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Undertow	By : pronker Category: +M through R > Penguins of Madagascar Views: 11341 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I make no profit from this fanfiction set in Dreamworks' Penguins of Madagascar franchise. I do not own its characters, basic premise or settings.

Chapter List
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Skipper dropped the Maglite. Swirling ever deeper into unknown chasms as he went limp to follow Routine Seventeen: Just Relax And Take It You Fool, he saw the light dim as the device sank faster than he did. Cursing only in his mind, he dove after it to substitute Routine Seventeen for Routine Eighty-One: Hellyeahaction and didn't stop until it rested once more in his flipper. The waters stabilized as if someone had plugged the drain and he paddled to slow his momentum. He swept the light in 360 degrees. No bottom showing, no sides, and only the innate penguin sense of direction told him which way was up. When the grit in the water settled a bit more, the glittery effect resembled beaming in that ancient TV show that Kowalski liked: Star Trek. The skipper of the Enterprise showed penguin determination and Skipper had warmed to him, never mind that the human also was a honey-baked holiday ham. The grit thinned, Skipper evaluated his sitch and clutched the Maglite tighter. There was no hope and also no despair, so first things first.
Private. Where was Private?
IOIOIOIOIO
Private struggled against the sucking whirlpool until he realized he was wasting his strength. Routine Seventeen, he thought, Routine Seventeen. Without further spending of oxygen, he allowed himself to drift. Remarkably, the waters reached an equilibrium, a stasis as they deposited him untold feet beneath the surface. No crystalline walls scratched him, no gritty bottom scraped his soles. Suspended and still conscious, he looked around. His faith in the goodness of the universe swelled as he beheld a disk of pure white.
IOIOIOIOIO
There he was! Skipper swam close to his love and as he touched the smaller bird's gentle flipper, hope returned. He gestured with the Maglite to where his senses said up.
Private squeezed Skipper's flipper as the two set out for the surface.
Pressure enveloped them, bubbles swirled about them and they rose. How and why the caverns shifted solidity remained on Skipper's battle mind until his lungs semaphored distress. By Vidkun Quisling, would their bodies betray them? After shining the light upwards to spy no gypsum or calcite ceiling, he decided that they might run out of oxygen before surfacing. Damn, damn, double damn, triple damn, hell. Even commandos needed oxygen and their limit was eighteen minutes underwater. How long had they catapulted downwards?
Calm was the order of the day because they needed to remember Circular Throat Singing to ensure survival, but, but - no. Oh no. There wasn't yet a routine assigned to it and thus no silent signal. Panic blazed before Skipper tamped it down. Circle? Throat? Easy peasy to make a signal off the cuff! Still paddling, he seized Private's shoulder.
IOIOIOIOIO
Private jolted at the expression on his love's face. A stern fire in his eyes, the bird looked like the whole world revolved around communication of something or other. Wait, was Skipper choking? Would he be forced to witness a wheezing, drowning death of someone he loved? Did he save Skipper's life at Kastelholm for nothing? Life couldn't be so mean! Skipper propelled himself still upward with steadily stroking feet, but now he sketched a circle and pointed to his throat, again and again. Crikey, why wasn't Kowalski here, Kowalski with the big brain that understood concepts his puny brain proved muddy at - wait. Wait. Kowalski and the throat singing lesson! Precious minutes added to underwater survival! Private nodded.
IOIOIOIOIO
Skipper said to himself boo hoo in relief later, commander crybaby when realizing that Private understood the makeshift signal. Still holding the Maglite as well as Private's gaze, he squeezed his diaphragm to force air in his lungs upward to beak and earhole passages. A fierce earache began, which he ignored. What was the magic, since they received no new oxygen? Was the oxygen in their blood enough to keep conscious until they broke the surface to gasp like Private's prize fish? Paddle upward and think later, commando. Just keep swimming. If it's your turn to bellyflop into the Eternally Foggy Sea on your way to the Endless Iceberg, at least you'll have company.
IOIOIOIOIO
Private forced his diaphragm into an igloo shaped dome by effort of will, fighting the urge to press on it with both flippers. He needed his flippers to swim as hard as he ever had, upward to where faith said the air was. There couldn't have been a full second between beginning the technique and realizing why it made him feel better. Oxygen molecruel thingies remained in his bloody bloodstream to feed his muscles and what circular throat singing did was belay panic, because with air in his beak and in - ouch - his earhole passages, he felt as if he had no need to breathe. Yes, the morale officer in him said that if neither of them felt panic because they feared nothing remained to feed their lungs from an empty airway, then they wouldn't gasp to inhale water. If they still kept paddling upwards and lasted until they broke surface, then everything would be right as rainbows.
And so it was when they reached the surface three point seven nine minutes later.
IOIOIOIOIO
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