Disclaimer: For all I did not create, to their respective owners.
It was midnight, and Kowalski was still working in his lab.
In truth, he had all but lost any sense of time. There was no clock in sight, and for all he knew, it could be dinnertime. Not that they were sticking to their normal routine; he ate a fish an hour ago. Or was it two hours ago? It didn't matter. Food didn't matter. Routine didn't matter. And who cares about the time? All he was aware of was that he was in his lab with his chemicals and he still hadn't found a working formula.
Normally he wouldn't be in his lab at midnight. Normally he wouldn't be unconcerned about the current time, accurate to the nearest second. Normally he wouldn't have been completely out of routine. Normally, he wouldn't be doing a lot of things he was doing now. But nothing was normal anymore.
Nothing.
Not since yesterday.
Kowalski took off his goggles and tiredly rubbed his eyes with the flipper that wasn't holding an empty test tube. When was the last time he had properly slept? Two nights ago? He couldn't remember the last time he was this exhausted. He yawned widely and allowed himself the luxury of a quick stretch and a minute break from the facts and figures swirling in his head. He was certain that if he spent one more second on the chemicals, he would go insane with the intense focus. It was probably due to the lack of rest and the length of time spent on the same subject. But as soon as his brain was not filled with chemical properties and possible compounds, the memories of the past day flooded his mind.
It had started off as a normal day. For the penguins, at least. Skipper had woken them up at precisely 0530 and ordered them to be topside in exactly two and a half minutes, no delays. Breakfast, he had explained, would come after morning training. Kowalski had immediately leapt out of bed and hopped out of the HQ, not wanting to face Skipper's hard reprimands and painful slaps. It was only after half a minute of standing silently on the ice did he realize in his groggy state that not all his teammates were by his side. Rico was beside him, grumbling under his breath, and Skipper was in front of him, pacing back and forth, but apparently, Private was still down in the base. At first, he thought it might've been because he didn't hear Skipper's call, but then he realized that Skipper would probably have yelled until Private opened his eyes. That was the first hint of troubles revealed to the penguins, like dragonflies flying low before rain arrives. But it wasn't merely a mild May shower.
Kowalski had been ready to tell Skipper about the absence of the youngest penguin, but the leader seemed to have already noticed, for he went back down into the HQ, leaving his lieutenant and Rico in their formation. Even then, Kowalski had been worried, for Private was always to first one up, the most eager to start the day. It was unlike him to stay in bed.
The two penguins had been called down a minute later, and to their shock, all training had been cancelled, apparently due to the fact Private had came down with some illness. Kowalski hadn't been as surprised that Private was ill - it was the most likely reason for his lack of enthusiasm, after all - as the news that all training had been cancelled. Skipper never did that, as far as he remembered. Even if one of the team was sick, training continued, although some of the activities had to be taken out. Then Kowalski was shocked even more when Skipper pulled him over and said in a low voice:
"I don't think this is the usual stomachache. Private looks really ill; I've never seen him this way before. I'm scared for him."
His leader had sounded anxious, almost desperate. Skipper never spoke like that. Even when he was nearly hyperventilating at the vet's before his shot, he didn't sound so fearful. Yet now, he seemed terrified. He seemed… vulnerable.
That was what truly shocked Kowalski. His strong, fearless leader was admitting that he was frightened. Immediately, he was on red alert, knowing that what he was about to face was no light news. He had braced himself as he waddled down and towards Private's bunk, and peered in.
It had been obvious to Kowalski that the young penguin was ill, and severely at that, when he saw Private's pale face. Without hesitation, he had ran a series of tests for analysis of the disease, without a chance to stop and think what impact Private's illness had on him. Or maybe, it was more of that he didn't want to stop and let the feelings crash over him. All through the examination, his mind was tense, firmly focused only on the scientific aspect on everything. He made sure he stayed focused only on the science. Only. Nothing else.
Nothing.
In fact, he pushed emotions away so harshly that it was almost as if he was working mechanically. He hardly spoke a reassuring word, hardly gave Private a warm smile that he needed. Even Skipper, who naturally had a stern restrained expression and personality, showed more care. Guilt had brushed him briefly at the realization of his coldness, before it too was shoved away. He needed a clear head, he reminded himself. He had been tilting the thermometer in the light to check the temperature recorded at that time.
Even when his research and investigation pointed all symptoms to an unknown, and potentially fatal, poison running in Private's bloodstream, he had remained impassive. Cold. The information had ran through his head robotically, and even as he repeated it to himself, he couldn't feel anything. He knew that this is dangerous, but nothing in his body reacted to the news. Nothing. He was afraid if he even allowed the briefest weakest emotion to touch his heart, he would crumble and lose all focus.
So he continued being cold.
But he didn't want Private to suffer anymore than he already has, so he kept away. Kept the coldness away. He told Skipper the results of the test so that the leader could pass the information on instead. Soften the blow perhaps. Tone down the graveness of the situation. Kowalski knew that in his current insensitive state, he would frighten and upset the young penguin. Even when he was talking to Skipper, his tone had been stiff and formal, so much that the leader had frowned at him. It was not a deep frown, a simple twitch of the eyebrows. But Kowalski noticed. He noticed and understood.
He was cold.
So here he was, forty hours later, with a sample of Private's poisoned blood, still trying to find an antidote, still trying to find a compound to neutralize the toxin, still working with chemicals.
Still cold.
He sighed. No one understood but… his strength was also his weakness; the reason Skipper recruited him also being his downfall. There's always two sides to everything, and every gift has a price attached to it. His gift happened to be his intellect, and the price happened to be his inability to deal with emotions. He could not handle them, and more often than not, he found himself distancing from sentiments and feelings. He found it awkward, and most of the time, if he could not escape or evade it, he tended to cram his mind with facts and figures, distracting himself from gushiness by immersing himself into numbers and analysis. He turned everything into a scientific explanation, and twisted the heart out of words and events.
And because of that, everyone thought him incapable of emotion. To them, he was born like this. Some kind of high-tech robot who understood and comprehended like a living being, but was devoid of feeling and heartfelt opinions. In a sense, it was true; he spewed out options and carried out analyzations almost automatically, seemingly unfazed by anything. But deep inside, it was choice.
Choice. He could choose to open his heart and expose himself to emotions, instead of shying away like a pathetic creature. He could choose to allow personal experiences into his decisions, instead of basing them purely on common knowledge. He could choose to let go of the plain reality he clings so desperately to, and let go of the lifeless facts he surrounds himself with.
Because to him, numbers are comforting. One of the main reasons why he was so caught up in maths and science was that it was stable, it was steady, it was dependable. Numbers don't lie to you, there is no tricks in the way they present themselves to you. There are no unexpected turns, no spur-of-the-moment alternatives. They don't twist your mind until you had no idea what was right or wrong, don't steal your sanity or sense. They were just that. Numbers. Marks on the paper, words on the lips. Devices to help in complicated justifications of sciences, essential components in equations and proportions. Tools.
Tools.
Just like him.
With his emotionless character, he might as well be a machine. The high-tech robot he represented. A lifeless, helpful minion with no feelings or opinions of its own. A minion to the penguins; a handy encyclopedia. That was what he was. He did as he was told, obeying faithfully and blindly. He served whoever he happened to be with; and ignored the conflicts or frictions between creatures. He was just a tool, to be used by whoever got their hands, or flippers, on him. That was all he was.
A tool.
A crash jarred him back from his pondering. The test tube he had been holding was now on the floor, reduced to useless broken fragments of glass. Apparently, he had dropped it while he was deep in thought. He blinked once at it, blankly, before reacting to the accident. Alarmed, he glanced through the open door of his lab to see if the noise had been noticed by anyone. His eyes took in the life outside of his own bubble.
Private was asleep in his bunk, wrapped with almost every blanket they had so that he was drowning in a sea of quilts. Skipper had dozed off at the side of the bunk while keeping watch, and was slack against the stone. Neither had woken up from the crash. Rico was probably set on patrol and perimeter checks. Kowalski hesitated. Only when Private was unconscious and in a deep sleep like this would the scientist dare to approach the young penguin. He frowned, indecision clouding his penguin-blue gaze. Finally, a solid determination shone through the mist and he took a deep breath.
Leaving the shattered tube on the floor, he waddled to where Private was sleeping. He looked so peaceful, a tranquility settling on his innocent features. Try hard as he could, the scientist could not stay unaffected by the serene expression. Private didn't look like someone with a poison raging in their body, destroying him from within. He didn't look like someone who was staring in the face of possible death. No fear touched his face, and it was almost as if he had accepted his fate. At this realization, Kowalski recoiled as if he had been struck. Anger coursed through his veins, rage throbbing in every heartbeat. The sudden flare of fury made his head spin and he stumbled backwards.
It was almost as if he had accepted his fate.
The scientist clenched his flippers, and narrowed his eyes. Never! He growled to himself. His own problems did not matter anymore. A life was at risk, a young promising life filled with emotion and… life. Whatever he was, penguin or tool, he had to work out the antidote. Failure was not an option. He had to save Private, whatever he had to do. He would go to the dentist even if it helps only a bit. He had to. There was no other choice. Not in this area.
Filled with a new fiery resolve, Kowalski turned to go back to the frustrating task of trial and error with chemicals. Just as he was about to go, however, a voice spoke up, drowsy but with the familiar commanding edge to it.
"Kowalski?"
The scientist froze. He really didn't need Skipper waking up now. Cursing himself silently for forgetting what a light sleeper his commanding officer was, he turned back around, his expression completely neutral and calm. The usual composed mask.
"Yes, Skipper?"
"How's the antidote going?"
Kowalski couldn't help feeling a stab of guilt. A fleeting look passed his face before his tranquil front hid it again.
"I'm still trying to figure it out."
"Oh."
An uncomfortable silence followed Skipper's last word. Kowalski shifted from one foot to the other, unsure what he should do.
"Well," he said finally, "I'll be going back now."
Skipper only nodded, but his sapphire eyes seemed to pierce unusually deeply into Kowalski. The tall penguin tried to ignore the feeling as he shuffled back. It's probably you being so nervous. He reasoned as he reached his laboratory.
"Kowalski?"
Or maybe not.
"Yes?"
Not hearing a response, Kowalski turned around. Skipper hadn't moved from his position on the ground, and his eyes were still burning into Kowalski. When he spoke, his tone was as quietly intense as his stare.
"You're the best scientist anyone could find." Kowalski's heart seemed to sink at Skipper's words, even though he tried to disregard it. He was a good scientist, an asset to the team only until someone smarter pops up. His flipper curled unconsciously.
"If you can't help Private, no one can." Skipper rose up from the stone floor, his penetrating gaze never wavering. He went up to where Kowalski was standing, motionless, and placed a flipper on his shoulder.
"Don't ever lose faith in yourself. You're the best lieutenant anyone can ever ask for."
Patting the paralyzed Kowalski, Skipper smiled. A warm smile, filled with genuine friendship. It touched somewhere deep within the tall penguin, the bitter thoughts of being easily replaced crumbling to dust. He stared at Skipper. The leader penguin turned away and peered at Private soon after, but the feeling remained in Kowalski, the powerful warmth.
You're the best lieutenant anyone can ever ask for.
Millions of thoughts swirled in the scientist's head, questions ready to roll off the tip of his tongue. But all he could do was stand there, beak slightly agape, frozen.
You're the best lieutenant anyone can ever ask for.
For some reason, it sparked a blaze within him. It pushed away all thoughts of himself being a mere tool, extinguished all doubts of Skipper's intention of him being in the team. He finally understood, through that one sentence and smile.
He wasn't just a tool. He was an accepted part of a team. He had friends who cared about him; he wasn't just a minion to them. The warmth spread through his body, reaching the tips of his flippers until it tingled with the feeling of acceptance and worthiness.
With renewed spirits and resolute determination, Kowalski marched back to his various tubes and combinations. He cleared the broken glass quickly, and then scanned at the neat rows of compounds he had created. Smiling slightly, he picked up one of the tubes containing a thick scarlet liquid, and poured it into a new test tube.
It was midnight, and Kowalski was still working in his lab.
This must be one of the worst stories I've ever written. I tried to make it flow more smoothly, but it just seems to advance too quickly. If you didn't understand, it was just a snapshot of a bitter Kowalski. Don't worry, it's just a state of mind, although it might be a bit too OOC even for that. If I have time, I'll clean this up a bit more. Until then...