There are some fandoms that will cross over with anything. I'm still not sure there's any excuse for this one, but sorrynotsorry, Feathers McGraw *belongs* in a 1940s Shanghai spy melodrama. And therefore... Birds of a Feather
Smack. Smack. Smack.
The sound of deliberate footsteps approaching over the floor was indescribably sinister. Ming Tai knew what came next. He tried to brace for it without visibly tensing. Best pretend to be out of it until he absolutely couldn't; reap what information he could before giving anything away himself.
The bucket of ice-cold water dashed in his face was as expected. The accompanying faint smell of fish was... not.
The blindfold was ripped away - they didn't care if he saw them, then. Not good, but not surprising. He bared his teeth into the feral grin they'd expect, and snarled up into the face of his captor.
He saw only the ceiling - high; a warehouse? Not a prison, then; before a grip on his hair wrenched him back down, and he found himself eye to eye with... a mask? Expressionless black eyes stared back at him, surrounded by black feathers; the orange beak should have been incongruous, and was only more sinister. A second or two, until his watcher was sure he was focussed, and a blueprint was flourished in front of his eyes. Whatever the KMT had prepared him for, it wasn't this.
The figure in front of him waited expectantly. When he said nothing, it rolled its eyes, let the blueprint furl up on itself, then smacked Ming Tai a couple of times in the face with something that felt remarkably like a rubber glove. Back to the script, then. The familiarity was almost comforting.
Then it took his head in both - flippers? Was there still some kind of drug in his system? - and pointed him at an easel, with a simplified version of the same blueprint. It was crude but recognisably the Japanese military headquarters. A pointer appeared from somewhere, hovered in the air (he didn't let his eyes follow it, didn't let his fingers twitch to test the strength of the bonds, shift his weight to try the stability of the chair), then tapped at two paths through it. Crudely drawn at the centre was something that appeared to be a diamond. Next to it, something marked PLANNS.
The figure - penguin? Whether it was the drugs talking or not, for now he would think of it as the penguin - tapped at itself and then at the diamond. Then it repeated the gesture, pointing at Ming Tai and the PLANNS.
"Oh, no, didi," said Ming Tai, not even sure if he was speaking aloud. "No. You think I'm going to..." The penguin somehow sighed without making a single sound, bounced the pointer several times off Ming Tai's head, and then bounced it insistently on the PLANNS.
..."What plans?" asked Ming Tai, curiosity getting the better of him.
***
Ming Tai stood in front of the mirror and tweaked his bow tie even. The dinner suit he was wearing was his own, although the face in the mirror wasn't, quite. Beside him, the penguin snapped a rubber glove over its own head, then ran a flipper through it so it sprang upright. A dashingly unrecognisable chicken stood in the penguin's place. Ming Tai nodded in appreciation, one professional to another.
***
They were halfway round their respective circuits of the retiring room, tapping panels in the wall ini the dim half-light of the lamp, when the door handle started to turn. Against the wall, the penguin froze.
Ming Tai took one long step forward, got one hand behind his partner's back and let the momentum carry both of them down into a dip. Tiny black eyes stared back at him with deep malevolence - but malevolence would read as passion at a distance. Without breaking eye contact, the penguin reached out with one flipper, grabbed a rose from a vase on a side table, and gripped it in its beak.
Light sliced through the room, illuminating a bright path through the shadows, but nothing further. Sounds of music crept in from down the hall. Ming Tai held the pose for a second or two, then pulled his partner up, through a sharp turn and spun him into a close hold. There was a muttered comment and a laugh, and the door swung shut again. He gave it a moment or two before he let go, just in case.
The penguin looked at him expressionlessly, then trod hard on his foot, and returned to the search.
***
Finding the panel that slid back to reveal the stair up to the Commander's bedroom was almost an anticlimax after that. He covered the door, a heavy silver candlestick from the mantelpiece in hand, while the penguin worked at the safe with a set of complex tools it had produced from who knows where. Five minutes. Ten. The penguin wiped sweat from its brow; Ming Tai bit his lip. The first tumbler fell. The second. The safe swung open, revealing a flat leather jewellery box, a small lead tin, and, most interestingly of all, a stack of manila files. Ming Tai's fingers itched for his camera, but although he had his suit, he had absolutely nothing else. The penguin reached almost reverently for the case, and flipped it open. Light filled the room, blazing off a river of diamonds and a single sapphire the size of - well, a penguin's egg. Jiejie had a better one, but Ming Tai wasn't going to mention that. The case snapped shut and vanished into whatever qiankun pouch was hiding under those feathers. Ming Tai stepped forward, then drew up short as he found himself faced with the business end of a gun, the muzzle somehow still less threatening than those expressionless eyes. The gun stayed level as the penguin pattered away backward to the window. Only then, one flipper on the window latch, did it give a fraction of a nod. Ming Tai dropped to one knee and slowly, slowly eased the papers out of the folder, careful not to disturb what might be a pressure plate. He slipped them carefully into the double lining of his jacket, then eased to his feet. The window lock snicked. And alarm bells blared. The penguin was already out of the window, and Ming Tai halfway through after him, when something zipped past his ear, and a scream sounded from the room behind him. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Ming Tai dived out through the window, then scrambled two floors up - never down, they'd always look down - in through a cracked dormer on the roof, then down to the kitchens; just another guest looking to flirt with the serving staff.
The penguin had not given the impression of a bird that cared about its partner in crime, but perhaps he was covering his own escape.
On the roof opposite, Ah Cheng nodded to himself and unscrewed the scope of his rifle.
(Author's note: Ming Tai wears ready-made bow ties in the show but it hurts me, so he's got a real one in this. Many thanks to @jianghushenanigans for finding such an excellent pair of photos).