Chapter Text
Soun looked upon the veritable Picasso’s Guernica of breakfasts his daughter had placed before him, wishing his newspaper were thick enough to block the smell.
“W-what do we have here?”
His daughter, proud of her exertions, beamed at him.
“Japanese omelet,” she declared: “My specialty!”
Soun had learned to smile through a broken heart ten years prior. But an ulcered stomach would strain his expression plenty.
“I see…”
He missed her next words, busy trying to recall where he’d stashed his antacids; so he had no chance to warn her as his boarders charged in. Genma hit her first: a rough jostle. Soun’s heart fell imagining the meal to come, then Ranma came in for the assist, the single-minded warrior vaulting his fiancée’s head in hot pursuit. She lifted her face, bloodied from the battlefield she had impacted—oh nevermind, that was only ketchup. She chanted Ranma’s name like a slur. Only when Soun realized the frying pan she retrieved was meant for melee rather than merengue did his head loll back with the sigh of a man redeemed.
Saotome Genma, feeling none the worse for his thirty-odd years, danced past his son’s attacks and laughed. The boy flew like a cardinal: resembled one in his flaming red shirt. But a wild bird was no match for a dark horse like him.
“An amateur through and through! Training is what you need. Training!”
Ranma shook a fist, steel-gray eyes sharp.
“Says you, you fat old bastard!”
Genma drummed a palm across his belly: chiseled and lean from years on the road.
“All muscle, boy. When you finally put some on, maybe you’ll understand!”
“Ranmaaaaa!”
Father and son paused as Akane shot towards them, cast iron in hand.
“Look at what you did to my cooking!”
With hardly a glance, Akane’s target skipped out of her way.
“Good form,” Genma offered helpfully, although she was slower than molasses. No high-caliber martial artist would be caught dead-
He was not expecting the backswing. Genma rocketed toward the pond head-first, his head cracking against one of the large stones around its edge.
Ranma doubled over in laughter.
“Which one of us needed training, huh, Pops?”
Akane’s grip loosened on her bludgeon. The panda floating in the koi pond wasn’t moving.
“Saotome-san?”
~~
A syncopal episode’s severity can be measured in its duration. Although, let nobody tell you otherwise: there is no safe window to be knocked out from head trauma. Even mere minutes can be life-changing. So said Kasumi’s favorite daytime medical show. Knowledge like that was what had been gotten her assigned to take the lead on nursing her father’s dear old friend back to health with all the aplomb that a nineteen-year old could muster. Her trusty hot water bottle beneath his head for the pain, a cool towel to ease his sweaty brow.
She watched over him carefully. In fact, when he kept his mouth shut long enough, like in this instance, it was possible to see a good-looking man in that strong jaw and proud nose. Perhaps she watched him a little more closely than entirely necessary. Either way, it meant she was the first witness to the fruits of her sister’s aggression.
A low grumble shook Genma’s throat. With herculean effort, his eyes opened, raking across the ceiling with bewilderment. He tried to sit up, groaned louder, and fell back to the pillow.
“Was that my voice?”
He asked, one hand sneaking up to touch his brow.
“Take it easy, Saotome-san. You took quite a blow, and-“
An ear-piercing scream rent the air.
“My head!”
Kasumu pulled her fingers away from her ear, blinking away stars.
“Yes, as I was saying, you hit your head, and—”
Now when Genma sat up, he curled in on himself, clutching the blanket to his chest and looked at Kasumi with watery eyes.
“Where did my hair go? Did somebody shave me? Oh, it was the Master, I know it. When I get my hands on him, I’ll… I’ll… Give him a piece of my mind, that’s for sure.”
Kasumi clasped a hand to her mouth. It wasn’t just his phrasing. Genma’s entire voice seemed lighter. Airier. If she didn’t know any better, she’d almost say…
Footsteps thundered in the hall. The door flew open: at the front were Akane and Ranma, with Soun jockeying in vain behind them.
Ranma’s fists were at the ready.
“Kasumi, we heard a scream, what’s wrong?”
Another ear-piercing shriek as Genma spread the covers over his chest.
“Don’t look! I swear, haven’t you people any manners? Knock before you enter a woman’s room, knock!”
In unison, the three interlopers turned. Paused. Exchanged hurried glances. Turned again.
“Ah… dad. You know that kinda thing is usually my bit, right?”
Genma looked around, blinking eyes as wide as tea saucers.
“Your father? Is he that man behind you?”
Soun slid through the group now, ducking into seiza in front of Genma.
“Genma-kun… it’s me! Your dearest friend. Tell me you’re okay!”
Genma’s face scrunched up in disgust.
“Genma? Yuck, that was what mother and father called me. My name is Haruka. Which I think you’d know, if you really knew me, Soun.”
At the utterance of that name, the room went silent. When Haruka finished, there was a pause.
“Soun, why do I know your name? Why… do I feel so…”
Haruka finally paused to take stock of the world. Those were her hands, all right: calloused from training. But they looked dry and cracked. Like they hadn’t seen a dollop of lotion in an age. Then her gaze lowered to her chest. It was broad. It was tanned. It was rippling with muscle. When she looked at the man with the mustache, her head ached: somehow, she felt that was a good sign.
“Soun? I think something’s gone terribly wrong.”
--
The whole house had covered its ears when Haruka ran to the bathroom for a mirror. And although their ears were relieved to be spared another round of screaming, their hearts chilled at the sight of an individual who had been so cocksure an hour ago lurching in unsteady steps to the engawa and slumping to sit against the wall, flat eyes fixed sightlessly on the garden.
Woodenly, Soun turned away from the sight and cleared his throat.
“House meeting.”
When Kasumi had laid out nice, soothing cups of tea for all involved, the gathering commenced officially.
No sooner had Kasumi taken her seat when Akane let out a piteous cry.
“I’m sorry, Dad, I broke your friend, this is all my fault.”
Soun swept a hand in quick strokes over his mustache to calm his nerves.
“Now, now, Akane, perhaps there isn’t a need to worry.”
“I was aiming for Ranma, it’s all his fault!”
A small fountain of genmai shot from Ranma’s lips.
“Now hold on a minute. For one, you’re the macho chick who put the pan to the panda, so I don’t want to hear nothing about how this is my bad. Dad never gets knocked out when we spar.
He pushed past Akane’s squawk of protest: Soun sipped his tea. For Ranma to do that, he must be worried indeed.
“For two, this is pops we’re talking about. Remember the time he dressed as an old lady to get me out of the cat fist? Or to enter that takeout race? He just… he just does this sometimes.”
Nabiki scribbled the goings-on in a notebook, frowning in concentration as she was dragged along by the verbal torrent.
“Have you ever heard of him using a new name before?”
Ranma paused, one finger in the air.
“No… But that’s just because he’s never run a scam so constipated before.”
Kasumi tittered.
“Convoluted?”
“Nah, went before morning training,” Ranma muttered.
Soun drummed his fingers on the tabletop, his gaze darkening.
“I have known your father since he was a teenager. Never have I ever seen this side of him.”
“You know, before Haruka-san saw herself, she had offered to help me cook lunch?” Kasumi added.
Soun nodded gravely.
“I overheard. As far as I know the man hasn’t cooked more than rice his whole life. But he was delighted to help. Ranma… girls… we may have to operate under the assumption that Genma truly believes himself a woman.”
Ranma bolted to his feet, his teacup rocking dangerously. Whatever bastard bitch god or goddess had its fingers in his life had always had a sense of humor. For a while, he could even get the jokes. But this?
“Like one little flick to the noggin can really change a person’s identity that much?”
Heat poured off him, an aura of fury scarcely contained. He could feel judgmental eyes on him. Why did they care that he was so angry about this? Why did he feel they had a point?
Soun’s lips sagged.
“Ranma, your father took a blow meant for you. In another life it would be you now, feeling betrayed by your body. How would you wish us to proceed?”
Ranma lowered to a seat, jaws set firmly.
“Like being betrayed by my body isn’t an everyday occurrence.”
Outside, Haruka chuckled darkly, running a hand over her smooth scalp. Did they think that crack to the head took her ears clean off? Or did they really not have any idea how loud they were? She squirmed, trying to get comfortable. Sure, she was sitting on plain wood, but if had never been less comfortable. Her back… tears prickled in her eyes. It wasn’t her posture. She was old. Well, not ancient, but no spring chicken either.
She hadn’t feared growing up yesterday. And now, in a blink, so much sand had slipped through her hourglass. And she hadn’t been there to see it. Hadn’t raised this son whose loathing for her seeped through the walls. She wracked her brain. What had happened yesterday? Or a lifetime ago, whichever came first.
Then from inside, a voice that set her brain on fire.
“What a haul, what a haul!”
Then a splash, a curse.
“Damnit old man, what’d you do that for?” demanded a familiar girl’s voice.
“My sweet, I found the most darling little number. Wouldn’t you do your master a kindness and put it on?”
Finally, something in this day that made sense. Clambering to her feet, Haruka threw the door wide. If anybody would know what to do, it would be The Master. There was only the question: would he recognize her?
There he was, pinballing around the room after the little redhead.
“Ara ara, you old Kappa, stop chasing that poor girl.”
Her eyes went wide with longing for the fluffy, frilly thing he waved in his hands. The perfect bra, if she’d still had the figure for it. Happousai halted mind spring, falling lightly to the ground, just in time for Haruka to strip off her gi and bare her broad shoulders to the world. Thick sweatdrops formed on foreheads all around the room. Ranma turned a curious shade of green. More chartreuse, really.
“I’d be happy to model for you, Master. But you know I don’t work for free. So pay up, sugar daddy.”
Haruka cocked a hip and sank her weight onto her back heel: half-seduction, half ready to strike, and crooked a beckoning finger. Happosai’s pupils shrunk to pinpricks.
With a sound like a stuck pig, the old man clutched the sack of panties to his chest and shot directly through the wall, leaving an oompa-loompa sized hole.
The room sat thunderstruck as Haruka straightened, grimacing as she rubbed the small of her back.
“Huh. I remember him having a better sense of humor.”
Kasumi tilted her head, sipping tea calmly as she mentally tallied the supplies needed to patch the wall.
“My, Happosai-jiji looked like he’d seen a ghost, didn’t he?”