Disclaimer
Penguins of Madagascar belong to Tom McGrath, Eric Darnell and its other respective owners. I gain absolutely no profit from writing this. Enjoy the story.
...
Chapter Nine
Honeytrap
Lister Hall, London - 1847 hours
Kowalski carefully scrutinized the paper in his hand. He could hear Skipper talking to Rico in the living room. The scientist assumed it had to do with Rico's trunk, judging from the way it was laid out between the two comrades. Private was in the bedroom, doing whatever children his age do at this time of the day. The dark-haired boy had gone back to being the chipper optimist they all knew. It was a relief to their team leader and their weapons expert.
Dinner was lovely, as usual. Their medic-slash- weapons-expert's choice of menu today was all Italian. The genius found himself consuming more fettuccine carbonara than he had intended to. Private ate the most, Skipper ate the least, Rico devoured whatever is left after everyone was done, as per usual.
Boring. Monotone. Unstimulating.
But of course, with the recent events they were presented with, their current situation wouldn't stay uneventful much longer. He predicted at least another encounter with the unidentified trio Private mentioned.
The man read and re-read the walls of text that covered the entirety of the paper. The previous interogatee had told them quite the significant amount of information, a majority of which are bits regarding the recent murder case involving street gangs.
'So, now do we not only have to keep an eye on these rats, we need to be on the lookout for an angry bunch of hornets,' he mused, rubbing his chin. 'What is it with gangs and animal motifs? Is it some kind of trend these days?'
The Polish man soon tuned out all the noises of his surroundings, concentrating only on the bits of intel in his grasp.
Their interogatee -'Jose? Vankov?' he didn't give a damn, really- disclosed a ton of incriminating things about the Forest Gate Rats. Apparently, they had been selling drugs to various people since the last three years, and had made good sums of money from that business. Their leader -whom all the members call 'King'- was the one who instructed them to distribute their product. Where he had acquired them from, none of the members knew. The King himself was missing at the day the Penguins busted their base. The interogatee said he probably went for a walk, but Kowalski suspected ulterior motives. Gang leaders wouldn't leave their gang unsupervised without leaving a second-in-command in charge and according to the interogatee, he had never appointed anyone with that status.
Apart from that, the Rats had a rival gang who called themselves the Homerton Hornets, or just Hornets, for short. Apparently it was an all-girl gang too; he admitted that he had to admire the strength of female emancipation. The death of Mike Tyler was hardly the climax of the battle between the two gangs, as murders with the exact same motif have happened before. Unsurprisingly, the victims always came from the Rats' side.
'They obviously didn't consult Sun Tzu before heading to war,' the strategist snickered at the thought. 'Ah, the wonders of the Worf effect.'
According to the interogatee, the conflict in E16 originally started because the Rats accidentally sold drugs to one of the Hornets at none other than Star Lane Park. One day, the Hornet over- dosed and died. When her fellow gang member found out about the Rats, they were furious and started exterminating any Rats they see in E16. Eventually, the Hornets started reaching out to Forest Gate for the sake of finding the Rats. All Rats who were attacked had their stock of drug (or 'load', as they called it) taken from them by the Hornets. What the girls did with the drugs, nobody knew but the Hornets themselves.
Despite the fair motives, Kowalski couldn't help suspect another reason to the Hornets' unusual aggression. It's not a strange thing for rivaling gangs to be violent to each other, but repeated murders, especially after an incident from half a year ago, seemed a tad extreme.
Or it could just be him overanalyzing things.
'Never hurt me before.'
"Anything good?"
The scientist pivoted his head around, looking up to his leader. "A few." Behind the man, he could see Rico being occupied by Miss Perky.
Skipper pulled out the chair next to his second- in-command and sat down. "Shoot."
"I have highlighted all important points. See for yourself," Kowalski said, pushing his papers to Skipper. "The green ones, not red. Red is for grammatical mistakes."
"You proofread your own notes?" The team leader mused, skimming the text.
Kowalski shrugged. "Habit."
Skipper's eyes moved up and down the papers, taking in the information. "What do you suggest we do about this?"
"Our best possible course of action would be to investigate the Hornets."
"How do we do that?"
The strategist rubbed his nose. "Fortunately for us, our last interogatee happens to be involved with one of the Hornets."
"...really?"
"She is one of their more amiable members, he said," the Polish continued, ignoring Skipper's comment. "I infer that's the front she puts up in front of him, if only to gain his trust. Funny how he pleaded me not to do anything to her, right after he told me this bit."
"Where can we find her?"
"She works at Westfield Shopping Centre as an employee of Louis Vuitton. I have checked the employees' schedule for that branch; she has a shift today. She is still there, actually, and will be there until 2000 hours today."
"And you still haven't told me her name."
Kowalski scratched his chin. "Now that you've mentioned it, I never did, did I?"
...
The two superior members of the Penguins entered the medium-size room. The whole team was now assembled in the bedroom. Rico had finished showering and was changing into a red tee and loose white pants. Private was lounging on the bed, dressed in an amber sleepshirt. He looked ready to fall asleep anytime if it weren't for the novel he was reading.
Skipper clapped twice. "Gather round, men. We are going out."
Private looked up from his book. "Where to?"
"The mall."
A gleeful chortle came out of Rico's mouth. He had heard of the 'mall' before, though he never actually visited one. Julien told him it was a big place full of things you can take by offering the person in charge a special card, which they will return to you anyway. The big man assumed it was some sort of free-for-all paradise.
The youngest member of the team wore a smile on his face. "How nice! But why so sudden?"
"Because our intentions are not leisurely," the team strategist piped up from behind Skipper. "Our objective is to search for a certain damsel who's of significant value to the progress of our mission."
"Da'zle?"
Skipper nodded. "Yes, Rico. Damsel."
...
Westfield Shopping Centre, London - 1902 hours
The mall was rather sparse that day, which was somewhat unusual. Pairs of feet treaded across the sterling floor as their path intertwined with each others'. Four men dressed in casual wear were walking side-by-side, obstructing a part of the walkway, much to the general annoyance of the people who were behind them. Not that the quad noticed as they were too preoccupied with the current task in their hands.
The leader of the group ran his gloved fingers against his raven hair, noting that it had grown past the base of his neck. Skipper silently told himself to cut the excess length off later as he pulled the hem of his tight black tee down. The mall was air-conditioned, yet the military man found himself sweating more than he should be, suspecting it had something to do with the anxiety he secretly felt in the pit of his guts. His cargo pants were uncomfortable against his hips; the parachute fabric didn't facilitate much ventilation. He could've worn his tuxedo pants, but the combination was so ridiculous, he didn't even bother trying it out. Most embarassingly, the pants he currently wore weren't his, but his second-in-command's. They would've been too long for him to wear if it weren't for the lucky fact that the bottom half was detachable. In his mind, he thanked whoever made zippers.
Kowalski coughed lightly. "I understand you are impatient to take action, but is it necessary to do so at this time of the day?"
"I think it's appropriate," Private smiled, hands tucked into the pocket of his dark jeans. "Most people come here in the evening, don't they?"
"The time when work is over and play begins." Skipper piped in, discreetly eyeing an attractive navy canvas jacket displayed behind a window. "But work doesn't stop for us. Keep an eye out for any L and V you can see."
Despite his general dislike of the situation, the Polish remained silent, rolling and unrolling the long sleeves of his pine green shirt, just for the sake of not getting bored. His lapis lazuli eyes scanned the crowd, trying to look for something -anything- interesting. Eventually he settled his hands in the big pockets of his olive pants, face cast down to stare at polished marble.
There was a reason he didn't go out often. Kowalski disliked being out in public, mostly because of the lack of intelligence displayed by occasional morons he had the misfortune to witness while taking an innocent stroll. Once, he had seen a little boy, possibly of age four, walk out into the road to catch a runaway ball. Then he got hit by a speeding truck. The genius remembered watching the scene impassively from an overhead bridge, the ruckus made by passersby lost to his ears. He scoffed at both the child and the truck driver - the former for foolishly charging into a stupidly risky situation without any preparation and the latter for getting himself into a sticky spot without an available backdoor. The driver even had the galls to park the vehicle and get down to the streets. He could've driven away instead. The crowd was too transfixed on the dead child to bother pelting the truck with stones anyway. The whole incident was like poison to his mind - it reeked of sheer stupidity.
Then again, it wasn't as if he was spared from foolish incidents in CPZ. Most of his headache stemmed from Julien's lack of a functional mind and the stupid actions of miscellanous people. Antonio was among the worst offenders, really. But the scientist tolerated the Spaniard, if only because of their mutual relationship.
"You lived here before, didn't you Private? You should know where the nearest store is."
The boy laughed, sapphire eyes shimmering with humor. "I'm afraid not, Skippah. Uncle Nigel and I lived further west, at Devon."
"Did you go to school here?"
"I was homeschooled by Uncle Nigel. Well, until he had me join you."
Skipper narrowed his eyes. "Why'd you go to New York instead of entering the London branch?"
The small-statured boy giggled. "Oh, no reason."
Rico kept up a smile as he listened along to the conversation. It was nice for the team to have a casual trip to the mall. They never did it before actually. The weapons expert rubbed his belly, feeling the soft cotton fabric of his shirt against his hand. The red tee was an old welcoming gift given to him by Skipper when the Latin man was officially announced as a member of Team Penguin. It even had nice, large block letters in front that spelled 'kaboom' in white all-caps. It was one of his favorite things aside from Miss Perky that he will hold on to forever. Speaking of Miss Perky, the spiky-haired man wondered how she was doing, all alone in the flat. Rico's lips formed a downwards curve as he recalled how Skipper had forbade him from bringing his beloved doll on recon. He was sad, but if it was Skipper's orders, he wiould listen. Besides, he had left her a pack of cards she could play with while they were gone. Hopefully he could make up for his absence when they got back.
"Ah, there it is." The four men stopped at their leader's voice. Looking up, they could see a big white signboard with ornate golden letters that spelled 'Luis Vuitton'. Three white mannequins stood behind a layer of glass, each set in poses distinct from each other and garbed in different clothes and accessories. Private ran his bright blue eyes down one of the three static dolls. He thought the design was actually quite nice.
Skipper shifted his eyes between his three subordinates. "Who wants to do the honors?"
"It would be more practical to just enter."
"Negative, Kowalski. We need a cannon fodder - someone expendable who can take the shame of being seen on a shopping trip. Private?"
The teenager silently questioned Skipper's sentiments about shopping. He guessed it had something to do with the adult man's rather outdated view of manliness. That being said, Private didn't mind going shopping. In fact, he loved the idea of walking past aisles and racks of beautiful clothes. The child strolled into the shop with his head held high, promising himself that one day he would show Skipper shopping isn't reserved for females.
The three older men followed the younger into the store. They noted how lavishly decorated it was, despite not being a very large place. Rico grinned stupidly when he saw a rose-pink dress highly similar to the one Miss Perky wore, barr the abundant amount of sequines. He thought it would be funny if he dressed up as her and vice versa later October.
Kowalski's eyes twitched. "Well. Here we are." His tone showed that he was unamused. "What shall we do? Go down every aisle, search every rack until we find the girl?"
"Hell no. That'll take us all day."
'You don't say.' "What do you suggest, then?"
Skipper shot the scientist a funny look. "You're the options guy. You think of something."
Kowalski held an exasperated sigh, adjusting his spectacles. He really needed a break from their awfully teeth-clenched teamwork. 'Focus, Kowalski. Think of Jiggles. Poor Jiggles, left back in that cold lab. He must be so lonely— stop! Think of something else. The mission. Yes. Oslo. The next target—'
"S'cuse me."
Rico was the first to whip around at the source of the voice, followed quickly by the rest of the team. Behind them stood a young lady who wore a light uniform similar to that of the other employees, suggesting that she shared the job. Standing with her head bowed, she looked up at them sullenly. "Do you need help?"
Skipper was a bit taken aback at the deadened tone of the question, as well as the lady's look in general. Her dull blonde hair was rolled up in a little bun, some strands haphazardly sticking out or strewn across her face. Her green eyes looked sunken and there were hints of redness at the edges of her sclera. The commander had seen this kind of look before. In fact, he knew it so well, there was a particular one etched into his memory - one he saw in a cracked mirror.
Private was about to answer her when all of a sudden, Kowalski pushed him aside and walked towards her. Before anyone could say anything, the strategist grabbed both sides of her cheeks with his left hand, roughly lifting the girl's pear- shaped face up. The cries of his colleagues fell upon his deaf ears as he boldly scrutinized the blonde lady's tanned visage. Pools of dim green stared back at his lapis lazuli. They were filled to the brim with fear. Not that he cared. After what seemed to be a very long time, Kowalski's gaze shifted to her chest, then back at her face. The pale man opened his mouth, speaking in a low, careful tone. "Celia Tyler?"
She subconsciously tried to flinch, but the lady found herself unable to thanks to the iron grip the man had on her jaws. Celia looked up, her gaze hard. "...that's me."
"That's you." The scientist replied coldly. "And you're coming with us."
Skipper crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Are you sure this is the target?"
"If the name tag doesn't indicate enough..."
The lady's eyes darted back and forth between the two men. "Yer takin' me away, aren'tcha?"
"You seem to know something, woman."
Skipper's sky blue eyes met the blonde's green. "If yer who I think you are, yea." She paused to look around. "We gotta talk somewhere else. I can show ya a good place. C'mon."
...
The Princess Alexandra, London - 2021 hours
The four men and one woman sat in silence in a dimly lit bar, far from where they came from. A server considered approaching them before he changed his mind. The guy with the scar across his mouth looked like trouble, and they've had one too many bar fights this week. Damaged property is one hell of a bitch to replace.
Skipper looked around the place. It wasn't very impressive, but not so shoddy either. A suitable place for casual late-night outings. He silently wondered if taking the lady -Celia?- here was a good thing. Although it was her suggestion, it's rude to just drag someone from their job.
Private shifted in his seat, trying not to look uncomfortable. Last time they went to a bar was last December, and he didn't want another hangover. He told himself never to celebrate Julianuary, or anything on that matter, in a bar. It probably wouldn't end well for him. "Are you sure Miss Tyler is the one, King?"
The scientist pushed his spectacles up. "Most certainly." He spoke, discreetly eyeing the dark yellow, beehive-patterned belt that hugged the employee's narrow waist.
Rico was quiet, as usual. His tourmaline-tosca eyes were fixed on the rectangular wood table. He seemed very focused, but nobody could see just what he was focusing on. The half-Latino played with a marble ashtray, rolling it between his palms, occassionally spinning it on the tip of a finger. The weapons expert silently pondered about the noticeably wide crack that ran down the middle of the ashtray. It looked as if it had been split apart, then crudely patched up again. But it had nothing to do with him, so he kept on playing with the petite piece of furniture.
Rico's silence was mirrored by the tan blonde sitting at the innermost corner of their table, head cast down with her hands clasped on her knees. Her mannerisms suggested as if she was a convict lined up on a death sentence row. Considering the current circumstances she was in, however, that might as well be the case.
Kowalski let out a long breath, leaning back against the ripe red cushion. "Almond-shaped eyes, green irises, attached earlobes, single lid, hazel diamond freckles. These traits resemble the victim of yesterday's murder." Soul-piercing lapis lazuli orbs stared into glassy emerald green. "Celia Tyler, older sibling of Mike Tyler. Am I correct?"
The blonde flinched, knowing the question was directed at her. "I guess there ain't no point in tryin' to hide it from you Rats."
A childlike giggle suddenly bubbled through the scientist's lips. "Those bratty youngsters? Oh, no. We're not that brash, and definitely more intelligent."
"Wait, ya ain't from the Rats?" The blonde's posture suggested she wanted to get out of the seat, but told herself not to do so. "But... who the hell are ya...?"
As sudden as he started laughing, the dark-haired man's expression switched to what people nowadays would dub 'shit just got real'. "Look, woman. We don't care about those flimsy Rats. We don't care what happened between you and what's-his-name. All we would like to do is ask you questions. If we like what you say, you may go. If we don't, we'll ask again until we like what you say. Did I make myself clear?"
The girl hesitated, but nodded in resignation.
Skipper shot his second-in-command a look that said 'hurry up'. The strategist huffed, shooting back a disapproving look at his impatience. The latter of the two cleared his throat, placing his hands on the oak table and clasping his palms together. "Alright. First question: which street gang does that mark on your leg belong to?"
Celia's eyes widened. "How'd 'cha know—"
"You have been pulling your skirt down since you sat. I see tendrils of black and gold ink on the skin above your left knee. Now please answer the question."
Her reply wasn't immediate. "This is the mark of the Hornet." The blonde girl tentatively lifted up a portion of her black pencil skirt so to let the four men see what she had meant. True to Kowalski's words, there was an ornate black-and-gold cross tattooed to the skin right above her left knee. "I'm a Gyne. I only got one cross, but the Drones' got two, and Queen's got three." She explained, seeming almost enthusiastic as she spoke.
"I'm guessing the Queen holds the highest position."
"Yep."
"What is her name?"
The woman shook her head hard, signalling her unwillingness to answer. Unfortunately for her, the man questioning her was unfazed.
"Miss Tyler, what is her name?"
"I can't tell ya," she blurted out. "I don't know - nobody knows. Not even the Drones. It's—"
"Enough." Kowalski interrupted, tone betraying irritation. "Do you meet often?"
Celia exhaled harshly. "Not often tho'." It was murmured out, but clearly heard.
"Where and when?"
"Around here, usually. But that d'pends on Queen. If she wanna do it somewhere else, we do it." The blonde drew in a deep breath before suddenly hitching in the middle. She looked around the bar, head spinning frantically. "This ain't good." Her tone was close to panicking. "I gotta get outta here."
The scientist stared. "We are hardly done."
"I have to!" Celia pleaded, her eyes wide. "You have to. I told'cha enough already, didn't I?"
Kowalski rapped his fingers against the table. "Say, Miss Tyler, do you enjoy shopping?"
That was when Skipper decided to take things into his own hands. "I think we're good to go." He gave a firm glare at his second-in-command, whom he knew was about to protest. "We got what we want already, didn't we."
It was not a question.
The scientist scowled inwardly. "Certainly, sir."
The five people stood up, immediately going to the entrance. After they walked out of the bar, Private turned to look at Celia. Flashing the girl a comforting smile, the dark-haired boy said, "I am sorry for the loss of your brother. I pray the Father accepts him on His side."
Celia was stunned. She stammered stupidly for a few moments before her shoulders slumped tiredly. "I..." The blonde sighed. "...thank you." As the four men walked away, she, too, went to another street. She paused momentarily before turning back. "Wait!"
The quad abruptly stopped, returning her gaze in their own individual ways.
"Y'all ain't cops, are ya?"
"And what makes you think so, woman?"
Celia exhaled sharply, gathering herself. "A cop would drag me to a station already. I ain't that stupid, I know that much." Her emerald green eyes fixed on the four men in front of her, she continued, "If you people ain't cops, what are ya?"
Skipper simply smirked at the classic question, as did the rest of the team. "That, civilian," he spoke. "Is for us to know and for you to never find out." The man beckoned at the other three to move on. Soon, the four had gone down the road, disappearing into the dark evening.
This left Celia in the middle of the road, alone and, frankly, confused. As if breaking out of the trance, she shook her head roughly. The blonde once again looked around warily before going down the road in search for transportation. She had to get out of there. She had to.
From the angular shadows cast by the bar, two unidentified figures watched the exchange with an entirely stoic manner.
...
A/N: My brain isn't working well. My writing skills have declined during the past few days and describing seem to be such a chore now. Maybe I need a break?
mary: Ah, so you're the cheerful optimist. Alas, poor Private. Perhaps it's already in his job description to be the odd one out... or should I say, the nice one out.
LoverOfThings: No, you were the only one who guessed. You won the not-a-contest-you-just-made-up contest. Congratulations. Chilly is delicious. Like brain ice cream. Interaction with Antonio's team? Okay. It's Badger though, not Otter - not yet. Ethics and moral conversation coming right up. Rico and Miss Perky is abundant enough in the past chapters, I think. Kowalski in the showers, hmm? Are you trying to imply something, or is that the little fangirl in the back of my head speaking?
Batmanskipper: Your reasoning is near correct. I wouldn't say he's used to worse, but let's just go with that. The mission itself isn't much of an importance, really. It's the reason behind that mission that poses significance. No, Phil is not a double agent. May I ask how you got that idea? Because I'm pretty sure I didn't say anything that alludes to that particular notion. Just wondering.
...
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These wonderful people have done well in feeding the poor child.
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