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Watermelon Snow
By : pronker
Category: +M through R > Penguins of Madagascar
Views: 2672 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0Disclaimer: I make no profit from this fanfiction using the Penguins of Madagascar characters owned by Dreamworks. -
Chapter List
- 1-Watermelon Snow
- 2-2/50
- 3-3/50
- 4-4/50
- 5-5/50
- 6-6/50
- 7-7/50
- 8-8/50
- 9-9/50
- 10-10/50
- 11-11/50
- 12-12/50
- 13-13/50
- 14-14/50
- 15-15/50
- 16-16/50
- 17-17/50
- 18-18/50
- 19-19/50
- 20-20/50
- 21-21/50
- 22-22/50
- 23-23/50
- 24-24/50
- 25-17-18/50 SLASH INTERLUDE BETWEEN CH. 17 AND 18. AU ON 'WATERMELON SNOW'
- 26-24A/50 SLASH VERSION OF CH. 24 FOR KICKS AND GIGGLES *** AU ***
- 27-25/50
- 28-26/50
- 29-27/50
- 30-28/50
- 31-29/50
- 32-30/50
- 33-31/50
- 34-32/50
- 35-33/50
- 36-34/50
- 37-35/50
- 38-36/50
- 39-37/50
- 40-38/50
- 41-39/50
- 42-40/50
- 43-41/50
- 44-42/50
- 45-43/50
- 46-44/50
- 47-45/50
- 48-46/50
- 49-47/50
- 50-48/50
- 51-49/50
- 52-50/51
- 53-51/51
Dawn always brought renewed focus to any mission and Skipper continued to place Blowhole's downfall topmost, but it wouldn't be a penguin commando mission without other considerations muddying the waters. "Men, until tonight we need to stay on our toes. There's entertaining the visitors to get through and then we move out. Operation: Stay Frosty is a go for today."
Kowalski played with his abacus while muttering and Private sent off vibes of concentration as he licked the outlines of his morning sardine. Rico gestured to him to come over. In the two weeks on the island, he'd added some comfort zone material to his duffel as he had not needed to before Skipper's rough time.
"Akdjskvtlajlkicojijjjkkjo." Rico yanked a striped nightcap from his duffel, followed by three separate travel brochures for fjordphiliacs and a framed and glazed charcoal sketch of Miss Perky. He kissed the sketch before replacing everything to root around some more. His face lit up like fulminate of mercury.
"Found wot you were lookin' for then, Rico?"
Rico pulled his stamp album from the slim duffel. "Ahuh." He flipped through meticulous pages that only he knew the organization for. "Homminahomminahommina ... ta-dahhh!" He pointed to a fighting fish stamp in a group with four bright others.
"Smashin' colors. So many all blend like they're strobin', sort of makes me dizzy. Oooh, there's one fish with just two colors, orange and white. I'm gettin' ideas for a routine, I am."
Rico patted Private's white chest and then his black back. "Neatr."
Kowalski put down his abacus to peer at the page. "Didn't the reptile house back home have bettas for a while? Pretty creatures. I'd never have eaten one of them on a Ritz cracker." He looked closer. "This simpler coloration is called dalmatian."
"Woof woof woof!"
"Yes, Rico, the dog." Kowalski grew cosmic. "Purity like that is um, pure. I like it. Pristine white, all colors together, contrasting with black, the absence of colors. White as the driven snow, black like Hans' heart, white as dolphin spray, black like the Eternally Foggy Sea --- "
"Earth to Kowalski, come in for a landing on Runway 404. Your party is waiting." Skipper chugalugged his coffee and downed his sardine with a hearty slurp. "Topside, team."
Rico tossed his stamp album atop his bunk until Kowalski frowned and then he replaced it in his duffel to stack with the others in the far corner where Faux Skipper presided. The wind whistled across the mouth of the ramp and when they breached the surface of their island, Skipper remembered Ma's insistence on wearing hats and thick warm mufflers during cold mornings. Well, he'd just need to stay active to counter the exposed areas of dimpled penguin skin.
"We need a new routine to jumpstart the day. Private, you mentioned Siamese fighting fish at one point?"
The young penguin studied his leader head to healing toe. "Righto, Skippa. Hmmm, K'walski, black and white aren't the only colors we show. We have orange feet and orange beaks and pink tongues."
"And bright blue eyes like yours, young Private."
"Yours, too, Skippa."
"Er, yes. Right enough. Well, then, onward. Hooha!" Their leader jumped one fifth his height to deliver a pulled karate chop at the youngest penguin's neck. "Do they fight like -- ugh --- this?" He landed with a wince. "Dammit. Ouch."
Kowalski assumed Routine Eight: Now I Will Teach And You Will Learn pose. "Easy, sir, you don't want a relapse. Siamese fighting fish don't pounce so much as posture and pretend they're not noticing each other when they're really sizing each other up. You know, like humans do at a bar." He half turned his back to them all. "Skipper, you can help me demonstrate. Fluff out all your feathers."
"That's not fair. My coat isn't complete!"
"Psssht, call it a handicap for a sandbagger. Everyone in this habitat knows that in a real fight you'd have the advantage over me in usual conditions."
Skipper fought down his fear that here near the top of the world he'd be at less than his best to confront Blowhole's plan. "Maybe." He fluffed what he had.
"We stare straight ahead while standing at angles and make like we're thinking about how to take down Burt when he's not looking."
"A full-grown pachyderm? All right. I'll stare ominously at one o'clock, you stink-eye at four." With a whisper between their flippers, commander and lieutenant hunched their shoulders and narrowed their eyes, calculating so hard that Rico swore he could hear their thoughts.
"Sir, snap little glances at me as we move to two o'clock and three o'clock." Skipper threw in a dirty look to make it seem like Burt was deadlier than Hans at his worst as he shuffled into position. He tapped into his fight might.
Kowalski arched his back and pointed his flippers down. "Then comes the attack posture."
"Like sharks do before they come at you ricing, slicing, and dicing? I like it!" Skipper arched to a small bow towards his toes. "Umph. That's all I've got."
Kowalski adjusted his near-circle to match. "We face each other for the final stare off." They stood nearly beak to beak as Kowalski used his greater height to advantage and fluffed his feathers in a fighting rage. Despite the mock nature of the combat, the atmosphere crackled with healthy competition.
Skipper squared his shoulders, as relaxed and simultaneously tense as he ever got in this familiar territory. He could do this. Kowalski was his second. Kowalski would not hurt him.
Kowalski mirrored the mood. His eyes were glittery. "Then pounce, like this." With a hi-yaaa! he aimed a softened sweep kick while Skipper pivoted out of the way on his uninjured foot on the thin skin of ice left over from last night's freeze. Like a dervish, the taller penguin spun around behind his leader, gently grasping the ankle of the extended foot and supporting the flipper that Skipper extended to balance himself. As in pairs skating, he initiated a limitations-cautious camel spin for Skipper and joined in one of his own to parallel as gracefully as Yukari Nakano's signature move.
Skipper landed from the camel spin to offer the full pecking and squawking maneuver which constituted Routine Number Forty-Two. He mouthed Kowalski's flipper tip as if scoring it savagely. He made a lot of noise about it. The two curled around each other in a bizarre whirlwind. Kowalski spun to Skipper's rear to secure a half nelson while deliberately forcing his opponent only to his knees to enable him to employ the half nelson countermeasure impossible in a full stomach-to-ground pin. At this stalemate, they caught sight of what Rico and Private improvised.
Going directly to ground work, Rico tripped Private the same time that Private tripped him. Rico set Private on his lap unexpectedly as he would to control a hatchling, but Private proved once again that he was no hatchling and the two had at it hammer and tongs. Each strained for a quick win as they rolled around a central axis until Private lay atop Rico. In a split second, Rico flipped him until he hooked a solid right leg around Private's roly poly midsection. Next, he rolled Private on top of him back to chest and hooked the ankle of his crushing left leg behind the knee of his own bent right leg. He squeezed and Private grunted as he slackened in surprise at the bold move. Rico used the brief window to slip his left foot between Private's legs from the back. At the same time, Rico's muscled left flipper captured Private's head in a choke hold. He braced his right flipper tip on the ground for balance and squeezed harder.
Private had time to consider Rico's bent for excess as he fought the hold in vain. He slapped the ground. "Give!"
At Kowalski's admiring "Wowza!" to his bunkmate's full throttle assault, Skipper used the break in concentration to clamp down on Kowalski's pinning right flipper with Skipper's own pinned right flipper. He squeezed as hard as he could and at his muted "Ow!", Kowalski disengaged. They both panted as they rolled backwards to prop themselves up with their flippers to see that Rico and Private did the same. After catching his breath, Skipper had a question.
"So male Siamese fighting fish kill each other?"
"Sometimes injuries are that serious, yes. A rare one may submit to the other's aggression and back off peacefully. Mainly, they rip each others fins and tails to shreds."
Rico had a question, too. "Ahgromtzgrrrrlz?"
Kowalski had to think a moment. "Male and female relations are even rougher and the body placement resembles what you and I just did, Skipper."
"The hell you say."
Once on a train of thought, Kowalski rode it into the terminal and up to the lunch counter. "In fact, Skipper, if you were female like we thought you were that time, I would build a bubble nest for our eggs. I wonder if our hatchlings would resemble you or me?"
"My hatchlings? Can't say I've ever given it much think melon time."
Kowalski cruised into the cocktail lounge of the terminal, heedless of the ramifications of his words because it was all dispassionate science, of course. "I'd have to kill you now in the afterglow of our lovemaking if we were Siamese fighting fish. The females are not good parents like males are."
"Because females aren't er, um, uh, faithful to the team?" Skipper waved away a passing gnat.
"It's not that, sir."
"Crrrzy FIIIIIISSSSHHH!" postulated Rico.
"Fish aren't birds, Rico. Macaroni penguins are monogamous," threw in Kowalski.
"Fish or bird, I might not be able to pull monogamy off, either," Skipper said thoughtfully.
Private sounded wistful. "I'd like to think someone might make you want to try."
"It's not any of these things -- oh I'll just come right out and say it. Siamese fighting fish females sometimes eat their own eggs. Yeah. I know."
"Filter, Kowalski, filter! We talked about this!" Skipper gagged.
"It's not my imagination, it's pure science -- okay. All right." Kowalski tented his flippers. "What do you all think of the Rangers' chances to win the Stanley Cup this year?"
Private's train of thought still spun on the turntable at the roundhouse. He sat up to swivel his feet back and forth as he cast down his gaze. "I don't think I want to do this routine, Skippa. Siamese fightin' fish need to listen to Ole."
"Oh, relax. You only live once and if you work it right, once is enough."
Private looked askance at his commander. "That's wot you said when you pushed me into Escape Tunnel Number Seventeen to test the new Animal DNA Specific Defense Shield. I didn't fancy that at all."
"Aw, I was only teasing. You'll like this, I promise. Buck up, I'll take you on with what Kowalski and I started while Rico and Kowalski practice what you and Rico just did. All I ask is that you modify the rough stuff because of my stupid condition."
"Will it hurt?"
"Maybe a little in the beginning until your muscles get used to it, like any new routine. Hey now, where's your Siamese fighting spirit?"
"Drinkin' a nice cuppa in a peaceful Buddhist temple?"
Skipper sobered. "We could forget the whole routine. Your call because you started it."
From somewhere deep inside, Private forged a forceful attitude. "No. I can keep up with you, Skippa. And K'walski and Rico, too. Let's dance all together." He put action to words as he leaped into a plié to surprise them while they scrambled to their feet. He dodged their attacks, he parried pulled punches as if he were fencing with two lightning fast epées, and he ended by dropping into a floor routine. They laughed and joined in by tussling and rolling except for Skipper, who dropped out after two minutes wheezing like Casey Jones' Cannonball Express whistle. Skipper cheered raucously as Private fell to with a passion while laughing like a loon. The youngest penguin staggered upright briefly for the win, and then he plopped himself down to sprawl backwards with his friends.
Skipper tiptoed between Rico and Kowalski's flippers as he clapped in slow motion. The action swerved from sarcasm to acute admiration with Skipper's broad smile.
By chance or design, all three noggins lay close together. Skipper leaned over them to mime taking a quick cameraphone shot and then he joined them on the ground. They gasped "Click!" together as their leader took an imaginary selfie of four redoubtable penguins ready for whatever the world could throw at them.
IOIOIOIOIO
TBC
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