How’s this look?
* * *
Ryoga stalked confidently down the street after Ranma. No cheap psychological tricks would get the better of this Hibiki! It helped that she didn’t have to hold his hand like a kindergartener any more, even with the other problems that went with that. After they had both realized that Ryoga would do almost anything rather than get lost while equipped with only a bikini, Ranma had been very relieved to stop holding her hand. Ryoga, on the other hand, had for obvious reasons had decidedly mixed feelings about it.
“Yo!” came a confident voice from behind her. Startled — who would be talking to her this far from home? — she turned her head and saw a boy a little older than herself, suffering from a really severe case of acne. She absently stopped walking, staring in horrified fascination. It almost looked like the pimples were moving. She suddenly realized he’d said something, and said, “Pardon? Sorry, I was thinking about something else.”
“No worries, chicka. I’m-a thinkin’ we’s got all aftanoo’ to get betta… acquainted.” His exaggerated street language was made even more obvious by the way he dropped the last word of that in without the twist he’d given the rest.
“Eh? Why would you say that?” Ryoga was completely puzzled. Was she supposed to know this zit-encrusted dork from somewhere?
The pimply-faced boy looked a bit less at ease than he had started out, but remained confident. “Ye’z a-gonna help me wit’ ma new mattress, it smell’ good now and smell even betta afta’ you an’ me has some fun on it. I finkin’ a-t’ree hours’a do it. Whass yer’ate?”
Ryoga stared at the unfamiliar boy in disbelief. “What did you just ask me? I’m sure I heard you wrong.”
The acne-ridden teen looked at her oddly, his easy smirk now a fading memory, and dropped his uneven attempt to speak in a “street” accent. “What are you, deaf? I said, ‘How much for three hours?’ Or should I be asking your pimp instead?” His eyes ranged past her to where Ranma had just worked out that Ryoga was no longer following right behind him.
Ranma had time to take almost a step and a half back towards the two, before having to stop as Ryoga’s shriek of outrage split the air (and threatened to do the same to everyone nearby’s eardrums). When he opened his eyes again from his split-second wince of pain, the acne-ridden stranger was nowhere to be seen, though some clue to his whereabouts could be gleaned from Ryoga’s infuriated, fang-baring snarl and the fist she was holding above her head in a follow-through position. The pose did very nice things to her appearance — a painter of swords-and-sorcery pulp covers would have been ecstatic — but Ranma was too busy grabbing the outstretched fist and getting the hell out of Dodge to really pay attention. Well, that’s the second goal achieved ahead of schedule, he mused idly as he led her surly form across the rooftops, being sure to head in a different direction than Zit Boy had probably been sent.