Pastpresent, Interlude One - Verlorenseele

	Ranma closed the book. "I wish I knew how much of this 
to believe."

	"Would he really lie to you? Like this?" Akane shook her 
head. "I think he's being honest with you for once."

	"I want to believe that."

	"So why don't you?"

	He shook his head. "Because parts of it are obviously 
false. I remember Kuonji-san. He was a big, barrel-chested 
guy with a beard like an Ainu, and he was gruff and easygoing 
and kind of rustic. Not like the person Pop describes at all. Do 
you expect me to believe that he went hick, grew facial hair, 
and changed his build and attitude?"

	Akane seemed to think for a moment.

	"Stay there," she said, and left.

	She returned after a few minutes with some yellowing 
pieces of notebook paper. "These were in Dad's papers," she 
said quietly. "He doesn't know I know about them. I was 
looking for things of Mother's a few years ago, and I forgot 
about the names in here until the book jogged my memory. But 
it always made me wonder..."

	Ranma took them, and read.

-------------------------------

Pastpresent, Interlude One - Verlorenseele

Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem:
And thus thy fall hath left a kind of blot
To mark the full-fraught man and best indu'd
With some suspicion. I will weep for thee
For this revolt of thine, methinks, is like
Another Fall of Man.
- Henry V, Act 2, Scene 2

I don't believe in God and I don't believe in man
I believe I'll have another just because I can
And if the morning finds me feeling queasy and in doubt
I'll drink one to the Devil and then punch the bastard out
- New South Wales Traditional

-------------------------------

	I knew I'd moved into a bad neighborhood when they 
nearly beat a kid to death on my front porch.

	Surprised the hell out of me, let me tell you. I'd spent 
the last two days getting my new place in order - an old 
bombed-out machine shop that was very shortly going to 
become a garage. It had been Kuonji's, but I'd bought him out 
cheap, which was only to be expected; it wasn't legally his, 
just in turf controlled by his people. Since I counted as 'his 
people,' I wasn't really sure why I bothered to shell out for it. 
Maybe I wanted something of my own for once, sort of. I think 
some Ainu in Hokkaido owns it under the law. If he ever asks 
me for rent, I guess I'll pay it. 

	But he's gonna hafta compensate me for all the sweat I 
put into fixing up the dump, first. I truly busted my ass 
turning the place from a broken-down, dirty, squalid hovel 
into a well-running, clean, squalid hovel. I didn't enjoy it. It 
felt too much like real work, which is for the Noble Poor like 
Genma.

	Anyway, I'd worn myself out playing interior decorator 
and furnishing my castle in delicate industrial modern decor, 
and after getting rid of a good deal of something red and 
alcoholic I had passed out on my desk. I know that's where I 
passed out because that's where I was when the pounding 
woke me up.

	At first I thought it was just my head, which was 
throbbing in a way that is better imagined than described, and 
better forgotten than imagined. I am very familiar with this 
feeling, which isn't the same as being used to it. So I lay there 
and waited to die, or, failing that, to feel better.

	Neither happened, and I slowly became aware that some 
of the pounding was coming from outside my cranium.

	This made me happy, because it meant that I could make 
it go away.

	It also really pissed me off, which fit my mood anyway, 
so that was okay.

	Stretching, I peeled myself off the fake wood top of my 
big impressive desk, replaced the carved cherrywood plaque 
with my name on it - Genma had made it for me as a 
housewarming gift - and slowly made my way towards the 
door. I realized I had nothing on above the waist before I 
opened it, which probably would have embarrassed me had I 
realized it a few seconds later, and so I threw on my leather 
jacket and zipped it up. Then I took a second to figure out how 
the doorknob worked, and opened it.

	There were three punks, all somewhere in that psycho 
territory between 15 and 19, and they were banging some kid 
into my porch like it was a bongo drum. Tha-bum, laugh, moan, 
tha-bum, repeat. They'd broken a tooth or cut his lip or 
something, and he was drooling red blood on my white porch.

	I have very definite views. I like Sinatra, and I worship 
Dean-sama, and whoever invented the combustion engine has 
my heartfelt admiration. I don't like people beating other 
people up on my porch without my permission, especially after 
I'd just painted the thing.

	"Quit," I told them. Talking hurt my head, and I didn't feel 
like doing more of it than I had to.

	They looked at me, and were less than impressed. I've 
seen me in the mirror after drinking, and I suppose I would 
have been less than impressed too.

	"Fuck you," one of them explained in the poetic way of 
the street.

	"Yeah," the other two concurred. Then they resumed their 
drumming.

	That suited me just fine, because by this point I really 
wanted to hurt them.

	I walked over, which got their attention. One of them 
opened his mouth, and I hit him in the side of his jaw hard 
enough to both break and dislocate it. He shrieked, which hurt 
like hell (for both of us), and that made him howl even louder. 
Not very bright. I shoved him off the porch with one hand as 
the other two pulled steel and started moving for me.

	I really don't like people who pull on me. I've been 
stabbed a few times, and each time it's scared me to death. 
I'm tougher than the average joe, but having something stuck 
in you, and watching the crimson well up, and feeling that 
weak draining feeling... maybe Genma could handle it. I can't.

	These two were holding their knives like they were 
hammers, which meant they had no idea how to use them. Fine 
by me.

	I grabbed the arm of the first one as he tried to stab me, 
and _wrenched_. There was a really good-sounding popping 
noise, and then the other guy tried to stick his knife in my 
stomach. I swung like a square-dancer, and he buried the blade 
in his buddy's shoulder instead. Buddy didn't make any noise; 
musta fainted when I dislocated his arm.

	I dropped the guy - he bled on my porch, I noticed, which 
meant I was going to have to repaint it for sure - and turned 
to face the last punk. He had a bloody knife and a real scared 
look on his face, which was the first sign of intelligence he'd 
shown since he'd brightened my life with his existence.

	"Bitch," he said, as if to make up for his momentary 
lapse of stupidity.

	"Yeah," I told him, and broke a rail off the porch with my 
left hand. My right hand threw his friend's knife at him.

	He yelped and ducked, which was what I had expected 
he'd do. It's hard to reliably hurt someone with a thrown knife;  
half the time the hilt or the flat bit just bounces off of them. 
On the other hand, no sane person likes having razor-sharp 
objects thrown in their face. So he dove, and I swung, and his 
head made a nice meaty cracking noise as the rail hit it. 

	He dropped the knife, which was good, and made a 
gurgling noise. Hard head. I thought about saying something 
cool and cold, then decided that it would hurt too much, and 
kicked him in the stomach instead. A mistake. All sorts of 
interesting stuff went from his mouth to my porch. 

	And that was that, really. All of them were probably 
going to need a doctor, which meant they wouldn't be paying 
me any more social calls, which was good. I tossed them off 
my porch and then noticed the kid.

	He was probably ten or twelve. Maybe older or younger. 
He was drooling blood down his chin, and he had some real 
colorful bruises on his face to set off the cuts and scrapes, 
and he was staring at me.

	At this point, Genma would have very seriously looked at 
the kid and asked, "Are you all right?" Which shows that 
Genma is very nice but not too bright, because any moron could 
tell that no, he wasn't all right, he'd just had the crap kicked 
out of him. That doesn't feel good. It hurts, both in the body 
and in the soul.

	"You want those cuts cleaned?" I asked.

	He looked at me with one of those damn unreadable looks 
that some people like to call soulful.

	I didn't feel like guessing what he meant by it. "You want 
them cleaned or not?" I repeated, letting a bit of irritation 
creep through.

	He thought it over for a few seconds. "Yeah."

	"Okay. C'mon in."

	He started to get up, stumbled, winced. I walked over 
and pulled him up real careful; one of his legs was limping a 
bit. "Here, lean on me."

	"Okay."

	We lurched across the porch for three steps before I got 
tired of it and simply picked him up in a fireman's carry. He 
was a light little sucker, and I could feel the shape of his 
bones through his cheap white clothing. White and red, now, 
with a grey corona from the dust that one naturally picks up 
when one is used as a battering ram. I took him inside, walked 
through the office, hesitated, and took the turn that led to my 
rooms instead of the garage. The last thing the little sucker 
needed was to have his wounds bathed in engine grease.

	I laid him down on the elderly futon that was serving me 
for bedding - I really wanted to get a western style bed, but 
hadn't found one yet - and went into my bathroom to fill a 
basin with water. When I came back, he was looking at my 
bookcase with a mixture of confusion, puzzlement, and 
interest. I was resigned to the first two, and pleasantly 
surprised by the last.

	"You have a lot of books," he gravely told me.

	I had maybe thirty or so. Sadly, for most of the 
neighborhood, that was a lot. "Sure do," I said, dipped my 
washcloth in the basin, and began to add some soap.

	"They have important names."

	I snorted a bit at that. "They were written by self-
important people."

	That seemed to satisfy him. I took the washcloth and 
began to scrub the grime out of the cuts. He winced, which 
meant I was going a good job. Good medicine always hurts.

	"Are you a teacher?"

	I started to howl with laughter, then trailed off in a 
moan as my head reminded me why loud noises were to be 
avoided. "Sweet stinking kami, no. What on earth gave you that 
idea, kid?"

	He pointed at the bowl, and then at the bookcase. "You 
have a lot of real books, and you're taking care of me."

	Had to chuckle at the logic of that, let me tell you. "Nah, 
kid, I ain't no teacher. I'm..." and I hesitated here, because my 
occupation was one of those wandering things that is both 
hard and awkward to pin down, "...a mechanic." Which was true, 
and which would also not get me hauled before a cop if the kid 
blabbed to someone who'd be inclined to listen.

	"Aren't they all men?"

	"Just most." Sharp kid. That very fact had been bothering 
me. I'd been tossing the idea of a mythical male boss around 
for a while, and this was just another piece of evidence in its 
favor. I finished the cuts on his legs, and started inspecting 
the shiner on his face.

	"Do you work on cars?"

	"Yeah, and cycles. Anything with an engine, really, 
though there ain't a lot of boats and planes around here, 
y'know?"

	"You don't look so good."

	"You ain't no great prize yourself, kid." Which was true. 
His face had collected every shade of purple human skin could 
acquire.

	"Did you stay up too late?"

	"No, kid. I got real drunk."

	"You shouldn't get drunk."

	"My head's been telling me that ever since I got up."

	"I guess you can't be a teacher, then," he concluded.

	"What, teachers don't get plastered?" I asked, amused. 
Ah, the innocence of youth. Well, younger youth.

	"No, they just don't admit it."

	That got a grin and a chuckle from me. "You aren't all 
stupid, kid."

	"I'm not any stupid," he said, sounding wounded.

	"So how'd you wind up as one half of a percussion 
instrument out there, then?"

	He stuck his tongue out. "They were layin' for me in an 
alley."

	Uh-huh. "And why were they laying for you?"

	"Because they don't like my sister."

	"That's a problem, then." It was, for him. It's hard enough 
trying not to piss off the wrong people yourself without  
making sure your family doesn't either.

	"Yeah." His eyes brightened. "You really kicked their ass 
good."

	"I did, didn't I? I don't like punks." It's always nice to 
have someone appreciate your ass-kicking abilities. 

	"I wish I could've beat them like that." He winced as I 
felt the knee he'd been dragging. "I hate getting beat up."

	"Don't blame you." It didn't look swollen; odds were that 
he'd only banged it up. "Say ah."

	He did, and I spotted the source of the blood right away. 
Cut lip; sort that bleeds quick and heals quicker. None of his 
teeth looked chipped, and his eyes didn't have the look of a 
concussion victim. "How's your stomach feel, kid?"

	"Okay. A little empty. I haven't had lunch yet."

	That pretty much ruled out a concussion. "Good news, 
kid. You'll live," I told him, poking his knee once more. He 
winced again, and I decided that a little bit of ice might be 
called for. "Be right back."

	I emptied a bit of ice from the cooler into a plastic bag, 
took it to him, and showed him where to place it. Didn't know 
how much good it would do, but it certainly wouldn't hurt.

	"It's cold."

	"It's ice, kid. You were expecting warmth?"

	He scowled at me. "Do I have to keep this on my knee?"

	Punk. I scowled back, and outdid his. "No. You can take it 
off and let it puff up like a balloon. It ain't my knee."

	That caused him to consider. He didn't tell me what 
conclusion he reached, but he didn't take the icepack off 
either. I made a sound of satisfaction, and looked at the clock. 
He should probably leave it on for...

	Oh, shit. Almost time for work.

	"I gotta go, kid," I told him, quickly grabbing my heavy 
boots. "I'll be back later. If your leg feels good enough to walk 
on before I get back, feel free to take off. Lock the door behind 
you. If I come back and find stuff missing, I'll find you and 
break your arms."

	"How?" he said curiously, watching as I pulled my boots 
on.

	"Easy. I find out who those punks were, and then I ask 
them or their friends who you are." Damn. I was going to be 
late. Grabbing an undershirt and a grey longsleeved blouse, I 
pulled off the jacket and started to get dressed... well, more 
dressed. "Believe me, I can find anyone given enough time, and 
stop staring at me if you don't want your nose busted."

	"Sorry."

	He didn't sound very sorry. Maybe he was more towards 
twelve than ten. Not that I really cared; I grew up in a big, 
crowded orphanage, and little kids rank somewhere around 
dogs in my modesty's opinion out of past necessity. The jacket 
went back on, a comb went thrice through my hair, and I 
started to head out.

	"What's your name?"

	"Biki Kiritsubo," I said, not bothering to stop or turn.

	"I'm Ryoji."

	"Good for you," I said, and started for the garage.

****

	I broke the speed limit getting to the office. Does that 
surprise you? Didn't think so. I wasn't quite late, though I 
wasn't as early as I'd have liked.

	One of the things I liked about Inji's place was that I 
didn't have to worry about having my bike stolen. Part of that 
was because anyone stupid enough to steal from that 
particular parking lot would shortly discover that the police 
are amateurs at investigation when it comes to this sort of 
thing. And the police can't use lead pipes.

	The other part was that Inji kept his digs in a rather 
nice neighborhood by the university, where he's frequently 
employed in one fashion or another. The building was a typical 
single-unit office structure, with a vague sign out front 
advertising a sociological archeology consultation firm. Yeah, 
whole lot of demand for that. We didn't have many walk-ins.

	I parked my bike in the spot reserved for me, noted with 
interest the three unfamiliar long-handled choppers in the 
guest spots, and strolled on in.

	The reception area had three sofas, a chair, a television, 
a reception desk, a receptionist, two thugs, one thief, and a 
brewer of illicit pharmaceuticals. I bid them all a very 
pleasant day.

	"You're late," Thug Number Two, Goroto by name, 
informed me sadly.

	"I ain't. Check your watch."

	"He means you're not in when you usually are," Docco the 
brewer said. He was a nice guy who collected butterflies and 
had won our side the annual baseball game last year with a 
wicked line drive in the ninth. And he was honest about the 
production costs for the heroin; never tried to burn me or the 
boss. I liked him. "So you're late in our minds."

	"Sorry to break your routine."

	"We'll get over it."

	"I bet." I glanced meaningfully at the closed door that led 
to the interior hallway. "What's with the bikes outside?"

	"The boss is talking to some representatives," Hito said. 
He partnered with Goroto or me on the rough jobs; while I hate 
to admit it, he was probably as much a professional about it 
as me. He had these little shuriken, which he could actually 
use effectively, and had taught me how to throw them in 
exchange for some barehanded instruction. I don't really think 
either of us got much use out of the trade; he liked keeping a 
distance between himself and the customer, and I don't like 
carrying anything on me that's obviously a weapon. If the cops 
decide to see what it has in its pocketses, and they find a 
wrench or a tire iron on a mechanic, there's not a whole lot 
they can say. If they find a knife or a pocketful of shuriken, on 
the other hand...

	"And who are they representing?" I asked. "The Girl 
Scouts?"

	"Close," Hito lazily replied. One of the shuriken appeared, 
flipped up, fell into his palm, vanished again. Show-off. 
"They're here from the gentlemen who administer a section of 
the city directly to the east."

	"Wonderful," I said. That sort of conversation usually 
means bad news for someone. "Any guesses as to the topic?"

	"Boss didn't tell us," Goroto said sadly. He said just 
about everything sadly, including 'I'm going to mess you up 
now.'

	"I think the border's going to be redrawn," Docco said. 
"The boss had me up production last week."

	Hito frowned. "Yeah? Kiri, we seen much gain in 
distribution?"

	"In our area? I wish." I took a notepad out of my jacket 
and consulted a row of numbers labeled 'Tires.' "We saw an 
initial jump in sales following the big drug laws the Diet 
passed at the beginning of the year, followed by a decline in 
some areas and growth in others." The notepad went back in 
my jacket. "I don't know how the others are doing. I hear 
Wasoda has been having problems with a neighborhood 
program."

	"That's what I've heard as well," Hito said. "But Docco 
here's making more product. Sounds like the boss is expecting 
more sales area."

	I thought about this, and wasn't sure that I liked it. 
Expansion means problems, especially when you're expanding 
into someone else's turf. We'd had growth troubles in the past, 
and once they had involved someone driving a butterfly knife 
into my thigh up to the grip. The second knife would have gone 
into my chest if Inji hadn't explained in very final and non-
verbal terms why he disapproved of people stabbing his 
friends and employees.

	"Joy," I said.

	Hito nodded. "I think we're going to be working together 
more than usual, Kiri."

	"Yeah." I took another glance at the closed hall door. It 
didn't tell me jack. "You get a look at these three? They look 
like tough guys?"

	"Yeah," Goroto said, sounding as though this fact was 
cause for mourning. It was. "But only two."

	"The other was a wimp, huh?" Probably two muscles and 
an accountant.

	"Nah, there was only two representatives," Docco said.

	I thought about this, thought about the three bikes, 
decided that I didn't like it, and pushed into the hall at a run.

	Why? Gut feeling. Instinct. I mean, one of them could 
have been waiting down at the local ramen joint for the others 
to finish business and come back, and Inji was quite capable 
of handling a whole army of hired help by himself. I just didn't 
like it, and, as I've said, I have very definite feelings and 
reactions to things I don't like.

	I knocked at Inji's office door and went in without 
waiting for a reply. There were two very unpleasant-looking 
gentlemen in black leather cycling coats standing across from 
the boss's desk. Inji was sitting, a teacup in one hand, a 
slightly curious expression on his sharp features. 

	He looks young, have you noticed? Well, youthful, like he 
ain't able to grow a real beard yet. There's a reason, though I 
didn't know it at the time. Anyway, he was sitting there under 
the shelves of books and ancient crap that he keeps around 
just about everywhere. I know it's hard to believe, but I really 
think that he's a scholar before a criminal. That's where the 
money goes, into his expeditions and collection.

	He adjusted his fedora brim and looked at me. "Is there 
something you need, Kiri-kun?" 

	I glared at the two heavies. "Yeah. I wanna ask their 
friend something."

	They looked at me, looked at each other, and then two 
big-ass knives or short-ass swords came whipping out, and 
they yelled, and charged at the desk.

	Inji was on his feet before they closed half the distance, 
and that double-tined knife of his was in his hand even 
quicker. He looked annoyed. For a second I almost felt sorry 
for the two morons.

	Then representative number three stepped out of the 
bathroom behind Inji and quietly leveled a gun at his back.

	I'm not normally stupid, at least in Genma-like ways. I 
was this time. I don't know; I just remember thinking that no 
punk was going to wax my friend and employer if I had 
anything to say about it, and I jumped at Inji.

	He looked very surprised and dodged to the side, which 
was a good thing because it meant that he got out of the way, 
and I landed on the floor, and the stream of bullets that went 
through where we had been a second before hit no-one except 
one of the charging fools.

	The man with the gun started to swing it around, bullets 
pouring from it like water from a hose, but changed his mind 
when Inji threw his knife into the gentleman's throat. He 
toppled over backwards, and I scrambled to my feet just in 
time to see the last fool raise his wakizashi for a swing at 
me.

	Oh, damn, I thought, and raised my arms to try a block. 
Not that I was likely to have much luck, but maybe I'd only get 
my wrist severed instead of my head.

	Three shuriken and a funky black throwing wedge 
suddenly converged on my attacker. He never made the swing.

	I gingerly picked the shuriken out and handed them to 
Hito. "Here. Thanks for getting the hint."

	He shrugged, and I wondered when he'd come in. "You go 
running off, and then there's shooting. Not hard to make a 
guess."

	Inji plucked his wedge free; he'd already collected his 
knife. "Thank you, Kiri. That might have been..." and he looked 
annoyed, "...most unpleasant."

	"It damn well _was_ most unpleasant," I said, feeling a 
little weak in the knees. I'd come a lot closer to death than I'd 
planned on. "A gun. Christian Jesu. Where did they get a fucking 
machine gu-"

	I stopped at that point because something red and sticky 
was dribbling down my arm.

	"I've been shot?" I asked, not quite believing it. 

	Inji quickly swept the papers off his desk and gently but 
firmly laid me down on top of it. I didn't protest; the whole 
idea of being shot had sorta stunned me.

	He pulled off my jacket and overshirt, examined the 
area, and sighed. "I'm afraid you've been grazed, Kiri-kun. Hito, 
gauze, now please."

	"Sure, boss."

	"Grazed, that's good, right?" I asked hopefully. I didn't 
feel like I'd been shot...

	"Inasmuch as being shot is good, yes. It looks like it took 
some skin off. I'm afraid you have a hole in your jacket."

	"Well, shit," I said. It still hadn't quite sunk in. "I'm 
gonna hurt..."

	That thought trailed off as I looked at the three dead 
fools bleeding on Inji's tatami mats. No, I wasn't going to hurt 
them. Not so's they'd be able to notice.

	"A gun?" I finally repeated.

	He nodded, a look of uncharacteristic irritation on his 
face. "It would seem Mr. Hayasho has decided not to be 
reasonable." 

	That made me wince; Inji uses western titles on people 
who he's taken a liking to. He also uses them on people he's 
decided to kill. I didn't need to ask which category the 
unfortunate Mr. Hayasho was in. "I don't think he likes you, 
Inji-kun."

	"Ah, Kiritsubo, what would I do without your subtle 
insight into social dynamics?" Inji chuckled. "Yes. I feel 
flattered. He cared enough to send the very best. I wonder how 
much trouble he had to go to for the gun?"

	"A lot?" Hoods don't even carry pistols in Japan. It just 
ain't done. I couldn't get myself a pistol without pulling every 
string I have and calling in a lot of favors, and I doubt I'd ever 
have a chance of getting an automatic sucker like the thing 
Dead and Dumb Number Three had just unloaded. "Always nice 
to be popular, I guess."

	"I can live without it." He smiled thinly. "You know, I 
think they would have killed me if you hadn't jumped at me. 
Thank you."

	"No problem. Don't expect me to do anything that stupid 
again." It must have been from hanging around with Soun and 
Genma. Maybe idiocy is contagious.

	"I owe you."

	"Whatever," I said. Hito returned with the gauze, the 
boss wrapped up my arm - which wasn't bad at all, I've cut 
myself worse working on my bike - and then the day's 
business began.

	It was a pretty typical list. Hito got to go deliver a 
warning to someone causing Wasoda problems. Goroto was 
sent to find two other people who did work for us, and to take 
them down into the soon-to-be late Mr. Hayasho's turf to do 
some scouting. Docco handed over a briefcase, and got a wad 
of bills in return.

	And me? 

	Well, Inji handed me Docco's briefcase.

	I opened it. The thing was stuffed with exactly what I'd 
expected; row upon row of little glass heroin and opium vials.

	Inji didn't tell me what to do with it. He didn't need to.

**** 

	I met with my crew after I left the office. They each got 
their supply, and I jotted down who had taken how much of 
what. I guess you could equate my role to that of a manager in 
a fast food chain; I oversaw my local hired help, and then took 
the profits to the big boss. The big boss then gave me my pay, 
and I gave the help their pay. Pretty easy, huh?

	Well, not always. When they had problems, or 
competition, or thought they could burn us - well, then I got to 
deal with it.

	Today we had a new guy. He was a likely young lad of 
fifteen who wanted to make money. So it was my job to show 
him how.

	I gave him the usual handshake-and-scowl, told him my 
name, and then took a walk with him. Does telling him my 
name sound reckless to you? It wasn't. If he was a police 
plant, I was busted anyway. But he wasn't; we'd checked him 
out, and this sort of thing is what Inji bribes cops for.

	We got to the area that he'd be selling in, and I showed 
him the street corner he was to hang out at. It was right next 
to a convenient alley.

	"You do your transactions in there," I told him.

	"Do I, yunno, do I flag people down and..."

	This sort of thing is why I took them out myself the 
first time. "No, no, no. You ain't handing out flyers for the 
damn Buddhist sects, you're breaking the law. You do not 'flag 
down' perfectly ordinary, law-abiding citizens and say 'Hey, 
wanna buy some drugs?'. One of them will not only say no, he'll 
go call the cops, and then you'll have trouble paying me back 
for the merchandise."

	"Oh. So how do I..."

	"You stand there. People who want your stuff will come 
up and make broad hints. You will take them into the alley, 
take their money, and give them the product."

	"How will they... oh. Because I'm standing there, right?"

	"Bingo." I steered him over to the corner and strolled a 
short distance away, just to give him a bit of room. "We'll do a 
practice run, and then I'll take off."

	We waited a few minutes, and before long two kids came 
up. One of them had big hollow 16-year-old-addict eyes, and 
the other looked like a normal, kinda scared, kinda curious 
fourteen-year-old. They made a not-very subtle hint to my 
bright young lad, and he took them into the alley.

	Addict boy bought heroin. The other kid just kinda stared 
at the merchandise, like he was on the high diving board at the 
pool and was trying to decide whether or not he wanted to 
jump.

	Sometimes you have to shove them in. I strolled over, 
picked out a vial, and tossed it to him. "Here. On me."

	He looked at it. His friend looked at it, saw that it was 
lighter than his chosen poison, and lost interest.

	The kid put it in his pocket. They left.

	"One free sample," I explained to my new employee, "will 
get you a customer for life."

	"How do I tell?"

	"Give some of the cheap stuff to the ones who don't know 
if they want it. The ones who do want it, charge 'em for the 
privilege. We aren't a charity."

	"Okay."

	"And don't force it on them. Offer. If they say no, let it 
go."

	"Okay."

	"You think you can handle it?"

	"Yeah."

	"Okay. Keep track of your product."

	I left. There was someone watching him from the 
building across the street, one of my veterans, but I didn't tell 
him that. The first day of a new job's stressful enough, right?

****

	I went home. The punks were gone, Ryoji was gone, and 
Genma was there.

	He was sitting in my office chair, feet on my desk, 
reading a manga and eating an apple. Feh. Made me want to 
smack him, so I did, a good cuff upside the head.

	He dropped the manga, pulling back and looking at me 
with a vaguely offended expression. "Hey Kiri. I like your 
place."

	"So you said. Get your feet off my desk."

	He didn't. "And the furnishing... the concrete and grease 
and oil is so... so you! And was that a bloodstain on the porch?"

	"Yeah. The neighbors dropped by and beat someone. I 
showed my disapproval."

	His brow furrowed. "Beat someone?"

	"Yeah, some kid. Was he here when you arrived?" The 
door had been unlocked, but Genma has his own key, so that 
didn't mean anything.

	"Nope. Was he badly hurt?"

	He'd never met the kid, but there was concern in his 
voice. I shrugged. "Not really. He was beat up, but that happens 
to kids all the time. Nothing that'll stay with him. I cleaned 
him up and gave him some ice."

	"Maternal instincts coming out?"

	I shuddered. "Don't even joke about that, Genma."

	Genma just smirked and shifted his feet on my desk. I 
could hear his damn shoes squeaking on it. "I touch a nerve, 
cycle thug?"

	"Don't make me hurt you, Kasigi. I've had enough violence 
for today."

	He looked at me, and the feet left the desk. "Hey, what 
happened to your arm?"

	It's creepy how he does that. Just looks at how you're 
moving, and is able to tell if and where you've been injured...

	"Business," I told him.

	Now if it had been any other answer, he'd have demanded 
to know exactly what had happened. But he doesn't.. well, 
didn't... want to know what 'business' might be. That was fine 
with me. I didn't really want him to know either.

	"You okay?" he asked, genuinely concerned. Heh.

	"I'm fine. Just a scratch. You should see the other guy."

	He nodded, decided that it wasn't serious, and moved to 
drop the subject. "Soun's after me again."

	Oh, I won't tell you what my response to that was.

	"Well, yeah, but he's still a top-flight martial artist," 
Genma replied, sounding somewhat offended. So he does give 
credit where credit is due, 'kay? Just not where his target 
might overhear it.

	"Yeah, but he's even more of a goof than you are, and that 
takes real talent." Sorry, but it's true. I still have trouble 
remembering that two goofs can level entire city blocks if 
they feel like it. Scary.

	Genma made his verbal riposte, we did a little Soun-
bashing, and a pack of cards came out at some point as we 
talked about music and movies and martial arts and mechanics 
and even a few things that didn't begin with an M. I had the 
rest of the red and alcoholic, and Genma had some sake, and 
that was how most of the evening passed. Eventually he had to 
get back to his mother - oh, he's always real thrilled about 
that - and I drank a bit more. I guess I went to sleep 
eventually; I really couldn't tell you.

****

	Ryoji didn't come by the next day, but he might as well 
have. The day he did, I woke up to a knocking on the door that 
matched the one in my head.

	Nah, I didn't drink myself into a stupor every night. Just 
on most of the more eventful ones.

	I got up out of bed - and it was a real bed now; I'd found 
a nice one in Ant Town - got dressed, and went to see who it 
was. 

	"Hey kid."

	"Hi, Kiritsubo-san."

	"Whatcha want?" His bruises seemed to be fading. Good.

	"Do you have a motorcycle?"

	"Yeah."

	"Can I see it?"

	I looked at him real hard.

	"I like engines and cycles and stuff," he said, a hint of 
apology in his voice.

	Ah, hell. "Don't touch anything."

	"Okay."

****

	He did touch things, but only because I let him. I 
instructed him to, actually, since it's nice to have someone 
pass you tools when you're slung under a cycle with oil in your 
face and a heap of parts on your chest.

	"Number four spanner, Ryoji."

	And so on.

	He kept asking me questions about things, and so I kept 
up a running commentary on what I was doing. It was kinda 
nice, actually. I love my garage work, and showing off and 
talking about one's passion in life is a vice I think just about 
everyone has.

	A good kid, really. Not polite - uppity little snot, 
actually - but he knew his place, and if I told him not to do or 
touch something, well, he didn't do or touch it.

	I went through... damn, I think it was two cars and a bike 
that day. I let him take apart and put back together a wheel 
assembly, and he didn't have to redo it. Not bad.

	I finished by six, and sent him home, and then I ate. 
Takeout, which is my idea of a feast. It had been a good, 
productive day, and I had a cup of tea and went to bed.

****

	I remember the next week very well.

	For one thing, the war was gearing up. Inji was not 
happy. He had decided that the soon-to-be-late Mr. Hayasho 
was going to be dealt with, and that he was going to do the 
dealing personally. This was partly because he was very angry 
- that is, outwardly irritated - and partly because he was the 
best suited to do the deed.

	You people just don't know how damn surprised I am that 
Nodoka's lived this long. 

	Anyway, Mr. Hayasho was going to be breathing-impaired 
real soon, and that meant that we were going to be able to do 
a land-grab in the chaos that would follow among his 
lieutenants. So we scouted the area, made a few payments to 
certain people in anticipation, and generally geared up for 
expansion.

	Ryoji dropped by every day, and I let him have the vast 
and solemn privilege of handing me tools. Well, yeah, and I let 
him do some of the simpler jobs, with supervision. It's a fact 
that mechanics are created solely because older mechanics 
want to show off.

	It was good for my nerves. I was hoping that the war 
wouldn't be messy, but... I mean, a machine gun, good God, 
what's with that? I was concerned, and so was Goroto and Hito 
and the other enforcers and distributors and pimps and fences. 
We might get a boost in income, but we might also get 
something sharp and metal stuck somewhere inconveniencing.

	I dunno. I remember that week real well.

****

	Mondays are usually ugly, and this one was no exception.

	I waved to Hito and Goroto as I went into the reception 
area; the two were arguing about a soap opera. They waved 
back, and Hito tossed me a film magazine I'd asked him to pick 
up for me at a downtown newsstand he frequents. I grinned, 
shot him a thumbs-up, and went down the hall to Inji's office.

	He was holding an ugly statue of something with a lot of 
tentacles and eyes when I came in, but set it down to talk to 
me. "Good morning, Kiri-kun. Bright eyed and bushy-tailed?"

	"Yeah, sure, Inji-kun. Whatcha got for me?"

	He chuckled. "You've heard that Wasoda's been having 
problems?"

	"Yeah. Some sort of program?"

	"Not really. Some woman's been harassing our salesmen, 
screaming at them, bothering the poor, overworked police on 
their behalf. Very inconsiderate, really."

	I winced. That sort of thing is hot death on sales. "Have 
we warned her?"

	"I sent Hito to convey our displeasure, and to make it 
clear that Docco-san's fine product must be distributed."

	"No dice?"

	"She hasn't got the proper capitalist spirit, Kiri-kun. 
Possibly a communist."

	"Huh." An awful stupid communist. Hito can be fairly 
intimidating when he wants to be.

	"I want you to hamper her mobility."

	Right. "Both legs?"

	"Yes, please. I actually think she'd just get a crutch and 
continue bothering our people if you just broke one."

	Great, a persistent fool. "Upper or lower leg?"

	"I feel kind. Lower." He tossed me a nice thick package of 
money, which I pocketed. "She'll probably call the police 
afterwards. I've arranged for one of our, ah, employed officers 
to take the call. You won't have any problem there."

	He was still letting me know, though, because he always 
liked to be aboveboard with his employees. "Great. I'll be back 
tomorrow and let you know how things went."

	He smiled. "Fair enough. Want a scone?"

	"Hey, yeah. Thanks." He pushed the basket across the 
desk, and I took one with real hunger. Those are good scones. 
"Is the land-grab gonna throw off the baseball game?"

	"Not on your life. Docco needs to lead your side to 
victory again, the bastard." He sighed. "Just wait, Kiritsubo. 
For once my side is going to win."

	"Keep dreaming, Inji-kun." His side hadn't won once.

	We tossed around a bit more baseball banter, and I got 
the address, and then Hito came in to get his assignment. And I 
went to earn my daily bread. Scone. Whatever.

****

	It was a real piece of shit, that building, but most of the 
places in our sales areas are. Come to think of it, my place 
was no great prize either.

	This one was a tenement. It stank of urine and stale 
wine, and I wrinkled my nose slightly as I went up the stairs. 
Some places are too decrepit for self-respecting gangsters.

	The apartment was on the ninth floor, with rusty 
numbers on the door. There were a few kids playing outside, 
and they looked at me with the lidded stare that prey gives to 
possible predators.

	"Get busy somewhere," I told them. They did, quickly. 
Good.

	The door opened after a few knocks, and a kinda worn-
looking thin chick in a cheap dress answered. She looked a bit 
wary, but relaxed a bit when she saw that I was female and 
younger than her. "Hello?"

	"Hi," I said brightly. "Tomoeka Anako?"

	"Yes?"

	Wrong answer. I shoved her, hard, and she tumbled back 
into the apartment with a shriek. I followed her in, carefully 
shut and bolted the door, and turned to face her. "You were 
warned about interfering in the local economy."

	She started to pick herself up, recognition dawning in 
her eyes. "You're from the pushers."

	"Sellers. Nothing personal, but you're too active for your 
own good. This'll hurt a lot less if you don't put up a fight."

	She threw a lamp at me, which I casually knocked aside 
with one arm. "C'mon, Anako, I'm not gonna kill you, just break 
some bones. Make this easy."

	Her eyes were already as big as saucers, and she started 
to open her mouth to scream. Ah-ah, I thought, and wrapped my 
arm around her throat before she could do more than yelp. I got 
out a roll of duct tape with my free hand; these things are 
easier when the customer's mouth and arms are secure.

	She kicked and bucked and tried to scream, but hell, I 
could probably restrain ten of her. She was a scrawny little 
weak twig. I measured out the amount of tape for her mouth.

	A small shadow appeared on the wall, and I started to 
turn.

	"Are you going to hurt my sister?" Ryoji asked, and his 
voice trembled. It hadn't done that after those punks had 
beaten him up.

	Yes, I instructed my mouth to say, yes, I am. Because, 
you know, I was about to break her legs, and if I said no and 
then broke her legs I'd look pretty damn stupid.

	So that was the plan; say yes, break legs, and go home.

	And Ryoji, well, I didn't think he'd show up any more, and 
I didn't think he'd ever work on any more wheel assemblies 
after that.

	But, you know, that was too damn bad, because she'd 
committed the sin of trying to look out for my prize pupil 
here, trying to keep me and my crew from turning him and his 
friends into slack-eyed addict zombies, instead of bright, 
curious, eager to learn kids.

	And there's no way that I, in her position, would think of 
doing something as stupid as that, as pointless, because I was 
fully in favor on letting someone I liked and who wanted to 
take and share my passion and joy and light of life and learn 
it, and do something with it, yes, I was fully in favor of 
slowly poisoning them, destroying their mind and their fire, 
and crushing anything within them that wanted to make things 
hum and move and growl.

	So I had to say yes, because that was my job, that was 
what I did, and that was what I had chosen to do.

	"No," I said. "I'm not."

	I let her go, and sat on their couch for a bit as they 
stared at me.

	"You're going to have to leave," I finally said. "I can give 
you some money. Go to Osaka or somewhere."

	"No," Anako said.

	I felt very tired. "I was sent here to break both your legs 
beneath the knee. I'm not going to. When the person who sent 
me finds this out, you're probably going to have something 
even worse happen to you, and the one they send won't do what 
I'm doing."

	"I will not be forced out of my home," she said quietly.

	I almost laughed in her face, but I didn't feel like 
laughing. Home? This shithole? Yeah, the inside had been done 
over as well as they could - minus a lamp - but home, well, it 
didn't look like a home worth Inji's extreme displeasure.

	"I can call in a favor and have them leave you and him 
alone," I finally said. "You're going to have to stop messing 
with the sellers, but I'll make sure they don't sell to him."

	"No."

	"Damnit, you're not making this easy."

	"The other children are just as much children as my 
brother."

	They were, yeah, and... hell, it could have been any kid 
being beaten up, and maybe they'd have come back to see me 
work too. Like the fourteen-year-old I'd given the poisoned 
bait to.

	I'd known this, I'd have to be a fool not to know it.

	"Get out of the city," I said. "Please. I can give you a lot 
of money."

	"I don't want your money. I know where it's been."

	If anyone, anyone had used that tone of sheer contempt 
with me I'd have broken their nose.

	I left.

****

	I thought about a lot of things that night.

	What was I gonna do, for starters? Inji was going to 
want to know why Anako was still walking. I could come up 
with a good excuse, but then he'd just send someone else to go 
bash her. And maybe Ryoji, as well, if the kid got in the way. 
And yeah, he was the type of kid who would get in the way of 
someone breaking his sister's legs.

	The answer didn't come.

	I started to reach for the bottle around eight, changed 
my mind, and called Genma instead.

	"*Hello?"

	"It's Kiri. Look, can we go grab some food? On me?"

	"*Huh? Yeah, sure. What's up?"

	"Nothing. Long day at work, and I need to unwind."

	"*Okay."

	"I'll be by in a few. Seeya."

	My cycle was in the garage. I tried not to look at the 
machine in the corner that I'd been working on with Ryoji, 
then got a little mad at myself when I realized I was avoiding 
it. If something was bothering me, it was stupid and wrong to 
ignore the fact.

	Still, I was glad when I finally sped out of the bay.

	Speed. Velocity. It's wonderful. Flashing lights streaking 
by, the kick of the engine under you, the wind whipping by 
with shades of oil and rain... I cut through the city like a knife, 
that night. Like always. I love it.

	I pulled up in front of Genma's place, helped him on, and 
off we went.

	I don't know if he likes the speed. I don't think he does. I 
can understand that; he's not in control. I am. He's betting life 
and limb on my nerve, my reflexes, my choices. I wouldn't 
trust me with all that, that's for damn sure.

	We went to some restaurant, and some flick with 
samurai or cowboys in it (the girl got the hero) and we had a 
few hands of poker back at my place. I don't know. It was 
relaxing, in a way.

	"Hey, Genma?"

	"Yeah?"

	"If you had to pick the most important thing in the world 
to you, what would it be?"

	"I don't know. That's a hard question."

	"Yeah."

	"The Art, perhaps. Or my friends. Probably both."

	I drove him back around 12, and then headed home.

	The truck pulled out of the alley. It didn't have its lights 
on. I knew, I knew in this sort of blinding flash that I wasn't 
going to be able to stop in time, but I did. I don't know how.

	It screamed by an inch away from me. Damn thing would 
have killed me deader than dead.

	So I sat there for a bit in this sort of adrenaline haze, 
because my body had wanted me to die alert, and it crossed my 
mind that I'd almost managed to solve my problem.

	No. To duck responsibility.

	I was alive.

	To prove it, I drove home even faster than normal.

	The rush of it! I was not-dead, a state that we all are in 
but seldom fully realize, and I drove, cutting down the narrow 
streets in a flash of wind and darkness and engine. I drove 
fast and stupid and gloried in it. 

	Funny how almost dying can make you feel invincible.

	I pulled into the garage, parked my steed, and went 
inside. The bottle was on the table, but I ignored it. No haze 
for this. No veils for the mind.

	I needed to figure out... what?

	How to keep Ryoji and his sister alive... well... in good 
shape... I could have them forcibly moved...

	Why? I didn't give a shit about the scrawny chick. Really, 
I didn't. I mean, I didn't dislike her or nothing, but who was 
she to me? She could get run over by a truck tomorrow and I 
wouldn't really care.

	Ryoji, now, I didn't want him hurt...

	So I should have busted her legs. Then he'd be out of 
harm's way.

	There was still time. I could go back, snap her little 
twig bones like...

	No. I knew I wasn't going to.

	Why?

	Because of Ryoji? But this would be for his good.

	Maybe...

	Maybe it would be because of what he'd think of me.

	Anger. Since when did I care what people thought of me? 
I'm my own person. If other people don't like who I am, fuck 
'em. I'm not here to please them. 

	But the thought hurt.

	Why?

	Was it shame? Could I be ashamed of what I had done, 
what I was going to do?

	No. No, I wasn't. I'm sorry, but that was the long and 
short of it. I didn't feel an ounce of regret.

	For poisoning children and hurting people.

	I didn't feel bad about it.

	I didn't feel.

	I didn't feel.

	Maybe that was what was bothering me.

	I looked into the red mirror of the bottle, and a drug 
dealer and thug and almost killer looked back.

	Yeah, it was me. I was comfortable with it.

	But now I didn't want to be.

	Inji was going to hurt Anako and Ryoji, but that didn't 
matter. They were just the tip of the iceberg. Inji was good. 
He had the area sewed up, organized, run. If he weren't there, 
someone else would be, but not nearly so efficient.

	I realized then that Inji had to go. I couldn't help 
everyone. I didn't want to help everyone. I just wanted to drag 
my soul out of the filth it had been sinking into, and Ryoji and 
his sister were part of that. I didn't want the kid hurt.

	So Inji...

	No, no, no. My boss. My friend. I'd saved his life the other 
day.

	That was a mistake. 

	Mistakes could be corrected. No. I didn't want to. Yes.

	Friends or Art? I would betray both.

	I went to sleep, still trying to come to grips with my 
decision.

	The very next day I bought a lot of explosives on the 
black market, and some electronics.

****

	Two days later I was in the top floor of a half-
constructed building across from Inji's office, crying.

	I can cry, you know.

	I watched Inji come out of the office door, say 
something to Docco, and walk down towards his tiny little car. 
Everything in my soul wanted to scream down to him, to warn 
him, to throw myself out of the window and bear him to the 
ground, to safety.

	Instead I watched my friend walk down to the car, open 
the door, and get inside.

	I closed my eyes, still crying, and waited.

	I heard the sound of a car starting.

	Then I heard the sound of a car idling.

	No explosion.

	The door behind me opened, and Hito and Goroto and 
several other fellow employees walked in. They had baseball 
bats and pipes and bricks, but no knives.

	I actually felt relieved, you know, because I'd done my 
best and Inji was still alive.

	"Come with us, Kiri," Hito said. "No fighting, please."

	"Yeah," Goroto said. Sadly.

	"Why?" I asked, hopping down from the window and 
turning to face them.

	"Because the boss wants you in one piece, and because I 
know you'll hurt some of us before you go down."

	I chuckled. 

	He was right. I did hurt some of them before I went 
down.

****

	I woke up in the office, and opened my eyes.

	"Hello, Miss Subeta," Inji said.

	I closed them again. "How'd you know?"

	"The guy who sold you the nitro accidentally shorted you. 
He realized the mistake after you left, and called me to make 
sure I knew it was a mistake." He laughed mirthlessly. "I was 
very curious as to what you wanted it for. You can imagine my 
surprise when I found out."

	"I'll bet," I said.

	His face was suddenly very close to mine. "No, I don't 
think you can. I'd not have dreamed that foreign hire could 
coax from you the slightest spark of evil to annoy my finger, 
let alone... that."

	"You aren't King Henry," I told him. "But color me Grey if 
you like."

	His fist slammed into his desk with a noise like a 
gunshot. "Was it Hayasho? How much were you paid?"

	"No, and fuck you."

	I passed out then, for some reason. Maybe a drug, maybe 
a blow to the head. I think there was a sedative of some sort 
involved, because I fell through an uneasy twilight of ghosts 
and voices for what must have been days. When I came to 
again, I was in the room in Ant Town that we use for the tough 
cases. I guess I was a tough case. 

	There was a locked door, and an old dentist's chair with 
added arm and leg restraints, and Inji, and me.

	I slowly got to my feet, and waited for my head to clear.

	"I did some checking since we last talked," Inji said 
calmly. "I never figured you for a bleeding heart."

	"Neither did I."

	He shook his head. "I can't just let this go, you know. Not 
that I want to let it go."

	"Yeah."

	"I'm not going to kill you."

	I just looked at him. He sighed, and I saw what might 
have been sorrow on his face.

	"I owe you, Kiri. Or I did. Now you owe me."

	"I don't want to be in your debt."

	"I know. That's why I'm going to collect, right now. Take 
off your shirt and pants."

	"Why?" 

	"Because I don't want to burn them after I start work, 
and I don't think you want them ripped. I know you like that 
blue shirt."

	"I don't know if that's a good enough reason."

	"Take them off, and get in the chair. If you do, this will 
last for exactly one hour. If you don't, it will last for three 
hours."

	I thought about that, then stripped to my undergarments 
and got in the chair.

	No, it never occurred to me to fight back. I knew how 
useless it would be.

	He tightened the straps, picked up a leather case, and 
opened it. There was a small bunsen and a lot of shiny metal.

	"This," he said, picking up a needle, "is going to hurt me 
as much as it hurts you."

	"Really?" I said. My voice hardly shook.

	"Well. Only metaphorically."

****

	I don't care to discuss the next hour. It seemed much 
longer than that. I screamed and howled a lot.

	Do you know, it's funny, but I don't remember Inji? I 
remember begging for the pain to stop, and pleading, and 
promising obscene and hollow promises if it would just stop, 
but I don't remember him actually being there. Just shiny steel 
and blue flame, like a machine, like some honed and precise 
engine, working over and over.

****

	When it did stop, he unstrapped me, waited for me to 
come back to myself, and then tossed me my clothing.

	"I was careful," he said, "to leave no permanent marks. 
And nothing should be impaired or disabled."

	I almost said thank you.

	"Do you wish to resume your work for me?"

	"No," I croaked.

	He handed me a glass of water, which I gulped. "I wasn't 
really expecting you to. Very well. You may run your garage, if 
you like. I won't steer you anyone, but I won't have you 
blacklisted either. As far as I'm concerned, you and your 
business don't exist."

	I nodded. That was far more than I'd expected.

	Inji looked at me, the hard, sharp lines of his face 
falling into definition under the light, and we stared at each 
other for a while. 

	"The slate is clean," he finally said, voice as calm and 
refined as ever I'd known it to be. "Cross me again and I shall 
kill you."

	"Likewise," I said.

	He thought about that for a moment.

	"No," he finally said. "Not likewise at all."

	He walked towards the door. I started to get dressed.

	"Oh. Miss Anako had an accident. Fell out the window on 
her head."

	I didn't say anything.

	"I felt very bad, once I heard. Her younger brother will be 
going to a very nice home in Hokkaido that takes poor children 
and grooms them for college. He now has a scholarship. I had 
this back pay for you, and it seemed a shame to waste it."

	I put my pants back on.

	"Goodbye, Kiri-kun."

	He left.

	I do cry, you know. Just not often.

****

	Genma was hanging around when I got home, and he knew 
something was wrong. He didn't ask me what. I'm forever 
thankful to him for that. I'll also never forgive him for that.

	He took me inside, sat me on my couch, and sat with me 
until I stopped shaking. Then he sat with me until I'd drank 
myself to sleep, and hung around with me for the next day or 
two as I did things and fixed my bike and myself.

	I opened Joe's the next week. It was hard getting 
business going without an organization behind me, but I 
managed.

	I dealt in stolen machines, hot cars, gang bikes... things 
of life and energy, things that would be used by some alive and 
unruly young punk who really didn't give a shit about law and 
society. Things that were bright and sharp, not dull and glazed 
and poisoned. And I'll keep on doing it, at least until I get tired 
of it.

	I could say something sappy about not hating myself 
now, but I didn't hate myself then, either. Okay? I just chose a 
side, a different side, one that suited me better. But the other 
side suits me too. Don't think it doesn't. And God but I've 
almost gone back so many times...

	I just needed to tell you this before tomorrow, because 
what we two will do, if you still will after this, requires 
trust. And after Laos - before Laos too, but especially after - 
this has been in your mind. I could tell.

	So here. Here I am. I'm baring myself like this because I 
can cry, and need people, and love, and that last, Soun, is why I

---

	There was a page missing, and as hard as Akane looked, 
she couldn't find it.

	She returned, and Ranma opened the book again, and they 
resumed reading.