Miyamoto concentrated as the bitter Antarctic winds whipped against his diminutive frame. Years of intense training ensured he wouldn’t shiver too noticeably, but even a world-class rōnin had limits. A drop of effort-sweat careened down his furry face; he appreciated the irony.
The samurai glanced again at his companions, three nearly-identical Adélie penguins who were honking and braying softly as they slumbered. He’d been fortunate–the birds had failed to realize he was merely wearing a penguin suit, and his true identity remained concealed. By tomorrow, he’d have infiltrated the highest levels of their operation, foiled their nefarious plans, and would be boarding a plane for much more temperate climates.
It was, save the temptation to snack on his counterfeit nose, a textbook execution. He ought to have selected something other than a carrot.
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