Headed by a Snake

Stickyfingers stuffed his thumbs into his ear-holes to prepare himself.

Petty Officer Bob took in a deep breath... and bellowed out a name at the top of his lungs.

"DOCCCCCC!!!"

The other Coral Boys raised their voices, echoing the name of the least qualified surgerer in the crew. Of course, the calls were equally mixed with names nowhere near as professional-- but Doc knew who he was.

Everyone was real excited.

They were in for a good show.

"SOMEONE CALLLLLL FER DA DOCTAH?!??"

Doc came out of the crowd, raising his arms to court the crowd, "YEAH!! Lemme HHHHEAR ya's!!"

The modified rifle he had strapped to his chest-- he took it off and raised it above his head with both hands.

Flaunting his custom rifle got him a thunderous round of raucous stomping, loud cheers, and violent applause.

"Look 'oo decided to join da pah'y! Gahaha!!"

"Da leggy b*tch is gon' get away, ya keep F*CKIN' off!!"

"Put on yer SHIRT, you bloody DEGENERATE!!"

"Yeah, 'as right," Doc pirouetted around and kissed both his biceps, "You lot's jus' f*ckin' jealous."

The Coral Boy's medical smock was wrapped around his waist, his stony chest exposed to the moonlight.

He had one of Lieutenant Tycon's tobacco cigars in his mouth, lit and smoky.

...and he was taking his sweet, f*cking time.

Stickyfingers chuckled to himself.

Doc looked ridiculous... but no one important was particularly concerned.

He was good.

He was real f*cking good.

The mouthy bastard knew it... and he knew how to rile up the crowd... get their blood pumping.

Real good at that, Doc was.

"Yeah, yeahhhh," Bob rolled his eyes. "Get on wiv it."

"Oh, we'z on it, Bob," Doc smirked.

"Ooh! Ee!!!" He swayed from side to side, pumping his weapon forward and back. "Oooh, aah AH!"

He shook his arse like a cheap whore, "HmmHMMM hmmmm!! Walla-walla BING BANG!!"

He tossed a thick round into the air before spinning around, catching it, and loading it into his rifle's undercarriage.

"You'z called da DOCTAH!!" He sang in a screechy pitch, "An' da DOCTAH has arriiiiIIIIIved!!!!"

Finally, he placed his weapon between his legs... "An' da diagnosis iz..."

He thrust his hips forward-- "ffffffUMP!"

**THMP**

He must have pulled the trigger at the same time, because a fat bullet sailed up and over the woods... across the moonlit sky.

Everyone in the crew followed its trajectory with their eyes... holding their collective breath.

--Everyone, that is, but Wonderboy.

"Oy," He muttered... "Ain't red-skinned girls resistant to fire-type spells?"

**POM**

The boom-bullet landed in the distance, the loud popping noise shaking the ground for a second-- even from where everyone was standing.

"N-nevermind," Wonderboy looked away.

Stickyfingers looked through his looted spyglass.

Where Zhevra was a couple seconds prior...

--she wasn't there any longer.

"Hit," He grinned.

"YyyyyyEAHHHHHHHH" The Coral Boys broke the silence, erupting into a celebratory roar.

Doc took out his cigar and blew the wisp of smoke coming out of his rifle barrel.

"Da jobbbbb izzzz DUNNNN!!!" He said as he breathed in the sweet scent of Orcish sugar... "An' done good, innit?"

The boys lifted Doc up and tossed him into the air.

Of course... no one bothered to catch him when he came down.

That's what he deserved for f*cking with everyone for so long.

Bob stood next to Stickyfingers, quietly nodding his head.

It was still a combat zone... and it was probably best for everyone to keep their mouths shut if there wasn't any fighting going on.

Still, he didn't tell everyone to quit their shite. .

It was his way of being thankful. Or maybe it was his way of showing he was proud.

"Da f*ck was in 'at fing?" Bob muttered. "Doc called it a uh... forty mike-mike?"

"I'unno," Stickyfingers furrowed his brows.

He recalled that the Bosun talked about it for a bit... but the particular knowledge didn't exactly pertain to his interests... "Science? Maybe?"

"Da f*ck kinda magic is... science?"

"Not a bloody clue."

"...Anyroad," Petty Officer Bob sighed... before mouthing a grin... "Didn't know you could talk so much, boyo."

...Stickyfingers raised an eyebrow.

It was always better to listen than it was to talk... especially since he kept company with so many mouthy gits, in general.

For Zhevra, though, it was a bit different.

"Da 'orned girl w's raised wiv 'umies," Stickyfingers explained. "Dey like da sound o' deir gums flappin'..."

He shrugged as he went back to searching with his spyglass... "It took a li'ul bit of pryin'... but it was real easy ta get... sensitive information, yeh? Real easy to learn bout da slugsucker pullin' on all da marionette strings..."

And it was easy to get Zhev to tug on his Leviathan wang-- but that wasn't something the Petty Officer needed to know.

"Tch," Bob sneered. "Yer soundin' like da Bosun... err maybe da little blonde elfy."

"Yeh," Stickyfingers nodded. " 'Ose two in partic-ular'd be real interested innat sort of fing..."

Eventually he spotted a bit of the tiefling's clothing some distance away... and a few bits of scattered, unidentifiable lumps of flesh.

...It was gonna take a little bit of time to look for her shite.

"So whaddya fink, Leads?" Bob frowned. "We gonna get to it or what?"

Stickyfingrs put his spyglass away and held up three fingers. "Give us f'irty minutes... den da rest o' da operation's yours ta lead."

"Hmph," Bob crossed his arms. "Make it twenty."

Twenty? The Petty Officer must've been in a good mood to be so lenient.

Stickyfingers and his sneaky boys only needed ten.

Zhevra was an established adventurer from a big-named Dark Guild. So despite getting exploded, more things than not were gonna still be in good condition for looting.

--good enough, anyroad.

If they were lucky, Doc was gonna get a new custom rifle.

He, himself, was itching to get his hands on a knife that could cut through solid bone in one cut.

Then... they could deal with one last problem on the isle... one last wrong to unf*ck.

That's why Bob was so fidgety... yet it was also why he wasn't exactly raring to go.

Everything so far... the shite weather... the hordes of cultists and their sparkly magic bits... and 'the most dangerous b*tch in the world'-- everything had been easy.

The crew's final objective... wasn't one all the crew was going to survive.

If the Captain knew their plans exactly, he'd shut them down in a heartbeat.

But still... it needed to be done.

The King from Across the Seas needed to die.

And once he got got, then that was that.

Even if Captain Krysaos was pissed as all the hells combined... in this world, no one could bring back the dead.