The Phoenix Saga

Bracing herself, she cupped her hands under the faucet, splashing a bit of water onto her face. She kept her palms pressed to her mouth, trying to stifle the involuntary yelp of pain that she knew was coming. She shuddered tensely and gritted her teeth as the scalding liquid burned its way down her neck, finally and mercifully being caught in the collar of her red silk Chinese shirt. To anyone else, the water beginning to fill the steel sink would have been tepid at best – but not to her. Not anymore. Not since…

She shook her head, trying to evict the thought before it finished forming. No use going down that rabbit hole again. She looked in the mirror, brushing a few stray leaves from the flame-red braid that swayed over her right shoulder. That's as good as it's gonna get, she thought with a sigh, picking up a beige camping backpack that was way too big for her slender frame and mounting it on her shoulders. Unlocking the restroom door, she pushed her way out into the crowd -- people hustling and bustling to reach their platforms in time to catch the trains to work. The ground rumbled a bit as a silver passenger train rocketed into position and slowed to a stop, its doors opening with a loud hiss.

"Chuo District, boarding now on platform eight," came a robotic-sounding feminine voice from the tinny speakers overhead. Rather than heading for a train, however, she made for the concrete stairway and ascended into the city above.

Up here, too, people darted every which way, trying to settle into their shops and offices in time to start the day. She noticed a woman in a green business suit and heels, hurriedly trying to finish a pack of vending machine rice balls on a bench near the sidewalk. Her gray leather briefcase was pinned against her body with her left elbow. Like everyone else on the street, she looked absolutely frantic with stress. She wondered if the lady with the rice balls knew how much worse it would be if she had nowhere to go at all. Adjusting the weight of her backpack on her shoulders, she looked for the least crowded street and started walking.

Passing an okonomiyaki cart, she managed the beginnings of a smile, remembering Ukyo and how supportive she had been about her decision, even though she thought it was a stupid idea. She was right, too. Ukyo had even managed to slip a little money into her backpack unnoticed, after she'd refused to accept it outright. The nascent smile receded as she remembered that, after six weeks homeless and alone, the money was almost gone. She needed a plan. Needed one before she left, really, but too late to do anything about that now.

Something had to give, and fast.

 * * * 

"Anything goes, huh? Never heard of it." The giant of a man chuckled. "Sounds like what you call your style when you ain't got a style." 

Ranma bristled, but tried to ignore the insult. "No, sir, it's a family tradition. It combines ancient techniques from all kinds of martial arts." Also, some random dirty tricks and the occasional panty raid, but Ranma decided to leave that part of the school's legacy for another time. 

The man's square jaw took on a condescending smirk as he straightened the black cloth belt at the waist of his gi. "I see. Well, we teach kempo here, so I don't know if you could be of much help as an instructor here. Sorry." 

He started to turn away, but Ranma persisted. "Our style incorporates a few moves from kempo. I've studied it." She inhaled deeply, summoning the courage for what needed to happen next. Eleventh time's the charm, right? "I could spar with you and show you?" 

The sensei turned on his heel with a hearty laugh. "You aren't challenging my dojo, are you, kid?" 

Ranma waved her hands defensively. "Of course not, sir! I just want a chance to prove myself." 

He grinned in amusement, running his hand through his shoulder-length black hair. "Alright. Let's see what you got." He dropped into a loose fighting stance. "But none of that backwater shit. Kempo only."

Ranma nodded and took her position, keeping her hands in front of herself at all times. Before "it" happened, she could have taken this guy with her eyes closed. Now, only one thought pounded through her mind: Don't get hit. Don't get hit.  

She heeded her own advice, ducking under a quick, wild jab and stepping back. Okay. This guy fights like Ryoga. I can work with that, she coached herself. As he lunged forward with another heavy punch, Ranma went low, sweeping at his legs. The sensei took the hit on the shin, but lifted his leg from the mat and easily retained his balance. The guy was built like a tree trunk.

Focusing on defense - and on dodging rather than blocking - the fight was slow work for Ranma. She landed a punch here and a kick there, but nothing that showed any sign of wearing down her adversary. Meanwhile, she was already beginning to feel fatigue, probably owing to the fact that she hadn't eaten since yesterday. Ranma had to end this, and quickly. She thought of the Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire technique. She hadn't used it since that day. Still, it couldn't save her now; the terms of the fight had been set. A high kick from the sensei sailed harmlessly over her head, and she saw an opening. It was tight, but she had to try. 

Darting in close, she landed four quick strikes in succession to the right side of his torso. Only then did she realize her mistake. The sensei continued to rotate his body, using the momentum of the missed kick to spin into a vicious elbow strike. The full force of it landed dead in Ranma's sternum, and she staggered back. Even a block was hard to grit through thanks to the Cat's Tongue, but this was like being hit in the ribs by a freight train. Still, she knew what she was fighting for, and somehow kept her feet. 

Briefly. 

The sensei rushed forward, delivering an overhand strike with a loud kiai. Ranma tried to lift her arms to block, but it was too late. She caught the downward force of his fist right across her cheek, and her legs buckled under her. Her eyes watering, still gasping from the blow to the chest, she willed herself to stand, but she knew the fight was over. The sensei gave a shallow bow and turned to face his young students, who whooped and applauded at their teacher's emphatic dispatching of the interloper in their midst. He looked back over his shoulder at Ranma with a condescending smirk. "Not bad, kid. My girls' intermediate class is Wednesdays at 10. First lesson's free." 

Ranma's face flushed in anger and humiliation as some thirty yellow belts cackled at her defeat. She managed to steady herself, rushing to the front of the building and grabbing her backpack and shoes without breaking stride. She didn't even stop to put them on before bursting through the door and making her escape.

She picked a direction and kept walking, wanting to get out of sight of the dojo before stopping to think. That had been the last martial arts school in the phone book. Now, it was time to panic. When other kids were learning math, and writing, and all that other boring crap that made them ready to get a job, Ranma was learning punches and kicks. Martial arts was all she knew. If she couldn't make a living with it, what was she going to do? She slumped in despair onto a curbside bench beside her bag, with nothing but her growling stomach to console her. A chill breeze brushed past her hypersensitive skin, causing her whole body to shiver. It was mid-November, and it was going to start getting cold soon.

What options did she have left? Back to the Tendos? No, she couldn't. Not after the way she'd left. They'd never take her back, and if they did, Pop would never let her live it down. Besides, Ryoga and Akane probably have five or six piglets on the way by now, she mused darkly. Ukyo? Sure, she would let her stay in a heartbeat, but then she would likely have… expectations, too. Plus, she'd see Akane and everyone else she knew almost every day. She shook the thought loose from her head. No, nowhere in Nerima would do. She had made her peace and said goodbye, and now she had to stand by her decision even though it hadn't worked out for her.

What about her mother? Ranma sighed. She barely remembered Nodoka, having not seen her since she was five years old, and a five-year-old boy, at that. Ranma wasn't even sure what city she lived in anymore. All she really knew for sure was the stories that Pop told, and they had made one thing abundantly clear – Nodoka Saotome would never accept that Ranma had left as her son and come home as her daughter. It was as good as a death sentence. 

Ranma looked up from her hands, where she had been absently running her fingers over the angry, raised scar jutting across her left wrist. Mousse had left her a memento of the worst day of her life, as if the entire rest of her body wasn't one, too. It wasn't a particularly busy street, but it was lunch hour at most of the nearby offices, so the sidewalks were full of colleagues in business attire looking for a place to grab a bite. More than a few bikes whizzed past her bench, most carrying takeout and rushing to deliver it hot, as well as the occasional car. With a loud pneumatic hiss, a lime green commuter bus with an advertisement for toothpaste on the side released its brakes and began to move, its newly-boarded passengers having paid their fares and found their seats. 

As the bus cleared the block, Ranma noticed a small hole-in-the wall bar across the street. It was housed in a two-story free-standing brick building that seemed inviting enough, if a little run down. She didn't look far enough to notice its name; she was far more distracted by the little red NOW HIRING sign in the front window. She nodded to herself and exhaled resolutely, shouldering her backpack. How bad could it be? Worst case, it sucked and she moved on with a little more money in her pocket. 

She crossed the street briskly and pushed open the door. The inside of the bar was set up as a kitschy little music venue, with a little stage off in the corner. A long, well-kept wooden bar with a polyurethane top snaked its way along the right side of the establishment, with double saloon-style doors presumably heading to a back room. The wall on her left was lined with snug booth seating, and a row of round high-top tables surrounded by four chairs each divided the space in the middle. Neon signs advertising various libations dotted the walls, but none of them were currently turned on. Past the bar, the room opened up to the right, presumably as deeply into the building as the back room stretched. In this area, a pool table with a purple felt top that had seen better days and a lone coin-operated arcade machine sat awaiting the day's guests.

Ranma craned her neck around the bar, setting her backpack down on the chair nearest to the front door. As far as she could tell, no one was here. "Hello?"  

The saloon doors swung open with a bang and a tall woman emerged. Probably somewhere in her mid-fifties, she had shoulder-length raven hair with just the faintest hint of gray peeking out above her ears. She was dressed in blue jeans and a tank top bearing the logo of some beer brand or another. She set the bucket she was carrying down on the floor behind the bar, wiping her brow with her forearm. "We're closed, ya know."

Ranma nodded. "I'm sorry. I saw the sign in the window? I can come back later if you're busy…"

The taller woman perked up a bit, seeming only now to take an interest in Ranma. She looked Ranma over intently, with a curious expression. "You ever worked in a bar before?" 

Ranma shook her head. "No, but I've waited tables before, at an okonomiyaki place and a ramen cafe. I learn super quick and I…" 

The bar's owner raised her hand, interrupting her thought. "How old are you?" 

Ranma winced. She knew the drinking age was twenty, but even though the law allowed younger people to work in places that served alcohol, she had no idea what the establishment's hiring policy was. Screw it, desperate times and all that. "I'll be 20 next week." At least she hadn't lied about her birthday. If anyone decided to check her ID card, the photo of a black-haired boy would probably cause issues long before the year of birth did. 

The older woman gave a contemplative nod, looking Ranma over again. Ranma wasn't sure if she bought her lie, but the die was cast. "When could you start?"

Ranma smiled hopefully. "Right now, if you want." 

Her answer was met with a huff and a smile. "Eager. I like that. Alright, kid. Let's do this. We start setting up for the day at two in the afternoon. Be here that time tomorrow?" Ranma beamed. "Yes, of course! Thank you so much!" She bowed respectfully, grabbing her backpack and reaching for the door.

"Hey! What's your name, anyway?"

"Ran…"

Ranma gulped. How many times had some random freak showed up at the dojo with a claim of marriage or a challenge letter addressed to Ranma Saotome? Could she really afford that chaos upending her new life like it had the old? Did she really want to be found? There was only one thing to do, she resolved. Like everything else she had known, like everything else she used to be, it had to be left behind.

"Ranko. Ranko Tendo."

With a single nod and a wave, the woman behind the bar dismissed her. "See you tomorrow, then, Ranko Tendo."

~~~

She only had a few coins left on her, but something had to be done about her clothes. Ranma had only brought three outfits with her, and that was going to be a problem sooner than later, but at least for her first day she could show up clean. She ducked into a nearby laundromat, heading to the ladies' room and locking the door. Figuring she'd put on the least professional outfit she had while the others got clean, she slipped out of her black gi pants and pulled her red shirt up over her head. She winced loudly as it passed over her face, and again when she realized why. The area around her right eye, where the sensei had dealt her that final blow, had turned black and purple. No wonder the lady at the bar looked like she was taking pity on her. Quickly donning a yellow shirt and a pair of light red - she refused to call them pink - overalls, she exited the bathroom and tossed her other clothes into the nearest available machine. 

She sat on a bench near the washer she was using and rotated her shoulders with a grimace. There was a sore spot between her breasts that was just killing her. She wanted to tell herself it was from sleeping outside the last few weeks, or from the beatings she had taken at her martial arts "job interviews," but it wasn't and she knew it. Even now, almost eight months later, the spot where Cologne had poked her with a stick and changed her life forever still burned white hot. She wondered if it would ever stop.