I return to FanFiction of a years-long hiatus to bring you this OC-fic that explores the Korra-era Avatar world and its complexities.
Inspired by Moshin Hamid's The Reluctant Fundamentalist.
I hope you enjoy. R&R, and favorite it if you like it!
Hello, my good sir, I hope that you are well on this day. Or perhaps it is evening? I must say that I am unsure, as I have been indoors for a rather long time and with all the work I've had until now, it has seemed unnecessary to keep track. I sleep when I'm tired and awake when I am not – I would wager, though, that since you have called me here shortly after I had awoken, that this is of the morning hour? I am correct? Excellent. Then I have not been so disconnected from, as I'll call it, "the outside world" as I had thought.
Soon, though, my shift will come to an end and I may return home. I was excited when you called me here, in fact, thinking that I might punch my card now and be well on my way back to my apartment. My boyfriend might be waiting for me eagerly on the balcony when he hears of my leave, but perhaps I will stop off at my favorite noodle shop for a meal before I unlock my front door. However, I take it from your silence on this matter that there is instead more work to be done. Very well. Work keeps me busy and keeping busy keeps me from getting too bored and the opposite of boredom, I would have to say, is captivation. And captivation does well to prevent a stagnant mind. Thus I cannot say that my job is the tedious sort; rather, I enjoy it in most aspects except its length. But of course, such long and isolated hours are inherent in this business, and I will not complain. Instead, I shall hear my next task, which appears to be to answer a number of work-related questions that you have scribbled on the sheet before you.
Ha! Don't hide them, I've already read all of them while I've been talking.
First question, am I satisfied with my tenure? Well, I should think so, as I have related to you just now. Satisfied I am with my duties, and with my labor, but less so with the extent of my shift. I said I would not complain, but of course, so long has it been that I have not been able to stop for even a cup of tea. Might you understand? Oh yes, I apologize for not asking directly, and yes, I would thankfully like a serving. I see you have a small stove in the corner of the room, with a pot sat atop it. Less, it seems, for tea and more for show, but I am certain that you, sir, indulge in a warm brew every once in a while.
Might I ask after your inventory, sir?
Oh, shame that you have no macha. I couldn't expect you to, of course, as it is a rather exotic tea native primarily to my homeland. But in the kitchen of my apartment, on the top shelf above the sink, I always make sure to have a full tin of bright green macha blend, ready for me in the early hours of the morning. It truly invigorates the body and prepares you well for the coming day, unlike any beverage I have found in the city. I usually purchase it from a little immigrant man in Dragon Flats by the name of Mister Ajibana, who imports it directly from Xinzhong, a large and mountainous province in my country that is well-adapted to growing tea. Macha grows best in the volcanic soil of that land, you see. Meanwhile, though, I would prefer a cup of Ginseng, please.
You are familiar with Xinzhong? How intriguing! I can tell that you are a well-traveled man, but even the most worldly of globetrotters will not usually seek passage through Xinzhong. It is a more impoverished province, I'm afraid, than the areas surrounding the Capitol or, you might say, any of the remote islands of our archipelago. Even in the brilliant aftermath of our Great War, not all disparities were solved with such sufficient precision as seen in your nation, but I will point out that the people are happy and enjoy their labor. As you ought remember by your visit, their villages sit on the steep mountainsides, maintained by the excellent craftsmanship that their ancestors contributed to the stone walls, which act as a foundation for their roads and homes. Endless strings of rock, it seems, carried hundreds and hundreds of miles upon the backs of poor, ancient men just to construct the passages that would bring the gift of macha tea to the rest of the country and eventually the world. And remember, these are people of Fire, and not of Earth as the population of this continent may be – the movement of mountains took far longer, and drained far more energy, in my country.
Ah, yes, I'm glad that you recall the sight of those magnificent houses. And the inhabitants, as they trek up and down the mountains in careful analysis of their crops, have built such strong legs and dark skin as others of our people do not have. In the past, my countrymen would think them different, but today we are all the same, are we not? As it should be.
Happily, I was lucky enough to be born in our modern era, and on a large southern island with rolling hills and straight roads, easy to live and traverse. What island, do you ask? Well, there are two I could be speaking of, of course. There is Ferry Island, to the west, whose tree farms supply even you with that paper sitting on the table. It has beaches as soft as the sun that shines upon it, and so many tourists will come to visit with their pink sun bathing outfits and big red luggage bags. Most usually, they will opt for the most scenic and enjoyable mode of travel, and that is the ferry from the mainland; hence, the name, Ferry Island. I have been to that place once before, on holiday with my family, and I admit that I enjoyed it as a young girl.
Neighboring this island, however, is another. To the east is Orchard Island, and when I tell of it you must note that any favorable description of Ferry Island is at least one tenth that of my beautiful home.
Orchard Island is, well, how should I put this? It is perfect, retrospectively. Such may sound to be rather arrogant, but even with this in mind, I would conclude that "perfect" defines it well. Growing up with something so unequivocally beautiful, one will tend to become used to it and think little of it as she matures. Just as the people of your city will not look up to marvel at your behemoth towers that scrape the sky above, or at the even mightier snow-capped mountains that easily dwarf your futuristic metropolis. This is an activity for tourists, of course. Were any of your fellow citizens to be transported to Orchard Island, however, you would take notice of many things. The bucolic green pastures that roll gently into the endless rows of fruit trees, hills that flow into the distance as though they were painted upon the earth, apples so large and ripe in autumn that they might scream to passerby, "Come! Choose me as the object of your desire! Covet my roundness, my promise of warm afternoon renewal! Cradle me against your bosom and cherish me like a succulent, fleeting romance!"
But my melodrama makes you laugh. Roll your eyes as you may, you need not take my word for it. There is nothing I miss more than plucking that lovely red fruit from the branch and picnicking where I stand.
These trees, once relinquished of their little seed-bearing burdens, will then suddenly engulf themselves in a ferocious flame, before extinguishing as quickly. Just as the cherry trees bloom so wonderfully pink and soft as to welcome the coming of springtime, so too do the trees of Orchard island change for the winter. But not softly – we are called the Fire Nation for many reasons. On your side of the world, similar trees grow, but they are not given time to welcome winter's return. No, for you and your countrymen, winter comes with a vengeance, I know, and turns the leaves brown before blowing them from the branches with a tumultuous wind. Not so in my home. There, there is no wind strong enough to cause the plants pain, only the gentle sea breeze that grows just slightly colder. Then the leaves will burst into a magnificent array of colors, as the many hues of the flame, so varied and prepossessing. Gold, orange, red, and purple canvasses spread across an entire nation. Some trees will even turn to blue and pink, but not one will remain green and not one will turn brown. They will fall as embers do, to the ground that they may be played with by generations upon generations of children young and elderly, and when at last the trees are bare, then winter has begun.
Ah, I can hear now the faint whistle of your pot. It would seem that our tea is now ready. I will wait here as you prepare our drinks, and watch the steam rise.
Yes, very good. It would seem you have an impeccable taste in your tea. I have not had very good ginseng since my grandfather brewed it, and he plucked the leaves from his own garden, beside our home. You say that these leaves are grown in your family's home as well? Come, agree with me that the sweetest things in life are those that you have nurtured and created by your own self! It is just as my grandfather had always taught me, especially in observance of his tea garden.
Oh, sofu was a gruff, stout man who'd seen too much war, but amiable and given to sudden attacks of productivity that would last for days at a time. During those attacks, something grand would inevitably happen: a stairway would be built into the side of a mountain, or a new system of government would be invented. He played a rather large hand in the development of your city's judicial complex, in fact. The idea of your modern-day council would've been shot down early on had it not been for the stalwart support of my grandfather. Oh, the cities he'd built, and the stories he had told. To last the ages, as some would say.
When he wasn't feeling particularly productive, he would tell these stories, falling back into a youth and young adulthood that was soaked in blood both hot and cold. My brother and I relished these stories – of war, travel, love, hope, and just a touch of debauchery – and no matter what, sofu never seemed to tell the same story twice. If he had, then we were far too enthralled to notice. Every word dripped with the sap of a dying redwood; so ancient, wise, and utterly majestic, but soon to fall. I remember one story of a library lost in time, far beneath the desert, where spirit scholars studied books written tens of thousands years ago. That was my favorite.
Fairytales, yes. For sure, my dark friend. His name? I'm sure you've heard of him: Deshi Qiu Hong. Ah, the signs of recognition light upon your shadowed features now. Indeed, though I'd not usually admit it, I am the granddaughter of your nation's First Mediator. He was central in constructing the very first Three Nation Summit of representatives in this very city, and negotiated with the Avatar the integration of the Fourth nation. You know this history, of course, as you probably learned it in your rudimentary grades. There are some things that the majority of people in this country have not heard, however. Being a member of the Earth King's court, sofu Deshi also simultaneously maintained a position as the Head of Post-War Reconstruction in that nation, and after his term as mediator, served as the third Earth Councilman on the Republic Council. After that, he was an expectant father with a relatively new wife, so he moved to Orchard Island, applied for citizenship, and built a lighthouse so that he could raise a family in peace.
A busy man indeed. Your interest seems to have been piqued in an unusual manner, sir. I understand – those who I tell of my familial origins will never again look upon me in the same light. It is as though I am royalty, they say, to be related to such a defining figure in Republic history. Thank the Sun and Stars I'm not related to someone like Sokka Hakkoda-irniq or Toph BeiFong. Such a life would grant one no rest away from idolaters and biographers and the like.
"What do you remember of your utterly famous progenitor?" they would ask, wide-eyed and lips moist. "How do you expect to live up to his or her legacy?" Bah! I do not expect so. I am myself, and not him, and the other descendants of this nation's forefathers should understand that. In a few generations, they will likely be busy to forget that they had ever been related.
I am not even a citizen proper, though sofu was a now-historical actor. I still hold onto my Fire Nation citizenship, and live in the Republic merely as an immigrant worker. My application so far burdened by bureaucracy, they say I should wait four more years before it passes? Well, I'll certainly not wait in a halfway house until then; I got a job and earned a home, unlike most. Though it isn't easy to do, for those who are willing to drive headlong into their future and risk the inevitable burns and bruises, success will come. There was a young mother I had met, in fact, who had thrust upon me a complaint that I believe sums up the problems that these immigrants face today.
Ah! You are right. Before I continue onto yet another tangent, we should proceed to the second question on your list. No no, don't tell me, I remember it. The question was, What is your ethnic origin? Well, you know that, I have just told you I am of Orchard Island. The third question, do you have any family members residing regionally with which we may communicate? That would be a no, all of my relatives a currently living in the Fire Nation. They are of relatively high stature, so I'm sure that they have already communicated with you if my boyfriend has been wise and alerted them to the situation. The fourth question of five, though, and I feel that I am paraphrasing now that you have hid the paper, intrigues me. It is, what is the reason you have immigrated to the United Republic of Nations?
Well, that is a rather vague question, I think. Better pour one more cup of tea and I will answer. Thank you.
*"-irniq": Inukitut (Nunavet-Inuit Indian) nomenclature for "son."