Penguins of Madagascar: Moving Situations

Chapter Twenty-Two

Skipper
Three weeks have passed since I called him...I don't even like thinking if the words. Useless. Hindrance. The mere thought makes me cringe. God, what was I thinking? It isn't like I can do anything about it. Not until there is some improvement. If anything I have said the comments since then. I sigh and lean against the wall as Gale and Kowalski fight. He catches Kowalski's wrist mid-punch, twists and kicks his legs so he lands painfully on the ground. I sigh. He loses again.
"Kowalski, what happened to trying?" I ask as he gets back up, wincing as he rubs his wrist.
"I am trying!" he protests. I make sure not to make eye contact with him because I am pretty sure that I would just give in if he shoots me another dejected look. It makes him look even more innocent and the wide-eyedness contributes to his adorab-No!
"Doesn't look like it," I mutter – a blatant lie. He may not be brilliant at it but through how worn out he is, it is cleat he is trying. From the corner of my eye I see his shoulders slump: I bite the inside of my cheek to try and stay silent. "Okay, training is over today guys. Me and Kowalski are going to practice longer." I am expecting some kind or response – a sigh or irritation – but Kowalski is silent. I risk a glance at him and his expression is entirely blank and expressionless. That is arguably worse.

The other three head off, leaving us in the room. A long silence stretches on. I look at Kowalski and he looks at me, both waiting for the other to break the silence. After a long moment I figure he isn't going to.
"Okay, a few more rounds," I state.
"Yes Skipper," he says, flatly. I frown. I really hope Gale is right and Kowalski snaps back to normal soon.

We begin. As usual there is no force behind any of his hits but he is dodging somewhat better than usual. I manage to catch his wrist when he blocks one of my faux-attacks, twist, and send him falling to the ground.
"You really need to work on not letting that always be what beats you," I comment, crossing my arms slightly as he gets up. I wait for him to say something – to defend himself even – but he remains silent. His expression remains blank and he doesn't quite make eye contact. "Is that clear?"
"Yes." The uncharacteristic iciness surprises me, to the point I don't say anything about it. This is not going how I thought but it seems too late to back out of this harsher approach.
"Okay then..." I say, awkwardly. "We'll leave anymore for today. Wanna head down?"
"I think I'll do some training," Kowalski murmurs, I glance at him in shock but I nod in understanding and head off.

I go downstairs to where the others are: Rico is making lunch and there is a distinct burning smell.
"Um...I think you need some more liquid in that," I say, mildly, as he tries to scrape the stuck food off the bottom of the pan.
"Yeah that makes sense..." he agrees. "Can't we just put Kowalski on cooking every day and take some of his other chores?"
"I doubt Kowalski would want to do all the cooking," I point out. "Especially given he is suddenly doing so much more training."
"Plus he's still quite annoyed at me," Rico muttered.
"I'm still quite annoyed you broke my phone," I say, jokingly, trying to cheer him up slightly as I take in his deflated attitude. "At least I got a new phone out of it."
"Ha ha," he says, rolling his eyes slightly. "Fair though. Okay, I think the food is ready." I look into the pot sceptically but decide one disgusting meal wouldn't be too bad.

Kowalski comes down and we all sit to eat. Its bitter from being burnt but besides that it isn't dreadful. Kowalski though is only picking at it, shoulders slumped.
"Is it that bad?" Rico asks.
"Just not hungry," Kowalski murmurs.
"Well you need to eat," I state, giving him a pointed look. "You barely touched your food last night." I wait for him to argue but his gaze returns to his food and he keeps eating. I suppress a sigh, beginning to wish again he would at least stand up for himself when it came to simple things.

Kowalski
It is late and I can't sleep. I lie, staring at the ceiling, mind running on the thoughts of everything negative said to me lately. Not good enough. Pathetic. Hindrance. Useless. I huff, sitting up and switch on the light, squinting from both the sudden light and lack of glasses. I push up my glasses, glance at the clock, and groan. 3am. Either far too early or far too late to still be awake. I frown. What to do now? Sleep doesn't seem to be an option and I don't want to secretly invent. Everyone has made it extremely clear that I'm not any good at it. I'm not even sure I'll continue with inventing. What would possibly be the point? To carry on not doing well enough and failing constantly? It isn't like I was ever a good inventor anyway so why bother? I get up and head through the dark corridor hoping I don't wake anyone up. I head straight for the training room. If I am going to be up late I may as well utilize the time to try and be less of a bother to the group.

I still hate training – I don't think that'll ever change – but it feels good to be doing something to make others dislike me less. Maybe I'll stop disliking me. That would be a nice change from the last few weeks... I sigh and make a start on the weights. I'm hardly able to lift the lightest options, which are admittedly than most gyms lightest options, but I keep straining, ignoring the slight pain that begins in my wrists and shoulders. Don't stop, don't stop. The burning feeling won't cease but I keep going for ten minutes before circling over to the next type of weight. I begin to feel tiredness sink in but I can't sleep. Not yet. I need to be better.

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Weeks pass. Every day and night has dissolved into the same pattern. Day: get up with minimal sleep, train, usually get hurt by Gale, and avoid unnecessary interaction with the group. Night: wait until about twelve so everyone is asleep or at least into bed, train until around 3 or 5 then go to bed until seven. It started with training from 2-4 then 12-2 but more and more lately I am doing the longer option. I glance in the mirror as I go past: paler than usual, and the shadows under my eyes are more prominent under my eyes. No one has seemed to notice though. I am assuming it is because when you live with someone they don't notice gradual changes but more likely they just don't care. I was allowed to start inventing again about two weeks ago but as I suspected I just haven't. What could possibly be the point?

Instead of my usual morning tea I have a large, strong, coffee. It is tiring to even stay awake and there is a distinct throbbing in my temples. I have got pretty used to it though.
"Since when did you like coffee?" Private asks. I just shrug, staring into the mug of coffee. He sighs and heads off: I chew on my lip. I think I'm starting to upset them but my emotions are too frazzled to pretend things are fine. Besides it isn't as if they care about what they do to me. There's the sound of footsteps behind me and a fistful of my hair. I wince but even this I am getting used to this.
"I have toilet cleaning for chore today," he states. "Do it." His grip tightens until I agree. The door opens and Skipper steps in.
"Surprised you aren't inventing," he muses. "I mean it's probably a good thing but-" I stand up and head to leave the room. "Kowalski, I'm not done."
"Well I am," I snap, unable to take any more criticism today. "And yeah, I know. My inventions suck. I fucking get it!" I storm out.

Instead of heading out of the front door or to my room. Instead I make a beeline straight for my lab. I knock most of my inventions into the bin, including the one I was last working on, hearing several things break. I swallow, watching so much work be destroyed. I then turn my back, shutting the light on my time inventing. What was the point?