The Pirates of Cabo Diablo

Part 4: An Old-Time, Violent Buccaneer

The Iron Vulture was homeward bound to Pirate Island, to no one's liking. The pirates, collectively, wanted to continue their wandering adventure and see what the world had to offer them in terms of plunder. But the boss had said otherwise.

It was usual for Don Karnage to never get discouraged by a failed heist; on those occasions, it was expected he would dole out some smacking and assign copious blame for failure (never on himself), rant and rave for a period, but always moved on to the next big idea, forgetting the last as if it never happened. But the captain had called it all off, in the few words he even bothered to speak anymore. He was absent altogether from the bridge, let alone going anywhere near the planes, and mostly stayed behind closed door in his cabin. It was evident to all that he was in no mood for pirating, and they (at least enough of them) were in no mood to entertain overthrowing his command.

There wasn't anyone among the crew who didn't "get it," why the boss was acting this way, regardless if they were resigned to it as a fact of life or stewed in disgust over it. It was recognizable from the beginning how the captain took a shine to the little brat. There's damn slim reasons, after all, to invite a ten-year-old aboard a pirate ship. The captain, for whatever whim struck him after finding that surprise stowed away in a heisted cargo plane, decided he was going to raise this whelp. Who does that? You had to be blind not to notice the way the kid was always at the captain's coattails, or how he lit up when the boss paid him attention. There was a connection between them, realistically only made possible by the kid being a kid, that the rest of them could never experience. Did words like father and son come to mind back then? Vaguely, but that was all rather mushy stuff, anyway, things that were attached to likes of bedtime storybooks and boxcar races. Blech. But take this kid with no parents, though, it was very obvious if you had to point a finger at the closest thing to him having a dad, it was the captain. Many of the pirate crew, though time was too far gone, would have liked to have had a "closest thing to" for themselves when they were whelps, instead of nothing at all.

No one missed the kid after he ran away and turned on them. No one was exactly dancing for joy when he came back, either. It's not like he came back for them, after all. But they had a pretty good idea as to why he came back, and furthermore why he was welcomed back. That connection. It wasn't the same, it seemed, either. The world was all rottenly nice and pirately-normal until that day the captain fell from the ship and was presumed dead in the Antranador jungle. When he suddenly arrived back on Pirate Island with the brat in tow, and in everything else that happened following up to Badda Bing, the captain ― sometimes by a nuance as slight as a soft, smiling glance, and sometimes as overt as, say, trucking the entire operation immediately to Louie's Island to pick the brat up ― was getting into a groove of more than a "closest thing to."

So yes, they got it, and, with what empathy yet remaining in their menacing souls, they were fine with letting the captain deal with what happened in whatever way he wanted. It's hard to say that they'd miss the kid themselves, but since his return he'd grown on some of them. He stuck up for some of them when the captain started his usual snapping (he was the only one who'd get away with it, too). He'd caused some inspiration when he had the guts to speak up on the matter of loyalty and sticking together when the captain was cooling his heels in Winger City. And what he did to save them in Badda Bing, it was like the kid was over and over showing them that he was one of them. And you know what ― it's not to speak for everyone, but, in candor, a number of the crew was sad he wouldn't be there again.

Still… what were they going to do at Pirate Island? Sit around while the boss sulked? How long was that gonna take? After that extended stay on the island while the Vulture underwent its extensive repairs, they were in no hurry to leave the sky so soon. It was all looking very grim, very boring.

In fact, the boredom had already come, preemptively, by just dreading the future boredom to come. On the bridge, Jock was steering the helm with his toe, the rest of him reclining on his back. Ratchet absently rapped a wrench on a pipe while staring out the window. Mad Dog wound his goggles around his finger like a hula-hoop, and was going for the world record of spins. He kept losing count at around four or five. They'd all been like his for a while. They probably would have been doing as such all day long, if not for a peculiar radio transmission that came in:

'Ahoy there!' the lady said cheerfully. 'Ye wouldn't happen to be a flyin' pirate ship I see ahead, would ye? Oh, me oh my. Not pirates, I hope.'

"The hell…?" blinked Ratchet. He snorted and regarded the radio suspiciously, as if this was the set up to some stupid prank.

'Ye see, I've lost me way, and me airplane's ailin',' said the lady, 'an' I don't know how I'm gonna fly all of these gold bullions by meself. I can trust ye to help, right?'

Rachet's mouth hung open; he looked at the others, who were staring at the radio with the same kind of confusion. "Ya don't think anyone could really be that dumb, do ya?"

Mad Dog responded to the query with a moment of deep, critical thinking. In that, Ratched groaned, having observed the answer to his own question. Then he bolted from the bridge. Mad Dog caught on quick and was right at his heels. Together they shouted the news, akin to a couple zealots struck hard with heavenly inspiration: hark! Have you heard the good word, friends and neighbors, about the SUCKER HAULIN' GOLD BARS RIGHT OUTSIDE!

In a minute flat, the entire airship was absolutely buzzing. The pilots raced to their planes and started their engines. The captain didn't say they could go, but… the captain didn't say they couldn't, either, so there. But in fact, Don Karnage was watching the hangar from the deck above, slouched over a railing, silent and expressionless.

In a moment the planes were off, darting out of the Vulture's beak. Pirates in the hangar turned up a radio to eagerly hear all the goings on. In summary, this is what happened: the pilots reported that, indeed, they found a 'nice, fat one' of a cargo plane. It wasn't putting up a fight, even as they fired a few shots at it to test its pilot's reaction. They weren't going to shoot it down, no sense creating a crash that would waste perfectly good plane parts or, more importantly, maybe lose the precious cargo. So while the pilot got on the air to beg for her life ('Oh no! Pirates! Whatever shall I do?'), plans were made in short order to corral the plane into the airship for a whole catch. Don't underestimate how much Jock liked the thought of a gold bullion for himself, because he swung the Iron Vulture's tail around like a hippopotamus doing a half-rotation on ice skates. Anything not bolted down took a slide (and here, Karnage finally made an expression ― a nauseous one, as he gripped the railing for support).

The prow lined up with the incoming, soon-to-be-victimized plane, the pirates in the hangar cranked the beak open and raised the arresting net, and, as pretty of a job as you'd ever seen, the cargo plane came barrelling in and was trapped. Those flying the attack planes got back inside the Vulture, post-haste. "Greetings and salivations" had a new meaning as the pirates surrounded the plane, practically drooling, eager to crack it open like a giant, golden egg. Crowbars went immediately digging into the side door into the cargo hold. Hal also took a crowbar to the pilot's side door at the cockpit ― but the door kicked open and gave him such a smack on the mug that it sent him flying on his back.

This… let's just say it garnished some attention.

"Well! It's 'bout bloody time," said the pilot, as she jumped onto the floor, and wove among the bemused crowd fearlessly as she spoke, sizing them up one by one. "Sorry for the ruse, luvs, but yer gonna find no gold a-waitin' yer greedy piratin' paws in there. Empty as a drum, it is. Alas, I'm 'ere to give ye somethin' much, much more valuable than any brick o' gold." She stopped and clicked her heels together, a hand gesturing to herself over a puffed chest: "Me! I'm a-joinin'. Name's Sterling, how do ye do, an' when's lunch? Did I miss lunch?"

A couple of the pirates finally got the side door open. "It's empty!" they reported.

"Well I told ye it was, di'n't I?"

The crew collectively went from very confused to very displeased. Snarls formed on lips.

"This broad tricked us!" one growled, and an angry chorus of yarr followed in response. "Get her!"

"Oh, do we really need to go through the motions," sighed Sterling. "All right, come an' get it, ye codfishes. Who's first?"

That would be Dumptruck, who lunged to grab her. He was summarily yanked by the wrist and flung over her shoulder, where, in a blink, he found himself with her foot over his neck, arm extended as she held onto his wrist, and his pinky finger at her mercy. She gave it a twist that made him howl.

"I suppose it's me fault, for not properly introducin' meself," she said, twisting away. "Now 'elp me out, luv. Gimme a note to start off on." Smirking, she cocked her ear toward Dumptruck's wailing. "No, no, a little higher pitch. Listen! Me me me me meeee! La la la laaaaa! More like that note." She then bit his finger, crunch, and did that ever get him to hit that higher tone. "Ah, that's 'bout perfect! Hold it right there. Ahem." And, matching the key of Dumptruck's yelping, she began with this elongated first word, "I….."

am the very model of an old-time, violent buccaneer
My acclimation and fixation is to-ward being feared
My mates and I, we terrorize across the globe without excuse
Here today then sail away, and keep our necks from the noose!

She let go of Dumptruck. With a jaunt she leapt onto the cargo plane's wing, and with arms waving gradly before her audience, sang on,

Raiding, robbing, all things bad I find to be vocational
Killing, stealing, spilling blood are duly occupational
Swash-a-buckle with my knuckle and slit a throat from ear-to-ear
I am ― the veeeery model of an old-time vi-o-lent buuUUU-ccaneer

She waited for a reaction, beaming. Dumbfounded silence, of the most utter kind, ensued among the others.

"If that don't sell ye, I don't know what," she scowled. "I was workin' on it for some time, ye know. 'Specially how to carry on that last bit."

Suddenly crewmates started moving as to part a path among them. Someone had seen Don Karnage standing behind them, quietly watching on, and the awareness of his presence cascaded. He was sans his coat and overall gruff in appearance. His ruddy eyes narrowed at the fox, shrewdly, but he did not bother approaching. It was she who moved toward him.

"As I live an' breathe," said Sterling. "A livin', breathin' pirate captain."

The crew watched with curious bewilderment as this stranger so fearlessly, if not audaciously, sauntered a lap around the captain, hands folded behind her back, eying him up and down. She was inspecting him as much, if not more than, he was inspecting her. Karnage only deigned to move his head to keep his sneer on her, but she, regarding him, had a very pleased smirk. As she circled his left shoulder, she ducked her head forward in a quick sniff. "We've been a lil' deep in our cups lately, 'aven't we luv. Ah, but that's a captain's prerogative." Karnage's face crunched with a scowl, though he held his tongue. "What say ye, 'onorale Captain Karnage. It's a pirate's life for me, an' think I'd be a right asset to your villainy. Ye don't mind if I stick around…" The fox, a head shorter than he was, stood in front of him now, cocking her head to the side with a click of her tongue and a menacing grin. "...do ye?"

"We don't know nothin' about her," a pirate was heard muttering to the others.

"We know she can whoop Dumptruck," another said, which got some snickers.

"An' she ain't hard on the eyes, either," said a third, which got even more snickers.

The fox's ear momentarily cocked back toward their comments, but was quick to swing back to the captain, awaiting his answer, holding her grin.

And thus Karnage made the executive decision, by waving his hand in the most whatever of whatevers. Then he turned around and walked off.

"Ye-es, I'm excited, too," drawled Sterling.

"That mean she's in?" wondered Mad Dog aloud.

"I think so," said Ratchet.

"Ooh, my pinky," sulked Dumptruck.

"Well, boys!" exclaimed Sterling. "Where shall we begin, eh?" She threw her arm around Gibber's shoulders as if they were old chums. He just stood there, awkwardly, and let her do it. "I know, hows 'bout a show 'round the place? The grand tour, we'll call it. I can't wait to see what ye spry buggers 'ave plundered of late. I hear some very interestin' things about certain occurrences in Badda Bing." This made several pirates suddenly grimace and groan. She asked Gibber's ear, "What'd I say?"

"Badda Bing was a disaster," sighed Will. "Just… a disaster."

"Well, maybe ye di'n't get everything ye'd 'oped for. But certainly ye came out with somethin' of worth. Say, perhaps… a particular sword that went a-missin'?"

"He threw it away," scoffed Patch.

Sterling wrenched her hand from Gibber's shoulder so hard that he tripped backwards. She eyed Patch. "What?"

"The only thing worth anything outta that whole deal, an' he threw it away."

"What do ye mean, threw it away?"

"He chucked it overboard," said Ratchet. "Guess he didn't want nothin' to do with it, not anymore."

"Yer yankin' me shanks, right?" Sterling asked. Lots of shaking heads answered her. There was no more smirking on her face, now it bristled with sudden anger. "Why would he ― ugh! Where the seven 'ells did he do this chuckin' overboard?" She cupped her head, pulling her hands around her ears. "Gads, if ye mean to tell me, it can be anywhere between 'ere and Badda Bing…"

"I mean, what's done is done," shrugged Ratchet. "It's probably in the middle of the ocean."

"Ooh, ooh! I saw where it went," offered Hacksaw, raising his hand at Sterling like an eager student trying to get his teacher's attention. And how pleased and proud he was when Sterling pointed at him to share his answer in front of the rest of the class. "It was where we put up the mirrors!" he said. "The big mirrors!"

"Oh, yeah," said Will, snapping his fingers. "We were right over the Twin Spires, weren't we."

"Twin Spires," nodded Sterling, in a phew! of relief. "Good! So that's somethin', at least a spot on the map, eh? Well. We can work from that. We'll just 'ave to go back for it, that's all."

"Huh? Why go through the trouble?" a pirate asked.

"Certainly, if ye've seen this dandy blade, ye've noticed it's peculiarly special," said Sterling.

"Special-schmecial," grumbled Hal, who was still rubbing his smarting nose. "No matter how much it's worth, an' even if we could cash in on it, tryin' to find it again? It's good as gone forever."

"Let's say I know a thing or two 'bout it," smirked Sterling. "An' I know it's worth, it's true worth. Worth more than anything ye could imagine, it is."

The crew shrugged, not buying into her words. "Besides," said Ratchet, "even if we wanted to, the boss ain't gonna go for it."

"Listen, luvs," said the fox. "In the five whole minutes I've known ye, I feel like we've all been ol' friends our whole lives. An' one thing 'bout ol' friends…" She started off in the way the captain had gone. "They can be quite convincin'."


'Another mangy mouth to feed.' That was Don Karnage's resigned parting thought as he left the hangar, and the only thought he cared to give on the matter. She had a certain zeal and was obviously eager to put it to work, which is the only reason he didn't have her tossed on the spot. He had a number of crew aboard already who were picked up in a similar fashion. Some others who "applied" in this way turned out to have thought the pirate life they so wanted was nothing but fast flying and buried treasure; they had no idea what they were getting into and, then the bullets started flying for real, they didn't last long. So maybe she was one like them, and maybe he should have had her tossed anyway, but he was in no mood to work any of that out. He felt no energy or inclination to vet a newcomer. If she managed not to get eaten alive by the rest of the crew, fine. Whatever.

He was headed for his cabin, though as he came to the upper corridor that went to the bridge, he wondered if he shouldn't make an appearance. Maybe kick Scotty awake and tell everyone to work harder. Maybe take a look out the window, the sky had its way of making him feel better.

'Just like it did the boy.'

No, forget that. See? He almost let something slip, almost let his inner guard down. He didn't want to do anything right now. He didn't want to feel anything. He just wanted to be left alone and try not to even think about anything. Stuff his ears with cotton and pull the bed covers over his head, that was the plan. More wine wouldn't hurt, either.

Hurried feet came after him from behind. "Ahoy, captain," said the newcomer, cheerfully. "Chat a moment?" It was claws on a chalkboard to his ears ― in a bad way; not in the delightful way when he would torture someone esle's eardrums with the sound. She was far too free with herself and it was instantly infuriating. The name Don Karnage carried with it fear and respect. She was showing neither. He turned around to face her, showing exactly how he felt about her in a threatening snarl.

Sterling halted, with a hand on her chest like her breath had been taken away. "Ah, be still me heart. Ye have a way with yer dirty looks, befitting of a right pirate-in-command."

Ay caramba. Was that it? She was hotsy-totsy for him? Not that he could cast blame on that matter. He snorted at her dismissively, and put his hand on the wheel that would unlock his cabin door. To his shock, she suddenly wedged herself between him and the door, chest-to-chest. Yes indeed... hotsy to the tostys. He was in no mood for it, as told by the murderous scowl he glared down at her.

"Sorry, luv, I know what yer thinkin', but I'm afraid the things I've seen in me life 'ave left me with a bad 'abit of 'avin' no fear. I just want to thank ye for yer bein' accommodatin'. I adore the dream of a pirate life, as I know ye must, to 'ave taken yer dream up here in the sky. As keen as I was on findin' yer high-sailin' ship, I was also keen on the idea that once I found ye, we, as pirates, band together in a search for a very fittin' type of pirate treasure that I know of. But ye, it turned, 'ad already set upon that treasure. The sword, Bloodfang."

The name of the sword spoken made Karnage wince. In further audaciousness, he was grabbed by the shirt and guided away from the door.

"Now I 'ave to ask meself, why ye went through the trouble of chasin' down the sword in the first place. Ye even knew where it was before I did, an' that's no trifle. Whatever aversion struck ye that made ye want to part ways with it, seein' it for yer own eyes, ye must 'ave known, t'is no ordinary blade. An' ye knew ye were on to somethin' after yer… encounter… in Winger City."

Karnage was mildly intrigued at the way she quickly drew a connection between Winger City (that is, the undying drooling dolt who tried to take his command away from him) and his hunt for the sword, but not enough that he wanted to see the estupid thing again. The mild intrigue, however, must have shown on his face, for Sterling grinned at him in a knowing sense.

"Ah yes, I know all about that sod jumpin' about as the so-called Corsair Crusader," she said, with a wink. "The soddiest of sods, eh?"

Karnage didn't quite know the definition of a sod, but was almost inclined to shrug in agreement with that.

"What if i were to tell ye, if ye had the slightest idea of what the sword is capable of, ye'd never had let it go. Well, I 'appen to be an expert on such matters. There's no lie on my lips, luv, when I tell ye it can make all yer plunder-lovin' dreams come true." She grabbed him by the wrist and tried to lead him off. "So! The only thing left to do is go talk to yer crew, tell 'em that we're all headed back to ―" Though she yanked his arm, Karnage's feet didn't move. "All right, then. Perhaps further explanation is in order to whet yer whis―"

She was cut off by the sight of Don Karnage's pointer finger in her face, held upright, in a shushing gesture. Karnage himself was acutely transfixed on it, and watched studiously as the finger was bent and straightened, like getting limbered up. He then planted the finger on the fox's sternum, and with it pushed her back all the way to arm's length. There might as well have been a literal question mark floating over her head. Next, with the other hand he opened his cabin's door, and walked backwards over its threshold, never taking his eyes off her. And finally, with that same finger, he curled it repeatedly into a "come here" gesture.

"'Onestly? Just wham 'n' bam an' not even botherin' beatin' 'round the bush at all, is it? Expectin' some common strumpet, were ye?"

He didn't change expressions or move, except to curl his finger. She truly couldn't tell if he was being seductive or just strange.

"Although," she said, smirking as she scanned the captain from head to toe and back again. She started for the door and his invitation to come inside. "A pirate captain might be pleasant company, if we were 'ave a jabber in a quieter, more personal―"

The iron door was shut hard in her face, slam!

"Ye've got a way with words, I see."


When the Iron Vulture landed back at Pirate Island, not everyone disembarked. There was a certain balance between the airship and its port; sometimes you were glad to be back on dry land after a long stay in the sky, and vice versa. Thus, not everyone was quite ready to stretch their legs on the island; Patch was among them, he and his grumbling usual cohorts taking advantage of the quiet to take up grog in the galley.

They were suddenly joined by the newcomer. Patch hadn't quite made a judgment about her for himself, but he did already have some envy. This broad's popularity had grown very quickly among the crew, practically overnight; it was the way she so confidently carried herself, no doubt, and the way she was persistently amused at everything. Plus, she knew a lot of songs full of swear words, which were a big hit among bored pirates. She was also quite chatty, and in a manner of a day's span had learned about practically every significant heist and turn of events the sky pirates were ever involved in.

She entered the galley without a word and just sat right down with them. No introductions or small talk. She cut right to the point, and, not that she didn't already have their attention just by the way she so unabashedly approached, she unsheathed a tarnished silver dirk from her boot and stabbed it into the middle of the table.

"Gents, I'm a wee bit perturbed. 'Onestly, I had expectations 'bout a flyin' pirate ship. Alas, seems like ye've got a pirate captain who's presently up to bein' neither pirate nor captain." Though she spoke as if addressing the group, she was only looking at Patch.

"What makes ya think I'm the one to gripe to about it?" he asked, snorting.

"I see more than ye think, luv, an' I keep an ear turned to the low whispers. An' I see quick where lies the, what should we call it… the schism. Now, I know what kind of man ye are. A leader. Not an obvious one, but that's of yer own design. An' I wager ye quietly hold sway over enough hands to influence certain directions when need be." She leaned forward, indicating for them to do the same, as if about to share a thought in confidence. "Need is bein' now, with, or without, Don Karnage."

Patch's brow cocked over his one good eye, inquisitively. "I'm listenin'."

"I'm sure ye've heard me mention a need to go back for that beautiful sword. The very sword Captain Flynn was after, mind ye, an' why do ye think that was? The sword made that bugger what he is, so what do ye think it can do for the rest of us? T'is is unworldly power, an' wielded right can make all yer pirate dreams come true." The group glanced at each other, considering those words, each half incredulous, but the other half… interested. Sterling kept her eyes on Patch. "Includin' yers. I'm an inch away from goin' off by meself to scour these so-called Twin Spires, but… I find the lot of us goin' after it much more ideal. I suppose I'm a sucker for a right, good ol' fashioned pirate adventure."

Patch's expression was like a hungry wolf caught in the scent of a succulent roast dinner; but then he ducked his head, scoffing. "Splittin' from Karnage, that's a ship that's sailed. Ain't the same crew it was a year ago. Hell, a month ago. Too many of 'em, now, they won't turn on him."

"I'm not expectin' ye to turn 'em," said Sterling. "I want ye to start talkin', get 'em excited to go off a-huntin'. Get 'em to approach the captain for leave to get this ship flyin' again. An' if that, by chance, should entail that the ship departs while the captain wishes to stay ashore for a time ― well, consider this. Seems like could be an opportunity for someone to show off 'is leadership chops."


Don Karnage went from holing himself up in his room in the Iron Vulture to holing himself up in his room on Pirate Island. Despite that this is exactly where he intended to be, he was not happy to be back, no more than the rest of his crew. He just needed some time, he thought. Some time to get out of the sky and reset his head.

As far as this time alone thing ― anytime he bothered sticking his head out, that annoying fox-lady was there trying to talk him into retrieving that sword. The one difference now that they were on the island is that he was running out of doors to slam on her. So, he started throwing pirates in her way instead. If one wasn't nearby, he'd go out of his way to grab one. It seemed after about the fifth pirate colliding into her, Hacksaw that time, to be specific, she finally took the hint. He had yet to address her with a spoken word. The new ones needed to earn the honor of his attention.

It was strange to not want to go out pirating. He couldn't remember a time since his vocational dream was realized that he wasn't excited for the next plunder. And yes, he was cognizant that the crew thought it was strange, too, but on that point he didn't care. He was tired of ― no, he was done with ― feeling like he had something to prove to them.

He aimlessly walked the hideout's winding tunnels for a while, even paying a visit to the pool of frothing molten lava in the lower chambers. He ended up on the outside deck where he had often enjoyed sunbathing; he stepped into the outside afternoon air bleary-eyed. He'd gotten used to the overall dimness inside, and who turned up that blasted sun so bright, anyway? Very annoying.

The open air felt good, at least. He went to the rocky precipice and leaned over it. There he watched the sea, the seagulls mingling in the water over foam and strands of kelp. The way the water lapped over the base of the slope below, the way it washed over black clumps of mussels and swirled in little places on the ebb, it was hypnotic. It never stopped, either. No matter what else was happening, anywhere in the world, the water just kept lapping over the rocks. Over and over...

A cloud covered the sun, and the sudden temperature drop gave him a chill. He looked up, puzzled, for when he came out, he was sure the sky was clear. But then he realized, the sun, though veiled by a cloud, was in a different place altogether than when he came out here. The clouds didn't just magically appear ― the day was already spent. He sneered at the sky ― sometimes you just needed to sneer at something ― rubbed some warmth into his forearms and went back inside.

He heard murmurs of conversations carrying through the tunnels… the crew had gathered in a cavern. Did he even want to know why? Not really. But leave this group to its own devices long enough ― he had better check.

He was greeted with smiles from excited faces, just about the entire crew was there that he could see. "Oh, hiya boss," said Mad Dog. He, Dumptruck, Gibber and Ratchet removed their headwear, respectfully.

H'oh, boy. They were going to ask for something.

The captain sighed. "What is it now."

"Well, we were just thinkin'," said Mad Dog, "since our ship's in such good runnin' condition, it'd be a waste not to use it."

Ratchet added, "An' maybe, boss, if ya wanted some peace an' quiet it wouldn't be such a bad idea if we went out to pocket some loot in the meantime."

Hacksaw came diving at Karnage's feet, begging, "We're bored, we're so, so bored," he wailed. "Please let us leave!"

Karnage kicked him away with a shudder. "Is that what this is about."

Lots of nods responded to him, with cries of "Pleeeease? Purdy please?"

The one thing that Karnage was foreseeing was them flying his beloved tri-wing, or his new, shiny one… getting them all wrecked and icky. "No, because the minu-ette I let you go, some of you are going to put your flabby, flea-bitten flanks in my personal planes."

"Well… what if we left 'em here?" offered Will. "Then ya could keep an eye on 'em."

The pirates cheered in agreement to that idea. They were, clearly, in overwhelming favor of taking off. And honestly… their argument made sense. There was no reason to keep them here when they could be out stealing a profit somewhere. They were looking at him like eager children giddily awaiting "Dad's" affirmative answer.

"Fine," he conceded. There was an uproar of cheers and yarrs, and lots of stampeding straight out to the bay where the Vulture was moored. Karnage barked after them, "I want my ship back by this time tomorrow! No scratches! With a full tank!" He knew they didn't hear any of that.

They were all gone, quickly, except one. The newcomer. If she was going to mention that blasted sword one more time… but she actually had a sword in hand. His cutlass, the one he used in Badda Bing. The blade was well bloodstained.

"I know ye've got a few spares, but I found this lyin' 'round, though ye might like to 'ave it back." She proffered the hilt to him. "I 'eard it all, how ye cut down so many. T'was a tale told with amazement on their faces. The rage that was conjured, oh, I can feel it meself. I respect what ye've made here, captain. Ye don't just live a pirate life. Ye believe in it, truly."

Karnage took the sword, though regarded her with suspicion, like he was being sold something.

"I'd say ye already know that ye can't do what ye do if ye get… attached," she said. "Win some an' lose some, so they say. In the end, we're all victims of a cruel jape played on us by life itself. But it's a pirate's prerogative to at least make a right streakin' terror out of it all while we've got the chance. What do ye say. Come with yer crew?"

Karnage lifted the cutlass upright, gazing on it. The memory of how the blade became so thoroughly bloodstained, how it swung and slashed that night, was all but a blurry flash. It wasn't what he did that stuck. It was why he did it. And the why ―

... iron hands squeezing, crushing...

The why cut. It cut and it hurt. Not the physical kind of hurt either, which he would have preferred, the kind of pain you could shake off and bandage. An immeasurable weight collapsing upon him, the very thing he had so vehemently warded against, smote the mental walls he had worked so hard on building his entire life. The cutlass fell from his fingers. His hands wrung at his face. An exhale sliced through his teeth, sharply.

"I… can't," he told her, like a confession drawn from torture, words spoken quietly and weakly from his own reluctance in saying it out loud.

"Hm. More's the pity, luv."

Karnage left the cavern, desperately trying to think about anything else, tunnel by tunnel, room by room, with such a storm in his head that he was oblivious to the ensuing sounds of the Iron Vulture's spooling rotors clapping thunder through the entire island, and the klaxons that rang announcing its departure.

At the end of his aimless trek, he wound up on the outer slopes, watching the Iron Vulture blend into the darkening horizon. He had a bronze colored bottle in hand. Forget the wine. He had found the rum.


You know what was great about having an entire island to yourself? You could strut around anywhere you wanted wearing nothing but your socks. Of course, you could do that around the crew, too, if you wanted, and who's to stop you when you're captain ― but that might set off an incredibly regretful fashion trend. This was just a sample of the many booze-soaked epiphanies Don Karnage had since the Vulture left the night before. He didn't act on any of them, but these things were nice to make due note of.

This was great! He was doing great. Not breaking down at all. Not getting soft and emotional. Getting drunk off his ass, sure ― but not soft! The peace and quiet was overrated, he discovered; quiet moments left for quiet thoughts, and there were avenues there he would not go. Sometimes he would just belt out a random song to the audience of his own echo. He even performed a one-wolf play that he made up on the spot, doing all the characters and plot in improv; the main character was an incredibly handsome pirate captain named Don Car Naj who had legions of swooning fans (most of the play was spent playing each of these fans in turn). A loser hero tried to stop said handsome pirate from stealing the crown jewels. Karnage could not figure out, however, as the play went along, how the handsome pirate ended up losing the fight to the loser hero in the end. So the plot definitely needed some re-work. He also raced his shadow once from one end of his sunbathing deck to the other ― his shadow won, though he was pretty damn sure it cheated. There were a million things to do to keep him occupied, and he was going to do every single one of them. As soon as he thought of them, anyway. But for now ― rum.

In truth, all he was really doing was trying to force himself to sleep life away. He was aware of that, just not willing to acknowledge it. He just needed some time, curse it all. If he could spend that time in dreamless slumber, all the better.

He woke up in the middle of the night, finding himself on the pebbly shore of the interior bay, sick to his stomach. He didn't remember how he got there. He had to go throw up, and afterward his head pounded fiercely. He chucked the spent rum bottle in the water. Now he needed to get another.

He was too dizzy and ill to know where he was going, though, and he meandered the wrong way, eventually cracking his shin on something (if that didn't sober him up a notch). It was a coffee table. He was in the junk room.

He sniffed and sat down on the table. The cluttered room was spinning and swaying. All he could do with himself was hold his head over his knees, as it felt like it was about to roll off his shoulders. He blinked as a curious, blurry sphere by his foot. He picked it up, held it in front of his blinking eyes...

A baseball.

A pang struck his gut that wasn't nausea. He was just about to cast the ball away and try to forget he ever noticed it… but he didn't. It stayed wrapped in his fingers.

'Coward,' he called himself. 'Go on. Face it.'

Strange how, in a life spent dodging bullets, swinging out of airplanes and fighting for your life, this is what took courage: staring at a baseball. He dreaded it, but he faced it. He gazed at it as if daring it to do its worst.

'No more hiding. I do what I want. I do… what I want… what do I want…?'

Silly things, these baseballs and others. Don't even get him started on how stupid sports were and thier so-called rules agaisnt blatant cheating, but also silly how kids made a fuss over them. He was never like that as a child (did he ever want to be? He couldn't remember). His own father never even kicked around a fútbol with him.

'What do I want...?'

There was something, something like a word on the tip of his tongue, except this was a notion on the tip of his mind. He sensed it was risky but that's where the courage came in. The blood rushed from his head as he stood up; he ended up having to stand up a second time. The baseball was held against his chest. He breathed in deeply, and closed his eyes.

"I know what I want. I want to know… just once… what it would feel like."

He rolled the baseball between his palms. He wasn't in a cavern anymore; he was at a park, standing on grass. It was a beautiful, sunny day. If a pirate life existed for him in this imagined world, he was oblivious to it. He had a son. It was his own real son, born and raised. The bear cub didn't look a thing like him, but that was his boy, and he was one of those fathers who liked to take their kid out for a day at the park. That's something regular families did, right? It was "one of those things," he supposed it could be called. Then he squinted his eyes open; he was out of his senses enough that the park didn't disappear. The boy was standing several yards away, eagerly waiting for the ball to be thrown to him. Look at the smile!

"Come on, boy. Ha! You ready? Catch!"

He threw the ball. The boy held his hands up to catch, his face just beaming.

And you know what? It was fun ― for just that fleeting instant. It was an instant instantly gone again. The ball crashed into something he knew not what, but obviously something glass and fragile by the sound of it. The boy wasn't there. The grass was gone, and no sun was shining. For all its mountains of clutter, the room felt terribly empty. The island felt empty. The world felt empty. That was the risk he assumed going into that imagined reality. That he would face how empty his world really was.

He shouldn't have done any of that, he realized. Something was welling up in him and he was not controlling it very well. It was anger. Fury. Every time he thought he had a leg up on the world, the world kept knocking him down, over and over again. Every ― single ― time! Why him? Why, blast it, his entire life, always?!

Fury. At everything.

Things began to break. He was at the center of the storm; he was the storm. How long did it last, he did not know. It lasted until it didn't. When it finally didn't, his head throbbed worse than it did before. The junk room was ransacked, everything overturned… and he was utterly exhausted, a sweaty mess panting on the floor. It took a lot of strength to sit up again. He looked around, blinking. What a mess.

One thing, though, on the fringes of the cavern, yet stood upright. An ominous, haunting figure. His father's cold shoulder. It was, in actuality, a coat hung on a coat rack. But it somehow triggered a haunting sense of deja vu.

He stood up, timidly and slowly, averting his eyes from it. In its presence he felt small and insignificant, just like he did when he was a child. His father was a large, imposing figure. Strong as steel. Hard, calloused hands of ferocious velocity. Doomed with a child he could never be proud of.

Yes, in but a moment Karnage knew it was only a blasted coat hanging there. But… it didn't make it any less real; his father was still in the room. He had been all along, all day, all night. The rum wasn't keeping him away like it was supposed to. In all the nooks and corridors of the Iron Vulture, and all the tunnels and escapes of Pirate Island, in all the years that had gone by, Don Karnage had finally run out of places to avoid his memory.

He found that coffee table again and sat down. Did his head ever swim.

"I never wanted to be anything like you, old man. I ran away from you to make my life mine. To be better than you at everything." He snorted. "Looks like you had the last ha-ha."

He thought then, of the closest thing his father and he ever had to a bonding experience. The swimming lesson.

"Sink or swim. Hmph. It was supposed to teach me something, to make your boy into a man, no? I wonder, when you threw me in the water, did you even care if I swam? Was that your way of... perhaps... getting rid of your boy ― your weak, scrawny boy. Your boy who cried too much. The boy you made… and you called... c-crazy." Some things, it turned out, he would never be anything but raw over, and his voice quaked. "There was nothing wrong with me. But you would say it, all the time. To mama. To everyone. To me."

He clamped his hand over his mouth and bit his knuckle. Here he was walking a tightrope over dreadful depths, long, winding trails of confusing, hurtful memories that he dare not fall into, memories that forked and weaved into one another both explicitly and blurrily. There was no point in recounting every dismissive look or every disdainful word his father cast upon him. There was no point carrying them in his memory at all. For years he had done well not to think about them anymore. Time and a hectic daily life had helped the memories fade, and if one somehow crept in, he would snuff it away just refocusing on whatever pirate task he was doing at the moment. His countless adventures kept him busy, every one of them another length of distance added from the life he ran away from. But now the memories found a perfect, solitary moment to corner him.

He dreaded this conversation ― but he wasn't running from it anymore. And damn if the rum and isolation didn't somehow make him feel like getting a few things off his chest.

"You know what the ironing is… the way I hated you… was the way he hated me. I know that, now. He ran away from me, feeling like when I ran away from you. And just like you… he was no one to me. Good as never born. Good as dead.

"But I should thank you, no? Because of you, I became everything I always wanted ― and I hope you hated that. But no, but I should thank you. I was so embarrassing for you. Good at nothing. And look how weak! Too snivelly, always with my feelings hurt. Not tough enough to stick up for myself against the fooligans down the corner. There I would go, running back home, crying for mama ―" He suddenly flinched; out of nowhere, he saw his father's hand cracking over his face, an unspoken order to stop being a baby. "There's that, too. I don't cry anymore. Whether we like it or not, old man… you made me Don Karnage."

Staggering aimlessly in the clutter, he came to a silver candelabra and picked it up, squinting at his reflection in one of the stems. He couldn't tell who he was seeing in the reflection: himself, his father, or... the boy. He cast the candelabra away.

"You see and hear about things, you know, things you think your whole life are fake. Things about fathers, things that they're supposed to feel, things that make them look at their sons and say, 'I would do anything for him.'" Karnage blinked slowly, struck in an abstract, blurry moment with the amalgam of everything that happened between finding a homeless kid in that cargo plane to that night of plunder and lightning over Cape Suzette. "I did not feel that way. Why should I have. Sometimes, I was proud of him, sometimes I was happy with him, but… I was not his father ― I never told him I was ― and he was not my son. And who cares, even if he was, even if he had my own blood… nothing would have been different. Because those things are fake! Bah, things made for postcard pictures, is all. It's what I believed. My whole life, I believed it. I saw it myself! From you.

"Sink or swim. Is how Don Karnage was made. So I made him fend for himself, like I had to. I thought I was doing him good. Making him strong. Forcing him to be strong, so he could be a real pirate. No ― so he could be like me. I could have been... like… like a shield for him. But no, a boy does not need a shield. A boy needs to be a man, no? A boy needs to learn to survive. A boy needs to be tough. You know what you call a un-tough pirate in this world, old man? Dead! So I made him sink or swim! Even when he would look at me and I knew ― I knew, blast it all! ― he was tired of being the tough guy. But who cares about baby-child feelings when Don Karnage has plans of his own? Big plans! Cape Suzette city-robbing plans!

"Oh, and here's a good one! I heard this on a line from Danger Woman. Ready? This blustering bonehead says, 'All I want is for my children to have a better life than I did.' What a joke that is, no? A real tie slapper, like they say. Because we know better. We know what it's like to have the small one looking up at us. Everything you did, you did for you. Not for me. Last of all for me. Every word, every curse, every welt, just trying to shape me up to be someone… who… who didn't make you spit. To you, it was only about how I made you feel.

"Then, look what I do. I took that bear in for me ― not for him. It was for how it made me feel. 'Adore me, boy! Tell me how grrreat I am! Tell me how you want to be just like me someday. Adore me! Because… Don Karnage must be adored. Don Karnage is no longer the whining whelp he used to be. Don Karnage is the true me, the greatest! Shining like the sun! See it for yourself, boy, and BELIEVE IT!'" The interior of the island echoed with this voice, believe it, believe it. Then silence, overwhelming. He was left with a burden of a confession, and admitted it quietly: "I don't want to believe it all by myself."

He bit his lower lip, because he felt it trying to get away with a quiver. A sniffle tried to escape, too. He tousled his face with his hands, inhaled sharply and turned to the coat rack, pointing at it with a deep snarl.

"So, congratulations, old man! Clappity, clap clap for you! I turned out just like you, after all. Hope you are veeery happy about it, wherever you are resting in pieces. Don't ever talk to me again." He spat on the ground, and stormed out of the chamber, kicking clutter in his path, and woe be unto anything that stood between him and his next bottle of rum.

But something occurred to him that made him stop just before his last step out of the junk room. His brows knitted for a moment, in the drunken fuzziness it wasn't easy putting together what his own mind was trying to tell him. But then he realized it, and turned again to look at the coat rack.

"Wait. No. You know what ― not just like you. I… I did something right. Yes? I don't know what, but something. I must have. Because… he did something to me that I would have never done for you. He came back. Something… still made him believe in me."

He stomped now toward the coat rack, drunkenly invigorated, shaking his finger at it. "And you know what? Those fake things ― are not so fake! They can be real. He made me know that. I did know that! When he took my hand… when he chose me ― after everything, me! ― since every day after, when I wake up, it's the first thing I think about. No one does that to Don Karnage. No one! But he did. I never told him, but… for at least this much time…" He held his finger about an inch from his thumb. "For this much time, it was real."

Thinking of Kit's hug, that genuine, tangible affection, he crossed his arms over himself in an embracing gesture. "It was real. And I knew I would do anything for him. You… were wrong. I was wrong. And if I could have him back, I would tell him. I would tell him he made me love him. That's right, I said it, so what! I would tell him that, and I would make sure he knew it! What do you think about that? What, I can't hear you!" He was hardly aware that his feet had even ventured that far into the chamber, but he was suddenly right next to the coat rack. A swift swipe of his arm, and the rack was knocked to the floor, now at last matching everything else in the room.

Watching the coat bloom for a moment and then deflate flat as a puddle on the floor ― there was some odd sense of finality to it. Karnage snorted. "Too late to say it now, old man. For you and me both."


Don Karnage was woken by a nightmare; it was mild as far as nightmares went, no monsters, big falls, or dangerous scenarios. Oddly enough, he was sleeping in the nightmare, in the very same bed as he was now; what made it a nightmare is that the boy came in to wake him up. He felt his shoulder getting jostled, and the boy's voice asking, 'Captain?'

It was quite clear. Wrenchingly clear. His dreams were often like that.

He rolled on his stomach, burying his head in his arms. "No. No, no, no! Go away. I don't want… don't want to remember. Ugh, curse my magnificent imagination."

It still, somehow, felt like the boy was standing beside him. In his heart of hearts, he wished it were true.

He didn't bother to open his eyes, but upon that wishful thinking he was inspired enough to reach out his arm as if the boy were really in the room, as if he could snag the boy and pull him back into his life. It was futile, of course. The arm dropped limply and swung over the bedside.

"No reason for you being here, anyway," he mumbled. "I was never good to you."

His imagination had the audacity to utter a small, quiet response in the boy's voice: 'That's not true.'

"Of course it is!" snapped Karnage, smacking the side of his own head. "Don't argue with me in there!" Then he heaved a big sigh and calmed down. The effects of the rum yet had him very groggy, but he was cognizant he was experiencing something of a half-woken lucid dream, a dream the boy was there with him. A dream the boy could hear him at least one more time. One last chance to let him know. His tongue loosened, and the words came from the heart, unfiltered by useless pride. "Is true, you deserv-ed... better than me. Oh, my boy. If I could turn back the time, I would take it all back. You would never want to run away. I would give you the world. I would never ―"

A smoldering cityscape flashes before his eyes. A triumphant victory, nearly spoiled. A traitorous brat he had lost all interest now in keeping. The words: 'Drop him!' And a boy's scream, plunging toward the bay, music to his cruel ears. He wants to jump in and stop himself, smack himself, kick himself in the tail before it's too late. It's far too late.

Karnage rolled on his back, wrenching his pillow over his eyes.

"I'm sorry, boy. For everything."

"I know."

The sullen voice was still clear as crystal. With half of his face still under the pillow, Karnage swatted the apparition away. But, his hand actually hit something. Something that felt like a mouth. Something that yelped 'oomph!'

That was… unexpected. His arm rose, practically autonomously like a curious python, and poked in that general direction. It struck something again.

"Ow! Will you quit it?" More of the boy's voice.

That was curious just enough to get Karnage to slide the pillow from his face, at least for one blinking, bleary eye. A short, blurry silhouette stood next to the bed. Bear ears. Green sweater. The rum was making him see and hear things again ― though this time, it was really outdoing itself.

Karnage rolled over, turned his back on the hallucination.

"Captain?"

A small hand nudged on his shoulder. That was it, he couldn't stand being in this haunted room another minute. He flung his legs over the side of the bed and quickly sat up ― too quick for his head, thank you ― he was so dizzy he plopped right back down again. The second time up was considerably slower. But once sat up again, the hallucination was still there, reaching out to take him by the arm. He wasn't going to let it, if it wouldn't disappear on its own, he was going to make it. He shoved it hard with both hands, expecting it to poof away like smoke ― then shrieked when he realized he had really just shoved someone, which made them stagger back.

Not just someone.

Kit looked up at him, obviously holding back tears, under the veneer of a sullen tough-guy face. Karnage involuntarily slid from the bed, forward onto his knees. "Boy...?"

"It's me. I'm really here."

"B-but ― no. I saw you… you…" The sickening image of the boy in Klang's hands was still terribly fresh; as was that of that small, mangled body made of it.

"Yeah. Didn't feel so good, either. Heh."

Karnage grabbed him by the shoulders and squeezed; a small cry, part of an incredulous laugh, hiccuped out of him. The boy was really, ―

― the feelings he had surging inside, a vacuum suddenly flooded and fit to burst ―

really there!

With a gasp, he had to catch his breath. His brain was in no condition to work any of this out. His lip managed to mumble the one word he could cognizantly think of:

"H-how?"

"I don't know," said Kit, barely a whisper. He averted his eyes to the floor, running his hand over his nose in order to conceal a sniffle.

"You mean…" Karnage had to gasp again, and swallowed. The adrenaline was running through him faster than his heart could pump. He was wide awake now, very much so. He gave the boy a gentle shake, just making sure he wasn't going to disappear on him. Kit looked up at him again; two pairs of ruddy, glossy eyes met. "You mean... to tell me," said Karnage, "you just stood there, and listened to me say all of that…" His hands slid from Kit's shoulders, cupping over the boy's neck. "And you have the nervitude to still be alive?! I kill you!"

Fangs flashed and the wolf pounced. Kit went down with an 'ack!', kicking and squirming and doing everything in his power to keep from getting throttled. The captain was doing everything in his own power to achieve quite the opposite. Karnage was winning, and in the fracas, roaring, "Next time I tell you to go somewhere you won't die ― grrr! ― you do what I tell you, or I turn your imputent patootie into a puny piñata!"

"Augh! Someone help!" Kit pleaded, words half choked.

"Oh-ho! No one's going to save you from me," growled the captain. Rabid oaths about bearskin rugs were being renewed when someone interjected,

"Uh, boss? We got a few more important things to deal with than killin' the kid."

Who the heck said that? It sounded like Ratchet. It was Ratchet! Karnage finally noticed the crowd standing at the entry to the room, about half of his crew gawking at him. Did they all hear everything, too? They must have. Not good. Not good at all. In his momentary surprise Kit finally got a chance to slip away from him.

"Glad to see you, too," the boy scoffed at him, making a face.

It wasn't just his crew, either ― there was one very non-pirate face in the group. The red-headed museum lady. If that wasn't a glaring sign that something was upside-down. Karnage stood up straight and snorted at them indignantly. His hands pawed at his chest absently as if they were looking for a coat to straighten out. "Well? Someone going to tell me?"

The group shared miserable looks. "We lost the ship," Mad Dog mumbled.

"Wh-what?!" cried the captain, the fur on his tail puffed straight. "How?! Where is it?!"

"Oh, it's still flying, you can lay to that," answered someone he couldn't see, but a voice he was unpleasantly acquainted with. "Seems there was a bit of a mutiny, though." Captain Flynn stepped through the group and came to the forefront. He shrugged. "Wasn't me this time, honest."