They could have been knights of the Order of the Moron: armed with bokken, shinai, foils, epees, sabers, golf clubs, footballs, rugby balls, baseballs, tennis balls and rackets, taiko drums and drumsticks, chemistry sets, proton packs, wands and staves, cell phones, children’s card games, Lovecraftian cooking, bows and arrows, fists and feet; armored in gi, hakama, American football gear, helmets, Duel Bracers, smug superiority, entitlement, and the incalculable thickness of their own braincases.

Ichiko Saotome groaned and assumed Horse Stance, fists at the ready.

She was ready: she was born for battle, even if one with stakes this idiotic demeaned her Art. She knew all of the outer arts of the Saotome and Tendo schools of Anything Goes Martial Arts (Mostly Kenpo), and was working on the inner ones: the Roasting Chestnut Fist came easier to her as she was than the Proud Lion’s Roar, though she had ideas on a way to make the latter work for her, as her.

Then she heard someone clear their throat behind her, and turned.

A boy with short, neatly trimmed brown hair, in the standard uniform’s pants and blazer, strode forward. He had a severe expression intensified by thick eyebrows and high cheekbones as he unbuttoned the blazer from the inside, by sweeping his hand and arm down the gap in front.

When he was done the blazer hung from his shoulders like a cape, revealing a white *gi - *and, disconcertingly, a pair of sheathed daisho swords he had managed to conceal under the blazer.

Somehow.

Ichiko did not need another crazy idiot boy crushing on her trying to crush her.

She said to the stranger, "Any reason you’re butting in on a m- personal fight?"

"Hardly personal, when nigh on half the student body is arrayed against you, miss," the boy said.

His voice was higher than she expected, a tenor rather than a baritone. His hand rested almost lazily on the grip of his katana.

"Yeah, well. If they wanted a fair fight they shoulda brought more guys," Ichiko responded, one eyebrow raised.

"I’ve no doubt you’re skilled and your bravado does you credit," the boy responded, not breaking his stride until he stood shoulder to shoulder with her. "Still - it seems shameful that not one stands with you, in this farce."

The crowd of idiot suitors wavered, exchanging glances.

Ichiko smirked, and decided that if this kid did have a crush on her, his being this minimum of slick about it earned him the gentle letdown.

"Didn’t catch your name," she said, shifting to Cat Stance, back to back with her new ally.

"Nor I yours," he said, likewise shifting. "Call me Gennosuke - Hashimoto Gennosuke."

"Saotome Ichi…ko," Ichiko replied. "Is Gen-kun okay?"

"Good enough. Well met, Ichiko-san," he said, then -"Have at thee!"

And blurred.

Ichiko, she noted, wasn’t as fast as him. Or half as fast as her father; she made up for it with her mother’s strength, and by taking instead from her father a talent for *yomi, *reading the intentions and battle auras of her foes (and now, hopefully, her friend). It seemed to her that Gen had drawn, slashed, and sheathed his sword with a single fluid motion, bisecting a thrown (American) football in the process.

She had to content herself with a slower but no less accurate kick that spiked a thrown volleyball back in the face of its thrower, followed by a hop skip and jump into a heel smash into some idiot in fatigue’s combat helmet, knocking him out instantly.

Gen was carving his own swath through the crowd, though not a bloody one - *good enough to be doing this with sheathed swords, *Ichiko noted - so she tended to hers, punching one loser with a pompadour so hard it left a dent in his biker’s breastplate, then swinging around to relieve a tennis team member of his racket and bean a CCG club member right between the eyes with a tennis ball...

Between the both of them, she made it to class on time for the first time in - merciful Kannon, in weeks.

Gen didn’t sit anywhere near Ichiko in her homeroom class, and she found herself inviting him to sit with her for lunch that day.

As a friend. Not a suitor.

Obviously.

---

"...and ever since then I’ve had to deal with those idiots before the first class every school-day of the week," Ichiko kvetched as she untied the knot in the furoshiki around her lunchboxes.

Gennosuke looked like he was personally affronted by this. "And the teachers have not intervened?"

"Are any of the teachers trained in Anything Goes Martial Arts?" Ichiko replied. "Or anything that can hold a candle to it, like your fancy fencing."

He shook his head in disgust, and Ichiko tilted her head and nodded agreement.

"And there was no one ringleader you can identify?" Gen asked. "No single idiot who dared the others to claim your hand in - ye gods, ‘claim your hand in datehood’ may be the stupidest phrase I have ever uttered."

Ichiko paused, tapping her chopsticks against her lips as she thought.

"You know," she says, "now that I think of it, that is deeply weird."

"And worth investigating," Gen said, considering the weight of an onigiri in his hand, cold but golden brown from being grilled before wrapping.

Ichiko muttered something under her breath, and Gen raised an eyebrow - and the rice-ball to his lips.

"May I ask?"

"Oh, just..." Ichiko sighed. "Mom’s usually a great cook but sometimes she puts experiments in my bento. Just hoping that she stuck to the tried and true."

Gen frowned. "That seems unkind."

"When she’s good she’s great,’ Ichiko said, expression and voice flat. "When she’s bad, though - oh, thank the Gods."

For an aromatic and slightly spicy steam wafted from the first of three stacked lacquered lunchboxes, rising from still-hot (and still hot) curry rice, the sauce a perfect thickness, perfectly stir-fried bell peppers still brightly colored red, yellow and green without turning limp and sad, firm pieces of potato, daikon, and carrot supplemented with toasted chickpeas promising a nutty flavor, bite-sized bits of chicken thigh falling apart when pierced with Ichiko’s chopsticks.

Ichiko got to the quick work of devouring every scrap before moving onto the second box. Gen looked on, unsurprised, but still impressed.

"Ah... working on doing it all ladylike," Ichiko said, wondering why she was blushing, wiping her lips daintily with a napkin.

Gen blinked, once, twice, three times, heavily enough to be practically audible. "You’ve had a workout. Why begrudge you the energy spent on that and growing besides?"

"Right. Of course. Thank you," she said, taking a deep breath. "Let’s see what’s behind Lid Number 2."

Now curious, and working on a second riceball filled with tuna salad, Gen leaned over Ichiko’s box as she revealed -

• a green salad, lightly dressed in a simple mix of rice vinegar, sesame oil and a pinch of sugar and pepper, with carrots cut into little stars, cucumbers into snowflakes, and small tomatoes cut into perfect quarters.

Ichiko sighed with relief before inhaling that, too, then wiped her mouth, pounded her chest a couple times, and covered her mouth for a quiet little burp.

"S-sorry," Ichiko said.

Gen had looked away, pretending not to notice. "So far it seems you have good, hearty fare," he observed.

"Yeah, I think maybe I owe Mom an apology," Ichiko admitted, as she opened up the final box.

Then squinted as she looked into it.

Gen tilted his head over it too - then joined Ichiko in narrow-eyed confusion.

"Lace cookies?" he asks.

Ichiko gingerly removed a very thin, brittle, burnt shard of something with partially melted chocolate chips in it. "I think this was an attempt at tollhouse cookies," she said.

"Melted butter and white sugar instead of creaming butter with mixed white and brown can do that," Gen observed. "Still - it should still taste good enough."

"Probably," Ichiko said, with a grimace and a sinking feeling.

Both of them snapped off a piece, and both crunched into it.

And both violently spat them out in opposite directions.

"How do you make a cookie bitter!?" Ichiko said, actually angry.

Gen tried to stop coughing long enough to answer. "...far too much baking soda, baking so hot it burns, and... was that an almond flavor?"

Ichiko wiped her mouth, screwing the cap back on a thermos of miso soup. "Yeah, now that you mention. Great. Now I have feedback for her, and no dessert."

Ichiko got up, picked up the third bento box, walked over to the burnable trash can, and unceremoniously dumped the remainder of the unintentionally bitter chocolate unintentional brittle into the garbage, save for one bit that landed on the rim.

A pigeon started to head over, but another held out its wing to stop it, shaking its head.

By this time, Gen was dusting off the tail of his blazer. "Are you alright?" he asked.

"I’m fine," Ichiko said, reaching into her skirt’s pocket. "Still hungry, but fine."

She found her wallet and looked through it, nodding.

"Have *you *had enough, between three riceballs?" she asked Gen.

"My lunch is usually light," Gen said. "I tend to make up for it at dinner, but... we’ve but twenty minutes. What did you have in mind?"

"A friend who’s set up shop on campus," Ichiko replied with a grin.

---

Behind the makeshift teppanyaki griddle at a collapsible stand at the edge of the track, a jovial if somewhat chubby boy with short-cropped pale brown hair, in a purple with floral designs foodservice robe and a plain white hachimaki headband, cracked an egg into some rice, vegetables and shrimps he had put on the griddle and stirred a vat of batter with the ladle in his other hand. He took up two small flat spatulas - as opposed to one that looked like it doubled as a pizza peel, slung to his back like an RPG protagonist’s greatsword - and clacked them together before stirring and frying the rice, a genuine smile on his face as he made an endless stream of salesman patter to the crowd:

"Fried rice! Yakisoba! If I can grill it, you can have it! But -" And he gestured to a pair of kids dressed in puffy-sleeved shirts, reading from stacks of paper - "-are you two theater kids? Cause my pride and joy is a special performance of As You Like It right on this griddle, HEYOO!"

He accepted a bill with a shallow bow and a nod, his patter never stopping as he placed down oil, then cabbage, then a dozen other things besides, topping it off with a ladle of batter. "That’s right! Osaka-style Okonomiyaki, my specialty! Never leave hungry from Tanha’s Treats, and stop by Ucchan’s after school too, thank you for your custom for my customized!"

"This is a friend of yours?" Gen said, eyebrow raised in skepticism.

"Tanha Kuonji and I go way back," Ichiko replied. "Wanna split an Osaka-style?"

He looked over the ones already on Tanha’s griddle.

"...honestly," Gen admitted, "perhaps we should each get one."

"That’s the spirit! You won’t regret it!" Ichiko said, smile wide as she slapped a bill on the counter. "Hey Tanha, hook me and my friend up, make mine Osaka with shrimp and lotsa spring onion. My treat!"

"Absolutely not," Gen said. "Please allow me to get yours, or at least my own. - I’ll have what she’s having."

"Goin’ Dutch then, suit yourself," Ichiko said.

"New friend?" Tanha said, looking Gen up and down with a critical, fighter’s, eyes.

"Helped me against the Knights of the Order of the Bakayarou," Ichiko said. "Could even keep up with me - I’m glad he was on my side."

"In that case, the first hit’s free," Tanha said, spreading sunflower oil in preparation for the cook with a cloth soaked in it. "Any friend of my Number 1 Friend is okay by me. Also, those morons are still at it?"

"You’d think they’d have given up by now," Ichiko said, sighing.

Tanha shrugged as he set down piles of shredded napa cabbage on the griddle. "I’m just stunned none of them have tried hot water yet."

Gen blinked. So did one of the pigeons poking for stray panko crumbs.

Ichiko’s expression twisted from a smile into a grimace. "Did I mention that Gen and I just met? Like today? With me in my lovely new uniform, with the skirt?"

Tanha winced before putting his smile back on, and pouring batter over the cabbage and other goodies. "Right! Right, it’s a good look for you," he said. "Pretty scary fighter, huh, Gen?"

"Magnificent," Gen replied, bowing. "Allow me the honor of a proper introduction. Genosuke Hashimoto, at your service. ...Gen is fine."

"I’m yaboi Tanha Kuonji," Tanha replied, bowing just a bit deeper. "Nice to feed ya, Gen-kun."

He topped each pancake with bacon, then deftly flipped the half-done okonomiyaki, startling the pigeons into taking flight. His hands were almost a blur as they put the finishing touches on: sauce, mayonnaise, toasted sesame seeds, and chopped green onion - as requested, an excessive amount of it.

"You are supremely skilled," Gen said.

"Ten years of apprenticeship to a master foodslinger," Tanha replied, bowing all the same at the compliment out of reflex. He cut both perfectly griddled cake into quarters, then slid each into separate boxes along with wooden chopsticks. "Satisfaction guaranteed or your calories back."

"That’s way less reassuring than you think it sounds," Ichiko said, smirking as Tahna handed her the box. "You’re lucky you walk the walk."

Gen regarded his pancake with a measuredly neutral once-over, before shrugging and taking a bite.

Blinking.

And taking another. Then another.

"This is - this is excellent!" he said. "The contrast in textures from crisp to tender to toothsome, the deep smoky flavors of the bacon with the sweet and acid from the sauce -"

"You’re gonna make me blush, my dude," Tanha said, and he was actually blushing a little.

Ichiko had already put half of hers away when she said, "What did I tell you? When it comes to griddling, Tanha is the Man, and his mom is The Woman."

"Indeed, a good friend to know, and my very great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Tanha-kun," Gennosuke said, much more brightly and far more genuine. "Thank you for a good meal."

"Yeah, just like I told you to expect from him," Ichiko said.

"And with me you get to see how the sasuga is made." Tanha said.

Ichiko facepalmed, while Gen struggled to keep a straight face.

---

The three of them met up again after classes, if briefly.

"You two free?" Ichiko asked. "I gotta Swop and a Futomaki account at home, I have some time before training."

"Unfortunately, I gotta help open the shop with Mom," Tanha said. "Dinner rush. Will be around during Friday and the weekend, though."

"And I have kendo club to attend to, where I will have things to say to some of their members," Gen said. "Do you not have a club?"

Ichiko’s face fell. "Since the Nonsense started, been part of the Goin’ Home Club. It’s safer."

Tanha and Gen exchanged glances.

"I see," Gen finally said, one hand tightening on the grip of his katana.

Ichiko tried to turn her wince into a smile. "It was great to meet you," she said, and meant. "Maybe I can wait outside the gate tomorrow?"

Gen tilted her head at her.

"Or I could wait for you," he suggested.

"We both can, if it’s that bad," Tanha suggested, eyes averted upward - his own hands behind his back in what looked like a lazy gesture.

"I -"

Ichiko’s face fell, for a second, eyes downcast, then closed as she took a deep breath. Then, after a moment’s consideration, she nodded.

"That would be... nice," she decided. "I’ll meet you both tomorrow outside."

Gen bowed, almost 45 degrees. "It would be an honor and a pleasure."

"You mean that," she said, not in doubt but in wonder. He nodded.

Ichiko put on her best smile. "Ja ne, Tanha, Gen-kun."

Tanha said "Ja, ato de" as Gen said "Saraba da."

Ichiko giggled before leaving.

As she walked away, she heard Tanha say "Dude, seriously? In 2025?"

---

Ichiko took a deep breath before stepping out of her shoes and into the foyer.

"I’m back," she shouted, reflexively.

From further in, she heard a grunt, and a crash, and the sound of someone cannonballing unintentionally into the pond; and then a bright voice in low soprano:

"Welcome home!"

Ichiko smiled, a little, and walked to the den. There, her mother put her hands together as she cleared her stance, and Ichiko’s trained eyes could see the flare of a blue-hot battle aura around her cool to golden and die down before becoming entirely invisible under her dark gi, her dark pants, her black belt with the red stripes, her hair so black the LEDs overhead shone blue against it.

Her father - at this point, looking more like a second mother, with the same violently red hair as Ichiko, in a completely soaked gi and giving little mind to it being half open and exposing decolletage - slammed open the rice paper door, wearing an expression that couldn’t decide if it was angry, proud as hell of his partner, or just cold and wet.

"Hey mom, hey dad," Ichiko said with a shallow bow and a forty-watt wave. "Looks like Mom managed to surprise you."

"Oh yeah. Giving your ol’ man a real workout," Dad’s temporary contralto said. "Gotta remember that trick."

As Ichiko’s dad tried to step in, her mother scowled, stopping him. "Not all over Dad’s nice tatami mats," she scolded, handing him a bunch of dry towels from a pile folded in the corner for just this reason. "Dry off first."

"Roger wilco, ’Kane. Can you put on the kettle?" he said, towelling down.

"Mmmmn..." Akane pretended to consider. "Not until after dinner. You lost, you get to stay like this a while, Ranma. Besides, I’m enjoying the view."

Ichiko pulled a face. "MOM."

Ranma hastily pulled his gi closed, blushing. "Yeah, MOM, not in front of the kid, sheesh?"

"What, you’re afraid Icchan’s gonna see us show affection? God forbid." Akane said, and Ichiko giggled a bit at that. "As for you... how was school? You’re home early again - did you quit the light novel club?"

"Yeah, actually," she replied, averting her eyes.

Ranma frowned, putting a hand on his child’s shoulder and gripping firmly in solidarity. "You loved that club. Somethin’ wrong?"

"Not really," Ichiko lied, thinking quickly. "Just lots of fantasy slop I didn’t like."

Akane and Ranma exchanged worried glances. "Is there anything about school that you do want to tell us?"

Ichiko, to her surprise, did.

"Yeah," she said. "I met this boy."

Akane raised an eyebrow with a smile; Ranma, with a frown.

"Not like that," Ichiko amended. "I meant I made a friend."

"Right," Akane said, in an even and measured voice. "Glad to hear it. What’s your friend like?"

Ichiko sighed, shaking her head, unable to banish a smile. "Well, he talks like he’s from out of Kurosawa, but I don’t think he’s pretending to be chivalrous."

Akane’s smile turned into a blank expression, one finger over her lips. Ranma looked at her, then at Ichiko.

"Chivalrous like how?" he asked.

"Like -" She couldn’t say making sure I didn’t have to fight alone. "- being polite, offering to pay for his half of some okonomiyaki -"

"...Ichiko," Akane said. "Did you..." she sighed.

"Most of it," Ichiko said quickly. "Most of it was delicious. It’s just - uh - those cookies, well..."

Ranma muttered, "Told ya the brown sugar was in them for a reason."

"Aaand my friend said creaming it into warm butter would help them rise?" Ichiko said, scratching the back of her head with a halfhearted laugh. "Need less baking soda that way."

Akane, rather than shouting, had gotten out a pad and paper and was taking notes. "Brown sugar too, cream into soft butter, less baking soda, got it. Any other advice?"

Ichiko sighed with relief at her mother’s reaction. "That’s it."

"Guess I’ll try again next week," she said. "Ranma, did you want to cook tonight?"

"I mean I can, but you guys are probably sick of hot dog fried rice and crap like that," Ranma said. "Think it might be Shampoo’s turn to cook?"

Akane considered this with a slight scowl, but nodded. "We haven’t yet gotten takeout this week, but you’re definitely cooking tomorrow."

"Deal," Ranma says. "Ichiko, hit the bath then head for the dojo, we got two-three hours before dinner."

"Do I have to?" Ichiko said.

"I said ‘hit the bath,’ not ‘and don’t change back after,’" Ranma sighed. "Bet you got a centimeter of skin and sweat to get rid of."

"Oh," Ichiko said. "Right. Will do, sensei."

"Attagirl," Ranma said. "Now get outta here, me and the tomboy have unfinished business."

Akane grinned fangs. "Who are you calling a tomboy, idiot?"

"Your uncute thunder-thighs," Ranma shot back. "Gorgeous, yes. Cute, no -"

"Oh look I have a furo to get to," Ichiko said, nose half-retracted into her skull. "Ja."

---

In a dark house, in a dark room, lit only dimly by a circle of five red candles around a smaller one that was - for some reason - melting into the cartridge slot of a bright pink FamiCube, sat a dark man in dark robes with a dark purpose, his hooded face obscured by - you guessed it - darkness.

The colorful controller plugged into the FamiCube somehow did not completely destroy the aura of palpable menace as he manipulated the joystick with deft movements of his thumbs, his attention occupied by the large crystal ball sitting in a pool of red candlewax on a pillow, that was plugged into the i/o cables of the FamiCube. In the orb he was pondering was an image of a schoolyard, near the track; distorted, for being wide angle, for this was literally a bird’s-eye view - from the eyes of a pigeon.

The hooded man giggled, candlelight shining off a rather nasty, toothy grin. Ever since he had found his predecessor’s notes - the lost diary of Hikaru Gosunkugi - his path to power, to fortune, to actually getting kissed by a girl was clear. While most of the rituals were ineffective, or at least so weak as to be useless, this entire setup wouldn’t have been possible without the notes at the end, the ones where he had encountered a real demon and learned the real potent sorceries.

Why that demon was satisfied with a payment in stolen girl’s underthings rather than virgin blood or the old fashioned sacrifice of a black goat didn’t matter much to the man in the robes, both because he was foul enough to think that was fair enough and since the actual spells worked without those. They were somewhat consistent, definitely repeatable, even if the requirements were - appropriately - arcane.

He paused, at a certain point in the recording, and scratched the beginnings of a goatee on his chin.

"Wait," he said. "Play that back again."

The bird’s-eye view turned to the side, and he saw The Red-Headed Ponytailed Girl alongside some twink loser dressed as a samurai and the fat one who admittedly made pretty great yakisoba. He was saying something, and the redhead hissed at him in response with a forced smile.

It had to be important.

"Again," he said, pointing a Magic Wand brand TV remote with runes written on it in sharpie at the orb. A volume slider incremented upwards.

"...stunned they haven’t tried hot water yet," the fat one said.

The Redheaded Girl bared fangs at the fat one, starting to say "Did I mention -", but the dark man no longer cared. He had found what he needed.

Hot water. Hot water was a weakness, one that his proxies could use to finally bring the Redheaded Girl to her knees, and in his clutches, where surely he could charm the skirt off of her. The old-fashioned way, preferably, but -

The door slid open, letting in a shaft of light that completely ruined the atmosphere.

A boy’s face - a deceptively handsome one, that the pencil mustache and goatee worked on, but a boy’s all the same - whirled to the interloper who had exposed the true ridiculousness of his setup.

"Grandmother, I told you not to interrupt me when I’m doing dark magic!" he hissed.

"I know, Hanzou dear, but I grilled you some dango on a stick!" his grandmother said, holding up a platter of the syrup-drenched sweets in pink, green, and white.

Hanzou Akabane paused.

"I will permit interruptions for dango on a stick," he magnanimously allowed.

---

Next time, on This Girl’s Name is Ichiko Saotome, Episode 02:

The Curses of Hanzou Akabane! Good Luck, He’s Behind 108 Proxies!