It was September 20th, 1919, and a storm was brewing in New York City. The air was heavy and humid, and the skies were grey and overcast as Marlene hurried through the streets towards the Penguin Steel Company. She could see the towering smokestacks over the square tops of the buildings around her; another factory in a city filled to bursting with them. But this one was special, because those grimy metal walls held a story, one that, according to her source, was going to be huge. Marlene smiled to herself as she walked, tucking a stray strand of light brown hair behind her ear. They'd have to respect her at the newspaper once this piece hit the presses. They'd all have to acknowledge her as the real reporter she was, instead of just some glorified secretary.

The factory loomed above her, hulking and angular. She encountered a few workers passing in and out through the front doors; for the most part, they ignored her, though there was one who couldn't have been older than eighteen who stopped and gave her a cheery wave before continuing on his way. Even though it was the middle of September and rather chilly, the men were all covered in a thin film of sweat. It glistened on their foreheads and bare arms, smearing black grease across their faces when they moved to wipe it off. Marlene reminded herself not to shake the hand of anyone just off his shift.

Taking a moment to steel herself, she pushed open the doors and stepped into the factory. A long, high-ceilinged hallway stretched before her, lined with heavy metal doors where workers filed in and out, like so many bees in a hive. They were all staring at her now, but none of them stopped their motion or even slowed down. The air inside the factory was hot and thick, oppressive to the point where it was almost suffocating. She could taste the sharp tang of metal, and the hall reverberated with loud clanking and rumbling, the sound of machines.

The hallway ended in what looked like some sort of office, a block of rough white plaster sporting a single sheet-metal door and a squat rectangular window with drawn blinds. Unlike the rest of the factory, it was pristine, and reeked of management. She'd have to start there.

Marlene made her way down the hall until she stood before the office door, hand poised to knock. There was a brass nameplate at eye level that read "Steven McGrath" in painted letters. This was probably the factory supervisor's office. She drew her hand back, then swung it forward.

Suddenly, the door flung open on silent hinges, and a man's face appeared right where the nameplate had been. Marlene yelped in sheer fright, hastily drawing back her hand, which was now on a collision course for the man's nose.

The man appeared completely unfazed, peeking out from behind the door and sizing her up with a suspicious gaze. "State your name and business," he barked, his voice low and raspy and as cool as his frosty blue eyes.

Marlene couldn't do anything but stand there, knuckles still in the air. Finally, she managed to sputter, "M- M- Marlene Ottinger... I'm a reporter with the Herald."

The man's eyes narrowed. "Likely story. How do I know you're not a corporate spy?"

"Uh..." Marlene had not been expecting any of this, but luckily, she had brought her newspaper ID with her. She pulled it out of her briefcase and showed it to him. "Here's my identification."

The man inspected her ID with a critical gaze, probably scrutinizing every inch of it. Now that she had time to get a good look at him, he was actually rather short, though well-built, with broad shoulders and tough hands. He had slick jet-black hair, and was dressed in a crisp white button-down shirt that looked freshly pressed, though she detected small patches of sweat at the armpits; apparently, even this starched-and-ironed man was not immune to the heat. Eventually, he glanced up from her ID, eyes narrowed, then barked out, "Iron ore smelted with coke and limestone makes what?!"

"Cola?!" Marlene squeaked, jumping back a step.

His face was now only inches away from hers. "And what's a Chandler and Price jobber?"

"Ooh! That's a letterpress for small prints, less than a page!" Marlene exclaimed, without really knowing what she was saying. "We have a bunch of Chandlers at the Herald." She tilted her head. "...Wait, why did you ask me that?"

The man held her gaze for a moment longer, then pulled back and gave her a smooth grin. "Well, nice to meet you, Marlene. I had to make sure you were the real thing." He held out a hand. "Call me Skipper. I'm the supervisor here."

Marlene shook his hand, slightly unnerved, but relieved that she'd passed whatever paranoid test that had been. "Nice to meet you."

Skipper held open the door and motioned her inside his office. It was small and spartan, with nothing but a desk and two uncomfortable-looking chairs. Skipper seated himself in one of them, folding his arms. "Now, if I may ask, what's a pretty young thing like yourself doing at the Penguin steel works?"

Marlene sat down in the chair next to him, folding her hands in her lap. "Well, as I said, I'm a reporter with the Herald," she began. "My editor wanted to do a piece on local industry, so I'm out getting information on factories. This place seemed just as interesting as any." That wasn't entirely true, and she was beginning to fear he wouldn't buy it.

Skipper raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't told you'd be coming."

Marlene flinched. "There must have been some sort of mix-up..."

Skipper looked doubtful, but he shrugged. "Well, I'm sure the bosses won't mind some free publicity. But if you start asking the wrong types of questions, I won't waste any time giving you the bum's rush, if you catch my drift." He spread his hands. "So what do you want to know?"

Marlene smiled in relief, pulling a pencil and notepad out of her briefcase. So far, so good. "Actually, I was thinking I'd start with you, if that's okay."

Skipper frowned slightly, but after a few moments, he shrugged. "Okay, shoot."

"Thanks." Marlene readied her pencil. It was obvious that the supervisor wasn't one to talk easily, but she was fairly good at getting people to open up to her. She just had to find the right topic. "So, 'Skipper'... are you a sailor?"

Skipper's face lit up like a Christmas tree. "United States Navy," he said with obvious pride. "I was first lieutenant aboard the USS Pike, the best submarine in the whole fleet. She left the old Kaiser with more sour Krauts than my great-aunt Ruth makes at New Year's."

Marlene's eyes widened. "You fought in the war?"

"Affirmative. Matter of fact, I joined the Navy when I was eighteen, back in '09." Skipper smirked. "The men here call me 'Skipper' because I run this place the same way old Captain Rockgut ran the Pike." He gestured around him, presumably to the factory at large. "She's a tight ship. Every man knows his duties, and does 'em. It's as simple as that." His expression soured. "No fancy stuff."

Marlene raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like you don't like… fancy stuff?"

Skipper grunted, shaking his head. "I keep telling the bosses that we don't need that egghead around here, but I have to admit, productivity has increased since he started tinkering around. Doesn't mean I have to like it, though."

Marlene leaned forward, scribbling furiously. "Egghead?"

Skipper blinked. "Sorry. I guess my thoughts ran away with me there." He checked his watch. "But don't worry, Egghead himself will be here in less than thirty seconds. The guy is clockwork."

As he finished speaking, the door swung open, and a tall, lanky man dressed in a white lab coat burst into the office. "Skipper! I've found a solution to your problems with furnace two! Recalibrating the pressure dials led me to discover a minor mechanical malfunction in the..." He trailed off as he noticed Marlene, seemingly bewildered by her presence. His slick black hair was tousled in places, and black grease stains covered his coat and streaked his cheeks. "Who is she?"

Skipper stood from his chair and placed his hands on his hips. "Well, well... you're twenty-two seconds early, Kowalski." He gestured towards Marlene. "This is Marlene; she's a reporter writing a piece on the factory." He turned to Marlene and indicated the tall man. "This is Kowalski, the egghead I mentioned earlier. The bosses sent him to improve efficiency."

"It's Dr. Kowalski, and you know I resent that nickname," Kowalski sniffed, holding out his hand to Marlene. "How do you do."

Marlene stood and shook his hand with a smile. "Well, thanks. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about your work here?"

Kowalski looked tickled pink; Marlene guessed that not many people had ever asked him that. "Why, certainly!" He held a hand over his chest. "I specialize in scientific management, though my doctorate is in mechanical engineering. I study the workers' aptitudes and habits and determine how to maximize productivity at minimal cost."

"Basically, if he sees Joey doing a job in six seconds while Ted's doing it in four, he's gonna whine to me until everybody's doing it in four... or three and a half if he can swing it," Skipper grumbled, arms folded. "And the 'mechanical engineering' part gives him an excuse to mess with my machines."

"I'm not messing with them, I'm improving them," Kowalski protested.

Skipper was not impressed. "Uh huh. And almost blowing up the whole damn factory last week was an improvement, right?"

For the first time, Kowalski looked sheepish. "...I forgot to carry the two..."

Marlene scribbled furiously. While this was certainly interesting, it was about time she started finding out what she really came here for. "Dr. Kowalski, it's great that you're improving efficiency, but I can't imagine that the workers would take kindly to that."

Kowalski blinked. "Oh... well, it's true that most of them don't like me, but I'd never thought of it that way before." He looked thoughtful. "Now that you mention it, there have been a few spots of trouble lately..."

Skipper seemed to sense the direction Marlene was heading in, and he gave her a warning look. "Why don't we go on a tour of the factory?" he suggested, though it sounded more like a command. "Kowalski can show you how things work here while I make my rounds."

Marlene hid her disappointment at her questioning having been cut off behind a warm smile. She'd have to be very careful not to set off Skipper's paranoia. "That would be great, thank you."

The tour lasted for the next half hour. Skipper led the two of them through the factory, issuing orders to the workers and resolving issues as he went, while Kowalski explained every aspect of the production process in more detail than Marlene could ever possibly need or want. In truth, she wasn't there to learn how to smelt pig iron, so she spent most of the tour observing Skipper's interactions with the workers. It was obvious now that he was born to command; he had a natural charisma that seemed to inspire respect everywhere he went. Though a few of the workers did grumble when he turned his back, as soon as his gaze was back on them, they were the paragon of order and efficiency.

Not so with Kowalski. The scientist was given dirty looks at best, mumbled death threats at worst. Marlene even spotted a worker attempting to spit on him as he passed, though thankfully, the man didn't have very good aim. Kowalski, for his part, was completely oblivious, chattering away about machines and science and scribbling on a clipboard. It was no wonder Skipper had taken to calling him an egghead.

By the time they'd covered the whole factory floor, Marlene was sweating like a pig and breathing heavily. It was hot as hell, and the tour had really tired her out. "Hey… Skipper…" she panted, leaning over and supporting herself by placing her hands on her knees. "Could we maybe… go outside… and get some fresh air?"

Skipper looked amused. "What's wrong, soldier? All tuckered out after a little walk?"

Marlene summoned up enough energy to frown at him, rapidly straightening and smoothing her blazer. "I'm not a soldier. And I just wasn't prepared for this heat, that's all."

"Hmm…" Kowalski stroked his chin. "It is true that achieving a semblance of comfort within the superheated atmosphere inside the factory requires prolonged exposure over a number of weeks… perhaps it would be in Miss Ottinger's best interests to step outside for a bit."

Skipper glanced at his watch. "Well, alright, but I can't go with you. I'm on the clock, you know."

"That's fine," Marlene answered, wiping her forehead. "Actually, I was hoping to interview some of the workers, as well."

Skipper became immediately suspicious. "Why? The boys can't tell you anything about the factory beyond what Kowalski and I have already covered." His eyes narrowed. "Maybe you're a Red, here to incite a riot!"

Marlene fought the urge to roll her eyes. This whole 'completely paranoid' thing was getting a little old. "I'm not a Red," she said firmly. "I like capitalism as much as the next guy. I just want to make sure I get both sides of the story, that's all." She shrugged. "I might not even use any of it, but my editor likes to see reporters focus on 'the human element' of a story like this one."

Kowalski stared at her as if she had three heads. "But isn't such information unnecessary to the facts? Who cares about the people involved in any given incident?"

Skipper didn't look like he was buying it, either, and that made Marlene feel almost sad in an irked way. "Believe it or not, people usually care about other people. It's not a difficult concept."

Skipper waved it off. "Fine, whatever; we're wasting time here." He started to head back towards the front of the factory. "Interview whoever you want, but I want Kowalski with you at all times, to make sure there's no funny business."

Marlene watched him as he walked away, and was suddenly struck by something that she hadn't noticed before; she'd been paying attention to the supervisor's words and actions, but now that she was simply watching him move, it was actually fairly noticeable. However, by the time she thought to ask about it, he was already gone. She turned to Kowalski. "Skipper walks with a limp... was he injured?"

Kowalski glanced side to side, as if unsure if he should be divulging such information. "Well, I don't know much about it, but I heard that he was hurt badly during the war and had to be discharged."

"Discharged... you mean, they sent him home?" Marlene felt a twinge of sympathy for Skipper; he was a proud soldier, a born commander. To have that taken away from him because of an injury must have been torture. Not to mention having to watch the war end without him... She shook her head. She was here to get a scoop, not the supervisor's sob story. She needed to focus. "Ah, so, are any workers on break right now?"

Kowalski thought about it. "It would have been better to ask Skipper that... but I do know that the men like to go out into the yard during their ten-minute breaks. Perhaps we'll find some outside."

The scientist led her to the floor exit and pushed open the doors, stepping outside. The cool, fresh, pre-storm air, laden with the smell of rain, felt so good that Marlene almost cried. But she held it back, looking around and trying to get her bearings. This was the opposite side of the factory from where she'd entered; there was a long strip of open ground, packed dirt with patches of grass, surrounded by a tall chain-link fence. Workers milled about in groups, some sitting on the ground or against the wall. Kowalski scanned the tired faces, smiling as his gaze landed on two men seated at the end of the strip, playing cards. "I know those two; they might be willing to answer your questions."

Marlene let him lead her to the corner where the fence met the factory wall; she couldn't help but notice the dirty looks that the scientist continued to garner. Without the protection of Skipper, she was surprised he hadn't been ripped to shreds.

The two workers Kowalski had pointed out glanced up at their approach. They were a strange pair - the one on the left was tall and heavy-set, very muscular, and had a scarred face, tousled black hair, and wild eyes, while the one on the right was small and young, with an innocent expression and an air of sweetness. Marlene recognized the younger man - more like a boy - as the one who'd waved to her when she'd first arrived. They both had cards in their hands and one card stuck to their foreheads, with a deck and a discard pile in the middle; it looked like a few pieces of penny candy were riding on the game. The young worker glanced back and forth between Marlene and Kowalski, a warm smile on his face. "'Ello, K'walski..." He dipped his head to Marlene. "...Miss." He had a very strong British accent, which was strange, but certainly not unpleasant. "We're playing stomp the wombat; want to join us?"

Marlene had never heard of such a game, and was actually somewhat curious as to how it was played, but Kowalski shook his head. "Perhaps some other time." He indicated her. "This is Ms. Marlene Ottinger, from the New York Herald. She's writing a story on the factory."

The young man looked delighted. "Ooh, are we going to be in the paper?"

Marlene smiled; she couldn't help it. His enthusiasm was infectious. "Yep. If you don't mind, I'd like to interview you two."

"Really? Wow, that would be smashing!" The young man jumped to his feet and shook her hand. "My name's Sam, but everybody here calls me Private." He motioned to the big man next to him, who seemed even bigger now that he was standing, though he was actually shorter than Kowalski. "And this is Rico. He doesn't talk much, but he's a great guy."

Rico smiled at her, stretching the jagged scar that cut across his mouth. "Hiyah." His voice was rough and muddled, sounding more like a squawk than words. Marlene could already tell that trying to get anything out of him was going to be a challenge.

She smiled anyway. "Nice to meet you." She pulled out her pencil and notepad. "So, what are your jobs in the factory?"

"I'm a topman," Private said with a smile. "I clean the tops of the blast furnaces. Rico's a stove tender; he operates the stoves that fuel furnaces two and four."

Rico nodded happily, his tongue lolling around his mouth. "Stoke fires," he grunted, glancing eagerly at Kowalski. "'Walski..." He then descended into a string of gibberish, culminating in an excited "kaboom!"

Marlene sent Kowalski an enquiring look, and he twiddled his fingers sheepishly. "Skipper already mentioned this, but last week, I was attempting to solve a minor issue with furnace four. Something went wrong, and..."

"Kaboom!" Rico repeated, clapping his hands together with a delighted smile on his face.

Kowalski winced. "...but it wasn't that serious..."

"Rico really likes explosions," Private butted in, seeming not at all bothered by that fact. "That's why he works the stoves - the fire keeps him entertained."

Marlene had to try really hard not to drop her notepad and run. Despite Private's assurances that Rico was a 'great guy,' he was also a pyromaniac capable of snapping her in half. She decided to change the subject. "So, Private, where did you get that nickname? You look a little too young to have been in the war."

Private pouted. "No... I was sixteen when the U.S. joined, and I wanted to try passing for eighteen, but my Uncle Nigel wouldn't let me. I understand, though... we left Faversham because he thought it would be too dangerous to stay in England." His smile returned. "I started working here around the same time as Skippah. He gave me the nickname, and now everybody calls me Private."

"Skipper, eh?" Marlene tapped her pencil against the notepad absentmindedly. It seemed like everything here revolved around Skipper. "Is he a good boss?"

Private grinned. "The best. He's tough, but he really cares about all of us workers, more than anyone else would."

Rico nodded vehemently. "Skippuh good. Skippuh..." He made a few unintelligible noises, gesturing at himself. Finally, he managed to get out, "...s- say-ved Rico."

Marlene blinked. "Skipper... saved you?"

Rico nodded. "Yeh, yeh." He then launched into another string of gibberish, though it was clear that he was very earnestly trying to tell her something this time.

Marlene glanced at Private. "Do you know what he's talking about...?"

Private turned to Rico. "Is it okay if I tell her?" When Rico nodded, he turned back to Marlene. "The truth is that the reason Rico's like this is because he spent almost a whole year on the western front. Y'know, in the trenches."

Marlene froze. She'd heard all the horror stories of the trenches in Europe, more than what the public knew; there were tales too terrible for the paper to publish. One of the things that had always stood out to her was the average lifespan of a second lieutenant on the front: eight seconds. That was why she'd never actually met anyone who'd been there.

"His unit kept losing men until Rico, the lieutenant, and two others were the only original members left," Private continued, constantly glancing at Rico. The older man seemed okay, nodding along almost casually. Private fidgeted. "Then, one night at Meuse-Argonne, they came under heavy shelling. Rico was the only one who survived. They had to send him to a field hospital because he was full of shrapnel; he came home a few weeks before the war ended."

Rico made some noises that sounded vaguely like unflattering descriptions of hospitals, then gave a short, good-humored cackle. Marlene was surprised at how emotionally detached the man was from his own story. Then again, perhaps he had to be.

Private giggled a little; apparently, he was able to come as close to understanding Rico as anyone could. "Anyway, Rico can say a few words now, but when he first came home, he couldn't speak at all - probably 'cause he breathed in all sorts of nasty gas over there. He didn't have any family to take care of him, and no one would hire him on account of his... issues."

"'Cept Skippuh," Rico interrupted, a grateful note in his rough, strained voice. "Skippuh fought, too. Undahstands."

Marlene thought back on all the strange things Skipper had said and done since she'd met him; his paranoia, the way he sometimes treated her like an enemy. If Skipper understood Rico, he probably had some 'issues' of his own. She'd interviewed a soldier once who'd told her that there were some things that, no matter how hard you tried, you just couldn't put into words. But when you'd seen war and you met someone else who'd seen it, too, you didn't need to explain. It was a secret understanding that only soldiers shared, and thinking of Skipper, Marlene felt all too aware that she was on the outside, trying to get a glimpse of something she had no right to see. She felt bad for having judged the supervisor somewhat harshly in her thoughts, though she knew that she would have to continue pursuing her scoop whether he liked it or not. She flipped to a new page in her notepad. "That's a very heavy story, thank you for sharing it with me," she said carefully. "Skipper sounds like a really great guy. Do the other workers like him as much as you do?"

Private shot a discreet glance at Kowalski, biting his lip. Rico let out a low, rumbling growl, then grunted something that Marlene's editor would never print in the paper.

"Everyone here respects Skippah," Private began cautiously, "but to a lot of people, he represents the bosses. They don't understand that he's just doing his job like the rest of us. Mason and Phil - they're the union leaders - they blame him for the wage cuts. Now we're all making ninety-four cents a day instead of a dollar; it was hard for some guys and their families to get by on that before, but now it's nigh on impossible."

Kowalski looked uncomfortable. "...I don't think Skipper would approve of-"

Marlene waved it off; she had a feeling that Kowalski wasn't nearly as comfortable with responsibility as Skipper was, which would make him easy to manipulate. And while she didn't usually approve of manipulation, this story could be her big break. She'd have to compromise her values just this once. "Skipper told you not to let me start any 'funny business,' which I haven't done and don't intend on doing." She gave him a pout. "You're a smart man. I work for the New York Herald, not the corner Socialist pamphlet press."

Kowalski hesitated; a costly mistake. "Well, ah... that is to say..."

"I'm glad you understand." Marlene turned back to Private. "Tell me more about Mason and Phil..."

"Rico! Private!" Skipper sauntered towards them, the limp giving him a little hop in his step, his shirtsleeves rolled up. "Break time's over, boys," he called out, throwing a thumb over his shoulder towards the factory. "Get back on in there."

Private shot Marlene a brief apologetic look before jogging off towards the factory, Rico on his heels. Marlene frowned. She'd been so close!

Skipper seemed to know what he'd done; he planted his hands on his hips and gave her his signature smooth grin, this time with an infuriating smugness. "How's the interviewing coming, Marlene? Learn anything interesting?"

Marlene, seething inside, tried to cover it by glancing at her watch, and realized that it was actually quite late. She looked to Skipper. "When does the factory close?"

"In about two hours," Skipper responded, still looking cheeky and almost victorious.

Kowalski scribbled on his clipboard. "Actually, closing time is in precisely one hour, fifty-four minutes and twenty seconds."

Marlene rolled her eyes, only to freeze when she noticed that Skipper had done so, too. Their gaze locked for a moment or two, then Marlene coughed and turned away. "Well, I suppose I'd best be going, then. But I'll need to come back tomorrow to gather more information, if that's alright."

Skipper's eyes said to bring it on. "Fine by me. Any time from six a.m. to close should be alright."

"Then I'll see you at ten," Marlene told him, mirroring the expression. She would get her story if it was the last thing she ever did.

Author's Note: Hello, all! This is my first PoM story, and it was originally supposed to be a oneshot, but ha ha ha that didn't happen. This whole AU is actually based around that one scene from Madagascar 2 where Skipper is negotiating with the chimp union about rebuilding the plane... yes, that two-second scene.

Fun fact: 1919 was considered to be the unofficial worst year in U.S. history, due to riots, violence, and the corruption of baseball. You don't mess with a red-blooded post-WWI American and his baseball. XD

There will probably be some Skilene in future chapters, but this isn't primarily a shipping fic. Just so's ya know.