A/N: Throughout the entire series, both the writers and Mako gloss over Mako and Bolin's past. But living on the street is a hundred times more terrible that the phrase makes it out to be. I'm not a homeless child, but I still understand that. And all you need are two things - logic and an imagination - to figure it out.

~o0{}0o~

It was dark and damp under the dumpster, and the reek of mold and rotten food permeated every granule of the pavement. A young boy named Mako, almost nine years old, crouched under it with his chin and palms flat against the ground. He ignored the nuisance of his environment and tried to quiet his laboured breathing. The pounding of his heart, however, was something he could not quell, and he was sure that it would give him away at any moment.

He was waiting for the soles of a pair of dirty brown boots to appear on the ground next to the dumpster. Nothing came, but after a tense minute, the deep, harsh voice of a man punctured the air.

"Get back here, you little punk! No one insults Juano and gets away with it."

The boots appeared and scuffled back and forth in front of Mako's face.

"Where are you hiding?"

The boots walked away, and it was silent for a long moment. Mako could hear nothing but the faint background noise of traffic and everyday city life.

He was sure of the fact that his utter silence had saved him, until something hard and clawlike suddenly shackled his ankle in its grip and forcibly dragged him out. His chin, palms and the skin that was exposed through the holes and rips in his shirtfront stung as they scraped against the ground. He did his very best not to scream.

Once the man had pulled him fully out from under his shelter, Mako struggled to his feet and came face-to-face with a grimy mustache and beard sitting upon a cracked-lip scowl full of yellow teeth. The face moved downwards and revealed a sharp nose and a pair of hard, steely blue eyes, which happened to be focused directly on him.

"Well, well...look what the cat dragged in. A lil' street rat, fresh outta the sewers."

The man exhaled in Mako's face and Mako almost choked on the horrible stench. He backpedaled to get away from it, but regretted doing so immediately, as he was now backed in the corner between the brick wall and the dumpster, with the man blocking him. It was an awfully confining position.

He wasn't confined there for very long, though, because the man grabbed Mako by what was left of his shirt and lifted him high enough so that he couldn't run away. "Now, let's cut to the chase," he said. "Where's the money?"

"I don't have it," Mako stated.

"What did you say?"

"I...don't...have...it." Mako's face was utterly blank, his tone even. He was somewhat new to this business, but even he knew not to show fear. Fear was a sign of weakness to these people. It turned you into prey.

He did, however, pat his pant leg to make sure the warm, soft paper-wrapped mass he'd pocketed fifteen minutes ago was still there. It was.

"Where is it, then?" The gangster spat.

"I...lost it."

The man let go of Mako's shirt and slapped him hard across the face. Mako's head banged against the wall and an explosion of pain shot through his skull. For a few seconds he couldn't see or hear anything.

"You liar."

The man's snarl drilled nails in his head with each syllable.

"You stole it, didn' yah? Thought you'd just rake some off the top for yerself?"

Mako planted his hands and knees on the floor, trying to steady his head. His cheek stung badly from the blow, but the pain wasn't nearly as bad as the pain in his head. The gnawing hunger at the pit of his stomach didn't help, and nausea was quickly being added to the mix.

"No...I don hab it," he managed to say eventually. At the slurred sound of his own words, he rubbed his jaw to check if it had been broken again.

"That bundle was one thousand yuans short," the man continued, apparently unable to hear Mako. "Which was all of it! You'd better cough it up, or else."

"I don't have it," Mako said for the fourth time. He knew that the gangster would never believe him if Mako told him the truth, that a thief had threatened to kill him and stolen the payoff just as he was on his way to deliver it to their boss.

In the short silence while Mako kneeled on the ground, waiting for his aching head to clear and his stomach to settle, a metaphorical lightbulb lit over his tormenter's head.

"Hey...you have a lil' kid brother, dontcha? And you guys live in that pathetic little card hut a block down, right? Maybe he's the way to get through to yah." The man smiled dangerously at Mako and then turned on his heel, taking off down the street.

It took a split second for Mako to understand, and when he did, the alarm was enough to propel him to his feet. He staggered down the street in the general direction of the shelter he and Bolin had made behind an apartment on the edge of the next block. He had only purpose in mind: protect Bolin. As he broke into a run, his head didn't clear, but he was able to focus enough to ignore most of the pain.

He turned left at the next corner. He thought he saw the back of the man's overcoat flapped past a fire escape in the opposite direction just as he did so, which confused Mako. He then tripped over a curb, or his own feet, he wasn't sure. But by the time he managed to pull himself up again, he knew it was too late.

What Mako was faced with when he finally caught up with the man was a scene out of a nightmare: he was standing several paces away from a cardboard packaging box that was most likely used to store furniture once upon a time, but was now was padded with old blankets inside and covered with oiled cloth on the top to prevent rain from seeping in; a box with the tips of a pair of muddy socks peaking out of the opening. The box in which Bolin was sleeping. And a gang member hovered over it, suspending a mob of glistening icicles in the air with one hand and aiming the sharp points at the exact spot where Bolin's head must be.

He's a bender? A waterbender? Mako's muddled brain thought, in a brief, insane burst. Did I know that before?

"D'ya know where the dough is now?" the man taunted.

"Don't you dare...hurt...Bo," Mako spat, struggling just to get the words out.

Mako could say nothing more. Along with his headache, dizziness, nausea, fatigue, and his anger and frustration at being so helpless, a strange tingling sensation was running its way through his body. It felt alive, almost electric. The more his anger intensified, the stronger the sensation became.

"Or else what?" When he got no reply, the gangster harrumphed and shrugged. "I guess we'll just have to tear yer house apart an' find the cash, then."

Mako started running the instant before the man released his hold on the icicles.

He saw the next few moments in slow motion: the man grinning at him as the ice began to fly, and his own hand reaching towards the man's face, itching to claw it off, or just to stop him from hurting Bolin.

Then several things happened all at once and too quickly for Mako to make sense of. The sensation climaxed, shot up his right arm, and then dissipated. There was a roaring sound, followed by a sudden blast of heat, a splash, and then screaming. It was the man. The man was screaming shrill, agonized, screams, and clutching his own face. Mako didn't have time to search for the source of his distress because the man took one look at Mako, eyes widening through the gaps in between his fingers, and scrambled off, away from the two brothers and out of sight.

Once he was sure the man was gone, Mako sat down hard on the ground. It was over, for now. For now he could just let the tension flow out of him and give in to the oblivion inside his head.

He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there until he realized that there was a disturbance in the box; it was Bolin, probably woken by the man's shrieking. Bolin was an extremely heavy sleeper. He had to be, to be waking up this long after the actual event that woke him up. Mako crawled towards the opening of the box to check on his little brother.

Bolin was sitting up inside the box, his thin, raggedy blanket tangled around him and his eyes half-lidded. He sighed in relief. Bolin was fine. The box was soaked through with icy water, but Bolin was fine.

"I'm hungry." Bolin mumbled sleepily. "And it's cold in here. Did you find any food?"

"Yeah, I – I brought you dumplings." It took a considerable amount of time for him to remember where he'd put them. Yes - they were in his pocket, squished almost flat, and cold now. They rarely ever got warm food and he had meant to give it to Bolin as a treat, but he had wasted too much time with the gangster. So much for that. Still, Mako handed the paper bag to Bolin and Bolin tore into the dumplings ravenously.

"You...you didn't see any of that?" Mako asked carefully.

"Any of what?"

Mako sighed again. Bolin had been asleep the whole time. Even if nothing else had gone right for Mako today, at least he'd spared Bolin the sight of that terrifying scene.

"Any of what?" Bolin repeated, prodding his brother slightly.

Mako almost shook his head, but then stopped when pain shot through it at a slight jerk. He used his voice instead, saying, "Nothing. Never mind. Eat up. You need to keep your strength."

"You don't want any?"

"No, I'll just throw up."

"Why?"

Mako froze. From feeling nauseous, obviously, but why had he said that out loud? There must be something wrong with his brain. He touched his forehead and felt something hot and sticky smeared on it. Then his head started to feel even worse, if that was possible.

"Big bro?" Bolin said curiously. He looked more closely at Mako. "Big bro? What happened to your face?"

"Nothing," Mako said heavily. "Just a little accident. I'll be fine."

Then he blacked out and crumpled onto the ground.

~o0{}0o~