the intended target, or die because he wasn't if he was to die at all? “Captain...?” he asked gingerly. His captain didn't speak, he merely watched with concentrated eyes.

The individual who had come crashing out of the motel lay motionless for a while, not stirring for one reason or another. The two pirates mimicked his stillness. When at last the man moved, at first just stirring on the spot and then sitting up, the tension in Clopis eased out slightly. Ragnarok continued to stay still as stone, watching, waiting. When the man stood up, Clopis straightened up and stood at attention, waiting for a chance to do something if anything needed to be done. His captain continued to be as stoic as rock. Slowly, the man in shabbyclothing shuffled over to what looked like a small blade on the ground. The dead pirate's eyes followed his movement and darted forth to the dagger on the ground. His eyes widened, his left nostril twitched with broken tension and his whole body relaxed visibly as if a wave had washed over him. “There he is,” he said quietly, his voice sailing out with his breath in a single gust. His paralysis was broken, he saw now who it was he was hunting. Death was all but upon him.

Ragnarok strode towards his man, leaving Clopis to stand watching him as he left. There he was, after all this time it would be Futtleschuckles' turn to be reaped as he had done so many others. He knew. This was