The thought came to him unbidden. Was he? He looked back at the heap on the ground next to him, quietly breathing. Even when they were knocked out, the little bastards were sneaky as hell. Just like what he had been forced into becoming. When the hell did he start seeing it as an acceptable state of affairs to skulk in freezing tunnels under a city gripped in winter's icy grasp, or skulking along roads like some common brigand? When did it become acceptable to hide out in back alleys like some drug-dealing scumbag, traipsing along ancient changeling sewers and smelling like the devil? When did he start being content with putting dozens of families at risk to spite his persecutors, a realization that his brain immediately put at the back of his thoughts before the implications slowly stopped him in his tracks with their horror, and then breaking and entering a home and using a family as a disposable shield instead of facing the consequences of his actions like a man?