Being grounded stank, and it didn't matter where you were, be it a bedroom at Higher for Hire or a berth in the Iron Vulture. Kit found such a penalty particularly loathsome because he was wired to go where he wanted, and even if he had otherwise no intention of going out, someone telling him he couldn't go out really stuck in his craw. Fortunately for him it was a scarce occurrence, as most of his life went without a particular authority figure. But then there was that one time at Higher for Hire when he, as he sometimes did, got a little carried away in the Sea Duck with a game of Scarf 'N' Goggles. It involved taking the liberty of starting the engines, an (allegedly) accidental push on the throttle, a... minor... collision with the pier, and not realizing Miz Cunningham happened to be on the pier taking shipment inventory. Scared, he jumped out of the plane to check the damage ― he put some dents under the plane's nose, cracked off part of the pier, knocked a few cargo crates into the water, and speaking of the water, that's also where Miz Cunningham was splashing around. Then Baloo, roused from a nap, came running out wondering what the hell happened. It would not be the best day of Kit's life. Nevermind having to sit through that awful talking-to they both gave him, it cost him two very boring weeks spent indoors and yet another two without his cloudsurfing board.

And then there was this time. What really stank about this time was that he felt like he didn't deserve it. Well… mostly didn't deserve it. That, and the captain would never in a million years make any other member of the crew stay in their berth. He was getting treated like a kid, and that was really irritating.

It was also irritating, as his smarting ear was there to yet remind him, that the captain came down on him mostly for how dangerous it was to fly by himself. Talk about backwards. Couldn't he have at least have been more angry over the "borrowing" of the plane itself, or that he went to talk to Baloo behind the captain's back? Now admittedly, when that CT-37 started flipping, and Karnage would of course never know this, but Kit was terrified that was his final moment. But so what? He came out okay and pirates put themselves in danger on every heist. The Iron Vulture could chance crossing paths with the wrong gunship any random moment and get blown to pieces, killing them all. Kit had dodged plenty of bullets, figuratively and literally, and the captain was more than perfectly fine with it. The danger was all part of the life, part of the adventure! Among all the deadly perils that were part of the everyday sky pirate life, the captain decided now to get selective? Anyone here could get splattered in a plane crash any day! It was all a big, stinkin' double-standard, and frankly the captain was just acting like a big ol' fussy...

… well, too much like a dad for comfort. Baloo had done things like that sometimes, too. That train of thought gave him another heavy dose of grief. At length, he thought about the time before Baloo, too, where in hindsight, in his first go-around with the pirates, he considered that the captain also got on is case in some selectively irksome, parent-like ways, but ever since their falling out, and his running away and hooking up with Higher for Hire, he had for his entire time in Cape Suzette chalked those things up to Karnage's orneriness, not out of some sense of caring.

He had gone to bed right after the captain chewed him out; it's not like there was anything else to do for the rest of the night. Or the next morning, come to think of it. Or however long this sentence was going to last. Yep, welcome to Stinksville. He wasn't at all sleepy, as rotten luck would have it, and spent a long time lying there awake. His emotions got him yet again when he thought about Baloo, and he cried over it. In an impossibly perfect world, he thought wishfully, he could somehow have both Baloo and the captain. Those grounded comforts of home, though, could never agree with unfettered freedom and adventure. For that reason, decent, ordinary people, struck with daydreams of fanciful abandon amid their normalcy, jobs, and daily routines, sometimes wished they were pirates. It was never the other way around. Freedom and adventure ― notwithstanding the irony of being ordered to stay in this room.

At some point in the wee hours of the morning, Kit was startled by a sudden and significant shift in the Iron Vulture's course. He got up and looked out the room's lone porthole window. The quick change could mean about three things: they were under attack (which they weren't, or there would have been lots of panic going around), a really good plunder opportunity crossed their path (at this hour? Nah, too dark to see anyway), or the captain had come up with something in mind and had the overnight helmsman make an immediate adjustment (more likely). With that in mind, Kit had a glimmer of hope; the captain concentrating on a new scheme would likely mean forgetting about ― yeah, right. That wasn't gonna happen. He went back to bed, restless again, and wished his pillow wasn't scattered in a thousand pieces on the floor.

Before he finally fell asleep, the last thing he saw from the porthole was the dawn lighting the sky just a smidgen. His last thought was that if there was one good thing to come about this grounded business, he was going to get a chance to sleep in as long as he wanted.

Until...

"Wakey-wakey, runt-face!" second mate Will yelled cheerfully. Kit sat up like he'd been cattle-prodded. The morning light was bright from the window, and though hours had obviously passed, he could swear he just closed his eyes like two seconds ago.

"Wh-what? What's goin' on?"

"Great news! Got ya a hall pass."

"Huh? You did?"

"Ya see, Captain still hasn't decided what to do with ya, so in the meantime he put me in charge of makin' sure you're miserable. Oh yeah, and he said to make sure I enjoy it." The fox clasped his hands in delight. "It's like a dream job!"

Kit knew his meaning right away: chores of the most unpleasant kind. Suddenly being stuck in his berth for all eternity didn't sound so bad. "Thanks, but nuh-uh. The captain said I hafta stay right here. And I always do what the captain says."

"Yeah yeah, good one. Look brat, I did ya the favor of snaggin' ya before Ratchet did. I happen to know he needs lotsa plumbin' unclogged, and we ain't talkin' pipes with clean, mountain spring water here. Dig?"

"Cripes," muttered Kit. "Fine. What do I gotta do, then?"

Will cackled (and that certainly didn't bode well for Kit). "Ya mean, where do ya start!"

Where to start turned out to be the galley, and the mountain of unwashed dishes and cookware therein. Kit couldn't believe it, it was like the whole crew somehow knew three weeks ago he'd be in this predicament and they'd all been piling up all the dishes for him since. Keep in mind the Vulture had only left Pirate Island yesterday morning.

Will, being a dedicated supervisor, reclined on a box of oranges and let Kit get to it. The second mate so far was doing a wonderful job in carrying out his orders: Kit was indeed miserable, and Will was indeed enjoying it. He fell asleep in but a moment.

Grumbling the entire time, Kit donned a dingy apron, found a brush and a box of suds, and went to work. Slowly. There was no time limit spoken of, after all. One pot scrubbed per hour seemed reasonable. But then he thought that maybe he shouldn't over exert himself… let's make it one pot per day.

But as if he somehow telepathically spoke this plan, Will stirred in his nap and groggily mentioned, "By the way. Boss said he wants all of this sparkin' by chow time or no one eats. So yeah… I'd step on if I were you."

"Wha'? But they're gonna blame me if it doesn't get done!" protested Kit.

"Bingaroonie, there, kid!"

"You could get a team in here and get it done quick."

"Yeah, I could. Heh heh."

"Cruuuud," Kit groaned.

By late morning, Kit was inside of and scrubbing an overturned, mammoth caldron that was thrice his own size. Whatever "stew" was last cooked in it had left plenty of brownish-green goo plastered all over. All things considered, he had made a good dent in the workload so far. The mountain was now half a mountain.

The cauldron rolled a bit as the Vulture lurched in a sudden change of speed. Kit crawled out, covered in grime and suds. By the feel of it, the airship was slowing down, and descending. Landing, he realized. And landing where?

Will, vigilant as ever, was still slouched on top of the box of oranges, sound asleep and snoring copiously. Kit decided to take a little sneak peek and see what was going on. That would be a very sneaky peek… he didn't want the captain catching him out of bounds.

One advantage he had when trying to keep out of Don Karnage's sight was that a person who was as (to put it one way) loquaciously inclined as the captain was often heard well before they were seen. As long as Kit kept an ear out, there was little chance he was going to accidentally bump into Karnage in the hall. And to that point, he heard Karnage from a long distance away, yelling orders in the main hangar.

Kit crept his way to the hangar floor, and hid behind a tool chest. The captain, "disguised" in a trenchcoat covering his usual ensemble, was ranting and raving, practically frothing at the mouth ― it was just nice to know that he wasn't doing so, this time, toward any younger members of the crew. It appeared that Karnage and a selected group were about to board one of the seaplanes and take off. He had a newspaper skewered at the tip of his cutlass, the same paper taken from the cockpit of the cargo plane they snagged yesterday (also of note, that very plane was still suspended above the hangar, awaiting to be picked apart.) The front page of the paper was showing to the crew as the captain waved his blade around.

"This flimsy fooligan is trying to make the ignoranimoose out of Don Karrrnage!" he declared. "He goes running around that wretched Winger City, dressing like a pirate for all the most un-pirating reasons! So! We pay a little visit to this Winger City, yes, and what do you think we do there?"

"Take the boy to the museum?" a (suspiciously odd) deep voice suggested.

"No!" barked Karnage. "No, no, and no! Who said that?!"

The pirates looked around, muttering, not knowing quite who said that, though there were many accusing looks being cast at each other.

"Shucks," muttered Kit. It was worth a shot, at least.

As for Karnage, his stink-eye wasn't making anyone come forward, so he just continued, "We are going to find this sorry son of a soup sipper and teach him what you get when you mess with a real pirate. Vamonos!" With a flick of his sword, the skewered newspaper was flung into the air, and the group of pirates boarded. In but a moment, the plane was out the prow and off to its destination.

With Karnage gone, Kit ventured to un-hide himself, and walked to the prow, watching the plane shrink into the distance. The Iron Vulture was just about to land outside a quiet cove and weigh anchor, awaiting the plane's return. Kit gathered, just from the way things were usually run around here, that the airship was being kept distant to avoid unnecessary attention ― not that Winger City was particularly known for strong defenses like Cape Suzette, but anytime you got close to a big, Uslandian city, you could bet on some armed patrols lurking around. The captain and company were going to find a discreet way in and sniff around for this imposter pirate guy.

He didn't know exactly how far he was from the city, but he felt morose over that he was probably closer to it now than he had ever been, and ― well, gosh; he really wanted to see that museum.

"Yo, runt-face!" Will shouted from a catwalk above. "Whaddaya think you're doin'!"

Sighing, Kit trudged away from the prow, en route to the galley.

Kit didn't finish cleaning the galley before the regular time to eat came around, but Don Karnage wasn't back yet and no one else gave a hoot what was clean or not, so hungry pirates ate regardless. They were kind enough to leave another big mess for the kid in charge of washing it all up, to Kit's chagrin. Thus, he was stuck there for a great portion of the day.

Another good hour went by of that monotonous work, with Will dutifully overseeing (that is, snacking and napping), when Patch strode in. The wolf made a point of ignoring Kit completely, and covered his mouth from the kid as he spoke to the second mate: "We got a …" He paused with a snort. "... situation. Better come see."

There was a gleeful evil in a quick glance Patch gave Kit. Will, puzzled, followed the wolf out, and Kit was left there holding a wet mop. There was no way, he decided, he wasn't going to go, too. He followed them to the hangar floor, where several others were gathering.

The seaplane had returned, but the pirates who exited it, Gibber, Mad Dog, Dumptruck, and Ratchet, had these speechless expressions about them, numb and shocked. They looked like they had the crap kicked out of them. Dumptruck's top hat was flattened, Gibber had a fat lip, and Mad Dog limped. One pirate, in particular, was very conspicuous by his absence.

"What happened?" asked the second mate. "Where's the boss?"

Ratchet, bearing a black eye, ran his hand between his cap and scalp, blinking like he still couldn't believe what he had seen. He had Don Karnage's overcoat in his hand. "He… uh… got pinched."

"Pinched?!" the crew started.

"P-pinched…?" gulped Kit.

The disheveled group had a tough time disseminating the details, but here's what happened in Winger City.

The five pirates flew in nice and quiet, landing on the coast near the city's seedy eastern docks, an infamous area rife with theft and vice. They all wore (stolen) overcoats on this trip, concealing that they were heavily armed. Once situated, they split up to find any information about his so-called Corsair Crusader, with orders from the captain that they would meet up again in an hour, selecting the stoop of a shady saloon as their meeting place.

Now, lest we not forget, these guys are pirates (has this been mentioned, already?). If you send pirates out for an hour in a place like this, it's… slightly possible… they may get distracted from the task on hand. However, to their punctual credit, after that hour they met up with the captain in time, in front of the saloon… drunk, smelling of ale, and twitterpated over the street wenches flirting with them (some of these ladies looked more like Dumptruck than Dumptruck looked like Dumptruck. Mad Dog was particularly smitten with them). So, Karnage had plenty of smacking to dole out to get them back on track.

Karnage's time wasn't so wasted, though. While questions regarding this Crusader person like who is he and where is he were things no one knew, there was definitely an uptightness about his mention. The docks did not house the most upstanding citizens in town, to say the least, and everyone was looking over their shoulder. Local thugs kept themselves quiet in the shadows. The bums were bummed. Word was that there hadn't been a decent mugging in a week. This costumed hero tended to spring out of nowhere, at any time. Oh, and as to Karnage's question about why anyone hadn't just blasted the guy already… apparently, it was tried but no one had been able to get a shot on target during the course of getting their tails handed to them. Karnage found this absolutely ridiculous, and felt disgusted with the limp-wristed criminal element in this town giving bad guys a poor reputation. All that was known about the Corsair Crusader, they said, was that he packed an incredible punch, filled the jails, and there wasn't a crook in town who knew how to deal with him.

"But now there is a pirate in town," Karnage said to his minions. The best way to get the Corsair Crusader's attention, so Karnage heard, was to commit a crime, the bolder the better ― and that was just delicious icing on the captain's cake that he was going to have and eat it, too. Time to cause some chaos.

He kicked in the swinging door of the saloon, and he and his snarling entourage went in with guns brandished, firing some random shots for good measure. Chunks of the walls and ceiling were blasted away, and the crowd… well, the crowd consisted of a passed out lush snoozing over a table and an elk bartender who looked quite annoyed. He opened the register at the bar and stepped away from it, sighing. Maybe he'd been through something like this once or twice.

Overall, not exactly the chaos the captain was going for. "Men, tear this place to sunders!" he ordered. "Make some noise!"

"Ugh, don't," groaned the barkeep.

"And you shut up!" Karnage told him. "Some knees knocking would be appropriate, if you please."

"Yeah, they're knockin'," the elk said, boredly. "Take m'word for it."

Karnage giddily leapt over the bar counter and had at the register ― then he wasn't so giddy. It was like pocket change in there. Not that he still didn't pocket that change. Meanwhile, the other four overturned tables and blasted more holes into the ceiling, hooping and hollering (well, not Gibber. But he did snicker louder than usual). Karnage then whipped his cutlass out and with one long swipe knocked an entire row of dingy, booze-filled bottles from their shelf.

In a moment, the pirates abated with the noise, now listening and looking. Was anyone coming?

"Allo! I am ro-obbing this plaaace!" Karnage sang loudly in a taunting tune. "Why doesn't someone try to sto-op meeee?"

There was no response. There wasn't even someone walking by outside to curiously turn their head as what all the ruckus was about. "I knew I should have picked a bank," the captain griped.

"If you're done, can I get my broom?" yawned the barkeep.

"No!" snapped Karnage. He stamped out of the saloon, kicking the door out just as he kicked it in. Huffing, he looked to his left, then his right, then back inside at his crew, grimacing. "What a lousy place for a robber―iieeee!"

The crew blinked; suddenly the captain was gone, like swept away. They scrambled outside, finding Karnage lying dazedly in the grimy street, with his head under someone's boot.

"Avast ye!" that someone said. He was a golden-furred canine, and even at first glance it would be a very far fetched to think for a second that this wasn't the person they were looking for. From head to toe: he had on a velvety, crimson bicorne hat, worn with corners over his face and back, with fanning, rainbow-colored peacock feathers sticking up from its side that were so long they bordered on the absurd. His fancy shirt was red with golden pinstripes, ruffled on the breast, and he had a purple waistcoat and matching breeches, a big black belt with a golden buckle, and black boots that, much like Karnage's, were rolled down at the top.

One thing about these fancy and outlandish clothes, they had a peculiar wear about them, like they were as old as such genuine articles would be, and like they had been worn for the 1,000th consecutive day in a row. They weren't in bad shape, per se, but they looked far from freshly laundered.

But while the sky pirates ogled at the outfit, they kind of forgot one little thing, like their boss' head pinned to the ground. "Why are you chowerheads not blasting!" Karnage yelled.

Yammering at once, the pirates raised their guns to shoot, but their foe suddenly leapt over them in an incredible bound. Karnage sprang to his feet, in such flare that as he leapt he had his overcoat thrown off and his cutlass unsheathed before his feet even hit the ground. But in the heartbeat it took for that to happen, he saw that Mad Dog was head-first into a garbage bin, Ratchet and Gibber were laid out cold, and Dumptruck was upside-down, having his head used like a piledriver in the eroded pavement; the rest of him eventually teetered over, feet first. Their guns were scattered well out of reach.

"A little too easy, mateys," the Crusader said, feigning a yawn as he leaned his hand against a lampost. But then he looked at Karnage, and took a piqued interest. "But oh, what have we here? A tasteful sense of style, a real sword… don't take much after the common rabble, aye lad? And they said I dress up like a pirate."

Karnage growled at him. "I am a pirate! I real pirate. You ― are a fruit salad with legs."

The other tilted his head, his face lit up with a sudden realization. "By thunder! Don Karnage?"

"In the ferocious flesh!"

"Truly? Ah, I was expecting more."

"Huh? What more?"

"A flying ship for one. A crew ― I mean, a pirate crew, not…" He shrugged, gesturing at the other four.

Karnage stepped toward him, blade ready for slicing. "That so! What do you think you know about a pirate's crew?!"

The other smirked, even as his face grew dark and his squared off against the captain. "A pirate's fair share, and you can lay to that."

"Lay on some of this!" cried Karnage, and he lunged into an attack. That… was about the last thing he remembered about the fight. Not that he could be blamed for his recollection being so jumbled, what with getting disarmed and being slammed around all over the place like his arm was tied to a spinning propeller.

The other four started to gather themselves, Dumptruck sulking over his flattened hat and the big bump on his head, Ratchet and Gibber dazedly sitting up, and Mad Dog spitting out a rotten banana peel. What they saw then made their fur stand on end: their cunning commander, on top of the saloon's slanted roof, being dragged along over the slates, by the collar of his blue coat.

"Tsk, mateys!" the Corsair Crusader said down to them. "Could you have at least brought your flying ship along? I don't suppose it's too much to ask that you go get it and bring her over? There's more of you with it, right?"

They blinked, dumbfounded.

"You don't say," tutted the Crusader. "Well then! I'm just off to drop this one in the clink, if the rest of you would be so kind to wait until I come back for you. Don't go away, now!"

Yeah, like hell they waited.