Like Fallout For Ranma

Prologue

Disclaimer: We die our lives. We live our deaths.

Morning in Nerima.

Given enough time, people grow used to even the most outlandish things. Humans, after all, are creatures shaped by their environment, even as they attempt to shape it around them. The miraculous becomes commonplace; the bizarre, mundane. And so, morning in Nerima.

For the past year, it's been the habit of those residents possessed of fortune or fortitude to live in the neighborhood of the Tendo Training Hall (those who have not surrendered to the long, heartbreaking battle with falling property values and rising homeowner insurance rates) to arise early every weekend. This was, in the beginning, not a matter of choice; everyone in a ten block radius was an unwilling audience member to a cinema entitled "Ranma Saotome Must Die." Weekly showing, Saturdays at eight o'clock sharp, matinee Sundays at nine, random repetitions whenever the urge moved the principle actors.

(There was a weekday showing, too, but it was much abbreviated and entailed far less property damage. Only the most devoted of fans paid it any mind, and most of the neighbors were already on their way to work by the time it aired.)

In the beginning, there was chaos and confusion, panicked people fleeing from the sight of incredibly powerful, inhumanly skilled martial artists doing their best to murder each other, accompanied by a chorus of screamed threats and a symphony of splintering lumber, smashing concrete, and shattering glass. Authorities were called, insurance agents gnashed their teeth in despair, and drama abounded.

This, too, passed. Nowadays, the cops didn't respond to very many calls from the Nerima Ward, and when they did, they came in battalions. The neighborhood compensated, and the crime level - barring martial artist incidents - remained low, thanks to the vigilance of the neighborhood watch. Very few people were willing to risk being run through by a crazy long-haired man in samurai armor over a heisted stereo, after all. Insurance companies had thrown up their hands in despair, and refused to issue homeowner's policies to Nerima addresses; but the local construction companies had become so skilled and so in demand that they could repair a sagging house - or throw up an entirely new one - faster than you could blink, and the local economy experienced a commensurate boom. And, best (or worst) of all, more martial artists were attracted by the activity, students of every outlandish school and bizarre style the world had created (and with a little imagination, almost everything could be a weapon), and they traveled to Nerima.

Most of them, of course, wanted to kill Ranma Saotome. But let's face it, the boy - almost a man - usually brought it on himself. On the other hand, quite a few of the challengers, mostly female, wanted to marry him. This, he almost never had anything to do with; but such was his fate.

Today's showing could almost be considered a rerun, the cast that casual bunch locally dubbed "the Wrecking Crew." They weren't the best of the many martial artists who roamed the city - Ryu Kumon, or Pantyhose Tarou, could easily wipe the floor with most of them - but they were, assuredly, the most stubborn. Sometimes they took it upon themselves to wake Ranma up, attempting to achieve by ambush what they'd failed to accomplish honorably. Usually, they waited for someone else to do it first - the father of genius, Genma Saotome, a martial artist whose skill was only matched by his appetite, or his laziness. Or his appetite for laziness.

Genma's watch word was practice. Not for himself, of course; he considered himself the finest martial artist in the world, and as such, in a unique position to teach his son and heir to become the finest martial artist in the world, generally by battling other practitioners and stealing their secrets. He wasn't too far off with this claim; after all, at a startlingly young age he'd created not one but /two/ powerful martial arts styles so powerful a rare bout with honour had forced him to seal them away. But his laziness - or his appetite - far exceeded even his talent, and so he was content to let his skills languish away, spending his days playing shogi (and cheating outrageously), and drinking.

Except, of course, when it came to his son. Constant practice, constant vigilance; everything was training, and the only training worth doing was good training. And as anyone who'd ever done time in the military, on an athletic team, or in the Girl Scouts knew all too well, 'good training' was a euphemism for 'gonna suck.' This was the reason why Ranma hadn't had a complete night's sleep since he was five years old. This was the reason why most of his meals were bolted on the run, fighting like a starving dog to keep them from being stolen.

And in the case of this all too typical scene, the diorama of morning in Nerima, this was the reason why he awoke to find himself flying through the air, headed for the koi pond. The Tendo family koi were an unusual breed, forced by their circumstances to evolve much faster than Mother Nature had intended - evolve, or die. Their pond had been drained, poisoned, and even lit on fire; it had provided a hiding place to stalking martial artists and escaping cooking experiments. Under normal circumstances, even algae would be hard pressed to live in the little pond, but the Tendo koi were hardy, and willing to adapt. Much like the Quantum Butterfly, whose wings create storms to discourage predators, the koi had found their own methods with dealing with the travails life threw at them.

Ranma arrested his fall easily, flipping in midair to land, nimbly, on one of the protruding boulders that made up the banks of the pond. His father followed him out the window, and still yawning the teenager batted away the flurry of punches and kicks. More and more, he was finding himself able to best his father's morning attacks without so much as breaking a sweat; naturally, this was because he was the better martial artist, his skills having so far surpassed his teacher that victories that had once made him strain and sweat to achieve were now the matter of moments. And yet, some suspicious part of Ranma's nature - a facet of the tactical genius that made him so good at what he did - found it interesting that his father would quickly recover from the beating Ranma gave him, and be busy scarfing down breakfast while he, Ranma, was still knocking away the morning sortie of challengers.

He didn't have much time to deal with this, as no sooner had he broken through Genma's guard and kicked him in the chest, launching him into the old oak tree, than the first of the Wrecking Crew made his appearance. Tatewaki Kuno, age 18; once upon a time, he had been a reknowned rising star on the high school kendo circuit, a genius with a wooden blade. It had been widely believed that he would, upon graduation, take his skills to the professional level. That was before Ranma Saotome came to town, and Kuno had chosen to sacrifice everything - his dignity, his fortune, and his sacred honor - on the altar of his obsession. One way or another, he would destroy Ranma Saotome.

Killing Ranma was only a means to an end, however. Kuno's true goal was to win the hearts and affections - or reclaim them, rather, for he believed they were already his - of his two goddesses, the fair Akane Tendo and the mysterious pig tailed redhead. He wasn't sure just what arts the foul Saotome had used to beguile the two, but he knew - somewhere deep in his heart of hearts - that once he'd beaten Ranma, once and for all, they would both rush into his arms. Somehow. Some way. He was well aware that everyone who knew him regarded him as a buffoon; he simply didn't care. After all, nothing mattered so much as beating Ranma and taking back his rightful possessions. Nothing.

Kuno hurtled the high wall surrounding the dojo, bokken raised defiantly. Ambush had never been his metier; a samurai fought honorably, charging the enemy with defiance on his lips. That the loyal ninja retainer, Sasuke, chose to soften the target up with a surprise attack just as his master was making his entrance was, of course, sheerest coincidence. The vengeance of heaven was at hand.

Rising from the pond like some kind of water sprite, Sasuke was festooned with strands of kelp - a cunning disguise, though hardly suitable for a freshwater environment. Still, the reed he'd been using to breathe through had gone undetected for his target to venture into his sights. His weapon of choice; slim, sharp daggerlike blades connected to long, spiked chains, flung at his opponent's back even as Ranma turned to meet his new challenger. Without even looking, Ranma caught a handful of them and yanked, hard - turning the devoted ninja into an improvised morning star, and launching him straight at his master. Kuno was sent flying back the way he had came, cursing the fickleness of the fates before his impact with the pavement rendered him unconscious. Sasuke spun, helplessly, until Ranma deigned to release him - launching him, too, over the wall where he found his landing softened by Kuno. Bruised and relieved to be mostly uninjured, he dragged his master home and took the rest of the day off.

The dance continued. Kodachi Kuno, twisted sister to Tatewaki and reigning champion of Martial Arts Rhythmic Gymnastics (by forfeit) before the sport was outlawed for excessive property damage, heralded her arrival with a peal of mad laughter as she dashed along the rooftops. She couldn't help it; whereas some people had uncontrollable body odor, or nervous twitches, Kodachi had insane laughter. She had tried, more than once, to control it; tried to sublimate the urge into other, more productive pursuits. She had tortured three therapists and a life coach for their failure to cure it, using them as guinea pigs in her ongoing experiments with recreational pharmaceuticals and exotic and dangerous botany. Nothing had worked.

So, unable to change her behavior, she had chosen to revel in it. So they called her mad? She would show them all "mad." Nobody cared for her, nobody loved her; except, of course, the handsome and debonaire Ranma Saotome, who was so true and honorable he could not demonstrate his true emotions, thanks to the web that harlot Akane Tendo had him wrapped in. So Kodachi once more ventured forth to claim by force what she could not have willingly, to rescue Ranma from his durance vile of forced engagement and set him free with her love. And if she happened to find that redheaded harpy her brother was so obsessed with, and tie a pretty ribbon around the bitch's slender neck along the way, then so much the better.

Unfortunately, unbeknownst to all present, Challenger Three for the morning had already taken up his position. Like Sasuke before him, Mousse of the Joketsuzoku had taken up his position last night, when darkness shrouded his movements. He had waited, motionless, in the top of the tree, unsleeping, watchful, hardly daring to breathe lest he give away his position - all the while waiting for the perfect moment to strike. To cut down his rival for Shampoo's hand, and finally claim the buxom purple haired Amazon for his bride - to demonstrate, preferably through bloody murder, the depths of his feeling for her.

Chains and blades exploded from his hiding place as the master of Hidden Weapons attacked, heedless of the morning dew that covered his thick lensed glasses and, once again, rendered him blind as a bat. He had spent most of his life blind; he'd learned to compensate, through his amazing sense of hearing, for example. And that high pitched yelp as he swung for the bleachers, that could only be the man he hated above all others on this wretched world of tears and sorrow.

"You sound like a girl, Ranma Saotome!" he taunted, striking again and again at the blurred, dark figure whose desperate gyrations only barely avoided his blows. Ranma's weakness; being called a woman. The fact that, with the addition of a little cold water, the teenager turned into one was just the icing on the cake. "Come back here so I can murder you, coward!" As his prey fled, he followed, exulting in the glory that today - finally - would be the day he rid himself of this thorn in his side, this pothole on his road to eternal bliss with Shampoo. He was, of course, entirely ignorant of the man in the red silk Chinese shirt behind him, doubled over with laughter.

Today was looking up and up, Ranma thought. Less than three minutes in, and his pops, both Kunos, and Mousse were already out of the way. If he could wrap up Ryoga, Shampoo, and Ukyou as easily, then breakfast would still be hot by the time he got there. A long moment passed, during which nothing happened.

"Would you stop playing around?" Akane called from the dining room, irritation marring her pretty voice like an ugly red moss on a slim, pale birch tree. Ranma allowed himself a moment of hope; perhaps Ryoga was still lost, far enough away that he wouldn't be a player in today's festivities. Perhaps Shampoo and Ukyou were too busy with their respective restaurants to make an appearance this morning. Perhaps there were no new challengers, no hitherto unknown fiancees attempting to steal his freedom, or lovestruck princes trying to kidnap Akane to be their bride (it was invariably royalty, he'd noticed, who had that particular masochistic streak - perhaps it was caused by inbreeding). Just maybe he could wrap up his morning training, eat his breakfast slowly (although he'd have to knock his father out first - already, the fat man was scarfing down a second helping, and eyeing the plate Kasumi, kind and sweet house mother to them all, had set aside for the son), and enjoy the rest of his day off without anything silly raising its ugly little head to mar it.

Perhaps.

And then reality reared up and smacked him in the face, reacting to the presence of that ray of hope.

It didn't make much difference that Shampoo (purple haired Amazon warrior) and Ukyou (brown haired transvestite okonomiyaki chef) were trying to hug him, not kill him. It didn't matter much that their attacks, when they came, were directed at each other - and he was merely in the way. The end result, as always, was the same. World War Nerima, and Ranma in the middle. Frantically dodging giant spatula swings and chui strikes, unwilling to strike back - a Real Man, after all, didn't fight women - Ranma counted down the seconds of his grace period. Usually, it was about five. On rare occasions, it got as high as fifteen or thirty. It all depended on just what Akane was doing at the time.

Today, he got to seven before instinct made him duck aside as a glowing hammer swung through the space his head had but recently occupied.

Pleas and explanations were useless. It didn't matter that he hadn't asked for this, or encouraged it in any way. It was pointless to point out that he was the victim here, beset on all sides; Akane simply didn't care. There were women hanging on Ranma, and this was his fault. Or, perhaps more importantly, there was a target rich environment in the offering, and her hammer was hungry.

Besides, she'd finished her breakfast, and there wasn't anything decent on television until that afternoon, at the earliest.

Once Akane got into the mix, the odds of eating breakfast at all - warm or cold - became slim to none. Occasionally she would get so frustrated at her inability to hit anyone that she would storm off to the dojo to smash bricks, or go on a run to let off some steam. More often, she would simply get angrier and angrier, frustration feeding on itself to become rage, that she would finally manage a solid hit on Ranma - one that would catapult him far, far away from all this chaos and confusion, preferably somewhere approximate to a beef bowl cart. Ranma had sworn a sacred oath to himself to never let Akane know that he let her connect on those occasions. It would, after all, crush her.

But the most often conclusion, once Akane had joined the brawl was that...

"How DARE you anger Akane like that? RANMA SAOTOME, PREPARE TO DIE!"

Ranma allowed himself a slight grin, just before a wash of blue light made all three girls decide to find greener pastures someplace with less impending grievous bodily harm. Now the /real/ training could begin.

"Hey, pork chop, what kept ya?"

"Shut the hell up, Ranma!" Ryoga Hibiki, eternally lost boy, entered the fray. "Today's the day I beat the snot out of you, once and for all!" His weapon of choice, the umbrella; three feet long, bamboo with a lead core. He made them himself, taking pleasure in the art of crafting something he hoped would crack his rival's skull open like an overripe melon.

Once upon a time, Ryoga had considered Ranma an unworthy rival for the hand of Akane Tendo. Although he still loved her, he had given up any hope of being her man; he was, after all, a part time pig. A condition that was Ranma's fault, not that he had any hope of getting an apology from the arrogant bastard. Instead, he hoped to simply take the pig tailed boy down a peg. It had happened before, but always his victories were short lived; and, as much as he hated to admit it, they were the result of some trick. A new technique Ranma hadn't seen yet, a magic potion or scrawled sigil that changed the playing field. Inevitably, Ranma would learn the secret to the trick and work out a counter, or find a way to neutralize the advantage. Indeed, in the end Ryoga had to face the realization that all his efforts had only served to make Ranma an even better martial artist.

Which, like Ranma's skillful dodging one step ahead of the umbrella's swings, only served to make Ryoga more pissed off - and more depressed.

His anguish manifested itself in a ball of light, the energy pulse fairly ripping itself free from his hands and lunging for Ranma's heart. With a smirk, Ranma returned fire; pale pink with swirls of red and blue, the manifestation of his arrogance slammed into Ryoga's depression with a shattering crack. The two came together in the midst of the dissipating energies, lashing at each other with fists and feet. Ranma was faster, if only barely; Ryoga was stronger, if only by a hair. The two were evenly matched, long familiarity making each attack and parry second nature, responding to the moves they knew instinctively were coming before they could begin.

"Man, this is ridiculous," Ranma said. "We're getting way too used to each other."

"Oh, shut up. Hey, is that breakfast?" In unspoken accord, the two disengaged, turning towards the dining room. Akane had already left; usually, she would have had strong words for Ranma 'picking on' Ryoga, or at least a word of greeting for the lost boy himself. Today, her disgust with Ranma, or her frustration at being unable to land a blow on him in the middle of the meleee, had gotten the best of her and she hadn't even time for insults. "Where's Akane?" Ryoga was disappointed; for all that there was someone waiting for him back at a certain pig farm near Kyoto, he still looked forward to seeing Akane's pretty face. After all, he told himself, they were friends.

"Maybe she had to poop," Ranma shrugged. He could see a plate set aside for him, and though it was perhaps less than it might have been if Ryoga hadn't appeared - or, better, had taken the beating due him and been rendered unconscious - he was looking forward to it. There was even a brace of grilled fish, his favorite, nestled glistening on top of the bed of rice. Then Ryoga thumped him, and it was almost enough to distract from the waiting feast.

"You are such a pig, Ranma!"

"Who are you calling a pig, you-" Still bickering, they sat down and stuffed their faces, chopsticks flickering like lightning. Genma, although finished with his own breakfast, made an appearance to try to snatch food from the boys - good training, he'd call it, 'greediness' their word. Whatever the term, he managed little more than a few grains of rice, for both teenagers were on their guard and defended their rice bowls fiercely, growling as they scarfed down the meal. They shot to their feet and bowed to Kasumi.

"Thanks for the meal!" They chorused, before shooting sidelong glances at each other and launching back into the fray, barely slipping outside in time to spare the dining room walls further dents and craters. They were still almost evenly matched, but as the fight wore on it became evident that Ranma was gaining an advantage. Ryoga's strength and stamina were that of a giant; but Ranma's wasn't far behind, and the pigtailed martial artist had greater experience. Time and again, it triumphed over Ryoga's raw fervor. Today was no exception.

It almost looked like a lucky punch, a chance swing that broke past Ryoga's guard and crashed into his jaw, but both combatants knew better. They separated, Ryoga rubbing his chin, Ranma shaking his hand to work the blood back into it.

"Alright, next time," Ryoga said begrudgingly. He knew once Ranma had gotten to him once, the other teen could continue to do so; to fight further was only to invite bruises and contusions he would bear gladly for love, but not so well for pride. Ranma, for his part, was happy to get out of his morning exercise without needing a soak to wash away the sweat; and best of all, he hadn't been turned into a girl once all day.

On that thought, he looked up at the sky, expecting a sudden downpour. Such was his luck, after all. And yet, strange though it seemed, the fates were actually with him for once; not a cloud in the sky, no crazy old ladies suddenly appearing in the Tendo's yard with a bucket and dipper, not even mercenary, out for a quick profit Nabiki Tendo with an "accidentally" spilled glass and a hidden camera. It was shaping up to be an absolutely perfect day.

He really should have known better.