ATLA Fan fiction. Jetara/Zutara. R&R.
I live in a world where corporate bosses decide how thing are run, and if they don't get their way, all hell breaks loose. Lately, I haven't decided which is worse; that they do eventually get their way, or that we're the ones who pay the price for their success. Democracy is a thing of the comparatively pleasant past.
My name is Katara Tsunae. I live in part of what used to be called the U.S.A… But, now what is it? Hell would be an understatement. When I was younger, maybe 13 or 14, I was always asked, "Katara, what are you going to choose when you grow up?" I think the question was a little different back when things were normal, when I was just a child. No longer was I set to be someone, rather, I was going to choose something to commit my life to. Choose from options not given by myself, but an institution. Pathetic.
My brother, his name is Sokka, went against this institution. Following my father's footsteps, I suppose. I lost contact with them quite a while ago. Sokka is still alive, I know; every once in a while, probably once every year or two, I get a letter from a private address. He never writes anything, rather, sends a blue bead to assure he's okay… Or, alive at least. As far as my father goes, I honestly have no clue if he's alive or not.
Hopefully he has not suffered the same fate as my mother.
Early light of dawn creeps into my room, illuminating the tan membrane of my body. I curse the sight, as once again the shelter of night has betrayed me by leaving. Staring at the digital clock at my nightstand, I see it is 5:40 am. In 5 minutes my alarm will sound, however it is a rare thing if I am not already awake by then. Gran Gran will sleep for another hour and twenty minutes, as she is elderly and is not required to attend morning lessons. Somehow, I tear myself from the fleece combines of my bed, and find myself at my dresser. This routine has been executed almost every day since I turned 12. No longer actually needing to pay much attention, my body does what it's been trained to and picks my uniform from the top left drawer of my dresser. After sliding the necessary garments onto my body, my hands tame my mess of a head of hair with the help of a comb. The comb gets placed in its usual corner of my dresser, and once again my hands reach for my hair.
Our school only requires a uniform because we live in a lower area of town, and most others my age cannot afford the luxury of stylish clothing. This is not to say it is a utilitarian, no-nonsense establishment. In fact, we have the most rowdy group of kids to walk to earth, I can imagine. Most show whatever personality they have through their hair styles. Of course, this makes for predictably interesting results. Having a grandmother who both makes fabric and then turns it into a wearable creation, I am lucky as far as clothing goes. But, still poor. Gran Gran does her best to support me, despite her ripen age, and I return the favor the best I can. Following school is our sports activities, a requirement for every student, and then for me- work.
My hands have already twisted my hair into a braid which now streams down my back. I have two sections of hair in front which wear the blue beads my brother has sent me at their base, and the ends are strategically pinned into my braid. It is not a dramatic hairstyle like others at the school I attend, but it is enough to make me satisfied. A friend of mine, her name is Yue, calls them hair loopies, much like my brother did when he was here. Back then, they didn't have the beads.
Back then, my brother was still home. I miss those days.
My feet carry me through the quiet apartment, sliding across the tatami mats Gran Gran had installed over twenty years ago. They've managed to still look nice, even after all these years. No wonder; Gran Gran gives anyone who steps on them wearing shoes a verbal berating. I slide my black shoes on over my black knee socks at my doorway, my messenger bag already slung over my shoulder. Slumber seems to have drained from my body almost completely, as I'm now fully aware of my surroundings. I feel the cold weather lap across my skin, and I grab a jacket from the coat rack next to my door. My arms place themselves into the sleeves of the thick coat, and my eyes shift to the clock on the opposite end of the room.
5:45. I hear my alarm go off in my room, as I always do every day I leave. After ten seconds, it ends.
I open the door, and step into yet another day of routine torture.
The walk to school isn't so bad. Being only a mile or two, it takes me 20 or more minutes to get there. I usually get there at 6:08am, if I leave on time like I do every day. Lessons start at 6:57, so I'm evidently early every day. I have time to grab a cup of coffee from the local Starbucks, which is the only place you can buy coffee now these days. Don't get me wrong, their coffee is fine, but the lack of selection from other businesses is a bit disappointing. But there aren't any other businesses in that trade anyways, so I guess it doesn't matter. If anything it's merely sad. At this time, there is usually no one but the employees there and two other business men who come here as regularly as I do. The baristas know me by name, and already have my usual order ready by the time I get there.
"Thanks, Mari," I slide a five dollar bill on the counter, but today she has decided to nicer than she usually is.
"It's on us, today, Kat." Her voice rings out in a chipper mood; she makes herself known to be a morning person the minute you step through the glass door. "And I won't take no for an answer!"
"Come on, just take it," I plead to her, my pride overpowering my will to accept the gratitude. But she walks away, leaving my drink on the counter and my ego with a hit. "That money is going to go to someone, and it's not Starbucks!"
I sighed, obviously feigning disappointment, "Well, if you insist," I place the bill in the pocket of my navy and gray plaid skirt. "You always make my day brighter, Mari." The young barista smiles and gives a nod to me, and I turn away from her. My eyes look to my seat now, and much to my surprise, it is taken.
"What?" I mumble quietly, brows furrowing in both surprise and confusion. Let me explain to you that, as I stated before, almost no one besides me and two other business men come in at this time. Especially in this part of town.
I study the figure in my seat (aka the traitor seat, who's seemed to have dumped me for another occupant), and take place at a table in the middle of the establishment. Immediately I can tell he is not from around here, as I've never seen him before in all the years I've lived in this small place. And although coming to this conclusion from just the sight of the back of his head would be deemed unreasonable to any other person, I am sure I'm right. He must have felt my eyes bear into the back of his head, because he turns around and looks straight at me. By instinct, I look down to my coffee, and the image of his face stays in my mind for but a moment. Something is unusual about it. My eyes peer back to him, only to see he is still staring.
"Is there a problem?" he says in a somewhat raspy tone, however solid. I can't help but notice the irritation in this question (even though it sounds more like a threat in disguise). What's more noticeable about him, however, is the dark, wide scar around his eye. This catches me off guard, and by my lack of response and the sudden sympathetic widening of my eyes, he knows this.
"It's rude to stare, you know." He hisses this through thin lips, and in my peripheral I see Mari look to him with a worried expression.
"Weren't you the one staring?" Narrowing my eyes now, my voice teeters on the edge of offensive. He scowls, turning his young face to the window. He seems to be around my age, maybe older. Shouldn't he also have classes elsewhere? From wherever he's from?
"Whatever." He mumbles.
"People these days," I say, no longer caring to hide the abrasiveness of my tone.
"Yeah," his tone drips with acid, "People." He looks back to me, glaring now. I glare daggers right back at him for a moment. I must be a bit red in the face now because I suddenly feel warmer. He smirks at me, not in the nice way, but rather, like he's won.
"Whatever."
Being stubborn by nature, I turn my line of sight away from him and finish my coffee. Several minutes pass by, each one leaving the air feeling heavier than ever. Suddenly, there is a crash against the window. My new enemy mutters something under his breath and gets up in a hurry, as I see the man who crashed against the window get pushed down by someone.
"What the hell?" I leave my coffee at my table, rushing through the door without answering Mari's worried questions. The boy yells out, "Wait!" but why should I listen?
The man who crashed into the window is bloodied up and clutching his face. I kneel down to him, looking out for his attacker as well, but he seems to have vanished quite suddenly. "Are you alright?" I ask him, bringing my face to his level. His eyes are locked on the floor, but after a moment they slowly turn up towards me. The mere sight of them makes me cringe- I immediately feel unsafe. "Too easy," He snarls pale lips, his tone malicious and void of any fluster from the crash.
"What are you talki-," I try to ask, but suddenly my own screen interrupts myself as I am thrown to the ground by someone behind me. Somewhere in the distance, I hear Mari screaming.
I scramble to my feet once more, only to be shoved at the window. Darkness frames my vision, and I find myself slumped on the floor. Pain shoots through my skull and I realize he must have slammed my head against the glass. Something thick and warm and almost slimy slides down the side of my face- no doubt, blood.
"Hey! Get the fuck off her!" a different voice calls, except it's not different. It's his- the scarred boy's.
My consciousness starts fading. There are punches, gunshots. My body, cold and fading, is in someone's arms…
And I'm scared.
The day after mom died, my body felt numb. I was treated with mercy when they came for her, but I would have traded every drop of my blood just for her to keep breathing. I wasn't so lucky. The feeling I had that day is similar to the one I have now. Heavy, tired, shattered… Vulnerable.
I stare at the coarse gray linen of the cot I'm lying on. It's the only thing I'm sure is here, it being clear and tangible. The rest of the room is a blur; any attempt to focus on other marred images the place presents me with is beyond futile.
I can't move my body. My arms and neck feel as if they've been filled with lead, and I can't even begin to describe the excruciating headache I've now been blessed with. But still my psychological reaction to it all defies what the situation would usually invoke. I feel not anxiety or panic, but an odd feeling which I cannot yet name. It is a sleepy sort of feeling, and slowly I feel myself slipping back into an empty slumber. My eyes flutter to a close, and just as soon as they do, the noises of people bursting into the room I'm in pervade my senses. I manage to keep my eyes shut, for fear that opening them will only result in being victimized. And I'm exactly right.
"She's still out, don't worry about that right now," An out of breath, hoarse voice calls out. For some reason, the voice sends chills down my spine; I immediately dislike this person. More shuffling follows the comment and soon after I sounds as though they've dropped something heavy on another surface much like the cot I rest in. People gasp for breath after this, and after, the room falls silent for a moment.
"You sure it's a good idea for her to be in the same room as him?"
"What difference does it make? Neither of them knows what…" The voice fades out. The group slams the door shut, and I assume they've gone. My eyes flash open after this, but what I see is still disappointing. Blurred images and colors that only bleed together. Though it is not as bad as earlier, it is still equally irritating. The feelings of sleepiness and heaviness slowly begin to drain from my body, and my entire body whispers echoes of pain. I know I'm in for an excruciating… night? Day? I don't even know.
I'm not alone, I remember.
It takes every ounce of energy I have to simply turn my head to the other direction, toward my new roommate. For a couple moments, torrents of fatigue overwhelm my body. When they pass, what seems like hours later, I can only see the scarred flesh of his back, covered in scrapes and gashes. I don't understand why they've beaten him. I feel bad for him- I did not suffer the same treatment as I think he just did. He stirs in his, what I assume, agony, and somehow turns around, soon facing me. I wonder if he feels as tired as I do- as pathetic and helpless. It takes a while, but eventually he opens his eyes, at least I think he does because everything is still blurry, and we stare at each other oddly in silence. It's hard for me to muster up both the courage and energy to speak. Fortunately, he saves me the trouble.
"You're- You're awake" He seems caught off-guard and surprised. "Are you okay?" He asks me, and if I were actually in good health I'd probably laugh. But no such sound comes from me. Instead, I simply nod to him. "Took you long enough. Let's get out of here." I don't understand how he has so much energy. Wasn't he just tortured and beaten? I can't argue with him though- I can't even speak. He's up from his cot in no time, and out of my sight. For a moment I panic- did he leave without me? Abandon me? In a few moments he answers my questions by snatching me up at the waist and torso rather gingerly, like he's afraid I'll break. Despite that, more waves of discomfort and pain crash against my body in every single place, and if I could, I'd be crying. Instead, I only whimper. I feel pathetic.
As my eyes flutter back to a close, I feel his arms lift me up into a musky dark place. It's much colder, and smells dusty. I open my eyes slightly, but see nothing but grey. He must have lifted me into a vent of some sort. I hear him shuffle his way up, and the sound a metal sheet attaching to the vent whispers through the confined space. I'm so confused- I have no idea where we're going, what he's doing, how he can even be doing it…
"I've been planning this for weeks, I need you to just try your best to stay with me," He looks me square in the face and I distantly recognize him. Not fully in cognitive control of myself, I sense my hand lifting up to his face, but my eyes roll back and my lids shut once more. I feel absolutely drugged. His statement echoes in my mind. "I've been planning this for weeks," Weeks. Weeks? My confusion only grows- I've been here for weeks?
His grip around my body interrupts my thoughts, and he swings me onto his back. "I need you to hold onto me." He pleads, but it takes forever for it to actually register in my mind. "Hold. Onto. Me." He repeats slowly. My arms wrap around his neck the best that they can. He sighs, sounding disappointed. "I hope this isn't too soon," he murmurs.
Too soon for what?
He begins crawling through the vents, and each shuffle becomes a blur for me.