The Pirates of Cabo Diablo

Part 2: The Good, the Bad, and the Marvelous

Don Karnage was up before the sun, dressed and ready. He had given the gilded buttons on his blue coat an extra polish, and his cutlass a fine sharpening. Ah! The music the blade made when he swished and swashed it around in front of his mirror in a dashing display, it sounded sharp enough to cut the very oxygen molecules in half. The effect was enhanced much further in that his cabin was otherwise quiet as a tomb at that early hour, for he had taken the night within the Iron Vulture and was the only one on board. But that was soon going to change, immediately if not sooner.

The squeak of his boots and beat of his hasty footfalls echoed through the dark corridors he took, then through the hangar, and at last at the beak-like prow, which was open and connected to the interior shoreline of his most secretive hideout via a floating barrel bridge.

Upon this bridge he stopped and inhaled deeply, nostrils soaking up all the wonderful, aromatic awesomeness filling the cavern of Pirate Island: the stench of burned oil, the bite of fuel vapors, the smokey stink of welded metal ― a viable rose garden to his piratical senses. The reason, you see, was because finally, after about three weeks that seemed like eternity, the Iron Vulture was READY.

The last of the scaffolding was torn down last night from its iron flanks. The gas tanks had been topped. The rotors had been replaced. The rudder repaired. The hull painted, the gears greased, the cannons rearmed, the hangar cleared and organized, the attack planes taxied in place and raring to spill out from the metal monster's jaw and let loose upon a world begging for pillagement. Ooh, he was getting goose pimples!

He took another deep inhalation, this time filling his lungs to the button-popping brim, tightened up the old diaphragm, and began slowly belting out in song, in what started out sounding like 'Aaaaaaaaaay…'

"... am a pirate!" He snapped a finger over his head and cha-cha'd (or some semblance thereof) down the length of the bridge. "I am a pirate! Suave and dashing, sabres flashing, molars gnashing, bodies crashing…!" Cackling, he began running, with the excitement of a child running downstairs to the presents under the tree on a Christmas morning, except he was running up a winding, torch-lit tunnel, off to the radio room (the word "room" used loosely here, in a place that was an interconnected system of caverns and tunnels).

The tunnel ascended inside the eastern slopes of the volcanic island, and at a certain point, a hole had been formed from ages of erosion, like a window in the rock wall. In that one place the dim, ruddy stone of the tunnel was illuminated in a vibrant slanted pillar of gray-blue. There he paused, blinking into the sunlight. A waft of salty air on a cold breeze alighted his face.

There was a pastel blue and pink sky, a sunrise flowering over a clear horizon, casting a strip of dancing silver sparkles over the crests of the ocean, like maybe a highway of shiny silver coins (he had his mind on plunder, you see).

'A new day,' he thought. Something about it struck a cord deep down inside. It was something mostly unfamiliar with him, the word being sentimentality. It was unfamiliar because he rarely felt it and had no idea how to pronounce it. Today wasn't just like any new day, though. He had opened his eyes to greet or curse thousands of mornings (and plenty of late hungover afternoons) in his life. But when was the last time he quite felt like this? When was the last time the sky ever looked so fetching? How could it be that this sunrise seemed to open a whole new world, without the flying carpets? He wanted to just breathe in the entire infinite blue expanse, savor it in himself ― and then rob everything in it blind. He grinned; the whole wide world had changed in his favor, for once.

And ― a seagull splattered a white dropping on his sleeve. The typical good morning the universe always greeted him with. But you know what, not even that was going to ruin his day.

Up he ran to the radio room, a hub of tangled black cables strung along the rocky walls that each snaked out to Ratchet-knows-where throughout the island. At the onset of this space was a gasoline-fed motor, the kind that required one to pull out a cord to get started. Karnage did so, deigning for this special instance to conduct such manual labor himself, and the motor brought about the electricity to run the system. All the black cables were connected to a big metal box, which the radio itself was plugged into.

He picked up the radio's microphone with both hands and clutched under his chin, and the smile he was wearing ― now, of course none of his crew was with him at the time, no one was there to witness the way he beamed as he was about to speak, but even in witnessing it one might perhaps merely call it a big smile, not taking into consideration that some smiles, even big ones, just by pure physical limitation, can't quite convey the magnitude of their feelings. By comparison, consider this one recurring daydream that sometimes finds its way into Don Karnage's lofty imagination: in it, he stands upon a grand stage, grander than the grandest stage ever conceived, before an audience of the entire world. In this ceremony, they're unveiling his skyscraper-sized, 24-carat gold statue of his likeness, and officially declaring him The Greatest. With the population of the entire globe clamoring, cheering, roaring and swooning at his feet, he steps up to a golden microphone to address them, and is about to give his 'Thank You' speech, which in this case lacks any thanks and was more of a 'It's About Time, You Repugnant Rabble, You' speech. And that's actually the entire speech. Anyway, if you can picture just how delighted he stands there to take up that microphone ― he looked about the same here now, standing alone in that rocky hollow.

He didn't have a lot to say (for now). That didn't mean he wasn't going to say it loud.

'Allooooooooo, all you pirate-being peabrains! Time to wake up and smeeeeell the gunpowder! Hee ha ha! So, while you are rising and shining it, do please be moving your crooked kiesters to your nearest available flying pirate ship, no later than immediately now, in this instant of the present time. Or I kill you. Karnage out.'

What an alarm clock.

Kit opened his eyes, slowly, and he groaned sleepily. He went to turn over on his side, to wrap his blanket over his head, to vow to never to get out of bed again for as long as he lived ― then he realized, in a waking instant, he wasn't in a bed. No blanket. But he did have sand and grime covering him. He had fallen asleep on the shore of the island's internal cove, where the Iron Vulture was moored.

It was still somewhat jarring not waking up in his bedroom at Higher for Hire… he was getting used to it, little by little, not quite there yet.

He spat sand out of his mouth and sat up, blinking. He had a whopping headache and it felt like the ground was lurching. He had on a party hat with one of those elastic strings that went around under the chin, crooked on his forehead. It was blue, glittery, and had a tinsel ball at the top. There were party favors littered all over the place, and mugs and empty bottles, and cold ashes where bonfires had burned. All around him, a couple dozen of the crewmates were also strewn about, groggily pulling themselves together after the captain's wake-up call. It must have been a hell of a party, if anyone could remember it.

Kit remembered ― some ― of last night. With the work finally being finished on the airship, and the promise of finally getting back to the fun stuff the following day, the crew went into celebration mode. Hacksaw set off "fireworks," and just about brought the whole island down around their heads. Hal had brought out a banjo; now, Hal had no idea how to play a banjo, but that didn't stop him from throwing a concert. Gibber danced until he passed out (it should be mentioned here that copious amounts of alcohol were involved in the festivities, and "danced" is a relative term). Songs were sung about the virtues of unscrupulous wenches. Bets were made over games of dice. Dirty jokes were a big hit. Eye-blackening brawls broke out just for the hell of it. In a quieter moment, someone broke into this song:

Oh give me a home
Where the hooligans roam
And the coppers are scared to walk by
Where yer feet might a-putter
On drunks in the gutter
Sleepin' with the roaches and mice

And many more joined in on the chorus… this was apparently a big home-town hit:

Home, home in the slums
With the muggers, the goons, and the bums
We'll be passin' the time
With crime after crime
And we'll brandish brass knuckles and guns

Anyway, it was all kind of jumble in Kit's mind right now. The last thing he remembered was a group of the other guys daring him to down a mug of grog. It tasted like fermented airplane fuel. He chugged; they cheered; he hiccupped, felt a little dizzy, a little more dizzy… and the next thing he knew, 'Allooooooooo, all you pirate-being peabrains!'

Could it really be morning already? Hard to tell in this joint; it was always dark in the cove, especially when the torches and fires were out as they were now, what with no windows and meager artificial lighting. But then the giant portcullis at the far end of the water, their airship's door into the island, began to open loudly ― clank CLANK clank CLANK ― echoing in the cavernous chamber (and even louder in hungover craniums). As it raised, it let in a flood of the dawn's light, which stretched over the water, then over the back of the Iron Vulture, and then into Kit's bleary pupils. He recoiled from it not unlike Dracula.

Yep, morning already. Yawning and muttering, he filed in with the rest of the herd as they plodded half-asleep to the barrel bridge. For the moment, the entirety of the pirate clan had largely forgotten how eager they had been these last few weeks to get back to the action ― all but a certain one. Kit saw that certain one coming, and man, look how excited the captain was.

Walking with powerful strides from the dim background and into the shine of the morning light, his polished sword and coat buttons glistened, his red fur seemed to glow, and all the blues and reds and gold and steel upon his person were striking vivid and animated.

Kit waited for him, started to greet him, "Mornin' Cap―whoa!" until he was summarily spun on his feet and given a hefty shove to get going.

"No chit-chat, boy, move it! Places to go, victims to see. There are things out there that need robbing! And blowing up!"

In move-it-or-lose-it fashion, sleepy pirates shuffling over the barrels either got their tails moving into the airship or got elbowed into the bay as Karnage made his way. He went straight for the ship's bridge, where Kit and a handful of others followed.

Kit first visited the table that had all the maps he'd been working on; there were many pages, and many notes and routes sketched from the nights he and the captain schemed all sorts of possible voyages, on this hemisphere and beyond. To name only a few, he had charts stretching toward Panda-La to the east, to the Emerald Isles in the North, over the unknown seas stretching over the great expanses of oceans to the southwest, several known trade routes, and some lesser known. And of course, a map somewhere in that pile was marked for Cabo Diablo, too.

Jock padded to the helm wheel and yawned, and Ratchet ― notably yet duly attached to all of his bodily appendages ― went around inspecting various gauges, coming to one on the side of the room that made him squint with some concern, and scratch his head under his cap. To this gauge and its wayward reading, he issued the most time honored of mechanical repairs: he smacked it with a wrench. The needle shook and adjusted, and Ratchet was finally pleased.

Don Karnage, meanwhile, stood at the front window, leaning forward and tapping his claws on the glass. It still took due time for someone to assume the tugboat and pull the airship out of the island, and frankly none of it was happening fast enough for the captain's liking. Waiting, waiting, and now more waiting, and the air he was impatiently blowing out of his nose was fogging the window. "Start the engines!" he ordered.

Upon Jock's input of the corresponding levers, the airship purred and vibrated as the rotors went from silent to idly spinning. Slowly, as it was one tugboat versus the weight of a fully loaded Iron Vulture, the airship was being pulled to sea, backwards. Don Karnage blew a kiss to the shore and cavern now receding from his view, for he did not expect to see it again anytime soon.

Now, as the pirates are here about to set off on their anticipated grand, globe-trotting adventure, there are two things worth noting here that transpired since Kit and Karnage returned from the island of Cabo Diablo:

One, Karnage opted that returning for Ol' Diamond Davey's treasure could wait. He insisted it had nothing to do with a demonic monster that had apparently slaughtered every other living thing that stepped foot on the island. According to the captain, the treasure wasn't going anywhere fast, but other opportunities might. Kit called the explanation total propwash, but they yet had no idea what they were up against and he wasn't exactly chomping at the bit for another encounter with that… thing… either.

Two, the 'dead or alive' stipulation on Don Karnage's bounty had been rescinded. It took some considerable influence [read: money and power] to get a lawful bounty like that nowadays, and Karnage had no doubt that Shere Khan's reason for initiating it was a reprisal for the Rhamastan mess, but funny how after five bounty hunters met their untimely end in pursuit of the contract that Karnage found he still had some pull with Khan. Having "worked" with the corporate magnate before, Karnage still had some means to discreetly contact him, letting him know that anyone else that was sent hunting for him would meet the same end. It would seem that Khan concluded it was no longer worth his efforts to pursue Karnage's head on a platter. A truce was struck. Whether that would remain the case forever, time (and perhaps another story) would only tell.

At last, the tugboat had separated the Vulture from the island and towed the tail around so its nose finally faced the open horizon, eastward to the sunrise. Don Karnage blinked at the light and grinned. A breeze sprayed the windows with mist, and the tiny droplets glistened like little diamonds (again, plunder on his mind). "Now! Bring me that sky," he said.

With the captain's eagerness beginning to rub off on even Jock, the helmsman wasn't gentle with the master throttle. It was a takeoff with a lot of oomph, more like a jump into the air, something that everyone on board felt in their knees and stomachs. It seemed appropriate for the moment, and from the bridge a clamor of cheering yarr! was heard from corridors and decks unseen. The Iron Vulture was officially on the hunt again.

Now it was all a matter of where to first. For that, Kit took a pile of maps in his arms (representing hours' worth of his work), some rolled up, some folded, and joined the captain up front. There were so many of them, areas from all over the world, that most he let drop to his feet once he was at the window, and sifted through what he could in his hands. "All right, Cap," he said. "All ya gotta do is name a place, and I got the charts for it. So, where to?"

Karnage rubbed his chin, staring into the horizon. His tongue momentarily moved over his lips.

For the amount of work put into the charts, Kit was rather pleased that the captain seemed to be weighing this choice with such gravity. "Here, look at some of these," he suggested, unrolling one of the maps. "All the places we were thinkin' of, I ―"

"That way," said Karnage, pointing randomly to his ten o'clock position, which was not part of any of Kit's charts. Jock complied and steered the helm accordingly.

"For cryin' out loud," grumbled Kit, gesturing to the maps on the floor. "What about all this?"

The captain inhaled deeply, with a smirk on his face. Kit was taken by the shoulder and drawn to face out the window. The Iron Vulture was still accelerating upwards, and picking up speed forward into the bright, open sky.

"Going anywhere we want," said Karnage. "It is all of that, boy."

It was late in the morning when the sky pirates found their first catch, a lone cargo plane. Kit was on the bridge at the time, having an apple and watching the sky with binoculars. The captain and his aerial wolf pack had taken their attack planes out for a look around, and came back over the radio that they had spotted, as Mad Dog called it, 'a nice, big, fat one.'

Kit went searching, finding the event from one of the right side windows; the CT-37s looked like little black dots chasing a somewhat larger dash. He pointed it out to Jock, who steered the airship toward the festivities.

Kit would have liked to have gone with the captain and others, but Karnage wasn't willing to let him cram into the tri-wing's cockpit (and the others were a moot point; even if one of the pirate pilots went delirious and was somehow willing to squeeze him along in a CT-37, their washing habits, meaning the lack thereof, made it preferable to have a root canal instead, even to the most heartened of an aviation enthusiast). He almost had a shot at Karnage at least letting him trail along on his airfoil via a grappling gun, but when he flicked out his board, it only half extended and a spring fell out from somewhere inside it. He still had a lot of fixing to do on it before he'd be surfing again.

The cargo plane proved to be of no great sport, and the pilot surrendered over the radio after one of the plane's propellers was shot out. It landed at sea, too fast (for the pilot's nerves, no doubt), and skipped hard on the water before its nose dipped and plowed into a swelling wave, which brought it to an abrupt, splashy stop.

Don Karnage then issued orders for the Iron Vulture to seize the plane; which in pirate lingo meant they were going to pick this sucker clean, regardless if there were gold bullions in the cargo or rubber dog doo. As the operation went, and it was fairly standard, the attack planes came back aboard the Iron Vulture, while the airship itself lowered over the unlucky plane, and crewmates on winches lowered big hooks through the bomb bay doors. Ultimately, they reeled the entire plane into the Vulture's gullet. Its side door was forced open with crowbars, and Karnage led the boarding party inside. Kit was on the captain's coattails, and Gibber and Ratchet filing in next. Mad Dog and Dumptruck took to just outside the cockpit, aiming their rifles with villainous glee through the windows at the terrified pilot within. Other pirates gathered around, waiting their part in the disseminating of the goods.

"Ah ah, my good man," said Karnage to the unfortunate pilot, whose hands were straight in the air and knees were knocking together. "There is no reason to be afraid…" as he said while sliding the flat of his cutlass blade over the pilot's shoulder, "Unle-ess... well, you can swim, yes?" The pilot nearly fainted.

While looking through the stacks of crates, Kit was keeping an ear on the cockpit. The captain was having his fun, but also had a history of being unpredictable in how his skyway robbery victims were to be dealt with. They rarely got off easy, but they usually got off alive (unlike most criminals, Karnage loved tattle-tales spreading the word about his awfulness). Sometimes, though, as had happened now and then in his first year aboard, Kit had to step in before the captain did something… unnecessary… and persuade him otherwise, which was tricky, but he was good at it. Although now, since having come back, he really didn't feel much of that concern, especially when he considered the ways Karnage was (to recall the word he used before) 'trying.' So this pilot might wind up roughed up, would lose his plane and every last scrap of cargo, might even soil trousers for how shaky he was, and by no means would the phrase 'safe and sound' be used in however he'd be eventually dumped from the airship, but he'd make it.

The cargo was full of random things per crate, like a haul meant to fill a dime store, and as there were too many crates to go through immediately, Hal and Gibber began loading them onto hand trucks and moving them out. There were clothes, nick-knacks, coffee tins, chocolate bars (Kit loaded up a sweater pocket on these), and nothing of particular value, but there was yet an air of excitement among the crew; it just felt good to be pirating again. Kit was particularly pleased to dig into a crate's straw filling to find a few brass bugles, as he'd never toyed with one before. So he gave it a shot, blowing into the mouthpiece and letting loose with a loud, blaring note, then another, then another ― and that's when Ratchet snatched the instrument from his hands, and with perfectly calm demeanor proceeded to bash the hell out of it with his wrench. He handed the malformed brass wreck back to Kit without a word spoken, though between them the message was pretty clear.

Meanwhile, the terrified pilot up front seemed to have gathered a bit of gumption. "I b-bet you don't have the g-guts to show up at Winger City," he said shakily.

"Weengar City?" snarled the captain. "Bah!"

"There's a h-hero there," the pilot stammered. "A real one! He's puttin' crooks away left and right!" He pointed to a newspaper on the unused co-pilot's seat, the top headline reading: Crusading Corsair Foils Bank Robbery. A sub-headline read: Crime Plummets as Criminals Baffled.

"Winger City?" Kit wondered aloud, excitedly, as he approached the cockpit from behind the captain. Then it hit him like a punch in the gut why the name of the city had even made him excited in the first place, and he was struck glum: "Baloo was gonna take me there someday, to go see the planes."

He didn't even mean to say that last bit out loud, really, but once the words were in the air he regretted it immediately, for the way the captain so glowered down at him. That was not the worst of it: the pilot, then, suddenly recognized the kid in the red scarf. Kit himself only vaguely recognized the pilot, maybe someone he'd seen in passing at Louie's or Cardy's; his face flushed hot.

"It's true," the pilot gasped, and he seemed to have for the moment forgotten his fear (and Karnage's cutlass) as his face, and looking upon Kit he was filled with deep sadness. "How could you do this to poor Baloo?"

Don Karnage was visibly infuriated at the turn of conversation topics, and the tip of his sword went for the pilot's voice box, which made the latter shriek and fall back against the plane's console. But Kit grabbed the captain's right arm and held it down.

"Is…" Kit had to pause to swallow. "Is he okay? Baloo?"

"O-okay? He ain't left Louie's in weeks, and hardly spoken a word to anyone. He even left his plane behind. He's given up. On… on everything. Saddest thing I ever seen."

"Oh, man," Kit groaned.

"Ah-HEM!" exclaimed Don Karnage, shoving Kit away and freeing his sword arm. "May I un-politely remind you that there is a robbery in progress going on!" In a fit of fury, Karnage kicked open the cockpit door and threw the pilot out on his face, at Dumptruck's feet. He threw a parachute pack out just the same. "You have a five secondos head start," he snarled at the pilot. "But after five, tell me, what do you think of the words target practice?" Mad Dog and Dumptruck, with hideous toothy grins, brandished their guns to let the pilot know what they thought of those two words. Shrieking, the pilot took the parachute and ran for the prow, while Mad Dog and Dumptruck eagerly counted down:

"Five! Uh… er…" Dumptruck scratched his ear. "What comes after five, Mad Dog?"

"Six!" Mad Dog answered, quite pleased with himself… but then his face screwed up. "No, wait, that's the wrong way." He started counting on his fingers, with serious concentration. "Hold on, I got this…"

"CHASE HIM," roared Karnage, new veins popping over his brow. The two jumped and tripped over each other, but the pilot was already gone. Then turning to Kit: "And you, I never want to hear that loser pilot's name out of your voice again!"

Kit bristled at that, and choked back a swell of emotion. "He's not a loser."

The captain grabbed him by the collar to make his point gravely clear: "You heard me, boy. You forget him!" Karnage then exited the plan in a huff. Other pirates continued their business of clearing out the cargo crates, and the plane was getting emptier by the minute.

At length, left alone in the cockpit, and no one in earshot, Kit gave the captain his answer: "No."

After a pleasing, tummy-packing turkey lunch that left him feeling sleepy, Don Karnage sauntered to the bridge, snatching up on his way the newspaper from the cargo plane, which had been circulated here and there among the airship with other recently stolen nick-knacks. Beside the helm, Ratchet was under a floor hatch, Gibber peering down inside at him, and second mate Will was at an electrical switch on the side console, ear cocked.

"All right, turn on the juice!" said Ratchet, unseen. "Keep the switch on!"

Will did so ― there was an immense buzzing sound, lights flickered all over the ship, and a puff of smoke billowed from the hatch with sparks flying. Gibber recoiled, coughing. As for Ratchet, well… a hoarse voice miserably warbled from the smokey pit: "Keep... the switch… off."

Picking at his teeth with his claw, Karnage didn't deign to even glance at them; if the issue didn't involve a heist or his personal comfort or convenience, it was someone else's concern (he wasn't always sure who that someone else was, but things seemed to work out okay enough). He plopped on his captain's chair and slumped lazily to the side, squinting at the newspaper. The headlining story affirmed the rumors he had heard earlier, but it was all still laughable. Some do-gooder dressed as a pirate ― a pirate! ― was on some crime-fighting spree in the dump they called Winger City. And he wasn't dressed like a real pirate (that is, a sky pirate), oh no no, he was decked out like for Halloween in garb from Blackmane's day. The criminal element in Winger City must have been beyond pathetic, Karnage mused; otherwise, what was so hard about just blasting this costumed creep already?

In his peripheral vision, he saw Kit approaching the right side windows for a look outside. They had not directly spoken to each other since the cargo plane. The boy had a yo-yo in his hand, but was only fidgeting with it, and he looked morose. The mere sight of the kid's glumness made Karnage angry again.

'I do NOT care,' he thought and fumed, and flicked the paper with his wrists. He would like to have just ignored it, as it didn't meet the usual standards of crew issues that deserved his attention (heist, comfort, convenience… nothing about what made the kid sad had anything to do with those). But, he was finding it hard to ignore, and in fact, he was just getting angrier. He was sick of that stupid Balooser being rubbed in his nose every time he turned around. This boy had a perfectly good idol to adore right here before his tiny eyeballs, was at the onset of sure-to-be swashbuckling adventure around the world, and what does the brat do? He has to go keep thinking about what's-his-fat-face, that's what.

Well, enough was enough. Karnage had had it. He had done everything from playing catch to suffering the scandalous accusation of being nice. No more! He shot to his feet, rolling the newspaper up like a baton, and marched toward a certain pessimistic protege with the intention of setting things straight once and for all. There were some my ways and highways going to be spoken of, that's for sure. And if that didn't work, why, he'd ― he'd…

… what, exactly? Whop him with the newspaper until morale improved? (Well, okay… that was his first intuition. He thought better of it, for once).

And there he was, awkwardly standing halfway between his chair and the boy, snared in a trap of indecisiveness. No, no holding back… he forced himself to continue on. "Boy," he called, sternly.

Kit turned around and looked up with him, with ruddy eyes. Snared again was Don Karnage. The face he was dealing with was not one that was found on a pirate ship, after all. None of the crew ever dared to pull this feelings nonsense, if they even had feelings to speak of. And these blasted feelings… must they be so contagious anymore? And it struck him, considering the boy's sadness, as if he hadn't learned by now a dozen times over ― this kid was never going to be like the rest of them, his crew. This whelp was cursed to have a heart, and all of that softivity...

And it also occurred to Karnage, in a dream world where everything was ideal to his every wish, everything under his control, if he could change anything about the boy…

(the memory of feeling that hug, again, that love)

… would he really, really want to? Once upon a time, absolutely. Now, he wasn't so sure. It was so frustrating how this was nagging him! Things were so less complicated when the boy hated him and he didn't care.

Anyway, despite how long it's taken to describe, this was all being processed in Karnage's mind in mere seconds, and he must have been contorting his face strangely as one thought questioned another, for the puzzled way Kit was looking at him.

"Uh, you okay?" asked Kit.

"No!" snapped Karnage. "You…! You…" The things he intended to say were all muddled now; and instead, quite randomly, his mind somehow shifted to recalling the way the boy perked up when he heard the name Winger City. Sighing, he unraveled the newspaper and swatted his hand over the top headline. "… may tell me, what is so hotsy-totsy about this place."

And, at that, Kit did perk up. "You kiddin'? It's where they make all the planes. And they got this huge aviation museum that's supposed to be amazing."

"Is that all?" snorted the captain. He crumpled the newspaper and threw it aside, then went to the front window. He decided he just wanted to fixate for a while on what was ahead, get the last few moments out of his head, and spent some enjoyable time speculating on what plunder awaited in the wide world before them. Maybe he'd take the wolf pack out again on another hunt.

In but a moment, though, the boy had ever so nonchalantly padded to the front window as well, ever so nonchalantly leaned against one of the big round gauges there, and ever so nonchalantly was engaged in how his yoyo bounced up and down its string, and ever so nonchalantly mentioned this passing thought: "You knooow, there's a lot of new stuff out, stuff that's a lot better than CT-37s. It might not be a bad idea to start thinkin' about… new planes? Wouldn't hurt to maybe go take a look, would it?"

Karnage groaned at the idea; he had seen Winger City before, from afar, and to him it was just a big mess of factory smokestacks and cruddy air; and honestly, museums without valuables interested a pirate not. What kind of fooligans wasted their time in an aviation museum when the sky was full of airplanes to see and steal? But… planes were getting faster nowadays, he considered. So if it was said that the boy's idea was perhaps something better than an absolute disaster… it got him thinking. And then on a more personal level, there was the thought of one-upping a certain fatso on at least this one thing, to take the boy somewhere he'd always wanted to go. Karnage's groaning became a smirk. Kit was looking up at him with a hopeful grin, and that was more like it.

"So, how far is it from here?" asked Karnage.

"I'll let ya know," smiled Kit. "Um, thanks."

The captain's nose went up higher than his ears. "Yes, yes. Karnage is of course marvelous in his… ahem... endless generosity."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that, 'cause…" Kit scooted closer to him, and said discreetly, "I kinda got a big favor to ask."

What Don Karnage saw then, with his nose all in the uppity, was not the airship's bridge ― but more like a vision of a storm, a hurricane more powerful than anything ever seen, something that made him feel like he was being swept away from his footing, but instead of wind, rain, and clouds there was a thousand nos ― NO no NO no NO no NO NO NO NO ― as he understood exactly what this favor would be. His mood shifted fiercely, and he glowered down at the boy, baring his fangs, "Not a chance!"

Kit recoiled at the sudden reproach as if he too were pushed by a hurricane gale, Hurricane Karnage. It was pretty satisfying to see, as far as Karnage was concerned, because his answer was obviously received, emphatically.

"Why not?" Kit shot back. So... maybe the answer was less-than-obviously received, to Karnage's chagrin. There were all sorts of explanations firing away in Karnage's thoughts, like about how Kit would break down if that good-for-nothing pilot got in his ear, how he'd get guilt-tripped into going back to Cape Suzette, or how the boy would have to decide if he wanted a 'happy Baloo' or be where he was meant to be, be who he was meant to be. All logically sound reasons, which were explained in the best way Karnage knew how at the moment: "Because I SAID SO!" He turned away, storming to his chair, but then heard behind him the boy stammer (and if this didn't get Karnage to swing around on his heel),

"B-but he's still my ―"

"Your what?" seethed Karnage, leaning in and daring the boy to pick a word to finish that sentence.

Kit bit on the bottom of his lip, but did not shrink away. Emotion welled in his eyes. "Please, Captain," he pleaded. "He's in bad shape. I gotta talk to him. I never got a chance to say goodbye."

"Tsk, oh and look at me, not caring," said Karnage. "What you need is to un-muck your busy-less brain and get some work done around here!" He snatched the boy by the shoulder and pulled him over to the open floor hatch, from where Ratchet had just poked his frazzled, smoking head out like a barbecued prairie-dog. "You three! What are you goober-brains up to?"

Will tried to answer, "Well, we just tried to reconnect one of the ―"

"Who cares!" said Karnage, shoving Kit forward. "Look who is here to help!"

With that, Karnage thought he had handily dealt a brilliant solution to handle this bothersome bearcub, and finally once again more pleased than angry, he retreated to the catwalks over the main hangar. Things were still bustling below, as pilots like Dumptruck and Mad Dog put the attack planes in position, pointed to the prow for the next flight out. The cargo plane from their last catch was strung up high on a winch as to give the operations on the floor some elbow room, and in good time it would get lowered and striped down of its parts; propellers, engine stuff, ailerons, even the landing gear would get picked apart and saved for spares.

He walked to the middle of a catwalk, leaned against the railing on his elbows, and just watched a for a bit, taking some stock in this wonderful, and wonderfully wicked, pirate operation he had built from the ground up. All the people working for him, his planes, his airship, his loot… he was feeling back where he wanted to be, excited again to be out on the prowl, not getting stupidly distracted by the sentimental nonsensiveness of…

...

… the brat who was now standing right next to him again.

"What did I just tell you to do?"

"They sent me to go get a spool of wire," shrugged Kit.

"And you see wire up here?"

"Captain, I gotta talk to him. I gotta go to Louie's! It's important!"

"We are a little busy, no?" snapped Karnage ― and he felt bad, because that little voice of a conscience (did that thing HAVE to butt in again?) made him not want to keep losing his temper over this foolishness; it made him feel like the boy didn't deserve it. It took some inward effort, but he shifted his tone softer and took a different approach, gesturing at the activity of the hangar below, and all that it meant. "Look! Look down there, boy. What is more important than this? Pirates on adventure! The world ripe for the picking!" He knelt down to Kit's level, where the railing of the walk was just below his chin, and spoke in the boy's ear in a hushed tone as if sharing a secret: "It's you with me, yes? Against the world, no time for… the peasants." At that, the captain thought he had just done a wonderful job...

"Well, what if I just fly there myself?"

Karnage blinked, taken totally off guard by the suggestion. "What? What!"

"I can do it, ya know," said Kit. "I'll fly there myself, then catch back up. Then it won't take any time away from the trip. How about it?"

Karnage sputtered, words caught in his pipe like coughing up a hairball. And that small voice of a conscience? It saw hell coming and ran for the hills. "How about this. NO!" Don Karnage was done with this conversation, if not evident by how loudly he stomped away, but not going two steps before he spun around with this grave warning: "And if you ever, ever, even think about taking one of my planes, or ANY plane, for ANY-thing, just think about this: bearskin rrrug!" Snorting, he added, "A flimsy rug, I know, but don't think I won't do it!"

"I've never asked you for anything before," shot back Kit.

"Ho ho, no? What is this 'can I fly now' I hear every day?"

"I'm serious."

"And you think I am joking? Bah!"

And so Karnage stormed away, and by the end of the catwalk he half expected the boy to persist at his coattails, in which case some boot might start getting applied to some backside. But he realized he wasn't followed, which was exactly what he wanted. He was glad to be done for once and for all with this wretched drama, which was spoiling this new day he was so excited for ― he was glad, glad, GLAD DAMN IT ALL ― so what compelled him to look back?

Kit was slouched with both arms over the railing like he was melting, and drooping by the second, with a hand covering his face, poorly concealing the emotion he was wearing. Oh, the other mates would have a field day with that picture, if anyone saw it: a whelp looking like he was about to cry ― there's no crying allowed on pirate ships! Griping, groveling, grumbling, yelling, screaming, cursing ― all perfectly acceptable expressional behaviors that should keep any pirate contently occupied. And to think, if the crew saw this, and thought their captain would tolerate it within their ranks, there'd be a mutiny for sure. That latter thought was at the forefront of Karnage's mind, and left him feeling flustered and frustrated in his lag to do what he should do, which was to just walk away.

'This is what feelings do,' he thought with a snarl. 'Make you snivel. Get you attached, too attached. Get you caring for no reason. Get you… doing idiot things!'

Well... no potentially mutinous eyeballs were looking, thought Karnage… so the hell with it. He went back.

Over the railing, Kit had his face hidden in the crook of his elbow. Once beside him, Karnage leaned on the same rail, searching the ceiling as if he were going to find magically written somewhere up there an answer to the question, what exactly was he supposed to say to this droopy heap of fuzz? "Boy… can't you just… stop this?" he asked. Seemed like a perfectly reasonable solution for the both of them, after all.

"I ditched'm," mumbled Kit, sniffling. "I was supposed to look out for him, but I did exactly to him what my folks did to me. I hurt him so bad, and I can't cut it. I can't…"

"You don't sniffle for these folks of yours anymore, do you?"

"No."

"Because it is the spilled milk under the bridge! You see?"

Kit wiped his nose on his sleeve and shook his head. "This is different. It's killin' me."

"Why cannot you be like your incredible capitán, and just not give a termite's tiny toot about any old ― I repeat, old ― ugly-faced friends?"

Kit sniffled again. "'Cause he's more than a friend."

"Was," Karnage corrected, with much emphasis. It got no reaction from the boy. "Was maybe. For a while." Still nothing, which made the captain feel increasingly uneasy. "What, you're forgetting that an incredible capitán is more than a more-than-a-friend than some other ― anyone? And, more devilishly dazzling, you may have noticed."

"No, I'm not," said Kit quietly, looking up at him with glossy eyes. "I know my incredible capitán could really help me out right now."

Karnage blew air out of his nose. "You hear this, I am not lifting even one of my fabulous fingers to help that, that ―"

Kit cut him off: "I'm not askin' for Baloo. I'm askin' for me. Please."

The words, put like that, struck Karnage in a way he did not expect, as in that just a smidgen of him felt the very remote possibility of caving in. It was a small smidgen even by smidgen standards, but the way the boy looked up at him so pitiably wasn't helping to keep it so small. "For you, you say," Karnage sighed. His adamant no was becoming more of a vexing not-so-sure, too quickly for comfort.

"H'okay, listen to me. You think you know what you want? You are still too soft about him. About all of them. The first minu-ette he opens his mouth, he's going to talk you out of it." He tugged on the Kit's scarf, gesturing that the "it" he spoke of was glorious piratehood. "What happens then, boy?"

Kit recoiled a bit by that question, as if internally stung by it, but he was quick to adjust his posture to straight and confident, as if outwardly showing his resolve. "Then... I guess at least I get to explain it to him. I gotta talk to him about it. I gotta let him know that… that..."

"Oh ye-es, I am sure he will understand!" said Karnage. "It's what you want? You want to know that you cannot un-hurt him?" Kit recoiled again, wincing, and this time he did not regain a confident posture. Karnage continued, "No, you don't go, not because I hate Baloo ― even though I really, reeeeally do, really ― but for you. Trust me on this." He waved the boy off, and by extension the whole infernal idea of going to Louie's, and he was just starting to walk off and leave Kit to ponder what such a fantastical point was just made, when Kit grabbed him by the arm with both hands.

"Trust me," he said to the captain. "You got my word."

Don Karnage could never inwardly articulate how, but somehow that which used to be a smidgen welled into something very unsmidgenlike. He pulled the one arm away from the boy and crossed both over his chest, huffing, vexed with indecisiveness. Not enough to change his mind, but… "When we get back," he said, with a pause following, "... if it's still what you want... perhaps… I might… think about it. No promise." And that said, somewhere in his black, villainous heart, Karnage actually felt good. The boy would of course appreciate the magnitude of such a generous concession.

Or not.

"But that could be weeks!" said Kit. "Months, even. We're not too far, we gotta turn around now. Didn't you hear that pilot? Baloo's losin' it!"

Karnage was taken aback by the response, and instantly furious. "Take it or leave it!" he barked. As he angrily walked away, leaving the boy glowering after him, he did not hear what final response Kit had to say about that proposition:

"Take it," he said, scowling down over the railing at attack planes below. "That's exactly what I'm gonna do."