Hi!

Well, here's the repost of part two of the Choices series: Dilemma.  As always, feedback is appreciated, whether public or private.  I'll post the newly completed draft of part three within the next day or two.  Many thanks!

-Mike Noakes
noakes_m@hotmail.com
http://www.geocities.com/noakes_m
*****

                       Choices

Part Two:
Dilemma
by
Michael Noakes


Slow, reluctant rise out of comforting darkness. Unwilling awakening to dull throbbing pain lurking within his skull.  Queasy, empty feeling in the stomach.  General sensation of body weariness and irritating tingly sensitivity of the skin.  Foul, pasty taste to the mouth, tongue feeling unpleasantly thick.  Tentative opening of one eye -- then immediate squeezing shut, despite the relative darkness of the room.
   Ranma groaned.  He felt terrible.  He wanted to sleep
some more.  He turned over onto one side.
   "Oh no you don't!"  A voice interrupted his suffering.
"Time to get up!"  A woman.  Cheerful sounding, but with an
undeniable authoritative edge.  There was the sound of
curtains being drawn, and annoying, unwanted light flooded
the room.  "You've slept long enough!"
   "No -- no," he moaned pathetically.  "I don't wanna
get up, Mom!"  Mom.  Mom?  "MOM!" he exclaimed,
bolting into a sitting position, sheets flying from the sudden
movement.  Interesting lights flared before his eyes.  Fear
clutched him, almost strong enough to overcome the
redoubled pounding of his skull.  Ranma clutched his head in
pain while peering, terrified, through a mess of bangs at the
tall woman.  Nodoka finished drawing back the last curtain,
turned around, and smiled.
   "Good morning, Ranko!" she said.  "Sorry, dear,
your mom is not here.  Just me."
   Ranma blinked up confusedly at his mother, and then,
slowly, looked down at himself.  For perhaps the first time,
the sight of breasts on his chest -- still bound in Akane's
bikini -- comforted him.  With a sigh of relief he relaxed.
"Oh.  Ah, hi. . . Auntie Saotome," he stammered.
   His mother kneeled next to him.  "How are you
feeling?" she asked softly, smoothing back the redhead's hair.
Ranma realized that his hair was unbound and flowing freely,
and somewhat messily, down his back.  He blew a few
wayward strands out of his face, which his mom secured
behind the ears.
   "Ah. . . fi -- fine, I guess," he answered.  Then seeing
the knowing look in his mother's eyes, he grinned weakly.
"Terrible."
   She nodded as she stood.  "I'll get you something to
drink which should help to soothe your stomach, Ranko.  I
will be back in a moment."  She stepped away, but paused a
moment before leaving the room.  "You know, Ranko, it
really is not ladylike to drink so much," she said
disapprovingly, then turned and left the room.
   "Yeah, no kidding," he muttered as she slid the door
shut behind her.  Ranma slowly lowered himself onto his
futon, throwing one arm across his eyes to block out the light.
What is she doing here, he wondered.  Then a moment later:
what am _I_ doing here?  Last he could remember was. . . the
pool?  Diving.  Drinking.  Playful splashing and swimming
and relaxed fun.
   No.
   There was. . . something else.  A girl?  A name
hovered at the edge of his mind.  A bathroom?  A snapshot
image flashed through his head: counter, rug, curtains,
shower, toilet.  Was it at Kiyoshi's place?  He could not
remember.  Strange.  Normally I'm really good with names
and places and stuff, he thought.  It's not like me to forget. . .
.
   Forget. . . .  He was forgetting something.  He knew
it.  Something important.  His brow furrowed in intense
concentration as he forced sluggish thoughts backwards:
before swimming, he had stepped into the house, looking for
some hot water, and he had bumped into. . . .
   Akane.
   Ranma jerked suddenly upright once again, eyes
widening in horror.  "Oh no," he whispered, suddenly
oblivious to the renewed pounding in his head.  An angry
loud voice echoed through his mind:
   "You pervert!
   "What kind of _guy_ hangs around other guys
wearing a _girl's_ bathing suit?
   "Some man, some fiance you are!"
   He winced at the memory -- at his retaliation:
   "You wanted to come here, alone, right?  Well, fine.
Then you can leave here, alone, too!  You didn't want me
hangin' around you at the party?  Fine!  Then why should I
hang around you _after_ the party?
   "After all, being alone suits you, ne?  S'not like
anyone _here_ cares if you stay or go.  _I_ certainly don't!"
   And then, worst of all:
   "Let go."  Her demand.
   "No."  His refusal.
   And he had pressed down on her wrist.  He had
inflicted pain upon her.
   Ranma buried his face in his hands.  Akane's voice,
dangerously soft, returned to him, accompanied this time with
the image of her face, red and furious and strangely sad:  "I
hate you," she said, and soon after: "Our engagement is over,
Ranma."  The words had been spoken with a chilling
certainty and finality that left little doubt in Ranma's mind
that whatever had existed between them before was
irrevocably over.
   With a groan he sank back onto his futon.
   Soon after, the door slid open once again.  "Ranko. . .
Ranko, come on now, I thought I asked you to get up?"  He
turned his head slightly and watched as his mom stepped back
into his room.  With a sigh she placed a small tray next to the
futon.  Faint wisps of steam escaped from the spout of the
small porcelain kettle sitting on the tray; a cup lay next to it.
Ranma could not help but look at the kettle somewhat
nervously.  "Here," said Nodoka.  "This should help.  It is a
special Saotome recipe, renowned for easing the effects of too
much drinking.  At least," and she smiled slightly, almost
wistfully, "it helped my husband the many times I served it to
him."  Nodoka poured him a cupful of tea.
   Smiling tentatively in return, Ranma accepted her
offer.  "Er -- thanks," he said, raising the teacup to his lips.
   "Don't thank me until you taste it, dear," she
answered, a slightly mischievous glint to her eyes.  Ranma
cast an inquisitive look at his mother over the rim of the cup,
then took a deep drink.
   The liquid was hot, bitter, thick, and thoroughly
unpleasant.  He almost gagged at the unexpected taste.  "No -
- finish it, Ranko!" insisted his mother forcefully, when,
grimacing, he pulled the cup away.
   "But. . . ."
   "Ranko. . . ."
   With a groan, he held his breath and tried a second
time.  The pungent liquid tasted like something Akane would
cook up, he thought wryly, as the last drop finally slid
sluggishly down his throat.
   "There.  That was not so bad, now was it, Ranko?"
   "Oh, not at all, Auntie Saotome," he said, leveling an
even stare at her and smiling crookedly.  "Just. . . wonderful."
   Nodoka gave a small laugh.  "It _is_ rather terrible,
isn't it?"
   Ranma nodded emphatically as his mother poured out
another cup.  "How much of this do I hafta drink, anyway?"
   "Depends on when you feel good enough to get up,"
answered the taller woman, smiling.
   "Ah."  He took the second cup and sniffed at it, nose
wrinkling at the piercing scent.  "Ugh.  Then I think I'll be
getting up soon, then."
   "That's the whole point, dear!"
   Ranma snorted, but gamely tried another tentative sip.
It tasted just as bad as before.  "Does it hafta taste and smell
so bad?" he asked.
   Nodoka giggled, and leaned in closer.  "The truth,
Ranko?" she whispered conspiratorially.  "No!"
   "But. . . ."
   "I got into the habit of adding a few extra ingredients
when I made it for my husband.  Oh, how he hated the taste
of it!  It was just an extra incentive for him to not drink."  She
contemplated that idea for a moment.  "Not, mind you, that it
ever helped."
   Ranma giggled in turn.  Then he looked down at the
viscous, dark drink, and shook his head.  "Well, I'm certainly
not gonna drink again!  Ever!"
   "The amount of times Genma said that as well!"
   No kidding, thought Ranma.  Pop sure never gave up
drinking after leaving home.  At least, he drank enough while
we wandered across Japan -- a fair bit in China -- and it
certainly didn't get any better after Jusenkyo.  But after last
night -- no.  The fight with Akane, all the stuff he had told his
classmates, even the stupid scanty bathing suit he was _still_
wearing: it was all the fault of last night's drinking.  Akane.
He sighed.
   "Is there something wrong, Ranko?" asked his
mother, looking down at him with concern.
   Ranma shook his head, sighing again.  "Ah, gee,
Auntie Saotome.  It's -- it's nothing. . . ."  And then,
suddenly, "Umm -- is everyone else here?"
   "Everyone?  Or someone in particular, Ranko?"
   He looked at her suspiciously, but continued, "Is
Akane here?"
   Nodoka smiled.  "Yes, Akane is here.  She was quite
worried about you, Ranko."
   "Worried?"
   Nodoka nodded.  "And a little angry, too, I suppose,"
she said.  "Although. . . ."
   He drooped and sighed.  Angry.  Of course Akane
would be angry.  She had every reason to be, especially after
what he had said and done.  But it's her fault too, whispered a
voice in the back of his head.  She insulted you first, she
blamed you first, she _started_ it.  He cringed.  No!  He was
to blame in this.  No matter what she had said or done,
Ranma knew he had gone too far this time.  He had
threatened her.  He had almost hurt her.  He had broken his
promise and ruined her night.  It had been her evening out,
and he had selfishly pushed her aside and made it his own.
Ranma's face burned red with shame.
   ". . . I really can't blame her," continued his mother.
"After all, I am fairly angry with you myself, Ranko."  A
note of sternness entered Nodoka's voice, and the Saotome
'daughter' stared shamefacedly at her futon.
   "I. . . I'm sorry," he mumbled.  "I didn't mean to. . .
."  His voice choked.  He was almost surprised at his own
reaction; the feeling in his stomach, the trembling, the fear.
Everybody knew.  Even his mother.  What had he done?
   A single finger gently lifted his chin up, and caring
eyes looked down at him.  "Ranko," said Nodoka, still firm,
but with added compassion and softness.  "I know you did not
mean to -- but we did expect you to be more responsible.  I do
not approve of you drinking, but if you do -- do you not think
that, maybe, you should be a little more careful?"
   Ranma looked up at her in surprise.  Was that it?
What about. . . .
   "You were lucky to have Akane there to watch over
you," added the elder Saotome.  "Really, Ranko, drinking to
the point of passing out!  I expected better from you!  If your
cousin had not found you and carried you home, who knows
what could have happened!  With all. . . ."
   "I passed out?" he interrupted.  "Akane carried me
home?"
   "You don't remember?"
   He closed his eyes, tried thinking back again.
Talking with friends.  Hiroshi.  Fighting with Akane (he
winced unconsciously at that once again).  Swimming.  And
then . . . and then . . . blank.  He shook his head.  "I . . . no.  I
can't!"
   "What were you thinking, Ranko?"
   Ranma looked confused for a moment.  "Huh?"
   "Drinking like that?  With all those. . . those boys
around!"
   "So?"
   Nodoka looked at him disbelievingly.  "A pretty
young girl like yourself, drunk, defenseless, dressed like that,
surrounded by. . . ."
   "Oh, Auntie -- I don't think you have to worry about
that," he said dismissively, smirking.  "Trust me: the guys at
the party don't. . . ah, think of me that way.  Heh.  You could
kinda say they think of me as 'just one of the guys'."  But
that's not quite true, now is it, intruded a voice in the back of
his head.  Hiroshi sure thought you were hot, didn't he?  So
did the other guys.  The way they were looking at you -- they
sure don't look at each other that way.  The smile slipped,
and Nodoka's half-concerned, half-annoyed look deepened.
   "Ranko. . . ."
   "No, really," he insisted.  "Ok, maybe they _do_ look
at me kinda funny sometimes, but they wouldn't _dare_
touch me."  'Cus I'd kill 'em, he thought grimly.  Besides,
they all know I'm really a guy, anyway.  Some of 'em may
be perverts -- but they're not _that_ bad!  "Really, Auntie!  If
they tried. . . ."  He inserted a slightly threatening
undercurrent to his voice and mimicked throwing a few
punches.
   His mother smiled slightly despite herself.  "You are
such a tomboy, sometimes," she said, shaking her head and
standing.  "Sometimes I despair of ever making a young lady
out of you!"
   "I'm pretty hopeless, ain't I?"
   Nodoka cast a critical eye over her protege.  "Well. . .
I know one place to start.  We need to get you washed up and
into some decent clothing."
   Ranma wholeheartedly agreed.  He looked down at
himself, peeked beneath the sheets: he was still wearing
nothing more than Akane's bikini.  He felt dirty and grimy
and, taking a sniff, he noticed that he even smelt funny, too.
His mother was right -- a nice, hot bath, and. . . .  He looked
up at his mother and sighed.  Well, ok, maybe a not-as-nice
cold scrubbing, instead, and he would feel a _lot_ better.  The
threat of his mother's idea of 'decent clothing' kind of
worried him, but he felt he had already disappointed her
enough already.  Disappointed everyone, really.  He had a
feeling that today was going to be a very long, very rough
day.
   "I'll go and make you a light lunch, ok, Ranko?" said
his mother, heading for the door.
   He nodded, paused, then turned to her.  "Lunch?"
   "Oh my, didn't you realize?  You slept most of the
day away, dear.  It is already almost three o'clock in the
afternoon!" she answered, and left the room.
   He groaned once again.  Maybe not such a long day
after all.  His one day off, and he wasted it away nursing a
hangover.  _Definitely_ the last time he would ever drink, he
vowed -- it simply was not worth it.  Eventually, and with a
final sigh, he stood up and headed to his dresser.  Grabbing a
towel and taking a deep breath, he prepared himself for the
inevitable and headed for the bathroom.


Nodoka Saotome whistled a happy tune as she
prepared a light meal for Ranko, hands working with
unconscious ease.  She always felt comfortable and welcome
at the Tendos'; it was strange, really, that one place could
generate such feeling of both pleasure and profound
disappointment.  Once again, her son and husband were gone,
training.  Though she recognized the need for constant
diligence and practice -- how else would her Ranma truly
become a man of honor, a man among men -- she still missed
them terribly.  Every time she visited, every time she
discovered that they had already left, she invariably felt
depressed. . . momentarily.  For on every visit, there was also
Ranko.
   Ranko.  Such a sweet, spunky, vibrant girl; such a
tomboy!   So beautiful and confident, almost cocky and
arrogant, and yet obviously so unsure of her own femininity
and insecure in her development.  It had never been made
clear, but Nodoka surmised that the young girl was
motherless; or perhaps Ranko and her mother simply were
not on speaking terms.  Whatever the reasons, the Tendo
cousin obviously needed and sought female guidance -- a sort
of mother-figure, as it were.  And Nodoka -- Nodoka was
more than pleased to fill that role.
   She frowned slightly as she stirred the broth.  Judging
by Ranko's current condition, it was also clear that that role
needed filling _now_.  Drinking to the point of passing out?
Picking a fight at the party?  According to Akane, her cousin
had even been flirting with many of the boys there!
Unbelievable.  Worse, she seemed utterly clueless as to what
could happen to a pretty young girl at a party like that.  The
matriarch shook her head; Ranko and her were going to have
a little 'mother' and 'daughter' talk, soon, before she left.
   "Mmmm.. . . ."  A voice interrupted her reverie.
Nodoka glanced back as Nabiki stepped into the kitchen.
"Smells wonderful, Mrs. Saotome!"
   Nodoka smiled.  "Thank you, Nabiki," she said,
returning to her soup.  Reaching over, she lifted up the pile of
sliced green onions on the blade of her cutting knife, and slid
them into the simmering broth.  "I'm making a soup for
Ranko.  With her stomach as queasy as it is, I doubt she
could handle anything much heavier."  As she talked she
continued adding to her soup: celery, carrots, leeks.
   The middle Tendo daughter stepped up to the stove
and peered in.  "Looks good," she said appreciatively, but
with a slight smirk.  Nodoka gave her an inquisitive glance.
Nabiki noticed and grinned.  "I was just thinking of Ranko.
How's she feeling?"
   "As well as can be expected, I suppose, since I
assume it was her first time drinking."  She paused for a
moment.  "It _was_ her first time, I imagine?"
   Nabiki shrugged.  "As far as I know."
   "Good.  And I hope it was her last.  It simply is not
ladylike to drink like that."
   "No kidding.  You'd almost think she was a _boy_,
the way she drank last night!"
   "Now, now," gently scolded Nodoka, "it is not nice to
make fun of your cousin like that."
   "I know," said Nabiki.  "I know.  It's just. . . well,
you weren't there, Mrs. Saotome.  Ranko looked so rough --
so _funny_, when Akane dragged her home last night.  And
she was spouting absolute gibberish, too.  It was the first time
I've seen. . . Ranko, heh, drunk.  Absolutely priceless -- and
I've got the pictures to prove it!"
   "Nabiki!"
   The young girl grinned.  Nodoka turned back to her
soup, hiding a slight creasing of her brow.  After all, they
were not her children -- but sometimes, she found Nabiki to
be just a little too brash for her own good.  But it was not her
place to say anything.  Instead, she gave her soup a taste and
nodded in satisfaction.
   "Almost done," she announced.  "Would you like
some?"
   Nabiki took another sniff, and nodded.  "For sure!"
   "Do you think Akane would like some as well?"
   "Well," answered the Tendo, "She's been out in the
dojo all day -- which means that she's probably pretty
hungry."  She paused as if in thought for a moment.  "Did
you mention whether Ranko was coming down any time
soon?"
   Nodoka pulled a small stack of bowls from the
kitchen cupboard.  "Ranko should be down any moment, the
poor dear.  She said she would eat right after a quick bath."
   "In a moment?" said Nabiki, grinning evilly.  "I'll go
get Akane right away!"  The girl turned and quickly strode
from the kitchen.


Nabiki frowned as she watched her younger sister
finish a kata in the dojo.  The piles of shattered cinder blocks
were expected; this was not.  Akane was completely
immersed within her movements, moving with an intensity
and -- and abandon, Nabiki realized, that was quite unusual
for her.  And yet, for all her concentration, Akane's form was
flawed, uncontrolled, almost sloppy.  Even Nabiki could tell.
Which meant that something was bothering her sister,
something important.  It suddenly occurred to Nabiki that,
perhaps, something more serious than just Ranma getting
drunk and making an idiot of himself had happened at the
party last night.
   "Hey, Akane," she called out, stepping into the
training hall.
   Her sister started at the sudden interruption, and
completed her technique messily.  "Na - Nabiki," she said,
giving her head a little shake.  "I didn't hear you come in."
   "You ok, Sis?" interrupted the older sister.  "You
look a bit out of it."
   Akane flushed slightly as she wiped the sleeve of her
gi across her forehead.  "It - it's nothing, Nabiki.  Just having
a bit of trouble concentrating."
   Obviously, thought Nabiki, but why?  No doubt that
idiot Saotome had insulted her or something last night.
Akane's recount of the party had been rather sketchy this
morning, and her story had been full of holes, leaving large
sections of the night unaccounted for.  Nabiki had thought
nothing of it -- what reason had she to be suspicious?  If
Ranma had done anything to annoy her, Akane could be
counted on to let the world know (as she had this morning);
and if her sister had been up to anything more. . . serious, like
drinking or something, than what of it?  Nabiki had had her
first experimence with alcohol at the very same party last
year, and remembered that night quite fondly; why deny
Akane the same?
   But, obviously, _something_ had not gone well.
Perhaps she ought to give a few friends a call.
   "So what did you want, Nabiki?" asked Akane.
   "Huh?  Oh.  Aunt Saotome just made some soup.
She wants to know if you're hungry.  Smells good!"
   Akane seemed to consider it for a moment, then gave
a single nod.  "Sure.  I guess I am," she answered, and fell
into step beside her sister.
   "So how are you feeling?" asked Nabiki.
   Akane shot her a sideway glance.  "Fine.  Why?"
   "You just seem a bit. . . tense.  Still pissed off at
Ranma?"
   They stepped up onto the veranda.  "I don't want to
talk about it, Nabiki."
   "Oh, c'mon, Sis.  You sort of glossed over the details
-- what did he do?  Fool around behind your. . . ," prodded
Nabiki.
   "I said," exclaimed Akane loudly, as they stepped
into the house, "I don't want to talk about that hentai
_baka_!"
   Sudden silence greeted their arrival.  Looking around,
Nabiki realized that they had all arrived at the table
simultaneously: Mrs. Saotome, stepping out of the kitchen
with a tray laden with bowls; father and Uncle Saotome (in
panda form, of course) crossing over from their habitual
shogi-playing position; and finally Ranma, turning the corner,
wrapped in a towel and carrying his bath accessories.
   Tension levels rose considerably.
   Mrs. Saotome was the first to break the silence.  With
a small frown, she turned to Akane and asked, "Are you
talking about your fiance, Akane dear?"
   The shift in her sister's demeanor was stunning.  She
was suddenly smiling --  though it fell far short of Akane's
eyes and was so obviously false and forced to anyone with
any degree of perception that Nabiki wondered how anyone
could fail to see through it -- and she answered in a too-too
cheerful voice, "Not at all, Aunt Saotome.  I was talking
about. . . about some jerk at the party last night.
   "Isn't that right. . . Ranko?"  And the forced smile,
forced cheerfulness in Akane's voice hit a chilling high as she
turned to her nervous-looking fiance.
   "Ah -- ah," he stammered, eyes flicking back and
forth across everyone in the room, seemingly unable to meet
Akane's steady gaze.
   "Say, how are you feeling, anyway, Ranko?" asked
Akane, and this time there was a slight, almost imperceptible
tremor to her voice, gone by the time she finished.  "You
looked pretty sick last night."
   "Er, ah -- yeah.  Fine.  I feel. . . fine."  He took a
hesitant step forward.  "I was, ah, just going to take a bath,
Akane."  He nervously crossed the room; Akane stepped back
to give him space to pass by; he hesitated once again before
doing so.
   And as he drew up beside Akane, she asked, "Oh, and
I was wondering if you were done with my bikini yet,
Ranko."  The cheerfulness in her voice suddenly dropped like
a rock, words left hard and cold.  "Was it worth it. . .
Ranko?"
   Ranma flinched back as if slapped, then dropped his
gaze to the floor.  Finally, after a long-seeming moment, he
raised his eyes to Akane's, and matched her glare with a look
-- a searching gaze, an enigmatic glance -- that defied
Nabiki's attempt to decipher.  Another moment, then he
sighed and stepped away.  Without another word or look
back, he stepped into the bathroom.
   "Well, I see she's looking much better!" said Mrs.
Saotome with honest brightness, serving out the bowls of
soup.  Father and Panda nodded sagely before tearing into
their meal; Akane calmly sat at the table and began eating
methodically.  Nabiki shook her head.  Something was
_very_ wrong here, and obviously the adults were too blind
to realize it.  It seemed a few calls were in order.  After lunch,
of course.


Ranma very calmly stepped into the bathroom and
closed the door behind him.  He leaned back heavily.  A deep
sigh escaped his lips.  Something akin to a shudder traversed
his body, tremulous hollow wave starting deep within and
traveling to his extremities.  One weary hand passed across
his squeezed-shut eyes; he took a deep breath and forced
himself to relax.  He held the position for what felt a long
time.
   Was it worth it?  He recalled Akane's question.
Slowly, reluctantly, he opened his eyes, let the towel fall
away, glanced at himself, at the clothes he was wearing.  Had
it been worth it?
   No.
   And yet, deeper within, beyond the frightening painful
emptiness centered in the pit of his stomach, there was an
insidious sense that, maybe, possibly, it _had_ been worth it.
So Akane was mad, whispered a voice, so what, she's always
mad.  But now -- now he was popular, he had friends at
school, things would be different at Furinkan, he wouldn't be.
. . be alone, anymore.  Besides, the fight between him and
Akane was not _his_ fault, it was _hers_, that uncute. . . .
   "No," he hissed, voice escaping through clenched
teeth.  No.  He shouldn't. . . he couldn't fall back on that, on
old insults and easy excuses.  This was serious.   Passing by
Akane, he had searched her face, her eyes, seeking the
slightest glimmer of forgiveness.  In vain.  Only coldness and
hard indifference had reflected his pleading, anxious look.
And he realized that, up until then, he had still been hoping --
no, expecting! -- her to let him off the hook.
   But it was not going to happen.
   With sudden alacrity he pushed away from the door,
reached behind and unhooked the  bikini top; with a quick
wiggle and kick he tore off the bottom.  He scooped up both
and dumped them in the bathroom anteroom's hamper.
There.  For what it was worth. . . the bathing suit was gone.
A meaningless act, perhaps. . . but a start nonetheless.  It left
him feeling slightly better.
   Actually, he realized, he felt a _lot_ better.  Akane's
too-small top had been constricting his breasts for, what, over
twelve hours now?  It felt good to let his chest loose.  But
then he looked down at his ample bosom, the soft, full flesh
that made him something other than what he truly was, and
grew angry.  It should not feel 'nice' to let his chest loose, he
should never have had to bind it up in the first place!  One fist
convulsed in anger.  Damn curse!  Stupid, stupid, impossible
curse!  He glanced through the sliding door, into the
bathroom and at the furo itself; light wisps of steam curled up
from the ready and waiting bath.  Good.  Mother or not, he
_would_ return to maleness, even if only for a few minutes.
He was a man -- and he needed to feel like one again.
   Decision made, he stalked over to the bath, not even
bothering to slide the door shut behind him.  His towel lay in
a crumpled heap in the middle of the anteroom.  It was
inconsiderate for him to climb into the bath like this, still
dirty, unclean, without scrubbing; he did not care.  He wanted
his height, his weight, his manhood back.  He lifted one leg
up and over.
   "Oh, Ranko dear. . . ."
   With sudden uncanny speed and skill, he brought his
leg down and pushed off the ceramic edge of the bath; he
caught himself easily as he fell back, hand-springing off the
slick floor, twisting in midair; before his mother could even
complete her cursory knock, he landed on the little stool in
the anteroom and flipped up his bucket of bathing products
with one foot.  The door
opened and in stepped his mother.
   "Ranko. . . Ranko?  You haven't even started bathing
yet?" she asked, surprised.
   "Oh, ah. . . not yet, Auntie Saotome!" he answered,
forcing a girlish giggle.  "I guess I still felt a little tired, and. .
. ."
   "Are you feeling okay, dear?" she asked, stepping into
the room and softly closing the door behind her.  "You look a
bit flushed.  Maybe I should not have forced you up so
quickly."
   Ranma shook his head.  "Oh, it's ok, Mrs. Saotome!
I'll be fine!"
   "Are you sure?"  After laying a bundle of clothing on
the counter, she knelt down next to Ranma and brought one
hand up to his forehead.  "I can take my bath with you, if you
like, wash your back for you. . . ."
   "No!" exclaimed Ranma, and then again, somewhat
less excitedly, "No.  I'll be fine, really."  He stood up and
smiled.  "See, I feel. . . ."  Then, realizing he was completely
naked, he blushed furiously, snagged his towel from the floor,
and wrapped it around his female body.  "Ah. . . sorry 'bout
that."
   His mother smiled, but cast a careful eye over her
'daughter'.  "Are you sure you feel fine?"  When he nodded,
she relaxed and turned back to the door.  "Well, okay then.
Just remember that your soup is getting cold.  Don't take too
long, Ranko!"
   "I won't, Auntie!" he answered.
   "Oh, and I left some clothes for you, for after you
clean up," she said as she closed the door behind her.  One
hand pointed vaguely toward the counter where she had
deposited the bundle, then withdrew.  The door clicked shut.
   Ranma watched after her for a moment, then sank
back onto the stool with a relieved sigh.  Close -- too close.
He glanced over at the bath again and decided that, maybe, he
_could_ accept being female for just a little longer.  He
released a dry chuckle.  To think, he thought, that I actually
believed I could have a little _privacy_ in my own bathroom!
As if.
   Except, of course, it was not his bathroom, nor his
house.  It was the Tendos', and at any given time, they had
every right to interrupt him, intrude on a private moment -- or
throw him out.  Had they not done so a number of times in
the past?  He was a guest here, he had very few possessions to
call his own, and his residence was a perpetual debt hovering
over his head.  Of course, now, after what he had done last
night . . .  Ranma shivered.  Shaking his head, he trudged
over to the taps and filled a bucket with cold water.  He then
settled down on his stool and started to lather up.
Goosebumps rose as the chilling washcloth passed across
arms, stomach, chest.
   He continued to wash absently as his mind wandered.
What was he going to do?  Strangely enough, it seemed as if
Akane had not yet told their fathers about what had happened
last night.  Hangover notwithstanding, Pop and Mr. Tendo
would most certainly have been banging on his door the
moment they found out that Akane had called off the
engagement.  In the brief time he had seen Nabiki before
stepping into the bathroom, she had not seemed aware of
what had gone on, either.  So obviously Akane had only told
part of the story -- the parts where he drank himself silly and
had a good time.  Was that a good thing?  Did it mean that,
with time, perhaps they could work this through?
   An involuntary gasp and sudden start snapped him
out of his reverie, as he unconsciously passed the icy cloth a
little close to his private regions.  Sighing, he turned his
attention back to his scrubbing.  At the rate he was going, he
would never be done.  Although, added Ranma somewhat
bleakly, why hurry?  Things were only going to be worse out
there.
   Ranma returned to his task. . . and his stomach, after
a quick glance down, sank even further.   "Ah. . . aw _shit_!"
he groaned, and winced.  There, on his inner thigh, was a
speckling of brownish red.  Blood.  He looked closer: more
staining, nearer his female genitals.  It could only mean one
thing: his period.  And it looked heavier than normal, too.
"Great, just. . . just great," he grumbled.   It must have started
during the night or something, he reasoned.  He tried
remembering the last time it had hit -- whether he had
avoided it by remaining male -- tried counting the days -- lost
track and gave up with a scowl.  Whatever.  He was a guy,
dammit, and all that crap was a girl's problem!  With
unnecessary vigor that stung the flesh raw, he attacked the
dried spots.
   Just what he needed.  On top of everything else -- his
hangover, his mom, Akane -- did he have to deal with this,
too?  Could this day get any worse?
   And as he doused himself with the rest of the bucket
of water, and shivered violently under the sudden cold, he
remembered the bundle of clothing his mother had carried in.
Undoubtably feminine clothing -- with frills and pink and
bows and stuff like that.  Silly him.  Of _course_ things can
worse, he groused, standing up and reaching for his towel.
Now all I need is for Ryoga to show up. . . .


Spin and rise. Momentary flash in the sunlight as it
reached its apex. Momentary hang, then downwards tumble.
Unconscious swift movement and the bottlecap was snatched
out of the air.  Replaced in the nook formed between thumb
and index finger, and snapped back up.
   Ryoga steadfastly walked through unfamiliar
Nerimean backstreets, flipping a slightly crumpled cap every
few steps.  He was not in a good mood.  He was not having a
good day.  But he nevertheless grinned evilly at the thought
of making Ranma's day a whole lot worse.


After quickly finishing off her soup in silence, Akane
returned to her room.  There, away from everyone, from her
sisters, her dad, Ranma's parents -- away from _Ranma_, that
insufferable, unforgivable, insulting _jerk_ -- she could
release her anger.  It was a slow, silent, controlled release; for
several minutes after closing her door and sitting on the edge
of her bed, all she could do was tremble, whole body taut, hot
tears threatening to slip free, hands twisted in the folds of her
sheets, fabric clutched violently.  Finally, after an indefinite
time, her breathing slowed, the shaking eased, muscles
relaxed.  She took in a deep breath; she released it; she
blinked away the wetness in her eyes and stood up.
   She walked in a tight circle in the middle of her room.
I need to get out of here, she realized.  It doesn't matter
where.  I just have to leave.  I can't stand to be in the same
house as him.  I hate him.  I hate him I hate him I hate him!
   "It hurts, Akane.  It hurts. . . ."  Soft, almost
whimpering remembered voice, slicing through the haze of
anger gripping her mind.  Her stomach twisted in a harsh,
sickening knot.  "S'not your fault," whispered the phantom
voice.  Akane's angry steps stopped; the earlier shaking
returned.  She glanced down at her trembling arms, and
hugged herself.  If you're so angry at him, she unwillingly
asked herself, then why are you so worried?
   I'm not worried, she insisted.
   "Akane. . . ."
   Ranma can take care of himself.
   Nothing ever happens to Ranma that he can't handle.
   "It hurts. . . ."
   He doesn't deserve my concern.
   He's an insensitive, mean, cruel jerk!
   "Akane. . . ."
   "I have to get out of here!" she screamed, threatening
tears of frustration suspended in her eyes.  Without another
word, she grabbed a light sweater and stormed out of the
room.  Her door slammed behind her, the duck sign banging
woodenly in response.  A moment later the front door to the
Tendo Residence slammed as well.


As Ranma walked along the edge of the canal, he
found himself wishing that he could be anywhere else --
practicing in the dojo, killing time at Ucchan's, fighting with
Mousse -- than with his mother; but the very recognition that
he could think such things about her left him feeling guilty
and vaguely ill, and so he drew closer to her.
   "Are you okay, Ranko?"
   "Yes, Auntie Saotome," he answered.
   It was a lie, of course, but she seemed to accept it.
They continued walking, his mother gazing as if in silent
contemplation out over the slowly moving water.  The sun
was starting to lay low on the horizon, having already begun
its nocturnal decent; the first streamers of red and orange
crept across the sky, and the mirror of their color rippled
quietly below.  A pleasantly warm mid-July wind tickled
their skin.  Ranma sighed softly.
   I oughta be happy to be able to spend some time with
my mom, he thought morosely.  He tugged at the high collar
of the dress he was wearing, squirmed slightly in its
constraining bodice.  But he wasn't.  Other concerns -- the
party, the fight, Akane -- weighed heavily upon his mind, and
the wonderful sight of the setting sun, which drew a pleased
exclamation of delight from his mother, was entirely lost
upon him.  He appreciated his mother's offer of a late
afternoon stroll; she was right, the fresh air _was_ doing him
some good.  But the inevitable nervousness that came with
being around her, and the impossibility of forgetting the
problems awaiting for him when he returned home -- to the
Tendos' home, he amended -- made it impossible for him to
glean any enjoyment out of the walk.  Problems; Akane.  His
steps slowed.  Images of Akane's face rose before him:
glaring at him in contempt as he asked to borrow her bikini;
the widening of the eyes, the profound shock and hurt and
look of betrayal, as he applied pressure to her wrist; the
violent, unthinking rage as she turned on him, struck him,
ended the engagement; the cold, emotionless gaze as he
passed her today on the way to the bathroom.  And then --  as
he first recalled truly seeing her: half-leaning over his
shoulder, long tresses framing relaxed, happily-smiling face,
extending an offer of friendship -- 'you want to be friends?'
It was too much: the tension between where they had started,
and where they now were, was great; an empty unpleasant
sensation, a discordant echo of feelings admitted to and
forgotten last night, arose and twisted his stomach.  His steps
faltered and he leaned against the railing, one hand viciously
gripping the pitted metal.  Eyes squeezed shut against
imminent tears.
   "Ranko?"  Tender arms reached for him, offered a
comforting embrace.
   Ranma shook his head once.  He took a deep breath.
He blinked, and stepped away.
   Nodoka looked momentarily hurt.  "Ranko. . . please
dear, what is wrong?"
   Looking up at her, up at his mother, at her concerned
look, sympathetic eyes, he realized that he needed to talk to
someone about his problems; he realized that, maybe, the one
person he _could_ talk to was standing next to him, offering
support, and was more than willing to listen.  He would have
to be careful, of course, but the sudden possibility of an
understanding ear overrode his worries.
   "I. . . ," he started, then faltered.  He swallowed.  "I
need your advice, Auntie Saotome.  I may have done
something really stupid last night.  At the party."
   His mother looked down at him for a moment,
understanding dawning in her eyes.  "Ah.  This is about you
and Akane, isn't it, Ranko?"
   Ranma blinked in surprise.  "How did you know?"
   Nodoka smiled.  "A mother notices these things --
even one who hasn't seen her son in ten years."  Ranma
smiled wanly as she continued.  "But it was pretty obvious
that Akane was angry today -- angry at my son, and angry at
you.  You girls normally get along so nicely!  But not today."
She hesitated momentarily.  "Would you like to talk about
it?"
   Ranma nodded.  "But not here, Auntie Saotome," he
said, and took her by the hand.  "There's a park not too far
away; we can sit down and talk.  Would that be okay?"
   Nodoka agreed, and the two -- mother and son, hand
in hand -- resumed their walk.  But with each step Ranma
found it more and more difficult to remain silent.  Now that
an outlet had been offered, he discovered a burgeoning need
to use it arising within.  He doubted his mother could give
him any easy solutions, but just having someone listen to
_his_ side of the story for once was an opportunity he could
not ignore.  So it was that, even before they arrived at the
park and with very little preamble, Ranma found himself
opening up concerning the party of the night before.
   "I guess it starts with, ah, me, joining Ranma and
Akane on their way to the party."  It felt weird, talking about
himself in the third person, having to describe an event from a
different and nonexistent viewpoint.  "Ranma and Akane
were fighting.  Again."   He sighed, glanced up at his
mother.  She was looking ahead, eyes attentive.  She nodded
for Ranma to continue.
   "Akane didn't want Ranma coming along to the
party, hanging around her or something.  I dunno why."  He
paused, then hesitantly continued after a moment's thought.
"Maybe. . . maybe she wanted to be alone.  With her friends.
Or. . . or just wanted a night to herself, without me -- without
Ranma -- around.  I dunno."  He shook his head and
shrugged.  "I don't.  Anyway, when they got to the party,
Akane went her way and Ranma went his."
   "And you?" interjected his mother.
   "Oh.  I, er, I went with Ranma."
   "Did he seem . . . angry?  Disappointed?"
   "Ranma seemed. . . ."  He wavered.  How had he felt?
He didn't know -- he wasn't used to, didn't like talking
about, his emotions.  Ranma thought back to early last
evening, walking towards Kiyoshi's house with Akane.
When she had asked him to leave her alone at the party, to
not hang around with her, he had felt . . . insulted.  Insulted,
and. . . nervous?  But he had replied with insults of his own.
By the time they had arrived at Kiyoshi's, they were no
longer speaking, and their separation at that point had come
as something of a relief.
   "Ranko?"
   "Oh, sorry Auntie.  I. . . I guess Ranma seemed
mostly angry."  And yes, disappointed, he realized.  He
frowned.  Why should he have cared whether that uncute
tomboy wanted him around or not?  Only he realized that her
rejection _had_ hurt, and in the aftermath of that unexpected
pain had been a lingering. . . fear.  Eyes widening, he
wondered at his own reaction.
   "Was that all?"
   He snapped back to the present.  "I guess so.  Ranma
doesn't talk much about how he feels.  He doesn't like to
whine -- I think he considers it's unmanly."
   Nodoka nodded, a hint of a smile on her face.
   "So we wandered around the place a bit, until we
bumped into some school buddies of his.  We joined up with
them, and then sat and hung around a campfire for a while.
And talked, pretty much."
   "Really?  About what?" asked his mother.
   "Oh, mostly about girls and all that -- you know, guy
stuff."
   Nodoka raised an eyebrow.  "Ranko!  And you stayed
and listened?"
   Ranma had the good sense to blush.  "Well -- it's like
I said, Mrs. Saotome, most of them think of me as 'one of the
guys'.  It wasn't a big deal or nothin', and I didn't mind.  It
was fun, kinda."  The irony of it suddenly struck him: for
while his words were true, he realized that a good part of the
previous night's conversation had also concerned 'girl's stuff'
-- that is, his problems and experiences with his cursed form.
Somehow, he doubted his mother would like to hear that he
had discussed his period with a bunch of boys.
   His mother's brow creased with a slight frown.  "I see
we will have to talk about this at another time, my dear.  But
I'm guessing it is here that you started to drink?"
   Ranma gave a careful nod.  "Errr, yeah.  Well, not
quite yet -- I didn't start until later."
   "And did my son drink?"
   He actually considered this for several long moments
before answering.  Technically, he hadn't.  Ranko had drunk
-- had drunk quite a bit, in fact; but _Ranma_ had left the
party via a splash of Ryuta's drink by then, and never
actually touched a drop.  Nor ever would, he vowed.  But at
this time he refused to deny that he had drank last night -- to
do so would be too close to lying, and he did enough of that
with his mother as it was.  "Yeah.  Yeah, he drank too."  He
briefly wondered why he felt reluctant to tell his mother that
her son had consumed alcohol.
   She nodded, seeming unperturbed.  "So what
happened next?"
   "Well," continued Ranma, "this guy, this real asshole.
. . ."
   "Ranko!  Language!"
   "Sorry.  This. . . jerk," he amended,  "called Ryuta
Uehara came over and started to bully some of Ranma's
friends.  Ranma didn't put up with it -- he hates bullies -- and,
ah, convinced the guy to leave.  But the guy didn't clue in:
Ryuta came back, drunk and mean and tried to pick a fight
with Ranma.  Your. . . your son tried ignoring him at first,
but then that. . . that _jerk_ started getting personal.  He
started insulting Ranma's manhood, called him weak and
womanly and insinuated. . . other stuff."
   "Other stuff?"
   "He. . . ."  How to put this, Ranma wondered.  He
treaded forward delicately, carefully choosing his words.
"He, ah, insulted me as well -- insinuated that I had. . . you
know. . . ."
   Nodoka looked down, frowning.  "This boy. . . ."
   "He said that I'd kissed guys; said that I'd. . . had sex
with. . . ."  He flushed with remembered anger, one hand
clenching at his side.
   "I see," said his mother, and an undercurrent of anger
darkened her voice.  "And then?"
   "And then. . . well, he pushed and pushed until
Ranma simply couldn't take it anymore.  But you see, Ranma
didn't want to fight -- couldn't fight!  He had promised
Akane at the beginning of the party that he wouldn't ruin her
night, wouldn't get into any fights or anything.  But he
couldn't ignore the insults to his masculinity!  Stuck between
his honor and his promise, he finally just. . . just snapped."
Ranma took a deep breath.  He realized that his voice was
loud; he was trembling slightly.  He looked up at his mother.
   "What did he do?" she asked in a soft voice.
   "He grabbed Ryuta and beat him up.  Beat him up
bad," he answered in a subdued tone.
   Nodoka stopped walking and turned to her protege.
She gently laid her hands on the smaller girl's shoulders.
"Do you think my son did the right thing?"
   And Ranma desperately wanted to answer 'yes',
wanted to justify his own actions; but he knew he couldn't, he
needed an honest, unbiased judgement, and so he refrained
from giving the easy response.  "I don't know, Auntie!  He --
he promised that he wouldn't fight; but then, the things Ryuta
said  -- I don't see how he could _not_ have!"
   "The things this boy said were mean?"
   "Mean and cruel and. . . and untrue!" he answered
fiercely.
   "They slandered my son's manliness?"
   He nodded emphatically.
   "And my son hurt this boy?  He was brutal?"
   Ranma gave a slow nod.
   "Good," said Nodoka with an air of finality.  Her
eyes shone with a hard light.  She resumed walking.  "No one
insults my son's manliness."


Akane hugged herself and gazed unseeingly out over
the darkly flowing waters of the canal.  She stood oblivious,
her thoughts as aimless and twisting as the last hour's
confused wandering.  But at least the urge to cry is gone, she
thought.  So was her anger.  Her concern.  She felt hollow,
empty.  A shiver passed through her, one unwarranted by the
warm night air.  After a time devoid of thought or meaning,
her knees folded below her; she sank down, hands slipping
along the smooth bars of the fence, then holding her up as she
crouched, leaning back but hunched over, still looking
sightlessly outwards.  She noticed a muddy spattering in the
dirt by her feet.  Oh, look, she noted absently, I guess I was
wrong.  I'm crying.  Strange, to shed tears and yet feel
nothing.
   But no, not nothing, for as she became aware of her
tears, she felt the pain well up within.  No, she mouthed, no,
not here, not now.  Not yet.
   "Akane?"
   Hearing a voice call out her name startled her.  She
blinked, rubbed the back of one hand across her eyes.  For a
moment she felt surprised to be squatting by the river, unsure
of the exact path that had led her here.
   "Akane?" repeated the voice, behind and closer.
   She stood, legs protesting from the sudden action,
creaking and tingly.  For how long had she held that
unthinking position?  No longer a focus, inner pain faded; a
dull expansive greyness took its place.  Akane turned away
from the water.
   It was Sayuri approaching her, and as she neared and
caught a good glimpse of Akane her expression changed from
one of greeting to one of concern.  "Akane -- Akane, are you
alright?"
   The youngest Tendo tried forcing a smile to her lips.
"Hi Sayuri!  Of course I'm okay -- really! -- why wouldn't I
be?"  She blinked rapidly to clear her eyes.
   Sayuri stepped nearer.  For several long moments she
gazed at Akane searchingly, before frowning and shaking her
head.  "No way, Akane.  Something's wrong."
   "No, really. . . !"
   "Sorry," interrupted her friend, grabbing her hand.
"But I don't buy it."  She proceeded to pull Akane away from
the fence.  "C'mon, follow me.  I think we need to talk."
   "But. . . !"
   "No 'buts', Akane!" insisted the long-haired girl.
"There's a great little kissaten near here.  I'll buy you a
coffee, and you can tell me all about it.  It's about Ranma,
right?"
   "Well. . . ."
   "I thought so," said Sayuri decisively, and led the
way.  Bemused, and grateful despite herself, Akane followed
without another word.  Maybe this is just what I need, she
thought.  Maybe I just need somebody to talk to.


"One moment, dear," interjected Nodoka,
interrupting Ranko's narrative.  "Why did my son not want to
go swimming with the rest of his friends?  Did he say?"
   It took a few moments for the young girl to answer,
and she seemed very hesitant in her choice of words.
Something was nagging at the Saotome matriarch: there was
a strangeness or oddity to the Tendo cousin's story that
Nodoka couldn't quite put a finger on.  Something in the way
Ranko stammered before every response; something in the
way the girl carefully contemplated every question before
uttering a word.  But why?  Could she be protecting Ranma
from something?  Or was she simply embarrassed by retelling
the previous night's activities?
   "Well," said Ranko, "I guess -- I. . . I'm not sure.  I'd
like to think it was because he was worried and wanted to
check in on Akane. . . but. . . but in all honesty, I don't think
that was it."  She swallowed; Nodoka wondered if it was out
of nervousness.  "Part of it was simply because he didn't have
any swimming trunks with him -- he hadn't planned on
swimming.  But it's more than that, I think."  Again she
paused, thinking, and stared off across the park.  Nodoka
wondered what she could see in the encroaching darkness.
When Ranko continued her voice seemed distant.  "I think. . .
I think he was nervous.  Maybe even scared.  Not very manly,
I realize," and she glanced up at the older woman, "but --
there it is."
   "Scared?"
   "Yeah, scared."  Ranko gave a vague nod.  "Because.
. . ."  Her voice trailed off, and her face twisted in frustration.
"Because -- I don't know!  I don't know.  He just. . . he can't
. . . he doesn't know how to . . . relate . . . say what he means
to!"  The pigtailed redhead took a deep breath.  "He doesn't
fit in.  He doesn't have any friends.  And throw him into a
situation like that -- something social, something _fun_ -- and
he's. . . scared.  He doesn't know what to do."  Almost as if
expressing herself had proven exhausting, she slumped
forward with head hanging low.  "There."
   Nodoka looked down at the young girl with some
surprise.  That Ranma was having trouble fitting in was
concern enough; that Ranko took it so seriously, so
personally, was further matter of importance.  Earlier
suspicions consolidated in her mind, and an ephemeral
inkling of what the relationship between Ranko and Ranma
might be formed.  "So what did you do?" she asked.
   Ranko started.  "Err. . . me?"
   "Yes Ranko, you.  Ranma decided to leave, and I
think I can understand some of the reasons why he did so.
But did you follow him?  Did you stay at the party?  Did you
try and find Akane and tell her that her fiancee  was
leaving?"
   "I. . . followed Ranma back into the house."
   Of course, thought Nodoka.  She would, despite --
judging by Ranko's own account of the party -- having a
good time at the party.  "And then?"
   "And then. . . ."  Ranko gulped and seemed to shrink
in upon herself.  She lowered her eyes to the well-scuffed
ground at her feet.
   "Then?"
   "Then. . . Ranma met Akane."


"And then you met Ranma," confirmed Sayuri.
   Akane nodded.  She took a sip of her coffee, and felt
strangely ambivalent about continuing the conversation.  She
appreciated her friend's effort to cheer her up, to help her
work through the current dilemma; yet, at the same time,
there was a. . . resistance within, an urge to not dig too deep
into submerged emotions.  I need to talk about this, Akane
realized, let my feelings out -- but what else might I find?
   "And then," prodded the girl siting opposite her.
   "What do you think?  We fought.  Like we always
do."  Akane scowled.
   "Not like you always do. . . definitely _not_ like you
always do, Akane.  I've seen you two fight before; I've
_never_ seen you break off the engagement!"  Sayuri leaned
in a little closer, eyes fixated eagerly on the youngest Tendo.
"I heard -- well, I heard lots of things, about what happened,
about why it happened.  Enough to get me worried.  What
happened, Akane?  I'd like you to tell me. . . ."
   Akane stared at her friend, uncertain.  She turned
away, looked outside.  It was dark, streetlights dropping
small pools of paleness through which she glimpsed
intermittent snapshots of passing life.  There, two young girls,
walking, laughing, probably friends; but as they entered the
next circle of light one was frowning, lips pressed tightly
together, as the other continued laughing, oblivious to her
companion's anger.  Then Akane's eyes shifted, and she was
no longer looking through the glass, but at it, the dark, herself
reflected.  With a sigh she turned back to her schoolmate and,
still feeling oddly detached from her own words, began
explaining.
   "Well. . . after you and Yuka and Keiko and everyone
else took off to join the guys at the pool, I went downstairs to
grab my stuff, right?"  Mouth dry, she took another drink.
"Well, that's where I met Ranma.  We bumped into each
other.  He was getting ready to leave.  We talked a bit, and. . .
well, he was being weird."
   "Weird?  How?"
   Akane shrugged.  "Nice, weird.  Almost flirting,
weird."  Seeing Sayuri's raised eyebrow, she hastened to add,
"He was drunk, of course.  The stupid jerk."  There was a
momentary sadness within, the first emotion she recalled
feeling in some time.  Why did he have to be drunk, or under
magical influence, or think he was a cat, to act half-way
human around her?  And why did it have to be such an
infrequent occasion that she viewed any such extension of
genuine kindness towards her from him with suspicion?
"Anyway.  So we grabbed our stuff.  But we didn't leave.
Just as I thought we were going to, Ranma stopped and asked
me if he could borrow my bikini."  She paused, slightly
puzzled.  Strange.  Last night, the idea of that pervert
borrowing her bathing suit had enraged her; now, aside from
a slight residual embarrassment, she felt nothing.
   Sayuri nodded.  "Yeah, that's right.  I wanted to ask
you about that.  I saw her wearing it at the pool.  That bitch
was flaunting it off like it was hers or something."  Scowling,
she spat out a single word, "Pervert!" as if it fully summed up
her feelings.  It probably did.
   For a moment Akane felt an irrational irritation at her
friend insulting her former fiance, but quickly reminded
herself that Sayuri's assessment was true.  He _was_ a
pervert and, though she had never thought to apply it to him,
did not the other word fit as well?
   "So then. . . why did you lend it to her?"
   Akane's countenance darkened.  "I didn't lend it to
him at all, Sayuri.  He must have picked it up after we fought.
After I left.  After. . . ."  Knuckles whitened on her mug.  "I
can't believe. . . I can't believe he actually went _swimming_
after we broke up!"  Another emotion joined her repertoire
for the evening: anger.  "That. . . that insensitive jerk!"  She
fixated her glare on Sayuri.  "Were you there?  What did that
baka do?"
   Smirking slightly, Sayuri leaned back into her seat.
"Are you sure you want to know?"  She gestured at Akane's
claw-like grip of the coffee mug.  "You're looking pretty
tense as is. . . and I'm afraid this isn't going to make you any
happier."
   For a moment -- briefly, an instant of doubt -- she
hesitated: did she really want to know?  Her anger with
Ranma already felt complete; what would it avail her to
despise him more?  And yet. . . she had to know, _had_ to
know, what had happened during the previous night.
   She gave a slight nod for Sayuri to continue, and
listened attentively as her friend ran through  the events of the
party after Akane's departure.  Sayuri certainly seemed to
enjoy the telling, and left out no detail.  The narrative was
quite damning, and Akane found a whole sequence of
emotions passing through her; or at the least, a single emotion
building and intensifying within.  Ranma, happily swimming;
Ranma hanging around with the guys; Ranma, flirting with
the girls; Ranma drinking and partying and playing and
having a _great_ time, while _she_ wandered, crying,
through Nerima.  How could he?  And she was _worried_
about him?  That . . . that. . . .
   ". . . Saw her one last time," Sayuri was saying, "as
she headed back into the house to use the bathroom.  You
should have seen her -- she was seriously messed up.  Drunk,
big time.  To hear her talk!  She said. . . ."  Sayuri hesitated
for a moment.  "Well, what she said isn't important. . . but
she had trouble getting it out, and Hiroshi and I could barely
understand her, her speech was so slurred.  That's the last I
saw of her that night.  Drunker than I think I've ever seen
anyone before.  It's a wonder she hadn't already passed out!"
   The feverish pounding within drained with such speed
and suddenness that she felt cold and empty in comparison.
Well, she thought.  Well.  That certainly explains the state I
found him in, doesn't it.  The idiot got himself drunk -- got
himself drunk _fast_.
   "Akane!"
   She slowly returned her attention to her friend, who
was looking at her with some concern.  It took a moment to
understand why.  Akane turned her attention to her hand, to
the remnants of the mug still clutched in her grasp, the jagged
ceramic edges cutting into her palm, the warm liquid
spattered across her forearm and dripping onto the table.  A
moment of incomprehension, then she opened her hand.
Broken fragments clattered to the floor.  She blinked.  "Oh.
Oh my.  I. . . I'm sorry."
   "Are you alright?"  Sayuri rushed over to Akane's
side of the table, grabbed her unresisting hand to check it for
injury.  Akane barely noticed.  With her anger gone, but her
mind reawakened from its earlier apathy or denial by the
emotion's passage, a host of questions and concerns were
suddenly assailing her.  She needed to think.
   "You're lucky.  You didn't get cut, or burnt."
Sayuri's words tumbled out.  "You -- are you even listening
to me?  Akane?"
   "I. . . I need a moment to think, Sayuri," she
answered.  She glanced down at her hand and absently shook
some of the coffee off.  "Something just occurred to me."
   Sayuri held her friend's gaze for several long
moments, before nodding.  "I'll. . . I'll get a cloth, tell the
waitress what happened, and, uh, go to the washroom, okay?
I'll be back soon, and then maybe you can. . . ah, finish
telling me what happened?"  She got no response.  Frowning
slightly, she walked off.  Akane hardly took note of her
departure.


On a bench in a park sat two women, illuminated
palely by the light behind them.  They sat in silence.  To a
passing observer, the similarity of look and dress between the
two made them appear as mother and daughter: and if so, the
younger redhead had done something to terribly anger her
older companion, for the taller woman was staring sternly
into the darkness, mouth set in a thin, hard line, while the girl
kept her eyes locked despondently on the ground, one foot
digging nervously at the dirt.
   The mother was the first to speak.  She did so without
turning her head, and her daughter started at the sudden
vocalization.  "So Akane left the party, alone."  It was not a
question.
   The younger girl nodded numbly.
   "And my son did not follow her."
   The daughter shook her head without looking up.
   "Nor did you."
   Again a slow nod.
   "Instead you both chose to remain at the party and
enjoy yourselves."
   For a moment the younger girl seemed to hesitate,
perhaps considering a protest, but then mouthed a barely
audible, "yes."
   "I see.  Furthermore, as a result of the quarrel
between my son and your cousin, my future daughter-in-law,
the engagement between the two -- an engagement decided
upon by both their parents sixteen years previously -- has
been terminated."
   "Ye -- yes."
   "And, in the aftermath of this disaster, instead of
remaining to face his dilemma head on like a man, my son
has chosen to run off?"  This time it was a question, and the
older woman turned her eyes, stern and seemingly flashing
with barely suppressed fury, upon the young girl.  The
pigtailed redhead met her gaze for a brief moment before
flinching away, crimson-faced.
   "He -- he left, yes, but, but. . . ."
   "But what?" interrupted the older woman, and for a
moment her restrained anger was clear, her voice lashing out
at the cringing girl.  "Eh, Ranko?  What?  What could excuse
my son's dishonorable actions?"  With sudden vigor she leapt
to her feet, began stalking back and forth before the park
bench.  "That he drank, I can accept.  Men drink, often to
excess. That he ignored Akane all night, and chose to remain
with his male friends, I, too, can understand.  Genma has oft
done the same to me, and I see nothing unusual in Ranma
doing likewise.  That Ranma got into a fight with a bully, that
my son broke his promise to Akane, I not only accept, but
approve of -- the slur against both his manliness and your
honor took precedence over his oath to his fiancee.  And that
my son argued with Akane, and fought with her -- well,
though I am certainly disappointed, I have come to
understand that the two do not always get along, and I
suppose that a certain tension between the two is not entirely
surprising.
   "But that my son actually hurt Akane . . . that he
willingly chose to inflict physical pain upon her to end an
argument, I find both cowardly and weak and unforgivable,
and by doing so he makes me question the entirety of the last
ten years of his training and the quality of the values instilled
in him by my husband.  What of all those training voyages?
Were they wasted?  Did my son grow up to be a true martial
artist, or a mere bully no better than the one who slurred his
manliness hours previously?"
   "No," yelled the young girl, leaping to her feet.
"No!"  For a moment she wavered there, trembling slightly,
seemingly surprised by her own temerity.  But before the
older woman could recover, she forged ahead.  "It wasn't like
that, mo -- Auntie Saotome!  I. . . he, he didn't want to hurt
Akane, he never meant to, he felt, no, he feels terrible that he
did so, he'd never, couldn't, do something like that again!
Ranma Saotome doesn't hit girls!"  Her voice sank to a
whisper.  "Ranma Saotome never hits girls."
   "Well my son," the elder Saotome ground out,
"certainly seemed to have forgotten that last night."
   "It was -- it was the alcohol, and the fight, and, and. . .
."
   "And that makes it okay?"
   Ranko hung her head.  "No."
   "And now, when the opportunity exists for him to
offer some kind of explanation, to make amends -- where is
he?"
   "He's. . . ."  Ranko swallowed nervously, looked
away as if unable to meet the older woman's eyes.  "He's
gone on another training trip.  After the party, after the
alcohol started to wear off, and he realized what he had done,
he felt. . . terrible.  Guilty.  Unmanly and dishonorable.  He
felt the only thing he could do was to leave, to train, that
maybe through his martial arts he could redeem himself.  He
left very, very early this morning."
   The Saotome matriarch looked at the younger girl for
several long moments, and then, suddenly, seemed to fall in
on herself.  The anger drained away, the fire in her eyes
dimmed, as her shoulder drooped and she sank down onto the
park bench.  "Oh, my son -- my son," she whispered.  "What
has happened to you?"
   After a brief hesitation, Ranko sat next to her.
"Auntie?" she asked timorously.
   "Is my son's life truly that bad?  Is he really that
unhappy?"
   Ranko blinked.  "Huh?"
   "By your own account, he seems a terribly unhappy
young man: lonely, socially insecure, desperate for friendship.
. . who does he turn to in his moments of weakness?  Even a
man among men must tire at times."
   Ranko tried swallowing in a mouth suddenly gone
dry.  "I. . . ."
   "You seem to know my son well, Ranko.  Do you
talk to him much?  Is he really that unhappy?"
   "I . . . I don't. . . ."
   "Does he . . . does he miss his mother?"
   The girl gave one single quick glance up at the older
woman and nodded numbly.
   "I see."  And then, "Ranko. . . Ranko, are you
crying?"
   The young redhead shook her head violently.  "No!
No, of course not.  It'd be silly for me to cry, right?"
   "Ranko, it's never silly for a young girl to cry."  She
placed a comforting hand on her protege's shoulder.
"Right?"
   The girl's mouth twisted bitterly.  "Yeah.  Of course.
For a girl."
   Silence descended once again as both leaned back
into the bench, seemingly lost in their respective thoughts.
Again, it was the older woman who first broke the quiet.
"Ranko. . . do you love my son?"
   Ranko started upright.  "What?"
   Mrs. Saotome faced her with the utmost seriousness.
"You heard me, dear.  Do you love my son?  Are you
attracted to him?"
   "I. . . No!  Of course not."  Ranko's red-faced blush
was obvious even in the relative darkness.  "What'd make
you ask somethin' like that?"
   The corner of the elder Saotome's mouth twitched
slightly.  "Come now, Ranko, it would certainly explain a lot:
the way you seem to know him so well, the way you followed
him around all night at the party, the way you seem so
anxious to defend him.  You understand him, I think, you
obviously respect him, and it seems you care greatly for him."
   "Well, er, yeah, sure, Ranma's a great guy and all,
but. . . but, there's Akane, right?  She's his fiancee!"
   "And wouldn't that simply explain the obvious
tension between you and your cousin?  I'm sure that, despite
Akane's protests to the contrary, she feels strongly for my
son; and if she discovered that you harbored those very same
feelings, would she not likely become jealous?"
   Ranko smirked.  "Akane, jealous?  Yeah, I think I
could see that happening."
   The older woman nodded.  "Especially if, as I
suspect, he confides in you more than in her. Is it to you that
he turns in his times of weakness?  Does he reveal his fears
and doubts to you?  He could never do so to his fiancee, I'm
sure -- but to you, a friend, a confidant, might he not let his
guard down, even if only briefly?  Are you his friend, Ranko?
His relief and comfort?"
   "I never thought of it that way."  She sounded
puzzled.  She looked herself over, as if in wonder.  "Maybe
you're right.  I -- he, he does, ah, admit stuff to me, that he
doesn't tell anyone else."
   "You see?  And the step from friendship to. . .
something else, is not as great as some think.  Especially
when the boy is one as manly and handsome as, by all
accounts, my son is."  A mother's pride had sneaked into her
voice, overwhelming much of her earlier anger.
   Again Ranko blushed.  "Well, Ranma is quite the. . .
."  She gave her head a shake.  "But, no, I swear, Auntie,
there's nothing between us.  I'd never get between Ranma
and Akane."  Her countenance darkened.  "If there was ever
anything there."  She sighed.  "And if there was, it's gone for
sure, now."
   "Now, now, dear," reassured the older woman,
standing up and patting her companion's shoulder.  "As bad
as things are, there is always hope.  Now that I have a better
idea of what happened, I think I will have a talk with your
cousin.  She is probably quite upset, and understandably so,
but I doubt things are beyond recovery."
   "You. . . you think so?" asked Ranko softly, standing
as well.
   "Of course."  Mrs. Saotome took a moment to look
around.  Aside for a few other individuals taking late-night
strolls, the park was still and quiet.  "But it is getting quite
late.  You have school tomorrow, dear, so I believe it is time
to be heading back."
   Ranko fell in beside the taller woman as they headed
off.
   "My son, of course, still needs a serious talking to."
   "Err, yeah."
   "And I am far from done with you, my dear."
   "Ah, me?"
   "There is still the matter of your infatuation with my
son."
   "But. . . !"
   "And your unpardonable behavior at the party."
   A guilty silence.
   "And the way you treated your cousin.  Remember,
Ranko, nothing is more important than family.  Not even a
boy as manly as my son.  Next time your cousin needs help,
you should be there."
    "Of . . . of course."
   "And there's still the matter of your clothes. . . ."
   "Mrs. Saotome?"
   "You still dress like a tomboy.  We'll make a lady of
you yet."
   "Auntie!"


As Ranma and his mother approached the Tendo
residence, now bantering back and forth on a far more
amicable level, a gradual weight seemed to grow upon him.
Each step seemed increasingly wearisome and laborious.  The
time spent with his mother had helped, had provided a certain
hope; but now he had returned to the source of his problems.
Did Mr. Tendo know that the engagement had been canceled
yet -- did he know that his son-in-law had hurt his precious
daughter?  And, of course, Akane was in there.
   But, as they approached the front gate of the
household, he spotted a single figure approaching from the
opposite direction.  His steps faltered and his legs seized up as
he identified the individual.  Akane.  He realized he was
breathing heavily.
   "It's okay, dear," said his mother softly.  "Relax."
   He noticed that his fiancee -- his ex-fiancee, he
reminded himself -- didn't hesitate in her approach: in fact, he
could almost feel her gaze sweep coldly over and past him
with complete indifference.  He shivered.
   They reached the front gate simultaneously: him and
his mother, and Akane.  A very uncomfortable silence settled
between the three.  Ranma tried to meet Akane's eyes but
found himself unable to: his gaze kept slipping away and
finding some fascinating detail in the road, an errant pebble,
the stonework of the wall.
   "Good evening, Akane," said the Saotome matriarch.
   "Good evening, Mrs. Saotome," answered the
youngest Tendo.
   "Did you enjoy your walk?"
   "Yes."
   "Good."
   Ranma felt his mother nudge him.  He took a hesitant
step forward.  "Um, er, hi, Akane."
   "Ranko."
   "How are you, ah . . . ."
   "Fine."
   "Did you . . . ."
   "It's getting late, Ranko," interrupted Akane.  "We
have school tomorrow.  Don't you think we should be
heading in?"
   Ranma slumped his head in defeat.  "Yes."
   "Oh, come now, girls," said his mother.  "It is not that
late, and it is a beautiful night.  You should enjoy it!"  He
glanced up at his mother, amazed that she seemed oblivious
to the chill Akane was radiating.  "Why don't you two stay
out here a little longer, talk, enjoy the fresh air?  I'll go in and
make you some hot cocoa."
   "Mrs. Saotome," attempted Akane.
   "Now, now, dear, don't worry.  It would be my
pleasure.  You two have not seen each other all day, so why
not take the time to catch up?  I'm sure you both have lots to
talk about."  The older woman turned away, smiling brightly,
and slipped through the household gate.  It closed with a firm
thud behind her.
   Silence.  They both stared at the large wooden door
before them.
   Ranma had no idea what to say, and so silence
reigned between them.  He thought he could feel Akane's
baleful glare burning into him, but kept his eyes locked
steadfastly on the doors.  Willing them to open didn't seem to
be working, but he kept on trying.  What else could he do?  I
just know, he thought, that anything I say to her is just going
to make things worse.  Of course, he added a moment later,
not saying anything probably isn't helping either.
   Just as the silence was becoming unbearable, Akane
spoke: "Sometimes that woman can be infuriating."  The tone
of her voice was far from being friendly or conversational.
   "Watch it," said Ranma, turning to face her and
speaking with surprising vehemence, "that's my mother
you're talking about."
   "Ah.  So you can talk, after all."
   He flushed.  "Yeah.  Yeah, I can talk."
   "But you don't have anything to say, do you?"
   "I. . . ."  He hesitated, then straightened his posture.
He bowed before her, deeply, from the waist.  He held the
position for a moment before rising.  "I'm sorry, Akane.  I
really am."
   "Oh, well, great.  I guess that makes everything
alright, then, huh?"
   "No!  No, but. . . ."
   "But what, Ranma?"
   "I. . . ."  But what could he say.  The apology had
come easily, the stubbornness that so often intruded gone.  He
really was sorry -- but what difference did it make?  Nothing
he could say, or probably do, would convince her it was
honest; and even if she accepted his apology as genuine, did
that change the reality that he had betrayed her last night?
"Nothing."
   "Exactly."
   He turned away, felt her chilling gaze continue to
bore into his back.  Damn, but this was stupid.  He should
just step away, return to his room.  Talking with Akane
tonight wasn't going to accomplish anything.
   "So. . . how'd you feel this morning?  Now?
Strange?"
   He was surprised by the question: sensing something
other than cold indifference in her voice was almost as
unexpected as the question itself.  "Fine. . . better, I guess.  A
little tired.  The queasiness is gone.  The fresh air helped."
   "So how much did you drink last night?"
   Ranma wasn't sure where she was going with these
questions.  He shrugged.  "I dunno.  I don't really remember.
A lot.  Too much."  Way too much.
   "What did your mom think?"
   "About the party?  I told her what happened.  She's
extremely displeased with her son.  She wants to have some
stern words with him."
   "Ah.  But he's not around, is he?"
   He looked away as he answered.  "No.  No, he's left
on another training trip."
   "Ah, I see.  It must've been hard packing with a
hangover."
   "Akane. . . ."
   "And what about 'Ranko'?  Where does she come
into all of this?"
   "She, ah, I. . . I followed Ranma around for most of
the night."
   "Convenient."
   "Er, yeah.  She also thinks I'm in love with my guy-
side.  And, ah, that you're jealous of Ranko and I. . . er,
Ranma and I. . . of the two of us, and that that's why we're
not getting along."  He gave a short forced laugh; it sounded
sickly and unnatural.
   Akane answered with a silence that was just long and
deep enough to signal her disapproval of his attempt at
humor.  "And what did she think of your drinking?"
   "She wasn't happy.  She said it was dangerous, and
unladylike behavior."
   Akane snorted.  "No kidding.  What was it that
Sayuri called you?  Bitch?  Slut?"
   His face darkened.  "Akane. . . ."
   "She told me a lot of things tonight.  You had a really
good time after I left, didn't you?"
   "Akane, no-."  A memory surfaced: bumping into
Sayuri in the swimming pool, an exchange of words.  "Listen,
Sayuri and I don't get along; I don't think she likes me."
   "Ah.  So now you're calling my friend a liar?"
   "No!"  Why do I bother, he thought.  I should just
shut up.
   "So you did have a good time after I left.  Enjoy
swimming with the guys?  Hey, get any compliments on my
bikini?"
   "Akane, no, listen. . . ."
   "I'm glad you had a good time.  See, I was wandering
the streets, crying.  After all, my fiancee had just hurt me,
called me a bitch in front of all my friends. . . my engagement
was over, and. . . ."
   "Dammit, Akane, whaddya want me to say!" yelled
Ranma.  "Eh?  I'm sorry?  I'll say it as often as I have to: I.
Am.  Sorry!"  He advanced on her, punctuating his words
with wild gesticulations of the arms.  "What do I have to do?
Bow?  Get down on my knees?  Huh?"  He stood mere feet
from her, his words echoing through the street.  "What.  Do.
You.  Want?"
   Her level gaze cut straight through his desperate
frustration.  "What are you going to do, Ranma?  Hit me?"
   He flinched as if physically slapped.  "Akane. . . ."
   No answer.
   "Can't. . . can't we ever be friends again?"
   It was an eerie echo of the night before; he could
almost hear her whispered plea: 'Aren't I your friend too,'
and recalled his response: a silent, steady stare.
   A long, deliberate pause.  And then, "What makes
you think we ever were?"
   He turned away, emotionless, hollow.  He knew he
could expect no better, yet nevertheless felt stunned by her
indifferent response.  There was nothing for him here: no
hope, no chance of redemption.  He might as well make the
lie to his mother a reality: grab his father and leave on
another training voyage -- a permanent one.  As he trudged
away with steps that felt surprisingly heavy towards the
house, he realized that there would never now be a joining of
the Saotome and Tendo family lines.


   Even before the gate doors had closed behind Ranma,
Akane felt her self-control slip and the tears escape.
   "Ranma," she whispered, but of course it was too late,
he was gone.  Not that she wanted to forgive him -- she was
still far too angry with him for that.  His words and actions of
the previous night had stung her deeply; how deeply, she was
just beginning to realize.  But she had never intended to lash
out at him the way she just had. . . not so callously, viciously.
   And yet. . . had she not taken a certain pleasure in
seeing her barbs strike home, twist deep?  To see him blanch,
to watch the life seep from his face.  Perhaps, now, he had an
idea of how she had felt. . . still felt, when she let her guard
down.
   But then why, now, did she feel so terrible?
   "Akane, are you coming in?  Did you and Ranko. . .
oh, my, Akane dear, are you alright?"  She heard Nodoka
approach her, but twisted out of her imminent embrace,
hiding her tears.  "Akane?"
   "I'm fine, Mrs. Saotome.  Really."
   "Akane.  Please.  I'm only trying to help."
   "I. . . I know.  I just don't feel like talking about it
yet."
   "If it is about you and Ranko. . . ."
   The Tendo daughter gave a bitter laugh.  "Believe
me, it has nothing to do with me and my 'cousin'."
   "And Ranma?"
   Akane spun on the Saotome elder.  "And it's not
about your stupid son, either!" she screamed. "Why does
everything always have to revolve around Ranma!  Always
Ranma!  This isn't about him -- it's about me!"  She took a
deep breath, forced her voice down to a more neutral level.
Yelling at Ranma's mother wouldn't solve anything.
   "Akane, I don't understand."
   "And neither do I, really.  I've been thinking about it
all night -- but there's so many things swirling through my
head, all these thoughts and feeling and things I just don't
want to deal with. . . things I can't deal with, not right now.
It's too much, too soon.  I'm too tired."  She gave a pleading
look at Nodoka.  "Please.  I understand you want to help me.
Really.  But not tonight.  Help Ranko, if anyone.  I said some
mean things to her, things I didn't entirely want to say.  I'm
okay, really.  I'm just. . . tired."  Sick and tired.  Of
everything.  Of the way things are.
   Mrs. Saotome looked uncertain, but eventually turned
away.  "If you're positive, Akane dear.  Everyone's already
retired to their rooms for the night -- but if you need anyone
to talk to. . . please, come to me."
   "I will, Auntie."
   "Good."
   "And Auntie. . . ."
   "Yes?"
   "Please. . . please don't tell my father what's
happened.  Not yet."  She wasn't too sure why she didn't
want her father to know, but she did know that, if he was to
find out, she wanted it to come from her.
   Nodoka frowned, but nodded.  "I had not decided
whether to tell Soun yet or not.  The poor man might not take
it very well.  I'll wait. . . for now, though I don't appreciate
the position you and Ranko are placing me in.  Maybe I
won't have to -- maybe things will get better."
   Not likely.  "Thank you."
   "Goodnight."
   Nodoka slipped back through the gate.  Akane took a
few more moments to stare up at the night sky.  It was cloudy
and the stars were obscured overhead.  "Oh Ranma," she
whispered, "what's going on?"  There was no answer, nor
had she expected one.  Shaking her head, she followed after
Mrs. Saotome.
   The door to the household closed behind her with a
resounding thud.


   He lay there in  the dark, hovering suspended between
dream and wakefulness, the breathing of his mother an
ephemeral sighing on the edge of consciousness.  Sharing a
room with her always made Ranma anxious as he drifted
towards sleep: what if he awoke a man, still softly encased in
the nightgown she had insisted he wear?  Why did the lack of
his father's deep rumbling snores -- whether a panda or
human in sleep -- make his sleep that much more uneasy?  Or
was it the constant fleeting recollection of the day's and the
previous night's events that unsettled his rest so?
   Normally Ranma welcomed sleep -- actively yearned
for it, in fact.  There had been periods of time in his life when
he had seen precious little of it. . . little enough so that, when
sleep was available, he took full advantage of the
opportunity.  Like a good meal, you never know when you
might have to go without.  It was his earnest opinion that one
ought to stock up on a good thing whenever possible: it might
not be around for long.  The main attraction of sleep,
however, was that it normally offered an escape from the
chaos and headaches of life: in sleep, calming silence and
soothing velvet enveloped him and kept jealous fiancees and
wrathful rivals at a safe, non-threatening distance.  Sleep was
peace for Ranma Saotome, and no matter how brief, peace
was always gleefully embraced.  He saw precious little of it.
   Tonight, however, suspended semi-conscious and
semi-aware, proper sleep eluded him as his mind roiled and
dredged up seemingly unfamiliar memories:
   Pale girl with dark hair, deep and painful sobbing,
words of importance spoken but now flitting dimly just
beyond recollection.
   Darkness.  Lurching vertiginous momentum.  A
solitary click; a face made unfamiliar by shadow and alien
expression.  And. . . .
   Ranma started; his body jerked, spasmodic
unconscious firing of nerves jarring him awake.  Dream-state
remembrances flared once in his mind before fading.  A
moment later he fell back onto his futon with a sigh,
wondering what had awakened him.  What a day, he faintly
thought, as he shifted to one side and tried to relax suddenly
taut muscles.  Akane hates me, my mother is disappointed
with me, I've betrayed those who took me in.  I hope that
tomorrow. . .  tomorrow; in mid, semi-coherent thought, he
faded into a sleep that was both deep and devoid of
troublesome doubts and worrisome dreams.


***  ***  ***
***  ***  ***


   As Ranma Saotome walked to school on Monday
morning, enough things had already gone awry since waking
up for him to know that, even by his standards, this was likely
to be a very bad day.  He scowled at the sun shining brightly
overhead and wished for the day, if not the week, to end
quickly and painlessly.  He snorted.  When did an entire week
ever pass by without varying degrees of pain being inflicted
upon his person?  Whether from his father, or a rival, or
Akane. . . .
   No, not Akane, not any longer, he thought, and
sighed.  Bitterness sank into depression as he continued his
path along the canal.  Breakfast had proven chilling:
everything appeared relatively normal -- Mr. Tendo with
newspaper, Pop as a panda eating scraps, Kasumi and Mom
in the kitchen, Akane sitting next to him at the table -- but his
ex-fiancee had made it abundantly clear that she wanted
nothing to do with him:
   "So, ummm, Akane, how did you do on that, ah,
History question," he had asked.  The question was lame, but
it was the first thing that came to mind.  "You know, the one
about. . . ."
   She had turned and leveled a withering glare at him.
"I didn't do it.  I had too many other things on my mind, for
some reason," she had answered.  "Although I'm glad you
obviously weren't distracted by anything."  She had then
turned back to methodically eating her meal.  So he had
returned to his own food, and a few moments later, breakfast
not done, Akane had stood up and left for school, early and
on her own.
   Nabiki, too, had left early, which meant that he was
walking alone as well.  It was probably better that he was,
considering the mood he had been in by the time he left the
Tendo residence.  He didn't much feel like talking to anyone,
anyway.  He'd been talking plenty in the last few days, thank-
you-very-much.  What I need right now, he decided, is a good
fight.  Burn off some of this frustration.  Where's the good
'ole Puzzled Porker when ya need him?
   He noted the old woman washing the sidewalk as he
made his way along the road.  How many times had she
splashed him on the way to school?  Didn't really matter this
morning, though.  He was already female, and dressed in a
Furinkan girl's school uniform to boot.  I love my mother and
all, he told himself, but dammit!, could she ever be insistent:
   "You don't think you're going to school dressed like
that, do you, young lady?"
   Ranma, who had been in the middle of dressing --
black pants and scarlet shirt, per usual -- had stopped with a
sinking feeling in his stomach.  "What's wrong with what I'm
wearing?"
   His mother's frown had been quite intimidating.
"That is not a proper school uniform, Ranko."
   "Yeah, but the principal don't really care!"
   "And it's terribly unfeminine!"
   "Auntie, please, don't start. . . ."
   "Of course, it's probably just another indication of
your infatuation with my son.  But really, Ranko, wearing his
clothes?  Comes from a lack of proper female guidance, I'm
sure.  Well, while I'm here, I'll see to it that you. . . ."
   Ranma had simply sighed, tuned her out, and started
changing.
   Fortunately, he had been able to catch Nabiki just
before she left, and convince her to bring a spare set of clothes
to school for him.  For a price, of course, but at least he
would be able to change back to a guy once out of the house.
The mere thought helped to alleviate his low spirits: after
being female for so long, he was itching to return to his real
gender. . . and get out of these stupid clothes.  Hopefully he
would be able to track Nabiki down quickly and change
before too many people saw him: he had been seen at school
in woman's clothing before (in both female and male form,
much to his embarrassment), but it still wasn't something he
particularly enjoyed.  At least he had been able to get out of
wearing female undergarments -- his mother had been
satisfied with just the uniform.
   Approaching the front gates of the school, he saw with
satisfaction that he still had plenty of time before first bell.
Loads of time to get to class, providing. . . .
   "Lo!  My beauty in pigtails approaches!  And
adorned in such proper, beauteous raiment!"
   Ranma sighed.  He really had to get out of these
stupid clothes.


   "Thank you, Anami," said Nabiki, dismissing her
informant.  That was the third recounting of what had
happened at Kiyoshi's party (each slightly different, but
consistent enough on the important details to be reliable), and
with each version her anger grew and her patience with
Saotome dwindled.  Oh, but would he pay, she decided, for
treating my sister that way.  Would he ever pay.
   She looked down at the bundle of clothing Ranma
had given her this morning, and smiled grimly.  If he enjoyed
being female at the party so much, why deny him the pleasure
of staying that way a little longer?  Settling back comfortably
into her desk, contemplating appropriate tortures, Nabiki
pulled out a pair of scissors and began to enjoy herself
immensely.


   "Kuno, get offa me!  We're gonna be late for class!"
   A solid boot to the head provided the incentive Kuno
needed to let Ranma go.  The kendoist recovered quickly,
though, and fell in next to his red-haired love as they crossed
the distance from the front gate to the school.  Ranma soon
noticed that, instead of harassing him as usual, the taller man
kept a watchful eye, imperiously casting his gaze about the
schoolyard.  His bokken was held low but ready.  After a few
steps with him hovering about, Ranma's patience dwindled.
   "Kuno, what the hell are you doing?"
   "Guarding your virtue."
   "Ah."  A moment later, "Why?"
   "The vile cretins who populate this school have been
spreading lascivious lies about you, my dear.  I have already
punished a number of them on your behalf.  Let them attempt
another slander!  They shall taste my. . . ."
   Ranma halted and pulled the ranting kendoist back.
"They've been _what_?"
   "Making lewd suggestions against your honor."
   "Insulting me?"
   "Far worse, pigtailed one, far worse: some have even
insinuated you may be a woman of loose morals!  But I
believe not a word. . . ."
   He yanked Kuno down to his eye level, fingers
fiercely curling into the taller man's collar.  "They've been
calling me a _slut_?" he hissed.
    Surprised, but undaunted, Kuno nodded.
   "Who?"
   "I cannot be expected to remember the names of all
the scum that slink about the schoolyard, pigtailed one.  But
fear not, I reprimanded them properly."
   For a moment Ranma felt woozy, sick.  It wasn't
supposed to be like this: he was supposed to be popular, they
were his friends now, he'd partied and had a good time with
them and opened up to them!  They were his friends, dammit,
they had to be, otherwise -- otherwise, he had lost Akane for
nothing.  And he wasn't sure he could deal with that, not
now.  "What else," he asked, and was surprised at how soft
his own voice sounded.
   "Pigtai. . . ."
   "Did they say, Kuno?"
   "Ah.  Some said you were a drunkard, drinking
wildly without restraint."  Ranma winced.  "Others suggested
you were violent, a 'bully' -- obviously, they do not
appreciate your vibrant personality as I do.  One girl unfairly
called you flirtatious and wanton, exposing your. . . your
assets and bounteous beauty for all and sundry to see!  But I
believe not a word of it, not one!"
   Ranma absently noticed the slight trail of drool
escaping from the corner of Kuno's mouth.  Were they saying
such things about him?  But why?  I didn't 'expose' anything
last night, he told himself, I didn't flirt with nobody.  Except
for Hiroshi, right?  He remembered and suddenly felt
ashamed.  But that was in fun, I wasn't being serious, I was
joking and a bit drunk, and beside, no one knows or saw.
Except for Hiroshi.  But he wouldn't tell.  He promised.
   "And then one evil cur said. . . he said that. . . no, it is
beyond telling!"
   He tuned back in to the flustered kendoist standing
next to him.  "What?"
   "This man, he said -- it is a lie, of course, it must be! -
- he said that you were found. . . ."
   "Found?"
   "Naked!  Your beauty unveiled!  Your skin exposed,
curves sultry in the dark, your breasts. . . ."  Seeing the
frenzied look to Kuni's eyes, the froth at the lip, Ranma took
a hesitant step back.  "Say it isn't so, pigtailed girl!  Have
your virgin treasures been despoiled by heathen eyes?  Say it
isn't. . . ."
   Anticipating the lunge, the shorter girl was ready
when he leapt forward to embrace her.  A swift, solid elbow --
perhaps a tad more vicious than was strictly necessary -- to
the side of Kuno's head put him down for the count.  He
collapsed, eyes open and swirling.
   "You don't have to sound so friggin' jealous, you
pervert," muttered Ranma, and resumed his walk toward the
school.  Aw, sheesh, he decided, I was worried about nothing.
I shoulda known better than to trust anything Kuno says.  He
always exaggerates everything.


   Despite the troubles with Tatewaki, Ranma
nevertheless managed to arrive a few minutes ahead of the
final bell.  He felt a moment's trepidation before stepping into
class: acutely aware of the blue skirt fluttering loosely about
his bare legs, knowing Akane was in there, still haunted with
vague concerns over Kuno's warning, Ranma had little desire
to begin school today.  But he could delay for only so long.
Taking a steadying breath, he opened the door.
   Did conversations halt momentarily upon his arrival,
only to resume in quieter tones?  It certainly seemed that
everyone cast surreptitious glances his way as he moved
toward his desk.  He gave a quick look for Akane; seeing her,
he considered going to her; but a subtle shifting of her
posture, a slight turning of her back his way was enough to
convince him otherwise.  Instead, he sought out Hiroshi and
Daisuke.  He decided to join the group of guys they were
clustered with over by the window.
   "Hey, Red, what's happening?" called one guy,
Tanaka.  A subdued snicker passed through the class.
   It took a moment for Ranma to realize that he was
being addressed.  "Me?"  Receiving a nod, he shrugged.
"Fine, I guess."  What's up with the name, he wondered.
Red?  Because of my girl-body's hair?  But they've never
called me that before. . . .  When he joined up with Hiroshi's
gang, he was greeted with a chorus of "Hiya Red" and
laughter.  Noticing the uncomprehending blank response,
someone added, "It's a nickname, man.  Relax!"  A
nickname?  I've never had a nickname before, thought
Ranma,  well, except for Ranchan, but that's not the same
thing.  He wasn't sure whether he was pleased or not -- but it
certainly seemed to confirm his belief that Kuno's dire
predictions were full of their usual exaggeration.  Taking a
deep breath, he tried to let some of the nervousness he felt
bleed away.
   Then the door opened, and a bundle of yellow-clad
energy vibrated itself into the room: Ms. Hinako.  "We have a
lot to cover today," she said, "so get to your seats, quickly!"
Everyone rapidly started to migrate back to their seats in
preparation for the beginning of the school day.  Before
taking a step, Ranma felt a tug on the sleeve of his blouse.
   "Ranma, is everything okay?"  It was Daisuke,
sounding genuinely concerned.
   He shrugged.  "Yeah, I guess so.  Why?"
   Hiroshi gestured vaguely towards the girl.  "Well --
you know.  You're a girl."
   "No shit.  Been this way all weekend."
   "What," exclaimed Daisuke, with Hiroshi supplying
the "Why?"
   "It's 'cus--," he started, and then, sensing Ms.
Hinako's ire focusing on him and his friends, decided that the
_last_ thing he needed today was another struggle with the
overly-eager chi-draining disciplinarian.  "I'll tell ya later,
'kay?"
   He dashed over to his desk before Hinako had a
chance to say anything.  He even remembered to smooth
down the back of his skirt as he sat down, and then felt a
singular embarrassment realizing that he had done so without
conscious effort.  I love my mom, he thought, and sighed, but
she's gotta go.  If I hafta stay in this girl body much longer,
I'm gonna crack.  His only consolation was that, contrary to
Kuno's threats, everything seemed relatively normal.


   It was breaktime between classes, and before Ranma
could step away to find Nabiki and retrieve his clothes,
Hiroshi pulled him aside to explain something.
   "I don't understand. . . ."
   Hiroshi looked caught between fear and concern.  "I
don't know who started it, but -- well, didn't you wonder
what they were getting at this morning?"
   Ranma shrugged.  "I just figured it had something to
do with my hair."  He fingered his pigtail.  "I mean, there
aren't that many redheads at Furinkan, so. . . ."
   The blond-haired boy shook his head.  "No, Ranma;
well, not quite."
   "Whaddya mean?  It's just a nickname, right?  I
thought it was kinda, I dunno, cool."
   "Trust me, it's not.  The guys are being assholes."
   "I don't. . . ."
   Hiroshi sighed.  "Listen, Ranma, do you remember
what happened Saturday night?"
   "At the party?  With Akane?"
        "No.  After that."
   "It's -- well, it's kinda fuzzy."
   "Sayuri and I saw you, once, near the end of the
night.  You were pretty wasted, and looking for a bathroom.
Ring any bells?"
   Another shrug.  "Not really."  Vague echo: girl, long
black hair; mirror; some guy throwing up.  "Maybe a little."
   "Well. . . I didn't see it myself, but some guys found
you."
   "Found me?"
   "Yeah.  Passed out on the bathroom floor."
   Ranma felt his face burn red.  "Oh shit.  I guess I
kinda overdid it that night."
   "Yeah, Ranma, just a bit."
   "But what does that have to do with my nickname?"
This time it was Hiroshi who flushed.  Noticing his fidgeting,
the pigtailed girl felt an uneasy sensation settle into his
stomach.  "Hiroshi?"
   "It's -- well, you see. . . when those guys found you,
you were, well. . . naked.  You must have been going for a
crap or something, and just fell off the toilet.  So when they
found you, your, you know, your bottom was down.  This
morning word spread quickly that you were a, you know,
natural redhead."
   "I don't get. . . 'natural redhead'?"
   "Your hair down there, Ranma," and Hiroshi pointed
at the girl's crotch, "is the same as your hair up there.
_That's_ what they're referring to when they call you 'Red'."
He took a deep breath.  "I'm sorry, Ranma.  I don't know
what to say.  Some of the guys can be real jerks -- I guess you
already knew that -- but I didn't think. . . ."
   The swelling pounding in Ranma's ears deafened him
to Hiroshi's words.  He leaned heavily against the lockers
behind him.  It was hot, suddenly sweltering, breathing
labored and school uniform stifling.  He closed his eyes
against the mass of students surging past him, veiled smiles,
smirks, hard glinting eyes and sly whispers; he closed his eyes
against the redness suffusing his vision, fierce anger and
fiercer self-loathing threatening to overwhelm him.  Deep
breath.  Control.
   'I was going to tell them that it wasn't cool, calling
you that, but, well, you know, I couldn't. . . .'
   Hiroshi's voice seemed far away, but discernible as
the hammering in his head lessened.  I shouldn't be this
angry, Ranma told himself.  It's not the first time I've been
insulted.  Ryoga and Mousse do it all the time.  Taro.
Happosai.  Pop.  Even. . . Akane.  And it's never been that
big of a deal.  It's never hit this hard before.
   (But he knew that wasn't entirely true.  The first time
Akane called him 'pervert,' he remembered, it had hurt, stung
him deeply, akin to the pain of today if not matching its
intensity.  Habituation had eased the bitterness of the word;
would being called 'Red', one day, no longer arouse these
feelings of betrayal and shame?  Briefly he wondered if, each
time he taunted Ryoga with 'P-chan', his rival felt the same
lacerating rage.)
   'Just don't take it too. . . Ranma?'
   He would bear it, like he had born the many other
affronts in his life.  Rivals, parents, teachers, fiancees, friends,
and the ultimate insult, the curse: he could carry them
without complaint.  He was a man, outward appearance
notwithstanding, and he would bear this new insult like one.
Everyone in the school had thought him a pervert at one time
or another -- the original Ms. Hinako debacle came to mind --
but in the end he had succeeded.  He was Ranma Saotome,
and Ranma Saotome _always_ won, in the end.
   'Ranma?'
   If only he knew what he was fighting for.
   "Hey, Ranma!"
   "Yeah?"
   "Are you. . . so, ah, you're. . . okay with this?"
   "Yeah.  Sure.  It's only a joke, right?"
   "Oh.  Ah, good."  A heavy pause.  "So then, weren't
you gonna say why you're wearing that getup?  And been a
girl all weekend?"
   Ranma smiled, and if the smile seemed hard and
sharp, and fell far short of his smoldering eyes, Hiroshi did a
good job of neither commenting upon it nor flinching.  "Sure.
It's a long story.  It has to do with my mom, you see. . . ."


   Ranma did not have time to finish his story before the
break ended, and realized belatedly that he would now have
to wait until lunch to retrieve his male clothing from Nabiki.
An incident before returning to class helped him realize that,
despite his efforts and tight restraint, he was still very, very
angry:
   "I don't get it.  Your dad signed a contract for you?"
   "Yeah.  A sort of suicide pact."
   "But you were, like, only four!"
   "Pop's a few bamboo stalks short of a full. . . ."
   "Hey, 'Roshi; hey, Red -- time t'get back to class,"
intruded a male classmate.
   The superficial calm Ranma had lulled himself into
through talking shattered.  That single word, 'red', conjured
up numerous intense and conflicting emotions: hot rage,
embarrassment, the mental image of himself lying naked and
unconscious surrounded by gawking and pointing boys.
Briefly he imagined grabbing the boy by the neck and
slamming him up against the locker, but he knew that he
could not.  His classmates were not martial artists.  And by
the time Ranma took a deep, steadying breath, the boy was
gone, anyway.  His anger slowly ebbed.
   And now, sitting in class, half-oblivious to Hinako's
incessant droning, he could still feel that heat lurking within;
in a way, it felt more reassuring than the constant depression
and hollowness he had felt since confronting Akane last night
before the gates to the Tendo household.  A quick glance
revealed his ex-fiancee intensely focused upon the teacher.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see Hiroshi and Daisuke
passing notes back and forth: Daisuke had wanted to know
the full story of why Ranma was still a girl, but missed out on
it during the break; apparently he was now being filled in.
Seeing the slip of paper quickly exchanged gave Ranma an
idea.
   Pulling out a page from his notebook, he quickly
jotted down a message: 'We need to talk.  Please?  At lunch,
by the tree?  - Ranma.'  Folding it in half, he wrote Akane's
name on it, then quickly passed it backwards when the
teacher wasn't looking.  He then concentrated on Ms.
Hinako, in the misplaced hope that his attention to her
teachings might draw hers away from the letter.
   "So we can see," she was saying, gesticulating wildly
at the scribble-covered blackboard, "how the text works on
multiple layers of discourse.  The wild dogs are, of course, an
expression of authorial rage (known, of course, in literary
circles as the 'Harnum effect') and an incarnation of the
_Hortus conclusus_'s naturalistic lashing out as the
protagonists invade this sheltered domain.  The odd spectral
anomaly which defies categorization and definition is the
ineffable anthropomorphized; it is our two characters'
ultimate inability to understand this projection of the island's
essential characteristics that forces them to flee.  Their
hedonistic lifestyle when removed from the tight constraints
of their previous econo-social framework -- rendering them
akin to childlike Kurtz' on a smoother moralistic landscape --
indicate that innocence remains corrupt and the Prelapsarian
state lies perpetually beyond their grasp: for them, paradise
can not be regained, though hope remains in the form of their
unexpected, and uniquely conceived, child.  For, though
denied them, the island is obviously the original _hortus
conclusus_, the primal Eden despite its shadowy
undercutting.  The text is aptly named, then, as B-."
   Ranma desperately stifled a yawn.  He remembered
why he rarely listened to Ms. Hinako teach literature.  Yet a
quick glance revealed that his letter had yet to reach Akane.
Why was it taking so long?
   "There remain, of course, aspects of the text that still
require unravelling.  What are we to make, for instance, of
the first character's obviously gendered construct?  Is she
integrated Anima, or something other?  As Anima, she is well
suited to our second protagonist, especially when we consider
his predilection for the stick -- obviously, an overt phallic
symbol suggesting virility but potentially violent and
disruptive sexual desires (and one must recall that, though
symbolic of hope, the newborn child was delivered amidst
violence and portentous suggestions of innate wrongness; the
child, therefore, functions as a condensed synthesis of the
discordant tensions between these sexual extremes).  The
spatial dichotomies also give credence to this type of
gendered reading: the low-ground waterfall region indicative
of the female sphere -- one must recall her fondness for
fishing, the raft, and water in general -- as compared to the
raised areas of male-dominance: the sole mountain, the
phallic flint-column, the raised abode.  The archetypal
imagery is noticeably vivid, emphasized, and recurring.
Which begs the question. . . ."
   A tickling on the back of his neck snapped him out of
his near-comatose state.  Without looking, he reached back
and snagged the letter.  He wondered what Akane had to say.
Somehow, he doubted she would want to talk to him.  Too
bad, he decided.  He wasn't sure when the determination had
come upon him to confront her, but he knew it couldn't just
end like this: whether he stayed or left, the Tendos' kicked
him out or not, Akane forgave him or not, things would be
made clear.  If ever, now was the time for honesty.
   If only he knew what he felt, wanted to say, simply
wanted.
   Glancing down at the note, he immediately realized
that something was wrong.  It was covered in writing, but in a
dozen different scripts: and not one of them was Akane's.  A
dozen responses, all in obviously female hands, but somehow
the message had clearly never made it to his fiancee.  His ex-
fiancee.
   "Jerk.  Spaz.  Pervert.  If _I_ had a boyfriend like
you, I'd a kicked you out months ago!"
   "Loser, you should be ashamed of yourself."
   "Stay away from my boyfriend, you flirt!"
   "You're ugly."
   "Is it that time of the month, or are you always like
this?"
   "Big bully!  Guys like you should be castrated.  Oh,
wait, you already have been."
   And finally, one that stood out, if only because it bore
the author's signature:
   "Don't you think you've already done enough?
Leave her alone.  Bitch.  Sayuri."
   His hand clenched convulsively, crumpling the note.
Why were they saying these things?  First the guys turned his
curse into a joke, made his shame into a name and presented
it for everyone to know; and now the girls insulted and
mocked him.  Two nights ago they had all been his friends,
offering drinks freely, talking and joking, swimming and
including him into their company.  And now it felt to Ranma
that they were all excluding him, again; and having tasted, if
only briefly, the easy pleasure of being part of the group, this
return to being an outsider was more painful than ever before.
He had overheard them all, many a time before, insult and
curse him.  You're a showoff, Ranma.  Casanova.  Jerk.
Bully.  You're too violent, insensitive.  Stop stealing our
girls; stop stealing our guys.  Why'd you do that, it's your
fault it's broken, it's your fault the school's always falling
apart.  Never a thanks: for stopping the principal, Kuno, a
bully; or for saving student and school alike from any of a
dozen lunatics passing through Nerima.  Not once had he
ever touched or harmed a fellow student -- after all, they
weren't martial artists -- but this is how they treat him?
   A sudden intense desire to simply stand up and leave
gripped him, and he wondered, why shouldn't I?  What do I
gain by staying here, what do I care what these idiots think?
The Tendos' is no longer my home, therefore neither is
Nerima nor Furinkan.  He felt the tenseness grow within,
muscles taut, sudden possibility of easy freedom singing to
his soul, and he lifted unconsciously ever so slightly out of his
seat.
   Why stay?  These people offered him nothing:
friendship, wisdom, respect, care, lo-.
   "The answer is forty-two, Ms. Hinako."
   "Correct, Akane.  Glad to see you were paying
attention."
   The tenseness suddenly drained from his body and he
fell back into his seat with a sigh.  The crumpled note fell
from listless hands and tumbled to the ground.


   Lunch arrived and, as quickly as circumstances
would allow, Ranma flew from his classroom up to Nabiki's;
but upon arriving there, found that she had already left, and
was thus denied access to his male clothing.  Instead, an all
too-pleased Kuno greeted him with an overly-enthused caress,
which a solid throw into a wall of lockers put to a quick end.
Disgruntled and grumbling over the necessity at remaining
female even longer, the pig-tailed girl returned to his locker to
get lunch, only to remember that, in the morning's haste, he
had forgotten it at the Tendo's.  It was all he could do to
refrain from tearing his locker door off its hinges out of
frustration.
   "Hey, sugar, you okay?"
   He turned as Ukyou approached.  She was dressed in
her usual male school uniform, bandoleer of mini-spatulas
draped across her chest and main weapon hefted over one
shoulder, schoolbag slung over the other.
   "Hey, Ucchan.  Yeah, I guess so."
   "That's a new look for you, ne?"
   Coloring slightly, he glanced down at the blue
Furinken uniform.  "Long story.  Not my choice, trust me.
I'm stuck like this for a bit."
   "Dark magic?  Evil demon?  Vengeful enemy?"
   "Nah, just Nabiki."
   Ucchan smirked, and gave him a consoling pat on the
shoulder.  "Even worse."
   He smiled and found, despite himself, his mood
lifting.  Considering how everyone seemed to be treating him
this morning, a few moments with a genuine friend was a
comforting relief.
   He followed Ukyou to her locker, waited as she
unloaded her bandoleer and textbooks, then eagerly accepted
the offer of lunch.  As they headed outside, Ranma could not
help but notice the many and varied looks and comments sent
his way.  Lewd winks, hostile glares, shouted 'Red!'s, half-
whispered insults.  He tried to ignore them all and focused on
leaving the building without hitting anyone or anything.
Once out on the field behind the school, the okonomiyaki
chef pulled out her portable griddle and ingredients, and
started whipping up some batter as the grill heated.  Without
looking away from her preparations, she suddenly asked,
"Ranchan, what the hell is going on?"
   "Huh?"
   "With those jerks back at the school."
   "You don't know?  I'm surprised, it's all anyone's
talkin' about."
   "Hey, sugar, don't forget I've been at work all
morning.  I just got here.  And I don't listen to what half those
bimbos hafta say, anyway.  Especially when it concerns my
Ranma-honey."
   Hearing someone come to his defense was heartening,
although he wondered what, exactly, those 'bimbos' were
saying about him that he wasn't aware of.
   "So what're they saying this time?"
    "Aw, the usual, you know?"  Then he sighed.  "No,
not the usual.  I dunno.  It has ta do with this weekend."
   "Kiyoshi's party?"
   "Yeah."  He paused, then it struck him for the first
time that he had not seen Ukyou that night.  "Hey, why didn't
you come, anyway?"
   A tremor of subdued disappointment underscored her
answer.  "I couldn't get away from work -- and, well, I guess
Kiyoshi forgot to invite me."
   "He didn't invite me either, I just kinda tagged along
with Akane."
   Ukyou poured a droplet of batter onto a coin-shaped
puddle of oil, watched it briefly skip and sizzle.  "Yeah.  I
would've gone too if someone had asked me."
   "Oh."
   He looked off into the distance, suddenly feeling
uncomfortable.  Some guys were playing baseball, other
throwing a football around.  Guys and girls were idly drifting
in small pockets, talking, laughing, incomprehensible
snippets of phrases and giggles drifting to him on the wind.
He wondered where Akane was.  The smell of cooking
okonomiyaki drew his attention back, and Ranma realized
that Ukyou was probably still waiting to hear what had
happened over the weekend.  With some hesitance, he started
to explain.
   Ukyou interrupted him as she slid his meal onto a
plate.  "Whoa there, sugar!  Uehara did _what_?"
   "Threw his drink at me.  Then started making fun of
my girl-side."
   She let out a low whistle.  "Not too bright.  What
didja do?"
   He shrugged.  "Beat the shit outta him."
   "Ouch."
   "Yeah.  Last I saw of him that night.  But I shouldn't
a done it.  He was a bully -- not a martial artist.  I should've
kept my cool."
   "But-."
   "No."  He punctuated his negative by stabbing a piece
of shrimp with his fork.  "No 'but's.  It was too easy.  And I'd
promised Akane I wouldn't get into any fights that night."
   "Is that why she's not around?  She pissed off?"
   Ranma gave a mirthless laugh.  "I wish.  I wish she
was pissed off."
   She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.  "What
happened?"
   His gaze dropped.  "We fought.  Big time.  And she
killed the engagement.  For real, this time."  Ranma shook his
head.  "It's really bad.  I think the Tendos are gonna throw
me out, and really, I can't blame 'em.  I don't know what to
do, Ucchan."
   After a brief pause in which she failed to respond, he
looked up.  Something about the sudden predatory glint in
Ukyou's eyes frightened him.  She sidled over next to him,
leaning in close.  Her hands found his and held them in what
was, he assumed, supposed to be a supportive gesture.  It
made him nervous.
   "Don't worry about a thing, Ranchan.  Your cute
fiancee will take care of everything: when you get -- I mean,
_if_ you get kicked out -- we wouldn't want _that_ to
happen, of course, but, let's face it, sugar, when dealing with
the Tendos, you never know _what_ to expect -- you can
come stay with _me_!"
   "But-."
   She silenced him with a finger placed firmly (a little
_too_ firmly, he thought) against his lips.
   "I know what you're going to say.  Don't worry, it's
not a problem, really!  And if you're worried about the
money. . . don't be!  You can work at the _Ucchan_ during
your free time, after all, you make one hell of a waitress."
   "Hey, waita. . . ."
   "Oh, this is just so exciting!"  She was almost
bouncing up and down with glee.  "We'll have to figure out
what to do with your sack-of-lard father, of course.  Maybe a
kiddie-ride?  We can set up a. . . ."
   "Er, yeah.  Hold that thought."  He jumped to his feet,
catching a sudden glimpse of Nabiki off in the distance.  "I,
ah. . . gotta go."  Without waiting for an answer, he sprinted
away.  Crossing the field, he asked himself, what was I
thinking, telling her that?  I keep forgetting: Ucchan's not a
friend.  She's a fiancee.


   Dealing with Nabiki, Ranma mused, was somewhat
akin to dealing with a cat: though small and relatively
harmless looking, her outward appearance belied the
terrifying and formidable foe that lurked behind the facade;
and just like a cat, she was as prone to simply toy with her
plaything -- claws retracted and playfully boxing to relieve
boredom -- as she was to shred her prey once her ire was
raised.  And like most encounters he had endured with felines,
he more often than not came away from Nabiki feeling both
drained and humiliated.  The difference, of course, was that at
least cats usually left his wallet unharmed; not so the middle
Tendo daughter.  Shivering unconsciously, he tried to banish
the persistent image of a languorously stretching Nabiki
dressed in a cat-suit from his mind.
   Approaching her and the accompanying circle of
friends, he couldn't help but feel he was entering into what
would be a very difficult and costly battle.  He suddenly
wondered if, like everyone else, she had heard of what
transpired at Kiyoshi's party two nights ago.
   One glance at her and Ranma understood that Nabiki
knew.  She was angry.  Normally she kept careful control of
her emotions, but as she took note of his approach clear an
unmistakable anger swept across her features, washing aside
the casual pleasure she seemed to enjoy with the other girls.
But whereas they cast hot, hostile looks his way, Nabiki's
anger was cold: it glinted glacially beneath narrowed eyes
and betrayed itself through a clenched fist, her stiffened back.
The girls he ignored with ease; Nabiki's unwavering diffident
gaze chilled him.  Steeling himself, he walked up to her.
Again he railed against the shortness the curse imposed upon
him when in his female body: it was hard to feel confident
when all the girls, Nabiki included, seemed to tower
overhead.
   "Nabiki," he started, but was cut off as one of her
lackeys -- Anami was her name, he remembered -- barred the
way.
   "You have some nerve," she hissed.  "You bastard."
   "Hey, I-."
   Another girl, Akemi, joined her friend.  "Go away,
you jerk."
   He felt himself losing ground.  Like in any battle,
momentum was everything, and his had been cut away before
getting a single word in.  He had never been good at
confrontations with girls, especially when they didn't involve
martial arts.  Ignoring an instinctive urge to back away and
leave, he ignored the two and called past them.  "Nabiki --
Nabiki, c'mon, I just wanna talk!"
   "Why should she talk to an asshole like you?"
   "You get your thrills beating up on girls?"
   "Akane wasn't enough, you want to try her sister
now, too?"
   "You think we're going to let you?"
   The sudden and intense anger that roiled and surged
up within him must have been apparent in his face, for a
flicker of fear swept across the gathered girls and they took a
hesitant step back.  How dare they accuse me of that?  I do
_not_ beat up on girls, he thought, but at the same time, _do
they really think they could stop me_ flashed across his mind
as he unconsciously assessed the fighting ability of the young
women before him.  That they would suggest he would
purposefully hurt Akane, could take pleasure in harming
Nabiki, fed his rage; but the realization that he considered --
no matter how briefly -- actually fighting his way past his
accusers was like water on fire, dousing his emotions and
leaving him feeling momentarily stunned.
   A short, calming breath, and he tried again, a hint of
pleading creeping into his voice.  "Nabiki, I-."
   Anami obviously found enough courage to cut him
off again.  "You just don't," she started, but was in turn
interrupted by Nabiki.
   "It's okay, girls.  I've been meaning to talk to
Saotome, anyway.  Now's as good a time as any."
   Reluctantly and with evil eyes, Nabiki's friends
backed off.  The Tendo sister came forward and, without a
word, took Ranma by the arm and pulled him aside.  With
enough distance to ensure a modicum of privacy, she
confronted him.
   "So.  What can I help you with, Saotome?"
   "Well.  That is. . . I -- I'd like my clothes back.
Nabiki.  Ah, please?"
   "Is that all?"
   "Umm, yes?"
   "No, Ranma, that is not all.  Not by a long shot."
   Her voice was only slightly above a very hard, very
dangerous whisper.  He gulped.
   "Then, what-."
   "What else?  There's the little matter of my sister."
   "Akane."
   "No, Kasumi.  Of course Akane, you dolt.  There's a
lot of rumors going around right now, Saotome.  Really nasty
stuff.  About Kiyoshi's party.  About you.  You drinking.
You and my sister."
   "Nabiki. . . ."
   "Did you hurt my sister?"
   "You don't. . . ."
   "DID YOU HURT MY SISTER?"  Her voice, loud,
angry, sharp, seemed to echo across a schoolyard that was
suddenly eerily quiet.
   His gaze dropped to the ground, unable to meet hers
any longer.  "Yes," he whispered.
   "Did you hit my sister?"
   And now his head snapped back up, shocked at the
very idea.  "No!"
   There was a brief moment in which penetrating,
appraising hazel eyes locked with his.  She gave the slightest
of nods, as if coming to a decision.  Some of the tenseness
seemed to ease out of Nabiki.  "No, I suppose you didn't.
That's not like you.  You may be a jerk-and-a-half, Ranma,
but I don't think you'd hit my sister."
   He suppressed a sigh of relief.
   "But you _did_ hurt her, and you're going to pay for
that."  His hand twitched instinctively for his wallet, before he
realized that, what with wearing a skirt and everything, he
didn't have it on him.  The motion was not lost on Nabiki.
"Oh no, Saotome.  You're not going to get off that easy.  You
think you can bribe you way out of something like this?"
Her eyes glinted.  "This isn't some blouse you've stained or
some cooking experiment you've avoided or some meal you
sneaked off to behind my sister's back: this is family."
   She punctuated her statement with a sharp jab of the
finger to his chest.  Her now-raised voice was easily heard by
the numerous onlookers and eavesdroppers.  "Family,
Saotome.  Nobody -- not even the 'mighty' Ranma Saotome -
- messes with a Tendo and gets away with it!  Understand?
Did you really think _money_ would excuse what you've
done?"
   Ranma, visibly sweating, swallowed nervously.  He
hated it when Nabiki got like this.  The image of Nabiki-in-a-
cat-suit flashed before his eyes again, rearing back and paws
ready to strike.  Did claws glint in schoolyard sunlight?  "No
-- no!  Of course not!"
   "That's right, Ranma," she said, stepping forward.
"Not money. . . ."
   "Then   then what?"
   "I expect nothing less than . . . ."
   He winced in anticipation.
   "A full calendar-style photo shoot!  No, make that
two!  A swimsuit edition and a lingerie edition!"
   It took Ranma's brain a moment to recuperate, and
Nabiki was there to help him recover from were he lay
sprawled on the ground.  He was only dimly aware of the
laughs and jeers coming from around them; his attention was
entirely fixated on her.  What was Nabiki up to?  She was
waving and grinning at her friends and schoolmates as she
pulled him to his feet.
   But then her grip tightened, surprisingly painful on
his arm, and she addressed him in a whisper he knew was
meant for his ears only.  "I'm serious, Ranma: you're not off
the hook.  When I'm done sifting through the rumors and
exaggerations, I'll know exactly what went on.  If what I've
heard is true, and Daddy-dearest finds out, you'll find
yourself kicked out of the house so fucking fast your chestnut
fist'll seem a parlor trick in comparison.  You messed up big,
Saotome, and it's gonna cost you, big.  Silence ain't cheap."
She released her grip on his arm.
   "Ta ta!"  She turned and walked away, speaking to
him over her shoulder, voice back to normal.  "And we'll set
up an appointment for your 'session' later."
   It was a testament, perhaps, to how seriously he
wanted to return to manhood that, momentarily pushing aside
concerns over what she had said, he called out after her.
"But, Nabiki -- what about my clothes?"
   She glanced back and smirked.  "What, you think I'm
going to waste the rest of my lunch break on _you_?  Get
real.  I heard you had a good time as a girl at Kiyoshi's, so
what's one more afternoon?"
   Nabiki rejoined her circle of friends.  Ranma, after a
few moments, trudged off as well.  He had no idea where he
was going, he only knew that he was heading there alone.


   The guys were hanging out behind the school, leaning
against the tree and sprawled out in the dirt.
   "Yeah, Kiyoshi, that was your best yet!"
   "You think?"
   "_Definitely_, man."
   "Cool."
   "Didja invite all those people?"
   "Nah.  But I figured, you know, invite ten, twenty
buddies, they bring their girlfriends, they tell their friends,
word spreads. . . at peak, rough count, I'd say over a hundred
were there at a time."
   "Wow."
   "Yeah.  But next time. . . ."
   "There _will_ be a next time, right?"
   "Of course!  But next time, somebody's gonna be
bouncer."
   "Bouncer?"
   "Damn straight!  I had busted chairs, weird shit
floating in the pool, a hole in the basement wall; smashed
bottled _everywhere_, and, like, even the fridge got raided!
And then, of course, fights. . . ."
   "You mean, like Ranma and Uehara?"
   "Or Ranma and Akane?"
   "Yeah.  And others."
   "Really?  Who?"
   "Well, Tanachi and Saeko pushed each other around
a bit."
   "Was it over that foreign girl again?"
   "Yeah.  Somebody tangled in my sis's bedroom, too:
had to wash the blood outta the sheets and everything -- man,
was she _pissed_, even threatened to tell my parents."
   "Damn.  But, I mean, who'd you use?  With people
like Ranma and Uehara crashing your party, you'd hafta be
nuts to be bouncer."
   "Yeah, I guess."
   "Unless. . . hey, you could ask Ranma or something!"
   "You're kidding, right?"
   "Well. . . ."
   "No way.  I mean, I used to think he was pretty okay,
you know?  A bit weird and all, what with turning into a
chick and all that -- but, well, still an okay guy.  And now?
Shit, the guy beats up on his girlfriend!"
   "I dunno, man.  I thought she just dumped him."
   "Yeah, sure, because he came in all hammered and
everything, tried pawing at her.  But when she pushed him
away he got all violent and shit.  Threw a punch at her.  But
Akane, she's a martial artist too, right?  Blocked him and
dumped him -- which pissed him off even more -- then took
off.  Ranma was, like, so flipping out that he almost started
beating up the other guys around him!"
   "No way!"
   "Yeah, Kaori told me!  But if you don't believe me,
go check Kokichi's neck: he's got the strangle marks to prove
it.  Or go ask Sayuri, she was there, she'll tell ya what
happened."
   "Wow.  I had -- I had no idea.  I always thought he
was, you know, all things considering, a pretty nice guy."
   "Yeah.  Me too.  But you know, those martial arts
types, you just can't trust 'em!"
   "I guess. . . ."
   "Aw, shit.  There's the bell.  Let's go."
   The group scrambled to their feet and took off at a
jogging walk towards the school.  A minute later, with some
rustling and a flutter of leaves, Ranma Saotome jumped from
his perch amidst the branches of the tree.  He took a moment
to smooth down his skirt and brushed some dirt from his
blouse, and then, once Kiyoshi and his friends were out of
sight, slowly followed their path back towards Furinkan.


   Hiroshi watched in silence from the rear of the class.
An ill feeling brewed in his stomach.  Having overheard the
escalating rumors, the exaggerations, the speculations, he
knew that Ranma could not be taking this well.  Thus he was
surprised when, just before the second bell rang, the pigtailed
girl strode into the classroom and took her seat.  She seemed
calm, face expressionless and placid.  Without a word she
pulled out her textbook and notepad, placed her hands softly
on the desk, and, looking straight ahead, quietly awaited the
arrival of the teacher.
   Conversation died upon her arrival but quickly
resumed.  There were numerous verbal taunts and insults that
must of reached her ear, but not once did she acknowledge
the speaker nor turn in her seat.  No one approached her
directly.
   "She's taking it pretty well, I think."
   "I dunno, Daisuke," answered Hiroshi.  "I've never
seen her like this.  Ranma's not the quiet type."
   "Aw, heck, she gets teased plenty."
   "Not like this, man."
   "True.  Hey, know what the latest rumor I've heard
is?  That she's actually buddies with Uehara.  No shit!
Supposedly she set up the whole fight thing, to look good or
something."
   "That's such bullshit!  This crap's getting out of
hand.  Know what I heard?  That after getting drunk she
screwed a coupla guys at the party.  It's. . . it pisses me off!"
   Daisuke paled.  "Oh man."
   "Yeah."
   "She -- er, he'll be _really_ ticked off when he finds
out about that one."
   Then the teacher took his place at the front of the
class and, after a quick scurry to their respective desks and
the ringing of the second bell, the students were washed over
by an incessant droning that was intended to warm their
youthful hearts to the wonders of introductory algebra.  It
failed, and a flurry of secretive note-passing commenced.
Hiroshi had little doubt what the subject of the numerous
little papers were.
   The only two students who appeared to be paying
attention, he noted, was the broken couple.  That Akane was
listening was nothing unusual; Ranma, on the other hand, had
never proven to be the best of students.  Yet there she was,
sitting primly and straight-backed at her desk, diligently
taking notes and listening to the teacher with the utmost
attention and focus.
   Could it be she wasn't aware of the stories going
around about her?  Or maybe Ranma had simply dismissed
them.  Some of the tales were, after all, so obviously
overblown that only a complete idiot would believe them:
Kuno had, over the lunch-break, sworn no less than seven
oaths of vengeance, death, and humiliation against 'that vile
sorcerer' and 'abuser of women' Ranma Saotome.
   Problem was, some of the rumors and insults being
passed around were far subtler and contained disturbing
snippets of the truth.  Minor manipulations of the fight
between Ranma and Uehara, twists of Ranma's words from
around the fireplace that night, slight embellishments of the
incident with Akane: these near-truths promised to wound the
martial-artist far deeper than any obvious lie.  By turning her
self-confessed weaknesses against her -- fears concerning
menstruation, facets of her youth, hints of unhappiness,
aspects of that night -- these insults were proving far uglier
than any in the past.
   And it's my fault, Hiroshi thought.  I promised
Ranma I wouldn't tell anyone the stuff she told me, she
trusted me, she confided in me, and I betrayed her.  Without
realizing it, he had provided Sayuri with the ammunition she
needed to strike back at the man that, for reasons Hiroshi
couldn't fathom, she seemed to hate.  And so I sit back and let
my girlfriend spread lies about my friend, he told himself, and
I sit back as the guys call her 'Red,' and the girls call her a
red-haired bitch, and the one night Ranma allows herself to
relax and open-up gets twisted into another example of why
she shouldn't.  I sit back and say nothing and don't come to
my friend's defense and don't even hang out with him over
lunch.
   And though he tried to rationalize it -- it's partly
Ranma's fault, she isn't helping by coming to school as a girl,
she _did_ act like an ass getting drunk like that; Akane isn't
helping either, staying quiet and keeping to herself -- he
knew, in the end, the real reason why he didn't say anything:
cowardice.  After all, he was part of the group, he finally had
a girlfriend -- a popular one at that! -- and he could not bring
himself to risk all that with a gesture that would ultimately
achieve nothing, anyway.
   Feeling sick at his own inability and unwillingness to
come to his friend's aid, Hiroshi sank deeper into his seat and
awaited the end of class.


   Afternoon gym: the period he had eagerly awaited all
day.  A chance to let off some steam, to work off some
aggression.  To prove he was the same Ranma as the week
before, and the month before that.  And, more importantly,
the last class of a day that had, even more than anticipated,
proven to be very, very bad.
   But now, once again, even this simple pleasure was
being denied him.  Someone had broken into his locker and
stolen his gym clothes.  Realizing belatedly that he could
have worn _those_ if he had turned back into a man this
morning did nothing to improve his mood.  This loss of
another opportunity to return to maleness overshadowed even
his outrage at having the privacy of his locker violated.  For
the umpteenth time that afternoon he took a deep, calming
breath and clenched his fist so tight he felt nail dig painfully
into calloused palm.
   When he opened his eyes he felt another's gaze upon
him; and glancing to the side, saw Akane, reaching into her
locker, looking at him.  Their eyes locked, and for the
indeterminable time during which nothing existed but those
large, soft, brown eyes, the troubles of the day faded into
inconsequentiality.  For a moment -- the briefest of moments -
- she even seemed to look at him with sadness, or regret, or
sympathy; but then her gaze hardened, and she looked away,
and pulling her gym bag from her locker, left without another
word.
   He sighed and trudged, alone, towards the gym.
   His lack of proper clothing did not concern him
overly much.  After all, school dress regulations had meant
little to him in the past, and neither the skirt nor blouse would
hinder his athleticism.  If fighting with a pig chained to his
wrist had taught him anything, it was how to ignore the little
distractions when it was time to perform.
   Unfortunately, it seemed that, once again, this day
would not be going his way.
   The boys and girls quickly separated into their
respective groups, the former to play soccer and the latter,
baseball.  Ranma moved to join the other guys when a hand
pulled him back.
   "Sorry, Saotome, but no-can-do."
   He gave the coach a quizzical glance.  "Huh?  Why
not?"
   "Uniform."
   "Aw, c'mon Coach, I've never had to wear a uniform
before!"
   The teacher scowled at that.  "Just because you got
away with it in the past doesn't make it right, Saotome!  But
that's not the reason.  I just can't have you running around
out there dressed like that."
   "But it's no big deal, honest," protested Ranma.
"Just 'cus I'm wearing a stupid skirt don't mean I can't play
soccer!"
   "It's not that.  It's your shoes.  Mandatory policy: you
have to wear proper footwear out there.  School's worried
you might slip and hurt yourself."
   "But-."
   "Not 'buts,' Saotome.  I know you're pretty tough,
but rules are rules, and _this_ one the principal hasn't
excluded you from.  You'd be a distraction to the team,
anyway, dressed like that.  So no soccer."  The teacher looked
around, them motioned over towards the baseball diamond.
"Err, I dunno.  Go join the girls, play some baseball."
   Ranma opened his mouth, closed it, and, glowering,
turned away and stalked towards the girl's end of the field.
Improper footwear?  Hurt himself slipping on the grass?
Distraction?  What kind of bullshit was this, anyway?  Well,
whatever.  Although not as enjoyable as a rousing game of
soccer, maybe knocking a few balls into the stratosphere
would prove as satisfying.
   But as he approached the diamond, he knew that
would probably prove unlikely.  He steeled himself to
continue as, upon noticing his arrival, the girls stopped their
game and turned what seemed a collective glare his way.  The
assistant coach came forward.
   "Ah, sorry about this, Mrs. Tanaka," he said.  "Coach
told me to join the girls today.  'Cus of my uniform.  Guess
it's okay for baseball, tho'."
   Tanaka shrugged.  "Fine."  She gestured towards the
bench.  "You can join the red team.  You'll be up at bat after
Yuka."
   Ranma sat next to Akane's friend.
   "I'm sorry, Ranma."  A faint whisper reached his ear,
and to his surprise he realized it was Yuka.  She didn't look
at him but, eyes downcast, spoke softly again.  "I really am."
And then she stood up and stepped away.  After a moment
Ranma realized that all the girls in the dugout were moving
back, effectively isolating him on the bench.  They turned
baleful eyes his way and said nothing.
   A moment later the assistant coach realized that the
game had ground to a halt and, looking up from her
clipboard, walked over to the diamond.  "What's going on,
girls?  Why aren't you playing?"
   "Because of _her_."  Sayuri stepped forward off of
first base and pointed an accusing finger at Ranma.  "We
don't want to play with _her_."
   After a quizzical glance Ranma's way, Mrs. Tanaka
asked, "What's wrong with Saotome?  Err, other than the
obvious, I guess."  The last was muttered but, to Ranma at
least, quite audible.
   "Well, she's a _guy_!"
   "But she's a girl right now!"
   "But we all _know_ she's really a guy -- and this is
supposed to be a girl's game.  I'm sorry, Mrs. Tanaka, but I
just don't feel _comfortable_, knowing a guy, even one
wearing a skirt, is playing with us."
   After a sigh, the assistant coach addressed the rest of
the girls.  "Does anyone else feel this way?"
   About half the hands immediately shot up, soon
followed by most of the rest.  A few girls seemed reluctant,
some even angry, but eventually nevertheless joined the rest
of their peers; Yuka, Ranma noted, was the last to raise her
hand.  To his surprise, however, Akane, standing somewhat
back from the other girls and bearing a neutral expression,
kept her arms at her side.  She spared a quick glance his way
before staring out into left-field.
   Mrs. Tanaka approached the bench and kneeled next
to the sitting redhead.  "Listen," she said, softly.  "I don't
know what's going on here.  They're not being fair, but if I
let you play, they won't -- and it'll go up the ranks that I
couldn't control my class, and it'll be on my head.  I'm sorry,
Ranma.  I guess -- I guess you'll have to sit this one out.
Watch from the sidelines or something."
   I almost made it through the entire day, he thought.  I
was so close.
   There was a long moment of absolute silence and
sudden clarity.
   Without a word, without the slightest
acknowledgment, Ranma stood.  He spared a long look at the
girls gathered on the diamond, slowly scanning across them.
The brief surge of contempt he felt for them, though quickly
gone, must have been apparent in his face: for some, unable
to meet his gaze, looked away.  He ended by matching stares
with Sayuri.  Her lips curled into a sneer of triumph; in
response, he smiled, ever so slightly, and watched the sudden
uncertainty that flickered across her eyes.  Then, walking
forward -- he took no pleasure, nor shame, from the hesitant
steps back some of the girls took at his approach; much to his
own surprise, he felt curiously nothing about the situation --
he picked up the dropped baseball bat and ball.  For a
moment he gazed off into the distance, into the clear
unspotted sky.  He lightly tossed up the ball.  For a moment it
seemed suspended.  With as much strength as he could
muster, with all the control and fluidity and power that
seventeen years of martial arts training had wrought, he
slammed the ball into the distance.  It disappeared with a
resounding crack.
   Lip curling into a thin one-sided smile, he nodded in
satisfaction, then softly lay the bat back on the ground.  He
turned.  Walked away.  Enjoyed the silence left in his wake
and the certainty that a decision made brought.
   He was dimly aware, as he strode towards the school
in an unhurried but unflagging pace, that the teachers were
calling after him; that the students behind had regained their
voice; that some were following him; that insults were being
hurled his way: but he cared not.  Entering the halls of
Furinkan, he made his way to his locker.  Those who had
followed stayed a respectful distance away as he calmly
entered his combination, opened the door, removed his
schoolbag, closed and re-locked the door.  Task done, he
continued his path through the school.
   The crowd of  followers grew bigger, as the rest of his
class caught up, as extra teachers were called in, as more
students noticed the procession.  Passing by a bathroom,
Ranma halted.  He disappeared within, and in his absence
uncertainty prevailed: should someone follow him?  Before a
consensus could be reached, he reemerged, smiling: that smile
grew as, taller, more muscular, dark-haired -- _male_ -- he
resumed his march.  A minute later, he stopped once more
before another locker.  The lock on it was of a quality and
level of sophistication obviously superior to any other around
it.  Nabiki's.  After a second's thought, he grabbed the door
on either side and easily yanked it off its hinges.  He felt
rather than saw the collective start of those watching as the
metal shrieked, bolts popping, and he tossed the locker door
aside with a loud clatter.  Rummaging quickly through her
stuff, he soon retrieved a clothing bag.  With a sense of
triumph he pulled out his clothes.
   His grin flagged slightly when he saw their condition.
Someone -- Nabiki, he presumed -- had taken a pair of
scissors to his pants and shirt.  There were even a number of
very unflattering kanji slashed into the fabric.  His favorite
red shirt and black pants were quite unwearable.  With a
shrug he tossed them aside.  So what, he decided, if I'm a guy
wearing a skirt and blouse.  Who cares what these people
think.  They mean nothing to me.
   Nothing.
   Ranma walked straight towards them, and they
stepped aside before his unwavering stride.  He did not know
what he would have done if someone had actually stood up to
him; he figured it would most likely have been quite violent
and something that, much later, he might regret.  But at this
moment, with the sea of blank, insignificant faces parting
before him, with all the emotions and passions and memories
of the day faded into a dull smothering haze enveloping him,
he cared very little indeed.
   One face -- briefly glimpsed, quickly avoided, utterly
unreadable -- nearly penetrated that consumptive hollowness:
but even Akane's brown, brown eyes failed to reach him.
   As he cleared the last of the students and faculty that
had followed him, he stopped.  Faced them.  Again his lip
curled up into that enigmatic half-smirk.  He cleared his
throat, took pleasure in the feeling of his newly-returned
Adam's apple bobbing within.  Gave a slight bow from the
neck.
   "I'm Ranma Saotome," he said.  "Sorry 'bout this."
   Turning his back on them all he left Furinkan High
School.


   *** Dilemma Ends  ***

Continued in Choices: Decision

*****
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