"The Quiet Storm"
The City is restless.
Rumours are exchanged in deserted alleyways and decrepit shops, curling up into the air with cigarette smoke and the scent of blood money.
Mako hears, and Mako grows restless, too.
War is brewing.
It's the hottest summer in the last decade, and the blazing heat seeps through walls, settling sticky and heavy into every corner of Republic City. There hasn't been rain for two weeks, and talks of drought begins to spread like wildfire.
Mako and Bolin have long since grown indifferent to summer heatwaves; Korra, however, is another story altogether.
Mako shields his eyes against the sun's angry glare, watching the convoy of black prison transport trucks as they pull up in front of City Hall in a suffocating wave of burnt diesel and frying rubber.
Beside him, Korra makes a faint sound like a dying turkeyduck.
"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea," Bolin fidgets nervously, eyeing the line of convicts winding out from the vans. Mako is inclined to agree, and though he would never admit it aloud, he's filled with the overwhelming urge to turn and walk away from the scene sprawling out before him.
There's something waiting for him in those vans, and he doesn't want to know what it is just yet.
Korra huffs, cranky in the summer haze as she tugs irritably at her collar. "I'm their Avatar, criminals or not. This is the right thing to do."
Mako wants to say differently, but the sight of the black vans has taken all the breath from his lungs, and so he grasps his scarf like a lifeline instead.
The front door of the first van opens, revealing a tall figure swathed in yellow and orange robes, accompanied by the harsh jangling of Lin Beifong's armour.
"It's the right thing to do," Korra repeats once again, more to herself this time, and when she moves forward to speak with Tenzin, Mako's never seen her back so tired.
The convicts are marched up on the stage, one-by-one, wrists bound with cuffs and feet heavy with weights.
Korra treats each and every one with gentle hands and soft words of reassurance, and in spite of himself, Mako finds himself unable to tear his eyes away from the light, from her, as if each restoration is a new miracle upon itself – a rebirth of sorts.
Slowly, the line of prisoners dwindles and shortens, and as the sky turns a pale wash of blue still devoid of any hint of forgiving breeze, there is only one left standing.
Bolin sighs contentedly beside him, popping his collar open. "Maybe this wasn't such a bad idea after all."
Mako only frowns, a weight settling into the pit of his stomach as he watches the last convict take the stage.
Lightning Bolt Zolt steps up last.
"Well, well, well – Avatar Korra, it's a pleasure to finally meet you."
She doesn't flinch from his steely gaze, though she remembers flashes of white-blue lightning and the slow fall of a body at the feet of a masked monster. Korra has the beginnings of a migraine from the heat and little patience to deal with this mockery, but she draws herself to her full height anyway, letting bravado smoothing over her unease. "Likewise."
He laughs then, and Korra finds that she doesn't like it one bit – it's sharp around the edges and unforgiving as steel. "No one's ever been pleased to meet me, sweetheart. You can take my word for that."
Zolt kneels gracefully with an exaggerated sweep of an arm, radiating authority even while clad in prison garb. Piercing amber eyes hold her in an ironclad stare, and Korra resists the urge to seek the crowd for familiar and comforting faces.
This is the right thing to do, she tells herself, and raises her hand.
The first streetlights are flickering on as Lin oversees the last of the convicts loaded back into the police vans, shooting orders and withdrawing cables from shackles.
Korra slumps onto a nearby bench, chugging a cup of water far too fast to be healthy.
Mako sits down gingerly beside her. "Hey."
"Hey," she groans when she finally comes up for air, icing her forehead with the bottom of her cup. "Spirits, how can you stand this heat?"
His lips quirk. "Firebender, remember?" He chooses not to mention that winter was often a death sentence in his childhood.
Korra snorts, returning to her water. "Fair enough."
The water cup is empty for the fifth time when Korra finally speaks up again, almost casually, though he hears the catches, feels the unpolished glass edges in her voice.
"You don't like this."
Mako closes his eyes and thinks of the charred black bodies of his parents, of murders and criminals and cowards with fists of fire and handfuls of death.
And when he opens his eyes, and it's hard to keep the resentment from his voice.
"No."
Korra smiles thinly, eyes miles away. "Thought so."
"It's not fair."
"I'm not sorry."
And just like that, all the warmth is sucked from the night air. Mako speaks before he can stop himself.
"Well you should be."
She flinches, but holds fast, solid against tidal waves in her conviction. "You don't understand –"
"No, you don't understand." He doesn't mean to raise his voice, doesn't mean to spin out of control like this, but it's Korra, and he's never in control when it comes to Korra. "People who exploit their bending like that don't deserve it to begin with!"
Blue eyes flash. "I'm their Avatar, Mako, not an executioner!"
"What's the difference, if they'll be bound with chi-suppressors in jail anyway?"
"It makes all the difference in the world!"
Her last few words echo long and deep across the square, drawing a few startled looks from nearby cops. Bolin glances over nervously, but seems to know better than interfere.
Korra crumples the paper cup in her hand, standing wordlessly and turning so that she's thrown into the shadows of the streetlamps.
"Wait." Mako catches her wrist, and finds it trembling beneath his fingertips. He takes a breath, steeling himself against the pain, and tears down denial and scar tissue with a single heartbeat.
"I don't want to watch people die anymore, Korra."
Her eyelids flutter here, moth wings in an open fire. "And you won't."
She slips her wrist from him, and he's left empty. "But I don't want to regret anymore."
He moves to stand, opening his mouth angrily to retort, but falls short as a Metalbending Officer approaches their bench, expression sombre as he addresses Mako.
"Chief Beifong would like to speak with you."
Lin Beifong's face is drawn with exhaustion, voice terse, and Mako already knows he doesn't really want to hear what comes next.
"There is someone who has requested to speak with you."
Mako's steeled himself for this, so he only nods, throat tight.
Lin's brow furrows, a grimace tugging at her lips as if the thought of having relayed such a message was greatly displeasing. "You do know you have the right to refuse?"
Mako laughs, but there is no humour in it. "If this is who I think we're talking about, I don't think refusing will do me much good either way."
If she's confused, Lin Beifong doesn't show it, merely surveying him solemnly before nodding stiffly and beckoning for Mako to follow.
"Wait."
She turns with a swish of metal and authoritative stare. "Yes?"
He swallows his pride. "Why?"
For a moment, Lin seems caught off guard, armour and titles shed under the faint flicker of streetlights. But when she finally speaks, her voice low but steady, and Mako is struck silent by the raw sincerity in it.
"Having your bending stripped from you is inhumane torture, like losing a piece of yourself," she says, eyes somewhere distant and painful. "One who has never experienced it will never fully understand. You should ask your friend – Avatar Korra knows it better than anyone else."
Mako thinks of thin smiles and tired backs, and feels a faint tinge of regret.
"What did Korra say?"
(it makes all the difference in the world)
Lin Beifong flicks her wrist, revealing the barred doors of the prison van and the gaping darkness waiting for him beyond.
"It's a cruel fate to live half-alive, Mako."
Lightning Bolt Zolt is just as Mako remembers him – all frigid eyes and predatory smiles, even while behind the bars of the prison van.
"Mr. Zolt," Mako greets, stiff but polite to a fault.
Zolt's sharp-toothed grin widens. "Come now, Mako, why so cold? Just call me Uncle Zolt, for old times' sake."
Mako sets his jaw, fists clenching hard enough to hurt. "I'd rather not remember the old times, for your own sake."
Zolt laughs then, a roll of thunder in the clear evening sky. "Still the uptight, ungrateful little bastard as always, I see."
Lin's voice in the distance saves Mako from burning the infuriating smirk right off the older man's face. "Fifteen minutes, Zolt. You're using your own visiting hours for this."
Zolt's lip curls. "Then I suppose I'll get straight to the point. I assume you've heard of the escalating tension between certain – organizations of the City?"
"Gang wars."
"Such an ugly term. I prefer… 'power struggles', if you please."
Mako's nails dig into his palm, clinging to years of hard-earned self-restraint. "What do you want."
"I want nothing. I am providing you with an offer. The Triple Threat Triads could use some extra brains and brawn in preparation for upcoming events, and certainly you are familiar by now with our hefty reward system."
An ugly bubble of revulsion rises in Mako's throat. "You've gotta be out of your mind. I am never coming back to the Triads, and neither are you, if the law can help it."
He makes it three steps away before Zolt calls out, even toned and infuriatingly calm as ever. "I made you what you are, boy. Without the Triads you and your brother would be rotting away in some back alleyway with the rest of those street urchins. Remember that."
Mako takes the bait before he can stop himself, feeling the last shreds of self-control slipping through his fingers as he slams a fist against the van door hard enough to shake the entire vehicle. Zolt doesn't so much as bat an eye. "You tried to sell Bolin to the traffickers."
"Ah, I supposed that was the tipping point then?" They might as well have been discussing the weather over tea.
Mako takes a stuttering breath, and tastes blood in his mouth.
"I trusted you."
Zolt's face is sombre for once. "I never asked for your trust, kid – only for your loyalty. It's a pity you couldn't tell the difference, and now look at you – the Avatar's lapdog and a clown for an asinine sport. I had great plans for you inside the Triads."
"You and those gangs are half the reason the Equalist movement ever happened," Mako snarls, flickers of flames racing across his tongue.
He's caught off guard when Zolt snorts with laughter, derisive and cold as the lightning he bends. "You wanna talk hypocrisy, kid? That's great, but take it up with the rest of your hypocrite buddies, 'cause I sure ain't got the time for that."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Exactly what it sounds like," Zolt replies nonchalantly, twisting his ironclad wrists experimentally. "You claim bending gangs bring oppression upon nonbenders, but what about your precious Probending matches? A talented kid like you can pick up the sport to feed himself, while nonbender street rats starve and freeze to death. What exactly is the difference here, between your Probending career and your time with the Triads, hm?"
"You know nothing –"
"And then –" Zolt waves an impatient hand, "let's not forget that the honorable leader of the Equalist movement was a bender himself." He snorts derisively. "A bender leading a nonbender's movement, using bloodbending to achieve his goals; tell me, Mako; you're a smart boy – do you see the hypocrisy now? Exactly who's oppressing whom?"
Mako seethes. "You're twisted."
Zolt's smile curves into dreaded familiarity – it's his killing smile. A smile reserved only for his most brutal victories. "But as a matter of fact, that's probably the most truth you've heard for the past few years, isn't it, kiddo? And you know it; because family don't hide things from each other."
"You used us!"
"Can't shake family, Mako."
"Watch me."
Zolt's smile turns feral. "Maybe I will; I'll watch you and your friends burn. Maybe I'll make you watch. Just like your parents, eh?"
Mako lunges.
Lin Beifong is there in an instant, cables digging unforgivingly into his wrists as she wrestles him away from the van.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, young man? Put out that fire this instant!"
Zolt is laughing, the sound inhuman and cruel as it echoes in his metal chamber. "You can bleed your heart out for your so-called justice all you want, kid, but blood is thicker than water, and you'll never bleed out Triad blood."
Lin lashes out at the bars with a cable. "Silence! This visit is over."
The fallen boss of the Triple Threat Triads is still laughing as the doors slam shut over the bars, leaving only two small windows for the chilling sound to escape.
The van revs into life with the sound of finality, and Mako is suddenly all out of fight as Lin releases him. He forces himself to turn back one last time, to burn the last bridge.
"You're sick. I've buried the past, Zolt; you should do the same. Or not. I really couldn't care less."
And this time, Mako walks away with purpose, not turning even as Zolt calls out behind him, not turning even as he feels the weight of the words like a hammer to his gut.
"The past never stays buried, kid."
Mako walks on with his heart in his throat, because he knows that very well by now, and because he thinks he's finally run out of burial grounds.
War is coming.
Lin Beifong steeples her fingers, piercing gaze holding his over her fingertips. "Turf wars, you say?"
Mako nods stiffly.
"And do you have any proof on this matter?"
It's not the reaction he's expecting, and Mako loses his composure in one fell sweep, because of all people, she has to understand.
But of course, he's just another scrawny street kid who's found his way back in the police headquarters, and so his words are meaningless.
Mako struggles to keep his voice even. "I don't mean any disrespect, ma'am, but Lightning Bolt Zolt isn't exactly the type to give away his plans."
Lin raises a finely arched eyebrow in his direction over a pile of papers, and makes a noncommittal noise that he can't quite discern. "I understand your concern, Mako, but Zolt is in no position to issue threats of this nature. I never thought I'd say this, but thanks to Amon, a large core of the City's gangs is under lock and key."
Mako's hands tighten around his arm rests, feeling the metal heat up under his palms. "Zolt doesn't make threats. Zolt makes promises."
But Lin has already returned to her stack of paperwork, pen in hand. "Unless the City jail suddenly loses all its doors by tomorrow morning, there will be no gang wars under my watch, young man. That's a promise."
There is finality in her tone, solid like her element, and so he shows himself out, already familiar with the winding halls and barred doors.
Mako knows a losing fight when he sees one.
For the next three months, the City sits in peace, slowly rebuilding and reforming after the threat of revolution.
Mako returns to his job at the power plant while Bolin finds odd jobs around town, both brothers eagerly anticipating the new Probending season. Korra works tirelessly in campaigning for a nonbender representative on the council and fairer wage laws, looking more and more sleep-deprived each time Mako sees her.
(They still dance around each other on light feet and averted eyes, because neither can forget the other's words and because his fingers can't quite reach hers across the divide this time.)
For the next while, life becomes the most normal it's been for the last year, so Mako allows his mind to slip from Lightning Bolt Zolt and thoughts of gunshots and fistfights in darkened streets.
But his nightmares are filled with bloodied faces and burning bodies anyway, and each time he wakes with a tremor that rattles his bones.
The past never stays buried.
It starts off slow.
Shop break-ins begin to escalate, starting from smaller pawn shops and tea houses, before working all the way up to jewelry stores and even Kuang's Cuisine. Korra relays the worrisome news that kidnappings and murder rates have never been higher since Amon's reign. Lin Beifong busts a large drug shipment at the docks three days later.
"They're getting bold," Korra says around a mouthful of takeout one night. "Guess it's because everyone's been so concentrated on the Equalist movement to bother with the gangs these days."
Asami steals a dumpling from Bolin's bowl. "It's like we can't catch a break around here; first Amon, now this. I can't decide which is worse!"
"Amon. Hands-down Amon," Bolin says decisively, nabbing a spring roll from Asami's plate in retaliation. "I mean, the dude could take away bending, and I was this close to losing mine!" He gives a genuine shudder at that, and Mako feels a corresponding blanket of coldness setting around his shoulders.
Bolin nudges Mako's shoulder. "Why so quiet, Bro?"
He jumps slightly, spilling some lychee juice and causing raised eyebrows around the table. Korra looks away determinedly, studying the side of her take-out carton with forced boredom.
Bolin squints at him, fine-tuned to his brother's distress through years of experience. "You okay?"
Mako thinks of lightning-sharp eyes and predatory grins.
"I'm fine."
The past never stays buried.
This one rises from its grave and sets fire to the City.
And in the end, no one will ever know who pulled the first trigger.
It's a Saturday, which usually means market day, so Mako rises from bed at eight o'clock sharp, rousing Bolin from the next room by shaking open the curtains and confiscating his pillow in an intense round of tug-of-war.
By nine, the brothers are making their way down the stall-lined streets which are already starting to fill with the hearty scents of exotic foods and the low hum of other weekend shoppers, all mixing and blurring under the early-morning heat.
Bolin wanders off to pay his favourite dumpling stand a visit while Mako bargains ruthlessly for their weekly bag of rice.
"Ten yuans? The next stall can give me the same for half the price."
Mrs. Chang laughs heartily. "Dear, you say that every time, but you always come back for my rice in the end. We both know the next stall's merchandise is complete crap!"
Mako holds back a grin. "Okay, how about six?"
Mrs. Chang takes a joking swipe at his head with a roll of newspaper. "I can't even feed my kids on that money for a day, never mind the damn drought all over the City right now!"
He's actually smiling now, sliding over a folded bill and some coins. "Seven yuans. Final offer."
Mrs. Chang accepts graciously, following the same banter script for the last ten years. She hands over the bag of rice, tipping Mako a wink as she does so. "There's two sweet buns in there; Xiao Mei brought over a fresh batch this morning. If I remember correctly, Bolin used to live by those."
"Still does. Thanks, Mrs. Chang!"
He's still waving goodbye when the first waft of smoke breezes by.
Mako writes it off as someone's cooking gone awry, and sets out to find Bolin, slipping through the crowd with practiced ease and a protective hand over his wallet. A man rushes past, bumping his shoulder with enough force to send him careening to the side.
"Hey!"
The figure turns, their eyes meet, and there's something in the other's that startles Mako into stillness.
Recognition.
Then, a sleeve flutters up and he sees the tattoo.
(can't shake family, Mako)
Somewhere behind him, a scream rises into the air.
(he's been here before – in another lifetime of bad blood and shady alleys – but the past never stays buried and this time he's on the wrong side of the grave)
The rest happens all too fast.
In a heartbeat, the crowd swells in a crescendo of panic, the smell of smoke and burning growing stronger, bearing down on him, but Mako is already moving, already running, dread settling cold and heavy deep in his chest.
Not here, not now, not again –
He spots his brother seconds later, dumpling bag in hand and inspecting a stand of pastries with casual interest.
Mako calls out his name.
Bolin looks up.
The stand erupts in flames.
Time slows to a standstill, and Mako is moving through layers upon layers of smoke and nightmares, the rest of the world falling away until it's just Bolin at the other end of the universe, all wide-eyed and stunned stoniness.
The crowd surges against him, chaos trying to outrun itself, and Mako fights through flailing limbs, receiving an elbow to the head hard enough for him to see black spots, and screams, screams for his little brother, and prays, prays for the first time in ten years – please don't take him away too please please please –
The sky is on fire now, and the Earth trembles beneath his feet like the world nearing its death, and suddenly, Mako is fourteen again, chasing the slaver's van with blood on his face and fire in his eyes as Bolin's hand reaches for him through the bars – evidence of Zolt's betrayal –
(can't shake family, Mako)
because, in the end, everyone leaves him, and in the end, Mako is always alone.
It's the smoke that finally gets to him, and Mako falls to his knees – stay low, stay alive – forcing himself not to see the sprawled bodies and limp hands sprawled across the shattered earth, but at the same time also searching for a familiar hand, a shred of green cloth.
The voices catch him off guard, rough and cold as they filter through the smoke and panic, and he maybe even recognizes a few, the thought chilling him to the bone.
"Let's get outta here!"
"But the others –"
"Forget it, the police is already on their way."
"Wait – hey, I know this kid!"
There's a sound of faint struggling coming somewhere ahead of him, slightly to the left, then the Earth – the Earth – begins to move and Mako feels his lungs tighten, please please please –
And there – rising thinly over the waves of screams and confusion – his name.
"Mako!"
Time kicks back in, a hundredfold faster than reality in a blur of smoke and ashes as he launches himself toward the sound, fire already blazing to life in the palm of his hand.
"Bolin! Bolin, where are you?"
The smoke starts to thin, revealing slips and shadows of dark forms in the distance, too far for him to take a safe aim, but close enough to taste cigarette smoke and blood on his tongue, and Mako knows, Mako always knew –
He breaks through in a blaze of fire and fury, slamming a wiry, tall frame into the opposing wall.
Somewhere to his left, he hears Bolin's voice, laced with surprise but thankfully not with any apparent pain.
"Mako!"
The first rays of weak sunlight cut through the settling dust, reflecting off gold plated medallions.
Shady Shin grins as best as he can with Mako's hand around his throat.
"Hi."
Mako drops him out of sheer shock.
"What-what the hell are you doing here?"
Shin grimaces, picking himself off the ground and dusting his sleeves with exaggerated movements. Mako notices the man's ripped clothes, his face and hands bloodied and streaked with ash. "Nice seein' ya too."
Bolin moves to stand beside Mako, towing two unconscious gangsters with him – Agni Kai, Mako surmises from their garb. "Hey Shady, aren't you supposed to be in jail?" And, at Mako's questioning look, "They recognized and jumped me, I had no choice!"
Shadin Shin waves a nonchalant hand. "Naw, they couldn't pin me for anything, so I walked after getting by bending back and all that jazz." He turns to Mako. "By the way, thank your girlfriend for me, will ya?"
Mako's fists clench. Bolin shoots him a worried look, and intervenes quickly. "What's going on, Shady? Street fights never looked like this back when we –"
"I'll tell you what's happening," Mako snarls, cutting in before Shin can answer. "This is a war declaration isn't it? Zolt said it would happen, and it did."
Shady Shin shoots him a mildly surprised look. "You talked to Zolt?"
"What the hell are you doing, dragging civilians into your gang wars like it means nothing?"
Shin scowls. "Hey man, I don't call the shots around here. I didn't know nothing about this."
Mako's fist flares up again, and he can't quite remember the last time he's lost control like this – probably during Korra's disappearance, though thinking about her now makes his head hurt. "Don't give me that, I saw a Triple Threat running through the market seconds before everything blew up!"
Shady Shin throws up his hands. "Turf wars happen, okay? When gangs grow too big they start movin' into each other's territories, and shit goes down!"
Bolin steps in quickly. "But the police say the gangs don't have enough people since Amon!"
Shin rolls his eyes. "The police don' know nothin'. Triple Threat is under new command now, and we're recruitin' faster than ever." He pauses, looks Mako straight in the eyes. "They brought in a bunch o' street rats the other day. Same age's we were."
Here, Shady Shin falls quiet, slumping against the brick wall, and suddenly, Mako is looking in a mirror, looking at just another orphan who had taught him how to swing a punch and ruffled his hair when he made a good run.
Dead eyes to reflect his own.
And Shady Shin's next words cut him to the bone.
"Not all of us can find a way out, Mako."
(you'll never bleed out Triad blood, kid)
The fire in his fist goes out with a puff of smoke.
Out of the fog, Bolin claps a hand on his shoulder, steady as an anchor and pulling him from his reverie. "C'mon Mako, let's go." He nods to Shady Shin. "You'd better clear out before the police get here, Shady." Behind them, an Agni Kai stirs on the ground.
Shady Shin snorts. "Will do. Seeya around." He pauses, thoughtful. "Or not. Better not, actually." Then he's off in a quick trot.
Mako watches his retreating back for a moment, feeling the warm wetness of blood on his own face and the weight of the world on his shoulders before calling out against his better judgement, one last time to a brother in arms.
"Hey!"
Shady Shin half-turns. "What?"
"Seeya."
There's a slip of a half grin on Shin's profile, but then he turns his back and walks on, raising a lazy hand in farewell.
He rounds a corner and has just slipped out of sight when the smell of fresh smoke stings Mako's eyes.
Bolin starts, grabbing at his arm.
"Mako!"
There's a sudden movement.
Behind him, the Agni Kai is back on his feet, hand outstretched and ablaze.
Mako's reflexes kick in just in time, and he grabs Bolin by the back of his neck, dropping to the ground clumsily.
"Get down!"
The first jet of fire misses Mako's right ear by inches, and he retaliates swiftly, flattened on his stomach and arm screaming in protest. But his desperation fuels power, and the deadly flames roar into an inferno, throwing the street into yellow and orange plumes of fire and acrid smoke.
From the other side of the road, Mako hears coughing and cursing, and it's all the validation he needs. Yanking Bolin up by the collar, he shoves his brother ahead of him – moving by instinct, by the same motions for the last ten years.
"Run!"
He sees it first – just a flash of red.
The jet of fire grazes the top of Mako's head, missing by a breath and engulfing the store behind them. The nauseating smell of propane floods the air, thick and sickeningly sweet.
All it takes is a spark and a second.
Then the world goes up in flames and darkness.
(He's floating.
There are arms around him, not just Bolin's tiny toddler hands – he hears the soft hum of his mother's lullabies, feels the rough warmth of his father's palm ruffling his hair.
A breeze wafts through white space, carrying with it the promise of rain.
The feeling of life.)
When Mako wakes, everything is white and quiet.
The air lingers with the scent of antiseptic and there's an irritating ring in his ears that he can't seem to shake.
"Mako?"
He knows that voice, faintly.
"Mako, can you hear me? How do you feel?"
Korra's voice seems to carry over from another realm, soft around the edges and no louder than a murmur. Mako moves through a fog, his thoughts recollecting into blurred shapes and forms in his mind's eyes, and then one rushes through the haze and knocks the air out of his lungs.
"Bolin!"
"Hey, don't move!"
Mako's head gives another sharp throb, this time enough to make him cry out, and then there's a pair of hands at his shoulder, lowering him back onto the bed in a whisper of cloth and bandages. A moment later, he feels the cool smoothness of glass and water against his lips, and Mako drinks like a man dying of thirst.
Korra's face finally swims into view, brow furrowed with worry and eyes brighter than he remembers them.
"Where's Bolin?" he finally manages, speech still slightly slurred, throat still aching dully.
"He's fine," Korra soothes, scooting her chair closer to Mako's side. "Just a broken arm and some minor burns, but the Healers took care of it."
Mako remembers to breathe.
"So," Korra tries again cautiously, "how do you feel?"
"Like someone took a sledgehammer to my skull," he manages weakly. There's something stinging and metallic at the corner of his mouth, and he reaches for his face questioningly.
Korra bats at his hand lightly. "Don't touch, it's just a cut – still healing."
"Still?" He's irritable with pain, with the muggy heat, and mostly with anger at himself, so that it's hard to keep the accusing tone from his voice.
"Yes, still," Korra replies cooly. "You have a concussion to top it all off; head injuries are tricky, so I didn't try to Heal too much. You'll live."
There's a heavy pause, laden with justified hurt from Korra's end, and Mako mentally kicks himself.
"I'm sorry," he mutters.
Korra offers him a dimpled half-smile, and for the first time he sees the shadows of worry under her bright eyes. "I know."
"I'm an idiot." Because he doesn't know how to make up for the rest.
"Sometimes."
It's a fragile truce, but he'll take it.
Mako tries to return her grin but grimaces in pain instead as the movement tears at the tender cut across his cheek. He's still hissing in agony while Korra scrambles for salve when the door flies open on its hinges and Bolin launches himself into the room, followed by Asami who discreetly replaces the door to its previous state.
"Mako! Oh Spirits, you're okay!"
And then there are arms around him, not just Bolin's familiar strength – he smells the jasmine in Asami's hair, feels the rough warmth of Korra's palm against the nape of his neck, and Mako thinks he might hear his mother's lullabies, might feel his father's hand ruffling his hair.
Outside the window, a cloud – the first in many days – passes across the sun, dipping the bleached room in shades of silver and blue.
Bolin pats his back gingerly, seemingly alarmed by his silence. "Mako? You are okay, right?"
Mako grins cautiously – because finding your way back home is always worth a smile – and finds that it no longer hurts.
"I am now."
The rest of the visit dissolves into loud laughter and noisy shenanigans, and by the time a nurse sticks her head into the room with a scowl, they've managed to reduce a visitor's chair into tinder and Mako's forgotten the last time he's laughed so hard for so long.
When the door finally clicks shut, Bolin and Asami having excused themselves for dinner, Korra crawls onto the bed beside Mako, wobbling on her knees and ignoring his weak protests as the mattress rocks under her clumsy weight.
"Quiet, you," she shushes, curling up against his side in a rush of winter breeze. He obeys happily, settling his arm across her shoulders to accommodate, fingertips counting the rise and fall of her back.
They stay that way for a long time, until their breaths fall even and matched, and Mako finally dozes, dreaming of warm summer nights and his mother's lullabies.
When he resurfaces, the room is swathed in blue and the steady hum of cicadas. Mako finds that his arm around her shoulders has fallen asleep, though Korra clearly has not, greeting him with cerulean eyes and quiet thoughts.
He nudges her. "What?"
Korra's thumb skitters over a silvery scar on his forearm, and he chases it with his eyes.
"Nothing."
"Liar."
Her lip tugs upward. "Maybe."
It's a rare moment of quiet vulnerability for both of them – a window of opportunity. Mako takes a shot.
"You were right."
Her head jerks up so fast it almost clips his chin. "I'd like to hear that more often," she teases, prodding his ribs with a finger. And then, more seriously, "Why do you say that?"
Mako thinks of Shady Shin, of dead eyes to reflect his own and a graveyard full of regrets. "Ran into an old friend."
"And?"
It gets a little harder to breathe here, and so he realizes he's talking more to himself now. "I remembered that they're not all bad people."
He thinks, inexplicably, of the smell of rain, as if from a dream. "I remembered that I used to have a family."
Korra smiles. "You still do."
(blood is thicker than water, but sometimes, water runs deeper)
"I know."
Her fingers ghost over the pristine white sheets, dancing around his fingers, and in that instant, he also remembers that Korra is still just a girl, human and flawed and beautiful in his arms.
When she speaks, her voice is small but strong. "I don't regret this."
Just a girl, not asking for forgiveness, but for understanding.
(it's a cruel fate, to live half-alive)
And Mako is tired of living half-alive.
He reaches over and weaves his fingers through hers, thumb locking awkwardly against hers, fingertips settling wordlessly like habit over the back of her hand.
For a moment, the curtains flare in the night breeze, carrying with it the promise of rain.
"Neither do I."
Korra smiles then, face hidden against his side, but he feels it anyway – the curving of lips against his heart – and commits the feeling to memory.
"I know."
The feeling of life.
The memorial is held under an ashen morning sky.
Mako's seen the list of deceased – ten in total – long ahead of time, but it doesn't soften the blow in any way, doesn't make it hurt any less.
He's the last to light the incense after Bolin, the thick fragrance stinging his eyes as he looks back at Mrs. Chang's face, one last time behind a sheet of glass and photoprint.
Her three daughters are there, draped in black and heartbreak, and the oldest fifteen-year-old raises her head to meet his eyes long enough for it to cut in the sharpest way – because he's seen the same eyes in the mirror, in Shady Shin, fading away in countless alleyways and orphanages.
Mako knows that there will be three more children sleeping on the streets tonight – just another drop in the ocean.
(He makes up his mind then and there, surrounded by tombstones under a sky heavy with tears.)
The other three are waiting for him a couple rows down, and together, the four of them walk down aisles of silent remembrance and buried pasts, footsteps falling in sync.
Mako breaks the silence at last.
"I'm going to the Police Headquarters tomorrow."
The other three stutter to a standstill, and Mako has to stop and turn to face them. Bolin pipes forward with the first question. "Why? Are you in trouble? Is it those parking tickets you burned up?"
Mako smiles in spite of himself. "No, not that." Asami and Korra exchange mirroring expressions of confusion.
"I'm applying for a job."
He's met with more stunned silence, tinted with the scent of burning incense.
It's Asami who speaks at last. "Well…that was unexpected." Her face softens. "But good on you."
"Yeah," Bolin echoes, swelling with pride very much like an older brother. "Just don't arrest me, bro."
Korra only crosses her arms, and her knowing smile seems to light up the grey sky. "Why the change of heart, tough guy? Thought you were all about being 'outside the law' and stuff."
Mako's already asked himself the same, and still he can't seem to find the perfect answer.
He thinks it might be because the past never stays buried, and he's finally run out of burial grounds. He thinks it might be because indifference is no longer an option, because it's not just about Bolin – not anymore.
(can't shake family - and he's finally found his, again.)
Mako thinks it's time to unbury the past.
He takes a breath.
(above them, the first raindrops of the month begin to fall.)
Lin Beifong stares at the application sitting in front of her.
"What is this?"
But there's already a peculiar glint of quiet acceptance in her eyes, as if she isn't quite as shocked as her tone suggests.
After all, he's just another scrawny street kid who's found his way back to the police headquarters. Except this time, he will walk out with his head held high.
Mako takes a seat across the desk.
"I can make promises, too, Chief."
With the first thunderstorm of the summer comes Republic City Correctional Facility's first prison break.
The news arrives over radio static, listing names like a mantra, and Mako is familiar with many, the badge pinned upon his chest growing heavier with each flicker of recognition.
(Lightning Bolt Zolt, armed and dangerous, last spotted – approach with caution –)
Mako splashes out onto the street to find them waiting for him, Asami and Bolin leaning against a brand new motorcycle he's never seen before, Korra seated atop Naga with a wide grin visible even beneath the dripping hood of her slicker.
There's a light jingle of metal as something arcs towards him, and Mako catches the motorcycle keys, fumbling slightly from the rain and a rush of surprise.
Bolin flashes a salute; Asami tips him a nostalgic wink.
Korra only grins. "Go get'em, Officer."
(water runs deeper than blood)
Mako feels his breath catch in his throat – because they're all here for him and he's got promises to keep and maybe this is just what he needed all along.
In the end Mako only nods and swings a leg over the bike, revving the engine to the roar of lightning as it parts the sky and sets him ablaze.
"I will."
The past never stays buried – war is coming, just as promised, just as it always has.
But this time, Mako is not alone.
And that makes all the difference in the world.
End.