Author's note: This was going to be a oneshot, but this entire thing is about eighteen pages now, so here ya go. I don't remember if I address this in later chapters, but since Vlad is a consummate businessman he can read Chinese in this story, which is important an important language in international business relations. Conveniently, this is the written language in the Avatar world, so he isn't completely lost as to what people write.
Also, I understand that Vlad is Caucasian in a heavily Asian-influenced world, but it's not really seen as an immediate issue because he's mostly unnoticed and a lot of characters in the world look like they should be part of other nations (Ty Lee looks like Aang, some Fire Nation kids aren't pale-skinned with light, gold eyes) and I'm guessing now that the war is over the world will be slightly more open to children that aren't exclusively part of one national heritage, and therefore the people are less homogeneous in some parts (though in the Earth Kingdom there was diversity in appearances). Granted, Vlad is older, and this takes place about five years post-war, but it's not a stretch that he could use the excuse of being a bastard child for his unusual appearance.
The Limited Horizon
Chapter One
"I thought you were a myth."
Worn boots scrape against dirt. The night sky is foreboding, oppressing with its lack of stars. Vlad Masters does not mind the darkness, however, because anything short of a shroud above him in the night seems to mock his presence on modest ground.
The ghost responds dryly, "Luckily, so do others who fumble through the progression of their short lives. I have the luxury of not hearing their demands."
The Lower Ring of Ba Sing Se is a tawdry place, not that Vlad is unused to shady areas; he is a stranger here, stranger than most. Not counting his status as only partly human, he looks unusual, and Ba Sing Se in its entirety boast quite a few quacks. Even the current king once travelled the world with his pet bear despite his city being overtaken and desperately needing guidance in the form of leadership over several anti-Fire Nation revolts that ultimately failed.
"I have a request."
The streets are full of ruckus; dim shop lights cast the dirt paths in unbecoming grays and browns. The cacophony creates a sense of false security, for surely a land so crowded is safe enough to disappear in and rush through without a man being singled out.
The cloaked ghost sighs. "Of course you do. The great Vlad Plasmius, scourge of the human world, has resorted to the whims of a stranger." If his tone wasn't so candid, then Vlad would've assumed his statement was some sort of taunting.
Vlad is clad in rags he stole from a mundane marketplace where those too indigent for housing crowd alongside shop walls and beg. The smell there is animal musk mingling with a scent like the one he found in his mother's old cabin—she had accidentally unplugged the refridgerator, and everything inside had gone rancid.
This world has been through a century-long war; they are told to believe that suffering and strife are over. And the brainwashing is supposed to be over. Clinging against the stench of perspiration and poverty, Vlad almost pities them as much as he does himself.
"I'll do anything to take it all back."
A once-proud, once-wealthy man, Vlad never thought he'd roam a street with an uncertain gait—quick to avoid the eyes of pickpockets, the calls of whores; the man is used to avoiding cameras, not miscreants. He's making his way to the more colorful part of the district, which is either a compliment or a means of wariness depending on your tastes.
"Contrary to what you might have heard," the time ghost says, adjusting a gear on his staff, "my occupation does not fall under 'fairy godmother'."
Luckily, the thieves there are often too inebriated to cause much trouble, but they are more raucous and stumble and collapse outside of the taverns like one-legged ostrich-horses (once again, the peculiarities of this world are lost on a man who's seen the Ghost Zone, and he's noticeably more perturbed by how normal several aspects of life in this society are).
"There's nothing left for me here."
But for all these people know, Vlad's name is Li—like almost everyone else, and this is not quite meant in the hyperbolic sense—and he works at a tea shop. He's never been outside of the city, he lives alone, and the details of his past are equivocated from the immense quantity of similar situations where refugees and loners trickle in without their pasts on their breasts.
"And who is to blame for that?"
For many in the Lower Circle, a job, no matter the credentials needed, is a source of pride because it provides income and a perceived purpose. If Vlad hadn't spent the time he did as a runaway and a hermit after a period—a merciless stint—with his thoughts in space, a black void that reflected all of his fears and concerns, he might complain about losing his prestige, his mansion, his dignity, everything that made him a man of worth. God, he hopes Maddie—tthe cat—found a suitable home.
The ghost in the purple cloak continues, "This question is one you've answered wrongly your entire life. Look at yourself, at what you've let yourself become. Answer correctly, and I might consider assisting you. Everyone deserves a second chance, after all. It's simple, really. So, Vlad Masters, who is it?"
The half-ghost is journeying to a theater. After all, what more does he have to do? His house is basically a shack, easy enough to clean, and he has no more work to do. Best to be entertained—no matter how meager the experience—to take his mind off of
He needs to shave his face.
The theater is bare with few rows. The walls are brown; the stage is small.
Vlad sits in the front row, one leg crossed over the other.
The air smells of cheap perfume. The women who partake in extravagant dancing routines and other talents are often seen as harlots; this is because many also seek monetary assistance through prostitution due to their weak pay—and therefore being a lady of the arts isn't seen as the most regal profession. Also, several of them strip naked in their performances—not that Vlad, being a gentleman, stares for too long.
Vlad's never paid for nightly companionship, but the half-ghost supposes the women with solely pecuniary mindsets who flocked closely to him are close enough to count. By the age of thirty-five, he rendered himself a reluctantly celibate man. Celibate because of his continuously undying love for a married woman—reluctant because he had and continues to have needs, after all. Such decisions, it seems, are often based in futile emotion or shoddy logic.
The crowd is less composed than he; many are here by mistake or boredom. They chatter when they are meant to be silent; they guffaw when they are meant to act solemn. The story of the play is nonsensical, the attire of the participants plain.
Jack left him to die. Jack started all of this. Maddie refused to love me. As did Daniel. The world turned on him. All of his allies—gone, deserted.
No phantasmagorical array of colors.
The women are mostly unimpressive. Mostly. Not much presence. However, there is one Vlad notices again and again. A vixen with unwavering poise and calm, burning eyes, like a moribund phoenix that refuses to fall to ashes.
Vlad leans forward, his dour countenance and tense shoulders both easing down.
Vlad Plasmius meets Clockwork's somber, imploring eyes, and replies, "I have no one to blame but myself."