Skipper shifted, his mind drifting up from a deep, dark pit back to consciousness. He tried to open his eyes, but something heavy and tight was wrapped around his head, keeping his eyes closed. Shifting again, he realized that his flippers and feet were bound together with tight cord, almost too tight. His beak was clamped shut and muzzled. He wriggled, and somebody laughed, a gritty, low noise. A grating, guttural language was spoken nearby. It sounded like Rico's tongue, but it definitely wasn't his loyal soldier.
"The warriors say that you're waking up, Skipper," a smooth voice said.
'Blowhole,' Skipper thought. He snarled through the muzzle, wriggling more energetically.
"Don't bother, pen-gu-in," Blowhole said dismissively. "You won't get free. And even if you do, I have twenty warriors to wrestle you back to the ground."
Skipper fought for another moment, and he felt another body beside him, shifting. A grunt sounded next to his ear, and Skipper fought harder.
'Kowalski!' he thought wildly. He gathered his energy, but something sharp pressed into the soft flesh of his belly. He stopped moving immediately. As dull as his instincts were, he knew not to move with a knife against him.
"Keep struggling, and I'll hurt Kowalski," Blowhole said. "And then I'll have them gut you."
Skipper stayed still as the sharp thing was pulled away, and he was forced to sit up. Kowalski moaned through his own muzzle, still disoriented from the remnants of the drug in his system. The room was quiet. The soft bob of the floor beneath them informed Skipper that they were on a boat. Where were they going? What was Blowhole going to do? Whatever it was, Skipper wouldn't break. He would be strong for Kowalski and Rico and Private. They were a team, and he was their leader. It was his job to protect them, to get them out of any scrape. And this was one heck of a scrape.
The lead penguin sat still, Kowalski on his left, half-draped over him and still swimming through the drug haze. The other two were probably on the other side, no doubt still unconscious. Skipper paid attention to every detail that he could assimilate. They were on the ocean, not a lake. He could smell saltwater, and he could feel a chill in his bones. They were either in the north or very, very far south. Blowhole was silent, but he could hear the murmur of voices, that same guttural tongue that Rico spoke. He understood nothing that they said. He suddenly wished that he'd paid more attention to Kowalski's attempts to teach him the language.
The boat jolted, and there was a grating sound. They must have reached some shore. Flippers grabbed him, but they weren't the smooth flippers of a dolphin. They were penguin flippers. He was hauled to his feet, the bindings slashed, and they pushed him forward. Blood rushed back into his feet, which began to tingle, forcing Skipper to groan. Each step was alight with painful pinches in his nerves. Kowalski was forced up, and he stumbled against Skipper, groaning.
'Be strong, soldier,' Skipper thought as he was shoved forward.
The cold grew more intense with every step, and they emerged from the interior of the boat into air so cold that it burned his lungs. It seemed to have a sobering effect on Kowalski, who managed to straighten up, grunting. They were not given the chance to rest, and they were marched down a plank onto a field of snow and ice. The thick, powdery snow made the tingling in Skipper's feet even sharper, and he hissed as he stumbled blindly forward. The wind was so cold it was physically painful to have it brush across his face; each gust seemed to slice deep into his nerves, setting them tingling, too.
They were brutally shoved along some invisible path, and when they couldn't walk by themselves, they were dragged by strong, feathered flippers. Their captors were just as merciless as Blowhole was; no wonder he'd picked them. Whenever he or Kowalski slipped on ice, there was a chorus of cruel, heartless laughter in the same grating voices that occasionally spoke gruffly to each other.
After a brief eternity, the wind was suddenly cut off, and Skipper thanked the stars that the air was still. His feet had long ago gone numb, and they were forced deeper into whatever building they were in. They walked and walked until Skipper thought he'd collapse, and just before his legs gave way, he was pushed hard. Sliding forward on a cold, rocky surface, he hit a wall hard enough to see stars. There was a flop as Kowalski was thrown in beside him. He waited for the next thud. He waited. And waited. And then the door slammed.
Dread and bile filled Skipper's throat. 'There should have been two more bodies! Rico! Private! Where are you?!'
Kowalski groaned, trying to speak through the specially designed muzzles. All that came out was a muffled string of mutterings. Skipper couldn't even feel his flippers anymore, partially from the bindings, and partially from the incessant cold that assaulted him on every side. There was no place that was warm, he knew that. This was their punishment.
The two penguins alternated between struggling in their binds and resting their exhausted, sore bodies. After a while, the door opened again, and the same language was spat harshly at them. It was different in some way that Skipper couldn't place. A sharp jerk slammed his face into the ground, and the cloth around his eyes loosened and fell away. Looking up at the penguin in front of them, Skipper knew at once why it was different. The penguins before had all been male, but the one talking right now was a female. She didn't look soft and cuddly like a female was supposed to, and one look into her face, and Skipper knew he didn't dare try to sweet-talk her.
The female brought her clawed foot up and slashed away the blindfold on Kowalski with one smooth movement. She continued to speak to the two males behind her, her voice grating and full of cold anger. Her eyes were blue as the sky on a fair day, but they contained none of the warmth. Turning to Kowalski, she began to speak again. He mumbled through the muzzle and nodded. The male on the left came forward and used a tool to cut away the muzzle. Skipper's was given the same treatment, and he opened and closed his beak to relieve the ache in his jaw from being clamped shut.
The female spoke again, her tone no-nonsense. She spoke rapidly, and Kowalski shifted, his eyes troubled. She paused, standing tall and silent, waiting for a response. Kowalski tried to talk, coughed, then began to slowly speak, his syllables awkward and rough. The males looked disgusted at his attempt at their language, but the female just watched him through her stoic eyes.
The female responded, and Kowalski answered again. Three times this happened before the female slammed her foot down, clawing at the rock. It was clearly a threat, and Kowalski balked, trembling as he answered one more time. She nodded, turn around, gave another command, then left. The two males used the primitive knife to slice through the cords binding their flippers together, and blood rushed back into their extremities. Another male brought in two fish and a strange bowl of water, then all of the males left, slamming the door to their room behind them. They were alone.
Kowalski and Skipper crawled to the water, gulping down half the bowl to sate their parched throats. They sat up, shaking the tingles out of their flippers then laying back against the wall. Their stomachs were very empty, and Skipper coughed.
"Wonder when we last had food," Kowalski croaked.
"Might be poisoned," Skipper rasped.
"No. She said we were safe for now," the brainy penguin said. "And I think she's trustworthy. Besides, you know Blowhole. Poison isn't his game. Not bloody enough."
"True," Skipper said.
They waited for a few moments before crawling for the fish and swallowing them whole. The food hit their empty stomachs, making them sigh with just that little relief. They huddled together in the cold, their eyes sweeping the room. Kowalski finally shifted.
"We're in a cave system," he said.
"What?"
"We're not in a building. We're in a cave system. I think we're in Antarctica. That's why there's so many penguins who speak Rico's language."
"So Blowhole's made more allies," Skipper grumbled.
"Seems like it."
"What are we going to do?" He paused. "Where's Rico and Private? What happened? How did we get captured?"
Kowalski rubbed his head, leaning back against the wall. "I remember that they went out to get sno-cones," he said. "There was a knock at the front door, and I opened it. There were penguins there. Lots of them. They looked like Rico did when we found him in Antarctica."
The memory started to come back. A smoke grenade went off in the base, blinding them. The native penguins fought them, and they were too strong. They tied them up in cords, and Maurice and Marlene were screaming in the smoke. Marlene screamed and she and Maurice had left. He'd seen their shadows as the smoke cleared. The natives had dragged them down into a secret tunnel. One was throwing something white on the floor, moving it around. He cut himself, dotting the blood. Skipper remembered a sharp pain in his neck, and he squawked and struggled, driving his beak through muscle. Somebody else drove their beak into his flesh. Blood splashed on the floor. Then, as the world went black, there was an explosion.
Looking down, Skipper saw that the wound he'd received from the beak was shallow and already healing. Had it been tended? Possibly. Kowalski followed his gaze, tutting. His gentle flippers explored the area, his eyes trailing across the damaged skin. He shook his head.
"It's going to scar, but it'll be fine."
There were footsteps outside their door, followed by an electric hum. Both penguins stood up, setting their faces. Their nemesis was coming in to speak to them. Just as they'd known, Blowhole entered, two other natives behind him in ice masks. They held staffs in their right flippers, slamming them on the ground to announce the dolphin's presence.
"Skipper," Blowhole said from inside a bubble. "Kowalski. You look cold. I'm nice and warm in here."
The two penguins said nothing, glaring at the mammal. Blowhole grinned, but instead of proclaiming his plans, he leaned back, gesturing for the two warriors to come forward. They did, their eyes full of malice.
"I just wanted to show you something of mine."
He clicked, and they removed their masks to reveal…
"Manfredi! Johnson!" Skipper yelped, taking a step back.
He wanted to shout that now Blowhole was in for it, but something stopped him. The two penguins who had once been on his team were grinning madly, their dark eyes sparkling. He knew that look. They had always had it when they were taking down an enemy. It was merciless, pitiless, and it had been hard to control when they were on his team. They had resented him for his orders to calm down, to control their emotions. With a sinking feeling, he realized that Blowhole wouldn't want them to control it. He'd want it to control them.
"I'll leave you four to catch up," Blowhole said, turning and leaving. The door slammed behind him, and they heard his warbling laugh.
"Manfredi, Johnson," Kowalski said, looking torn. "Are you…You can't be…"
Skipper just looked at them, his heart breaking. Blowhole had brainwashed them. There was no doubt in his mind. Blowhole had hypnotized them into doing his bidding.
"We can get your minds back," Skipper began, but Manfredi snorted.
He was a burly penguin, taller than even Kowalski, and wider than Rico. He shook his head, glancing at his partner. Johnson was skinny, his feathers shiny and well-kept. He'd always been meticulous about his appearance. The two penguins approached their former commanders, that dark, angry look never leaving their eyes.
"We didn't lose our minds, Skipper," Johnson said, his nasally voice high and gleeful. "Blowhole never took our minds."
Kowalski swallowed, backing up a few steps. "He must've. He captured you years ago. He's been working on you for…for a long time. I can help you."
"You don't get it," Manfredi said, narrowing his eyes. "So let me explain. Blowhole never captured us."
The two officers stared at them in disbelief, and they both grinned wider. Johnson leaned down, smirking.
"Too bad you couldn't save Lita and Pol."
Skipper's mind ached as they said that, and he remembered finding their bodies, full of holes and gouges. Kowalski had told him that they were killed 'wild-style'. And suddenly it made sense, horrifying, heartbreaking sense. Manfredi and Johnson prided themselves on knowing many fighting styles. Including wild-style. The evidence, Skipper thought, the evidence said they were attacked suddenly, but there was no proof that Manfredi and Johnson had fought back. We thought they were knocked out, but…but…
The truth hit both penguins hard, and they gaped at them, betrayal filling their souls. Manfredi and Johnson laughed at the looks of horror on their faces, and then they began, in great, excruciating detail, to tell of all that had gone on that led up to their becoming traitors. Skipper and Kowalski listened in shock and grief as the friends they had thought to save began to destroy their minds.