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Chapter 2
Scent
Giroro needed all of that afternoon, and well past dusk, to patch his tent and medicate his bruises. All the while, his face flushed and his brow furrowed at intervals as he reminisced about the encounter. First, he remembered his 15 seconds of heaven in her arms −− but then he remembered his pitiful actions that resulted in this... this patched mess of a tent and body.
How can I hope to be closer to her if I cannot even control myself in her presence? he wondered, gingerly climbing into his pallet. What a fool I made of myself!
He decided that tomorrow would be a training day as he rummaged through his thoughts, watching the ceiling of his tent as if it held all the answers. I must become stronger.
---
He awoke the next morning a mass of aches and bruises, but that wasn't what stirred him first. A delicious smell was wafting into the tent. Curious and hungry, he hobbled out of his tent to find a covered dish waiting for him on the concrete block he used for a seat. He was wary; who would make food, and leave it there for him to find? Surely it was a trap.
Edging closer, he saw a note lying upon the covered dish as well; it was plain white and folded in half. He sniffed slowly to see if he could detect the acrid smell of gunpowder that would surely be in this trap; but instead found his knees shaking in reaction as a very familiar scent came to him at once over the smell of the food.
Natsumi!
He all but pounced it, lifting the plate to sit on the block. Placing the dish in his lap, he picked up the note and read it quickly.
"Thank you, Giroro," the note began, the script in neat yet curvy characters. "I felt much better after our talk. BUT," he blinked at the boldness of the word, "Since you decided to bleed all over me, you will be doing the laundry today."
He couldn't suppress his pleased grin. What a perfect way to begin his training; to learn to appreciate her scent without his mind turning to jelly! But the note continued in a postscript:
"If I find just ONE piece of clothing missing, I'll skin you alive."
He gulped, imagining Natsumi doing just that and using his hide as a rug in her room. Shaking his head to clear such unpleasant thoughts, he set aside the note. How was he to use an article of her clothing for his training without her noticing? He was going to need more than the few hours it took him to do the households' laundry. He would have to place a worn article of her clothing in his tent until the scent permeated his living space. He estimated, with a strong scent such as hers, that a week or more would pass before he would stop melting to jelly. In addition, he knew that even Natsumi's dirty laundry would become quite foul after that amount of time, so he would continue trading out articles until he was fully accustomed.
There's no other choice, he mused as he uncovered the plate. I'll have to conduct a covert operation.
His mouth immediately watered and thoughts of missions fled him for the time being in the face of Natsumi's cooking. There sat two sunny side up eggs and two sausage links on top of a large potato pancake, fashioned to look like his skull emblem. Chopsticks lay across the edge of the plate. Eyes watering, he set to the food with a will. You are too good to us.
As soon as breakfast was a delicious memory, he entered the Hinata home to return the dishes to the sink to be washed, to find Sergeant Keroro was already hard at work on them, standing on his perch of a chair and several books, singing tunelessly to himself. "Oi," Giroro called to get his attention, holding up the dirty plates.
"Kero?" said the Sergeant in a confused manner as he looked down at his red subordinate. "Aaaah, and I was almost done, de arimasu!" he whined as he bent to take the plates. "I will wash these faster then, de arimasu!" He growled, clenching his fist.
Giroro had already turned around to leave, but hesitated. "Are there any meetings today, Keroro?" he asked, no real inflection behind the question.
"Kero? Well, maybe later tonight, after I've done my Gund−chores for today, de arimasu!" he flailed around, quickly washing the dishes to cover his slip.
The red frog merely grunted in response and left Keroro to his chores. His chores leave me ample time to finish my mission, he smirked to himself. Outside, he boarded the skimmer and gave his skull mark a twist.
He had no money, he realized as he lifted into the sky, so the only way to procure an article of Natsumi's clothing that was just like all her others was to go to the place where everyone wore identical apparel: her school. He had infiltrated the training facility known as Kisshou once before during his initial reconnaissance; he knew the mapping of the building by heart now. Hopefully, he thought darkly as he landed on the front lawn and hid his craft in the bushes near the gate, I'll make it through this unscathed.
Everyone was in class right now, so the lawn was empty as he made his way to the front doors, and maneuvered the empty hallways and avoided the errant teacher or two until he found the female changing rooms. He flattened himself against the wall beside the door, gently easing open the swinging door and peeking in to make sure no one was there. Sure, he was invisible, but a door opening by itself would be considered a bit strange. To make matters worse, as soon as someone knew he was there, or bumped into him, he would become visible to them. Tch. It's more like a 'Not My Problem' field, he growled to himself. As soon as I become one, I'm easily seen. Ensuring that no one was present, he came to a stand.
The scent in this room was a sickly mix of heavy perfumes, sweat and deodorant; it made him gag reflexively. How the female Pokopenian can wear such strong stuff, I'll never know.
He approached the first set of lockers, intent on opening each one to find a skirt or blouse that was similar to Natsumi's size, when a loud, ringing bell made him phase his trusty laser gun from subspace. He pointed it around frantically, certain the alarm signaled an impending attack.
Outside he could hear doors opening, shoes clattering on concrete, and the voices of youthful Pokopenians. He relaxed marginally. The bell that signals the change of operations! he realized in shock. Cursing his luck and his overreaction, he quickly stowed the gun back into the subspace pocket, as he leapt to the top of the lockers just as the first females entered and stripped down as they fished other clothes out of their lockers. He quickly muffled a choked gasp as curious glances looked up in his general direction. He flushed a bright scarlet, clapping his hands over his eyes and facing resolutely away. I don't want to see any female unclothed except for my Natsumi! his mind screamed.
"Aiyah, I need a new bra," he heard one girl complain suddenly. "This one is way too tight."
Giroro blinked behind his hands. Bra? What is this contraption they speak of?
"You should try this brand," another answered. "It's padded, soft, and gives wonderful support!"
His curiosity was eating at him. What did females have that needed soft support? Slowly, carefully, he turned and peeked between his fingers at the direction of the voices. He discovered that the females weren't stripping completely. The item in question seemed to be a garment that was wrapped around their chests that held--oh.
They NEED such a thing?! Quite forcefully, he shoved two fingers up his nose to stem the blood flow. What use do those strange, yet compelling masses of flesh serve? He filed that question away in his head for later research..
Enough! He brought his mind back to his mission by the expediency of pinching himself in the leg. I can't spend my time being so embarrassed by these girls! I must find one that matches Natsumi's build! Yanking his fingers out of his nose, he looked around resolutely as blood dribbled down his face. He mentally eliminated potential prospects as he saw them. Too tall...chest very undersized..still just a child..
Sweating with worry, he watched as the last of the girls changed into their PE gear and exited. When the final girl left, he shook his head with a sigh. I should have known that no one could match up to my Natsumi. As he stood to search the lockers that weren't used during this operation change, one last girl careened in through the door, panting, very late. She all but ripped off her blouse and skirt, already wearing her PE uniform under them, and made a beeline for the gym.
The clothes lay where she threw them; she was obviously not worried that someone might make off with them. Giroro smirked imperceptibly. How nice of her to leave them out for me, he thought sarcastically as he jumped nimbly down from the lockers to inspect the clothes. The waist on the skirt was much to small, but the blouse was Natsumi's size. He neatly folded it and held it underneath his arm as he fled the room.
In his haste, he was unable to react in time as a door just ahead of him slid open. A foot emerged, and for the second that it remained outstretched, Giroro tripped on it, losing his grip on the shirt in the process. Grunting in surprise, his military training took over as he rolled into it, tumbling in a somersault and leaping to his feet again.
"Shit," he muttered as he met the shocked face of a middle aged man wearing a tweed coat and brown dress pants, the instructor's hand still on the handle of the door. It was just barely open; Giroro could see the recruits within bent over their study materials. He hoped that they wouldn't notice their teachers' sudden halt.
The red frog held his hand up into which a strange looking gun immediately filtered out of subspace. "I have no time for you, Pokopenian. Forget you saw me." The weapon emitted a multicolored beam directly into the man's eyes. Giroro only held the trigger down for a fractional second; he didn't want to accidentally erase the teacher's entire memory. Just as he released the trigger and the ray disappeared back into subspace, Giroro nabbed the fallen shirt and fled, leaving the instructor standing there blank-eyed for a moment before he remembered what he stepped out to do.
Giroro encountered no more personnel as he escaped through the front doors and leapt aboard his hovercraft. I should have blasted that trainer three ways from Sunday. It would have been fun, he thought as he sped back into the sky, But I am pressed for time. Glancing down at the shirt, he grinned to himself.
Mission one, complete
---
Keroro knew the sound and heard the crash with a simultaneity that was molded by long years of hearing similar noises in every camp mess and laundry he had shared with the squadron. He laid the Gundam instructions down upon the newsprint, amidst the sea of random plastic pieces and trotted to the laundry room where, as he had predicted, he discovered an upended stepladder, a pile of scattered wet clothing, and protruding from the top of the washer crimson legs were furiously kicking the air.
He righted the ladder and stepped to the top, "Hold still, de arimasu!" he declared and grasped Giroro's ankle. He pulled. He took a tighter grip. He pulled again. He leaned back, pulling with all his might, until the stepladder toppled and he and his Corporal flew through the air and landed with matching thuds meters away.
"What do you think you are doing?" Giroro spat. "I've been planning this ambush all week!"
"But Corporal, who are you ambushing? Perhaps the soap was plotting a takeover of the new dryer?" Keroro laughed. He righted himself, having landed head-down with his legs up against the rough plaster walls.
Giroro stuttered, hoist in own petard. He straightened from his disarrayed sitting position, arms akimbo and declared, "That's classified!" He then turned on heel without so much as a by-your-leave and stalked back to the vicious "Washer - Eater of Frogs".
What's up his rear? Keroro thought as he pelted up the stairs. His arms outstretched and purring an engine sound, he shouted, "Kerokerokero! Away with me! My little plastic angels must be whole!"
Giroro shook his head. We can conquer a galaxy, but not our own vices. What stupid vices, at that. He regarded the next step in his task.
The dryer rested on stubby feet next to the washer and was the best that the Kero ball could mold from subspace scrap, which was to say the dryer was large, loud, black and clunky - in a word: ominous. High technology gadgetry was easy to reproduce, for the ball had the molecular patterns stored for almost any invented device, but the dryer? The dryer had to be programmed into the ball for no such device existed on perpetually damp Keron. That afternoon of programming had been an adventurous one: filled with explosions, random mechanical mutations, and snide comments from Natsumi, Giroro mused, but in the end Fuyuki had gotten it right - the dryer was a wondrous re-invention. Most of the time the device even worked.
He stuffed Natsumi's freshly washed clothing into the dryer, sans one that he had already replaced with the purloined garment. Even under the chemical stench of fabric softener, his sensitive nose could pick out the remnants of the other girl's scent. Fortunately, Pokopenian's smell is not so sensitive. She will not know this shirt is not hers.
With his laundry transfer completed, the crimson Corporal retrieved the single shirt of Natsumi's he had hidden aside. He inhaled it cautiously and imperceptibly his knees trembled, quaked, and he almost collapsed. And this shirt, he thought, this shirt is mine...
Later that Night...
"Finally!" Natsumi declared, all but dragging herself in through the front door. "I thought I would never get done."
"Your turn for Trash Duty, huh, sis?" Fuyuki called, peeking at her from the living room. There was a mat on the living room floor, with etched lines, upon which a skull grimaced and an open well-thumbed and aged grimoire was fluttering in a completely nonexistent breeze. He wore a baseball cap backwards over his neck and incense smoke suffused the air.
"That, along with that damned algebra test and Sakaki's whining all day about her missing shirt?" She slid her bag to her elbow as she choked the air. "Makes me want to strangle someone!"
Fuyuki chuckled nervously, holding up his hands. "I gotcha. I won't bother you," he said. His head disappeared back into the living room and within seconds his sister was ignored; he was muttering harshly pronounced inverted Latin syllables from the grimoire.
Natsumi trudged up the stairs, her feet falling heavily on the wood. I thought today would never end, she thought as she got to her room, hand falling on the brass doorknob. And if that frog hasn't done what I told him, there's going to be hell to pay! Opening the door slowly and expecting to still see her floor littered with clothing, she was shocked to see neat piles of her clothing at the foot of her bed, all separated into tops, bottoms, socks, and unmentionables. Stepping closer, she saw that the shirts were immaculately starched and ironed. She realized there was something else; there, hidden among the clothing piles, was a medium-sized box, simple white. Curiosity ate at her, but she was cautious; was that stupid frog leaving a trap for her? She remembered when the red frog first arrived here and tried taking her out with all sorts of underhanded traps. I wouldn't put it past him.
But no matter how hard she looked, it just seemed to be merely a box. Swallowing nervously, she lifted the box out from his quasi hiding spot and peeked into it...
And found bright button eyes staring back at her.
A wide smile spread across her face as she lifted a crimson plush rabbit out of its enclosure. It was sitting up on its round bottom with its stubby arms held out as if awaiting an embrace; its floppy ears lay against its head and halfway down its back. "How cute!" she cooed at it, but blinked as she noticed something was pinned to its paw. A note? She wondered as she removed the pin and looked within the single folded piece of paper. The block printing was barely legible and had several crossed out lines. Finally, with barely enough space left, it read simply "Please accept this." The signature was a badly drawn skull.
"Giroro," she stated simply, smiling at the note and giving the plush a squeeze.
---
Sweat slid down the round curve of a crimson cheek as hands clenched each knee in a death grip. He breathed deeply, over and over, holding each inhale as long as he could, breathed it until he could almost taste it. He continued to shiver and sweat at intervals, though he was neither cold nor hot. I WILL overcome this, he mused, gritting his teeth. If not for my sake, but for hers.
If this was a warfare tactic, we could take over this planet so easily..
He derailed that train of thought immediately. I'll detonate that bridge when I cross it.
The frog was concentrating so hard that he only heard the creak and squeal of a window opening in the back of his mind, but looked up in alarm as something light landed on top of his tent with a tap and rolled down the curved slope, coming to rest in the grass on the left side. Throwing aside the tent flap and with laser at the ready, he pressed himself to the fabric, slowly peeking around the corner of the canvas at whatever might be attacking him with small, light objects.
Jumping out and aiming his rifle, he blinked as he saw nothing but a small, white origami frog laying in the grass. His heart skipped a beat when he checked skyward and noticed Natsumi's window open. The laser disappeared as he moved forward and picked up the carefully folded piece of paper. It smelled of Natsumi, confirming his suspicions, but it also had an odor of pencil lead, so he gently unfolded the note-frog.
Thank you.
Eyes watering, he looked back up at the open window just in time to see a coral tinted pigtail disappear from view. A moment later, the light went off. Looking back at the note, he carefully folded it back into a frog.
Anything for you, my Natsumi.
He returned to his tent home, trying to ignore the sudden reaction to the scent that now encompassed the small living space. Removing his belt and placing it within his box of munitions, he cast a glance at Natsumi's shirt, which was draped over a portable humidifier.
With a sidelong glance to no one in particular, he snatched up the shirt and cocooned himself within it. This time, he did not mind when the scent consumed him, the warrior collapsing onto his pallet with a sigh.
Similarly, two stories above, a small crimson rabbit was held tightly, protecting its owner from any unwanted dreams.
Copyright ©2006 by Origamigryphon and the Chumducky
Exclusively distributed by litforge.com. Please do not distribute without prior written permission of the authors and litforge.com.
