Chapter 21
Lamentations

Dororo was once again safe at his rooftop perch. His breathing was labored. Tears stained his facecloth. Every inhalation snorted slightly saline fluids. His nasal passages were irritated. Dororo was scared, but in a corner of his psyche, very relieved. down below him an ambulance had arrived to join the police squad car. He had called them to care for the barely alive Natsumi. From Nuwah's Pet's business phone, he'd called 1-1-9 and demanded an ambulance and then punched keys hurriedly: 1-1-0 to report the use of a firearm and subsequent shooting. He'd disconnected before the questions became too deep or probing.

The man-equin was overheated, and its heat pump was shot, a slug neatly piercing the coolant line. The suit would move after a fashion, so he'd walked it back to the alley. Blue florescent colloid dribbled out the chest and onto the sidewalk. He freed himself from the whining device and inspected the wounds. The man shell was a complete loss, so he pushed the silent self-destruct in the small of the suit's back. The already overheating micro-fusors whined more loudly, less noisy than a siren and more loudly than a swarm of nuclear wasps. The power supply pumped out heat, and more heat, until the syntheskin caught fire, and the suit's substructure melted. Soon the man-equin was reduced to a pile of carbon and carbon composites and the fusors themselves immolated, their plasma leaking away as softly glowing, quickly cooling gas.

The police detectives had taken only the briefest notice of the scorch marks on the floor where the ninja's man-equin had stood, shedding heat through its bare biosynthetic feet. They took more notice of the mess of tracks, both human shoe and Keronian footpad. They were dancing around taking photographs even as the emergency medical technicians were stabilizing and then lifting Natsumi onto a stretcher. The ambulance sped away, sirens blaring and lights flashing.

Dororo could feel the ache in his hearts growing. My love is going to die. My love is going to die. It is not my fault. I could not have stopped it. She's going to die! As soon as the police had departed, he launched himself across the span of buildings and panic bounding fled towards the safety of his lair.

It's not my fault. It's not my fault! He repeated. The denial pounded in his brain, and even as he leapt and leapt and leapt again, he was crying.

----

Keroro ran just ahead of Saburo and Mois. He twisted his insignia hard over to the clockwise. The NMP antifield sputtered and hummed to life. He dodged to the left of the emergency room doors as they swung open. He ducked between the Pokepenians who emerged. He bounded down the corridor, sometimes resorting to bouncing up sideways and running along the walls. He was panting and out of breath when he reached the waiting room at the end just outside the surgical wing. Aki was there and Fuyuki and two of his own platoon.

Mama Aki paced back and forth anxiously. Her knuckles were balled into small half fists. Her face was downcast. Her eyes were reddened, tears saved for bravery now, to be released only at the bad news to come. She looked resolved to the reception of that bad news and she looked to the doors of the surgery as though at any moment a dour young doctor would emerge and coldly announce it.

Fuyuki was composed of stronger stuff than Keroro had ever seen him. His jaw was rigid. His teeth were gritted. He faced the opposite wall as though he could burn through it with his scowl. His fingers twitched, twitched, twitched upon his lap with a regular rhythm of a target shooter.

Kururu and Hanene were wrapped around each other, seemingly asleep, but probably awake. Kururu could hide his wakefulness behind the eternal swirl of his lenses and Hanene could hide hers behind her perpetually half-lidded eyes. Her left leg was over his right leg and both her tiny hands clasped his left hand across their bodies. His right hand was lost underneath the night-blue of her flyer's cap. Their cheeks were pressed together and the mass of their heads supported and pillowed each other.

Keroro didn't know how to begin speaking. He didn't know what to say. He hadn't known what to say when the last of the platoon's gear had been digitized, decompiled and steady-stored into the Keroball. He hadn't known what to say while he, Mois and Fuyuki had moved the family's furniture into the proper places in the dining, family, and living room. He hadn't known what to say when Saburo arrived and had led Mois away for a final sunset walk in the park. He hadn't known what to say when Mama Aki had ordered in for dinner, nor what to say when she'd opened a bottle of red wine and offered to let him toast them all. He had gulped and raised his glass and was about to croak out something, anything, when the phone rang and the answering machine had picked up before anyone could react. He hadn't known what to say when Mama Aki rose to take the call, nor had he known what to say when Mama Aki had  returned to the table and shakily announced, "Natsumi's in the hospital. She's... she's been shot." He'd dropped his glass and the wine had splashed onto the table and run in a red flow across the white tablecloth and even then he'd only found enough voice to lisp that he would find Mois and Saburo while Fuyuki volunteered to call a cab.

And now, here they all were. Only the skimmers had not been packed and Hanene had flown the yellow hacker frog to the hospital. Saburo and Mois had taken their own taxi and he had curled into a gold starred ball of rubbery flesh and ridden upon her lap. Here they all were, and he still didn't know what to say.

Saburo and Mois rounded the turn in the corridor. His cap was gone and his hair was uncharacteristically askew. Mois lips were pursed and her face was blank. Saburo bit his lip as he freed himself from Mois hands and strode quietly to Mama Aki. He'd grown over the years and was now 30 centimeters taller than the woman. His chin was lightly furred with the beginnings of a blond goatee. His eyes, usually warm with a seductive intelligence were questioning now, amazed, stunned. He looked more man than boy. He opened his arms to Aki and she, the woman who had distrusted him when he met her daughter, who had hated him when he had dated her daughter, and had felt only relief when he left her daughter, fell into his arms. He hugged her closely: his goatee rested on the part of her hair.

Saburo knew to say what Keroro did not. He rocked Mama Aki as a man would rock a grown child and asked, "How is she?"

Mama Aki didn't look up. She inhaled as if to answer, when as if an unseen director had called mark, the door to the surgery parted and the city surgeon emerged. His face was wan, stretched and tired. He had changed, washed his hands and arms, where glycerin soap still glistened. He had changed his scrubs. He still smelled dimly of blood and death.

Aki parted enough from Saburo to face the surgeon. Her lips separated and quivered. Her eyes asked the question that her mouth could not.

The surgeon spread his hands. His voice was flat and expressionless, a practiced drone, which could deliver good news or bad. He nodded, "She made it through the surgery."

Aki breathed a sigh of relief. Fuyuki looked up wide eyed and exhaled long and slow. Saburo relaxed marginally and his usual easy grin quirked across his lips. Keroro felt his own lungs release a breath. Hanene and Kururu were undisturbed.

"However," the doctor continued, "She's in a coma and we have her in critical care. She lost a lot of blood and there may be other damage. The next 24 hours will tell the tale."

"Can we see her?" Fuyuki squeaked. His voice cracked and he tried again. "Can we see her?" He leaned forward and began to rise.

He had only half risen, when the surgeon held up a warning hand. "She should not have visitors." He turned to Aki, "You may come and observe, but the children," he motioned with his chin to indicate Mois, Saburo and Fuyuki, "must stay. It's our policy for critical care: only one visitor."

Aki looked to the children. Fuyuki was studying his feet, suddenly thoughtful. Saburo had released her and was holding Mois hand again. Mois looked ready to cry. Keroro cautiously edged closer to Fuyuki and looked up at the boy with wide eyes. Fuyuki winked, but did not otherwise acknowledge his amphibian companion - he knew how the field worked.

Aki smiled a tight smile to the surgeon. She gathered her riding jacket and purse from the otherwise unoccupied chair. She announced, "I shall sit with my daughter. Fuyuki? Will you make certain the others have a safe trip home? They have a long way to travel." Then she smiled down at Keroro and mouthed, "Good-bye our friend." And with that she turned on her heels and followed the surgeon through the double, swinging doors.

Keroro hopped to the bench on which Hanene and Kururu slept. "Wake up. Wake up!" he bellowed as he shook their bodies. "Wake up!"

Hanene stirred, misty eyed, then she squeezed Kururu's hand and he unpillowed his head from her cheek. Hanene yawned implosively. She blinked uncharacteristically. Kururu sucked air through his underbite and then raised his gaze ceiling-wards - behind his glasses he was blinking too. Hanene spoke, her voice low and speech laconic, "What's up, boss?"

Keroro bared his vegetarian molars and commanded, "We are meeting in the automobile storage area. We have an invasion to plan." Hanene and Kururu blinked stupidly at one another and Keroro amended, "We must save Natsumi from this barbaric place. We are going to invade the city hospital!"

"Isn't this where I came in?" asked Hanene with rhetoric disgust.

----

Giroro lay in the bunk in what seemed like perpetual twilight. Sir Jeff's jet had been flying ahead of the sunrise for 18 hours - LGA to LAX, LAX to ANC, ANC to GDX, and on and on through the night, until the jumble of IATA codes had ceased to make sense. The letters as the pilot or co-pilot announced them had come to mean a change in altitude, a screech of brakes, the chemical odor of fuel, a meal delivered, and then his earpads popping as they taxied and soared skywards again. During the whole extended flight, Sir Jeff had napped and drank and browsed the financial news and answered e-mail and strode the length of the cabin while he discussed matters of great import with the home office. Giroro had been surprised that Sir Jeff had not discovered a means to cover the back wall with video monitors to replicate his office, after all, a duplicate leather recliner on a swivel was bolted to the deck in the right position.

Giroro's skimmer was safely stored in subspace and it was all he needed. He brought only a small satchel of personal effects and this was carefully stored in the luggage cubby behind the back wall. Sir Jeff had questioned neither the paucity nor the lightness of Giroro's stowed luggage. "A wallet is all the luggage a business traveler needs?" he had asked simply. "What do you want done with your big stuff - the telly, the food, the satin sheets?"

"I will not return. You will see to the disposal of my possessions? I shall have no further need of them." Giroro had explained.

Sir Jeff had accepted that explanation with equal bemusement and with the exception of a toast over a dinner of fillet had ignored Giroro, but now as the small jet rose from the snowy field and banked into the rising sun towards Tokyo and thence, Giroro hoped, to Osaka; Sir Jeff spoke, "Who is Natsumi?"

Giroro shrugged the light blanket from his shoulders and peered over the edge of the bunk. He detested having to sleep in the man-equin and more so in the dry, recirculated air of the cabin. He located Sir Jeff as much by the rank alcoholic smell of Pokepenian sweat as by sleep-gummed eyes. Sir Jeff was slouched in full recline. He thoughtfully regarded the sleepy Giroro, "I made fresh coffee. Want some?" Giroro nodded and squinted. He slid from the bed and landed on the balls of the bio-mechanoid feet. He padded over to the tap and released a puff of hot coffee into a plastic mug. He added creamer and sugar. He padded back to the berths. He sat on the lower bunk and sipped.

Sir Jeff waited respectfully as Giroro drank, coughed, and then drank again. He repeated the question, "Who is Natsumi?" Giroro looked up and glared balefully and then at the sight of Sir Jeff's warm and casual smile, he lowered his head and stared into the tan liquid as though the answer might be in the bottom of the vessel. "Is she the one you failed to protect?"

Giroro grunted and then sipped again, "I loved her. I was her protector and I failed her and her family,"

Sir Jeff failed to go for the obvious question of how, and instead instructed, "Tell me about her. Tell me about the family." He reclined fully and stared up at the cabin's ceiling.

So, Giroro, launched into a much mangled tale filled with nearly as many lies as truths. He told of Aki and Fuyuki and their friends. He avoided mention of the platoon. He told of how Natsumi had fought him at first and then come to trust him. He told of how he had saved her from many dangers and how he had cured her of a disease - though the Space Cerberus was omitted. He told how they had fallen in love at a dance, and at this Sir Jeff stirred, but quickly returned to his ceiling gazing. He told of the final attack by the platoon - though he changed the method and avoided his knowledge of the perpetrators - and finally of his departure from Osaka. He became aware of Sir Jeff's regular breathing and stopped.

His boss was asleep and the jet flew on into the light.

----

The doctor led Aki down the hall, through a right turn and up an elevator. He gave her a mask for her nose and mouth and a bonnet to tie back her hair. "Your daughter is very open to infection after extensive surgery." he explained. "We had to crack her chest and fish around to remove the bullet fragments. Another centimeter would have nicked her pericardium - the tissue that lines the heart - and then..." he slightly shrugged with his palms upturned. He opened the door.

Natsumi lay in a bed draped in an oxygen tent. Leads were taped to her chest and across her belly transversely. Leads were attached to her legs at opposing points and to each wrist. Under the gauze pads and tape was the stitched closed bullet wound and the surgical cut: a single thick furrow from throat to diaphragm. As Aki approached the bed, the doctor spoke in a deadpan, "She lost a lot of blood and the shock was too much for her. We replaced her blood, but the shock has put her in a coma. She's alive. She breathes on her own, but she is non-responsive." He consulted the chart and read a series of dry statistics that floated passed Aki's ears.

She gripped the railing of the bed. She looked down at her daughter's pale face. The comatose visage was distorted by the folds in the plastic curtain. She appeared to be sleeping, sleeping as her mother had seen her oh so many times. As a baby Natsumi had slept fitfully, always moving, and now she was still. As a toddler she'd slept with her thumb in her mouth, sucking at the opposable digit, and now her arms were straight and limp at her sides. As a child she'd barely slept at all, her nights consumed with thoughts of the monster in her closet and when it might attack, and now she was not thinking at all. As a teenager, especially after the frogs arrived, she had locked her door and Aki had not been able to see her daughter sleep. How many sleeps did I miss because I worked late? How many times could I have watched you sleep or said good night? And now... and now...

Aki's knees went weak and the doctor had just enough time to maneuver a chair underneath her before she collapsed in tears at her daughter's bedside. The doctor stood at her shoulder, unsure how to, or even if, he should comfort the beautiful sobbing mother. He'd been trained to keep emotional distance and placed a hand on Aki's shoulder. He spoke softly, "It is a bad idea to cry in her presence. There have been many accounts of coma patients being able to hear their loved ones in the room."

Aki looked up. She sniffled. The hem at the top of her surgical mask was soaked in tears. "You mean," she said, "Natsumi can understand what I'm saying? That she's listening to me?"

"How can we know?" the doctor said with a constrained nod. "She may be listening, hearing you, even understanding. The brain is a great mystery, but it would be best to be positive. Talk to your daughter. Be strong for her. Maybe your voice will call her back to you." He squeezed her shoulder and then opened the door to leave. "I, or another, will check on her. You will need to leave here to eat or use your phone, but otherwise you may stay here as long as you wish. Talk to her," he encouraged. And then he was gone. The door closed.

Aki looked across at her daughter's profile and even through the curtain she thought she saw a slight smile flit across Natsumi's face. "Natsumi... I..." she started, "I don't know what to say. But I'll figure it out."

----

The frogs had gathered their skimmers on the roof of the ten story parking complex across the street from the city hospital. The six of them were crowded into a single parking space with the aerial vehicles. The space was chosen for its privacy. Two panel vans hemmed them in on the left and right, a jersey barrier and the causeway to the next lowest level fronted the space. For the remaining side Kururu had erected a free-standing, communal NMP field by combining the outputs of their personal fields.

Mois and Saburo leaned against the jersey barrier. Saburo's arm was around the Angols' shoulder and her arm was around his waist. Her head rested on his chest. Similarly, Hanene leaned against the wheel well of one van and Fuyuki against the side of the van opposite. Only Keroro and Kururu were animated. Keroro was silently pacing back and forth, to and fro in the limited space, while the Sergeant Major explained stridently everything, in any plan proposed, that made saving Natsumi impossible.

"So, oh great and clueless leader," Kururu drawled sarcastically at Keroro, "How are we going to save Natsumi? We already digitized everything including my lab and the entire medical bay and stored it in your Keroball?"

"Look, I don't know a lot about this," interjected Fuyuki. He cocked his head at the arguing frogs. "Can't you just take out the medical stuff, use the equipment on my sister, and then put it all back."

"Its not just the medical bay or my lab; the Keroball doesn't work that way - I can't just take shit out at random." Kururu exasperated. He was spitting angry, hopping mad. He was not yet frothing at the mouth, but his left lens was showing signs of soon cracking in frustration.

"Shi..stuff has to come out in reverse order to the way it went in." Mois elaborated. She separated herself from her lover and fished in her pretty pink purse where she he had her little clipboard at the ready. "It's as you say, a planned out party - all organized to the max. Its not like the first time we stored the base. That time we stored it all once and could take it all back out in one big bang. This time we did it one piece at a time so we could unpack it anywhere. You see, it's like..."

Kururu glared at the blond, seeming teenager and she went silent. He metronomed a yellow digit in the air in dismissal. "That's not all of the problem, Fuyuki, even if I could surmount the technical hurdle, we wouldn't just need the medical bay or my lab: we'd need the base's fusion generator, and all the computers, and the medical database, and a whole bunch of infrastructure. We don't have time to set them up and knock them down and cure the red haired bi... Natsumi, before the rescue ship comes to take us."

"You don't need the whole medical bay though?" Saburo asked rhetorically. When his quiet thought failed to garner any attention. He amplified, "We know what's wrong with Natsumi. We don't need to diagnose her, just repair her. We don't need the computer. All you need are those little bugs."

"We need enough of those little bugs," the yellow hacker corrected, "I still have my pocket programmer, but we have no nanites. Someone," he glared at Mois, "decided to store our whole supply in the Keroball and we can't get them out either."

"I did everything in Uncle's plans," Mois protested, "and I just forgot to take some nanites for the emergency kits. I didn't, like, think we'd..."

"Well, that's the problem isn't it?" Kururu stormed. "You never think of anything. You haven't got a brain in your..."

Saburo stepped forward and embraced Mois. He dragged her back to barrier and whispered soothing words. His girlfriend was already fishing in her purse for the Lucifer Spear and was moments away from reducing the hacker frog to dust. He said to the argumentative frog, "There's no need to make this personal, Kururu." He looked over where Hanene looked about ready to mindscream them all into submission. "There's also no reason to do that to them either."

They all froze as the threat of violence loomed.

Keroro had been content to pace and let his subordinates fight it out, but now he looked up from his pacing, "We don't need the lab, or the medical bay, or the nanites," he stated decisively. "All we need to do is invade the hospital and take our target and get us all out of there fast." The simple statement broke the tableau. They all stared at the pacing thoughtful leader. He continued, "Remember the orders Mois? As leader I can bring biological samples of any value I deem sufficient? Well, I declare Natsumi is our sample of an injured Pokopenian youngster. We invade the hospital, rescue the girl and take her to the mothership. They can heal her on the flight home." Keroro didn't pause to let the implications of his explanation set in. He was on a roll and he bulldozed them all. "We'll need three teams.  I'll coordinate. Mois, Saburo: you will snatch Natsumi from her hospital room. Hanene: we'll need a transport big enough for all seven of us and with enough speed to get to the pick-up point..."

Hanene thought and then almost immediately brightened, "I know where I can get some boss."

"Good!" enthused the green sergeant. He was wriggling with anticipation now, "Fuyuki: you will convince your mother to leave Natsumi alone and then explain to her our plans when you have her privately. Tell her...," he mused, "Tell her we will return Natsumi at the first opportunity. It's true enough. Tell Mama Aki, Natsumi will not be damaged. I promise you she will not be dissected - Keron is not as savage as Pokopen -we will heal her and treat her as an honored sample... errr... guest."

Fuyuki seemed instantly convinced. He nodded to his childhood friend, "I can do that."

"Kukuku," Kururu giggled, "I think you've forgotten something, again. How do you propose to keep her from dying while we take her out of the hospital - let alone transport her to the mothership?"

"That's where you come in," Keroro stabbed a finger in the direction of the hacker. "I want to put her in suspended animation the whole time. So build me a gun or something. Raid local stores. Get parts from the hospital. Steal parts from the skimmers. I've seen you make stuff out of thick air before now. This time you will make something useful to me!"

Kururu was too shocked to reply. Everyone was. No-one shifted a muscle.

Keroro clapped his hands: a single resounding smack to draw their attention, "Let's get moving people! Do you not all have your orders?"

"I understand what I'm supposed to do." said Fuyuki as he brushed off the thought fog. He was dumbfounded at how sensible his constantly and conspicuously nonsensical friend's plan was. For once.

Saburo and Mois nodded first to each other and then to Keroro.

Kururu merely giggled. He already had an idea for a device.

"No problem boss. We can do this." Hanene amplified her love's thoughts, and then paired his giggle with her own war whoop. She winced as though some remote thought were crowding out all others. She asked in a pained whisper, "Did we forget anyone?"

"I don't think so." insisted Keroro. "Let's get going!" but he said it to an empty lot; the others had scattered.

----

You cannot save her. You never could.

A whispering, a glint of teeth in the dark, and fiery eyes peering into Dororo's brain; there, in the corner of his eye, visible and then gone the moment he focused upon them. The wind was biting and unseasonably cold and wet.

Dororo sat alone in his suddenly-claustrophobic cabin. His sword rested on his knees, his eyes were closed in thought and failed attempts at meditation. Natsumi is safe. The Pokopenians will provide her with the medical care she needs. Yet even these comforting thoughts sounded hollow and unconvincing to his earpads. He reached a hand forward and laid it upon the comforting chill of his blade. The best I can do for her now is to ensure this will never happen again. I must find that man, destroy him, mete back my own justice.

But you could not protect her. A ninja is aware, always alert. You have softened, and thus you failed. How do you expect to find him, let alone kill him?

He ignored the persistent voice, and instead drew his blade. I will train, hone my skills until they are once again sharp.

You cannot sharpen a broken blade. It is futile. You were too weak to save Natsumi then, and you are too weak to help her now.

Rising to his feet, he found an invading mosquito and struck at it and missed. He spun and the blade danced about him, glinting in the light from the hurricane lamp, following the whirling insect, but as he moved, he found his body leaden and unresponsive. His limbs grew heavy, and his strikes always fell short of the tiny buzzing pest. The blade grew heavier, harder to lift, until a spectacularly unsuccessful slash landed it neatly in the wood of his low chabudai table. The mosquito made an insulting double loop about his head and he swatted at it: flailing with both hands, and missing horribly. With a final whine the mosquito sailed out the window.

Utterly disgusted with himself, he pried his sword free of the bamboo, sheathed the microhoned blade, and threw it viciously across the room. The sheathed blade hit the thin wood wall of the shack, bounced off and skittered across the floor.

The voice mocked him: You are not half the warrior you used to be. Despite your best efforts, you cannot even manage the most basic of skills. You have fallen into disgrace and dishonor.

He plunked himself down at the table and retrieved his laptop from the cubby beneath. He opened the computer screen. I can't ask Kururu, so I will contact Tororo. He will be able to obtain video feed from the pet shop and surrounding areas. Then I will know my quarry and can track him. The little laptop had spent the day in low power mode, passively connected to a nearby WiMax router, which Kururu had infected to connect the base to Pokopen's information services. Dororo clicked from iconic to iconic and tapped the petite bamboo keys. He noted the low power warning and he worked the foot treadle to provide additional power to the antenna and green technology. The connection stabilized and he opened the live chat, but his buddy list was empty - not just the platoon was missing - everyone was missing. His connection was good, but there was simply no-one out there.

They have abandoned you. What use is an assassin with no skill? A guardian who cannot protect his charge? They have seen you for the useless creature you are and left you to rot.

He opened his e-mail. Like all his life the inbox was bare and uncluttered. A few e-mails had downloaded from the central server the previous day. One caught his eye. "Too all Keronian Military". He clicked to open it. His eyes widened as he read the recall orders. I did not know. Never was I told. He clicked out of the missive and clicked "compose". He immediately typed up an email to Keroro:

My old friend: I received an alert today that the platoon is being recalled to Keron. I will require use of the Keroball for my equipment. Is there some time I can borrow it? - Dororo

Yet, when he clicked the button to send his short inquiry, the mail program refused to connect to the server and an error message popped up. He checked the message, the recipient, his account settings and preferences and tried again, but the result was the same. The server was not just unavailable - it was gone, dismantled - the platoon was unreachable, there was only one conclusion. They had left, and forgotten him.

Not forgotten. This was no accidental blunder. They deliberately left you behind. You are a disgrace, a pitiful excuse for a Keron soldier, and neither they nor the military saw any further use for you.

The voice spoke as if this was simple, unalterable fact. Dororo tried to shut it out of his mind, convince himself it was, as always, an honest mistake. Surely they were going to contact him. A recall was so significant there was no way they could have forgotten. So he sat and waited.

But as the hours ticked by and the voice whispered subtle poison, his thoughts grew more bleak.

----

The jet was circling Kansai International Airport. I've heard of this place, Giroro reflected as the landing lights wheeled anticlockwise passed the portal over the port wing of the personal jet, the Pokopenians built their own island and put an airport atop. This was mapped as one of the first targets for the invasion-that-never-was. He spared a glance at Sir Jeff, who lounged unconcerned in his recliner. My leader certainly is taking this trip all in stride. We have been circling for nearly an hour. He has not even attempted a renegotiation of my departure. He seems nervous though. This is the fifth time he's confirmed his accommodations.

"Yes, I'll need a limousine to pick us up at the terminal. Breakfast for two. Is a suite at the Hilton ready?" Sir Jeff nodded into the satellite phone's receiver. "And have a cargo carrier take our luggage to the hotel. We'll be playing tourist this morning." There was a pause, "Yes, yes, I suppose I'll take a meeting with him tomorrow so long as I'm in town. Order me up a body guard or two, okay love?"

He clicked the disconnect and hung the phone in the holster built into the armrest. The tiny red led glowed for a second then pulsed, glowed and then pulsed. He fumed at the irregular electronic heartbeat: an indication of yet another call. "Giroro?" he called softly.

"Yes, sir?" Giroro asked, his eyes left the window and the endless repetition of circling landscape and stratus clouds and a sun, which had finally caught up with their flight and was rising over the ocean. "About what do you wish to speak to me?"

Sir Jeff waved him over to the convenience table and took the padded airliner seat across from his former star wrestler. "I want to know where you plan to go from here Giroro my boy? I can only be here a few days lest my enemies find me."

Giroro wrinkled his brow. "Enemies? Sir? What enemies have you here?" Must I be on guard? He is no longer my employer, but he is my friend. I should yield to his protection.

"I'm not your boss anymore Giroro. You can call me Jeff." he leaned into Giroro and whispered as though someone might overhear them on the empty Gulfstream. "Remember the night we first met, my friend?" At Giroro's nod he continued. "I said that my family had lived in Japan once? That I was involved in some messy business and I was sent home to Britain?"

Giroro leaned in close to Sir Jeff and adopted the same conspiratorial whisper. "I do remember. You had said you were making candles with the wrong brazier." Is using the wrong colored wax a messy business among the Pokopenians? And why was money needed? Maybe to replace the wax? I have always wondered about that. He never elaborated and I never felt required to inquire further.

Sir Jeff quirked a grin that was almost a smirk and his eyes jumped with the Giroro-you-slay-me laughter, yet his voice remained low and serious, "Brassiere more than brazier," he punned, and when Giroro didn't laugh the words cascaded from the red-headed promoter in a rush, "The trouble followed me to Britain and there was an attempt to kill me, twice. Eventually my father sent me to school in Canada and then later to the States, where I was given a sum of money to keep me in comfort and told to become unnoticeable. Sort of a dark sheep of the family. Even so, after I turned that sum into Galifrey Enterprises, I was welcomed back to Britain and permitted to inherit my father's title. I was knighted and I would have thought that all the fame would attract my enemies from afar, but there was never any further attempt on me. Yet, I've never been back to Japan until today. I don't know if my enemies still want to kill me for my mistake, or maybe they have lost their taste for my family's blood. There's hoping they've forgotten about me. So, I ask you again: Giroro, what are your plans?"

"I have told you of my own dishonor, which I must expatiate. I have apologies and obeisance to make and hopefully forgiveness shall be granted by my Natsumi. I say that with much hope for then I shall depart Pokope... Osaka. You needn't stay; my friends shall provide other means." Giroro pronounced. "I will need transportation to the home of my... companions and from there I shall - "

A ping interrupted the earnest frog and the captain's voice announced from the overhead speaker, "We've been cleared for our landing approach Jeff. Lock your seats and strap yourselves in."

Giroro's earpads popped as the plane descended. He followed Sir Jeff's example: first rotating his seat until it locked and then securing himself with the lap belt and shoulder harness. The sun shown in the eastern side of the craft: red at the horizon with streaks of glory radiating from the crisp point. The jet angled over the artificial island and the landing gear hatched from the belly. There was a roar of the engines reversing and a tilt as the nose rose and the wheels hopped along the runway and finally settled.

I'm down, he thought, The shamed returns as a hero; the hero will make all wrongs right again.

----

Paul strode down the hallway he'd walked only three times in his life: when Kaito died, when Momoka was born, when he'd retired from employment and the corridor was more theatrical than he remembered it. The scaffolded armor were posed more menancingly and the lights that adorned their cubbies made them glow with an evil, red ambiance. He'd considered dropping in through the skylight and landing on Bayo's desk. Shoot first and ask questions later. I'm here to keep my promise. Only one person could access a gun and order Natsumi eliminated and that's Bayo - a warning to Fuyuki to stop dating his daughter. He took the guns from both his hip holsters, kicked through the door, and rolled through as best as his creaking limbs would allow. His joints squeaked in protest as he landed on the balls of his feet and his gaze and the muzzles swept the room. He had expected guards. He had expected them to be watching anywhere except the door, for why would Paul possibly come through there?

There were no guards. The room was dark except for the single light of a desk lamp that lit the broad expanse of mahogany and green felt and turned the windows behind into mirrors against the darkness outside. The light reflected and refracted and under-lit the seated Bayo in only the barest outline. He raised a tumbler to Paul. "Greetings my old friend," he said. "Come. Sit with me."

"I am not here to sit with you," said Paul, leveling the Sig-Sauers at his former employer. "I'm here to fulfill my oath. I warned you. You'd be the first to go if anything happened to the Hinatas."

Bayo waved his hand breezily and lounged back in his chair as if Paul were a familiar and nonthreatening apparition. "If I had anything to do with the Hinatas; if I had harmed them; there'd be a squadron of guards here waiting for you. The whole house would have been on alert and I would have taken you down long before you made this melodramatic entrance." He tossed back whatever was in the tumbler. "And if you were certain; you'd not have come through the front door."

Paul adjusted his aim to account for Bayo's reclining position. His fingers tightened on the twin triggers. He does have a point, he reflected and the fraction of a second's delay sealed the fate of his shot. The black shape that landed on his arms wrenched the guns downward and the twin bullets harmlessly punctured the carpet near his feet. Simultaneously a sharp-heeled foot dug deep into his solar plexus and the weight and momentum flipped him over the human shape. He landed with a smack. Air wooshed from his lungs. Wrists were twisted in a submission hold and the guns bounced across the floor. He had no time to recover before the human shape scooped up the guns and trained them on Paul: fingers tightened on the triggers.

Bayo's voice called, "HALT!"

The corporate ninja froze. She was tall, though her gender was only discernible from Paul's prostrate position. Her hips were a fraction wider than a male's and her shoulders were a feminine width, but she had no recognizable secondary sexual characteristics under the loose fitting, black and burgundy, cotton gi. Her face was masked by a metalmesh screen and a ninjitsu facial scarf. Paul could only guess at the features beneath the mask. Her voice husked through a breathing apparatus, "Yes sir. How should I dispose of him?"

Bayo's voice grinned, as light and as gruffly musical and carefree, "Paul means no harm. He'd not have shot me. Would you Paul?" without waiting for a response he ordered the ninja. "on station here." He thumped a surface that Paul could only assume was the desk and the Ninja left his field of vision.

Paul rolled on his stomach with the intent to rise when Bayo's voice continued, "I'd stay there Paul. I wouldn't want your stray movement to lead to something unfortunate."

From his prone position he could see the ninja perched like a gargoyle on the corner of the desk; her thigh-high booted legs crouching halfway between sitting and leaping. She'd be on me before I could rise. Throwing knives. Shuriken. Garrote. And my guns. Said guns were now on the desk near either of her hands. Bayo took his seat behind the desk just out of Paul's view while the ninja looked down at him from her perch. Paul took a sudden purposefully deep breath and released it slowly. Her hands twitched to the guns and then seemingly relaxed. Jumpy, thought Paul, hairtrigger personality type. Bayo's right, if I move too fast I'll have several new holes in my body.

The private elevator at the far right corner of the office pinged twice and the doors slid open. Paul knew Momoka's voice even though he could not see her. "Daddy!" it exclaimed. "Daddyyyyyy! I need your help!" She ran passed Paul and he saw her high hemmed, pleated skirt and stockings and low-heeled pumps rush by before she hopped up on the edge of Bayo's desk next to the ninja. The words tumbled out of her, "Fuyuki says Natsumi was shot in a robbery! Shot! She's at the city hospital! Its an awful place! She's going to die! We have to help!"

There was a sudden silence. The ninja stared down at Paul. Bayo rose and stared down at Paul. Momoka seemed confused, but slowly noticed here former bodyguard prone on the floor. "Oh... sorry... that was rude of me! Hi Paul!" she curtsied formally, "Its good to see you again!"

She snapped her attention back to her father, "Natsumi is going to die! We have to help her!" She whined at the top of her lungs. Bayo ignored his daughter's pleas. He patted her on the head as he crossed behind the desk and stood so the ninja was between father and daughter and all three faced Paul.

"Now I understand." He sighed exasperation, "what am I going to do with you Paul?" He paced a wide circle around the fallen, former bodyguard, "if I let you go and the girl dies; you'll just come back again and again until I have to have you eliminated for being a nuisance. If the girl lives; you'll be back anyhow, because you think I had something to do with shooting her and your oath wouldn't permit you not to take revenge, and again I'd have to eliminate you." He paused, as if in deep thought, but probably for dramatic purposes, "There seems to be only one solution that will satisfy all interested parties."

"Yorushimo," he pointed to the ninja, who did not even twitch at the mention of her name. "You will hunt the miscreant who injured Miss Hinata. I want the criminal alive. No dismemberments." She nodded deeply enough that both the cloak and metalmesh mask moved. She leaped straight up and away: taking both of Paul's Sigs with her. She alighted on a beam far above, hopped twice to cross the neighboring beams, and finally disappeared out a skylight.

"And you, Paul, will play a part to satisfy you. You will fly the twin rotor out to my private care center and bring my best doctors and any equipment they need to care for the girl. I assume you can still fly?" At Paul's nod he continued, "And you, my daughter, will accompany him."

"Oh, Daddy. Thank you." Momoka nearly cried and she hugged her father.

From his position on the floor, Paul was bemused. This does solve all of my problems, he realized in one breath, but I'm nursemaiding the brat AGAIN, he realized in the next. Isn't this where I came in? he sighed.

----

The voice whispered. It cajoled. The voice insulted. The voice wouldn't stop. He couldn't stop it. He tried. He was depressed. He was confused. He was angry by turns. He meditated to no avail. He cried. He wailed. He was in full on trauma mode.

Useless. Useless, the voice chanted. Forgotten. Forgotten... Useless. Useless...

"I am not useless. I am not forgotten." Dororo protested, "People care about me! Natsumi cares about me!"

Natsumi doesn't care. She doesn't even know how you feel. You never told her. You are a coward, the voice hissed. You didn't protect her as much as you protected yourself! Let me show youuuu...

And in his mind he could see clearly Giroro. Giroro standing over a grave surrounded by blowing leaves. He turned. His eyes ablaze with inner hatred. He screamed, 'Dororo, I shall kill you for your treachery!' The vision blurred and Giroro was gloating over Dororo's twisted and mangled corpse. The red warrior urinated upon the broken blue frog and then torched the body with a blast from a flamethrower. The scene dissolved in flame to be replaced by an image of his mother. She was crying in shame. Crying at his dishonorably unmarked grave. A soldier, cold and impassive, stepped up behind her. When she turned to look at him with reddened, watery eyes, he handed her a small, sealed letter. Trembling, she opened it, and her eyes fell on precise, mechanical letters. "Veteran's Benefits Denied for Cowardice." He turned, and without even gracing her with a salute, strode away.

See? the voice hissed majestically. See the pain and dishonor you will bring to your family? To your clan? To your unit and planet? See the pain you will bring by not doing what needs to be done? Or do you not have the strength, coward? Admit your shame. Do what needs to be done.

The voice was correct and Dororo knew it. He tottered to his feet and crossed the room. He fell to his knees and exhaustedly lifted the well-honed wakizashi from where he'd thrown it. He threw aside the sheath. He admired the blade in the reflected lamplight. "There is only one way..."

To regain honor. The voice completed. Only one way.

Dororo rose and dragged the suddenly heavy sword listlessly. He crossed the room to the wooden table. He dragged the two low chairs from either side to the center of the room: his own one and the long departed Koyuki's. He supported the blade between their seats. Beneath the blade he placed the oil lamp. He opened the filler hole and topped off the vessel. He set the bottle of lamp oil to the left of the lamp. Both the bottle and lamp were left uncovered. He pulled the wick forward so that the flame glowed high and hot and smokey.

He turned on heel and faced away. He took a step forward. His shadow danced crazily on the opposite wall. Cracked wood already looked burnt gray with weathered age. The little shack was old. Was tinder. He straightened. He drew a deep ragged breath. He could still change his mind. He closed his eyes, counted three heartbeats of each of his hearts, and then opened them and released the breath.

"Natsumi, forgive me," He said. He made his decision and, stiff as a board, fell backwards.

The heated blade sliced effortlessly through. Sinew parted. Skin cleaved.

His head bounced and rolled to a corner and settled. Empty eyes watched the body thrash, bounce, quiver and die. The oil poured from the upended bottle and lamp caught fire, and soon the shack and the flailing corpse were burning. Four pints of splattered Keronian hemoglobin and serum could not extinguish the blaze. By morning all evidence of habitation would be gone.

The eyes closed.