Blake stared wide-eyed at Mallory’s hands, watching as the fingers contorted wildly in a way that made him think she was having some kind of brain problem.<br/><br/>“Are y’alrigh’, Mal?” he asked, concerned, and the man, whose head was still bleeding profusely, turned to look at what she was doing.<br/><br/>“Signaling your friend, are you? What is it?” the Sharkman inquired (he didn’t look like a half-shark to Blake, but it was possible), casually brushing aside the red stream headed down to his eye from the hair above it. “Trying to get one over on old Sharkman, eh?” He didn’t seem upset, if anything he looked as merry as ever, and Blake had a sudden idea.<br/><br/>“Why don’ y’come with us? We ain’t got no mersaydepends, bu’we got a ship,” he suggested, and the man clapped him on the shoulder, leaving a bloody handprint where he’d slapped his shirt. The cackling laughter made it seem like he was okay with the idea, but it didn’t stop for a long time. While he waited for Frank to stop giggling, Blake looked from Mallory to the other girl, wondering just how long they would need to stand there listening before they could get an answer.<br/><br/>Idly, he realized he was still holding the turd, and so he threw it away before wiping his hand off on a rocky wall.