The room was silent but for the routine ticking of a wall clock and the scribbling of a pencil stub on paper. Through the thin walls behind his head, Skipper could hear throaty giggles and the hum of multiple voices, but could make out no words. A particularly loud squeal followed by a breathless moan made the scribbling halt briefly. A younger Kowalski looked blushing over at the wall Skipper leant against, his expression a mix of embarrassment and mild frustration. Skipper just smirked and shrugged at the genius. Boys would be boys, and he could do little but reprimand his man for behaving as such on a mission. He knew Manfredi would just shrug off the words, uncaring, especially if the twin soubrettes he was entertaining on the other side of the wall were as pretty as they sounded. Kowalski returned to his scribbling and Skipper looked up at the ceiling, counting the seconds as they ticked.
Outside a pallid sun was setting, casting spectral shadows on the town and the run down shack of a motel where the penguins had commandeered rooms. The ancient keeper of the place hadn't questioned anything when the five-penguin-tall, trench coated and shady man walked unsteadily in and requested a room. Her eyes were too old to see through the shadows of the coat to the Arctic birds inside.
The room next door broke it into a cacophony of sounds that neither bird needed to hear, and Skipper kicked the wall harshly several times to get the trio to shut up or find somewhere else to be. Kowalski was glaring alternately between the wall and his commander, his pencil stub clenched in a flipper that trembled in frustration. He twisted in his chair to better face Skipper, a scolding complaint ready on his tongue, when he froze. The penguins' eyes shot to the door.
Knock-knock... Knock-knock-knock... Knock.
The two penguins looked at each other again, then glanced at the door. Kowalski stowed away his notebook. Skipper stood and silently crossed over to the door. Both were tense in anticipation and readiness, the air thick and stifling as their breaths were caught in their throats. As in belated afterthought there was another single rap at the door, and Skipper threw it open, glaring angrily at the penguin who waited outside on unsteady feet. Rico stumbled in, paused at the sounds that had risen again from the next room, and shook his head as his leader closed and locked the door once more. The violent-minded creature reeked of cheap corn liquor, and even as he stood still his body wavered.
"What did I tell you about drinking on a mission, soldier?" Skipper demanded, flippers crossed over his chest.
The snarky, slurred reply that leapt readily to Rico's beak was squashed with a smoldering, cobalt stare that demanded respect. Rico wisely sought a better reply. "Won't happen 'gain, sir."
Skipper's glare deepened at Rico's words. The taller penguin held his gaze steadily, his eyes dilated and hooded. Both knew the risks that Rico had taken in order to waste himself. He could've been caught or killed by the human bootleggers. He could've drawn the attention of their target or the citizens and put the whole mission in jeopardy. He could have led enemy spies to their very location. Rico knew all of this, but still disobeyed.
"I don't have the patience or time to deal with you without the Command accusing me of murder," Skipper growled at the drunken penguin. "But when this mission is over, you'd better be expecting the worst, soldier."
Rico managed to at least look slightly hurt, but then raised a brow in mute insolence as they were reminded again that the demolitions expert wasn't the only one in trouble.
"I'll deal with him, too," Skipper muttered darkly.
Moments later the tension had mostly dissipated. Kowalski returned to his blueprints, and again there was only his scratching and the clock's ticking.
"Johnson's got his own room for the night?" Skipper finally asked, the mindless sounds playing on his nerves.
"Yup," came the deep, muffled voice of Rico as he talked into the bedcovers. He rolled over onto his back any stared at the ceiling. "Can't believe M'nfredi's still wit' them dames. 'S been hours..."
"We know, we've heard all the details," Kowalski muttered from the writing desk he occupied by the window, continuing his scratching.
"Prude," Rico grinned.
"Shut up about Manfredi," Skipper ordered sharply. "I'll have your disorderly, feathery tails mounted on my wall in Rio as soon as we take out this rat."
Kowalski flinched, though the threat wasn't aimed at him, and scribbled harder at his paper. Skipper sighed, mentally berating himself. They had begun to lose themselves with this mission. Morale was down, Kowalski was an antisocial wreck, Rico was hitting the bottle nightly, Manfredi had taken to womanizing again- another squeal from the room next door- and Johnson... Skipper didn't want to think of Johnson. All this because the Penguin High Command suspected evil in this cold Canadian town. The team hasn't been this dysfunctional since their first official mission in Nairobi.
Idle hands are the Devil's playthings, Skipper thought darkly.
Idle hands, troubled minds, and two straight weeks of harrowing silence that did little to ease the madly rushing imaginations of the four agents- it brought out the worst in all of them. Skipper huffed silently and began pacing, thoughts still racing and mind rolling in turmoil. His regular footsteps contradicted the ticking of the clock, and every fourth step was jilted as he turned on his heel. Kowalski twitched silently at the irregularity, and cast a dark gaze over to the older penguin. When Skipper caught his eye the frustrated commander growled to himself and stomped over to the door.
"I'm going to check up on Johnso-"
The door was leveled with an ear-shattering bang, and a puff of smoke.
Brilliant, otherworldly pain coursed through his small, wretched body. His once pure, snowy breast feathers were grimy and stained with the blood of the numerous cuts that criss-crossed his pudgy little form. With a groan akin to the creaking whine of ancient trees he pushed himself up with an aching flipper. The floor was hard and cold, unforgiving. He shivered, and his supporting flipper threatened to give out- the other was unresponsive. The cold's sharp teeth bit into his tenderized flesh, and he cursed the world. A pair of flippers jerked him roughly and sat him on his backside, supported by thick iron bars. A low voice murmured something about crying like a new chick, but he hadn't the strength or the will to make a reply.
Damn, it was cold. He trembled, curling in on himself in an effort to conserve heat. His body had begun to blissfully numb itself, and the misery he felt slowly was pushed to the back of his mind. Where was he? That didn't matter too much. Had he been captured? Surely not. Who else was here with him? At that he forced his eyes open slowly, wincing at the blinding light. There stood a thickly built penguin, taller than himself bearing an unreadable expression.
"Who are you?" His once clipped English accent had softened over time, but it was still discernible through the slow tones of the Texans he had spent the last three years with.
"So the frostbitten kid lives," grumbled the larger bird, "where we you stationed, anyway? The middle of the desert? It's only twenty-five, and you're over here quivering like a leaf."
The little penguin flushed and glared. The life was thankfully flooding back to him. "I asked who you were."
"And I didn't answer."
Manfredi stared idly back down at the boy, unphased by his glare. He couldn't have been older than fourteen, but his bloody and ruffled feathers made him look a few years older. A bloodstained grey cloth bound his broken left flipper; Manfredi certainly didn't have a hand in that. He reached up and touched his face, feeling a similar cloth. He knew the pale fabric to be painted red above his right eye- or rather, where it should have been. The robust agent flinched when his flippertip strayed too close to the gaping socket.
The younger bird paled, as though seeing his cellmate for the first time. With his feathers all askew, Manfredi looked bigger than he actually was. Grime stained his pearly underside, and a majority his feathers were singed. Dried blood was smeared across his face and chest, not all of it his own. But his hollow stare pierced the Brit far deeper than anything else giver could. Streaks of red slid from below the bandage over his eye. The strip of cloth was stained almost black with gore. The living eye burned with the dark passion of a dedicated soul. The lad touched his broken flipper nervously, his stomach threatening mutiny.
"I'm assuming you're the one who did this?" He tapped the cloth. "Thanks for that."
Manfredi snorted. "I didn't do it, Shivers."
Oh. "Then... Well..." He was at a loss, and his hostility vanished as though he couldn't be both gruff and perplexed at the same time. "My name's Tux. Mistah Tux to most."
The big penguin huffed again, this time in mild amusement. "Manfredi. Mister Manfredi to you." He mocked with a smirk.
Tux frowned. "Alright then Mistah Manfredi, but if you didn't bandage us then who did?"
Manfredi frowned, and his single eye stared dismally past the Brit. Tux turned, and frowned as well. A lump of brown and grey feathers was curled at the far end of their cell, unmoving. The two penguins slowly made their way over to the out-of-place songbird. Tux touched the torn remains of a blanket that fruitlessly covered a strip of her chest and back- it was of the same fabric that bound he any Manfredi's wounds. The little penguin shook the mockingbird gently, though a dark section of his brain scorned him and screamed that the pretty little bird would never wake up.
"I think they must have grabbed her by mistake. She was too scared, and too harmless, to have been one of their enemies. I woke up after she'd set your flipper," Manfredi explained, a respectful distance away from the dead civilian.
Tux's frown deepened and he removed his flipper, taking a step back. He didn't know the bird, but had met several other mockingbirds- they were all fairly similar in their humble and gentle ways, and could sing the prettiest songs. He looked at Manfredi, and found himself glaring dangerously again.
"She was just a civilian, and you didn't try to save her?"
"She froze to death on the opposite side of the room at a time when I could barely wiggle my toes!" The older animal spat at the jab. "What could I do, think warm thoughts and hope she was psychic?"
Tux was at a loss for words. He was a trained soldier, a spy, and an assassin- but that didn't make a civilian's death any sadder. He gazed back down into the stranger's half-lidded, emotionless eyes. He heard Manfredi turn and waddle back to the far side of the cage, calling over his shoulder.
"It wasn't right for them to kill an innocent. But that's what they do; at least now they can't hurt her any further."
From their awkward deliverance, Tux was sure that his cellmate wasn't often prone to similar thoughts. He huffed silently, closed the mockingbird's eyes, and pulled the blanket over her frozen face, trying to touch her stiff and lifeless body as little as possible in the process. He the turned and joined Manfredi, who tentatively prodded his face around his makeshift eyepatch. Tux watched with a queasy stomach as drops of a brighter red stained Manfredi's face and he hissed. The big fellow's lonely eye was drawn again to the dead mockingbird, and he felt a superstitious tingling in his gut. To be held captive with a dead songbird was a less than pleasant omen.
"Who are they?"
Manfredi knew Tux was asking about their captors by the way he spat the poison words. His young eyes were also on the lifeless symbol of innocence. Manfredi glanced up and around at all corners of the ceiling, knowing without a doubt that there were cameras hidden there somewhere. He made sure to give the villains behind the lenses a nasty scowl before turning his attention to the youth.
"As far as I know, a deranged, ambitious dolphin with a major grudge against humans and penguins, and his army. HQ didn't give us much intel."
Tux nodded. "And they intend to kill us?"
Manfredi's eye was sparkling knowingly, and his voice was low as he replied, "I don't think they'll have much of a chance."
He hoped the boys were okay. They had to be okay. They were, and soon they'd be there to spring the imprisoned pair.