Chapter 9

As it turned out, he hadn't been able to sleep.

Every time his eyes had closed all he had seen was the horrific image of the entire Rookery lying dead in a pool of thick, drying blood.

So it had become a necessity to stay awake.

He'd spent the time cleaning up the scans from earlier, binding them in groups with duct tape and stacking them high against the back wall of his lab. Most of them were superfluous now anyway and he'd probably be able to convince Rico to take them to the furnace and burn them tomorrow, the opportunity to burn something probably more than the psycho could resist.

A few had remained, a couple from Private and the two from Skipper that had tipped him off in the first place. They took Pride of place on his new mystery wall, managing to find a wheel of old red wire casing to use as string to connect the disparate pieces of information. The drawings were admittedly shoddy, but he figured as long as he could follow it, it mattered less if anyone else could. He'd actually made a few of them vague on purpose, just in case Rico or Private happened to pass a glance.

The drawing he had initially done of Frances Alberta, or Genevieve Waters, whoever she was, had been smeared in the last of his red coloured pencil, but even looking at the stick figure had been too much and he'd quickly ripped it up and shoved it deep into a draw where hopefully he wouldn't ever have to look at it again. Even the knowledge it was there was gnawing on the edges of his mind and he wondered if he could hide it among the paper set for the furnace and hope Rico would burn it along with the rest.

The thought of it falling loose and being seen kept it where it was. It was far better to keep Rico and Private in the dark. Kowalski felt like a scum bag for doing so, recalling just how intent he had been on sharing everything with them and getting it out in the open before he had known the details, sure that they had the right to know. Part of him still thought that if he was really being honest. Who were he and Skipper to decide what and what not to share with the rest of the team, especially when it impacted them so greatly? But Skipper was right. Neither of them would be able to handle it.

Private was obvious, the poor little penguin couldn't even bring himself to harm a cricket for Einstein's sake, he would never be able to deal with the knowledge of a murder. Rico was more of a complicated issue.

Sure, he revelled in all things violent and gritty, he'd proven it time and time again. Just about everything Rico loved spat in the eyes of civilised society, so theoretically this would have been right up his alley. However there was one key detail that emphasised the importance of keeping this information out of his reach and that was his alarming co-dependence.

Initially they'd all been sure the only person it really extended too was Skipper, after all he was their leader and as such had the unenviable position as backbone of the whole operation. But while Private and Kowalski were also lost without him, neither experienced the same panicked shut-down Rico did when they didn't know exactly where he was. Skipper was usually the one taking on dangerous solo missions, so it was more obvious, but time had revealed something that only made the behaviour more alarming. Rico was just as concerned when either he or Private were missing without explanation. Like a mother duck herding her children Rico needed to be aware of everyone's movements at all times or he would start to panic. Private had thought it rather sweet, but Skipper and Kowalski were more concerned than anything.

Telling him that they were all in very real, life threatening danger probably wouldn't help this complicated issue, and while there was no real way of predicting how we would react with any more surety than knowing the outcome of a random dice roll you could almost bet your left flipper it wouldn't be good.

So Kowalski had steeled himself with the belief that this was what was best for them and continued winding the wire casing around the push pins hammered into the wall with a surety he wasn't entirely sure he believed. He'd wanted it to resemble something you would see on a procedural cop drama, but it turned out more like something you would stumble upon in a conspiracy nut's creepy basement. Regardless he'd kept working at it.

Eventually he had been forced to peel the drawing of the eyes free from the back of the door to move it over to the haphazard spiderweb he was creating, and it almost felt like a betrayal.

Something so nice nestled amongst things so awful simply felt wrong and he offered a mental apology to whoever it was he remembered so kindly for putting his memory of them in such a position.

The eyes had stared out of the picture, realistic enough to be passable, but nothing quite like the memory still haunting him. The list of suspects was simultaneously no-one and everyone. It certainly wasn't anyone they knew from their current surroundings. Marlene's eyes were a honey yellow, and all three of the lemurs were a sunny amber. Mason and Phil both sported eyes so brown as to appear black and of course all four of the penguins shared the same flat, mid-tone, printer ink blue. The closest he could recall was perhaps Clemson, but his eyes were far more green and lacked the subtle ombre around the pupil.

Also he was a clinical narcissist and attempted kidnapper. Important details to note.

Not that it really mattered, the longer Kowalski had sat with the memory the more he had been sure it couldn't have been any of them regardless of eye colour, the feeling was just… different.

He wound the red cord around the blue push pin he had speared just above the edge of the picture.

There was something about the specific feeling the memory had left him with, something that spoke to something deeper than a simple friendly or familial connection. It was exciting, and left his heart throwing in a staccato to its usual steady pulse. Muted adrenaline, bone deep surety and a the warmth of mutual comfort were steeped so deeply into the memory, but just below it was a flutter of anxiety and impulsive rashness that never felt as wrong as they usually did in isolation. It was curious, and Kowalski could only wonder the identity of this mystery stranger from his past.

Satisfied the cord was pulled taught he shifted over and began to once again wind the casing around another push pin, this one holding his rough rendering of the second memory he had available to him.

Glass roof, domed and high above him sat on pillars of old dark wood carved intricately in the cornices. The night sky beyond it was pure darkness, maybe because of the thick smoke crowding the glass and leaving ashy sweeps of soot against the ceiling. Fire flickered at the corner, burning through the stain on the old pillars in acrid pluming clouds to begin eating away at the raw wood beneath. It had been hard to draw, the knots and patterns of the carvings hard to render at scale on the paper and his perspective lines were wonky. The curved nature of the ceiling was missing almost entirely and looked closer to a floor than he would have liked, and having used the last of his red pencil the fire looked almost fake coloured in a flat orange.

It certainly hadn't been. He could remember the way the heat had felt on his feathers and the crackling sound of aged architecture being devoured by the fire.

It had been peaceful, but not in a good way. The feeling had been cold and numbing and even as the flames had spread he hadn't moved, eyes trained on the ceiling in resignation as he had waited. It had been justice and he was left standing in a burning building waiting for… something.

He could have guessed. It wouldn't have taken much. Most people ran from fire, it was normal survival instinct. An instinct that in that moment he had lacked entirely. Survival wasn't the aim.

He'd moved on quickly. Removing the spool of wire casing had disrupted the carefully curated chaos of his electrical cabinet, and he took the time to methodically remove every item and replace it correctly.

There were a few more cabinets after that, each a precarious tower of supplies and tools that needed to be re-organised.

The bench tops had been dusted and a few rouge and useless experiments had been carefully itemised for reclamation. Nothing went to waste. It was a mission to get out to the junk yard and Kowalski doubted they would be leaving the zoo anytime soon, so anything new that needed creating would have to be a Frankenstein's monster of cannibalised parts.

He was almost looking forward to the challenge. Maybe finally the love-u-lator would actually be of use somehow.

He shook his head and tossed the thing over his shoulder to land in the cardboard box he had placed out. Trying to get Marlene and Fred together just to prove a point had been a fool's errand, and knowing that just about every other animal in the park was a feral, disgruntled creature hardly left hope it was a case of mistaken identity.

It was around the time he was bushing up the pile of dust accumulated in his sweep into a dustpan that there was a knock at the door.

When Skipper opened it, Kowalski knew he was in for it. The light pouring through the portholes on the other side of the door could be nothing other than warm daylight. He hadn't meant to keep working so long, and it was only now that he was aware of how much time had actually passed. Night was over and he hadn't left his lab once.

"Skipper I…" he stammered, desperately looking for an excuse. He dropped the dustpan, and subsequently all of the dust inside.

Skipper passed a furtive glance over his shoulder before shutting the door behind him with a sigh.

Kowalski rubbed his flippers together, fretting. "I'm so sorry, did I miss training? I promis-"

Skipper looked confused for a moment before shaking his head. "Training was cancelled Kowalski, don't worry about it."

He… he wasn't in trouble?

Skipper picked up his abandoned coffee mug from the night before, eyeing the cold and likely stagnant coffee inside. "I spoke to Rico and the Private, and they're mostly on the same page now."

His curiosity spiked. "What did you tell them?"

Skipper sighed, the outline of his guilt clear. "Lies mostly." He admitted. "I told them Frances had a heart attack in prison and her arrest report was a dud. I also made up some clap-trap about needing to stick closer to home for a while and the importance of working as a unit."

He looked tired, sleep clearly not coming easily last night. His feathers were still ruffled and there was a haze in his eyes that betrayed the fact he really had yet to even fully wake up.

"So they shouldn't be doing anything outside of normalcy for at least a while then?" Kowalski asked.

Skipper nodded. "That's the hope." He took a swig from the cup in his flipper and promptly spat it directly back in. "Ugh, what the…" He frowned at the mug before rubbing at the tip of his beak and scrunching his eyes shut. "I need coffee." He muttered, turning to leave.

Kowalski bent down to resume brushing up the dust, feeling like he had dodged a major bullet. Skipper didn't even seem to realise he hadn't been to bed that night.

"Woah… That's new."

Skipper was standing in front of the mystery wall, head cocked at an angle and trying to blink the surprise from his eyes. "Did you do this last night?"

Kowalski forgot the dustpan again and walked over to stand next to his commander. "Yes, I-"

"Hold on, did you even get any shut eye last night Solider?" Skipper interrupted, shooting him a stern look.

Bullet un-dodged. "Well no, but trust me it-" He spluttered, quick to try and jump on an opportunity to defend himself, but Skipper waved him off.

"It's fine, Kowalski, I'm not mad. I barely got any either." Without thinking he went to take another sip from the mug, but paused before it got to his beak and removed it with a glare like it had deliberately tricked him. "I'm taking Rico and Private topside for sparring, I had been hoping you'd join us, but I think it's best you at least try and rest."

Something about Skippers near zombified state was alerting Kowalski to his own tiredness. Pushing down his emotions had apparently pushed down his exhaustion as well, but now face to face with a funhouse mirror of his own weariness he could feel it climbing like slow growing ivy through his body, each new leaf an ache or heaviness he had been ignoring.

He tried to hide the yawn blooming in his chest behind his flipper, but Skippers chuckle only let him know he was doing a terrible job. "Looks like you could use it." Skipper added, thumping him on the back for good measure. "Get some sleep man, I don't know how you managed to stay awake this long in the first place!"

Kowalski had to agree, and only gave a passing glance to the dustpan as Skipper herded him towards the door. A problem for later.

Private looked up from where he was sat at the table when they emerged. Rico was chewing on cereal, gaze lost somewhere in the middle distance as he shoved his flipper back into the box to grab another flipper-full.

"Just awful about Frances isn't it Kowalski." Private murmured, eyes wide with a saddened surprise. "I mean… I know she wasn't a good person but still… a heart-attack so young…" He trailed off and looked back down to the table.

Kowalski smiled he at least hoped half-convincingly. "Sure is Private." He replied, choking down the shame. He didn't even know the half of it.

Skipper pushed Rico not unkindly to the side to access the coffee maker and turn it on, the broader bird simply shuffling numbly to the side, eyes not moving as he continued to root around in the box of cereal. "We'll be going topside for sparring in ten, I want to see how you and sleeping beauty here will handle taking on two opponents at once. Kowalski's on compulsory bed rest." As the overworked coffee machine whirred to life Skipper poked Rico in the side. "You hear me in there?" he demanded.

Rico nodded but his eyes didn't move. Private frowned. "But what about the Credo? I thought we weren't supposed to split up anymore?"

Skipper scoffed. "We're just going topside Private, Kowalski is only a sheet of concrete away. He's hardly swimming alone." He grabbed greedily at his cup as the machine clicked off, pouring half of it immediately into his beak and shivering pleasantly. "Oh that hits the spot," He muttered to himself, before addressing Private again, "Or are you questioning my orders?"

Private shook his head quickly, holding up his flippers defensively. "No-no Sir! Just curious is all."

Skipper propped a flipper up on his hip and raised an eyebrow as he took another sip from the tin mug.

"I- I'm just going to go get a head start, do some laps and what-not." Private stammered, fumbling to his feet and racing to the ladder. "Get better soon Kowalski!" he added as he scrambled up the rungs and out of the base.

"I'm not sick!" Kowalski shouted after him, giving up just as quickly when he realised it was a lost cause and slumping down heavily on his bunk instead.

Skipper had replaced his mug, obviously jonesing for a refill. "You might as well be solider, I don't want to hear you out of that bunk, capiche?" He scolded. "And don't think you'll be getting off this lightly again."

Kowalski wasn't sure if the sudden stern behaviour was a ruse or a result of the caffeine, regardless he didn't take Skippers threat lightly. "Yes Sir."

Satisfied, Skipper nodded and took his mug back. "I'm going to go keep an eye on the Private. Rico, don't be late."

At his name he finally stirred, blinking as he looked around. "Huh? Oh yeah, sure, sure." He blathered, shoving another flipper-full of cereal into his beak before stuffing it back into the box. "huh?" He lifted it and shook it, the only sound the rustling of the empty bag. "Aww…"

"And get that ash cleaned up!" Skipper added, already halfway up the ladder, and pointing with his mug at the rubbish bin still standing alone in the middle of the base. "I don't know what you burned, but I want it gone!"

Rico sighed, deflating as the fish bowl clanged back into place. He caught Kowalski's eye and did a crude pantomime of their leader, flapping his beak and snapping his flipper back and forth like a mouth "Bla bla bla, clean that up, go to bed." He mocked, a small half grin still on his face.

Kowalski chuckled in spite of himself. If you discounted the cracked gravelly voice and missing consonants it was alarmingly accurate. "I'm surprised you got away with that for as long as you did." He said, watching from the bunk as Rico wandered over to the bin and examined it. The resident psycho shrugged, and then looked around for a moment, seemingly lost.

"The Dustpan is in my lab." Kowalski offered, and Rico clicked his tongue at him, shooting a pair of flipper guns as he went in search of it.

The severity of the daylight coming in through the portholes was reduced by the water it had to travel through, but was still bright enough to hurt Kowalski's eyes and he rubbed them with his flippers to try and soothe the ache. After all the wayward emotions and anxiety he was shot, how he hadn't noticed it before was beyond him. Now his feet were off the floor they felt raw and bruised, and his shoulders were tight and strained.

Sleep would do him wonders. He had to wonder if Skipper would let him off duty today, Cute and Cuddly weren't quite feeling like apt descriptors at the moment and while Alice was usually put on edge by an animal being missing for too long, he was sure that with enough movement they could keep her oblivious. She barely had time for head counts as it was.

Just as he was preparing to lie down and bury his head into his pillow he heard Rico calling out from the other room.

"Hey, Walski?"

He didn't want to get up, he really didn't, but hauled himself to his feet regardless, wincing slightly at the burn in his soles as he did. Penguin feet may have been adapted for withstanding the frozen cold of ice, but they hadn't been evolved for concrete city streets.

Rico was standing in the lab, dustpan held limply in one flipper and brush in the other as he looked up at the mystery wall, face pinched as he studied it.

Kowalski yawned. "Yes?"

Rico glanced over quickly, before retuning his gaze to the wall and pointing at something with the small brush he had in his flipper.

A worry suddenly struck and he waddled quickly over to get a look at what Rico was pointing out. Surely he hadn't been able to piece it together that quickly! Although who really knew how long Kowalski had been rubbing his eyes for.

Luck was on his side once again however, and Rico was only pointing at the picture depicting the memory of the burning building, head cocked to the side. Of course he would be interested in the one with fire, it was classic Rico really.

Kowalski sighed, wondering why he had even gotten out of bed. "It's a memory." He explained, eager to get back to his bunk. "It was a fire of some kind, I don't have many details."

Rico frowned a little deeper at that, but finally dropped the brush back down to his side. Apparently that hadn't been enough to sate him, and he was still staring at the image with an intensity Kowalski was starting to worry about. "It's not a real fire you know." He laughed nervously. Who really knew what Rico was thinking, and he wouldn't put it past him to be confused by the image. For whatever reason Rico really was captivated by all things that burned and exploded.

"Sad?"

It took Kowalski off guard and had had to blink a few times before he really felt he understood. It was a close descriptor and he had to wonder where Rico had gotten that idea. They'd never discussed it. "Uh… Not really." That wasn't quite right though. He leaned over to get a closer look at both Rico and the drawing, looking for any clues that may have given away his feelings in that moment. It looked the same as it had when he had drawn it, hard pencil lines and a few hasty streaks of orange. The weapons experts eyebrows were drawn pensively together in a furrowed V. "I mean… perhaps a little. It's more complicated than that."

Rico finally pulled his eyes away, Fixing Kowalski with a stare that was hard to decipher. The clarity was unnerving. Maybe as the resident artist Rico could see something in it he couldn't that tipped the maniac off.

He sighed. "I'm not sure how to describe it." He offered truthfully. "I just remember waiting. I certainly didn't have any plans of leaving…"

Rico followed his lead and also turned back to the picture, beak downturned. "Don't like it."

Something told Kowalski he wasn't talking about the artwork itself and he shuddered a little. He didn't like it much either in all honestly, though it was strange to hear Rico speak so candidly about something to do with emotions. It almost seemed like he was upset to hear he had once been in such a place, both physical and mental. Kowalski wasn't sure whether to be wary of the newly expressed sentiment or thankful for it.

It wasn't like Rico wasn't his friend, a unit like theirs didn't work so closely together for so long without at least a few interpersonal bonds forming, but it was decidedly unusual for Rico to give a voice it.

As if he could hear his thoughts Rico let out an aggravated grunt, turning towards him. "Walski I-"

A loud shout cut him off, the sound muffled by the concrete walls of the base but still piercing enough to be heard. "RICO!"

He started at the sound of Skippers voice, eyes sharpening in panic. "Late!" He rasped, shoving the cleaning equipment into Kowalski's flippers and making a break for the door.

Kowalski followed him, still holding the brush and shovel. "Wait, you're not expecting me to clean up your mess are you!?"

Rico paused on the ladder only to offer a sheepish grin before hurtling out of the underground base.

Alone in the base Kowalski groaned to no one in particular. He could leave it, but Newton knows how Skipper would react to seeing the ash covered ground still there when he returned, and having been on Skippers bad side enough in recent days he could say with certainty he didn't want to subject anyone else to it. Grumbling, he swept up the ash still on the floor and transferred it to the trashcan, nudging it into a corner with his foot. Not the best clean up job, but it was the best Rico was going to get out of him, even if he was trying his flipper at sentimentality.

He left the cleaning gear in the corner too, crossing back over to his bunk and finally allowed himself to faceplate into his pillow with a contented huff, determined to make the most of Skippers unusual mercy. Over the burbling of the filters he could vaguely hear the sounds of the team above, their footsteps a light rhythm on the roof. Rolling over onto his back he brought his flippers up onto his stomach, letting his eyelids flutter shut as he settled in for some much needed shut eye.

Perhaps Rico was simply more attentive than he had given him credit for, and he'd simply let his own feelings about the memory be more visible than he had assumed. It was mostly inconsequential anyway.

With the memory of the fire still lingering in his mind he drifted off to sleep to the faint sound of Private shrieking somewhere above him.

The acrid smell of the gasoline was all encompassing, and while it hadn't been hard to acquire the supply had been limited and he had exhausted almost all of it already. He had to move quickly before it dried.

The hallway was dark, but his eyes had long been accustomed to the dark, able to pick out the aged panelling lining the walls and heavy light fixtures attached near the latticed ceiling. He already sabotaged the light bulbs, packing the space around them with a homemade explosive that would hopefully help the eventual burn. The runner of red carpet was a fire hazard already, and he'd pulled the metal sides holding it down to the wooden floor with a chisel already, not willing to run the risk it would impede the blaze.

The heavy door was locked, and then the lock broken for good measure, the handmade lock picking tools wedged in the opening and jamming the pins in place before being broken off. Even if they managed to unlock it and waste the time, the homemade glue had proven impossibly sticky and heat resistant. It had even expanded like caulking, filling the gaps in the door frame by the latch and holding the hinges solidly in place. He'd doused the outside already, a fuse placed on the floor running through the nearby open window to the exterior walls, the tip resting in the gasoline canisters he had spared directly under the windows. There wouldn't be a way past the fireball engulfing the only other exits.

Wooden homes, while a fine aesthetic, burned quickly.

He splashed the last of the accelerator against the door quietly, soaking the carpet he hadn't yet doused. The splashing and gurgling as the battered red canister gave up the last of its liquid was loud in his ears, but would be all but silent to anyone not awake or actively listening.

This had to be done. It was the only way. He owed all of those poor individuals at least this much, and at least it would finally be over.

The lighter in his hand lit with a shing, and the bright orange flame illuminated the mess he had made of the old architecture. He'd expected guilt, but there was none to be found, only a cold resignation and a faint flicker of righteousness.

At least he'd finally done something right.

The fire started before he had even begun to lower the lighter, and it started inside him.

The blistering heat was sudden and all encompassing, blazing through his skull with no regard for his wellbeing, igniting every nerve in a white hot burst of sheer agony. He wanted to scream but his throat was missing, and the blinding pressure only doubled the already pulsing fever devouring his brain. He wanted to wrench away from it, but he couldn't move, stuck frozen in place as the world whited out around him, the neural overload leaving no room for his eyes to function, synaptic receptors in his retinas bursting in a torrent of sparking electrical signals.

Someone was shouting, and beyond him a hand landed on his shoulder.

He flinched and fell.

Kowalski's eyes snapped open, taking in only a brief snapshot of blurry black and white figures looming over him before he slammed them shut again, wheezing in pain and turning onto his side to curl in on himself.

He was dying.

His flippers were crushing his skull, desperate to break through the bone and rip out the damaged meat beneath just to try and ease the pain.

"Kowalski!"

And just like that it was gone.

Private, Rico and Skipper were all crowded around him in a half circle, faces pinched in varying degrees of concern. The sunlight that had been coming through the portholes had all but vanished at this point, only the low orange of sunset left to paint the concrete in a washed out pastel.

He sat up, slowly pulling his flippers away from his head. The only ache that remained was a faint tenderness where he had been gripping, the internal searing long gone.

"Are you alright?" Private asked gently, reaching out before seemingly thinking better off it and retracting his outstretched flipper. "Did you have another headache?"

Kowalski nodded numbly as Skipper exhaled an aggravated huff, the sound empty of any real anger. "If you could stop being such a drama queen every time you did, we would all appreciate it." His feathers were ruffled.

"Sorry." He mumbled out of habit, not really a part of the conversation happening around him, lost as he was in the sharp outline of the images just revealed to him. There was so much to dissect, the emotions as real as if he had just experienced them.

"See?" Rico offered, leaning forward curiously.

Now wasn't that a good question.

He stumbled to is feet, taking Private's re-offered flipper to try and keep stable as his knees buckled momentarily. The entourage followed Kowalski closely as he went to his lab, shoving the door aside and flicking the light on. "Kowalski?" Skipper asked.

He ignored him, going straight to the mystery wall and zeroing in on his target, tugging the picture from its pushpin and ripping it at the top.

The lines were still wonky, and the fire still looked fake, but in his mind he could see it clearly. Dark stained wood and careful carvings.

The doorframe had been carved as well, wood the same dried out stain.

"What's the big mystery Soldier," Skipper snapped. "Out with it!"

It made sense now why he hadn't been panicking where most people would have when faced with an unknown blaze. After all, it had hardly been unknown.

"I…"He swallowed and turned the picture around. "I think I started this fire, and I did it on purpose."

Skippers eyebrows shot up so fast Kowalski worried they would shoot right of his face. Private gasped, cupping his cheeks. "Kowalski! How could you?" he admonished.

"The Private's right," Skipper agreed, crossing his flippers. "That doesn't seem like you." He squinted suspiciously. "Are you sure you're not tapping into Rico's memories?"

Rico looked momentarily offended, and Kowalski could only assume it was because Skipper had pinned him so closely. "No, I wouldn't even know how that would be possible." He said. "It was definitely me."

"Are you sure it's the same?" Private asked gingerly, reaching out and taking the picture from him to look at it closer. "It could just be a misunderstanding."

He shook his head. "I don't think it is. The architecture was from the same period, and while I was in a different area I feel like it must have been the same building…" He paused, closing his eyes to recall the images he had just been living in. "Same wood, same carved accents… It's all too similar." He frowned.

Private's eyebrows furrowed in concern. "Oh Kowalski…"

"Even the emotions were similar." He continued. "I'm sorry Private but… I feel confident."

Skipper took the picture from Private and looked between it and Kowalski. "Well I for one think this is some much needed character development, I'd always assumed you only set things on fire by accident."

He was talking about the toaster wasn't he? Would he ever let that one go!? It was one time!

"So how'd you do it?" Skipper looked excited, leaning forward eagerly. "Incendiary grenade? Some crazy science mumbo-jumbo? Oh! No wait, Flamethrower!" He nodded, seemingly to himself. "some say it's overdone, but you can't go wrong with a classic, right Rico?"

The weapons expert didn't answer, the usual manic glee at discussing his favourite topic notably absent, looking rather perturbed instead.

Kowalski shook his head impatiently. "It was gasoline if you really need to know."

Skipper looked a little put out, face falling as he handed the drawing back to Kowalski. "Oh. Not quite as interesting then. Rico, looks like your position is safe."

That did get a response from Rico, who whirled around on the leader in surprise. "Wait, what?!"

Skipper rolled his eyes. "Well we hardly need two agents of chaos in this squad, it would throw out the balance." He shrugged. "And you don't really offer me options."

"Nah-uh!" Rico defended, throwing up a stick of dynamite and pushing it pointedly at Skipper. "Kaboom!"

The leader raised an eyebrow. "You do raise an interesting point…"

Kowalski wanted to speak, let his memories come rushing out. It hadn't been about chaos. It had been about… someone? He had locked the door and secured the windows so they couldn't...

The sickened feeling hit him like a punch and left him reeling.

He hadn't…

He would never intentionally hurt someone.

Would he?

The memory spoke for itself. He'd even removed the metal transition bar because he didn't want to run any risk of the fire not doing its job properly. And why go to all the trouble to burn something that wouldn't try and escape.

His blood was cold even as the rest of the team continued to playfully argue, all of them completely unaware of what he might have done. The eyes on the wall looked back at him with disapproval. How had his memories gone from something so nice to this so quickly. What kind of a penguin was he, to do something like that and feel no guilt for it.

He had no assurance it had worked, but he had definitely gone through with it at least, igniting the gasoline to start the burn and if had…

He wanted to be sick.

Private looked annoyed, waving the dynamite around recklessly. "You're seriously telling me if I set this off I would be off the team?!"

"But you wouldn't, and that's what makes this team work!" Skipper pressed.

He couldn't tell them about this.

His reasoning had nothing to do with job security either. The thought of the look in their eyes as they recoiled away from him, disgusted in what he had done was enough to keep his beak shut tightly.

There was no way it wasn't a memory, the pain he had awoken too and the clarity with which the image was seared into his brain told him it wasn't just a simple dream.

But he wasn't that kind of person, he would never have done something like that! He was a good person, sure a little ethically dubious when it came to science, but a good person none the less.

There had to have been a reason.

But would any reason have been enough to make what he had done right?

Skipper was now pleading with Private as he held a lighter aloft, dangerously close to the unlit fuse of the dynamite stick. Rico was egging him on, nodding furiously.

Not in his team's eyes.

The sides of his head were still tender as he gripped at it. He had to believe there was a reason, there was no other way.

He needed to know why he had done it.

He needed the reassurance he hadn't done it in cold blood.

A dark thought was rattling behind his eyes and it refused to shut up. He really had no idea who he was before all of this though did he? He could have been the type. He could have been anyone in the world. Maybe he was just a horrible person. Maybe he was connected to the people who murdered Frances Alberta not just as an unwitting test subject, but as an accomplice.

He shuddered.

"You ok?"

At some point Rico had stepped away from Private and Skipper, the latter now thankfully not threatening to light an explosive to prove a point, and was standing at his side. He looked worried.

He should be, The dark voice provided. You might have done this to him.

The worst part was he had no way of confirming anything. If he had a reason, if he hadn't, who he was, it was all trapped too far away to be useful and he wasn't going to get anything out unless he was lucky enough to have another dream about the same event.

He needed to have another dream.

All of the team were suddenly looking at him, and he realised he must have been speaking out loud. The fear came in a flood. What had he said, how much had he revealed?!

"After that fiasco?" Skipper asked, one eye brow raised pointedly as he pointed in the general direction of the bunks. "I'd rather you stopped having dreams all together! It's freaking me out."

Private tipped his head, still holding the dynamite, although it seemed mostly forgotten at this point. "Do you think it will help you remember something important?" He frowned slightly. "None of mine have been important… at least I don't think so…"

Something clicked with the words, and Kowalski hastily had to shove his guilt to the side to make room. "Yes!" He shouted, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, eager to latch onto the unwitting olive branch and hold on for dear life. "Yes, I… I think if we recover more memories we might be able to pin point if not the person responsible, but at least a timeline of events."

They'd followed every other lead. It was their only option left in a lot of ways. They must have known who had done it at least circumstantially, and if they did, their identity was probably locked away in the memories they couldn't yet access.

If the currently muffled voice of his fear turned out to be right it would be a small price to pay. If he had somehow been involved, or wasn't the person he thought he was, at least he would be able to make steps towards making it right here and now.

The newfound determination was laced with bitterness. He owed them the truth, or as much of it as they could uncover on their own, and if it came at a personal cost then so be it. The reward here was greater than the risk, if they could only find it.

"We can't really control what we dream about though." Private pointed out, a mournful note entering his voice.

Skipper nodded, "And one memory a night? If we're lucky? It's dead in the water."

"We might be able to increase those odds." Kowalski said. "With the right combination of sleeping medication, caffeine and stress inducers we could substantially increase the likelihood of recovering memories in sleep." His mind was quickly racing. "If we added in a blue light to act as a disruption for natural circadian rhythms we could up that even further by triggering lighter stages of sleep more often."

"English?" Skipper requested.

"With the right cocktail of medications we could sleep more often and get to the stage of sleep where we dream, the triggering mechanism for the memories, quicker. We could then also change the pattern of our sleep so we wake immediately after, meaning that instead of sleeping 8 hours, we would sleep in bursts of two hours, drastically upping our chances of this working." He translated, carefully trying to deconstruct the jargon littering his speech.

Skipper shared a look with Private. "Ok, so we sleep more, then what?" he asked, voice firm. "We still can't control what we dream about. We could end up with useless information."

Kowalski shook his head vehemently. "No, that's where the stress comes in. Memories are tied closely to emotions, and if we can increase the symptoms of stress, elevated heart rate, high blood pressure, etcetera, we should be able to steer our dreams in that direction and thus recover memories tied to that feeling."

His flippers were clenching, and it was crumpling the paper he was still somehow holding. On autopilot he began to try smoothing out the wrinkles. "We might also be able to intentionally point our dreams in a certain direction…" He murmured.

"How?" Private asked, apparently lost in the current discussion.

Kowalski turned the picture around again. "I was thinking about this memory before I fell asleep… It might have played a part in why I dreamt of it a second time."

Skipper was nodding now, but his arms were folded and eyes narrowed. "It still seems like a wild goose chase to me. We should focus on what real evidence we do have."

"We've been on a goose chase this entire time." He interjected, trying not to re-crumple the drawing he was holding. As a preventative measure we went back over to the wall to re-hang it, shoving the paper back up under the push pin and hoping it would hold. "Not only that, from where I'm standing we're flat out of 'real evidence.' Frances Alberta was our last lead and she's dead."

Skipper startled at that, wide eyes turning to Private who was only crossing himself with his head lowered in respect. "May she rest in peace." The smallest penguin murmured. Rico had apparently tuned out long ago, but still nodded when he felt eyes on him.

Reminded of the lie he had told, Skipper settled again.

Kowalski took it as a sign to continue, ready to throw everything at the wall to convince his leader. This was their last shot. "We're at a dead end, but it's likely we already have all the answers we need. We just can't reach them yet."

The penguin leader didn't respond, eyes still fixed on Kowalski who could only hope he couldn't see his heart starting to climb into his throat. They had to follow this, there was nothing else he could think of. If whoever was responsible was really watching them now, they couldn't have been in the zoo with them, they would have been discovered by now. Which left them with the only option that it was someone from their past they could no longer recall. They couldn't risk leaving the zoo to track down anymore leads, not that they had any left, with the danger so high. It was the only way.

And Kowalski had to know now. He needed answers as to who he was more than he ever had before.

"We can't leave the zoo anymore, but we can end this if we can find them Skipper."

The silence that had grown was finally broken when Skipper let out a sigh, dropping his flippers back to his sides. "How sure are you this will work?"

His chest swelled. "At least 95%." He stated firmly, not ready to let in any more doubt than he already had. This would work. It had too. The other 5% was only for exceptional circumstances.

Skipper seemed to understand that.

"Alright. If we're going to do this, we're going to do it right." He decided. "Do you still have that Hologram from our summer vacation?"

Unsure of its relevance, Kowalski nodded regardless. He'd found the camera body he had shoved into that hollowed out fish last night during his cleaning spree, still slightly reeking of seafood even after the wipe down it had received before being put away.

"Good." Skipper nodded. "We'll need it to keep the public and Alice unaware of the fact we're missing. The more hours we spend sleeping, the more chances we get right?"

Kowalski nodded slowly. It he understood what Skipper was saying it would be a risk to be missing during the day, especially now they were aware of the eyes on them at all times, but he was right in his thinking. The risk was calculated, and if it paid off they wouldn't need to hide anymore.

"Get it running." He demanded.

"Yes Sir." After all of the chaos, it was almost easy to forget Skipper was their leader for a reason. As he quickly stepped back into his role as commander he seemed more himself than he had in a while.

"I'll also need a list of whatever medications you think we'll need. I think I have a plan there as well." He added, stroking his beak thoughtfully.

"I thought we weren't supposed to leave the zoo anymore?" Private chimed in, a note of suspicion in his voice.

"We won't be." Skipper corrected. "We'll have to give the list to Mason and Phil and get them to Rendezvous with Moon-Cat, he already has experience breaking into pharmacies. Between that and the fact the Chimps can read we can make sure we get what Kowalski needs to make this work."

Private squinted "How are they meant to find him?"

"Dumpster." Rico grunted, looking too Kowalski for confirmation.

"Rico is correct, Moon cat mentioned to us that he had been living in the dumpster behind the Chinese restaurant on 34th street." Kowalski recalled, unsure of when Rico had deemed this conversation important enough to be involved in. Perhaps he'd never really left it.

Skipper nodded, pointing a flipper in their direction. "Perfect, then you'll both be in charge of giving them the verbal dossier."

"Ok, then what will we do Skipper?" Private asked, eyes shining in hope.

Kowalski cut in. "I might need you to gather a few things from the vet's office. If the blue light is going to work in breaking us from REM sleep at the right point, I'll have to base it on out heart rates, they tend to fluctuate between the various levels of sleep, starting low in-"

"We don't need the science Kowalski, just get a list together." Skipper interrupted.

Private hissed out a quiet "yes!", happy to not be sidelined.

"Is there anything else we're missing?" Skipper finished, looking between his team-mates for any prompting. "No? Good. Private and I will start recon on the vet's office. Kowalski, you know what you have to do." He paused and turned to Rico, tipping his head to the side. "Rico… help Kowalski where you can. I'm sure you have at least some of what he needs. If not, clean up that ash – properly this time." He scolded.

Rico saluted, shrinking in on himself slightly at the reprimand.

Kowalski looked discretely over his shoulder at the stacks of paper still taking up his back wall. That was definitely at least something Rico could do to help.

Skipper straightened his shoulders, fixing each of them with focused stare. "Alright men, operation recovery is officially in motion."

Uh oh Kowalski, looks like you don't know yourself as well as you thought you did, huh? Don't worry buddy, I'm sure that won't become an issue later...

In an unrelated note, real life has been beating me with a mallet recently but I'm doing my very best to keep on top of this story. It's one I've been wanting to tell for a while, and I know if I stop now It'll never leave me alone, so I need to get it out into the world somehow.

I hope you're all still enjoying it!

See you next week!
Peace ~