Editing DbS (section)

== 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.