After three years, a piece of paper and get thee out. I stared down at the pink slip in my hand and crumbled it up, turned, and tossed it hard into the nearest trashcan, watching it ding off the edge and fall in, and put my hands in my pocket, grabbed at what remaining money I had.
Five yuan, a wrapper, and my wallet were all I felt. My wallet was even more empty. My stomach growled—I had no idea how I was going to pay for rent now, none, and I started walking away from the factory.
They had just switched over to the new Sato energy reactors, powered by electricity and firebending. They didn't need me anymore, to make sure the old machines kept running, a sharp-eyed engineer. They needed all the firebenders in the city. And I was unneeded and outdated goods, just like my generators had been. Resisting the urge to kick something—twenty years old, get fired, and all I wanted to do was kick something—I walked out of the back alley and spotted something on the pavement.
It was one of the generator hearts, dumped out like trash, still with its coolant straps. I paused, bent over, picked it up, and let it hang heavy over my shoulder, weighing on my back, and started walking. It felt good—I had worked with them for three years. They were the closest things that I had to friends, here, far away from home. Not like home was any better. Or had anything left for me.
Republic City was bustling—it was a Tuesday and it was noon, the sun high in the sky. It was the lifetime of the city, when things were running the highest energy they were. And that was also why I was hungry. Walking away from the Sin Har factory, which had until recently employed me, I stopped myself from spitting at them and headed down the street back towards my apartment. I would look for work somewhere else—maybe in one of the factories owned by Sato, I had heard the young entrepreneur hired as many non-benders as possible. So that might be a job option.
My feet tugged me down the street, and my nose tugged me toward a kebab stand that was at the edge of the sidewalk. The five yuan were heavy in my pocket and I paused—my stomach growled. It was literally all the money I had left in the world—but I had nothing at home to eat and I hadn't had real food (i.e., not noodles) in over two weeks. I approached, set down the generator, and turned out my pockets to get the five coins and dropped them one by one onto the edge of the stand. "What can I get for this?" I asked, looking up at the woman running the stall.
—
Republic City was like a giant, pulsating heart. I heard and felt every breath of every person like some great pounding stomp of feet. I couldn't tune it out—I was working on how to do it. And I loved it. Every exhilarating moment. Even if I had slept a week in dumpsters, hopped onto the back of passing trolleys to get around, and used up half my savings just eating out, it was beautiful.
It was nothing like home, that was for certain. It was huge, so big that in a week I had barely managed to explore half the city, and I still had plenty left to see. Hopping off the back of the trolley that I had been clinging to for dear life and landing on the pavement, smoothing back my hair, I started walking, watching the water over the side of the railing, the bay waves lapping.
Just because I could, I reached out and one-handed tugged, and a wave pulled with my hand like I was pulling strings, crashing up against the seawall, foam spraying against my face. I smiled.
Turning more away, I looked ahead—there was a large factory looming ahead of me, and to the side, a kebab stand, which was giving off a wonderful smell. My stomach growled, as if it was reminding me that the only thing I had had to eat today was a red-bean bun I had grabbed leaving the alley I had slept in, cramming it in my mouth, so different from my mother's home cooking and yet just as good, because it tasted like freedom. Hoisting my travelling bag further up on my shoulder, I hopped off the edge of the kerb and down to the street level, crossing over toward the kebab stand, feeling the weight of my savings in my pocket (years of hunting with the one skill my father had taught us, selling what I caught when he wasn't watching) and took a few steps closer, about halfway across the street, a good fifteen feet from the stand and the man trading over his few coins when—
The honk was so loud my ears were ringing. I turned, jumped, just in time to hear "Get out of the way!" loudly and there was an entire trolley flying at me—no, a Satomobile and I tried to move but my feet seemed rooted to the ground, and I finally managed to move, racing three steps forward when the car hit me, hard, in the leg, wheels squeaking, swerving, someone screaming, and I was flying.
It was not an enjoyable feeling, especially since they had hit my leg hard enough that I knew it was broken. One moment on the ground, the next moment head over heels, screaming in surprise, flying toward the kebab stand.
—
"You look hungry," she smiled at me, soft brown eyes crinkling at the edges—she reminded me in that moment of my mother. "Normally I can't sell anything that cheap, but I suppose I can make an exception."
"Thank you," I replied, sliding the money over to her. She reached into one of the racks and plucked out a stick, covered in what had to be possum-chicken meat, a few freshly fried vegetables, all drizzled in thick sauce. My stomach growled loudly and I reached for it—
"Get out of the way!"
Jumping with the ingrained reaction of someone living in the big city I turned toward the city just in time to see a Satomobile hit some kid, hard, in the leg. He went flying, screaming, one leg hanging awkwardly—definitely broken—and I tried to move out of the way but our eyes locked, him still screaming, the woman gasping and jumping out of the way just in time for him to keep flying forward, both of us shouting now, and slam head-first into me.
The force of his impact sent both of us flying another ten feet until I slammed, hard, into the wall of the next building over with my shoulder, groaning in pain, the kid on top of me and heavy and coughing. People were gasping and the car honked another time and the person inside shouted, "Watch where you're going, idiot!" and it squealed off.
The dust of our impact settled, and I groaned, shifting, trying to get my shoulder out of the young man currently sprawled on top of it. I looked down, and there was my kebab, laying on the ground.
I wanted to punch myself in the face.
—
The man looked over just in time for our eyes to meet. I didn't really get a good look at him (flying through the air you didn't get a good look at anything but I saw the surprise in his eyes just before I slammed, hard, into his chest and we went tumbling to land, hard on the ground, groaning in pain.
My leg was definitely broken. That was certain. I felt pretty bad bruising in my chest too, although it didn't feel like anything was broken. I had been lucky—this stranger had broken my fall. Quite literally. With himself.
"What kind of an idiot walks right in front of a Satomobile?" he groaned, shifting and I just moaned in pain in response as he sat up, sliding off his shoulder to prop myself on one arm on the pavement, looking up at him. He was leaning awkwardly to one side, avoiding the shoulder of the side we had landed on—it hung like it had been dislocated—and he had his undislocated hand pressed to his chest, teeth grit in a grimace. "Seriously."
"I didn't think about it," I replied, and it came out sharper than I intended, considering the man had probably just saved me some serious injuries by acting as a cushion.
"It's a Satomobile!" He snapped, annoyed. He was a few years older than me how that I could see him up close—probably twenty, or twenty-one, with incredibly sharp cheekbones, a half-frown that didn't seem to be anything but something of the moment, a carefully-trimmed but small moustache, and eyes that were the brightest blue I had ever seen—like the core of a glacier of ice, incredibly pale. "Where are you from, the North Pole?"
"Yes, actually." He blinked and I grunted, rolling off of him, trying to figure out where my limbs were, landing on my travel bag and grunting. My leg burned with pain, and when I moved it it shocked lancing sparks up my spine. "I am."
"I—" he hesitated, and we started to move apart, him grabbing onto the wall behind us and pressing himself upward. "Sorry."
"Are you two all right?" A woman's voice came, and I looked toward the kebab stand, where it had come from—the proprietor, assumably, was leaning out. "Either of you need a healer?"
"Idiot's leg is broken," the man replied. "I'll take him to the clinic over on Li Street." She nodded and vanished back inside and I flopped down on the pavement, my ponytail caught under my head, digging into my scalp. "Anything else broken?"
"No, I think you saved me that by acting as a cushion."
"Glad I could help," it came out less acerbic, and he extended a hand. "Come on, try and get to your feet—lean on the wall." I reached out, grabbed his hand with one of mine, and used the other to prop myself on the building, and together we negotiated me upward until I was standing precariously. "How bad is the break?" He asked me, one dark eyebrow raised.
"I can't put any weight on it," I replied, and suddenly cursed myself for never learning healing like my mother had suggested—my father had brushed it off as a skill for women. And bloodbending couldn't fix a broken leg.
"Yeah, that's broken." He grimaced, and paused. "How strong are you?"
"I can drag a sled," I replied, and he nodded, turning to me, bending his knees slightly so that we were on level—he was about five inches taller than I was fully standing, but I wasn't done growing yet.
"Grab my elbow," he instructed, and I hesitated for a moment, leaning more onto the wall so that I had a better base, since I only had one working leg at the moment, and did as he said. "My shoulder's dislocated and you'll never get to the clinic like that." Settling himself more carefully, still holding his ribs, he continued, "Now, my arm by my side, and bend my forearm in toward my chest. Now, turn it outward, and start moving it, and then shove it up and back in toward my scapula hard."
"Isn't that going to hurt?"
"Not as much as it will if I don't fix it," he replied. Hesitantly, I began to move it, and I could feel the blood and the marrow of his bones, the swelling, and his arm got out, turned, and I shoved. Hard.
—
"Son of a b—" I started to shout, eyes watering as my shoulder slammed back into place, choking in pain. I had grown up on a farm, I had dislocated my shoulder before, and it always hurt just as much putting it back. The kid hastily pulled his hands away and my eyes watering, I started to move my arm around, trying to get the blood flowing again, blinking away the pain.
No swearing, this was a kid.
Turning back around to face him, grimacing, I finished swinging my arm—I would need to take it easy, but I could manage this for now—I paused. How to get there. Bridal position was out of the question, I had one working arm that could take weight right now, and with a broken leg I couldn't put him over my back, and my ribs were aching (broken, a small part of my mind said, but I ignored it) so I couldn't do anything that would put too much weight on them. So. Time to improvise, then.
"This might be uncomfortable," I warned the young man, bending over. "Arms on my shoulders." He hesitated and then swung both his arms over my shoulders, hands laced behind my neck. "I'm not getting fresh," I added, looping my good arm under his unbroken thigh, supporting it and letting the broken one hang, hauling him up so that the kid was leaning on my good shoulder, his arms around my neck, his weight balanced on one arm.
He weighed less than most machinery did, at the least.
"Wait!" It was the woman from the kebab stand, coming over. Everybody else, once they had realised neither of us was bleeding or dead, had continued on their way, and she came over with my generator. "This is yours, isn't it?"
"Hands full," I replied. It was still in such good shape, too. "Thank you anyway."
"I can carry it," the boy's voice was loud in my ear and he held out one hand toward her. "Here." She paused and handed it over. So, now it was him, me, his bag and my generator.
"Take care," the woman said, and then paused, turned around, plucked two kebabs, and turned back, handing them both to the boy as well. "And those are on the house."
I paused. We both did, actually, and she smiled.
"Take care of yourselves, dears."
(Twenty-three years later, she turns away a young woman from the Southern Water Tribe, with a polarbeardog and no money, and the flyers under the counter all have the Equalist symbol on them, and the woman continues working, hawking her wares, patching a uniform hood, thinking about the rally that night and what she was going to bring to feed everybody.)
—
The man had one arm wrapped disconcertingly high around my thigh, but he had me well balanced and that was what was important, and we started walking, him grunting every few steps as I ate my kebab, watching the stand vanish, in silence. When I had finished mind, I leaned around his head, catching his eye. "Do you want this?" I held up his.
"Not while I'm carrying you," he growled in reply. There was sweat by his hairline. "You're not exactly light." He hefted me a little higher on his shoulder and kept walking with obvious intent. "There's a free clinic a few blocks away for idiots like you." I grimaced, and he glanced toward me with those disconcertingly pale eyes, one eyebrow arched. "Unless you happen to be a waterbender?"
"I—" I paused. I certainly couldn't heal. And I didn't want to start back on that path again. "No." It just slipped out. It was the first lie I had said, other than my chosen name, since I had gotten there. He just grunted noncommittally and kept walking, step by patient step.
"What's your name?" He asked when we got to the next block. "I can't keep calling you 'idiot' forever."
"Thanks," I deadpanned. Well, at least he was making an effort not to. "I'm N—" No, no I wasn't.
Noatak had died in a blizzard at the North Pole. With him had died everything else about him—his father, his brother, his mother, his bending, his past. "Amon," I finally said. My chosen name. I just liked the ring it had. "I'm Amon."
"Lieu Te," the man replied. "But you can just call me Lieu." He hefted me higher again and we kept walking, his shoulders tense under my fingers with the strength it took to keep me up. "Everybody does."
Amon and Lieu.
Somehow, it fit