Slick was angry, and it was consuming all his time and attention.

Usually, sharpening his vast collection of knives managed to calm him down, but now even the quiet shik shik of the blade grated on his ears, jumbling his already erratic thoughts and irritating his already raw nerves. One blade sharpened to a fantastically deadly edge, he tossed it aside and picked up another less sharp but no less deadly knife and began scraping at it in frustration. The other members watched him warily; Slick expressed all emotions with varying intensities of agitation, so it was hard to tell what he was feeling at any given moment.

All Slick could think was that had been Ms. Paint, goddamned Ms. Paint, who he had sworn would never hurt a fly. The scraping sound of metal seemed to get quieter as a memory pulled him back, a memory of a time before he'd been leader of the Crew, before he'd acquired his hat, or even his scottie dogs. Back when he was just a traitor out of the job, and just starting with this whole gangster bit.

Injuries had been common and help had been scarce. But, bleeding out on an empty street somewhere, suffering from injuries he could hardly remember specifically anymore, a small voice had crawled through the blood clotting his auditory ducts and said, "Oh my, oh, are you all right? Of course you aren't. Here." Then someone was helping him up, hanging him like a limp doll on her surprisingly strong shoulders. As she'd dragged him through the street and to a small apartment building, ignoring the accusing stares of other carapacians, she'd explained that her name was Ms. Paint, and that she had some medical knowledge and might be able to help him. At the very least, she could provide him with good food and shelter until he healed. Slick had been too tired to argue, and he wasn't inclined to refuse shelter anyway.

Once in the apartment building, she'd laid him as gently as possible on an uncomfortable couch and immediately hurried off to procure him some good soup. She was mumbling something about fixing up the chill that he'd managed to get, though he didn't notice he was shivering at all until she mentioned it. He commanded himself to stop that pansy-ass shivering at once, but it seemed he was far too cold to be commanding anything.

Soon he was bundled up in brightly-colored blankets that reminded him sickeningly of his previous uniform, but he didn't say anything because he was too busy shoveling soup into his mouth. Ms. Paint was going on about how she'd been out of the job since her queen had left to answer a higher calling, and how she'd been looking for work but there wasn't much place for a maid when the whole world was turning into a wasteland. Slick didn't really listen.

He'd wanted to leave right away, but she insisted that he stay, at least until he was healed enough to make his way to the door without falling over. He had to admit, that was probably an appropriate course of action.

As it turned out, it had taken a few weeks for him to heal completely. Or, more accurately, it had taken a few weeks for him to finally pack himself up and leave. He'd lingered for reasons he couldn't exactly put a finger on. Maybe it was because Ms. Paint was cheery and kind even in the face of his most caustic tempers, and knew the difference between an irritated "fuck off" and an affectionate "fuck off." Even when he'd gotten himself out of the apartment, he always found himself wandering back, where a hot meal and a warm, if uncomfortable, couch was always waiting for him. Not to mention a heartfelt "I missed you, Slick!" and a smile that could brighten up even the dark streets of the slum-like city.

When he'd finally left for good, he'd had his hat and his dogs, some of them gummy snacks and some of them dangerous thugs. The life of a gangster was dangerous, and there weren't many he cared for enough to keep them from it. Ms. Paint was one of the few, maybe the only one, who he just felt he couldn't involve in the mess of bullets, knives, and blood that was his chosen lifestyle. Ms. Paint had accepted that graciously, though he could hear a waver in her voice. But he ignored it and walked out of her life once and for all; or, at least, he'd thought he had.

His reverie faded away, the soft hiss of scraping metal growing louder once again. He glanced at the knife, looking it over. He deemed it sharp enough, and tossed it aside.

Before he could pick another up, Droog stepped up. "Listen, boss," he said, his voice calculating, "what did you mean before, about making Little Sn0w 'a member'?"

Slick glared at Droog for a moment, then took in the curious faces of Boxcars and Deuce. "I meant exactly what I said," he huffed. "She's apparently good with a gun and has the same kind of training that Sn0w has. She could be an asset like we've never had before." He said this last part with a little bit of venom, making Deuce wince. Boxcars didn't catch it.

Droog kept his eyes on Slick for a moment longer, as though giving Slick the chance to fess up, admit that practicality wasn't the only thing driving his decision to attempt taking a member of the Felt. But Slick just glared at him defiantly, daring Droog to call him out on it.

Droog sighed, giving up on forcing Slick's ulterior motives into the open. "How do you think you're gonna take a member of the Felt away from them? They're a pretty tight bunch," he asked.

Slick stood up and dusted off his jacket. He picked up a knife and tucked it away, close to his heart. "Paint and I have history," he said simply, moving slowly to the exit. "I'm gonna do this mission alone."

None of the Crew stopped or followed him as he disappeared into the dark.