Well... here's part five.  Author notes at the end.  And of course C&C, 
whether public or private, is greatly appreaciated!

***

Choices:
Decision, part one.

by
Michael Noakes

Ranma 1/2 is the property of Rumiko Takahashi.


The rain drummed a staccato beat against the windowpane.  Hiroshi stared 
listlessly outside, watching the rain fall, watching the trees sway 
noiselessly in the distance.  He traced the path of a single drop with an 
idle finger, its seemingly random path, the glass cool beneath his touch.  
The bead of water was absorbed by a larger rivulet and carried away.
	The boy sighed and leaned his forehead against the window.  He closed his 
eyes.  Ms Hinako droned on somewhere in the background, and despite being in 
her adult form she sounded just as weary as he felt.  Half the class was 
already asleep at their desk as the clock continued its heavy ticking march 
towards the end of fourth period.  Then lunch.  Free time followed by 
cleaning the school.  Back to class, two more hours, club activities.  Home 
then dinner, study then sleep.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  Hiroshi sighed 
again: even in a school like Furinkan it sometimes seemed all so 
predictable.
	In quiet moments like this, Hiroshi felt he could see the entire sequence 
of his life stretching before him.  Sometimes he enjoyed imagining the 
possibilities.  For example: his relationship deepening with Sayuri, they 
marry soon after graduation; supporting him as he struggles through a 
second-rate Tokyo university, she eventually quits and stays at home and 
raises their children as he joins with a large firm, another be-suited 
soldier of human management.  A good husband and father, he retires after 
forty years of hard work and recollects the golden days of his youth in high 
school.
	These are my golden days?
	Maybe soon after graduation Sayuri would realize how much of a geek he was 
and dump him.  Left reeling, he'd redirect his agony into effort and lose 
himself into study and manage to enter a top-flight university.  With these 
heightened prospects he could be recruited by a major international 
corporation.  Rising swiftly through the ranks, he would nevertheless fear 
that adolescent pain and never again connect deeply with another woman.  
Older and richer (and possibly with an ulcer, though Hiroshi wondered if 
that might be over-the-top), he would one day retire and cynically reflect 
on his high-school heartbreak.
	Yeah, sure, Hiroshi thought, grinning ruefully.  Who am I kidding?  The 
only part that rings true is being dumped.
	These unexciting thoughts appealed to him more than the occasional wild 
flights of fancy.  Though fun imagining himself being bitten by a strange 
radioactive insect and suddenly gaining superhuman powers allowing him to go 
toe-to-toe with Ranma and his friends in hand-to-hand combat  . . . it also 
seemed silly.  Hiroshi knew he was not a hero.  Enough sideline encounters 
with the daily insanity of Ranma's life had taught him that.  However: 
something inside yearned terribly for a chance--just _one_ chance--to test 
and prove himself.  To Daisuke.  To his parents and to Sayuri.  To himself.
	I had my chance, he told himself, and I missed it.  I wanted to be a hero, 
but I always imagined it would be something grand, something obvious: 
grabbing a cute girl out of the path of an out-of-control truck, maybe.  But 
when Ranma was hurting, and my buddies were insulting him behind his back, 
and making rude comments about his curse, and talking about making a _real_ 
girl out of him; and all those girls spreading rumors and lies: _that_ was 
my chance to prove myself.  I could have stood up and taken his side.  I 
could have said something--anything!
	But when the person at the front of the whole campaign is your own 
girlfriend, what can you do?  I really like Sayuri, he thought miserably, 
and I _think_ she really likes me too.  Ever since the party--ever since 
Ranma's absence--their relationship had been steadily deepening.  Who would 
have thought, he added with some wonder, that a popular girl like her would 
see something in a dork like me?  But she does, and when we're together and 
alone it's great.
	Being her boyfriend at school was a different matter.  She wasn't exactly 
_cold_ to him, but compared to the affection she showed when they were 
alone, it felt chilling, and almost painful--that it even pained him came as 
a surprise.  Not that he could blame her: he'd probably be embarrassed to be 
seen with himself too, if he was that popular.  Then there was the way she 
tore into Ranma today and ended up hauling buckets.  He knew he would be 
hearing all about it at lunch.  He remembered the stupid bet he made with 
Daisuke a week ago, and felt weak.
	Hiroshi shifted, as the cool spot where his forehead touched the window 
grew uncomfortable.  A break in the teacher's monotone recital pulled his 
eyes forward.  The students at the head of each row were passing back 
worksheets.  Woo hoo, he thought.  More mindless busywork.  At some time 
during his distraction, Hinako had reverted to her youthful form.  In the 
brief free time while the students collected their class work, she stared 
outside with such a serious, pensive air, the skin between her eyes pinching 
into a cute little 'v', that it appeared comic on such a childish face.  He 
followed her gaze, and saw only the falling rain and half-concealed trees.
	He turned slightly, and saw himself vaguely reflected in the window.  A 
slight shock ran through him at the expression on his face--
	_"But, really," Ranma said, "don't worry about it."_
	--and he realized that maybe Ranma had been feeling something very similar 
as he waved off the earlier apology.  Feeling something similar--to what?  
Hiroshi suddenly lost confidence in his friend's reassurance.  Something in 
Ranma's expression, something in his _own_, left Hiroshi uncertain.
	It was usually at home, in the mornings during his shower, at night in 
those empty minutes before sleep claimed him, that he allowed his mind to 
wander and craft silly visions of a mundane future.  He never did it at 
school.  Every time he tried, the possibilities seemed to unwind and fall 
apart, the myriad paths different friends and encounters allowed for, the 
choices, too much.  His imagination couldn't cope.  It couldn't stretch 
itself enough to allow for the presence of--
	I wonder how Ranma is doing, Hiroshi thought.  I sure hope he's okay.


	With each step, the water captured in the folds of her furled hood 
overflowed and trickled cold down the small of her back.  The skirt of her 
uniform was soaked through to appear nearly black; her wet hair clung 
tenaciously to her scalp.  The rain stung her eyes.  Blinking rapidly as she 
hunched into the storm, she walked home.  Through the fence she watched the 
canal's swift flow, its rain-dappled surface, and the refuse riding the 
water away.  The metal tip of her umbrella scraped the pavement at her side.
	I can't do this, Akane Tendo thought.  I can't--how can I just walk home?  
She imagined herself at home, dry, with her sister, comfortable, with a warm 
cup of green tea clutched in her hands, warm, and with her father, safe. . . 
.  Her already trudging walk faltered.  She suddenly felt weak and had to 
lean heavily against the fence.  The metal was wet and slick and coarse 
against her skin.  Her fingers found purchase among the chain links and kept 
her propped up as she sank into a crouch.  She suddenly realized that she 
was crying, but the downpour made it impossible to tell.
	_"Akane is really okay?"_
	Under the rain's incessant fall, her plaintive cry went unheard.


	"Then I have to go," Ranma said.  Without another word, he turned away and 
left.  The noise of the door sliding in its railing, wood against wood, 
metal rollers, sounded clear in his wake.  A windowpane rattled in its frame 
as the storm outside gained strength.
	She stood next to Doctor Tofu.  The man groaned as he regained his feet.  
Her mouth opened and closed wordlessly, struggling to speak.  One hand, 
raised in vain to-- she didn't know, to stop Ranma from leaving, maybe, to 
reach out and comfort him-- how do you comfort someone in a time like-- he's 
been ra-- how can he be pre-- was he worried-- I just wanted to touch him 
and let him know he isn't alone! she thought, and her arms fell limply at 
her side.
	"Ranma. . . ?"  She found her voice, barely above a whisper, but too late.
	The wind breathed through the room, its sound hollow and quavering.  Tofu 
stepped past her and closed the door the rest of the way.  He did not look 
outside.  Wind severed, the room sank back into deep silence.  The doctor 
stayed at the door, his back towards her, one hand resting heavily against 
the dark grain of the doorframe.  His shoulders trembled slightly.
	"Don't go," Akane finished, louder but too late.
	Bikini bottom twisted around a girl's ankles.  Naked, bra-like top tangled 
in the crook of one elbow.  The smell of the room had been pungent, the air 
heavy.  Even after two weeks, the image remained painfully clear in Akane's 
mind.  She feared it always would.  There had been details she had refused 
to see at the time.  Marks across the girl's shoulders and upper arm, and 
back, parallel lines pale against her skin, reddening at the edges: 
scratches, and heavy grip marks that her training told her fell just short 
of bruising.  Straightening out and pulling the swimsuit up the girl's legs, 
how could she not notice the blood, still not quite dry, speckling the 
inside of her thighs?  I should have told someone earlier, Akane thought.  
Tugging the bottom over her hips, the matted hairs of the girl's pubic 
region had glistened in a way that Akane's inexperience could not then 
understand.
	I should have told someone about her! she thought, and took a weak step 
forward.  She suddenly felt ashamed.  Ranma's _not_ a girl, she told 
herself.  She tried to draw some strength from that fact.  Another step.  
The image would not leave her mind.  Ranma, half-unconscious on the bed.  
Naked flesh obscenely vivid against the sheets, a pallid contrast in the 
dark.  The room had seemed so _hot_.  Akane had never seen Ranma spread out 
so defenseless before, nor seem as weak and helpless as he had then; her 
stomach twisted and dropped at the thought.  Tightly balled fists pressed 
forcefully into her sides, straining in vain to reach the source of her 
pain.  Akane's vision dimmed, and a rushing sound assaulted her ears.  She 
fell to her knees.  She felt her bile rise.  She vomited on the floor of the 
clinic.
	A solid hand on her shoulder brought her back.  She looked up through 
blurry eyes at Doctor Tofu.  His cheeks were moist but his features were 
reassuring.
	"She's a boy," Akane insisted firmly.
	"Yes he is," Tofu agreed, and pulled her up.
	 "But that doesn't make it any better," she said.  With the back of her 
right hand, she absently wiped the bile from her chin.  Her wrist ached 
where Ranma had slapped her away.  "It doesn't make a difference."
	"I don't think it does, Akane," Tofu said.
	She stared at the closed door.  She remembered Ranma's departure.  He had 
seemed so lost and confused.  His eyes had never been that empty.  An uneven 
beat began against the ceiling: the first heavy drops of the incipient 
storm.
	"It's raining," she said numbly.  "Ranma shouldn't be out in the rain.  Not 
without a coat."  She went to take a step forward but found her movement 
arrested by a strong grip on her arm.  She glanced back, confused, and gazed 
blankly at Tofu's hand.
	"The rain is the least of his worries," he said.
	"I-- I know," she said.  "But I should go . . . ."
	"I think," Tofu said, "that even if you could find Ranma, it might be best 
if no one was with him right now."  His grip tightened slightly as she tried 
to pull away.
	"No!" she yelled.  "No!  Ranma _needs_ me, I have to _help_ him-- let me 
go!"  She turned away and tried to yank herself out of the doctor's grasp.  
She twisted free of his hand but the doctor's soft touch followed her, 
easily moving to the opposite shoulder, her elbow, gently restraining her.  
Akane cried out in frustration and redoubled her efforts, her mind consumed 
with the image of Ranma, in the rain, Ranma, unconsciously supine on the 
bed, Ranma, a shadowy figure poised between her splayed legs; "No!"
	The doctor's arms wrapped around her from behind, pinning Akane's arms to 
her side.  He held her tight as she thrashed within his grasp.  Her elbows 
smacked his side, her heel sought his shins.  His grip did not weaken, nor 
did he say a word.  "Ranma's all alone!" the girl cried out, "She's all al. 
. . ."
	Akane's struggled abruptly ceased.  Akane sagged in the doctor's arms, and 
he gently eased her to the floor.  She held herself tight, eyes squeezed 
shut.  The first wracking sob tore through her, then another, and finally 
the tears, hot and heavy.  "Ranma's a boy!" she wailed, and buried her face 
against Tofu's chest.  He held her comfortingly, her weeping muffled by his 
body.  His shirt became wet with tears as she clung to him.  The doctor was 
something strong and solid, as everything else fell apart.  She tried to 
come to terms with what had happened.  Someone--no, not just _someone_, she 
insisted, _Ranma_--that she . . . knew, no, more than that, cared for--had 
been . . . hurt.  She choked on her own tears, a grim laugh mingled with her 
cry: she's been more than just hurt, 'hurt' doesn't _begin_ to describe 
what's been done to her!  And then: no, Akane persisted, not _her_; him!  
Him, him, Ranma's a guy, a guy, no matter what happened!  But try as she 
might, huddled in the doctor's consoling embrace, she could not disassociate 
the idea of Ranma, the boy she had come to know over the last year and a 
half, from the image of the girl she had found sprawled on a soiled bed in a 
dark room two weeks ago.
	As her tears subsided, Akane gradually became aware of a growing wetness in 
the doctor's side.  She pulled away from his grasp.  His face was pale, and 
his shirt stained with blood.
	"Doctor?" Akane said, eyes widening.
	Tofu smiled wanly.  "Ranma was fairly insistent we leave him alone, don't 
you think?"  He carefully stood, and Akane joined him.  "It's not so bad.  
Nothing worse than a cracked rib, maybe, and some minor lacerations."  He 
nodded towards the corner Ranma had shoved him, and the shattered end table 
that had broken beneath his fall.
	Akane recalled how she had flailed within his arms.  "I'm sorry," she said, 
but the doctor waved it off.  He walked stiffly to the back of the clinic.  
Akane trailed after him as he tended to his wound.
	"Doctor," she started, hesitatingly, but her voice trailed off to nothing.  
She sat down heavily on one of the clinic beds.  Hugging herself, she 
focused on the doctor's actions, watching as he peeled back his shirt and 
applied a dressing to his side.  He paused and looked at her expectantly.
	"Akane?"
	She shook her head slightly, orientating on his voice.  She tried to focus 
on the doctor.  In trying to avoid reliving the scene fresh in her mind, 
Akane found it hard to keep her thoughts from slipping away.
	"Doctor," she tried again.  "Is she-- is _he_ going to be okay?"
	Tofu paused, and smiled reassuringly.  To Akane, the attempt seemed weak 
and transparent.  Beneath the reassurance, his features were sad and tired.  
"I don't know," he answered.  "Ranma is a strong boy.  He's already survived 
some amazing things.  But this. . . ."  His smile slipped, and he turned 
away.  His voice sounded thick and doubtful when he continued.  "I'm . . . 
sorry, Akane.  But I really don't know."


	The storm grew stronger.
	Akane pulled herself to her feet.  Under the pouring rain, there was no 
point in wiping her tears away.  She wobbled unsteadily for a moment, her 
legs weak.  A deep breath helped settle her brimming emotions, but her 
entire body shivered from the dampness.  Her clothes were wet and cold 
against her skin.  As the rain grew more intense so did the noise, and she 
soon found herself surrounded by its dull hissing roar.  The young woman 
felt very lonely.
	She absently rubbed at the soaked and torn bandages wound tightly around 
her hand.  Doctor Tofu, after tending to his own wounds, had turned to her 
sprained wrist.  Akane had not realized she had been hurt.  After securing 
the wrappings in place, he had told her to go home.  "You should wait for 
him," Doctor Tofu had said.  "You should be there when Ranma returns."
	Akane wasn't sure Ranma would.
	Trudging along the canal, head bowed to the rain, one hand trailing along 
the slick fence, she had to ask herself: Why should he?
	_Get out of my house._
	And he had stared back at her wide-eyed, with a face suddenly pale, and 
answered with that enigmatic whispered, "Yes".  To what question, she 
wondered, had he replied?  Then came the guilt: how could I throw him out, 
she asked herself, when I knew what was at stake?  No matter what he 
said--and even now, beneath the dark clouds, rubbing at her dully aching 
wrist, fragments of a memory roiling at the edge of her thoughts, reds and 
pale flesh and threatening shadows; even after all that, she _still_ felt 
residual anger at his insults from the party--I should have kept my temper 
in check and made sure he stayed.  But balancing between her concern for 
Ranma and her intense anger at his actions and words had been too difficult, 
that knife's edge too thin; in the end she had fallen and in that brief 
moment given vent to her rage.
	I was too weak, she told herself.
	Akane paused in her slow walk.  Despite the miserable cold, she could not 
bring herself to go any faster.  She finally noticed the umbrella held 
loosely in her hand, but somehow the effort of raising it over her head 
seemed more trouble than it was worth.  She attempted a few more steps 
before grinding to another fatigued halt.
	At least talking with Nabiki had helped, she thought.  Her sister helped 
share the burden.  She had known what to do, had been the one to call up 
Doctor Tofu and set up the bogus appointment.  And because of that, Ranma 
thought I was sick.  Even after what he said in the bathroom yesterday, all 
those horrible things--he stayed longer, just to make sure I was okay.
	Akane shivered violently from the cold.  I _won't_ be okay, she told 
herself, if I don't get out of this rain soon.  But her house felt so far 
away, an impossible journey in her current state.  She forced herself to 
look around, and realized with a start that she had long missed the turn 
toward home.  A bridge--one of Ranma's hangouts--was nearby.  She wondered 
if she had unconsciously come this way in search of him.
	After only a brief hesitation, she clambered over the fence.  Her efforts 
were clumsy and she slipped on the slick metal.  Her wrist began to ache.  
With a final grunt of determination, she lifted herself over and fell 
heavily on the other side.  The water level was high, overflowing the lower 
canal and swallowing up the earthen bank.  Akane carefully made her way 
along the edge, slipping occasionally on the slick concrete but avoiding the 
water.  In focusing on not falling into the rapidly flowing water, she was 
able to avoid looking at the small space left beneath the bridge.  Her heart 
was beating rapidly as she approached.
	When she looked up, there was nobody there.  Only then did she realize how 
much she had hoped to find Ranma--expected to find him, even; and she 
released a breath unconsciously kept trapped until that moment.  She stood 
there in the pouring rain, staring blankly at the empty space before her, 
blinking rapidly.  Another strong shiver forced a few steps forward, and she 
ducked down and took cover beneath the concrete arch.
	She dropped onto the pebbly ground.  The protection overhead dampened the 
sound of the rain, but the rushing water in the bloated canal seemed even 
louder.  Akane breathed deeply, smelling old stone and wet grass, and hugged 
herself for warmth.
	Is he out there in the rain? Akane wondered.  That means he's a she right 
now, and she pictured the young girl walking through the rain, or maybe 
running, the doctor's words still ringing in her ears, holding herself, 
small.  That very image in her mind brought with it a sudden pang nearly 
more vivid than anything thus far: Ranma, small.  Her fiance had always 
seemed so large, with an exuberant energy that easily filled a room.  Now 
she seemed diminished.  Akane knew how unfair thinking that way was, and 
hated herself for being so weak to allow the idea to creep in.  In fleeing 
her own judgment, she morbidly tried to imagine how Ranma must feel at this 
very moment; she tried to imagine herself in that pained flesh and 
shuddered.  She couldn't.
	For when the suggestion of that dark figure arose in Akane's mind, poised 
between the petite girl's spread legs, all she could see was Ranma's face.  
"I'm too weak," the girl said, and Akane flinched away and buried her face 
in her hands, and wept.


	Overhead, another figure trudged through the rain.  It was short and black, 
and it wore a checkered bandanna.  It was a pig and it was steaming 
angry--literally, for the falling water erupted into tiny sizzling wisps 
upon contact with its porcine skin.  Cloven hooves found difficult purchase 
on the pavement and it struggled against the fierce winds as it crossed the 
bridge.  With relentless determination it crept forward.  Clenched fiercely 
in its tiny fanged jaw was a crumpled and rusted bottle-cap.
	Just you wait! seethed Ryouga Hibiki.  I'm almost there!  For insults to me 
and injuries to Akane, you will pay, Ranma!  When next we meet, I'll send 
you to hell!


	[Sayuri Scene-waiting by the principle's office.]?


	Akane lost track of how long she sat beneath the bridge's cover.  Long 
enough for the rain to slow and then weaken, and finally stop.  The clouds 
thinned and broke, and the sun beamed down in gently drifting shafts.  The 
level of the canal was quickly rescinding, and a few ducks even fluttered 
by, dipping their heads beneath the surface.  The wind, still moist and 
cool, no longer chilled her as deeply.  She had stopped crying quite a while 
ago.
	The sky was already darkening.  It's getting late, she thought.  Kasumi 
must be wondering where I am.  She tried to push the thought from her mind, 
because it was a further complication she did not know how to deal with.  
This thing that happened to Ranma--how would the others react?  I can't tell 
them, she had decided, during her long wait beneath the bridge.  That's up 
to Ranma.
	She climbed out from beneath the bridge and returned to the street, and 
began the long walk home.  Nerima seemed beautiful after the storm, somehow 
more alive and healthy: the leaves sparkled slightly in the dwindling light, 
and everything smelled fresher.  It made her angry.  It's not fair, she 
thought.  Not after what happened.  But it gave her something to focus on 
other than her own unpleasant thoughts, and for that she was thankful.  As 
Akane approached her home, her anxiety grew.  She wasn't sure she could 
maintain her composure before her family.  Then to her surprise, as she 
slipped through the outer gate and secured it behind her--an unconscious yet 
unfamiliar action, since they almost never locked the door--she felt an 
unexpected relief to be off the street.
	"I'm back," she said softly, sliding the door shut.
	The house seemed ominously silent at that moment, and while Akane felt 
relief at not being immediately accosted at the door, she also felt a brief 
tremor of anxiety, the source of which she could not entirely place.  She 
slipped off her shoes and left her soaked book bag in the entranceway, and 
slid down the dim hallway.  It was with some pleasure that she heard the 
normal bustle of another of Kasumi's dinners in progress; she must have 
stepped in during a lull in the conversation.  The shoji were shut against 
the moist winds, but the light shining through the thin rectangles was 
cheerful and reassuring.  For a long moment, Akane simply stood there 
watching the shadow play of her family's evening, silhouettes cast against 
yellowed paper.  Her father's occasional words, complimenting the taste of 
the food; the eldest sister's demure denial that it was anything special; 
Genma's booming voice insisting otherwise; a wryly voiced cynicism 
undercutting them all from Nabiki.
	Akane turned away and the dark lines in the smooth wood pulled her eyes 
along the length of the floor.  She took a few shuffling steps and stood 
outside the dining room.  The soft light spoke of warmth and comfort.
	She turned away and stared out across the backyard.  She found comfort in 
the solitude of the small garden and the tiny pool with its languidly 
swimming carp.  Even the wind, with its heavy, sullen movement, proved more 
welcoming than what lay behind her.  It ruffled her drying hair and tickled 
the nape of her neck.  I don't deserve to step in there, Akane thought.
	Lost in empty contemplation, the sound of the door sliding open behind her 
went unheard.  The soft touch on her shoulder surprised her, yet she didn't 
jump.  Akane looked back at Nabiki standing next to her, at her serious and 
pensive eyes, dark and brooding.  Behind them both, in the bright light of 
the halogen lamp above, made harsh without the diffusing paper door, the 
rest of the family watched her with concern.
	"Were you planning to join us, Akane?" Nabiki asked.
	"I didn't think anyone heard me," she said, turning away.
	"It's not easy to sneak by a family of martial artists," her older sister 
answered.  "Don't worry, I explained to Kasumi that you called me to let the 
family know you would be late."
	"Thanks, sis," Akane answered softly.
	"Don't mention it," she answered just as quietly.
	They both stared out across the garden for a long moment before Akane 
finally turned back to Nabiki, and with a voice thick with emotion, said, 
"We have to talk."


	Nabiki perched at one end of her bed, anxiously watching her sister sitting 
opposite her.  Akane held her head low, drooping bangs veiling her eyes like 
a dark curtain.  The scene was entirely too much like last night's for 
Nabiki's comfort.  She didn't want to hear what her sister had to say.  The 
painful hollowness of her own stomach told her that she already knew what 
the result of the boy's visit to the doctor's clinic had to be.
	No, the middle sister insisted, growing angry.  Not that: it's ridiculous.  
That kind of shit doesn't happen.  Not in Nerima.  Not to my family.  Not to 
Ranma.
	When Akane finally looked up, Nabiki's feeble anger masking her deeper fear 
disappeared.  Her sister wasn't crying--in fact, she seemed remarkable 
composed--but Nabiki knew her sister too well.  There was hurt in her 
sister's eyes, and a deep hopelessness she hadn't seen in a very long 
time--had only seen once before.  Akane was a girl of extremes--she cried 
easily, and angered even easier, and smiled and forgave easiest of all; but 
when she grew quiet and withdrawn her pain reached deep, and endured.
	"Akane?" Nabiki called out softly, only to discover that her voice hadn't 
escaped, that her own throat seemed swelled shut, her words too thick to 
slip free.  Keep it together, she scolded herself.  "Akane?" she tried 
again.  She inched closer to her sister.  Nabiki began to feel distant from 
her own actions, as if watching herself from outside, on a stage or a 
screen.  She felt she already knew how everything would turn out, and was 
stuck in a role she didn't want to play.  Why should she be the one to hold 
everything together?  She wasn't the emotionally comforting one; wasn't that 
Kasumi's role?
	Her sister had insisted that they talk, but obviously needed some help 
getting started.  Nabiki touched her softly on the side of the head.  She 
smoothed down her sister's hair, still damp and wild from the earlier storm, 
and finally rested her hand on Akane's shoulder.  She gave a firm but gentle 
squeeze and forced her sister to meet her gaze.  "Please listen to me, 
Akane," Nabiki said.
	And then the older sister watched herself ask, "Akane, was Ranma raped?"
	One of Akane's hands flew to her lips as if in fright, and then she nodded, 
once.  Her eyes were wide.
	"Where is he now?" Nabiki asked, and congratulated herself on how steady 
she kept her voice.
	The response came slowly.  "She--_he_ ran away when he found out."  Her 
other hand fluttered uselessly for a moment, until Nabiki noticed the torn 
and dirty bandages there.  "I tried to stop him."
	"Did he hurt you?" Nabiki asked, tone carefully neutral.
	"No!" Akane insisted, her reply quick and sharp.
	"Does anyone else know?"
	"No," she said, in a softer voice.  "I asked doctor Tofu to keep it secret 
for now."
	Nabiki nodded.  She couldn't imagine how this would impact her family.  
Badly.  She wondered where Ranma had run to.  There was guilt in Akane's 
voice, and fear: she probably suspected that the boy wouldn't come back, and 
blamed herself.  Nabiki felt otherwise.  After all, where can he go?  He's 
not tough enough to deal with this on his own.
	Akane raised her voice again, tentatively at first but finally with 
wavering strength.  "There's more, Nabiki," she said.
	"More?"  She hadn't thought her stomach could drop further, but it did.
	"I was right, last night."
	Nabiki tried to remember their conversation last night.  It was a blank.  
Strange, Nabiki thought dully, I'm normally really good at remembering 
stuff.  "Last night?"
	"Nabiki, Ranma's pregnant."
	A corner Nabiki's mouth quirked into a smirk, as if at a joke subtly 
appreciated; then her smile died and her mouth fell open at the total 
seriousness with which Akane held her gaze.
	"Don't be stupid," Nabiki mumbled.  "He couldn't possibly. . . ."
	"She is," Akane said firmly.  "Tofu took me aside before Ranma got there.  
He explained it to me.  I--I can't really remember most of it right now.  
Something about a chemical in the blood.  I couldn't concentrate.  He said 
he almost missed it, it's so early, but it's definitely there."
	 "Ranma's . . . pregnant."  Nabiki repeated the words slowly.  She felt 
stupid saying it.  How could a guy be pregnant?  But Akane had said 'she' 
was pregnant.  Ranma, the girl.  Her mind balked at the idea.  Somehow over 
the last year and a half, she had stopped ever thinking of Ranma, even in 
his cursed form, as a girl.  After that first encounter so long ago--when 
she'd grabbed his breasts with a familiarity that still made her blush, at 
times, when she thought of it--every encounter with the boy-turned girl 
convinced her further of his masculinity.  Even at his most feminine, at his 
most ridiculous. . . he still resembled a caricature rather than the real 
thing.  Not a girl; a man with tits rather, a very curvaceous, convincing 
cross-dresser, maybe, but a man nonetheless.
	How could a man be pregnant?
	Nabiki looked at her sister and saw the confusion in her eyes, and 
understood that Akane was struggling with the same question.  Her doubts ran 
deeper, the uncertainty hurting her badly.  "Tofu said--," her sister was 
saying, when Nabiki suddenly drew her into a tight embrace.  She threw her 
arms around her younger sister and held her tight.  She held her as tight as 
she could and wished she could offer more.
	"He'll be okay," Nabiki whispered.  "He'll be okay."
	"It's how he knew," Akane continued, her voice hoarser now and muffled.  
"It's how Tofu knew.  How could Ranma be pregnant?  Only if someone . . . if 
some guy had. . . ."  Nabiki felt her sister tremble.
	Forced himself on Ranma, Nabiki finished mentally.  But how do we know it 
was forced?  The thought, as brief lived as it was, made her flush hot and 
angry.  How can I even _think_ that? she demanded of herself, but the 
thought had come, unbidden, of Ranma submitting his female body to a boy's 
advance.  How many times had he flirted shamelessly with guys, flaunting his 
tits and ass with bizarre pride that bordered on the neurotic?  A caricature 
of femininity rather than the real thing, sure, but still sexy as hell.  How 
many men would prefer a cartoon girl to the real thing?  Ranma had been at a 
party, and he'd been angry, and he'd been depressed and vulnerable, and he'd 
been drunk and he'd been surrounded by friendly guys who would have been 
happy to offer a shoulder to cry on, and more, certainly, if he asked for 
it. . . .  Was it really that inconceivable?
	Yes, it was.  Nabiki believed this beyond any doubt.  The boy was so 
neurotic he couldn't even bring himself to kiss a girl, let alone . . . 
anything more.  But Nabiki realized that if the thought occurred to her, it 
would occur to others--to others who did not know the boy as well, or who 
would like to believe he had 'gone girl', or who would take pleasure in 
seeing him humbled and ruined.
	"He'll be okay," Nabiki repeated, and she did not believe her own words.  
The two sisters held each other for a long time.  The older sister became 
aware of the gentle sobbing of her sibling, of a growing wetness against her 
shoulder.  A moment later Nabiki realized tears streaked her own cheeks.  
She was afraid.  She felt filled to brimming with a diffused dread that 
lurked just beyond recognition.
	A moment later, a soft knocking intruded and the two girls drew apart.  The 
door opened, and Kasumi poked her head into the room.  Her usual smile grew 
brittle a she saw the state of her two sisters.  They stared at each other 
in tense silence, and then Kasumi suddenly blurted out, with unusual 
urgency:
	"Ms. Saotome is on the phone."  When Akane failed to respond, she quickly 
added, "She wants to talk to you.  She says that Ranko is at her place."


	The hurried walk to Nodoka's home would later remain a blur to Akane.  
There was a definite sequence of events, of course--phone call, rush from 
the house, walk and arrival--but somehow it all seemed disconnected.  
Rather, she found that she could only remember disjointed images or sounds 
and scents: the slam of the door sliding shut behind, the wet slap of her 
run through puddles, Kasumi's face pale and concerned, scattered wispy 
clouds tinted pink, sunset.  The air had been fresh and cool against her 
face as she ran to Mrs. Saotome's home.  She remembered that most of all: 
following the storm, the dusk sky had been painfully clear and the emerging 
stars, bright.
	Then her memory hiccupped, skipped forward, and Akane found herself staring 
down at the huddled shape of her former fiance.
	Ranma sat in the corner of the room, female.  He sat curled in a little 
ball, hugging himself tightly.  Head held low, he stared at the floor.  Hair 
undone, it fell in straggly wet coils across his face.  His features 
remained hidden from view.  The ragged clothes he wore were still wet and 
clung to his female contours.  He shivered violently at times despite the 
heat of the room.  A heavy blanket lay crumpled at his side.  His forearms 
were marked and torn by many ragged scratches, red and painful looking.  
There was no reaction from him as Akane stopped at the threshold of the 
room.
	"She's been like that for over an hour," Mrs. Saotome said, and despite 
trying to speak in a low voice her voice was shrill with worry.  "I tried to 
talk to her.  I tried to change her clothes.  She wouldn't even take the 
blanket I gave her."
	Akane nodded dumbly, her eyes never leaving the girl crouched in the 
corner.  She couldn't think of anything to say.  She did not know what to 
do.  This was--too much.
	Mrs. Saotome continued to talk, relieved to have someone to share her fear 
with.  "I found her on my doorstep," she said,  "when I got back from 
shopping for groceries.  I had been thinking about her, about Ranko, I had 
bought some ice cream and thought I could invite her over.  And there she 
was, sitting by my door when I got home.
	"But I could tell that something was wrong.  When she looked up. . . ."  
She hesitated, but found her voice a moment later.  "Ranko was crying.  And 
her eyes . . . I've never seen . . . she seemed so _lost_, Akane, and wet 
and cold, and . . . .alone."
	Ranma's mother had dropped her bags of food as the young girl uncoiled and 
hurled herself into the older woman's embrace.  Akane had absently noticed 
the mess upon arrival, and thought it unusual; Nodoka always kept her home 
so clean.  She vividly remembered a scattering of cherry tomatoes spread 
across the entrance.  In the bluish light of twilight they had seemed so 
bright and red.
	Mrs. Saotome seemed visibly shaken as she continued.  "I held her tight and 
brought her in.  She was crying so hard!  She was crying . . . so hard, at 
first I couldn't understand.  What she was saying.  But Ranko kept repeating 
the same thing."
	"What was she saying?" Akane said.
	"'Help me, mom'.  Over and over.  'Help me, mom'."
	Akane suddenly couldn't breath.  She felt cold.
	"Ranko kept asking for her mother," Nodoka continued, and when Akane 
finally tore her gaze away from the huddled form of her fiance, she saw the 
woman's cheeks were streaked with tears.  "She held me so tight!  She buried 
her face and kept asking for her mom, and I kept telling her that her mother 
wasn't here, that she wasn't here, that I would do whatever I could to help, 
but she just kept crying, Akane, she wouldn't stop and I didn't know what to 
do. . . ."
	So you called me, Akane thought.  But what made you think that _I_ would 
know what to do?  An overwhelming sense of both relief and sadness held her 
paralyzed.  Ranma's mother still didn't know the truth about her son.  But 
when Akane pictured Ranma so desperately grasping for consolation that he 
could feel and touch and yet that remained beyond his reach. . . .
	Oh, Ranma, she thought, and began to silently cry.  What are you going to 
do?  A moment later, though the tears remained, she felt herself relax.  She 
began to breath normally, because she knew she had to.  Mrs. Saotome always 
seemed so strong, a pillar of authority and confidence, and seeing her so 
shaken and . . . ineffectual, was disconcerting; but Akane knew that it was 
now up to her to help Ranma.  It was her responsibility.  What are _we_ 
going to do, she thought, and stepped into the room.  At that moment, it all 
became clear to her.  This whole situation was largely because of the 
choices she had made.  Now it was up to her to set things right--or as right 
as could be expected.
	If I hadn't lost my temper, Akane thought, kneeling in front of Ranma, we 
wouldn't have fought.  If we hadn't fought, she wouldn't have drank so much. 
  And if she hadn't become drunk. . . .
	_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.  
The half-naked unconscious girl curled into a tight, small ball in the 
middle of the bed._
	It's all my fault, Akane thought, and took one limp hand in her own.  She 
softly brushed the damp strands of hair that hid Ranma's face from view.  
The girl continued to stare blankly at the floor.  With gentle pressure 
Akane forced her to raise her head.  Akane stared straight into her blue 
eyes.
	"I don't know how," Akane said in a low but steady voice, "But everything 
will be okay."  She squeezed the lifeless hand in her grip.  "Ranma?  You're 
not alone."
	Ranma's eyes focused on her.  For a moment it seemed he might even speak.  
She saw in his eyes a depth of misery and hopelessness unlike any she had 
ever known; it was too much for her to match his desperate stare.  Her eyes 
flickered away briefly, and when they returned Akane thought she could see 
her own gaze mirrored there--the full reach of the sympathy and pity she 
felt for the poor girl before her.
	Ranma's eyes turned glassy, empty and withdrawn.  He would not speak.  But 
when Akane took his hand and pulled him to his feet he didn't resist.  The 
broken and silent girl would docilely follow Akane all the way home.


	It slowly dawned on Genma that something was wrong.  It took him quite some 
time to pin it down.  His day had followed an almost perfectly normal 
routine: an excellent breakfast from Kasumi followed by a couple of 
stimulating games of go with Soun; a hearty lunch followed by some training 
in the dojo and a light nap; and finally a delicious dinner and a few cool, 
refreshing beers.  The only thing missing was a little early-morning 
sparring with the Boy, but a little taunting over breakfast had nicely made 
up for that.
	Genma pulled back from the low-set table with a deep sigh of contentment 
that belied the anxiety he felt.  His breath grumbled deep in his chest as 
he took an unusually contemplative pose.  Legs crossed and sitting 
straight-backed, eyes closed, he focused his thoughts.  Something was amiss. 
  Soun was taking a bath and Kasumi was cleaning in the kitchen and who 
could keep track of all those daughters, anyway?  That Ryouga boy had shown 
up about an hour ago, but there wasn't anything particularly strange about a 
black piglet wandering into the house to be replaced by an angry-looking 
martial artist.  Genma liked it when the boy turned up; he made a good 
sparring partner for the Boy.  Not that he felt any urge to talk to the 
young punk.  He was happy to leave Ryouga alone watching the television, 
though the older man wished the boy would stop his incessant flipping of 
that bottle cap.
	Ranma hadn't returned from school yet, but that wasn't unusual either.  The 
life of a martial artist was fraught with peril, as Genma liked to say, and 
even if he preferred a life of leisure supplemented with copious amounts of 
food, it did Ranma good to lead an exciting life.  It kept him on his toes.  
Oh, sure, the Boy might grumble and complain about all the trouble his 
father threw his way, but it was all in his best interest, after all, and 
one day he'd look back on these years and smile wistfully.  Just like he and 
Soun often did.  Like the time they chased that prince Happosai angered all 
the way to Hokkaido and. . . .
	Smiling briefly, Genma pushed the thought aside and concentrated on the 
matter at hand.  Whatever was wrong involved his son.  He knew this with a 
certainty that reached from deep in his belly.  He knew to trust his gut; 
his stomach's instincts rarely led him astray.  But what could be wrong with 
Ranma?  True, he hadn't seen much of his son recently, what with taking off 
for a week of training (the nerve of the Boy; such arrogance!) after his 
mother's visit.  The school had called about some problem or another, but 
that's what government employees were supposed to do: complain.  No new 
girls had shown up recently.  No new rivals.  Genma mentally ticked each 
reason off on a finger: Akane, other girls, rivals, sex-changing curse, 
school, mother . . .  nothing new, his son's life was as ordinary as ever.  
And yet the Boy had seemed unusually unfocussed this morning over breakfast, 
as if mulling over a difficult decision. . . .
	His eyes snapped open.  Genma rushed from the family room to the guest room 
he and Ranma shared.  Entering the room he was suddenly struck by how empty 
it seemed.  Two folded futons in the corner, a single dresser, and the 
calligraphy scroll placed by Kasumi; plain tatami, beige walls, and white 
closet door.  He threw the sliding door open and stared at the empty spot on 
the floor, his heart sinking.
	His son's backpack was gone.  His own pack lay slumped to one side without 
his son's next to it to prop it up.  He crossed over to the dresser with two 
quick strides.  He noted the bottom drawer was slightly ajar and pulling it 
open he reached for Ranma's little stash of secret possessions.  Genma liked 
to keep tabs on what the Boy kept hidden.  There were already too many 
girlish and weak things that he saved, thing unbecoming a man among men.  He 
threw aside his son's collection of lingerie and feminine costumes and 
pulled out the box hidden at the back and knew at a glance that they had 
been looked at recently.
	Ranma only mooned over his little collection when something was really 
bothering him, and keeping track of that little box was almost as useful as 
reading through a diary--if the Boy kept one, which thank goodness he 
didn't; only girls kept diaries.  The box was bad enough, useful as it might 
be at times.  At least he had the sense to keep it hidden.  If his mother 
found it . . . although the pile of lacy bras and stocking would probably be 
enough to sink them both. . . .  Genma growled and shook his head.
	His son was gone.
	Genma mused over this as he wandered back to the family room, planning as 
he went.  He'd have to follow, of course, and track his ungrateful excuse 
for a son down.  The Boy thought he could leave without him?  Arrogant!  
Selfish!  He felt his fists clench at his sides as he walked with heavy 
steps, the night air cool in the hallway.  How dare his son just take off 
without a word?  His anger grew with each step until he reached the sliding 
door and he suddenly stopped, trembling, and forced a deep breath and 
realized that he wasn't just angry.  He was also very, very scared.
	Something was terribly wrong with his son--he didn't even know _how_ he 
knew, only that some instinct developed over a decade of constant contact 
with his son insisted so--and Genma was furious not with his son but with 
himself, because in all honesty he didn't _want_ to know what was wrong with 
his son.  His innards churned with a discomfort he had felt only a few times 
before: after the mess with the Neko-ken or when his son's strength had been 
stolen and seemed forever gone, times when Genma saw his son withdraw in 
pain.  Times when he didn't know how to reach him, or help him.  Times that 
left Genma feeling useless and full of doubt.  He had taught his son how to 
fight, how to be strong, how to be a _man_--how could that not be enough?  
It was more than his own father had ever given him.
	Genma went to step into the main room and suddenly realized that people 
were arguing, and loudly, and there he caught a glimpse of his son.  His son 
had finally returned--but still female, and wan and withdrawn, hurt, with 
eyes so very far away, and he knew that his instincts had been right, 
painfully so, and that this was something he didn't know how to deal with.. 
. . .  Ranma's father pulled back before anyone could see him and silently 
crept away.


	Nabiki checked the front gate from the second floor window every five 
minutes or so.  She didn't want to and she scolded herself every time she 
found herself staring down at the household entrance, but no matter what she 
did to distract herself she found herself rushing back to the window at 
every sound, imagined or real.  Staring down at the gate helped clear her 
mind, or at least focus it on a single thought: where were they?  Otherwise, 
her thoughts turned unpleasant.  Darker.  The questions she asked herself 
could only lead to unpleasant ends.
	What if Ranma had told his mother the truth--of nearly two years of lies 
and avoiding responsibility and keeping his identity hidden from her by 
playing at 'Ranko'?  He was pregnant!--what surer sign of his unmanliness 
could a woman like Nodoka ask for?  What kind of woman would force her own 
son to commit suicide, especially after what he had just been through?
	Nabiki wondered if Ranma would even care.
	Turning to her ledger provided none of the relief money usually brought 
her, nor the thought of collecting past due accounts (of which there were 
quite a few).  Nabiki felt a need to go to the bathroom and left her room; 
passing the window she stopped, stared outside, and a few minutes later 
wandered straight back to her room.  She flopped down on her bed and started 
idly leafing through a borrowed manga, but hearing a noise she rushed back 
to the hallway.  Nothing.  She returned to her room and stared down at her 
homework for a full ten minutes before throwing her pencil down in disgust.
	None of this was accomplishing anything.  She felt the need to be helpful.  
It was a new and unusual sensation for Nabiki, and somewhat disquieting.  
Somehow comforting her sister didn't seem enough, but what else could she 
do?  Comforting Ranma directly wasn't going to happen. . . he didn't trust 
her, and considering that less than a week ago she had been ready to exploit 
the boy for every yen he could earn, she didn't blame him.  So what could 
she do, wander from the house in search of her younger sister?
	An unpleasant awareness began to well up inside, one she wasn't used to 
feeling.  Helplessness.  Nabiki closed her eyes.  Her head drooped into her 
hands as the feeling washed over her.  But when she shivered she realized 
that it wasn't just helplessness she was feeling: she was afraid.  She 
suddenly realized that she didn't want to leave the house . . . that 
returning home, she had breathed an unconscious sigh of relief at finally 
passing through the front gates.  She was safe here, protected by the love 
of her father and by a household full of some of the best martial artists in 
the world and by the walls of her home.
	Out beyond those walls there was a rapist.  When she focused on that 
thought her heart beat faster and she felt genuinely afraid, but she 
couldn't turn away from the recognition that her world--as dangerous and 
absurd as it was, filled with perverts like Happosai and violent weirdos 
like Tarou--had been invaded by something far more sinister and evil than 
she had ever encountered before.  And as she raised her head and her hands 
clenched at her side, Nabiki realized that the thought made her angry.  
Very, very angry.
	What kind of bastard would do something like that to a woman--a helpless 
one, passed out on a bed in a friend's house?  Did he think he could get 
away with hurting a member of her family?  Who was he?
	Nabiki knew then how she could help.  She was going to find the bastard 
responsible for what had happened to Ranma and make him pay.  All the 
necessary materials were at hand: a phone, a list of phone numbers, and most 
importantly of all her carefully constructed framework of that night two 
weeks ago, still fresh in her mind.  So intensely was she focused on the new 
task at hand, on preparation and organizing her thoughts, that she was the 
last one to reach the family room when all hell broke loose upon Akane and 
Ranma's return.


	Kasumi hadn't been expecting a houseguest but was rarely caught unprepared. 
  Within five minutes of Ryouga's arrival she had a warm cup of tea set 
before him; three minutes after that she had a bowl of rice, some hot miso 
soup, and some pickled daikon ready as well.  She regretted that it wasn't 
up to her usual standards, but had prepared it distractedly.  Something was 
amiss within her house.  She didn't know what it was.  Whatever happened 
beyond the boundaries of the household was rarely her concern.  But when it 
impacted upon her family she had to take notice.  Both her sisters were 
acting strangely, and Mr Saotome too. . . well, stranger than usual, that 
is.  After totally ignoring their houseguest he had dashed upstairs without 
a word.  There was a disquieting presence intruding upon her home and Kasumi 
didn't like it one bit.
	Still, there was a houseguest to attend to and her own concerns, for the 
moment, had no bearing upon that.  "How are you feeling, Ryouga?" she asked. 
  He seemed half-famished, devouring the food rapidly and breaking only to 
toss cupfuls of tea down his throat.  His obvious enjoyment of her food 
brought a smile to Kasumi's lips.
	He paused in mid-gulp, and actually blushed.  "Fine."  He hastily wiped his 
mouth clean and flashed a toothy grin.  "I mean . . . better now, thanks to 
your food."
	Kasumi accepted the compliment with a small nod.  "Thank you."  Of all of 
Ranma's friends, Ryouga seemed the most polite.  He was easier on the 
furniture than most of the others as well.  His usual yellow-and-brown 
clothes were clean, if somewhat rumpled.  Considering the recent weather, 
she decided he must have changed just before arriving.  She approved of that 
kind of consideration in a guest.
	The boy shrugged.  He seemed at a loss for words, and looked around the 
room expectantly.  Finally he turned back to Kasumi.  "Umm... have you seen 
Ranma by any chance?" he asked.  "Or Akane?"
	"Not in the last hour or two, I'm afraid," Kasumi answered.  "Akane 
received a call from Ranma's mother.  He was visiting, I think."
	Ryouga seemed a little surprised at the very prospect of Ranma having a 
mother.  He stopped rolling a rusted beer cap across his knuckles for a 
moment and clenched it in his fist.  The boy shrugged.  "Any idea when 
they'll be back?"
	None whatsoever, and that concerned her greatly.  Kasumi kept track of her 
family, as best she could--she knew when they left for school and when they 
were due back; on what days there were club activities and when her father 
was out meeting the members of the neighborhood council; the dates of doctor 
appointments and special school activities and when all the festivals came 
to Nerima.  Her household was anything but quiet but she still knew where 
her family was. . . usually.  She had seen the empty closet in Mr. Saotome's 
room.
	"Quite soon, I should think," Kasumi answered.
	"Would you mind if I waited here until they got back?"
	She smiled warmly at him.  "Of course not."
	Kasumi picked up his dishes and carried them back to the kitchen.  She felt 
uneasy.  She felt that she didn't fully understand what was happening within 
her own family, and Kasumi didn't like the loss of that control one bit.
	As she left the room she glanced back.  Ryouga was leaning back against the 
wall, staring into the distance and smiling.  His fangs glinted from his 
bared grin, and the bottle cap danced across the back of his hand.


	The trip home had been a long one, longer than any Akane could remember.  
Ranma had held her hand the whole way, with the insistent temerity of a 
young child.  He stumbled along behind as she led the way, eyes downcast and 
hidden by the fall of his unbound hair.  Once or twice she thought she heard 
him mumble something but was unsure, and stopping to check he offered no 
answer to her queries and refused to meet her gaze.  The walk had been 
otherwise silent.
	Now they stood before the front door of her home and she hovered at the 
threshold, unsure as to what to do.  Step in, Ranma trailing behind wet and 
quiet, and sunnily announce "I'm home"?  If she didn't bring him home 
straight away, life could continue under a facade of normalcy for a few more 
days, at least, much as it had for the last week or two with the ending of 
the engagement still a secret, the horrible consequences of that party so 
long ago still unknown. . . no one but Nabiki knew, her father was still 
blissfully ignorant, Kasumi as well, and Mr. Saotome. . . .
	Akane shuddered at the thought of how Ranma's father would react when he 
discovered that his son had been raped.  When he learned that Ranma was 
pregnant.  The man lived in constant fear that his son would be discovered 
as anything less than manly . . . glancing at the boy-turned-girl standing 
listlessly behind her, she allowed herself to briefly see Ranma the way his 
father must see him: as a girl lost within herself, weak, delicate even . . 
. helpless, with none of the boundless energy or fierce pride he usually 
exhibited.  The girl stared at the ground in a pose that would seem almost 
demure were she not so wet and bedraggled and with those horrible red welts 
marring her forearms.  Akane's stomach churned in anticipation of their 
reception.
	Ranma must have felt her indecision, for he raised his head to fix her with 
a blank stare.  She could barely see his eyes behind the veil of hair that 
obscured his face.  With a tentative reach she brushed the hair away and 
fixed it behind his ear.  Confronted with the full emptiness of his gaze she 
found that she could hardly keep herself from looking away.  Ranma offered 
nothing more than an unblinking stare, demanding nothing, hoping for 
nothing.
	"Ranma," Akane stammered, but as soon as the words left her mouth his gaze 
dropped once again to remain fixed upon his shoes.  He swayed slightly and 
remained silent.
	She took a deep breath.  Hopefully the entrance would be empty and she 
could lead him upstairs without anyone noticing.  Nabiki would know what to 
do.  She could help control the family, or break the news to them in some 
way that didn't seem as bad, she was so good with words, phrase it gently, 
deflect the full awful reality of what had happened--how could you break the 
news of a rape gently?
	Akane opened the door and stepped through and turned around to slip out of 
her shoes and stepped back to make room for Ranma to follow her in.  When 
she turned around again Ryouga was standing at the far end of the entrance.
	"Ranma," the boy said, his lips curling into a toothy grin.  "How good to 
see you."
	Ranma still stood by the door, where he made no motion to remove his shoes. 
  He offered no reaction to his friend's greeting.  Ryouga's welcome didn't 
seem very friendly.  This wasn't the time for one of their silly brawls.  
Ranma was in no shape to fight.  He needed to be protected.  Akane moved to 
fully interpose herself between the two boys.  "Ryouga, wait. . ."  She 
started to speak but even as the words left her mouth the martial artist was 
moving.
	Ryouga's smile twitched into a smirk.  He flicked something into the air, 
snatched it and, his hand a blur, sent it flying towards his rival.
	His target made no effort to dodge.  The projectile landed with a 
painful-sounding thud high on Ranma's brow.  Only once it fell to the ground 
with a metallic ping did Akane recognize it as a bottle cap.
	"I've been saving that for you for weeks!" Ryouga snarled.  "I knew it had 
to be your fault when it hit me!"
	The impact had snapped Ranma's head back.  A moment later his head lolled 
forward again.  A thin line of blood trickled down his forehead.  His 
vacuous gaze and languid lips remained unchanged, but his complete 
indifference at the attack seemed to take Ryouga aback.  Still wearing his 
sopping-wet shoes, Ranma wordlessly shuffled past his attacker.
	Instinct obviously overcame his shock: one arm snaked out, seized Ranma by 
the wrist, and pulled him back.  The flesh whitened and the jagged scratches 
stood out lividly beneath the tight grip.  Ryouga's thin smile tightened, 
though uncertainty seemed to tug at its edges.  He grinded on the thin wrist 
in his grasp.  "Well, Ranma. . . nothing to say?"
	Ranma's eyes flickered down to his wrist then up to Ryouga's face.  His 
rival's face was rapidly reddening.  He answered those furious eyes with a 
gaze of placid indifference that seemed to only infuriate Ryouga further.  
The faintest hint of a smile seemed to threaten to overtake Ranma's lips.  
Blood beaded down the lines of his face.
	Ryouga was never one to enjoy being laughed at.  He couldn't see that if 
there was any mockery, that it was aimed inward; Akane wasn't sure if her 
former fiance was even fully aware of the boy before him.  The martial 
artist gave a savage tug on Ranma's arm, unbalancing him.  "Answer me, 
dammit!" he demanded, but the boy remained silent, impassive, and didn't 
even try to catch himself as he stumbled forward.  He fell against Ryouga.  
Without the grip on his arm he might have slumped to the ground.
	The larger boy endured the presence of his rival against him for a 
surprisingly long time, as the redness of his face gradually shifted from 
anger to acute embarrassment.  It looked like he was holding a young girl to 
his broad chest, one who made no effort whatsoever to remove herself from 
his embrace.  "What the hell are you doing?" Ryouga hissed, releasing his 
grip but seemingly at a loss at what to do about his limp opponent.  "In 
front of Akane!"
	In front of Akane, but she found herself unable to move or react, frozen in 
place as she watched with growing horror as her friend's face suddenly 
resolved itself --as he reared back and formed a hammy fist --as he pushed 
the girl before him away and held her steady with the other hand --as he 
punched forward. . . .
	"Ryouga, no!" she cried, but too late, her voice finding itself well after 
the attack was thrown . . . the punch took Ranma squarely across the jaw.  
Again, he made no attempt to avoid or soften the attack.  Akane watched in 
what seemed like slow-motion as the punch sunk into flesh and connected with 
bone; as the head snapped around and the neck twisted back and the whole 
body followed after, corkscrewing through the air, lifted clear off the 
ground and sent soaring down the hallway.  Ranma hit the hardwood floor 
face-down, flopping bonelessly and sliding several feet.  But Ryouga was 
already launching himself after his target, face purpling with continued 
anger.  With one hand he hauled the unresisting girl up by the hair.  "Fight 
back!" he demanded, his voice cracking around the edges, unsettled by 
Ranma's refusal to fight.  He didn't wait for an answer; with a savage twist 
he drove his shoulder into the girl and sent her sprawling into the family 
room.  She slammed into tatami and tore a grove into the mat and left it 
bloodied as the fine-edged bamboo lacerate her cheek; and even before her 
momentum was through Ryouga was in pursuit, pinning Ranma beneath his foot 
and drawing his fist back for a final blow.  "Fight!"  His eyes were red and 
nearly bulging with unrestrained fury--or something equally unsettling.
	And suddenly Akane found that she could move, and leapt after the martial 
artist and his downed target, her voice finding itself again: "Ryouga, 
stop!"  He paused, his eyes briefly turning her way, long enough for her to 
catch up.  "Leave her alone!"
	"Her?"
	Ryouga seemed genuinely surprised, unable to associate the idea of 
pummeling on Ranma with that of punching an actual girl.  His looked at 
Akane quizzically.  She flushed red herself, ashamed at her mistake, angry 
at having thought of Ranma as a girl again. . .  furious at Ryouga for 
having led her back into that error.  As had often happened before Akane 
found that, once ignited, it was terribly easy to tag her anger onto the 
nearest available target; and for the first time that target proved Ryouga.  
Ranma should have been her victim: he was the strong one, the one always 
picking on those weaker than him, the cocky arrogant one, so full of life, 
so full of himself, so . . . alive.
	Ranma lay spread-eagle on the floor, lips twisted in a curious half-smile, 
and stared sightlessly at the ceiling.
	"Leave HIM alone!" Akane howled.  She hurled herself at Ryouga.  Though his 
eyes widened with surprise--he must have seen her haymaker coming from miles 
away, which infuriated her even more--he simply watched the attack approach 
with the same quizzical look to his face.  Her fist connected solidly with 
his head, powerful enough to shatter brick; he staggered back a few steps.
	"Akane?" he said, sounding hurt.
	"Get out of here!" she screamed, trembling with anger.  A bubble of 
hysteria swelled up from deep inside: tension stretched to its final limit, 
the emptiness it barely contained threatened to overwhelm her. . . would she 
collapse in tears? . . . erupt into violent anger? . . . or simply laugh out 
loud?  She had thought herself strong, in control and able to take care of 
Ranma, but already she felt her tenuous hold on her emotions slipping away.  
Ranma had been _raped_, there was some kind of . . . monster, out there, a 
predator on the loose . . . he was _pregnant_ . . . it's my fault . . . how 
could he let that happen to himself . . . how can I think that?  "Get out of 
my house!"  Hadn't she said the same thing to _him_ just days ago?  Fists 
clenched at her side and breathing heavily, she stood over the unmoving 
Ranma.  Ryouga seemed to wilt under her furious gaze, confused but unwilling 
to argue.  Shoulders bent he turned towards the exit.
	"Stay where you are, Ryouga."  Kasumi stood at the entrance to the kitchen, 
arms crossed.  Her voice remained low but held a steely edge; she fixed 
Akane with a stern look as she spoke.  "That's no way to speak to a guest, 
Akane.  I've welcomed Ryouga into our home, and I won't have you speaking to 
a guest in such a manner."
	Akane stared at her older sister, dumbfounded.  How could Kasumi contradict 
her like that?  After what Ranma had been through. . .  he needed protection 
from the likes of Ryouga.  What if all his other rivals suddenly showed up: 
Mousse demanding retribution for slurs against Shampoo, Kuno demanding the 
same for insults to the pigtailed girl; or even worse his suitors, Ukyou, 
Shampoo, who knew how many others; or Happosai, or Tarou, or. . . or. . .
	The full immensity of what had happened suddenly came crashing down upon 
Akane.  Ranma's life was anything but simple or solitary--anything serious 
that happened to him impacted on so many other lives.  How many would learn 
of his debasement with unadulterated glee?  With shock and disappointment?  
With tears or laughter or derision?  Each one would be a terrible blow 
against her former fiance, far worse than what he had suffered at the hands 
of his peers a few weeks ago at school.  He'd be emotionally defenseless, 
and she wasn't sure she could protect him from all that.  Akane felt an 
overwhelming surge of hopelessness again and it was all she could do to stop 
herself from sinking to her knees or burst into tears.  With reddening eyes 
she glared at Ryouga, then at Kasumi, and back again, and she couldn't think 
of a single word to express how she felt.
	Ryouga stood frozen between the two Tendo women.  He offered a nervous 
chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck.  "Umm. . . maybe I should go take a 
little walk."
	"No, you'll sit down and enjoy your tea," Kasumi said.  "Please," she added 
in tone that brooked no argument.
	"Kasumi, please. . . ."  Akane found her voice, and it came out soft and 
pleading.  She didn't know what she was asking for.
	Her sister's countenance softened slightly, though her voice remained firm. 
  "Akane, you're acting very strange."
	What answer could she offer to that?  Strange?  Nothing in their life had 
been normal since Ranma's arrival over a year ago.  Maybe life in the Tendo 
household had always been slightly unusual before that, but nothing compared 
to what the Saotomes carried with them, wrestled with and took part in every 
day, insisted was the way a life should be led--insisted that Akane learn to 
live with as well.  Well, for a week she had sampled what life could be like 
without Ranma and all the other nutjobs he knew; she'd led the life of an 
ordinary Japanese teenage schoolgirl, going to school and hanging out with 
friends and taking part in club activities and even throwing a sleepover at 
her place.  No one had attacked the school or broken down the door of the 
house or kidnapped her--no one had changed sex unexpectedly or called her 
fat or stupid or clumsy.  Everyone had been very friendly and kind and 
supportive.  She hadn't gotten angry at anyone.  She'd even slept well.  It 
had been a very nice week.
	A few years ago, before Ranma had appeared, the whole family had taken a 
vacation trip as a reward for Akane passing her high school entrance exams.  
The Tendos had gone to Shikoku, to Tokushima prefecture and the 'hidden' Iya 
valley.  There were old stories of villagers who'd lived in isolation for 
decades, and of shattered samurai armies living in hiding, waiting for the 
day to avenge their fallen master and totally unaware that whatever war they 
had fought was long over . . . the thought of meeting an ancient master of a 
forgotten martial art had been exciting to Akane back then, and she'd 
carried that hope with her on the trip.  Of course, other than visiting a 
few reconstructed vine bridges and semi-historical sites, most of the trip 
had been spent at the rented cabin, relaxing and enjoying the nearby hot 
springs.  She remembered Nabiki sitting outside on the deck, totally relaxed 
in her yukata and with the full splendor of the mountain forests wreathed in 
mist before her, and the sound of the river rushing through the gorge coming 
from far below.
	"This is nice," her sister had said.  "But, man, I'd hate to live out 
here."
	Akane wondered, even if she had never met Ranma, would she have been happy 
with a life like she'd just experience for the last week?
	Martial arts were a part of her life.  She'd encountered the fantastical 
creatures of Ryugenzawa on her own when she was but a child.  Happosai would 
have come visiting whether the Saotomes were living with them or not.  She'd 
already had her own challenges: Kuno and nearly every male club member, for 
one.  Her life certainly hadn't been boring before.  Before . . . Ranma.
	But he'd brought so much more with him, and before she'd made any kind of 
choice he'd inadvertently dragged Akane along with her.  Would she have 
chosen to follow had she been given time to decide?  It didn't seem to 
matter anymore.
	Ranma was slowly rising to his feet, seemingly oblivious to the tension 
surrounding him, Kasumi and Ryouga's stares, Akane's own held breath.  
Without meeting anyone's face he slowly shuffled towards the bathroom.
	"Stop acting like a girl!" Ryouga demanded.
	There was a sharp intake of breath: Nabiki, standing at the bottom of the 
stairs.  Had she watched the whole thing?  Ranma gave no indication that he 
heard his rival.  He didn't slow or turn back.  Not even when Akane called 
out after him.  In silence, Ranma slowly left the room.


	Nabiki had seen the whole thing: Kasumi trying to hold on to a domestic 
authority she must feel slipping away without knowing why; Ryouga 
overcompensating for a fear he couldn't understand through aggression; 
Akane, calling out to Ranma in a soft, fearful voice, so full of concern and 
pity; and Ranma. . . .
	Nabiki saw in his eyes a look she was all too familiar with: resentful 
hatred, burning but impotent.  It quickly turned inward, twisting into 
self-loathing, but there was no mistaking the hateful burn at hearing her 
sister's voice.  Nabiki had had similar looks directed at her often enough, 
as she collected fees from debtors unable to afford to pay, or fulfilled a 
threat against someone who doubted her ruthlessness.  Always the same 
useless rage as their loss turned into her gain.  But what was Ranma losing, 
and her sister gaining, that, even briefly, he could hate her so?
	She'd only had a brief glimpse of Ranma's face, but hadn't liked what she 
had seen there.  There was also a dangerous tension to the boy's features, a 
tautness to the lines of his face that suggested, to Nabiki, barely 
repressed violence.  She'd felt an unpleasant thrill run through her, a 
unconscious shiver of fear at the look he'd given her before turning away.  
She'd never seen Ranma angry--not _really_ angry, though she'd heard a few 
stories of him getting serious in a fight; she suspected  in those brief 
moments he looked something like he did now.  Now wasn't a good time for 
anybody to be near him.  Even Akane, though she firmly believed that he'd 
never maliciously do anything to harm her.
	"Where do you think you're going, Ranma?" Ryouga yelled after his 
retreating rival.
	"I told you to leave him alone!" Akane said, her voice shrill.
	"Akane!  That will be enough!"
	"Where has that lazy son of mine gone?"  When the hell did Mr. Saotome show 
up?
	"Mr. Saotome, no, Ranma needs to be left alone right now!"
	"What's happening?"  Great, Dad would have to get involved as well.
	"What, is he moping girlishly again?"
	"Don't SAY that!"
	"I won't have you speaking to a guest--"
	"He's such a  girl--"
	"Um, what's happ--"
	"What'd you  say, boy?  I'll--"
	"People, people!" Nabiki called out.
	 Suddenly all the chatter stopped, all eyes turning to her.  She had no 
idea what to say next.  She only knew that she needed to calm everyone down. 
  "Some people are trying to take an afternoon nap, you know!"
	There was a brief silence.  Her father ended it with, "Nabiki, really."  
And she could see that everyone was ready to erupt into argument again: 
Ryouga taking a step towards the stairs, Akane flushing red with anger, 
Genma looking ready to bluster and throw his bulk around, and her father 
confused and suddenly on the edge of tears. . . only her older sister seemed 
to remain calm, suddenly seeming far more aware of what was going on than 
Nabiki would have given her credit for.  Well, Nabiki thought, if I can't 
get them to listen to me, I can at least get them to hate me.  I'm good at 
that.
	"But while I'm up," she continued, and allowed a smirk to creep onto her 
face, "we might as well talk about a number of outstanding debts and 
allowances . . ."


	Nabiki seemed to have everybody briefly occupied, or at least confused.  
She was talking quickly and gesturing animatedly and keeping the attention 
focused on herself as she blocked everyone's way towards the bathroom.  
Akane took the opportunity to slip away and out the front door.  As she ran 
around the house towards the side the bathroom faced, she thought about 
Ranma: she wanted to reach him before anyone else did.  Bringing him home 
had obviously been a mistake.  He needed peace and quiet now, not loud 
bickering and violent threats.
	She opened the bathroom window without hesitation, but the sliding door 
separating the bathtub from the sink and laundry basket was closed.  A 
blurred feminine silhouette stood silently on the other side.  There was the 
sound of running water.  The shape opposite her shifted and grew taller and 
suddenly seemed stronger.  The water stopped but Ranma otherwise didn't seem 
to react.  Akane quickly pulled herself through the window and crossed over 
to the door.  She pulled it over.
	He stood there, a man once again, with his shirt off and for one fleeting 
moment Akane could nearly fool herself into thinking that everything was 
fine, their problems were solved--he was a man!  A man couldn't get raped, 
and he couldn't get pregnant.  But he didn't react to her arrival, didn't 
even seem to notice.  He stared deeply into the mirror.  One hand hovered 
lightly over his lower abdomen.  He eyes flicked back and forth, as if 
looking for something in his own reflection.
	He shuddered, his whole body convulsing, it seemed, around his belly.  One 
hand clenched the edges of the sink with dangerous strength, but the other 
grabbed at what little loose flesh there was at his stomach. . . his fingers 
sunk into his stomach and grabbed and twisted and released and grabbed 
again; and with his eyes squeezed tight he sunk to his knees, still holding 
to the sink as it cracked beneath his grip but now he wasn't grabbing at his 
stomach anymore. . . his hand curled into a tight ball and suddenly he was 
hitting himself, his fist connecting with a loud smack with his side, his 
torso. . . .
	"Ranma, no!" Akane cried, moving to stop him; but he'd already stopped, 
looking past her with unseeing eyes.  He suddenly sprung forward, catching 
her by surprise.  He clipped her with his shoulder and sent her sprawling, 
and smashed through the doors behind her.  She felt a dull pain in the side 
of her head and heard something shatter; she fell stunned to the ground, 
something wet trickling down her forehead, and she dazedly noticed the 
broken pieces of mirror around her.
	In what seemed like mere seconds later, Ryouga stood framed in the doorway. 
  His eyes bulged as he took in the broken doors and shattered glass and 
cracked porcelain; at Akane on the floor, her forehead slick with blood.
	"He hurt you!"
	"Ryouga, no," she tried to say, but her voice came out as a whisper, her 
vision still swimming.
	"That bastard  hurt you!"  Louder, angrier.
	"He didn't mean--"
	"I'LL KILL HIM!"


	Ryouga found his enemy standing silently in the middle of the dojo, in the 
dark, illuminated only by the dim light slanting in from outside.  It was a 
miracle that Ryouga hadn't gotten lost while tracking his foe.  The thought 
hadn't occured to him.  His mind was too full of rage to think rationally.  
Tracking Ranma down because of the insult of the bottlecap had been a 
pleasant divertissement--something to occupy his mind during the long hours 
on the road.  A pleasant reward for the end of a long trip.  But this. . . 
Ranma had hurt _Akane_!
	Ryouga didn't bother with insults or declarations as he launched himself at 
his rival; the anger he felt was beyond anything he could remember feeling.  
He didn't pull his punch.  Ranma didn't dodge.  The attack caught him 
solidly in the face and sent him tumbling across the dojo.  Even as he hit 
the polished floor Ryouga was after him; he buried a kick in Ranma's side 
and felt with grim satisfaction ribs that nearly splintered beneath the 
impact.  The kick lifted the unresisting body off the ground; with an iron 
grip he grabbed Ranma by the throat, lifted him into the air, and smashed an 
elbow into his face.  The boy collapsed back to the ground in a silent heap. 
  The only noise in the hall was Ryouga's heavy breathing and the heavier 
sound of his fist smacking into flesh.
	That, more than anything, cut through the red haze that filled his mind.  
Fights with Ranma weren't supposed to be quiet: there were insults and 
taunts; the exchange of blows and the declaration of technique names; what 
was going on here?  Panting, he watched as Ranma slowly regained his feet.  
His rival's face was streaked in blood that gushed from his nose and seeped 
from cuts along his brow. Skin was already purpling in places, yellowed and 
black in the center.  Ryouga stared at his passive victim.  His gaze was 
matched in silence.  Blood dripped from chin and nose and trickled down 
Ranma bare chest.  As Ranma held Ryouga's gaze his lips slowly curled into a 
mocking smile.  Both arms hung loosely at his side, but then spread 
slightly--it was an open invitation to strike at his undefended torso.
	Was this some kind of trick?  It had to be. . . some new bizarre technique 
of passive resistance; he'd suck up all the power of his attacks and release 
it in one apocalyptic punch . . . or something.  It had to be.  Why else 
would he just stand there?
	"Why won't you fight me?" Ryouga demanded.  No answer came.  "What's wrong 
with you?"  Again, nothing.  "You think you can just ignore me, is that it?  
You think that'll save you?  After what you did to Akane?"  Ryouga thought 
he saw a flicker of--something, recognition maybe?--flash through his 
rival's eyes.  It was something he could follow up on; pulping an 
unresponsive opponent wasn't much fun, and while it didn't make Ryouga feel 
terribly guilty there was little honor to be had in finally defeating Ranma 
if he wouldn't put up a fight.  "Yeah, you bastard, I've always known you 
didn't deserve her but I didn't think you'd stoop so low as to _hit_ her! "  
Again, a reaction buried deep within his eyes; and his arms fell back to his 
side.  Ryouga took a deep, happy breath.  "You're the worst thing that ever 
happened  to her! And I bet you don't even care!  You probably enjoy 
stringing her along like the rest of your girls, right?  Well, it stops 
tonight!"
	Ranma took a step forward--it was slow and loose but almost contained a 
hint of aggression.
	"Don't like what I'm saying, Ranma?  The truth hurts, doesn't it!  But you 
don't have anything to say . . . maybe you finally get it.  You're scum, 
Ranma--you're insulting and violent and abusive and perverted."  Something 
started to smolder deep inside his rival's eyes.  "She should've dumped you 
ages ago, you know that?  Well after tonight, I don't think you'll be wanted 
around here for much longer.  Fiance?  Ha!   Like she'd marry a freak like 
you!"
	Unexpectedly, those final words seemed to siphon the growing anger away 
from Ranma . . . he went limp, his gaze dropping to the floor.  Ryouga felt 
an unexpected panic. . . something was really, really wrong here.  But he 
couldn't stop.  The need to avenge Akane ran parallel with his fear that 
he'd just been thrust into something way over his head.  He fumbled slightly 
before finding his way again.  "Hey . . . no, wait . . . you think you can 
just ignore me, Ranma?"  He stepped forward and backhanded his opponent 
across the face, but compared to his earlier assault it was barely a tap.  
"Stop acting like a girl!"
	Ranma's head suddenly snapped up.  His eyes narrowed and his lips grew thin 
and tight.
	"You don't like it when I say that, do you?" Ryouga said, sneering and 
stepping closer, and inside he felt a personal triumph at having finally 
gotten through to him.  Maybe now they could finally have a proper duel and 
he could win Akane's affection!  "Well, if you're going to act like a girl," 
Ryouga said, and rearing back he delivered a savage side-thrust to Ranma's 
midriff, "you should look like one, too!"
	The kick sent Ranma flying once again, but this time he slammed into the 
bucket full of water the Tendos' kept in case of a fire within the dojo.  
The container upended and its contents splashed all over Ranma.  A wet and 
bedraggled and female Ranma lay in the heap on the floor.
	That ought to do it, Ryouga thought, and he smiled.
	The pigtailed boy's head snapped up.  Ryouga gave an involuntary gulp at 
the look in his eyes.  They were far from dead, or blank; rather they burned 
with a rage unlike any he had ever seen there before.  His rival rose in a 
crouch that was nearly feral; his lips curled back and even at several 
meters away he could hear the heavy, gulping intake of breath.
	Ranma howled.  There were no coherent words, only a primal expression of 
anger and hate and loss that filled the dojo with its fury.  His head was 
thrown back, his eyes squeezed shut and arms wide as he rose, and tears 
poured down his face and washed through the blood as he continued to scream. 
  Finally his voice died out, in the trailing screech of a throat stripped 
raw.  He stood there panting.  He focused on Ryouga once again.
	"Because of you, I've seen Hell?" Ryouga said, suddenly feeling a lot less 
sure of himself.
	With a savage, inarticulate cry, his rival flew at him.  Ranma was a flurry 
of punches and kicks, slamming into Ryouga with unmitigated rage, screaming 
all the time, face twisted with anger, teeth bared, blue eyes wide and 
staring madly through a streaked mask of tears and blood and bruises . . . 
Ryouga fell back beneath the onslaught and suddenly feared for his life--in 
a very real and panicky way that he had rarely known before, and never when 
fighting Ranma.  The strikes came fast and strong and Ryouga tried to take 
as many as he could on his forearms, throwing up what defense he could, but 
Ranma seemed everywhere, half-naked and female and clawing and kicking and 
grabbing and howling like a deranged animal.
	Ryouga didn't know what was going on--this also wasn't the way it was 
supposed to be.  Ranma was the smooth, controlled fighter, the one who 
dodged and avoided until the last moment then threw the final attack that 
ended it all; or who matched his opponent with steely determination until 
that inevitable weakness presented itself, the flaw in the technique. . .  
But this, this was fighting like. . . .
	Like me, he thought, and with a roar of his own he dropped his defences and 
launched himself forward.  A dozen nearly crippling blows left him numb and 
almost blind with pain but then he passed through the storm of attacks and 
slammed bodily into his smaller opponent and sent him sprawling.  Ranma was 
back on his feet immediately, but now Ryouga had regained his footing he was 
better able to meet the attack.  They were undisciplined, ungodly fast and 
terribly strong but almost entirely unskilled; they were the furious 
thrashings of a child and not the controlled strikes of the master martial 
artist that he knew Ranma to be.  Ranma had gone silent, panting with 
exhaustion but still pressing the attack, only now Ryouga was able to 
deflect and outright dodge the worst of the onslaught.  He sidestepped a 
kick and ducked beneath the following punch and slapped the next few away at 
the elbow; and weaving in close he slammed a punch into his rival's shoulder 
that staggered him.  He stayed close and with grim efficiency continued to 
pummel Ranma whenever the opportunity presented itself: a kick to the thigh, 
a punch in the ribs, a ridge-hand to the collarbone; and finally Ranma was 
slowing down, the unrelenting speed of his attack exhausting him, the damage 
of Ryouga's attacks finally catching up. . . .
	The opportunity Ryouga was waiting for presented itself: a brief window in 
which Ranma was forced to catch his breath and was left wide open.  A swift 
hooking kick to the back of the knee buckled Ranma's legs.  Ryouga rushed 
forward, hauled him forward by one shoulder and cracked his elbow into his 
face.  Ranma slumped backwards to the ground but Ryouga wasn't going to give 
him a chance to recover; he followed his opponent down, dropping onto 
Ranma's thighs and trapping his legs and forcing them apart and denied him 
any leverage, while keeping the body pinned down by pressing his weight down 
on one shoulder.  His free hand pulled back for a finishing punch.
	"This is the end, Ranma!" Ryouga cried.  But before he could deliver the 
blow he could tell that the fight was over--Ranma was again retreating into 
himself, seeming to withdraw as far from his own body as was possible.  "No 
you don't," Ryouga demanded, and pounded him in the shoulder.  "You won't 
ignore me again!  You'll pay for everything you've done to me!  You'll know 
the hell that I've known!"
	Ranma was suddenly horribly awake and fully present before him, thrashing 
madly beneath his grip but unable to break his pin, eyes staring wildly 
around as if seeking an escape, and Ryouga realized that his opponent was 
speaking in a terrified whisper: "not again, please, not again. . . ."
	Ryouga grabbed him by both shoulders and lifted him up and slammed him back 
down.  He held him there but suddenly felt strangely aware of his opponent's 
naked breasts, that it was a half-naked woman he held pinned beneath him.  
"What the hell's wrong with you?"

***

What answer could possibly suffice?
	The air felt hot and stuffy despite the coolness of the night.  The floor, 
wooden planks running lengthwise beneath, their waxy grainy coarseness.  An 
absence of light, only a feeble glow reaching from the house that seemed 
intrusive, unwanted, highlighting Ryouga like a dull halo.  Ranma suddenly 
could no longer deny an immediacy of being, that it was _him_ pinned 
spread-eagle to the floor, his rival hunched over him panting, bleeding, 
angry, confused, worried.
	Not that Ranma had been entirely absent from the day's flight.  He could 
remember running through the streets, the lashing rain, punches, blood.  His 
mother's home, his mother, holding him but holding Ranko, not her son, 
failed offspring.  Akane, coming to bring him home.  Sad eyes laden with 
pity.  He could remember but he couldn't feel those events.  They were 
disjointed, a series of images in somebody else's photo album without anyone 
to explain them.  Memories were supposed to be more than just scattered 
pictures in his head.  Shouldn't there be emotions connected to them?  He 
couldn't feel anything.  He saw himself desperately clinging to his mother 
and felt nothing.  It might not even have happened.
	Pain.  Heavy weight grinding into each thigh.  A hand gripping his 
shoulder.  Dullness across his side, a prelude to bruises.  He could taste 
blood.  Someone was over him.  Ryouga.  With one fist held back, eyes wide, 
snarling through cracked lips and a bloodied face.  They were fighting but 
Ranma couldn't remember why.  It must be serious, he thought.  He looks 
pretty beat up, I don't think I've ever gone at him that hard before.  Not 
even after he used that stupid fishing rod on me.
	_trust me, no boyfriend.  No guy'll ever go out with her._
	_ aren't I your friend?_
	_ everything was going fine, and you just had to screw it up!_
	How about that time they'd fought over Akane, back when the Bakusai 
Tenketsu was supposed to kill people--that had been a tough fight.  It had 
taken a lot to put the moron down.  He still couldn't believe the guy had 
been willing to use a technique he thought was deadly.  But he'd saved him 
anyway.  Pulled him from the water.  Then collapsed by the river, exhausted, 
battered and bruised.  Female.
	_ yes, Ranma, you are, please be a girl_
	_ you want to stay, don't you?_
	The best of his rivals.  An enemy to measure himself by.  Anything he 
learns I can do better.  He might beat me once but I'll get him the second 
time around.  Nobody keeps Ranma Saotome down.
	_I would never hurt you._
	"What's wrong with you?"
	And he was on his back in the dojo half-naked with Ryouga towering over 
him, one hand pinning him down and his legs were spread, pinned to the 
floor, beaten and terrified, weak, weak . . . what was the point of 
struggling?  But the eyes that stared down at him revealed only confusion, 
anger and victory.
	"I was raped," Ranma said.


	They were sitting in the dojo.  Silence between them, in the dark.
	"You were . . . raped?"
	A single jerky nod.
	"How?"
	An answer was needed but none would come.  "I don't know."
	"You don't--"
	"I don't remember.  I was drunk.  I don't remember."
	"Then how do you. . . .?"
	Akane was sick.  "Tofu ran a test."
	"A test."
	A long silence beneath the empty vaulted ceiling.
	"I don't understand."
	"With blood."
	_ there was blood.  Your blood.  On the bed sheets.  On your legs._
	"I don't--"
	"I'm pregnant, Ryouga."


	Why am I telling him this?  He's my enemy.  He wants Akane.  He doesn't 
care.
	"That's . . . wow.  Shit.  You're pre-- shit.  Shit."
	Nothing to say.
	"When did you find out?"
	_Akane is really okay?_
	"Today.  This morning."
	"This morning.  Ranma, I'm. . . ."  He looked away.
	The dojo was cold.  Sounds filtered in from outside, beyond the walls: a 
woman's voice, softly singing.  Nothing was said for a long time.
	"What?" Ranma demanded.
	"Heh."
	Was the bastard laughing?
	"I'm sorry, Ranma."  Ryouga stood up, his features hooded by the dark.  "We 
shouldn't have fought."  A glint of light, from a bared fang.  "I don't pick 
on the weak."


	The tree against his back, bark cutting into his hand, lungs burning hot in 
his chest.  Surrounded by friends and peers, all watching as he lost, as he 
finally got what was coming to him.  Everybody likes to see a winner lose.  
They'd been waiting for it to happen.  Now thanks to Happosai and his damned 
pressure point chart they were about to.  Kuno with bokken raised, Mousse 
and his chains, the principal, even Gosunkugi--and he was too weak to defend 
himself, already battered and wounded.  Arms raised to fend off blows that 
never landed.
	"If it's not one, it's another."  Ryouga.  He was strong; they couldn't get 
past him.
	Was he supposed to be grateful?  "What . . . you're saving me for 
yourself?"


	Is that what he thinks I am?
	He was right.  Which is why he had ended on the floor.  Almost naked, 
exposed.  He'd tried to fight, launching himself at his rival.  Only to be 
pinned, legs splayed open.  Was that how it happened before?  He couldn't 
remember.  Shouldn't that bother him?  Shouldn't thinking about it bother 
him?  There was nothing there.  Only Ryouga standing triumphant over him.  
He deserved it.  Ranma didn't stand.  He had nothing to say.
	His rival squatted next to him.  Ranma found it hard to meet his gaze.  
There wasn't any of the anger he was used to seeing.  But it wasn't a 
friendly gaze, either.  He was enjoying this, probably.  The winner had 
lost.
	"What were you expecting?"
	Ranma looked away.
	"You thought I'd take pity on you?  Try and ease your pain?"
	"Go 'way."
	"I told you that one day I'd destroy your happiness, Ranma.  But it looks 
like you managed it all on your own."


	The umbrella flashed red in the bright sunlight.  He snatched it from the 
air effortlessly--almost as easily as Ranma had dodged its razor edge.
	"No matter what it takes," Ryouga snarled, "I shall destroy your 
happiness."
	Ranma looked askew to Akane.  "Am I happy?"
	"Don't ask me!"
	But he had been, then.


	Ryouga kept talking.  In the dark under the vaulted ceiling, as Ranma 
remained silent.
	"Seems like your curse finally caught up to you.  You always liked to 
complain but you never really knew how bad it could be.  For the rest of us. 
  Mousse and Shampoo, and me.  You always had it so easy.  Cold water and 
you lost a few inches, turned a little curvy . . . big deal.  So what.  We 
turn into animals, Ranma.  Animals!  And you have no idea of what that's 
like.  How helpless we feel.  Defenseless.   You can't even--well.  I had 
nightmares, you know, for weeks after the fight with Herb.  I'm sure Mousse 
did as well.  We were trapped!  Trapped as beasts.  What kind of life could 
we have had?  But you saved us, Ranma.
	"--have any idea how many times I've almost been eaten?  Eaten.  I've 
almost ended up a meal.  Can you--
	"--so you'll have to excuse me, Ranma, if I don't have much pity for you."
	Ranma pressed his thighs together tightly and hugged his knees to his 
chest.  He looked up at Ryouga.  He could see him a little better despite 
the dark.  His rival looked away and stood and took a few steps.
	"This isn't how I wanted to win, Ranma," Ryouga said, speaking over his 
shoulder.  "There was no honour to be won tonight."
	He couldn't think of anything to say other than, "Sorry."  For not giving a 
damn.  For being pregnant.  For getting himself raped.  For not fighting 
better.  For letting everyone down.
	A short, cold laugh.  "I'm going to take a walk, Ranma."
	"Bye."
	"I'll be back in a month."
	I tried going away too, Ranma thought.  And everything was so much worse 
when I came back.
	Ryouga turned sharply and fixed him with a gaze that seemed to glisten in 
the faint light.  "I'll . . . I'll be back in a month!  For a rematch.  
Another fight.  You understand?  I can't accept this.  I won't accept this!  
When next we meet, I'll send you to Hell, Ranma!  But it'll be the hell _I_ 
choose for you. . . ."
	Ranma watched as his friend fled from the dojo into the empty night.


	Ranma decided to stand up and go for a walk himself.  It didn't occur to 
him to head back into the house.  Or to find a shirt or grab his shoes.  The 
air was cool and refreshing against his bare torso.  He walked with a slight 
limp.  As he walked he examined himself with some wonder.  The angry red 
welts from earlier were almost hidden within the bruises Ryouga had given 
him.  They spread across his sides and stomach.  The pain was dull but 
persistent, and somehow didn't seem to matter.  He would heal.  Looking down 
at himself he had to look past his breasts.  They were bruised as well.  He 
hefted one in his hand and felt its soft weight in his palm.  The nipple 
stood partially erect in the cool air.  Is this why he wanted me? Ranma 
wondered.  Because of this?  Did he hold them in his hands like this before 
he . . . before he . . .
	No.  He blinked rapidly against tears he felt forming.  No.  Ranma kept 
walking, but found himself stepping down a side street.  He suddenly didn't 
want to be seen.  Not all battered and bruised like this.  He felt exposed, 
vulnerable.  With tears in his eyes.  What would people think?
	They'd think that the winner lost.  They'd think you look like a rape 
victim.
	He broke into a run, and managed only a few steps before the pain in his 
leg sent him sprawling.  He hit the wall hard and crashed into a garbage can 
before falling to the ground.  The metal lid hit the ground with a 
resounding clang.  Terrified of being seen he scrambled away on all fours 
and regained his footing and fled down the alley.  He found himself huddled 
behind machinery in an alcove behind some business--the hum and vibration of 
the machine and the hot, curling wisps of steam that escaped the vent 
comforted him.  At first Ranma couldn't hear much.  He held himself and 
shivered.  Then there were voices: the voices of men raised in cheer, 
businessmen drinking in a bar.  A little down the alley a door stood open, 
shedding light and happy sounds.  It was too much to take; Ranma ran again, 
as quickly as his leg would allow him.  He gave up on trying to wipe the 
tears from his eyes, not even knowing why he was crying, not caring, not 
understanding what he was feeling but suddenly inexplicably afraid of the 
dark.
	Instinct led him through the shadowed streets of Nerima.  Once he stopped 
he slumped to the ground and thankfully leaned back against the smooth 
concrete behind him.  Slowly the furious pounding of his heart subsided.  He 
looked around but it took a few moments to recognize his surroundings.  
Shallow water flowed sluggishly by.  Pebbles rolled beneath his bare feet.  
The underbelly of the bridge stood stark and gray against the starry night 
overhead.  The ground around him had been disturbed recently.  Other people 
escaped to this place as well.  He felt comfortable and safe.  Ranma decided 
to rest here.  At this moment he couldn't think of anywhere else he would 
rather be.  Other than the quiet murmur of the canal it was quiet.  Light 
spilled over the side of the bridge overhead and sent scuttling glimmers 
along the edge of ripples in the water.  He lost himself in the play of 
light and sat there without thought.
	Stones crunched underfoot at her approach.  The weight of her step, a faint 
smell: he knew it was Akane.  He didn't acknowledge her presence; he had 
nothing to say.  He watched the water flow past.  After a storm like today 
it would take some time for the canal to drop back to its normal level.  She 
seemed to carry with her the presence of the world he had left behind: the 
wind, murmuring to him softly, the city, distant and full of harsh, angry 
noises, the footsteps of a couple crossing the bridge.  Ranma felt little 
need to add to the multiplicities of sound intruding on his retreat.
	"Ranma?"  Her voice was tentative.  He picked at the stones between his 
toes.  "Ranma, I brought some things for you."  She moved in front of him.  
Her steps were as hesitant as her words.  She had a bag with her.  She 
pulled out a shirt and some shoes.  "I found Ryouga lost in our kitchen."  
Akane gave a wan smile.  "He looked pretty rough.  He told me that you two 
fought, and that he left you in the dojo.  But you weren't there."  She 
offered up the shirt.  It was one of hers.  Black and pink, cute.  She 
looked sheepish.  "I left the house in a hurry and grabbed the first things 
I could find."  The shoes were his, though.  She hesitated.  "And . . . I 
brought a thermos.  Hot water."


	". . . then maybe I'll just throw it away!"
	"No!" he cried out.  "Meanie!  Meanie!"
	The sky a startling blue.  An argument, battle, a wound, late for class, 
bucket duty, another fight, a three story fall into a swimming pool: his 
first day at school.  Sitting in a tree ringing out his pants.  His breast 
smarting where Kuno had mauled it.  Later it would purple slightly, a 
bruised reminder.  The first time a man had touched him there.
	"Whither Ranma Saotome?"


	Akane was waiting for an answer.  Holding the thermos and clothes, watching 
him expectantly.  Ranma understood that he was supposed to say something 
now.  He had nothing to say.  He thought back to what he said to Ryouga and 
wondered that so much was spoken aloud.  But then, Ryouga had earned his 
answers through pain.  Not that my words hold any value.  My words aren't 
precious.  A man's words are only worth as much as the man himself.
	"Ranma?  Aren't you going to say anything?"
	No.  Because nothing he could say would help.  Could only make things 
worse.  There was something gnawing inside of him.  Staring at the waves 
drew him outside of himself and helped him forget.  The backlit clouds 
scuttling across the sky, grey on black.  Insistent curls of green pushing 
their way through the stones at the water's edge.  Akane's voice pulled him 
away from all that.  What was he trying to forget?  He only had her word 
that anything had happened.  Except that he had known all along that 
something was wrong, not just with Akane but with himself.  Nightmares, 
images flashing across his mind he tried to ignore, the physical feeling 
that something wasn't right: these had been haunting him for the last two 
weeks.  When Dr. Tofu and Akane had fumbled their way to telling him the 
truth. . . he hadn't doubted them for a second.  His own doubts, unspoken, 
buried away, had been confirmed.
	But I don't _remember_ anything, he thought.  I don't want to remember.  
But her voice insisted that he _should_ remember; and staring into the water 
his own shadowed reflection seemed to turn sinister and a darkened face 
somehow familiar stared back at him.  He shivered and hugged himself 
tighter.
	She reached out to touch him.
	"Don't touch me," he said.
	Akane stayed her hand.  "Can't you trust me?"
	He looked at her directly for the first time since her arrival.  Kneeling 
next to him she watched him with brown eyes large with pity and concern.  
Ranma felt something burgeoning inside, a feeling rooted deep within that 
reached past the gnawing emptiness.  It blossomed slowly but steadily as he 
stared into those limpid eyes, a diffuse warmth that felt all the hotter 
after the nothingness that had preceded it.  Only once he found his fists 
clenched tightly at his side did he realize his whole body hummed with fury. 
  He stared at Akane and felt such hatred that he almost felt physically 
ill.  His vision swam with the effort of restraining what he felt.  She 
probably thinks I'm crying again, Ranma thought.
	"How can I?" he said, the words sounding venomous to his own ears.
	The hurt that filled her eyes brought him pleasure.  How can I feel this 
way towards you? he wondered.  How can I want to say or do something to hurt 
you so badly?  How can I trust her when she looks at me like that?  With 
sudden insight he saw how open her pity left her.  She was focused entirely 
outwards, all the guards she normally kept between them were laid low.  It 
would be so easy to reach out and emotionally tear her apart--to twist that 
pity into hatred, or bitterness; he understood what pleasure causing that 
pain could bring him.  He would rather see hatred in her eyes than pity.  
Anything but that.
	Her gaze underwent a subtle shift, a slight hardening: like a pane a glass 
tilted under light, her eyes were no longer clear but rather mirrored.  He 
though he saw himself reflected there for a moment, his own anger thrown 
back at himself.
	"I'm sorry, Ranma," Akane said, though he couldn't imagine what for.
	Ranma didn't want to deal with all this: thinking, emotions, what was going 
through other peoples' heads, or through his own.  "Go away," he said, 
looking away.  His voice was calmer than he would have expected.  Already he 
could feel that flash of rage draining away.  "Leave me alone."  He suddenly 
felt exhausted, pushing these few words past his lips more tiring than he 
would have imagined.
	"You have to talk about this, Ranma," Akane said.  "You can't keep it all 
inside."
	"No," he said.  Somehow that didn't seem enough.  "It's been . . . a bad 
day," he said, and gave a dry, empty chuckle.  "One really bad day, Akane."  
He took a deep breath.  "I don't want to talk."
	But she didn't go away, and for a long time just sat there next to him.  He 
wondered if she was watching the play of light across the waves as he was.  
Ranma felt himself withdrawing once again; the sounds of the city retreated 
further away.  Yet her presence continued to intrude.  He could smell her.  
Her girl's scent.  When she finally spoke it came almost as a surprise.
	"Fine," Akane said.  "Don't talk, then.  I'll do all the talking.  And then 
I'll leave you alone if you want me to.  But I hope you won't, Ranma.  
Because you shouldn't be alone right now."  Yes, I should be.  "I . . . I 
can't imagine what you're thinking right now.  What you feel."  Nothing.  
"And I wish I could offer you more.  Say something that could make things 
better somehow.  But . . . but I don't know what to say, Ranma, I don't know 
what to do and I'm scared, I'm scared of what's going to happen to you and 
I'm scared that you'll just take off and and . . . and that it'll be all my 
fault, because I had this one chance to say the right thing and I wasn't 
smart enough to know what it should be.
	"But I know there's nothing I can say, not really.  I don't know what 
you're feeling right now but I know that.  Words aren't enough.  Not for 
this.  But . . . but maybe they can help.  Ranma.  I'm not very good at 
this.  I'm sorry.  I'm not Kasumi, or Nabiki, or your mother or . . . or 
even Ryouga, I guess.  And you probably hate me right now."  Yes.  "I 
deserve that.  I do.  For everything that's happened."  No.  "Us fighting at 
the party.  For you getting drunk."  No.  "And . . . for everything else, 
for what happened after, for what happened," no!, "for . . . oh, Ranma, I'm 
so sorry, I'm so sorry, it's all my fault--"
	"NO!"
	He hadn't realized he had moved until he felt Akane tremble beneath his 
grasp.  Standing, he held her by the shoulders in a grip that had to be 
painfully tight, his face pressed closed to hers.  Her eyes were wide with 
surprise and fright.  Ranma wanted to shake her, he wanted to throw her 
down, he wanted to run away, he . . . he didn't know what he wanted to do 
but he couldn't bear to hear her speak another word.
	"Ranma?"  Her voice was small and frightened.
	"Don't say that!  Don't say any of that!"  His whole body shook with 
indecision, but then he released her with a spastic jerk.  She fell back a 
step before finding solid footing.  "It's not your fault!"  He stalked away 
from her, quick angry steps that brought him beyond the shadow of the 
bridge.  He spun and stared at her.  His breathing suddenly felt laboured.  
She stood there uncertainly, pale in the faint light.  "It's not your fault, 
it's mine!"
	"Ranma, no!" she started to say, stepping towards him.  "You can't 
believe--"
	"Shut up!" he screamed at her.  "Shut the fuck up!  This isn't your fault!  
This has _nothing_ to do with you!  These were _my_ decisions, not yours!  
It was _my_ choice!"
	Ranma could see it in her eyes, the concern and the sympathy, a shimmering 
prelude to tears.  He didn't want to see her like that.  He never wanted her 
to look at him like that, couldn't bear to be pitied by her.  He wanted to 
pluck out her eyes, wanted to bash her to the ground.  He wanted her to 
leave and get as far away from him as possible because at this moment he 
couldn't trust himself.  He wanted her to run away and look back over her 
shoulder at him in any other way, with anger or hate or fear or disgust or . 
. . love.
	"Please," she tried to interrupt.
	"Leave me alone!" he yelled at her.  "Don't you understand?  This isn't 
your fault and this isn't your problem and I don't. want. your. help!  Go 
away!"
	Akane's face drained of colour.  She stared back at him through tear-filled 
eyes, and then dropped the bag she was holding.  "Fine."  Without another 
word she turned and ran.
	The moment she twisted away Ranma regretted everything he had said and 
wished he could take them back, no matter how true his words might be.  As 
she pulled away he suddenly felt alone . . . terribly alone, and the 
emptiness within threatened to overwhelm him again.  It was tempting to slip 
back into that non-being again, empty of thought and feeling.  Only now 
something nebulous and threatening hovered just beyond the edge of darkness 
. . . Ranma thought he could hear faint steps, or whispers.
	_aren't I your friend, Ranma?_
	He slapped his hands over his ears and whimpered.  No.
	_yes, yes, Ranma, you are, please be a girl_
	He could feel it, the phantom trace of fingers passing across his stomach.  
Shuddering, Ranma squeezed his eyes shut.  No, please . . . go away.
	_I'm sorry, Ranma_
	Hands on his breasts, the small of his back.  Drifting lower.  A heavy 
weight pushing him down.  Couldn't breath.  Paralysed with fear and 
remembrance.  Of what was coming next. . . .
	_don't be scared_
	"Don't be scared."  Arms encircled him, held him close.
	"Don't leave," he whispered.  "Thank you for not leaving."
	"Not even if you ask me to," Akane said.


	The relief he felt at her presence quickly turned to bitterness, at her 
having seen him so weak, frightened, and blubbering like a little girl with 
a skinned knee.  He hated her for hearing, coming back, and holding him 
tight as he trembled and whimpered until the memories receded.  He loathed 
himself for hating her.  He despised the glimmer of pity she couldn't 
conceal in her eyes.  But he didn't want her to leave after all.
	They sat side by side beneath the bridge once again.  He slipped on his 
shoes and pulled her shirt down over his head.  It was a tight fit across 
his chest and brought the bruises Ryouga had left there back to mind.  He 
didn't touch the thermos.  His unbound hair hung in straggly lines across 
his face.  Ranma suddenly felt exhausted and wanted nothing more than to 
sleep.
	"Are you hungry?" Akane asked.
	Ranma knew he ought to be but didn't have any appetite.  The last time he 
had eaten had been breakfast, which now seemed ages ago.  His father had 
stolen most of his food, even.  He shook his head.
	"I know you don't want to talk about it," Akane said.  "Maybe we should 
head home, then?"
	Again, he shook his head.  "No," he said.  "I don't have a home, remember?"
	He noticed her guilty wince.  "That's not true."
	"'Get out of my house,' you said.  Remember?"
	"I didn't mean it.  I was angry.  That was before--."
	"No!" he insisted.  "Nothings changed."
	"Everything's changed, Ranma," she said softly.
	He watched her from the corner of his eye.  She looked tired, her features 
drawn and wan.  No wonder she wanted to go home.  Of course, she wouldn't 
leave without him.  I don't have anywhere else to go, he thought.  But I 
can't follow her home either.  There's too much there.  Too many people.
	"I can't accept that," he said.  "This morning you hated me--"
	"I didn't hate you."
	"You wanted me out of your life."
	"No.  Yes."  She took a deep breath.  "I don't know.  I was confused and 
didn't know what to do.  I thought something horrible had been done to you.  
I was sick with worry.  And I was angry with you.  And you said those 
horrible things this morning and I thought you hated _me_ and . . . I made a 
mistake.  I shouldn't have thrown you out.  I should have--"
	"Stop it!" he cried.  "Dammit, Akane, stop apologizing!"
	"But--"
	"You're saying this because . .  . because of what's happened.  But your 
feelings haven't changed.  You just think they have, because when you look 
at me now you see . . . you don't see _me_, you see what happened to me.  
And all you feel is pity.  I don't want your pity, Akane.  I don't want 
anyone's pity."
	Some of what he said hit home.  She dropped her gaze and fiddled with the 
strap of her bag.  Eventually she stopped and in a low, defeated voice said, 
"I wish we had never gone to that party."
	There was nothing he could add to that.  The different possibilities of the 
past were closed to him now.  Nor could he imagine a future for himself 
after what had happened.
	Akane pulled a small white box with a green cross from her bag.  "I brought 
this, too."  It was a first aid kit.  "Ryouga said he beat you up pretty 
bad."
	Yes, because I'm weak, he thought.  And then: I'll get him back in a month. 
  The very idea took him by surprise and he didn't know where it came from.  
It was impossible.
	She opened the kit and started to pull out bandages and ointment.  "Let me 
have a look at those cuts on your face."
	"Don't bother," he said.  "It won't make any difference."


	"It doesn't make any difference at all."
	Outside the wind blew heavily, rattling the sliding doors of the dojo.  He 
sat cross-legged, still smarting from the dozens of punches and kicks 
received this morning.  And from a single disgusting kiss he hadn't been 
able to stop.
	  "But really, to let yourself be kissed so easily!"  The antiseptic swab 
stung as she cleaned a cut across his left cheek, and covered it with a 
square plaster.  Mikado's skates had left their mark.
	"Ouch."
	She stuck a bandage across the bridge of his nose.  "You haven't trained 
enough."


	I trained my whole life, he thought, and it wasn't enough.
	"Sorry if that stung," Akane said, cleaning a cut over his eye.  The 
pasting Ryouga had given him was far worse than anything Mikado was capable 
of.
	"If you don't mind, then I don't," he said.  He gave a hollow laugh.
	"Excuse me?"
	Everything had been so much simpler back then.  Or had it?  He looked at 
the girl kneeling across from him, eying him quizzically.  It had been so 
difficult.  She had been so close.  And he had wanted to kiss her then, 
badly.  For so many conflicted reasons.  The risks and possibilities had 
lain between them so thickly.
	Ranma took Akane by the shoulders, this time gently, and leaned forward and 
kissed her.  Their lips met and he felt her surprise, but then she relaxed 
and her lips softened into his kiss.  It was so easy now.  Their lips 
parted; her tongue brushed his.  He breathed in through the curtain of her 
hair.  His hands curled through the thinness of her shirt and gripped the 
strength beneath.  She submitted to his embrace, arms limp at her side.  He 
held her for a long moment and slowly drew back.
	She passed the back of her hand across her lips, slowly, and as she did she 
looked at him with eyes that were hopeful and confused, then hurt, and 
finally sad.  Akane looked away and closed the first aid kit.  "Why now, 
Ranma?"
	Because I don't have anything to lose anymore.  "I don't know."
	 "I wouldn't have minded, back then."
	"Same here."  He sighed.  "I was afraid, I guess.  I loved you so much."
	A sharp intake of breath.  She spun on him; gravel crunched loudly beneath 
her foot.  "What did you say?"
	He shrugged.  "It doesn't matter."
	"How dare you," she hissed.  "How dare you say that now?"
	"Would have saying it earlier made a difference?"
	She stared at him with mouth agape.  "Would it-- how can-- you--," she 
finally managed, before sputtering into silence.  He watched with 
fascination as her jaw tightened.  Something hot began to smoulder in the 
depths of her eyes.  Ranma felt a sudden and unexpected elation at the 
notion that he had angered Akane.  He wanted to see her in the full bloom of 
anger; he wanted her to scream.  He wanted her to hurt him.
	"Why do you care?" he asked, with a hint of the taunting voice that never 
failed to enrage her.
	Akane surprised him by visibly restraining herself.  "I . . . don't know," 
she said.  She suddenly seemed distant from him.  In the pale moonlight the 
lines of her anger were removed, and she appeared cold, almost uncaring.  
But when she asked, "How long have you known?" her voice trembled slightly, 
like someone asking with sick fascination about a terrible accident 
involving someone they knew.
	Since this morning, he was going to say, but the words stuck in his throat. 
  He wasn't going to lie to her--not about this, not right now.  The varied 
and tumultuous emotions her presence triggered briefly quelled . . . anger, 
sadness, bitterness faded and he felt an unexpected moment of tranquility as 
he looked over at her.  What he had felt this morning was only an expression 
of something that had existed un-admitted for far longer.  Ranma's mind 
slipped back, touching on the shared experiences between them.  Valentines 
and a chocolate heart.  An encounter in a closet over a jealous dogi; is 
that where it started?  No, much earlier.  A hot spring resort and the curse 
of an offended doll.  The magic of a legendary umbrella--a brief moment, 
hesitant smiles shared beneath tattered cover when the myth nearly seemed 
true.  A glimpse of something that had already been there.  Further back.  
Ryugenzawa. Yes, Ryugenzawa.  The emptiness left by her choosing Shinnosuke 
. . . the submission to her decision, the sudden willingness to die for her 
so she could live happy with someone else; wasn't that love?  Maybe, but it 
hadn't started there.  Returning from his battle with Herb, an embrace 
shared without defences between them.  Another embrace: attempted revenge on 
Nabiki that became something unexpected, something precious.  Before then, 
even.  What he felt for her as she hefted her own pack to join him when it 
seemed his strength was gone for good.  But that memory was tainted with the 
pity she felt for him, the resentment he felt for her, emotions that 
returned to him with the clarity of an echo.  Even then he couldn't bear to 
appear weak before her, couldn't accept her pity, refused to fail her in any 
way . . . but if he hadn't cared for Akane, what would her opinion have 
mattered?
	With a clarity that momentarily seemed to overwhelm his present 
surroundings, he suddenly remembered the precise moment when he first 
realized that he loved Akane.  There was nothing exceptional about the 
moment--other than the realization itself--no heroic rescue or declaration 
of passion . . . just a moment, much like any other, a quiet, relaxed time 
spent in her company when he looked over and saw her by the soft light at 
night and felt a sudden, inexorable tightening in his chest.  She was 
sitting so close to him.  He couldn't continue looking at her.  He felt 
faint, his mind reeling, and dropped his gaze.  Brightly coloured leaves.  
Vivid yellow.  Her sundress.  The wood of the floor solid beneath his palm.  
Faint wisps of smoke wafting from the hollow porcelain pig set behind them.  
Sakura blossom pattern scattered across the paper fan in his hand.  Bright 
red slices of watermelon sitting on a plate next to Akane.  The house was 
quiet as they relaxed by the entrance.  The garden was calm in the summer 
air.  Moonlight glistened in silvery drops against a stone lantern.  When he 
looked back she tilted her head and gave a little smile, a cute wrinkling of 
her nose.
	"Ranma?"
	It was loose stone beneath his feet, not wood, and the wind was far colder 
tonight than it had been then.  The woman sitting across from him wasn't 
smiling.  "Remember a year ago, maybe a bit more, when Ryouga came after me 
with the breaking point?"  She nodded and he continued, relishing the 
memory.  Rancid curry.  The Dodge of a Thousand Bees.  A real fight--one of 
the first to force him to his limits and beyond.  Flitting through the 
trees, mind racing faster than ever before, Ryouga waiting strong and night 
indestructible, and the sudden creation of a new technique, knowledge and 
practice coming together with such seeming simplicity that it was all he 
could do to keep himself from laughing as he launched himself at his rival--
	"I remember," Akane said.
      He took a deep breath, forcefully relaxing muscles that felt ready to 
spring forward.  "It was a few days after that.  I don't know.  Ryouga had 
left.  We were sitting and looking out over the garden.  There wasn't 
anything special, really."  He shrugged.  "But that's when I knew."
	In the weighty silence that followed he suddenly realized how much her 
response would mean to him.  He watched carefully for any reaction, the 
faintest of smiles, a slight blush, a hesitant shifting of her eyes.  What 
do I want her to say?  That she loved me too, and I lost her because I never 
said anything?  If I'd told her the night of the party we wouldn't have 
fought, I wouldn't have drank, I wouldn't have been--  been--  Her loving me 
then, would make all this so much worse.  And if she didn't love me?  His 
mind quailed at the thought.  No answer would suffice.  He felt himself 
withdrawing from her.  He needed to distance himself.  From her, away from 
everything.  Emptiness.  He wanted to numb to these conflicted overwhelming 
feelings.  So very tired, Ranma no longer wanted her to answer.
	Akane leaned forward and pulled him into an embrace.  She kissed him 
tenderly on the forehead and held him close.  "Come home with me, Ranma," 
she whispered into his ear.  "Please, just . . . come home."
	The physical contact with her brought back a swell of emotions he could not 
repress.  "I can't," he said, but the words caught in his throat.  "I--"  
Ranma felt so small in her arms.  He wanted nothing more then to lose 
himself into Akane.  The briefly enjoyed clarity and peace of memory slipped 
away nearly as quickly as it had come, and the contrast between what he had 
been _then_ and what he was _now_--it was more than he could handle.  How 
much was lost in a moment he could not even remember?  What was he now?  A 
broken, empty girl.  A victim, a loser.  Weak.  He felt the tears well up in 
his eyes, the sobs that threatened to overwhelm him.  "I--"  I won't cry.  I 
won't break down.  I won't be weak, not in front of Akane not again after 
what I said as a girl I can let go, no, let go, "Let go!"  With a strangled 
sob he tore free of her hold and fell to one side, scrabbling into the 
gravel, chest heaving with each breath.  He could still feel the hands 
sliding across his flesh, holding him, possessing him.  "I can't!" he 
wailed.  The tears came then and wouldn't stop.  Trying to pull away his 
strength gave out and he collapsed to the ground.  Cold earth between his 
fingers, pressing into his face, the taste and smell in his mouth and nose.  
He couldn't stop crying.  He couldn't escape the feeling of someone holding 
him.  Pressing down on him.  The nauseating ache deep in his belly.  The 
need to curl tightly around the violation and squeeze until it ruptured; the 
impulse to tear the infection out.  Half-crawling half-scrambling, he 
instinctively withdrew back into the comforting shadow of the bridge.  His 
cries grew quiet, though no less intense; and briefly he thought, I won't go 
back, I can't go back.
	This is all I deserve.


	Hiroshi looked out across the water.  Sayuri's arms encircled him as she 
held him from behind.  She laid her head against his back and released a 
contented sigh.  If only Daisuke could see us now, he thought wryly.  He 
felt like . . . like he was so much _more_, when he was with her.  He felt 
something new and exhilarating and frightening when he held her close.  I'm 
not sure, he thought, but there's a definite possibility that I'm falling 
for her badly.
	It was more than he could have ever hoped for: a sexy, smart, popular, 
funny and . . .well, sexy girlfriend who really seemed to like him.  He kept 
waiting for things to go horribly wrong but so far nothing had; he wasn't 
screwing up or saying stupid stuff.  (Or at least when I do, he thought, I 
can usually stumble my way through the right thing to make it better).  He 
knew he ought to be elated.  It was more than he deserved, certainly.  He 
was out on a date with his girlfriend.  He was out on a date with his 
_girlfriend_!  The thought almost brought a smile to his lips.
	But it didn't.
	"I had a really good time tonight."  Sayuri spoke softly into his back.  He 
could feel her voice against his skin.  "I didn't think I would, after a day 
like today."  She gave him a quick hug.  "But you made everything better.  
Hiroshi."
	A few meters below the water flowed by.  After a storm like today it would 
take some time for the canal to drop back to its normal level.  The night 
breeze was refreshing and the metal railing beneath his grip was cool.  He 
suddenly realized that his grip was strong enough that his knuckles were 
whitening.  He forced himself to relax.  He turned within his girlfriend's 
grip, his mouth open to speak--he didn't know what he was going to say but 
the words were heavy on his tongue.
	Sayuri pressed into his chest and looked up him with a sultry gaze that 
robbed him of what he was going to say.  She tilted her head up and her eyes 
closed languidly.  Her lips parted slightly around the hint of a smile.  
Hiroshi leaned down and kissed her.  One arm snaked around her waist and 
pulled her into him.  As their kiss deepened she squirmed closer to him, 
sighing contentedly into Hiroshi's mouth.  It was with some surprise that he 
felt his other hand continue to squeeze the railing with an ever-tightening 
grip.
	She must have felt that something was wrong; she pulled away.  She passed 
the back of her hand across her lips, in a gesture that Hiroshi always found 
curiously cat-like, and watched him with inquisitive eyes.  "What's wrong?"
	"Nothing."  Which was a lie, of course.  He sighed and turned away and 
looked out across the water again.  The canal was a dark line cutting its 
way towards the horizon, outlined on both sides by the glitter of house 
windows, pale street lights, and far in the distance the false dawn of Tokyo 
proper.  Sayuri stood by him but didn't look away; he could feel her gaze 
upon him.  He had nothing to say.  He only had the faintest of ideas what 
was bothering him.
	Sayuri sighed herself.  "Hiroshi," she said, with a faintly exasperated 
tone.  "If something's wrong  we should talk about it."
	He shook his head.  "I'm not sure there's anything to talk about."
	"Something's bothering you."
	"It's nothing."
	"Is it Ranma?"
	His continued silence was probably answer enough.  That was part of it.  
Something had changed--so much had changed--in the last few weeks.  Since 
the party.  Having Ranma open up on him.  Growing closer to Sayuri.  The 
viciousness of former friends towards the martial artist.  Watching--and not 
doing anything to stop it.  An unexpected complexity to Uehara.  Ranma's 
forgiveness.  And now tonight.  Hiroshi suddenly felt an unexpected 
potential to the night air, as if saying the right thing--or the wrong 
thing--right now could lead to irrevocable change.  It was an exhilarating 
feeling, a frightening feeling.  High school had always felt static, so 
preordained; did he really have the power to change things?  Hiroshi 
suddenly realized that the entire evening had been working up to this point. 
  He had made a bet with Daisuke not long ago.
	Without any clear idea of what he was going to choose, he turned back to 
Sayuri.
	"You're right," Hiroshi said.  "And there's something we have to talk 
about."


	Beneath the bridge two girls sat in silence.  The smaller one was asleep in 
the arms of the other.  She shivered often and moaned softly in her sleep.  
Her face was streaked with dirt.  The other girl leaned back against the 
arch of the bridge and held her companion closely.  The voices overhead 
eventually left.  At first she wept quietly but eventually she stopped.  The 
night grew quiet and still.  The two would remain there until the dawn 
streaked the sky red and the canal waters ran shallow once again.

Continues in
Choices: Decision, part two.

***

This chapter has been nearly two years coming, which I admit is somewhat 
ridiculous, and I appologize for the wait to those few who might still be 
following this story.  I never expected this chapter to be so long (nor the 
whole story, really), which is why it's only 'part one'... I'll be getting a 
start on Decision, part two soon, and hopefully it won't take as long.  It's 
funny how I can trace broad periods of my life through this story... in this 
case, it saw me leave Japan, go back to Japan, come back once again, and 
return to school; I guess it's a well traveled chapter.  Some other fun 
stuff happened, but I'll leave that to my webpage.

This is a draft.  There's some stuff I would like to add after it's sat for 
a bit and I give a final revision.  Kasumi needs to be tweaked a bit.  I 
wanted to add a little insight into Sayuri with her own scene.  The ending 
with Hiroshi and Sayuri could probably be fleshed out some more.  I'm not 
entirely satisfied with the final couple of pages between Ranma and 
Akane--how much is too much, when writing a character in Ranma's state?

Decision, part two will wrap up some important loose threads and set the 
stage for (what should be) the final chapter, Consequences.

-Michael Noakes

e-mail: noakes_m@hotmail.com
homepage: http://www.geocities.com/noakes_m
blog!: http://noakes.blogspot.com

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