Pulqui Cienfuegos could hardly believe the pronouncement as it crossed his rock.
"The Americas, in all honesty, can go straight to hell."
This can straight from Penguin High Command. What did that mean for his mission? For his troops?
General Cienfuegos had lived in South America his entire life. His father had served in the Falkland Islands. He knew how important the American front was in the fight against... insects. Just thinking about them made his blood boil. But the Penguin High Command, apparently, did not believe in the American front. They flat-out denied its existence from Tierra Del Fuego to las islas Galápagos.
Cienfuegos swore into his herring porridge and slapped a flipper against the hard limestone of his rock. And a word crept into his head that he never believed he would even consider: "mutiny."
The conscious part of him didn't even want to consider it, even as his subconscious whirred with the winds of a million winters. Some of his birds would certainly heed the High Command's words. But others would remain and obey him, he knew. The mistake that the High Council had made was in giving Cienfuegos complete autonomy over the South American front for so long.
Ah, but perhaps that had been a warning of what was to come. Slowly jettison responsibilities, then disassociate entirely.
The idea pushed its way forward in the penguin's head, despite himself. He would have to address his fellow penguins soon. Everyone saw the proclamation. Everyone was talking about it. Everyone in South America was looking to him for guidance.
Loyalty or mutiny? Which would it be?
