Post episode 4

Every New Beginning- M. Raffl

a/n: I couldn’t sleep last night so here’s almost 4k words of me missing Raff already. 

summary: You and Michael had a good thing going for nearly five years but when reality sets in you both start to think that all good things must come to an end. 

warnings: Swearing

When you left your patient’s room and headed to the nurse’s station you weren’t expecting to see a six-foot redhead waiting for you. Sure, he’s visited you at work occasionally and you don’t mind that he’s here now, but those visits in the past were always planned in advanced, were usually accompanied with a quick lunch, and didn’t take place at 10pm on a Monday. 

You met Michael a few years ago when you moved to Philly to start your residency at U-Penn’s hospital. You were just out of medical school and still focused on achieving your lofty career goals and Michael was in his prime playing for the Flyers. Neither one of you had any intention of settling down or putting in the time and effort required in a serious relationship and so the two of you fell into a casual relationship that consisted mostly of late-night activities after you were both done with your shifts. 

You were only twenty-five back then, and now you were pushing thirty. Eventually that casual relationship evolved into something more, and now you weren’t just fuck buddies, you were actually the best of friends. But even though you considered each other best friends neither of you ever made any move to solidify what the relationship that had spawned from late night texts had actually become. 

Your family and friends all wondered why you hadn’t settled down and they asked why you insisted on keeping a casual hook up around for almost five years when you were getting the age when a woman should be finding a man to marry. Michael’s family and teammates all pestered him for never making it official between the two of you, and never understood why he insisted that the two of you were just friends. But that’s all you were. You were friends. Friends that liked to have sex, friends that only thought of each other when anything particularly good or bad had happened, friends who spent the little free time they had with each other. 

And maybe the reason why you hadn’t ever stopped sleeping with Michael was because a small part of you knew you had feelings for him, but maybe it was also because you work nearly 80 hours a week and don’t have the time nor the energy to date at the end of the work day. 

Maybe the reason why Michael never tried to make you his was because he knew you were too good for him, too smart, and too beautiful. Or maybe it was because he had tried dating when he was younger and every girl he met was too annoying, too fake, or too greedy. Maybe the dynamic you had together was just too easy to ever change. 

But life isn’t fair, and just like the old saying, all good things must come to an end. 

“Hey! What are you doing here? Everything alright? You look perfectly healthy and I’m a pediatrician so if you’re sick, you’re in the wrong wing of the hospital.” You joke as you walk up to him where he’s waiting at the nurse’s station and you drop off some charts before turning your full attention to the man who had been patiently waiting for you. You still had your nose in your patient’s charts when you walked up to him, and so you hadn’t noticed the tired look in his eyes, and you hadn’t seen him nervously popping his knuckles as you approached. In fact, when you’re at work, especially during a long shift, you’re usually so focused on your patients that you don’t notice much of anything else in general. Which is why you had also missed the phone call and text that Michael had sent you hours prior, and the messages your friends scattered around Philly had sent with condolences and sentiments of shock. 

Michael knows now, with your lighthearted joke, that you don’t know. That you hadn’t seen his call or his text from earlier. And when he doesn’t say anything at first and you see that serious look in his eyes your attitude changes from lighthearted to concerned, “Is everything okay?” And while Michael knows that everything is not okay, he also knows that this isn’t a medical emergency, at least not one that can be fixed. 

“Yeah, I just wanted to come by before heading out.” He says, and even though he knows you don’t know, he doesn’t have the guts to come out and say it just yet. There’s a look of confusion on your face, “I didn’t think you guys left for the west coast until next week? Or are these 24 hour shifts finally getting to me?” You try and make light of the situation even though that look concern is still spreading across Michael’s face. 

“Yeah, the guys don’t head out until next Wednesday…” He says it and he can see the wheels in your head start to turn. That’s when you remember what day it is and your heart plummets. You’ve been working third shift, and you were two hours away from finishing your current 24-hour shift. The last 22 hours have been pretty hectic, and the thought of the NHL’s trade deadline had completely slipped your mind— until now. 

“Can um- Can we walk outside real quick?” You ask and you don’t really give him time to answer, instead you just head down the hall and out the side door to a small courtyard and Michael follows behind you. When you’re both outside, you’re still processing what he said when Michael interjects, “I’m just on my way to catch my flight. I wanted to come by to see you before I left.” 

You nod your head, and you don’t know what to say so you step into him and wrap your arms around his steady body and his arms wrap around yours, “Where are you going?” You whisper against his chest, and you focus on his heartbeat thumping against your ear. 

“D.C.” He says simply. That’s not too far you think. But you also knew that this was a possibility, him getting traded, and you know that his current contract ends this summer. He could end up anywhere in the league next year. 

“I’m sorry.” He says it as his lips place a gentle kiss on the top of your head and you let out a sigh before letting your arms drop from around him as you step back. 

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.” and you say it just as simply. 

“Then why do I feel so guilty?” And that’s what breaks your heart. You’re both standing in front of each other, and after five years you know each other well enough to know that this thing between the two of you is more than just another friendship. And while you both hate yourselves for never making this what it could have been, you also know that it wouldn’t change what’s happening now. You were still working toward your goals and so was he, nothing about that has changed. There’s nothing to say in that moment, nothing either of you could say to make it feel like you haven’t wasted the last five years, and so Michael places his hands on either side of your face before bringing your lips to his. 

It’s a gentle kiss, and as your lips move slowly against his you know that this moment is full of words that neither one of you can speak. When Michael finally pulls away from you he sees the tears running down your face, and you try to to look away even though his hands are keep you steady in front of him. His thumbs gently run across your cheeks and you let your eyes close as he wipes away the tears you selfishly let fall. You know that this has to be harder for him. He’s leaving his life in Philly behind, his teammates, his best friends, and you. 

You bring your hands up to gently remove his from where they still rest on either side of your face, “You’re going to miss your flight.” 

He nods reluctantly in agreement, and he places on more kiss on your forehead before he turns to leave. Michael never was one for many words, and he doesn’t have to say it, you’re sure you know how he feels and you know he’ll miss you just like he knows you feel the same way for him. 

*

Two Years Later (July) 

You finally feel like you’ve settled into your new place, even though it’s been almost six months since you moved. Moving back home to Seattle was an easy decision, especially when one of the country’s best Pediatric Nephrology programs calls and offers you an attending position. 

You set out at an early age to be a doctor. In high school you decided you wanted to be a surgeon. In college you decided you wanted to go into pediatrics. In medical school you decided you wanted to study kidneys. Everything you wanted for your career had happened and now you’re a nephrology specialist and surgical attending at Seattle Children’s Hospital. 

You should be ecstatic. You should be over the moon that everything you thought you could ever want had happened. You should feel grateful that you get to live in the city you grew up in and that you can spend as much time with your family as you’d like. You should be happy, but you aren’t. 

After Michael was traded to the Capitals you stayed in touch, calling and texting when you could. You spent the night together when they played the Flyers for the last time that season, but when summer rolled around, and he signed a two-year contract with them you knew you couldn’t keep holding on to something that would never work. When you called to congratulate him on his contract, he could sense that something was off, he could hear in your voice that you weren’t yourself, and when he asked you couldn’t lie. 

You told him you thought that whatever was going on between the two of you needed to end. You embellished with some lies, telling him that you needed to be focusing on your work and that you were getting too old to have a fuck-buddy, especially when he was living 150 miles away, and when he started to protest you were quick to shut him down. You told him that you both knew that it couldn’t last forever and that it was okay because all good things must end, and as much as you tried to convince yourself that what you were saying was true, you knew that you didn’t believe any of it. You knew that you loved him and that you wouldn’t find another man that knew you the way he did. But you also knew that your worlds were only growing further and further apart. 

The next year or so was hard. You stopped returning Michael’s calls and you distanced yourself from anyone who was associated with hockey. You threw yourself into your work and your patients and before you knew it a year had passed. As much as you knew that you were only barely keeping your head above water, you also had no idea how to fix whatever mess you had made for yourself. You were thirty-one years old, married to your job, and single. Oh, and still in love with a guy you knew you couldn’t have. 

You weren’t sure what to do or if there was anything you could do, but when Seattle Children’s called and made you an offer you took it as a sign. Your parents were thrilled that you were moving home, and you thought that this was a change that you needed. Something to break up the monotony. Something to shake up your life and to help you get back on track. The excitement you had mustered up for your new position was met with an amazing medical program, but you still had that same empty feeling you had when you were back in Philadelphia. So, you did what you did best, and you continued to work your ass off. Morning, noon, and night you were working with patients and roaming the halls of the hospital, but when your shift inevitably ends you find yourself backing your apartment… alone. 

You’ve never been one for TV and now that you try to avoid hockey all together, you don’t usually watch any at all, but tonight you just felt an itch to reach for the remote that rests on your coffee table. You turn on some random sportscast in the background while you scroll through emails on your phone, and you almost miss it but your well-trained ears pick up on the familiar name. 

“Michael Raffl signing a one-year contract with the Seattle Kraken is probably the most surprising thing to come from this off season so far!” The moderator on the TV says and you have to shake your head as if to wake yourself from what feels like a dream. Your hand instinctively reaches for the remote to turn up the volume and you continue to listen to what the talking heads have to say. 

“You know, everyone thought he’d be retiring this year, he’s 34 and has a nice chunk of change in his bank account, I’m surprised he isn’t heading back to Austria.” 

“I think this could actually be a good signing for them. They need some veteran presence on their young team and Raffl brings experience and a solid presence on the third or fourth lines. He could really bring something different to their game.”

“They’re getting him for cheap too! It’s seems to me like he’s interested in the team or just wants to keep playing if he’s taking this kind of deal.”

You can’t believe what they’re saying. Michael signed a one-year contract in Seattle. And while you don’t keep up with hockey anymore, you remember from all the conversations you’ve had with him, he had already been thinking about retiring in a few years back when he was traded to the Capitals. Why would he sign a mediocre contract with a team on the other side of the country for one year? But you don’t let yourself go where your heart wants to take you. You’re sure he doesn’t even know that you’ve moved from Philadelphia and even if he did, you’re sure he wouldn’t have signed with a team just because you were going to be in the same city. 

It’s been two years. It’s in the past. 

*

Six Months Later (December 31st) 

You’re not sure what you’re doing here. You’re in dress that’s probably too short and too tight, and your feet are killing you. But you let your co-worker, Jen, drag you out for New Year’s Eve. She’s a twenty-seven-year-old Nurse from your department and while she’s sweet and fun, she’s also almost five years younger than you and her stamina for nights out is a lot better than yours. You spend most your time at the hospital and when you’re not there you’re with your family or opting for a nice dinner or quiet bar instead of crowded clubs and house parties. 

You’re sure that most of the people in this club are closer to Jen’s age than to yours, but you put a smile on your face anyway and try to have fun. Jen’s fiancé has been stuck to her side all night, and even though some of your single co-workers are out with you too, you still feel a bit out of place. After the fourth twenty-something guy approaches you, drunk, and with a not-so-charming pickup line, you’re ready to head for home. It’s just about 11:45, and you think that if you can get an Uber you can be home before the ball drops. 

You’re just about to make your move toward the doors when you feel a hand snake around your waist. The uninvited hand only adds to your desire to leave, but when you hear a familiar voice in your ear you stop dead in your tracks. The hand is still touching you and his body is now close against your back when you hear him say your name for the first time in years. 

You turn quickly and you swear you’re hallucinating but when your feet trip from your swift movement and he quickly steadies you with his arms, you know he’s really there. 

“Michael… Wh-What are you doing here?”  Nothing feels like the right thing to say. Michael isn’t sure what words to use either, even though he’s replayed this moment in his head a million times by now. He’s practically run through every possible scenario of running in to you. If it was in the grocery, surely it would happen in the frozen section. It would probably be around 1am and you’d both be there to grab a pint of ice cream. If it was at a coffee shop, you’d be ordering your usual latte with almond milk and he would be ordering his black coffee to-go. He even imagined it happening at one of his games. But when some of the young single guys finally got him to agree to come out tonight, he hadn’t thought about the possibility he would find you in a club in downtown Seattle on New Year’s Eve. 

“I live here.” He says it matter-of-factly over the loud music blaring around you and your first instinct is to say, “I know.” 

He knows that coming out here was a risk and he knows that it’s been two years and he knows that you’ve probably moved on, but hearing you say that you knew he had been here all this time and hadn’t reached out made his heart hurt with a pang of disappointment. And for a minute you’re just standing there with people rushing around you, and you’re not sure what you’re supposed to do. You’re not sure what this “moment” is for or why now of all times the two of you are faced with each other again after all these years. 

You decide you don’t have anything to say, and you just shake your head, “I can’t do this.” You say it quietly but bluntly before moving from his grasp and weaving through the crowd of people on your way to the door. When you make it outside you don’t realize that he’s followed you and when you reach the sidewalk you hear him call your name as he comes up behind you. 

“Wait. Please.” He begs as he reaches for your arm.  

“What?! What do you want from me?” You ask as your turn to face him, and it’s more of plead because you realize now, in the cool winter air that your chest hurts from heartbreak that���s two years old, and your mind is racing with what he could possibly say to make up for the seven years of avoiding those feelings. You’ve thought about what you would say to him if you ever saw him again, but now all those rehearsed lines have vanished and for some reason you’re angry. Angry with him. Angry with yourself. Angry that you’ve wasted over half of a decade loving him. 

He lets go of your hand and he anxiously runs his hands through his hair, and now, thankfully all those scenarios he’s run through his head are coming to true, “I just want you to know that I loved you.” He says but all you hear is past tense. “I loved you from the first night I met you. God. You were so smart I had no clue what you were talking about, but I knew I wanted to listen. I loved you for five fucking years and never had the balls to tell you.”

“And then reality set in and I got traded and you shut me out- And I don’t blame you for that either.” He interrupts himself. “I don’t blame you for getting tired of waiting or for knowing that you deserved more, and I thought that you were right, all good things have to end. And I really thought that I would get over it and that maybe I’d find someone who was half as good as you who would make me happy enough, but I never did.” His eyes are bright and searching yours for some indication that you’re hearing what he’s saying, but your facial expression hasn’t changed, and you stand there staring back at him blankly. “I never stopped loving you. And I know that it’s selfish but when I heard you moved and Seattle offered me a contract, I had to take it. If not for the opportunity to keep playing, then for a chance to at least tell you how I’ve always felt about you. How I feel about you now.”  

He’s still trying to figure out if you’ve heard anything he’s said but when you let a little laugh and shake your head in disbelief, he knows he’s too late. So he presses his lips together tightly, and lets his head fall in defeat as he starts to turn away from you. 

You’re so taken aback by everything he’s said. It’s like you knew everything he just told you all along, but hearing him say it aloud, hearing him mirror exactly how you’ve felt for the last seven years, you know that this is one of those moments that life gives you that you can’t pass up. And just as your mind is catching up, Michael is moving to turn away from you, but before he can turn his back your hand is gripping his shirt and pulling him into you. 

When your lips collide the weight that has rested on your shoulders for the last two years is finally lifted and your bodies sink into each other the way water fills an empty glass. You’re consumed in each other as your mouths reacquaint each other and your tongues dance together like they did so many years ago just as you hear the city around you counting down, “5…4…3…2…1… HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!” 

And when you pull apart from each other, his arms still holding your waist and your hands still in his hair, you take a moment to take each other in. He’s older now and the features of his face are deeper, but his eyes still make you feel warm and safe and happy. He swears you look the same as the last day he saw you in Philly, and the warmth of your soft skin against his hands and the way you still have that same sheepish look after he kisses you, makes him feel like that twenty-five-year-old kid he was all those years ago.  And yet, after all this time, now you finally know that every ending is just a new beginning. 

Disclaimer: i know this could be better (quality-of-story-wise) but it could also be a whole lot worse, so imo that absolves me of both editing and basic grammatical discipline. Please enjoy the latest instalment of my ‘the subplot of jiang fengmian possibly cheating on his wife was boring; yu ziyuan and cangse sanren should have been besties’ agenda.

Curfew is one of the many rules that chafe, and so she disregards it as often as she can. As undignified as it is to scales the walls of Cloud Recesses, she seethes, it could all be avoided if she was allowed spar with Zidian and teach the second heir of Lan not to look down his nose at her.

This moon is high by the time she returns, and she nearly topples to the ground as a voice calls, “Don’t fall.”

She steadies herself, telling her racing heart to calm itself. She looks to her left and sees the girl: a rogue cultivator, hair diligently unkempt and at odds with her pressed student’s robes.

“Don’t concern yourself with me,” she tells her sternly.

Cangse Sanren sits up, eyes wide. “I wasn’t concerned! Merely speaking aloud. Ignore me, honoured Violet Spider.”

“You mock me?” Zidian crackles in her hands.

“But of course. Jiangs fight best when they’re angry.” She comes to her feet like a puppet tugged along by its strings, lighter than air and undeniably coordinated.

Zidian hisses louder. “I am not Jiang, you insolent—“

Cangse Sanren moves almost too fast to track, and Ziyuan strikes on reflex, Zidian splitting a layer of roofing in half as Cangse dodges back, landing safely out of reach on top of the guard tower. She whistles, long and low. “So this is Zidian. Why do you hide her away?”

She curls her fingers around her ring protectively, unsure of what the girl means to do.

“Is that why? Afraid someone will steal it?” Cangse lights back down on the roof, confident in a way that Ziyuan hates, but not enough to risk using Zidian again. “I’m sorry for insulting you. What are you, if not a Jiang?”

The question catches her off-guard, and she answers before she can think better of it. “This one is Yu Ziyuan.”

“Yu Ziyuan, Yu Ziyuan— I can’t promise I’ll remember, but I’ll do my best.” She bows, again catching her by surprise. “This one is Cangse Sanren.”

She swallows. “I know.”

Cangse straightens up and grins at her, tucking her sword into the crook of her elbow. “I think we’ll be friends. Yes?”

She’s about to answer when the roofing beneath her feet turns slick as ice, sending her plummeting to the ground. Cangse lands mostly on top of her with her many bony appendages, and for a moment all Ziyuan can do is sit there and quietly groan.

It’s probably not a good sign that the clan leader himself had caught them sparring out of grounds and after curfew, but at least she isn’t alone.

-

After that, it was quite obvious that Cangse would continue to be a permanent pest.

“A-Yuan,” she begs, already reaching for Ziyuan’s bowl. “Cangse is so hungry, how can A-Yuan be so cruel?”

“Eat your own damn food,” she snaps, and learns not to regret it. Cangse sighs and returns to her own bowl, identical to hers excepting the absence of bamboo shoots.

Cangse seems to attract trouble: she can see across the room Jiang Fengmian making a beeline for her table, followed shortly after by a disciple whose name escapes her.

The usual niceties are as excruciating as always, and they find themselves seated across the table. Cangse drops her chopsticks and slams her hands down, earning them several dirty looks. “Young Master, I must know your name.”

There is a moment where Ziyuan can see disaster blooming. Both men look delighted at the attention, and both move to answer her question.

She dumps her bamboo shoots in Jiang Fengmian’s bowl, interrupting his train of thought and drawing his attention to her.

It’s a risky gamble: the bamboo shoots are inarguably the best thing in a Lan’s diet, and she doesn’t want to invite implication into her actions, but something so grand and distracting and (hopefully) confusing is enough to render him speechless.

Unfortunately, it also draws Cangse’s ire, though the servant — Wei Changze — is blissfully unaware of her blunders, still basking under Cangse’s attention.

Jiang Fengmian colours a bright pink that she privately thinks is very becoming, and she can only hope that his interest in Cangse is only infatuation. “Thank you, Lady Yu.”

-

The Jin arrive, finally, and so too does her friend from across the river. Hua Yufei is just as ladylike as she remembers, but her immediate taking-to of Cangse Sanren is concerning, to say the least.

“Is it difficult, being a rogue cultivator?”

“Perhaps it is, when comfort is a concern. I have often slept outdoors on nighthunts, when no inn would have me.”

Yufei shudders. “I could never,” she swears, hand daintily resting on her collarbone. “Ziyuan, did you hear the news, or shall I tell you?”

“What news?”

“Sect Leader Jin is in want of a match for his son. I have it on good authority that I am in the running, and that Jin Guangshan favours me.”

Her mother had sent word that her own marriage now had a wedding date, and it filled her with equal parts dread and relief.

Cangse bumps her shoulder, jolting her out of her daydreams. “Congratulate your sworn-sister, A-Yuan, for I have no earthly idea what any of you are talking about.”

Yufei gets far more excited than she should, and hurries to sit next to Cangse. “See that one there? The Jin with peonies on his sleeve? He is Jin Guangshan. If I am to marry him, I’ll be Madame of the second-richest sect in Xianxia.”

Cangse looks critically at him and evidently turns up little to compliment, to Ziyuan’s vindication. “He seems very . . . friendly.”

It’s a very kind way of noting his lecherous staring at the servant pouring his tea. “He will not give up his ways under marriage, Yufei.”

“What do I care if he galavants through every brothel in Lanling? I need only bear a son, and my wifely duties will be complete. I will have Koi Tower, and he shall have his fleeting pleasures. Let others take care of him.”

-

The lectures end, somewhat successfully: Lan Qiren’s facial hair had suffered Cangse’s vengeance, Hua Yufei had secured a tentative proposal from Jin Guangshan, and Jiang Fengmian no longer looked scared of her when she spoke to him.

Yufei hugs her tightly before dashing after the Jin delegation. Cangse stands by her as the Jiang sect prepares to leave, disiciples running about accomplishing what they should have several hours beforehand. “Is Yunmeng your home?”

“For now.” Her betrothal was entering into its vital stages, and it wouldn’t do to return to Meishan just yet. “And yours?”

She lifts one shoulder, staring out over the bustling Jiangs. “Wherever I’m needed.”

Ziyuan spots Wei Changze trying to look as though he’s not watching Cangse Sanren, fiddling with something in his hands. If they’re not careful, the Jiang sect will lose two fine cultivators. “Then you should come with us.”

-

Yu Ziyuan knows that something is wrong. She knows it as well as she knows that her daughter is six, that her son is three, that she has not seen her ill-gotten sworn-sister since before either of them were born.

She leaves without a word, away on her sword and letting her heart guide her.

The last of her steady letters had come from Yiling, paper smelling faintly of sulphur from the Burial Mounds. So west she steers herself, flying hard through the gathering storm and buffeting winds until she hears Cangse calling for her husband. She descends hard and almost falls, Zidian flaring out and cracking against the encroaching fierce corpses. Two fall back, weak enough to be banished, but four more advance in their place, and she seizes her sword for the task of disposing of them.

Cangse does not struggle with fierce corpses. She has a way with them, tames them like dogs under her immortal’s teachings. Ziyuan is almost afraid to turn around, sheathing her sword and searching the gloom and thicket for a trace of teal robes, a beaded jade hairpiece.

“A-Ze!”

Her voice is near. She can hear two sets of footprints, one surer, the other more cautious.

Something was wrong with this forest, if it had separated Cangse and Wei Changze. She feels as though she might crawl out of her skin, the resentful energy mounting with each second she remained. She rushes through thicket and brush, forcing her way through layers of the maze array with sheer force of will, far too angry to be waylaid by such child’s play.

The final layer stretches like rice cake before snapping, and it felt as though a layer of wet cotton had been ripped from her ears, the sounds of the world coming into sharp focus with painful suddenness.

Cangse is there to catch her, though she seems disoriented. “A-Yuan?”

Her voice shakes, and she hates it. “We have to leave.”

Cangse’s mouth sets. “Not without A-Ze.”

The maze array changes even as they speak, and Cangse is too dizzy to do anything but slow them down and ensure they remain trapped. She feels her mouth twist grimly as she wraps her hand around her wrist, dragging her to the edge of the array. “I will find him.”

-

She doesn’t regret finding Cangse first. How could she, for her own sworn-sister? She refuses to regret. She will not regret.

It’s difficult to muster that conviction when she lays Wei Changze’s body down on the ground, overtaken by the hole in his chest where his heart once was.

Cangse wails when she sees him, a keening, heartbroken sound Ziyuan has never heard a person make. The sound is pure pain, and for a moment all she can do is stand there and think about how devestated Jiang Fengmian will be, when he hears the news.

She kneels, wanting to at least close his eyes. Cangse’s wails abruptly peter off and she screams, “Get away from him!”

The suddenness of it startles her away, and Cangse throws herself over his body, protecting him. “Don’t touch him. I won’t let him be sullied by such hands.”

“Such hands?” Already, she is angry. “Say your meaning.”

“You always hated him,” she accuses. “You could have saved him. Why didn’t you save him?” She touched his cheeks, crying over his glossy, dead eyes. “Why didn’t you help him first?”

“And risk the same happening to you?” She doesn’t regret. She doesn’t.

“You should have! He’s the one who should live. It shouldn’t be me.”

She stands, too angry to say anything constructive at the moment. “Wei Ying will be in Yunmeng, while you grieve.”

She’ll never be sure if Cangse Sanren would have heard anything of the living world in that moment, her ear pressed to a dead man’s chest.

-

Jiang Fengmian is in his office, and she lets herself in. “Wei Changze is dead.”

The news is sudden, and horrible, and Fengmian spends a good few minutes unable to speak. “What happened?”

She meets his watery gaze. “A nighthunt. He was overpowered.”

“And Cangse?” He licks his lips. “Is she—“

“You are aware they have a child?” She feels so very angry, and it is easy to blame it on his apparently poor memory, instead of its true source. “You do know that? Or have you only read their letters to trace Cangse’s calligraphy? Are you so eager that you forget your duty?”

He has the decency to look ashamed, but not enough to muster a response.

She scoffed and left the room, making her way to her children’s’ quarters.

-

Cangse Sanren arrives just as Ziyuan’s lies to her son began to wear thin.

She lands softly in the training grounds, leaving stunned and gaping disciples in her wake. She strides to wear Ziyuan stands, supervising Jiang Cheng and Wei Ying as they spar.

“I want my son back.”

Ziyuan lifts her chin, crossing her arms. It hides her anxiety: Cangse is dressed in mourning white, and her eyes are sunken with lack of sleep. She is much paler than she used to be, and much angrier.

Cangse scowls at her, at her silence. “Wei Ying. Come here.”

Wei Ying looks up with a gleeful cry, and rushes to embrace his mother. For a moment, Cangse is her old self again, swinging him into her arms and kissing him on the cheek.

But it soon fades, and Cangse Sanren fixes her with a steely glare and utters perhaps the last words Yu Ziyuan will ever forget:

“Until we meet again, Madame Jiang.”

Bad Day

Pairing: Orihara Izaya x Reader

Genre: hurt/comfort, mild fluff

Word Count: 2.3k

Everyone has a bad day eventually. 

In the fast-paced style of Ikebukuro, a city known for its stretches of high rise office buildings where corrupt politicians and businessmen appear to rule by day but a variety of notorious street gangs reign by nightfall, turbulence is almost expected. Whether it be a rainy day without an umbrella or a run in with an angry blond bartender with superhuman strength, there are a multitude of unfortunate events that could occur in Ikebukuro to minorly inconvenience and sour your day.

The problem is when they all happen at once.

What has become possibly the worst day of your life began the night before. The apartment above yours happens to house a group of rowdy college boys who deemed Wednesday night an appropriate time for a party. The constant booms of a heavy bass speaker accented with the occasional slurred yelling ensured a night of restlessness for you and it was not until well after 3am that you finally fell asleep—which incidentally led to you sleeping through your 7am alarm for work. Despite arriving less than ten minutes late—your first time arriving late for work ever—your team manager gave you an earful about the importance of maintaining “a good work ethic” in front of half of your coworkers. Naturally, you were irritated. However, as a generally cheerful and optimistic person, you figured the worst was over and promised to treat yourself to a nice lunch to make up for it...

...until your designated lunchtime rolled around and you found yourself standing in the lobby staring out at the torrents of rain crashing down from the sky.

You didn’t have an umbrella. 

After choosing between ending up soaked or starving for the next five hours of work, you stood at the cash register of the nearest convenience store, drenched head to toe with a sandwich and bottled water in hand. 

That was when you realized you’d forgotten your wallet in the office. 

By the end of the day you were left exhausted, hungry, and with a throbbing headache that left your eyes stinging with suppressed tears as your trudged home, shuffling around leftover rain puddles. 

At a crosswalk you were forced to pause as the pedestrian light turned red to let cars pass. Despite being in the middle of the business district on a Thursday evening there were not many other people around. You suspected it had to do with the rain earlier. 

To pass time you pulled your cell phone out of your purse and proceeded to check your notifications. There were a few standard messages—one new follower on Instagram, a reblog of one of your posts on Tumblr, your family asking if you’d be coming home for Christmas this year—but there was also a text message sent from a person that had your heart shamelessly skipping a beat. 

New Message From: Orihara Izaya

The name alone affects you to an unhealthy degree but, honestly, you’re far from the only one. Izaya is the most dangerous man in Ikebukuro, as an information broker there is not a thing about the city he does not know. Every person, every interaction, every dirty deed—he knows it all. If you didn’t know any better you’d suspect he could quite literally read minds.

Your suspicion was for good reason—when you first moved to Ikebukuro from your small town six months ago you had immediately become a subject of Izaya’s tormenting. From day one he had hired people to follow you, watching your every move without your knowledge and throwing you into mildly traumatizing situations until you felt you were at your breaking point...except you never broke. No matter how many horrible things happened to you, no matter how many nights you spent crying yourself to sleep, you always greeted the next day with a smile. Eventually, realizing you would not be as easy to manipulate as many of his other “precious humans,” he decided to meet with you personally and from there your relationship with each other shifted from bully and victim into...something else. 

You were startled out of your thoughts by the melodic beeping of the pedestrian light, signaling it was safe to cross the street now. Stepping off the sidewalk and into the road you look back down at your phone, just about to unlock the screen when you hear the loud screeching of rubber followed by a horrified shout of “WATCH OUT!” You looked up just in time to see a black car skidding full speed right towards you.

You froze, like a deer caught in headlights, as the car got closer and closer until you could make out the terrified features of the driver, equally as helpless to stop the vehicle as you were. You hadn’t even been able to process the thought that you might die yet when a strong pair of arms wrapped around your waist and hauled you just a few paces to the left and out of harm's way as the car swerved to the right and crashed into a light pole.

Your gaze snapped away from the car to the body behind you and found Heiwajima Shizuo, decked out in his usual dark shades and bartending uniform, his arms still wrapped protectively around your waist. He was panting, having obviously run over to save you as you had not seen him anywhere nearby before.

“You okay?” he asked as he let you go, eyes never once leaving the now smoking car a few feet away from you two. Despite your relationship with his least favorite person in the universe, the two of you got along well enough and he seemed to respect you as an unexpectedly kind person among a city of darkness and sin.

You barely managed to stutter out an affirmative before he left your side in favor of approaching the driver—who miraculously seemed to still be alive albeit panicked at an obviously seething Shizuo’s appearance, leaving you to wonder if the driver had been trying to escape the hot-headed blond when he ran the red light. The stacks of money you think you can see in the backseat along with the distant sound of approaching police sirens only further validate your assumptions and you quickly pick up your fallen purse to make a break for it before you get caught up in another dangerous situation. 

As you crouch down for the black leather strap of your purse you find your expensive new cell phone right beside it, broken into a million pieces of glass and metal. 

…

By the time you reach the door of your apartment there are hot tears rolling down your cheeks and it takes all of your remaining energy to unlock the door through blurred vision. As you stumble through the threshold, weakly pushing the door behind yourself and dropping your purse, the idea of collapsing onto your bed and completely disappearing from the world for the rest of the night is the only thing keeping you sane. 

But of course, you’re not afforded even that simple luxury as, before you can make it to the bed situated in the corner of your cramped studio, a shadowy figure exits the kitchen and makes himself known. 

“My, my,” he lilts, “someone doesn’t look too happy.” 

You hate that regardless of how exhausted you are, the familiar voice sends shivers down your spine and seems to awaken something deep within your gut that resembles the butterflies you heard about in all those Disney romance movies.

Except Izaya was more the sadistic evil villain than the dashing prince charming.

You swiftly rub at your face, as if it wasn’t already blaringly obvious that you had been crying. Sniffling, you force your lips into the weakest smile in history as you face the smug man casually leaning against the counter. 

“H-hey, Izaya,” you murmur.

He gazes at you for a few moments, expression unreadable as his eyes dance around your nervous form. You feel awkward and bare, as if he was able to see things about you that even you yourself couldn’t see. You’re just about to speak again, likely a string of nonsensical small talk just for the sake of breaking the tension, when Izaya beats you to it. He uses one foot to push himself off of the counter and take the four steps required to stand right in front of you, his brownish-red eyes glinting almost mysteriously in the street lights outside of the window. 

For a moment you feel as if you are under a spell, held captive under the unwavering stare of a man who, despite physically being less than an arm’s length away, seems to be far beyond the reach of any human being, let alone a simple girl like yourself. 

He smirks and it sends your heart racing.

“Your mascara is running.”

An embarrassingly loud sob escapes your lips before you’re diving head-first into his chest, wrapping your arms around his slim waist as cries wrack your frame. His words were far from sweet or comforting, and certainly not an invitation for a hug, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. He is dangerous, you think. No matter what he said or did to you, you have a feeling you would always come running back into his arms. The man who hurt you the most in the beginning was now the person who made you feel the most secure. 

Izaya chuckles before one hand comes up to smooth your undoubtedly ruffled, damp hair while the other remains deep in the pocket of his fur-trimmed parka. It was always like this. In the six months you’ve known him, the last three of which you could maybe consider you two “dating” (or as close to dating as Izaya would ever get), he never initiated any physical contact. If you wanted physical affection you had to muster up the courage to act on it yourself, whether it be hugging, kissing, or even holding hands. He never initiated but he also never rejected your advances. He would return your actions, oftentimes with a teasing remark about how desperate you must be or how irresistible you must find him. He was always right. 

You find peace in the steady thumps of his heartbeat and the gentle fingers carding through your hair until your sobs have finally calmed down into shallow breathing and your headache no longer feels like jackhammer in your brain. Your eyes are just beginning to droop when he pulls back, making you whine pathetically in protest. 

“Oh dear, you’re being awfully needy today,” he taunts as he steps back. 

However, instead of leaving like you expect, he grabs your forearms in each hand, walking you forwards until the two of you reach your bed. He lets go of you to push the small mountain of rumpled blankets to the side (you had left your bed unmade this morning when you were running late for work) before gently but firmly forcing you to sit on the mattress. 

“I believe it’s way past someone’s bedtime. Wouldn’t want to be late for work again tomorrow, hm~?” 

You glance at the alarm clock on your bedside. It is nearly two hours before the time you usually go to bed, and you know Izaya is aware of that as well, but you don’t question it. Instead you savor the rare care Izaya seems to be showing you tonight and lie down properly, trying to hold back a giddy grin when he covers you in the blankets like a child. 

He straightens up once you’re properly tucked in and moves to step away again but your hands shoot out to grab the hem of his jacket without thinking. He raises a brow in silent question, his unnerving smirk still in place. Your cheeks immediately heat up, silently cursing yourself at your impulsiveness. No going back now. 

“Um...can you, uh...stay with me tonight?” you ask weakly, unable to maintain eye contact. 

He merely chuckles, easily escaping your weak grasp. 

“As much as I would love to keep my little human company tonight, I have some work to do.”

You don’t bother asking what he means by “work’; you already know. At a time like this it almost certainly has something to do with one of the many illegal gangs and drug cartels that run the streets of Ikebukuro during nighttime. You vaguely remember hearing reports on the news recently of a well-known CEO under investigation for money laundering and his connections with a major gang. If the public was just now finding out you know Izaya has known the intricate details for months or is possibly even directly involved in the operation as a catalyst. It was not uncommon for Izaya to stir up trouble among high-profile politicians and businessmen for fun.

You can only wordlessly pout as you watch him slip away and out of your apartment just as suddenly as he had appeared. You succumb to sleep before the door even shuts.

…

The next morning you awaken before your alarm, feeling much more refreshed and alive than you’d felt in a long time. You go about your morning routine as usual but with a visible pep to your step. As you get dressed you contemplate visiting a cafe for breakfast before work with your extra time. Maybe you’ll order the strawberry pancakes, or the blueberry scones...perhaps even both. 

It isn’t until you walk into the sitting area to retrieve the purse you had left on the floor last night that you see the object sitting on your coffee table. As you approach you gasp at the realization of what it is: a brand new cellphone—the same model as the one that had been destroyed last night. When hesitant hands you pick it up and watch as the screen comes to life, displaying a single text message that brings a bright smile to your face.

New Message From: Orihara Izaya

>You really need to be more careful next time, y/n-chan~

royai week 2020: day two, “little pistol”

summary: Riza works for the Fuhrer for two months before she cracks. 

rated: t for teen

tags: canon-compliant

words: 3122 | read on ao3

Riza works for the Fuhrer for two months before she cracks. 

The Fuhrer dismisses her late. It’s the most petty of the several little power plays that he engages in. He always has her work late, and not in a predictable fashion, either. Sometimes he keeps her half an hour past five; sometimes he keeps her until eight or nine at night, despite the fact that she reports for duty at seven every morning. 

Riza hadn’t minded the occasional late nights when she had been her Colonel’s assistant, but this is different. This is so different.

Half the times that Bradley asks her to stay late, he only has the most menial, inconsequential tasks for her to do. Hardly anything of urgency. It’s nothing more than a reminder that she is utterly at his disposal.  Riza is careful never to reveal her irritation or impatience, or her worry for Hayate, alone for so many hours and probably in desperate need of a walk. She schools her expression into blankness. She doesn’t pick at the skin underneath her fingernails or tap her fingertips against the desk, or twirl her pen through her fingers (a habit she had unconsciously picked up from her Colonel, and never realized until Havoc had pointed it out. She misses Havoc.) She doesn’t look at the clock. 

On this Friday evening, two months to the day that she had first reported for duty in his office, the Fuhrer dismisses her at half past six. “Have a good evening, Lieutenant.” Bradley glances away from the window, giving her a small, genial smile, the corners of his visible eye crinkling in the same way Lieutenant General Grumman’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. It looks so human.

Riza salutes him. “You as well, Fuhrer.” 

She walks home briskly, her heart in her throat. The sound of the cars speeding past on the road makes her startle. When one of them honks, she nearly jumps out of her skin. 

Normally, spending time with Hayate, stroking his soft fur, admiring the shine of his warm brown eyes, watching his tail wag and his nose twitch as they walk together, is enough to soothe her. Center her. It doesn’t, this evening, though Riza takes him for an extra long walk. They get home and she measures food out into Hayate’s bowl and stands and watches him eat. Her shoulders feel rigid and achy, her nerves rubbed raw after another long week in such close proximity to the Fuhrer. 

Riza pets Hayate for a few minutes, and then grabs her keys and her access card to the range.

It’s nearly empty, at this time on a Friday night. Riza normally enjoys the solitude, but tonight, she keeps looking twice at every shadow. No witnesses, she thinks, every time. 

She stays until closing, trying to take comfort in the muffled sound of the gunshots, the subtle kickback of her weapon, the smell of the gunpowder, even the weight of the protective coverings on her ears. It normally helps her feel calmer. More in control. Tonight, when every shot hits its target, Riza just sees Lust and Gluttony in front of her, advancing on her, completely undeterred.

It’s almost ten when the range closes. She should go home and try to sleep. She can’t remember the last time she had a good night’s rest. It must have been back in East City, before Hughes was killed. But she isn’t tired. The shooting had burned time, but not energy.

It’s impulsive, it’s not like her - at least, not like the old her - but Riza takes the train, the Sanderson Line, to the very outskirts of Central. She gets off at the last stop on the line and she just wanders, for a while, her hands shoved in the pockets of her coat. It’s a chilly night, and she lets her hair down to warm her neck, relieved that she had thought to put on tall boots underneath her skirt before leaving her apartment. The warmth of the Nimble Bar, when she steps in, is a welcome sensation. 

Riza takes in her surroundings at a glance. It’s a large space, but somewhat run-down. It’s dimly lit and smoky - good for privacy. It’s busy, but not too busy, which is another point in its favor. The deciding factor is its distance from Central Command. She doesn’t see a single familiar face here. 

Thankfully, no one pays her much attention as she walks up to the bar and orders her drink, or when she takes it back to a corner booth far away from the billiards tables. It’s white lightning moonshine, stronger than what she normally likes. She hasn’t had this particular drink since returning from Ishval. Something inside Riza is telling her that this isn’t a good idea, but she ignores it. 

It’s good moonshine. It’s smooth. It’s potent. It burns. Riza curls her hands around the glass and takes a deep breath, and she savors the way it burns all the way down. It nearly hurts. 

She sits there, nursing her drink, and she lets it all wash over her. She thinks of the Fuhrer, and of Selim Bradley, and Gluttony and Lust, and the Philosopher’s Stones, and Ishval. 

Riza finishes the glass faster than she should, and goes back for a second. She is close to finishing her second glass, and is staring into it, contemplating ordering a third, when a man slides into the booth beside her, without even asking if she would like company.

Riza looks up a second too late, and her angry words die on her lips. 

“Drinking alone, Elizabeth?” Roy gives her an affable smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “That’s very unlike you.”

He’s wearing his usual, overly formal, civilian clothes, and he looks so out of place here that Riza blinks, wondering if the moonshine is hitting her too hard (now that she thinks about it, she hadn’t had dinner), and whether she’s seeing things. Colonel, she almost says. She catches herself, just in time, but she can’t bring herself to think of a codename. 

“What are you doing here?” This isn't one of his usual haunts. As far as she knows, he’s never conducted business on this side of town before. It’s clear on the other end of the city from Chris Mustang’s bar. 

“I came to find you, of course.” Roy studies her glass. “Is that white moonshine?”

He sounds a little shocked. Riza closes her eyes. “How did you know I was here?”

“Vanessa was here, on a date, when you came in.” Roy’s voice is low. “She gave me a call. She said that you looked down - that you were probably having troubles with your new man - and suggested that I check in.”

She doesn’t even know what time it is. It could be close to midnight. It could have taken him half an hour to get here. Riza rubs her temples. “You shouldn’t have.” Her voice doesn’t sound quite right. It’s less steady than usual. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?” 

She doesn’t want to argue. She’s too tired, all of a sudden, for that. Riza lifts her glass for another sip, and her Colonel presses a gentle hand to her arm, lowering it. “I think that you’ve had enough for tonight.”

She wants to snap at him, like he has done to her whenever she’s tried to cut him off - so many times, over the past years. Especially after Ishval, and after Hughes. But Roy’s hand is lingering on her arm, and he’s sitting so close that she can smell his aftershave and feel the warmth radiating off him, and he’s wearing that dark coat he always wears, the one that’s as familiar to her as anything she owns. Riza feels the tears burn the back of her eyes. She sets the glass down. She presses the heels of both of her hands to the skin underneath her eyes and takes a deep breath. 

“That’s better.” Roy pauses, and she wishes he wasn’t sitting so close. The temptation to lean against him, to press her aching head to his shoulder, is almost overwhelming. “I don’t think I need to ask you what’s wrong.”

“No.” Riza actually laughs, though she feels anything but happy, and she wipes her eyes as discreetly as she can. “You don’t.” 

“Talk to me, Elizabeth,” Roy says quietly. “Has anything happened? Did he do anything to you?”

Their shoulders are mere inches from one another. She feels how tense he is; how tightly wound. Riza shakes her head. “It’s more about what I want to do than anything he’s done.” She struggles with the words; with her thoughts. “Every day. Every hour. I think of going to the mansion, at night, and burning it down. I’d pour gasoline around the perimeter, first. All it would take after that is a couple of matches and a lighter.” 

A lighter. Riza thinks of Havoc, and the desire to cry returns. She looks at her Colonel. From the expression on his face, he seems to have had the same thought.  

“Fire kills them,” Riza explains, as quietly as she can. “You remember what you did at the Third Laboratory. But my guns are useless against them. I’m useless against them.” You wouldn’t be, a voice inside her says, one that sounds like her father, if you’d only been able to learn alchemy from me; if only you weren’t such a hopeless pupil-- and Riza nearly sobs. 

She can’t remember the last time she had seen her Colonel look so concerned. Maybe it was on the day that they had all received their transfer paperwork. He moves as if he would touch her shoulder, and then stops short. “Elizabeth--”

“I can’t accept it.” Riza buries her face in her hands. “I can’t get my head around it.”

“What? What is it?”

“All of it, Roy.” She hasn’t called him by his first name in ten years, but it just slips out, and she can’t put it back. “The fact that he is - what he is. Ishval. For all the years since then, I thought he was a person, a person who gave that order, a misguided person, a person who made a terrible, cruel decision, but a person. To learn that everything in Ishval happened not just because a human made a terrible decision - as all humans are capable of, as even you and I would be capable of - but because it was calculated is just…” Riza chokes. “He used us to murder the Ishvalans, not out of his own human cruelty and frailty - but as a deliberate sacrifice to get what he wanted.”

“I know.” Roy’s hands tighten into fists. “I know.”

“I can’t stand it.” It’s taking everything in her not to cry. “I hate it. It makes me want to kill. And all of the senior leadership who know the truth of what he is, who accept having him as the leader of our country, using the people of Amestris as pawns in his game…” Riza’s stomach heaves, and she bites the inside of her cheek to suppress the wave of nausea that washes over her. “Every day, I have to sit in on his meetings with them and take notes, and there’s nothing I’ve ever wanted more than to take out my gun and put a bullet in each of their brains. It scares me, how much I want it. I’ve never… Killing is something I do, it’s something I’ve done for years, but I’ve never wanted to do it so badly before. Does that make sense?” 

There’s such compassion and empathy in Roy’s gaze. “It does.”

“I don’t just want to put a bullet between his eyes. Even if that would do anything.” Riza rakes her fingernails through her hair, against her scalp. It doesn’t burn in quite the same way the moonshine does, but it’s an acceptable substitute. “I want him to burn, and to suffer. Like Lust did.”

“I know,” Roy repeats. “But you have to let this go.”

The words, the sentiment, is so unexpected from him that Riza stares, taken aback. “What?”

“Anger isn’t your vice. It’s not your burden to carry. It’s mine, and it always has been. It’s not…” Roy hesitates. “It’s not what’s best for you. I know it’s difficult, but you have to put this aside and focus on surviving. It’s going to be a long winter, as it is. It’s going to be a hundred times longer and harder if you’re dealing with all these thoughts every day.” 

A number of retorts rise to her lips, and Riza swallows them down. “You think that you can bear this burden better than I can?”

“I always have.” Roy rests his hand on the table, a hair’s breadth from hers. “With you to keep me in check. With you to pull me back whenever I’m close to doing something dangerous or impulsive. It’s not an option for both of us to be so compromised.”

Riza exhales slowly. She thinks back to the past five years, since Ishval, to all the times she’s warned her Colonel against being too rash, too impatient, too bold, too borderline insubordinate to senior staff. To all the times she had chided him for drinking too much. “I’m sorry. I should have been more understanding of you, in the past.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Roy says, at once. His tone brooks no argument. “And you can let go of the idea that you’re useless, as well. There’s nothing further from the truth. You should know how valuable you are to me.” 

“I--” Riza looks at him, and then looks away. I miss you, she’d almost said. Because she does. That’s the steady undercurrent that runs through every single one of her days, now. Like the background music on a radio drama or a television program. She goes about her work, taking notes at the Fuhrer’s meetings, creating his schedule for the days, making him tea, helping him prepare for his upcoming meetings, filing his paperwork, and she misses Roy Mustang, every single day. “Thank you.”

“Is there anything else on your mind?” Roy presses. “While we’re here, and able to speak a little more openly then we can, closer to home?” 

He knows her so well, and Riza can’t help but smile, for the first time in what feels like months. “I miss the unit.” That’s an acceptable thing to say, and it is true. She stares at her moonshine, wishing she could finish the last sip, even though it’s really hitting her, now, and she doesn’t need any more of it. “And Rebecca. And Edward and Alphonse.” Even though she’s surrounded by the Fuhrer’s associates and the Fuhrer himself all day, and she has Hayate for company at night, she feels alone. Alone with her thoughts, her feelings, her anger, her fear. 

“They miss you too. I’m sure of it.” Riza glances at him, and Roy smiles, and this time, it does reach his eyes. “You’re not alone, I promise.”

Underneath the intelligence, the sharp wit, the strength of his convictions, the confidence, the charm, this is what had made her fall for Roy in the first place, more years ago than she cares to remember. His quiet, subtle kindness. It’s been so long since her world has had any kindness, any tenderness, any soft moments at all, and Riza looks away from him abruptly. Her breath actually catches in her throat, embarrassingly, and she hopes he hadn’t noticed it.

Roy reaches out without another word and rests a hand on her back, rubbing gentle circles against it, and Riza goes still, because this isn’t something they do. They never touch, unless it’s necessary. But it feels so comforting, so soothing, and all the breath leaves her body in a shuddering exhale. She lets Roy draw her close against him, holding her like a man would hold his girlfriend, like he’s sheltering her, like he would protect her. Riza presses her cheek against the wool of his coat and breathes him in. He’s still rubbing her back, and she can feel the weight and warmth of his hand through her coat and her sweater, and she’s had sex less intimate than this feels.

Riza rests her aching head against his shoulder. “You know,” she murmurs, a thought suddenly occurring to her. “Maybe there’s one small silver lining to all this.”

“Hmm?” Roy smooths her hair out of the way, moving his hand further up her back, and Riza closes her eyes, savoring the sensation. 

“We’re not in the same direct chain of command anymore,” she says, as quietly as she can. “You’re not my commanding officer. Not for the rest of this winter. Not until spring.”

Roy’s hand stills for a moment, and then he resumes. “That’s a good point.” His voice wavers slightly. 

She pulls back, just enough to look him in the eye. They’re close enough to kiss. Under normal circumstances, she would never be so bold, but there’s a great deal of white moonshine in her system and all of the want, the need, the craving for destruction and violence that had dominated her earlier, pressing into her ribs with every breath she took, is taking a different direction. 

“Take me home, Roy,” Riza says softly. That’s the second time she’s called him by name in a decade, now. She has to be careful. She loves the way it feels in her mouth, on her lips. It’s strangely addictive. 

Roy closes his eyes briefly, as if to shield himself against whatever he sees in hers. “You’re drunk, Elizabeth.” 

“That doesn’t change anything.” 

Roy opens his eyes, and she can see his frustration, his indecision, as plainly as if it had been written all over his face. His hand is still on her back, thumb caressing down her shoulder blade. “It does.” He takes a deep breath, and she can see it on him, that he’s come to a decision. “We’ll meet at Madame Christmas’s bar tomorrow at nine. For now, though, let me take you back to your place so that you can rest.” 

It’s what she’s wanted - what both of them have wanted - for so long. It’s a win, after a devastating streak of losses. A silver lining amidst the gathering storm. Riza nods. Roy stands, and offers her his hand. The world spins alarmingly when she rises to her feet. She takes his hand, grateful for the support, and they walk out together, into the cold night. 

-

and I, well, I want what's best for me / and I, I think I know just what that means / just what that means

-

The title of this fic on ao3 and the lyrics at the end are taken from “Little Pistol,” by Mother Mother. It’s a fabulous song and I highly recommend giving it a listen! 

You Mean, Like a Date?

Summary: It’s 1942, and when Steve decides to get really drunk, he realizes he might like Bucky as more than a friend.

Pairings: Preserum Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Word Count: 2,765

Warnings: drinking, some angsty feelings and some internalized homophobia, but mostly fluff! :)

A/n: this is my first time publishing a fic!!!! apologies in advance if it’s terrible but i just love stucky so much!

Steve always liked the color red. He admired the way it gleamed amidst all of the patriotic paraphernalia that lined the streets of New York. He loved the way it reminded him of the crimson dress with gold buttons that his mother would wear only a few times during the year, for special occasions. But most of all, Steve felt proud when he saw the color red, staining his hands as he wiped away a bloody nose. He wasn’t afraid of a fight, and dark red blood courtesy of his neighborhood tormentors only emboldened him to fight back.

However, right now, Steve never wanted to see the color red again. He sat alone at a bar just down the street from his tiny Brooklyn apartment and glanced down at a thin piece of paper that detailed his personal information and health records, overlayed by a big, ugly, stamp in bright red ink that said, “DENIED.”

Though Steve was by himself, the bar was teeming with activity. On this Friday night, tall, muscular, handsome men decked out in shiny uniforms were dancing and laughing with their girls before they were to be shipped off to war. A roar of laughter erupted from a group of friends beside him, and Steve winced in annoyance, immediately holding up a finger to signal for another drink. Steve watched intently as the bartender uncapped a frosted glass bottle of beer and slid it over to him. Steve wasn’t much of a drinker, because well, he was as small as men were made, and alcohol tended to destroy him from the inside out. But this was Steve’s fourth rejection from the US military. The war was still raging on overseas, and Steve woke up everyday with a sense of guilt. He felt utterly useless. As he downed his fifth(or was it the sixth?) Budweiser, an “I Want You,” poster taped to the wall mocked him.

The handsome jerks at the bar continued to have a good time, quite ostentatiously, and Steve was about to just pick up a six pack from the store and drink by himself at home, when a forceful clap on the back and a smile that spread like butter prevented Steve from furthering his downward spiral. Speaking of handsome jerks…

“Hiya, Stevie,” crooned Bucky Barnes. He plopped down on the barstool next to him and ordered a whisky. “What’s a guy like you doing in a bar like this?” He teased.

Steve was half relieved, half annoyed to see his best friend interrupt his pity party. Bucky always cheered Steve up, but that was usually through constant pestering and jokes that Steve didn’t feel up for. Steve was just too tired, too drunk, to convey anything but a mumbled, “fuck off,” to which Bucky promptly laughed in response.

“Jesus, this one’s gotta mouth on ‘em,” He mocked incredulously, and Steve rolled his eyes. “What, you got rejected by the army so now you’re trying to be a sailor, starting with their damn vocabulary?”

Though Steve was pissed because of his rejection, a smile broke out on his face. Scratch what he was thinking earlier about not being in the mood-- no matter what the state of his misery way, Steve loved Bucky’s attention. He loved it when Bucky was around. His presence was so warming, and Steve just couldn’t believe he had doubted Bucky’s ability to truly make him feel better.

Unfortunately, Steve didn’t exactly have the capability to be articulate right now. So instead of saying something along the lines of, Hey, Buck, I really appreciate you spending time with me. You always make me happy, “Mmmm, fuck youuuu.” Was all Steve could say with agrin and a drawl.

“Deep down, you know you love me,” Is all Bucky said back plainly, a smile on his face, realizing the fact that Steve must have been drinking for a while if he was cursing this much.

Steve didn’t know if it was the alcohol or his ever present anger towards the entire United States Military, or what, but his heart surged when Bucky smiled back, his charisma practically radiating onto Steve like sun rays on a hot day at Coney Island. Steve half giggled- half snorted and absentmindedly reached out a hand and caressed Bucky’s face. Well, it was more like him patting his cheeks softly the way a grandmother did with a newborn, except way more drunk. “Bucky, Buck, course I do Bucky, hm, you’re blushing! You’re blushin’ Buck.” Steve slurred out, ruffling Bucky’s hair with his other hand.

“Okay, crazy,” Bucky chuckled back, reaching to remove Steve’s clumsy hands, when the pad of Steve’s thumb brushed the corner of Bucky’s lip. Bucky froze, hands caught on Steve’s wrists gently and looked into his eyes. Steve was looking back at Bucky, his bright blues accentuated by the dilation of his pupils, courtesy of the all the beer in his system. The encounter couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds, but it felt like forever for Bucky, who could feel his heart beating in his chest. Steve, even in his intoxicated state, could feel a radiation of energy between them. Suddenly, Bucky blinked his way out of his entranced state and cleared his throat, setting Steve’s hands back down. Steve watched Bucky shift his eyes around the room, before downing the last of his whisky and smiling, like nothing had happened. What had happened anyways? Steve could barely even remember where he was…

“Well, Rogers, I’d say you’ve had enough to drink, but watching you drunk is really fucking funny,” Bucky waved at the bartender. “Another round on me?”

***

“I mean, you should’ve seen the guy’s face, Buck, he didn’t even look at me for more than five seconds and I knew his mind was already made up. “

Police sirens wailed in the distance and a light drizzle fell atop Steve and Bucky’s heads. The streets of Brooklyn were quiet, but not yet silent as the night faded into early morning. A hum of action constantly surrounded the burough, and it was comforting to the two men who trotted down the road.

“I mean, at least let me take the goddamn test, like the other fellas--a fair shot! Gimmie a fuckin’ fair shot before you say no.” Steve half exclaimed, half slurred into the air, and Bucky laughed in response, mostly because Steve always got really cute and frustrated with he was drunk.

The two had been walking for some time, because though Steve’s apartment wasn’t far from the bar, Bucky had to nearly drag the kid home, as he was far too drunk to make the journey alone. Bucky was drunk too, no doubt, but compared to his smaller friend, he could handle his alcohol. Steve continued to ramble on as they finally made their way up the stairs of the apartment complex. On instinct, Bucky reached for the hidden spare key, knowing his friend wouldn’t be able to produce his own at the moment. Bucky turned the knob and ushered Steve inside as the rain picked up into a steady fall.

“You know, I think you should go, Buck, an’ pretend to be me. You’d for sure pass their little test, huh?” Steve though out loud resting against the countertop. Bucky stood opposite to him, resting against the oven, though there still wasn’t a whole lot of room between them, given the small size of Steve’s kitchen. A dim overhead lightbulb illuminated the pair amongst the dark apartment.

“Though, it wouldn’t be long before they saw your handsome face and then recognized my name and then… well they’d figure it out and then we’d both go to jail.” Steve managed to get out, eyes cast downward to the tile floor.

Bucky let out a small scoff and smirked. “So you think I’m handsome, huh?” He replied, his voice low and hoarse, almost suggestive in the silence. He thought back to their almost intimate encounter a few hours ago that had him caught up in Steve’s eyes and slightly shaken for the rest of the night. He wanted to say something more, though he didn’t want to scare himself, or Steve with the feelings that were creeping up on him.

Steve took tentative steps towards Bucky, the sound of his soft, but ragged breathing filling the air, and soon Steve was mere inches apart from Bucky. Looking up through his eyelashes, Steve outstretched a hand, his dainty fingers gently cupping one side of Bucky’s face, for the second time that night, though this time, Steve was driven by a sense of purpose. A surge of warmth pulsated through both men’s veins as they were brought together. Bucky, swallowing thickly, allowed himself to relax as much as he could beneath Steve’s touch, comforted by the fact that they were no longer in a crowded bar with eyes everywhere, but he was still tense.

“Yes,” Steve finally said quietly. “I do think you’re handsome,” Though he was still incredibly drunk, his words felt sobering as the sound of rain pattered on the glass window pane. “So handsome.” Steve almost gasped out with a slight laugh. If it hadn’t been for the incessant pounding of his heart that traveled to every inch of his body, Bucky might have been able to produce something beyond the slight curl of his lips that emerged after Steve spoke.

Steve’s mind was foggy, and he felt disoriented from reality, but he felt compelled to follow through with what was about to happen. Pushing himself up on his tiptoes, Steve’s eyes fluttered to a close. Bucky’s soon followed, as he lowered his neck to reach Steve. The two reached each other ever so slightly. Their lips danced atop each other, like ghosts, hesitant of the next move that could forever change their relationship. Steve used his other hand to fully cradle Bucky’s face, partially to make the moment more intimate, but also because he so desperately wanted to draw Bucky closer.

With that, Bucky decided to plunge himself into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Steve’s delicate body, and holding him carefully as if he was all that he needed. The kiss was passionate and warm, with Bucky taking control and savoring the touch and taste of Steve’s soft lips, that were exploring the sensation of a kiss for the first time. An aura of innocence and excitement surrounded the two men, in the way only the experience of a first love could create.

That was until Steve began to feel more things he never had before. Heat and tension filled his body, sending a feeling through him like nothing else. His lips parted slightly, and a soft, almost inaudible sigh laced with pleasure escaped him. But he didn’t have the opportunity to enjoy it any longer. Steve was abruptly pushed away--gently-- but the very action of it felt cruel.

Bucky had broken off the kiss. He was exasperated and worried. His wide, but sad eyes met Steve’s confused ones. Bucky shook his head and then swallowed the lump in his throat.

“You’re drunk,” He said, almost spat, trying to keep his voice form wavering, because for some reason, tears were brimming in his eyes. What was going on? Bucky knew he wasn’t like this. He never got emotional. He was strong. But gazing upon Steve beneath him, with flushed lips that had just been on his, Bucky was frightened by the fact that he wanted to kiss those lips again. Maybe if I pretend he’s a girl… Just close my eyes and imagine someone else… Bucky thought to himself, trying to reason with the impurity in his mind, but he shook it away, knowing it would be in vain. “Steve, you’re drunk. This is wrong, a-and you don’t want it. I know that.”

“Bucky-” Steve began, feeling defeated. Even drunk, he understood the rejection.

But Bucky just pushed past Steve, slinging on his jacket he had absentmindedly taken off as he came in. “I’m sorry, Stevie.” He said at the door, trying to be as firm as possible, but the tender nickname had slipped out. Bucky took one last look over his shoulder at Steve, standing sad and confused beneath the light, and then stepped into the darkness.

***

The chilly mid-November rainfall had no effect on Bucky, who was fuming as he hustled back to his own apartment. Bucky was a jumble of emotions. He was conflicted at his enjoyment of the moment he had just shared with his best friend, but angry at himself for indulging in such a wrong action. But he had liked kissing Steve. He really had. Bucky realized he had been falling for Steve for all of these years, it just took until tonight for him to realize it.

But Steve was so incredibly drunk. He probably didn’t even mean it… And even if he did, well, Bucky wasn’t going to do anything while Steve wasn’t in a proper state of mind. Bucky felt like he had to push Steve away, no matter how much it had pained him. He reached home, his mind still a mess of guilt and pleasure. Bucky’s last thought before drifting off to sleep was of Steve’s lips.

***

Steve awoke the to though of Bucky’s lips. A lazy smile brushed across his face as soft morning light filtered in through his windows. Unfortunately, as soon as that happened, last night’s memories flooded his mind. Steve thought about kissing Bucky, but groaned as he recalled his rejection. Pulling himself out of bed, he turned the radio on and began to freshen up. A sense of wonder surrounded him as he pulled a clean shirt over his head. Steve had kissed Bucky last night. And for a little while, just a little while, Bucky had kissed him back. A broadcast of war updates and death tolls hummed from the radio. Steve thought back to the kiss, the softness in Bucky’s touch, and the safely he felt wrapped in Bucky’s arms. If Steve couldn’t make a difference overseas at war, than he sure as hell was going to make one here at home.

***

A sweaty, heaving, Steve Rogers stood on Bucky’s doorsteps a few minutes later. Bucky, standing over the threshold and holding the screen door open, was shocked, not only to see Steve given last night, but because the asthmatic looked like he was about to faint.

“Can I come in?” Steve panted out.

“Yeah, jeez, sure,” Bucky chuckled, hoping Steve didn’t remember last night, but also hoping that he did. The two took to the kitchen once again, Bucky grabbing a glass of water for Steve. “No more alcohol for you, Steve, I mean--” Bucky started, trying to feel out the situation, but Steve cut him off.

“I’m still a little hungover. But I’m not drunk anymore, Buck.” Steve said, quiet, but brave, just like himself. This time, it was Bucky’s turn to walk over. Steve’s big blue eyes intoxicated Bucky far more than all the beers he had last night. Doubt resurged in him, but Bucky pushed it down. He wanted this, he knew he did. For the second time in less than 24 hours, they were inches apart.

“And I still think you’re handsome. I still want to kiss you.” He whispered, looking up at Bucky. Steve bit his lip, fearful of being rejected again, but at the same time, wanting his best friend again so badly.

Within a matter of seconds, Bucky’s lips collided with Steve’s again, as tender as ever. As the two explored the kiss, they carefully held each other, mouths fitting seamlessly together in a nimble dance. Steve’s heart fluttered as one of his hands softly gripped the base of Bucky’s neck, resting in his overgrown curls. For one, brief, beautiful moment, neither Bucky nor Steve cared that they were kissing another boy. Because all they wanted was to be with each other, and right now, they were.

Bucky smiled into the kiss, his lips curling as he pulled away slightly and opened his eyes to find a tiny, bubbling Steve Rogers. Bucky caressed Steve’s jaw and tucked a strand of blonde hair behind his ear.

“I guess this is the part where I ask you if you wanna see a picture or get a shake or somethin’?” Bucky murmured, cocking his head.

Steve blushed fervently, raising a curious eyebrow at Bucky. “You mean, like a date?”

Bucky grinned and pulled Steve in for another kiss, their lips lingering over one another. “‘Course, Stevie. Right down to the part where I gotta pay for everything, huh?”

A Day of Demands from the Dreaming.

“Milk into coffee with chili and chocolate, cinnamon whipped cream and a marshmallow poppet, a pinch of pink salt and a stir – one, two, three – and there you have a witch's cup of tea.” ~ to the tune of My Favorite Things Hail and Hallowed Hunting my friends and fellow witches, practitioners of magic, the patient and the restless. Today I will speak freely, allow myself to untwist my tongue, and pick apart my thoughts piece by piece. Why? Because I am puzzling through some things and I feel like sharing them. First, let's talk about sleep. Or in my case, lack thereof. I don't sleep much on a good day unless I've reached the point that I can't wake up in the mornings. But insomnia has plagued me particularly the last couple of weeks. Days where I can't sleep at all or where I am up until six, seven in the morning before catching a few hours of sleep. It's not a very healthy state of affairs, I know. And I can't quite pinpoint the reason for this lack of what little sleep I usually do get. Even when I do sleep lately I find myself caught in a state of half-awake, drifting through those sorts of dreams that are less like dreams and more like speaking to something. I can't remember if I've mentioned this before, I think I have when it first happened. But this has become a normal patter that occurs after my moon rituals, has done so for the past couple of months. Last night I was caught in one of these particular dreams. And I felt like the woman I was speaking with (I remember only that she was a woman with long, dark brown, curly hair, and that she felt very familiar to me), was showing me something. No, it was more like we were doing something together. That sense of learning that occurs sometimes in those strange, waking dreams or trance or meditation. Except I am sure I was mostly asleep. Even with this though, I cannot for the life of me remember what it was we were doing. If it follows the same pattern though it'll come to light within the next two weeks or so. There is a vibration rising, moving through the Web, through the earth, or around it. A steady hum becoming tighter, louder. Another shift in the energy perhaps? But it feels like a very specific sort. Early Thursday morning, and by early I mean like two or three o'clock, I was unable to sleep. I lay in bed, drifting in and out of almost sleep and restless wakefulness. I decided to meditate, to try and relax my body and mind so that I could get some rest. Instead, I had another one of those strange, sorts of dreams, or mingling of dreams and thoughts. This one I remember. I met with Arn I think it was, drifting. And I sort of casually asked something along the lines of "well, what now?". Since after my last ritual I've been at a bit of a loss. And I had the distinct feeling of being drawn back, for the first time since the formation of my new grounding and centering and shielding method, the snake-like roots or vines or threads for grounding moved on their own. And I felt myself being drawn along with those reaching roots until they intertwined with the roots of a redwood forest. They hummed, lit up sort of, a sound that brought a strange vibrancy to the forest as a whole as if I could see all of it from another pair of eyes while looking at the edge of it from my own. And he said to me "Go back to your roots". I was taken to a cave in a mountain. But not the ones I'm used to seeing that are underground. This one was more like a massive cavern. And it was dark when I entered. But then it was illuminated by a fire burning inside of it. And the fire was surrounded by furs and cloths and on the opposite side from where I stood at the entrance was a man. He was both young and old. Grey hair and wrinkles but clearly young. I walked into the cavern and was standing closer to the fire. I asked the man "How do I become stronger?" "Sit down," he said, "And I will tell you." So I sat down opposite him and looked at him through the fire. His features became blurred, shadowed, hazy through the flames. "First, you must find three things." He told me. "A skipping stone whose burden you cannot carry, a flower that blooms most vibrantly in the heart of winter, and a bone from the beast you fear the most." He told me to go out and find these things and return when I had and he would tell me what to do next. It was a very brief, but very vivid, encounter. And the reason I'm talking about it here is that the people who have joined me in my Web work and I have been discussing being more open and public about our experiences. These encounters, the work we are doing, our trances, methods perhaps. Things like that. We're planning to be more open still with our little discord group and start working with people so that we can help them advance or grow their own personal craft and so that if they decide to work with us they have a good foundation for starting. After writing that, it feels like it needs context, doesn't it? What is “the work”? What are we actually trying to accomplish? Things like that. The truth is that that is something we're still trying to understand ourselves. We've been set on this path, found our way to one another, and continue to reach out to others who may be interested in working with us. And yet it's an undefinable thing. Each time we find someone new, someone who connects, we learn something more. Another piece of the puzzle. And we are starting to understand, I think. For me, The Web and The Gathering, has been a fixture in my craft (the very center of it really) for the last eleven years. Since I was sixteen and first discovered it after my grandmother's passing. There are a lot of similar theories of connection out there, lines of power, that everything is connected. And yet this is just slightly different in some ways. Massively different in others, because it is something being created. Slowly and surely, through the connections we make, it is being built and is almost like a tool, something that is a means to an end. It is a conduit of change. And the aim is change for the better, in both our individual lives and the world we live in. As always it is a difficult thing to talk about when I am just trying to explain it without any interaction, speaking to the masses. Perhaps because it is more personal than that, it requires interaction, connection, to talk about it. A give and take, questions and answers, conversation. To just write it isn't the same as speaking about it. But I do intend to try, to the best of my abilities, a little at a time. For now, I just wanted to share with you what's been going on the past few days since the New Moon. I hope you are all having a wonderful weekend. Until we meet. Adjourngrund, Aria

the killer in me is the killer in you (ch. 1)

I’ve been sitting on this project for a while, but finally decided to post the first chapter which I finished last night. Please enjoy this Avatar the Last Airbender AU. More to come!

---------

Long ago, the four nations had lived in harmony. But everything changed when the Southern Water Tribe attacked.

The air was so cold that the mist from her attack had formed into crystals on her cheek instantly. She ignored her instinct to simply rub them away, and instead pulled the water particles from her cheek and joined them with the rush of water she pulled from the hollowed out walrus-shark tooth on her belt. Her attacker moved, curling his own water around his body before bending it into two dozen icicle daggers and rushing them her way. The girl grunted, eyes narrowing as she quickly raised an ice wall, defending herself, before slamming a foot to the ground, pushing the wall quickly towards her opponent.

“Katara!” A holler came from behind the wall, which was quickly transformed into its liquid state. “I did not travel here to have beginner moves thrown at me. I have trained you for years now, you should be using more advanced bending techniques than this.”

“Master Pakku, I apologize,” Katara said, gritting her teeth. (No matter what she tried, it wasn’t good enough.)

“It took a lot of convincing from your father to get me to travel all the way down here,” the Master Waterbender snarled, his aged face twisting into a look mixed between anger and frustration. “You may be my blood, but that doesn’t mean I’ll be soft on you. You have been using moves I taught you within our first month of training. I expect more from you.”

With his final words, Pakku stomped on the iceberg, breaking the sheet in half. He gave Katara one last stern look before bending the ocean around him, using the strong waves to glide himself across the water and towards the outline of the Southern Water Tribe. Katara could see the tall, snowy walls from where she was, a faint light glowing from the Tribe. It’s growth had been substantial in the last fifty years as the scrolls told. When Katara was born, the walls were up and the Tribe was bustling. The Chief’s home was being rebuilt, using material from the Earth Kingdom to create a skeleton of the home before waterbenders and tribespeople built the snowy and icy outer layer, decorating the home with a traditional Southern Water Tribe exterior. Now, at the age of sixteen, Katara had watched the walls be taken down and expanded three times and their simple home had transformed into a palace of ice. Northern Water Tribe people migrated South, making homes and families. Ever since their successful raid against the Fire Nation almost forty decades ago, the Southern Water Tribe was the most powerful Nation.

Which made Katara’s father, Chief Hakoda, the most powerful man.

Which made her the most powerful princess and heir to the Tribe.

(Or so, that’s what the other nations thought.)

“Katara!” A new voice rang out from across the water, breaking Katara from her thoughts. She turned towards the voice, blinking away wet tears that she didn’t realize were forming. Katara quickly rubbed her eyes with her royal blue sleeve. She watched as her brother’s fishing boat came close to the iceberg. The young man gave his little sister a lopsided smile. “I’m going to go fishing. Want to come along?”

Truthfully, all she wanted to do was stand there and watch the water sway, meditate until her heart was at a slow, steady rhythm so she could work on waterbending. Her form was getting sloppy, her temper was beginning to act up, and Master Pakku wasn’t going to let it slide forever. A few months prior to her sixteenth birthday, when had been informed of her future as Chief of the Southern Water Tribe, her bending had slipped. (She tried to push the memory that triggered the degresion of her bending far into her mind.) Everything her master had taught her escaped her when they trained. While deep in meditation, she could focus on the water, its push and pull.

Her brother grinned wider.

“Sure,” she shrugged, walking towards his boat. It was a simple wooden canoe, one he had carved and made with their father on his sixteenth birthday two years ago, and although there were a few holes that were hastily patched up, Sokka was too prideful to find a new one. (Also, if any water flooded in, she would bend it back out of the holes it leaked through.)

“Dad said that Arnook and Yue are coming in a weeks time,” Sokka said as he pushed off the iceberg, “and I want to practice fishing. I’m hoping to ask Arnook for Yue’s hand.”

“You two are already arranged,” Katara huffed, putting her chin in her hand, “what’s with the formalities?”

“Well, as future Chief of the Northern Water Tribe--,”

“Oh here we go again…,”

“What? I have to look good. Arnook already had a strong candidate for Yue before I went there. Some soldier named Hahn. Even though Dad arranged it, I still have be credible.”

“No, I get it.” Katara sighed, waving her hand over the water that had begun to leak into the canoe.

“What’s up with you?” Sokka raised an eyebrow at his sister, placing the paddle back into the canoe. “Pakku seemed a little … well, more Pakku-like when I saw him leave your training.”

“Don’t worry about it Sokka,” Katara sighed, freezing the water over one of the small holes in the canoe. “I’ve just been … out of sorts lately. It’s probably the new moon, it’s no big deal.”

“Katara, you’ve been out of sorts ever since--,”

The waterbender sent her brother a deathly glare, making him shut his mouth. He sighed heavily through his nose before grabbing the spear from the bottom of the canoe. (Did he really not realize that the floor just had a layer of water a moment ago?) Sokka turned on his bench and peered outside of the canoe.

“There’s usually some good ones around here,” he muttered more to himself than to his sister, “maybe I can try that cove I found the other week.”

Katara hummed as she also peered over the canoe. At first, she didn’t see any movement within the icy waters. She figured that their canoe probably scared the fish away, but when she closed her eyes and pushed her senses out, she felt the water below them vibrate with energy. Too much energy for a school of fish.

“Sokka, something doesn’t feel right.” She warned, placing her hand into the water for a better feel.

“I see one coming this way right now!” He hissed, readying his spear.

“No, Sokka, I’m serious.”

“Shut up, it looks really big and it’s coming this way.”

“Sokka--,”

“Katara!”

The second he threw the spear, a huge dome of water appeared in front of them. Katara winced at the sound of the water releasing the object; a huge icey sphere with dark figures inside. Sokka lost balance in the canoe as a wave rushed underneath them. He threw the spear haphazardly, tumbling off the side of the canoe and into the water. Katara gripped at the edge of the canoe, wobbling as the waves past, her blue eyes wide and locked on the orb.

“I missed!”

“You’re really worried about that?” Katara hissed, steadying the vessel as her brother clumsily climbed back in. “Not about the huge, random ice orb with figures inside that just came out of nowhere?”

“Oh,” Sokka looked towards the formation, blinking water from his eyes. “I didn’t even … what is that thing?”

“I don’t know,” Katara said, “I felt an energy in the water but …,”

Sokka picked the paddle back up, ignoring the spear that floated in the water next to him. He paddled towards the formation as Katara bended the water from his body and clothes, drying him off so he didn’t become a total popsicle.

The siblings moved closer to the object until Sokka lined his canoe up right next to it. Katara stood up, pressing her hand against it and closed her eyes. Though she could see the dark figures in the ice, she couldn’t feel them. There must have been some barrier between the icey exterior and whatever resided inside. Katara opened her eyes once more and waved a hand over a portion of the ice in front of her, making it turn from a misty color to a shear, glassy icicle. She pushed her hands to it, cupping her face against the ice.

“Holy Tui,” Katara whispered, pulling back from the orb.

“What? What is it?” Sokka asked, standing as well.

“There’s … it’s a boy and some giant … creature. They’re trapped inside.”

“What? How is that even possible?” Sokka said, eyes narrowing.

“I don’t know!” Katara growled at him, “Stop asking stupid questions.”

“Well, what should we do?”

Katara looked between her brother and the iceberg. She was the future Chief, she had to make decisions much more difficult than this. (Decisions that has costed lives.) Katara took a deep breath and closed her eyes, expanding her senses to the water around her. She let her breath out through her mouth and adjusted her feet before raising her hands. Sokka watched as his baby sister bended, a crack forming in the ice in front of them. It ran upwards, splitting the sphere in half. Katara quickly flicked her wrists and the two halves flew off. Before the two got a good look at what was inside, a blue light blinded them.

The two shielded their eyes, wincing at its intensity. Soon, though, the light vanished and the two peered back. Inside was a young boy. He had a shaved head and donned orange robes. A light blue tattoo worked its way over the top of his head, ending in a pointed arrow. His hands were folded in his lap, also donning the same arrow tattoo. His tattoo’s seemed to glow with the same blue light, and he opened his glowing eyes. Behind him laid a massive creature, six legs sprawled out. Before Katara or Sokka could react, the boy’s tattoos stopped glowing and his eyes rolled in the back of his head. He fell forward, sliding down the slab of ice that remained from the sphere. Katara panicked, bending a small wall in front of the edge of the iceberg, stopping the boy from landing within the water.

“What in the world is that thing?” Sokka said, gripping at the walrus-shark tooth knife that was sheathed at his side. Katara followed his gaze to the creature.

“Maybe a pet? It doesn’t look dangerous.”

“And you said that about the bison-bear.”

Katara rolled her eyes and went back to bending, breaking off a portion of the iceberg where the boy had landed and influencing the oceans current to bring him to her. She peered at the boy, examining his clothes and how his was relaxed. He had an orange tunic pulled over his shoulder and pale yellow pants. Both were far too thin to survive in the North Pole. His tattoos were odd. Many of the men and women in the Tribe had tattoos, but they were created with dark, black ink and took place of animals or unique patterns. She had one of her own that marked the raid she lead. (No matter how hard she tried it wouldn’t scrub away.) This boy had simple, light blue ink stained into his skin.

“Leave the creature,” Katara said, her voice dropping and becoming serious, “I’m sure Dad or Pakku will know who this boy is. He looks like he’s from another Nation.”

“Okay,” Sokka said, nodding. The siblings had turned into their other selves, their warrior training and chief preparations taking over. Sokka helped Katara board the boy and turned the canoe away from the laying creature. He placed his paddle back into the canoe and Katara inhaled before sitting back down and bending the water around the vessel, pushing the canoe forward with incredible speed. Within a few minutes they had returned to the shore of their Tribe. Outside stood a dozen guards, armed and ready. Their dark blue uniforms stood out against the pure white of the walls. They all gripped spears that were carved by the finest craftsmen and decorated with rich paints from the best painters. The tips of their spears donned metal which was sent from the Earth Kingdom. They use to use carved walrus-shark tooth and bone, but now those spears were used purely for hunting.

Katara and Sokka pulled up to a snowy dock against the shore of the land and as Katara tied the canoe down amongst the other ships, Sokka heaved the boy onto his shoulder. He stepped out of the canoe, Katara following as they made their way to the single gate of the wall. The guards all bowed to the royal siblings, two of them pushing the huge, bone doors open to allow them pass. (New metal ones were being sent from the Earth Kingdom in a few days, along with sketches from the best Earth Kingdom strategists for a new wall.) None of them challenged the unconscious boy over Sokka’s shoulder.

Upon entering the Tribe, people bustled around. The outskirts of the Tribe was filled with igloo homes. They were makeshift and used for the poor to sleep in free of charge each night, an initiative Katara’s mother had made when she stood by the Chief. Scattered around the homes were tall, guard posts, raising above the wall to watch out for any incoming traffic. The bases of the towers were used as barracks for the soldiers, who would be stationed at a different tower each month to avoid familiarity and allow for the soldiers to always be on their toes. As they continued to walk, the homes disappeared amongst merchant shops. There were restaurants, clothing stands, and food stands all mingled together to create the Tribe Trade Center. In the distance, Katara could see the metal gates that surrounded the palace, which were encased in icicles due to the cold.

As the siblings walked through the Trade Center, tribespeople parted, bowing and mumbling greetings to the siblings. The two continued on, their faces molded to look like the Chief's they would one day become. As they neared the palace, guards began to flank their sides, ensuring that no one would stop them or distract the two, question them or the strange boy they had.

Katara melted the ice on the gate of the fencing around her home and pushed the doors open, waltzing in with authority to her step. Sokka followed close behind her, adjusting the boy on his shoulder. Word must have traveled fast among the soldiers to Chief Hakoda. Their father stood in his Chief robs, a mixture of royal and dark blue clothing. His coat was thick, fur spilling from around the cuffs and neckline. Pure silver thread lined the royal clothing and the wind blew at a few stray hairs that had escaped his wolves tail. His face was pulled into an expressionless canvas, eyes strong, though a flash of curiosity danced across them when he spotted the strange boy over Sokka’s shoulder.

“Chief,” Katara and Sokka both grunted, beating their fists across their chest twice. Hakoda nodded to them, a signal for one of them to speak.

“We were out fishing,” Katara said, glancing to Sokka who had adjusted the boy on his shoulder, “and I felt an energy under the water. Suddenly, a large ..,” she paused for a second to think of how to explain the experience.

“A large, hollowed iceberg,” Sokka continued, “sprung out from the water. Katara looked through it with her bending and saw this boy and a creature inside. She opened the orb and then we took the kid with us. We thought that maybe you or Master Pakku may have some insight. It looks like he is in a different Nations colors.”

Hakoda’s eyes scanned over the two siblings as if he were evaluating their story. He then waved his hand before turning around and walking up to the palace doors. A guard opened it wide as the Chief entered. Katara and Sokka climbed the few snow stairs that lead to the front door and entered their home.

Inside was warm. The floor was decorated with elegant volcano-rock tiles from the Fire Nation. The walls stood tall, painted a simple baby blue color. Two large stone fireplaces flanked the side walls, roaring with heat from the intense flames within them. There was a servant at each fireplace making sure the flames continued throughout the day. Above them hung an icy chandelier. Hakoda took a sharp right, walking toward the right flank of the palace where the dining rooms, meeting rooms, and social rooms were laid out.

“The creature you mentioned,” Chief Hakoda’s voice was low and strong, gravely from the many years of controlling a whole nation. “Where is it?”

“We left it behind,” Katara said, “it seemed harmless and was asleep, just like the boy.”

“I see,” there was an uncertainty behind his words, “I’ll have a group of soldiers go retrieve this creature and bring it back as well. Master Pakku is in the study.”

The three walked a bit more, passing large, bone carved doors before stopping at a smaller one, the handle sprinkled with frost. Katara quickly bent the frost away before her father turned the knob.

Inside the room was dark, the tall windows against the back wall had been drawn closed, and a few candles flickered around the room. Tall, long bookshelves made aisles down the room and ran along all of the walls. A few desks were scattered near the front of the room, candle sticks on them and ready to be lit if needed. At one of the desks sat Master Pakku with his head in his hands and a scroll in front of him. A single candle flickered by him, giving just enough light to read the inked words from the ancient scroll. They had scrolls and books dating back a thousand years in the room, most taken from the vast library system of the Fire Nation after they were demolished.

“Master Pakku,” Hakoda gave a small bow towards the man in apology, “Sorry for interrupting your studying, but it seems as if my children have run into a stranger and need some answers.”

The Master Waterbender looked up, a single gray eyebrow raised. He looked towards his own grandchildren, then his eyes flickered to the boy on Sokka’s shoulder. They widened a bit and the old man suddenly bolted up out of his chair.

“Put him down,” he growled, “lay him on the floor.”

Sokka quickly did so, gently placing the boy down. Pakku kneeled next to the boy, his hand hovering of the boys head before long fingers gently ran over the pale blue tattoo that graced the boys head.

“Do you know who he is?” Katara asked.

“Oh yes,” Pakku said, “but no one has seen him in years. I was told stories about him when I was a boy. Though, I did not think his tattoos were this pale. The way he was described … they would emanate with light.”

“When the orb opened,” Katara said, “there was a blinding blue light before we saw him. It came from his tattoos and eyes … Master Pakku?”

The man suddenly had a wide-eyed look, fright dancing in his iris’. He took his hand back and then closed his eyes, lips moving in a prayer.

“My dear family,” the strong voice of the Master Waterbender disappeared and was replaced by a shaky, breathless whisper. “We’re look at Aang, the Lost Avatar.”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/16269659

I’ve begun to rewrite my ff.net story “Vanguard”, the ATLA superhero AU. It’s needed a overhaul for a bit, and now I’ve gotten around to it. If I keep my motivation, I’ll even continue the story (I have so many ideas). For now I’ll be posting the chapters on Ao3, then when I catch up to where I was on ff.net, I’ll mass-update it there too, then be doing simultaneous across both platforms.

But in celebration of the first chapter, I’ll also be posting it here! It’s under the cut!

Airspace over the Si Wong desert, 22:04 UTC

The Flare cut through the night sky with unusual quiet for a large aircraft. An experimental prototype, it had been built a little over five years ago by Ogata Industries as a proof-of-concept for the National military. It had been rejected as-is for being too expensive, and a more scaled-back, cheaper model — the Ogata 1200 — was designed. The Flare was put into storage at a private airfield owned by Ogata Industries. It collected dust for two years until it was pulled from storage, given a new coat of paint and became the personal aircraft of the second Firelord, aka, Zuko Ogata.

Zuko sat with his legs folded on the bench that ran the length of the aircraft’s passenger cabin, his eyes closed, his breathing steady, as he meditated in preparation for his upcoming mission. As he breathed in and out, he could feel his chi moving as well, warming and cooling, shifting both deep within his stomach and over the surface of his skin.

As he was about to go into battle as the Firelord, Zuko was dressed appropriately; an armored red-and-black body suit with a bright gold flame at the center of his chest, a pair of dark gray boots, a black domino mask to protect his identity, and a simple hair tie to keep his shoulder-length hair up in a top-knot. His hands were bare, as gloves would interfere with fire blasts, and his boots were grated and made from a highly heat resistant material, so he could shoot fire from his feet without having to forego boots. Truthfully, the armor was mostly cosmetic, all things considered; his body was naturally durable due to his heritage, and his chi could bolster his toughness even higher. Instead of protecting his body, the armor was to protect his modesty, as his abilities meant he would burn through most materials, and the constant gunfire he faces meant that if his clothes weren't being burned off, they'd be shot off.

The pitch of the aircraft’s engines changed, just as a voice rang out, “We’re above the convoy now.” Zuko’s eyes slip open just in time to see Teo Sato — alias the Mechanist, and Zuko’s best and only friend — step out from the cockpit and into the cabin. Zuko could see the slight going of Teo’s prostheses as he walked and the cuffs of his jeans shifted.

Teo ran one hand through his scruffy brown hair as the other adjusted his shirt, “You ready?”

Zuko nodded, and stood up, “What are we looking at?”

Teo took a small remote from his pocket and clicked a button, causing a section of floor in the middle of the cabin to rise to about waist-height. A flickering, light blue hologram appeared over its surface, forming into the smooth, largely featureless terrain three thousand feet below; several small dots were moving along a long, completely straight line. Teo made a gesture with his hands, and the landscape grew more defined as the line and dots grew and resolved into a poorly paved road and four vehicles.

Zuko leaned onto the table, closely watching the small convoy. An armored bus sat in the middle, with two armored cars following it, and a third leading the way.

Teo gazed at the cars for a second, before rattling off, “They’re all Imperial models from the Gan-Lan corporation. The cars are Badger 20s, top of the line models. Their armor is a steel-ceramic composite, and each one is mounted with a heavy machine gun. The bus is a 395 police bus, usually used to transport prisoners after mass-arrests.”

Zuko smirked, “Glad to see the old Sato training is still in there. Never know when I need make and models rattled off.”

Teo gave Zuko an unimpressed look, before asking, “Who do you think they’re transporting?”

“You know that I don’t know. All the Defense Ministry knows is that they’re a high-ranking Black Flame operative who is also a Fire Nation fugitive,” Zuko stood up straight, and began walking towards the front of the cabin.

Teo threw up his arms, “I know that, I was just asking if you had any ideas.”

“You know I don’t do guessing games, Teo,” Zuko said, pulling a handle and opened a small chamber near the cockpit door that he stepped into.

“Twenty mon says it’s a serial killer that managed to escape the police. Like, maybe the Miyako Mauler!”

Zuko began to close the door, before stopping and saying, “Thirty that they’re ex-military, wanted for war crimes. Black Flame likes people like that,” he then pulled the door shut, and pressed a button in the chamber. The floor dropped out from under him, and he fell.

For the first few thousand feet, he was diving head-first towards the ground, only doing minor course correction by angling his body slightly to keep on-course. The fall took him out in front of the convoy, and at about two hundred feet from the ground, he channeled chi into his hands and feet, blasting fire from them and taking control of his dive, slowing down and landing gracefully on his feet, like an expert gymnast.

Firelord raised a palm, shimmering with heat, and shot the leading armored car with an intense beam of bright golden heat energy. The car lurched forwards and flipped over, landing on its roof; behind it, the bus swerved off the road to avoid crashing into the car, its momentum too much to brake quickly, and ground to a stop in the sand off to the side of the road.

The two cars that had been following it drove around, Black Flame agents popping out from the roofs to man the machine guns. Firelord charged up his chi and channeled it into his skin and muscle, increasing his durability as a storm of bullets began to hit him. The bullets shattered as they struck his skin. Firelord grimaced and raised his arm, shielding his face, while they weren’t doing any real damage, the bullets still stung badly.

The cars drew closer, to provide the gunners with better accuracy, Firelord guessed, but that was their mistake.

Keeping his arm over his face, he moved chi to his legs and leapt forwards, landing on the hood of the closer car. He raised a hand and blasted the gunner off, before using his other hand to punch through the glass, knocking out the driver in the process, and yanking the steering wheel sideways, sending it tumbling as he jumped off and over sticking the landing once more.

The third car bore down on him. The Firelord charged his body with chi again, and as the car was about to hit him, swung a fist, stopping the car dead with his hand lodged in the engine block. His loosed a blast of fiery energy, causing the engine to ignite and explode quite dramatically.

He winced and tensed, absorbing as much of the heat energy as he could off of the explosion.

Firelord rolled his neck as the smoke cleared, partially energized, yet still drained from the explosion. He could sap away heat energy from explosions quite fine, but the kinetic energy still took a toll of the chi that kept his body strong.

He heard movement and turned around, eyes scanning the area, but it wasn’t hard to determine the source. Seven Black Flame agents were piling out of the bus, and joining them were the three survivors from the first two cars that he had dealt with. All were dressed in the pitch black body armor of their organization, and most were holding semi-automatic rifles. He spared a glance at the burned wreckage he stood next to, and determined that they were likely not to be joining this fight either.

Firelord sighed and looked at the advancing agents, “Look, I have to admit that I’d really not care about putting you guys in the ground as well, but I have to ask; do you really think like this will turn out well for you if you stay? Because you could run away, I don’t want you, I just want whatever weapon—”

One of the agents, holding a grenade launcher, hefted his weapon and aimed it at the Firelord.

He looked at the weapon, “Really? I would’ve thought that Black Flame would stop trying to blow me up, considering I can—” A grenade smacked his chest and exploded into white mist, and instantly, he knew something was wrong.

He felt a great rush of cold in his upper body, and suddenly a wave of weakness as his chi seemed to be sapped away. He down, to see that his whole torso had been encased in a thin sheen of ice.

“Open fire!” A shout said, and gunfire erupted.

Firelord staggered back. No bullet had managed to actually penetrate his flesh, but that was probably due to his suit’s durability, but he would definitely feel the bullets later as bruises.

He turned his back to them and hurdled over the smoking remains of the car and sat against it. He focused in on his body, and felt most of his chi in his torso, keeping his flesh warm and unfrozen. He moved his chi more aggressively, and the ice melted off in less than a second. With a roll of his shoulders he deemed himself in good condition, just in time for a Black Flame agent to run around the car and take aim at his head.

With a snarl, he blasted a hole through the agent, and got to his feet as the body collapsed. He grabbed onto the car wreck, lifted it, and then tossed it right at the group of agents. Two were taken off their feet by the wreck, while the remaining seven got out of the way.

Firelord zeroed in on the one who had the grenade launcher, and loped forwards. The agent began to raise his weapon, but it was snatched from his grasp and thrown away. The agent himself was grasped by the collar, and flung upwards.

Gunfire broke out and Firelord winced and bolstered his durability as he turned around. The six agents that were still standing had grouped up and were firing at him. He crouched slightly, before lunging forwards, crashing into the group. He grabbed one by their chest armor and swung around, sending them all sprawling to the ground; the one he had grabbed was slammed downwards, going limp.

One began to get up but Firelord kicked their side, sending them a good distance away. 

There was a loud thump and a short shout, and he whirled around, only to see that another of the agents had been flatted by the one he had thrown into the air a few seconds ago. He couldn’t help but grin and mutter, “Lucky.”

Another had gotten fully to their feet, but Firelord swung a fist and dropped them, before turning to the last two, who were getting up, and raised both of his hands, downing them both with heat blasts.

Quiet fell rapidly as Firelord assessed the area, making sure all Black Flame agents were down, before nodding and walking to the bus. 

He reached out and opened the door, but didn’t get a second to see inside before a fist nearly the size of a cinderblock crashed into his face and sent him tumbling across the dusty desert landscape.

Firelord staggered to his feet to see an over seven-foot tall, musclebound figure dressed in simple black clothes squeeze its way out of the bus. “Well, well, well, Firelord. We meet again.”

It took a second, but the hulking man’s large sideburns and cocky smirk summoned a face from a few years ago. He grimaced, before saying “I should’ve known Black Flame recruited you,” he straightened up, rolling his shoulders, “You’re just their type.”

Zhao smiled, “I am indeed; ambitious and strong-willed, the two defining traits of Black Flame.”

“Strange, I thought it was being power-hungry and cruel,” he looked at Zhao, “What did they do to you?”

Zhao grinned and flexed an arm, “Impressive, isn’t it? The eggheads back at Black Flame cooked up a serum for me, said it was based off a sample of you, but tweaked a bit. I didn’t get the whole fire powers, though. It’s a shame, I would’ve loved to burn your face off after beating you unconscious. Guess I’ll just settle for crushing in your skull,” with this charming statement, he sprinted forwards at superhuman speed.

Firelord raised his hands and unleashed a sustained blast of fiery energy. The blast connected with Zhao, but instead of being knocked off of his feet, he was just stopped in his tracks, bracing himself against the stream of power. Then, alarmingly, he began to walk forwards, against the blast. Firelord cut off the blasts, instead sending chi into his feet and flying forwards.

He stopped flying just as he got near Zhao, slamming a foot into the ground and using his momentum to spin around and kick Zhao in the face. It staggered the larger man, and Firelord pressed his advantage by closing in and rapidly punching him in the gut. Up close, Firelord could feel the height difference far more, coming up to Zhao’s pectorals.

However, Zhao powered through, and caught both of Firelord’s fists, pulled them towards him, and head-butted the smaller man with a loud crack. Zhao then threw him to the ground, slammed a knee onto Firelord’s chest, and began punching his face with all of his strength.

Black spots began to dance in Firelord’s eyes and blood began to leak profusely from his nose before he charged up enough chi and let loose a huge explosion from his entire body. It sent Zhao flying upwards, and gave him a moment to think.

‘Based off a sample of you’. That’s what Zhao had said. Firelord believed it, he had felt — like a distant echo — Zhao’s chi moving within him, powering up his attacks and defense. It wasn’t like his own chi, which he moved with deft control, instead it seemed to be something Zhao was taking for granted, spirits, Zhao may not even know about his chi at all. He just couldn't use it to make fire. He needed to neutralize Zhao’s chi if he wanted to take him out, because otherwise, he’d need to fly Zhao into the stratosphere and drop him in order to generate enough force to overcome his chi-enhanced durability. But how—

The idea struck Firelord at the same moment that Zhao struck the earth a few yards away, and began to shift and get up almost immediately.

Firelord turned and sprinted towards the cluster of vehicle wrecks on the road.

He heard Zhao yell and begin to pound after him.

His eyes flicked around rapidly, trying to find — there. He dove at his prize, picked it up, and turned around.

Zhao was about twenty feet away. He grinned as he saw the weapon, and continued to run towards him, “You really think a grenade can—”

The Firelord pulled the trigger.

The grenade exploded against Zhao’s left shoulder, ice encasing his upper arm and left side of his chest and neck instantly. He staggered, and Firelord pulled the trigger again, this grenade exploding at Zhao’s feet.

The massive man fell to his hands and knees, and Firelord threw aside the grenade launcher and casually strode over. “You know, when going into battle with a team, its useful to remember what they’re equipped,” He stopped right in front of Zhao, “Otherwise you end up making stupid mistakes,” he raised a fist, poured a massive amount of chi into it, then punched Zhao across the face, downing him.

He stared at Zhao for a few seconds, before he reached into his belt and pulled out an earpiece, putting it in and turning it on at the same time, “Mechanist?” He asked, using Teo’s codename.

There was a beat before his friend responded, “That was a wild fight, dude, who was that big guy?”

“Ma Zhao, a former lieutenant of the National navy. A few years ago — a few months before I recruited you — the ship he had been stationed on was patrolling Yu Dao waters, and an Imperial pleasure cruise accidentally strayed in. He incited a mutiny, took over the ship, sunk the cruise, then went into Imperial waters to ‘retaliate’ for the ‘invasion’. The Fire Nation asked me to stop Zhao and bring him back for a court-martialing before he caused the Second Great War. I managed to stop him before he did, obviously, but after he was court-martialed, he just vanished. Only to turn up here, mutated and working for Black Flame.”

“Wow, that’s wild.”

Zuko hummed, before saying “Yes, so I guess you owe me thirty mon.”

“Wha- aww, man, he is the agent you were sent to get, isn’t he?”

“I highly doubt that this convoy has another high-profile Fire Nation fugitive,” Zuko said dryly, “Now bring the Flare in to land, we need to secure him for transport.”

International Superhuman Penitentiary, aka “the Boiling Rock”, 00:12 UTC

Warden Takeshi Treung tapped his foot as he watched the skies, “The Firelord is twelve minutes overdue.”

“I’m sure everything is fine,” said Chit Sang, head of security.

Treung pursed his lips, “That’s even worse, Sang. I despise tardiness, especially when there is no good reason for it.”

Chit Sang opted to chew his lip rather than say anything else. The warden seemed to be intent on feeling irritated. Granted, ‘irritation' was Treung’s default emotion.

No more than a minute later, a dark shape emerged from the night sky, approaching with speed. It was a sleek, black-and-red aircraft unlike any Chit Sang had seen before. It held a strong resemblance to the Ogata 1200s, but larger and lacked the impressive armaments of the 1200s. It descended almost vertically, turning around as it did, and landed on the vast metal platform with grace that belied the aircraft’s size.

Warden Treung began to walk to the aircraft, and Chit Sang motioned with a hand as he strode forwards as well, and the small guard team he had brought began to follow him.

The back of the aircraft lowered, turning into a ramp, and a tall figure strode down the ramp.

The Firelord.

The superhero met Treung and Chit Sang at the base of the ramp and the three men bowed curtly.

“You could stand to learn punctuality, Firelord,” Treung wasted no time in leveling his complaint at the taller, masked man.

The Firelord let out a short sigh, “Always a pleasure too, warden,” he looked at Chit Sang, “Zhao’s at the top of the ramp. You prepared a grade three cell, right?”

Chit Sang motioned for his men to collect the new prisoner, “Yes, we did. With the low-temperature defenses, like you asked,” he answered as his men moved around them and up the ramp, one was wheeling a gurney.

Firelord nodded, “Good.”

At the top of the ramp, the guards had secured a figure to the gurney and had begun to wheel it down. Chit Sang had to marvel at the unnatural size of the man strapped to it.

“How are the prisoners? Any trouble?”

Treung raised an eyebrow, “Sentimental? I could get one out if you wish to beat their heads in.”

The Firelord’s eyebrows knitted together, “I was trying to be polite, Treung.”

“Then get here when you say you will.”

The Firelord pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked past the warden and Chit Sang, “Well, the prisoner is in your hands now. Good day, warden, Sang,” he bowed to each of them in turn before striding back up the ramp and into his ship. The ramp raised behind him, and the engines roared to life as it closed and the aircraft’s wheels began to leave the platform. Within five minutes, it had vanished into the night sky.

Undisclosed Location, 01:24

“Sir!” A Black Flame agent clicked his heels and bowed.

Eyes narrowed, “Well?”

“Lieutenant Zhao was captured by the Firelord sir. And, the entire unit was lost, Kawaji survived just long enough to radio in a report before he died. We have a clean-up crew on the way to retrieve the bodies.”

A hand waved lazily, “Dismissed.”

The agent left hastily.

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A wide, wicked smile appeared on a pale face, “Always the fool, Zuzu.”

Start With This – Create Assignment, Solution #1

"Idea to Execution"

Assignment:

Pick an idea that you’ve had for a while. Take exactly 1 hour to work on it exclusively. This can be one continuous hour, or 30 minutes for two days, or 10 minutes for six days. Then put it out there (written or recorded) on our Membership Community, your website, or shout it to a bird from your porch. Consider this your first try of many at this idea.

Author's Note:

This piece comes from a character I've had in my head for LITERAL YEARS. I could never get the right story for him. I'm not going to say this is perfect or I've finally found my perfect opening scene for the character, but this does feel like a genuinely good representation of what's been cooking away in my brain for years. Or at least it hits all the right notes. I'm so glad I chose to START With This! Hopefully I can keep it consistent. Feel free to ask questions or drop comments! Liking and reblogging is encouraged. Please do not repost. Thanks in advance.

Solution:

Afraz Awakens

The room was blue.

It was blue, in both the senses of the word.

A ruffled young man sat on the edge of a bed whose covers were like the waves of the ocean – they were undone, white as the foam on a crest and, most of all, they were easy to be drowned in. Afraz sat, a figure reminiscent of one lost at sea and without much hope of ever finding land again.

His hair took on the majority of the ruffle, sitting atop his head, a crown of despair. He slowly blinked his blank dark eyes, staring at nothing. He had a long, not unhandsome face and a very light stubble. His thin white shirt was old and faded, and his sweatpants had not been changed for days.

Such was his folded figure, elbows on knees, listless, in a blue bedroom.

The rest of the space was full of dust mites catching the Saturday late afternoon light from the window. Books were littered on the desk to his right and some more lay on the floor, among some socks.

Afraz breathed in a deep, slow breath, straightening his back gently. He knew this: he was alive. And he knew that was supposed to be some kind of silver lining. He confessed to himself, he couldn't really see it.

Sleep. That was his solution. These days, whenever he felt the despair returning, he would come to his welcoming bedspread and bury himself in its embrace. This had worked for a decent while. But now he had run out of slumber. There comes a point when you have slept so much that sleep itself rejects you, and you are forced to turn, dazedly, to the face of the day, and actually earn your escape… by creating a life to escape from. Why did he have to do that? Why couldn't he be passive to his existence? Why couldn't he refuse?

There was a shadow in his blue walls, a fluttering shape that was gone the moment he noticed it. His eyes flickered towards it.

Knowing he would regret it, Afraz shifted his weight onto his feet. For a second his vision winked away. He knew he probably needed to eat. Still, ignoring it all, he stepped across to the open window, seeing a bright pink diamond floating by it.

'Hey, Afraz!' came a cheerful voice. She had a twinkle in her eye as she tugged on the string to manipulate the kite until it was close enough for Afraz to grab on to. Her giggles laced the air and made his head ache. He was about to leave Zinat to her little games and go back inside when she called out again.

'Wait! Afraz.' She snatched at the string as the kite nearly dropped on to the road, and relaxed her hand as it caught a steady breeze cutting between them. Then she stared right at him.

Zinat was a child, at least to him, and she was wearing dusty denim dungarees. Clearly she was out to play and had no reason to be in his neighbourhood, nor to look as worried as she suddenly did. Unless he looked particularly scary…

'Apa wrote to you. And it's none of my business, I'm only ten, I know,' she adopted a strident, annoyed voice for her next bit, 'Go sit in your tuitions and stop meddling with my life! – I know you usually say that. But… like…' The twinkle was now clouded over by doubt as she struggled to keep to the point. 'Did you read it?'

He broke eye contact and glanced at the sky, to which she immediately said, 'Oh, you're rolling your eyes. Hah. Of course you read it, silly me. Sorry for even asking. I'll stop bothering you.'

She let her bright pink kite fall gently to the white stone pavement and looked at Afraz for, he knew she felt, the final time. Then she said, 'She's really very sorry, you know. About everything that happened. And maybe you're handling it okay on your own but, well… She misses you.'

He still said nothing. He had nothing to say. So, dragging her once airborne paper kite along the ground, she walked away.

Afraz stared at that kite for a long while, then saw it in his mind's eye when it disappeared from view. At some deeper level he felt for that kite. He knew what it was like, being scratched in the dirt after flight.

He hadn't read it. In fact he didn't know what had been written to him or when. He did know he had a pile of unread mail sitting in an untidy heap downstairs…

He marvelled at the comment of her missing him. It seemed not to fit in with any of his life anymore. A few months ago he would have grown soft at the mere suggestion of such a sentiment. At the moment, he didn't have the capacity to do or feel anything. His energy was busy reigning in the more unpleasant detours of his wild train of thought.

He walked away from the window, from the kite, from the after-image of Zinat's worried face. None of it was her fault. He should have said something. But then, she had her parents with her, and of course, her Apa, her older sister. She could easily find support for her scars. Whereas he had no one.

He placed a hand on the doorknob, thinking longingly of instant noodles.

For the first time in days, Afraz smiled. It was a shockingly toothy smile and made him look slightly evil.

He must be really starving, he had reflected, to actually be pining for instant noodles!

Shaking his head at how his sense of humour had actually hit a new low, he unlocked the door and left the silent, blue room.