“So it always finds you?” Ryoga was currently face-to-front with Rincewind’s sapient pearwood Luggage, perhaps the most psychopathic piece of baggage in the history of storage devices. Both were considering the other with a mix of curiosity and banked hostility.
“Even when I don’t want it to,” Rincewind confirmed. “It doesn’t matter if I travel through time or trap myself in the Dungeon Dimensions. I’ll always have clean socks afterwards.”
“So it never gets lost…”
“Er, not really. If I’m lost, then it doesn’t have much choice but follow me.”
Ryoga nodded. Still, having something that could both find him no matter where he went and carry his supplies as it did so was rather tempting. “I don’t suppose…”
“I’m afraid I can’t sell it.” Rincewind explained further upon seeing Ryoga’s disappointment. “It’s not a matter of not wanting to, though I’ll admit it’s saved my life plenty of times. It’s just that it pretty much chooses who owns it on its own.” The Luggage opened and closed its lid. Ryoga took this as a sign of confirmation.
The Lost Boy shrugged. “Fair enough. Thank you for your time and hospitality.” He bowed to his host.
Rincewind blinked. Being thanked for anything was an unusual experience for him. Being bowed to was downright bizarre. “Um, you’re welcome, I suppose…”
As Ryoga rose from the floor, he steadied himself by putting a hand on the Luggage’s lid. Thankfully, the box didn’t respond by attempting to swallow the pig-boy, which is fortunate, since plopping a dimensionally displaced human in the wormhole-like digestive system of the Luggage is akin to putting a portable hole in a bag of holding: Both go “kablooie.”
However, a being with a flawless sense of direction had been touched by a being with a negative sense of direction. The universe ground on its gears for a moment as the resulting composite was calculated. Eventually, a decision was reached: The only way for such a combination to exist without introducing a destructive paradox would be for it to remain perfectly motionless.
“Er, hello?” Rincewind began to tap the motionless teenager on the shoulder before thinking better of it. Taking one of the least friendly looking rocks from his collection, he gingerly lobbed it at Ryoga’s shoulder. The stone stuck to the Lost Boy’s shirt as though it were made of flypaper, making a slight sucking sound as torque forced it downward.
“This can’t be good…” muttered the Hero of a Thousand Retreating Backs.
After the customary post-embarrasing-situation abuse of an involved male, the assorted casts introduced themselves to each other. Michiru had to use an alias, as famous violinists did not typically enjoy the company of teenagers who looked remarkably similar to a certain quintet of sailor suited warriors of love and justice that had earlier been seen outside the Hinata Sou. For now, she was claiming to be Haruka’s cousin, proving once again that Kami-sama thrives on irony.
Of course, Su sent the entire elaborate web of lies into the toilet. As soon as everyone had moved to the foyer, she said to Usagi, “So, when do you guys need me to transform and fight big baddies with ya?”
Following a ninefold facefault, the future queen panickily uttered, “ ‘Big baddies’? What an imagination she has! Heh heh heh…heh…heh?”
Sarah summarized the other Hina girls’ reaction. “Yeaaaaaah…We ain’t buyin’ it.”
Haruka stood, Michiru joining in moments later. “Now that you know our secret, we have no choice but to—”
“Sit down,” said Setsuna in a tone that brooked no questions.
Haruka pouted like a girl being kept from her favorite doll, repulsive as the comparison may have been to her. “But—”
“We cannot presently transform, these people have absolutely no ties to any of our foes, and they don’t even pose much of a threat to Crystal Tokyo.” (‘Now that the possibility of the Urashima Harem Insurgency and its robot turtle fleets has been eliminated,’ she added mentally.) “Furthermore, Ms. Su is not the only Hinata Sou resident with a seifuku in her future.”
There were quite a few surprised looks at this proclamation. “How do you know that?” Ami asked.
“I was looking into the matter from the Time Gates prior to the youma attack. I’ve managed to trace one of the Zodiac Senshi’s souls across the millennia, and her latest incarnation is…”
Just as he was about to deliver a jolt of negative energy to the liquid in an attempt to jump-start it, the sound of amused chuckling wafted through the pocket dimension. Dominus swirled, the gaseous monster’s equivalent of turning around, and cried “Who’s there? Show yourself, or I will have no choice but to force you out!” His form billowed out impressively, black lightning crackling throughout.
“DISCORD DRIVE!” A blood-red energy blast seared through the amorphous entity, causing him to condense and double over for a moment before coming to the realization that he wasn’t actually in pain. “What?”
“Chaos energy,” explained the voice, which he realized was female. Furthermore, there was only one kind of being he could think of that could pierce pocket dimensions and announced attack names prior to using them.
“How…how could a Senshi utilize chaos energy? How could a Senshi escape my notice as she infiltrated my realm?”
The chuckling came again. “It’s easy to escape someone’s notice if they’re focused on getting a piece of stubborn equipment to work as they want it to.” There was the sound of footsteps. “As for the other question, well, I’m not your average Senshi.” The speaker came into view. Indeed, her uniform was rather unorthodox. The usual “cheerleader” ensemble, but the leotard was black, with white skirt and accents. Furthermore, no Senshi Dominus knew of had what looked like a portable Howitzer cannon embossed with a golden apple and the word “KALLISTI” in English letters.
Dominus gawked as bet he could without an actual face. “Who…what are you?”
The mystery Senshi smirked. “What am I? The Senshi that never was, but one that could still be. Who am I?” She gave a rather theatrical bow. “Sailor Eris. Senshi of Chaos.”
Setsuna blinked. “I’m sorry?”
Motoko narrowed her eyes. “You simply said ‘her latest incarnation is,’ then ceased speaking.”
“Did I? Sorry. Tracing one soul through a few hundred generations requires an all-nighter or two. Anyway, as I said, an eleventh Senshi sits in this room. Her name is:
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らんま1/2 © Rumiko Takahashi
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