To reply, post publically or e-mail the author at latin_d@uol.com.ar
Enjoy!
The FFML Refugee List
Greetings!
Finally, after so much procrastination, I've finished chapter 7. Please
forgive the delay; I'll try to be faster next time.
Truckloads of thanks go to my prereaders, Larry F, Wanderer D, Henrique
M. Holschuh and Con_Man. Especially Larry F, who is responsible for
every bit of accurate information about the workings of the
military--not to mention all the scenes that would've been much poorer
without his help. Thanks, Larry!
Now, please, people, send C&C. Those who know me are aware of my bias
towards public comments, but I'll take anything you can throw this way.
Just a word or two to let me know what you think of it; you'll make one
happy Latin guy. C'mon, you know you want to... ^_^
Larry F also hosts all of my fanfics (not that there're so many to begin
with), so previous chapters can be found at:
http://lwf58.tripod.com/fan_fiction/latin_d/
And while you're at it, you could visit Joy Lyn's great crossover
archive. It also hosts Silent Battles, and many other
crossovers--including many which have nothing to do with Ranma (yay!).
Go to:
http://www.geocities.com/Tokyo/Shores/5533/index.html
Now, if Ranma crossovers or fusion is what you want, you must try
Tannim's webpage, at: http://tannim.anifics.com/index.html Some of the
my favourites are hosted here--like SB. :-p
With all that behind us, enjoy!
---
DISCLAIMER: Ranma 1/2 belongs to the brilliant Takahashi Rumiko.
Robotech is owned by Harmony Gold USA, Inc. No copyright infringement is
intended.
This story is based on McKinney's books.
___________________________________
SILENT BATTLES
A Ranma 1/2 / Robotech crossover
by Latin_D (latin_d@uol.com.ar)
___________________________________
Chapter 7: Insights
---
The last of his students from the afternoon class walked out the
big metallic double door, and Ranma Saotome, master of the Anything-Goes
School of Martial Arts, leaned back against one of walls of the training
hall, his brow glistening in the cold white light. He rested there for a
few seconds, but his dry throat demanded attention and thus, with a soft
groan of complaint, he pushed himself forward and headed for the vending
machine across the room, his bare feet sinking slightly in the soft blue
gym mat that covered the floor. The chamber was unusually bare, having
been cleaned out in haste to function as an improvised classroom. The
vending machine was the only appliance in the room, and stood alone near
the entrance. Luckily, he needed nothing more.
It had been a long day, and it was not over yet. A beginners
class was scheduled next, and then he would have to stay after hours to
train the girls... Even when he was starting to doubt they really were
interested in martial arts at all. He shook his head wearily. People
said new jobs were always difficult to adapt to, and he was beginning to
see the truth in this assertion. It had come as a pleasant surprise that
some of his new students had been regulars at the dojo; it was one of
the few anorexic rays of light to be found in what was otherwise an
ocean of darkness.
The morning classes were comprised of lieutenants and other
commissioned officers, and some among them still viewed Ranma as an
outsider--although the Army had granted him the rank of second
lieutenant, hence making his incorporation to the RDF official. This,
added to the fact that word of his close relationship with the Captain
of the ship himself had somehow filtered through, had transformed
teaching during the past few days into an uphill task.
He fed the machine a few coins, and grabbed the soda it offered.
"Thank you, sir," a rasping synthesized voice addressed him. Ranma
started, not used yet to the wonders of Robotechnology, and half-waiting
for a crossdresser to attack him. Casting off the painful memories, he
opened his soda and took a long sip, sighing contently as the cold
beverage coursed down his throat.
It was no wonder that Ranma preferred his afternoon classes. They
were mainly formed by young recruits, just out from boot camp and
without as many prejudices. Plus, the cadets' bodies were fit and
healthy, having undergone a thorough training under the drill sergeants'
attentive care, and the elementary hand-to-hand skills learned during it
were still fresh in their minds, to boot. They were all diamonds in the
rough, any sensei's dream come true.
Likewise, basic training seemed to have instilled a serviceable
philosophy in them: "Do things the way your superiors order, no matter
if it makes sense or not." Genma would have drooled in the face of this
opportunity, Ranma thought, and promptly ordered them to jump into a pit
packed with starving cats. But he would use it to make them into martial
artists, instead. And they _would_ learn.
Ranma threw the empty can to a nearby trash bin with a flick of
his wrist, and strolled to the center of the room. He let his arms hang
loosely for a moment as he relaxed both mind and body, seeking the
needed focus. All at once he fell into his trademarked stance, and he
began a slow, if complex, kata. His feet danced across the floor, his
arms and fists moving precisely along the familiar pattern.
A small part of the pig-tailed martial artist's mind which wasn't
focused on the both graceful and forceful movements of his body felt a
tinge of nostalgia. The new position as a trainer for the Army left him
with little time for almost anything else. He arrived at the base early
in the morning, and never managed to escape before the city's artificial
sky was dark and spangled with innumerable imitation stars. He was
beginning to feel like a vampire, it had been so long since he had last
seen the light of day. Because of this, Ranma saw very little of the
Lynn family, and had been forced to cancel his classes at the dojo-
-though he kept on training Jason in his rare free moments.
However, on the plus side of things, he hadn't meet Rick in a
couple of days, which was no petty gift. Ranma grinned mentally at this,
then sobered up. Truth be told, the boy was not in the restaurant so
much any more, as he had taken to spending long hours in walks around
the ship. Rick seemed permanently sad and glum lately, and avoided
people whenever possible. Perhaps he ought to look into that...
The kata's finale found Ranma back where he had started: the
exact center of the training hall. An instant later, a new kata started,
this one explosive in its speed and vivacity--one of the more "aerial"
of the Saotome School. Colossal leaps carried him close to the large
chamber's ceiling, and Ranma appeared to stubbornly hang in the air for
seconds on end. At long last, gravity reclaimed him and brought him back
to earth, where another jump would begin it all anew. Arms and legs rent
the air, his red satin shirt painting fugacious crimson streaks through
the room, and caused loud snaps as the air rushed out of their way.
To top it all, he missed his dojo. He missed its wooden walls and
sliding panels; he missed the feeling of his naked feet on its polished
floor. The dojo possessed a warm, cozy feel to it, a hidden yet alluring
aura which couldn't be matched by the spartan, sterile practicality of
the military facilities. His father had taught him that all places were
suitable for martial arts training, and that even the most dull and
boring activity could become a challenging exercise--but during his stay
with the Tendos he had come to appreciate the comfort a dojo provided,
and now that he had finally regained it, he regretted not being able to
enjoy it.
A high kick marked the kata's ending, and Ranma lowered it ever
so slowly, tendons taut yet steady and firm. He let out his breath, not
at all tired, and flicked the damp bangs of shiny raven hair covering
his eyes out as he inhaled deeply. Sensing a presence, he pivoted,
discovering a small audience of twenty-some young men gathered at the
doors. They stood frozen, their mouths gaping in wonderment at the
amazing display of skill. Ranma smiled inwardly, recalling that these
were new students coming for their first class--Veritech pilots in
training all, if his memory did not fail him.
"C'mon in!" he called out, shocking them out of their collective
stupor. "That is, if you're not too busy actin' like statues...."
The recruits rushed in, some blushing slightly in embarrassment,
and formed up into perfect lines opposite Ranma with a precision that
betrayed their recent military training. He gave the drill instructors
that followed them in a nod of greeting and turned back to the
inductees, who were looking at him expectantly.
"I'm your new sensei, Ranma Saotome. Nice to meet ya all." He
bowed, and nodded, pleased, when his students returned the gesture.
With only a limited experience in the Army, Ranma had already
learned an important lesson: making a good impression was at best
secondary to making a _lasting_ one. "My pop liked to say the path of
the martial artist is fraught with peril." He gave them a toothy smirk,
his blue eyes shining in barely-contained mirth, noticing the curiosity
plain in their faces. "In the next two hours I'm gonna show you why."
Many feet shifted uncomfortably, and the class began.
---
Only inches worth of the strongest polycarbonate the UEG's
scientists managed to develop after ten years of research separated him
from the dark void, which patiently waited to suck him into oblivion. It
was a fearsome and humbling picture, capable of throwing the bravest
person into an inner philosophical debate about his or her actual place
in the grand scheme of things.
Perhaps this was the reason the Super Dimensional Fortress One's
only viewport which was allowed to be visited by the fifty thousand plus
refugees was virtually always deserted. Most of Macross' war-weary
inhabitants preferred to ignore the fact that they were lost amidst the
cold vacuum of space, far away from their home planet, and sheltered
from the harsh reality in the urban bliss their transplanted city
provided.
That same solitude turned it into a good, quiet place for
thinking and pondering--what Rick Hunter most needed at that moment. The
viewport (simply called "the window" by the civilians, in a show of
utter disrespect for military tradition that amused Rick greatly) was
almost six meters tall and double that wide, and beyond it lay a
breathtaking sight: a firmament richer than any other ever observed from
Earth. Rick was not able to appreciate it, though, as his mind was busy
on other rather sadder matters.
The days he had spent trapped with Minmei had been demanding,
frightening... and magical. Like futuristic Robinson Crusoes, they had
shared an adventure, with enough drawbacks, action and intimate moments
to merit a novel. He had thought something had formed between them, a
special bond. But now Minmei ignored the entire incident, as if it had
never happened, trivializing one of the most intense experiences of his
life as a mere anecdote.
Their kiss, just before the workers had found them--it had been
real; he still could feel her sweet taste in his lips. How could she
deny it?
And then the war seemed to have caught up with him at long last.
He had promised his father never to become a fighter pilot. "Fliers
shouldn't be killers, Rick," Jack "Pop" Hunter had told his only son
back when he was still a little kid. "Don't make the same mistakes I
did." It was ironic in a way that Uncle Max had used those same words to
prod Rick into joining the Army.
When had it all started to come apart? What was the exact moment
he had lost control of his life? When Roy left the air circus to fight
the Global Civil War? The day his father died? When he had gotten into
the cockpit of that Veritech back on the infamous Launch Day? While
stranded with Minmei in the SDF-1's labyrinthine bowels? Or maybe when
they were finally rescued? Did it really matter? So many questions...
Rick grabbed his head with both hands, frustrated and angry with
himself at his inability to reach a decision. A faint light illumined
him briefly; he looked up, seeing a Veritech soaring away across space,
thrusters flaring brightly with the power of its reaction drives. Rick
followed it with his eyes as it lost itself in the distance, another
bluish star.
All of a sudden, a hand fell on his shoulder, causing Rick to
jump in surprise. "It's really something, ain't it?" came the familiar,
roguish voice. "Finest fighter ever built, in my humble opinion."
"Oh, hi, Roy," Rick greeted half-heartedly.
"Gee, feeling depressed today, kiddo? C'mon," Roy said, clapping
Rick on the back, "cheer up! We beat the bad guys again; the city is
back in top shape; we haven't been attacked in days.... What else d'ya
need?"
Rick looked forlornly to the floor. "It's just that... I--I can't
seem..."
"Lemme guess:" Roy interrupted him, smirking knowingly, "it's
'bout Minmei, right?"
"No. Yes. Sort of. She--she's different somehow, and I don't know
how to act around her any more. ...She changed."
Roy made a dismissing gesture with his hand. "If I were you, I
wouldn't worry much. Minmei's young, and a bit scatterbrained. She'll
come around, you'll see; you just need to give her time."
"Yeah, I guess..." An uneasy silence ensued, until Rick couldn't
bear it any more and asked, "Uh, how's the fighting going, Roy?"
The blond pilot looked him oddly, and then drawled, "We're still
hurting for pilots, if that's what ya mean." He gently turned the
younger man around and stared right into his eyes, his face seriously
set for once. "Stop beating around the bush, Rick. Didja decide what
you're gonna do or not? Are you joining the Army, or you're still busy
moping around like an overgrown schoolkid?"
"Hey," Rick protested hotly, "I'm not moping! Besides, this's not
my war to fight!"
"As long as you live in this ship, the war _is_ gonna find you
sooner or later," Roy assured matter-of-factly. "Where d'ya wanna be
when that happens: stuck in a shelter as a bystander or inside the
cockpit of a Veritech, fighting for your home and the safety of your
loved ones?"
"Pop wouldn't have wanted me to enlist..." Rick mumbled in a low
voice.
Roy's eyes softened somewhat, and his voice was warm and
reassuring when he next spoke. "He woulda understood, trust me. You must
make up your mind, and soon; war's not gonna wait up for you.... Gotta
go now, but think about it; think _hard_, okay?" He whirled around, and
began walking towards one of the large corridors that ultimately led to
Macross city. "Talk to ya later."
Rick's troubled gaze returned to the vast space outside the
enormous viewport, yet found no solace in the unconcerned stars.
---
The RDF base buzzed with activity as the ersatz sky started to
gradually darken overhead, doing the EVE specialists' bidding. The
continuous, light breeze that ran throughout the colossal alien vessel's
interiors carried a deafening cacophony of hundreds of different sounds,
and it was not unheard of for the occasional civilian to feel a little
dazed during their first visit. New recruits, adolescents most of them,
were herded like cattle to the barracks which would be their home for
the next two months; drill sergeants loudly chanted snappy cadence
calls, eliciting roaring choruses from the recruits marching in rank-
and-file formations beside them; the doors of the officers' club were
wide open, and laughter and muffled voices drifted out, adding to the
sonic chaos.
This same constant clamor was the one which allowed the sudden
outcry to go _mostly_ unnoticed.
"An instructor?! HIM?!"
"Yeah," Kim responded with a bored expression, "he's been at it
for a week now."
Lisa blinked twice, trying to shake off her shock "But... how?"
Sammie, walking next to Lisa, leaned towards her and, with the
edge of her left hand pressed against the corner of her mouth, stage-
whispered, "I heard somewhere that the Captain himself arranged it."
She, like the two other enlisted-rating techs that formed the Terrible
Trio, was dressed in a brand-new white gi, though more as a concession
to tradition than because of a request from their trainer.
"Nepotism," the SDF's First Officer said to herself with utter
disgust, as if that lone word gathered everything that was wrong with
the world. "Now, explain me again why you're going to see him so late,
please."
"Because," Kim informed, "the classes at the dojo were called
off, and we really wanna see him, and he's very busy in the mornings,
and Ranma was _so_ sweet that he let us come after hours for some--" She
made a short pause, heaving a melodramatic sigh-- "late training."
Lisa patiently ignored the giggling around her, and asked, "And
why must I come with you?"
Vanessa was the one that answered this time, showing a degree of
unspoken coordination with her two girlfriends that struck Lisa as eerie
and unnerving. "Because," she said, resettling her glasses with her
right-hand forefinger, "you gave your word, and we're not gonna let you
go back on it."
"And why is Claudia here?" Lisa glanced at her long-time friend,
who was separated from the foursome, her hands in her jacket pockets.
Claudia herself answered, a slight grin surfacing in her face.
"Because I've wanted to spar with Ranma since I met him, and this's my
chance." She looked at Lisa, and the grin widened. "Besides, it's always
fun to see you at each other's throats." She was wearing a gray sweat
suit, apparently intent on carrying out her plans.
"You seem to have all the answers, eh?" Lisa commented, a bit
peeved, idly combing her thick brown hair with her slender fingers.
"Okay, you win. Just make it short; I don't want to waste my first leave
in weeks in the presence of that jerk."
Minutes later, they reached the large complex of rooms and
corridors where new recruits received the bulk of their training. Like
most of the areas in the ship used by the Army, it was made up of the
kind of spacious, empty chambers that were so abundant in the alien
craft's huge inside. They entered through the main door, carefully
picking their way through the lines of inductees walking in the opposite
direction. In time, they arrived at the training hall where Ranma
worked, and were about to go in when the door unexpectedly swung open of
its own accord, letting out, to their complete astonishment, the sound
of pained groans and muffled moans.
Out came exactly twenty two young men--they walked so slowly Lisa
was able to count them with no problem whatsoever, a testament to their
sorry state. They staggered past them, lurching like drunkards, and
slowly fell in formation less than a meter behind the flabbergasted
officers.
"Guy's insane, I tell ya," one of them was panting, inhaling
loudly as he tried to recover his breath. "And I thought Morales was
bad..."
"I hear you," a burly man beside him concurred. "Oooh, dammit! If
I kick one more time my leg's gonna come off, I swear it."
"But... he... did... some very... cool stuff... back there," his
scrawny companion pointed out between gasps.
"Yeah," the first man agreed, grimacing, "he did. He's gotta be
some kinda Japanese Superman, or somethin'."
A tall, beefy, nasty-looking man, who Lisa immediately identified
as the squad's DI, exited the gaping door, bringing the conversation to
an abrupt halt. The recruits snapped to attention, backs straightening
and shoulders squaring--but she could note some of the young men's knees
trembling because of the exertion it required.
Claudia and Lisa looked at each other, both finding the same
doubts etched in their faces: What had just happened? And more
importantly even, what had Ranma _done_ to those men? They shared a
shiver as they witnessed the most horrible pictures in their mind's
eyes. Sparring did not sound as such a good idea to Claudia any more,
and Lisa expanded her mental list of Ranma's defects, adding "abusive",
"cruel" and "brutal".
The trio of young techs, on the contrary, appeared to take the
whole episode in stride.
"First class," Kim observed nonchalantly, receiving casual nods
from Sammie and Vanessa. Without further ado, they stepped into the
room, unaware of the incredulous looks their companions were directing
toward them. Claudia and Lisa warily followed them, and saw the Terrible
Trio waiting close to the wall, in an uncharacteristic show of
restraint, fascinated stares fixed on what was taking place ahead.
On the blue gym mat, Ranma was performing powerful, graceful spin
kicks with an ease almost surreal, and a tall, lean man, slightly behind
him, copied his every move, if not with the same elegant fluidness,
skillfully all the same. The man was in his early twenties, and had a
thin, slender face, with a small nose and refined features that gave him
a sort of urbane handsomeness. His skin, white as milk, contrasted
against his serene dark eyes, which stayed focused on his sensei. His
tall if lithe frame flowed from one position to the next in calm, swift
movements, and tough his gray sweatshirt was soaked wet with
perspiration, he gave no sign of fatigue when Ranma sped up, and merely
followed suit.
Not bad, Vanessa mutely decided, even though she still preferred
Ranma's exotic looks.
But just then a sergeant was approaching the pair, making Ranma
stop the exercise. "Sir," Drill Sergeant Morales said, "I'm sorry, but
Preston cannot stay behind his squad. He must be in the mess hall in ten
minutes, so I'm afraid further martial arts training will have to wait
until tomorrow."
"Can't he stay for just one more minute? I've got this great
technique I want to show him, where you use--"
"Sorry, sir," Morales interrupted, "but if we permit the recruit
to stay any longer, it'll play havoc with the training schedule. Major
Ghent set up that schedule personally. Would you want to be the one to
tell the major why you think it's necessary to throw his schedule out
the window for the benefit of one soldier?" The lean, square-shouldered
man's face showed the slightest hint of the beginnings of a sardonic
smile.
"Huh? Oh, in that case..." He turned to his student and bowed,
the man quickly returning the gesture, slightly more deeply. Then, Ranma
spoke: "This is it for the day, Greg. Remember to practice the kata I
showed ya, 'kay?"
"Yes, sensei. Goodbye, sir." The young man bowed once more and
rushed out of the room, Sergeant Morales one step behind.
"See ya tomorrow," Ranma called, and Claudia could hear him
softly adding to himself, "He's good..."
The door closed silently, and the trio of techs walked up to the
mat and bowed. "HI, RANMA-SENSEI," they said as one. Lisa shook his head
in disbelief and embarrassment for her friends' behavior. What did they
see in that man?
Ranma groaned, "Heya, girls. ...So you came, eh?" He did not
sound very thrilled.
"We wouldn't miss your class for anything," Sammie declared
cheerfully, "sensei!"
Kim was fast to agree. "You're the best sensei ever!"
"And the most good-looking, too!" Vanessa finished, winking
slyly.
The pig-tailed martial artist flushed slightly, then cleared his
throat, his left hand busy rubbing the back of his head. "Yeah, er,
that's, um, good. You, uh, keep that attitude." He gazed past them,
finally noticing the two officers standing by the wall. "Hi, Claudia,"
he greeted the brunette woman, and she responded in kind. Only then she
faced Lisa and, suppressing a grin, he called, "Hello, Tomboy."
Claudia and the techs winced, waiting for the outburst sure to
come. They did not have to wait for long. "Tomboy?!" Lisa roared, her
face red-hot and her fists tightly clenched. "Why, you loud-mouthed,
good-for-nothing--"
"Yeah, yeah," Ranma cut off, "whatever. Anyway, what brings _you_
here? Don't tell me you like martial arts..."
Lisa was still all steamed up. "As a matter of fact, I do!"
"Really?" Ranma gave her a quick once-over. "Your hips were so
thick I thought your hobby was eating cakes."
"For your information, I was the best in my class, and I bet I
could wipe the floor with you in no time at all, jerk!" Claudia would
have sworn Lisa's eyes glowed red with fury, as she ran to the gym mat,
practically shoving Sammie and Kim aside, and fell into a classic karate
stance.
Gotcha! Ranma thought, content. "Well, there's only one way to
find out, dontcha think?" His hands clasped behind his back, Ranma saw
Lisa taking a swing at him, and grinned.
---
"Why won't you... stop... dodging and... fight me... for REAL?!"
Lisa heaved as she directed a blow at her opponent's midsection. Her
fist swiftly closed in, but just when the punch seemed unavoidable, its
rapidly target moved sideways, and she struck the empty space it had
occupied only a fraction of second ago. Again.
"Hey, Lisa's doing really well," Vanessa pointed out from her
sitting position on the floor, her back against the wall and her eyes
intently taking on the on-going fight.
Cludia, seated next to her, turned away from the encounter long
enough to send her a skeptical look. "What do you mean 'really well'?
She hasn't hit him _once_!"
"Yeah," the bespectacled tech conceded, "but she actually came
close a couple of times. That's more than most of Ranma's sparring
partners can say."
Kim nodded. "Pity she won't last; she's already getting tired."
"I always told her she needed to exercise more," Claudia said,
turning a critical eye to her superior.
"Yes, all that time at her station can't be healthy. I know it
isn't for me..." Sammie actually sounded concerned for a moment. "All
that stress is gonna make my face become wrinkled, girls, I swear it!"
On the blue, padded mats Ranma dodged another flurry of blows by
backflipping in the nick of time, and she promptly forgot her distress.
"Go Ranma! You can do it, Lisa!"
"Who're you cheering on, anyway?" Claudia wanted to know.
Sammie pondered for an instant, her forefinger to her lower lip.
"Well, Lisa's my friend and my superior officer, and Ranma's my sensei
and a hunk, so--both, of course!"
Ranma paid no heed to the girls' remarks and made a show of
yawning mightily, covering his mouth with one hand while the other
rested behind his head. "You're so slow I could fight ya in my sleep..."
he said to Lisa. "Actually, this's so boring I'm fallin' asleep right
now." He yawned once again.
Lisa launched a powerful kick at his head, trying to catch him
when his guard was down. Ranma merely ducked to his left, her foot
missing by less than a hairbreadth, and then evaded the follow-up sharp,
slanting chop that nearly clipped his chin by tilting his head back.
"ARGH! When I... get... my hands on... you," she threatened, breathing
heavily, "you're... gonna wish... you hadn't born, you sneaky dirtbag!"
Ranma put a hand to his chin as he absently hopped over a
footsweep. "Hmm, I think I heard that before. Okay, I'll tell ya what
we're gonna do: if you can at least touch me, then I promise I'll fight
back. Is that okay with ya?"
Lisa simply charged at him, executing the most complex
combination of lightning-fast punches and kicks she knew and putting all
her remaining strength in them. It made no difference in the end, as
Ranma seemed to dance around her blows, shifting, sidestepping and
dodging with practiced ease. Her attack met nothing but air, and her
frustration increased exponentially. Suddenly, she had an idea. She
looked behind Ranma, abruptly standing to attention. "Captain Gloval,
sir!"
"Uncle...?" Ranma began before recognizing the maneuver for what
it was. Only his heightened senses and superior speed permitted him to
avoid the swing aimed at his face by letting himself fall to the floor
and quickly rolling away. He came to his feet, a trace of newfound
respect in his eyes. "Nice try, I give ya that. Now, are we finished?"
"Not until I make you eat your words!"
"Sorry, I already ate. A tomboy like you probably can't
cook anyway!" Ranma taunted, playfully sticking his tongue out at Lisa.
"Besides, it's late and I gotta get goin'--so say goodbye." Ranma bore
down on her, his hands blurring before him and forming a small yet
destructive tornado of flesh and bones. Lisa was so set in her attack
that her hastily-erected defenses were overwhelmed in a matter of
seconds, leaving her wide open for Ranma's barrage. She shut her eyes,
waiting for the blow that never came. Instead, she felt a feathery touch
on her brow and, opening her eyes, saw Ranma pressing an index finger to
her face.
"I win. Lesson's over," he said, that devil-may-care grin Lisa
had come to hate plastered in his face.
The sound of hearty applause interrupted the staring contest that
resulted, and both fighters turned towards its source. Lisa's four
companions were clapping wildly, Claudia nodding to herself knowingly.
"Great match!" she enthused. "I didn't know you had it in you,
Lisa. And you weren't lying, Ranma; I don't think I ever saw someone as
good as you."
"No one is as good as Ranma-sensei!" Sammie concurred excitedly.
"Not even a pissed-off Lisa," Kim added. "Which is a lot to say,
really."
Lisa tried to ignore the smugness that virtually radiated from
the martial artist's body after the praise and did her best to calm
herself before she did something she would _probably_ regret.
Claudia stepped forward, smiling widely. "If you two lovebirds
are done playing, maybe Ranma and I could have a little sparring
match..."
It took an instant for the words to register through Ranma's
self-satisfaction and Lisa's irritation, but register they did.
"LOVEBIRDS?!"
"Just a joke, guys. No need to get flustered," Claudia said,
placating hands risen in the air. Then, cocking her head like in sudden
remembrance, she consulted her tiny wristwatch and gasped--perhaps a
little too loudly. "Oh, no! I forgot I had plans for a late dinner with
Roy! If I run I'll make it on time, I think." She slipped Ranma a sly
wink, and added, "I trust you'll escort Lisa to her quarters, Ranma. And
you still owe me that match, mister! Later!"
"Wait!" Lisa yelled, but Claudia did not halt her sprint and was
out of sight in no time.
Lisa was still staring at the gaping door when the bridge bunnies
shared a look and started edging towards the door, too. "Well," Vanessa
sniggered, "if you two want time to get lovey-dovey, we'll just see you
tomorrow, Ranma-sensei! Have fun, Lisa!" The girls giggled their way out
of the room, leaving Lisa alone with Ranma in the now overly-silent
room.
The brunette officer let out one of her distinctive growls, but
did not follow them. Instead, she stood still for a moment, unsure of
what to do and suddenly all too aware of Ranma's closeness. The quiet
continued for what seemed to Lisa like an eternity, and she inwardly
swore to take vengeance on her friends, her anger towards Ranma
forgotten for the time being. At last, she could not take it any more
and simply started towards the exit.
"Where are you goin'?" Ranma asked her, stopping her in her
tracks.
"Where do you think I'm going, hotshot?" Lisa countered, her tone
openly hostile. "To my bedroom, so I can chew myself out about the night
lost and maybe get some sleep." Her blouse was ruined after the one-way
fight which it was never meant to endure; her loose-fitting cuffed pants
felt sweaty, and she certainly was not in the mood for shopping anymore,
as she had first planned.
"Oh." Ranma shrugged. "Well, let's go."
"'Let's go'?" she repeated, incredulous. "_You're_ not going
anywhere. When I need a bodyguard, I'll let you know."
"Have it your way." He turned his head and crossed his arms.
"Jeez, you try to be polite..."
Lisa snorted. "This coming from a man who insults me every time
he sees me."
"I never insulted you," Ranma said to her, unfortunately unaware
of the effect his words had until it was too late.
Lisa spun on him, seeing red. "No? So when you called me 'Tomboy'
today you meant it as a compliment, eh?!" she exploded, punctuating her
words with angry jabs with her finger. "Oh, PLEASE forgive me! I hadn't
understood! You must be too SUBTLE for the likes of me!" She was
literally yelling at his face by now.
Ranma, who had closed his eyes during the onslaught, warily
opened one of them, peeking at her with more than a little fear--even if
he would never ever admit it. "Oh, that," he mumbled feebly.
"Yes, THAT!"
"I'm, er... I'm..." Ranma swallowed hard and, after a series of
false start, got out a weak: "I'm sorry."
"I can't believe my ears," Lisa affirmed in mock-amazement. "Have
you just said you're sorry?"
"Yeah, I said I'm sorry, alright?!" He offered Lisa a contrite
look. "I just wanted to get the girls outta my hair for a while and then
I saw you and..."
"...and you thought picking a fight with me would be a good
idea," she finished for him.
"It worked well enough," Ranma muttered, but Lisa's smoldering
glare silenced him for good. However, watching him standing penitently
opposite her, as if waiting for her to hit him or punish him somehow,
Lisa could not find it in her to stay angry at the pig-tailed man. With
a weary sigh, she threw her arms to the air and gave up.
"Fine, fine, apology accepted," she yielded at long last. "Come,
but try to keep your foot out of your mouth for a change."
Ranma's smirked devilish, and followed her out into the well-lit
corridor. "You got it... sourpuss."
---
A multitude crowded Macross City's main shopping street, to the
point where Rick found himself forced to walk sideways on many
occasions. It eluded him how Minmei, who was guiding him across the
thronged sidewalks, shops and shopping malls of the modern city with
expertise, was able to walk so gracefully among the people, especially
compared to his rather awkward gait. She cut through the crowd like a
fish though water, men and women alike seemingly parting before her.
Like a queen among her subjects...
Rick took a moment to look about and collect impressions. All
around him, the vivid image of prosperity greeted him: carefree
laughter, lustrous cars, green trees and blue sky. Abundance and
lushness were the order of the day, and the war was far away in the
minds of the citizens, a taboo topic to be avoided whenever possible.
He, still a teenager, was more worried about the future than those who
had seen their homes destroyed twice already. He hoped someone
appreciated the irony, for he sure did not. In that moment, he felt
lonelier than ever before.
A gentle but firm tug at his hand prodded him onwards, and Rick
reluctantly complied. He enjoyed window-shopping as much as the next
guy--which was, in truth, not all that much--, but after one entire hour
of it he was rapidly approaching his limits. Minmei finally stopped at
another storefront, and Rick jumped at the chance.
"Minmei, listen, why don't we take a walk through the park?" he
suggested, placing himself between her and the shopwindow, blocking her
view. "What do you say?"
"Sure, Rick, in a minute." She kept on gazing longingly over his
shoulder at the mauve, low-cut dress displayed, craning her neck as
though to see better.
"But we've been shopping for hours!" Rick protested, annoyed at
being ignored. "A short break won't hurt."
"I just _have_ to try on that dress," she resisted. "I promise
we'll go later."
"I need to talk to you, Minmei, I really do." He turned an almost
pleading look at her. "Please?"
A strange expression crossed her face, but she assented in the
end. "Okay, Rick, you win. What's so important, anyway?"
The throng streamed past them, oblivious to the young couple. It
was as if Minmei and him formed a tiny world of their own, like an
island that witnesses the waters of a river race by, indifferent to the
small chunk of soil. Nevertheless, Rick felt uncomfortable, unwilling to
give voice to his fears and concerns in such a public place. "First
let's go to the park; there's too many people here."
The Chinese waitress agreed, and both headed towards the park at
a slow pace. After the modular transformation that laid waste to
Macross, the city plan was revised to avoid further catastrophes of the
kind. Danger zones were thoughtfully cordoned off, and shelters were
clearly marked. Thus, the entire Macross Central Park was also
transplanted off the communication tower it had originally been
constructed on into a more secure area: it was now situated in the
center of the uppermost of the three tiers the city was rebuilt on.
Rick's aloofness wound up rubbing off even on the buoyant Minmei,
and they went on in almost complete silence. She could not hide the
sudden misgivings she was feeling, and tried to get Rick to open up many
times during the short trip to no avail. None too soon, they reached the
park, and sat at one of the benches--close enough to indicate they were
together, adequately distant to evidence they were not lovers.
"C'mon now, Rick, tell me, what's the problem? You're scaring
me."
"I..." He fumbled for the right words, then chose all the wrong
ones. "Minmei, I may not be able to see you for some time..."
Minmei was by his side at once, holding his hand. "What's wrong?
Are you sick or something?" she asked him. "Tell me the truth!"
"No, no," he hastened to clarify, "nothin' like that!" He turned
to her, and spoke slowly, with all the cheer of a man facing a firing
squad. "Roy, he came to see me today, and asked me to join the Defense
Force." He fidgeted a little as he waited for her to reply, not certain
if she would give him the reassurance he needed. He was half-hoping she
would try to convince him that his first reaction, that of staying well
away from the Army and all it entailed, had been the correct one, and
his latest decision was wrong.
"Oh, Rick, that's wonderful!" Minmei gave a dumbfounded Rick a
quick hug, her face aglow.
Rick held her at arm's length, his eyes unbelieving. "So--so you
think I should enlist?"
"Well, you told me flying was your whole life, didn't you?" she
returned. "Besides, you'd be fighting for all of us--you'd be a _hero_!"
She seemed so excited about the idea that Rick was not able to find the
heart to contradict her.
"Yes, perhaps I would..." he agreed, but his dispirited
expression told otherwise.
"Of course you would! I'm so happy for you! You'll be the best
pilot in the ship, you'll see!" Minmei proclaimed, not allowing Rick put
in another word as she raved on.
He listened the words of encouragement that gushed forth from
Minmei's lips, which foretold a career of glory and triumphs, a future
of perpetual happiness and a brilliant destiny, and yet, try as he
might, he could not force himself to believe them. However, even as he
saw her beautiful features, her eyes shining as though with a light of
its own, confident in what fate held in store for them even after the
many calamities, he realized just how special and precious she truly
was. Help her preserve that charming innocence of hers would well be
worth a small sacrifice, he mutely resolved.
Even if it cost part of his own.
---
Ranma attentively gazed as Greg Preston, his raven-haired, light-
skinned student, performed the kata he had taught him less than an hour
ago. He did it with a precision that could have deceived most into
believing he had practiced it for months--most, but not Ranma. His adept
gaze perceived numerous if minor mistakes: a foot half an inch too low,
a kick executed a second too late. But the core of the exercise was
there; all it needed was polish.
Acknowledging the young man's latent aptitude for the Art, Ranma
had singled Greg out of his class immediately, and practically
railroaded his DI into accepting to let him come back after his regular
class for some special training. At the moment Greg was only a very good
martial artist, but with the right sort of help he could become a true
practitioner of the Art--Ranma's help.
Sensing his student's growing weariness, Ranma signaled Greg to
stop his exercises and beckoned him over to the vending machine, next to
which a long bench had been placed at Ranma's request. They sat, and
Ranma offered his student a cold soda, who gladly accepted it with a nod
of thanks.
"I notice ya studied Kempo, Greg," the pig-tailed instructor
pointed out.
The young pilot nodded. "Yeah, I started when I was ten. My
father sent me 'cause he thought it'd teach me self-discipline."
"Well, you're skilled," Ranma admitted, then hurried to temper
the assessment, "but a bit slow. And maybe a tad on the weak side. And
your kata are a bit sloppy. And your reflexes are not all that
impressive. And--"
Greg winced with every further clarification, until he decided to
butt in: "Er, sensei? Please, no more praise. I'm gonna blush..." he
trailed off, sarcasm dripping from his voice.
Ranma checked himself, and went on, "The point is, I believe
you've got potential. We'll have to work hard, but I think I can make a
martial artist out of ya yet. Whaddaya say?"
Greg shrugged. "Sure, sensei. Though I don't think I'll be able
to come so often. Flight school starts in three days, and they say the
schedule's gonna be hell for us." He shook his head and clicked his
tongue resignedly, but there was a hint of barely-hidden pride and
eagerness in his voice.
"It's no problem at all," Ranma told him, grinning from ear to
ear. "We'll just have to train ever harder, won't we?"
"Slave driver," Greg muttered, low enough to ensure his sensei
would not hear it, lest he decided to order more of his backbreaking
exercises.
Ranma gulped down the rest of his soda. "How didja end up in
Macross, anyway?"
"Oh, my old man was one of the first to come to Macross. He's a
designer, y'know, one of the men that rebuilt the Fortress, and worked
for the Internationalists during the War. So he got a good look at her,
and realized he'd better bring in his family, 'cause that sure wasn't a
summer job." He grinned at this, and Ranma involuntarily conjured an
image of the SDF-1's burnt wreck as he himself had witnessed it,
repressing a shudder. "So," Greg continued, "we moved in to the city-
-which was really just a buncha houses next to the port back then--and
that's pretty much it."
"Your father still works in the ship?"
Greg pointed aft, where the starship's engineering section was
located. "Yeah, he's one of Doctor Lang's Robotechnicians now. He really
got involved in this whole Robotech business."
"What 'bout the rest of your family?" Ranma asked, not noting how
Greg's shoulders tensed upon hearing the question. "They live in
Macross?"
Greg, who had been talkative until then, seemed reticent now, and
refused to meet Ranma's eyes. At length, he answered, "I'm an only
child. And my mom, she--she passed away," Greg said, stumbling over the
words.
Ranma, taken off guard, only stuttered an apologetic: "Oh, Greg,
sorry. I didn't know that."
Greg shook his head, dismissing it as unimportant. "It's okay,
sensei, you couldn't've known." He leaned back on the bench, his head
touching the wall, and closed his eyes. "She was killed on the Launch
day. My dad's status gave us some privileges, so our home was over the
hills--where the aliens first attacked the island. We'd gone back to the
house after the sirens went off, and only got the order to evacuate to
the bomb shelters after the SDF-1 took off. We'd just gotten into the
car when they came.
"Those damned metallic ostriches fell on us from nowhere, and one
stepped on the house and destroyed it. I took to the road at once, but
the sonofabitches hopped faster than my car! And they kept firing--at
us, at the woods, at the buildings... I thought we were gonna die right
there but, thank God, the VTs came and they distracted the bastards
enough for us to reach the city safely--and then the battle caught up
with us again.
"It was hell, sensei, pure hell. There was so much dust in the
air that sometimes I couldn't see where we were going. Big rocks fell on
the road by the hundreds, and I had to swerve all the time to dodge
them. We were just a block away from the shelter when we run out of
luck: A big piece of concrete struck the hood, I hit my head against the
wheel, and it knocked me out. I don't know how long I was out of it, a
coupla minutes I guess. When I woke up, my face was covered in blood,
and I couldn't see very well.
"Mom, I--I found her sprawled on the street. It seems the crash
sent her through the windshield. She was unconscious, and had a long cut
across her forehead; the blood didn't let me see her face. Her left leg
was broken, too. I searched for a pulse, but found none, so I gathered
her in my arms, and ran for the shelter.
"When we finally reached it, someone took my mom and a nurse
tended my wounds. Mom died before I got to the shelter, they told me.
The doctor said it was painless, that the impact killed her instantly,
but I don't believe him. I myself stayed at the hospital in Macross City
for a week while they treated the concussion. Luckily, my father'd been
inside the ship all the time..." A bittersweet smile crept onto his
lips, and he repeated to himself, "Luckily."
Ranma had kept an uncomfortable silence during the entire story,
and now found himself at a loss for words. How were you supposed to act
when an acquaintance told you something so personal? "I'm really sorry,
Greg. I didn't mean to pry."
"Don't worry, sir. I didn't have the chance to talk about this
much," Greg admitted, "and it feels good to get it all out for once."
"This's why you became a pilot, right?" Ranma asked in sudden
understanding.
"Yes. My home seemed too quiet after that, especially 'cause
rebuilding the city kept my dad busy at work most of the time. And I
wanted to pay the bastards back some of the pain they'd caused." He
stared at the elder man in the eye. "Vengeance's as good a reason as any
to join the Force, isn't it?"
Ranma chose not to answer, for he knew better than that. The
desire for revenge, for some sort of retribution or justice, had driven
his life for many years after Akane's death, and he wanted nothing more
with it. So he decided to change the subject, and enthused, "Awright,
break time's over! Now I want ya to repeat that last kata I showed you
over and over and over again 'til you have it down to a T, understood?"
He started towards the mat after dropping the can in the dustbin.
"Bully," his student said under his breath, the past conversation
forgotten.
"I heard you," Ranma called over his shoulder, making Greg
startle. "Both times. I guess it's time for another coupla hours running
across the base grounds--ya seem to need the exercise."
Greg simply groaned.
---
The officer's mess was empty and silent, save for the two young
women sat at one of the small tables over the old jukebox, by the wall.
Which suited them just fine, as their ears still rang with the ceaseless
din that dominated the bridge at all times. If the mighty reflex engines
were the SDF-1's heart, then the bridge was its brain, and it was never
idle or inactive. Because of this, any respite, no matter how short, was
welcomed and cherished by its crew.
It was especially hard for Claudia and Lisa: they were perhaps
two of the few truly irreplaceable people in the entire ship. The Bridge
Officer's experience made her indispensable in hairy situations, and
Lisa's knowledge of the spaceship's systems was second only to Doctor
Emil Lang's, the resident Robotechnology wizard. Thus, the permanent
alert they had supported for weeks now, with its restless nights and
constant vigilance, had taken a heavy toll in them--the reason the women
currently sat hunched at their respective chairs, shoulders drooping.
"Ooooh," Lisa moaned, bleary-eyed, as she rubbed her neck in a
vain attempt to loosen up the kinks hours of leaning over her station
monitor had created. "I'm so tired I feel I could sleep through the
whole trip home--" She tilted her head, as if pondering-- "and then some
more."
Claudia sipped at her ice tea, absentmindedly listening to the
soft music coming from the jukebox. "Join the club. I haven't had a good
night's sleep since we were on the island." She tried to suppress a
yawn, and failed. "Well, if things quiet down for awhile, we might be
able to get a pass."
Lisa snorted. "I sincerely doubt it after yesterday's
catastrophe."
Claudia nodded, her countenance turning serious at once as his
mind replayed the previous evening's events. She was on duty when it all
came to pass; Captain Gloval was on his quarters and Lisa away on some
errand or another. The radar picked up a signal: ten alien mecha
travelling fast in the direction of the ship. At first, no one was
alarmed; the enemy had sent small parties of fighters regularly during
the past weeks, but they had all been easily repelled.
A flight of Veritechs which was on patrol at the time was ordered
to engage the incoming enemy, and the VTs easily succeeded in keeping it
at bay. Sustaining heavy losses, the pods turned to flee, and many
thought the danger was over. But then the radar screen showed a new
signal, and alarms flashed in the bridge crew's consoles. Another group
of Battlepods, taking advantage of the momentary confusion the skirmish
occasioned, had managed to slip close to the SDF-1, unnoticed by an
untimely stroke of misfortune. A squadron of VTs was promptly dispatched
after them, but before they could do anything to stop them, the alien
aircraft shot their missiles at the battle fortress, scoring numerous
hits against its hull. The pods were quickly pushed back by the Earth
fighters, but the harm was already done. While the damage to the ship's
superstructure was minimal, one of the missiles passed through a gap in
the armor, detonating in the training complex's proximity. The ensuing
explosion provoked the cave-in of numerous holds and compartments.
Including the one in which the mess hall had been set up.
"I just received the last reports:" Lisa informed her, "nine
deaths, a recruit in coma, and twenty others with minor injuries."
Practice allowed her to talk of these grievous matters with only a hint
of emotion behind; shielding yourself from the horrors of commanding was
a lesson they had both learned a long time ago.
"What a tragedy..."
"By the way, what're you doing tonight?" Lisa asked Claudia,
looking for a new topic.
"I'm busy, sorry. I've got a date with Roy; we're going to that
new Italian restaurant that opened last week." She smiled to herself in
anticipation. She and Roy had found it near to impossible to find free
time to spend together, and so she jumped at every opportunity.
"Oh," Lisa breathed, disappointed and slightly sad, too. The
mention of Claudia Grant and Roy Fokker's romantic and passionate love
affair had always caused certain uneasiness in Lisa, as it accentuated
her own loneliness and forced her to face a part of her personal life
she was not comfortable with--and brought forth memories she wanted to
leave behind. "Well, the girls told me they had work tonight, so I guess
I'll just go to bed earlier than usual..."
Claudia saw her friend's downcast visage, and then ventured, "Why
don't you ask Ranma out?"
"Ranma?!" Lisa repeated loudly, as she was lately wont to
whenever Ranma's name was invoked. "Are you crazy? Why would I do that?
I don't want anything to do with him."
"As he walked you to your quarters, I thought you'd become
friends..." Claudia trailed off in a playful tone.
"I only let him accompany me," Lisa retorted, "because he begged
me!"
"He _begged_ you? Ranma?" Claudia asked, the very concept so
foreign as to be inconceivable. In the weeks she had known Ranma, she
had never heard him apologize for anything nor give excuses for his
actions. He seemed to be a person with a healthy self-pride, to put it
mildly--much like Roy. "We're talking about the same person here?"
Lisa turned her eyes away, cheeks rosy. "Okay," she conceded, "so
he didn't _exactly_ beg me--but it was practically the same. Anyway, I
don't want to talk about it any more, so drop it, alright?" Lisa crossed
her arms, letting her friend know that she was serious.
"Fair enough," Claudia said, but her smirk told Lisa she would
not give up so easily.
---
The day started in the usual fashion: breakfast, early training
with Jason, a quick snack before going to the base, class, lunch at the
mess hall, more classes... The routine was already so ingrained in him
that he was almost able to go through the familiar motions of his new
life mechanically. Hectic as his life had always been, first travelling
with his father across Japan and then living in Nerima, with the
constant fights and adventures, Ranma had never had nothing remotely
similar to a routine. And, to his utter surprise, he realized it was not
as tedious and boring as he had initially believed--or rather, it _was_
tedious on occasion, but that proved a sought after relief from the
madness that followed him wherever he went.
But Ranma had learned something about himself in the last years:
though the excitement that marked his life could be bothersome at times,
it was also the one thing that defined him. Without it, he could not
feel complete, and would certainly wither and fade. Yet that did not
stop him from enjoying the momentary peace to the full, and gathering
his strength for the next escapade.
In fact, so smoothly had his day glided by, that the first
discordant element immediately set off alarms in his head. His final
class was mute and subdued as it slipped into the room, although they
were normally a boisterous lot. They walked wearily, their backs rounded
as if carrying the weight of a mountain on them; their eyes wandered
aimlessly, refusing to make eye contact neither with Ranma nor with each
other. The martial artist felt a cold sensation in his gut, and the
atmosphere turned dense and oppressive as the trainees lined up in front
of him, hesitantly waiting for an unknown signal in nervous muteness.
He promptly counted them, and discovered with dread that two men
were missing; he spent a few instants to recall the name of one of them,
but the other's face was foremost in his mind: Greg was not there.
"What's the problem, guys?" Ranma asked, and there was in his
voice only the slightest tremble of doubt and uncertainty. "Where're
Greg and Paul?" He sensed more than saw his students grit their teeth,
the air thickening even further. "So?" he pressed on in the face of
their indecisiveness as he tried to calm himself, hoping against hope he
was jumping to conclusions.
A short, brown-haired boy whose name was lost in Ranma at that
moment finally, reluctantly, took a step forward and raised his head to
look at his instructor; his eyes shone with unshed tears amidst his
boyish face. "Preston and Rusedsky tuned out, sensei," he whispered
barely loud enough for Ranma to catch, using the pilot's slang term with
infinite sadness.
"What?" Ranma said, not familiar with the lingo.
A broad-shouldered man named Marcos Wade came to his help. He was
built like a boulder, and towered above the rest of the class like a
skyscraper among houses. "He means," he explained, the faintest Spanish
accent noticeable, "they're not with us any more, sensei. They died
yesterday in an accident at the mess."
Ranma drew back as if someone had thrown ice water at him, and
his mouth suddenly dried. It was not possible! It had to be some sort of
mistake!
And yet one look at the grim expressions on the young men's faces
completely crushed his hopes, and his words of denial died before
reaching his lips. There, standing as vulnerable as a brittle leaf in a
windstorm, their young ages were more evident than ever before. Nothing
had prepared them for the loss of two friends, not all the training, not
life. Hearing Marcos' words seemed to encourage them, though, and soon
others were speaking, most looking at their instructor, as though
searching for something that would allay their pain.
But Ranma was in a daze, trying to come to terms with the
situation, and thus only partially listened to his students as they
rambled on. They talked and talked, trying to exorcise their own demons,
and slowly, taking turns, recounted what had happened. How they were
standing in line at the mess hall, waiting for their meals after a long,
tiring day. They told him of the sudden explosion, the thunderous roar
that boomed across the chamber, deafening them and throwing some to the
floor in pain, dazed.
And Ranma heard some of their voices crack as they related the
moment in which the large metal plating blew off the ceiling, falling
over the hapless recruits, who had not the time to jump away. Marcos was
the one in charge to narrate the chaos that came after, the cries of the
wounded and the blood of those whose luck had run out that evening, the
rush and the tears.
A heavy silence followed, and no one dared to break it for a long
time, busy reminiscing about their memories of the two boys. Nobody
cried nor wailed inconsolably, nor swore to take revenge, nor protested
hotly about the unfairness of it all--it was not needed; the sentiment
was there all the same.
Eventually Ranma called off the class for the day and sent
everyone back to the barracks, and the young cadets left the chamber
like a funeral procession. They were not done mourning for their fellow
pilots, but time was all they needed. Yet even though their wounds would
be healed, there would be a scar in them forever--as there was in him
since Akane's death.
Turning off the lights of the training hall, he left, closing the
door behind him. He only encountered a few people as he walked down the
endless corridors, and simply nodded his head tersely in greeting the
one time he saw a familiar face, a young lieutenant who was in one of
his morning classes. The man responded in kind, and both continued their
separate ways, not a single word spoken. He stepped out of the complex;
the false twilight was ending, and swift came an equally-fake night.
He reached the chainlink fence's main gate and flashed his
identification card to the guard, who gave it a quick glance and then
moved aside, letting him pass. Two Battloids stood unmoving at both
sides of the gate, their Gatlings shouldered. Ranma paid them no
attention, and continued onward. As he was leaving, the streetlights lit
up, casting his shadow ahead of him into the distance.
Soon enough, he found himself walking through Macross's street,
making his way through the crowds. In striking contrast with the base,
the nights at the city were thriving and crowded, and there was a
permanent festive atmosphere. Ranma quickened his pace.
He reached the park and went directly to his favorite spot, a
secluded bench shaded by the low-hanging branches of an old tree
survivor of the fold operation, with a beautiful view of the splashing
fountain. Ranma sat, letting the hours lapse into painful memories and
regrets, but finally stood up and left, hearing the water flowing away
behind him.
By the time he arrived the White Dragon was already closed,
albeit lights could be seen behind the thick curtains. He went in, not
bothering to announce himself, and heard muffled sounds coming from the
kitchen, letting him know someone was still awake. Not that he had not
expected it; Max liked to prepare the restaurant for the morning rush
with anticipation, and thus stayed late tidying up the place. The chef
always took the time to whip up something for him, too.
Max must have heard him enter, for he came out of the kitchen at
once. He was wearing an off-white apron, and he smiled jovially upon
noticing the newcomer. "Oh, hi, Ranma. How was your day? Rest while I
prepare something fast." He swiftly moved back into the kitchen, and
Ranma picked up the sound of clanking woks and sizzling saucepans.
Ranma obediently sat at one of the tables, and not five minutes
later Max returned, holding two fried noodles dishes and taking the seat
opposite his. "Help yourself, Ranma," he said, handing him one of the
dishes and setting the other on the table. "Gosh, you won't believe the
day we--" He cut himself short, noting the expression on his guest's
face. "What's wrong, son?" Max asked, concerned. "You look upset."
The martial artist remained impassive for a few seconds, but then
he met the other man's eyes with his own. "Two of my students died
today," Ranma finally answered in a dead voice.
Max caught his breath, shocked, but after staring at the
crestfallen youth for a moment, he wordlessly stood up and went behind
the counter. When he came back, Ranma saw a bottle of whiskey firmly
grasped in one of his massive hands and two glasses held in the other.
The restaurateur deftly poured Ranma a large whiskey, and then did the
same for himself.
"Here," Max said as he offered Ranma the glass, "have a drink. It
may not solve anything, but this has helped me in the past."
Ranma looked at the beverage curiously. Though during the travels
with his father and later after leaving Nerima he had drunk sake on a
few occasions, he had never felt much affinity for liquors. And yet he
found himself now not wishing to think, to remember. Perhaps if he drank
sufficient alcohol, his brain would numb enough for it to not hurt so
much any more...
Grasping the glass with newfound conviction, Ranma gulped it
down, not stopping even for breathing. He set the empty glass on the
table, confused at the lack of effect--and taste--of the whiskey. Was it
not supposed to be strong? Then he felt it: a searing warmth running up
his throat, drying his mouth and dulling his senses. Ranma felt as if he
were about to vomit fire. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and
dizzily decided the drink worked well enough.
Ranma was about to ask for another round, when suddenly someone
threw open shop's main doors. Both men turned towards the sound
immediately, only to relax as they identified the arrival.
"Hello," came the familiar, normally jaunty voice, albeit
unusually hushed at the moment. Rick walked up to the table, eyeing the
pair warily. "What's with the booze?"
"Never mind that," Max hastened to respond. He gestured Rick to
the chair to his right. "Where've you been, Rick?" he asked with a hint
of reproach. "Minmei looked for you the whole day."
Sitting down, Rick began to nervously toy with the half empty
bottle of whiskey, self-consciously gazing as the golden liquid within
it softly rippled. "I took a walk around the city," the youth at length
admitted, "and then I went to the base."
Ranma, who had been lost in his own personal musings until then,
now paid close attention to Rick's tale. What reason could he possibly
have to go to the base? Perhaps he had gone to visit him? Max just
quirked an eyebrow.
"They ran me through a thousand fitness, hearing and eye tests,"
Rick continued, "and then decided I was good enough to join the Army."
He offered them a weak smile, noticing their dumbfounded expressions.
Max was the first to react: he nodded to himself, got up, headed
for the counter once more, and returned with another glass, mutely
pouring a whiskey for Rick. Ranma, on the contrary, simply stayed frozen
in his seat, his mouth agape. "Huh?" he finally reacted. "What? When'd
this happen?"
Rick shrugged. "I didn't wanna tell anybody 'til it was final. I
thought that I might as well stop idling and start doing something
useful." He grinned wistfully. "Who knows? I could even become a hero."
Ranma stared at the young pilot, not quite believing his ears.
What had made Rick take this decision? Him, who had been so adamant
about it before? He could see right through the cheerful facade, and
felt Rick's fears and doubts. Yet he appeared determined even so, and
Ranma sensed that nothing would make him change his mind. Why...?
Then, as he was looking at Rick, he witnessed his face changing,
shifting. His skin whitened considerably, his features softening while
his eyes darkened, until they were two tiny black holes that seemed
ready to swallow him. And Ranma realized he wasn't looking at Rick any
more, and Greg had taken his place. Greg, who had been his student for
merely a few days. Greg, who had showed promise. Greg, for whom he had
had great plans. Greg, who had sought revenge. Greg, who had died at the
hands of a nameless enemy... He wanted to close his eyes, but they
remained transfixed on the face, taking on its every detail as if with a
will of their own. And thus he watched Greg's hair abruptly beginning to
grow, his eyes changing anew, turning an impossible sapphire. And his
lips twisted just so, forming a beautiful little smile he had only seen
in dreams for years. And then he saw her...
Suddenly he knew what he had to do.
"Hero?" Ranma sneered at Rick. "Hero my ass! You're more likely
to become a corpse!" He gave a short roar of laughter.
"Who asked you, you Jackie Chan wannabe?" Rick riposted, leaving
the bottle aside and turning to Ranma, suddenly reanimated. "When it
comes to piloting, I'm the best! If it has wings, I can make it dance!"
"Really?" Ranma drawled. "Y'know, I was thinkin' of requesting
reassignment for pilot trainin'. If ya can make it 'dance,' then it
can't be that hard, dontcha think?" He grinned widely.
"Hah! You couldn't pilot a Veritech if your life depended on it.
Don't waste your time, old geezer; flying is not for everyone."
"What's the matter? Afraid I'll make ya look bad?" Ranma leaned
back in his chair, balancing on its two hind legs and obviously pleased
with himself.
"Afraid of you?" Rick repeated mockingly. "Not in a million
years! If you really think you can keep up with me, then it's okay.
We'll see who's the better man soon enough. But don't come crying later,
okay?" Surprisingly, Ranma did not hear any real anger in his voice. In
fact, he almost sounded... relieved?
"You got a deal, flyboy!" Ranma held out his hand to Rick, who
reluctantly shook it.
From his forgotten position at the table, Max pondered on this
new turn of events as he drank his whiskey. After a moment, he shook his
head, smiling to himself. He had a feeling those two would do just
fine...
---
To be continued...
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Sir Desaix, member # 116 of the Knights of the True Fiancee
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