She smiles kindly, and they glower in suspicion. The tentative confidence with the raising of her chin translates as an imperious, haughty move. Her stance, her fragrance, her attire. She looks just like her mother, the one with the collection of blue hair clips and the proud glint in her eyes. No, not hubris, but admiration for everything and everyone.
But they just see her father. They bristle. Asami Sato replaces her evil father as one of the most influential nonbenders in the world. Yet, just like her mother, they can threaten her rise to power just like that. Even if her mother wasn't the famous one, she helped Hiroshi, planned out new inventions with Daddy. She shared the privilege so few of her kind possessed, and that was one nonbender too many on the other side of the burroughs.
Oh, Asami's out of her place, speaking to the radio stations, condemning the Council's laws against the free speech of nonbenders.
A conspirator. A troublemaker. Hey, didn't that Sato girl get arrested during the revolts? Why are they allowing for those flying contraptions to ship materials when they demolished an entire fleet? She can't be trusted. She's incompetent. Just a young girl. She certainly can't lead. She detests fear and unwillingly deters admiration.
Openly condemning the bending gangs. Yes Asami, we all know they're bad, but don't be such a child. Decrying them will only make them angrier.
That Sato girl sure visits the Dragon Flats a lot. Sets up food shelters for the common people. Talks to them and assures that she won't stay quiet. Pours her money into helping, though she struggles to stay afloat with the lack of alliances.
The fervent nonbending supporters won't assist a tepid ally, no matter her efforts, but to many people on the other side—well, she might as well tell them her signature green goggles came from a box of Equalist supplies. Or that she scavenged it from a bender she crushed with her bare hands.
Asami roams her expansive room during the night. It's too large.
She's not ready. Gazing into the sloping visage of the mirror, it mocks her tangles, the pitiful redness above her cheeks, the gleam in her eyes. The gleam so unlike her mother's. Her robe drapes as if she's unformed.
Who is she? If she is not a patchwork of her father's ideals or her mother's acceptance, then who is she? Too complacent, not complacent enough. Crumbling. Only has subordinates, though she hesitates to call her men such.
Pacing, pacing, then straightening her shoulders. They ache with her constant efforts of not succumbing to syncopation.
When there's a scandal with the Avatar's boyfriend disfiguring a crook, she doesn't defend him when he's removed from the police force after cries of injustice, and Korra ceases any scant communication they had. It isn't that Korra hates Asami, but Asami lost her connection with Team Avatar when she stopped following them on a whim. When she "lacked friendliness" by not cooperating with the status quo. Tenzin listens, but he has all of the time in the world. Decrees against benders don't hurt him, and Pema is a Councilman's wife, so she's mostly safe.
Asami realized that, with all of the street talk of her flawless complexion, hair, eyes—she's been weak, treading down the flawed path. She will not support violence, but she allowed herself to help others while they discarded her. A doormat, treated with little respect. Asami has been reactionary, not proactive; yes, she is against her father's crimes and Amon's lies, but what does she stand for?
What does Asami Sato believe in?
(Who does Asami Sato believe in?)
The ostracizing gets worse, but she reaches out to the hands of the destitute, and they sustain each other.
You're alone in this one, Asami. You should've followed me. You should've listened. That bender boy left you for a woman who will never be scorned by the elite for her status.
No, she has her mother in the glistening sheen of a wan night when the covers are too hot and she stares at the ceiling, nobody there to nurture her fever. Asami dreams on the edge, the jutting cliff in the swarm between reality and her mind. Where she runs to her mother, where she refuses to kneel before a cloaked figure.
Asami walks into a verdant field with the most gorgeous brush she's seen. Odd plants curl around her toes and tickle her arms.
There's a man sitting in the forest opening. She can't see him, but he's dressed in dark garments and sobbing, sobbing as if he's a child who's lost his parents.
She touches his shoulder.
You disappointed them.
You betrayed them.
Now you have nothing left.
Asami jolts awake, startled.
Once by a dock while watching a test run on a newer model of the "planes," she caught a glimpse of something floating in the black, thick water.
No, it can't be.
It's—no. No. She's not a liar. A tyrant. She won't use her people.
I won't be you.
Asami fishes the mask out of the water, her eyes narrowing.
She's reminded of her visits with Amon's lieutenant after hearing that they kept her father and this man in solitary confinement for twenty-three hours. She protested it as cruel, and reluctantly admitted to herself that a serpent strikes after being cornered for so long.
"To what do I owe this honor?" His mouth curled contemptuously.
Even in the water, the mask smells acrid. Like smoke. It's just a symbol, she thinks. Peace. Equality. The longevity of an idea. It's not the man, but it's a companion.
In the nights where the elements voice their ire, she sets the mask onto her face after it undergoes a good scrubbing. Still, it's like a starting engine, the musk of a man.
Before all nations, she'll rally supporters to flock to the streets and give to the downtrodden. She isn't a pawn any longer. Not the sweet, docile girl who happened to know how to combat her way out of a struggle.
I won't be you.
I will be better than you.
In her near-dreams, the weeping stops, and Asami rests with her eyes darkened and her breathing peaceful.