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“Did you hear what they called us?!” Kid calls out to Killer from behind the counter, picking through anything worth taking from this old bar.
Killer grunts in reply, too busy cleaning his scythes to even look up.
“Punks!” Kid spits the word like it’s the most grievous insult he’s ever heard.
“Yeah.”
Killer contributes little to the conversation, as always, and Kid doesn’t expect a response as he carries on. Killer is waiting for him to run out of steam.
“Not just that,” Kid fumes. “Young punks. Like we’re kids again!”
Back when they were rotten little rats dressed in rags, fossicking through other people’s belongings and filching finer pieces from adults desperately scraping enough together to survive. There was hell to pay if they got caught, and they made sure that rarely happened.
Young punk is not even insulting, but it was flung at them along with whatever sharp object was on hand, aiming to hurt. It seems the memory still stings for Kid.
Killer tunes out of his nostalgia to hear Kid is still bitching. It’s amazing how long he can go on about the same topic. Killer finishes wiping his blades and steps over the bleeding man at his feet. Judging the rattle in his lungs he doesn’t have long left to live. Too bad.
“They insulted us *and* expected us to pay! I could have handled one or the other. Not both.”
“Well. We are pirates.” Killer sheathes his scythes, curved blades tucked safely back. The gurgling finally stopped. Poor bastard croaked.
“I guess.” Kid is scowling, done slipping coins in his pockets. Not a bad haul for an impromptu looting.
“Attacking them might have been a bit much,” Killer says, leaning against the dirty wooden counter.
Kid shoots him a thoughtful look.
“You reckon?”
Killer shrugs. It’s not for him to call. If the captain gives an order the crew follows.
“Boss,” he says, catching Kid’s attention.
“What?”
“I’m thirsty.”
“Fine.”
Kid takes his sweet time selecting a dark green bottle and tosses it to Killer. Killer uncorks the rum and thanks the captain before he tips his head back and chugs as best he can through the mask.
Wire chooses this moment to pipe up.
“Where’s mine?”
Heat and the other crew mates murmur agreement. They’d been silent until now, content to let Killer bear the brunt of Kid’s ranting while they cleaned weapons and relieved patrons of their valuables. Bastards, the lot of them.
“I’m not a servant!” Kid snaps.
“Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you killed the barkeeper,” Killer says. He’s the only one who can get away with winding Kid up like this and he can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips when Kid splutters for a second, then launches into new complaints about how he’s taken for granted and nobody in the crew takes him seriously as captain. The crew would follow him into hell but Kid has always had a flair for the dramatics.