Penguins of Anarchy III: Edge of Disaster

Seven

Camo bounced a tennis ball off the concrete wall of the bunker and caught it as it bounced back to him. The seven Penguins of Anarchy who weren't prisoners of war or suffering from depression and insomnia were gathered at their meeting table. "We need to start thinking about leaving," Camo heard Fragnile say as he focused on catching the ball, sitting with his back to the table.

"Leaving?" he heard Sam say incredulously. "You mean leaving Antarctica? Count me out!"

"Calm down and hear what I have to say, Sam," Fragnile insisted.

"No way!" Sam shot back angrily. "This is our home. We were born here, and we'll die here if it comes down to it!"

"Well our 'home' isn't as friendly to us as it used to be," Marcosis remarked. "Waff hates us for letting Omniscion get away, the army hates us for calling them lazy and leaving on a campaign to South America without them, and the public hates us because Drake used to be a legendary war hero and now they feel as betrayed as we do."

"Yeah, and they think we're as rebellious as Drake was," Riker added sullenly.

Camo swigged from his bottle of vodka. Every day it was just debating, debating, debating. Never doing anything, just debating—oh, and complaining that everyone hates them, too. Camo was sick of it. Thankfully, he still had his best friend to help him grow numb to it: alcohol. It was the only thing that kept him calm while everyone else was worried about if they would ever get to fight again or if they'd be stuck in this bunker until the Alliance came back. Camo just let it all go over his head; he had already thrown away any responsibility; it wasn't his problem anymore. All he had to do now was drink. And that made him the happiest and most restless penguin in the room at the same time.

"There are other alternatives, guys," Ursynz said.

"Name one," Marcosis said irritably.

"Waff could change his mind."

"That ship sailed a long time ago, brother," Riker said.

"Any other ideas?" Gostt asked, bored of these conversations.

"Maybe Dreemo will get better and convince everyone to fight," Sam suggested.

Marcosis sneered. "If he ever wakes up."

Camo sighed. Dreemo had been asleep for four days straight. They continually checked on him to make sure he wasn't dead. Camo knew that his nephew was too far gone now. There was no hope that he would be of any help to anybody anymore. Everything was a lost cause. And that made Camo, the once-great general, smile wryly.

"The people will listen to Dreemo—maybe," Riker remarked.

"Last time he made a public appearance, he collapsed in front of everyone," Fragnile reminded them. "I'm not sure the civilians or the army sees Dreemo as a heroic young soldier like they used to. His days of fame have come and gone. He killed Zeenash and freed Antarctica; that's all in the past now."

"And it seems like it was all pointless," Marcosis said. "Because pretty soon the Martial Alliance will be back, and neither Drake nor Dreemo will be able to stop them."

"And neither can we," Gostt stated. "Unless we get an army to stand behind us."

"If the Martial Alliance surrounds us, then it's already too late," Fragnile said. "We need to go on the offensive. We need to make allies with the other free countries. It's our only hope of forming a united front strong enough to keep the Alliance at bay."

"Well we can't do it, and Waff won't do it," Marcosis said. "All we can do is defect to another country so we can at least die before the Alliance destroys our own homeland."