DbS

by Sarah Thompson

ONE

⚇乂⚇

HOW MANY BASEMENTS DOES ONE PLACE NEED?

I LEGITIMATELY DID NOT THINK that I’d be sitting down today and writing a whole narrative about something weird that’s happened to me. Book. Whatever. If you had told me this information, maybe a week ago, I would’ve laughed. Instead, I am now in this grim reality, writing a novel. Anyway, this is some vital information, I don’t know how you’ve found this, it might explode, blah, blah, blah, normal spy stuff, you’ve most likely heard it before, what with all these spy stories circulating the internet (yes, I did research how to write a book, leave me alone). If you randomly find this stashed in your new flatscreen TV’s box instead of a TV guide, have fun trying to figure out how to work the remote.

I don’t know how you’ve found this but if you have—you’re at a high risk of danger and are probably going to be chased by an angry llama sooner or later (long story). Basically, your only job is to keep it out of the bad guys’ hands. Easy enough once you’ve spent most of your life training to, right?  

My name is Agent Nate Foster. I work for the ILKS (pronounced ill-ks, as in, the word elk but with an “ih” sound), or the International Law-Keeping Society. I’m fifteen, and I’m going on dangerous missions most every day. (The off days are spent not doing dangerous missions and instead doing the normal missions or hanging out with the few friends I’ve accumulated that don’t try to kill me with every waking breath.)

Anyway, if I come off as bragging, I’m really not trying to, it’s just that that’s the type of thing I do. I mean, when the most boring thing you do is go to London to fight bad guys, you don’t have the type of normal life that other people do, and you can’t help but sound as if you’re bragging, even if it’s normal for yourself.

Not that I don’t like living with the agency—it’s great. We’re the top of the top and most people don’t even know I exist (it comes in handy sometimes). They’re more interested in video games and the best ways to plant turnips and tomatoes. But you obviously aren’t since you’re reading this, so I’ll start whatever this is.

Although I trust you, dear reader, I don’t exactly enjoy my work being rewritten for an “acceptable” audience, so just don’t share this with anyone, sound good? Not your brother, not your friend, not even your pet llama. They are everywhere (no, not emus and llamas, although I expect they could very well create their own government). But first, I should probably back up before throwing you into all of this without a clue, shouldn’t I? It started when a very important piece of information was stolen from one of the ILKS vaults.

It just so happened to be the sixteenth of July, so it was about as hot as a furnace in London. Strangely enough, there was a clear sky, the sun shining down on the city for once—in other words, it wasn’t normal.

I stood, looking up at this huge glass-covered building which was mostly windows, trying not to be blinded by the glare it cast at anyone who wasn’t paying attention. It really was a nice building, a nice hotel to be exact, but unfortunately, I wasn’t going to be going up.

My mission was to figure out what the trio of bad guys, which consisted of Murray, French Fries, and Fish and Chips, at least, that was how the agency people knew them, were doing and to stop them as quickly as possible.

I knew three things about the mission, and that was pretty much it.

First: there were three bad guys, one crime lord who wasn’t tough enough to accomplish his own schemes himself, and his two henchmen. The theory was that this guy had hired these two specifically for this reason, and they just hadn’t gotten the memo, but it was just a theory. A leading theory, but a theory, nonetheless.

Second: they absolutely had to be stopped, because a) whatever it was that they’d been doing was successfully kept off the radar for an extended period of time and only someone experienced in hiding things from people would know how to do that and b) they had already committed some major offenses that the government wouldn’t acknowledge because the officials were either being bribed or because they just didn’t think it was true (that’s where their keeping off the radar came into play).

Third: the location of where they were at. My sources (that is, a vanilla folder with minimal information) said they were to be in one of the basements of the hotel.

I walked into the building, the doorman tipping his hat, and looked around. The lobby was decked out: flatscreens, plush leather chairs, fancy carpets, and shiny tile floors stretched out, and two staircases that led to nowhere stretched up on either sides of a singular elevator. The receptionists’ desk was pretty barren, and a bored-looking teenager sat behind it, filing her nails, glasses drooping down and barely hanging onto her nose. I watched for a second as a lock of frizzy red hair fell into her eyes, and with a huff, she brushed it away, then continued to file her nails, not once looking up.

I walked over to the elevator and pressed a button, its metallic surface cool to my fingers, air conditioning making it cold. About a minute of silence ensued, and then a ding! was heard and the elevator arrived.

Walking into the elevator, confident as always, when I looked down. Just below the huge panel of buttons, I found what I had hoped not to find: The elevator needed a hotel card. A hotel card that I did not have.

I dug in my pockets a minute before realizing that I had completely forgotten the device that could very easily hack the elevator’s systems. I sighed, and pressed the “open” button on the inside of the elevator, and the doors slowly slid open.

So, I ended up trudging down the stairs, to the third basement. Why the hotel had three basements, I don’t know, as they couldn’t possibly have had that much to store, but for some reason, they did, meaning I got a good exercise in.

Finally reaching the bottom-most basement, I walked out into a hall that went straight for a bit, but sharply turned to the right, like the architect who had planned the whole thing out was driving a car and trying to draw out plans, and that while he had swerved to get out of the way of that big, yellow bus, he had also moved his pencil, and now there was a big turn in the hallway (he had one job to do).

So, I walked out into the hall, and quickly glancing over my shoulder, I hurried to where the hallway turned. The red-and-gold carpeting under my feet made no sound as I stepped on it, which I was rather thankful for. I heard the ding of the elevator arriving a mere six feet behind me, and I could hear the doors opening. Someone else was here. And I had a sneaking suspicion who it was.

I had seen these two guys following a couple of our agents lately. For the record, I wasn’t stalking them. My mission was to follow these particular agents, to make sure they didn’t do anything stupid, and to hop in to help if help was needed. Evidently, having gotten tired of stalking my friends, these guys had been sent to stalk me.

And I was completely up for the challenge. Look, I’ve handled dogs with detonators, so I think I can handle a couple of creeps who’re stalking some kids.

Unfortunately for me, I was not Spiderman. I couldn’t just hang to the ceiling and avoid them. I had to confront them straight on, which, two to one, even if I am a top-tier agent, is pretty hard to take out. So, I concluded until I got more intel, I’d try to avoid the two bodyguards, and I went the other way.

The guards I had seen, the same ones from earlier, were tall and bulky, with tattoos on their knotted and rippling muscular arms, and had menacingly bald heads. Identical, they were like the human versions of the Hulk. Unfortunately, I was not some sort of teen prodigy football star or wrestler, but merely a fifteen year old trying not to die. And I hadn’t so I’d say the day had gone pretty well so far (funny story about that, actually- for later, for later, hold your horses).

I kept walking down the curved hall, trying to be as alert as possible, watching and listening for the guards. Then I heard it: the buzz of a radio, a voice speaking into it, and an answering voice, one voice staticy, the other not, the voices mirrored each other pretty much perfectly.  My suspicions were confirmed. The hall went in a sort of circuit. Either it was a full circuit, or the guards started at one end, passed each other, then turned around (highly inefficient, but it could work, theoretically).

Formulating a plan, I started in the other direction, hoping that I was wrong, but like so many times, I wasn’t in fact wrong. They were getting closer and closer, their footsteps becoming louder with every step they took towards me, and the first guard came into view. He hadn’t seen me yet, so deciding to risk it, I charged at full speed straight at the one who hadn’t seen me, then ducked to try and get by him and run for the hills and get out of there so I wouldn’t be compromised.

And then time was in slow motion- of course, not literally, although that would’ve been useful, but everything slowed. I was running and ducking, and I had almost made it when I felt a pain shoot through my upper arm, and when I looked down, I saw a silvery dart sticking out of the side of it. It hadn’t felt like I’d been shot, it felt more like a rock had hit me, and I went to pull it out as fast as possible, but never got the chance.

Time sped up, and I was tackled to the ground. Head hitting the ground, and a high-pitched ringing filled my ears. Colors dulled, things went blurry, and it got hard to hear….

TWO

⚇乂⚇

SCHMIRTZFUDDLE DAGGERS

AND THEN I DIDN’T HEAR because I got knocked out. Lovely. If there was an embodiment of pain, it was the thing they’d shot me with. I mean, there aren’t enough words in the world to describe the pain and discomfort (Actually, on second thought, the word “ow” sums it up pretty well) that I felt in the moments after I had been shot. The thing they shot into me, as far as I could tell at the time, was something they would shoot into an animal to get it to go to sleep, in other words, a tranquilizing dart. (Later, I learned that it was manufactured in Germany, and was called a “schmerzmittel spike”, or pain-making spike. Very suiting.)

I woke up in an actually well-lit room (Which was a surprise to me and probably the reader (that is, you), too, because in movies and stuff, the bad guys are always in the shadows and keep saying ominous things. Ex: “I’m your worst nightmare”, “Fear me, and I might consider sparing your life”, or even “I’m Batman”). There were a few lamps, and there were these lights you might see on the sides of a swimming pool’s walls. On my wrist I saw a bracelet-like thing that was, I suppose, to check my pulse and make sure I didn’t die by being injected with whatever was in that German spike.

It was a strange room, but the strangest of all was pacing in front of me. In my rickety wooden chair, the guy was around the same height as me, although I expected I’d be taller than him by the time I got out. With a black suit and a bald head, he was the equivalent of Kingpin, although much shorter.

On the wall was a TV that showed my vitals, although I couldn’t really read all of them since, you know, I wasn’t exactly a nurse or a doctor or someone who could read that kind of thing. All I could tell was that I was alive and that my pulse was pretty much normal. If you could say that about someone’s pulse after they’ve been syringed by a tranquilizer dart in the arm.

I guess that if the room was a little more dimly-lit, I could say that it looked like the type you’d see in a superhero movie, when the superhero is strapped to a chair, with the villains all around him with their way overdramatic evil laughs. In this case, I would be the superhero and the blobs of sadness around me would be the villains.

No, really, I’m being serious. There were a few guys around me (spoiler alert, they were the two guards I’d seen earlier, one of which was holding a blow dart shooter and a couple darts, this one I dubbed Thing One), but the one that stood out most was a shorter one, Kingpin, the boss. He had a goatee and something similar to eye shadow around his eyes, making him look exhausted, though by the way he paced, he must’ve been at least somewhat well-rested.

The other twin cracked his knuckles threateningly, biceps bulging. The two (that is, Thing One and Thing Two) gave me the stink-eye. If looks could kill.

The pacing guy looked over at me, and, upon coming to the conclusion that I was alive, looked down at his nose at me (a feat, truly). His icy blue eyes and hooked nose certainly made him look threatening, although I’d faced worse enemies. He scoffed, a seemingly funny thought coming into his mind, and I could only imagine what it was. I mean, what do creeps who capture teenagers think of? Killing puppies?

“Who’re you?” I asked, watching him wear out the carpet with his pacing.

“You wish to know who we are? Really, your agency should learn how to inform you better,” said he, not stopping his pacing

“Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly plan on meeting you,” I said, putting on a brave façade, even though I was more than a little afraid. Look, even James Bond must’ve gotten afraid sometimes, right? It’d not be very realistic if he didn’t, correct? Speaking of James Bond-

“The name’s Halifax. Tom Halifax,” the Minipin said smugly. Finally, some new information.

See, all I knew was that he had two henchmen- and even that wasn’t for sure. Now I knew for sure that he had two henchmen, one with an odd birthmark on his neck, which was the only differentiation between the two, and I knew his name.

“Right, good job, totally pulling that off,” I said, sarcasm practically dripping. He scowled, and continued pacing, getting steadily faster.

“Like you could do better,” spat Minipin –I mean Tom-,rolling his eyes.

I’d like to know why all villains—and for that matter, most good guys and most characters in stories, are named Tom. There’s Tom Riddle, Tom Sawyer, Thomas the Tank Engine (he counts, right?)… etc, etc. Who decided to call all of these guys Tom?

“So, what’s your evil plan? Blow up Everest? Fill the ocean with oil?” I asked, scoffing, deciding that whatever this guy’s plan was, it was going to be foiled.

“You wish. What we’re doing is much worse. But I won’t tell you because of that,” said he nodding to my wrists which were bound behind the chair. I understood what he meant almost immediately, and gave a frown. I frowned a little, wondering why he had given his name. Surely he wasn’t that dim-witted… unless he was smarter than I thought and had changed his name….

Never underestimate your enemy, I heard my friend, Rowan’s voice. But overestimating them is much, much, worse.

I shook the thought of his wit out of my mind as he tripped on the carpet, giving a little scoff at his geniusness of knowing about the watch.

See, when you’re with a secret agency, company, etc, there’s perks. One of these aforementioned perks is that you get stuff. What I got is this little thing that looks like a watch, can tell time, but can do other stuff, too. It could taser people, contact the admins of the company, randomly burst into song… a lot of things. And at this particular moment, I was recording this meeting, and unfortunately for me, French Fries (Tom/Minipin) over there had noticed.

Tom cackled, or at least tried to. He actually spluttered to a stop pretty fast.

Oh well, I thought there’ll be plenty of time to learn his plans later, as soon as I get out of this chair and victoriously defeat those guys and it’ll all be good.

- - -

You know what, I wasn’t aware before this incident just how wrong it was possible for someone to be. The second I thrashed out, having cut the rope that bound my wrist, a roughly calloused hand landed on my shoulder. It seemed to be of Thing One—the first twin I’d seen, the one who stabbed me with the schmirtzfuddle spike, or whatever it was called.

Thing One was glaring at me with yellowed teeth, tartar caked on them rather thickly. His eyes were a dark brown upon closer inspection, like angry chocolate. The ceiling light cast a glare off of his head, its harsh halo of glowiness not doing anything for the guy’s complexion (that’s what my friend, who happens to be of utmost importance in the disguises community, said when I told her).

The hotel, being rather fancy, even in the basement, I could hear Thing One’s shoes- which, looking down, were soccer cleats- digging into the carpet, the deflating sound of the stuff quietly sounding every time Minipin put his foot down in his pacing and becoming louder as Thing One’s shoes’ toes dug into the carpet. The guy leaned over me, breath smelling of airplane food, staring into my soul. Or at least trying to, I’ve been told my soul is particularly hard to stare into.

Thing One snarled, like a rabid dog in my face, saying in a dangerous-sounding voice, “Watch it, kid. Stay still and this won’t hurt as much as it could.”

I had no idea what he meant, but his Brazilian-sounding accent—I’d never been much good at identifying different types of accents, to be fair—was menacing enough. I mean, how would you like to be stared down by the Hulk, who is threatening you in a Brazilian accent? Anyway, in that moment, I could only think of one thing to do- the logical thing.

So, of course, I did that. I punched Thing One in the face. Right in the nose. Hopefully breaking it. Well, I tried to. Instead, it resulted in me almost dying and landing face down on the floor, nose at an awkward angle, painfully throbbing. Yep, I’d broken my nose for the fourth time that year (it happened a lot). And for those of you who are keeping track, to see how many times I break a bone in this manuscript alone, this is the first time. I’m ninety percent sure there are more times I break a bone, just you wait.

In a matter of seconds, I was back on the chair, twist ties around my wrists. I could feel them cutting into my skin, their evil white-almost-translucent coloring, I imagined, seeping into my veins, trying to poison me.

Everything was as it had been before I’d punched Thing One, except now a lot of things hurt, I couldn’t breathe through my nose, and my wrists were about rubbed raw because of the twist ties. That would only make it harder for me to escape, but not impossible.

If a talking raccoon in a movie had been able to escape from, like, any prison, why shouldn’t I be able to?

Fighting back the thoughts of “because you’re not a raccoon” and “because that thing was a genius and you are not”, I tried to look at the silver lining in this rather not silvery-lining situation.  

Trying to stay optimistic, I thought to myself Don’t worry. Just as Amy says, ‘The sun will come out tomorrow’. Obviously, the sun didn’t shine the next day. Probably.

The next second, pain shot through my face. Who, on God’s green Earth, decided that it’d be a good idea to put the possible fate of the world in the hands of a kid about as prepared as a whale going skydiving?

I ended up still strapped to the chair (don’t forget the twist ties are still there) with a slapped face. I’m not even sure why I was slapped, but nobody understands villains generally speaking.

Then the time I’d been waiting for came: Tom told me about what he was going to do to me. Honestly? I wasn’t very worried about it. It sounded implausible, impossible, and altogether ridiculous. Because something like that could never happen.

“You’ll wish you hadn’t come, boy,” snarled French Fries, and if I weren’t so sure his plan wouldn’t happen, I would have been scared.         “Yeah, well, you’ll wish that you weren’t born,” I shot back, struggling to find a good response, but still trying to keep at least a small shred of my honor.

“Prepare for the torture of your life,” said French Fries, snapping his fingers, one of the guards coming up behind me (I figured it was Thing Two, since Thing One was still glaring).

“Hook it up,” said French Fries, and I felt a motorcycle helmet roughly put on my head. I shook it, trying to get it off, to no avail. In a couple seconds, it was strapped on, much to my dismay. I wondered what this horrific device did, and I could only think of the worst possible things.

Maybe it was an explosive. A doomsday device. Maybe it played “Old MacDonald” over and over. That and/or other torturous things.

For the second time in an hour, I blacked out, a sharp thing jabbing into my neck. Just great.

THREE

⚇乂⚇

WHY DOES EVERYONE HAVE A SWORD!?

THE SECOND I WOKE UP, I knew something was wrong. Like, okay, most days there’s something wrong, but something was overly different this time.

The sky was a vibrant blue and there were fluffy clouds dotting it, but something seemed off. Then I realized what it was.

I was laying on the ground, which seemed to be made of bricks and pebbles, smelling strongly of horse manure. Ew. I mean—it’s just horse manure, how bad could it be? Pretty bad, turns out. Plus, I had no idea where I was. Maybe I was in England, maybe I was in Ireland, maybe I was in India or something, and what I initially thought was horse manure was actually elephant scat. I had no idea.

I wasn’t anywhere I’d seen before. It was a completely foreign place, with foreign voices around me. Well, actually, it was the foreign squeaking of rats about me, since I appeared to be on the ground in an alley.

I cracked open my eyes (no, I hadn’t opened them before, since my head was swimming) to see a cloudy gray sky. The air smelled strongly of rain, and the buildings that flanked the alleyway I was lying in were a light brown color, bricks made of who-knows-what.

A shout sounded from somewhere near me, and I got up, still dizzy from falling, and leaned against the wall for support. I made out the words, “PART, FOOLS! PUT UP YOUR SWORDS, YOU KNOW NOT WHAT YOU DO!”

Those words—they were familiar. Why were they familiar? This was all weird—the accent of the person speaking (wait, no, that could be fixed), how my head was spinning as if I’d just woken up from a long nap, and how I smelled the ever-present scent of elephant/horse manure.

The sound of a sword being drawn made me tense up, alert, ready for action. Another voice spoke, this one not as deep. It had a whiny air to it, even though it was clearly a man’s voice.

“What art thou drawn among these heartless minds? Turn thee, Benvolio—” who I assumed was the one who’d first spoken, “—look upon thy death.”

Honestly, if he were going to kill Benvolio (the name struck a bell, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out who he was), he should’ve snuck up on him in his sleep. Or poisoned him. Or hung him. Or something a little less bloody. Or you know what, not killing him at all would’ve been great, too.

I got up and looked down at my clothes. Thank goodness they had changed because I had a feeling that the ones I normally wore—the ones that used to be normal—were going to be out of place wherever I was.

Instead of jeans and a t-shirt, I was wearing this weird sort of overcoat thing, a brown sort of color. Then, under that, there seemed to be a long-sleeved button-down shirt—the type one would wear under a tuxedo—and then my pants—oh, my beautiful, normal, jeans—had turned into leggings.

I was wearing leggings. They were the color of the earth, like dust that had not been touched by water. It might’ve been a fashion trend during Henry VIII’s time, but it certainly wasn’t during modern times. There were these puffy underpants-looking things that covered over the leggings, and they were rather… well, puffy. It’s a strange description, I know, but how else am I supposed to describe them? Technically speaking, their official name is “stocks” and you could look up pictures of them on the internet, although you might want to specify that they aren’t market stocks or stockades stocks, or anything, just clothing stocks (and even then you might not find what you’re looking for).

All of this taking in took about two seconds, but like most thought processes, it’s kind of hard to explain.

I glanced around, a bit fearful someone would see my present state and laugh, partially because the underpants were on the outside—what was I, a superhero? —and partially because I had a need to see another human being, and I was hoping that I might be in some type of outdoor play or something or like, a roleplay. Spoiler alert: it was not some type of outdoor play or roleplay or something.

I crept out of the alleyway, hoping not to be seen, but that failed miserably when I was called to by one of the men who’d spoken earlier.

“And you, whose house do you serve?” the question was asked, coming from the person whose voice I thought did not sound very honorable (you know, the whiny one).

The person who’d spoke had dark, wavy, hair, down to his chin, and wore a hat that had a feather on it—Captain Hook, anyone?

He was wearing a dark, scarlet red outfit, a sword-holder at his side, attached to his puffy pants, not unlike my own.

“Sir,—” and here, I believe the one who spoke, who was wearing a dark blue outfit similar to both mine and Cap’n Hook’s, was trying to be polite, to keep the peace if for no other reason “—this argument between thineself and me doth not concern the servant. I do but keepeth the peace. Put up thy sword—” Cap’n Hook carried a long, thin, sword that looked like it could cut through the air itself “—or manage it to part these men with me.”

Yes, that was the person whose voice I’d heard first—who I now gathered was Benvolio, but only from previous statements—had spoken, an air about him that said I am very honorable, doubt my honor and my sidekick might tear your face apart. Literally, he’s very face-tearable and can be deadly.

Benvolio was a total mom friend. He seemed like he was nice enough, but he also seemed like he was the one who kept children from jumping off of balconies believing they could fly. Maybe he kept a younger friend or a younger brother from doing that exact thing.

Cap’n Hook practically exploded. “WHAT!? Drawn and talk of peace? I hate the word, as I hate the world, —” a glance to a monk-looking-guy, who was desperately trying to stay out of the argument “—all Montagues, and thee. Have at thee COWARD,” he said, as a crowd began to draw around the two, a few servants who also had swords, who weren’t speaking at the moment stood off to the side, watching, ready for action.

Benvolio and Cap’n Hook jumped back and forth, back and forth, sword fighting like in The Princess Bride or like in a pirate or knight movie.

Shouts came from the crowd, calling out to them to “fight like the men you are” and to “get ‘im, Ty!” and “slice his head off, Benvolio!”

Actually, that last one came from a boy that was also dressed in blue, whose hand was on his sword. He was ready for battle, ready to smack someone with his sword, and ready to attack whoever decided to even think about defeating Benvolio, who I assumed was his friend.

The clothes of the one who had shouted weren’t the same shade of blue as Benvolio’s- they were darker, closer to indigo than blue.

My theory was that he wasn’t completely on Benvolio’s side, or at least, he was just a friend, not a brother or a blood relative. And if he did happen to be related, he wasn’t a close relative, and instead, he was allied with someone else- not Cap’n Hook, as his clothes were blue all the way, but they weren’t as bright blue as Benvolio’s either.

The two swordsmen kept jumping, and Cap’n Hook grabbed Benvolio’s forearm, aiming to off-balance him. Benvolio grinned, and did a fancy move, whirling away from him. Then, a few gasps were heard from the crowd as new people arrived.

Two couples emerged from opposite sides of the crowd, one clothed in blue and one in red. Both couples carried themselves with elegance, with power and authority. With both couples, the man looked like he wanted to murder someone. With both couples, they had a look of wanting to protect something—whether it be land or honor, I didn’t quite know at the time.

And then it hit me, like a brick from one of those dusty-looking buildings. I felt like Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, like Katniss from The Hunger Games, like every hero who had ever had a big revelation, one where realization had hit them in the face like a rock.

I wasn’t in Britain anymore. I definitely wasn’t in the real world anymore, either. In fact, I was somewhere else completely. I was in someone’s imagination. I was in William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, in Italy. The story where everybody dies, and nobody has a happy ending. And somehow, through some miracle of science, I was living it. It was both a nightmare, a dream come true (stay tuned for more information about this after the commercial break), and a nightmare. Did I mention it was a nightmare? Yeah, it was a nightmare. And guess what? I was living through that nightmare and I couldn’t escape.

FOUR

⚇乂⚇

CLUBS, SPEARS, AND TECHNICOLOR, OH MY!

ALRIGHT, WHERE WERE WE? OH right. Cap’n Hook, Benvolio, and the royal (ish- it’s a loose term in this day and age) families.

So, there I was, watching two old couples, the wives holding back their husbands from killing each other. I heard one of them —the wife in bright red—say, “A crutch! A crutch! Why call you for a sword?”

And I, for once in my life (not true, it’s happened several times, actually) had a sympathetic link to a Shakespearean character. I understood what this woman was saying, perfectly, actually.

You know that feeling when you suddenly smash into a brick wall, but instead of a brick wall it’s a wall made of understanding, and you realize, “Oh yes, this makes sense”? I’m sure many of you have felt that, just as I did right then.

“My sword, I say!” exclaimed the older man in red. “Old Montague is come and flourishes his blade in spite of me!”

Memories of Romeo and Juliet came flooding back into my mind. Late (well, early for most of you older readers, for those of you who are younger, they seemed pretty late) nights sitting in bed, reading Shakespearean plays.

See, my mom was an English teacher. I say “was” because she somehow disappeared mysteriously. Not the point. I remember her sitting me down and reading to me the story of Romeo and Juliet, right before bedtime. It was ages ago—that was the last story I was read by my mom before she vanished into thin air.

But I now remembered the characters, the heartbreak, the plot in seconds. I remembered what happened next.

“THOU VILLAIN CAPULET!” exclaimed Montague—the man in blue—shaking his fist, angrily.

Then turning to his wife, “Hold me not, woman. Let me go.”

Lady Montage—Montague’s wife—shook her head, and, as if talking to a child, said, “You’re not taking one step towards the enemy.”

The two men were still struggling towards each other, trying to get out of their wife’s grasps, snarling like rabid wolves.

All of a sudden, someone came in, a guard beside him. This person I knew. Not personally, but by way of hearing the story.

The Prince. Wearing trousers, a nice cap, a shirt, and a cape. The cape made him look similar to Robin Hood, and the cap was a nice touch, only adding to his Robin Hood-ness.

“Rebellious subjects, —” did I mention he was a prince? “—enemies to peace, profaners of this neighbor-stainless steel! – will they not hear? – WHAT HO! You men, you beasts, that quench the fire of your pernicious rage with purple fountains issuing from your veins, —” to clear up any confusion here, he means ‘your veins are purple because you’re mad’ “—on pain of torture, from those bloody hands throw your mistempered weapons to the ground and hear the sentence of your moved prince—” here, the Montagues and Capulets, who had not already dropped their weapons, dropped their weapons. And for good measure. This prince radiated great power, meaning he had great- you know what, never mind. “—Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word, by thee old Capulet, and Montague, have thrice disturbed the quiet of our streets and made Verona’s ancient citizens cast by their grave-beseeming ornaments, to wield old partisans in hands as old, cankered with peace, to part your cankered hate. If ever you disturb our streets again, your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace. For this time, all the rest depart away. You, Capulet, shall go along with me, and, Montague, come you this afternoon to know our farther pleasure in this case, to old Free-town, our common judgment-place. Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.”

In conclusion: Montague and Capulet were in trouble, since their supporters had started a fight. Got that? Good. (Oh, and by the way, I should’ve mentioned this earlier, but I had this thing, where I could understand whatever these “Elizabethans” were saying. Not important, anyway.)

I was still there after everyone else had left. Cleaning up after the party, as usual.

“You,” said Montague pointing to me.

“Who set this ancient quarrel—” a wince from Benvolio “—new abroach? Speak. Were you here when it began?”

“Uh… yes. I was here when it began. But Benvolio probably knows better than I,” said I with a nervous laugh. It’d been years since I’d heard the story and I wasn’t about to get someone in trouble- even if they were a fictional character created by a madman.

Benvolio looked at me quizzically, probably wondering how on earth I’d known his name.

“Here were the servants of your adversary, and yours close fighting when did I approach. I drew to part them. In the instant came the fiery Tybalt…” blah, blah, blah. He recounted everything that had just happened, in, you know, Shakespeare English. Also, Tybalt was Captain Hook. Apparently.

Now, if I didn’t have the latest tech, otherwise known as a transmitter, I would’ve been dead. No way would I have been able to understand what was going on. But I did have the latest tech, which is the only reason I’m still alive.

“There were Capulet and Montague servants here, and they were fighting. I tried to get them to stop, by drawing my sword. But Tybalt, with his fiery temper and hot head, came up and challenged me to a spontaneous duel. We fought, and then you, Capulet, and the prince arrived.”

That’s what it sounded like to me, since I had this translator that as soon as it picked up sounds or words, it translated them to other languages. I always had it with me. It was tiny, microscopic (almost), and there was one per ear. My friend, Zane Wilkie, had accidentally created them, and I’m not sure if he even knows how they work, but they do, and that’s what matters.

Plus, even if I hadn’t been able to understand Shakespearean English, I would’ve probably known the context. After all, there was a small smear of blood on the ground. There was a man in blue and a man in red, and they had obviously been fighting. Plus, the one in blue (that is, Benvolio) was holding himself so steadily that one might think he was, like, a general or something. Connect the dots.

Lady Montague, Montague’s wife, looked around nervously, as if waiting for something. After a moment, she stopped looking around and addressed Benvolio. “Oh, where is Romeo? Have you seen him today? I’m so glad he wasn’t there for the fight,” said she, a worried look, only a parent could have, on her face.

Benvolio frowned, thoughtfully tapping his chin. “Madam, I had a lot on my mind this morning, so I went for a walk. Under that sycamore tree—the one that grows on the west side of the city– I saw Romeo going on a walk as well, so I went towards him, figuring I could probably instigate a conversation. But he saw me and ran away, into the woods. So, I thought he was feeling like me, wanting to be left alone.”

Montague, Romeo’s father, frowned, and straightened, having gotten all his words together to speak. “Romeo’s been weeping over something. His tears add to the morning dew. This mood of his is bad news, he should just get over it. Benvolio, you’re smart, you can probably fix this.”

Benvolio gave an apologetic shrug, face grave. “Do you know why he acts this way, uncle?”

Montague shook his head. “I’ve got no idea,” said he.

Ah yes, I forgot to mention Benvolio and Romeo are cousins. Benvolio is more of a young uncle than a cousin to Romeo, which, maybe he was, because Shakespeare had just, the greatest humor and vocabulary (*cough, cough* sarcasm, *cough, cough*).

“Have you done absolutely everything you can to make him tell you what’s wrong?”

“Yes. I’ve tried, and a lot of our friends have too. He only wants to be friends with himself, and, as a friend to himself, he keeps his own secrets well. If only we could figure out what was wrong with him….”

Benvolio trailed off. Then everyone’s eyes were on me. Or at least in my direction. “What?” I asked frowning.

“Romeo!” exclaimed his mother, hurrying towards my direction, relief written across her face, tears in her eyes.

Benvolio, at the same time, spoke the obvious. “Ah, here he comes. Either he’s going to have to tell me what’s wrong—I am his cousin after all—or just tell me no over and over and over.” He turned to me, and the moment that sealed my face had drawn near.

“You stay. He may need a bit more pushing,” and with that, the older boy looked in the direction Romeo’s mother had gone.

FIVE

⚇乂⚇

PREVIOUSLY ON: OBVIOUSLY THIS WAS A GOOD IDEA

I KNEW EXACTLY WHO WAS behind me. With as much calmness as I could muster, I turned around, only for the person who was behind me—a kid who looked to be anywhere between fifteen to sixteen with dark brown hair and brownish eyes—to ask me to move aside.

“‘Scuse me,” the person said, then, when I stepped to the left, he moved forward. He looked fearless, but at the same time, his face was stained with tears he’d forgotten to wipe off. His mother hurried after him, trying to console him, to no avail, as he brushed her off.

Montague turned to Benvolio, and said, “I hope you’re lucky enough to hear what’s really going on.” Then, turning to Lady Montague, who stood abandoned by Romeo, “Come on, let’s go then, Madam.” Benvolio’s face remained unreadable as the two left, although I could imagine him thinking something along the lines of “Wow, they just left me here with their angsty teenage son. Fun.”

“Good morning, Romeo,” said Benvolio, nodding in greeting to his younger cousin.

Romeo frowned, then looked at the ground. Then at the sky. Then at Benvolio. “Is it really only morning?”

Benvolio’s face hinted at nothing. “It is. It’s only just now nine o’clock.”

Romeo gave a breathy sigh. “Time seems to go by slowly when you’re in grief.” He looked to the street in which Montague had just left. “Was that my father who just ran off like that?”

Benvolio nodded. “It was,” said he. Then with a gesture to me, “This is… actually I didn’t catch your name.”

Humans are weird, really weird. Benvolio, having not known my name, had invited me to join him and Romeo, his cousin, whom he cared deeply about (read the book). Maybe it was just Shakespearean characters, but some people are pretty hard to figure out. Motives and all, I mean.

My face paled. I’m sure I looked like I’d just seen a ghost. What type of names did Shakespearean characters have? Jonathan (probably) was one… Claudius another… Ophelia… wait, no, that was a girl’s name… I decided I didn’t want to be Julius Caesar; always bad luck, choosing someone who dies in the end. But then again, doesn’t everybody die and isn’t Shakespeare notorious for making everybody suffer?

“Hamlet,” said I, because I could come up with nothing else.

“No way! My mother’s sister’s husband’s uncle’s nephew’s sister-in-law’s son’s name is Hamlet! We have something in common!”

That’s what Romeo should have said. If he’d said that, it’d have been great and not awkward at all. But instead, he merely nodded his head, giving a shrug as if nothing really mattered at all anymore.

“Right,” said Benvolio, looking a little unsure of his cousin’s mood, for once betraying some sort of emotion. Then he began to walk, beckoning myself and Romeo to follow him.

“What’s making you so sad and making the hours take so long to pass?” asked Benvolio, steering the conversation back on track.

Romeo looked to the ground and crossed his arms moodily. “I don’t have the thing that makes time fly.”

Benvolio looked to his cousin in confusion. “You’re… in love?”

“Out.”

“Out of love?”

The conversation was slowly making its way by, but I was bored to death with it. Have you ever tried listening to something that’s completely boring and doesn’t have anything to do with you at all and yet you’re there, a mystified expression on your face? No? Then no comments for you.

Romeo gave a sigh, one that would come from a grieving mother, not a “young, carefree, lad” such as himself. “I love someone, but she doesn’t love me back,” he said miserably.

Memories of middle school came flooding back to mind, and I didn’t like it one bit. I shifted a little, trying to figure out how to make the conversation go away, but couldn’t think of anything for the life of me. For once, the ideas guy had no ideas.

Benvolio gave his friend a frown, nodding slowly, trying to get into a deeper conversation. “That’s unfortunate, Romeo. Love looks beautiful, and like it might be a good thing, but it’s actually pretty rough.”

And then Benvolio looked to me, expecting me to say something. I gave him a look like what do I say? And he gazed back at me, mouthing the words I’m sorry for your loss.

I snapped back to Romeo and the situation at hand, and noticed he was looking at me like a sad puppy. What was I supposed to say? I could think of fifty people who would know what to say, but I had no words. Did I say it would definitely get better? Surely that wasn’t how you handled things like this. If I had been braver and if I knew Romeo better, I might’ve hugged him, like a bro hug, but that hardly would have worked. Besides, I knew how the story went.

Romeo and Juliet both died at the end. How could I just lie to him and tell him things would be alright? It wouldn’t even be logical to say so and it wouldn’t help further the plot, either.

To be fair, I hardly knew the kid, but you don’t lie to a complete stranger unless it makes sense to and unless it’s for the greater good. Did it help the plot to lie? I wasn’t sure. So I didn’t.

Of course, I, having not thought I could say something intelligent, I said, “Romeo, logically speaking, if this is a low, there must be a high. I’ve seen it in patterns of the past- every time someone has been sad, things must go up. That’s how it works–” I cut myself off before I could continue. That’s how it works here in the real world. But it wasn’t the real world.

Romeo gave another sad sigh. “What’s sad is that love is supposed to be blind. You can’t stop love from making you do whatever it wants, though.”

“But love should be logic. Just because there are feelings doesn’t mean there’s no logic,” I argued, trying to make my point. Our trio had come to a stop, and we stood talking, debating, maybe.

Romeo sighed, shaking his head, looking at the ground for the twentieth time, and upon seeing the blood streaks stepped back about half a step. “What’s that? Who fought here? Wait, actually, don’t tell me. It was a fight started by hate. A hatred that burns between the Montagues and Capulets. But the fight has more to do with love than hate. Oh, loving hate! Beautiful things muddled together into an ugly mess!”

I wanted to roll my eyes and tell him there were things better than feelings, like logic, but I didn’t. Instead, Benvolio came to the rescue, starting to talk but being talked over by Romeo, so he stopped.

Continuing, as if his earlier speech wasn’t sad enough, Romeo lamented love. “Love is both heavy and light, bright and dark, hot and cold, healthy and sick, awake and asleep. It’s absolutely everything except for what it is! It’s an enigma—Benvolio, are you laughing?”

Benvolio had turned his back to Romeo and I, and his shoulders shook as if he were laughing, or he was crying. Little gasps came from him, the telltale sign of crying.

“No, Romeo. I’m crying.”

“What’re you crying for?”

“I’m crying because of your sadness.”

Now it was Romeo’s turn to give a sympathetic look. “But this is what love does, cousin. My sadness weighs on my chest, and since you want to add yours to the present amount, there’s even more. Love is a smoke made of lover’s sighs. When that smoke clears—” he looked straight into Benvolio’s eyes, which were watery and were now locked on Romeo’s “—love is a fire burning in your lover’s eyes. What else is love? Love is a wise form of madness. Goodbye, Benvolio.”

Romeo turned and began to walk off, but Benvolio reached out, grabbing it. “Wait. I’ll accompany you. If you leave me here, you’re doing me wrong.”

Benvolio motioned for me to say something, giving me a look I took to mean that yes I did in fact need to say something. Alas, me, not being an empathetic person, I did not know what to say, so I stayed quiet.

Once again, I wondered how exactly I had gotten myself into this situation. I barely knew these two, but they treated me like a close friend. Either this was plot development, or they weren’t human after all.

To be fair, though, Romeo did marry a girl he’d just met. So, I mean, it must’ve been Shakespeare.

Benvolio gave me the look again, urging me to say something, and I frowned, in I don’t know what to say.

Benvolio sighed and started to say something, but Romeo looked up at Benvolio- for, he was shorter- and sighed himself.

“I’m not myself. This isn’t the real Romeo- but have I ever truly been the real Romeo? Could this world be a guise for something greater?”

Benvolio, without skipping a beat, gave a shrug. “I don’t know, dear cousin. It seems a question for a philosopher–” and tipping his head to his younger cousin and draping an arm over his shoulders “–and you of all people know I am not a philosopher.”

Romeo cracked a smile, then Benvolio became serious again. “Who is it, seriously, that you love?”

Romeo gave a laugh. “Seriously? You wish me to tell you, clutching my side and groaning like a dead man?”

“Dead man tell no tales,” I said, and Romeo gave a thoughtful look to the statement, then shrugged.

“True enough,” he said, relenting. “I cannot tell you seriously, Benvolio, for love makes one giddy with happiness. No man could tell of his love seriously.”

Benvolio sighed, and put a hand on Romeo’s shoulder, having detangled himself from his younger cousin. “Groan? Of course not. But seriously, tell me who your lover is.”

Romeo thought a moment, trying to come up with a way to avoid the question.

“Answer me simply, and I may drop the topic,” said Benvolio, crossing his arms, now.

Romeo tilted his head. “You would drop the topic? I doubt that. You’re Benvolio of all people.”

“Answer the question, dear cousin.”

“You wouldn’t tell someone who’s sick to ‘seriously’ write a will, would you? That’d just make him worse. I ‘seriously’ love a woman.”

I ‘seriously’ want to end the conversation.

To this, Benvolio raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. We were now walking the streets, a couple of loose pebbles under our feet crunching like gravel.

“I guessed that you were in love with a girl since you first said you were in love, Romeo,” said Benvolio eyebrow still raised, Romeo attempting to do the same, and failing miserably.

“Then you were right on target. The woman I am in love with—she is beautiful.”

Benvolio nodded with understanding. “A beautiful target is the one that often gets hit first.”

Romeo frowned. “Well, there you’re on target. She refuses to be hit by Cupid’s arrow. She’s beautiful, smart, and she can’t be touched by the arrows of love.”

Benvolio blinked, trying to formulate a response. “Look, just take my advice: don’t think about her.” I looked between the two, watching their movements. Benvolio’s arms were folded over his chest, and he was thinking deeply about something. Romeo’s demeanor had changed slightly, instead of constantly sad, there was more of a neutral air about him.

Romeo’s mouth twitched upward, a slight smile tugging at the corners. “Teach me to forget to think?”

Benvolio laughed, a deep, hearty, laugh, clapping both me and Romeo’s shoulders at the same time. “You’ve got to let your eyes wander freely. Look at other beautiful girls.”

Romeo sighed, then gave Benvolio a look that roughly translated to you think I haven’t tried? “That will only make me think about how beautiful she is. Looking at other pretty girls doesn’t help.”

Benvolio sighed, but instead of weariness, there was slight jokingness in his voice. “I’ll help you learn to forget her, or else I’ll die trying.”

SIX

⚇乂⚇

WHAT

YOU KNOW WHAT, WHEN BENVOLIO and Romeo were talking about the girl Romeo was in love with, I wasn’t expecting myself to be questioned. I probably could’ve used my head to figure out that this was going to come sooner or later, but I was expecting these guys to be normal… guys, I guess.

“Hamlet, are you in love with someone?” asked Romeo.

The question startled me. Generally, only girls (or a few of my close friends- Zane, if you read this, I’m looking at you, dude) go “So are you in love with anyone, hmm?”

But someone I had known for twenty minutes was asking me. “What?” I asked instinctively, scratching the back of my neck and laughing a bit.

Benvolio gave me an amused look, smirking a little.

“So. Who do you like?” Romeo rephrased the question, head tilted to the side.

“Nobody at this particular moment.”

“I have a sister,” said Romeo musing. “You two look perfect for each other.”

Benvolio raised an eyebrow. “Abigail?”

I gave a “.__.” sort of look, and nodded politely. “Cool,” said I, still trying to figure out how to react to this, as my first instinct had been to karate chop someone. I didn’t come on this mission to be match-made. I came to punch some bad guys in the face. Create justice. Pursue it, even.

“Do you have more sisters?” I asked Romeo, coming up with a good conversation starter and casually avoiding the statement he’d made earlier.

“I had more, but they died at birth. Abigail was a wise woman, and during the war, my mother decided we needed someone wise. Thus, Abigail,” said Romeo shaking his head, not portraying much emotion at this, as if he didn’t have an opinion on his could-be siblings.  

“What war?” I asked. The book didn’t say anything about a war. Maybe it was just a lore thing that the characters and Shakespeare himself only knew, because he failed to mention it in his play. I hoped that was it, and that it wasn’t a real thing, because my history knowledge would seriously be lacking if I didn’t know about this possibly major war.

“You know…” Benvolio mimed using a sword (it looked more like a lightsaber).

I gave him a confused look and shrugged. What reason would they have to joke around about this? I don’t see how they could, and it would make sense if there were a war if the two families truly hate each other.

Romeo began to explain. “It was the war that practically tore apart the country piece by piece. It ripped apart families and it is the cause of the feud in the city.”

“Like the war of the roses?” I asked, connecting the dots in my brain, still trying to figure out everything.

“What war?” Romeo asked confused.

“Oh nothing,” I said, thinking I’d almost blown my cover. History doesn’t count here, meaning I could, theoretically, do anything I want. I’d have to do a few minor experiments, though, I’m not sure if that’s really how it works.  

I glanced over at Romeo, who was looking at the sky. “You should be a poet,” said I.

Romeo gave a harsh laugh. “But I’m destined to marry someone I don’t love, and to live in a fortress by myself and to continue this war against them.”

“Them?”

“The Capulets.”

“Ah,” said I, nodding, not wanting to ask any more questions for fear I’d be singled out as an outsider. Not that I hadn’t already been, but still.

“Come friend, let me take you to my father’s house. There you can rest and… get out of those clothes,” said Romeo, wrinkling his nose.

“And he can meet your sister there,” added Benvolio with a bit of a mischievous smirk on his face. I had had no idea he could be so… irresponsible.

“Right,” I said nodding, still not sure how I felt about this, and definitely not on-board with their plan.

And so, we continued to the place where the Montagues lived.

- - -

It was a large castle, like the type you might see described in a Robinhood story or maybe in the stories of King Arthur and Merlin and all of those guys. In the actual play, whether there’s actual action that happens in the castle, I’m unsure of because that particular month, I was out of classes. Perhaps it was a really, really, bad fever, or maybe just a severe cold that involved a plot to set the world on fire. You never know, right?

We walked through the entrance which was flanked on both sides with tall watch towers with guards atop each. Was this completely accurate to actual history? Maybe, maybe not. After all, if this really had been the middle ages, there would’ve been people throwing sewage out on the streets, and the streets weren’t filled with sewage, so maybe this was the fairytale middle ages. Or maybe this was really how it was and historians are just liars. Who knows, right?

Have you ever smelled something that you wished you didn’t? Well that’s basically what happened the second I got into the great halls of that castle. Its putrid stink made me re-think not letting Exodus (a villain I’d fought—coincidentally the one who wanted to burn the whole world) chop off my nose in a fight.

Definitely not fairytale Middle Ages. Or maybe it is? Maybe Shakespeare just assumed that everyone knew what the inside of a castle smells like and he just let it slide?

There was the slight smell of spices, but all I could really smell was the stench of the castle.

Trying not to wrinkle my nose, I followed Romeo and Benvolio to a room, that was quite cluttered but in a very organized way.

It was nice looking, with a hearth, rug, and bed, amongst other things. I was handed some blue clothes by Benvolio, and I quickly changed into them, relishing the semi-clean feel of them, as the ones I’d been wearing before seemed to have some sort of dust on them, and were kind of gritty. I’d never particularly liked blue. I was more… green, I guess. But blue worked, and I was now in clean clothes, so life was good.

“So, Hamlet,” said Romeo starting up a conversation, face still a bit mournful, but clearly he was trying to be polite. “Tell us a bit about yourself.”

“Uh, well, I don’t really have much to tell about myself,” I said shrugging. I hadn’t had time to figure out a complex backstory, okay!? Give me a break.

Benvolio raised an eyebrow and he and Romeo got into a conversation about normal things for normal people to do. It was a few minutes before it got back to me, leaving me some time to brainstorm things Shakespeare people would do back in the day.  

And finally, having thought some, Benvolio and Romeo’s attention was turned back to me. “So, Hamlet…” he said trying out the name (come to think of it, this might’ve been the first time Benvolio had ever addressed me by “Hamlet”). “You never answered Romeo’s question. Tell us where you come from, your favorite things to do, etcetera.”

“Uh, well, um,” said I, trying to come up with a good answer, as my brain had completely failed me. “I suppose poetry is interesting,” I said with a shrug. I do not in fact like poetry. I loathe it with my entire being, and movies that leave the end up to my deciding what happened… anyway. Focus. Improv.

“Ah, Romeo likes poetry as well,” said Benvolio, Romeo nodding with agreement. “Your opinion on fencing?”

“Fencing? Fencing. You have to be quite sharp to… fence.” I said, not the foggiest idea what he was talking about. I was tired, okay? I didnt’ have a lot of brain power to work with. Then, my brain seemingly decided to work again, and it woke up to the real world. I shrugged.

“Fencing’s not bad, not bad at all.” Thought I was better at fist fighting, I wasn’t going to let me, myself, be disgraced by backing down from a duel- after all, it would be with rubber or plastic, no harm would be done.

“Yes, yes, of course fencing. You seem like you’d much prefer archery, but your form says you’d be good at fencing,” said Romeo nodding, giving me a once-over.

“Fencing’s… great,” said I nodding, confidence abounding. This was some medieval kid- what did he know about fencing? I’d be fine. Besides, it couldn’t be much different than defending myself against angry dagger wielding people, right? Right.

“Alright then, I challenge you to a duel,” said Romeo getting up from his spot where he’d been sitting.

“Like a duel to the death or…?” I assumed it wasn’t anything serious. Of course, it probably wouldn’t be, right? Also, if I were to die in the fairytale Middle Ages, would I die in real life? These were all questions that needed to be answered.

“A duel… to the pain.”

SEVEN

⚇乂⚇

WHAT (Pt. 2)

TO THE PAIN, HE SAYS. It’ll be fun, he says. Nobody’ll get hurt, he says. Wouldn’t hold my breath on that one, friend.

In all honesty, I think Romeo was in his edgy phase, and he reminded me of a picture of Oscar Wilde I had seen once, where he was holding a cane-looking thing and casually sitting on a chair, cosplaying as a boyband in the wrong generation. If I recall correctly, his condition was stable throughout the rest of my visit.

For those of you who don’t know what “to the pain” means, I’ll explain, in as brief a way as I can. Everything you could possibly need is cut off, all bloody and gross. Only your ears are left, and that’s only so that you can hear every child who screeches at the sight of you. Moving forward.

“No, Romeo. Hamlet, not to the pain. You would duel with wooden poles the same length of normal swords. No one would get hurt—” a pointed look at Romeo who had a smirk on his face “—it would simply be a ‘practice duel’,” Benvolio explained hurriedly, upon seeing my moderately concerned face. Not panicked, just concerned. I’d thrown daggers at goats and gone on missions with blow darting llamas. I’d be fine. I hoped.

I felt my shoulders untense slightly, but only because I was in the process of figuring out a strategy. I gave a somewhat-forced grin. “Right. I knew that.”

“Sure, you did,” said Romeo, the smirk on his face replaced with a subtle smile.

“I did! And I accept,” I said, sweeping my cloak dramatically behind me, a faux indignant look on my face, the plastered smile having disintegrated. “We duel now, right?” I said, just to make sure.

Benvolio massaged his temples, clearly trying to let the stress of watching after Romeo and making sure he didn’t explode dissipate. “Yes, now you duel. In the courtyard, where there’s plenty of space,” he said, matter-of-factly, nodding, pleased at the idea of fencing with very sharp swords outside and not breaking anything.

“Alright then,” I said, walking towards the door, hoping the other two would just follow. I glanced back to Romeo, whose chest was puffed out with pride and the idea that he’d win this duel. I did not feel confident in my fencing abilities.

One long flight of stairs (since Romeo’s room was on the second floor), a failed conversation starter by Benvolio, and more awkwardness than a business meeting with a blow darting llama, and we arrived at the courtyard. It was large and square, cobbled with stones, and I was trying to figure out a strategy to disarm Romeo. Neither of us were talkative.

“Here,” announced Romeo, leading the way down the stairs and to the huge area, which was packed with nothingness.

He picked up a medium-length pole that seemed to be of bamboo, or some material similar to it. “Here,” he said, handing it to me.

Taking it, I decided to give it an examination. It was of a fine wood, that much I could tell. It wasn’t very heavy, it was rather light, actually. It had no cracks in it, which led me to believe it was solid all the way through. From examining it, and knocking on it with my knuckles, I was around ninety percent certain that it was, in fact, solid wood.

“Ready?” asked Romeo, starting off in a position any fencer would be proud of. I think. I’m not a fencer, remember? I’m a secret agent who’s saved your life more times than you could count. Probably. I don’t keep tabs on my numbers.

“Sure,” said I. My eyes flicking about the courtyard, trying to figure out how to beat Romeo. My eye caught something- rather, someone—a girl, similar looking to Romeo, with ambery eyes like his and dark brown hair that flowed down her shoulders.

This all happened in a second, and after a heartbeat, my eyes were back on Romeo. We were circling each other, around and around until finally Romeo striked (Stroked? Stroke?), feigning a jab to the left, but actually jabbing at the right, catching my cape. If it had been a real sword, it would’ve been sliced in two.

“Watch your side,” said Benvolio, who was supervising, making sure nobody died or passed out from head trauma.

In a heartbeat, I don’t even know how, I was on the ground, Romeo’s staff at my neck.

“He said to watch your side,” said Romeo, stretching out a hand to help me up.

“You pointed at my neck,” I stated flatly. Benvolio shrugged a little bit and went back to spectating the “epic battle”, giving no comment at my accusation.

Romeo rolled his eyes at his friend, then focused his attention back on me. “Okay, round two.”

After helping me up, Romeo walked back to where he first started getting into his stance again. I tried to copy him but found the stance somewhat troublesome and I decided to scrap the idea and come up with something on my own. I heard a giggle, and turned to see Romeo’s sister—Abigail, I think—brushing a lock of her dark hair away from her face.

“Hey, Hamlet,” said Romeo, tapping me on my shoulder with his staff as if getting ready to knight me. “You ready?”

“Of course,” I said, trying to block out the image of the girl watching me like a hawk, ready for me to fail. It was fine, and I’d do fine. I was determined.

Romeo gave a little smirk, and without a second guess, darted in to jab at me. I jumped out of the way in the nick of time.

“Good, you’re learning,” observed Benvolio, circling us, trying to get the best view.

“Yes, I’m learning,” I said, taking a stab at Romeo, who leapt back with almost cat-like agility.

“You’re getting good,” said Benvolio nodding as if he’d taught me all I knew. Honestly, I was winging it at this point.

“But not good enough,” said Romeo leaping in to land a blow.

“Mhm,” said I, parrying, jabbing the staff back at him. “Right back at you,” said I.

Romeo gave me a weird look and tried to strike again. I barely stopped it this time, shoving the stick back at him with my own.

“Romeo…” Benvolio trailed off looking a little unsure.

“Yes, cousin? What’re you trying to—”

In a split second he stopped talking. His attention had been dragged to Benvolio for a couple of seconds, providing me plenty of time to get in a hit. Or, rather, put the point of my stick at Romeo’s neck.

“Gotcha,” said I, a slight smile on my face.

“That you did, friend. But you forget the first law of real-life dueling: there are no rounds,” said Romeo, and in a split second, his staff was at my neck, completely turning the tables.

“Yes, you got me. Good game,” said I, walking forward and giving Romeo a fist-bump (a sure sign of good sportsmanship). Then I remembered I was in the Middle Ages and promptly regretted my life choices.

After a few minutes of Romeo and Benvolio talking, I caught Abigail’s eye. She quirked an eyebrow at me in a way that clearly said Wow you’re not very good at dueling, are you?

I tried to give her a look that said something along the lines of And you’re better? although it probably translated into something more similar to Are you a chicken? because she gave a little laugh at that. Girls are weird like that.

I felt Romeo nudge my arm. “My sister,” he said, pointing to Abigail.

“I know,” said I. “You two look alike.” At this point I was done with human interaction and wanted to lay down in a dark corner and hide, but Romeo was an extravert.

A moment later, Romeo’s face fell. “She reminds me so much of my ex,” said he. Remember, this is translated Shakespearean English, not the actual thing.

“Really?” asked Benvolio, having heard this comment. Romeo had a look on his face that read Oh no not another lecture. “Then we had best be going,” said his older cousin with a matter-of-fact nod.

“Going where?” I asked, not completely sure what he was talking about. It had been a while since I’d read the play- and for good reason, I’d been seven when I last heart it.

“Going to the Capulet’s party, of course,” said Benvolio with a shrug as if it were obvious (he wasn’t being very obvious, by the way).

“Why?” More confusion.

“Because what better way to find a new betrothed than going to your father’s arch enemy’s party?”

Benvolio was being sarcastic when he said this. I think.

EIGHT

⚇乂⚇

I MOVE TO ANTARCTICA TO GET A GIRLFRIEND

WELL, WE WERE GOING TO a party to get a girlfriend for Romeo. That’s the next excuse I’ll use when somebody asks why I’m doing something.  

Nate, why are you going to the store? To get a girlfriend.  

Nate, why’re you going to school again? To get a girlfriend.

Nate, why are you moving to Antarctica? To get a girlfriend.  

See? The response “To get a girlfriend” is a good answer to any question you ask (even math questions, kids!).  

Earlier, after Benvolio had said that he was taking Romeo to the Capulet party to get a girlfriend, Romeo had given him a scathing look. After a couple of moments, Benvolio rephrased: “Because I told Romeo I’d help him forget Ros—” a mournful look from Romeo “—his ex.”

The guys and I- for I was not integrated into their Shakepsearean culture yet so I couldn’t count myself as a guy yet- began the process of doing… stuff. Fresh clothes, gross water, wordplay, all of that.

Great, you’re caught up. On a different note, you may’ve been wondering earlier how my dear father hadn’t been worrying about my “sudden disappearances” every single day. Well, easy. He’d sent me off to a boarding school when I was eight.

It was right after Mom had died, and he couldn’t handle the grief of seeing me so he sent me off (evidently I have my mother’s eyes, but they’re brown instead of blue, so I’m not sure how to take that). Of course, I’d been allowed to go home every summer, but I’d never really had a full conversation with him.

I mean, I’d never really felt sorry for myself. I felt sad, sure, thrown a pillow at the wall when I was angry, yeah, of course. But had I ever felt sad for myself when I was sent off? No way. It was like a little adventure of my own.  

Somehow, I caught the attention of Major Bighe, or the guy who ran the agency, and the rest is history. Back to the topic.  

Romeo and Benvolio came into the room after about an hour, all dressed. Romeo wore some tights-looking-things, and a short dress.

To be fair, I guess it wasn’t really a dress. It was a tunic, but I’d seen shorter skirt things worn by girls in modern times, which I assumed would be scandalous in Romeo’s days. But with Shakespeare, you never knew.  

Benvolio wore a similar looking one to Romeo’s, but instead, he had one of those button-down shirts. Both outfits were blue and looked like you might find them in a storybook about… well, Romeo and Juliet.  

“Here,” said Romeo, handing me a folded outfit.  

“Uh… thanks?” I said, uncertain as to what to say. I had only just changed, what, a couple hours ago?

“They’re clothes,” explained Romeo, enunciating slowly. “To be specific, hosen, a jacket, and a doublet,” he said as if it were obvious and even a goldfish would know this. I did not.

“I just changed,” said I, trying to hide my confusion, struggling to put up a mask. “It’s a waste to wear new clothes and then have to wash them… really a waste of potential.”

Benvolio leaned over inconspicuously and said in a whisper, “It’s best to let him work this out. Don’t question the method to his madness.”

I gave a small shrug and then nodded, clearing my throat before I spoke. “Thanks, Romeo.” I took the clothes, their fabric foreign and weird feeling in my hands.

Romeo gave a quick nod and practically waltzed out the door, spirits light, ready to go to the party that night. Probably, he was hoping to antagonize Tybalt—that is, the guy who had been messing with Benvolio earlier—and possibly smack him with a blade or something, I don’t know.  

Benvolio also followed, only slower than his younger companion, rolling his eyes at his behavior though a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

That left me to get dressed. And so, having nothing better to do, I did. I quickly put on the clothes and looked down at what I was wearing. I would’ve liked to see a mirror or something, but alas, Shakespeareans did not have glass or mirrors at that time. Which meant it was really a guessing game as to what I looked like in my present state.

That guess involved leaves and twigs sticking out of my hair, dark circles under my eyes, and a cut on my lip. Even thinking about the cut made it throb painfully, a reminder that you really shouldn’t go falling out the sky.

Romeo gave a nod of approval as I walked out, humming a tune to himself and tapping his foot against the ground. It sounded vaguely similar to the tune of that one song that plays over and over and over in the six hour version of Pride and Prejudice, and I tried to remember when exactly Jane Austen had written the book.

Hearing Romeo’s brief stopping of his tune, Benvolio glanced over and gave me a once-over, having been studying a weaving of Jesus and His disciples on the wall. “Okay then, let’s go. The Capulets’ party is starting soon.”

“Benvolio, you said it was to start at sun-down. There’s at least an hour left,” argued Romeo, the cheerfulness of the prospect of whacking Tybalt over the head not having faded at all.  

Benvolio held up a hand stopping him from speaking. “None of that. We should get going, it’s a bit of a walk to the party. Besides, the guests were invited to come early.”

“And we’re guests…?” I butted in, speaking from my spot by the wall. I couldn’t remember the exact details of this particular part from the play. I was pretty sure they hadn’t been guests, but maybe Shakespeare had taken out the rebellious streak in his characters since I’d last checked. Either way, I was sure it wasn’t a good idea- I remembered reading once that all of Shakespeare’s conversations in plays were for a reason, especially in his tragedies.

“Yep,” said Benvolio nodding, copying my position, leaning against the wall.  

“You sure? Because it doesn’t seem like the Caps would do,” said I, trailing off, receiving a strange look from Benvolio.  Right, people didn’t abbreviate during the Renaissance.

“Yes, I’m sure. Besides, we should be going. Like I said, it takes a while.”

I gave a sigh at this explanation before we started off to the big party. It took around fifteen minutes to get there by using shortcuts Romeo had discovered. (“You know, I wasn’t always this much of a free spirit,” Romeo had joked.)

And thus, we were fashionably… early. Well, nerdily early, I suppose, if we’re going to be doing it that way. I honestly never did have a sense of fashion until I came to the Shakespearean era. Therefore, Shakespeare had heightened my senses. Thanks, Shakespeare!  

We arrived there early to see a young boy in reddish-brown, scrutinizing a piece of paper, his face scrunched up in concentration, blonde hair falling into his eyes as he looked down.

Benvolio was saying something along the lines of “You can always put out a fire by starting a new one. Find someone new, then focus on her and she’ll be true love. ‘Sides, if you make yourself lovesick by looking at someone else, you’ll get lovesick looking at them and not her.”

Now that the time was coming to go to this large… ball, party, whatever, Romeo did not look very convinced that this was a good idea. In fact, he looked even more sorrowful (and doubtful) than he had earlier, and if he had been a dog, he’d look like a sad chocolate lab, tail between legs, amber-oak eyes looking down at the ground, fragile pools of tears right in front of them looking as if they might break at any moment.  

But aside from that, Romeo was doing swell.  

“Um, excuse me,” said a voice, tugging on my sleeve, and the boy from earlier— being able to see his face, he had green-blue eyes and a smattering of freckles— held out the paper.

“Could you read this for me?” he asked, looking up at me (because, alas, height differences). I looked to Romeo and Benvolio for a bit of help, but they were in a heated discussion about either llamas or ladies. The boy grew annoyed at my unresponsiveness.

Romeo walked over, having finally finished his conversation with Benvolio.  

“Good evening, good fellow.”

“May God give you a good evening, too,” said the boy formally. Then, a follow-up question: “Hey, do you know how to read?” He frowned at the paper in my hands, casually taking it from them.

“I mean, if I know the language and dialect something’s in, I can read it.”

“That’s a good, honest, answer. Goodbye then—”

The young boy was cut off by Romeo giving a laugh. “Stay, stay. I can read. Lemme see that.”

Rome was thrust the paper and skimmed it over. He read over it again and again and again, going from the top to the bottom of the slip quickly.

I had a transmitter that could translate stuff from the original language to English—modern English, that is. Unfortunately, nobody had come up with something that would make me read things differently (Contacts? Just a suggestion, tech department)). Old English is hard to read as it is, and the person who had written it down did not (as far as I could tell) have good handwriting. It looked a lot like a bunch of squiggles and crosses with a few p’s and h’s in between. I decided then and there that I never wanted to see what bad handwriting was in the olden days. It’d probably be morse-code-looking or something.  

Romeo, still reading over the paper again and again, was interrupted by a sigh from the kid before he read its contents out loud.

“That’s a nice group of people you’ve got there—” then, clearing his throat, he began: “Signor Martino and family, Count Anselme (and his beautiful sisters), the Vitruvio’s widowed wife, Signor Placentio and his nieces, Mercutio and Valentine, my uncle Capulet and family, my niece Rosaline and her sister Livia, Signor Valentino and Tybalt, his cousin, Lucio and the lively Helena. Where are all these people supposed to go?”  

The servant shrugged and said simply, “Up.”

Confusion, death, and despair followed the answer.

“Up where?” Romeo pressed.  

“Up to our house.”

“Why?”  

“For supper.”

“Whose house?” Romeo continued to interrogate.  

“My master’s house,” replied the child, looking down at his shoes and kicking pebbles every which way.  

That would explain his clothes. He was wearing a rust-colored outfit and had a very similar face to one of the two Capulet servants who had been fighting earlier. I figured he was the servant who had started the fight in the first place. After all, only a Capulet would start a fight. And Romeo. And pretty much everyone else in Romeo and Juliet. But the boy… he looked familiar.  

“I should’ve asked that earlier!” exclaimed Romeo, his hand popping up, finger pointing to the sky in a very “aha” sort of way. He looked like an excited three-year-old child pretending to be Sherlock Holmes.

“Well, I’ll tell you so that you don’t have to ask. My master is the very rich and very powerful Capulet. If you don’t belong to the house of Montague, you’re welcome to come on over. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to find these people,” and with that, the boy went off.  

But before he left, Romeo called after him. “Do you have a name?”  

“Peter,” the boy called behind him, not looking backward, continuing on in his journey.  

“Of course, it’s Sampson’s younger brother we ran into,” muttered Benvolio darkly, rolling his eyes.

And thus, the night was off to a good start.

NINE

⚇乂⚇

THE “I HAVE A DREAM” SPEECH BUT WITH MORE BLOOD

AFTER A COUPLE SECONDS, BENVOLIO good-naturedly elbowed Romeo. “Hey, you know what they say. ‘When you’re dumped by one girl, you’ll pick up another one in a few seconds.’”

Romeo continued to look downcast, staring at the ground.  

“Who says that?” I asked, giving a laugh at Romeo’s cousin.  

“You know. They,” said Benvolio shrugging as if it were obvious.  

“Yes, but who are they?”  

“They. You know, the people who come up with sayings,” said Benvolio rolling his eyes right back. Then, to Romeo, “See? He agrees—” I rolled my eyes at this “—and besides. The beautiful Rosaline whom you are madly in love with is going to be there. When you compare her to other girls, you’re going to be like ‘Why was I ever in love with her?’ Our problem will be solved.”

I thought a moment. Am I part of “our”? Or did he mean Romeo and himself..? Maybe it’s better if I wasn’t part of “our”. Still…

Romeo sighed and rubbed his eyes which had been leaking a steady waterfall of tears for the last thirty seconds. “If my eyes were ever to lay on a lady and decide she were beautiful, I hope the tears they produce turn into fire because my eyes would be liars. There has never been someone more beautiful than Rosa to live on this earth.”

Benvolio gave a sigh. Evidently, he and Romeo had discussed this topic before—I’d assume before Romeo’s breakup. Giving up on debating with the immovable Romeo, Benvolio sighed. “Continue thinking that, Cousin.”  

I looked at the sky which was increasingly getting pinker. “Not that I mind this conversation,” I began, glancing to Romeo who gave no reaction “but shouldn’t we be going? We’re going to be late. And, Romeo? I’m sure you’ll find someone else.” I tried for a reassuring smile.

Romeo gave another long sigh. “Fine, we should go if it’s as close to sunset as you predict.”

Benvolio gave Romeo a triumphant grin. “That’s it! You’ll see—I’ll show you a truly beautiful girl!”  

Romeo raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m not going with you guys because I believe you’ll show me a more beautiful girl, I’m going because I want to see Rosa—my true love forever.”

I stifled a smile at Romeo’s firmness in the matter, remembering Juliet. I wondered what he’d say when he saw her.

“C’mon, then, chaps!” said Benvolio, using a word that was after his time. He hooked an arm around Romeo’s shoulders, then mine, and we started off like the three musketeers.

----------

On the way to the Capulets’ house (ahem, castle), we met up with someone called Mercutio, who, come to find out, was one of Romeo’s closest buddies and he was also related to the prince, which was more nerve-racking than I had originally thought it would be. And I think he knew.

I mean, he did look similar to the prince- same piercing blue eyes, same nose. But his hair was blondish-red, a dull color in comparison to the prince’s bright ginger. Mercutio was distantly related to him- some sort of removed cousin or something. I don’t know. But he joked around and laughed like a normal dude, so he seemed okay.

Mercutio was pretty good at wordplay (as I found out during a conversation we had about whether or not the sky was truly blue or whether it was simply blue because of the way the sun shined on it, like it was pink and orange during sunsets or if it was the natural color) and he was pretty funny. I mean, I didn’t really know him all that well through our one conversation, but he seemed like an okay guy.  

We finally reached the house of the Capulets. It was massive and stone as castles should be. I blinked, shielding my eyes from the reddish-orange sun in the sky that loomed behind one of the larger steeples. Before we entered the gates, Benvolio handed each of us a masquerade mask. Mercutio smirked when he saw me shielding my eyes from the sunset and whispered to me, “The sky is blue because of the sun.” Then he walked off to stand beside Romeo before I could take action against this statement.  

“It’s a party, after all,” said Benvolio shrugging and giving Mercutio a mask. Then he handed me a mask that looked to be the face of a dragon. It was of a tough material that felt rather sturdy, and it wasn’t the easiest to bend. Couldn’t to dress up to blend in, I thought before slipping on the mask and walking beneath the large portcullis, the three close beside me.

I took a glance to Mercutio who was wearing a brightly colored mask with greens and blues and a few jewels (whether they were fake or not, I wasn’t sure. If they were real, these were probably some expensive costumes). Underneath the mask, I could see his eyes shining with excitement, as if ready to fight someone on the double with a smile spread wide across his face. Benvolio was, meanwhile, wearing a mask with pinks, purples, greens, and oranges scattered about. With his hat on (it was similar to Captain Hook’s but was blue with a white feather out of the top of it), he looked something like one of the three musketeers, and with his rapier (that is, the long sword that I mentioned earlier) at his side, he fit the look. Romeo stood near the back of our group, glaring at the ground, holding a yellow, orange, and bright red mask, barely not letting it not fall out of his loose grasp.

The dark-haired boy looked up from his angry staring contest with the ground. “I don’t want a mask. Give me a torch instead. I’m not going to dance.”

Mercutio sighed, realizing Romeo was going to be difficult. “Romeo, you’ve got to dance. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

Romeo shook his head. “I don’t want to be a masker. Just let me carry a torch.”

In case you’re wondering, what Romeo means is that he does not want to perform in front of people. Let me explain. At parties in Shakespeare’s time, there were often people called maskers that performed a dance they invented. Romeo wanted to carry a torch (no, not a flashlight, they weren’t invented back then) instead. A torch was… well, a torch was a torch. There were also people who would drum during the dance so that the dancers would have a beat, but Romeo had no musical talent that I knew of, so he wanted to carry the torch.  

Mercutio rolled his eyes. “Listen, Romeo, you’re a lover. So, take Cupid’s wings and fly higher than any normal man and use those wings to dance.”

Romeo shook his head again. “No, Mercutio. I don’t want to. You’ve got dancing shoes on, their soles are flexible and rubbery. I don’t have mine on, my soul is filled with lead and not at all flexible. Besides, my soul will sink.”

I almost told Romeo that Tybalt would probably sink because, as pretty much everyone in the play presumed, he had a heart of ice, but then decided against it as I wasn’t sure if the discovery had been made yet.

“If you sink, you’re only dragging love down,” Mercutio replied quickly, causing me to give a slight chuckle at this conversation. Romeo gave me a slightly insulted look while Benvolio gave me a look like are you seriously doing this right now. Meanwhile, Mercutio was glaring daggers at me, although I had no idea what he was thinking.  

I quickly killed off the smile, as to keep from being possibly smacked by Mercutio who was glaring at me for merely chuckling at Romeo’s dilemma. “Romeo, if love is a sickness, you shouldn’t need a cure. After all, love is a gift, and the love you have for Rosa is rare. If you let your soul be dragged down by love’s sickness you’re going to never want to be cured. However, if you let your soul get dragged down by lovesickness, you’re going to think you don’t want a cure, but it will drag on, causing you to want a cure, but because it will have lasted so long you won’t want one, declaring it to be normal because you’ve had it for so long. So, cure the lovesickness and find someone else to love so you won’t want a cure,” I said, confusing myself after the first sentence, but confident I had said it right. Shakespeare said that somewhere, right?

Romeo blinked. “I hadn’t thought of that,” he said unexpectedly.  So I had said it right!

Benvolio gave a relieved smile, glad Romeo was coming to his senses. “See, Romeo? Hamlet is right. You’ve been dragged down by lovesickness. You need to find a cure right now or you will never be cured.”

Romeo frowned. “Fine,” he moped, sounding like Eeyore… but with less tail-losing and more depression.  

“Great!” exclaimed Mercutio, having switched from glaring at me to grinning at Romeo.  

Romeo frowned uncertainly. “You know, it’s probably not a great idea to go to this party.”

Mercutio frowned. “Why not?”

“Because… I had a dream.”

“A dream. Oh yay,” said Mercutio sarcastically. “What, were we chased by three evil witches screaming at the top of their lungs ‘bubble, bubble, toil and trouble’?” asked he, rolling his eyes.

“No, I had a dream that something bad is going to happen tonight,” said Romeo, crossing his arms and handing Benvolio his mask.  

Whilst Romeo was jabbering to Mercutio, Benvolio was trying to figure out where to put the mask. He had no bag (it escaped me as to how he had hidden the masks as it was) so he was looking around for a place to put it.  

“Here,” said I, holding out my bag for Benvolio to put the mask in. He nodded appreciatively, putting the mask into the bag. I buttoned the bag closed and tuned in to hear Mercutio say, “I also had a dream.”

Romeo raised an eyebrow at this. “And that dream was…?”

“Oh, my dream said that dreams often lie,” said Mercutio shrugging nonchalantly. Beneath his casualness, I could sense a smirk.

Romeo raised both of his eyebrows in an ‘I don’t believe you, but this is probably a debate worth having’ way. “Well, dreams happen while dreamers dream about the truth.”  

Benvolio cleared his throat while Mercutio was in the middle of explaining the “top ten reasons I’m right and you’re wrong” to Romeo. He continued to talk, and finally Benvolio broke the silence. “MERCUTIO!” he shouted, getting his attention. The calm shell of Benvolio had been broken.

“Hmm?” said Mercutio, having been interrupted, a little perturbed at this, but ready to have yet another debate.  

“Let’s go,” said Benvolio, starting off, leaving no room for argument.  

“We’re gonna get there early,” muttered Romeo under his breath.

“Nonsense,” retorted Mercutio, hearing him. “It’ll be fine. Like I said, it’ll be fine, and everything will be fine.”

“Plus,” with a glimmer in his eye, Benvolio added, “You’ll meet a new girl. Someone more beautiful than Rosa, I’m sure of it.”

Romeo wilted upon hearing Rosaline’s name, but continued on, trailing behind Mercutio and his cousin.  

“It’ll be all fine,” said I, trying to ease Romeo’s nerves as I walked beside him.

“I just have a horrible feeling,” Romeo said shaking his head, trying to shake off the worry clouding around in his head, “that this is going to end in my death.” He paused a moment, letting that sink into all of our heads, Mercutio rolling his eyes and Benvolio giving a little “hmph”.  

“But you know what, forge on ahead, whoever gets me killed, my blood, my blood is on your hands! All of it! None of it is on my hands! None! Nope! Zip! And if anyone says that my blood is on my hands they’ll be—uh—”

“Romeo?”

“Yeah?”

“Play the drum,” said Mercutio, reaching where the maskers usually played and danced. An anxious look from Romeo. “It’ll go fine!”

Mentally preparing myself for this dance, I walked on forward, to where a crowd was starting to stare at the four, oddly-masked party crashers.

TEN

⚇乂⚇

HANGIN’ WITH MY HOMIES AT A MURDER PARTY

PEOPLE WERE REALLY STARTING TO stare after that. Their stares bored into the back of my head, but the courtyard looked nice.

It was brightly lit, and the sound of laughter drifted around it as if it were an ever-present noise. It was a warm night with the moon shining down on the courtyard, the sky freckled with stars. Look at me, sounding like Shakespeare. (Someone help. I’ve been stuck here for too long. Help.)

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that an agent in possession of good fortune might be in want of a mission. However, it is in question why on earth this particular agent was chosen for this particular mission. Thus, life is a mystery, and the sun is going to explode.  

(Again: help.)

Anyways, the sky was flecked with stars. Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, and I walked about, sticking together (for fear that Romeo would do something rash). Benvolio’s brows crinkled. “Hey, Romeo, put on the mask,” said he authoritatively as we drifted back in the general direction of the drumming-and-dancing area.  

Romeo sighed and held his hand out to me for me to give him the mask. Out of my bag and onto his face is went, successfully hiding his identity. Or, at least, the eye part of his face.  

As I was saying, we all walked over and soon it was time for the dance. Romeo was carrying a drum (because Mercutio said it wasn’t fair to me not to hold it and also evidently, Romeo and himself wasn’t trustworthy enough to hold the torch) that looked as if you’d see in a marching band. Benvolio walked to the middle of the little clearing stage area, for, that was where some other dancers had danced before and it was our turn.  

(Somehow) we got through it alright. We hadn’t had a plan, but Romeo had pounded out a steady beat and we danced. By “we”, I mean Benvolio and Mercutio. They did a sort of jig, and Romeo’s drum pounding got the people to clap. Near the end, Benvolio looked to me in a “yes, I know you don’t want to, but you’ve got to dance” sort of way. I sighed, and after a few seconds of thinking, to my utter shame, I dabbed.  

Moving on from that fun moment, after our dance gig, we got a couple of claps on the back, and a girl with fluffy hazel-colored hair came up to me, flipped her hair out over her shoulder, and said, “Why, that was the strangest dance I’ve ever seen.”

“Thanks,” I said, shrugging, not knowing what to say, standing a little awkwardly and rubbing my arm.  

“You know, some people may think that was a silly dance—”

“They do?”

“Yes, they do. But I don’t.”

I frowned as she flounced away, puzzled by our conversation. I hoped it wouldn’t bug me the rest of the night- I had a story to take care of.

Later on, I glanced over to see Mercutio with a crowd of ladies around him, shamelessly flirting with all of them. Benvolio was standing near a few people, having a spirited conversation about cheese. Romeo was… well, actually, I had no idea where Romeo was. I couldn’t hear his usually loud voice either, which was weird. So, I began to walk around, looking for him, listening in to random conversations to get clues.

I caught bits and pieces of them:  

“Did you hear about Friar Thomas?”

“—and then he said he would eat it, too!”

“Oh, I saw the most beautiful green yesterday—”

“By the honor of my family, it won’t be a crime to kill him—”

“Lethia did the silliest thing yesterday! You should’ve seen her!”

Wait. What was that one? The one before the last. I tuned back into this conversation, quietly getting closer to whoever was having it. My heart hammered against my chest as it usually did when I was on a mission and I was sure whoever was having the talk could hear it beating loudly. But of course, that’s what I thought every time when I was sneaking about, in the heat of the moment, so I didn’t pay much attention to the thought.

There were two men standing there, talking in hushed tones. They wore red, one of them in a red hat similar to Benvolio’s and a cape similar to Robin Hood’s. Tybalt. Beside him was Capulet, his uncle, if I recalled correctly.  

“Why do you need your sword? What’s going on here?” asked Capulet, hands on his hips, glaring at the shorter man.  

“That… guy is a Montague. He’s come to ruin your party, Uncle,” accused Tybalt, pointing at a person in a red and yellow mask similar in shape to the one I wore. Romeo.  

Capulet gave a sigh. “Is it the young one—Romeo?” I frowned, looking at Romeo. Of course, he was a Montague. He was wearing a blue outfit, with a medium-hued cape, the rest of his clothes navy blue. There wasn’t an inch of red on him. I looked around and saw mostly reds and a couple of blues—that would be Mercutio and Benvolio. Evidently, Shakespearean characters didn’t know how to differentiate between red and blue. Strange.  

Tybalt was scowling at Romeo. “Yes,” he muttered darkly. “That rat is the villain, Romeo.”

Capulet stroked his graying beard. “Calm down, gentle cousin—” that was a bit of a stretch “—leave the boy alone. Look, he’s carrying himself with dignity. Besides, in all truthfulness, all of Verona says that he’s very mature and well-handled. I wouldn’t insult him in my house for all the gold in the land. So, just ignore him. Also, stop frowning because this is a feast. At a feast, you smile. Like this.” Capulet gave Tybalt a tight-lipped smile.  

“Try again,” he advised when Tybalt gave him a scowl. Tybalt gave him a grudging smile and Capulet nodded, a bright smile of his own on his face. “Perfect,” he said. “Now go show that off to the ladies and we’ll be marrying you off tomorrow.”

Tybalt rolled his eyes. “That’s not the way you should be acting when there is a villain in our midst.”

Capulet frowned. “You’re going to tolerate him so help me.”  

Tybalt started off to Romeo, ready to stab him right then and there, but Capulet grabbed his shirt sleeve. “You will tolerate hi—”

The red- had started off again, ready for attack. “Tybalt!” hissed Capulet. “You’re going to tolerate him, if it’s the last thing you do. Stop that—” Tybalt had started to pull away, annoyed and ready to start a mutiny “—you’re going to cause a riot. And you’ll be the one to blame!”  

Tybalt gave a sigh. “That is, of course, the meaning of “you’re”. If you’re going to do something, you, yourself will do it,” said he sarcastically.  

Capulet scowled. “That’s enough of you, boy. You’ll tolerate him.”

“But Uncle, we’re being disgraced,” Tybalt whined.

I watched the two of them, ready to jump out and possibly knock Tybalt out if he were to try to attack Romeo. Not because we were exactly close friends, but as a rule of thumb, you don’t let someone die—especially in a story. I didn’t know what would happen if all of a sudden Romeo was blegh, dead. Maybe all the Romeo and Juliet stories would be changed or maybe just this one in particular. I hoped if worst came to worse that it’d be just this one.

Capulet glared at Tybalt. “Is that right? Go on, go on, plan a battle strategy. How many men will we need? A hundred? A thousand? Go on, go on, if you’re so great,” Capulet said, exasperated.  

Tybalt sighed at his uncle’s doing… whatever he was doing. “No, no, really, I’d just love to hear what you have to say. That’s right. Boy, you’re getting a bit big for your britches. You should be ashamed of yourself, leave the boy alone,” said Capulet.  

Tybalt scowled and stalked off in the opposite direction of Romeo, towards a large table heaped with fruits and small tarts and other foods.  

I gave a sigh of relief as Tybalt passed the place I was hiding, and got up, looking to see where Tybalt had pointed to where Romeo was. Romeo wasn’t there anymore, but the door to a tall tower where the two had been standing a few minutes earlier was slightly ajar and I could hear two soft voices coming from inside of it. So, using my very incredibly important and special spy skills, I casually strolled over to the door, and leaned against the wall beside it, not quite peering in. I could hear Romeo’s voice in a low tone inside the room.  

“You have a beautiful hand that my own hand is unfit to touch. If my hand touches yours and it offends you, my lips are here like two blushing pilgrims, ready to make things better,” said Romeo and I imagined him to be holding Juliet’s hand in his own, petting it like he might pet a small chicken. Ew.

Juliet gave a laugh. “Good pilgrim, you’re not giving yourself enough credit. You see, you’re showing devotion by holding my hand in your own. After all, pilgrims touch the statues of saints. Our palms touch, which is like a kiss.”

I peeked in through the entrance, to see two figures holding hands, one, much, much, shorter than the other. Juliet. The other, standing tall, the torchlight playing off of his red and gold mask. Romeo. The two were both smiling, and their forms cast long shadows across the floor towards me, thanks to the torches. They leaned close together now, noses nearly touching. A slight smile crossed my face as I watched them. And then it didn’t.

Two hands clamped down on my shoulders and I sucked in my breath, face draining of the blood that’d been there. “That’s it, you’ve had it.”  

ELEVEN

⚇乂⚇

BETRAYED BY ONE WHO CALLS YOU FRIEND—WAIT, WRONG BOOK

“THAT’S IT, YOU’VE HAD IT,” said a gruff voice behind me. I turned around slowly, deciding it’d be better to talk it out first instead of immediately going to punch.  

Looking back on it, I’m actually pretty glad that I didn’t uppercut the person behind me, because as it turns out, that person was Mercutio.  

“Mercutio!” I said, “What’re you doing here?”  

Mercutio frowned at me. “Don’t ‘what’re you doing here’ me. You know exactly what I’m doing here.”

“Nah,” I said, trying to be normal. “No idea, my guy.” He gave me a weird look after that last statement. My mind raced with possibilities- he could’ve been a Judas character, trying to stab Romeo in the back at the last second. Or… he could’ve just been a really good friend keeping watch on Romeo….

Mercutio sighed and uncrossed his arms to massage his temples in frustration, leading me away from the two with his right hand whilst massaging his forehead with his left. Modern problems, modern solutions.

“I’m here because I’ve never seen you before,” he stated flatly once we were away from Romeo and Juliet.  

“Mercutio, I’m standing right here,” I said with a smirk, rolling my eyes in a way that translated roughly to “you’re crazy”.

“Yes, but I’ve never seen you before,” Mercutio shot back, eyes darting from one place to another, searching over his surroundings like he was a hawk.  

“Well, it’s a big city,” I said with a shrug.  

“You’re a spy,” Mercutio stated dully, seeming to think he’d figured everything out.

“Sure,” I said “and pigs fly.” Mercutio was unconvinced of this fact.

“Hamlet, I know not what you mean, but you will drop your sword-” I did, in fact, wear a sword on my tunic belt thing that Romeo had lent me “-and leave this party to stay from whence you came.” Even with the transmitter in my ears, I could hear his Shakespeare and I wondered if it were something about his particular accent.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, straightening up. Deny, deny, deny. I looked at him in a way that I hoped shouted “you’re most definitely going crazy”.

“You are a spy!” Mercutio accused again, then, once people looked over, he quieted his voice. “For the Capulets.”

“No, I’m not a spy for the Capulets,” I said, crossing my arms as well, mirroring him.  

“Oh yeah? Then what are you?”

“A normal person! Like you!”  

Mercutio stepped back, satisfied, a smirk of his own on his face. “I knew it. You’re from out of town,” he said, convinced.  

“Yup,” I said. It wasn’t a half-truth. “But what’s with the questioning, Mercutio? I’ve been with you for half a day, surely we, as friends, are past the ‘what’s your favorite color’ or ‘whose side of this war are you on’ questions by now.”

“Acquaintances,” Mercutio corrected subtly. “Just because I talked to you doesn’t make you my friend,” he said. Not sure if I should be offended or if he just does this to everyone he meets.

“Besides,” he added on. “I knew you must’ve been out of town. Kingdom of the Scots, maybe? Your accent is strange. It’s got some aye to it, if you understand what I’m saying.”

I sighed, as it was now my turn to massage my temples. “Okay, sure. But—”  

Mercutio cut me off. “The better question to ask is this: why were you spying on Romeo? To get to his father? His sister perhaps?”  

“I—no. I was making sure Tybalt didn’t sneak up on him.”

“And if Tybalt had snuck up on you while you were spying on Romeo? Do you know what he would do if he found Romeo, of all people, talking to his cousin? Well, do you?” Mercutio demanded, glaring at me.  

“Whoa. Hang on. Relax. I had it under control, Mercutio. I wasn’t planning on letting Tybalt catch me spying on Romeo. And if he did, I would make sure he didn’t do anything,” said I, trying to smooth over everything.  I was a professional spy, for crying out loud! I could spy pretty well, thank you very much.

“Did you, though, did you?” asked Mercutio. “I mean, it looked like Romeo was going to see you or something.” He leaned in close to me so I could smell the grapes on his breath. “Don’t you dare ruin Romeo’s night. This is his chance—he’s been moping around for days now, and you’re going to ruin it. So, I would appreciate it if you would stop.”

“Mercutio. Chill. I wasn’t going to ruin Romeo’s night. I was just watching them. They’d be perfect together, even if they are supposed to be enemies.” I backed away from Mercutio, who was inching forward slowly, glaring at me.

“Yes, I know that,” said Mercutio, rolling his eyes. A glance to from whence we came. “Don’t you tell Romeo that.”

I shrugged. “Wasn’t planning on it. Honestly, I wasn’t planning on ruining anyone’s night. I just… like seeing young lovers, you know?”  

Gross. The whole of that last remark made me sick. Not my job, I wasn’t a fan of romance, I disliked the kissing parts of movies, etc, etc, etc, normal dude stuff, carrying on.

Mercutio paused a moment. “Are you sure? Hamlet, I need you to be honest with me. I think, against my better judgement, you actually want Romeo to have a good life, correct?”  

An eye roll and a shrug in a “duh” sort of way.

“Then, I suppose, no harm has been done. Just… be careful about Romeo, alright? He’s rather emotional right now, in a girl-crazy stage, you know? Besides, if you’re good—” he shot me a wink at this “—I’ll get you a date with Abigail. You know, you and her—you wouldn’t be so bad for each other.”

I fought the urge to gag. I’m sure she was nice, just… not a fan of romance, remember? A forced smile. “Yeah, sure thing. Sure thing, Mercutio.”

Mercutio nodded. “Good man. If you’ll excuse me… I believe Benvolio really would like to see me. For some reason,” said he, gesturing to Benvolio, who was staring at the two of us intensely, probably trying to pry our deepest darkest secrets out of the depths of our souls.

I shrugged. “Okay, the—” I was cut off.  

Mercutio had turned around to face me. “Believe me, good Hamlet, I would not have interrogated you unless absolutely necessary. I believe that you’re a trustworthy person. Besides, I’m very careful about whom I become friends with. As you should be,” said he, walking off to meet Benvolio. Beside him stood a practically floating Romeo.  

I followed a few seconds behind Mercutio. I arrived right when Benvolio said, “… it’s best if we leave.” He straightened his hat, messing up his blond, man bun-able length hair.

“How come?” Romeo and I asked at the same time. I gave him a slight smile, still mulling the things Mercutio had told me over in my head. Romeo did not respond, but a permanent smile was pasted on his face, which I assume had something to do with Juliet.

“Well, as I was just telling Mercutio, it’s best if we leave when things are just getting fun. That way we won’t be seen at the end,” said Benvolio matter-of-factly.  

“Seriously?” Romeo asked frowning, clearly a little put-out with his cousin’s statement.  

“Yes, seriously. Why, have you met some new love?” Benvolio said, half sarcastic, raising an eyebrow at Romeo.  

I cast Mercutio a look, trying to ask him something telepathically, but he wasn’t looking so I guess telepathy only works if the two people are looking at each other. Mercutio was instead giving Benvolio a look that said “we need to talk”, and Benvolio was looking at Romeo.  

“Already, gentlemen?” asked an older man, coming up to us. It was Capulet. His graying swallowtail goatee was impeccably combed, and his eyebrow was cocked, as I had seen Mercutio’s many a time. (I wonder if they had hung out ever, maybe Mercutio had picked it up from him?)

“Uh, yes, sir,” said Benvolio nodding. “It was a great party, but we really should be going.”

“But I was just about to bring out desserts!” exclaimed Capulet.  

“Honestly, though, we should be going,” said Mercutio giving Capulet a fake smile that I supposed could be convincing to those who hadn’t hung out with him for half a day.

“We thank you for allowing us to come!” said Benvolio grandly, ushering Romeo to the entrance quickly.  

“And I thank you for coming!” said Capulet, his booming voice echoing across the courtyard where sounds of laughter and music playing were present.  

We said our goodbyes and headed to the door. I let out a breath, wiping my sweaty palms on my tunic. That was close, thought I. Too close for my liking. I continued forward before our group got stopped by something.

An older lady with graying hair came up to our small group. She hastily asked Romeo his name and his father’s name.  

Romeo answered, “Romeo II, son of Romeo Montague I.” He gave the old woman a nod.

“Ah, thank you,” said the heavy-set woman and hurried off, the small whisps of hair that had come undone from her headset flying behind her.  Benvolio gave Romeo a very alarmed look  while Mercutio grinned and cracked his knuckles as if ready for action. I wasn’t sure what to do.

Hordes of people started crowding around us, our little group being swamped by a mob. They were a happy mob, but a mob nonetheless, hurrying out, ready to get home and boast about the night’s events. I was ready to get home too, and I couldn’t help but think about how I was supposed to get out of this storybook-esque world. What’s time like here? I wondered to myself, trying to work out what the jetlag time would be between London and wherever Romeo and Juliet was set. (Italy. It’s set in Italy.)

As people crowded around us, smashing our group together, I heard Mercutio grunt in annoyance. “And that is why we should’ve been going sooner,” said he, being shoved left and right by random people trying to escape the Capulets’ humble abode.  

All of a sudden, Romeo darted off, racing away from the group.  

“Romeo!” Benvolio called after him, starting after the boy, before being surpassed by Mercutio running at full speed after him. Unfortunately, Romeo was much, much, faster than Mercutio, and had had a head start.  

Not wanting to be left out of the fun, I ran off after him, legs pumping, trying to push off the ground with my toes as the fitness guy at the agency had instructed time after time.  

I was finally gaining on him, the sprints and mile runs paying off. With a final burst of running energy, I jumped at Romeo and grabbed his ankles, tackling him to the ground. I had been chasing him for around four minutes and I could tell that it was getting harder for him to keep running.  

As Romeo fell to the ground, he didn’t say anything, as to not give up his location, I supposed at the time (later he told me he was so surprised to have been caught he couldn’t say anything). He quickly rolled over and backed away at full speed as to escape me. He ended up backing into a tree trunk.  

“What’re you doing, Romeo?” I asked in a stage whisper.  

“Getting away from you,” Romeo shot back, scrambling up, trying to get away.  

“No, no, no, not so fast,” I said, grabbing his ankle with both hands, trying to get him back to me.  

“What’re you doing, Hamlet?” Romeo whisper-yelled, trying to shake me off his foot.  

“I’m stopping you from doing something dumb,” I whisper-yelled back.  

Romeo sighed. “Listen, I’m just doing something I have to do.”

“And that is…?” I quipped, ready to defend my decision of tackling Romeo. I wasn’t dense, dear reader. I knew exactly what Romeo was doing—he was on his way to go talk to Juliet (and be somewhat of a creepy stalker by standing outside of her window, listening to her talk to herself but that’s another conversation).  

“If you have to know, I’m off to talk to the love of my life. Tell Mercutio and Benvolio that I’m alright. Tell Mercutio in particular that if he doesn’t stop talking about Rosa, I’m going to stab him,” said Romeo, pulling his blue cape around himself tighter as a breeze whisked by our hiding spot.

“Fine,” I relented, to which a surprised look crossed Romeo’s face.

“Really?” He looked startled, then regained his confidence “I mean, it’d be rude of you not to.”

“Okay, you go, I’ll tell the boys I couldn’t catch up to you—”

“Because of my quick feet,” finished Romeo with a lopsided grin.  

“Sure thing, Romeo,” I said, trying to lighten up the conversation with a laugh. “I’ll tell them that.” I turned, ready to go, but Romeo spoke before I could leave.

“Hey, Hamlet?” called Romeo, to which I turned around.  

“Yeah?”

“It’s easy for someone to joke about scars if they’ve never been cut,” said the boy, before he turned around, dragging his cape through the air like Batman would before disappearing through the undergrowth.  

After he had disappeared, I let out a breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding, satisfied at how the story had gone so far, and went in the opposite direction of Romeo to find Benvolio and Mercutio.  

“Hamlet!” exclaimed Benvolio upon seeing me, relief in his eyes.  

“Hamlet,” agreed Mercutio nodding to me in greeting, pretending to be Benvolio.  

“Hey, guys,” I said, coming up to them. “What’s up?”  

“Oh, nothing. We were just wondering why you went after Romeo that way—I mean, he was probably just going off to bed,” said Mercutio, raising a single eyebrow at me, giving me a look I couldn’t quite interpret but was pretty sure had something to do with our conversation earlier.  

“No, he couldn’t have been going off to bed,” said Benvolio shaking his head. “The castle is that way,” he said, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder in the castle’s general direction.  

“Well, where else would he go? He wouldn’t want to ruin his reputation,” I said, crossing my arms. “Besides, he’ll be safe.”

“Safe? In Verona? That’s a joke,” muttered Mercutio.  

I rolled my eyes. “Anyways, he’ll make his way home eventually.”

“Right. And we should be doing that right now. Say, Mercutio, Hamlet, would you like to stay in the castle?” asked Benvolio looking between the two of us.  

Mercutio shook his head. “No, I was told to be home soon,” said Mercutio shrugging helplessly.  

“Well, it’s past soon, so you should definitely get home,” said Benvolio taking charge.  

“Okay,” said Mercutio. “I’ll walk with you guys as far as Benjamin’s Apothecary and then I’ll split to go home,” said the ginger-haired boy, nodding as if all this made sense.  

“Good. Let’s get going, then,” Benvolio agreed, and began off, leaving Mercutio and me to follow. Mercutio gave me a shrug, a strange look, and then followed Benvolio, leaving me to trail after the duo, left alone with my thoughts and to figure out all that had happened.

TWELVE

⚇乂⚇

THERE WAS A TRAVEL GUIDE!?

THAT NIGHT, I SLEPT WELL. No kidding, that was one of the best nights of sleep I’d ever had. Which was honestly pretty weird, because I’d never slept on a feather bed before. There’s a first time for everything, I suppose.  

However, before I went to bed, I had a very… interesting encounter. And it’s all Mercutio and Benvolio’s fault. All of it. (I mean, I didn’t really dislike Benvolio for it, since I’d been looking for a particular… object… for a while before he’d shown me the library and I’d “found” it. So, thanks Benvolio.)

So, I started off on a plush seat, trying to make sense of a fragile-looking book Benvolio had given me. It had brightly colored pictures, that seemed like something you would see out of Candyland—you know, with all of the colors and the clothes and stuff—but Benvolio said it was based on a real-life place.  

Anyways, I was sitting there, reading the book (or trying to—again, medieval is hard to read) and I heard a voice.  

“Did Benvolio lend you that book?” I looked up to find Montague looking down at me.  

“Uh, yes. Yeah, actually,” I said, nodding, carefully closing the book on my thumb to save the page I was on.  

Montague shook his head. “Should’ve known he would lend you a child’s book. Here—” he reached back and grabbed a different book from the bookshelf. It had fancy, gold-plated letters, and a cover that had eloquent drawings on it.  

“Thanks,” I said, giving a slightly-pained-but-not-looking-so-pained- that-it’s-noticeable-thanks-spy-teacher-agent-teacher-people smile. There was no literal way that I would end up reading this. Maybe in the far future when it was translated into normal English I would, but now, nope.  

Montague nodded. “Of course. Anything for one of Romeo’s little friends,” said he, ruffling my hair.

Okay, first of all, I’d like to clarify: I am not a “little” anything. I’m average height, maybe slightly above average height. But it’s not like I’m a football player either. I’ve got curly, dark brown hair, and these bluish-green eyes that are more green than blue, depending on the outfit (something about color theory, but I’ve been told by many that I am hopelessly fashion-blind).

But that’s enough. Montague walked off, probably to go to sleep, and I heard a little laugh from a small alcove in between two shelves. A head poked out and I could see long, brown, hair and eyes very similar to Romeo’s.  

“Sorry, did I disrupt you?” asked the girl, who I recognized as Abigail.  

“Uh, no, no,” I said, shrugging, trying to be cool and such. “Your dad was just in here…” I trailed off.  

“I saw” said the girl with a little laugh. “Part of the reason I was laughing,” she stated with a smile. “The other reason is because one of the characters in this book—” she tapped the book she was reading with a free finger, thumbs preoccupied with keeping the book open “—did something really funny. Well, it was kind of funny, kind of dumb. But both I guess.” She gave a slight smile, showing her teeth a bit. Her teeth were, surprisingly, not rotting, as I’d been told George Washington’s were. I had a sudden desire to ask her what type of medieval toothpaste she used.  

“Do I talk strangely?” she asked, out of the blue. “To you, that is?”  

“No… I don’t think you do,” I said, shrugging. “I mean, I can’t really tell a difference in your speech from Romeo’s. Not right now at least. I’ll let you know once I’ve heard you speak for a few minutes,” I said, trying to be relaxed and figure out more information all at the same time. I needed data, but my tactics were failing.

“Gimme a second,” I said, coughing into my arm, whispering right before, “Transmitter. Deactivate. Two minutes.”

The girl’s voice was “normal” now. “Heavens, art thou alright? Ne’er have I seen such a pow’rful cough emitted from a boy—much less a man.”

Strangely enough, the girl’s voice sounded vaguely familiar. I couldn’t figure it out, until she said, “Aye, my dear brother sayeth my speaking is of some strange nature. I’m not sure if’t I truly trust the gent when he says this, though.” She gave a slight laugh after that.  

“No, I neither—” I stopped upon hearing my own voice. The agency was helpful enough to put some type of thing in my throat—that I could get removed at any time—that would change my voice according to where I was. So evidently, my communications were down, but my location systems still worked, and so did my what-time-period-is-this systems.

Anyways, my voice sounded Scottish, with a bit of Irish mixed in with that. Most of the time, agents could use accents—I was accustomed to this, as I’d done it many a time—but only a couple could talk like they were out of a different time. Sure, a couple of us had come from a different time (long story) but very few could make it sound like we were from a different time through how we talked. And that’s where the esopha-change (patented by Freddie Smithson, a person of our agency, very few people outside of the organization knew of it) came into play. The thing could tell where you were, and it could tell what time it was there. That included the year. So, if you happened to be in Baltimore during the 80’s, you’d say “What’s poppin’” instead of “What’s up”. Thus, helpfulness.  

“—know, nor, if I did know, would I tell thee if I were to find something a mere bit diff’rent than ‘normal’ speaking.”

I had no idea what she was talking about. Her voice sounded so familiar, though… and then I had it. She sounded like a pirate from Pirates of the Caribbean or something. And I would bet that everyone else’s voice was like that, too.  Or not, since she had asked if her voice sounded weird….

Abigail gave a smile and said, in a slightly-pained voice, “Please taketh me seriously, good man. I loathe it with every ounce of my being when one doth not taketh me of solemnity.”

“Of course, good woman. I would never not take you s’riously. I mean, what I mean is that I would take you s’riously. Of course,” I said, and I could hear that my two minutes were up, my voice returning to that “I’ll-activate-your-Alexa-and-you-can’t-do-anything-about-it” sort of neutral accent.

“Well, if you don’t mind my saying, I think your voice is slightly different. Where are you from, anyways?”  

“My mom’s a Scot, you know? My dad, he was, you know, an Irishman.” I hate improv. With a passion.

“Ah, that makes sense. I thought I heard some Scottish in your voice,” said Abigail giving me a real, genuine, smile, giving a little nod of aha.

“I’ve been… writing this, and I thought you might want to read it,” she spoke, handing me a stack of papers. The corners were glued together with some wax, which is how it was all stuck together in the first place.

So, she made glue out of wax. Impressive.

I looked down at the parchment, and could make out the words “Traversing Guide” at the top. Abigail had made… a travel guide for Elizabethan England.  

“Thank you, Abigail. This will be really, really, useful. Thank you,” said I, relief washing over me as I sank down into the chair. This would make getting back home- the real world- so much easier.

“Yes, of course. Don’t worry about returning it, I have the original copy in my room upstairs. You can keep that one,” she said, further explaining the hastily-glued together papers.

I nodded. “Absolutely, Abigail. Thank you,” I said again. Abigail nodded, saying something along the lines of “yeah, no problem”. Then, she walked off.  

A few feet out the door, she turned around, briskly coming back. “Do you know where your room is tonight?”  

I shook my head reluctantly, realizing Benvolio had probably given me directions to the room, but I hadn’t been listening.  

Abigail gave a compassionate smile. “Romeo’s not great with showing guests to their rooms.”

I kept quiet about Romeo’s present whereabouts.

“But no matter!” she declared matter-of-factly. “I’ll have you there in no time.”  

So, the two of us headed upstairs, me, with a homemade travel guide (and a lot of reading to do), and Abigail carrying her book.  

I almost stopped short around two-thirds of the way there, but I continued walking, causing a questioning look from my companion.

“Do you have a problem, Mr. Hamlet?” she asked jokingly, an eyebrow raised humorously.  

“Well, I had a question-” a curious look from Abigail “-but now I have two.”

“And they are..?”

“First: how old exactly are you?” I knew it was weird, but yes, I asked. I’m sorry, Mary Poppins stans. I have failed us. I mean you. You. I mean you. You guys are the Mary Poppins stans, not me.  

Abigail gave me a dramatic gasp. “How dare you,” she said, and I thought I’d actually made her mad. Seeing my alarmed look, she continued. “Don’t worry, a lot of people want to know that. You’re just the only one who’s been brave enough to ask. I’m sixteen. Almost. In a couple of weeks, I will be. I know, I know, it’s strange I’m not married—”  

“Not at all—”

“Thank you. But most girls are married at my age and happily carrying a two-year-old on their back with another one on the way. But I suppose when my father is so stubborn as to do things at the same time as Capulet, it’s normal. Juliet, his daughter, isn’t exactly married, either, and she’s perfectly normal and fine. I would love to meet her and ask her about things—you know, her being the daughter of my father’s greatest adversaries and all—but there’s no way I could ever do that. It wouldn’t be quote, unquote, allowed,” said Abigail, brushing her thick hair out of her face and continuing on her way to the room. She gave a slightly apologetic-nervous-joking smile. “Sorry, I talk a lot. You can tell me to be quiet whenever you want,” the girl said with the same lopsided smile Romeo had displayed a while ago.  

“Oh, don’t worry about talking too much, that’s alright,” said I, trying to make her feel more comfortable and not so awkward. If I had ever failed a mission, it would be that one.

A brief silence. “Your question? That is, your second question?” Abigail prompted.  

“Oh, it was, uh, how you learned to, you know, uh…” I trailed off, not sure how to phrase the question.  Is that something you don’t ask here..? My thoughts trailed off before she spoke.

“How I learned to read?” Abigail suggested, a cool air about her.

“Yeah, that,” I said, relieved I didn’t have to finish the question.  

“Well, I had a private tutor for about three years, and then he stopped teaching me, as is normal for ladies in our time, and I ended up having to teach myself a lot and the nurse taught me some, as well,” said Abigail with a self-assured smile on her face.

“Ah, that makes sense.” How do you respond to such a confident answer as that?

“Fun fact, the nurse? Same one for Juliet. She left our family when the Capulets, uh… well, as Dad says, after they, uh, deserted us,” said Abigail, sounding unsure when talking of the matter. Interesting….

“Oh, look, is this it?” I asked as we passed a spare room, the door open to air it out. I gave what I was later told a dorky smile, trying to ease the uncomfortable tension that was growing between us.  

Taking one look at the door, she nodded, in a “yes, this is the right place” way. “Thiiiis is it!” she said, gesturing to the door. “See you tomorrow,” she said, cutting the conversation short abruptly, fast-walking off in a whirl of green-blue skirts, leaving me with an empty room I was meant to live in, a lot of new questions, and, apparently, a tour guide.

THIRTEEN

⚇乂⚇

HAPPY LITTLE… WELL, ACTUALLY, THE TREES ARE QUITE DEPRESSING TODAY

HAVE YOU EVER HAD SUCH an awkward conversation that you’ve wanted to melt into the floor and just disappear from existence? Yeah, me too.

I was taking a walk with Benvolio, as he’d told me he often did in the morning, and we were just chatting, having a laugh, when we ran into Mercutio (nearly quite literally, as he was walking in our direction, looking at the sky for some reason), who quickly joined our conversation, continuing the rest of our walk with us.

We were talking, or, Mercutio was mainly talking, and we got onto the topic of Abigail. If I had a nickel for every single time someone mentioned Abigail to me, probably to set us up, I’d have… two nickels, which, granted, that’s not a lot, but it’s kind of weird it happened twice.

Mercutio kept talking, not stopping at anything, and we kept walking through the town. Its winding streets were seemingly normal to Mercutio, while to me they were like a labyrinth. You went this way, and you ended up at the same place you’d been five minutes ago.

Of course, Mercutio being completely used to the streets was supposed to be expected, as he’d lived in this fairytale Shakespeare world since… always, but it was still really weird how he knew the streets so well. It was like a maze and he had completely memorized how to get out.

We approached a place with colorful tents and carts and peddlers, all of them yelling about their different products. Looking around, I could see different vendors, all dressed in olive greens, browns, faint blues, and light reds (not pink), all trying to get a reaction out of the people in the square, marketing their stuff. We kept walking, getting further and further into the marketplace, and before I knew it, we were in the thick of it.

It seemed to me that the people in the Shakespeare world had no grasp on colors at all. I mean, the Montagues all wore varying shades of blue, and the Capulets wore anything from burgundy to firetruck red. I assumed that was the only reason people hadn’t called Benvolio, Mercutio, Romeo, or myself out at the party. Maybe the colors were added as an afterthought, or, maybe Shakespeare just didn’t care and was possibly colorblind himself.

Of course, when we finally got deep into the marketplace, that’s where I began to have some problems. The marketplace itself wasn’t the problem, it was more what happened there. In other words, Mercutio (unsurprisingly).

Actually, the stalls of the place were quite nice, there were a couple places where merchants were selling their different things, and then there was a butcher’s stall, where a few butchers were skinning a pig and two rabbits. There were other places, too, like multiple fruit stalls, and a few indoor shopping places, too, which, I wondered whether or not they might cost more than the places outdoors.

We were just randomly walking past, and Mercutio suddenly stopped, examining some cream-colored candles. Normal enough, thought I, waiting for him to finish his examinations. After a couple of minutes, Mercutio straightened up, starting off again towards a stall where flowers were being sold.

Once we were out of the vendor’s earshot, Mercutio leaned over to me and said, “Ah, those candles were so romantic, just the type one might find at a table for two.” I knew exactly what Mercutio was doing. Giving him an odd look, I decided to play dumb, wondering if my suspicions were right and if this would really play out the way I thought it would.

Finally, we reached the flower stall, but turned a sharp right, passing some sweet-smelling roses with a particularly strong smell. The ones that caught my eye were these very full-looking ones that were a snowy white color.

Mercutio picked up a red one, twirling it between his index finger and his thumb.

“These roses—oh, they’re so beautiful. They remind me of love, the young type. They would be found at… I think a table for two, or perhaps a man would hand it to his wife—” here, he snuck a look at me with a sly grin “—or a boy to his beloved.”

“Okay, that’s enough. I’m not, you know, following after Abigail, okay?”

“Ah, so he admits it!”

“No, I’m not admitting anything. I was just saying—”

Benvolio chimed in, “You know, acceptance is the first step to getting over your crush.”

I sighed. “Guys, I do not have a crush on Romeo’s sister,” said I, very matter-of-factly. And if I had, it wouldn’t be logical to admit it to Abigail’s brother’s best friend and her cousin. It would only ensure teasage.

“Ah, denial. The third stage of grief,” said Benvolio, nodding as if he understood everything.

“Actually, it’s the first stage—”

“Ah, an alchemist,” said Mercutio somewhat dramatically. It occurred to me that an alchemist was probably a scientist back in Shakespeare’s time, so maybe this was a Shakespearean character’s way of saying “Ah look, we have a genius on our hands”, or something like that.

I shook my head. “Not an alchemist, just someone with some sense in their head.”

Mercutio gasped at this. “You dare question my sense!? Guards, chop off his head,” he ordered, clearly joking, whilst Benvolio laughed at his joke.

“Sure, Mercutio, when you become the king of a kingdom, tell us that we might be your jesters. I mean, after all, what is a king without his clown?”

I rolled my eyes at the two of them. “You two are absolutely crazy,” said I, which I figured probably translated to “Thou art utterly crazed”.

Continuing on with our walk, Mercutio changed the topic back to Abigail.  “You know,” he said, a smirk on his face “those candles back there also reminded me of the night sky—”

“Don’t even start that again, Mercutio,” said I with a frown, desperately trying to change the subject. We were not going there again. And even if, by some small margin, I had stumbled upon feelings, it wouldn’t’ve worked out. Different universes and all that. Alas, Mercutio kept talking over me, not intending to stop at any time soon.  

“—over a couple of star-crossed lovers.”

“Eh,” said I, trying to remain calm and recollect myself. “I mean, I guess so.” Mercutio narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out what to respond to this with. He could, unfortunately, not bring the conversation back, so continued to talk about the most random of things.

We walked upon the cobbled path up to the castle, chatting, well, Mercutio doing most of the talking, Benvolio and I politely listening and sometimes joining in. Out of nowhere, Mercutio glanced at the sky and exclaimed, “Egad! A half-moon! The hags must have gathered last night to discuss their plans to take over the kingdom.”

“Hags?” I questioned, wondering if magic was actually real in this Shakespeare world. If it were, it might turn into a horrible spin-off of Harry Potter where Harry marries Juliet or something. The thought sent shivers down my spine.

Benvolio gave a sigh, then slung an arm around my neck, making us three probably look like the three musketeers but without the hats and the swords for everyone and… never mind, we didn’t exactly look like the three musketeers.

“The hags are said to live near the trees in that huge forest—”

“No way! Trees!? In a forest, of all places!? How unusual,” Mercutio couldn’t help putting his two bits in.

Benvolio ignored him. “The hags meet at moon high on the nights of the half-moon and cast spells, making potions… but it’s all superstition,” said he with a shrug.

I nodded. “Right,” I said as if this made perfect sense (which it did because Shakespeare).

“Right,” agreed Benvolio.

“Oh look, we’re here,” said Mercutio, stating the obvious as we reached the fortress castle home of the Montagues.

“Mhmmm,” Benvolio said, walking through the arched opening and underneath the large portcullis casually.  

We walked into the castle’s library, expecting nothing but some empty chairs and couches and whatnot, but instead were greeted by Romeo looking bored out of his mind, who stood up quickly. “Guys! I’ve been looking for you all over! Where have you been?”

“Just taking a walk around,” said Mercutio shrugging, as if taking a walk for a couple of miles every single day was normal for people who could be reading or writing or doing something more productive and brain-stimulating like a Rubik’s cube or something like that.

Romeo gave a long sigh and nodded his head once, accepting this as the truth. “Okay, well I’ve been looking for you for hours. We have a lot of catching up to do.” And with that, he led us to the library, where I had been talking with Abigail only twelve hours earlier.

FOURTEEN

⚇乂⚇

*INSERT CHAPTER TITLE HERE*  

AS WE SAT DOWN, I had but one thought: something is going to explode and end horribly. I know, I know, it’s not the most encouraging of thoughts, but I wasn’t about to get my hopes up, especially since I knew that one, this was a Shakespeare tragedy, two, what Romeo was going to say, and three, the ending of the play.  

I also had a thought about somehow fixing the comm. device, but I’ll get to that after this, maybe. After Romeo “spills the tea”, so to speak.  

As we all sat down, Romeo began to pour out his story. The entirety of it.  

As it turns out, Romeo had met a girl last night. A very pretty girl, one prettier than Rosaline, which is pretty much impossible, but I’d assume that when you’re in love, that’s just what happens.  

This girl, whose name was Juliet (Romeo said the name quite wistfully, probably excited and missing his girl, but anyway), had fallen for Romeo immediately, as Romeo had fallen for her. In Romeo’s own words (he repeated the same thing a couple thousand times, as if he couldn’t fathom the fact), she was “the most beautiful gem I had ever laid eyes on”, and “two stars twinkle where her eyes are, and the brightness of her cheek would shame the stars”. He was love-struck, alright.  

He went on with his story, and then broke the news to the three of us.  

“We’re getting married!” he blurted out, extremely excited at the idea of marrying his “beloved Juliet who I [he] have felt I’ve known my whole life”.  

Mercutio scowled. “You’re marrying a Capulet!?” he exploded, annoyed at the idea. “Do you have ANY IDEA what they’ve done to us!?”

“Define ‘us’,” said Romeo in a small voice, shrinking back a little, trying to escape the wrath of Mercutio.  

“US!?” roared Mercutio like a lion, getting fired up as he paced the floor, fidgeting madly with a small bracelet that wrapped around his arm.

“Mercutio,” said Benvolio, trying to smooth the situation out. “It’s not the end of the—”

“End of the world!?” exclaimed Mercutio. “Ohoho, I think it is. Romeo is going to be MARRYING a CAPULET! I THINK THIS CALLS FOR ‘END OF THE WORLD’ TYPE THINGS—”

“Mercutio,” snapped Romeo, gaining confidence by the second. “This is my life.”

“And I’m part of your life!” Mercutio snapped back, still pacing and fidgeting.  

“Not if I cut you out!” Romeo shot, glaring.

“Cut me out then!” Mercutio said, plopping down on a chair, brooding.  

“Mercutio, Romeo,” said Benvolio, looking between the two who were both brooding. He gave a small laugh at their positions, which mirrored each other almost perfectly.  

“What?” asked Mercutio, annoyed, not making eye contact with anyone.  

“You two are too similar to not be friends,” said Benvolio simply, sitting back in the chair, arms crossed.  

“Opposites attract?” said Romeo, more a statement than a question, glancing to Mercutio and accidentally making eye-contact with his friend, quickly looking away after that.  

“Opposites attract,” stated Mercutio gruffly. “Besides, we’re too similar to BE friends.”

“Doubtful,” said I. “Great minds think alike. Why do you think you’re both crossing your arms and pouting in the exact same position?”

“We’re not—” Mercutio started, objecting to the fact that he was pouting, but being cut off by Romeo, who he looked to curiously as he started talking.

“He has a point,” said Romeo in a conversational tone, lightening up, having thought about what I’d said.  

Benvolio gave a sigh, relieved the tension had been broken between the two. “Details,” said he, in an almost-sing-song voice, tipping his head to Romeo, who was staring off into space, a vacant look on his face.

Being dragged back into reality, Romeo blinked twice. “What?”

“Daydreaming about Juliet,” said Mercutio with a little smile.  

“Was nooooooot,” argued Romeo back, blushing a little.

“Oh yeah,” said I. “Definitely day-dreaming.”

“You don’t know my brain—” started Romeo, before being cut off by a chuckle from Benvolio.  

“But I do,” stated the older boy. “And you were definitely daydreaming.”

“But you don’t know what I was daydreaming about!” exclaimed Romeo victoriously, a grin on his face.

“What were you dreaming about then, friend?” asked Mercutio, laughing at this whole conversation.  

“Rosaline,” said Romeo in an ‘I’m-lying-but-I’m-not-telling-you-that’ voice.  

“Romeo, Romeo,” chastised Benvolio jokingly. “Don’t think about two girls at once.”

“Trust me,” added in Mercutio seriously. “It never helps.”

“Okay, okay,” said Romeo, rolling his eyes. “I was daydreaming of Juliet, but that’s not the POINT, the point is I tricked you—”

“EUREKA!” I said in a not-quite-yelling-but-we’re-getting-there voice.  

My three companions gave me a weird look.  

“What, I can’t say eureka? It’s a eureka moment for sure,” said I, before realizing that, oh yes, this is the Elizabethan era, the gold rush, where “eureka” originated hasn’t happened yet.  

“What are you talking about?” questioned Benvolio, still casting a confused look to me.

“Made-up word,” I said, shrugging, trying to play it off. Such a Shakespeare move.

“Why would you want to make up a word…?” asked Romeo, confused as well.

“I mean, if I can’t find a word I like, why not make up my own?” I asked, still trying to play it off.

“All words are made up,” murmured Mercutio, coming to a life-changing conclusion.  

“Mhm,” agreed Benvolio, as if he’d already known this. “But back to the topic at hand.”

“RIGHT,” yelled Romeo, being a little loud. “The topic… at hand.”

“The details of your wedding,” quipped Mercutio, all eyes on Romeo.  

“Oh,” said Romeo. “Uh…” he trailed off, seemingly unsure.

“How do you not know when your own wedding is?” questioned Benvolio after an awkward pause had elapsed for a couple seconds.  

“OH,” exclaimed Romeo, finally coming to an answer. “This afternoon.”

“I’ll bring the flowers,” said Mercutio under his breath, getting out of his chair, ready to go grab some things for the wedding.

“Wait, Mercutio!” called Romeo, causing the older boy to turn around.

“Yeeeeees?”  

“I don’t— I don’t think you can come to the wedding.”

“I ‘can’ do anything I want. What you mean is I ‘may’ not come to the wedding,” stated Mercutio quickly.  

Romeo sighed. “What I mean is,” he said, fumbling for words “is that you—uh—you tend to draw a lot of attention to us.”

“Define us,” said Mercutio smugly.

“‘Us’, used when defining multiple persons, including oneself,” said Romeo as if reading from a boring textbook.  

Mercutio rolled his eyes, and said half-sarcastically, “Benvolio, come break this up, I’m not going to win this battle of the wits.”

Benvolio did nothing, watching the two boys. Romeo cut in at the end, suspecting Benvolio would say something. “Let’s continue the battle… or else,” said he, ominously.  

“Or else what?” quipped Mercutio, crossing his arms.

“Or else I’ll declare myself winner,” said Romeo with a lopsided grin.  

“Look, our jokes are going to go on a wild goose chase, and I’m already finished. ‘Sides, was I even close to you in the chase for the goose?”

Romeo laughed, a smirk on his face. “Well… were you ever anything except for the goose?”

Mercutio gasped dramatically. “How dare you? I’ll get you for that one.”

Romeo gasped, mustering up as much drama as he could. “Don’t get me, good goose!”

Mercutio gave a sigh, somewhat annoyed. “Benvolio?”  

“Mercutio?” said Benvolio in the same tone Mercutio had used.  

“Want to tell him about the, ah, thing?”

Benvolio frowned. “I think it’d be best if we did tell him, just maybe not right now—”

Romeo gave the two a look. “What thing?”

I was confused, as well, as I certainly didn’t remember this. “Tell him what?”

“Funny story,” said Benvolio kind of awkwardly, trying to laugh whatever was going on off.  

“Romeo got a letter from that rat, Tybalt, and he’s been challenged to a duel,” said Mercutio flatly. “And of course, he’s going to accept it. Right, Romeo?”

“I…” Romeo trailed off, unsure. “I don’t know.”

“Romeo, you have to take this! If you don’t, you’re going to be a laughing stock until your death,” said I, fingers propped up against each other, deep in thought. Surely the story would continue as normal? But… the slain. This was certainly a moral issue.

“Your street cred!” exclaimed Benvolio, trying to get through to Romeo.

“I have to think about it,” said he. He stood up, brushing off his tunic.  

“Where’re you going?” asked Benvolio, watching him start to walk off.  

“To get married!” Romeo called back, casually leaving the fortress to get married to his family’s mortal enemy.  

FIFTEEN

⚇乂⚇

A PILLOW FIGHT BUT WITH SWORDS, PROBABLY

MERCUTIO LOUNGED ON THE CHAIR, presumably bored out of his mind. I stared at him, unblinking, as he tried to get comfortable on the blue cushions across from me.

“What?”  

I shrugged. “You’re just moving around a lot.”

“Duh, it’s hot as a baker’s oven in here.”

“Imagine how hot it’ll be outside,” Benvolio mused, reading a book, chin on his hand as he flipped a page.

Mercutio gave a dramatic sigh. “It’s better than being bored out of our MINDS,” said he, rolling his eyes and in the process rolling backward off the chair he’d been casually barely hanging onto.  

Benvolio sighed, flipping another page. “You can go outside for a walk if you want.”

“Why’re we waiting here anyways?” asked Mercutio, really bored now, laying on the ground in a starfish shape.

It struck me that I knew what was to happen today, and I really didn’t like it, at all.  

“Benvolio,” tried Mercutio, still staring at the ceiling.

“Mhm,” said Benvolio, still reading his book.

“Psst,” Mercutio tried again.

“Yello,” said Benvolio, eyes still scanning the pages of the book as he skimmed the well-loved volume.  

“Do you wanna go outside?”

“Nope,” and with that Benvolio turned another page.  

“But I’m bored,” said Mercutio, sprawled out on the floor. “‘Sides, I’ve got a feeling something important is happening in town.”

Benvolio let out a long sigh that any commercial pilot would’ve been proud of. “Fine,” said he, closing the book. “Let’s go.”

Mercutio hopped up like an excited puppy. “Where’re we going? The market?”  

“Nope,” said Benvolio, closing his book. “Town square. Let’s go,” he stood up, stretched and started for the entrance, Mercutio following him closely, excitedly jabbering. I still sat in my own chair, watching the two as they headed off, having a sort of out-of-body moment, just thinking about life and what had happened over the last day or so.  

Twenty-four hours ago, I was preparing for a mission, I thought, staring off into space. Not a care in the world except for maybe figuring out the best way to take down a couple of body guards. I gave a small chuckle, then was yanked out of my thoughts.

“Hamlet!” exclaimed Mercutio, motioning for me to follow the two. I was yanked out of my thoughts and quickly stood up, stretching a bit before dashing after them and catching up.  

We walked out the entrance of the courtyard towards the town square. It was bustling, as always, people walking about, minding their business. Shades of brown, dull blue and red dyed clothing were present in the town square, with a few greens mixed in wherever merchants were (actually, there was quite a lot of green near the market stalls, but not the bright green, more a darker, duller, green).  

A bright red outfit lurked among a duller red, next to group of people wearing brownish-red outfits. The vibrant outfit belonged to no other but Tybalt. Beside him was one of the guests from the night before, who I recalled being Petruchio. And flocking around Tybalt were people who weren’t very interested in the feud at all, wearing brownish-red clothing. They seemed to be on the Capulet side, but that was either for show or because everyone had to be biased in Shakespeare.  

Benvolio’s attention was focused on the Capulets. “Mercutio,” he said cautiously, grabbing Mercutio’s attention.  

Mercutio made a hmming noise as he examined a bouquet of flowers, probably to give to Romeo in congratulations for his wedding.

“Mercutio,” hissed Benvolio, and the blue-clad boy looked to his older friend.  

“What?” asked he, clearly already done with this conversation.  

“We ought to go home,” said Benvolio, watching the Capulets cautiously, unmoving.

“Why?” asked Mercutio, going back to examining the flowers, not taking notice of the group of followers around Tybalt, or the Capulet himself.  

“There are Capulets walking around—if we bump into them, trouble’ll be sure to come our way,” said Benvolio knowledgeably, and I couldn’t help but agree.  

“Mercutio, it’s probably a good idea to not eng—”

Mercutio was already rolling up the sleeves of his tunic. “No way are they getting away this time,” he said as he angrily scrunched them up. “I’m gonna get my revenge and they’re gonna pay and…” he trailed off into saying something unintelligible, but I assumed it was something about vengeance and what he was going to do to Tybalt once he got his hands on him.  

“NO, Mercutio,” reprimanded Benvolio a little too loudly, drawing the Capulets’ attention on us three.  

“Good afternoon. I’d like to have a word with one of you,” said Tybalt, walking up to the three of us, rapier glinting dangerously at his side.  

“You just want one word with one of us? What a waste of time. Mix it with something else, maybe a word and a parry,” said Mercutio cleverly, smirking a bit and crossing his arms.  

Benvolio drew him aside. “Mercutio,” said he in a hushed tone, looking over his shoulder at Tybalt who stood waiting impatiently. “Don’t fight him. You’re wasting your life. Don’t fight.”

This was clearly a conversation they’d had multiple times. Mercutio gave a sigh. “You’re afraid for me, is that it?”

Benvolio frowned and thought a moment, as if he had not considered the idea that he might be worried about the younger boy. “I am worried for you,” he conceded after a minute of thinking.  

“But,” he went on, when Mercutio gave a smirk as in “I knew it, I was right, obviously”. “Even if I am worried about you, I’m also worried about other people. Come on, Mercutio, call it off, just for one day. We should really talk it over with Romeo—.” He was cut off by Mercutio.

“You once started a fight with a tailor for wearing something when it wasn’t the right season. And you’re getting onto me about being restrained?”

Benvolio gave me a tired look and signaled to try talking to Mercutio. “If he fought as much as you fought… well, he’d probably go hungry most nights.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Mercutio, crossing his arms. Benvolio facepalmed in the background.  

“I’m just saying that it’s not always a great idea to fight, especially when people could get hurt—”

Tybalt tapped me on the shoulder. “I need a word.” He cast a glare to Mercutio. “Actually, more than a word.”

“Great, here comes Tybalt’s posse,” said Benvolio under his breath, rolling his eyes.  

“RIGHT,” said Mercutio, drawing his sword. “A word and a blow. Let’s see who shall fall first, eh?”

Tybalt stepped back, away from me as Mercutio stepped forward, and drew his own rapier. “You’ll find me ready to add a blow to my word if you give me a reason to.”

As the sun’s warm rays cut through a film of clouds and towards the ground, Mercutio’s rapier gleamed, having been cleaned only a small amount of time beforehand. “I hang out with Romeo. Need you a reason?”

“Mercutio…” I said in a warning tone in a “you’re going to regret this later don’t do it” way.  

“Hamlet…” said Mercutio in the same warning tone. “I’ve got this,” he said, confidence abounding.  

“Mercutio, Tybalt,” snapped Benvolio. “We’re in a public place. Can it. Figure it out without violence or go somewhere to fight it out.” People were starting to look at what was going on between Mercutio and Tybalt, gathering in a sort of circle around the two as if ready for them to fight.

“Let ‘em watch,” said Mercutio, proudly holding his sword in a starting fencing position. “I’m no people-pleaser, who cares what they think.”

Mercutio stared Tybalt down, Tybalt returning his look.  And then a familiar voice came through the air.

SIXTEEN

⚇乂⚇

WHAT, YOU EGG? [HE STABS HIM]

“MERCUTIO? TYBALT? WHAT’RE YOU DOING here?” Romeo’s voice cut like a knife through the murmurs and whispering of the crowd as Mercutio and Tybalt each stared down the other.

“Ah, there he is. Man of honor,” said Tybalt, not letting his guard down as he watched Romeo saunter in.  

“Tybalt!” cried Romeo with a smile on his face. “I’m glad to see you, I have—”  

Tybalt shook his head. “I don’t want to hear your excuses for whatever you’ve done. I know for sure that you’re a villain.”

“A villain?” Romeo sounded confused.  

“A villain,” confirmed Tybalt, sword drawn, eyes locked onto Mercutio yet again.  

“Tybalt, Tybalt,” said Romeo, trying to smooth over the situation. “I have no reason to think you’re a villain, I have no reason to hate you at all! In fact, I have reason to love you like a brother! I’m no villain, you have the wrong guy.”

“Yes, the wrong guy,” I confirmed, trying to steer Romeo away. Mercutio stared at us, gaze almost impossible to read.

“Your sweet talking isn’t going to get you out of this,” warned Tybalt, a gleam in his eye, unparalleled even by the glint of the rapier he held.  

“Tybalt, I have no reason to hate you—”

“So you said,” Tybalt rolled his eyes, sounding bored.

“In fact, I have reason to love the name Capulet as my own name! I will not draw my sword against you, for I love you.”

“Romeo,” Benvolio muttered under his breath before Mercutio took over.  

“This… is dishonorable. Romeo, you’d submit to this guy!? He’s your enemy!”

“YOU’RE THE ENEMY,” roared Tybalt. “YOU TRAITOROUS FIEND.”

Mercutio ignored Tybalt’s outburst. “You’d give up your honor for this… this GUY!?”

“Yes,” said Romeo simply, not having drawn his rapier as he stared off into space, looking quite like Luke Skywalker.  

“Tybalt,” said Mercutio, turning from Romeo to Tybalt once again. “Tybalt, you king of rats, will you fight me?”

“I have no quarrel with you—”

“Fight for your honor and your name, or die a coward,” threatened Mercutio, sword drawn, pointed at Tybalt.

Tybalt’s gaze hardened. “En garde.”

“Hamlet,” said Romeo, sounding panicked. “Get your sword out, we need to stop them. They’ll be arrested if the Prince finds out—which he inevitably will—quick, stop them.”

I drew my own sword, one I’d borrowed from Benvolio the day before and forgotten to return, and began to try to break up the fight, parrying a few of Tybalt’s blows to Mercutio, who was surprised I’d been able to even draw my sword in the first place.  

Swords flashed in the sunlight, like lightning. The sound of metal against metal rang out in the clearing, where the two were surrounded by a crowd of people, me and Romeo trying to break up the fight as the citizens of Verona kept egging them on, whispering, shouting, making exclamations.  

Finally, Tybalt and Mercutio were away from each other, separated by Romeo and myself. Peace. Calmness. We’re fine.  

In a fluid motion, Tybalt reached under Romeo’s arm and stabbed Mercutio. The boy, who couldn’t have been but a year older than me, fell to the ground, clutching his bleeding side.  

“Mercutio!” yelled Benvolio, running over to his friend and kneeling down beside him. “What happened!?” For once, Benvolio sounded panicked.  

“It’s a small cut. It’ll heal,” said Mercutio, voice laced with pain, but trying to keep up a tough exterior.  

A wave of pain seemed to hit Mercutio, and the boy fell to the ground, laying on his back.  

“Mercutio,” said Benvolio, trying to hide the panic in his voice.  

“Curses,” muttered Mercutio “on both your families. I’m done for.”

“NO, you said so yourself, you’d be fine,” protested Benvolio, glaring at Mercutio in a “you’re not dying” way.  

“Romeo,” said Mercutio accusingly, glaring at Romeo, who was staring, watching a fleeing Tybalt and his servant. “I’m dying and you’re watching my enemy flee!? Are you serious!? I—how did you think it was okay to back down from a fight!?”

Romeo sighed. “Tybalt’s been my cousin for an hour, I wasn’t going to just fight him!”

Mercutio seemed to summon strength. “Curses on both your families. I’m dying.”

Romeo surveyed the cut, eyes flicking over every detail. “It’s not that bad,” he decided. “It can’t really hurt you, right? It’s not so bad you’ll die.”

“It’s not as deep as a well, or as wide as a church,” agreed Mercutio.

“Stop speaking in riddles, man!” commanded Benvolio, straight-forward as always.  

“I’m dying,” Mercutio flatly stated, a dry chuckle escaping his mouth. “Oh, sweet death.”

“You’re not dying,” Romeo said, looking to Mercutio for the first time since he’d fallen to the ground in agony.  

“Oh, I’m dying,” said Mercutio, dragging it out.  

“No,” said Romeo, voice shaky, as if it was impossible for his friend to die. He couldn’t die. He wouldn’t die. Surely.  

“Yes,” said Mercutio, letting out a breath. “I fear it’s time to meet the angels of Heaven- a place I don’t belong.”

“No, no, NO,” said Romeo, shaking his head. “You’re not dying.”

Mercutio laid his head on the ground. “I must,” said he. The light flickered out of his eyes, like a flame dying, and Mercutio’s body went limp.  

SEVENTEEN

⚇乂⚇

ROMEO TURNS INTO A RAGE MONSTER (AND RIGHTFULLY SO)

ROMEO’S EYES BLAZED WITH ANGER. He looked up after a few seconds, tears building up quickly but not spilling out quite yet.

“That’s. It.”

And with that, he stood up, brushing his tunic off, and drew his sword. “TYBALT, I KNOW YOU’RE THERE, FIGHT ME LIKE A MAN.”

This brought forth no response for Romeo, unfortunately, leaving me and Benvolio a little bewildered and confused as to what to do- after all, what’s the custom when your friend was just stabbed?

“Uh- Romeo- breathe–” Benvolio tried for a reassuring voice, but his normally cool air had been broken by the abrupt change of events and the death of his friend. He seemed to be processing differently than Romeo- storing everything up for later.

“I CANNOT BREATHE WHEN A FIEND IS IN MY PRESENCE!” declared Romeo, pointing his sword in Tybalt’s general direction, at least where he had been last.

“Romeo. There’s a better way to settle this fight–”

“NO, HAMLET, I’VE GOT THIS. I’M GOING TO SMACK HIM.”

“Smacking something isn’t the way you handle arguments, Romeo,” Benvolio said, a note of urgency in his voice. “Romeo, smacking is a very bad idea–”

“Benvolio, I’m smacking him whether you like it or not.”

“But maybe smacking isn’t good,” I tried to reason, stepping forward to stop Romeo, who was starting off towards Tybalt.

Benvolio grabbed Romeo’s cape. “Off,” snapped Romeo, yanking it away and marching off towards where Tybalt had disappeared in the crowd.

“We have about thirty seconds before everything blows up,” Benvolio estimated, crossing his arms. “Until then we should lay low.”

“Lay low,” I said, unconvinced, “for thirty seconds.”

“Yep,” said Benvolio nodding, as Romeo called for Tybalt, screaming insults at him.

The dramatic whooshing of a cape sounded behind me, and I whirled around, in the process dramatically whooshing my own cape.

“I was summoned?” Tybalt’s voice sounded in my ear, breath smelling of vinegar. Dangerous, but not overly so, a good sign a solution could be reached.

“Ew,” said I, stepping away. “First off: no, second of all: still no.”

Tybalt strongly carried the scent of overly-sweet roses, the sickly sweet smell strong on him. “No? Oh, young Hamlet, what a good addition you’d make to my team.” He grinned, spreading his arm in gesture to the one lonely servant clad in bright red who stood beside him.

Marching up to him, inches away from his nose, Romeo hissed, “He’s not. Up for. Auction.”

Tybalt gave an innocent smile, pushing Romeo away from himself. “Mhm. And Mercutio’s death was an accident.”

“Fiend,” Romeo shot at Tybalt, who, though older, and more flexible than Romeo, was the same height, the two seemingly an equal match.

“I know you are,” Tybalt said, then paused dramatically “but what am I?”

This only agitated Romeo more, and I could feel the waves of anger rolling off of him like, well, waves.

“Fight me like the man you claim to be, and we’ll see just what you are,” Romeo said, voice rising so the crowd could hear him. Murmurs arose from the assembled people while Benvolio desperately tried to calm them down.

“Fighting and violence is hardly a way to win this… skirmish,” cried Benvolio, but his voice was nearly drowned out by the overwhelming sound of disapproval rising up from the crowd, who had by now completely encircled Romeo and Tybalt, who circled each other, swords out, gleaming menacingly in the sunlight.

I stood to the side, nearly fully enveloped by the crowd on all sides, and, being of slightly below-average height, I could not see very well.

“OKAY, OLD MAN!” came a call from someone in the crowd, smatterings of applause coming from various parts of the crowd at this. Benvolio looked offended.

“Excuse me!?”

“YOU HEARD HIM!” came a call from the other side of the crowd.

Benvolio still looked very offended, actually more so than he had a moment before. “For your information, though it’s none of your business, I’m twenty-one.”

Rough laughter came up from the crowd, which, upon examination, consisted of a few curious shop vendors, but more teenagers and young men than anything.

“Okay, baldy,” said a smug voice, the same one that had first spoken. Benvolio reached up a moment and touched his very-much-so-there hair, and then glared in the general direction of whoever had called him bald.

After a second of useless searching of trying to find whoever had said that, he gave up, grumbling under his breath, “Fine, go ahead and spar him, Romeo, see if I care, I’ll just go mope under an apple tree and probably discover something very important but you won’t care because you’ll be wound up in politics.”

And with that, Benvolio straightened his hat and settled to watch the match, glaring at not just Tybalt, but Romeo as well, as if he hadn’t decided who to root for.

Circling each other like cats, Romeo and Tybalt’s swords were at the ready. No move was made except for the slow circling. Then the first move was made.

Tybalt lunged for Romeo, going for his side, and Romeo jumped back, nearly stepping on a spectator’s foot.

Tybalt smirked, and jumped back himself, toying with Romeo as he did a couple fancy sword moves, extracting a cheer from the crowd.

“Tybalt, you fiend, I will take you down if it’s the last thing I do,” I thought I heard Romeo spit out under his breath before lunging forward himself.

Tybalt yawned as he parried three or four times, nearly stepping on Benvolio’s face but moving at the last moment.

Back and forth the two fought then Tybalt looked behind him at his servant who was watching him with awe, and that’s when Romeo struck.

Fast as lightning, Romeo jumped forward, but Tybalt’s reflexes were good. He whirled around, matching Romeo’s blow with his own.

“Not today, son of a Montague,” he sneered, swinging his sword toward Romeo’s arm. Romeo, having not expected this, blocked the blow, but only barely.

“Oh yeah?” Romeo challenged, trying to jab at Tybalt, but getting his sword knocked aside once again.

And that, dear reader, is where Romeo’s whole demeanor changed. One glance at where he had looked for a split second was enough to make anyone realize why.

Mercutio’s body laid on the ground, a small pool of blood around his cut, his form lifeless, just a shell now. Romeo was fighting, but more fiercely than he had been before.

He hopped back and forth, Tybalt’s and his own swords flashing. Tybalt from then forward had no moments of rest, and was truly fighting for his life.

Romeo’s demeanor had changed. What had once been a conflicted rage of fury was now a carefully calculated pulsing anger that was evident with each jab, parry, and blow he tried to (and succeeded) in landing. Where tears had once flowed down his face, the waterfall had stopped, and there was only anger.

Tybalt made the mistake of looking to the side for just a moment, and that’s where Romeo decided to strike, for the final time.

His rapier slashed out, catching Tybalt’s sword-holding hand. To be more accurate, it sliced his wrist, right where someone would normally check one’s pulse.

The crowd laughed as Tybalt’s sword dropped to the ground, expecting him to be fine; after all, he always was. But he wasn’t.

The sword clattered, and Tybalt stood clutching his wrist.

“Gregory, a cloth!” he called to his servant, blood welling up from the cut Romeo had made. It came fast, the red substance a vibrant scarlet in the sunlight (send help, I’ve been stuck in Shakespeare for too long).

Tybalt’s knees buckled, and he fell to the ground. The crowd around us gave worried murmurs, a couple coming forward but stepping back in disgust when they saw the blood.

I was too stunned to move- believe me, if I could’ve moved, I would, but alas, I did not.

Romeo didn’t seem to be stunned. He stared coldly at Tybalt, the rage of his earlier fight with him still evident.

Tybalt’s breathing quickened, and he glared at his wound as if it would stop the bleeding. Then to Romeo, he said, glimmering at him, “You, Montague, you, you’ve killed me!”

Romeo glared back at him, shaking with anger. “No. You have brought this upon yourself.” And with that, he walked over to Benvolio, dramatically swinging his cloak behind him.

When I looked back to Tybalt, his eyes were half-closed and he was looking at the sky, straight at the sun as if it didn’t bother him any more.

“And so he plays his part,” he breathed before his body went limp and his head hit the cobblestones, not unlike Mercutio’s, now a shell.

EIGHTEEN

⚇乂⚇

I GET ACCUSED OF MURDER (AGAIN)

MY FRIEND STARED AT THE slain Tybalt with shock. He stepped back, eyes wide.

There was silence from the crowd. Not a word was spoken, there was no twittering of birds. All was quiet.

Then, a shout. A boy- who must’ve been something like seventeen- jumped out, shrouded in a bright red tunic, shouting curses at a bewildered Romeo.

“YOU MURDERER! YOU THIEF OF LIFE! HOW DARE YOU KILL TYBALT, WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON YOU–” he rushed forward before being held back by Benvolio who had leapt forward, ready to defend Romeo. Another person, this one with an earthy brown tunic held back the boy’s other arm, straining at it.

The boy who had jumped forward’s face was twisted in rage, piercing blue eyes looking straight at Romeo as if trying to slice through him.

Romeo was backing up still, slow and steady, rapier back in his belt, a fearful, confused, look on his face as if he didn’t understand what was happening.

“Romeo,” I said, coming forward, and grabbing his arm. He looked at me like a terrified animal backed into a corner, eyes wild. “We have to get out of here- hide in a house or something.”

“I- I can’t- we have to bury Mercutio-” his face contorted, going from a sorrowful stare at Meructio’s slain form to a vengeful rage, then to a hopeless expression.

“We can’t. People will bury him, but for now, we have to go before it’s too late.”

“Tis too late, gentlemen,” a voice grunted, and Romeo whirled around on his toes, jittery like a rabbit. I looked behind us, where stood a man who could’ve been anywhere from thirty-five to fifty, giving us a stern look.

“I know what you’ve done. No mercy shall be given. The Prince is on his way.”

If the Prince is on his way and I’m associated with Romeo, will we both be put in prison? Or killed?

Four men, wearing deep green tunics came rushing in, clearly a squad of people, all bunched together, each’s eyes darting from person to person.

“I have the worst of luck,” muttered Romeo, side-stepping behind myself. Great, I’m going to die in the Middle Ages.

“Where’s the man who killed Mercutio? And Tybalt the murderer?”

A stout, tall, man had spoken, clearly the leader of the pack.

“Tybalt is right there!” exclaimed the swallowtail-bearded man behind Romeo and I, pointing to the bloodied body of Cap’n Hook. “And the murderer you seek is here.” He grabbed Romeo by the arm and yanked him out from behind me. Romeo looked like he wanted to bite the man.

Shouldn’t Romeo be gone by now? Maybe I’ve started a chain reaction…

Romeo looked the green-tuniced man in the eyes, matching his stance. “It was I,” he said, standing up straight “who killed Tybalt.”

The crowd gasped. Duh, I wanted to say. You all saw it happen.

“You must die, then,” said the portly man, nodding matter-of-factly.

The sound of hooves and talking made the crowd part. A man- Prince Escalus- came through on his horse, giving the people a commanding look.

Following him were two sets of parents- the Montagues and Capulets. Romeo shrank back behind me.

The fat man who had been questioning the crowd dropped down onto one knee. “Your Highness.”

Prince Escalus nodded to the man in greeting. “Denaius. What news have you?”

Denaius stood up, gesturing to me and Romeo. “That child killed Tybalt.”

The Prince’s face darkened. “Is this true?” he asked, giving me a stony look.

“It was I, O Prince,” said Romeo, stepping out once again, face grave.

“Did you start this fight?” the Prince asked, gaining composure, masking his emotions.

Benvolio came onto the scene. “I can tell you all you need know, noble Prince Escalus.”

The Prince nodded for him to go ahead. And so, Benvolio did.

“... and so, Romeo avenged his friend- your relative- by slaying the Capulet, Montague.”

The Prince gave a long sigh, before starting to speak. He was interrupted, however, by an enraged woman in bright red.

“He killed my nephew! Young Romeo killed my nephew, O Prince! I need justice- and you are bringer of this! Pronounce judgement on Romeo, the death penalty!”

Romeo’s face drained of its color and I took a deep breath, ready to employ evasive measures.

The Prince’s eyes burned with anger. He was ready to speak, but Montague spoke up, eyeing Romeo and I.

“Prince! Not Romeo. Mercutio was his friend- why should a friend slay a friend? For it was Tybalt who slayed Mercutio!”

Prince Escalus held up a hand, looking down at Romeo from his horse. He glared at Romeo and I, bright ginger hair catching the sun, looking a lot like a fire.

“And for killing Tybalt, he shall be exiled from our fair Verona. If he is seen, he shall be killed on sight. As long as my family stays in power, Romeo and his line will be outcast from Verona. It is settled.”

He turned his horse, which was a speckled gray, around before steering it away, expertly avoiding stalls.

Romeo looked between the exiting Prince and I, speechless. His dark hair was still a mess and his amber eyes were wide with fear, anger… and was that slight excitement?

Why- no, how- is he excited? I wondered, looking at him with slight confusion.

“Romeo!” Benvolio cried to his friend. “You need to go.”

Mrs. Montague dashed forward, wrapping Romeo in a tight hug, further messing up his hair. “My son, don’t you ever do something so fool-hardy as to run out and attack someone- although, of course, it’s understandable you’d want to attack a Capulet- ever again because so help me if you do–” she shook him by the shoulders, unwrapping her arms from around Romeo and giving a grr sound.

Montague came up, giving Romeo a stern look. “Romeo, while I am proud of you, that was hardly a good decision to attack Tybalt like that.”

Romeo looked up at his dad, frowning a little. “He killed Mercutio,” he said flatly. “So I took revenge. ‘Vengeance is mine.’”

“Thus says the Lord,” his mom finished sharply. “Not yours for the taking.”

Romeo gave a grunt. Benvolio raised a brow at him. “Time to go, Romeo.”

“Too soon!” his mother cried.

“Right,” his father agreed at the same time.

“Hamlet,” said the swallowtail-bearded father of Romeo looking down at me. I was only a head shorter.

“Yes..?” I knew what he was going to say.

“Will you go with Romeo and make sure he doesn’t… commit any more crimes?”

I nodded. Romeo scowled. “Why doesn’t Benvolio come?”

“Because, cousin,” said he, giving Romeo a pointed look. “I have business to attend to.”

“Business?” echoed Romeo, holding back a scoff- barely. “Since when have you attended business?”

“Since now,” snapped Benvolio, giving him a frown. “Surely, you’ll be able to handle yourself until I visit you in Mantua.”

“Surely,” Romeo muttered, fidgeting with his cloak. He glanced at me, less annoyed-looking. “Let’s go, then, and allow Benvolio to attend to his business.”

NINETEEN

⚇乂⚇

WE MAKE AN EPIC GETAWAY (AND A HORSE IS OUR DRIVER)

AS WE SET OUT ON our great journey to Mantua, I had stuff on my mind. Thoughts came in and out as if there were some great door they could enter and exit through. I had an existential crisis many a time on that trip.

Where exactly is Mantua? Why am I here? Why can this horse talk?

These were among some of the thoughts I had on our three-and-a-half-hour ride to the place Romeo was supposed to be hiding out at.

Romeo’s horse was mostly black with little hints of white on it. It was tall, about the same height as my own.

Mine looked like Mister Ed. No joke, it had the exact yellow-brown- almost-gold coloring of that horse. And it talked.

A lot.

We took a curve in the road. Neighhh. We had to turn back because we missed the right turn. Neighhhh. We ended up almost dying. Terrified neighhh.

Meanwhile, Romeo’s horse was pretty much normal, but it was old. We stopped every hour or so, because of various horse needs (and Romeo needs). The horses looked thirsty. Bathroom break. Awww, look at da widdle kitty isn’t he just da cutest widdle kitty you’ve ever seen oh yes he is, yes he is. (That last bit was Romeo speaking, not me.)

When we finally got to Mantua, we were greeted by several large buildings, all with the Elizabethian brown-beams-white-house look. They soared up, maybe two floors at most, not unlike Verona’s own buildings. I wondered if, in an alternate universe, whether or not there could be a Romeo from Mantua fleeing to Verona.

We got a couple looks, but nothing serious happened. My horse was still giving whinnies and neighs every few minutes, Romeo’s was as old as ever.

A different sword than the one I had had in the fight dangled from my belt. It was Benvolio’s, the one he usually used. He had insisted I take this one, as the other was “not fit for even a page” and that his was much better.

As we went down the cobbled streets, we passed by several different stalls, some with fruits and vegetables, some with belts for tunics, and yes, some with roses and candles.

My mind wandered to Mercutio. I wondered what happened after death in the Shakespeare world. Was it the same as the real world, or was it different? I’d read Shakespeare had had some odd beliefs about theology.

Thinking of Mercutio made me think of Tybalt. I hadn’t talked to the dark-haired knock-off Cap’n Hook almost at all. I was more of a side character, anyways. I remembered what he had looked like, lying in the pool of blood, the dark liquid coming from his cut, making his clothing even redder than before.

The red led to Juliet, which, in turn, as all thought processes and conversations seem to turn to, ended up with Abigail Montague. Her face came into my mind- amber eyes, light olive skin, small nose, slightly wavy hair- and I remembered the travel guide I had stashed in my satchel.

So much for a travel guide, I thought, giving a small frown. It was a nice sentiment, though.

Romeo, unspeaking, docked his horse, tying it to a conveniently placed fence. He held out his hand for my horse’s halter bridle thing which I gave to him, making a mental note to learn how to tie horses to trees, and, in the long run, figure out how to properly ride a horse.

I followed Romeo into the dimly-lit inn. He hadn’t spoken almost the whole trip- which I couldn’t blame him for. He’d just lost one of his closest friends, I wouldn’t be smiling either. His brown hair was in his eyes, and he didn’t bother to brush it out. I imagined he didn’t care- at least, it wasn’t at the top of his to-do list. I tried to stop thinking of Romeo’s grief- it would only lead to a mental breakdown.

The inn, as we walked in, was an odd mixture of a pub and a hotel-like place. With few candles and one or two lanterns, its white-washed-looking walls were barren, and on the left was a sort of desk where a bored-looking bartender/innkeeper sat, watching his customers, who were at different tables that were scattered about the room.

It was filled with smoke from pipes and it was hard to breathe… but, it was a sufficient getaway. Nobody would expect the “young, respectable, Montague” to be hiding away in a tavern. Besides, it suited our moods; we weren’t in the mood to talk.

To be fair, nobody expected a “young, respectable, Montague” (as I’d heard many a person say about Romeo throughout my time in Shakespeare) to be at a Capulet party, either, so Romeo certainly was good at throwing curveballs.

The man looked up as he saw the brightly dressed Montague come through the door, the dim light making it hard to see details on his face. All I knew for sure was that he had stubble on his face and a large, rounded, nose. And his expression was permanently soured.

“Whaddo you want?” he asked gruffly, accent coming through even with the transmitter.

“We’ve come to book a room,” said Romeo, plopping a handful of coins on the desk. His amber eyes were downcast, his form slouched, not unlike the manager’s. The man behind the counter sucked in his breath, eyes widening.

“Consider it payment,” I said, giving Romeo a sideways glance, leaning forward. “For keeping our location secret. There more where that came from- enough to fill palaces- but if you give us away… it’ll disappear.”

He nodded quickly, leading us up a staircase and to a small room that smelled suspiciously like dogs. I doubted this inn had many rules. “Right here. Two beds, and a candle.” He started to walk out of the small room, before Romeo called to him.

“Do you have stables here?” He glanced out the window that overlooked the street, slight worry about his horse evident on his face. This was only the second expression of any emotion aside from sadness I’d seen on his face the whole trip. It was comforting that he was beginning to go back to the normal Romeo.

“Boy, this town’s growing so fast there’s hardly enough room for roads. So, no, no stables.”

Romeo frowned once again, this time his gaze meeting the manager’s, and the innkeeper sighed, putting a hand over his heart sarcastically. “I, Finneas, Innkeeper of this here inn, swear a solemn oath to protect your horse,” he said without smiling, but clearly joking. Romeo gave another little frown, averting his eyes from the man, giving a nod before looking down at the floor.

“That’ll do,” he mumbled, conceding, before taking off his satchel and giving it a weak toss onto the bed. When he finally looked back to where the innkeeper had been, the stout man had turned around and disappeared out the door to who knew where- probably downstairs to have a drink.

There was silence for a moment before Romeo gave a half-hearted attempt at a smile. It came out more like a grimace. “Well, that was lovely,” said he, giving a breathy sigh. He started for the door as well. “I’ll check the horses, then get food-” at least he was eating “-Hamlet, will you stay or come?” I touched my ear instinctively. He didn’t normally speak like this… but maybe it was grief.

I thought a moment. To be, or not to be, that is the question. Whether tis nobler to go with Romeo- ahem, inner dialgoue. I shook my head after a second. Romeo shrugged, giving a slow, almost catlike, blink.

“Suit yourself,” he said, headed out the door. He closed it almost silently, its noise level matching his own.

Once I was sure he was gone, I quickly opened my own bag, pulling out the parchment that Abigail had made a map and a small key on. Several pages were attached to it, containing interesting little facts and tidbits about Verona, from the best places to get chicken soup to the smithy’s.

It took two hours to decipher the handwriting- although I was sure it was neat- and an additional one for Romeo to get back.

In that time, the sun had set, I’d lit a candle, and a scream had been heard from downstairs (it was a goat, I’m sure of it).

Romeo came into the room and plopped down on the bed. “I am… exhausted,” he exclaimed dramatically, spread out like a starfish. His mood had improved significantly, and a small smile picked at the sides of his mouth.

“Oh?” I asked, studying the map once again, brows furrowed in concentration.

“I had to feed the horses, Edward hurt his hoof and the shoe came off and–”

“Edward the horse?”

“Your horse,” Romeo barely paused to answer my question “Egg Tart was tired–”

“Egg Tart the horse?”

“–yes. And so I found him a place to stay and so he’s safe at least.”

At least the horses are safe and alive and well… I winced a little at the thought, a brief flashback of Mercutio coming back to me, before forcing myself to yawn. With the yawn came drowsiness- something I had been aiming for.

“Tired?” Romeo asked, seeing the yawn. I could only nod. “Sleep. But first I have to tell you about what happened downstairs. I came back in, and was watching a card game, when all of a sudden, the man looked back and screamed, like a child or a girl…”

I let him speak. It might help with the emotions, I thought, as I myself drifted off to sleep.

TWENTY

⚇乂⚇

WE EAT THE CHEESE AND GET PHILOSOPHICAL

ROMEO WAS UP BRIGHT AND early the next day, and I had no idea what he was up to. That being said, I had a few theories.

The first time I’d woken up, I’d rolled back over groggily. He’s probably out on a walk, I’d thought.

The second time, Romeo still wasn’t back. He’s taking the horse on a walk and it’s taking a while, I theorized.

A third time. He’s eating breakfast.

And a fourth. He’s feeding himself and a legion of horses food.

Finally, about the fifth time, I was out of bed, dressed when Romeo came moseying on in through the door, more refreshed than I’d seen him in a while.

“Oh, you’re awake,” he said nonchalantly, giving me a glance. I looked up from the travel guide.

“Mhm,” I said, looking back down. There was a long pause.

“Hamlet,” Romeo said carefully as if considering all his options as to what to tell me. “I’m going out.”

My first thought was to ask if he had found another girl, but I knew that couldn’t be the case- surely Romeo still loved Juliet?

“... it may be beneficial to you to go about and look around the town. Y’know, seeing as we’ll be here for a while.”

I tuned in right as Romeo finished up his explanations. His voice sounded off… but I had no time to think about this because once again, my thought process had gotten in the way of important plot developments. Of course it had.

Romeo was halfway out the door before he turned back to me. “Hamlet,” he said, addressing me in a matter-of-fact way. “You cannot go anywhere if you do not first go.”

This was an oddly philosophical statement. “Riiight,” I said, getting up from the chair and carefully placing the parchments into my bag. I may need them yet…

Romeo nodded, eyes downcast. He was grieving still. Bereaved would be a better word- meaning that feeling of loss you get when you’ve lost someone you loved.

And so, we set off. The town we had arrived in- which was not called Mantua, by the way, as Mantua was, like, the county province thing- was smallish. It was expanding, sure, but it was small.

There were maybe a thousand people in the town, but I wasn’t sure there were even that many. The buildings were nice, though, the ones with the dark wood and the whitewashed walls that reminded me of Jamestown or some other colonial settlement.

Not a whole lot happened. We did a couple of things, Romeo and I talked some, always avoiding the topic of Mercutio and death, ate some cheese, and then we were pretty much done.

Of course, something odd did happen near the beginning of our adventurings in the small, unnamed town.

Romeo had just ducked out of a store, looking down, seemingly trying to put a mask over his emotions.

He stopped just short of me, giving me boots a close inspection. They were hand-me-downs, from Romeo, and were a little small, but would work. I had scrubbed at them, spot-cleaning with some medieval soap, but to no avail. The stuff on the tips of them would not come out.

Romeo looked like he wanted to cry, aquiver with emotion, the full blast of memory and feeling having hit him full blast, I reasoned, causing him to almost tremble.

I looked down. The tips of the boots I wore had small smatters of mud on them- a side-effect of the more-than-normal rainy weather the town had been experiencing. The mud covered darker stains, reddish in color, which, an hour after the fight had been near-impossible to rid the boots of. They were stubborn things, blood stains.

Romeo could not speak. So I did. “Mercutio,” I managed, trying to explain, the name foreign on my tongue. I had said it before, but it felt different… alien, almost.

Romeo’s face gained a determined look about it. I wondered what he was thinking. He said nothing at my explanation, starting back already, leaving me behind to reason out for myself exactly what he was thinking.

TWENTY-ONE

⚇乂⚇

A HORSE IS A HORSE, OF COURSE, OF COURSE… (LIKELY EXPLANATION. I’M WATCHING YOU)

ROMEO WAS PRESENTLY FREAKING OUT. He paced the floor of the inn, eyes on the ground, worry etched across his face. He looked several years older than he really was- something like fifteen.

He hadn’t heard from Verona, or his servant, whom he called Balthasar. I wasn’t sure if that was actually a name- if it were actually his name- or not. And if it was, well, leave it to Shakespeare to make up weird names.

He paced, back and forth across the room, eyes darting to and fro, a wild look on his face. He muttered every step of the way, always speaking of dreams, a crazed look about him. He looked insane.

A knock on the door made Romeo fly at it, leaving me a moment’s peace, no sound except the frantic unbolting of the lock on the door and the satisfying creaking of the door as it was swung open by Romeo.

I stared at Romeo’s back, barely being able to see it, as the bed I presently sat on mostly hid the door from sight.

“Balthasar!” Romeo cried, an exuberant look on his face. “What news have thee?”

I frowned, touching a hand to my ear. Something’s wrong with the translator, a nagging, worried, voice spoke in my mind. I was not able to force the voice to be silent, so I focused on Romeo and Balthasar.

Balthasar was perhaps a little older than Romeo- certainly not Benvolio’s age, nor Mercutio’s, though. His shoulder-length black hair was neat, although I was sure he had ridden straight here. A calm air was about him- a good foil to Romeo’s not-so-calm air.

“Romeo,” he spoke clearly, voice level, giving his friend- master?- a steady look. “All is well in fair Verona.” He had nothing else but this message. So, Romeo pried out more answers.

“How is my mother? And my father? And- oh- Abigail? And-” a dreamy look passed over his face “-Juliet?”

Balthasar gave him an odd look. “Juliet Capulet? Why do you ask?”

Romeo almost blurted out how he had been married to her not twenty-four hours before. I could tell he wanted to speak of his great love for her, but he hesitated, probably remembering what had happened last time he had declared his love for the Capulet family.

“They’re enemies. Long-held rivals. Romeo’s dad- Montague, right?- was a military leader. Of course he’s worried about his worst enemy,” I supplied in answer to Balthasar’s question.

The boy gave a nod. “Ah,” he said. “Well, you’ll be pleased, sir, that you will no longer have to worry about the Capulets. Juliet, the sole heir to the fortune of your rivals, sleeps peacefully among the souls of those whom have passed on.”

Romeo did not process his words. “So Juliet is well-rested, then?”

I bit my lip, knowing this was not what had happened. Balthasar paused, an unreadable expression passing his face. “She’s well-rested indeed. She’ll be resting forever, now.”

Romeo frowned. “People don’t sleep forever, Balthasar. Stop speaking in these riddles, man!” I recalled Benvolio saying this very thing to Romeo earlier. How the turns had tabled.

“Juliet is dead,” he said in an unenthused, almost nonemotional, way.

Romeo sunk down onto his knees, holding his side, as if he had been sliced with a sword. “Dead..? That can’t be….”

Balthasar gave a curt nod to Romeo. “Apologies for bringing this sad news. It was merely my job. Good day, sir.” He did not stay to listen to Romeo’s monologue.

Romeo could not speak. I wanted to comfort him… but how do you comfort a newly wedded widower?

There was silence for three minutes. Only the sound of labored breathing from where Romeo was, the occasional cry of victory from the ever-gambling and ever-drinking people downstairs.

Finally, Romeo looked up. “I’m leaving,” he stated, standing up.

“Now?” I asked, hastily putting away my stuff for fear he would leave right now.

He thought a moment, brushing a shock of wavy hair out of his face. “No,” he said, thinking still. “I’ll leave in fifteen minutes.”

Fifteen minutes was not a lot of time. But it was enough. We hadn’t had much packed- we barely had time to grab a bag for each of us and the travel guide before we were off, galloping off and away on Egg Tart and Mister Ed. We had stopped galloping maybe a mile out from Verona, trotting, and then walking for a while.

Then, we reached Mantua… and you know the rest of it. Romeo stared furiously at the ground, unmoving.

“Romeo?” I asked, trying to be as gentle as I could- the guy had just lost his girlfriend- sorry, wife- and his best friend within twenty-four hours.

Romeo mumbled a yes, his energy sapped after the momentary energetic idea of returning to Verona.

“We’re leaving in five minutes, right?”

“Mmmm.”

“... You good?”

“Mmmm.”

“You don’t look good-” of course he’s not he’s grieving “- you sure you’re alright..?”

“Mmmm.”

Thus, we headed off towards Verona. Our horses weren’t as “young and spry” as the guy who had been watching them, who somehow had a lot more horses, had said. But we had to take them back, and so we did.

Romeo urged his horse onward, pulling in his heels towards the horse, squeezing him.

Mister Ed was worried, and I could tell. He wasn’t focused as he had been. And although he was a younger horse, he wasn’t going as fast as I knew he might want to.

He glanced over to his older friend and whinnied, the sound nearly blasting out my ears (I was right near that horse when he did it, too- on a scale from one to ten it’d probably be an eleven). A soft neigh came from his friend, the dappled horse galloping along as fast as he could but slowing.

I slowed my horse, Egg Tart following his friend’s example and slowing as well. Romeo sighed in annoyance at our slowed paced. Understandable, I thought, casting him a quick sideways glance. But if we keep these horses going at a gallop for the full thirty-ish miles, they wouldn’t have much life in them once we got back.

We staked out in the nearby woods. I wasn’t too keen on being caught and killed- and neither was Romeo. Although it barely took an hour to reach Verona, we staked out for six or so hours, and it took another fifteen minutes to slink around the city and to the graveyard that was right near the old church where Romeo had hastily informed me the Friar (Lawrence? Probably-) was the Father.

Romeo, upon reaching his wife’s grave, sank to his knees once again. I expected him to pull a Hamlet, but he was silent. No word came from his mouth and the bushes seemed to understand that it was an emotionally-charged moment. Not a soul stirred and only the steady breathing of Romeo was heard.

The moon cast a silver glow on the body that lay on a cushioned table near the upturned dirt- a custom, I assumed, of the Shakespeareans- illuminating her face. Her dark hair fell away from her face, and she almost looked like she was sleeping. Her thin frame was clad in a crimson, a peaceful look on her face. And then Romeo spoke.

TWENTY-TWO

⚇乂⚇

DEEPEST APOLOGIES, THORIN OAKENSHIELD

“HAMLET,” HE SAID IN A small, quiet, voice. “May I have a minute?” Correct grammar- always a sign to leave someone be. I could imagine the periods and the commas in the simple request- and so I obliged.

I stood from afar, watching him as he stared down at his beloved. He seemed to be doing a monologue- pulling a Hamlet on me.

Haha. So funny. Wow. My brain. Just like, wow.

The shadowy form of Romeo crouched beside Juliet, shoulders shaking. He’s finally broke, my mind whispered as I watched. I took in my surroundings once more.

Dear reader, there was nothing more eerie than the trees that night. They crowded around the well-kempt graveyard, almost as if they were whispering to each other. I could imagine it now: three witches gathering, standing over Juliet’s grave.

They would look to one another, noses gnarled with age, eyes bright with the anticipation of a new spell casting, faces twisted into grins.

The first would throw in four or five ingredients before stooping down to grab a frog, cackling as it squirms in her hand, before throwing it into the cauldron.

Fire would catch their faces, illuminating their much-too-large noses and venomous grins. “Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble!” Cackles would fill the night sky. They dance around the fire, wicked grins on their faces, adding in ingredients, cackling their harsh laughs… but then their image disappeared from my mind, and all was as it was.

Well, my mind thought, and I could imagine it frowning at itself. That was an experience.

Yes, but not a good one! Another part of my mind spoke, its Scottish accent thick.

Romeo sat beside Juliet’s grave, possibly lamenting his sorrows, before he got up to grab something. When he came back, he had a letter in hand and started looking around, finally spotting me and beckoning me forward.

Am I thou servant!? my brain thought angrily, and I nearly stopped in my tracks.

My speech… tis… Shakespeare. This was not a good sign.

“Hamlet!” Romeo called as I came out of the shadows. I idly wondered if Benvolio were watching us from some hiding spot.

“Romeo,” I called back, giving him an even look.

“Early in the morning, see thou deliver it to my lord and father,” he squinted up at the sky where a cloud was lazily starting to hide the moon. “Tis no good omen…” he murmured before turning his attention back to me.

“Upon thy life I charge thee, what’er thou hear’st or see’st, stand all aloof, and do not interrupt me in my course.” I nodded. Of course, he wouldn’t want me interfering. I knew what he was doing.

“Romeo,” I started, a little surprised by how my voice was accented. Oookay, I thought, before continuing. “Truly, thou hast no need to kill thineself. Your beloved art not the only thing in existence in this cruel, cruel world.”

“Cruel world indeed!” exclaimed Romeo, pacing now. “Tis nobler to ne’er to have liv’d at all! ‘Truly’, Hamlet, as I live before thee, mine life is’t worth nought if—” his eyes grew large and he seemed to be having trouble swallowing- “my love, O beautiful Juliet, walks not upon the earth.” He looked to me, eyes teary, begging me not to go against what he was saying. I must.

But he would not let me speak, although I needed to, badly. Tis not indeed nobler to suffer the blows of death, rather than living a… noble… life! My mind exploded, trying to supply my wordless mouth with things to say.

His eyes grew large. “Someone approaches!” he hissed, diving into the bushes. I dashed to another bush, hiding behind it.

My mind raced with the possibilities and my legs shook with a rude sort of excitement, ready to start a fight or run or something. Calm, I tried to think to myself, although myself would not listen.

Out from the shadows stepped a man. His tunic was expensive looking and green with little hints of red in it, but he was different than the prince.

Like I assumed most love interests were back in Shakespeare’s era, he had blonde hair in a short man ponytail and he carried his plumed hat at his side. His eyes, when they caught the light of the moon, turned silvery, although it was hard to see their actual color from so far away.

His servant carried a torch- or was he a page?- and followed him dutifully, holding it level with Juliet’s body which rested on a cushioned table. I wasn’t sure if the cushioned-looking table was actually a thing that they used back then or whether it was a part of the author’s imagination, but either way, it enhanced the scene quite a bit.

I gripped Romeo’s letter tightly in my hand, determined not to let it slip. I caught sight of Romeo’s hair peeking out from behind his bush, but hoped- and was pretty sure- it was invisible to the man who had just come in, at least from the angle he was at.

“Put the torch out, boy, for I would not be seen. Under yon yew trees lay thee all along, holding thine ear close to the hollow ground- so shall no foot upon the churchyard tread, being loose but unfirm, with digging up of graves, but thou shalt hear it. Whistle then to me, as a signal that thou hear’st something approach. Give me those flowers. Do as I bid thee, go,” he commanded his servant, taking the flowers from him quickly. The boy frowned, but did as he asked, putting out his torch, the silvery moonlight filling the quiet graveyard once again.

Their eyes hath not adjusted! Quick, I say, Nathan, attack the mongrels of royalty! Burn them at the stake, I say!

It took me a minute to decipher what my quickly-turning-Shakespeare brain was saying. And another to realize that we- I- had no stake to burn them at. So, I crouched still.

T’would be of most help if he would speak’th of his name… my thoughts trailed off as he spoke, a soliloquy. Egad! Another one!? Shakespeare’s story-men truly hath losteth their marbles… eth. My brain was struggling with Shakespeare grammar.

“Flowers on flowers, O sweet Juliet! Once seeing sweet sunlight now see darker moon! Wedding roses hath turned darkened with black, trickling laughter now hath perished and gone…” he trailed off, carefully tossing flowers over Juliet, making sure they were placed properly before he continued. I watched, enamored with this ceremony before I was tackled to the ground.

Tis not the time! My brain screeched, Scottish as could be, as I tussled with my attacker.

Finally knocking him off, I got a good look at him. He was built like a dwarf. His shoulders were wide but his stature was short and he gave me a glare full of anger, breathing heavily.

“Peasant! Why doth thou look upon Sir Paris with such contempt! If thou weren’t the murderer of my master’s to-be wife, I would kill thee mineself!”

I paused a minute. This was a twelve-year-old speaking. Obviously he had never seen Romeo in his life, or at least he had never caught sight of him. I glanced behind me at where Romeo had been hiding. He was gone.

When I looked back at the child, his lips were slightly puckered, a fierce look upon his face, before he made a shrill noise. A whistle.  

TWENTY-THREE

⚇乂⚇

LOL, NOOB

PARIS, UPON SEEING THE CURLY-haired boy who stood with a rapier in hand, dressed in blue, came forward triumphantly.

“Stop thee, O vile Montague—” Tis not as if I could go anywhere, ‘O vile Paris’, my brain scoffed, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “—can vengeance be pursued after death? Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee. Obey and go with me, for thou must die.”

I scoffed at this. I doth not know what Romeo would’th say, but I shall sayeth my best. “Noob.”

Paris frowned at this choice of words. So’th I can changeth mine words! Thoughts are, mayhaps… harder. “Villain, you dare insult me? I am- was- to wed the fair Juliet! And you seek argument? Come! I hath apprehendeth thee, thou shall perish!”

“In thine dreams,” I said, letting the words come out, not even trying to change the accent. Paris did not notice. Ha! Tis good Shakespeare’s play-men were’th under-characterized!

Paris frowned and his dwarfish page started towards me, but he waved him off. “Very well, villainous sir. We shall duel.”

Tis not indeed good, O Nathan! I feel’th we mayst not see the dawn.

Shush. And so, I clutched my sword tightly, stepping back to an un-graven part of the graveyard.  Tis not a good idea! We shall, I fear, meet our untimely demise! I ignored the Shakespearean ghost in my head.

Paris drew his sword and I saw once more the glinting of metal in the light. It’s not my time. I was sure my knuckles were white by this time.

We circled eachother, but neither of us was in the mood for talking.

Back and forth, back and forth. Paris’ eyes glinted with excitement, alight with the thought of the danger involved. I was just trying not to die.

He was a good fighter. Nimble and quick, he went back and forth as if he were a trained dancer, skilled in ballet.

We got particularly close, swords clashing quickly, jumping back and forth like monkeys, when Paris grabbed my arm. Struggling to get away and keep fighting at the same time, I stamped down on his foot as hard as I could.

He let go of my arm and stepped back. I held out my sword to stop the fight.

The page gasped. “They’re fighting! I must go call the watch—.”

I groaned at the thought of the men who had stepped in after the fight between Romeo and Tybalt. That was when he got me.

He knicked at my clothing, creating a hole in my tunic. I looked down, eyes wide, immediately dropping the sword and sinking to my knees.

“I’ve been got!” I cried, clutching my side, trying to stop the blood that I knew would be gushing out within a few seconds. I could imagine it: the red substance flooding out from my side as I writhed in agony, before dying as Mercutio had.

“Sweet death! Where art thou, O sweet death?” I called involuntarily. I looked over at Paris. He started to jog off towards the entrance of the graveyard before stopping.

He seemed to be looking for something. His torch! Quick, strike the man before he strikes thee again!

“Strike the man again..?” I wondered aloud before a face loomed over me.

“Hamlet! Art thou alive?”

I recognized the voice. The scent of mint came over me and I couldn’t help but smile at the familiar face.

“Abigail,” I said, probably smiling like a doofus up at her.

“Hamlet,” she breathed, crouching down beside me. “Are you bleeding?”

“Um. No?”

She frowned. “How aren’t thou slain…” she paused, peering at where Paris had tried to slash me. Then she smiled widely.

“Truly, thine art an experienced traveler!”

I blinked. She brushed her wavy hair out of her face.

“Because thine hath worn two lay’rs of cloth, the blade hath met its target nought!”

It was an odd, lyrical, rhyme. I wasn’t sure what I thought about a Shakespearean girl making a poem about my almost battle injury. Tell her thine name art not Hamlet!

Absolutely not.

Tis nobler to!

Wrong play.

Abigail gave me a puzzled look. “Your name… tis not Hamlet?”

Ah! The art of soliloquy!

A questioning look crossed her face. “Soliloquy?”

“Concerning that….” I trailed off, unsure how to word what I wanted to say next.

A marriage proposal is in way, I say! I glared at my thoughts. Abigail made no comment. It was like she hadn’t heard my thought. And maybe she didn’t.

I looked to her again for some hint as to whether or not she had heard. She was staring off into the distance at the slowly setting moon.

“T’will be dawn within hours…” she said thoughtfully, looking back down to me. I hauled myself up onto my elbows, curious as to what her reaction was to my name not being… Hamlet.

“Hamlet,” she said, matter-of-factly, before stopping herself. “What is thine true name?”

“Nate,” I said. She tried the word out on her tongue.

“Nate. Late. Great…” she trailed off, trying out the rhymes. “Tis a name that suits you.”

She gave me a suspicious look, amber eyes narrowing. “And where art thou from?”

I hesitated. “Not… from here.”

She frowned a little but questioned this no more. I was glad she hadn’t, because I wasn’t a hundred percent sure how to explain America to an Italian from the 1500s.

“Romeo? How is’t my brother?”

“Romeo is… well. He hath not taken the perishment of Juliet well.” I wasn’t sure perishment was a word, but Shakespeare had made up so many words that I was sure it would be fine.

She nodded. “I doubted he would,” she said sympathetically. “Come, let us meet my brother. I am sure he hath been waiting for our return.”

She looked towards where Romeo was hiding in the bushes and let out a little gasp.

“Oh, no.” Two figures fought in the graveyard. One, in green, the other in a bright blue. The duel had begun.

TWENTY-FOUR

⚇乂⚇

ET TU, ROMEO?

THE FIGHT DID NOT LAST long. While Paris may have been a formidable opponent to me, a not-so-experienced dueler, Romeo stopped him in his tracks quickly.

He finished him when he exclaimed with anger that, “Thou art a miserable Montague, indeed! Tis cowardice to stand over the fair Juliet to bring vengeance by thineself, even after death—.” A swift cut to his side, and Paris was dead.

Romeo, it seemed, didn’t even have the mental ability to fathom this, and it didn’t seem to bother him.

He looked to Juliet again, and I knew his eyes were glassy, as they often got when he thought or spoke of his love. A vial was extracted from his pocket. In a fluid motion, he uncorked it, tipping its contents into his mouth.

“NO!” screamed Abigail beside me, dashing to her brother.

Tis fair! A life for a life for a life for a life… my brain, ever independent, stopped talking for once.

Abigail reached Romeo, but quickly stepped back, and, upon backing herself into a tree, slid down on it, eyes on her brother at all times.

He’s gone… the Scottish tint to my brain’s voice was gone for at least a little while. I stepped over to Romeo, ducking down to him and sniffing his breath quickly.

A sour scent filled my nose and I thought of a line from a play I’d heard years ago. The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes….

Not a sound came from Abigail. She stared, watching Romeo, unblinking. Her dark hair had fallen into her face and she was unresponsive.

Too many hath been slain…. The thought passed my mind, a mourning tint to it, all comedy gone from my mind’s voice.

“Indeed,” said Abigail softly, tears welling up in her eyes. Her blue-green skirts once again swished as she got up and walked over to where Romeo and Juliet were.

On the ground lay a bouquet of flowers, all red except for two. “Mums,” whispered she, picking them up and twirling the two flowers’ stems in her hand.

Tis means death, my brain said matter-of-factly.

I needed to say something to Abigail- comfort her, make sure she was okay, anything. And so, my brain spoke for me, in form of soliloquy.

“Tis truly a misfortunate event. If they hadn’t been sweeped up by angels…” my voice trailed off, and I wasn’t sure what I was even going to say next.

“T’would have been a beautiful relationship,” said Abigail, staring at the two. Her gaze was warm, full of sympathy, and, oddly enough, the tears had mostly gone away, although her cheeks were wet with the ones she hadn’t wiped away. Her appearance is in of likeness to Romeo’s…

And then I took notice of how my friend had fallen. He was spread out, as if in the middle of skydiving. His eyes were shut and one of his legs was bent at an odd angle- as if he were simply dazed and about to get up. But what caught my attention were his hands. One held the empty bottle, which was now bone dry- I looked- the poison gone. The other was reaching out to the table, trying to be near to Juliet as possible.

It reached out but just fell short, fingers a few inches away from Juliet’s.

Juliet was lain out, hands on her stomach. Or at least, that’s how I imagined they were supposed to be. One long arm reached out towards the ground, where Romeo lay.

Til death may we part. The vow in a wedding crossed my mind. And I hadn’t even been to a wedding before.  

It was a very somber fifteen minutes that Abigail and I stood there, studying the two. Neither of us spoke- nor did we feel we had to. My Shakespearean brain had done all the speaking I had wanted to do, and Abigail had responded accordingly.

I wonder where Paris’ page went… I thought idly as I watched the pre-dawn light creep over the sky, the sun having not yet appeared but getting closer by the minute.

Abigail looked to me curiously, an elegant brow raised, but said nothing, staring, also, at the tops of the trees as the light reached across the sky like a child’s fingers, grabbing at anything it could get its hands on.

The trees glowed a sort of pine-ish green as the dim light touched them, an amber glow, not unlike the color Romeo’s eyes had been, appeared slowly on them, filling the small graveyard with a warm feel.

I looked up to the sky, which was still a sort of indigo color, and was surprised to see it was clear, the freckling of bright, glittery, stars clear as day, not one shadowed by a cloud. The moon was claw-shaped, almost like a cat’s, and curved peacefully up and around, its glow brighter than the one back home had been, casting a whitish glow on the chrysanthemums that Abigail held loosely. Not a bird chirped and no russle of leaves and underbrush was heard, no animal having the audacity to interrupt such a somber moment.  

I didn’t even hear the near-silent sound of shifting on velvet until I heard a voice, eerie in the silence but befitting to the scene.

“I never thought thee were’st a murdurer.”

TWENTY-FIVE

⚇乂⚇

A DEVOUT MONK TEACHES ME NECROMANCY AND I THINK I BROKE THE LAW

ABIGAIL AND I TURNED AROUND, each cautious, to find the pale face of Juliet staring at us, oddly unreadable for a girl of twelve or thirteen.

“Madam, I assure you, I am no murderer–” my voice was once again Scottish, although my inner dialogue had switched, mercifully, back to American English.

“I saw you with my own eyes! Truly, you hath killed your…” she paused, considering what she ought to call Abigail. “Friend’s brother, and my husband!”

Abigail frowned at this. “Juliet, thou couldn’st possibly hath married Romeo–.” Juliet’s face changed from slightly angry to a smirk within three seconds.

“Oh, but Abigail Montague, I was.”

“Thou could not hath been married to mine own brother! Twas not enough time in a day!”

“From dawn to dusk, there was. Even he knows,” Juliet nodded to me. I looked between the two girls. There was something very… odd about this conversation.

It seems the female gender speaks in tongues! I did not disagree with my mind.

“Tis too early to deal with this- Juliet, we ought to–” Abigail was cut off by the humming of a tune from the direction of the entrance of the graveyard.

Without a word, Abigail grabbed my hand and dragged me to a bush, practically tackling me. Tis could be worse, I say! Fortunately, thou hast read the play, have ye not?

From the entrance emerged a monk-like figure carrying a lantern, a crowbar, and a shovel, humming, oddly enough, a tune I assumed medieval people would think was merry, but I could hardly tell because of how off-tune it was.

The figure was round and short, and even in the darkness, a glimmer of laughter was in his eye. He had a long beard- much longer than I had seen most mens’ beards in Romeo and Juliet, but I figured it was because he was a Friar- he wasn’t trying to be popular or even fashionable, his job was to be a churchman, and a devout one at that. His brows were thick and he looked almost like a dwarf, only that he was slightly taller and his beard wasn’t as full as perhaps Gimli’s.

His robes were a muddy brown color- they reminded me of the fur of a deer, only slightly darker and with no spots. A string hung like a belt with three knots in it, of a coarse sort of rope, the type you might see on a ship, used to “hoist the mainsail” and “raise the anchor” and whatnot. Actually, I think the anchor bit would be more of a metal chain, but the Friar’s belt was made of thick, durable, probably very coarse, rope.

As he came into the graveyard and gave a small sigh of relief at Juliet’s still laying on the coffin table thing. A small lantern already burned from at the foot of the table, where Romeo had put it down before he had died.

He put down his own lantern, dropping the shovel and the crowbar, his weapons, in the process, before raising up his arms dramatically. I had no idea whatsoever what he was doing.

“O, Juliet… come out!”

I was speechless. Of course the Friar would do such a thing! He’s a friar! T’would only make sense!

Juliet stirred some, before sitting up. This shocked the friar so much that he almost tripped over his long, brown, robe as he stepped backwards in surprise.

“Ah! Fair Juliet! I did not expect that to work- tis good to see thineself!”

“O comfortable Friar! Where is my love? I do know well that here I am, but where is my Romeo?”

YOU KNOW FULL WELL, O MAIDEN OF DEATH AND DARKNESS WHERE ‘YOUR’ ROMEO IS- LOOK DOWN BESIDE THINE OWN DEATHBED!

The Friar looked down for a singular second, his eyes widening with fear, before he looked back at Juliet. “I hear some noise. Lady, from thine tomb–” She is not in the tomb you speak of?? “–come from thou nest of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep. A greater power than we can contradict hath thwarted our our intents. Come away, thou husband lies dead, and Paris too. Among a sisterhood of holy nuns I’ll dispose of thee. Stay not to question, for the watch is coming!”

Juliet set her jaw. “Go, get thee, hence, for I will not go away,” she spoke firmly, shooing the old man out. He looked uncertain for a second, but with a quick turn on his heel, the short and fat ruddy-faced man left, taking his lantern with him and leaving us with Romeo’s. She stared at Romeo’s lantern almost longingly, probably remembering her marriage ceremony, gazing off into space.

This was when I quickly crept out of the bushes, ready to hide in a tree or something, but Juliet moved closer, causing me to freeze, ready to defend myself. Instead of going for me, she was really going for the lantern, and when she glanced down, her eyes found Romeo’s hand, holding a now-empty greenish-tinted glass vial of poison.

“What’s here? A cup! Closed in my true love’s hand! Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end.” She knelt down beside Romeo, looking at the vial which sat on Romeo’s outstretched palm. “O churl! He hath drunk it all and left no friendly drop to help me after? I will kiss they lips.” She kissed Romeo, and I couldn’t help but look anywhere but at the two. She groaned, starting to speak before Abigail inserted herself into Juliet’s conversation with herself.

“Juliet! You know not what you do- thou should’st have gone with the Friar. T’would have been much safer. I hear the Watch near us, we must be fleeing to safety–” she was cut off by Juliet who sighed and shook her head.

“I cannot continue without my Romeo, my true love. I must end this.” She took a knife that Romeo had kept well-hidden from sight that was attached to his belt, drawing it into the lantern light, its ever-sharpened tip glinting. My eyes caught hers, and I cast her a pleading look, before she looked away, committing the act.

“No!” Abigail dropped down to her knees, face in her hands. Tis not right for a maiden to be in such spirits!

And so, Scottish Shakespeare me made the executive decision to hug her. It was an awkward hug, but Abigail leaned into it, tears streaming down her face.

We must’ve been like that for at least three minutes before I heard the sound of hooves and voices. The Watch had arrived.

TWENTY-SIX

⚇乂⚇

THOU HAST YEE’D THINE LAST HAW

THE SOUND CAME NEARER AND nearer, and I was not looking forward to my encounter with the pageboy, who had surely tattled on Paris and I’s duel.

“Abigail–” I started, dehugging her.

“I know,” she whispered, standing up shakily, the mud of freshly prepared grave thickly matted onto her dress. “We must hide.” And so, she walked behind the familiar bush and crouched down, beckoning me to come with her.

I did not have the time. The familiar voice of the page called to me. “You! Move not, lest I stab thee, O murderous fiend!”

I promptly ignored him, shimmying up a tree about as quick as I had ever climbed. That was… incredibly quick! Well done, Nathan! my mind praised as I settled into a crook of the tree, the thick leaves hiding me from sight from most angles.

Abigail looked up at me from her spot. “Ham– Nate, how were’st thee able to climb up there with such speed?” Her eyes were wide and a confused look was on her face.

“I climbed? Quickly?”

She was unconvinced by this answer. “Surely there must be some sort of witchcraft! Tis not possible to climb up such a tree with such haste–” she stopped herself from talking as the sound of voices became louder and louder, until finally, the Watch came into the clearing.

“Where is he!?” cried one of them,- the large, tall, one that had yanked Romeo out from behind me earlier- looking around wildly. His minions followed in suit.

“Come out thee, O boy!”

“Romeo, cowardish son of Montague, show yourself!”

“Come out thou FIEND!”

Romeo was really getting a lot of pushback. But not for long.

“MEN! LOOK WHAT I’VE FOUND!”

A stampede of green-clothed members of the Watch came over, inspecting Romeo’s fallen body.

“And say! He’s killed the Capulet child! Fair Juliet!”

Angry sounds came from the men. “We must take revenge on whomever did this! We’ve already found the slain Paris, whomever killed the heir to Montague and the heir to Capulet must be around here!”

And so, they set out to search. Meanwhile, I was just praying the page boy wasn’t anywhere around, because, as far as I was concerned he kind of hated my guts. Abigail shifted ever so slightly in the bushes, rearranging her foot so it wouldn’t fall asleep, and this, as you could probably expect from Shakespeare, caused an overly-loud rustle in the bushes.

Hides, precious! It took a moment for me to realize that my brain had gone into Gollum mode, only with a Scottish accent. No. Stop. Quit. Go, leave. Now.

LEAVE AND NEVER COME BACK! I almost sighed at the stupidity of my own brain but remembered just in time that Shakespeare was dramatic.

A cackle sounded from below me. It was the cackle of a young boy, and I, unfortunately, knew who it was. The page.

“The murderer hath been found, gentlemen!” Gentlemen? Such a young lad as yourself oughtn’t use a word fit for an older man! Alas, I did not understand my brain’s reasoning.

Abigail “accidentally” stepped on his foot.

“Ow!” cried the boy, letting her go for a second.

“When in the course of human events, a young girl will not find good fortune in killing her own dear brother, nor will she find good fortune in killing her sister-in-law, whom he has newlywed, in other words, methink’st thou mind art the size of boiled mustard seed. Fair befall you, and good night!” The boy was very startled. Abigail, having finished her speech, disappeared into the bush.

Methinks… methinks the lady is out of our league, dear Nathan. I decided to dwell on my Scottish-speaking brain later.

The page stepped back some, glaring at the bush. Finally, he screeched, “MEN! I HATH FOUND OUR MURDERER–.”

Henceforth, we shall bite our thumb at this boy!

… Agreed.

This time, when the page called, people rushed to his aid. Before they could yeet Abigail out of the bush, however, in came the jolly old Saint Nick. By which I mean Friar Lawrence.

“Ho, hey! Men of the watch tis too late to be awake! Or should I say, too early?”

“Friar! Twas you who killed them? Here lies the county slain and Juliet bleeding, who hath lain here these two days bleeding! And here, you, the Friar, tremble, sigh, and weep. A spade and a mattock! Stay, here with the Montague girl.”

The Friar was very much so flustered. “I- I did nothing of the sort! I am a man sworn to God, I would never harm- nor kill!- another man!”

“Ah, but a woman is at stake.”

“The wound! See the wound!”

“Whose wound?” A deep voice sounded from the edge of the graveyard. Abigail, standing across from my tree, raised her eyes up to meet mine, giving whomever had spoken an even stare.

He stood, fiery red hair catching the dawn light. Denaius, the one who was presently in an argument with the Friar dropped to one knee.

“Prince Escalus, it’s an hono–”

The prince held up a hand. “Do not waste your words right now. We have important matters to discuss.” He turned to the page, who had a little smirk on his face as he watched the angry Abigail. “Page. Have you called the Capulets and Montagues?”

The page gave a slight tilt of his head. “Yes, your Highness.” He could not have gone! Twasn’t enough time!

The prince nodded. “Well done–” the page glowed at his praise “-- we must wait until the two feuding–” he gave a vague gesture with his hand “--families get here to discuss the matter fairly.”

Took long enough! That lily-livered scoundrel of a prince is finally playing fair! Oddly enough, my thoughts were turning more… American. That midwestern voice was coming back, slowly, but surely. My vocabulary had not, however, changed.

The sound of a hysterical woman made the Prince look over in the direction of the entrance. “Ah. And so they hath arrived.”

Indeed they had. A woman in hysterics, wearing a blue dress came in, holding her husband’s arm. Her husband had a grim look on his face, and it was clear- at least to me- that he was trying to hold in some extreme emotion. Benvolio trailed in after the two, face unreadable, eyes looking about at all the members of the Watch, hand on an extra sword.

Tis not noble for Lady Montague to be blubbering in front of such noble company! The accent was back, at least for a moment.

The Prince gave the three a slight nod, awaiting the Capulets’ arrival. It did not take long. Soon, in came the red-haired Lady Capulet with her pale face and slender neck, adorned with jewels, as if she had been awaiting all night to come, and had been getting ready. Beside her was her husband, walking stiffly, picking his steps carefully, as he had, presumably forgotten his cane at home.

“Ladies,” the Prince addressed the women of the couples, nodding to both, “and Gentlemen. An atrocity hath been discover’d tonight, and it seems a child hath committed it.”

The woman in blue almost burst into tears again upon seeing Abigail standing there innocently. “Nay, Abigail t’would ne’er even dream of such a crime!”

The Prince gave her a pointed look before continuing. “But. We shall not continue with the bloodshed. …” He continued on with his speech, going on and on and on about the centuries of death and doom and destruction caused by the feuding families, blah, blah, blah, Shakespeare is almost unreadable, etc, etc.

As the Prince spoke, Benvolio quietly edged over to Abigail, who was in full sight of all the members of the Watch, and of course, the “feuding” couples.

Abigail looked up at him for a second, then spoke something almost silently, and, since she was at a distance, I couldn’t really hear what she had said. Benvolio stooped down a little bit so that Abigail could whisper something to him.

She stood on tiptoe, and, cupping her hands around her mouth, said something in Benvolio’s ear very quickly. I gazed at the two with a bit of confusion and slight concern.

Benvolio’s face changed almost invisibly, and slowly he looked up to my tree, searching for me. His brown eyes caught onto my gray ones, and it was almost like he had read my mind. It was as if it just clicked, and he knew what had happened, almost instinctively so.

TWENTY-SEVEN

⚇乂⚇

MY FRIEND KINDLY KEEPS ME FROM GOING TO COURT (THANKS, FRIEND *PAT, PAT*)

HERE’S A TIP: WHEN YOU’RE half-asleep, don’t choose a tree to end up in! It worked for a certain character in a certain series who had a certain bright orange backpack, but other than that, no. Don’t do it. It’s tempting. But don’t. Bears/Romeos could eat you.

I mean, also, in general, trees aren’t the most trustworthy things to be hanging- literally- out in. Like, a stick pokes you in the eye. What’s up with that tree? We got a problem?

Anyways, I was in the tree. Big deal. Except it actually was, because apparently people were going to riot.

“Apologies, my liege, my wife, Lady Montague, fell ill at hearing of Romeo’s exile. She died of sadness—” oh, by the way, I forgot to mention that my hearing had gone back and forth- so I guess I’m a translator now “—only a few hours ago. —” Abigail stepped forward, no sound coming from her mouth, eyes shining with grief. She looked like she could break down into tears at any moment, but held them back, if only barely, taking a leaf from Benvolio’s book. Montague gave her a meaningful look before setting his jaw as Benvolio had and continuing “And so, it seems as if we may have a problem.”  

Montague’s eyes went from Capulet to his red-haired wife, who was fanning herself with her hand almost non-stop. “It seems,” he began slowly, dragging out his words “that the people are crying out ‘Juliet’ or ‘Romeo’ or ‘Paris’ and now they’re on a crash-course to our- ah- tomb.” Look, I never said it’d be an accurate translation. Let’s leave that up to the professionals.

Paris raised a brow. “And?”

“And?” A flash of confusion flashed over Montague’s face.

“We’ll simply re-route them. Find something else to make them excited about.”

Abigail gave a small huff and Benvolio frowned at this suggestion.

“My liege,” he began, stepping forward before being barred by one of the Watch. It was the tall and fat one, the one who had exiled Romeo.

“Do not move unless he says to,” he said stiffly, arm out, glaring at Benvolio.

Benvolio shot him a look. “Sir,” he said testily, “if you would like to retain your arm and your good looks, I would highly suggest moving away from myself and the honorable Lady Montague, for if you do not, I shall have to resort to violent measures that are not fit for good company.”

This, of course, caused the man to step back, a brief look of alarm crossing his face. “Fine. But when the Prince declares your execution, do not come crying to me for mercy.”

Abigail muttered something under her breath, rolling her eyes. I could almost tell out what she was saying- and I was pretty sure it was something about how the guard dude couldn’t do that even if he had wanted to- but I was just a little bit too far away to hear.

“Your highness,” Benvolio begain once again, addressing his words to Prince Escalus.

“I propose a compromise.”

The Prince raised a brow at the blue-cloaked Benvolio. “Speak,” he said, giving a small nod.

“It seems that the people are upset over the death of the Montague and Capulet heir, and, indeed, Count Paris.”

There was no objection here.

“I propose we bring out the story to the public—” the corners of Escalus’ mouth twitched downwards, a displeased look growing over his face “—by an unbiased perspective. Perhaps, flyers would do the trick?”

“And whom,” began Escalus dramatically, escalating things… as he was known to do, “would you propose, Benvolio, son of Morsire, sister to lady Montague, be this unbiased perspective?”

“Ah—” Benvolio began, giving a glance to me in the tree. I could faintly hear the sounds of rioters and my vision was going weird, so I gave a slight shake of my head. Benvolio, who had, in his wisdom, expected this, nodded, continuing on. “I propose a committee. If we have a committee, who can gather the witnesses’ testimonies, it would, I believe, be easier to gather an unbiased view.”

The Prince stroked his beard. Within the span of five seconds, several emotions crossed his face. First, a flash of anger at Benvolio’s suggestion—perhaps he believed this was a step to overthrowing the monarchy? Then, a thoughtful expression, laced with contentment. Finally, an I-have-come-to-a-conclusion face, and a slight nod.

“Very well. You shall be in charge of this committee. We begin tomorrow.”

Benvolio stuttered, searching for words.

“Me? Your highness, you know I am less than qualified, and besides I have business to attend to—”

The Prince raised a brow. “Business? Perhaps the Lady Portia of the neighboring town?” Escalus gave a vague gesture. Benvolio’s face went red.

“I—ahem—” (yes he really did say the word “ahem”, isn’t it incredible?) “—I uh- no- sort of? I’m kind of helping her—with, like, her father’s um—estate—”

It was very clear that Abigail was freaking out on the inside. And, to be honest, I was too. These two were probably perfect for eachother… or not. Shakespeare was weird.

Benvolio cleared his throat, shifting his weight. “Yes. I shall indeed organize this committee.” A new air of I-can-do-this was about the man and he gave a nod, scratching his face, where his Mercutio-envied beard was.

Balthasar popped out of nowhere, blinking in slight confusion at all the words that were being said and the things being arranged. “Benvolio,” he began, looking from the Prince to the Watch to the Capulets to Montagues. “What have I missed?” It was more a statement than a question.

“Quite a lot, quite a lot,” said Benvolio. “… Speaking of missing things, I believe Romeo missed a letter?”

Balthasar’s eyes went wide. “That’s where that thing went! I’ve been looking around all night—well, day, now, I guess—for it!”

That thing? Bro, you could’ve saved Romeo’s life! A hot anger swelled up in me as I fought to keep it back. Not. Right. Now. Must. Find out. What happens. Next.

And so I did. Benvolio handed Balthasar the letter. Balthasar handed Escalus the letter. Escalus read the letter. And thus he handed it back to Benvolio.

“It seems,” spoke he, regal air about him “that your two families, who aren’t really two any longer, as you’ve been joined through Romeo and Juliet’s marriage—” he pointed to Montague and the Capulets “—brought about this. And so, Benvolio, I decree they shall be the first questioned and put into jail if found guilty.”

Benvolio lookd slightly alarmed. “Your highness, let’s not jump there- surely, the people will love you more for fair trials?”

It sounded like an insult to me, but the Prince stroked his beard. “Hm. Indeed. Very well, then.”

Capulet seemed to be overwhelmed with emotion. “Montague… brother—” the word struck me weird, as the once-enemy reached out to his rival “—here. Take my Juliet’s dowry, for it’s all I can give you.” He put his hand in his pocket once again and took a small sack of jewels and gold and whatnot out of his pocket. His wife, Lady Capulet, reached for it, but drew back, frowning to herself.

“Ah,” said Montague sadly, taking the money sack. “But I can give you much more. Juliet will forever be loved and honored, among all women.”

“And… your daughter,” said Capulet, glancing over to Abigail, who gave him a curt nod.

“No need, sir. The past is past, the present the present. And I am, in fact, present.”

Lady Capulet’s eyes teared up. “Oh, child!” And she flung herself at Abigail, wrapping her arms around her. “That’s just something my Juliet would say!” Sniffles followed, the slightly awkward Abigail slowly relaxing and awkwardly patting her new “mother” on the arm in a comforting gesture.

Capulet and Montague were still boasting of the gifts they’d give eachother in honor of Romeo and Juliet.

“And I, I shall create a cathedral! It shall be called Saint Romeo’s Cathedral!” the man in scarlet declared, a fierce, bright, look on his face.

The Friar recoiled in offense. “I say! You can’t do that!” He was promptly ignored.

As my vision faded, to a dizziness I hadn’t experienced before, I heard Benvolio utter a simple few lines, all rhyming, although he was not in any way a noble character. (That is, rank-wise. Mom-friends are usually quite noble.)

“A glooming peace this morning with it brings.

The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head,

Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things.

Some shall be pardoned, and some punished.

For never was a story of more woe

Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

⚇乂⚇

AND OH MY GOSH CHOLESTEROL

THINGS WENT BLURRY TO THE point of unrecognition. When things sort of cleared up, after I thought I had gone crazy, I came to the realization that I was back in the future.

Around me was a familiar, futuristic, at least in comparison to Shakespeare, setting. Pool lights were spaced every five or six feet on the walls, the steady beeping of a heart monitor bringing me back into focus.

I squinted, trying to de-blur my vision, and found that there was not, in fact,  anyone else in the room. Except… a strange ticking noise filled my ears. It came from behind me, a strange weight dragging down my hands- which were, by the way, still behind me, via the zip ties.

A bomb, my mind thought, mercifully having returned to its normal accent. That took a second to process. And then: A BOMB!

My first instinct? Run for my life. Except I couldn’t do that before first getting the zip ties off. Easy enough. I pressed a small button on my watch, a razor-sharp blade coming out of the side. A few swift movements of my wrist later and the bomb-like thing fell to the ground.

I leapt up from the chair, circling it once, trying to figure out how close I could get to the bundle of blue-ish sticks before exploding.

Okay… so it’s a new variant of dynamite. There wasn’t any branding on it, and except for a timer thingy on the bundle, it was just a bunch of blue cylinders.

I carefully picked the bundle up- Not smart, my brain helpfully told me- and examined it closely.

The sticks were the width of two of my fingers and were about eight inches in length. They were a bright, royal, blue color, and had no wicks from which you could light them.

The timer was what caught my eye, though. Green, digital, numbers flashed on it, counting down from nine minutes twenty-three seconds… to nine minutes twenty-two seconds… to twenty-one… to twenty….

We have to go. But before I did, I gently lifted the digital number box thingy. It was attached to two cheap-looking wires. We’re not doing this today.

I put the bomb down, careful to position it so it wouldn’t explode in my face.

We could pull a Captain America… no, no, this has much more boom capacity than a grenade….

There was not, I decided, anything I could do. And so, I broke for the door, passing the heart rate monitor, which I had hastily undone from my wrist before.

Its numbers and stuff were very confusing. I was a little surprised that what’s-his-face could read the thing, it wasn’t as if he were smart enough to really go to nursing or medical school or whatever.

All I caught was something about cholesterol, which didn’t really make sense, because I was pretty sure it was measured with blood. Or something. It’s not as if I’m a trained doctor.

Anywho, out the door I went, past the curving hallways, and to the elevator.

Fire alarm, fire alarm… no sign of one. I don’t think this building is up to code. But hey, what could I say, I’m not an architect either.

And so, up the three flights of stairs and up to the lobby I went.

The receptionist was nowhere to be found. But the fire alarm was. It was behind the chest-high marble desk where the fluffy-haired teenager had sat earlier.

What’s another law broken? I yeeted myself over the desk as fast as I could.

The door, to where I assumed the receptionist usually just chilled out, was shut, and I was pretty sure she hadn’t heard me. Great. With that, I pulled down on the white tab thingy as fast and hard as I could.

A blaring sound filled the hotel. And out came the receptionist.

Her hair was back now, in a long, frizzy, ponytail.

“What’re you doing!?” Her green eyes were squinted in anger. “You’re going to get us all killed!”

“No, Tom What’s-it is!”

“Wh—”

“Get out, there’s a bomb!”

This caught her attention. “… Fine.”

And thus, the receptionist fled for the entrance.

Trusting the people of the hotel, I started for the breakroom, to see if I could find anyone. But then…

The dart. I needed a sample of that dart. Badly. Isn’t there some in my blood? Can’t we do this Cap style?

That was not an option. People first.

And so, I headed off to the pool at top speed. The door was, unfortunately, locked. I needed a key card to get to the pool. So, I did what any normal person would have done in that situation.

I opened a window and climbed out. (Ha! You thought I would break the glass! Pretty sure that’s illegal, though… don’t want my reputation further smeared.)

The sun was bright. I squinted in the light, shielding my eyes, before dashing over to the pool.

Kids were splashing each other, having chicken fights, altogether having a great time. Parents were sunbathing, talking, getting a break from the kids, and there were, per usual, people flirting with each other, as they tended to do at this particular hotel.

“GET OUT! BOMB!”

This caught few peoples’ attention. So, I decided to take extra measures. I ran over to the lifeguard’s stand (where no lifeguard sat) and grabbed the megaphone, switching it on.

“FIRE! BOMB! GET OUT OF THE POOL!”

This got the people moving. All sorts of people were now grabbing their kids, running for their lives, using their key cards to get at the doors, going for it.

Except… someone was moving really, really, slowly. A grandmother. Her face was wrinkled, a flowered swim cap on her head, a cane in one hand and a magazine in the other, she was moving as slow as… well, molasses.

People first, my mind thought slightly grudgingly. I needed that sample, but I wouldn’t very much like it if my own grandmother were blown to bits by dynamite… so I helped her along as fast as I could.

Finally, I was free of her, and I glanced at my watch. I had exactly two minutes and forty-nine seconds left. Time to put that gym practice to the test.

And so, I dashed down the stairs and into the abyss known as the basements.

TWENTY-NINE

⚇乂⚇

I ESCAPE (BUT JUST BY A HARE)

THE BASEMENT’S FIRE ALARMS WERE not in fact top-notch. They were very quiet, actually, which I guess was bad, but it gave my ears a break. It’s not like I chose to pull the fire alarm. … Okay, so maybe I did, but it gets annoying.

Down one flight. My breathing was still fine. Down another. Yeah, we’re cool. The third flight. Whew, that was a bit of a stretch there.

But I did not have time to waste. I needed a sample.

And so, I directed my energy into running as fast as I could to the room where I had been kept. It was sort of at the end of the hall— if you could call it a hall— and wasn’t more than ten feet both length and widthwise.

As I got into the room, I noticed the heart monitor was off, but a new sound had filled its place.

It was almost like a squeaking sound, something like a baby’s cry.

Not a child… when I looked, I found a furry creature with long ears and surprisingly long legs.

Definitely not a child. A hare. The animal was trapped in a cage which looked as if it had never been cleaned, no trace of food in it, and even less room for it to jump around.

And so, I decided to unlock the cage. Out jumped the hare, slightly smaller than I would expect a full-grown one to be, somewhat-timidly loping about for a moment.

Then, quick as a flash, he grabbed a wire. Following the wire’s course, I saw it was connected to the hat thingy that had been on my head when my vision had cleared.

Evidence..? I glanced around and found no trace of one of the Germanic darts. Evidence, I decided.

Slowly, I came towards the hare, whose nose twitched as he gave me an all-knowing look with his odd, strangely human-like eyes.

Shouldn’t be too hard to catch him. At the very least, I need that hat.

The hare was backing up towards my backpack. I need to get Jed to add, like, carrot smell thingies to the bag.

Slowly, slowly, I came closer, the hare backing up into the corner, eyes wide, mouth clamped firmly around the wire.

And then he lunged. He was quick, making a feign to the right but really going left.

No wonder Bugs was never caught… and so I grabbed my blue backpack and ran after the hare.

It struck me that I had never checked to see how much time was left on the blue dynamite. I figured it didn’t matter anyways—it would be a miracle if I could get out alive.

Focus. I willed my legs to move faster, following the hare up the stairs and into the lobby, going much faster than I had originally thought I could. I didn’t escape Shakespeare to die by some blue dynamite.

The thought spurred me on, and I ran out the large, glass, doors.

I grabbed for the hare, fingers brushing his white-flecked brown fur, before my world was rocked… quite literally.

Shockwaves rippled through the ground and I saw my life flash before my eyes.

Screams echoed around me, terrified civilians running around, parents clutching their kids, grown men crying like children, hiding behind or in their cars.

The building came down on itself, imploding, floor by floor toppling down. As it fell, I felt an odd peace. At least I saved these people….

When it was all done, a cloud of dust was coming up from the destruction site, the wailing of ambulances sounding in the distance.

I found myself on my back, a stray chunk of rock under my head, spread out almost in a free-fall position.

I’m having déjà vu… I looked up at the sky, squinting, trying to avoid looking at the bright sun. The sky was a vibrant blue, clouds lacing it, floating gracefully about, their fluffy forms sometimes passing the mass of incandescent gas known as the sun.

The dust was clearing, although still thick, the sound of coughing about me. Screams were still heard, although somewhat muted, and I wondered to myself if I were to die.

I guess so. And so, I closed my eyes, perhaps for the last time.

THIRTY

⚇乂⚇

HE HIJACKED MY BACKPACK, CAN WE KEEP HIM?

… OR AT LEAST I THOUGHT. Haha, sucker- you thought I was going to die, when in fact, I, Nate Foster, who is very much alive, am writing this book.

Anywho, my eyes were shut tight, dust was all around me, crying people were also all around me, when I felt a thingy touch my hand.

It was soft—softer than a rock, at least—and felt almost like… velvet?

I looked over, craning my neck to see, and lo and behold, I found the hare.

His inquisitve hazel gaze met mine and he stepped back for a moment, a wire still in his mouth. He yanked, as if trying to pull something… which was when I realized the hat bowl thingy was under my hand.

“Oh. Oh no. You can’t have my hat bowl.” And with that, he pouted, burrowing into my backpack, still carrying the wire.

Two birds with one stone? I think?

The sky was a magnificent blue, even through the haze of the seemingly never-settling dust. I know this because I was staring up at it before a face loomed into view.

It was sunburnt, very much so, although it was quite tanned at the same time. Blonde hair sprouted from his head, in a buzz cut. The Major had arrived.

“Well, son,” he said, looking around, accent of that of banana pudding and green bean casserole. He always sounded like this- apparently, he was from South Carolina.

“Looks like you’ve gotten yourself into quite a predicament,” he continued, drawing out the “quite”.

“Yup,” was all I could say in agreement. He stretched out a hand, dragging me up partially.

“Wouldn’t worry ‘bout it— we’ve got it covered. Jedidiah’s already workin’ with the security team on it.”

I gave a nod, eyes darting from person to person, shrouded by the thick dust that clouded up the air.

“We should be going,” I said finally, picking up my bag. It was weighted down with the hare. A yelp-like sound came from it.

The Major eyed the blue nylon curiously. “Jed installed speakers?”

“Ah. No.” I opened the bag to reveal the long-eared creature.

“Hm.”

“Can we keep him..? He kind of- like- saved my life—”

Major Bighe mercifully did not look surprised—in fact, I doubted it was the weirdest thing that had happened that day.

“Sure, son. Just give ‘im a name within five seconds. And no food names.”

He started counting down. For Pete’s sake! You know how bad I am at naming things!

My mind whirled, trying to find the name for the stowaway. Carrots? Wires? None of the names fit. Finally, I came up with a name.

“Pottah,” I said, nodding.

“Pottah?” The Major’s voice was not even remotely British.

“Actually, Harry—” This received a hearty chuckle from the man.

“Good name for a man, good name for a rabbit, I suppose.”

And so, that ended our conversation. Within moments, we were off the scene.

The only thing, though, that bothered me a little about the whole thing was what I saw before we left.

A pair of yellow, glowing, eyes stared at me from the rubble. Rather, the comined smoke and dust from the fallen building.

Panthers don’t live out here… my mind trailed off, and as soon as I had seen the eyes, they disappeared.

… Weird. Tis of utmost oddness—

Don’t. Do it. My mind quieted, finally. At last, I was back in the real world.

As ambulances, firetrucks, and police vehicles came onto the scene, we got ourselves out of there ASAP. We definitely didn’t need any police on our tails questioning us.

If you were to look very closely at the news story that day, you would have found three basements, the third completely normal looking aside from a very damaged heart rate monitor, and perhaps you would have caught sight of a military-looking, definitely southern man leading a kid in jeans and a t-shirt away from the wreckage, backpack bulging with equipment, almost suspiciously.

To be fair, you also would’ve seen a grandmother with a swim cap with flower designs and a deep indigo swimsuit on saying a child of twelve had escorted her to the entrance of a bomb-infested building… so you can’t really be sure that what you read on the news is true.

But what I know for sure is true? Tom Halifax and his goons and whoever they were working for weren’t done with their job yet. They were after me and the good agents of ILKS.

But for now… I guess I’ll just have to chill and go on more missions, try not to die, and be in constant wait for their attack. And eat a hamburger. Shakespeare had a horrible taste in food.

EPILOGUE

⚇乂⚇

WHAT CHILD IS THIS

THE TECH ROOM WAS LOVELY. Wires were scattered everywhere, and despite the messiness and my deep disliking for messiness, it was nice.

It had been six months since I had been in Shakespeareland. Six. Whole. Months.

I hadn’t been on an assignment since- I had really been trying to help out my friend, Jed, with tweaking the metal bowl that had served as a transport to another world.

We had been mostly successful thus far—the only thing we needed to fix was how large and bulky it was.

“We just need to… smallify it,” Jed had said, shaking his head slightly, trying to get the dirty blonde hair out of his face.

He could’ve cosplayed as Shaggy from Scooby Doo, given how he looked. From his dark brown eyes to his almost sort of bangs to his trying-to-grow-a-beard, he was the spitting image of him. Only, his personality was different.

He was a tech wiz… unlike Shaggy. And he did not have a dog.

“You mean minitaturize?” I asked, poking a blue wire carefully.

“No, no,” he insisted, flipping up his welder’s mask which had had just put on. “I mean smallify. As in, make it a bracelet.” A mischievous look crossed his face. “Or maybe… a watch.”

Jed Wilkie was notorious for inventing watches. Not the time-telling ones, although he was good at those too, but the spy ones. He had figured out how to implement a laser pointer into some while putting in a bird call maker in another.

“Okay, but like—” I was cut off by a spark coming in my direction. It quickly simmered out, but just for good measure, I scooted away, down the table, and away from Jed and his welding devices.

“Got it!” Jed exclaimed after a moment, flipping up his mask once again. He held up a small device.

“This, this is what does the magic!”

It was small enough to not be noticed by most, and I had in fact skipped over it in my initial examinations of the bowl hat.

“What is it?”

Jed scratched his head. “Dunno. Just looks important.” Well, that was a letdown. Upon seeing my face, Jed grinned. “Nah—I know it’s important. Got all these fancy switches on it. ‘Sides, it was definitely made by a tech dude.”

“But what’s it called?”

“Well, it’s a new discovery- doesn’t have a name yet! It could be called…” Jed thought a moment. “The Foster-Wilkie compartment thingamajig!”

I raised a brow, trying to hide a smile.

“Okay, okay… uhhh… the transporter!”

Another brow raise. Jed held up his hands in surrender. “It takes a while to come up with genius names, okay!”

I grinned and gave a laugh. “Yeah, yeah, I know… what about ‘jumper’?”

He shook his head. “Sounds like jumper cable. Or a jacket. It’ll get confusing.”

“Bro,” I said, glancing over at him. “You know how confusing the other names of things are, right?”

Jed paused. Then he grinned and spoke once more: “Yeah, fair enough. Jumper it is!”

Thus and so, the little story-jumpy part was named.

That wasn’t at the top of my list for that day, though—oh, no. I had to write letters- specifically to Benvolio- and I probably needed to get stuff done with the book you are, in fact, presently reading.  

The book was easy enough… but the letters were easier. For example, the Benvolio one.

I won’t bore you with the details, reader, but essentially, I had become a genius overnight.

Like, alright. When I left the to-be-destroyed building, I had grabbed a flimsy, paperback version of Romeo and Juliet. It wasn’t one of those fancy translation ones that go from Shakespeare to modern English, it was just your standard, English class, Romeo and Juliet.

Except it wasn’t. It wasn’t like Romeo and Juliet. Sure, there were still the important-ish bits, but I was there. Which was a little eerie, because Shakespeare existed something like… what, four, five, hundred years ago?

Anyway—I had stapled (the noise had made me cringe) pages to the back of the book, what was now safely in a book cover, and written a letter to Benvolio.

And he had responded. Which was super cool.

Apparently, he was to be married to a woman called “Lady Portia” (as he said in his lengthy letters), and she was just the best. Abigail loved her, Montague found her intriguing, even the stiff Mrs. Capulet was fond of her. Benvolio was confident they would be a good match. And what’s more, Benvolio had been promoted. He was now, apparently, a sort of advisor to Escalus (which was good, because he certainly needed a competent one), which provided a) a bunch of job opportunities, and b) more time to spend with Lady Portia, who was good friends with Escalus’ to-be wife. It was all coming together rather well for my friends in the realm of Shakespeare.  

Back to the present, though, I was walking out of the tech room, which is when I saw… her.

She had a very thin face. Her pale skin was freckled with… freckles, and she had these almost greenish-brown eyes. She couldn’t have been much younger than me, she was maybe around fourteen, possibly?

Upon seeing me, she grinned and briskly walked on up.

“Hi!” she exclaimed brightly, brushing a strand of gingery hair that had escaped from her thick ponytail out of her face. “I’m Carmen.” She stuck out her hand for a handshake.

I gave a small smile back. “I’m Nate.”

She gave me a very serious look. “I know. You’re writing about Shakespeare.”

This caught me off-guard—only a select number of people knew about this great undertaking.

She stepped back, possibly pleased about her taking me off-guard, a small smile crossing her face.

“Well, hang on, it’s not like a Shakespeare fan-fiction, or anything,” I said quickly, trying to avoid any very much so incorrect assumptions.

Carmen laughed. “No, no, I didn’t say it was. I know what you’re up to.”

An unsure look passed over her face, and she paused a moment. “I have… encountered a lead, concerning a certain Tom Halifax.”

This was not something I had expected. I thought back to the dart his goons had shot at me. A shiver ran through my body.

I knew what this meant. Usually, when an agent discovers a bad guy, they go after him—usually. I wasn’t sure if I would be allowed to do this… because the book writing process was sapping up most of my time.

Carmen, presumably reading my mind, gave a vague hand wave. “Not a problem. The Major’s given permission.”

I nodded, slightly. Guess I’m punching Uncle Tom in the nose, then.

“Only thing is,” Carmen said, giving me a somewhat mischievous look, a small grin crossing her face. “We gotta go through a book to catch him.”

I didn’t mean to. I really didn’t. But I groaned. Okay, look, I didn’t love Shakespeare. I do love books… but do you know how many books I liked where I could die within the opening scene?

Carmen sighed. “You’re the only one with the expertise in this field, Nate. I need your help on this.”

It’s not as if I can pass up a chance to jump into a book… and plus, it is my job….

I nodded. “Let’s do it. When do we leave?”

“Two weeks,” she replied, face lighting up excitedly.

 Her excitement was contagious. A grin slowly formed on my face. “Sweet. See you there… tech lab?”

Carmen thought for a minute. “Wait. No. Hold up—yes—yes. Yes, the tech lab.” (It is not my fault in the slightest that Jed had named two different places two very similar names.)

“Cool. See you in a week, then.”

“Yup. Mhm.”

I paused, turning on my heel back to her for a moment. “Carmen. What book are we jumping into, exactly?”

She gave one of those mischievous smiles that little did I know I would encounter many more a time while on our journey.

“Evercore.” She held out a book to me, taking it from a pocket in her bag. I peered over at it, realizing that she probably had several copies of the same book stashed in there—otherwise, why would she have given me this one?

“To keep?” I questioned. Part of me thought, Score! A new book! The other part was beating its head against the wall in frustration.

She gave an affirming nod. I looked down at it, taking in its details.

It wasn’t very old looking— in fact, I thought I recalled seeing a book like this in a bookstore years ago and hearing of its release. It was quite popular.

Its cover showed a boy with a staff-like thing, a grin on his face, encountering a… was that a dragon? It must’ve been.

It was large, and green, and had scales o’ plenty. I could only imagine how it would look in real life. Carmen’s voice snagged me from my thoughts.

“We ready for this, partner?” She had held up her hand, yet another grin on her face, an excited light in her eyes.

Once again, her excitement was contagious. I grabbed her hand, the height difference hardly significant, as she was perhaps an inch shorter than me, and gave her a confident smile.  

“Let’s go save the world.”