*unbroken*
by the Black Wyvern of Armorica.

The tubes went everywhere.  They dangled from the transparent
undersides of IV bags; they covered the stiff wires of
electrocardiograms, EEGs, and all other forms of invasive
machinery.  Coiling in upon themselves, twisting in long and
trailing lengths, the tubes converged upon the still body that
lay in their midst, his breast rising and falling lightly in the
rhythm of his sleeping breath.  They flowed over his unmoving
form, piercing flesh with hollow needles, monitoring his vitals
with pads of soft plastic, invading every orifice that required
their attentions.  Still he slept on, innocent of their presence,
his brutalized nerves locked into a single pattern by the immense
trauma that they had suffered.  Over and over they repeated the
same self-defeating iteration, wounded and confused.

The world existed for him no longer.  Unheeding, he continued on
as he was, beating his heart and breathing his breath and no
more.

Days had passed, but time did not affect him in the place where
he lived now.  His raging mind was silent and dreamless; his
powerful muscles were limp with the relaxation of profound
slumber.  Days had passed, and he found no reason to return. 
Screens and monitors huddled by his bedside, catching every pulse
and flicker with their silicon fingers, but nothing ever changed.

Not that it mattered to him.

It was night, and the shades were drawn as a courtesy, for day
and night meant nothing to him now.  His head had been neatly
laid in the center of a small foam pillow, and a slightly worn
felt blanket had been drawn up to his shoulders.  Its bland
vanilla folds covered thick bundles of the ubiquitous tubes, the
cheap cotton gown that he wore, and his long-fingered hands,
whose sharp and curving nails rested gently on the hard mattress
beneath him.  

There was no expression on his face, for the thoughts of his
arrested mind kept themselves apart from the world that was now
useless to them.  Nurses would flutter into his room from time to
time, hovering over his prone form and carefully setting every
wire in its place.  He never noticed them as they came and went
in their meaningless cycles.  The pale lids remained closed, as
they had been for so long, their soft lashes floating ghostlike
above his smooth cheeks.  His long, thick bangs, blood-red in the
shadows, lay back across the pillow and flowed outwards like the
spray from a fresh wound.

Inhale.  Exhale.
Sleep.
Sleep.

A day passed.  Underneath the heavy swaths of clean white
bandages that bound up every limb and plastered most of his face,
the scabbing craters of his burns were rapidly healing.  His
inhuman constitution saw to that, but nothing ever stopped the
eternal loop of his damaged impulses.  Nothing brought him back. 
And so he remained motionless.

Sunlight came in from between the slanting blades of the Venitian
blinds; the single window had been left shaded as a courtesy, for
mere brightness could have no effect on his slumber.  The shadows
made by his malfunctioning brain were enough to ensure his
dormancy.

Outside the door of the small, sterile cell, a hand lifted the
medical file from the plastic bin on the wall.  Slowly, the
visitor spread the sheaf of pages and, finding the admittance
forms, began to quietly peruse them.

~Fourth-degree burns.  Multiple bone fractures.  Compound break
of ulna and radius.  Optical nerve damage.  Concussion resulting
in coma.~

The visitor replaced the file and pushed the door open, closing
it noiselessly as he entered the shaded space.  Putting his hands
in his pockets, he walked over to the bedside and observed the
one who lay there.  He watched the slow, even breathing and the
regular blips on the the attending screens that monitored the
mind and body.  He studied the face of the sleeper beneath its
thick bandages...a face that was serene in its unwitting
affliction, unmarked by the lines of ferocity and passion.

The intruder shifted uneasily for a second and turned as though
to depart, but then he faced the patient once more, scrutinizing
the peaceful exterior with suspicion.

"Yagami," he murmured, his voice breaking the chamber's silence
for the first time.

The lines on the monitors jumped, but the occupant remained
still.

Reaching out to grip the bed railing, the other leaned inward,
speaking softly, his tone low.  "Nothing can put you down for
good, you crazy fuck...I know you're in there.  Wake up."

The lines skittered wildly back and forth; briefly, one eyelid
twitched.

"You're just going to give in?  You're going to die like
this...without ever finishing our fight?"

The screens were alive with bright activity.  Facial muscles and
fingers spasmed, as if--

"I know you.  You aren't this weak.  Wake up."

And the sleeper awakened.  Savage russet eyes flickered open,
scanning wildly before they finally focused on concrete reality. 
Half-forgotten dreams fled completely, and dry lips parted as he
gasped in deep breaths, clearing stale air from his lungs.

Dry and hoarse from the long sleep, the voice of Iori Yagami
rasped forth from his throat, speaking the one name... 
"Kusanagi..."

Kyo stood by the bedside, slouching slightly, his hands in his
pockets.  He said nothing.

"Kusanagi!" Iori spat hatefully, growing stronger in his rage. 
"You're coward enough to kill me in bed?"  A harsh chuckle
escaped him, mocking his enemy.

"No," said the other casually.  "Actually, I was hoping you'd die
all by yourself.  They seem to kick you around pretty good
without my help."  Breaking eye contact, he pulled a pack of
Marlboros and a lighter from his pockets; he noticed the "No
Smoking Please" sign just as he was about to light up.  Sighing,
he put away his vice and continued coldly, "I'm a lot more
popular now that I don't have a freak tailing me in public, you
know."

Yagami offered up another quiet chuckle, then coughed painfully
as his still-healing lungs wrenched under the sudden strain.  He
blinked rapidly, trying to clear his blurring vision.  "We can
finish this now, Kusanagi.  You know that I'd fight you in a
heartbeat..."

Kyo pursed his lips and looked over his rival once more,
remaining silent.  Stung by the suggestion, his enemy snarled and
fought to sit upright.  "Bastard," he hissed venomously, baring
his teeth, "You think I'm weak enough to lose?  To YOU?  You'll
die in shame, you little fu--"  Exhausted by his desperate
efforts, Iori fell back onto his pillow and his heavy coughs
flecked his lips with blood.  Panting heavily, he turned his gaze
to the visitor once more, his eyes still bright and full of
raging flame even as his body failed him.

"Free me," the tainted warrior gasped, his speech thick from the
fluid that coated his throat.  "Get me out of here and pick your
place, Kusanagi.  I swore to have your blood..."  His vision
flared and skewed suddenly, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he
fought to control the whirling vertigo.  Wearily opening his eyes
once again, he saw Kyo shaking his head and turning to leave. 
"What, are you afraid?  I've recovered now, golden boy.  Are you
ready to die?  I have all the power that I need..."  Lifting his
shaking fingers underneath the blanket, he summoned a tiny,
sparking flame from each fingertip. Their combined power was
enough to burn a palm-sized hole in the covers.  Kyo reached for
the knob and Iori growled, rolling laboriously onto one side and
gripping the handrail, his body trailing tubes and wires. 
"Kusanagi...are you afraid?" he asked darkly, his concern
beginning to mount.  "Get these wires out of me and I'll kill you
wherever you want; you know I will.  Get me out of here!"

Standing before the open door, his enemy looked back over his
shoulder and shrugged.  "Free yourself," he said.  "I'll be
waiting for you."  The loose fist at his side calmly extended two
fingers.  Ja na.  And the door slowly swung shut shut in his
departing wake.  In the growing twilight of the day, Iori
realized that he was now alone.

"...Kyo?"

No answer.  Straining, he pulled himself upright and stared at
the door, whose latch clicked softly shut.

As darkness began to spread through the half-sealed window, the
warrior rose to the challenge with a howl of frenzy.  "KUSANAGI!"
he roared desperately as his furious claws began to rip at the
tubes and tape that bound him.  "YOU SON OF A BITCH, DON'T LEAVE
ME HERE!!"  Maddened by his fear of loss, he thrashed across the
bed until his his legs dangled over the edge and his feet
searched for the cold floor.  His larger wounds, still covered by
thick scabs, cracked open from the movement; the pristine white
of the bandages quickly became stained with dark crimson.

Sweat stood out from his enfeebled muscles, yet his legs refused
to support him.  He fell to all fours, trying to get his bearings
in the midst of the swiftly-spinning landscape.  His gauze-padded
skull began to pound with such incredible force that he felt his
eyes exploding...  At that moment, the cancer of his blood saw an
opening and wracked him with unbearable pain, flooding forth in a
dark stream from his mouth and nostrils.

Yet still an insane will propelled him forward, even as he choked
on a wave of his own gore, even as the red dripped through the
bandages and now spattered across the tile, even as the concussed
tissue warped his every sense and his limbs trembled from the
strain of their barely-healed flesh...  He crawled forward one
foot.  Then another.  All the while, his unfocused eyes saw
nothing but the closed portal that was somewhere ahead of him,
and the remnants of his conscious mind grasped at nothing but the
thought of his rival, waiting to take up the fight again...

Then he fell for the last time.  His claws scratched spastically
at the floor as he tried to revive himself, but his body had
ceased to respond.  Blood lay sprayed over the clean white
sheets, smearing a trail over the tiny area upon which his
marathon struggle had taken place.  Now he lay helpless,
shivering in his thin gown.  

Outside the window, true darkness fell.
Alone in the night, Iori felt his soul consumed with black shame. 
He lifted his head; blood dripped down over his lips and chin,
running back in streaks across his white throat.  With the last
of his strength, he called out to the only one who would hear
him, the only one who listened...though he would not be so weak
as to pray for an answer.

"KYO!!" he screamed, and his voice was silenced by the thick
concrete walls.  "Kyo..."  A softer call now, for his voice had
cracked and his will was broken at last.  "Don't do this to
me...oh God, you son of a bitch, don't do this..."  One tear of
self-loathing shot down over his cheek and was lost  amid the
streams of drying fluid that caked his face.  His eyes closed and
a self-defeating iteration rose again in his mind as he cursed
himself over and over again within his whirling thoughts, his
flesh numb and useless within the mass of deepening shadows.

***

The hand pressed itself against the clear glass, through which he
could see the deserted nurse's station.  They were all gone now,
the medical personnel--they had gone back to section C, room 304. 
They were going to save Iori's life.

Through the glass, Kyo saw the screens that showed security
footage from the VIP rooms.  He watched his enemy fall and heard
him cry out in frustrated rage...then he pressed his face closer
as Iori finally collapsed, utterly motionless.

~My God...is he dead?~, the high-schooler wondered in amazement. 
Yagami...dead...?

But then a swarm of doctors and nurses burst into the tiny
chamber and descended upon the body like vultures, bearing
padding to bind his wounds and instruments to measure his life. 
Reassured by their attentions, Kyo backed away from the window
and let his hands fall into his pockets once more.  He saw the
cluster of staffers carefully lifting the young predator back
onto the stained bed, and for a moment the patient's face came
into view.

The resolution on the film was such that only a fuzzy blotch
could be seen, but Kyo read the expression with more than his
eyes.  His enmity had locked his rival into himself, and as his
keen sight caught that electronic glance, he *knew*...

The hushed resignation.  And that *look* that was tired, so very
tired...

Kyo turned away and continued walking down the hall, his dark
eyes fixed on the pasty asbestos tile beneath his feet.  ~It
would have been better if he had died...better for both of us.~

Pushing open the glass door that led to the outside world, he
remembered Yagami's desperate strength...and he felt his secret
respect deepen as he admired that burning determination.

~Perhaps, someday...this rivalry will kill itself.~

***

He was in a new room now, though it was very nearly a carbon copy
of the other.  A larger window.  Vertical blinds.  And everything
else stayed the same.

Iori sat in his medical gown, his knees drawn up to his chest,
his arms resting across them, his chin atop his arms, and his
eyes fixed on the white wall that rose opposite the foot of his
bed.  The hard mattress was beneath him and the mussed sheets,
still crisp and clean, pooled around his feet in a tangled pile. 
They had told him to sleep and regain his strength, but he had
given up on rest long ago and now stared at the blank barrier in
front of him, his mind filled with thousands of sprawling,
unknown thoughts.

Sunlight trickled inwards from the spaces between the blinds; the
window had been left shaded to protect his healing eyes.  A food
tray had been discarded on the bedside table; not a single trace
remained of the salisbury steak, but everything else was left
untouched.

There was a click and a soft creak as the door opened slowly
inwards.  The occupant's swift eyes immediately snapped to the
side, their lids blinking quickly in an attempt to focus his
imperfect vision.  His gaze returned to the wall when he saw that
it was not the one that he sought.

The visitor's clothing closely resembled that of a medieval monk,
only it was of a dark blue color instead of the archetypical
brown.  Upon his breast, the cross was replaced with a bright
gold Earth-disc.  Iori cast a brief glance over his
face--slightly older than his own, with shoulder-length brown
hair and blue eyes--and immediately dismissed him as
unrecognized.

The other smiled quietly and pulled the room's lone and battered
chair over to the bedside, observing the food tray.  Sitting
down, he commented with a smile, "What, you don't eat Jell-O? 
I've heard there's always room for it."

The warrior deigned to give him a look that said, ~Oh really?~

Shrugging, the visitor picked up the plastic container and a
spoon.  "Hm.  I suppose not."  Meditatively, he took a small
bite.  There was silence for a long time.  As if unnerved by the
lack of communication, he continued, "I don't think that we've
actually met before...you're Iori Yagami, right?"

No answer.

"I'm Brother Johann.  I was passing through the city, trying to
get 
somewhere else; the staff asked me to come and see you."

Nothing.

"Not talking today?"

Silence.

"That's alright.  You've been through quite a bit, I hear.  The
doctors were amazed at your performance two nights ago; they said
that you hadn't regenerated enough major muscles to support your
own weight sitting, much less moving around as you were."

Not a sound.

"Security is a bit upset, though; they couldn't get a clear shot
of the one who came in to see you.  They're still trying to find
him now, in fact.  He signed in as 'Ima Pseudonym'...  Your
friend's got a sense of humor, that's for--"

"I know he didn't even wait for me."

"...What's that?"

Iori shifted slightly; his first movement in hours.  "He didn't
wait..."  The eyes turned to the intruder once again, full of
contempt.  This one could never understand the significance of
the issue.

Johann looked down at his hands, taking a couple more bites of
his Jell-O.  "I've been watching this place for a few days..." 
He tapped a quiet rhythm on the cup with his spoon, feeling the
full weight of Yagami's gaze settling darkly upon him.  "He
waited."

Iori watched him, fires dancing behind his eyes.

"He waited in the back parking lot for two hours, and then he
went home."

There was a pause, and then the patient slowly turned his head
away, resting his bandaged cheek on his crossed forearms, his
blurring sight now fixed on the window to his left.  He gave a
soft, dry laugh, a mere cobweb of the mania that he was renowned
for, a sound like a sob, a whisper, or a prayer.  And though the
one sitting nearby could not see his face, Iori was grinning as
much as his injuries would allow, showing his bared teeth in a
fierce mockery of everything that he was and everything that had
created him. 

After a while, Johann rose from his seat and set the Jell-O cup
back on the tray, leaving exactly one spoonful on the bottom. 
Reaching out, he lightly traced a five-pointed star on the
fighter's shoulder, prompting the other to start and regard him
with cold suspicion.  Then Iori felt his wounds tighten as flesh
knitted together, scabs melted away, bone smoothed and
strengthened...  Healed by the young monk's touch, the tainted
one favored him with another brief glance, after which he resumed
his previous posture, head tilted towards the window.

Johann folded his hands into his sleeves and said quietly,
"Iori...people can change.  Everyone makes their own pathway."

Only sharp ears could discern the muttered response.  "Everyone
but me."

The Earth-priest bowed his head, accepting the reply.  Then he
turned and left the room in silence--only the creaking of the
closing door remained to mark his passage.

***

Iori was alone again in the spotless white hospital room.  After
Johann had taken his leave, the youth had tentatively eaten the
last scrap of Jell-O; predictably, it had done nothing to improve
his existance.  He sat on his bed, as he had for so long, and he
gazed sightlessly at the blank wall.

Inside the tiny hospital room, he never moved; the only
indication of his life was the shallow rhythm of his breathing.

~Inhale.  Exhale.~

The world mattered to him no longer--had it ever?  Curled inside
his quiet hell, his twisted psyche had locked itself into the
unending cycle, repeating over and over the fear that plagued his
dreams and ate at his mind.

~Failure.~
~Failure.~

His injuries were almost fully healed now, but a few days of
waiting would be necessary before he would be able to take up the
game once more.  And perhaps, when he had fought and won and
proved his true worth to the one who watched him with the eagle's
eye, then he would be granted the final duel...the test of
strength and will for which he had been born.  And after that
clash of powers, he could rest...one way or another, he would
know peace.

At his side, the window blinds threw their bars of light and
darkness across his quiet form.  Observing the wall before him,
he saw that it offered up no answers.

He let his face fall into his arms, and locked his soul away from
all the world.

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

My thanks to those who read this piece...it's strange, yet
somehow I'm proud of it.

The primary purpose of writing this as I did was to emphasize the
fact that, although Iori and Ranma may have a combat-based
rivalry in the offing, there's nothing that can really displace
the weight of a many-centuries-old blood feud.  Also, I threw in
a bit of PsychoShonen philosophy--when everyone else ignores your
pain, only your mortal enemy will care enough about you to visit
you in your weakness.

The time frame encompassed by this sub-storyline would be after
Episode 22 (when Iori went into a coma), and probably continues
on through Episode 23; it's assumed that he would be fully
recovered by 24 (though I'm very well aware of the fact that
he'll probably just wake up some other way...I wrote this for
fun).

As a side note, Brother Johann Moon-Bright-Rose is from my
personal character stock and wasn't intended to be permanent in
the least.  (For those who are interested, he's actually from a
-Werewolf: The Apocalypse- chronicle of mine.)

Thanks to the reader yet again.  We are much obliged for your
attention.  :)

E.A.
B.W.A.