Ranma 1/2 Fan Fiction ❯ Chained World: The Fall of the House of Kuno ❯ Mind Games ( Chapter 61 )

I originally published this under the name Anduril at Anime Addventures, with the only changes being a few corrections in spelling, punctuation and the occasional word choice. If you like the beginning of my story but think I've gone off the rails, or have your own ideas for a great branch-off, or think I'm taking too long to update and want to continue the story yourself, come to Anime Addventures and join in the fun!

I claim no ownership rights to any of the works of Rumiko Takahashi, or anyone else's published work.

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Ranma gasped as suddenly the light-latticed world vanished, all sight gone, all sense of his physical body gone as he found himself lost in a sea of sights, sounds, sensations of memories swirling about and through him.

“Yes! My turn! he ... heard? felt? sensed? ... the Mentalist exult. The other man's presence was ... indeterminate, at once nowhere and everywhere, permeating the deepest recesses of Ranma's being. And already the Saotome heir could feel the intruder playing with his mind, his very core, like a million little fingers plucking, pinching, twisting, pulling, stroking, flickers of pleasure flashing through him....

His burning anger snuffed out by the panic flashing through him, Ranma desperately tried to force them back into the latticed void they'd floated in a moment earlier, but other than a faint ... ripple? quiver? ... that passed through the chaos they were immersed in, the only reaction was a faint “chuckle” from his tormentor. “Nice try, kid, but now we're playing my game, by my rules.”

Ranma tried to block out the torrent of disjointed memories, and when that proved impossible, to ignore them as he fought to beat back his panic and recover his equilibrium. He was almost there in spite of the continuing sensation of fingers playing with him, when suddenly the building flashes of pleasure exploded and for a moment his world went white, his concentration shattered and washed away along in the flood of orgasmic bliss.

The faint chuckle was back even as he again found himself inundated in the ebb and flow of his lifetime of memories. “Enjoyed that, I hope? You'll have to thank my servants after we're done for their help. By then, it'll even be sincere. You have any less than pleasant memories you'd like me to get rid of while I'm at it? I won't even charge you for the service, I'll consider myself well paid by the workout you've given me — the best I've had in years.”

Ignoring the taunts even as he fought to suppress his fear rising alongside the again rising tide of pleasure, he felt the Mentalist seeming to slip and twist through the currents flinging him to and fro like a streamlined shape in storm-driven seas — no, a school of streamlined shapes, darting every which way. How does he do that? Ranma wondered for a moment before putting it to the side for later. He was doing it, calming, focusing — and again the pleasure peaked and exploded, leaving him mentally gasping, thoughts fractured and disjointed.

Damn it, this isn't working! the pigtailed boy thought. The Mentalist wasn't just playing, Ranma felt ... out of shape, twisted, like bits and pieces of his very being didn't match up, round pegs in square holes.... Think, Ranma, think! Maybe ya can chase the servants off with yer ki? Flare yer battle aura to make `em back off? He reached for the life energy that permeated him, a lifetime's effort building the reserves that he had barely touched during her long days of inactivity ... nothing. He knew the reserve was there, he could almost grasp it, but it felt slippery, oily, oozing away.

Okay, that didn't work. So what now, none a' yer techniques are any good here, but — His frantic thoughts stuttered to a halt ... there was one technique that might help!

Again, Ranma tried to ignore the chaos, letting the currents of memories wash through and around him, riding the rising pleasure building to another peak as he focused on Ice: snow-covered mountain vistas, the depths of pure-black night filled with down-drifting, wind-driven waves of snowfall, trees bent low with the weight of uncountable shining-white daggers, rivers turned into plains of clear ice, waterfalls frozen masses of rough undulating walls and pillars. Everything seemed to fade; the memories became meaningless; another burst of finger-driven pleasure was distant, second hand, vanishing altogether. Even the feel of the Mentalist's manipulations twisting through him felt washed out as he reached for the memory of a sun- and star-studded, light-ribboned void inside an infinite rough-hewn wall.

/\

If the Mentalist had a body — or rather, if he was currently using his body, or even aware of it — he'd have been stretched out on the ground, gasping for oxygen, and hoping that the water he'd just drank for rehydration stayed down. He owed the government lapdog that had handled Ranma's Adjustment an apology; even with Ranma's mindscape returned to its natural form, the young man's natural resistance was so strong that the report's description of the original Adjustments as `shaky' and `temporary at best' were perfectly understandable. Not that the Adjuster would have been able to replicate what the Mentalist had just accomplished even if he'd had the Wild Talent's raw power — eliminate a single recent memory, no problem; create a wall between attitudes and preferences and the conscious mind, not much harder. But actually molding those attitudes and earlier memories to build a new presence was a much more vast issue — attitudes weren't limited to single memories, and earlier memories would have a cascade of links that widened at time passed, and it quickly became impossible for a single, discrete individual to hunt down and change all the links needed for modification of any but the most recent of memories or attitudes.

However, the key was the word `discrete', and as he rested the Mentalist idly wondered how many Wild Talents had had the same brainstorm he had of changing his self-image from that of an individual intruder swimming through the mixing currents of memories, sensations, beliefs and attitudes to that of an all-encompassing presence that permeated the entire mindscape and could sense and modify the whole. Though it's a good thing Ranma's as smart as he is, or his sheer mental strength would make this impossible — it certainly helps things when your target's own imagination does half the work of providing plausible explanations for attitude adjustments.

Okay, step one finished, the Mentalist thought, finally deciding he'd rested long enough. Good thing I caught that dream, it certainly helped me decide just what change to make. Kuno would thank me if he ever knew, he continued with an `smirk', otherwise he'd end up worn to a nub. I just hope that dream helps with the second step.

He was just rousing himself, gathering his strength for the next assault, when suddenly the ebb and flow of the mindscape seemed to slow, harden, he `shivered' as the nonexistent temperature seemed to drop — and the entire mindscape shivered, wavered, and he `gasped' as he felt himself abruptly shrink and coalesce as the sun- and star-studded, light-latticed midnight void of earlier swam into existence around him. “What the fuck!” he shouted, lapsing into profanity he normally abhorred as a sign of a lack of self control.

“Well, what d'ya know, it worked.”

The strange voice came from behind him, and the Mentalist spun in place to stare at the naked figure his turn revealed. Gone was the moderately built, handsome, raven-haired, masculine young man of before. In his place was a slimmer, tinier auburn-haired figure — muscle tone was impossible to determine because the figure was blurred, out of focus somehow, but it seemed androgynous except for a pair of small breasts. The Mentalist didn't dare to drop his attention, but through his shock he was distantly wondering whether if he did he'd find Ranma's new self image made manifest was hermaphroditic. It seemed his first step hadn't taken as well as he'd thought. If it had, he'd have been looking at a tiny, cute ... and sharply focused ... redhead.

“H-H-How ... ?” he stammered, gaping.

Ranma chuckled humorlessly. “Just a technique that turns out ta be useful here,” she replied, her voice pitched midway between that of her male and female forms. Then before the Mentalist could gather his scattered wits she was in motion, flashing across the distance between them. Within moments the auburn-haired girl was behind him, her arms wrapped up under his arms and across his shoulders to clasp her hands behind his neck, her legs wrapped around his hips. No, from the feel of her groin pressed against his back she wasn't a hermaphrodite.

The Mentalist bucked, trying to break the hold, but Ranma just chuckled again as the two started to drift quickly backward. “Ya like ta play with memories? Let me show ya one,” she breathed in his ear. The Mentalist stopped twisting and tried to halt the drift, but while the two slowed they still continued back, passing through undulating glowing ribbons and flashes of memories at the intersections — a montage of events, some that the Mentalist recognized from the file he'd read like the face-off against a winged, robed semi-human, fireball-throwing self-proclaimed godling; most completely new to him such as Akane diving into a twister to grab some kind of chart.

Finally, they reached another unfamiliar scene literally soaked in fear, what felt like Ranma's male form lying frozen in terror on his back on a lawn by a house, a housecat sitting on his chest and looking down at him. “G-G-Good, now let's see, which thread f-from here is longest....” the Mentalist heard the girl stutter to herself through the overwhelming terror smashing through him. Then they were in motion again, the nodes of the lattice passing them getting smaller, shrinking to pinpoints.

Even as the Mentalist was shaking off the emotional onslaught of the last scene, they came to a stop. “Yeah, th-this one's it,” Ranma said, shuddering against his back. “Okay, mind raper, rape this!” The pair shifted slightly, and the Mentalist suddenly found himself in a new memory.

The Mentalist found himself in a struggling young boy, ignoring the fish cakes tied around his arms and leg, chest and head, the pain from the scratches and bites that covered his entire body as he tried desperately to escape his father's grip on the back of his gi. The bulky martial artist ignored his son's efforts as he opened the wooden trap door over a pit, the sound of housecats yowling with hunger growing louder as the light now shining into the pit reflected from uncountable pairs of slitted eyes looking up. “I don't wanna, Daddy, it hurts!” the boy protested, and the Mentalist felt the little body shaking, mind filled with overwhelming fear.

“A martial artist's way is fraught with peril,” Genma said dismissively. “If you'd just learn the technique, I wouldn't have to keep doing this. Now get in there, boy.”

Before he could protest again Genma dropped him through the trap door and the boy was screaming as he fell toward hungry eyes waiting for him. The eyes vanished with the light as the door slammed closed above him, and then feline screeches of pain joined the hungry yowls as the wailing boy slammed down onto the carpet of furry bodies. Even as he felt the bodies underneath him trying to struggle their way free, a wave of furry monsters rolled over him, biting, clawing, he fought to his feet, to get away, but they wouldn't get off and he staggered as he tried to shake them free and stepped on another tiny furry demon and it crunched underfoot and he was falling and landed on more writhing bodies and more were climbing their way onto him, covering him under a living carpet of clawing, biting fur and something deep inside him snapped and he screamed....

/\

In the wood-paneled room, the Mentalist's servants standing around the padded table exchanged uneasy glances — their employer, standing at the head of the table with his fingertips at the red-haired girl's temples, was taking longer than usual. Much longer. Still, in spite of their growing anxiety their hands continued to roam across the naked body of the tiny semi-conscious girl, and her body jerked as yet another orgasm rippled through her. They paused and all except the woman holding the anesthesia mask over the girl's mouth and nose grasped arms and legs to hold her in place until the orgasmic shudders stilled, then resumed their stimulation.

Suddenly the body under their hands seemed to grow cool. The startled women stepped back, leaving the Mentalist alone alongside the redhead, the faintly hissing anesthesia mask falling to the floor as they stared wide-eyed at the frost radiating out from underneath the girl, covering the padded surface, running down the table legs. After a moment when nothing more happened they exchanged glances. Finally, one of the women started to say, “Tokiwa-kun, should we —”

The Mentalist jerked his hands away from Ranma's head, staggering away from the table as he screamed like a soul in torment. His servants stared at the staggering man tearing at his hair as shriek after shriek ripped from his throat, before motion back at the table caught their attention and they turned, wide-eyed at the sight of the naked redhead sitting up on the padded table top. Her hot eyes glared at them, then even as they stepped back at the rage boiling in those eyes she turned to focus on the Mentalist.

He was still staggering drunkenly, blood running down the side of his head from where he'd yanked out a chunk of hair. But his gaze had focused on the nude girl and he whined fearfully as he tried to back up.

Ranma slid off the table, dropping to one knee when her legs refused to support her. Bracing herself on the frost-covered padded top, she pushed herself to her feet, took a deep breath and thrust herself forward two staggering steps before she leaped, slamming into her tormentor and wrapping her legs around his waist. He tottered under the impact, tried to push her away, but she knocked his desperately clutching hands aside, reached up to grab his jaw and the back of his head and twisted.

The wet crack of the Mentalist's neck breaking shocked his servants out of their stunned paralysis, and as the redhead rode the collapsing body backward to the floor they turned and ran shrieking for the door.