Sour Grapes : Sergeant Frog/Keroro Gunso : Manga : Fan Fiction : Fiction : Main

Chapter 9
Sour Grapes

Kururu opened the stopcock on a tangled collection of glassware that would have put a rat and his nest to shame for its haphazard intricacy. After a second a pale, clear, odorless liquid began to drip into the tightly-stoppered beaker. The final step and Keroro has his fast-acting poison. Natsumi will wither away before our eyes. He gulped, and we'll need haz-mat handling to clean up. This stuff won't kill us, but I don't like hives and unconsciousness anymore than the next frog.

Idly he considered testing the anti-metabolite on Giroro, who, he knew, was down the hall shooting targets at the range. A skin poisoning would do him good, kekekeke. Nah, save that for later, after she's dead... a dart to the neck will work? Nothing to do now but wait, and wait, and wait. Four days maybe? Definitely.

He lounged back in the chair and idly considered the cracks in the ceiling. The Corporal isn't going to like this, but when we conquer this ball of mud, maybe he'll get used to the idea? What's one dead female after all? Four years: eighty percent? He shrugged.

With a twisted grin, he called "Lights dim," and flicked his glasses over to network display mode. His hidden golden eyes guided the cursor, down his custom VRML construct, passed the images of really real wars, really real death, really messy kitchens, and really fake alien robots shrieking "Ex-ter-minate!" to finally settle at his favorite American porn cam-site. He blindly fumbled the IP-enabled, hand-built mobile phone, the size of a matchbox, and dialed by touch. He pressed the phone to his thin lips and croaked out a script for the on-screen Pokopenian females. His English was near perfect.

On-screen the pixelated figures moved into action as a naked male brought in a goat.

I think the rain is getting to me too? Kururu smiled. The only thing better than a dead Pokopenian is a degraded one. Now where did I leave that Sake?

---

Kururu was sound asleep to the irritatingly loud bounce of 70's disco pop. Beneath him was black and white non-skid tile. Above him was the lab table covered with his titration equipment. To his left was his fallen lab chair. To his right was a half-spilled bottle of low proof, high-quality Sake. His eyelids, behind his glasses, were closed. His eyes behind his eyelids were twitching in avid REM sleep.

Above him, above the table, above the lip of the forced incandescent lights, a panel slid and an electromagnetic dart flashed out. With a thwip of trailing line and a thunk of metal mating metal, the magnet fastened onto the corrosion resistant tabletop and locked. Dororo emerged from the electrical crawlspace, clad in raven black skintight, and slid tiny hand over tiny hand down the line to the table.

He strode down to the end and paused only to admire his handiwork of a snoring Kururu. Herbs are your undoing Kururu. Some are quite potent.

He removed a syringe from the pocket at his shoulder, uncapped the needle, and stabbed hard at the rubber cork of the final flask. He depressed the plunger and discharged the thick blue liquid, which roiled and quickly dispersed into the clear anti-metabolite. The mixture appeared unchanged. And some are also quite effective. Behind his mask, Dororo smiled.

He disappeared back the way he'd arrived. A quick yank and the magnet disengaged and slid back into the hole in the ceiling. The panel was replaced from above. The room was as it was.

And on the table, in the flask, fluid dripped and mixed.

----

Three mornings later started Natsumi's ten-day vacation: her reprieve from the rigors of education. Her alarm was silent. She cuddled her stuffed bunny close, nuzzled its red fur, and breathed evenly through the fluff. Her mind was filled with dancing red frogs, frogs in waistcoats and spats, frogs who bowed to her, frogs who applauded her, and one frog in particular, one who held her close and whispered... She rolled over towards the light and her eyes opened slowly, sleepily, against the glare of a sun already risen.

A certain red frog perched on the open window's sill and regarded her with wide, and she thought, honest eyes. She smiled and reached out to him, convinced he was a dream, and was surprised when he hopped down and strode to her bedside. She was startled as her fingers encountered the hard leather of his cap under her hand.

"Giroro", she mumbled sleepily, "what are you doing here?"

He said softly, "I am sorry I was not here yesterday morning, nor the one before. I was waiting for the right one." Natsumi had been rising before the sun every day since the dance.

"Thank you", she smiled. Her fingers seem to act on their own. The warrior regarded her bravely as she stroked first down his cap and then up and around the rim of the delicate ear tympanum beneath. He shivered, but his knees no longer quaked. Though there was moisture in the corners of his eyes, there were no nervous tears. Though he sniffled, there was no blood pouring from his nostrils. A month ago, he bleeds on me for hugging him and I hate him, and now he... and now I...

Maybe it can be, her insistent inner voice nagged.

Natsumi nodded, consciousness evident as she coolly asked, "Giroro, I need a favor?"

"Name your favor, Natsumi. I am at your disposal." Giroro said gravely. "I see that the Sergeant has not cleaned your pillow case well. I shall re-launder it today; if you wish."

She shook her head and withdrew her hand, much to his disappointment. She flopped herself over and without rising, snagged her bookbag from the floor by the desk. She grunted, lifted, and one-handed, hauled it up the bed and onto her lap. She patted the sheet next to her. Giroro leaped onto the indicated spot and sat cross-legged.

What does she want? he wondered, wearing his best sage-warrior-at-parade-rest impassive mask.

Natsumi dug deeply in the bag and finally produced two books and presented them to Giroro. "I'd like you to read these."

Giroro squinted at the covers of the books. His Pokopenian language skills, especially in this language called Japanese, were improving. One book was entitled "Healthy Body, Healthy You - for Women (5th Edition)" A very sensible title, he thought. The other was smaller, almost a pamphlet, and was entitled simply, "Journal". He looked at her. His brow wrinkled questioningly.

Her hand brushed the back of his own. "I want you to know me, Giroro. What I am and who I am." She licked her lips nervously, "Before anything else happens."

He nodded and said simply, his voice quavering slightly, "I understand."

Natsumi smiled and reached out to hug him, but he had already risen, turned on heel and bounded out the open window: her health text and poetry journal lodged under one armpit. He was gone.

And she knew without a shadow of a doubt, that he did, somehow, understand.

---

Keroro watched in satisfaction as jam made from the grape collection, which had been sprayed with Kururu's fast-acting anti-metabolite was stewed, ground, cooled and then poured into the giant latex balloons that Tamama had found in the night-table drawer in Mama Aki's bedchamber. A box of a dozen such balloons were removed from their individual foil packets by robotic arms, unrolled from their ring shape and filled from the jam tap. The entire operation took place within the safety chamber, where there was no danger any of the frogs would inhale or touch the toxin, which meant for them discomfort, but not death.

Kururu had assured him that the colloidal form could be absorbed through her flesh and so the team didn't need her to eat the jam. Force-feeding grape jelly to Natsumi would be a notoriously difficult task at the best of times and certainly impossible now according to her note. However, Keroro had a back-up plan. He hefted the plum-sized pressure grenade he'd removed from the weapon's locker. If you won't eat it Natsumi? I've other plans.

---

Giroro was in seventh heaven. He had all but floated down from her window after receiving a book he had thought he would have to procure through covert means, and another that showed Natsumi's inner thoughts and desires, something that was essential, he knew, in the courtship of a female. The fact that she gave him these books, and asked him to read it before things got serious, clearly stated that she was interested in him. In him! A lowly, alien warrior such as himself!

He entered his tent, collapsing upon his pallet as his heart threatened to burst from his chest. She likes me, his mind repeated over and over, unable to believe that such a thing would ever happen. He knew he was acting like a lovesick tadpole, but he didn't care. Natsumi liked him!

There was the proof in front of him; he opened the Health text and pored over it, taking notes and studiously memorizing the diagrams. He realized that their bodies' internal structure wasn't all that different, save for the fact that they don't need their skin constantly moist. Many questions were finally answered, such as the purpose those strange mounds of flesh on a females' chest serve. Such a practical use, he pondered. Yet, for some reason, still so appealing.

He learned about the menstrual cycle which assailed a female every month past adolescence, which was often painful and uncomfortable. The fact that they actually carry only one or two children per pregnancy, and grow their offspring within their bodies instead of laying eggs. The bent in his thoughts quickly strayed as he read. With this kind of setup... is a pregnancy even possible between us?

That thought was quickly quashed. It is a mite too early to think about that sort of thing, Corporal, the sensible part of himself chastised, a bright blush consuming his body. The girl grows fond of you, yes, but could it be nothing more than a summer romance? A Pokopenian's heart is a fickle thing.

-----

After he had memorized Natsumi's health text from cover to cover and was confident in his knowledge of the female anatomy and its various functions, appearances and illnesses; he set upon reading her poetry journal. He wasn't on a natural basis to read poems, not even the pictogenic epics of his own kind, but these poems were Natsumi's thoughts and wishes, so he tried his best to understand the flowery, occasionally awkward, material. To his surprise, her poems were quite understandable; if he could just recognize the symbolism. Natsumi never quite says what she means, but she's more direct than that... other one. He is constantly trying to be clever with his words, he thought.

There was one poem about wanting to be the best in school. There were many poems alluding to the members of the Keroro platoon, both individually and as a group; they annoyed her - and Giroro salivated as she described her hopes for the crunch of frog-bones under her heels and gouts of Keronian blood staining the floor. Balancing those, were many about high hopes - of a peaceful world - and higher dreams - of being an athlete and of crowds cheering of trophies held aloft. Early on there were poems about Saburo, which he skipped with a sneer, but lately those were infrequent and then absent, replaced by ones in the same basic imagery by poems about him! Whomelse can she mean when she writes of "a brave giant, short and red, whose face I see at night in bed"?

He closed her poetry journal with a snap. He set the books on his pallet and considered the contents of his tent. First, he checked his monitor: Natsumi was busily scribbling at her desk; the floor about her was littered with balls of paper. He powered down the display, snapped the control pad over the scope, and camouflaged the compact result among the draping grays of his artillery. He neatly folded her shirt, placed it in a protective polybag, and hid the clothing inside a box of triple-ought solid-shell ammunition. He surveyed the tent. All evidence of his prior missions was safe from all except a deliberate search.

He rooted around in a large, rough brown sack and pulled out several sweet potatoes. A glint appeared in his eye. I will return your books Natsumi, but with this lure you will come to me.

----

Natsumi was impatient and bored. She tapped her pencil against the blank paper. She was supposed to be writing about the anatomy of frogs, since the hands-on attempt failed and the school couldn't afford another batch of specimens this term. How unfair, making me think! she whined. This is a holiday! Why do I have to make up for their "mistake" and take up my free time?

She wondered, as she idly chewed on her pencil eraser, just why any person needed to know what made the amphibians tick anyway? There was only one that she would like to know inside and out.

How kinky! her subconscious squealed in delight. Natsumi grinned and blushed and hid her face in her hands. She had kept herself from that slope for a long time, but as soon as she stepped on it, it was as slippery as the frogs' skin. She slid into daydreams and discovered she did not mind the ride in the least.

As she shook off thoughts of frogs, lace, and creaky, Gothic, four-poster beds and roaring fireplaces, a delicious and familiar smell wafted through her open window. Her nose was immediately drawn to the aroma. Her eyes lit. She set down her pencil decisively, rose, and strode from her room.

----

Giroro tended the smoldering fire. Underneath the pile of carefully selected oak leaves the sweet potatoes roasted. If there is one thing I already knew about the female of the species, the frog thought with a wry grin, is that the easiest way to their heart is through their stomachs.

As if on cue, he heard the glass door to the kitchen slide open and hesitant footsteps approached from behind him. "Natsumi," he greeted, throwing her a confident smile over his shoulder. "You are just in time."

"You sneaky frog," she declared playfully, squatting next to him, digging her knuckles into his head through the leather of his cap in a playful noogie. "You know I can't resist these. What are you planning?"

"I am planning nothing, Natsumi," he chuckled under the noogie, taking her hand and holding it in both of his own. "Can I not do something merely because I want to please you?"

Natsumi smiled, touched and flushed. Her hand squeezed his gently, and they locked eyes. There was silence filled only by their own steady heartbeats. "When did you become such a gentleman?" she queried. Her words broke the spell.

"Ever since I got to know you," the frog answered without blinking.

She settled down more comfortably beside him. Giroro's white pet cat was rounding the corner, in all probability attracted by the smell of fire and food, but saw Natsumi sitting upon the concrete slab. The jealous feline bristled angrily and fled back the way she came.

He suddenly jabbed a long, smooth stick into the smoking pile of leaves, and pulled out a sweet potato and offered it to her. Natsumi smiled, took the proffered tuber, and boldly planted a thank-you kiss on Giroro's bulbous cheek.

Giroro flushed a brighter shade of red, as though a stream of fire emanated from that one point of contact and spread throughout his entire body. His body screamed for more, his hormones battling his rational mind: Stop. He commanded himself, I will not push her into anything she has not initiated herself!

He was distracted from his internal battle by a drop of water spattering upon his snout and then another hissed into the firepit. His ears could already detect the patter of rain on the roof and the lawn. He blinked, looking up into the gathering gray clouds, which were an all too common sight since the dance.

"Feh, rain again?" Giroro grumbled. He speared his own potato from the smoking leaf pile.

"Mou," Natsumi piped up. "It was such a nice day, too." She sighed, "I guess I should go back?" She rose as if to leave him. Her feet already turning her towards the kitchen porch.

"No," Giroro announced. He pulled aside the flap of his tent so wide that one of the printed camouflage eyes seemed to wink at her. "No, Natsumi, shelter here. It is quite dry and clean."

Natsumi blinked at him, surprised. He'd never once offered her, or anyone as far as she knew, the opportunity to enter his tent. "Are you sure?"

"I am."

She smiled another of her dazzling smiles and the frog, who once turned into goo at her slightest glance, proudly and steadily held open the cloth entrance, as she stooped and crawled her way inside. Giroro following behind with his eyes resolutely at the ground, just as the skies opened up and the rain went from patter to torrent.

"Wow," Natsumi exclaimed with carefully modulated enthusiasm. "It seems much bigger on the inside." She could easily sit up straight within the canvas abode, and even with all the boxes of ammunition and equipment stored within, there was plenty of room.

"Make yourself comfortable," Giroro offered. She chose to sit cross-legged upon the flat sleeping pallet. He sat down quite close her, but nearer to a box of ammo than his guest. My first guest... he mused. Could I have made a better choice?

Her hand fell upon the books at the head of the pallet and she looked at him. Her eyes held a question. Her mouth seemed to want to speak the words. The silence was deafening.

"I have finished your books," Giroro stated.

"Really? That's great. Did you learn anything?" Natsumi peeled and took a bite out of her potato.

"Everything I could ever hope to know."

The rain roared above them. Natsumi nibbled. Giroro nibbled. Occasionally she blew on the steaming potato.

He studied her. She seemed quite uncomfortable. She shifted on the pallet to find a "softer" spot. For a scant second he could see up her skirt and in that second Giroro realized that Natsumi was not wearing her carefully laundered underwear. He had to remember to breathe as he considered what that oversight might mean? He also realized he was inadvertently squeezing all the innards out of his potato, and began to munch on it to cover his slip. He inched away from her so as to have a more chaste view of her smooth legs and where they vanished into the cloth folds.

Natsumi scoffed. "I'm not contagious. Come here," she ordered, pointing down at her lap.

He blanched, color draining from his face. "But--"

"Now." she ordered.

He gulped, stood and slowly teetered toward her. The humidity must be getting to me. he thought.

When he was close enough, Natsumi picked him up and placed him upon her lap, his back to her belly. He melted into Natsumi's softness, his head pillowed upon the very things that he read about that morning. Natsumi leaned forward and encircled him, nuzzling his cheek in the same manner that he had done at her dance. His heart threatened to burst from his chest when she began to resonate softly, potato forgotten on the pallet.

Tears in his eyes, he dropped his own potato, reached up to touch Natsumi's cheek and resonated in turn.

In harmony, their voices carried over the rain and thunder, over the clouds and the beating of their hearts, over thought and feeling, Girogirogiro... Natsu-natsu-natsu

Giro-natsu Giro-natsu Giro-natsu.

And above them, the afternoon faded to night and the downpour sizzled on the canvas...

----

The day broke bright and clear, the air fresh and grass shining from last night's rain. But the two within a certain red tent with embroidered angry eyes to scare away the curious were unaffected as the dark canvas shut out most of the early morning sun. They were a picture of peace, Natsumi's body and arms curled around and held close the Keronian warrior on the flat, understuffed pallet. The covers had been kicked off during the night, for who needed the warmth of a blanket when they had each other?

But yet, in that peace, Natsumi stirred, her internal clock ringing. Her eyes blinked open. Her internal compass more confused than her clock; she felt a bit out of place in the small space until she remembered where she was. Lifting her head a bit and looking down, she had to suppress a squeal of delight as she saw what she thought she never would have a chance to see: Giroro's sleeping face. His arms were tightly wrapped around one of hers. One of his ear flaps curved under his head to act as a leathery pillow. He was snoring softly. He looked as though he hadn't a care in the world.

She admired him for a little while; she counted the stitches of his scar and admired the small, dagger sharp teeth in his slightly open mouth. What does his kiss tastes like, she wondered? She had no time to ponder the possibility for Giroro stirred. Smiling, she watched his eyes open, blearily. He released one hand from gripping her and wiped nighttime mucus from his nostrils and the corners of his eyes. He suddenly stilled, and Natsumi felt his remaining hand squeeze the skin of her arm as if testing the reality of her mammalian flesh.

His head shot up, shocked, and he stared into the eyes of his grinning bedmate.

"Good morning," she lilted.

Giroro's mind replayed his memories of last night. Potatoes, Natsumi, the rain.. him in her lap, a long and perfect love resonation. Childhood tales and Keronian war stories. A whispered plea for her to stay as the rain ended and her soft agreement. Gentle fingers on his head, falling asleep in her arms.... His heart swelled. She stayed with me. His free arm lifted and stroked Natsumi's dry forehead just beneath her sleep-feathered bangs. He cleared the hair from her wonderous, wonderful eyes.

She covered his questing amphibian digits with her own hand and kissed them - seemingly uncaring of his slime-sticky flesh. "Did you sleep well?" she inquired, stroking down his arm to slide her knuckles across his cheek.

"Wonderfully," Giroro replied, in awe. His eyes threatened to overflow, his hand continuing to touch her cheek and stroke her arm, as if reassuring himself that she was really there with him.

Natsumi smiled at this. "I'm not a dream, Giroro," she whispered, cupping his cheek and drawing closer.

A small damp hand covered her lips to stop her words. "You are a dream to me," the warrior whispered. "And you do not need to prove it to me."

Natsumi smiled, gently disengaged herself from him and sat up. Her back ached somewhat, but she did not mind it in the least. Giroro reluctantly sat up as well, immediately missing her warmth. She seemed to ponder something for a moment, so he stretched as he waited for her to finish her thought. First, he stretched his arms upward then he brought them in slow circles to his side while he deeply inhaled. Set the sun. His shoulders unhunched and the blades slid under the skin and musculature of his back. Squint the eyes. He squatted down with one leg stretched out in front of him, then rose, and repeated with the other leg in front. Shoot the duck.

"Have dinner with me tonight," came her sudden request.

Giroro relaxed his stretch and regarded her curiously. "But Natsumi, I cannot have dinner with you. My man-equin was destroyed. Remember?"

"Silly frog," she admonished. She reached out to tickle him under the chin. "I don't want to eat with a mecha. I want to eat with you."

If he was the same frog from a few months ago; his nose would have exploded in bleeding, but he was different now, so his heart felt fit to burst instead. "Natsumi," he whispered, resting his small hand on her own. "I shall be sure to bring you something nice."

Natsumi gave his skull insignia a quick, light kiss, then she gathered her books, crawled to the tent flap and unzippered it until she could worm her way through the gap. "I'll be expecting you," she replied over her shoulder with a smile. "I might have to punish you if you let your dinner get cold," she said seriously, but flashed a wink his way before crawling her way out of the tent.

Giroro gulped, but remembered notes he'd written from the courtship section of the health text. Normally, if someone says something in such a way, but then ends it with a wink (a quick blink of a single eye, normally very noticable), it is to be taken as a joke, or intended to imply irony.

He chuckled. Her sense of humor is growing. It's very refreshing. She zipped the tent closed from outside and suddenly his personal space seemed very empty, but his heart felt very full on balance. He flopped back down on his pallet in a dreamy haze, inhaling deeply the smell of Natsumi on the headrest. Our relationship has grown so much this week, he thought with a sigh. But what should I bring her as proof of this? he wondered, staring at the canvas ceiling.

As always, the taut cloth held no answer.

----

Natsumi tapped her pencil over the shopping list she was writing. She drifted from cabinet to cabinet to refrigerator and freezer and cross-referenced the available ingredients with her mental cookbook. Beef stew was not out of the question, but good beef would be very expensive in the summer. Autumn was the time for beef. Spring and summer, by contrast, were good times for seafood and some fruits. She jotted notes: freshwater eel, nori. We've got gari and wasabi, but I need dried cucumber.

She climbed onto the stepstool to examine the contents of the top shelf. She sighed. What I really need is time alone with Giroro. Fuyuki will be here and Keroro and all the...

"Natsumi-dono!" came a call from the floor. She grimaced without turning. It was the stupid green one. He tugged insistently at the hem of her summer skirt. "Natsumi-dono."

She dug deeper into the cabinet, ostensibly hunting around the rear-most cans, jars and boxes. "You'll have to raid the fridge for breakfast. I'm not cooking." she declared with a warning lift her eyebrow.

"This is not my problem Natsumi-dono. I have already eaten with Fuyuki, de arimasu," the frog announced. He released her skirt.

That chance fact caught Natsumi's attention. She looked down at the frog from her perch, before climbing down. She checked bottles on the spice rack, even though she had checked them earlier. "Then what is your problem, frog?"

"I had wished to inform Natsumi-dono", explained Keroro as he followed her, his eyes wide and happy, "that my squadron will not be attending evening meal. We have an emergency meeting tonight. We will order in."

Natsumi could hardly contain her smile, but she kept her face impassive. "Whatever you want froggy. The less underfoot you are, the better I like it." Inside, Natsumi's heart danced with joy. What good fortune she was having! With the frogs' meeting in the lair, they would not be monitoring the house. She and Giroro could eat in peace and quiet, relatively unobserved and uninterrupted.

"Oh, and I have a note for you, de arimasu." He offered up a piece of paper.

She took the proffered piece of paper and unfolded the single lateral crease. Fuyuki's carelessly scrawled handwriting explained: Sis, Nishizawa has invited me to Disneyland Tokyo for the day. She will return me tonight. We're having dinner with her parents.

Natsumi raised her eyebrow. This note is not like Fuyuki at all. So confident. Is my geek brother growing up? she wondered for a scant second, then in the next second she thought of Giroro and the dance, and the potatoes, and how good the month-past had made her feel. In the following second, she considered their dinner tonight and where that interlude might lead. In the final second, she shoved the note in her blouse pocket and affected disinterest in the contents.

"So, Natsumi-dono, will this arrangement be copacetic?" piped the frog. She examined the froggy face. He looked wide-eyed and eager to please - a shit-eating, puppy-dog, happy-happy grin.

If he'd a tail, he'd be wagging it. Natsumi observed silently. "Yes, anytime you're not in my face; I like it. Make sure your chores are done. This kitchen better be clean when I'm back from the market," she warned.

He saluted smartly, "Yes Natsumi. We shall scrub spotless everything, de arimasu. I shall round up the squad!" Keroro turned on heel and marched himself from the kitchen. He rounded the corner in perfect goose-step, but as soon as he was safely out of sight he relaxed. The plan is coming together perfectly. It was a stroke of genius for Tamama to convince Nishizawa to invite away Fuyuki. When Natsumi encounters her fate there will be no-one here to help her! He suppressed the urge to yodel a Keronian victory laugh, and only a single muffled trill of "Kerokerokero" escaped his flat lips.

Back in the kitchen, Natsumi completed her list. She took some money out of the panda-shaped cookie jar and strode for the front door. She had all afternoon to cook. With the frogs cleaning and then out of her way, with Fuyuki gone and out of her way, with Mother at work and out of the way; Giroro would have a night he'd remember forever...

... and so will I.

Silently, she added candles to her list.

----

When Natsumi arrived home from shopping, her arms overflowing with grocery bags; she proceeded into a kitchen that took her breath away. The counter was spotlessly clean and clear of dirty dishes. The sink was empty. Every surface gleamed. Every window was polished. Even the plastic refrigerator magnets sparkled. A plain white package tied with a red satin ribbon was placed with military precision in the center of the table.

I recognize that, she thought as her face lit up in a wide smile. Giroro, you shouldn't have.

She set down the groceries on the counter and stood before the box. A light breeze blew through a gap in the sliding door. She closed it. Without hesitation she turned, pulled the box to her, untied the bow and yanked off the lid, which came free easily. A string attached to the lid drew taut and pulled something small and key-like out of the purple interior with a scrape of metal on metal.

She looked curiously at the end of the dangling string.

A pin? It can't be--

-KA-BOOSH-

With a scream, she was thrown back against the refrigerator, covered in something warm and gooey. As she wiped her eyes free of the gunk, she looked in shock as she saw that the entire kitchen was coating in a dripping purple colloid. The walls were smeared. The floor was coated. Every surface was gooey and dripping.

Her nostrils were inundated with the smell of grapes.

Grape jelly? she thought. She touched her tongue to her upper lip to confirm. A second passed and everything clicked: Keroro's plans, the grapes everywhere, the frogs' secrecy. It all made sense. She stood shakily in the midst of the fruity, slippery mess, her hands clenching and her eyes full of rage. And Giroro helped them by keeping me busy...

"STUPID FROOOOOOG!!"

---

The scream echoed from the speakers in the C&C of the frogs' base, where the four of them, again minus Giroro, were waiting. "Kerokerokero! She fell for it! Kururu, quickly, live video feed! I want to see her last moments, de arimasu!"

They turned to the large monitor and the screen lit with the push of a button, showing an overhead shot of the kitchen. The jelly from the bomb oozed slowly down the kitchen walls, but there was no sign of Natsumi.

"Kero? Where is she?"

The base door behind them slammed open, Natsumi's livid but purple coated face staring at the frogs, full of malice. If looks could kill; they'd be cinders on the spot.

"Na-Natsumi?!" The green frog spat out in shock. He backed away from her, his arms reaching up, his palms out offensively. "You should be dead! Or dying while groveling at my--gurk!"

He found himself staring into eyes that held no mercy, a jelly-covered hand around his throat.

The others looked on, too shocked to move.

How could she have survived?! one raged.

Kukuku...a little miscalculation, it seems.. another chuckled.

Thank goodness it worked, the last sighed in relief.

She strode toward the other frogs, nabbing the blue ninja by his head, deftly stepping on the hacker and the tadpole. "I don't even want to know why you thought it was a good idea to cover me and the kitchen with jelly," she fumed, digging her heels into the squealing Tamama and hearing Kururu's glasses crack and splinter. "But you DAMN WELL be prepared for the consequences!"

She abruptly smashed the two frogs she held in her hands together. Their heads connected with a sickening slap and crunch, not once but twice. She stepped back and kicked the two frogs that were crushed beneath her feet, making sure she aimed for Tamama's mouth. They flew into and crashed through at least three desks before they stopped in a pile of splintered wood and plastic. Tamama's jaw flopped helplessly, unable to make even the tiniest 'Impact.'

With a roar, Natsumi ran forward. Her hands full of frog, held outward, so the blue and green amphibians smashed into the monitor. The glass crunched satisfactorily.

Damnit! thought Keroro as Natsumi endeavored to bury his face in the glass of the monitor. Why did I send Mois out shopping for victory party decorations, de arimasu?!

If this is the price I pay for Koyuki-dono's happiness, the ninja frog thought through a haze of pain and lacerations, I will gladly accept it, de gozaru.

Keroro twitched, bring his palms together slowly. "Kin kin..."

"I don't think so, stupid frog!" she growled, tossing Dororo away into the pile of the other frog bodies behind her to grab one of his arms, pulling it and twisting it behind his back. Keroro howled, the pressure Natsumi applying to his elbow making it impossible to move. She continued to bend it, the frog writhing and squealing horribly. "Next time," she snarled into his ear, "NEXT time you'll think TWICE before crossing me!"

With a jerk, the arm snapped with an audible pop.

His scream echoed around the room.

She threw the now unconscious frog onto the rest of the pile. Observing the twitching pile of broken bodies, she realized she one was missing. Her nails bit into her palms as her fists clenched. You set me up, she fumed as she turned on heel and left. I'll never forgive you for this!

---

Giroro sat outside his tent and half-heartedly polished his weapons. His mind was full of Natsumi, pondering what to bring her and at intervals: what would happen after dinner. He had already climbed the spires of the neighboring pine trees to seek inspiration. He gained none, though he now smelled deliciously of pine sap. He'd climbed down onto the Hinata's roof and gone run-leaping across the rooftops for an aerial jog, which always made thought and blood flow, but not this time. He'd returned moments before, and was now seated outside his tent with no more idea of a gift than he'd had before his work-out.

Hearing footsteps, he looked up and around, leaping to his feet in shock as he witnessed the object of his affections covered head to foot and dripping with a strange purple goo. "N--N-Natsumi!" he stuttered, aghast, approaching her with his arms out in placation. "Who did this to you?!"

Giroro gurgled as he found his airway blocked by a slender, impossibly strong hand. "YOU have to ask?!" she raged at him, her fingers smearing him with sweet-smelling goo as she dug her fingers deeper into his thin throat. He choked out her name, his pupils mere dots in fear as he saw her fist rear back like a Viperon poised to strike.

His belt knife was a hand's width from her fingers. His rifle was an arms reach away in hyperspace. Where his warrior's instincts led, his heart refused to go, and reduced to his hands alone; he was helpless. Unable to defend himself, unable to fathom why she was angry at him, he shut his eyes and awaited the pain that was sure to come.

But it never did.

He peeked open his eyes warily, but immediately wished he hadn't.

Silent tears, that cut a path down her chin, streamed down the purple-stained face. Her fist hovered inches in front of his nose, but it couldn't seem to stay clenched properly. The hand throttling his neck wavered as she hiccuped. But the worst part of the sight was her eyes. He'd seen the pain before: Dororo's face as Keroro admitted that it was him that broke Dororo's precious music box. But hers was more than just a simple broken trinket and her loss was more acute than Dororo's. Hers was the face of someone who had given their trust, given their heart wholeheartedly and unconditionally, only to have both completely shattered and left in a pile at their feet.

Her hand willessly lowered. She loosed her grip upon him. The frog landed with a thud, as she turned and ran back into the house. Her hands were clasped over her face and her tears dripped ever more pronounced. She rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.

Giroro faintly heard her wailing sobs.

He sat, stunned. He rubbed at the congealing gel her hands had left smudged upon his neck. He sniffed it.

His pupils immediately shrank into angry dots. Keroro!