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Chapter 4
Trust
The atmosphere at school was strangely festive today, especially for a Monday. The weather was growing warmer by the day as Spring made way for Summer. As soon as she walked into the double doors of her school, her ears were assailed with the buzz of excitement, students talking animatedly. She had little time to wonder what this meant when a bright blue flyer was shoved into her hands by a bouncy auburn haired girl, who fled with a giggle. Natsumi blinked momentarily in confusion at her retreating back, then down at the bright paper in her hands. A wide smile suffused her face as she read the contents.
A school dance in two weeks!
She clenched the paper in her fist, her eyes afire with determination. Yes! This is the opportunity I've been waiting for! She easily slipped into a fantasy as she imagined asking Saburo Mutsumi to the dance, flowers all around, and the white haired genius gladly accepting. She was snapped out of this reverie quite suddenly as the homeroom bell rang and she found herself standing in the middle of an empty hallway.
SHIT!
---
After a few days passed and with no sign of the white-haired poet, Natsumi became impatient. If I keep this up, it will be too late, she thought sourly on the way home from school. If he won't come to me, then I'll just have to go to him.
She ended each day after school by checking out every place that a Middle School-aged genius might hang out. First, she checked a place that had the allure of most of the male student body; the Arcades. The cool, dark interior was a welcome relief from the growing spring heat, even if the place was alive with all sorts of noises from the many different brightly flashing machines. She only had time to check one Arcade a day; after checking each one and giving each proprietor a description of Saburo, they all answered a negative, and she went home with nothing.
But each time she saw her plush rabbit waiting for her, the disappointment didn't cut so deeply.
---
The next day, her precious day off from school, she got up early and spent the better part of the day visiting every coffee shop and fine art gallery she could find on a map of town. She would ask each owner if a white haired, blue-eyed boy her age would come around often. Since that particular hair color was rare, the owners would more than likely know if they had seen him. Most did, and let her know when they saw him last. Most had only seen him once or twice.
When she finally left the final spot that was marked on her map late that afternoon, she slowly trudged her way home, exhausted from walking all over town.
---
Coincidentally, at the first coffeehouse Natsumi visited that day, the owner hailed a performer that came in every now and then. "A redheaded girl was looking for you earlier today," he began, fixing the young man's usual skim milk mocha latté with extra whipped cream. "Pigtails, about your age. Anyone you know?"
Saburo lifted one eyebrow coolly as he received the latté, and sipped cautiously. "Yeah," he said, smirking around the whipped cream mustache. "I know her."
---
Four days later Natsumi had run the gamut of arcades, coffee shops, and art galleries and customers who frequented the art district were now waving to her as she resolutely marched from one artisan's shop to the next. One of these, a wonderfully willowy Amerasian giantess, who performed with Poi for a local fire-spinning troop, caught her in front of a little Polynesian carving shop just as Natsumi prepared to drag herself inside to question yet another shopkeeper.
She clucked at Natsumi's back, "I've been watching you kid. If you want to find him; you're looking in all the wrong places."
Natsumi's head nearly spun from her neck. Well, she thought, at least everyone knows I'm looking for him. She ogled the woman who towered over not only her, but every adult on the street. She was certainly the tallest woman Natsumi had ever met. "Where should I be looking?"
The woman laughed and lectured wryly, "He does a radio show, you know? Try the studio."
If Natsumi had had a desk; she would have pounded her forehead atop it, but she settled instead for closing her eyes and spontaneously punching her own brow. "Aughhhhhh!" she melodramatically vented. Where is it? she thought to ask and opened her eyes, but the willow woman was gone.
Natsumi immediately abandoned her plan of further window shopping and she was already formulating her new plan as she trotted away. She rounded the corner on her way to the metro station. Behind her, the door to the Polynesian carving shop opened and a certain white haired poet emerged. He looked left, then right, then left and jaywalked bravely across the street. Within a moment he was gone from sight.
...
Giroro sat on his block before the embers of his campfire. Idly he poked the mass of charcoal with a tinder stick. Sparks shot upwards. He threw on a few more green sticks of hardwood. The leaping flames painted him a warm orange and his eyes reflected the now dancing brilliance. Fire is a friendship, he pondered philosophically, it warms, it must be tended, or it destroys everything. One cannot trust a fire... or me?
He started involuntarily as his sensitive ear-spots detected the barely audible squeal of the kitchen door and the snapping of a twig on the back stoop. He raised his ear flap and strained. He could hear the rapid beating of a single human heart. The wind shifted and over the sulfur smell of the campfire, there was a whiff, a taste, and his own heart trip-hammered in counterpoint. Natsumi?
He crawled from the campfire and crouched by the back door. He flattened onto his belly and crept forward. Even in the scant light of the cloud soaked moon, he could see Natsumi. As he watched, she clenched her shoulders and from the small metal backpack diaphanous wings sprouted, the metal disc hovering above her head. With a hop she launched herself skyward supported by Kururu's invention.
He stood and watched as she soared away. She did not bring her battle armor, thought Giroro. She did not invite me to fight by her side!
---
Natsumi soared above the city and battle was the furthest from her mind. The wind was cold for spring and colder further up. Flying with only the wings and without the bulk of armour and froggy weapons was a joy. She felt free. Experimentally, she tucked and rolled and did a somersault. As she straightened, her left foot kicked something solid. She faltered in midair.
She concentrated only briefly to set the wings swishing in a dragonfly figure-8. They buzzed like a hummingbird's and slowly she pitched up and pirouetted. Her eyes stared directly into large red-tinged irises: Giroro, on his crimson skimmer, hovered silently and levelly. His jaw was set. His eyes were large. A distant fire seemed to rage within them.
"Natsumi", he declared, "Why would you go into battle without me? Without me or being properly armored?"
For a moment she looked at him softly. She seemed clearly touched that he wanted to assist her. Then she spoke: "You stupid frog!" she bellowed, suddenly every bit his Natsumi, "Can't you see I'm busy? Go home! I can take care of myself!" She kicked at the base of the skimmer and Giroro was momentarily engaged by keeping the craft from toppling over and crashing. With a twist of concentration she was off, at first diving nearly to cartop level, and then riding the ground effect to a speed far faster than the heavy skimmer could achieve. She darted, zipped, and pinwheeled down the streets and was gone before he could even react.
He desperately wanted to follow, but by the time he righted his ungainly little craft, she was gone to his eyes. He scanned for her on his heads-up eyepiece, but to the lifelens she was lost in the confusion of a city teeming with life. In the end he flew back to the Hinata house, tucked his skimmer away, and crawled onto his pallet. He sniffed at her shirt and noted that even though the scent was strong and fresh, it bothered him not in the least. He pillowed it under his head, closed his eyes, and with a sigh drifted off to sleep. In his head he and Natsumi battled, not against one another, but side-by-side, against enemies great and small.
...
Natsumi's only enemy was a door on the twelfth floor outdoor balcony of an unassuming office building. This building was the address of JONK studios, the regional NHK-2 rebroadcaster and the studio from which her quarry read his poetry. Natsumi had landed on the balcony, her wings disappearing back into the pack and strode up to the door and slid it open.
Simple? Correct, but the door was locked. The next five doors were also locked. She was forced to flit from darkened balcony to darkened balcony, fold her wings each time, try the door, fail, and flit off to the next balcony. She was concentrating so precariously on the wings; she was developing a headache. She was exhausted when a door finally opened for her.
She checked her wrist chronometer. Saburo's show had only fifteen minutes left. If she moved quickly; she could catch him as he emerged from the sound studio. She opened the office door and slipped into the hall. She pressed herself against the wall and wished for an NMP field. Maybe bringing Giroro along wouldn't have been such a bad idea? she thought. He only wanted to help and he's not a bad sort. He's been doing all the laundry this month. Won't let anyone else touch it. She thought of how clean her clothes had become. He had even taken to patching holes in her shorts and bleaching her brassieres.
The speakers on the wall played Saburo's wonderful voice at an achingly low volume. She shivered through a haiku he was reciting, even as her feet took her further down the hall. She could see the lit sign, which must be the studio. "On Air" it read. She saw no-one outside and practically jogged the remaining ten meters.
The station identification whispered from the speaker and for a moment Saburo's voice was silent. She bit her lower lip. Should I? she asked herself. She tried the door latch and to her surprise the lock released silently. The hinges oiled open quietly. She slipped inside.
The studio was empty. Two empty chairs were before the console and beyond was a glass partition and beyond that was a desk, a few more chairs, and a table. All were empty. From the console sounded a click and there was a whirr as one tape timed down and another began. Lights flickered on the panel and from the speaker came Saburo's voice.
Her date-to-be was pre-recorded.
She wanted to cry in frustration as she flew home.
...
After school the next day, Natsumi's hopes of finding him were very thin. So when she returned home from shopping, she stored all the goods and made a beeline for the stupid frogs' underground base. She still didn't know all the rooms by heart, but she knew the main one where they most often congregated.
"KURURU!" she bellowed as she slammed open the door. It seemed that she had just interrupted another of the frogs' meetings: all five of them looked up at once − a rainbow of froggy faces in various states of shock, confusion, and amusement. There was a huge pile of grapes at the center of their round meeting table.
The yellow frog stepped forward, his usual cackling laugh emanating from behind his hand. "Yaré yaré, what's all this? Why do you want to see me so suddenly?" He drawled, glancing over his shoulder at the rest of his platoon, who were watching with curiosity as the shock died down. "Surely, there is another here you would rather see more?"
One certain frog gulped and suddenly became very interested in the pile of grapes.
"None of the others have the information I want," she snapped, reaching down and palming the hacker frog's head, bringing him up to eye level. "And you'll tell me what I need to know. Understood?" The tone in her voice and the glare in her eyes brooked no contradiction.
There was a sigh of relief as the two left to "chat".
"I'm glad that's not me, de arimasu," Keroro sighed. The others nodded solemnly.
---
She memorized the address she received from Kururu when she went to school all day long, writing it on every notebook she owned. I should have done this -first-, she admonished herself after school let out. I could have already asked him out, and be picking out a dress--
A dress! she suddenly realized. I still need to shop for one!
She wrote a sticky note to herself and pasted it to her night's homework, quickly changing clothes and heading out again. This time there's no way he can get away from me, she grinned like a tiger, because this time, I'll get him where he lives!
She breathed the warm air as she headed right from her home for a moment, confidence in every step. She took another left and was out of sight −− just as a certain white haired boy came into view from the opposite direction. His hands were in his pockets as he casually walked to the Hinata household's front door. He rapped three times on the compressed wood.
The Sergeant opened the door wide, and smiled. "Oooh, Master Saburo, de arimasu! What brings you here?"
"Yo there. I just happened to hear that Natsumi might be looking for me. Does she happen to be around?"
Keroro folded his arms and hummed in thought. "She was here just a moment ago," he muttered slowly, "But she just left just that same moment ago, de arimasu."
Saburo tsked. "The eagle just misses the wind, and so cannot fly higher. by 623." He bowed to the small frog. "If you see her again today, tell her I was looking for her as well."
Keroro immediately came to attention and saluted. "Roger, de arimasu!"
---
"WHAT?!"
Keroro suddenly found his airway blocked by the two small but strong hands which throttled him. Her eyes were lit in rage as she squeezed harder by the moment. "He was HERE," she shouted, "AND YOU DIDN'T MAKE HIM STAY?!" she emphasized each word by shaking him.
"I...I am sorry, Mas..ter Natsumiiii--!" the frog choked out. She flung him to the ground and stomped away, not missing the opportunity to step on the prone frog's body once or twice.
"Gunsou-san!" Came the plaintive wail from Tamama, running over to kneel at his fallen leader. "How could she do this to youuuu~!" he roared, his alter ego showing itself. "I'll make her PAYYYY!"
"That's...quite enough, Nitou," Keroro gasped from the floor, a shaky hand on Tamama's shoulder enough to keep him still as he used his subordinate as support to stand. "She has… every right to be angry." Finally calming, Tamama took the Sergeant over his shoulder. "Besides," he coughed, being slowly led away to their base, "paybacks can be a bitch, de arimasu."
...
Still disappointed that she had missed Saburo and still fuming that her stupid, slimy, addle-brained, gundam-loving, thrice-damned houseguest had not delayed him until her return, Natsumi settled into her room to tune into her favorite radio show. I'm still disappointed to know Saburo records his show, she mused, deflating onto the mattress as the gentle tones that marked the beginning of his show played.
She listened, dreamy eyed from her bed as poetry that only seemed to be understood by her and its creator filtered over the room. Each new poem was separated by small bits of story of his life from over the past week.
As the last poem's stanza played, she sighed contentedly, getting up to turn off the radio when his voice sounded once again.
A little bird told me that a certain redhead has been searching for me, the lilting tone began. I, too, have been seeking her since I got wind of it, but sadly, fate gets her hands in things, and we have missed each other over these past weeks.
Natsumi gasped in shock. He's talking about me!
Granted, I was a little confused as to why I was being actively sought out, but I gleaned the truth from a certain yellow friend of mine.
Natsumi bristled angrily. That stupid hacker frog...!
To my redheaded seeker, I give you this message:
Natsumi was inches away from her radio, holding her breath lest she miss any of it.
Just as the mouse fears the elephants' tread,
I too have something I dread.
I beseech you, my weakness do not mock;
The lark has no interest in the pigeons' flock.
The show's ending tones played in the shocked silence of her room.
---
Giroro was sitting on the cinder block outside his tent, cooking his dinner after another fruitless meeting that consisted of a brainstorming session about the possible uses of grapes. Tamama suggested turning it all into grape jelly and replacing the oceans with it. Kururu offered turn it all into wine and spike the Pokopenian's drinking water to make them all too stinking drunk to fight back.
None of them went through, of course. Too much work.
There was a sudden pressure on his head, and with a squawk he found himself being lifted from the ground; the meat and the knife it was speared upon fell to the ground. He was spun around--
And found himself looking up into the face of a livid Natsumi. His pupils immediately shrank in terror. Does she know?! The cameras? The shirts? Shit! his mind screamed, but instead of the hearty beating and verbal flaying he expected; she only turned around and re-entered the home, stomping up the stairs. He flailed in her grip, heart racing. Shit shit shit − was his mental mantra as she opened and slammed the door, and all but tossed Giroro onto her bed.
He landed with an "oomph", but quickly righted himself, facing Natsumi as he witnessed his beloved at her most deadly, but at the same time, most beautiful. But even as he watched, the anger she had slipped off like a mask. She flopped onto the bed on her back, beside him, bouncing him around more.
Giroro was clearly baffled by her drastic change in behavior. It was all just a front? What is her intent? he wondered as he watched her lay there, not saying a word. The minutes ticked by in silence as he calmed, now tremoring slightly as he realized just where he was. He glanced at the three areas where cameras were hidden, cursing himself for not hiding them better. His hands clenched tighter in the bedsheets for every slight movement her eyes made as she watched the ceiling. He said nothing as well; once he figured that she was not going to kill him, that she would tell him what was wrong when she was good and ready.
When the silence nearly became unbearable, she finally looked over at him.
"Can I trust you, Giroro?"
The question floored him, his jaw dropping. Trust! He leapt to his feet, his fists in front of him in determination. "Of course you can, Natsumi!" he protested exuberantly.
She sat up and hugged her legs, her ankles banging the edge of the mattress. "I like this guy," she began, as vaguely as possible. Giroro looked aghast, his head jerking to the side as if he had just been hit over the head with a baseball bat. "I wanted to ask him out to the dance. But he...somehow got wind that I wanted to ask him, and refused me before I even asked."
The red frog became disappointed, surprised, and livid all within the span of her sentence. "How could some stupid Pokopenian tadpole ever appreciate someone like you?" He blurted, not thinking about what he was saying. "He doesn't know your innermost feelings and desires, your dreams and hopes! Someone with his head that far into the clouds cannot see past his own overblown ego! Just give me the word, Natsumi, and I will personally being misery to him and his family!"
A smile grew on her face as she listened to him rant, and laid a hand on his head, to which he immediately froze. "You're sweet," she said simply, running her hand a little ways down an ear flap. "But I don't think I need that service."
Giroro was at ends with himself. He wanted to shy away from her touch, but another side of him insisted that she wasn't really touching him; just his helmet. Even as he debated with himself, she removed her hand. "Thank you for that, Giroro, I feel better now...I'm going to go to the dance anyway. I'll show him I can have fun without him."
Giroro was still frozen to the spot, unable to say anything articulate. Natsumi blinked at him and waved a hand in his pupil-less face. "Hello? Anyone home?"
He gasped a bit, coming back to himself. "I...am sorry. I'm just a little tired--and hungry," he lied quickly, wondering if she could hear his fluttering heart.
If he didn't know any better, the frog thought that disappointment furrowed her brow for a heartbeat, but it was gone before he could get a better look. "Oh yeah, you were cooking dinner, weren't you? I'm sorry..that cat friend of yours might have already taken it by now." She stood and opened her bedroom door. "Come on, I'll make something for you."
"I couldn't ask that of you this late."
"But I want to." She glared down her nose at him. "Unless you want me to carry you again?" she threatened, cracking her knuckles.
Giroro gulped and followed her out without another word.
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.
