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Pain pounded through Tybalt's head fiercely, consistently, like the ominous beating of war drums. He was too stunned to focus on anything but that until he was thrown back-first against a cracked and stained brick wall. The pain in his head contended with the fresh ache in his already-sore back, and he let them fight for supremacy while he tried to figure out what the hell had just happened. His vision swam as he tried to get his bearings; the lack of light hindered that almost as much as the blow to head. It wasn't until Tybalt heard a quiet click above his own harsh breathing that he looked up and found a focal point.

It was a cloudless night, and moonlight reflected off of the barrel of the gun that was pointed at him--probably the very same thing he had just been struck with, Tybalt realized. He was dimly aware that he should be frightened; instead, he felt vaguely anger around the pain stampeding through his head, almost indignant that this man had dared to strike him.

A muffled and stuttered, "Y-y-your money o-or your l-life" gave him something new to focus on, and his gaze wandered upwards. The man's face was covered with a ski mask except for a swath across the his eyes, which were at least as wide as Tybalt's own.

An amateur, Tybalt realized, recognizing his attacker's unconfidence almost immediately. Little hints to confirm this new knowledge began making their way to Tybalt's brain: the gun was shaking, as if the man was afraid; no one said, "Your money or your life" outside of terrible movies; and really, who the hell mugs a kid, anyway?

"Shut up!" the man yelled--Tybalt must have said that last aloud. "Look, j-just gimme anything ya got, okay? And hurry up!"

Tybalt's eyes narrowed at the man before squeezing shut altogether. He hurt, dammit, and he'd be damned if he gave this man anything other than what he deserved. His eyes slowly opened, and as they did, everything that had once been fuzzy stood out in too-sharp relief. Tybalt swayed on his feet at the sudden change and took in the situation once more. He still hurt--worse now, if that was possible--and he was still being mugged and the gun was still shaking so close to his head. The mugger's eyes were dark within the otherwise brightness of what was exposed of his face, and there was something...something in them.

"Stop looking at me like that! I swear ta God, kid or not, I'll shoot you where you stand if you don't stop looking at me!"

The man's words didn't seem to make any sense now, somehow, and curious, Tybalt peered closer. He saw something reflected in the man's eyes. He saw--

Both figures in the alley stood stock still for a moment that stretched far into eternity. Tybalt stared into the dying man's eyes, which were as wide with shock as he imagined his own must be. He didn't feel the pain of the injuries that had made things so fuzzy earlier--the sudden rush of adrenaline had dulled it and everything else. His ears rang with the fading report of gunfire both real and imagined, along with the rapid, staccato beating of his own heart. The mugger's spilled blood warmed Tybalt's hands even as it emphasized the chill in the air, but his shaking--was he shaking?--wasn't from the cold.

Time resumed as the taller man swayed and slowly pitched forward, inadvertantly impaling himself further on Tybalt's dagger. The movement startled Tybalt into action, and he recoiled his hands as if he had been burnt. He scuttled backwards just in time--he was still slight enough that if the man had fallen on him, he would have been pinned to the wall. This situation was frightening as it was, and that just might have broken him. Instead, he watched the man's dead weight hit the wall with a sickening crack and stood there stunned, watching him bleed to death in morbid fascination. The man twitched several times over the next few minutes before death finally claimed him, and he stilled. Permanently.

Dead.

I killed him. Tybalt turned that thought over and over in his mind, inspecting every nook and cranny of it in case it was wrong, in case it might change. It didn't, so he let it lie, left off trying to deny it in favor of working on accepting it.

He didn't feel like he thought he would, all proud and vindicated and mature. Instead, he felt numb, lost, broken...very much like the child he often tried to deny he was. He swallowed hard and shook his head, still trying to deny it. It didn't work.

"I should go," he said to the dead man. The hoarse words broke the stillness that had taken the place of too-much-noise, the click of his talons on the cement as he took a step back shattering it further. "I should...someone will've heard that." Tybalt paused, debating between leaving his prized weapon sticking out of the dead man and leaving it there--on one hand, it was evidence, but on the other, it was his. <******** it all, he decided, turning and running out of the alley as fast as he was able.



Tybalt didn't know where he was now. He had run as far as he could in any direction his scattered mind took a fancy to, but now he could run no more. Sometime during his mad dash away, the adrenaline rush faded completely, leaving him with a wild fear that left a sour taste in his mouth. Every sound turned into the wail of a siren, every sight a flashing light. The pain had come back at some point, and the ache in his head and his back and now his legs and lungs was almost blinding. Tybalt stumbled, finally, crying out as he fell into an inelegant heap at the edge of what seemed to be a park. He didn't bother trying to get up, knowing instinctively that it would be a waste, and let the darkness wash out everything.

Tybalt's blood ran cold. "Is this where ye tell me that trustin' you was a life lesson an' throw me off, then?"

The man's cool facade cracked as he laughed uproariously, drowning out the soothing swirl of waves far below. "No," he said, "but it's good of you to be cautious. In this line of work, paranoia is a virtue."

"What's all this for, then?" Tybalt asked, gesturing vaguely to the tree and the ocean beyond it, obviously not seeing the humor in this situation.

"It's only what you made it to be, Tybalt," the man responded, slowly sobering. "It's all...symbolic."

"I killed a man tonight," Tybalt blurted out.

"Yes, I know." The man didn't sound surprised; if anything, he sounded like he'd expected that confession sooner.

"It was self-defense." Tybalt waited a beat as the man nodded. "Is this how I'm meant t' pay fer it?"

"You tell me."

"Is this how I paid for it then?"

"Then?"

"Back when..."

"I think you should tell me what happened tonight. All of it--don't leave anything out." It was a simply-stated command, but Tybalt found himself responding to it almost instinctively.

"I was walkin' home, an' I was tired, I wasn't payin' much attention," he admitted, looking up at the man sheepishly, "an' a man came an' hit me in th' head. He dragged me into an alley an' he was gonna mug me. He had a gun pointed in my face, and..." Tybalt trailed off, gesturing vaguely with his hands. "I was dizzy from th' blow, an' I saw th' same thing happenin' through different eyes. But it was on a ship, in th' daytime, an' whoever's eyes I was seein' through...they weren't afraid. They just waited for their moment before swoopin' in an' stabbin' their attacker. When I came to, I found that I had done it too...all of it. I killed th' man that attacked me." Tybalt trailed off, looking up at the man, expecting disapproval or anger; certainly not the sadly proud look he recieved.

"You did what had to be done, Tybalt. There's no shame in that; it was you or him, and in the end, the one who hesitated died, just like I said they would. Isn't that right?"

"Yes, but...I killed a man!"

"If you're looking to someone to punish you for it, I suggest you look elsewhere. Yes, you killed a man--but he would have killed you, too." That didn't seem to assuage Tybalt's guilt, and the man sighed. "You never were completely at ease with the murdering aspect of piracy." Tybalt's neck almost snapped with the speed that he looked up, and the man chuckled and held up a hand to stop the questions he knew would come. "I'm not at liberty to tell you much, but I can tell you this much: as good with a blade as you were--and you were good, better than most--you wouldn't shed blood unless you had to. Piracy was a game to you, back when I knew you."

"When was that?" Tybalt asked hopefully, eager for more insight and deeply saddened when the man shook his head. "Or is it one o' those things ye're not s'posed t' tell me?"

"It is, I'm afraid...just know that you were a good man for as long as I knew you. You'll have to remember for yourself what became of you after that."

"How? How do I just remember things like that?"

"However it best suits you to do so. I imagine that things will come easier once you start remembering more."

Tybalt nodded. "And all this...if it's not judgement, what is it?"

"Well," the man said, looking around, "I'd imagine that the noose around your neck is your own guilt. It could be everything that's keeping you down. Only you can say for sure."

Another slow nod. "It...it is, I think. And th' tree--it's every pirate's worst fear, t' meet their death at the noose. Over th' sea, 'cause it's where I'm meant t' be. And th' storm...I don't know what that is."

"I do," the man said quietly. "That's the coming storm, just as it appears here. That's why you're here now, to confront your fears, your doubts, your guilt. That's why you have to remember..." a pause as he glanced sadly at Tybalt's brightly-colored wings, "everything. So you can face all that lies ahead. This isn't a game anymore, Tybalt; there's more to your life than picking pockets and stirring up trouble. Now is the time to prepare, to be wary of everyone and everything. More importantly, now is the time to leave."

"Leave?" Tybalt asked, startled.

"Well, yes," the man said, his tone lighter now, "I've got other business to attend to tonight. Certainly you don't expect me to waste time here while you're wallowing in unneccesary guilt, do you?"

Tybalt grinned faintly. "How do I leave, then?"

"You jump, of course!"

"Jump?!" Tybalt peered into the water; it was a long way down, and there were craggy rocks jutting up from the waves.

"Well, yes. You've got wings, don't you? Surely you're not afraid of falling?"

"No, I'm afraid o' chokin' t' death, or did ye not notice the noose still hangin' 'round my neck?" Sarcastic now, shades of Tybalt finally returning.

"I noticed it, and I told you--all of this is what you make of it. What harm is there in jumping, then?"

"So if I think myself safe..."

"Chances are you'll land safely one way or another."

Tybalt nodded, biting his lip in an entirely childish gesture of uncertainty. He carefully levered himself into a standing position atop the beam, the noose feeling somehow heavier in spite of his desire for it to vanish completely, and made the mistake of looking down again. "I'll still have t' face judgement; self-defense or not, I did kill a man tonight." It was getting easier to say.

"Good thing I'm here to help, then. I've been cleaning up your messes for longer than you know," the man informed him, more sardonic than resentful.

"Will I be seein' ye again?"

"You can count on it."

"What...what'm I s'posed t' call ye?"

A smirk played at the man's lips. "You can call me 'Captain,' for all it isn't worth."

Tybalt felt a brief flash of indignance that he should have to call anyone but himself Captain before it settled into place like a lost puzzle piece. Then, after throwing off a mock salute to his mock Captain, he jumped.

Tybalt was falling again, and this time there was no noose to break his fall. He considered it a small mercy, considering the alternative was death by big-sharp-rocks. He didn't have the space or the energy to spread his wings and try to stop his fall, not now, and he squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the end.

The pain had returned, the blinding throb of his head coupled with the sharp ache in his back joined with the new rawness of his throat to spread throughout his entire body. He burned and he hurt, more than he had ever imagined he could, and he finally fell, but not onto the rocks. His bedroom floor was a close, if less jagged, comparison, however.

Bedroom floor?

Tybalt slowly pried his eyes open to confirm that no, he was not dead, and yes, he did seem to have fallen out of bed. A dream? he wondered, and then denied the possibility; he still hurt in more places than he knew he had places, and no nightmare could have caused that. Then that means...

He looked around, absently noting that the covers were tangled around his legs, focusing more on the fact that everything seemed somehow too small, like the world had shrunk while he wasn't looking. His heart leapt into his throat as his eyes caught on a pile of clothes that had once been clean, but were now spattered liberally with maroon. The dull gleam of a wooden hilt atop it was a small victory in the grander scheme of things. He flexed a hand and found it hard to move, tacky as it was with dried blood. Not a dream, then. That meant he really had killed someone, learned that there was worse yet to come, and then he'd...

Memory came back in a sudden violent rush, and he almost didn't make it to the bathroom in time to hug the toilet like an old friend and heave everything he'd eaten the day previous into it. That only made the pain worse, and he knelt there for awhile, blinded by it and worried that he might throw up again. He stayed there even after the pain subsided, trying to focus on anything but his own harsh breathing and the dry rattle of pinions as he shuddered uncontrollably.

After awhile, he stood, flushing the toilet and bracing a hand on the wall so he could stagger to the sink to rinse his mouth out. He felt weak and weary, and everything was so heavy. As he finally looked up, he saw the reason why: he had grown. He was taller now, and still gangly, but finally starting to grow into it. His wings were bigger--which might be a problem--and his hair was longer--which definitely wasn't--and his features were sharper, and in the end, he was still fundamentally himself. Tybalt gave his reflection a wry smirk and shook his head. He had been through a lot in the past 12 hours, and he wasn't yet ready to dwell on all that had happened. So, first order of business: he needed a shower, to help soothe the pain and hopefully wash off the blood.

Freaking out could come later.