*** Six strings ***

Inspired by "Six blade knife", written by Mark Knopfler.

.

It was August and heat was suffocating. Rain, as usual in Mexican jungles, didn't help to solve it. Skipper felt more stifled than lost in his first solo mission. He shivered when he remembered the name of that zone: La Sepultura (the grave), in Chiapas. He wondered if that would be his grave. He was so young, definitely inexperienced, and the only thing he had done since he arrived at the agency had been to put Rico at risk. And the high commands had separated them. He knew that Rico was in good flippers, with Kowalski and Private, but he couldn't help worrying about him. He didn't know yet if that agression he had been unable to avoid would have aftereffects.

"Damn it, Skipper, you're a patsy," he told himself. "How did you come to risk your neck here, alone and with so little training?"

He had been there for three days and didn't get used to it. Especially, to being alone. To missing his teammates. He would lose track of time, his sanity or both things. When he remembered it, despite having been there for only four months, he would always say that he had been there for eight years. The sensation of time having stopped in that place was so real for him. The one of his heart having stopped at once was real too.

It had got dark a while ago and Skipper was observing with his binoculars one of the crops that were marked in the map as suspicious. Why the hell did he have to investigate the actions made by humans? He sighed. If he gathered the intel quickly, he could go home with a success check in his service record. If he didn't do it, the probabilities of his head decorating the living-room of one of those observed by him were high.

A sound he hadn't heard since his arrival got him out of his thoughts. That was... guitar chords? Shit, that meant he wasn't alone. Had he been seen? He looked in all directions and saw nothing. Well, it could have been imagined by his mind. He focalized on his job again.

"Hello, little bird."

Skipper hopped, shocked. He shut his eyes tight. If he didn't see, he wouldn't be seen. He slapped himself for having thought such a stupid thing.

"Why do you slap yourself, little bird?"

Skipper turned round flippers up. From there to home... in a pine box.

He opened his eyes and saw him. He was a simian, with brown fur and a black face, smaller than him. He seemed to look at him with curiosity. Skipper saw then the Spanish guitar in his left hand. He analyzed its possibilities as a weapon: not many.

"Were you spying on them?" the simian asked.

Skipper adopted a defense stance instinctively.

"Hey, calm down!" The simian was smiling. "For me, you can smash them if you want. They're wreaking our environment."

Skipper lowered his flippers. "Well... who are you?" Always a percentage for distrust.

"Just a spider monkey who lives near here," he said stretching his hand as a greeting. "My name is Ricardo." He noticed something in Skipper's stare. "Anything wrong with you?"

"No, it's just... I have a friend with a similar name. And... well, I'm worried about him."

"I see." Ricardo saw that it was better not to ask. "Who are you?"

"Just a penguin who doesn't live near here. My name is Skipper." He stared seriously at Ricardo. "But, it someone asks, you don't know me at all."

"If you have come to help us stop that there," Ricardo said pointing at what Skipper had been observing with his binoculars a while ago, "I haven't seen you and I'll be silent."

"Thank you," Skipper replied.

"And... you're not in the best place. I'll show you where you can see them and go unnoticed. The crop people can't see you, but the ones in the trucks can."

Skipper hadn't noticed his rookie mistake until then. He was dangerously near a dirt road he hadn't seen. He had rushed when chosing the place for his operations. So he just packed his things and followed Ricardo.

"Up," Ricardo told him when they arrived, looking at the top of a pine.

Skipper looked up. "Are you crazy? I'm a penguin, not a monkey! I cannot climb up to there!"

"Just try," Ricardo replied while he climbed with the guitar and Skipper's things.

Skipper huffed and grabbed the lowest branches. Little by little he climbed, much slower than Ricardo.

"What do you think of this place?" Ricardo asked giving him the binoculars.

"Wow! From here, I see them much better! Is that the road for the trucks?"

Ricardo nodded.

"Thanks a lot. I think it's good to have someone to trust here."

"A friend?" Ricardo asked.

Skipper smiled. "Sort of."

.

Although he knew that he should be very careful with what he told him, Skipper soon trusted Ricardo. He had been reluctant because he was untrusting by nature, because his job was top secret and... well, he had never liked mammals. But he had never had to work with one of them.

Actually, the job was being done by Skipper alone: watching, controlling times and jotting them down as they did in the agency, going to a near village and bugging a public telephone for calling the agency when they had agreed to... In other circumstances he would have been given a cell phone, but he would stay far from civilization almost the whole time and he couldn't charge it, and it was better to stay in the village for five minutes than for several hours. But now he had Ricardo's help: he told him when a truck was near, before he could see it, and fished for him. He was truly helpful.

One night, Ricardo took the guitar and started to tune it. Skipper was staring at him.

"They don't hear it," he said for appeasing him.

Skipper said nothing.

"Do you want to learn to play?"

"Really?" Skipper guffawed. "I don't have fingers!"

"And my thumbs aren't opposable!" Ricardo replied showing him his hands. "Okay, I'll never be Mark Knopfler or Paco de Lucía, but I can do something with this. Besides, for your information, many guitar players use a pick... and that's not very different from your flippers."

"Okay... let me try."

Ricardo gave him the guitar. Skipper played a chord. Wow! And another, and another.

"There are more notes," Ricardo said. "For that, you must use your other flipper."

And he explained him how.

Soon the results started to be shown. Skipper was learning fast and practicing with an eye on the path and the crop. And the days passed by.

.

On that December night, Skipper was told to go back to the agency. The intel he had gathered was enough for the agency to intervene. At the beginning of his mission, Skipper was eager to see that moment. Now he could say he wasn't as much. He was for his teammates, especially for Rico... but he had made a friend and was sad to see him off. However, this is how things worked and he knew it when he joined the agency: friendship can't last forever, but memories can. He sighed and headed for the old known tree.

Ricardo, when seeing him, noticed his stare.

"Anything wrong?"

"Yes. I must leave tomorrow. There's nothing left to do here."

That made Ricardo sad. He had liked Skipper.

"Well... you have some hours."

"Yes..." Skipper said sadly.

Ricardo put the guitar in front of him. Skipper looked at it.

"Take it with you. As a souvenir, and for practicing."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes, sure. I can get another. I stole this one in the village, it was easy. I'll get another soon. But watch out... don't let them see it when you go to the village."

"It doesn't matter, they will see in the agency. I will be totally searched as soon as I arrive."

"Oh, then... tell them it's a weapon!"

Both laughed out loud.

"A weapon!" Skipper thought that Ricardo was joking. "And what kind of weapon is it? You place it here and bullets are put here, right?"

"Not that kind of weapon! Look! It's a six blade knife!"

"You mean a six string musical instrument."

"More than that."

Skipper didn't understand it. He knew that Ricardo sometimes talked in riddles, but now he was clueless.

"Skipper, this guitar can do what you want." Ricardo took the guitar and made a string sound. "This blade can mesmerize you, and this... this one can break your heart. This one will tear it apart helplessly. And this one opens your mind and there's no going back... as a tin, you can't close it. This one will return all to its previous state. And be careful with this one," he said making the last one sound. "This one will make you lose your head."

"You're teasing me," Skipper said.

"Well, kind of." Ricardo saw that Skipper was staring at him incredulous. "Well... to tell the truth, a guitar can't do that, but you know that music calms beasts and babies. It may be useful in a mission. Who knows... as part of a cover, of an alibi... or literally, calming a beast."

"That's improbable."

"You say that now, but who knows. And, by the way... do you have a girlfriend?"

Skipper shook his head. For getting rid of blushing, mainly.

"It can be very useful for that. Well, whatever. Everybody has something helping keep strong. Let the guitar help you discover it."

Skipper grinned a bit.

"You think I've gone nuts, don't you?" Ricardo continued. "Well, maybe. You're very young, you'll understand it."

"Then...?"

"Take it. Don't let me see it here, or I'll chase you to New York and I'll put it on your head. What time are you leaving?"

"At four."

"P.m."

"No, a.m."

Ricardo, surprised, swore uninteligibly. He patted the guitar.

"Well, it's late. I won't see you, amigo." He hugged him. "Good luck."

"Thank you, same to you."

Both shed some tears. They had grown to really appreciate each other.

.

In the darkest of night, Skipper started to climb down the tree very slowly, totally silent for not awaking Ricardo. He was carrying a shoulder bag with all his things and, tied to his back, the guitar. He arrived at the village, where a pick-up with a fake plate picked him. Goodbye, Mexico. Goodbye, Sepultura. Goodbye, friend Ricardo. Skipper would need years to discover the truth behind his words.