.  "I know what I saw," she said, "I told you everything I saw."
    "Then it was just like you said.  He was having his period--shit, can't believe I'm talking about some guy's fuckin' period!--and that's it.  Nothing more."
    Akane shook her head.  "You think I don't want to believe that?  I tried.  All week.  It's been killing me, when he was here, when he was gone, in my dreams, at school, always in the back of my mind.  When I was talking to him.  It made me sick, Nabiki!  The thought of it, of what it would do to him--sick!
    "The next day, I didn't know what to do.  But there he was, he seemed fine, he didn't say a thing . . . and if he'd been . . . if someone had . . . he would've known, right?  That's what I told myself, I made it easy to convince myself.  After all, I was angry, I was still so angry at him, for everything else, and I tried to use that to forget.  I tried to make him go away so that I could forget.  But even as I wanted him to leave, I couldn't let him go, I had to make sure he came back: what if something _had_ happened?  And now he's back, and I know, and. . . ."
    "And you know _nothing_," Nabiki insisted.  "Nothing!  You found him drunk, and naked--okay.  Okay.  Looks bad.  Could also be a prank.  Maybe someone took pictures.  There was blood.  It was his period.  Doesn't mean a thing.  Nothing."
    "No, Nabiki," said Akane, eyes sad.  "I checked.  I had to, even if I didn't quite let myself know why.  If it was his period, it would've shown somewhere.  He stayed girl for a long time, his mother was here.  I went through the laundry, before Kasumi got to it.  Aside from the bikini, nothing."
    "That doesn't . . . maybe he. . . ."
    "What, used a pad?  Ranma?"
    "Then . . . then," Nabiki stammered, inexplicably angry, hurting, unsure-- not used to having her argumentative defenses so easily swept aside, and by her sister no less.  This was _her_ battleground, an arena of logic and rhetoric and information: and this time, the information was lacking, her logic failed, and what place did rhetoric hold before the stark reality of what her sister suggested?  Even as she resisted, she realized that Akane's story was filling holes, removing the gaps in her carefully researched construct of that night's events; but now the full truth was something that she could not bring herself to believe.  Nabiki could neither back down nor accept what she was being told, not without another try.  "Then--pain.  If what you say happened, then there's no way Ranma wouldn't have noticed, especially if there'd been . . . blood.  It hurts the first time, a lot.  He would've been hurt, would have felt the pain the next day, down," she swallowed the sudden rise of bile that stung her throat, "there."
    Akane blinked slowly, as if taken by surprise and now mulling the idea slowly, and Nabiki thought she had scored a convincing counter, until her sister slowly shook her head in denial.  "Nabiki, this is the same person who's been tossed across a skating rink and left an impact crater in the concrete wall; who's been imbedded two feet deep into a rock face by a punch from Ryoga; who's had everything from explosions to poisons lay him flat: and given a few minutes, hours, a night at most, he's back up and running.  He heals quick, quicker than anyone I know.  Why would it be any different in this situation?
    "And it did hurt him," she continued, this time her eyes dropping and her voice lowering to a whisper.  "He whimpered when I found him.  Told me it hurt.  I tried to believe it was the alcohol, the throwing up, or maybe something emotional, the break-up; but that's because I didn't want to deal with the truth.  But I can't do that anymore."
    Nabiki sank back, shocked.  This couldn't be happening.  Have happened.  She just needed to step back, think it through, analyze--but it was too immediate, demanded to be felt, not reasoned, and left her so profoundly shaken that she couldn't get an angle on it.  She wasn't on the outside, now, Akane had dragged her in and made of her a participant.  She stared at her sister, sitting opposite her, somehow looking more relaxed, if still obviously in grief, then she had all night.
    "But . . . sis," Nabiki tried.  "I mean, why now?  If you went all week, and weren't ready to believe . . . what happened tonight to make you change your mind?"
    "Isn't it obvious?" Akane said, and pointed at the bowl lying upside down next to her.  "The food.  You said it was fine, you just ate it all, but you're not sick."
    "So?"
    "But don't you get it?  It can only mean one thing.  Morning sickness: he's been raped, and now he's pregnant, and now he's suffering from morning sickness!"
    Nabiki laughed.  It was too much, from the overwhelming gravity of a moment ago, to this absolute absurdity: making the sudden switch forced sharp, loud laughter from her.  The suppressive atmosphere that had pervaded her room to the extent that even her breathing had felt labored, immediately lifted.  The rush of relief in its wake almost left her feeling giddy.
    "Nabiki, this is serious!"
    "Oh, I know, I know," she said, wiping a tear from her eye.  "I know.  It's just . . . oh, Akane, sis, you are just _so_ naive."
    "Excuse me?"
    "Morning sickness?  This is why you're so sure?  Sis, even admitting that he -had- been . . . and was now pregnant--which is just crazy--it's barely been a week!  It doesn't happen that quick."
    "He was sick!"
    "And he ate your cooking!  Maybe it was a reflex action.  Or who knows what kind of crap he ate while hanging out in the bush.  He might've been carrying around some food poisoning.  Even Kasumi's cooking would've set him off."
    "But-"
    "No."  Nabiki cut her off.  "It's not even worth thinking about.  I mean, it doesn't make sense.  How about this: he's been a guy since he has gotten back.  Probably spent most of the last week as a guy, too.  If he was pregnant," and saying it, she had to suppress a giggle, a half-hysteric bubbling up of released tension, "wouldn't that screw up the curse?  Wouldn't he be stuck in his female form, or something?"
    "I don't know," said Akane, sounding doubtful but looking desperate to be convinced.  "I don't know how the curse works.  But then how do you explain what I saw?  In the room, after the party?"
    "I can't," Nabiki admitted.  "That's. . . pretty heavy shit.  I don't know what happened.  Maybe it was only a prank.  Maybe . . . something worse.  But we have no way of knowing.  Short of asking Ranma himself."
    "No!" exclaimed Akane, eyes wide. "No, never!  We can't ask him, we can't tell him!  Even the idea--it would destroy him!  You promised!"
    "I don't need you to remind me of my word, Akane," said Nabiki, coldly.  "But do you seriously intend to keep this secret from him?  If he's been taken advantage of, he needs to know.  If you seriously think he might be pregnant, shouldn't he be aware of the risks?  If anyone's got the right to know what's going on, it's him."
    "No!  No, there has to be another way."
    "Well, then you better think of something quickly, because from what you've been telling me, he'll probably take off tomorrow, and that'll be that.  For better or for worse, it won't be your concern anymore."  Nabiki inched forward and grabbed her sister's hands in her own.  Nabiki could feel the tightness in her stomach, the tension wrought by the very idea of what might have happened, and wondered at her sister's strength, that she could carry the secret, alone, for so long.  She felt closer to Akane than she had in a very long time, brought together by the shared knowledge and responsibility of unwanted possibility.
    "You have a decision to make, Akane."


    Ranma woke with a start, to a brief sensation of falling and  a phantom echo of pain.  Lingering traces of a dream faded quickly from mind.  An abiding sense of wrongness settled in its place.  His ready backpack lay next to him.  It was the first thing he saw upon opening his eyes.
    He stared at it for a very long time.


    *** Contemplation Ends ***

Continues in Choices: Complication

Brief author's notes:

Not much to say, since I said it the first time I posted it.  Just: wow.
This fic is going on longer, and taking longer, than I ever expected (or
wanted).  It's been, what, four or five years I've been writing this thing?  Thanks to those who've hung out this long and still provide encouragements.

In retrospect, this chapter is pretty flawed.  I did some minor fixing before reposting (mainly killing the really bad piece of wannabe poetry that used to be at the end), but, a year later, I'm pretty unhappy with the second half of this fic.  <shrug>  What's a guy to do.  onwards ever onwards!

Later!
(and I'll try to get better at this whole splitting the fic up thing)
Mike Noakes

Later!
Mike Noakes

noakes_m@hotmail.com
http://www.geocities.com/noakes_m

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