This was something I wrote out in a single sitting a little over six months
ago, when I first won the game. It sat unfinished and forgotten, and I
decided to complete it tonight (didn't feel like tackling any serious
writing.)
It's not exactly high literature, but here's hoping you still enjoy.
Let me know, eh?
And look ma, no attachements!
Quarter-Life
(or, something funky happened on the way to lambda core)
This ain't never gonna work, Ranma repeated to himself for
the umpteenth time. I'll never pull this off. Surreptitiously
checking the fake beard and glasses Nabiki had provided did
little to ease his anxieties: his disguise still felt woefully
inadequate. He took a deep breath. Relax, he told himself.
You've been through worse. Tarou. Saffron. Akane's
cooking. What's a little impersonation compared to all
that? What could possibly go wrong?
"C'mon, Ranma, let's see what you've got! I'm told you're
a martial arts master!"
Said martial artist silently ground his teeth and kept
his calm. Nabiki's new American husband just wasn't
sitting well with him. Cocky arrogant bastard, so what if he
had a PhD in theoretical physics from M.I.T.? And had just
started a new -- and mysteriously secret -- government job
that promised to pay big bucks? And was in great shape, a
martial artist too, and, to judge by the reactions of the
female members of the Tendo family, good looking ('He
looks just like Charlie Sheen,' Akane had gushed at one
point)? So what?
But, polite refusal denied, Ranma finally gave in. He
had to grudgingly admit, the guy was good -- for someone
who'd spent a decade doing graduate studies, that is. But
Ranma had barely made it through high school, having
dedicated _all_ his time to martial arts; Mr. M.I.T., might be
good. . . but Ranma Saotome, master of the Anything- Goes
School, was quite simply the best. And when all was said
and done, he stood triumphant over his opponent's battered
and unconscious body.
"Nice one, Saotome. Now how's he going to go to
work tomorrow morning?" asked a frowning Nabiki.
And so it was that Ranma found himself riding a
suspended railcar through the underground depths of some
top-secret government base. S'not fair, he told himself. It's
_his_ fault, he shouldn't'a pissed me off like that. And how
was I supposed to know he'd lose the job if he didn't show
up today -- that it was his first day?
"Listen, Ranma," his new brother-in law said after
awakening (with one leg in a cast and a slight concussion)..
"It'll be easy, or I wouldn't even try and get you to pull this
off. You're just going in to sign some basic papers, that's
all. I haven't even been cleared for the optical scanners yet,
so they can't ask you to do anything too complicated. Just
sign a few documents, pick up some papers, bring 'em
home. No problem."
Right. No problem. Then why, he wondered,
ignoring the non-stop and irritating female-voiced narration
coming over the car's speakers, are they shuttling me way
the hell down here? And why are there giant mechanical
crabs carrying crates around? Where the hell _is_ this
place; what do they _do_ here?
All too soon, the car stopped, the narration ended.
Wondering belatedly if he ought to have listened, whether
the voice had said anything important, he stepped up to the
sliding door. A blue-shirted security guard approached, and
opened the door for him..
"Hello, Mr. Freeman. I'm to send you straight in,
sir." The guard led him towards an impressive metal door,
hydraulic bars sealing it shut. "And welcome to Black Mesa
Complex."
Ranma smiled. The guard hadn't recognized him!
Maybe this would be easy after all -- after all, what could
possibly go wrong?
***
Quarter-Life: A Ranma 1/2 - Half-Life fusion
by
Michael Noakes
(Legal ownership of sources owned by Takahashi and
Valve, respectively)
No, I'm not gonna write this.
I'm not big on cross-overs and fusion.
But here's some possible scenes, if I did. . . .
***
"Okay, Gordon, the sample should be coming up on your
right. Just guide it into the array. We'll take it from there."
The scientist's voice resonated in the cavernous chamber.
Ranma found the cart with the strangely luminescent
stone on it, but when he gave it a slight push, it refused to
move. He pushed harder. Nothing.
Alright, he decided, if ya wanna do it the hard way. .
. .
Rearing back, he gave the cart a savage kick.
Something snapped. It careened down it's narrow track,
before slamming to a stop. The sample shot free of its
restraints, flipping into the glowing nexus of the test-
chamber array.
"Gordon!" screamed the voice over the speaker-
system.
Oh shit, thought Ranma.
And everything went black. . . .
***
As Ranma prepared himself before continuing on his way --
some inner sense told him that something nasty was
probably waiting on the other side of that door -- he had a
good idea of what it must feel like to be Mousse. He
checked his 9mm., slapping in another full clip; then, he
reloaded his .45. Checked his M-16: 50 round mag full,
underhand grenade launcher ready. Shotgun fully armed,
crossbow cocked and ready. The nifty Gauss-cannon that
moron of a soldier had blown himself up was fully charged,
as was the Gluon gun. The Hornet glove hung from his
belt; he didn't like wearing it, since the way it writhed on his
hand gave him the willies. The rocket launcher was
strapped to his back, the five extra rockets strapped to his
waist. Then their were the ten frag grenades, the laser trip-
mines, the bombs, and a dozen of those creepy metal-jawed
snark beasties; he wasn't quite sure _where_ he kept those
little nasties, but they seemed content to tag alone. And
then, of course, there were the hundreds of rounds of
ammunition stashed away in any of a dozen or so pouches
and pockets. All this, without the least hindrance to his
mobility.
This H.E.V. suit sure is cool, Ranma found himself
thinking again. It's even got a built in CD player!
***
Ranma moved forward warily, sliding the last of his shotgun
shells into the weapon. It settled into place with a satisfying
'click'. Right. He was close to the surface -- he just had to
be. How big could this stupid complex _be_? He'd heard
from a scientist that the military had been sent in. Good.
Let them clean up the mess. He just wanted to get home,
Akane must've been worried sick about him. And then he'd
have a few choice words with Mr. Freeman, and-
Movement!
Ranma flattened against the wall, breathing shallow.
What was it? Headcrab? One of those freaky one-eyed
spindly things that shot lightning? He inched forward.
Deep breath. He jumped around the corner, shotgun ready,
raised to fire. Drew a bead on his target, and. . . .
"Ranma?"
"Ryoga?"
"This is your fault, isn't it!"
"What?"
"It's _always_ your fault!"
"Oh, come on! A high-tech super-secret
government project has gone wrong, blowing a hole in
space-time, allowing the front-runners of an alien invasion
force to pass into our world and run amok in an orgy of
mayhem and slaughter -- and you automatically assume it's
my fault?"
"It's not?"
Ranma shrugged. "Nah, you're right. It's my fault.
You wanna tag along? I'm heading for the surface. And
don't tell me, you're lost again, right?"
***
"Hey, guys, wait up," he called after the scientists, but the
white-robed men charged ahead, regardless. The Sydney
Poitier look-alikes were too overjoyed at the appearance of
the military to hear him. Ranma couldn't blame them, for it
signalled escape at last; why, then, did he have such a bad
feeling about this?
A sudden burst of automatic fire: the lead scientist
jerked back, rounds tearing into his chest and spattering
crimson gouts out his back. The man fell in a soundless
heap; his friends who immediately followed were not so
quiet. Their screams of betrayal and terror echoed in his
mind. The wall and floor seemed awash in blood. Gunfire
and death cries rang from all over, nearly masking the calls
of strategic movement that came in over his HEV suit's
radio. The scientists who had survived the perils of the
devastated base and the attacks of the strange creatures
released by the experiment, were systematically eliminated
by their own kin. Ranma fell back in shock, gorge rising in
his throat. He heard the military dispense orders: the
situation was to be contained, the Black Mesa staff to be
'cleansed.' No one was to be allowed to escape.
These were his saviours?
What was he going to do? Aliens on one side, a
hostile military on the other -- and he didn't even know the
way out! Reality suddenly hit hard: this wasn't a simple
martial arts fight or vengeful rival or bizarre demon -- these
were hard-core professionally trained killers; these were
soldiers equipped with the most lethal of weapons; these
were other humans.
Shit, thought Ranma. Shit! Navigating the ruined
base had been easy, and the beasties he'd met up to now
simple to avoid and eliminate. Now what? He backed
away, unsure of where to go, but knowing he needed time
to think, to assess the situation -- he needed a plan!
'Movement!' crackled his radio, and suddenly a
soldier was before him, shotgun raised for the kill, eyes
narrowed and remorseless. Doubts were cast aside as
Ranma leapt aside, the first round of enemy fire punching a
hole through a crate. The young man landed, rolling
instinctively to avoid another shot; he twisted as he rose,
turning towards his attacker, assault rifle suddenly cradled
in his hands and pointed squarely at the soldier's chest.
The moment would be forever frozen in Ranma's
mind. The sudden widening of the man's eyes, fear and
panic overtaking ruthless professionalism as he realized he
would never pump his weapon in time. The slight
depression on the trigger, the sound of his weapon's
discharge, the jerk in his hands: they all came almost as a
surprise to Ranma. The man before him twitched and
spasmed as the bullets ripped him open from collarbone to
thigh. He fell back against the wooden shards and frames of
shattered boxes, seemed to catch himself for a moment, then
slumped forward to the ground. For the briefest of
moments his eyes caught his killer's: they were filled with
pain, yes, but to Ranma's surprise neither remorse nor
accusation showed -- only regret that another had been
better at his own game.
The martial artist staggered back, mind shying away
from what he had done. He had killed. Another human
being. Not like in the fight with Saffron, with passion and
wits and life's love hanging in the balance. . . but with the
simple depression of a trigger. Feeling suddenly ill, he
suddenly wanted to throw his weapon aside.
'Fire in the hole!'
The hollow pop of a grenade being launched
impelled him back to instinctive action, and he barely
escaped the explosion behind him.
With military commands ringing in his ears, he
avoided gunfire and grenades, tracked down his new foes,
and killed them one by one. Their death cries also came in
across the radio, and he quickly tuned them out. When he
stood alone and triumphant in the middle of the bloodied,
blackened storeroom, surrounded by the torn and burnt
bodies of scientists, security guards, and soldiers, any
thought of abandoning his weapon were gone. Instead, he
reached down and began to collect the remaining
ammunition of his defeated enemies.
***
Ranma awoke with a start.
Damn! How could he have let them catch him like
that? He'd walked right into their trap, and after getting so
far, too! Those assassin-chicks with their funky camouflage
had been tricky, but he'd gotten past them with judicious
use of grenades. . . only to walk into an ambush.
And now, he was still alive? Rising to his feet,
ignoring the bruises and aches from the pummelling he'd
received, he checked his surroundings. Piles of rubbish and
crates filled the small room, with metal bars forming the
roof. Where was he? Why was he still alive? A quick
check verified that he'd been stripped of all his weapons,
though the HEV suit remained intact.
A sudden grinding noise clued him into the nature of
his location: with the screech of metal on metal, the walls
started to close in on him. Ah, he thought. A trash
compactor.
So I'm trash, am I? Not worth killing directly, am I,
he thought, just throw me out and let a machine do the
work, huh? Sudden fury seized him. Since the screw-up in
the test chamber, he'd been burnt, electrocuted, thrown
around, shot at, -shot-, grenaded, bitten, scratched, and
generally pushed around -- and if there was one thing
Ranma Saotome hated, it was being pushed around.
Well, enough was enough, he decided.
Sure, there was a sociopathic military trying to kill
him on one side, and an alien invasionary force on the other,
with a hostile, dangerous, ruined base in between; he was
one man (well, occasionally two, but Ryoga had a tendency
of wandering off) against a host of enemies -- and what of
it? Enough of this running. So the military wouldn't let him
go home, eh? Then he'd beat the crap out of the lot of
them. The aliens wanted to invade his planet, did they?
Then he'd just have to track down their mother-queen (if
movies had taught him anything, it was that alien
invasionary forces always had a single boss they were
entirely dependent upon,) and kick her royal heinie.
They thought they had Gordon Freeman down here.
But I'm not, I'm Ranma Saotome.
"You hear that, you bastard?" he yelled out. "I'm
Ranma Saotome!"
The walls were closing in, smashing boxes.
Presumably, he could've escaped by climbing up the crates
and prying the hatch above open with the crowbar lying at
his feet. It's what the real Gordon probably would've done
(if he'd made it this far, which Ranma doubted.)
But he wasn't Gordon. He was the master of the
Saotome school of Anything-Goes martial arts. His leap
carried him to the ceiling with ease, and the bars snapped
aside at his kick. Heading off down the only available
tunnel, Ranma cracked his knuckles. Enough of this gun
crap: time to show these people what kinda of can of
whoop-ass they'd just opened.
***
The thing was big, towering at least three times his
height, encased in a chitinous hide that repelled both military
bullets and martial art chi-blasts. It was fast, and released
fiery blasts from its giant arms, and several soldiers already
lay in bloodied and charred heaps across the room.
"How the hell are we gonna get this thing?" asked
Ryoga, risking a peek at the beast.
"I dunno, man."
The thing stopped its lumbering steps and came to a
rest. Appearances were deceptive, they knew. It had
incredibly acute hearing, and a single step would set it off
after them.
"After all that work, too, getting the stupid rail car
working and everything! We've gotta get rid of him."
"Yeah, sure." Ranma rubbed at the burn mark on
his arm. "That thing's bloody hot!"
"Hot?" Ryoga smiled. "Hot, you say?"
"Yeah, ho. . . ." A nasty grin slowly crept onto
Ranma's face.
"How hot?"
"Oh, very, very hot."
The poor beast never knew what hit it. One moment
it was spinning trying to torch the puny human running in
circles around him. . . and the next a tornado had him
suspended a kilometre over the Black Mesa facility. . .
where a passing F-18 fortuitously took him out with a few
well placed sidewinders.
***
"Shit! There's loads of them!"
Ryoga crept up and checked as well. "Crap."
"How much ammo you got?"
"Not much, just a few rounds."
"Same here."
The two martial artists fell back with an exhausted
sigh. The running and fighting of the last few hours was
starting to catch up to them. Especially the battle with the
giant tentacles -- Ryoga had been positive that finding some
way to turn on the rocket booster would've torched the
thing, but Ranma had thought it would've taken too long. . .
after all, it's not like they were rocket scientists or anything.
Who would've figured those stupid tentacles would've been
so tough?
"Think you got a couple of Shi Shi Hokodans left in
you?"
Ryoga shrugged. "I dunno. I'm more pooped than
depressed."
"Yeah, I'm not feeling all that confident right now,
either."
"How many you figure there are?"
Ranma made a quick mental count. I think I saw
about ten or so men, fully loaded."
"Damn. We need a plan or something."
"Yeah."
Ryoga thought of one first. Ranma wasn't
impressed.
The soldiers never knew what hit them. One minute
they were lying in wait. . . and the next, the most gorgeous
redhead they'd ever seen was prancing about their location,
gossamer lingerie barely covering her bounteous assets.
"Oh, yoo hoo," she purred, bouncing back the way
she came. "Oh, poor me, lost in this dark, scary, monster
infested lab, all on my lonesome, too, and in only my
underwear yet! Oh, won't some brave men save me!"
Who would've thought these boring old scientists
kept a hot chick like -that- down here, the soldiers thought,
as the vacated their posts en masse to chase the scrumptious
fleeing girl. What a surprise!
The tank of man around the corner, who made the
ground explode with a tap of his finger, came equally as a
surprise.
"Doesn't it make you sick to do that?"
"Shut up, Ryoga."
"I why were you carrying woman's underwear with
you, anyway."
"I said shut up!"
***
With a sigh of relief Ranma made it to the top of the
alien tower. The sights and sounds of the alien dimension
would remain with him forever -- even if most of the sights
and sounds had involved aliens trying to kill him, and in turn
being put down by both gunfire and martial arts. He
wondered if he could've made it so far without Ryoga's
help. . . trust the eternally lost boy to somehow just wander
into an alien dimension. He hoped he made it back safely,
since they'd been separated during the battle with that giant
gob-lobbing headcrab-spawning spider-mother.
But now it was time to put an end to all this, time to
fight the brain behind this whole invasion, the incredibly-
powerful and evil creature capable of ruling an empire of
savage alien killers and maintain a dimensional-portal
through will alone. What type of beast would it be? His
grip on his weapon felt slippery with sweat as he stepped
into the final portal.
Darkness.
Ranma's mind struggled to accept the impossible
horror before him as his vision returned and he found
himself in the alien lord's main chamber. Grey and bloated
it hovered before him, bulging eyes half-lidded but staring
out with pure malevolence and ineffable knowledge.
Straggly limbs puny by proportion but thicker than most
men clawed at the thick cloying air and flickered and
crackled with energy. Its distended, puckered mouth
drooped half open, from which a constant trickled of drool
fell and filled the bottom of the colossal room. A host of
lesser creatures danced and swayed about it, their eerie
voices raised in an incomprehensible chant. Jagged glowing
crystals penetrated the slick walls, and intermittently
released scintillating globules of energy that fed the
creature.
Its eyes focussed on the intruder before it.
"SWEETO!" it said.
And Happosai, alien ruler and lord of evil, constantly
fed by an unending stream of glowing panties of power,
promptly splashed Ranma with cold water.
***
The End
***
Ranma Saotome stood in awe as the mysteries of the
universe unfolded about him.
"So you see," continued G-man, thin lips still curled
into that infuriating smirk of superiority, "you have a choice
to make, Gordon. Not much of a choice, really."
Ranma focussed his attention on the business-suit
clad person before him. Somehow, this one man was
responsible for everything that had happened, for the
slaughter in Black Mesa, for the alien invasion. . . for him
missing Kasumi's supper. His hand spasmed into a tightly
clenched fist at his side.
"No," he answered slowly. "Not much of a choice.
Either die, or join you. After all, you've stripped me of all
my weapons, right? What could I possible do?"
"Exactly."
Ranma turned away for a moment, as if in thought.
"There's just one thing," he continued, speaking over his
shoulder.
"Oh? And what would that be?"
"I'm not Gordon Freeman."
A few moments later, G-man lay in a crumpled heap,
the unfortunate recipient of an unusually-violent application
of Anything-Goes.
"The name's Ranma Saotome. Sorry 'bout that."
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