Mad Dog got left out, and that really stank, he thought. The captain had taken the wolf pack out for another hunt, but his plane, inexplicably, would not start. He mewled at Ratchet to fix it, but forget that ― Ratchet wanted to go hunting and told him to stuff it. So, the attack planes, and their piratical pilots, took off without him.

Not that he didn't try to fix it himself. He opened the side hatch on the nose that exposed the engine, scowled and squinted inside… and that was pretty much the extent of his mechanical wherewithal. He had to leave it be, and went sulking around the airship. There was never a can around to kick when you needed one. In one corridor, he passed by Hal and Hacksaw playing a game of who can hit their head against the wall the hardest. In a berth that smelled of rum was second mate Will, passed out on his cot. And in the galley, he discovered, was a conspicuous group of six (trying to be inconspicuous) huddled together at a table, in the shadow of the far corner. There was no grub being served at the time, so he understood right away that they were just goofing off while the captain was gone (and honestly, it seemed like a good idea). One in the group saw Mad Dog peering in, and after a quick, quiet conference with the rest, waved Mad Dog over.

These pirates in this group are none you may already know by name or alias. They weren't pilots (at least not very capable, but almost everyone in the crew had some very basic flying know-how), and a few of them were relatively new within the last year or so (new to Karnage's crew… not new to being low-down, dirty, criminal good-for-nothings. Or in other words, they had a delightful resume for their current job). They participated in boardings and raidings, but as they regularly got less "face time" with victims, this rag-tag group of various canines and mutts didn't quite have the infamy or recognition that the piloting pirates did, and they were tasked, under Gibber and Will, in the overall operation of the Iron Vulture, and in whatever various routines or odd jobs that encompassed.

One of them of note went by the name of Bandit Patch ― or just Patch ― a stout, runty-looking, muddy-brown wolf whose namesake was derived from the patch he wore over his left eye. He had been with the crew since its conception, and took a bullet back in the day that went clear through his left eye socket and out the left temple. One time, a pirate by the name of Blue Bill tried to rouse the crew in making stupid jokes about Patch's patch; coincidentally, two things followed: Blue Bill "disappeared" that night, and no one seemed to have anymore eyepatch jokes.

He was best known for three things: having a "party trick" when he was hopped up on enough booze that involved revealing his hideous scar, having an utterly foul disposition, and being a grumbler. This latter aspect of his character had made him, over the years, somewhat of a low-key figurehead among the low-key crew, as he planted and nurtured the seeds of malcontent within those susceptible to agree with him. There was always at least some resentful sentiment permeating certain crewmates (notwithstanding that they were otherwise such quality people!), such as their work wasn't appreciated, their cut wasn't big enough, et cetera, and the bulk of those who harbored such sentiments was sitting now in the galley. They were by and large too dumb to have very much ambition ― and too dumb to know if they were being manipulated; for a long time, on a day to day basis, Patch had their ear far more than did Don Karnage.

Mad Dog approached the table, uneasy and more than a little suspicious of the way Patch's lone beady headlight gazed at him. "Well, well! Some free time on yer hands while the others got to go play?" the wolf smirked.

"Aww, hardy-har-har," grimaced Mad Dog, flustered at their snickers.

"Aw, light'n up," said Patch. "C'mon, have a sit. We're all equal mates here, ain't we? We were just havin' ourselves a discussion."

"About… what?" asked Mad Dog, taking up the invitation.

"Oh, this and that. The way thing's been goin'. The way thing's… 're headed, so it seems." Others nodded subtly at Patch's words. "So, uh… whadda you think about, whatchacall… the current state of affairs?"

"Affairs?" repeated Mad Dog, bemusedly scratching his head.

"Yeah. Y'know, since… sonny boy came back."

"Sonny...? Ohhh, right!" Mad Dog nodded as the hint registered (and being mighty pleased with himself that he guessed correctly). "You mean Cloudkicker."

"The brat," snorted Patch. He leaned in, as if gesturing his intent to speak discreetly, like they were now all in on something exclusive. The others, including Mad Dog, followed suit. "I mean, we gettin' this straight? He screwed us on the red jewel, gets taken back in. Then he screwed us on Cape Suzette ― the job of jobs, the one that was gonna make us all rich ― then he screws us a hundred times more takin' up with that cargo hauler, and then what? Karnage goes soft for'm again. Think any of us woulda got away with that kinda junk?"

"Huh! No way," huffed Mad Dog, shaking his head with the others as they murmured to Patch's beat.

"Not exactly fair, is it," said Patch, to another murmuring of agreement. "The brat's not one of us, he never was, just some worthless kid who hides behind Karnage's tail. Karnage lets'm. Seems like some of us ain't so equal mates 'round here, huh? We got a favorite on board, again. Tsk… shame, to see the captain slip away like this. Not gonna do us any good."

This last comment had genuinely confused Mad Dog (not as if the bar was raised high in that regard), as in what original thought he had within him, he had never noticed anything different about Karnage since Cloudkicker's return. From his perspective, he still got kicked around as much as before, and the boss was still as keen on pillaging as he'd ever known him to be. "Slip away?" he asked.

"I dunno, boys," Patch said, "I just don't know if our ol' captain's head is in the right place anymore, y'know? What's the deal with when he and the brat left the Island together? He ain't got time for us."

Mad Dog was still confused ― he wanted to agree, because Patch talked like someone who knew expertly what they were talking about, but nothing he had personally witnessed made sense of Patch's words. Until, that is, Patch added:

"I mean, if I were captain, I wouldn't be leavin' behind my best pilot, huh?"

And then things started to make plenty of sense, even if Mad Dog couldn't articulate how, exactly. "Yeah, that's right!" he said. But, like a stretched rubber band snapping back to its original, flaccid form, he was confused yet again, asking, "Whaddaya wanna do about it?"

Patch was (visually) taken aback by the question. "Do? Nobody said nothin' about doin'... we're just talkin', yeah? Y'know, thinkin'. We are a buncha thinkin' people, ain't we?" Enter here yet more murmurs of agreement, and some very assured nodding all around. "I figure, maybe we get the others thinkin', too, 'bout what's best for all of us equal mates." It was upon the word thinkin' that several brows went furrowing in deep concentration, and the group was silent for a moment. Then Patch continued, as if floating a brainstorm: "If only there was somebody to reach out to them that hang around the capt'n… someone smart… that could get'm all... thinkin', too."

Someone smart? Someone connected to Karnage's smaller circle? Mad Dog felt absolutely elated. "Hey, I could do it," he told the group. And what more of a great feeling when Patch squinted his eye at him with a voice of confidence:

"Why, yeah, now that's a real idea, eh boys? Now, you won't say nothin' to Karnage, right?"

"Uh… should I?"

"Naaah. Remember. We're just thinkin'."

Mad Dog left that impromptu meeting feeling excited, like a real mutt on a mission. When the other pilots laughed at him on their way flying out, he felt for a moment like he never wanted to see them again, but now he was looking forward to it. He was regarded as a thinker now, smart and capable, someone with real clout.

However, when he sauntered back to the hangar to await the other's return, being a thinker didn't help him much in a sudden mystery that was sprung upon him: his CT-37 had disappeared. He looked everywhere around the hangar for it, under every tool chest and behind every crate (yes, really). He asked around, no one had noticed anything. He was flummoxed… how exactly does a great thinker like himself lose an airplane? And what awful timing for the rest of the pilots to come soaring back into the airship.

Don Karnage was noticeably cranky, and to Mad Dog there was no great mystery about it (was there any great mystery for a great thinker? Oh, yeah, the missing plane…). The captain was always cranky when his aerial hunts didn't land him a new catch, as was this case. Thus, the great thinker concluded that maybe it wasn't a good time to volunteer any information about any absent aircraft (and maybe he should start looking upstairs?). It was Ratchet, though, who inadvertently spilled the beans when he, also in an air of crankiness, approached Mad Dog with his wrench, asking, "Well? Where is it?"

"Wh-where's what?" stammered Mad Dog.

"Yer plane, stupid. Want me to take a look, or what? The hell'd you do with it?"

"I, uh… the plane? Oh! That! Yeah, um… you know, it's just the craziest thing about that. Just a little, tiny ol' thing. I, uh… can't find it?"

"Ya lost yer plane?" Ratchet asked incredulously, and rather loudly. Loud enough to unfortunately harken Karnage's attention. "How do ya lose a plane!"

"What are you nincompirates talking about?" the captain wanted to know.

"Wh-who says I lost it," said Mad Dog. "Maybe it was stolen!"

Ratchet cringed, shaking his head. "Seriously? Who's gonna steal a plane on a… ugh, ship full of robbers, never mind."

That's about when the captain's face went from mildly irritated to total, saucer-eyed shock. "Where is the boy?" he asked at once, then called out, "Boy? Boy! Get over here!" When there was no reply, and the crew looking around to see if the kid was going to answer the summons, which did not happen, Karnage shouted one last 'BOY!,' a roar that quaked the hangar. As the seconds passed and no resident brat was present, Mad Dog backpedaled away from Karnage, as did the others, for the captain was bristling in such a seizure of fury, looking almost like he was being actively electrocuted, his left hand squeezing a death-vice over the bottom of his cutlass hilt, and his eyes bulging with red veins.

"Get ― to ―" he said, in two huffs, and then like an erupting volcano, "LOUIE'S!"

Kit had taken a gamble, and it paid off. When he covertly unplugged the fuel line in the engine of Mad Dog's plane, there was a slight chance that Mad Dog would have discovered the problem (and it was a very easy fix, just plug it back in place), and a greater chance that Ratchet would have given it a cursory inspection, at which he was almost certain to make the repair right away. But everything had played out just as he had hoped: the captain and a number of the gang were gone, the hangar left relatively unattended, and he had himself a freshly refueled CT-37 at his disposal. It looked so lonely there with no one to fly it. So, he found a pair of goggles, jumped in the cockpit, and did what once upon a time he only ever dreamed of doing ― he took off. Engine on, throttle up, with no ado straight out the Iron Vulture's prow…

… and then straight down a few thousand feet while he screamed in bloody terror trying to get the plane under control. But I am happy to say that he figured it out, and we don't have to end his story here with a description of a smoking smudge of a bear stained into the side of a mountain.

He already had the necessary directional headings in his head, his flight route thoroughly pre-planned, so knowing where to point the plane was no sweat. Don't ask him to spell 'spinach,' but anything to do with flying he could commit to memory very well. In fact, his mind was pretty much on auto-pilot, as if he had done this a hundred times before. Page after page, paragraph after paragraph of the Standard Flight Manual were rehearsed in his thoughts. Under scattered clouds the wind blew over his head, as he was barely [bearly?] tall enough to see over the plane's dash, but he kept the horizon level, steered and held steady at the correct compass reading, keeping both hands tight over the control stick. The plane wrestled with him now and then in the gust of a cross-wind, but he was on top of it, sometimes pulling or pushing too hard on the stick, but generally getting the hang of smoother corrections.

He was ever apprehensive about Karnage and company happening to cross his path, or he theirs, and wouldn't that be funny. 'Honest, Captain, it was an accident! How? I tripped, you see, and fell in this cockpit, and, uh… has anyone told you how great you look today?'

But, he was already a few miles out from the Iron Vulture when it finally struck him, for he had been so preoccupied with Baloo on his mind: He. Was. Flying.

Flying! By himself! In his own skin! No Thembrian buildings in his way! Everything he had been stamping his feet trying to tell the whole world he could do, he was doing it! His heart raced, an exhilarating surge washed over his entire being. He could feel it in his fur. He was flying!

Not even cloudsurfing could hold a candle to this kind of thrill: this machine at his behest, the infinite sky, the speed, the altitude. It was an indescribable but awesome sense of power and freedom he had never felt before. For a time, he forgot about Baloo, about Karnage, about bearskin rugs and looming confrontations. Nothing else existed but him and this sky. The feeling of the flightstick trigger under his finger brought about another temptation he could not, would not, resist. Over a wooded valley, he pointed the plane's nose down, right eye cocked through the crosshairs over the dash. A wall of trees lined a high ridge. He picked one out, heart now hammering in his chest, easing the stick left, up, down, lining the crosshair to the tree, and pulled the trigger back. He watched the spray of dangerous bullets steam forward from his left and right, that sound of the machine guns hammering through the roar of the wind, that rush, that shout of 'Woo-HOOOOOooo!' that erupted from his very core ― it was all so strongly mesmerizing that he didn't even notice if he hit the tree or not. He also almost forgot to pull up before crashing into the ridge. He had to yank the stick back sharply at the last second, screaming as the plane scraped treetops below.

A close call like that brought him out of that mesmerizing effect, and the reality of what he was doing came bearing down upon him. It was scary, and there was plenty to be scared of: facing up to Papa Bear, facing the captain's reaction, facing making a choice all over again, which was the worst of all. It was not too late to turn back. What compelled him to move forward perhaps cannot be described as a list of reasons, as deep matters of the heart are rarely so conveyable. He had no idea what awaited him. All he knew was the wind suddenly seemed much colder than it did just a moment ago, cold enough to hurt. The temperature had not changed.

Louie's island broke the horizon at sunset. Kit, knowing of a particular cove where he could approach and land likely undetected, kept the CT-37 low to the sea, and a bit wobbly despite his best efforts. Landings are easy, so a certain piloting book once said. And easier said than done, he was inclined to add. Not that he hadn't seen it done hundreds of times, but he had only landed a plane twice in his life: once a Thunderyak following the event of a Thembrian air show disaster you may recall, and once the Sea Duck at Higher for Hire, with Baloo and Miz Cunningham there with him, and although he technically did water-land the plane by himself on that occasion, he also technically wasn't himself, thanks to a soul-swapping idol. On both occasions, the results were not great, and that he managed not to wreck either plane was a matter of luck more than skill. Landings were not easy, no matter what some happy little book says.

Luck, unfortunately, was not to be on his side this time. He thought he had it down, gently lowering the plane and (with a nervously shaking hand) easing back the throttle as he got close to the shoreline… but then there came a point, not far from the water level, that he couldn't see the water for his lack of sitting height, and on the same point, he couldn't see the shore over the plane's nose. In a sudden alarm he reactively pushed the stick down to lower the nose so he could see where he was going.

What happened next was a big spinning blur before his eyes, like being inside of a rolling barrel. The plane was already just skimming over the sea and he had just pushed the nose into the water! The propeller plowed in with a huge splash, and the entire plane violently rolled tail-over-nose, and kept rolling like that through a mid-air arc. It was only Kit's grip on the stick that kept him tethered in the cockpit, and he screamed as the world flipped around again and again, then boom, there was one great, jarring crash and he was on his head. On sand. In the dark. With his knee squished against his face.

As the noise of crunched metal subsided, the situation took a moment to figure out, but the plane had flopped upside-down on the beach, and its pint-sized pilot was saved by his pint-sized qualities, because a taller person would have had their neck broken. Instead, the cockpit had cupped over him like a hermit crab's shell. He had to dig his way out with his hands.

Daylight burned while that unpleasant labor was conducted, and when he was finally out the first few stars were starting to shine in a half-purple sky. What was really on his mind, as he looked up, was if he was going to see the Iron Vulture rise over the horizon. Certainly the captain knew by now. A sickly knot Kit felt in the pit of his stomach tightened worse, the apprehension of having no idea, not even vaguely, how this evening was going to end. The haunting triune of Guilt, Fear, and Doubt took the opportunity to seize upon him. They assured him, once again, that every step he had taken since the Alpacatan jungle was a disaster, that now he was going to find that out one way or the other, that if Don Karnage was to come after him at this point ― and that was a big if because this was assuredly beyond the last mutinous act the captain would suffer ― he was going to come out of anger and vengeance, come to make an insolent brat pay and pay dearly, not out of (are you kidding?) care.

Try as much as he did to convince himself that there was no point in sweating the captain's side to all of this (he was here for Baloo, after all, and that's what mattered most), these ill feelings did not abate as Kit waded through stretches of the island's tropical brush. In such inner turmoil, jovial hoots and hollers coming from the main club structure went largely unnoticed to his ears, until a particularly loud guffaw startled him so much he ducked into a plant as if he were about to be ambushed. He was behind the club, though, and there was no one outdoors to see him. Music was playing and it was definitely business as usual inside, to which his gut, if not his heart, told him Baloo wasn't going to be in there. He hoped not, anyway ― the thought of having to walk in there to find Baloo, to have all those familiar faces inside suddenly stop the party cold and stare at him with judgement, was absolutely dreadful.

There were a few huts offset from the main club, though, Hotel d'Louis (as Louie referred to the area with tongue firmly in cheek), where pilots occasionally paid a few bucks to take the night if they needed a rest stop. He stealthily checked these, peering in the windows; the first hut was vacant, the second one… was the most miserable, heart-wrenching bingo he ever hit. His sight was blurred by tears almost at once. Baloo was lying on a makeshift fishnet hammock that was suspended by two ceiling crossbeams, cap over his face, and he was almost certainly not sleeping (evident by no snoring), though he didn't move either. His arms dangled limply. On top of a wooden crate, a record on a gramophone spun silently, the needle having fallen from the disc.

Kit went to the door, put his hand on the handle, and paused there. He was struck in a moment of poignant deja vu, for he had been here before, with his hand on a door, with a heart full of sadness, with Baloo on the other end. It was when he was just rescued from Daring Dan Dawson's flaming air stunt, when Baloo swooped in with the Sea Duck to save him, when he stood behind the cockpit door for a moment to wipe his eyes… when Baloo had nothing but open arms for him. He was trying not to break down then, as he was now.

He slowly pushed the door open, enough to put his head through. "Baloo?"

The bigger bear reacted by putting his hands over his ears, as if he thought he was hearing things.

Kit quietly slid through the door. "Papa Bear?"

Baloo cranked his head up, his cap falling to the floor, and he blinked. "Kit?" In a sudden fit of shock, he tumbled from his hammock with flailing arms and legs. "Kit!" He rushed toward the door, as Kit rushed to him, and they met with an embrace that took Kit off his feet and spinning around, dance-like. Baloo had him tight. "Aw, kid! I knew it! I knew ya'd come back!"

Kit squeezed him back just as much, silently. And maybe it was something, inadvertently, about that silence that flagged to Baloo as being alarming. "Kit?" he asked.

"Baloo," Kit mumbled. He slid out of the embrace and looked up at the pilot. "What

are you doing here? You gotta go back home."

Baloo was jostled, stunned even, like he needed a moment to process what he just heard. "Don't ya mean… we?" And Kit noticed how the other gave him the head-to-toe lookover, as if he was noticing something different. The difference was subtle ― the blue and red ballcap was long lost, and added, as he had once worn it a time ago, was the red scarf around his neck ― subtle, but Baloo was visibly struck by it. "Y-yer comin' back, right?" Baloo asked, stammering. "Lil' Britches?"

Kit, meanwhile, cast his gaze to the floor. Tears stung. "I, uh… it's not that easy."

"Whaddaya mean it's not?" Baloo got to one knee, and took Kit by the shoulders. "Of course it is! You an' me, we just go, right now!"

"I kinda gave my word, that I'd…" Kit's voice cracked, and he stopped talking. His wringing of his own hands and the tears running freely down his face probably spoke more.

"No, kid. No," pleaded Baloo. "Now you gotta listen to me. I don't know what happened, but that crazy crook's got ya all turned around! Whatever he told ya, he's pullin' yer propeller. Ya don't belong with them, ya never did. Just 'cause you got tangled with 'em, that doesn't make it who ya are. Ya said ya got sick of 'em, right?"

Kit swallowed, with every fiber of his being trying not to break down into a sobbing mess. "It's not about them," he said meekly. "Not all of 'em. It's…" There was a sudden commotion outside, from the main club building. Customers were getting rousted. Planes could be heard buzzing overhead, and there was a faint pulse thrumming, telltale of large rotors. Unmistakably, it was the Iron Vulture, approaching from a distance. "… Karnage. He followed me. Crud." He turned to face the window, apprehensively, but Baloo turned him back around to face him.

"Oh, Baloo, what'd ya think I did before I met you?" said Kit, wiping his eyes. "I wasn't some saint. Could ya ever really see me as a pirate? You never did, 'cause you always thought the best of me. All I wanted to do was make you proud of me." He latched onto Baloo again with both arms. "I love you. No matter what happens, I promise I always will. You're my hero. But…"

Baloo's arms were draped over him, limply; he was shuddering. "B-but?"

"I'm sorry," choked Kit, a muffled voice from a face buried against Baloo's shirt.

"Sorry? No!" Baloo took Kit by the shoulders again, with a shake as if trying to wake the kid up from a trance. "Listen to me, he's got ya all brainwashed somehow! You gotta remember, what he did. He never gave a hoot about ya! He just threw ya away, an' if I hadn't been there, you woulda been gone!"

Kit flinched at that last word, not that he needed a reminder of how it felt to have been on the receiving end of that mortal fall from the Iron Vulture over Cape Suzette's harbor. "He said he was sorry," said he, sniffling, painfully aware of how weak it sounded as a reason, especially compared to how heinous the act was itself, but also knowing that a word like 'sorry' wasn't in vain when they came from Don Karnage.

"You believe that guava? A guy like that, he'll say anything! He's just usin' you, don't you get it?"

"You don't know him like I do. He wants to be better. He needs me."

"I need ya," said Baloo.

"But… but what about Miz Cunningham? Molly and Wildcat? They need you, too."

"And you. Lil' Britches… tell me yer comin' back home. Please."

When Kit saw the tear falling from Baloo's face, that broke him. He realized the captain was a hundred percent right about what would happen, for if he said just one more word, there was no way it wasn't going to be telling Baloo, 'yes.'

The hut's door was kicked in with a loud bang, and Don Karnage stormed inside, cutlass flashing. "Unhand that puny plane-crasher, so I can put mine around his throat!"

Rewinding a bit, and going to what was happening outside of that hut, Don Karnage had just landed on the island, he and the others beaching their planes at the very shore where the "missing" plane lay wrecked and upside down. Karnage's feet were the first on the ground. He beelined straight for the wreck and went to his knees. "Boy?" he called out. He put his ear to the side of the plane and banged on it with the heel of his hand, listening for a response. "Boy!"

"Yeah, it ain't exactly gonna buff out," frowned Ratchet, surveying the damage. Not that he hadn't seen worse from the knuckleheads who flew these things. It was fixable, but no fun. Sighing, he looked over his shoulder, where the Iron Vulture was breaking through a dark cloud. "We're gonna hafta get it winched up, boss. Uh, boss?"

The captain had his arm thrust into the narrow gap between the sand and the upturned cockpit, and was feeling around inside. "What?" he snapped.

"The plane?" said Ratchet.

Karnage shot up to his feet, snarling at the mechanic and putting a new dent into the fuselage with the bottom of a fist. "What about it?"

"N-nothin'," said Ratchet, backing away. The others of the gang had gathered around, and waited on their leader to make a call.

With some quick internal detective work, Karnage surmised the boy had dug his way out, and finding some protege-sized footprints in the sand nearby confirmed as much. The footprints proceeded in the general direction of the main club. Karnage kicked a swath of sand that way. "Men! Guess who is coming to dinner, and making very bad table manners?"

"Ooh! Who?" asked Dumptruck, eagerly. He got kicked in the kneecap for that.

"We are, stupid!" yelled the captain. He drew his sword, and the others with fiendish delight drew their weapons just the same. "No one leaves this despicable dump until I get my hands on that plane-stealing pinhead! Find him!"

Ratchet relayed the orders to the Vulture via radio. More attack planes came in for air cover. With the captain leading the way, the group on the ground trekked through the foliage, the jovial noise of music being their compass. When at last the main club had come into view, Karnage broke out into a sprint, and the others followed suit, shouting aggressively. They stormed into the club like a raiding war party, guns and blades brandished, visages snarling and hungry for trouble.

The music ceased at once, and the bustling crowd recoiled, some of them taking cover behind their tables. Glass shattered from cups being dropped in surprise.

"Boy!" Karnage called out, in the sudden void of quiet. He stepped to the middle of the room and scanned every face, be they short or tall, big or skinny. Louie came out from behind the bar, fists shaking.

"You just turn tail and split, Karnage," he warned.

"Where is the boy?" demanded the captain, stepping toward him.

Louie was actually flummoxed by the question. "The boy…? You mean…?"

Karnage gathered immediately that Louie hadn't seen the boy, and changed his question: "Where is Baloo?"

Glowering, Louie raised his fists and took jabs in the air. "I'm not tellin' you anything, you yellow-bellied―oomph!"

In a blink, Karnage grabbed Louie by the lei around his neck, and slammed him against the bar, which broke and splintered. All the while he did not let go of the lei, keeping it tight around Louie's neck, and the point of his cutlass was pressed against the side of Louie's head. Even the pirate crew was taken aback by the sudden display of strength, or really the extent of inner rage welling up in the captain that was behind it.

"Go ahead, ape," said Karnage coolly, with bulging, furious eyes. "Make me mad today."

One of the busboys, panicked at among other things the barrel of Dumptruck's rifle in his face, suddenly cried out Baloo's location. Karnage relinquished his hold on Louie, and pointed at Gibber and Hal in turn. "You two, with me! The rest of you, keep this dis-gusting rabble in checks and balance beams."

Thus, the three of them stormed out to the adjacent huts. Only one of the huts had a light on from the inside, and Karnage went straight to that one. He faintly heard a young voice ― the boy, and also an older, deeper voice ― the other. Karnage's chest burned even hotter with fury, and his hand was gripped tight on the hilt of his sword. He hadn't even gotten as far as to remotely think about what terrible lesson he was going to teach the brat, but oh hell was it going to be one for the history books. He felt like he was going to tear down the entire hut with his bare hands, for starters.

But just at the stoop of the door, the words of the voices became intelligible. He heard Baloo say clearly, 'He never gave a hoot about ya! He just threw ya away, an' if I hadn't been there, you woulda been gone!'

Like suddenly clutched by an invisible hand that restrained him from moving on, Karnage paused in front of the door, ear cocked. He felt what Baloo said like a punch in the gut.

Then there was the boy saying, 'He said he was sorry.' It made Karnage wince ― did the kid have to broadcast that bit of information to the world?

'He wants to be better.' And as if that wasn't bad enough, 'He needs me.' The boy was in there spreading vicious, scandalous… truths. Hal and Gibber came up behind Karnage's flanks, and he gestured for them to stand back. No need for them to overhear any of this.

'Tell me yer comin' back home,' he heard that cankerous cargo-hauler plea, fervently. And he could just sense it, that the boy didn't have the heart to say 'no.'

Somewhat crushed, but still seething and not at all good with the myriad of emotions this reckless reptile was making him feel, Karnage choked down some of his anger and entered as calmly as he could possibly muster… by kicking the door in.

"Unhand that puny plane-crasher," he said, "so I can put mine around his throat!"

Baloo, reactively, grabbed Kit by the arm and pulled him back, like shielding him. Karnage scowled at the apparently very un-scathed juvenile plane pilferer. "Well, well. Nothing bleeding, I see. Nothing broken. Nothing black-and-blue… yet. Get over here!"

Baloo stepped forward, menacingly with clenched fists. "Over my dead body!"

"Well then!" said Karnage, raising his cutlass, and eying Baloo with a maddened glare. "No waiting for Santa this year, because that is the top of Karnage's Christmas list!"

"No!" cried Kit, suddenly jumping between them. "Don't fight! I was…" He sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve. "... just leavin'."

"L-leavin?" stammered Baloo, suddenly oblivious to the tip of the blade poised against his shirt. "Kit, wait a minute!"

Kit grabbed the cuff of Karnage's coat, his sword-wielding arm, and drew the blade away from Baloo. "Captain, c'mon. You're mad at me, not him."

"You only think you know what mad is," snarled Karnage, "you little―" Baloo tried to suddenly move in to grab Kit, but Karnage quickly whisked his cutlass to the pilot's face. "Nuh-ah-ah, back off, bear!"

"I won't let you hurt 'im!" growled Baloo.

"Oh what, you think you are the only one who can be good to him!" spat Karnage. "Well what do you think of these persimmons?" In a move that surprised everyone, namely Kit, who would end up looking not unlike someone who had just stared full-on and up-close into the ignited flash powder of a camera, Karnage grabbed the boy by both cheeks and planted a big kiss on his forehead, mmmpbah! And then, he did not miss the opportunity to mention in Kit's ear: "I am going to kill you so much for this. Scram!"

He hoisted the boy out the door, shoving him off to Hal and Gibber, ordering, "Take him aw― take him home." He gave Baloo a narrowed-eyed smirk, making sure the whole effect of the H-word was received. "Baloo and I should have a little chitty-chat. All of you, go!"

Kit, still lost in shock by what just happened, did not get another word before they rushed him away. Karnage did not lower his sword, as Baloo seemed on the verge of knocking him down and running after the kid. Getting skewered was the only thing keeping him back. They squared off, alone.

"Much as I would run you through right now," said Karnage, "He would hate me for it even more than I hate you."

"Yer not gonna get away with this," swore Baloo, gravely.

"Ah, but a pirate always gets what he wants," said Karnage. "And the boy, I want. He was always mine, Baloo. Mine first, mine always."

"Yours? Your what? Ya talk about 'im like he's just some - some thing! He's a kid, for cryin' out loud, a good kid, too. You were rotten to him! Tossed him away!"

"Oh, give me some credentials, will you?" said Karnage, smirking humorlessly. "I did far worse than that."

"If any part'a you really cares about 'im at all, then ya know he deserves better."

"Better!" barked Karnage incredulously, and at this point he put down his cutlass to get furiously face-to-face with the other. "He has better! He has me!"

"Ya know ya don't love 'im," said Baloo, jabbing a finger in the pirate's chest. "Ya never did. I do, darn it!"

"L-love?" sputtered the captain. "How dare you use a four-letter word at me! And what do you know!"

"I know he wants to come home!"

"You think I have a prison on my pirate ship?"

"Yeah! I've been locked in it!"

"Not what I mean!" yelled Karnage, stamping his feet. "You saw it yourself, he goes where he wants!" Growling, Karnage added aside, "Even under threat of bearskin rug. But you! I swear it, if you come after him, if you try to take him from me…" With fangs bared, Karnage brought the edge of his cutlass against Baloo's chest. "I will carve ― you ― up!"

Baloo bared some carnivorous ursine teeth of his own. "That supposed to scare me?"

"No, is an invitation," said Karnage.

In the snarling stand-off that ensued, the thrumming in the air pulsed louder, with the Iron Vulture swiftly descending and hovering over the island. Baloo looked up, alarmed and terribly confused, as if now just realizing the airship was there to pick up Kit. And Kit was going.

"I… I don't buy it," he stammered; his ferocious posture faded away. "I don't buy it! Ya treated him like garbage. Ya brainwashed him, I... I know it. But he won't ― I mean, you can't ― you ― he ―!" He cupped his head, words lost to him.

Karnage suddenly felt very strange, for on the one hand, seeing Baloo crumble like this was something he would like photographed and framed on the wall. He should have relished this moment. He wanted to. He just couldn't. The boy somehow ruined it for him without even being there.

"This… this can't be what he wants," mumbled Baloo. He staggered back a step, the back of his heel hitting the crate with the phonograph, and he shifted down, sitting on the edge of the crate as if his knees had been sapped of their strength. It was an outward sign of the unthinkable realization bearing down on him.

"Is the silliest thing you ever heard, you know," Karnage said, and at last his cutlass lowered. "That confuzzled kid came back because he thinks I have finally let my feelings get the better of me. He thinks he can trrrust me with his life." He burst into a maniacal cackle, which took Baloo aback. "And the biggest ha ha of it all?" His laughing grin disappeared entirely. "I think he's on to something."

At that, Karnage was struck by his own words (not for the first time, of course, but rarely was it anything as poignant). He turned around, walking to leave, but stopped at the door. What compelled him to offer Baloo some sort of explanation, he could not say ― but he was sure going to blame the boy for this, too. "I am... not so very unhappy about… what you did," he said, reluctantly. "It's easy for you, the good guy. I know what I did, and I know how he feels about you. But still, after everything ― don't you get it ― he still believes in me..." He stopped talking, his thumb and finger around the bridge of his nose. That feeling of being loved, sometimes it just cut. "I… maybe... know what you feel. But if you want to worry, worry about someone who needs it, not the boy. What happened before… it won't happen again. Let him go. Because I will not, not again." He looked back at the bear with these parting words: "Go home, Baloo."

He exited, but just outside the door he turned around. "By the way! Did you ever try to get it past his brick-wall of a brain that he is too young to fly?"

Baloo was momentarily shocked by the seeming randomness of the question. Shocked enough that he actually answered. "Of course."

"Well. Some help you were."