In the city of Tokyo, in a small section of the Nerima prefecture, there was a certain martial artist, who happened to be fast asleep as the sun rose on that morning, on the futon in the guest room of a certain other martial artists’ okonomiakyi shop, as said certain other martial artist slept the sleep of the content, next to him.

Said original martial artist, Ranma, had arrived at said certain other martial artist, Ukyou’s, shop fairly late in the evening. Initially, when Ranma had arrived, Ukyou felt her usual emotions of joy/anger/agony/jealousy/love that always welled up whenever he came to visit. She did love him, and cared very much for him, but she was also angry at him, because he would do everything he could not to say those three little words, especially to her, and while that angered her, it also hurt her, knowing but not knowing if he felt the same way about her as she did about him, and knowing but not knowing that somehow, Akane interfered with his feelings; he’d been living with her for more than a year and a half, and he had to at least care for her. When Ranma asked her if he could spend the night there, though, she pushed all thoughts of anger and jealousy aside. On some levels, she knew that she was a glutton for punishment, a masochist of some measure, for wanting a man who most likely didn’t want her. But she couldn’t help her wanting, and if she could only have so much of him, she wasn’t going to pass it up, not in any way that it happened, no way. So she agreed, and helped him make up the futon in the guest room of the shop.

How Ukyou had come by the shop itself was something out of a fiction story. After finally tracking Ranma down in Nerima, and of course being quite easily beaten by him, she’d realized that she hadn’t thought about what she’d do after she’d found him. Like, for instance, where she might live. It was a brief talk with Nabiki, who knew some people, who had some property, and who needed some income, and by using most of the money she’d saved up over the course of traveling in her past ten years—about five million yen—she’d been able to take up the lease on a slightly run-down little shop, and with the help of Konatsu, she’d been able to open her okonomiakyi shop. Since then, the money had been flowing in; there wasn’t another okonomiakyi shop around for miles; the people in Nerima seemed to love an occasional okonomiakyi; and she was one of the best okonomiakyi chefs in the whole of Tokyo. She should know; she hadn’t told anyone, but she’d entered—and placed third—in the Japan okonomiakyi cook-offs. Only one of the other two chefs who’d bested her lived in Tokyo, and he lived completely across the city. Any others were still miles away, and they couldn’t begin to compare to Ukyou’s talents.

It had its difficulties, though; running an okonomiakyi shop took up lots of time, and though she went to school as much as she could, she still missed a good part of the day, and so she’d hired a tutor, to help her keep up with the other students. And boy! was he expensive—it cost her 20,000 yen per session. But, he was as good as he was expensive; lucky for her. It was a wonder sometimes that she had time for herself between school, her okonomiakyi shop, juku, and a tutor; she’d managed to get a special reprieve from attending juku the mandatory six days a week, down to four, mainly because she was already a businesswoman, a very successful one at that, and since juku was mainly a preparation for college, which itself was a prep for what she was already doing, it was deemed that it wouldn’t hurt her to only attend part-time.

This particular evening, however, she’d had neither juku, nor a tutor, and the dinner rush had left much earlier. She’d already been in her pajamas when Ranma knocked on her back door; she’d been thinking about him, and allowing herself to daydream about him, about him touching her in places that she wouldn’t name, places that when touched caused her to coo in pleasure, for her to arch her back up into him, to call out his name—

He’d interrupted her daydream—and her unconsciously wandering hands— but upon seeing him, she decided that having him here in person was much better than simply fantasiz- er, ah, daydreaming about him. He’d been tired, and looked like he’d suffered another one of Akane’s meals. When she mentioned okonomiakyi to him, he’d confirmed it by turning down her offer for one, and considering that Ranma ate enough to feed a baby whale, and considering that okonomiakyi was almost his favorite thing in the world to eat, that was a statement. He’d simply wanted a place to sleep for the night, seeing as Akane wasn’t very happy with him right then, and he didn’t want to go back to the Tendos to fight with her about her cooking.

Of course, she’d accepted. The only thing she hadn’t really counted on was that having him under her roof would make it almost impossible to sleep. All she could think about was him, lying in the room next door to her, wearing only his boxers, laying on his back. His hair would be slightly mussed up, he’d be drooling adorably, and if she were very careful, she could slip back the covers and gaze upon his muscular chest—

She’d tried to stop the images, but if she wasn’t thinking about him, she was thinking about what she’d like to be doing with him—not all of it very ladylike, and involving a lot of yelling, panting, and tension relief, and wasn’t martial arts—and with her mind in a whirl, and her body screaming for her to do something, she just could not sleep.

Finally, she got up, resolving to work out just a bit, enough to make her body tired, if not her mind. But a half hour of working out didn’t do anything but to make her feel wired, and, ironically, more flustered, anxious, and tense than she did before. Without thinking about it, her feet carried her to the door of the guest room. Her hand was just about to push open the door by the time her brain woke up enough to tell her that this was wrong. She hesitated for a moment, but then she was slipping into the room, her heart pounding in her chest, knowing that she shouldn’t be here, but entirely too excited for her own good to listen to her conscience at the moment.

She stood over him, looking down upon him. The room didn’t have the light from outside, and the moon wasn’t yet full enough to give much light, but with the nightlight she usually kept in the room, she could see him very well in the warm glow it cast. Ranma was indeed laying on his back, like she’d envisioned, drooling slightly, the covers kicked off, exposing him down to the top of his boxers. And—

Never in her life had she been so suddenly aware of Ranma’s body, and just how much male he was. The tent poking up from atop his boxers made a strange ache begin within her, deep within her, somewhere below her stomach, but deep in; it wasn’t something she could reach by massaging her tummy. She gave it a moment’s thought, and it seemed to be in the same place her feminine aches came from; but this wasn’t that kind of ache.

She was also overcome with another ache, this one of the heart. She knew that she wouldn’t sleep while he was beneath her roof, not if she couldn’t sleep next to him, and even though her mind was informing her in no uncertain terms that she was wrong for even thinking about sleeping in the same bed with Ran-chan, she felt powerless to stop herself from gently pulling back the covers, and laying down on the futon next to him. As if she would have stopped herself if she’d had the chance, anyway. She knew that this, at least this, was what she wanted, and since she knew that it wouldn’t happen again, that she wouldn’t get this chance again, she was going to take it.

He had one arm beneath the pillow that she laid her head on, and if she didn’t think about it, she could imagine that he’d placed it there for her; that this was the night of their wedding, and that he and she had just finished consummating their undying love for each other; that she was basking in the warm glow of pleasure, of knowing the possibility of Ranma’s child beginning to grow inside of her, even now—

She didn’t allow herself to travel down that road; at the end of it lay sadness and disappointment. But her body only knew that, knowing now what it felt like to lay next to him, it wanted more. It wanted her to snuggle up closer to him; it wanted to know what it felt like to have him pressed against her, naked; it wanted to be able to feel him, all of him, against her, touching her, insi—

Again she cut off her thoughts, only to realize that she was laying in bed with Ranma, her top off—where did it go to?-- her clothed lower body pressed up as tightly against his clothed body as possible, and with one hand already pressed down into her pajama pants between her and his leg. Her senses were screaming at her, half to run away, the other half to go for it: what would he remember?

She was enough of a lady to not give in to her impulse to have him, to secretly give herself to him in that special way, especially while he was asleep—but, she lamented for a millisecond, that would be the best time, if there weren’t going to be any other—but she was enough of a woman to press her exposed breasts, with her nipples already rock hard, more fully against him, while her hand slowly began moving in the very wet heat between her legs.

"Ooohh," she moaned softly, closing her eyes, gently pushing her hips up against his leg. She swung her free leg- her right- up over his, so that she partly straddled his right leg. Her right hand very softly, very gently began caressing his chest. She laid her head upon his shoulder, snuggling closer to him.

Oh this, this was much better than any of her fantasies, so much better, because she had Ranma right here, and even if it was only for this night and never more, just having him next to her, to be able to feel his skin against hers, like she’d wanted and wished for and hoped for for so many months, and even though she wouldn’t be able to have him in the way she wanted, the way that would bond her to him forever, she could have this, at least.

It was dark; he couldn’t see a thing, couldn’t really hear anything, but he wasn’t worried; if anything, he was feeling good, very good. He knew what it was, and that since his hands were tied

-tied??-

he couldn’t be causing it. Someone- and judging by the size of the hand, and the gentleness with which it moved, he figured that someone to be female- was touching him, very intimately, and although he didn’t know who it was, he didn’t want it to end.

The blindfold was snatched away, and he blinked rapidly for a moment, to let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting. His first thought was that this was a nice room, not too warm, but definitely not cold-- he noticed almost immediately that he was naked—with a fire going in the ringed and raised pit sitting in the center, providing both heat and light, and a very comfortable gel-filled something against his back, as he was restrained to the wall. No amount of struggling would release him, he sensed, but he didn’t want to struggle, especially not against the wonderful sensations he was suffering. Some small part of him asked if this was a dream, asked if he should wake up; yes, and no, were the answers he gave himself, in that order.

The second thing he noticed was the woman—or rather, the woman whose hand was attached to that intimate part of him that jutted out; she had Nabiki’s eyes, with the quick wit behind them, Ukyou’s hair, long and silky, Akane’s smile, her lips petite and soft, Kasumi’s manners, her gentle caresses, and Shampoo’s body, voluptuous and curvy all over. All over; that was not an understatement. She too was naked.

"My name is Yuriko," said the young woman, who about as tall as he was in his female form, "and I’ve been asked by Nabiki to, ah, torture you."

Ranma felt the first inklings of fear; Yuriko’s next words stifled that fear, just a bit:

"But, she didn’t say how I should torture you, so I thought of my own way." At no point, did she stop what she was doing; her hand kept bobbing up and down against him; he wanted very badly to move his hips in counterpoint to her ministrations, but even there he was restrained.

"So how is this a torture?" he asked; he mentally smacked himself upside the head- obviously, this wasn’t the torture, and he didn’t need to remind her of that. He moaned softly, which surprised him; he could control himself better than that, should control himself better than that.

Yuriko smiled. "Well, the only torture that I could bear to inflict upon you is to give you pleasure, like I’m doing now, but keep you from reaching your peak." The Nabiki-like gleam came into her eyes, and now Ranma started to worry for real, just a little bit. He was enjoying himself, and he knew that wouldn’t change, but just how would she prevent his pleasure?

He found out, as she pushed him, oh so slowly, and then pushed him to the brink, hard, six times, before she backed off to that maddeningly slow pace; twice, she’d splashed him with cold water, and done to his female form what she was doing to his male form, and the sensations had been different, differently located, sharper, and yet more diffuse—this was indeed torture, he thought to himself, as she renewed her push upon his senses. It was almost infuriating—that she could tell when he was about to cross the threshold, and hold him back. Almost. It was also the most pleasurable experience he’d ever had with a woman yet.

She’d managed to be quiet so far, unconsciously stifling her gasps and cries—somewhat, anyway; she couldn’t help the little whimpers and yelps that broke free from her throat—but this time, she knew she wouldn’t be able to hold back, no matter if it even woke him; six times now, she’d forced the cry back, as she thrashed uncontrollably, her hips bouncing against his thigh, her hand stiffening against an equally stiff part of him. If she’d bothered to check—which she wouldn’t have—she would have been aware that she’d soaked through her pajamas—this happened around peak number three—and had liberally dampened Ranma’s thigh with her moisture. But, by this point, she probably would not have much cared, one way or another; she wanted this last explosion, this last climb upon the mountaintop, the one that would make every other one she’d had tonight so far, and maybe even all others so far, pale in comparison.

Ranma was in her thoughts, in her fantasy, and he was pulsing deep within her; she could feel every single touch of his body against hers, within her. He was about to reach his peak—she could see it in his face—and as he did, he professed his love for her, and about how he never wanted to let her go, and that, that did it, as the fantasy shattered, as Ukyou shattered, shattered into a thousand million billion pieces, as the stars exploded and the waves pounded against the surf and the rain poured down upon the earth and the heavens sang out their glory.

"Ooh! Ranma!" she cried out, further wetting her already saturated hand, pajamas, and Ranma’s leg. Her hips bucked up against him, her legs pressed tightly together, trapping his leg between hers. She was soaring higher and higher, falling faster and faster; it never seemed to stop.

Finally, Ukyou came back to herself; she had no idea how long she’d been laying with Ranma, nor of how long she’d floated in her pleasure, unaware of what was going on. Who knew what had happened? Ranma could have awakened for all she knew—

She snapped fully alert at that, her head whipping around to look at Ranma.

He was snoring softly, blissfully unaware of anything.

Ukyou managed to calm herself down, after a few minutes. Then the guilt came. And with it came her conscience, to argue with her.

‘You should have known better.’

‘Yes!’ she finally shouted in her mind, ‘I may never have the chance to be this close to him again, to be able to be this physical, and damnit why can’t I have him, if only for just one night?’

‘It’s not right,’ her conscience chided, much more gently now.

‘Why not? and why can’t I have just a little bit of happiness, too? All I want from him is for him to love me like I love him; can’t I hope? can’t I dream, too?’ Her conscience had no reply, and so she settled down next to Ranma. She felt guilty about what she’d done, but she didn’t regret it, and she didn’t wish she could undo it. It happened, and there was nothing she could do to change it. Nothing, except to never let it happen again. Not because it was wrong, but because if it happened again, if she allowed it to happen again, she might not be able to keep herself from doing what she’d been thinking about doing, to him, with him. She just might not be able to stop next time.

The call came at six o’clock, nearly a half hour before Nabiki usually awoke, and about forty-five minutes before she got out of bed. Kasumi came up and knocked on Nabiki’s door.

"Nabiki?" Kasumi’s voice floated melodically through the door.

"I’m up, I’m up," she said, trying to keep the "grumpy" out of her voice; Kasumi didn’t deserve it, and she almost couldn’t be anything other than civil to her older sister.

"There is a telephone call for you," her sister told her through the door.

"I’ll take it in here," she replied, picking up her phone line.

When Nabiki had taken in enough money, she’d gotten the phone company to install a phone in her room—not rare, but not very well heard of, even in this day and age of Japan, for a young woman to have a telephone separate from the family phone—and to install a separate telephone line in the same outlet, so that she could receive calls from the "family" line, and also from her own personal line, though she didn’t know anyone yet who she wanted to have her personal number.

"Moshi moshi," she replied, "grumpy" in full force now.

"Gomen nasai, Nabiki Tendo, for waking you so early," said the voice—Nabiki recognized it a moment later as belonging to one of her associates, Fuji Takera, "but I have information I think you might be interested in."

"Hai, Fuji-san?" she said, using his given name, and formalizing it, to let him know that she wasn’t in the mood for playing word games at that moment.

"I have information on both Saotome-san and on a certain dark young man. Are you interested?"

Nabiki would have been lying if she’d said that she wasn’t interested, especially in this information regarding the new guy. But, not only because she was ‘the boss’, as it were, but because she wasn’t used to being woken up quite this early in the morning unless it was for a good reason, she didn’t answer right away. In her mind, Fuji had better be praying that it was something she wanted to hear; otherwise, she would find a few unpleasant things to happen to him.

"Well, my sources tell me that Saotome-san is sleeping at the okonomiakyi shop not far from where you live—"

This was definitely news; Nabiki perked up some. Akane would be willing to pay well for this; and she could also sell the info to Shampoo, and even Kodachi, although she didn’t really like doing business with her, and wouldn’t, except for the fact that she shared Kuno’s money, and that meant that she would pay dearly. And she was almost certain that she could find a few others who might be interested to know where their rival was sleeping right now.

"—and as far as that other guy goes…. well, I’ll fax the info over to you now. Is that alright?"

"You do have pictures? videotape? some initial stats?" Nabiki countered; he was going to earn his commission, and with what he was giving her now, he’d already earned it, but she wouldn’t let him know that. Not just yet, anyway.

"Hai, hai, and hai," Takera said smugly. Nabiki could almost hear him counting his yen already.

"Alright. Send the packages by express courier, and I’ll send you your usual commission, plus ten percent for such good information," Nabiki began, and paused, to let Takera gloat. He did. She continued, "but, for the privilege of this early morning conversation, despite the value of it, I will subtract fifteen percent from the top of your commission the next time we do business." Now it was Nabiki’s turn to "gloat." Takera would continue to do business with her, despite this minor setback. Commissions were good, and bonuses made it even better, and when Nabiki got something she really wanted, she was often willing to be uncharacteristically generous. Her associates knew it, and she knew they knew it.

"Hai, Nabiki-san." he said, and hung up.

With a little lighter spring to her step than she would have had a moment before, Nabiki got out of bed, and began her day.

In another house, on another, much smaller estate, not very far from where Nabiki Tendo was just ending her phone call with Takera Fuji, a dark young man was himself just waking up.

Yokara Mogadishu hated getting up early in the morning.

He’d always hated it, especially when his parents made him do it. But they weren’t here to do it, now; that was exactly why he did it. It was his small tribute to them, a very small way to honor their memory, to let them know in some small way that they had made a lasting impression upon his life. He tossed back the covers, and stood.

Fortunately, Yokara had no visitors. If he had, they might have noticed the state of undress he was in, being nude and all. Or maybe unfortunately; his physique was pleasing to the eye, muscular, but in a lanky-yet-sculpted kind of way. In America, his body type brought to mind a basketball player.

Besides himself, and the futon which he’d just gotten up from, there wasn’t very much in Yokara’s room. Actually, there wasn’t much to be found in Yokara’s entire house; there was a earthy-warm tan couch in the living room, over which hung a very large and very intricate image of an estate of feudal Japan, done by modern hands and with modern colors, and upon the floor of which sat a very large modern area carpet, in black, and on top of which sat a low, black lacquered table; in what would be called in America a foyer, where one removed coat and shoes, and where one was greeted, only a tasteful painting, and a coat-tree; a small room, no more than 15 meters square, where there were rolled up mats against the walls, and a disarrayed collection of weapons and equipment; the general facilities; the kitchen, nothing more than a few cooking implements and food; the two bedrooms, each of which was equipped with a futon and clothes drawer, and the guest room, equipped with only a futon; and the family facilities. The dojo, as Yokara thought of it—the only person he intended to be a regular user was himself—was probably the room with the most stuff in it. Most of these things he’d purchased here; a few weapons, and the clothing he currently owned were all he’d brought himself from America.

He’d had the original shoji replaced with solid wood; he stayed away from the American-style hinged door, and made the doors sliding, as in "traditional" japanese houses. He’d had the walls reinforced, and had the outside painted a forest green. He’d had all of the plumbing redone in PVC piping, and made sure that all the electrical outlets functioned. He’d managed to get the telephone put in and turned on. All of this he’d managed to accomplish in two days; apparently, there was a great need for large- and fast- repairs done in the area, and so two small companies had consolidated into one larger company, specializing in same-day service and completed repairs. He was quite pleased with them, and decided to keep their number handy, in case he should need them again.

Yokara thought about why exactly he’d come to Japan. It hadn’t started out that way; truthfully, he’d only intended to visit the China-Japan-Asia area, to get a feel for his mother’s heritage. He’d wanted to know how to properly honor both of his parents, especially after their rather senseless slaying, since his father had blended his African American heritage with the Asian heritage of his mother. Then, as if to add insult to injury, one of his best friends died—drowned, rather-- in a rather tragic prank that went wrong in China. She’d gone with him to keep him company, and they had, with some students from the college where they’d gone to and who’d known them both, blissfully— and innocently— trekked off to China. Very shortly after the accident, the college kids had left, racked with guilt, and leaving him behind. And the final horror hadn’t been realized until they were gone, and there was no one who could help him. No one, that is, except a little Chinese guide who watched over the springs;

"That last time I let person fall in spring! I go to city, and make spring gone!!" had said the guide, just after he’d helped Yokara.

But of course the deed was done, and there was no turning back. Armed only with the name of a young man who might know how to deal with this sort of thing, Yokara—who had been backpacking through the Asian continent with his friend and their troupe—wound his way up to the northern most port in China, and caught a ship to Japan.

He sighed, remembering what had brought him to this point. All he really wanted now was to find a way to put this thing behind him. And he hoped that Saotome Ranma was more willing to talk and help him, rather than actually fight. If that was the case, he was certain that someone was going to get hurt.

He walked to his clothes dresser, donned a pair of loose-fitting sweatpants and a tank t-shirt, went downstairs into the dojo, and began rolling out the mats.

"That hentai did what!?" barked Akane; fortunately for the rest of the household, she was the last person to awaken; her last exclamation had been loud enough that the sound baffling might not have contained it.

"Apparently he went to Ukyou’s place to sleep," said Nabiki, pocketing the 1000 yen that she’d "taxed" Akane’s request to find Ranma on.

Akane had bathed and dressed in five minutes; five more saw her putting on her shoes at the front door. But, as she was going, she had a thought. A rather disturbing thought. She went back to Nabiki.

"Oneechan, how much would it cost for you not to sell this info to Shampoo?"

Nabiki thought for a moment; she’d only asked about Shampoo, so either she’d forgotten about Kuno, Ryoga, Kodachi, or another small bunch of people who just wanted to beat up Ranma for no good reason, or she thought she could handle them. That left her a lot of leeway; Shampoo paid good money, but compared to what she could gain from Kuno and Kodachi by raising their charge for knowing where Ranma was from losing Shampoo’s money, it would be more than worth it. But why tell that to Akane?

"Oh, I dunno, sis- Shampoo usually pays well—"

"Well, I’ll pay you whatever it is she pays you." countered Akane.

"In advance?"

"Nope- cash on receipt of services," said Akane, "Tomorrow morning, at the park. Jeez, you’d think that I’d have learned that from you by now."

Nabiki thought for all of a second; her little sister was learning. "Okay; it’s a deal." she said, and shook Akane’s hand on it.

"Now, I gotta go pound that stupid hentai baka into next week" said Akane, as she dashed out the door.

Shampoo yawned and stretched as she slowly climbed out of her bed. A small, secret smile was stuck on her face, although for a few moments, she didn’t know it, reveling in her dream of the night before.

It was always the same dream—maybe a few things would be different, but basically, it never changed; she and Ranma would stand, face to face, across a brief distance. They would bow to each other, and then slowly ease themselves into the stances of their respective Arts.

Then they would fight.

And it wasn’t a simple fight, not a playing fight; this was a real fight, not to the death, but certainly close, definitely aimed at intentional harm, certainly a matter of superiority and domination. She would fight him all out, using techniques her great-grandmother had never shown him, doing things she hadn’t properly practiced in years; likewise, Ranma was pulling out every trick and technique in his arsenal, performing moves that she’d only vaguely known about, that she didn’t know how to do, that she didn’t know how to counter.

It was always a fierce fight, each with something to lose in losing. Ranma’ determination was always aimed at beating her, not simply defeating her in combat, and preventing her from doing the same to him. Her goal was that same one, also. But in the end, it was always she who lost. The fight never went exactly the same twice; and always, there was a slight twist to how she’d lost, from the last time. And, as always, Ranma would pounce on her, then.

Her smile widened as she thought about it.

Even as weak as he was from their fight, physically, he was always still stronger than Shampoo, and she couldn’t fight him off when he would pull her up off of the ground, stand her to her feet, and then rip off the short-skirted dress she often wore. She would struggle against him, sometimes scratching and clawing, sometimes ramming a knee up into his crotch, but always, he would best her. And always, there was a gleam in his eye, which she knew was equally matched in hers, that said that this was very serious, but very serious fun. It said that he wouldn’t kill her, not now, not ever, but that he would not be denied what he sought.

Quickly, he would strip off his own clothes, and then, without preamble, he would join with her. It was never slowly, or gently; always, with one push, he would be within her, and she would scream. But her scream was always of the purest joy. And she never stopped him, once she began to feel his weight upon her; the fighting was all the foreplay she needed. She was always very ready for him, so his one push was never hindered, never halted, always smooth and well-oiled. He would pound himself within her, his hands grabbing roughly at her breasts, or her hips, helping him to slam himself within her. She was no better; her nails frequently raked his back, or tore apart the pillow she pressed her face into—where the pillow would come from was an eternal waking mystery, one she didn’t question in her dream—and from both of their mouths would issue animal growls and roars and monosyllabic words the likes of which Shampoo would never utter in real life. What they did was never consensual, but was never forced, either; each knew they wanted it, and that the other wanted it. It was a part of the mutually unspoken agreement; they never really spoke to each other—just the meeting eye to eye, bowing, and then the fight. The only sounds they made were after the fight, and those weren’t efforts at anything approaching civilized conversation.

Shampoo always woke up from this dream quite physically… excited, for a lack of a better word, and in quite a good mood, and—unless Mousse happened to say something to shatter it, which he usually did—remained so at least until the noon day. Usually, by then, something would have come up to take her attention from her dreamings. But, even in the midst of her joy, she felt some sadness, too; it was for the very reasons that she enjoyed herself in the dream that she could not ever have Ranma, could not ever really love Ranma. He was just too independent, too arrogant, too defiant, too male, and too much like her. She could see the possibility of happiness, but there would be arguments almost nightly. And her tribe would never let her accept a male of his personality, no matter that they had sent her to do just that; they’d simply assumed that they could subdue him, and make him passive. But she’d been around him long enough to know that that wouldn’t happen; he’d probably die first. And it was something that she didn’t think she wanted him to be rid of; if he were passive, he wouldn’t be the Ranma she knew, the Ranma she dreamt about, and she wouldn’t be here, trying to win him, either. Plus the fact that he didn’t love her, and she didn’t really love him, and she knew that her great-grandmother’s ideas of taking him back to China with them would be fruitless.

The real obstacle, the only one, lay in when and how to tell her great-grandmother this. She’d hit the roof if she knew that Shampoo was no longer interested in taking Ranma back to the Amazon tribe. Mousse, of course, would think it a blessing, and beg for her hand in marriage; Mousse was someone she was used to having around, but she didn’t have any particular feelings for him beyond what she would have for any other member of her tribe. And speaking of Mousse, the very fact that Cologne had allowed him to travel with them, that he was able to often do the things he did in pursuit—or protection—of Shampoo, might indicate that she’d be less likely to kill Shampoo—or denounce her; that would actually be worse than death—than she’d originally thought.

She would have to make that decision, and soon, but for the time being, it could be held off. The restaurant had to be opened for the morning business, and her great-grandmother left it up to her to do so. And, Shampoo thought less than pleasantly, she had to make sure that Mousse was awake and ready to help her.

There was nothing wrong with Mousse, per se; he was nice enough—when he wasn’t trying to either glomp onto her, or to kill Ranma—and he was even cute; Shampoo could admit that to herself. She just didn’t particularly like him much. A large part of that stemmed from the fact that, unlike Ranma—in fact, just the opposite of Ranma—he was almost too submissive around her. If she told him that it would make her happy for him to commit seppuku, he would do it almost without question, and go smiling into the afterworld. Shampoo could understand the fact of female superiority—and that males should be the subservient ones—but, to her, subservient did not mean submissive. There was a line to be made, there, one that many of her tribe did not or could not make; it was a part of what defined Shampoo’s feelings for Ranma—or supposed feelings—and a part of why she knew that she couldn’t marry Ranma, nor could she ever really marry according to the dictates of her tribe. Unless, of course, she could find someone who was a blend of Ranma and Mousse; that just might be the type of man she needed.

"Shampoo, you look especially radiant in green today," a male voice broke her out of her musings.

Mousse was talking to the boshin tree in front of the main window.

Instead of spoiling her day, Shampoo simply went into the kitchen, grabbed a cup of cold water, and flung it at Mousse.

"Quack!" said Mousse, now in his duck form.

"Stupid Mousse," said Shampoo, as she picked him up, and tossed him into his cage. She’d only keep him there for an hour; she’d still need his help, no matter how much she dreaded it.

A pounding on the door downstairs woke her. Ukyou blinked awake, not used to having sunlight streaming in her room like it was, and wondering why it wasn’t her alarm clock waking her. Then she felt him next to her.

Him!

She snapped awake at that, scrambling out of the bed. Her breasts bobbed lazily atop her chest. Suddenly aware of the fact, Ukyou quickly searched the floor for her pajama top, and pulled it on, almost popping a button as she did so.

The knocking continued, and Ukyou hurried down the stairs, trying to get to the door before whoever was pounding on it broke it down.

"Hold on, I’m coming!" she called out as she reached the bottom of the stairs, and pulled open the door.

"Where’s Ranma?" growled Akane, pushing open the barely cracked door and storming past Ukyou.

Or, she tried to. She may have just woken up, but Ukyou possessed enough wits to block the door with her body.

"Whoa, wait a minute, just wait a minute!" cried Ukyou, her voice rising with each word, "Just who do you think you are?"

"If you don’t get out of my way," threatened Akane, "I’ll make sure you find out."

"Whether or not Ranma’s here," Ukyou said, not moving an inch, "that doesn’t give you any right to try—and I do mean try—to just walk into my house, uninvited!"

"And what I choose to do to Ranma when I see him is none of your business."

"If it’s in my house, it’s my business," retorted Ukyou, "and besides the fact, he’s sleeping, so if I let you in, keep that in mind." She emphasized the "if" plainly enough for Akane to get the point. Apparently, she didn’t like that point, but Akane backed down anyway. Satisfied that the Tendo tomboy was properly mollified, Ukyou allowed the door to open fully, and led Akane through the back of the restaurant and up the stairs. Akane stopped at the door just long enough to take off her shoes, then followed.

At the top of the stairs, Ukyou turned around, and brought Akane to a halt.

"Now look here," she said, almost in a whisper, "I’m sure you’re plenty pissed off at him. But he came here very sick last night—"

"He didn’t look too sick last night when Shampoo was hugging all over him," Akane blurted angrily. Ukyou paused for a second, then continued.

"Well, he was sick last night, and he told me that Shampoo was only helping him down off the roof. Being ill tends to make you a little weak."

"You mean, he was….?" Akane trailed off, making sickness gestures. Her expression became concerned.

Ukyou nodded, "At least that’s what he told me."

They were both quiet for a moment. Akane gave Ukyou a once-over, and noticed-but-didn’t-quite-notice that she wasn’t wearing a bra beneath her pajama top. A thought registered, but was pushed aside by her unadmitted concern for Ranma.

The two young women walked up to the door, and listened. Hearing Ranma still snoring, Ukyou allowed Akane to enter, while she went to get dressed for classes.

Akane stopped for a moment, and looked at his sleeping form. His face was soft, all the usual tension gone. He looked peaceful, almost as if he’d never known some of the dangers that surrounded his life. She watched him sleep, almost wistful, imagining what could be, what might be, still, if only he felt about her the way she felt about—

She stifled that thought, remembering how he’d left her alone last night, selfishly unconcerned for her welfare. Her countenance grew a shade or two darker, as she mentally replayed the events of the night before. She ran to the bathroom, and grabbed a glass of water.

Ukyou closed her bedroom door behind her, and slumped up against it, her heart racing. How could she have been so foolish? What if he’d woken up before she did? What then?

She quickly stripped out of her nightclothes and, having showered the night before, before Ranma appeared, she quickly donned new day clothes.

She was just getting finished dressing, when she heard an all-too-familiar female shout.

"Hey, what’d you do that for?" That was Ranma-chan.

"Come on, you idiot! We’ll barely have time for breakfast, anyway." And, of course, Akane.

"So why’d you come to get me? Did you make breakfast? What? are you trying to kill me? again?" There was a moment of silence, then a *whump!* followed very quickly by a dull *thud*.

"Y’know, I was just trying to be nice, for a change," said Akane, "but I guess that would be lost on you!" Footsteps pounded down the hall, and down the stairs.

"Yeah, well," said Ranma-chan—quick recovery, thought Ukyou—"being nice to people doesn’t usually involve hitting them in the head with a hammer!" she shouted this last down the stairs after Akane.

Ukyou sighed. ‘Sometimes, Ranma,’ she thought to herself, ‘you can be an insensitive jerk.’

Now this, was interesting.

Nabiki had practically raced up to her room after receiving the early morning courier package, and she was now making notes about Yokara Mogadishu. The video itself was painfully short—but then again, she knew for a fact that, unless you had two fighters who were evenly matched facing each other, the fight would be over in less than a minute. And Mogadishu clearly outmatched the young thugs who’d tried to rob him; that was obvious. Shampoo evidently hadn’t been paying enough attention to him, when she’d seen him the night before—Akane had told her what Shampoo had said—because he was definitely a martial artist, at least of Akane’s caliber, and more than likely better. And, if she didn’t know better—and she should; she’d watched enough fights between Ranma and just about any female—she’d’ve sworn that Mogadishu was holding back. Just how much, she didn’t know, but she was certain that he was holding back his potential. That could actually put him in the same category as Shampoo or Mousse which, while still not at Ranma’s level, was certainly enough to give him a workout every now and then. His style seemed very structured, in contrast to Ranma’s very fluid Art, but if he were hiding his true potential, could he also be hiding what that potential was?

She liked him already. So to speak.

It was too bad that he was going to get the daylights beaten out of him.

The phone rang.

"Moshi moshi," She said as she picked up the phone.

"I have an additional bit of news for you, Nabiki-san," said Takera, "if you’d like to hear it, then I would like to negotiate my commission with you."

"Let’s hear the info, first," She responded, all business, "I’m not knocking anything off of the reduction percentage if what you have to say isn’t interesting."

Takera seemed to think about that for a moment, then responded, "All right. If you would like to meet Mogadishu Yokara, then you have only to travel a half kilometer north. He has a residence there. It’s one structure, a rich forest green with mahogany wood trim, and a solid stone fence with a wooden gate. Looks like he has money, or access to some, at any rate."

Silence reigned, and after a moment, he blurted, "Well?"

Nabiki thought about, and enjoyed for a moment, the fact that she held him at her beck and call like this; all of her associates were like this, to a degree. She decided to answer him.

"All right; I’ll only take ten percent of your commission, instead of fifteen. How’s that?"

"That is very generous of you, Nabiki-san," Takera said; she detected a bit of sarcasm laced in his words, but chose to ignore it. People were people, not slaves; she couldn’t expect him not to be a little miffed, although she could ignore it.

"And I thank you for your information," she said, uncharacteristically. Occasionally, she liked to shake people up; it kept them on their toes, and let them know who was in control. She hung up without waiting to hear anything more.

This was information she could use, and put to use. She went to put on her shoes.

Yokara was outside in his yard, practicing a complex martial arts kata, when he heard the bell ring outside the fence. He stopped what he was doing, and walked to the fence.

"Ohayo gozaimasu. How may I help you?" he said, looking down at an attractive young Japanese woman. She looked a little familiar, but he pushed that particular thought away. She stood about 165 cm, and looked to weigh maybe 50 kilograms or so. She was dressed in a pair of shorts, which showed off her legs to a nice advantage, and a t-shirt. Yokara filed this bit of info away in his head, to be added to anything else he might learn about her. Something told him to be wary of her; she wasn’t dangerous, not in the physical sense, but there was an element of pending trouble that surrounded her, and Yokara had learned to pay attention to his senses.

"Hello. My name is Nabiki. I live not far from here, and I noticed that you’re new to the neighborhood. I am pleased to meet you." She figured, having found her house by name, that he would be wary if she mentioned the fact that she was a Tendo. She wanted to keep the upper hand for as long as possible.

If she’d understood the world in the way that Yokara did, she wouldn’t have bothered. He was already on his toes, though he wouldn’t let her know it. He was well aware of the lack of a family name in her introduction, and the fact that, other than the Tendo estate, there were only a handful of houses around, and he hadn’t noticed any indications of young people. But, then again, he’d only been in the area for about three days; he was bound to miss a few subtle nuances. He was also aware of the fact that she appeared young—younger than he, at least—but spoke with the careful measures of one quite a bit older; he would have to pay attention to her words, and any subtle inflections therein.

He opened the gate wider, and bowed low, his hands out in front of him at half-arms length, left hand closed over right fist. "I am honored that you would wish to grace my humble home with your presence, Nabiki-san. It is my fortune that my first visitor is a lovely young woman such as yourself." As he straightened up, he watched Nabiki, looking, noting her reaction. She appeared calm, cool, and collected, but he could see in her eyes a bit of surprise, and could see a bit of a flush in her cheeks. He allowed himself a small mental smile at her discomfort. He also admired the calm she seemed to exude; he could see through it—but then, he’d had years of learning how to do it, himself, and notice it in others, like his parents sometimes—but nonetheless it was a very good facade. "I was just about to take a break from my morning training exercises," he said, even though he’d been about to do no such thing, "and perhaps have a drink. Would you like something, perhaps?"

"Arigato, but that isn’t necessary," said Nabiki. She was resolved to keeping eye contact with him, now; she couldn’t let him know how his words had affected her; she’d been surprised, flattered, suspicious, and then, finally, embarrassed. She’d rarely been complimented on her physical looks before—Kuno’s daily spoutings didn’t count—and she’d never received compliments from someone she’d just met. And, a part of her mind mumbled before she could shut it up, from someone who was actually a decent-looking person. She also wanted to try and un-nerve him, a little like he had done to her.

"As you wish," he said, and saying nothing more, turned around and walked into the house, leaving Nabiki to explore the surroundings… at least, that was how she saw it. And if Mogadishu had minded such a thing, he would have, or should have, counseled her to wait until he returned.

She wandered around to the side of his house, where she spotted his early work efforts. There were a number of posts that he had stuck into the ground, and she could see the moist sheen of still-wet quick-drying cement where he’d poured the mix into the ground and inserted the posts. From what she knew of martial arts, they seemed to be balancing posts, but they were thicker, and more solid, than most she’d known about. She also noticed a couple of breaking boards he’d also planted into the ground. All the signs pointed to him and martial arts.

"Please. Accept my hospitality?"

Nabiki couldn’t help it; she jumped. Even as she turned to face him, she was thinking. She knew, intellectually, that many good martial artists could move very quietly if they wanted to, and some were adept enough to ‘mask’ their presence from people. But, she’d never had anyone actually do it to her, and the brief moment of fear she’d experienced was disconcerting, to say the least.

Yokara was holding a tray, with two cups for tea, a small teapot, and some thin cakes that she was surprised and later relieved to know were from the shop down the road—the only place to get them in all of Tokyo—and which she particularly liked. She was about to protest—although she had wanted to accept; it wasn’t usually done, though; if a host wished to offer you food and drink, it was done by presenting the edibles, not by asking; the fact that he brought the drinks out to her showed that he at least understood that—but her stomach picked that time to protest that she’d had nothing to eat since dinner the night before, and that she’d left the house without eating breakfast yet.

"Come; sit with me, and drink," Yokara said, and turned to walk upon his porch without waiting for Nabiki to reply.

‘Far be it from me to refuse such graciousness’, Nabiki thought to herself sarcastically, and walked upon the porch and sat with him. There was nothing said. Yokara performed the cha-no-yu—which again surprised Nabiki; she realized that she’d been thinking of him simply as gaijin, and American gaijin at that—and begin drinking his tea. What was she to do but follow his example?

It was his aim to keep her off her feet, Yokara had decided. She was here for a reason; he hadn’t quite figured it out yet, but she seemed too interested in him for her to be here simply as a nosy neighbor. He’d seen her scrutinizing gaze at the yardwork he’d done, but he also noticed some look of familiarity in her face; yet she hadn’t asked him about it. He decided further to keep that bit in info in mind.

"So, Nabiki-san, is Nerima a nice place to live in Tokyo?" Yokara asked.

"Hai," she replied, "as long as you don’t pay attention to the resident martial artists, or the vast amounts of destruction they can leave in their wake. Speaking of which," and at this point, her attention seemed to focus on a spot in an imaginary distance, as though she were recalling a memory, "I know of a very good construction company around here that does good work for….ah, inexpensive, prices."

"Let me guess," Yokara said, a smile breaking out on his face, "Would it happen to be the Tomoyuki Repair Corps?"

Nabiki’s face lit up in pleasant surprise. "Yeah- how did you know that?"

"I had them do the repair work for my home," admitted Yokara, and immediately thought of an idea to further draw Nabiki-san out of her…duplicity; that word seemed to fit. "Come with me; I would like to show you the work they’ve done." And again, without waiting to see if she would follow, he got up, and entered the house.

Many of the Japanese, Yokara remembered from his mother, dealt with others by use of heavily veiled commands; that is, their words were formed more as a suggestion, but beneath the softened words was the ring of pronouncement, and a man was king in his own home. To refuse his generosity without a good reason was to insult him. He figured that maybe Nabiki-san wouldn’t know enough about him to know that it didn’t particularly bother him whether or not she refused him.

True to form, she did follow, at first meekly, then growing more bold as she looked over the layout of the house. She seemed to pay a bit more attention to his dojo than to any other room he’d shown her; he made a note of that, too.

"So you were talking about the destructive capability of the martial artists, right? I happen to play around with martial arts myself, though I’m not very good." Yokara said, as they once again approached the foyer.

"Hmm. Maybe you should talk with my sister, then. She’s a pretty good martial artist,"

said Nabiki, looking at him closely. Of course she knew that he was lying through his teeth; even if he had been talking about his skills relative to the other martial artists in the area, he was still lying. She’d studied that video—even though she’d only been able to do so for about twenty minutes—and she was a good enough judge of his skill to know that.

"So is that hammer of hers a part of her martial arts techniques?" asked Yokara; he was willing to bet that Nabiki-san was the sister of Tendo Akane; he suddenly noticed the resemblance.

"Iie; quite frankly, I have no idea where it……comes…..from." Her voice trailed off as she realized that she’d neatly walked into that opening of his, an opening the size of the QE2 that she should have seen coming from a mile away.

"So, Tendo Nabiki—" Yokara watched as Nabiki flinched, almost imperceptibly, as he added her family name onto her given one— "what is the true reason you came here this morning?"

"What? can’t a person decide to visit a new neighbor? Or even be a little bit curious about said neighbor?" she said; that sounded weak, even to her; ‘I must be slipping,’ she thought to herself.

"Well, those are very good reasons why you could be here visiting me, but in light of the fact that I met your sister Tendo Akane last night, I think your being here has something to do with that." Nabiki was silent. "I think you’re here to check out Saotome Ranma’s challenger. Why didn’t you simply say that you were a Tendo, and you were interested in why I could possibly want to challenge Saotome? that you might be concerned about whether or not your sister could be hurt in our fight?"

"That’s a good point," said Nabiki, picking up the conversation, "how can I be sure that you won’t try to hurt her just to get to Ranma?"

"I haven’t hurt you, have I?"

"Iie," she replied, "at least, not yet. And besides, hurting me wouldn’t accomplish anything."

‘So hurting Tendo Akane might,’ Yokara thought to himself, ‘I’ll have to keep that in mind.’

"You haven’t answered my question," said Nabiki, beginning to glare at him, "how do I know—"

"Because it’s not my way." He said this with finality, as though it were explanation enough. Nabiki, however, wasn’t satisfied.

"Why not? what about it isn’t "your way"?"

"I don’t hit women."

Nabiki almost laughed out loud at that; he sounded exactly like Ranma, in that way. She told him so.

"Shows he has honor," was Yokara’s reply to that. Nabiki did laugh out loud at that.

After she’d stopped laughing—which wasn’t very long—she leveled her gaze at Yokara again, but with less the anger than the last time. "So why do you want to challenge Ranma?"

"Pretty familiar with him, huh?" inquired Yokara instead, "is he your boyfriend?" He expected this to get a rise of some sort out of her; he’d twice managed to keep her off her feet: why not try it again?

"He’s not my boyfriend," Nabiki retorted, rather emphatically. Yokara smiled again, this time letting Nabiki see him.

She kept up a stone face—or as close to one as she could manage—while she pondered just when it was this morning that she’d lost her touch. ‘What is it about Yokara-san—I mean, Mogadishu—that he’s got me so off-kilter? Was it something in the food? the tea? the air? Or am I just having a bad day?’ she thought to herself. A small part of her offered up an interesting-if-it-were-happening-to-someone-else-but-not-when-it-was-happening-to-her tidbit about his simple presence, and maybe something about him that she found fascinating/distracting/disarming. She quickly shoved that little tidbit into her mental incinerator.

"Gomen nasai, Tendo-san," said Yokara, bowing formally, but still smiling, "I didn’t mean to insult you."

"Ehh," muttered Nabiki, waving her hand, "No insult to me."

"Pervert!"

Yokara and Nabiki turned toward the sound; it was coming from outside, and some ways off, but getting closer. Yokara opened the front door.

"If we end up being late to school, it’ll be all your fault," snapped Akane. She was on the pavement, walking at a near jog, headed back home.

"My fault!? How is it my fault? I’m not the one who threw water on me!" barked Ranma-chan in response; she was walking along the fence top, as usual, "Because of that, I had to change Ucchan’s sheets on her futon, and with you rushing me, I didn’t even get to thank her for her hospitality last night!"

"You wouldn’t have had to worry about her ‘hospitality’ if you’d been home last night!" Akane sneered the word ‘hospitality’, letting Ranma know just how she felt about Ukyou and her ‘generosity’ for letting Ranma spend the night in her house.

"Yeah? I wouldn’t have had to spend the night there if you hadn’t been trying to kill me with your cooking!"

"My cooking isn’t that bad—"

"What? Not that bad? Once your cooking ate through the bottom of the pan—literally! Another time, you nearly burned up the kitchen trying to boil water to make rice! Then you tried to poison us by substituting the cinnamon for a cake recipe with powdered osenjo root! And then—"

"Hey!" interrupted Akane, "cinnamon and osenjo root are the same color!"

"No they’re not," returned Ranma-chan, "and besides, osenjo root goes into spicy foods, not a cake mix!"

"It was an honest mistake—"

"Honest? Akane, just admit it: you can’t cook!"

"Says you!"

"I can cook better than you!!" Ranma-chan exclaimed, "I’m better at martial arts, I’m a better cook, I’m better built—even when I don’t wanna be, I’m more of a girl than you are!"

"Of course, you pervert!!" She shouted this last more loudly than the rest.

"Macho chick!"

"Hentai!"

"Kawaikunai tomboy!"

"Errr! Baka!!" Akane cried, as she lobed a conveniently found rock at her; it was the size of a large melon. Without pause, without thinking, simply reacting, Ranma-chan dodged the rock, maintaining her balance atop the fence.

The rock flew in a fairly high arc, considering that Akane, who was on the ground, was throwing it at Ranma-chan, who was walking on the top of a three-meter high fence, but considering that she hadn’t thrown the rock with a great deal of force, the arc crested somewhere above Yokara’s front yard, and began its downward portion.

Even as the rock was reaching its zenith, Yokara could see that it would not hit the ground before it hit the house, somewhere; the house was very sturdy, but that rock would cause damage nonetheless, if for no other reason than because Yokara had had large windows installed over much of the front of the house, and solar panels along the roof. He took two steps to the front of the porch, and leapt.

‘Danger!’ flashed across Ranma’s senses, but was immediately replaced with a general sense of ‘Not danger’ but something that he should pay attention for, nonetheless. He looked around.

Yokara reached the rock in less than a second, and simply shoved it down toward the ground, as if he were slam-dunking a basketball. He looked back in the direction of where the rock had come from, and saw two females, one of them Tendo Akane. The other female, whom he didn’t know, was just now turning to look up in his direction.

"Hey!" he called, as he began to sink back toward the ground.

Akane whirled toward the sound, noticing Ranma-chan already looking, and saw a man—who her brain told her a moment later was none other than Ranma’s challenger, Yokara something—who was floating about fifteen meters off the ground. No, that wasn’t right; he was falling. After a moment, he disappeared out of her line of sight, and she suddenly wanted to know what he was doing so close to her own home. She raced for the break in the fence.

‘Better than Akane,’ Nabiki’s first thought was, as she dashed to the porch just in time to watch Yokara reach the height of his leap, and throw was looked like a rock, down to the ground. She noticed Ranma walking along the top of the fence, and figured that Akane wouldn’t be far behind. ‘Way better than Akane,’ she commented to herself as she thought of her martial arts sister.

Yokara landed, not soft or hard, but gracefully; Ranma hopped down off the fence into the yard, and the bell at the front gate began ringing.

"I would greatly appreciate it if there were no rocks thrown in the direction of my home," she heard Yokara say to Ranma, as he began to turn towards the front gate. He said it without malice, simply as if he had been expecting something like this. His voice was peaceful, and quiet, almost soothing; Nabiki shook her head to clear her thoughts.

Ranma noticed her just then, and was about to speak, when Yokara opened up his front gate, and Akane sprinted in.

Akane was furious; how dare he hang around her home? Technically, he wasn’t near her home, she knew, but the fact that he was so close upset her. And to see him, now, with Ranma nearby, reminded her all over again of the challenge that was supposed to take place today—when, she didn’t know just yet.

As the gate opened, she didn’t give him time to say anything; she simply ran in, with the plan to flash past him, in surprise, and launch an attack.

"I’m not gonna let you—" She hadn’t even gotten the words out good, before she realized who was standing on the porch of the house. She sprinted the short distance to the front porch. "Nabiki!! What are you doing here? You’re not a martial artist! You could be hurt! Has he done anything to you?"

"She’s in no danger," said Yokara, almost directly behind Akane; ‘When had he moved behind her so silently?’ she wondered, "And I wouldn’t harm a lady."

Akane was already upset with Ranma, and concerned for Nabiki. She was upset about this challenge, and at the challenger, and now, add to that fact that he "wouldn’t harm a lady", and the sense of contemption in his voice, and she was now very, very mad.

Akane thought about that for all of a second.

"Good, because I’m going to make <Cream of Wheat> out of you!!" she said, switching to English for the untranslatable word, and began attacking.

Ranma almost intervened. She watched as Yokara slipped back, almost unconsciously, into a ready stance, and as Akane began her attack. But after a second or two, she relaxed, and leaned back against the wall she’d hopped down from. She relaxed because she saw Yokara relax. And she saw that Akane was in no danger of being hurt. She almost smiled.

Akane was a completely different matter; she was throwing punches and kicks to make her father proud. The problem was, she wasn’t connecting with anything she threw his way. And what was worse, he wasn’t dodging her attacks—at least Ranma seemed to pay enough attention to her to do that—but simply deflecting them. And, to add insult to injury, he didn’t seem to be paying attention to her; he was deflecting her attacks, but almost absently, as if he were making up a grocery list and thinking of dinner at the same time.

Finally, she’d had enough.

"Kami-sa Tsetsuba-ken!!" she cried, trying to find the focus that would allow her to add her ki energy to this new technique of hers.

Akane was not by experience—or at least, not through conscious experience, and not in the same way as Ranma or Ryoga—a ki-adept; that is, she did not use her ki to enhance her abilities, and wasn’t able to bring her ki to a defined focus that would allow her to use it.

Until recently.

She’d been practicing every day, meditating for a full half-hour to center herself and focus on her ki, then working herself up to the point of frustration and anger in order to use it. Admittedly, her anger and frustration were not planned; she was only just now, in the objective and detached part of herself, realizing that her ki abilities were brought to the best of their current abilities by her anger. She further belatedly realized that her "mallet" that she used to bash Ranma upside the head was another application of her ki, and another example of her anger/frustration bringing her ability to use that ki to its best levels. Twice before, she’d managed to actually do something with her ki, to feel the currents of lifeforce flowing through her, flowing with her. Hopefully, this would be the third time. Hopefully, this attack would allow her to succeed where she’d not succeeded before.

Of course, it went without saying that Akane’s reflexes and movements were no where near as fast as Ranma’s. And, it also went without saying that Akane had yet to fully understand the Katsu-Tenshin Amaguriken as Ranma had learned it. Nonetheless, she’d watched him do it on occasion, and had begun practicing a variation of it herself. Her ki allowed her to move even faster, and more assuredly, than she’d learned how to move in her practicing. She’d kept it a secret from Ranma, wanting to surprise him the next time she convinced him to spar with her. She’d wanted to see the look on his face when she turned his own special technique on him, and maybe even surprise him long enough to land a solid punch.

But, of course, that wouldn’t happen, now. Now, she’d simply surprise someone else, someone who she was sure would be surprised, who she was sure would be felled by her fantastic attack.

Unfortunately for Akane, Yokara had no intentions of being felled by her attack. With his sharp senses, he could feel the buildup of ki energies, and as Akane brought them to bear, he simply sprang up and over her, flipping around, and without knowing performed the exact same maneuver that Ranma had when she and he had first met.

Ranma was surprised enough to allow her amusement to show. ‘He’s pretty good,’ assessed Ranma, watching as the tall dark man vaulted over Akane, and did it so quickly that she was more than two seconds into her attack before she realized that no one was there. Ranma had enough presence of mind to hide her smile quickly as Akane looked in her direction.

Nabiki was also surprised, but didn’t allow it to show; without Mogadishu quite so near, she was better able to control her mask of indifference. Two distinctly different thoughts played in her mind. On the surface, she was also making note of Akane’s unwilling target. ‘Oh, he’s very good,’ she thought, ‘maybe as good as Mousse or Shampoo.’ Beneath the surface, she was arguing with herself, and the subject was about the young man she’d come to spy on that morning.

Akane was stunned. Actually, stunned was too modest a word; she was shocked enough that she forgot to be angry. Part of her was replaying what she’d just been through, what she’d just saw; another part was comparing what she was able to note about him to what she knew about Ranma, and not liking the idea of another ‘Ryoga’, another person who would be able to seriously test Ranma’s fighting skills. Yet another part of her was fuming, and resolving to try its damnedest to dislike this person as much as she’d resolved to dislike Ranma when she’d found out about his ‘identity crisis’. But mostly, she was simply surprised into silence.

"You’re very good, Miss Tendo Akane," said Yokara, throwing Akane into further confusion, "I’ll have to remember not to make you angry." He offered a brief, small smile, then turned toward Nabiki.

"I’m sorry, Tendo Nabiki, that we were interrupted in our conversation. We’ll have to catch up with each other another time." He paused for a moment, and then continued, "If you would do a favor for me, Tendo Akane, or Tendo Nabiki, I would greatly appreciate it. I would ask if you’d tell Saotome Ranma that I’ll be waiting in the park in fifteen minutes for our challenge." He gave first Nabiki, then Akane, a brief bow, then walked up his porch, past Nabiki, and into his home.

"Apparently, we’ve been dismissed," said Nabiki, the first to speak after Yokara Mogadishu left. She’d come down off the porch, and approached the gate, where Akane still stood—looking a little less startled than earlier—and where Ranma was also approaching.

"And it looks like I’ve got a fight in a few," she said, cracking her knuckles, and hopping back up onto the fence, "C’mon you two; I wanna change clothes and eat before I race to the park!" she chided.

"Is that all you ever think about, Ranma? eating and fighting?" scolded Akane; after Yokara had left, she’d rapidly regained her composure.

"That’s all I have time to think about right now," Ranma-chan said, and turned to go. She froze in mid-leap, and turned to look back at Akane. "‘The Flailing Fists of the Gods’? You named your special attack ‘The Flailing Fists of the Gods’?" She dared to crack a smile at Akane.

Nabiki, now walking alongside the fence with Akane, was looking out onto the street. Actually, even though Nabiki was hard to impress, she thought that it was cool—in a detached sort of way—that Akane had come up with a ki-attack on her own, and even thought that it was a fairly good choice of name for it. But, with the way Ranma was currently sneering at Akane’s choice of names, she found it amusing, too.

Akane started to fume again, but Ranma seemed oblivious to her growing anger.

Or maybe not; she changed the subject.

"He seems to be pretty good."

"Quite good," Nabiki added in.

"He’s better than I’d thought," Akane mentioned after another moment of glowering at Ranma, "Shampoo had said that he wasn’t a martial artist, that she could tell by the way he walked."

"Apparently, Shampoo was wrong," said Nabiki.

"Not really," Ranma said, "Really good martial artists can sometimes hide their talents from others, so that people underestimate them." She paused for a second. "You have to learn how to flow, like a fluid, like most really good martial artists do, then you have to make yourself unlearn it, so you can turn it on or off at will. Prob’ly he didn’t wanna give himself away last night."

Both Nabiki and Akane were silent the rest of the way home; each was lost in thought, but about two entirely different things.

Breakfast at the Tendo estate was almost normal. Almost, with respect to the fact that the usually hectic pace of Nabiki and "the Saotome couple", as she’d sometimes thought of them, was even more frenetic than usual. Ranma ran upstairs, changed back to being male, practically jumped into a cleaner- and drier- set of clothes, ran back downstairs, and hoovered down his breakfast. Akane was only a little better; she’d already bathed and dressed, so all she did was rush through her breakfast. With the two of them hurrying up, she’d had to pass off her phone-calling to Jubei Matsu, another of her associates, who she authorized to invite Shampoo, Kodachi, Kuno, Mousse, Ryoga— assuming he could be found—Ukyou, and a few others to watch the fight, in order to eat quickly, as well. She’d told him to promise the others that it would be a fight like no other; exactly how like ‘no other’ she didn’t tell him.

She didn’t even know herself.

There was something amiss in all this; she could feel it. Yokara hadn’t seemed to bristle with the excited/nervous energy she usually sensed in fighters before a match. So, either Yokara would ‘allow’ Ranma to beat the snot out of him—which would make everyone feel cheated out of a good fight—or he was planning on something big, something that could, possibly, hand Ranma a temporary defeat. Either way—and assuming that there weren’t any other variables that she was missing—it would be a fight unlike any others so far.

In Ranma’s case, bets weren’t placed on the fighters, but on the variables; Ranma was—thus far, at least—entirely too good to lose a fight, so the bets were pinned on such details as how long the fight would last, how many hits Ranma or his opponent would get, who would be the first down, the amount of property destruction, etc. All the calls for bets were handled by a small bunch of Nabiki’s associates, who kept in contact with Nabiki, cutting off betting just before the fight started. It was the way in which Nabiki made about half of her money—the other half being through sales of Ranma’s, Ranma-chan’s, and Akane’s pictures through the school. Both of them—or all three of them, if you wanted to look at it that way—had small fan clubs who paid dearly for each new picture Nabiki could provide. And, of course, Tatekawi and Kodachi Kuno paid handsomely for their pictures, and that, along with her high-interest loansharking, brought in the money which she used to keep the house and dojo locked, stocked, and repaired on a constant basis. And with those two, she kept the Tomoyuki Repair Corps on a constant retainer; they checked in weekly, to examine the house and dojo for repairs, did their job, and provided Nabiki with a bill which she paid toward every month. Sometimes she even came close to balancing out her account with Tomoyuki; often, though, she was quite behind. The fact that she helped to give so much private consumer business to them was a great denominator in having an active and non-combative relationship with Tomoyuki; she knew how it felt to be the one waiting to be paid, and as a result was more than a little respectful when she had to deal with them.

As much as Akane was her sister, and Ranma her soon-to-be-brother-in-law—that is, whenever he and she could knock down their pride long enough to see that they really did care for one another—and for as much as she loved them, both of them, in fact—though she would never admit that voluntarily-- she felt little guilt about using them to make money. Why not? they were costing the family money in repairs every time they fought, so why not let them pay for the damages? It was her way of rationalizing, and for the most part, she didn’t see a big problem with it; no one was being hurt, and in the end, the money simply went back into the family. Really, Nabiki didn’t make much of a commission off of the deal, when all was said and done. She was lucky to have saved as much money as she did before Ranma had come along; since he’d arrived, she’d only been able to add about 300,000 yen to her savings account, a pitiful sum for the work of a year and a half, considering that Tomoyuki’s repair bill was often about 500,000 yen, if not more—each week!— and she sometimes only just made that amount.

With her mind wandering in the direction of expenses, she was about to walk out of the door with Akane and Ranma, when Kasumi interrupted her musings with another phone call. The news she got made her even more despondent.

"I got here as soon as I could, Ran-chan," said Ukyou, meeting Akane and Ranma at the gate. Akane tossed her an ugly look; Ukyou threw it back with aplomb.

In the excitement of the morning, Ukyou had completely forgotten about Ranma mentioning a challenge, but with the telephone invitation she’d gotten, it had all returned in a flash, and she’d shoo’ed the last of her morning customers—all five of them, so far—out of the door to quickly clean up and lock up her shop. She’d then returned the phone call, placing her bets—one of them a fairly substantial one—on Ranma. She was one of the privileged six—and when you considered Ranma’s skill, backed by Nabiki’s financing skills (which, not too ironically, were even better than her own), it most certainly became a privilege—to be able to bet on Ranma’s fights directly. It was never in any doubt that Ranma would win; occasionally, he was beat, but he always came back the next day or two, and won decisively. During the times when he was beat, Nabiki would always—for a small, reasonable, nonrefundable fee, of course—re-bet one’s original bet on the second fight, at the odds she placed the second time around. When Ukyou thought about it, it was better than a real broker working her money; at least Nabiki let her bet again, without having to pay double the money. In the end, it did save her money, and she bet so heavily on Ranma because, even though the odd were low on him, it did increase her money, nonetheless. And while she wasn’t in any danger of having her lease snatched away from her, or her kitchen equipment repossessed by the rental agency she used, it helped her to be able to save some money, in case she wanted to go to college in a few years, or in case something ever happened to her shop, Kami forbid.

After placing her bets, she donned her usual battle gear, and left the shop.

Ukyou had, recently, been starting to add bits of femininity to her wardrobe; even if she’d spent ten years acting as a boy, she was always aware—at sometimes in the past, disgustingly so—of her femaleness. And now, now that she wasn’t pretending to be a boy, even when some of her "manly" habits came to the surface now and again, she was aware of who she was, who she really was, especially around Ranma. It hadn’t taken long for her "hatred" of Ranma to turn to love; after ten years, she could no longer sustain the hatred; it had simply become a goal: find Ranma, kill him or make him confess, then take back her honor. But when she’d understood that Ranma had not been at fault, her goal quickly disappeared, and the boy she’d liked a lot as a girl had managed to recapture her heart again. And in recognizing that, in realizing that, she became aware that she needed to be able to get him to see her as a girl, as the girl she was, as the woman she was becoming, as the wife she could be.

Her only obstacle—her only "real" obstacle—was Akane. For some reason, some reason known only to the Kami, Ranma seemed to care about that short-tempered, obstinate, belligerent and unappreciative young woman, far more than Ukyou thought he reasonably should. True, Akane was pretty, but so was she, and she could cook, unlike the aforementioned tomboy. Akane also couldn’t swim, wasn’t that great of a fighter, and she claimed almost incessantly that she didn’t like boys. So what was it about her that held her Ranchan? That was the question that constantly bothered her, whenever she thought about it—which was almost always—and whenever Ranma came to visit her, usually to eat, almost as often to talk, and nearly all his talks centered on Akane.

Couldn’t Akane see how much he cared about her? True, sometimes Ranma was very quick of word but slow of thought—a combination which kept him intimately connected with trouble, especially of the female persuasion—but that aside, he did everything he could to keep her safe. He was a great martial artist, and yet he suffered all of her punishment—a fact which made Ukyou question Ranma’s desires in that direction, much as she’d pondered her own the night before—didn’t that speak to Akane of his devotion? Couldn’t Akane see what she was doing to him by her words, her actions, her own insensitivity?

‘More importantly,’ she’d thought for a second, before she could stop herself, ‘can’t he see what he’s doing to you by wanting her? by telling you all of these things, talking to you, one of his fiancées, as if you’re a buddy of his? Doesn’t he see how much you care about him?’ That was a thought she hated, since it was too close to what she wanted to ask him, what she did ask him, every night, as she lay in her bed, close to tears. She’d shaken off those thoughts.

That thought threatened to come back to her, as she pulled herself to a stop in front of Ranma and Akane. She fought with herself over the two disparate, but mutually goal-oriented thoughts that flashed through her mind: the first was an almost overwhelming urge to jump into Ranma’s arms. Unlike Kodachi, or even Shampoo, she would be welcomed; the second thought concerned beating Akane to a pulp. She squelched both thoughts.

In truth, she didn’t hate Akane; she didn’t even really dislike her all that much. But, then again, she didn’t think too much of her, either. To Ukyou, she was an obstacle, and not much more. Perhaps in another life they could have been friends, having friendly spats of rivalry over Ranma. But not in this life…unless some miracle happened.

"I’d remembered about that challenge you’d mentioned," she said, "and I figured you could use a little moral support." She smiled brightly at Ranma, noting Akane’s answering scowl; she continued to turn on the sunshine, in direct proportion to Akane’s growing disapproval.

Ranma was silent for a moment, seeing but not seeing the interaction between Akane and Ukyou. Knowing, however, that each saw fit to "claim" him, and sensing the increasing discomfort, he decided to speak; he cleared his throat hesitantly.

"Well, uh, yeah, Uc-chan; thanks. You’re a good friend to do that for me." Ukyou’s beaming smile faltered somewhat as the words sunk in, and Akane’s frown was immediately replaced by a bright smile of her own, as if to say, ‘Ha! He’s not yours!’ Ukyou pointedly decided to ignore her.

"So what are we waiting for?" she said, verbally changing the subject of the silent conversation that she and Akane had been having. Ranma opened up his mouth to speak.

"Well, I’d like to say they’ve been waiting for me," said Nabiki, beating Ranma to the punch, "but it’s probably because Mr. Greatest Martial Artist stuck his foot in his mouth, again." It was Ranma’s turn to scowl, as he threw Nabiki a briefly withering look. She seemed not to notice, as she continued speaking, "So what are we waiting for? Onward, fearless champion, for your battle awaits!" She cried, a brief smile alighting upon her face. Ranma gave her another look, as the quartet began their journey to the park.