The birdman had been sent away. Peter wanted to find an accountant or someone skilled at business negotiations for the ship, not a talk-show host or a stand-up comedian.
Wearing a mask was annoying enough when he did it himself—he knew that—so the spaceship did not need a second guy who could talk someone to death.
"Is this what you call half one of our own?" He slumped over the table and rubbed his head weakly. "Why do I feel like he was trying to scam me?"
"These birdmen aren't actually bad. They just like joking around." Little Rose shrugged. Sitting sideways on the table, she pulled out a cigarette and lit it for herself, tossing her wavy blonde hair behind her back. "Apparently, they're all imitating Deathstroke. Goddess Oshtur said Deathstroke had a great sense of humor and that she liked it, so these birdmen started studying all kinds of jokes they aren't good at."
Guda Gugu was actually pretty capable too. He would have been more than qualified to apply as ship security, but who told him to crack jokes without any sense of occasion?
The reason Deathstroke could joke around anytime he wanted was because he had the strength to back it up. Trying to imitate his deadpan humor without having his strength naturally made people dislike you.
The birdman race was rather tragic. As descendants of an ancient god, any casual remark from Oshtur was an oracle to them, a goal that had to be strived toward. They had to complete their mission even if it meant Confringo. That was the price of being created and taught by a god.
"He doesn't seem suited to our ship. Next." Peter sighed. Since the guy had not been trying to deceive him on purpose, there was nothing to