Dororo ran across the wastes in the direction Kururu had indicated. Rain skimmed off him, unable to secure a hold as he resisted encroaching fatigue. As Tamama and Kururu's presences faded into the distance, he kept his senses open for any new ones waiting ahead.
The sloping rise to a plateau came into view. It wasn't the isolated mesa that drew Dororo's attention, but the two life signals on top of it. He made a beeline up the slope, and the pair ahead rushed to meet him.
But their speed was disquieting somehow. Dororo stopped near the top of the rise, and for an instant, the two signals vanished.
The space flea soared overhead, briefly dominating every type of vision Dororo possessed. Its hostile intent pricked hot needles under his skin, and he dodged its head-first strike, the flea's mouthparts driving into the ground he'd just been standing on. He jumped farther back as all moisture within a ten-foot radius of the struck spot evaporated. Deep cracks formed and broke, turning from rock to sand to color-drained ash.
The flea's slit-pupil vibrated and constricted as it found no sustenance.
That pair of life signs started moving again, and the flea jerked back, freeing itself in a flurry of white ash. It lunged for Dororo, who leapt straight up, hopped off one of its gigantic forelegs, and landed on its armored back.
The flea threw itself on its back, into the shallow pit it had just made. Dororo sprang to safety as the flea thrashed in the dust, creating an impromptu smoke screen for Dororo to escape through.
He ninja-sprinted to gain distance on the flea before it could right itself. Ahead of him, a wavering figure took shape in the rain-mist.
Then a voice called out, the clearest he'd heard in days.
"Dororooo!"
Dororo stopped to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. "Giro—"
The flea slammed down so close behind him he bounced clear off his feet. The landing took him to his hands and knees, and he fought to get his feet under himself.
Dororo's nerves lit up as the flea's mouthparts stabbed for his unprotected neck.
Something shot out of the mist and slammed into the flea's eye. It reared back and bucked, trying to dislodge the fist-sized rock with no success. The ground quaked as it sprang once, twice, three times—away from Dororo, back down the slope.
Another silhouette joined the first. They gained substance and character as they approached: Keroro puffing like he'd run a marathon, Giroro with an empty acid round shooter strapped to his arm. Heat rippled up from the metal bands in the moist air.
They were waving and shouting something. Dororo rose against shaky limbs, stumbled, but managed to run again. The world went mute as he focused on Giroro's bandages. But they were marvelous, because bandages were for the living.
Hands reached out to support Dororo as he approached, green and red. Keroro and Giroro spoke, but only the sound of their voices came through. Dororo would worry about the words later, as soon as he stopped crying.
The rain tapered off to a patter, but Kururu was in no mood to go anywhere. He'd maneuvered Tamama back behind the fallen pillar section, away from where he'd collapsed. It wasn't much different from when he'd dragged him into that cave days ago, though Tamama had been heavier then.
Raindrops hit Tamama's slack face. His hat, its former yellow a faint memory, oozed purified water into dirty puddles.
Kururu shoved aside gauze rolls as he dug through the satchel, and found the right medicine bottle. He clenched the lid in his fingertips, then checked himself—they needed to get out of the rain first.
"Hey." Kururu poked Tamama's shoulder. "I said take five, not ten."
A muscle twitched in Tamama's face. He squinched his eyes shut tighter, turning his head away.
"Come on, we gotta find shelter." Kururu peered through the fading mist; none of the rock pillars would help. He opened the laptop and hit a couple keys to start communication. "Yo, Dororo, we got a situation here."
Static. Then Dororo's voice came through, his response garbled beyond comprehension.
"Dororo, do you copy?" Interference buzzed in Kururu's headphones. He ended the call with a huff. "Real convenient."
He brought up the terrain map. The rock pillar field gave way to more elevated outcroppings not much farther off, a few overhanging structures among them. It wasn't the most ideal, but Kururu memorized the location of the nearest one.
Kururu put the laptop in the bag and slung it over himself. "C'mon, bratface." He prodded Tamama once more. "Get up."
Tamama took a noisy breath and curled on his side away from Kururu, coughing. He calmed after a moment and pushed himself upright, only to start coughing again, like something was stuck deep in his throat.
Kururu watched Tamama's hunched posture from behind. "On your feet. We gotta walk."
Tamama shifted around, leaning on his hands to look at Kururu with heavy-lidded eyes. "Where's Dororo?"
"He's busy. We'll catch up with him later." Kururu took the private under the arms and stood, forcing Tamama to stand with him. "But we're goin' someplace drier first."
Supporting Tamama, Kururu stepped forward. Tamama didn't even lift his feet.
The sergeant major tugged him along. "Walk. Your brain can process that, right?"
Tamama shuffled one foot forward, then another. Kururu continued, stuck with Tamama's pace.
Fifty feet felt like fifty miles. Tamama stumbled at uneven spots, and Kururu couldn't make up for the private's poor balance on one leg alone. His bandaged wound started aching well before the halfway point—the painkillers were finally starting to wear off.
They reached the overhang an eternity later. Tamama leaned heavily against Kururu, face buried in one arm as he tried to hack up whatever he'd developed during his chasm stay. Kururu had suspected the mood swings and unusual energy were side effects of the painkiller, but they covered up the true problem.
By the time he knew what it was, he'd made it worse.
He lowered Tamama onto the dry strip of ground the overhang provided. The private curled up again as Kururu sat with a graceless flop, gritting his teeth, and retrieved the antibiotics.
Tamama blinked up at the bottle. "Whassat for?"
Kururu unscrewed the lid. "Here." He offered the bottle to Tamama.
The private closed his eyes, mumbling, "Don't need it."
"The hell you don't." Kururu yanked Tamama upright by one arm. "Now quit screwin' around and take some."
Tamama gave the bottle a glassy-eyed stare, then reached for it.
Something rumbled. Kururu looked up, thinking it was thunder, and the overhang collapsed on top of them as the space flea crashed through it.
Dororo's head jerked up, and the two Keronians supporting him stopped.
Giroro noticed the alarm in his eyes. "What is it?"
Dororo steadied himself as he found words to explain the sudden peak and plummet of two life signals not far off. "Something has happened to Kururu and Tamama."
Keroro went wide-eyed. "You found 'em?!"
Dororo nodded. "I arranged for them to follow behind while I scouted ahead." He took a step back, slipping out of their hold. "We were all heading in the same direction, but I shouldn't have left them. They weren't prepared for this."
He turned away; someone caught his arm. Dororo looked back to protest, and found Giroro smirking.
"You're slowing up, Dororo." His expression turned serious. "You can't do much to help them like this."
"But—"
"That's enough, you two." Keroro's commanding tone caused them both to face him out of pure conditioning. "Giroro, take him back to camp. I'll go get Kururu and Tamama myself."
"But Commander..." Dororo's objections failed to take shape. He searched the ground briefly before looking at Keroro again. "They shouldn't be far from here."
Keroro met the eyes of his two friends in turn. "We're gonna reunite the platoon, finish this mission, and win. Have I made myself clear?"
Giroro and Dororo gave a single, strong answer: "Roger!"
Cracks split Kururu's vision. Something pressed against him on the right, and a heavy weight pinned most of his body flat.
He turned his head, damaged lenses scraping the ground, and saw the antibiotics bottle within arm's reach. He pawed for it, rolling the open container towards himself.
It was empty. Melted rainbow medicine stained the nearby puddles.
The ground shook, shifting the weight on his back. He shoved upward with his head and shoulders in a desperate surge of energy, and knocked the fragmented stone slab aside.
The flea thrashed ten feet in front of him, banging its head against the dirt with each quake. Its eyeball had a rock lodged in it, viscous purple fluid leaking out around the edges.
Kururu wanted to know who had made the flea go berserk, so he could murder them.
The flea faced him, and Kururu stiffened. His good leg was still pinned, and he had no idea if Tamama was alive or dead under the rubble.
He shifted, and felt a hard smoothness under his ribs. His laptop, sticking halfway out of the satchel, had gotten wedged beneath him. He pried it out, flipped it open, and positioned his fingers over four specific keys.
It's too early. It'll ruin our chances. Kururu's hands hovered in place. But if I don't—
A tall chunk of rubble stood at attention in his right peripheral vision, and he froze a hairsbreadth from pressing the keys.
The rock fell with a crackling echo, and Tamama rose to his feet. He lowered his right arm, face hidden by an earflap, and stepped forward. Pebbles bounced away from his feet, untouched. Invisible pressure brushed Kururu as Tamama walked past.
The flea planted its hooked feet and shook itself, failing to dislodge the rock embedded in its eyeball. Tamama stopped, head down and arms loose. As if noticing, the flea faced its injured eye toward him.
Tamama lifted a hand, palm forward, and pushed while standing still. Dust burst away from him in a circle, and wind sang over the guard hairs on the flea's carapace.
Then the stone shot sideways out of the impacted eye, splitting it open with a delayed spurt of ichor. The flea erupted into earth-shaking throes and thrashing leg-blades.
Kururu braced himself on his elbows as Tamama swayed, but not from dodging. He wriggled his stuck leg, and started to inch it free.
The flea rolled closer to Kururu as it flailed, mouthparts swinging overhead with an eerie whistle. They swept past again as Kururu pressed himself flat to the ground, piercing end scraping the dirt millimeters from his hands. The line drawn in the soil dissolved into fine sand, and Kururu yanked his arms inward.
The flea stabbed at the ground near Kururu, definitely blind, though its mark was only inches away. Kururu inhaled sharply through clenched teeth and whipped his hand to the open laptop as the flea struck for his head.
SNAP—Tamama's flying kick split through the piercing tubes. The flea overbalanced from the unexpected force and fell, giving Kururu an up-close view of pulsating eyeball shreds. He somehow found room to recoil.
Tamama appeared next to Kururu in one instant, and plunged his hand into the flea's eye in another. It squelched and seeped in his grip. The flea's long legs slid against the dirt, failing to find purchase or escape, as Tamama ripped the eyeball out in an act of wasteland revenge.
Kururu appreciated it, in a way. But Tamama's heavy breathing, his blank stare, spelled the inevitable end of his adrenaline-fueled power trip.
The flea's quaking throes further loosened the rubble pinning Kururu. He hauled himself forward, and finally got his good leg free. "Okay, you got what you wanted," he said, turning around to unwedge his bandaged leg. "Now let's get the hell outta here."
Tamama, still holding the beachball-sized eye, lurched toward the flea. His breath hitched and clogged in his throat, but that didn't stop him from reaching his other hand toward the bleeding, empty socket.
"We're done here, you moron!" Kururu grunted as he pulled his foot free of the rubble too quickly. "Now drop that thing and run!"
Tamama took a raspy breath and stared into the darkness where the flea's eye used to be. "Give Sarge back."
Something pierced Kururu inside where no space arthropod could reach. His heart pounded a plea to escape, but he followed Tamama's stare into a bleeding void instead.
Tamama's shaking arm lowered against his will, and the flea gathered its feet under itself. Its sight was gone, and its mouthparts were broken, but it towered over them with fully-intact bladed limbs. Kururu stood, then stumbled back into a sitting position—his legs had gone numb from being pinned. He glanced at the laptop and wondered if trying that key combo mattered anymore.
A giant foreleg lifted, the same one that had slashed Kururu's leg before he could undo his ejected seat's safety belt. The beginning and end of his troubles on XV-Kas.
It would have to cut down Tamama first. In a final attempt to rob satisfaction from his enemy, Kururu grabbed Tamama's ankles, and yanked him to the ground. Razor death zinged over them.
Someone snatched the broken piercing tube off the ground. They jumped onto the flea's back, and shoved the tube under a chitinous plate behind the flea's head.
While the flea struggled to face forward without success, Kururu was lifted to his feet. The upward rush went to his head, and a warm, solid ghost steadied him by the shoulders.
Kururu's name and rank reached him, the intonation the same as ever. He heard Tamama's name among other questions his brain refused to parse.
"He's dying," Kururu said, and fainted against Keroro's shoulder.
Next update is Friday, June 24th! After three years, we're almost at the end.