|
|
Xian Mao casually boarded the airplane from Hong Kong to Tokyo. He looked foreword to a relatively easy trip (after having walked 1500 miles from the middle of nowhere to Bejing, and then (after hitchhiking his way to the cost) swimming from the mainland to Hong Kong, he felt entitled to a small cheat: hence, after a few days of skilled begging, a little gambling, and several well-done arena battles, he had enough money for some food, a couple changes of clothes, and a dirt-cheep plane ticket to Tokyo.
From there, he’d find the Nerima District, and from there, he’d locate the Tendou Dojo, School of Indiscriminate Grappling. From there, he’d hunt down this odd and infamous Saotome Ranma.
It was raining, in Nerima. Raining in that melodramatic way that sometimes made Ranma wonder.
Alone in the Nekohountan, Cologne looked up, precisely as lightning crashed. "Something changes", she uttered in the way that she sometimes does.
Lightning crashed again, and the old ghoul went back to her meditations.
"Ranma, I’ve finally had it with you."
"You what?" Ranma asked, looking up from his lunch (packed by Kasumi, fortunately). Ryouga loomed over him, glaring.
"I’ve come to challenge you again. Man-to-man, here and now, once and for all." There was that dangerous glint in Ryouga’s eye. Ranma wasn’t up to this now… he’d not been getting much sleep lately, afraid that Kodachi would be there when he woke up again (and having nightmares about the incident where he and Kodachi actually -did- things). Pop and Mr. Tendou had been pushing at him -real hard- to choose or leave… leaving was running away, and choosing meant that no matter what he did, three people would be hurt, possibly homicidal; besides, the only thing he knew for certain was that the choice -wasn’t- Kodachi (bullshit, his mind whispered, you -do- know… shut up, he told it).
Then again… maybe he needed this. Ryouga was his only rival, truly told, and a good fight might just make him feel better.
"How ‘bout as soon as I finish my lunch?" Ranma agreed, perking up a bit.
Ryouga fumed. "Why won’t you ever take me seriously?" he raised his fist to strike, then stopped. "Why not? A last supper…"
Ranma deliberately avoided the line of contemplation that comment opened up.
Xian Mao smiled to himself, feeling his newly pierced ear. The lady had said six weeks until it healed. He’d laughed and said "Two." Not three days later, he had already replaced the piercing stud with a iridescent hoop, and had acquired two or three pairs of more formal earrings, as well.
Some wondered where the dirty Chinese boy acquired the money, and suspected the Yen coins to be stolen. In a way, he supposed they were… a fool and his money, after all. Could he truly be blamed if they were willing to make loosing wagers like: "I bet you 1000 yen you can’t do that!"
A fool and his money…
… very, very swiftly parted.
Ranma and Ryouga squared off in the school yard. Principal Kuno was out of town, so the chances of being interrupted were minimal… unless, of course, Kuno or someone decided to join the fray.
"Any last words, Ranma?"
"Really think ya can kill me, P-chan?"
"When will you learn to take me seriously?" Ryouga demanded, striking out with his umbrella. Ranma was so surprised by the calm precision of the attack that he was almost hit by it.
"That the best you can do, bacon boy?"
Ryouga, for once, didn’t rise to the bait… twice now, he’d not responded to Ranma’s taunting. Had he found a cure? No, if he had, Ryouga would be bragging about it, or chasing after Akane like the incident with Shampoo’s special soap.
Distracted by his thoughts, Ranma was struck in the chest by several quick punches. The wind gushed out of his lungs. Ryouga struck again, a blow to the head with his umbrella. Ranma reeled, his vision spinning.
"Let your guard down, Ranma?" Ryouga taunted. "I warned you to take me seriously!"
Another attack, a kick. Ranma couldn’t remember the last time Ryouga had used a kick.
Exhausted from stress and lack of sleep, dizzy from lack of air and the blow to the head, caught off guard by the unexpected mode of attack, Ranma was unable to avoid the blow. Ryouga’s heavily booted foot struck him like a ton of bricks, landing on his temple, and throwing him face-first into the dirt.
Everyone, from various hiding places and areas that seemed likely to avoid damage, gasped collectively. Ranma had -LOST-.
The Tendous were worried, and justifiably so.
Ranma had been sent home from school for fighting. This was not especially remarkable in and of it self (he fought at school all the time, he just usually stayed there afterwards), but the fact of the matter was that he had LOST. Unaccountably, and indisputably, he had LOST, to Ryouga, no less.
Ranma and the Lost Boy had fought innumerable times, often to an inconclusive ending, but other than that Ranma ALWAYS WON… until now.
He’d locked himself in the dojo building, refusing to speak to anyone, leaving when anyone actually approached him.
Something was wrong, and everyone knew it. Even Shampoo and Kodachi seemed subdued—they’d stopped by shortly after having heard of Ranma’s defeat—by the young martial artist’s icy manner.
Worried, perhaps, is not strong enough a word. They were scared.
Soun was scared that the boy might do something rash.
Nabiki was scared of the money this could cost her in property damage and loss of profit.
Akane was scared… what of and why, how ever, were matters which she lived daily in denial of.
Kasumi was, as usual, oblivious.
And they all knew, deep down, that it could easily get worse, and most likely would.
Since arriving in Tokyo, it had taken Xian Mao nearly two weeks to locate Nerima. Once in Nerima, however, it had taken barely two days to find the Tendou Dojo… all of it footwork: seven out of ten people could give you perfect directions.
But something was up. People jumped at the mention of the name Saotome Ranma, or Tendou. They mumbled about "lost" and "lost boy" and signs of "something bad coming".
Xian Mao began to become very nervous. Was he at all prepared for what he’d gotten himself into? He tugged at his earring, a nervous habit he’d picked up less than an hour after he’d gotten it. He thought about Summoning something… maybe old K’leth… to look around. No, he decided, he’d worked hard to earn the favors now owed him. Information was too costly to waste them on something this trivial.
So he was limited to what he could watch and see, listen and hear.
So watch and listen he’d have to do.
Xian Mao’s stomach growled. With an embarrassed grin, he looked around for someplace to eat… that Neko-hanten had looked good. The name was certainly his style. Xian Mao backtracked, and quickly found the ramen restaurant. He walked in and…
…wow.
There was no level on which he could -not- admire the waitress. The moved throughout the room with a speed, skill, and grace that screamed "martial artist". She balanced half a dozen orders with no difficulty at all. And it took all his self control not to stare. Bouncing like that… _Time for a new train of thought!_ he told himself forcefully.
And the woman behind the counter, cooking. Incredible! Old and shriveled though she was, he could feel her Ki field from across the room. And she was fast! No, wait… Xian Mao watched her more closely. Amazing! She was using the "Chestnut Fist" to -cook-! One of the occasional outsiders who came to his temple had demonstrated it, and taught it to the Elder Monk as repayment for food and information. Xian Mao had tried it, but without using the Cat Fist he was nowhere near fast enough—counting the times he’d burnt himself trying, though, was a -very- embarrassing exercise—and whilst using the Neko-ken, such outside techniques were impossible… you just -didn’t think of them-.
He nodded to the second waiter, "Non."
The boy—about his age, actually—was dressed in Chinese robes similar to his own, and had a pair of massively thick-lensed glasses perched atop his head. As they walked to a small table by the window, Xian Mao’s incredibly acute hearing -almost-missed the quiet clink of metal. So, this boy carried weapons, did he? That would be useful to know.
The boy took his order, and told him that "Shampoo" would bring it out to him soon. Soon, indeed. It took more time for the order to be brought and served than it did to be made.
"Nihou!" she bubbled. The shock of someone speaking Chinese distracted him from her quite attractive body and bright—seemingly natural—purple hair.
"<Greetings, yourself. Not many of this nation seem to speak our ancient tongue. I am Xian Mao, how are you doing?>"
She blinked once. Twice. Then her smile became genuine.
"<Yes, few of these Japanese barbarians seem to speak even Mandarin. I am called Xian Pu.>"
"<Xian Pu!>" the crone behind the counter snapped. "<Stop flirting with this youngling! Ranma is yours, and only Ranma!>"
"<Yes, Great-grandmother.>" She smiled apologetically to Xian Mao and moved on.
Xian Mao ate slowly and, as business died down, signaled for Xian Pu (or was she called Shampoo here?).
"The honored matriarch mentioned a ‘Ranma’. Did she perhaps mean Saotome Ranma?"
"Aiiya! How you know?"
"I didn’t, that’s why I asked. If you have a moment, I’d like to talk to you about him."
"Great-grandmother! Shampoo go on break now! Talk to this boy about Airan!"
"Okay, then. Don’t be too long!"
"<Husband?>" Xian Mao gulped. Quietly, he closed off the part of his mind that saw Xian Pu as an attractive young female. She was attached, married even, and to think of her in the terms he had been was sin.
"Yes! Airan defeat Shampoo in combat, husband now."
"…defeat in combat…" Xian Mao mumbled, trying to make the connection and distracted by the fact that he couldn’t -completely- block out certain thoughts. "Oh! I see! You’re an Amazon, aren’t you."
Shampoo nodded a proud affirmative.
"What sister tribe are you from?"
"Joketsuzoku. How you know of sister tribes?"
"<Oh, lovely…>" Xian Mao muttered, slipping back into Chinese. "<I am of the Wang-Mao-Yue temple. I extend my hand in neutrality.>"