So this is my first Korra fanfic, but I have been developing this story for a long time now. I hope it holds your interest because it is a Civil Rights AU taking a lot of the points from Beginnings, Part 1 and Part 2. I have modernized some names, and I hope they don't confuse, so please review and tell me if I should continue or what to change. A lot more stuff will happen in upcoming chapters, after the "telling" part is over. There is A LOT of symbolism in this, such as the spirits being the oppressed African Americans, so I hope I made it understandable. I just don't want to make it too complicated. I think I will post this every Friday, so expect another at the end of this week. Review (PLEASE) because it helps sososososo much.

Disclaimer: I don't own Legend of Korra, because I'm a poor fangirl.

Darkness enveloped all moving silhouettes against the slums of Cirby. It was as if the cloud that covered the moon gave its permission for the plotters to continue their work of segregation and discrimination. Some of the boys carried bricks with nasty messages written on them, others held cartons of eggs previously let out to rot all day in the Alabama summer sun, and the rest juggled multiple cans of spray paint. They covered all the targeted houses, stores and schools, and whenever they met resistance, the dark figures would fall on them with hard fists, whether it was men or women. Screams of terrified innocents soon pierced the stifling night air, freezing the blood in Wan's body.

He still clutched his brick which "The Captain" had printed in black marker, "LEAVE TOWN". The house he was to terrorize was right in front of him. Despite the chipping, green paint and flimsy, plastic windows, the house was in good condition. Flowerbeds lined the walk up to the porch and underneath the windows. He could see a child's worn down bike along with left-out toys littering the well-kept lawn. Had it been on the right side of town, he would have gladly believed what he was about to do was wrong. If he threw the brick, would it land in a child's bed, scaring them to death? How was this the change he and his friends wanted? How did this accomplish anything?

He shook his head and dropped the brick, sprinting through side streets full of broken down houses and shattered glass. Vaguely, he wondered if people actually lived there. It was the most dangerous and broken-down part of Cirby and he knew Main Street was close, with flashing neon restaurant and bar signs, and the occasional car zooming by. He felt safe enough then from his own friends and the Negros to slow down as he crossed the bridge over the river to the "white" side of town. He knew if The Captain found out he had deserted them, the gang would banish him from the group. Just as well, he didn't even have the courage to throw a brick into a plastic window already bound to break.

He shed his black leather jacket; The Captain had lent it to him just for this occasion, so he would fit in, but now, it made him feel like a criminal. The humid heat did little to cool down Wan's burning body, diffusing into his damp, white t-shirt. He drew out a long breath and started to whistle. The walk back home was probably another half an hour away (the farther you were from the river, the richer you were). As the small, town homes grew to mansions, he stopped and took a breather. The East Side mansions were the elite of the white, and stood on the highest hills, as if looking down on all who were below them in status, class and color. Wan looked down once more over Cirby and imagined the cries of pain and fear blowing over from the West Side. He could do nothing about it. Smog covered the worst area of the town, like a terrible, dirty storm brewed over it.

Wan sighed and continued on, stopping only in front of a rather deserted street, where a lone, white house stood on the highest hill in East Side's elite. There were four, huge columns and above that, a balcony. Trimmed, dark hedges grew underneath the large windows. Most of the lights were out, except for the front hall. He hesitated and then walked in, hoping not to disturb anyone sleeping.

Nevertheless, his hopes were dashed when the oldest Shoe Brother, Mike, stepped in front of him, followed by his almost identical little brothers, Matt and Mitch. They all were round-faced, could give a mean pouty lip when they wanted something, and were all obese. Wan believed it was from the never-ending fountain of food that flowed into their guts. Mike was older and bigger than Wan, who was somewhat scrawny and scruffy-looking. He was even smaller in weight than Matt, two years younger than him. Somehow though, they could all out-run and pummel him to the ground for doing the slightest misdeed.

"What were you doing out so late, Wan?" Mike inquired.

"Yeah what were you doing?" Matt irritatingly copied.

"It's none of your business," Wan found it easier to avoid a beating if he didn't make eye contact; he would be accused of being disrespectful.

"Then is it your business to come through the front door? No servants are allowed to come through that way. You know that."

"I'm sorry," Wan mumbled, trying to look as broken in front of them, "I guess I was so tired I forgot about it."

"Next time, don't stay out so late," Mitch retorted.

"It won't happen again."

"Good," the Shoe Brothers said simultaneously. It made Wan want to laugh, but he withheld it, wanting to hear their whispered conversation as he left.

"He is lucky he has a place to stay, otherwise, he would be on the West Side right now," of the brothers muttered. Wan grimaced. Some people were born with wealth and power, while Wan didn't even know his parents' names. He was quite lucky he wasn't part of the poor white families who lived on the West Side. They were despised perhaps even more than Negros. It always helped him though, to think of a saying he had read in a book somewhere, "Wealth may be hereditary, but brains are not." Wan couldn't imagine anyone more daft than the Shoe Brothers.

The Shoe family came from a long line of plantation owners back before the Civil War. They loved to hang portraits of their ancestors who fought for the Confederates, but Wan didn't see why. Their family had lost with the Confederacy, but maybe it was a matter of loyalty to their ancestors' beliefs that the Negros should be treated like animals. Wan stopped and gazed at one of the pictures; a dark-haired man with a large mustache and clear blue eyes that penetrated him to the soul. Hadn't he just participated in a terrorist act against the Negros? Who was he to judge when he was just as bad?

He broke away from that gaze and half-ran to the servants hall. It was more frequently used when there were huge parties hosted in the Shoe mansion. Ever since Mrs. Shoe died in child birth to Mitch, Mr. Shoe reluctantly held parties once in a blue moon. Otherwise, he kept Wan, Jay and old Howe. Jay was a few years younger than Wan and was an orphan just like him. Howe had white hair against wrinkled mulatto skin. After the second world war, he had never recovered mentally and for some act of bravery, saving Mr. Shoe's life, they kept him on as a servant.

When he walked to their shared bedroom, Jay sat up, rubbing his eyes. Howie mumbled in his sleep, tossing and turning like he always did each night. "Where were you, Wan?"

"The West Side with 'The Captain'." Howe bolted up out of bed once Wan said 'West Side.'

"Don't go over there Wan! They'll mug you, beat you, kill you even," he exclaimed, biting his fingernails and tugging on his wispy hair.

"As if I don't get beaten and cheated on the East Side," Wan muttered and sat down on his cot. "Things are changing, and we need to be a part of it."

"Still, it's dangerous over there. You shouldn't go again," Jay chastised.

"When I was in the war, them negros would beat me for being mixed. They are merciless," he crowed. Wan sighed in pity. Howie didn't belong anywhere, it seemed.

"I can handle myself, and I don't think I'll go with them again. So let me sleep." He brushed them off. Jay looked over at Howe and shrugged. They all lay down on their creaky cots and drifted off. All Wan could think of before he let sleep take him was the leering face of Mike Shoe. There had to be a way to stand up to them.