Chapter 10
All Loose Ends...

Giroro was exhausted. With a shrug and a warrior's badly articulated "hrrumph," he stripped off the hazardous material gear. At his feet were sealed bucket upon sealed bucket of gelatinous purple goop mixed with soapy water. He set about carting them down to the waste disposal in Kururu's laboratory. They were heavy, but not so heavy as the feelings in his hearts.

He reflected, this evening could have been better. What was to be beautiful has ended before beginning. He'd followed Natsumi into the house and had stopped, aghast at the platoon's handiwork - a kitchen dripping floor to ceiling and smelling of sweet grapes. As Natsumi had fled, still crying, up the stairs he had instead turned down intent on pummeling Keroro into an insensate pulp.

He hadn't.

He had observed that Natsumi's revenge upon the platoon had been as efficient and destructive as their attempt upon the kitchen and Natsumi. They had tried to kill her and almost had, and she had almost killed them. The casualties would have the entire platoon cocooned in the medical bay for a week. Through Keroro's disconnected moaning, Giroro gathered the gist of the platoon's plan: conquering Pokopen, the grapes, the anti-metabolite, the test upon his dear love. Giroro had stuffed him into the health pod face first simply to shut him up.

What more could I have done to him that had not already been done? Giroro thought as he dumped bucket after bucket into the incinerator. Kill him for betraying me? Kill him for ruining my chance with Natsumi? My one chance? Maybe my only chance? Killing a senior officer would be satisfying, but a court martial would not.

Instead, Giroro had played doctor in the way of any malicious layperson. He'd loaded the platoon one by one into the medical pods and set their recoveries to "slow and painful". Then he'd gathered every cleaning supply he could find in the base closet and marched upstairs in haz-mat gear and cleaned, and cleaned, and cleaned some more. He had started at the ceiling and worked his way to the floor until every surface shone.

Perhaps Natsumi will forgive me for whatever part she thinks I played in this... this.. when she sees I have put everything right again. His eyes were steely as he inspected the freshly appointed kitchen in the manner of a barracks - white gloves swept across every surface followed by a careful inspection of fingertips for even the slightest tint of purple. I did nothing wrong, and when she hears my explanation, she will know that is true. Then we can still eat together.

He strode purposefully up the stairs and tapped on her closed door. Inside, he could hear music playing: not Natsumi's usual selection of ethereal mood music, but something loud and harsh and angry and clashing. He banged harder and all but bellowed over the music "Natsumi! May we talk? Natsumi?"

The music went soft and he found himself bellowing her name into the stillness. He repeated in softer, more moderate tones, "Natsumi? May we talk?" then he added that word that seemed to work so well with Pokopenian females, "Please?"

The voice from inside was gruff, "Go away, Giroro!"

"Natsumi, I... if you would permit me to explain..."

"Which part of 'go away' didn't you understand?" Natsumi's voice interrupted through the door. "Go away and don't come back!"

"I won't be dissuaded, Natsumi! I won't leave this spot until you let me have my say!" It seemed like only yesterday he had said something similar to her, but then he was demanding for her to talk to him, instead of the other way around.

"I'm not going to say it again, Giroro," she growled from within. "If I do, you're going to be in worse shape than the rest of your platoon. Combined." The angry threat was followed by a blast of music so loud Giroro had to clap his white gloved hands over his sensitive ears. Yet even over the schizoid screech of electric instruments and the crash of drums and the clang of cymbals, he could hear her shouted words, "I HATE YOU!"

The words were a knife plunged and twisted through his ribcage and into his hearts. He doubled over with the sudden twist in his gut and emotional trip-hammer of blood in his ears. The music, which still could barely be called such, chased Giroro as he fled; all the way down the hall and down the stairs, and even out the sliding door and through the canvas flap and into his tent.

Natsumi's shirt remained where he had hidden it the before-night. He retrieved the sealed poly-bag from his ammunition box and shook loose the cloth contents. He shivered more from emotion than temperature and wrapped his head and torso in her used clothing. He threw himself upon his pallet. With the music still echoing in his auditory canals, he deeply inhaled her remaining scent.

The scent was meant to comfort, the scent was meant to be familiar, and it was, but it did not.

----

Giroro woke the next morning in his tent and every millimeter of him ached from his efforts at cleaning. He flexed his arms, tried the bicep, then the quadricep, then flexed the arm double, then repeated with the other arm. No help. He crawled from his tent.

Dororo taught me something once, he thought as he shucked his bandoleer and now naked stretched into a crane block. He continued through the Keronian series of Tai Chi Chuan. His naked skin glistened from the early morning dew. After stretching, he planted his feet and tried a few close-quarters kicks. If his opponent were not air; its spine would be hanging through its back. He worked through a combination of straight arm punches and pummeled his invisible enemy. The imaginary head of something small and green smacked left, then right, then left. Next he spun kick, lower and lower, driving his opponent to the ground. Take that Keroro.

There was a round of applause from the back screen, which slid open to reveal Hinata Aki-san, clad in her terrycloth bathrobe. She clapped enthusiastically. Her smile was radiant, all perfectly white, perfectly straight, perfectly aligned and spaced teeth.

And you're not a tenth as beautiful as your daughter, thought Giroro arrogantly.

"Giroro-kun", silked Aki, "It is a beautiful morning to be doing forms, hai?" At his nod, she stepped off the stoop and onto the grass next to him. Aki took up an engagement stance carefully faced parallel to the crimson amphibian lest she accidentally provoke him.

"Come, try this," she asked. High kick, low kick, three hop kicks, then a spinning kick to the rear, which landed her facing toward him. "HAI!" she called.

He repeated her moves: high, low, three hops that easily could have kicked her face had that been his intent, then a spinning kick to the rear that leapt over her shoulder and landed him in the grass, one footed, with a balletic thump. He improvised: with a one-two, punch and block combination in tiger form.

Aki mirrored him, and the two stepped forward into a series of punches and roundhouse kicks. Aki's motion was sure and smooth. Her every attack measured and flawlessly executed. Her every breath perfectly timed to ensure maximal momentum. Giroro pounced through the moves next to her. He jumped to keep pace with her stride, but his every move was as graceful as Aki's. Then they turned and transited a different form back down the lawn. The morning whiled away over the shrieks and thumps of mock-combat. An hour later found them both sitting on the stoop, cross-legged and meditative over cups of late morning coffee.

Aki spoke suddenly, shattering a silence even the traffic, birds and pestilent dragonflies had observed, "That very cute girlfriend, Nishizawa, has invited Fuyuki to the tower for a swim. I've not had a freshwater swim in ages."

Giroro nodded and blew over the surface of the bitter espresso before he took another sip. "Neither have I. The oceans here did not agree with me as you recall?" He looked up at Aki and in a rare bit of honesty admitted, "Before I had come to this world I had not seen an expanse of water so large as your ocean. There are few such things in the universe. Sometimes I am of Dororo's opinion, Pokopen is much too beautiful to destroy."

Aki nodded and again there was silence. They alternately sipped and regarded each other furtively, until once again Aki interrupted. "What's eating at you, Giroro?"

"I was not aware that anything was attempting to consume me."

"Maybe not your body, Giroro, but your soul seems well bitten."

The crimson frog grunted non-committally.

"Might this have something to do with why none of your friends are at breakfast, and why my daughter seems intent on spending her whole vacation locked in her room blasting her father's old Slayer CDs?"

"Yes," Giroro nodded. He explained cryptically, "I have failed, Aki-san, and Natsumi is very angry at me. I was distracted and thought only of myself. I failed to protect her." Close enough. Aki-san is never here and never takes her mind out of the clouds to even see her daughter. She need not know her daughter hates me now.

"Even though I'm never here, Giroro, I know my daughter." Aki sipped her coffee and pursed her lips as she echoed Giroro's unvoiced thought, "She was happy as a frog in a sauna the day after the Summer dance, and now she just mopes and wants to turn off the world. She only does that when she's had a big disappointment... like when she didn't make the all-praefecture soccer team last year... or when her father disappeared."

"It's a shame he isn't here now. He'd sit the two of you down and make you talk out your problems. He was wonderful that way. I never valued him so much when he was here."

"She would, not now nor ever, sit down with me Aki." Giroro declared. "She hates me." He colored at his slip.

"I doubt she hates you, Giroro." Aki amended. "Much as she complains and throws tantrums and hides in her room and jumps to conclusions, there's no hate in her. Someday, however, if it is you failed her; she will forgive you." Just as she forgives me everyday for never being here. "You need patience and you need to wait. She will come around."

Giroro breathed deeply. He closed his eyes. He resolved not to burst into tears, for the ache in his hearts at having to wait even a moment was threatening his sanity. He composed himself and opened his eyes, "But what can I do? What can I do to help her see how foolish she is being?"

Aki sighed, "I wish I knew Giroro. You need to talk to someone with a different point of view. Aikido teaches one to let the battle come to the warrior, to be patient and lie in wait or avoid it altogether. I live my life that way. In love though, you need a more proactive strategy."

"Love?" Giroro chirped uncharacteristically as he choked on his latest mouthful. Twin geysers of hot coffee jetted from his nostrils. His cheeks flushed a brighter crimson. He protested, "Who said anything about love?"

Aki smiled mysteriously, rose soundlessly, and with nimble grace stepped through the door and was gone.

Where can I find a Pokopenian whose strategy is "pro-active"? Giroro wondered, idly fanning at the steam and snorting back mucus from his burning sinuses.

He found he had suddenly lost interest in his coffee.

----

After a fitful night of tossing and turning and jumbled dreams that made no sense, Natsumi had awoken quite grumpy. She dressed slowly, not feeling the need to eat and thereby risk running into that crimson alien idiot. Instead, she inspected the list of supplies she had been enumerating since she borrowed "Amphibian Care" from the school's Library: terrarium, mealworms (or young crickets), sunning rock -- eh, I can just pick one from the ground -- gravel, small semi-aquatic plants, sun lamp. She glanced over at her red Amazonian Tree Frog, who looked barely more comfortable lounging in a reusable plastic dessert bowl with holes cut in the resealable top than he did in the coffee cup. Even cutting corners, taking care of you is expensive, buddy. You'd better be grateful.

The bright green eyes blinked placidly from within the temporary enclosure.

Natsumi rose and with an angry stab at the stereo mini-console silenced Nine Inch Nails "Reptile" and Trent Reznor's baying grunge. She packed essentials into her street purse: her list and her stash of yen. She took one last cursory glance around the room in case she had forgotten anything. She wedged in her poetry journal and her heart clenched as she saw her rabbit plush sitting upon her dresser: cradling the framed photograph of the summer dance - the bastard alien smiling and holding her? The slight pang was replaced quickly with anger, and she picked up both items and threw them into the closet. She shut the door firmly.

She trundled down the stairs and noted with a sigh of relief that no crimson idiot hopped out to assail her with his begging. As if he could persuade me, she scoffed as she headed for the front door.

"Natsumi? Come here, please?" her mother's voice suddenly called from the living room.

The annoyed groan Natsumi had been holding in trepidation escaped now in exasperation. She detoured to where her mother sat on the couch's armrest. She was facing the front hall, looking foreboding with her bespectacled eyes peeking just over knitted fingers, which hid her mouth. Whether Aki was smiling or frowning was a mystery to Natsumi.

"Is there anything you'd like to talk to me about?" She inquired haughtily and ominously.

Natsumi snorted. "No, Mama. Nothing you need to concern yourself with."

"It's not you I'm concerned about," she said shortly. "There is a certain red friend of ours who poured his heart out to you and now to me. Right now he is wallowing in the deepest misery because you have condemned him guilty without even hearing his piece."

"I don't NEED to hear his piece!" Natsumi snapped. Her voice rose. "He is with them, and all they want to do is conquer the planet! I should have seen it from the start, the whole freaking ploy to keep me distracted with HIM while they cooked up a plan to humiliate me, to KILL me! For all the times I have helped them... I almost thought they were my friends!"

Aki listened as her daughter ranted on about the Keronian's offenses and how much they owed her. The word torrent was a seemingly unending stream of invective. They were accompanied by wild gesticulations, pacing and the screech of teen-age angst. When, finally, Natsumi was out of breath and red in the face, Aki spoke. Rare and barely controlled annoyance creased her features, and for a moment she seemed to shoulder every bit of the burden of her age.

Aki dropped her hands to her lap. "Are you finished, Natsumi?"

"No!" Natsumi bellowed and continued her childlike whine, "Keroro is always trying to get out of doing his fair share of the work! He made a slug-man after he found out I think they're gross just to get out of doing chores!" Natsumi emphasized each frogs name with a slap of her fist against her open palm. "That little fag Tamama always follows that stupid frog's every whim. And that pervert Kururu infected me with that fatal virus, and, and, and... and that other one. I don't know what all he's done, but I'm sure he's up to no good! So don't even pretend you know anything about Giroro, Mama, because don't have a FUCKING clue!"

Aki was the Buddha. "Are you finished now?" She inquired with a raise of her eyebrow.

"Yes, and I'm going out. I have things to do." And with those words Natsumi turned and slammed her way out the front door. Her voice echoed up the walk and even through the house's walls, "... not a fucking clue!"

I should have told her to wait, thought Aki, unmoved from her perch on the arm of the couch, but it doesn't matter; she has to come home sooner or later.

----

Giroro leaped from rooftop to rooftop. The slightest flex and hop was enough to clear the alleyways between the suburban homes. A more prodigious running bound was required to vault the street. The building became taller and taller and his leaps grander and grander until he almost seemed to be flying. Eventually, he turned back to the house. The exercise had not been enough to clear his head.

He landed on the neighbor's roof when he espied a noisy Natsumi. She muttered and cursed and stamped out of the house. The slam of the front door echoed behind her. He followed her up the street for a block or three until she boarded the Metro bus. She never looked up, not even once. She had not seen him.

"And what if she had," Giroro panted aloud. "What would she have done?" He mentally calculated his next leap and launched himself into the air. "Thrown rocks at m..."

"She might have shot you?"

Giroro distracted by the sudden voice, didn't pull up his legs quite enough. He snagged his foot on a telephone line, tripped mid-air, and tumbled arse over head across the remainder of his flight to soundly splat face-first into the side of a neighbor's red-brick wall. He peeled from the wall and flopped gracelessly onto his back into the foliage at the bottom. He stared out from among the leaves of his chlorophyll bed. Far above him, perched on the street lamp was Dororo's kunoichi-partner, Koyuki. She had been watching Natsumi too.

Giroro back-somersaulted onto his knees, pulled his legs under him and leaped back to the top of the wall. He used the momentum to spring backwards. He executed a mid-air flip - though not with half-so much grace as his ninja comrade would - but nevertheless landed perfectly atop the steel pipe of the streetlight. He bent at the waist and executed a perfectly timed drop-grab into a rounding giant to dispel his remaining momentum. He came to parade rest atop the textured steel crossmember a meter above and behind Koyuki.

Without even turning she applauded. "I had no idea you were so acrobatic, Giroro."

Giroro was tempted to smile, though he didn't really feel like smiling and try as he might to make his lips form a friendly greeting; they could only twist into a violent rictus that suggested less friendship and more that the dagger teeth were going to be sunk into Koyuki's throat. Or any throat, for that matter, He thought. He stopped trying to smile. "Would she really have attacked me? Does she even have a weapon?"

"I don't know," sighed Koyuki. She regarded Giroro with wide eyes and tried to telegraph her thoughts: Maybe? She's been acting so strangely lately and mostly because of you.

Giroro recognized the ten-click stare, as he'd seen it across the conference table often enough, in a blue, rounded, Keronian face rather than a pink, angular Pokopenian one. He remembered reading in his military text, on Keron, of the communication jutsu - a secret known only to the Ninja frog-clans - and how they could speak and listen to each other with a glance. Some of the more skilled were said to be able to read the thoughts of non-Ninja. Obviously, Dororo has taught her some of his secret way, but can she read my mind? he wondered. "I cannot talk that way, Koyuki. If you must say something; you must speak plainly."

"Sorry." Koyuki blinked. "I'm used to being here alone or with Dororo. This is our perch, you know?"

"Am I intruding?" asked Giroro as he made his way hand-over-hand down to her level.

"No. I'm lost today. I could use the company, even if it is small and red. I don't know where Dororo is? He excused himself for some sort of mission last night. Said 'The fate of Pokopen and your one true love hangs in the balance,' or some such melodrama and poofed, but that's my true love and she's okay, but she's running away from me as usual." She locked eyes with him and again with her ten click stare, Can she really run from love? Can anyone? In Giroro's unblinking eyes she saw something, and suspicions she always nursed came pouncing to the fore like Alsatians on a scrap of fillet.

She blinked, "You love her too, don't you?"

"Who said anything about LOVE?" Giroro protested. He waved his hands dismissively. "I respect Natsumi. I care for Natsumi. I want to be close to her and I ache when I'm not. I am NOT in love with her."

Koyuki stared into the depths of his soul, measured his words and found them wanting. "Don't lie to a liar, Giroro. That NMP field may not make you transparent, but I can still see right through you. What you're describing sounds like love to me."

Giroro stiffened then hrrumphed. There it is, just like Dororo, always with that instinct to know what others are feeling. Ninja read not minds, but souls.

"I love her, Giroro. I know what you mean by respect and I care for her and when she's not around. I'm miserable and I can't think straight. We're alike, my slippery neighbor. We're almost exactly alike in that way."

Giroro nodded. "Koyuki, yo..."

She cut him off savagely, "But you and Natsumi? It can never be, Giroro. You're a frog! An amphibian. An alien. You're not even the same species. Do you think your people will ever accept her? Do you think all these," she gesticulated to indicate all of Pokopen, "would ever accept you? They'd put you on an examination table and examine your guts piece by piece."

"I..."

She continued over the top of him. Her words pounding the hopelessness into him with verbal sledgehammer blows, "You can't even have children with her, for pity's sake. You don't even have a... a..."

"A penis?" Giroro suggested helpfully. Koyuki blushed embarrassment and was suddenly cowed. "What about you? You are no different, Koyuki."

"I am less different than you!" Koyuki bellowed defensively. Her grip tightened on the beam. If her hands had wills of their own; she'd have strangled him.

"You are female, Koyuki. You cannot father your children by Natsumi anymore than I can. And Natsumi, I know, certainly prefers the romantic company of males. There is nothing you can do to change that."

Koyuki's face fell in the moment before she turned her back on Giroro. She glumly put her face in her hands. Though his ears detected no sobbing, his nose could smell the delicate scent of salty tears. "Go away Giroro. You simply don't understand."

I understand all too well. "I shall have her back someday, Koyuki. We shall bond into something stronger than either of us is apart. Not Pokopen. Not Keron. Not time itself. Not anything will stand against us on that day. I shall have what I almost had." He leaped back along the beam as she spun at him, her eyes ablaze with dark fire. She swatted and he ducked

"I shall have what you can never have Koyuki. I shall have my love, my Natsumi." With those spiteful words Giroro leaped, in a considered arc to the roof of the nearby house. His hastily conceived plan was to safely away from her reach, but he could have stayed stationary; Koyuki seemed to have no interest in following him. From her perch on the pole he could hear her weeping bitter tears.

Ah Koyuki, he thought in that instant, the truth hurts. All truths hurt. This is my truth, which hurts you more than it shall me: I shall have back my Natsumi. I shall... He dropped into the Hinata's side yard and made for his skimmer. And I think I know who can tell me how.

----

Nuwah's Pets was a small glass fronted shop in a strip of identical glass fronted shops on the outskirts of the suburbs, just at the point where clusters of houses turned into hill country. Rents were lower and the quality better and the kilometer trek from the last metro station was forgivable. Natsumi arrived, dripping sweat, and panting from the sunstroke heat. Her water bottle was almost empty. The air-conditioning howled as she opened the door and stepped through. Water-filled Plexiglas tanks lined each wall from the front to the far back. Shelves were stacked a meter higher than Natsumi's head with bags of substrate, sand, wood-chips, bottled fish food. Books adorned a magazine rack. At the back she could see two doors. One was labeled professionally "Reptiles and Amphibians" in angular block lettering and the other was hand scrawled on weathered and drip-stained posterboard "Employees Only."

Two enormous parrots hung in their cages. One was rasping "Shadow. Shadow. Shadow," while the other yodeled, "Sammy. Sammy. Sa-a-a-a-mee." Somewhere a bullfrog was croaking his mating call. Crickets chirped and mice scuttled in their respective tanks behind the counter.

There was not a human in sight.

"Hello," called Natsumi, "Is anyone here? Hello???"

There was a clatter behind the counter and a lanky dark-haired man with a braid that reached almost to his mid-back, emerged from underneath. He was American. His face was gaunt. His cheeks pinched. His eyes were the deepest black that Natsumi had ever regarded or that had ever regarded her - frogs notwithstanding. "Can I help you, Miss?" he barked, his strong voice carrying over the clamor of wild things echoing in the cramped shop.

"Can I help you... Can I help you... Can I help you..." bwawked the shadow parrot.

"Ignore him," instructed the owner. He regarded Natsumi through the flattened part of his bifocals. The magnifying parts were quite thick. "Is there something you need?"

"Yes", answered Natsumi, "I have a frog," Several actually, the back of her mind giggled. "I want to keep him as a pet." Natsumi added quickly. Her inner voice was silent.

The owner nodded. "Do you know what kind he is? Do you know what species he is?"

Natsumi removed the amphibian care text from the pocket of her purse. She flipped the book open to the page she'd bookmarked. "He's red..." yes, he certainly is, and you should have listened to him. "... and I think he's this one." She pointed to the full color photograph she had identified. She carefully pronounced the Romanticized taxonomy. "Lit-or-ia Ru-bi-el-la A-mer-i-cus."

Litoria Kerona-Sapiens, her mind whispered. Shut up, she shouted at herself.

The proprietor took the proffered book and rotated the picture towards him. "Those aren't very common, even on their native continent. I know every frog seller in Osaka praefecture, since we all have to be licensed, and I don't know anyone who sells this species. Where did you get it?" The petstore owner coughed into a hastily produced handkerchief and regarded Natsumi with slitted eyes as though she might have been unwashed. "Did you rob a zoo?" He laughed.

As if he'd believe the truth? I had this thing called a Keroball that I stole from a green alien frog and I... "He was a gift." Natsumi explained over the protest of her internal voice. She handed him her shopping list with her best adult-pleasing smile. "This is what I think I need?"

The owner scanned the list then re-read the short paragraph in the book. He sat down on the high wooden stool behind the counter and appeared lost in thought. He closed his eyes and slumped forward, chin on his palms, elbows on the counter. His breathing became slow, deep and even. Just as Natsumi was despairing that he was narcoleptic and had fallen asleep in the middle of their transaction; he spoke, "Yes. That's almost perfect."

He seemed to say this almost to himself, he opened a catalog on the counter then removed an order pad from the drawer and started to scribble a detailed list. His fingers were a blur as he flipped the pages back and forth. He was writing in Pokope...Japanese, but muttering in English. Natsumi watched with all consuming curiosity as the list grew longer. He suddenly slapped the countertop, laughed cheerily, and turned the work order towards her as he leaned into her conspiratorially. "This setup has all the essentials for a frog environment, almost everything that you've listed here, but I made a few substitutions so your frog will have room to grow - they do grow you know?"

At Natsumi's nod, he continued. "Frogs like yours live in humid tropical and sub-tropical environments; Osaka is much too cool and dry. So, I've had to substitute a humidified terrarium for a regular one. Amphibians are notoriously hard to raise in captivity, especially without proper equipment and experience; because even the slightest change in condition could make them wither away."

Or turn them into psychotic murder machines, Natsumi thought grimly.

He tapped the items with the eraser end of the pen as he bulleted each one for her, "Vented terrarium - 100 liter, water basin, waterproof heating element, mister, temperature strip. You have to fill the basin every day and keep the temperature gradient correct just as your book says. You can buy crickets closer to you, but you'll need to feed him every week, but only when he's hungry. You'll become familiar with his look when he's ready to eat. If you're not ready for such responsibility though; you'd be better off selling your frog." He grinned, "I could get you a good price?"

"You don't have to worry about me," she replied as she looked over the order. "I'm up to it. I've taken good care of five other frogs; its just that none were as small as this one." Nor as cute, nor as picky eaters, she thought with a snicker. She slid the work order back to him. "This looks good," she began, "just tell me how much. I'm on a budget."

"I thought so. Everything comes to 4726 yen. Since you have done your homework and saved me time, I only included what you actually needed - no luxuries. People who don't know squat about what they're buying can be easily suckered into buying things they don't need, but they also take time to up-sell." he added with a wink.

That definitely sounds like a stupid frog I know, she thought with a wry grin.

The owner scribbled more text, now in English, onto the work order. "What's your address?" he asked without looking up. Natsumi answered him, and he continued to write at his maddening pace; though from what she saw of his handwriting, she'd seen neater chicken-scratch on her doctor's prescription pad. He finally looked up at her. "You come from a long way, little lady," he added as he looked at the address again. "There are reputable petstores nearer you, you know?"

Natsumi shrugged. "They were all big-business pet stores. They'd cost me an arm and a leg and treat me like shit."

"Smart girl," he nodded approvingly. "You're lucky I have delivery on 100 liter tanks; you won't have to carry this monster on the Metro. I'll pack up the smaller items and you can take them with you. If you'll pay now; I can have your tank delivered tonight?"

Natsumi nodded and removed her baggy of yen from her purse. When I'm done, I'll be glad I've a student pass for the metro. This is going to be expensive, but worth it, I think.

The proprietor nodded as the 4726 yen changed hands. He counted and deposited the money in a locking till, which wasn't locked when he opened it and didn't lock when he closed it. He snagged a shopping caddy from a stack and disappeared back among the shelves to pluck the items Natsumi would need and could carry conveniently. He hummed to himself as he worked the shelves: this box then that box. He paused occasionally to whisper words to a fish in a tank or stroke the fur of a cat, chinchilla, or rabbit.

He certainly does love his work, thought Natsumi as she followed along.

----

I needed a moment to relax. Paul thought. He sat in the library on the 28th floor of the tower in a hard, straight-backed, Victorian chair with barely any padding under him. The wood of the arms was smooth unscuffed mahogany. Idly he twirled the handlebars of his mustache. Was it only ten years ago that my hair was that color?Momoka keeps me busy. She's a spoiled brat - clothes, shoes, toys, boys. Fuck, "Daddy will rent the park for me today. You deserve the day-off Paul. We'll be perfectly safe."

He snorts. He'd sent a detachment of 30 armed security personnel with her anyhow. Never know when a terrorist might sneak a bomb into the "Enchanted" Kingdom.? He rose and paced with his lemonade in hand. He had to admit, I'm worried about her. The drink was more sugary than he preferred and lacked any kick, which, he also had to admit, he needed to relax.

I take better care of you than your father, little girl, and you think you're being so very enlightened by giving the hired help a day off? 24-7 I do everything, but wipe you arse and I've earned a "day off"? I haven't had a day off since you learned to walk, kid. I'm not even sure I remember how?

He arrived at the liquor cabinet: a vast, 4 meter high, glass-fronted edifice. Inside was a staggering array of fine adult beverages from mild to killing. He'd mixed many a drink for Momoka's father from here and fired many a maid for sneaking a nip. Idly he considered adding a shot of Nishi's 100 year-old Scotch to his lemonade, but decided against it. Maybe just a half-shot instead? he thought. I owe myself that at least.

He opened the bottle, lifted it, and was about to pour when he heard a creak. Paul knew every sound the tower made: every creak it made when someone walked, every squeal it made when an earthquake shook the ground, every swish of every elevator, every sound anyone ever made. He could hear a squirrel break wind five floors below and identify not only who smelt it, but which beast dealt it.

This was a different creak. Paul replaced the bottle on the shelf. He took his gun from his shoulder holster and raised it in both hands, with the muzzle carefully pointed to the ceiling. He had other weapons hidden on his body. There was a kick-knife hidden in the sole of each shoe. His tie disguised a wire garotte. There were a pair of .38 semi-autos: one on either hip. His back holster held a single desert Eagle cannon. For basic home security, though, this 9mm and an intercom and good lungs are sufficient.

He listened intently. There was another creak and then another. He cat-crept along the walls and up the floor to the library's balcony. He completed the last stairs in one bound, hit the oak floor and dive-rolled behind the heavy reading table. He was surprised when a hail of bullets did not follow him. He rose slowly, ready to hug the floor, or return fire, or shoot first, whichever was more appropriate. There was nothing and no-one in evidence. He turned away and scanned the balcony.

There was a thump behind them and his gun came up even as he turned.

The red frog alien stood on the table with an automatic osmium projector in either small hand. He had not yet fired. "You are slowing down, warrior. I could have shot you on the staircase. I could shoot you now, but I need information."

"I do not just protect Momoka," Paul declared self-righteously, "I also protect this house and the secrets within. If you wish information from me, frog, you will have to fight me for it!" He spat, glaring down his nose at him.

Giroro glanced down at the spitball congealing at his feet, inhaled calmly, and then looked back up at Paul's steely insistence. "I only came to talk." He said lamely.

"First we fight," Paul insisted, "then we talk."

"I was hoping we might talk first. Just in case I had to destroy you." Paul was unaffected by Giroro's offer, "Very well then. On the usual count?"

Paul nodded tightly as he traded the 9mm for the .38s at his hips.

"Okay" Giroro sighed, "On 'mo-don'. Om... Do... Quo... Do-om..." but before he could complete the count, Paul was in motion. He flipped back and with surprising agility for a man of extended years grabbed the railing of the balcony, climbed hand over hand across, and then dropped onto a table on the lower floor. The spindly-legged affair was unable to bear his 90 kg and splintered under his force-mass. He shot upwards as he fell and Teflon coated bullets banged through the floor, the tabletop, and the through the books at Giroro's feet. First strike.

Giroro was already in motion. He gathered himself and cartwheeled sideways, then bounced once as the bullets from the next clip tracked his path with uncanny accuracy through the layers of wood. His bounce turned into a leap that spun him head over heels through the air to the chandelier. He caught it one handed and blazed away through the rainbow crystal shards at the smashed table where Paul stood. Second strike.

Paul dived for the cover of a nearby divan as osmium projectiles tracked pinhole slits in the floor. He dropped his pistols and smoothly drew the Desert Eagle. I've only seven shots with this thing. He rolled back, braced himself against the pillar, braced his elbows against his knees, and more by instinct than aim fired upward. The pistol, the most powerful ever made by man kicked like a 100 mules, despite the corporation's specially-designed anti-recoil modification. He fired. Once. Twice... Thrice... His ears were ringing and his hands burned, but the job was done.

Giroro felt the 50 caliber bullets whiz passed his sensitive ears and was already ducking aside. The shells shattered crystal and impacted on the ornate steel chain mount in rapid succession: one, two... THREE. The chandelier fell and Giroro leapt randomly away as the 150 kilos of brass and glass and gold filigree crashed onto and crushed the central reading table. Glass shards and wooden splinters sprayed in random directions: each a deadly projectile in its own right. Giroro landed between two upright bookshelves and heard the fragments embed themselves in the spines of the tomes on the facing side. Third Strike.

Giroro panted. He chanced a peek around the corner of the bookcase at the space behind the divan, but Paul and his guns were nowhere to be seen. He's reloading...thought Giroro. He ticked off the seconds silently to himself as he gauged his options. With a speed loader that blasted Pokopenian should be able to reload his pistols in 14 seconds; if he is good? And he is good. So I should have just enough time to jump up on this bookcase and fire at him when he looks to take aim from wherever he's hiding. Giroro braced himself and counted 7... 6... 5.... 4...

He was interrupted when the bookcase to his left came crashing down.

SHIT! Giroro screeched internally as he leaped early, in the only direction he was braced to leap - to the next bookcase. The first falling case spilled it's contents as it leaned and fell and struck the second with Giroro atop. As that case tottered and tilted and dominoed downward into the third, Giroro was already frantically leaping from second to third, then from third to fourth as the third fell, then from fourth to fifth with random velocity as bullets peppered the air behind and around him. Paul tried to match his unpredictable ping-pong across the tops of the serially falling shelves and failed.

The last case fell as Giroro leaped for a banner display halfway up the wall. He abandoned his strattaker in mid-flight, grabbed at the cloth in the middle of the hanging seam and hung on for dear life. The uncooperative antique fabric ripped, then ripped a little more, then screechingly ripped a long tear. Giroro grunted surprise and rode the ripping fabric all the way to the ground. He rolled at the bottom coming to his feet and already looking to dodge Paul's next attack, but Paul had vanished again.

Giroro listened to his hearts beating. He felt a sticky ruvlet of blood trickling down his leg where a bullet, or shard, or splinter had nicked him. He dived behind a nearby couch and examined his wound. Merely a flesh wound, he silently appraised. The problem with this battle is that the enemy knows the terrain far better than I do. I need my strattaker back for fighting in such close quarters.

He chanced a glance around the corner of the couch. There was his osmium projector - slightly over 5 meters away. Paul was still nowhere in sight. So that's his game? He lies in ambush for me? He waits for me to come out and retrieve my weapon?

"Foolish Pokopenian," Giroro whispered. I have options you do not, and right now I need a diversion. He pressed at his bandoleer and a single grenade dropped out of subspace into his waiting grasp. He removed the safety, pressed the fuse plunger, and spun the striker off to clatter across the wooden floor. He counted off the seconds as he listened to the fuse hiss shorter and shorter: Time enough, he rose and threw the grenade under the undamaged balcony. He continued to count:

5... 4... 3... 2... BOOM!

The satisfying blast took out the balcony's central column and Giroro was up even as the support for balcony fell. Robbed of their central column even the arches could not support the weight above. With a creak and a groan and a tumbling crash, books and bookcase slid to the center of the bowing, and then splintering, and then breaking balcony. The platform cracked in the middle like a sinking ship and then rended in twain and fell suddenly with an ear shattering crash. The floor shook, and furniture, including Giroro's once upright couch, up-ended or fell backwards.

Giroro dived for the strattaker and came up with it one handed as his roll carried him forward into a bound that crossed the fallen bookcases. He was about to duck behind, when he saw Paul emerge from behind a hanging tapestry. Giroro dialed the weapon to full auto and began to fire, strafing along the room as Paul ran.

Paul was firing one shot at a time as he fled the high energy needles that fwipped like blowdarts through the floorboards, through the couches and through the liquor bottles in the cabinet. Giroro was on the move too, bouncing and rolling as he fired continuously. He was always one step ahead or behind Paul's shots and the human's bullets took out portraits and objects d'art instead. The two circled. Each a hunter. Each seeking advantage. Each seeking to end the others life. The muzzle of the strattaker glowed cherry red as Giroro blazed away at his quarry. The projectiles flowed freely, but as the muzzle heated further; they instead vaporized at the muzzle and then...

Giroro's weapon jammed.

Paul ripped his garrote from his neck lining and leaped at the startled frog, who reflexively brought up his gun and snapped the piano wire with the white hot muzzle. Paul roared frustration and drew his left .38 even as Giroro spanged the strattaker against the floor, jouncing the osmium plug from the tip of the muzzle. He leveled the weapon at Paul's nose. Paul pointed his pistol down into Giroro's broad red face.

Giroro looked up into Paul's steely eyes. He appeared unconcerned by his own peril.

"You're out of bullets." whispered Giroro smugly. "I've been counting."

"So have I. I have one left." Paul smirked. "And that weapon is too hot too fire."

Giroro's face was poker straight even though he knew Paul was probably correct. His lips twisted into a fierce carnivorous smile. "Shall we test it?" he asked.

"Maybe another day." Paul sighed. He holstered his gun and pointedly turned his back on Giroro and walked away from the possibly still well armed frog. "I hope you like lemonade?"

There in the middle of a room of torn fabric, fallen bookcases, shattered chandeliers, crushed furniture, splintered furniture, broken displays, marred and ripped portraits, there stood one squat marble-topped, bi-level end table bearing a pristine tray, a miraculously unscathed pitcher of lemonade, and a collection of unbroken crystal, faceted glasses. Paul removed two. He poured from the pitcher then stooped and retrieved a half-shattered, half-bottle of half-century old scotch from the floor. He tilted a shot into his and walked back.

"So what was it you wanted to ask me?" inquired Paul and though his eyes never left Giroro's, he somehow cleared a spot at his feet of debris. He sank with dancer's grace into the cleared spot and pulled a swig through his straw.

Giroro vanished his weapon into subspace. I can always recall it if I need it. "Not ask," he explained. "I need advice. I need to know about female Pokope... women."

"You need to kill one?" Paul said wryly with a raise of one eyebrow and a wink of another - a look that Giroro interpreted as either puzzlement or suspicion. Paul was smiling though and offered Giroro the other glass.

"No," Giroro confided. "I need to get one back." Giroro took the proffered lemonade and seated himself on the floor. His hand was never far from his bandoleer as he scented the lemonade. His nose wrinkled, but he could discern no poison or other suspicious smells. He sipped.

Paul sighed and took a long draw on the lemonade, added another shot for good measure, and drank another pull.

"Ah, well my froggy friend, there are many stories I can tell you and perhaps you can find advice in them... but first, a toast: Cheers to battle and to women."

And the two hardened warriors, Human and Keronian, saluted each other, glass to glass...

----

Bags in hand, Natsumi walked the final few blocks to her haven away from home, a place she could always go to clear her mind: the local park. To go home was to risk running into him and more of his begging, or even worse, his pleading face. She had calmed considerably after ranting to her mother, but she still stood firm in her belief that the frogs, each and every one, were guilty. They can't be trusted, she thought derisively.

Looking up from her ruminations, she espied the large public area: she needed fresh air and time alone and made haste for the calming scenery. For once the clouds weren't pouring down rain and the midday sun had done a good job drying the wet benches. She cleared the sunniest bench of storm crushed leaves, whisking away their dried hulls with a sweep of her hand. She settled herself and her bags and admired the view: the expanse of immaculate green grass, joggers panting by on the nearby track, a passel of children playing with a small, yappy dog in tow. Heaving a deep and calming sigh, she pulled her poetry journal from her purse and idly flipped through the papers. She smiled at the ones about Saburo and grinned maliciously at the ones about how she could and would kick a certain frog platoon's collective asses.

She flipped to the next page, and there was a pang of hurt as she found one of her first poems about a "red warrior, small and brave." She turned that page quickly, but was immediately faced with another, and another, each more romantic and sappy than the last. Was I really so blind?

With an undignified grunt and roar, she mercilessly tore at these pages. She lifted her hand to toss the ruined sheets into the nearby trash bin when a warm but firm hand grasped her wrist. She turned to face whomever dared to touch her. "WHAT do you--" she began angrily, but the rest was cut off as she choked, realizing just into whose enormous blue eyes she was looking.

"I could ask you the same thing, Natsumi-chan," Saburo coolly returned. He took the sheets of torn poetry out of her limp hand before releasing her. He sat next to her and studied the first few sheets as though confirming what he already knew. "A poet never throws away his heart, not in whole or in part - 623." he pronounced, his bright eyes twinkling.

Natsumi shook herself out of her optically induced daze and reached for the discarded pieces that Saburo Mutsumi still held. "Oh, you don't want to read those," Natsumi quailed, even as Saburo twisted and turned from her grasp. "It's all drivel, really!"

"Nonsense," the white-haired genius replied, grasping her wrist once more and holding it steady. He flipped from one sheet to another, smiling and nodding. "These are all very descriptive--I can imagine the handsome red warrior you write about so meticulously."

Natsumi flushed and fidgeted, realizing that Saburo wasn't letting go of her wrist. "You-you really think so?" she squeaked hopefully. I didn't want him to read my poems until I wrote the perfect one for him, but..

"I know so," Saburo lilted. "It might have been a little presumptuous of me, though. Here I thought all along you were just another mindless fan of mine. I am very sorry." He looked into her eyes; Natsumi saw no dishonesty within them. He lifted her wrist and placed the torn sheets in her upturned palm, his eyes filled with curiosity, an eager smile on his face. "Please. May I see more?"

She was about to comply, before a sneaky grin came upon her features. "Absolutely," she brightened. "But, you gotta answer me one question first."

Saburo lifted one eyebrow smoothly.

"Why didn't you want to go to the dance with me?" she blurted.

To her surprise, Saburo laughed. "Did I upset you that much? I am very sorry, Natsumi-chan. I refused for purely coincidental reasons. When I attend gatherings of our school peers, I am inundated with fangirls falling at my feet, requesting a poem to be read or a book to be signed. If you were to ask me to a place where it was just us; I would have been happy to oblige you."

Natsumi could have fainted on the spot. Emboldened, she took his hand in both her own. "Saburo-senpai," she sighed, "Would you go out with me sometime?"

His answer was immediate. His smile was friendly and warm. "Absolutely." he declared, "But on one condition."

"Anything!"

Saburo held out his free hand. "Let me read the rest of your poetry?"

And they laughed together as Natsumi handed over her poetry journal. Saburo wrapped his arms around her narrow shoulders and cuddled the girl against his thin chest. In a clearly romantic radio-whisper he read her own poems to her.

How different my words sound when he reads them? Natsumi closed her eyes, inhaled the odor of the day: leaves, grass, distant traffic, and over all the rest the overwhelming scent of Saburo Mutsumi.

----

Their laughter carried over to a certain red frog who, dressed in his white tuxedoed finery, his special curly yellow wig exactly perfect upon his head, a bouquet of Natsumi's favorite flowers in hand, was cautiously stalking through the trees. She is right where Fuyuki thought she would be, he thought.

He recognized the sound of Natsumi's laughter instantly, but the male laughter that joined her?

He bristled at the sound. Who is it that laughs so unyieldingly with my Natsumi? he fumed, jogging the last few meters toward the sound. He parted the bushes just behind and above their bench.

If there was a knife within his hearts before that moment, the sight of Natsumi cuddling close with that... that... white haired idiot ripped out both and fed them to a Space Cerberus. Natsumi's specially selected flowers fell one by one from his nerveless fingers and gathered in a heap at his feet. He fell to his knees among the petals and stems and clutched at the unbearable pain in his chest and gut. Giant droplets formed at the corners of his eyes and tears fell unbidden and unwanted as his hand crushed the fragrant blooms.

The words echoed through his mind: I am too late. I am too late. I am too late...

I am too late.

----

The base was quiet. Somewhere in the hydroponics bay a nutrient tank dripped condensation: a single tear, falling, falling, falling - sploosh! In a corridor a forced luminescent strip flickered, flickered, died with a fizzle and then flashed back to noisome brilliance. In the lab pages of a hentai manga rippled and fluttered and turned and turned and flopped back in the errant breeze sighing from a shiny steel grate. In the ventilation shaft a fan thrummed and cut the air into digestible chunks. The Command and Control was empty, telltales wink, a shattered monitor crackled and a padded chair creaked sympathy to three up-ended and splintered desks. All is quiet and dark.

Deep within the control circuits a binary timer subtracted to three bits, then two, then finally to a single one, and then to 0. A circuit clicked and a scan was performed and a signal sent. The signal winded its way with optical efficiency and lightspeed haste down a trunk line to the medical bay where monitors burst to life in sudden chatter. Overhead lights flickered, buzzed, and then whitely glared upon the Recovery Pods. The Pods, closed for days, weeks, maybe months, levered outward like so many petals on a petit-four. Cryogenically cooled air simultaneously puffed from each one and dissipated and within each one a frog stirred.

Kururu, his ear spots naked of microphones and his sockets bereft of opthalmia, was the first to open his eyes. His golden eyes were crossed and he stared pointedly down his own nose. He attempted to rise and even though his spine had healed; he failed. He panted with the effort.

Dororo was maskless. His blue face and neck bore thin healed scratch-scars and his nose ridge, though once crushed, had healed smooth. He snorted through restored nasal passages then opened his eyes. He raised his small hands defensively against the overhead glare and mewed pitiably, but did not further attempt movement.

Tamama, his jaw set in grim determination, tried next. He levered himself to sitting position and then wobbled uncertainly. He collapsed at the belly and his head fell forward into his own cupped hands. He held his newly re-assembled jaw and probed his teeth with a dry swollen tongue. A reedy sigh escaped his flat lips and he curled sidewise onto the padding and sucked at his fingers like an infant.

Keroro was the last to open his eyes. He lay there quietly, silently testing each joint with bare millimeters of movement - slowly tensing each muscle and releasing it. He felt the tingling in his repaired shoulder socket and as he inhaled deeply to feel his carefully re-knitted ribs creak and settle. His first heart beat evenly in his chest and his second peeped in counterpoint in his lower back. His crushed foot, now new and straight as the day he had first grown it, flexed nicely. He curled his new unwebbed toes. Cautiously he reached for the safety handholds and pulled himself upwards. His head spun with the sudden change of position and the room threatened to crash in on him and push him back, down, onto the comfortable padding.

He refused to go so silently back into the dark night. He blinked and glanced curiously to the arrayed pods of his comrades. Each was as naked and bare as he was. Each seemed incapable of movement. He noted the fifth pod was empty. Ah, Giroro, he thought, always the last to fall and the first to rise. Like it's some kind of fucking competition?

Keroro crawled over the side of the pod and dropped to his feet lightly. He hopped from one foot to the other. Next time I'm waking up last so someone can get my fuzzy mouse slippers for me. He padded to the control panel and inspected the life signs. Each of his team was in the green and fully healed. The limited supply of nanites - microscopic machines - would need to be refreshed with a requisition from headquarters. They must have been in sorry shape for... someone to have put them into the health pods. They must have been near death.

I must thank Nee-san for healing me, even though she beat me first, or maybe it was Mois-san, who put us back together? I honestly don't remember. Keroro padded down the corridor to C&C. He found the cavernous space much as he left it: splintered furniture, shattered monitors, scattered papers. A single sheet, blown on a ventilation exhaust fluttered across the floor to land against his feet: a drawing of a delivery system for the grape anti-metabolite. He kicked it away and grumbled, "Another plan failed. At least the security cameras will show the Imperium what I'm up against." He slouched over and righted Kururu's control chair and hopped into the plush seat. He sat.

The cushions vibrated and trilled pleasurably against his rectum and vents.. Keroro, annoyed for the first time that "morning", stabbed at the blinking off-switch in the arm rest. Damned yellow pervert! This better not be the ejection button, or the self-destruct telltale, or the turn-an-invader-into-a-female switch? It wasn't. The vibrating butt-rest ceased to vibrate.

Keroro leaned forward into the console. He called up the security video feeds listing. They were keyed first by area, then timestamped according to when the control system had detected significant motion. Fortunately blowing paper does not count as significant or I'd have to wade through weeks of this stuff. I wonder how long we were out? He paged forward to the end of the list. There was a single entry dated two Pokopenian weeks ago. He triggered it with a double tap on the touch screen.

The monitor cleared. Keroro had expected to see the team assembled at the meeting table, but instead the C&C was pictured as the wreckage he saw around him now. In the clearest part of the room a single, familiar, crimson figure stood. His arms were crossed defiantly across his barrel chest. His jaw was set - determined. He looked uninjured. He was uninjured, but his eyes held... something... something sad. The security camera dollied in as he spoke:

"Keroro, if you are watching this tape, then you must be alive. I have stored this video under your security code. You are no doubt healed and plotting yet another plan to take over this planet? Yes? I wish you luck. As for me, old friend, my hearts are no longer in it." the red warrior explained with a shrug.

Keroro gasped.

On screen, Giroro continued, "I am taking my leave of you. I have about ten years leave coming to me and I'm owed two years back pay, so I'm taking a skimmer and a man-equin too. If I'm not back in ten years just mark me missing in action. Replace me if you must." Giroro sighed deeply, "I just don't care about conquest anymore." The camera followed Giroro as he turned and arrogantly strode through the sliding doors, which closed with that annoying space-age swish.

He was gone. The recording ended and the monitor bloomed to black.

Shit! Keroro thought and was silent.

----

It was just a normal summer afternoon in the Hinata family household -- If, that is, you call living with five... four - get it right - alien frogs bent on conquering the world "normal". They came in the year 2004 in the hopes of enslaving the human race, but instead found themselves enslaved; either by procrastination, desertion, or their own vices. Especially one certain red frog-- now AWOL. Now gone.

Does it really end this way? Must it end this way? Can it end this way?

Tune in next season - January 2007, at http://litforge.com/sgtfrog/ and see!