This copy of the story is from my centralized fanfiction archive at http://www.thekeep.org/~harnums/fanfic. I can be reached by e-mail at harnums@thekeep.org ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Prologue - Musk Empire, 647 C.E. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Nature had prescribed gray uniformity for the day, and in all her kingdom only the Musk had dared to disobey. Gray sky fused into a horizon that was only tinged with blue; the mountains shed their usual ruddy tone for that of quick-cooked flesh and the transparent pools reflected the dolour faithfully on surfaces undisturbed by wind. Only at one of the springs were there waves and ripples, and these, too, were soon stilled. Several golden figures stood around it with bowed heads. Beside them, one decked in white cloth and green dragon scales stood fully upright. Twice four monks had prostrated themselves a prudent distance from the edge of the water and formed the petals of a blossom with their robes. A heavy bronze column was the pistil, immersed in the centre of the pool and carved with twin lotus flowers and arcane knots. At the ninth place stood their Emperor, and at his side the mechanism of the unnatural bloom's pollination - a tiny monkey, beady eyes heavy-lidded in half-sleep. The chants ended. For half a heartbeat all was silent except for a slight lapping of water against the column. Then came a rustle of cloth against scale armour. The Emperor had raised his right arm and closed his eyes. The column began to move. There was no rumble, no disturbance of the pool, just a clean upwards movement of the pillar followed by a perfectly geometric sideways displacement of the column from the pool's centre to the soil just beyond the water's edge. It landed with a muted thump and spilled not a drop beyond its own circumference. "Drugs," commanded the Emperor. One of the monks nodded, then rose and fed a bundle of prepared herbal mash to the already-sedated monkey before returning to his place in the blossom. The monkey yawned a simian yawn, and her eyes closed completely. "Begin." Now it was the monks' turn to concentrate. They visualised themselves collectively as a fierce spirit, crowned with skulls and wearing human heads as ornaments about its neck; they were the three-eyed, three-faced, many-armed conqueror of Death, yet of but one mind. Once the monks had disappeared, once there was no doubt in its mind that there were no individuals but only a mystic lotus, Fierce Protector and the Mentor at the pool, then it did its teacher's bidding. "Take the sacrifice." The limp, unconscious animal was clenched in an invisible grip and raised high above the centre of the pool. Below, another had risen to meet it. The pillar's ascenscion had freed a pale, naked woman's body from beneath its weight to rise to the surface of the waters. Neither moved, and only one of them breathed. "Lower it. Carefully." The monkey descended gently through the skin of the waters, losing its form once it passed the barrier. An instant change, and two identical human bodies now floated side by side, one of its own accord and one by the action of a guardian spirit. One of the submerged women still breathed. But not for long. With a mystic binding gesture, the Emperor of the Musk plucked a three-edged dagger from his side and flung it at the monkey-made- woman. The blade cut through the water as though it were not there - it struck just below the breasts and kept its place, sending tendrils of blood swirling through the pool. He watched carefully. The curse-born human shell dissolved, shrinking back into its original form, and making the half-hairy semi-monkey scream beneath the water. Bubbles rose and burst in silence. "NOW!" The chanting began anew, but fast this time, hurried, not as before. The hastily-empowered Fierce Guardian scooped the monkey from the spring and tossed it far onto dry land. Again the Emperor watched, sensing the slow dyings of the animal as it writhed and bled. He waited until the precise moment of the creature's last heartbeat, then nodded. The monks responded to his command and withdrew from the collective entity they'd summoned, leaving its empty shell to serve as a source of power to another. A spell of binding was performed to keep the mindless essence of the Fierce Protector whole, and a second one to project it into the blood, into the pool, and into the no-longer-corpse. The monks bowed their heads to the ground and spread themselves flat against the soft gray dirt. The mystic lotus bloomed; their yellow robes wounded the surrounding gray and from the pool walked out the human fruit, twice-born, unclad. Water streamed down her glistening hair, and over her full breasts, pooling in the clefts of her rounded thighs before spilling down her long legs. A few droplets were caught in the long lashes framing her beautiful eyes, and she blinked to shake them out. The Emperor appraised his resurrected consort with more senses than the mortal five, then nodded his approval. She licked her blood-soaked hand and smiled. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- W A T E R F A L L S A Mystery by Alan Harnum and Chris Willmore ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Based on characters and situations created by Rumiko Takahashi and used without permission. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Chapter 1 : Unfolding ---------------------------------------------------------------------- '...the lotus grows up from the darkness of the mud to the surface of the water, opening its blossom only after it has raised itself beyond the surface, and remaining unsullied from both earth and water.' -Lama Anagarika Govinda, 'Tibetan Mysticism' ---------------------------------------------------------------------- The old woman bowed her head and flashed a toothless smile. "So sorry, dear." "S'okay," Ranma muttered as she wrung her shirt out over the pavement. "Happens all the time." A stray sparrow caught the eye of the hag, making her forget all about the victim of her walk-by splashing. She hummed something that might have been music while walking after the bird, exuding an aura of placidity only rivaled by a Zen monk tripping on the far side of bodhi and loco weed. Ranma muttered something deeply uncomplimentary (and deeply accurate) about the elderly population as a whole, speculated on the body-shrinking powers of prune juice and hurried around the corner that Akane had already disappeared around. The wedding debacle had made for a few days of tense -- well, tenser -- relations, and the two of them had only now managed to settle down into an uneasy truce. Uneasy meaning enough property damage to drive three more local insurance companies bankrupt. The usual, as it were. Akane was striding in the shadow of the canal fence as Ranma caught up with her, bookbag swinging back and forth in one hand. Ranma fumbled with the straps of her own bookbag as they walked in silence, adjusting it so it wouldn't slip off her now much-narrower shoulders. "I think you'd learn after a while to be more careful around this area," Akane said in a mildly huffy voice. "I mean, she gets you almost every morning." Here it comes, Ranma thought dully. "Ya think I don't try to watch out for her? She's just-" "Too fast for you?" "Hey! It's not like that! I mean..." Ranma grunted in frustration. "Why does every senior citizen in the country have it out for me? All my biggest problems seem to be drawin' pensions these days." "Well, a lot of people our age don't like you either," Akane said. "Ryouga, Mousse, Tarou..." Ranma thrust her hands into her pockets and glared ahead at a perfectly innocent lamp post. "Oh, that makes me feel a LOT better." "I'm not _trying_ to make you feel better," Akane countered. "If you want to sulk because of a little water, be my guest." They continued in silence, Ranma stewing on the high road and Akane walking primly along the low, until they reached the tall metal gates of Furinkan high. Once inside, Akane left to join a group of her friends and Ranma sauntered over to where Hiroshi and Daisuke were leaning against a wall. "Mornin', fellas." "Morning, Ranma," Daisuke greeted, raising a hand. "Got splashed today, I see." "Observant, aren't we?" Ranma muttered sarcastically. "And you can both stop staring. It ain't like both of ya never seen breasts before or somethin'." "Well, not a pair like--" Hiroshi shut his mouth as Ranma gave him a look promising painful death, or at least something involving caltrops used in ways not approved of by the manufacturer. Daisuke touched a finger to his chin and looked contemplative. "How many days a week do you come to school as a girl, on average?" Ranma snorted. "You think I keep a list, or what?" "Well, make a guess," Hiroshi said. "Why?" Ranma asked icily. "Because we're bored and have a few minutes till the bell," Daisuke explained. "We're just wondering." Sometimes Ranma wondered if the two of them had some sort of mental link. "I dunno. I probably get nailed by that old bag with the ladle at least once a week, and it seems to rain at least one other time." She shrugged. "Maybe two, three times a week." "Yeah, but is that school days?" Hiroshi asked. "We're not concerned with the weekend here." "School days are probably about that." Ranma nodded. "Two, three times." "So about half the time," Daisuke concluded. Ranma nodded again. "Is there a point to this?" "Knowledge is power." Hiroshi grinned. Daisuke picked up his schoolbag from the ground and opened it, sorting through it in search of something as he talked. "Hey, Ranma, do you feel different when you're a girl? Do you get, I dunno, different urges?" "Urges?" Ranma blinked. "Hey! What the hell are you askin' somethin' like that for?" "Just wondering." Daisuke closed his bag, apparently not having found what he wanted within. "Anyway, it's about time for class anyway. Better start heading inside." "Hey Ranma, one thing before we get inside." Ranma looked over to Hiroshi. "What?" "You know how your shirt's all wet?" Turning her head to Daisuke, Ranma nodded. "Yeah." "Your nipples are showing," Hiroshi said. The bell rang in time with Ranma's anguished yell. Hiroshi's anguished yell followed almost immediately. * * * * * His stomach was being torn apart, and in all honesty, he wasn't sure if he could make it to the bathroom in time again. A flu bug, perhaps, or something he'd eaten - though dear Akane hadn't cooked anything in some time, and sweet Kasumi's food was always perfection itself. Or... Terrifying as the thought might be, was his age finally catching up to him? Health and strength would be the last thing to go, he knew that. His body was already shrunken and withered, but he was as powerful now as he was in his youth: experience and skill compensated him for the minor losses of power and speed over the last few decades. Few in the world could stand against him, and he took pride in that. Not as much pride as in his delicious collection of lacy unmentionables, but pride all the same. Even as he lay in agony on his futon, he was running his tiny hands up and down one recent acquisition: a lace-trimmed, sable-black pair of crotchless panties that he'd swiped from the laundry line of a house occupied by two unmarried sisters in their mid-thirties. Underwear, he had discovered, could reveal surprising things about people. His stomach gurgled, and he moaned as he forced himself to rise to his feet. None of them had been in to visit him at all, to bring him some nice soup, or offer to steal him a few new pretties for his collection. Ungrateful worms all of them; he'd given them the Anything-Goes School, refined until it was probably the most versatile and deadly fighting art on earth, and what had they given him? Nothing but pain and rejection. It brought a tear to his eye, and he blew his nose on the crotchless panties and flung them away into one of the piles that littered the room. The old Master pushed open the door, half-closing his eyes against the painful brightness of the hallway lights. With a grunt and a liberating belch, Happosai staggered out of his dark, cramped room to make the long trip to the cool, porcelain sanctitude of the toilet. * * * * * Tarou leapt over another fallen log, not allowing nature's incidentals to slow his progress. His pace was the wind's; he glided over the forest's undergrowth and raced the breeze through the twists and turns of the wooded maze. And he won. He'd left behind the smoke and fire of the village he'd razed. Even the screams of those he'd left homeless or worse were too slow to catch up to him. They'd tried to stop him. He'd come bursting down their only avenue, and the silly fools had tossed insults at him for a few knocked-down stalls or the demolition of an ancient wall or shrine. Their curses were as those of wizened tortoises pawing filth at a dragon with their clumsy paws. Unworthy as they were, he'd made time for them and showed them the price of their disrespect. But there was no daylight allotted to see if they had learned the lesson, once finished. He had to continue. He had to run and reach... what? His goal was unknown to him. He tried to think, tried to remember, but the mayflies in his head buzzed protectively around the carrion of his thoughts. For days now, that's what his higher mental processes had been - an unapproachable pulpy corpse of decomposing matter guarded over by a humming cloud of dark spots. Sometimes, he was almost able to see them... little dark spots dancing before his eyes, humming and circling his head... Tarou didn't look forward to the maggots. The illusory insects had been with him ever since he'd rammed his head against a mountainside's stone carving in an effort to destroy it. Were they a divine curse, then? A plague of madness thrown upon him by a minor deity upset by the desecration of her image? The buzzing kept him in a constant low-level fury, made cogitation impossible and transferred command of his body to his legs, his feet, and the adrenaline bath in which his tissues were now soaked. Perhaps that WAS their purpose. Perhaps his lower limbs were endowed with some retributory purpose to appease the goddess, one which was to his mind unk... The buzzing again. No time to think. Just run, leap, avoid obstacles. Keep moving. And he did. All this, for what? He'd shattered a statue with his head. He'd had to. He couldn't help himself. How could he, when placed face-to-face before that six-armed, fiery... Under the branch. Over the rock. East, now, then north when you reach the clearing. Move. The mayflies buzzed, and goaded him on. * * * * * "Ukyou wasn't in class again today." Ranma looked down on Akane from his balancing atop the canal fence. Classes had ended for the day, but he was still running a few calculations in his head. "Yeah, I know." "Don't you wonder where she is?" Ranma considered this. "Kinda," he admitted. If nothing else, he wanted to know where her okonomiyaki were. "Did you call the restaurant?" "Nope." Akane stopped walking and let out an exasperated sigh. Ranma hopped off the fence and walked in front of her. "What? What'd I do THIS time?" "Your best friend hasn't been in school for nearly a whole week, and you didn't even try to find out where she was?" Ranma blinked. Best friend? "What'cha mean, best friend? Ucchan?" "Well, who else do you have to count as a friend?" Akane asked. "Ryouga? Hiroshi and Daisuke? I mean, you've known Ukyou since you were both little kids, and..." For some reason, Akane seemed to be searching for something that wasn't there. "Well, I don't know. Never mind." "Best friend." Ranma scratched his head. "I dunno. I guess I kinda drop by her place for some free grub once in a while, and she kinda hangs around me, but I always kinda thought that was because of the whole fiancee thing. She's a friend. I dunno if I'd call her my breast one." Akane glared at him. "BEST one. BEST friend!" "Don't bother, Ranma. I KNOW where your mind is." Her fiance grinned. "Sure explains why I don't think about YOU too often, then, huh?" Akane hit him on the head with her bookbag and started walking again. "Well, who would you call your best friend, then?" "Do I have to have one, or something?" Ranma asked. "I mean, is it some kinda requirement? Everybody's gotta have a best friend to be a member of the human race?" "I don't know," Akane snapped. "Who cares? The point is, you should have checked up on her, like we did last time. Maybe she's sick again." "Ain't you just a little mad about what happened at the wedding?" The word 'wedding' invoked a silence comparable to that caused by the mention of privatisation at a meeting of the Chinese economic council. Ranma prayed that he hadn't actually said the word, but the sudden, absolutely horizontal position of Akane's mouth made it clear that he had. "Well," Akane said after a few seconds in which the sound of a hair dropping onto a feather mattress would have been audible, "it's not like that sort of thing hasn't happened before to us, is it?" "Well, yeah, but we never tried to get married neither, ya know--" "Why don't you just SHUT UP!" To his surprise, Ranma did, as though the words he'd been meaning to say were suddenly choked off in his throat. "Okay, okay, whatever. Sorry." Akane sighed. "It's okay. It's not ENTIRELY your fault. Let's go visit Ukyou." They cut through the market district on their way to the restaurant. When they ducked into an alley, Ranma found himself looking nervously overhead. He was filled with a dreadful certainty that SOMEONE was going to throw their dishwater or worse out atop him from a high window. Hiroshi and Daisuke had him spooked, blast it. When they arrived at the Ucchan, the blinds were drawn, the door was closed, and the restaurant sign was nowhere in sight. Akane knocked, and the door was answered by a dejected Konatsu, looking mournfully pretty in a black and silver kimono. "Ranma-sama, Akane-sama," he said, dabbing at his eyes with a lacy handkerchief. "I was waiting for you to come by." He sniffled, then blew his nose. "I just did not think it would take you so very long. Oh, woe and perdition." Beyond Konatsu's shoulder, Ranma was able to see that the interior of the restaurant was dimly lit, but spotlessly, almost obsessively clean. Only a large urn at the end of the room still had a light shining on it. Funny. He didn't remember seeing THAT before. "What's wrong with Ucchan?" Konatsu sniffled again, then tucked the handkerchief back into the belt of his kimono. "Please, if you do not mind, come inside so that we can discuss it." Moving beyond mildly concerned into deeply, Ranma frowned and followed Konatsu into the restaurant, Akane trailing in their wake. The whole placed smell of disinfectant and lye, and the grill was polished to a mirror sheen. Konatsu pulled out stools at the counter and silently bade them sit. "What happened, Konatsun-san?" asked Akane in a soft voice. Konatsu's eyes were red from weeping, and up close Ranma was able to see that his kimono was rumpled and hair frazzled. "Oh, it's just terrible, Akane-sama." Konatsu folded his hands primly on his lap and stared at them. "After what happened at the wedding, Ukyou-sama was so depressed. She felt terrible about what she'd done. Absolutely terrible." Ranma gulped. What had Ukyou done?... it couldn't be... "I tried to talk her out of it," Konatsu sniffled. "But she was so determined... then I woke up one morning and she was... she was..." The kunoichi noticed something in the increased light, and gasped. Not pausing to answer his guest's questions, he dashed to the floor under the table the urn was on. Ranma squinted. What was he... Oh. Oh, no. There was a bit of fine yellowish powder under the table, and Konatsu was carefuly, almost obsessively involved in picking up every grain and delicately placing it inside the illuminated urn. "Ukyou..." whispered Ranma. Akane reached a similar conclusion at the same time he did, but was beyond words. She shut her eyes and let tears fall out through the edges of her closed lids. Konatsu increased his movements to a frantic pace, but some of the grains escaped him by falling into the cracks between the floor panels. Bursting suddenly into tears, he stood and handed Ranma a folded piece of paper from within his kimono. A lump in his throat, Ranma unfolded the paper and scanned it, having to narrow his eyes in the dim light. Ranchan, I'm sorry about what happened. I know you probably don't believe me, and you probably don't really have any reason to. It was stupid and reckless; the sort of thing Shampoo would have done. Not me; I've done a lot of thinking these last few days, and I've started to realize that I don't like the person I'm becoming because of this whole engagement thing. I don't think you do either. So I'm going back home for a while. Maybe a week, maybe longer. Visit my parents, see if they have any advice. This whole situation is hurting everyone - me, Akane, maybe even you. Maybe when I come back I'll know what to do. Maybe you will too. Hope springs eternal, right? -Ucchan Ranma put the note down on the counter. Akane's face was pale as she stared straight at him. Ranma licked his lips, and said, "She went. Away. On vacation?" Konatsu's handkerchief was now a sodden lump being wrung out in his hands. "Yes..." "You could have just told us," Akane said flatly. It was clear that she desperately wanted to flatten the kunoichi, as well. "I was too distraught," Konatsu replied, with another sniffle. "And... the urn... so who's..." Konatsu blinked. "Urn?" He followed Ranma's gaze with his eyes. "That's where we keep the sand in case of fire! If Ukyou comes back and finds out that I tipped it over... I *tried* to clean it up, but I missed some of it, and... and..." Ranma blinked and looked around the restaurant. "She left you food, right?" * * * * * Up ahead, another structure. Many structures, actually... Walls, spires, slanting roofs and noise - pounding, sawing, banging and... buzzing, of course the buzzing. Closer now. Men in yellow robes and shaved heads. The gate was open in the walls that bounded the monastery's buildings. There was commotion, a procession. A feast? The feet of large statues could be seen within; they were being ferried through the narrow streets. The noises resolved into the sounds of construction, and associated themselves with sights. More monks ahead, beyond the monastery's bounds, setting up racks and shelves, painting signs, and... Tarou strained his ears. If only the damned buzzing would stop... then he'd be able to think. Hell, he'd be able to sleep... he couldn't remember the last time he'd slept. Those LOOKED like monks, but that didn't seem like chanting. And... wasn't that a microphone? o/~ To be in love, must be the sweetest feeling that a girl can feel o/~ It WAS a microphone. And the sounds coming out of it were horrendous; they were notes designed to drive the fiercest Naga back into its hole and send the Death-conqueror running for the hills. What arcane ritual was this? Tarou had heard that the monks were often employed in driving away evil spirits, but he'd always believed the ceremonies would be less noxious to the living. Incense, prayers, maybe a little animal sacrifice, not... this. o/~ To live a dream with somebody you care about like no one else o/~ Instinct advised a half-circle pivot followed by a retreat, but was denied by the everpresent buzz and the mayflies burrowing down into his brain, tiny sharp jaws severing synapses and neural pathways as they went. He walked forward as through through a sea of noxious sludge; the sound was almost tangible - it hindered his movement and battered his head with shockwaves of audible corruption. The monks paid him no attention, even when he was close enough to smell their butter-tea breath. They were, it seemed, too busy listening to the singing to even notice him. He grabbed the throat of the monk making the noise and squeezed. Hard. The sounds stopped. The microphone fell from the monk's hand, and bounced once on the rough soil outside the walls of the compound. Those who had been busy with the assembly of wooden structures dropped their tools and formed a circle around Tarou and his victim, pointing and chattering, as did a monk further away who had been pushing a wheelbarrow full of... women's shoes?!? Where did monks find women's shoes? "What are you *doing*?" growled Tarou. His prey's throat was by now considerably narrower than normal, and at the rate of exerted pressure would vanish almost entirely in less than a minute. "Ka... ka..." "Yes?" Kurukulla, maybe? Perhaps they'd been summoning that terrible and fierce guardian deity. That would explain the unnatural force and effectiveness of the ritu... Tarou's mental mayflies dissolved his train of thought, and it was just as well, for the monk finished the word he'd started. "Karaoke," he sputtered. Tarou dropped him. "Karaoke..." he whispered to himself, shaking his head. "And women's shoes..." He looked at the half-painted signs that dotted the area surrounding him. All read "Shoe store". A sweep of his arm sent half the monks flying and gave him an exit from the circle of curious robed flesh. Tarou walked through it to one of the signs. "Shoe store." No doubt about it. The characters were painted carefully, as if the artist were unfamiliar with them but wanted to get them ju... The swarm in Tarou's head buzzed into full activity, destroying every vestige of his concentration and ringing his crown with a circle of pain. He banged his head against the nearest placard in an effort to cast out the flies, but all he achieved was a prompt tackling by the monks who saw their object of worship desecrated and damaged. The mayflies were too deep, they were laying their eggs inside his brain, and the buzzing _wouldn't stop_. They held him down quite effectively, but failed to pin his right hand. He had just enough freedom left to unscrew the top of his hip canteen, and- Monks fell like oversized cherry blossoms from the sky with the first exertions of Tarou's cursed form. When they fell, their joined robes formed a very efficient carpet to protect the monster's tender hooves from the rough Chinese soil. The crunch of their bones as he stepped on them was most satisfying, and the moans- Were not of pain. The monk whose back he was currently treading on was typical: "Oh, we are doubly blessed ... AURGGHHH... that two divine visitors have deigned to put on mortal form, to remain bound to the karmic wheel and... AIEEEE... help us in our seeking of enlightenment... URKKK... teach us the incorrectness of... OOOH... our ways..." Tarou paused before stepping on another backbone. Then he stepped off of the groaning tangle of monks and settled down on his haunches to hold up two massive fingers and make a questioning grunt. "Yes, gentle bodhisattva," one monk said, tears in his eyes as he looked at Tarou. "We were visited only a few days earlier by another of your divine kind. It is almost too much for our humble order to believe." Tarou mooed inquisitively again, and made a gesture for the monk to continue. He answered in typical monk fashion, speaking of rays of light, transcendence, Nirvana and lotus thrones, but especially of a fierce dakini who had appeared herself to them in the guise of a shy, beautiful girl of sign Virgo and blood type A. She had revealed that the surest path to enlightenment was through karaoke and shoe-shopping and anyone who didn't agree with that would be fried right then and there by her six-armed conqueror aspect just like she'd fried the banquet hall when one of the monks had expressed doubts about her divine nature. Her name, she had said, was 'Ru-Je', and she'd told them that she would return, just before leaving towards the west. She had also granted them the kindness of taking a very large amount of tribute from them, most of it in small, easily-transported valuables. Tarou didn't need to hear more, and indeed couldn't. The buzzing in his head was overpowering even external sounds, and his legs were tensing for a jump of their own accord. The monster's bellow was a mix of pain and triumph, as his wings flapped and he propelled himself to the west. * * * * * He felt better. Wonder of wonders, praise God and Buddha, he felt _better_. There had been no need for a trip to the bathroom for hours now, and his poor stomach seemed to have actually settled down. For the last few days he'd lain abed, while his uncaring, ungrateful students and their disrespectful children neglected him in his illness; though it wounded his heart terribly, he had long ago resigned himself to the fact that they had no respect for age or wisdom. And after all he'd done for them. No respect; no respect at all. The dank, cramped room, which before had felt warm and cozy, was now as confining as a cage. He needed - desperately needed - to get out and roam the night, to seek the lacy treasures through the darkness of the streets. The hunt, as it were, was the only thing that made him feel alive any longer. The only thing, likely, that was _keeping_ him alive; too long away from women or their unmentionables, and he grew weak and helpless as a child. Certainly, he enjoyed the collecting and groping aspects, but no one seemed to take any sympathy with the fact that it was also a matter of survival for him. Again he felt the raw fear, the terrifying idea that his body might finally be breaking down. He picked up a silky garter, and ran his hands up and down the crimson length of it until the bad thoughts went away. No sign of any sickness any longer; he felt fresh, young, vital. Into the night, then. He slid the window of his room open and hopped out, landing easily on the balls of his feet two stories below. The sun was down and the moon was out, a sickly green that wrenched at the eye. Happosai leapt to balance on one corner of the peak-roofed walls that surrounded the Tendo house and dojo, scenting the air like any predator does. That way. Drifting on the night air, the scent of freshly- washed undergarments came, with just the briefest aftertaste of female flesh. Happosai inhaled, breathed it in, and bounded off over the roofs of the houses. Without even pausing, he passed by lines hung with brassieres and panties, and ignored girdles and garter belts draped over the bars of balconies as he raced with an absolute purpose through night-time Nerima. A hound on the chase, he pursued the prey with vigour; never had he sensed a cache like this, a treasure trove of such delectable darlings as he had never imagined could exist. The nightscape rushed by; houses and canal nearby, skyscrapers rising against the shadowy horizon. Gods, he had not felt like this since his youth! He dropped from the roof of a garden shed to the street, leapt atop the canal fence, and sprang over to the other side. Off into the night his laughter rang; how could he ever have been ill, that now he could feel like this? Somewhere in the back of his mind, something screamed desperate warnings, and was cut off. A pleasant, numbing buzz, like a great cloud of insects or the hummings of turbines, fell over him. Scenery emerged from the night, and passed back into the night, and the moon hung over all like a face that stared down upon him, malevolent and pale. In time, he came to a pleasant little house, white-painted and red-roofed, surrounded by low walls. A tiny garden bloomed with delicate flowers beneath the shadowed windows, and the slim trees looked like dancers to his eye, enticing him in the darkness. Happosai passed beneath the gateway into the house, panting, with his withered heart thudding in his chest like a bass drum. Vaguely, he noted that there were no laundry lines hung with silky darlings, and for a moment lucidity threatened. Many silky darlings many treasures for you only come Buzzing. A voice made from the sounds of cicadas and crickets, from the gathering of flies round middens... come to me With careful steps, Happosai walked around the side of the house, to the back yard where a tall cherry tree spread bare branches at the sky. A blue tarpaulin flapped loosely in the wind, one corner pulled away from beneath the rock meant to hold it down. Almost desperate now with the need to find the enormous cache of precious, beautiful treasures that he knew was here, he ripped it aside to expose the splinter-ridden double doors of a cellar entrance. Though the hinges were rusty, the doors opened without a sound, and a dim flight of narrow, steep steps were revealed beyond. Now his pace was slow, languidly slow, as if he moved in time with the steady buzzing in his head. There were many, many treasures and he had to get down to them _right now_ but his damnable body wouldn't obey. His feet seemed to fear coming to rest open the steps with their flaking blue paint, and his hands itched to close the cellar doors. But now he was descending, buzzing growing stronger even as his resistance disappeared. The cellar was larger than the house above would have indicated, low-ceilinged and dank, with the windows boarded-up and nailed shut. Thick water pipes scabrous with rust stretched from floor to ceiling, seemingly at random, far too many for a small house like this. From their moist surface, an occasional droplet of water would bead and fall to the floor. A muggy dampness filled the basement that reminded him of some of the jungles he'd been to; vaguely, he remembered that there were a lot of tribes in those places where the women didn't even _wear_ brassieres. Candles were everywhere, upon the scarred wooden table in the centre or resting in alcoves on the wall beside many-armed statues with terrifyingly fierce faces. Overlaying the metallic smell of rusting pipes and the aged dusty scent was a mildly cloying incense. Oddest of all, a great iron prayer wheel, colourful paints long-gone so that only the rusted shape of it remained, stretched from floor to ceiling near the stairs. After a moment's hesitation, he reached out and pushed it with enough force to make it turn a quarter rotation. The prayer wheel screamed like a dying thing, and flakes of red rust showered down on him like rain. Any god that would answer a prayer that sounded like that, Happosai decided, was a god whose attentions he did not desire to attract. Buzzing. What a sound, what a terrible numbing sound... he was forgetting something, but he couldn't remember what... The treasures. He'd nearly forgotten the treasures. Where were they? Frantically, he looked around the basement, but saw no sign; there was one corner, though, where the light of the candles did not reach. There; it could only be there. Where he got there, though, and looked into the dim shadows, there were no treasures, only a square pit whose walls were slick with green mould, a pit that stretched down to a depth he couldn't begin to guess at. Up from it came a cold chill that ached in his bones; in the ceiling above the pit, two water pipes led into an apparatus of spouts and gears and ratchets and burnished brass whose function he could not begin to guess at. And he realized then that there were no treasures here, no silky darlings, that there never had been, and then he heard a shuffling movement in the darkness behind him. He turned, buzzing, everywhere buzzing, and looked into a pair of eyes large and soft-toned like triple-D blue satin bra cups. The dark pupils were like erect nipples showing through the cloth. Happosai stared, mesmerized, stricken with lust and terror, and in a single tortuous moment realized just how lost he was. A voice. The voice he'd been hearing in his mind, but speaking clearly and in the real world, now. It didn't sound like buzzing at all; it was beautiful. "Rather small for my Champion," it said, "but I grow weak and you will do." And then he heard no more. * * * * * Cologne was perched upon her stool behind the counter of the Nekohanten, the drawer of the cash-register open in front of her while her small hands darted with unnatural speed and agility as she sorted the day's take onto the counter. A solitary light from above illumined her as she worked; the main dining area was dark, with chairs laid atop the tables and floor swept. On the floor above, Mousse and Shampoo would already be asleep. Or at least they should be; they had another day of work tomorrow. As soon as this last task was done, Cologne would go to her rest herself, but her old bones didn't need the sleep two growing teenagers did. How she had hoped this would be over by now... It should have ended months ago, but it seemed that all of them were bound to Ranma, as surely as the monks said human beings were bound to the sufferings of this world by their desires. Perhaps there was some truth in that; all of them were stuck here because of one sort of desire or another: Shampoo because of her feelings for Ranma, Mousse because of his feelings for Shampoo... and her? Why was she here? Boredom, maybe. The insanity that went on here was certainly more interesting than the generally sedentary life of training and teaching she'd practiced back home. There was also the future of her family line to consider. It did not matter to her one way or the other who Shampoo married, as long as she ended up producing strong heirs to the family. Her happiness with the match was certainly a consideration, but it was not the only factor. Frankly, there were times when she genuinely contemplated giving Mousse some advice on where he was always going wrong; the idiot did truly love her great-granddaughter, and if he wasn't as strong as Ranma, he was strong enough. Whether or not Shampoo would ever display any interest in him was another matter... though, from experience, Cologne knew that there were some men you loved right away, and some you grew to love in time. So it goes. Cologne finished sorting the profits into the cash box and closed it tight. With a slap of her hand, she closed the cash-register's drawer, then hopped off the stool and headed into the storage room at the back. She'd keep the box in the safe in the corner until she made a bank run. The safe clicked as she dialed in the combination, and then swung open. Her eye caught on the books on the bottom shelf; all of them were family heirlooms, protected from dust and moisture in the airtight safe. On impulse, she pulled out the two-century-old leather-bound copy of the I-Ching. She'd never really given much stock the divination abilities of the hexagrams, but the phrasing of them could occasionally make her consider a problem in a new way. Coins from the cash box in hand to cast the changes, she sat down and crossed her legs with the book open in front of her. She scratched her cheek absently. What should she ask? It was important to fix the question in one's mind before proceeding. All right, then. Perhaps 'what should I do?' was a little too general, but it wasn't as though she was taking this with the utmost seriousness. One by one, she cast the changes; the coins danced and clinked on the floor. Eight, nine, eight, nine, seven, seven. Cologne read the changes, licked her index finger, and turned to the correct page. Sung - Conflict. The judgement? Conflict. You are sincere And are being obstructed. A cautious halt halfway brings good fortune. Going through to the end brings misfortune. It furthers one to see the great woman. It does not further one to cross the great water. Interesting, Cologne thought... and what else? The general image? Heaven and water go their opposite ways: The image of Conflict. Thus in all her transactions the superior woman Carefully considers the beginning. And the lines... what of the lines? Nine in the second place means: One cannot engage in conflict; One returns home, gives way. The people of her town, Three hundred households, Remain free of guilt. Nine in the fourth place means: One cannot engage in conflict. One turns back and submits to fate, Changes one's attitude, And finds peace in perseverance. Good fortune. Well, then. She changed the moving lines - the two unbroken nines that could be broken to obtain a related hexagram - to their opposites, and found the page with that reading. Kuan - Contemplation. The judgement read: Contemplation. The ablution has been made, But not yet the offering. Full of trust, they look up to her. Worthless superstisious nonsense, Cologne thought sourly. Then she picked up the coins again, and began to cast another set of changes. * * * * * Herb cast the book onto the floor, his mouth twisted into a grimace in an effort to contain his clenched teeth. Fairy tales. That's all the history of his Empire was, now -- stories of a golden time followed by a quick decline and the current poverty and desolation. Once they had been feard and respected. Even Songzen Gambo left them alone, and once the Tibetan Empire converted to monasticism and was in need of protection, who did they turn to as the equals of the Mongols? The Musk. They had refused, of course. The barren plateau could offer little in return for their defence but an alternate spirituality, and they already had their own gods. That's what had held this Empire together: the divine spark setting the populace on fire and leading them both in battle and in peacetime planning. And then the gods left. Marpa Kon died at the hands of the exile Wu Lin; the Warrior was destroyed by the Creatress he had forged, in the ultimate betrayal. That's when the downward spiral began. The Empire was repulsed and demoralized. Papers surviving from that age hinted with their harsh and desperate language at just how much of the collective psyche was destroyed, and faith in the ancestral beliefs shattered. Rather than create and train another pair of spirit leaders the Musk accepted the teachings of Atisha. Weak, unworldly Atisha, whose goal was the negation and deterioration of all that Herb's predecessors had worked for. He'd done well. In just a few centuries the Musk went from being one of the greatest powers in the world to being all but forgotten, their last stronghold -- HIS last stronghold -- a small citadel with only a handful of followers within it and insufficient population for an army. And the Empire had never again trusted a woman. Rain streamed in from a nearby window, covering the book's cover with drop marks. Herb bent over to pick it up. Even a book this painful deserved to be carefully preserved. He smoothed the pages that had creased in its fall, and stopped at one near the middle: on it was a likeness of the last Musk Empress. The rain fell harder, and Herb's female form did something that he would never allow himself when male. She ran her hand over the picture, and cried. * * * * * The boy had fought back. For a second. But HE was the master, and even though the Woman had trained him he still knew more; he had the accumulated knowledge of oh so heavy to drag through this dirt the scratch go rasp shirt yellow He took a bandanna from his prey's forehead and used it to wipe the sweat off his own brow. And then he blinked. There was another bandanna in its place. He took off more and more and OH if only these were his silky treasures instead of sweaty but argh! the... the... the... Drag. Boy. Home. Heavy. He hit a curb, and the lost boy's head hit it harder. Skull didn't crack. Didn't... cra- So heavy. Drag. Scratch. Rasp. And so long to go. Could do any attack, any explosion and defeat anyone, but manual labour? Not him. Not the master of- Rain! Rain! And now... A pig? A pig. How nice. Much lighter. Must drag. No; carry. Carry the pig, so small, so little buzzing rain falling pitterpatter. Where? Home. Not to his home. Did he have one? No. To HER home. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- END CHAPTER ONE ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Acknowledgments: We'd like to thank our prereaders for all the helpful commentary and suggestions they've provided. Vincent Seifert went over the story with a fine-toothed comb in record time, picking out most of the awkward phrasings and inconsistencies. Realtime commentary by Mercutio, Lara Bartram and Krista Perry proved invaluable for setting the tone of the chapter, and Mike Loader was kind enough to give us his opinion. -AH and CW ----------------------------------------------------------------------