This was something I wrote out in a single sitting a little over six months ago, when I first won the game. It sat unfinished and forgotten, and I decided to complete it tonight (didn't feel like tackling any serious writing.) It's not exactly high literature, but here's hoping you still enjoy. Let me know, eh? And look ma, no attachments! Quarter-Life (or, something funky happened on the way to lambda core) This ain't never gonna work, Ranma repeated to himself for the umpteenth time. I'll never pull this off. Surreptitiously checking the fake beard and glasses Nabiki had provided did little to ease his anxieties: his disguise still felt woefully inadequate. He took a deep breath. Relax, he told himself. You've been through worse. Tarou. Saffron. Akane's cooking. What's a little impersonation compared to all that? What could possibly go wrong? "C'mon, Ranma, let's see what you've got! I'm told you're a martial arts master!" Said martial artist silently ground his teeth and kept his calm. Nabiki's new American husband just wasn't sitting well with him. Cocky arrogant bastard, so what if he had a Ph.D. in theoretical physics from M.I.T.? And had just started a new -- and mysteriously secret -- government job that promised to pay big bucks? And was in great shape, a martial artist too, and, to judge by the reactions of the female members of the Tendo family, good looking ('He looks just like Charlie Sheen,' Akane had gushed at one point)? So what? But, polite refusal denied, Ranma finally gave in. He had to grudgingly admit, the guy was good -- for someone who'd spent a decade doing graduate studies, that is. But Ranma had barely made it through high school, having dedicated _all_ his time to martial arts; Mr. M.I.T., might be good. . . but Ranma Saotome, master of the Anything- Goes School, was quite simply the best. And when all was said and done, he stood triumphant over his opponent's battered and unconscious body. "Nice one, Saotome. Now how's he going to go to work tomorrow morning?" asked a frowning Nabiki. And so it was that Ranma found himself riding a suspended railcar through the underground depths of some top-secret government base. S'not fair, he told himself. It's _his_ fault, he shouldn't'a pissed me off like that. And how was I supposed to know he'd lose the job if he didn't show up today -- that it was his first day? "Listen, Ranma," his new brother-in law said after awakening (with one leg in a cast and a slight concussion).. "It'll be easy, or I wouldn't even try and get you to pull this off. You're just going in to sign some basic papers, that's all. I haven't even been cleared for the optical scanners yet, so they can't ask you to do anything too complicated. Just sign a few documents, pick up some papers, bring 'em home. No problem." Right. No problem. Then why, he wondered, ignoring the non-stop and irritating female-voiced narration coming over the car's speakers, are they shuttling me way the hell down here? And why are there giant mechanical crabs carrying crates around? Where the hell _is_ this place; what do they _do_ here? All too soon, the car stopped, the narration ended. Wondering belatedly if he ought to have listened, whether the voice had said anything important, he stepped up to the sliding door. A blue-shirted security guard approached, and opened the door for him.. "Hello, Mr. Freeman. I'm to send you straight in, sir." The guard led him towards an impressive metal door, hydraulic bars sealing it shut. "And welcome to Black Mesa Complex." Ranma smiled. The guard hadn't recognized him! Maybe this would be easy after all -- after all, what could possibly go wrong? *** Quarter-Life: A Ranma 1/2 - Half-Life fusion by Michael Noakes (Legal ownership of sources owned by Takahashi and Valve, respectively) No, I'm not gonna write this. I'm not big on cross-overs and fusion. But here's some possible scenes, if I did. . . . *** "Okay, Gordon, the sample should be coming up on your right. Just guide it into the array. We'll take it from there." The scientist's voice resonated in the cavernous chamber. Ranma found the cart with the strangely luminescent stone on it, but when he gave it a slight push, it refused to move. He pushed harder. Nothing. Alright, he decided, if ya wanna do it the hard way. . . . Rearing back, he gave the cart a savage kick. Something snapped. It careened down it's narrow track, before slamming to a stop. The sample shot free of its restraints, flipping into the glowing nexus of the test- chamber array. "Gordon!" screamed the voice over the speaker- system. Oh shit, thought Ranma. And everything went black. . . . *** As Ranma prepared himself before continuing on his way -- some inner sense told him that something nasty was probably waiting on the other side of that door -- he had a good idea of what it must feel like to be Mousse. He checked his 9 mm., slapping in another full clip; then, he reloaded his .45. Checked his M-16: 50 round mag full, underhand grenade launcher ready. Shotgun fully armed, crossbow cocked and ready. The nifty Gauss-cannon that moron of a soldier had blown himself up was fully charged, as was the Gluon gun. The Hornet glove hung from his belt; he didn't like wearing it, since the way it writhed on his hand gave him the willies. The rocket launcher was strapped to his back, the five extra rockets strapped to his waist. Then their were the ten frag grenades, the laser trip- mines, the bombs, and a dozen of those creepy metal-jawed snark beasties; he wasn't quite sure _where_ he kept those little nasties, but they seemed content to tag alone. And then, of course, there were the hundreds of rounds of ammunition stashed away in any of a dozen or so pouches and pockets. All this, without the least hindrance to his mobility. This H.E.V. suit sure is cool, Ranma found himself thinking again. It's even got a built in CD player! *** Ranma moved forward warily, sliding the last of his shotgun shells into the weapon. It settled into place with a satisfying 'click'. Right. He was close to the surface -- he just had to be. How big could this stupid complex _be_? He'd heard from a scientist that the military had been sent in. Good. Let them clean up the mess. He just wanted to get home, Akane must've been worried sick about him. And then he'd have a few choice words with Mr. Freeman, and- Movement! Ranma flattened against the wall, breathing shallow. What was it? Headcrab? One of those freaky one-eyed spindly things that shot lightning? He inched forward. Deep breath. He jumped around the corner, shotgun ready, raised to fire. Drew a bead on his target, and. . . . "Ranma?" "Ryoga?" "This is your fault, isn't it!" "What?" "It's _always_ your fault!" "Oh, come on! A high-tech super-secret government project has gone wrong, blowing a hole in space-time, allowing the front-runners of an alien invasion force to pass into our world and run amok in an orgy of mayhem and slaughter -- and you automatically assume it's my fault?" "It's not?" Ranma shrugged. "Nah, you're right. It's my fault. You wanna tag along? I'm heading for the surface. And don't tell me, you're lost again, right?" *** "Hey, guys, wait up," he called after the scientists, but the white-robed men charged ahead, regardless. The Sydney Poitier look-alikes were too overjoyed at the appearance of the military to hear him. Ranma couldn't blame them, for it signaled escape at last; why, then, did he have such a bad feeling about this? A sudden burst of automatic fire: the lead scientist jerked back, rounds tearing into his chest and spattering crimson gouts out his back. The man fell in a soundless heap; his friends who immediately followed were not so quiet. Their screams of betrayal and terror echoed in his mind. The wall and floor seemed awash in blood. Gunfire and death cries rang from all over, nearly masking the calls of strategic movement that came in over his HEV suit's radio. The scientists who had survived the perils of the devastated base and the attacks of the strange creatures released by the experiment, were systematically eliminated by their own kin. Ranma fell back in shock, gorge rising in his throat. He heard the military dispense orders: the situation was to be contained, the Black Mesa staff to be 'cleansed.' No one was to be allowed to escape. These were his saviours? What was he going to do? Aliens on one side, a hostile military on the other -- and he didn't even know the way out! Reality suddenly hit hard: this wasn't a simple martial arts fight or vengeful rival or bizarre demon -- these were hard-core professionally trained killers; these were soldiers equipped with the most lethal of weapons; these were other humans. Shit, thought Ranma. Shit! Navigating the ruined base had been easy, and the beasties he'd met up to now simple to avoid and eliminate. Now what? He backed away, unsure of where to go, but knowing he needed time to think, to assess the situation -- he needed a plan! 'Movement!' crackled his radio, and suddenly a soldier was before him, shotgun raised for the kill, eyes narrowed and remorseless. Doubts were cast aside as Ranma leapt aside, the first round of enemy fire punching a hole through a crate. The young man landed, rolling instinctively to avoid another shot; he twisted as he rose, turning towards his attacker, assault rifle suddenly cradled in his hands and pointed squarely at the soldier's chest. The moment would be forever frozen in Ranma's mind. The sudden widening of the man's eyes, fear and panic overtaking ruthless professionalism as he realized he would never pump his weapon in time. The slight depression on the trigger, the sound of his weapon's discharge, the jerk in his hands: they all came almost as a surprise to Ranma. The man before him twitched and spasmed as the bullets ripped him open from collarbone to thigh. He fell back against the wooden shards and frames of shattered boxes, seemed to catch himself for a moment, then slumped forward to the ground. For the briefest of moments his eyes caught his killer's: they were filled with pain, yes, but to Ranma's surprise neither remorse nor accusation showed -- only regret that another had been better at his own game. The martial artist staggered back, mind shying away from what he had done. He had killed. Another human being. Not like in the fight with Saffron, with passion and wits and life's love hanging in the balance. . . but with the simple depression of a trigger. Feeling suddenly ill, he suddenly wanted to throw his weapon aside. 'Fire in the hole!' The hollow pop of a grenade being launched impelled him back to instinctive action, and he barely escaped the explosion behind him. With military commands ringing in his ears, he avoided gunfire and grenades, tracked down his new foes, and killed them one by one. Their death cries also came in across the radio, and he quickly tuned them out. When he stood alone and triumphant in the middle of the bloodied, blackened storeroom, surrounded by the torn and burnt bodies of scientists, security guards, and soldiers, any thought of abandoning his weapon were gone. Instead, he reached down and began to collect the remaining ammunition of his defeated enemies. *** Ranma awoke with a start. Damn! How could he have let them catch him like that? He'd walked right into their trap, and after getting so far, too! Those assassin-chicks with their funky camouflage had been tricky, but he'd gotten past them with judicious use of grenades. . . only to walk into an ambush. And now, he was still alive? Rising to his feet, ignoring the bruises and aches from the pummeling he'd received, he checked his surroundings. Piles of rubbish and crates filled the small room, with metal bars forming the roof. Where was he? Why was he still alive? A quick check verified that he'd been stripped of all his weapons, though the HEV suit remained intact. A sudden grinding noise clued him into the nature of his location: with the screech of metal on metal, the walls started to close in on him. Ah, he thought. A trash compactor. So I'm trash, am I? Not worth killing directly, am I, he thought, just throw me out and let a machine do the work, huh? Sudden fury seized him. Since the screw-up in the test chamber, he'd been burnt, electrocuted, thrown around, shot at, -shot-, grenaded, bitten, scratched, and generally pushed around -- and if there was one thing Ranma Saotome hated, it was being pushed around. Well, enough was enough, he decided. Sure, there was a sociopathic military trying to kill him on one side, and an alien invasionary force on the other, with a hostile, dangerous, ruined base in between; he was one man (well, occasionally two, but Ryoga had a tendency of wandering off) against a host of enemies -- and what of it? Enough of this running. So the military wouldn't let him go home, eh? Then he'd beat the crap out of the lot of them. The aliens wanted to invade his planet, did they? Then he'd just have to track down their mother-queen (if movies had taught him anything, it was that alien invasionary forces always had a single boss they were entirely dependent upon,) and kick her royal heinie. They thought they had Gordon Freeman down here. But I'm not, I'm Ranma Saotome. "You hear that, you bastard?" he yelled out. "I'm Ranma Saotome!" The walls were closing in, smashing boxes. Presumably, he could've escaped by climbing up the crates and prying the hatch above open with the crowbar lying at his feet. It's what the real Gordon probably would've done (if he'd made it this far, which Ranma doubted.) But he wasn't Gordon. He was the master of the Saotome school of Anything-Goes martial arts. His leap carried him to the ceiling with ease, and the bars snapped aside at his kick. Heading off down the only available tunnel, Ranma cracked his knuckles. Enough of this gun crap: time to show these people what kinda of can of whoop-ass they'd just opened. *** The thing was big, towering at least three times his height, encased in a chitinous hide that repelled both military bullets and martial art chi-blasts. It was fast, and released fiery blasts from its giant arms, and several soldiers already lay in bloodied and charred heaps across the room. "How the hell are we gonna get this thing?" asked Ryoga, risking a peek at the beast. "I dunno, man." The thing stopped its lumbering steps and came to a rest. Appearances were deceptive, they knew. It had incredibly acute hearing, and a single step would set it off after them. "After all that work, too, getting the stupid rail car working and everything! We've gotta get rid of him." "Yeah, sure." Ranma rubbed at the burn mark on his arm. "That thing's bloody hot!" "Hot?" Ryoga smiled. "Hot, you say?" "Yeah, ho. . . ." A nasty grin slowly crept onto Ranma's face. "How hot?" "Oh, very, very hot." The poor beast never knew what hit it. One moment it was spinning trying to torch the puny human running in circles around him. . . and the next a tornado had him suspended a kilometre over the Black Mesa facility. . . where a passing F-18 fortuitously took him out with a few well placed sidewinders. *** "Shit! There's loads of them!" Ryoga crept up and checked as well. "Crap." "How much ammo you got?" "Not much, just a few rounds." "Same here." The two martial artists fell back with an exhausted sigh. The running and fighting of the last few hours was starting to catch up to them. Especially the battle with the giant tentacles -- Ryoga had been positive that finding some way to turn on the rocket booster would've torched the thing, but Ranma had thought it would've taken too long. . . after all, it's not like they were rocket scientists or anything. Who would've figured those stupid tentacles would've been so tough? "Think you got a couple of Shi Shi Hokodans left in you?" Ryoga shrugged. "I dunno. I'm more pooped than depressed." "Yeah, I'm not feeling all that confident right now, either." "How many you figure there are?" Ranma made a quick mental count. I think I saw about ten or so men, fully loaded." "Damn. We need a plan or something." "Yeah." Ryoga thought of one first. Ranma wasn't impressed. The soldiers never knew what hit them. One minute they were lying in wait. . . and the next, the most gorgeous redhead they'd ever seen was prancing about their location, gossamer lingerie barely covering her bounteous assets. "Oh, yoo hoo," she purred, bouncing back the way she came. "Oh, poor me, lost in this dark, scary, monster infested lab, all on my lonesome, too, and in only my underwear yet! Oh, won't some brave men save me!" Who would've thought these boring old scientists kept a hot chick like -that- down here, the soldiers thought, as the vacated their posts en masse to chase the scrumptious fleeing girl. What a surprise! The tank of man around the corner, who made the ground explode with a tap of his finger, came equally as a surprise. "Doesn't it make you sick to do that?" "Shut up, Ryoga." "I why were you carrying woman's underwear with you, anyway." "I said shut up!" *** With a sigh of relief Ranma made it to the top of the alien tower. The sights and sounds of the alien dimension would remain with him forever -- even if most of the sights and sounds had involved aliens trying to kill him, and in turn being put down by both gunfire and martial arts. He wondered if he could've made it so far without Ryoga's help. . . trust the eternally lost boy to somehow just wander into an alien dimension. He hoped he made it back safely, since they'd been separated during the battle with that giant gob-lobbing headcrab-spawning spider-mother. But now it was time to put an end to all this, time to fight the brain behind this whole invasion, the incredibly- powerful and evil creature capable of ruling an empire of savage alien killers and maintain a dimensional-portal through will alone. What type of beast would it be? His grip on his weapon felt slippery with sweat as he stepped into the final portal. Darkness. Ranma's mind struggled to accept the impossible horror before him as his vision returned and he found himself in the alien lord's main chamber. Grey and bloated it hovered before him, bulging eyes half-lidded but staring out with pure malevolence and ineffable knowledge. Straggly limbs puny by proportion but thicker than most men clawed at the thick cloying air and flickered and crackled with energy. Its distended, puckered mouth drooped half open, from which a constant trickled of drool fell and filled the bottom of the colossal room. A host of lesser creatures danced and swayed about it, their eerie voices raised in an incomprehensible chant. Jagged glowing crystals penetrated the slick walls, and intermittently released scintillating globules of energy that fed the creature. Its eyes focussed on the intruder before it. "SWEETO!" it said. And Happosai, alien ruler and lord of evil, constantly fed by an unending stream of glowing panties of power, promptly splashed Ranma with cold water. *** The End *** Ranma Saotome stood in awe as the mysteries of the universe unfolded about him. "So you see," continued G-man, thin lips still curled into that infuriating smirk of superiority, "you have a choice to make, Gordon. Not much of a choice, really." Ranma focussed his attention on the business-suit clad person before him. Somehow, this one man was responsible for everything that had happened, for the slaughter in Black Mesa, for the alien invasion. . . for him missing Kasumi's supper. His hand spasmed into a tightly clenched fist at his side. "No," he answered slowly. "Not much of a choice. Either die, or join you. After all, you've stripped me of all my weapons, right? What could I possible do?" "Exactly." Ranma turned away for a moment, as if in thought. "There's just one thing," he continued, speaking over his shoulder. "Oh? And what would that be?" "I'm not Gordon Freeman." A few moments later, G-man lay in a crumpled heap, the unfortunate recipient of an unusually-violent application of Anything-Goes. "The name's Ranma Saotome. Sorry 'bout that." -- Rick Robinson RICHARDROBINSONJR@prodigy.net If violence is not solving your problems you're just not using enough of it. Misato "I guess I'm just an old-fashioned sentimentalist at heart. I refuse to accept a no-win scenario. I hate the thought of a universe without justice. If the maneuverings of dark powers can't be exposed and defeated by the pure of heart, then there's no point in anything. I can't believe that." -- Benjamin Hutchins