AN: The dialogue includes both French and English, so for the most part is written in English. French is in italics. Un-beta'd, possible spelling/grammar/punctuation errors. Please read and review. Any questions, leave a review or drop me a PM.

Miseries of the Hood Part 1

Monseigneur Bienvenu would never become weary of his works. And yet he found it more troubling than he would care to admit that he was once again called to minister to a condemned man's last night on the earth.

And this man, well, that was another story. His trial had been rushed, and hardly what one would call fair, spurred on by the twin facts of seeming overwhelming proof of guilt and refusal to say anything, even give his name, save that he was innocent. The courts, ever eager to avenge a murder, did not waste any time in sending him to the guillotine.

The guards let him into the cell. The prisoner had his back to the door, leaning his arms on the small barred window that gave but a little light, and a good view of the scaffold. Immediately, the truth surrounding the prisoner's oddities was, at least partly, confirmed. His attire was a suit that hugged his skin like hose, but much thicker, and stretching from his ankles to his wrists to his neck. His feet were clad in heavy boots, and his black hair was short but unruly.

"Hey, Red!" one of the guards called to him. "The Bishop's here for you, so be nice!" The man did not stir, and Bienvenu wondered were the nickname came from; his hair was not ginger. He muttered something that sounded like the sound "cough". The guard stormed into the room, and grabbed his prisoner roughly by the shoulder. In the blink of an eye, the guard was on the ground, the prisoner kneeling on his back and his arms pinned. The other guard ran up and prodded him in the ribs with the nose of his rifle.

The prisoner retreated warily, and now Bienvenu could clearly see the stylized red bat on his chest, and the crimson piece of cloth across his brow, strange white circles hiding his eyes. He also seemed younger than rumour had him; sixteen, seventeen, possibly eighteen or nineteen summers, no older. He moved as gracefully as the dancers in an opera he'd once been taken to see, but his every move screamed danger. It was no surprise why he was so quickly thought capable of murder.

"Peace, my son," Bienvenu said. He gestured for the guards to leave, then sat down on the thin straw pallet, and patted it invitingly. The young man instead sank down, leaning against the wall opposite and drawing his knees up to his chest. "My name's Myriel," he continued. "But the people call me Monseigneur Bienvenu."

The young man (really, scarcely more than a boy) cocked his head to one side. "'Sir Welcome'?" he said, not in French, but in English.

"You're all the way from England? Would you like me to speak your language?" If his French was poor, it would explain his reticence.

He shook his head. "America, actually. I have no great difficulty with French. I am fluent."

Indeed, it was impeccable. "What brings you to France?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Is that so? The ways of the Lord are mysterious; what man can fathom the works of his hand?"

A semi-derisive snort. "Not me, anyway."

Bienvenu chose to ignore the comment; the language switch indicated it wasn't for him to hear anyway. "What's your name, son?" he asked. "You never gave it; you must have one."

The young man chuckled wryly. "A couple. One, I can't tell you. Another I lost, and someone else took it. A few nicknames, and a name that means nothing to you."

"Then tell me a nickname, if you cannot, or will not, give your real name."

He considered it. Bienvenu was half-expecting him to refuse, when he said quietly, "Little Wing. My brothers call me Little Wing." He must have caught Bienvenu's slight confusion, for he continued. "I was younger when I picked that one up. It stuck. You know childhood nicknames…"

"You have brothers? A large family?"

"Yes and no. My first family, Dad left me and Mom, and then Mom died. Turns out she wasn't really my mother anyway, but I thought she was." He pulled a thin chain from beneath his shirt and pointed to a slim gold wedding ring. "That was hers. When I found out Dad had been killed, I didn't bother getting his. No reason to. I don't miss him."

Bienvenu pointed to the other pendant. "What's that one?"

"That's for my new family. We all wear these. I have a new father, three brothers, one sister. Don't always get on, but we're family."

Bienvenu smiled slightly. It sounded like he cared for them, and now they'd be losing a son, a brother. "Do you want me to contact them, tell them what happened?"

Wing shook his head. "They're coming for me anyway. Just hope they're not too late…" His voice tailed off, as he glanced to the window with its square of darkening sky, and view of the scaffold.

Dismissing the suggestion that the prisoner was trying to avoid his punishment, Bienvenu asked, "So you are afraid to die?"

He snorted. "Been there, done that, got the bloody white streak to prove it," he muttered angrily. At his wild gesture to his forehead, Bienvenu looked closer. Indeed, at the forefront of his hair, a single lock stood out, white but covered in grime.

"I don't understand," he said, for how could he have 'been there, done that' with death? And what did the pale lock prove?

"The…phrasing…doesn't translate very well. There was one other time I was killed. And then brought back." It sounded incredible, almost impossible, but there was something honest in the way he spoke simply, staring at the floor.

"It hurt worse than anything you can imagine," Wing continued. "The actual dying was no rose bed. This guy beat me half to death with a metal bar, then smashed a warehouse on top of me. I read the post mortem, one time I was feeling morbidly curious. Two thirds of my ribs fractured; half of them completely smashed, piercing my lungs. Every limb broken at least once. Cracked skull. Multiple internal injuries. Of course I felt all that. After the warehouse blew, I blacked out. Came round again, just as…Dad, found me. I think he tried asking me to stay alive, but I can't remember too clearly. It's fuzzy; all full of the feel of the blood filling my lungs. Then I closed my eyes and stopped breathing." He stopped for a moment. His breathing was laboured, as though he was going through the same experience of punctured lungs. Eventually he caught his breath and resumed his narrative. "It was dark, and cool, and so quiet. Nothing hurt; it was like floating underwater, but no pressure to breathe. A second could have been years, or a century as a minute. It was peaceful. And then I was yanked out, stuffed into a body again. Every nerve on fire, every sensation agony. The strain of living again warped my mind, and left its mark in bleaching my forelock. It was some time before my family snapped me back to my senses. They've been…more forgiving than I deserve." He looked up again, a slight smile gracing his lips. "My older brother, he's…oh, what's the word?" He frowned, then snapped his fingers. "L'oiseau d'or de papa. Daddy's golden bird. He's been incredibly dedicated to keeping us together. And he'll probably bring me home even if he has to scrape up sidewalk pizza." Bienvenu frowned; the last two words were nonsense. Wing noticed his confusion. "It's what we call the result when you fall about, oh, forty feet onto hard stone. Not pretty."

"You think you're going to live, even if you are resurrected again," Bienvenu gasped.

"I don't know if I can go through it again. The…process…can be a bit dodgy. We only have one example of it being used on the same person more than once. It's not a nice example to follow. Gold Bird would try, though. He'd consider the risk worth it. That's what's scaring me most." He leaned back. "I don't even know why I'm telling you all this."

"You need to tell someone." A few minutes passed in silence, before Bienvenu asked another question. "Why did you kill the man?"

"I didn't. I had no reason to kill anyone this time."

"This time? You have killed before?"

"A few times. Only when it did more good to permanently remove the person than to risk them in court."

"Why? What did these people do that made them such a threat?"

"Most of them were selling drugs to children. You know drugs? Substances that make you feel great, for a moment. Then you need more. 'Course, it costs something ridiculous. And you can't just stop. Usually, you get poisoned sooner or later, if you don't have an accident, or take too much at once, or get locked up for stealing to feed the habit. And these dealers were sucking children, kids younger than fifteen, into that torment-filled life." He looked away. "It was drugs that killed Mom. Dad left because he couldn't deal. Didn't bother ever checking up on us. I ended up on the streets, fending for myself. If I hadn't got picked up by my new family, I might have ended up on drugs myself, just to forget that I had no future."

"Life is often so much harder than the law's men understand," Bienvenu sighed. "You said you killed 'a few times'?"

"My father doesn't approve. So I stopped. We argued a lot, but reached an understanding. I try to do things his way now. No killing."

"You changed your ways for your father's sake?" Bienvenu chuckled.

"Guess you could say that, yeah," Wing replied dryly. "I'm not lapsing any time soon. Not even to escape that guillotine."