Chapter Three:
The Promise
Private pushed himself up and brushed off the muddy dirt that had invaded his beak. A slight misplacement of his foot had led him to floor of the park, which was still recovering after a heavy spring rain. It had nourished the park, with its trees growing tall and beautiful as their summer leaves bloom and came out from hiding, flowers were sprouting with little buds peeking through green popsicle stick stems in beds guarded by stony watchman.
Passing an eye to the lagoon that had been the source of many adventures, Private noted the abundance of summer animals, presumably from the heavy spring rain fever that had occurred in the last few weeks. Little goslings and ducks mucked about, their tiny pumpkin colored webbed feet thick in the mud both inside the lagoon and surrounding it. In the middle of the life he could still see Eggy with his siblings, charging around, throwing out orders which his brothers and sister obeyed with precise actions. Their commando skills were getting better, as they could now actually form ranks and even barrel over a couple of the younger ducklings around them.
Eggy and Skipper. He remembered his leader's cruel parenting skills well as his little feathered friend that he was so fond of was being tossed around like a beach ball in their headquarters. Skipper was a hard leader, but now look at Eggy, who was starting his own operation as if he had been laid and hatched by him. Private waved with a slight smile as he passed the fledgling and his siblings, passing on helping them save the lagoon from apparently-overbearing cattails that were waging war on their home. Instead he rounded the lagoon and headed for his favorite place of respite, the tree where he had helped take down the red squirrel. He always felt cautious here, but it also made he feel like a hero. He had proven he was no longer just a hatchling fresh of the academy, but a sharp soldier bent on being a hero.
He winced, staring at the tall, stocky tree and was reminded just how painful the climb was. No thumbs to make it easy, no smooth surface to glide over. There were really only two ways up for the bird, either being catapulted up by one of Kowalski's maniacal inventions, or wrapping both wings around one branch, pulling his full body weight up and then hoping there was a branch close enough by to repeat the process until he was satisfied with his height in the tree. It was a lengthy process that required planning from the ground before making any moves, but it worked. It was actually kind of therapeutic being able to feel strong enough to do something on his own without being constantly reminded of his size, his youth or general squeamishness . He knew in his heart that he was strong, and capable of what he put his mind to. It was what got him in to Arctic Command to begin with, and what kept him going now even in the worst of times.
After plotting his course, Private began the strenuous task of lifting himself up to the first branch. It was always easier after this first part, but often the branches were so far off the ground he had to launch himself up and hope he reached it and reacted in time to make it. It often took him several tries, but it was well worth it in his mind. His choice of branch was slightly higher than normal, but he figured he has enough experience under his wing to reach it now. He dug his webbed feet into the most solid patch of grass he could find, steadying his body for the closest experience to flying he ever had. Taking in a deep breath, he pushed hard against the damp surface and sprung upward. He latched onto to his choice target, wrapping one flipper and then the other around the slick branch. He hadn't thought about the surface of the trees as much as that of the Earth, and he tugged tight as he felt his momentum start to shift downward again. By the time he had wrapped his flippers around though, it was too to being the tedious work of pulling up his unevenly distributed body, and he felt himself tumbling back down until his posterior and left side hit the ground. A burst of pain ripped through the little penguin and he cringed as the transfer of energy left his whole left side throbbing, as well as a new addition of lightheadedness mixed in just so mother nature made her lesson clear.
Private hobbled over as best he could, sliding into the mud that mixed in with sparse green patches of grass that inhabited the base of the tree. There was no going back up there today, his choice of branch had been too high up for a mess up like that and he was more than likely going to end up having to either ask for help or stagger back as best he could. His feet seemed ok enough as he prodded his six pointy toes with his right flipper, feeling them for injuries. Landing tilted on his side had saved him from the more challenging injury of a sprained foot, but it wasn't going to make the trip back much more enjoyable.
The stocky penguin pushed himself against the tree, wedging himself between two roots that spread outward from the trunk, looking for nourishment. If it was looking for physical substance, there was plenty of that. Empathy, on the other hand, was another story. The tree would have to take care of itself, find sunlight, protection from human axes. It was on its own.
The thought gnawed at Private, Skipper laying in his bunk at home, physically kept by Kowalski's newest machine that fed some liquid substance down his beak and into his stomach, keeping him alive as long as his brain stayed functioning.
They trio had managed to break into the vets office with the vegetable penguin and do a CAT scan, but it didn't help Kowalski figure out anything new. A week later they tried breaking in again to some other tests, but Alice caught them off guard and put them right back in their habitat without giving them anything to eat for almost a week. She was still trying to contact the mayor to get them moved to Hoboken, but he wouldn't listen because of how popular they were.
None of it mattered to him though. Not the inconclusive tests, or the threat of being found out, or even not having dinner for weeks. Those were all things he could do something about, things he could fix. Kowalski would find more tests, Alice would let go of their crimes eventually, and they could always scrounge up enough food to eat. Skipper was the problem. No matter what anyone said or did, nothing affected him. His personality, his body gestures, his voice, the way he bossed them around, all of it was gone. Now he was just a blob of tissue fat laying comfortably, alive but so dead. Private had tried everything he could think of, and even things that didn't make sense to try and get him back. Screaming, cursing, pushing, shoving, kicking, taunting, blaring music, having different animals visit and talk to him. Through it all he was silent, conveying nothing but the most deadly weapon in any enemy's arsel: control. He wasn't there, yet he stilled controlled their life. He controlled their schedules, habits, attention, resources, sympathy, he even controlled their thoughts. Private knew it wasn't what Skipper would want, yet they still lived as if he were there commander. He wasn't sure why he was even so upset about it, because he wanted him to be. It was easy have Skipper tell him what to do, when to do it and even how to do it. All he had to do was be a soldier, enact what they were taught and fight for their cause. Now, he had to think about everything he did and why he was doing it. He was miserable at it, too. He tried talking to Kowalski and figuring out how to help, but Kowalski was so consumed with finding a scientific cure that nothing else mattered to him. Rico spent his time moping around the headquarters, watching TV once in a while just to numb everything he felt. And here he was, trying to think his way out, just like Kowalski.
That will never do. Skipper needs someone to be there for him for once. We've got to start acting like a team again. What would Skipper do if he were here, and it was one of us?
Private mused as he rubbed his left flipper, thinking of the fall and how badly he knew he was strong enough to reach that branch. What was stopping him? He was young, but he was well trained, intelligent and capable of getting up there.
Nothing but myself I suppose. Which means the only answer is to reach it. His eyes narrowed, looking up at the tree above him that mocked him with denial of shelter, save on its conditional protection on the ground where he sat in the muck and filth. Not any longer. As long as I live, so will Skipper. Brother, I'll bring you back.
