Instability

Summary:Katara's life as a subordinate slave in Azula's uranium factory takes a turn for the worst when a new recruit arrives and shows her that disagreeing isn't always disobeying. But can he honestly free her from the sickening, degrading position she's been forced into? Kataang, Multi Chaptered, AU, rated M.

Author's Note: I don't know what possessed me to change this fiction from the way it was, but here it is. I've been reading Silko's "Ceremony" recently, and these awesome images kept popping into my head of how to make this story better. So I went for it. No doubt, it's a little more adult-oriented than how it was before, but the plot has also lengthened considerably.

Without any further hesitations...

His hand stopped her from taking the bag of gold coins he had promised the night before. She looked at him—eyes glassy—and began to say something before he turned to his side and slid off the bed, still grabbing hold of her arm.

"What are you doing, Tribal girl?" he asked through heavy breaths, pulling her arm up, closer to him. She eyed him suspiciously and turned her face when he continued speaking. "I didn't even get a chance to learn your name," he said.

"Your loss," she replied, keeping her gaze downcast. He took the bag of coins off the nightstand and dangled them in front of her face.

"How much do you think is in here, baby?" When he spoke, his mouth sent a wave of wine-flavored air against her nose. It was warm and mixed with the dampness already prevalent in his room. She held firm and looked at the cloth pouch. "Take a guess."

"I don't know," she admitted lamely. He had shoved her near the nightstand now, letting her arm go to take hold of her lower back instead. His frame leaned into her; he coursed the ridge of his nose against her long, wavy hair and inhaled, as if committing the scent to memory.

She giggled because this was tickling her and because she wanted the pay he had promised. "What are you doing?"

He ordered vaguely, "Tell me your name, Water Tribe girl."

She frowned and put her hands on his shoulders, only because there was no where else to put them, and because she had learned what older men liked—what they felt when she was near them, and their reactions to her.

"On Ji," she said. He didn't know that this wasn't her real name. He didn't know that On Ji was a girl she had known years ago, who had died in a freak uranium accident—whose body, charred black and limbs bent to impossible positions, had landed only a few feet in front of the rest of the workers after the explosion. And to their horror, On Ji had twitched a little bit before that very same spark of life flickered out completely.

"That isn't your name," he returned, but he was quiet when he felt her hands work the buttons of his fly.

She whispered, "Yes it is," and the matter was settled there. Then her hands stopped and she looked up at his face—slackened with the effort of living and working and being near her. He had a dark shadow of stubble over his cheeks, where she could detect faint gray lines. He was some twenty years older than she was. And the thought of what she had done to him was sickening—but her morals had worn away a long time ago.

His dark eyes opened up a little more. "How much do I owe you, On Ji?"

He had bought it.

The girl shrugged and smirked at him—again, merely because this what she had learned had the best effects—and snaked her arms about his waist. "We settled at three hundred."

"Gold?"

"Yes."

He nodded more to himself and took the cloth pouch up again, sending his lips to her neck for a last minute rush. Her skin was frigid and shaky and unsure, and her spine stiffened when she felt the cool contact of his tongue brush up against her throat. He opened his mouth and put the faintest amount of pressure on his teeth, as if he wanted to swallow her whole. Then he unbuttoned her shirt and lowered his face. It was still dark outside, regardless of the fact that it was morning, and that the sun would be rising soon.

Morals had a tendency to wear away, but the awkward aftermath never left. She watched him do what he wanted and when the whole thing was over with, for the second or third time consecutively, she buttoned her shirt and took the pouch from him, only to find out some time later that he had given her a significant tip—possibly by accident.

"You'll be seeing me around a lot more," he muttered factually, taking out a cigarette. He stood shirtless, pants undone at the fly and long toes kneading the dirty carpet beneath him. And his eyes...they were savage brown color that the girl thought she would always remember.

She turned around and stood idly. "You never told me your name," she said, smiling through the throbbing sensation between her legs.

"You didn't tell me your name either," he stated, grinning and observing her breasts from across the room. "Shit, Water Tribe girl. No one in those damn tribes is called 'On Ji.' What, do you think I was born yesterday?" He laughed bitterly and shook his head, turning up to meet her gaze. "Absolute shit. I was born years before you were."

This statement, for some reason, sent a considerable amount of color to her cheeks. She looked the other way and straightened her skirt. The man was probably old enough to be her father.

He was walking up to the girl with thick steps, striding over the empty boxes and crumpled paper and other various trash that littered his apartment. He was a good two heads taller than her with much paler skin. His fingers were rough when he sent them through her hair again.

"You've got some beautiful eyes, girl," he murmured, crashing his lips against her mouth. "I wish there was something I could do for you...so you wouldn't have to be doing this. Take you some place. But fuck. You were worth the three hundred, you know that?"

She stepped backwards—away from him—and turned the handle of the door. She eased out without saying anything. Then she paced away from his flat with her arms over her chest. She was only in this for the money. Or at least, that is what she told herself. There was no reason to take any extra help—even if offered. Most of the men who said this were delusional anyway, under the false impression that they were actually rich, when really, they were just as poor as the other workers were.

Besides, three hundred would leave her fed for at least another two weeks...then she would have to go back to Tsu's Bar and find another client. Of course, it's not like she had any trouble finding them. She was attractive and young and exotic and men naturally crowded in threes and fours to ask her name. But sometimes they refused to pay. And sometimes they were more intent on beating her rather than doing what she was supposed to be there for. Other times, those older men merely disgusted her, and when they kissed her and touched her she felt as though she was lowering her standards again—lowering them more than they already were...which, all things considered, was pretty low at the present.

Her brother was still oblivious to where she was getting the money that was feeding them. He had had strict views about her friend Jun since the beginning. He had known Jun's kind of work. And he had suspected something when his baby sister had returned home late one night two years ago, clothes damp and reeking of wine and smoke and blood, hair matted down, eyes dim. He had searched her face and asked her what she had been doing. She had sobbed quietly until she fell asleep.

Returning to the factory before sunrise was always a priority, because usually her brother was up before then. She slipped through the back doors and removed her shoes and tiptoed back to her slim mattress, putting the full cloth sac underneath her ridiculous excuse for a pillow. She tied her hair up and buried her face in her blanket. From the corner of her eye, she saw her brother stretch restlessly and turn to her.

He asked quietly, face tight against the milky darkness of the warehouse, "Where were you?"

She blinked and didn't answer.

"Katara," he pressed, pushing his weight on one elbow. "Answer me. Where were you?"

His sister groaned audibly and wrinkled her nose, the smell of the factory taking a toll on her senses. The uranium workers all slept on the ground floor—which was cold, and smelled of rotting meat and vomit and other dead things.

It was the kind of smell no one could ever grow used to.

"I feel like shit," she whispered back, looking at the low ceiling and refusing to face him. "But we can buy something good tomorrow. I've got three hundred and fifty in gold."

She didn't see it, but her brother's eyes grew wide.

"What?"

"I know. It's not much...and everything's expensive. But the warden will let us leave tomorrow...at least, for a little while...just to get food." She turned to him and smiled pathetically. He noted that there were distinct bags under her eyes.

His voice was low and hollow—it echoed in her skull and pulled her regrets to optimal volumes. "Katara," he groaned, because he was ashamed and disgusted, "you shouldn't be doing this."

"What other choice do I have?" she replied fiercely. "What other choice do wehave?" Then she pulled her blanket over her face and stared into it—thin thread and even thinner cloth, fraying at the edges. "God, Sokka. It's easy for you to see me go through it. It's not your body." Her voice was trembling now—on the verge of tears or an enraged outburst. He saw the outline of her hands flash up to her eyes underneath the blanket. "I hate this," she informed, trying hard to control her tone. "I hate it. But what options are left? Tell me, for God's sake, so I know. Then I'll stop. When we get out of this fucking factory and go back home. When we don't need the money anymore."

"Katara—"

"You know as well as I do that the shit they're feeding us here is fused with something," she interrupted bitterly. "And you know all of the workers here, who are my age, at least, are doing the same thing to survive."

She peeked up from under the covers and looked at him. Sokka was observing her in a strange manner—his eyes deep and confused, looking for evidence that his sister didn't sleep with Earth Kingdom workers for money. That his sister wasn't a prostitute like that bitch Jun. But it was all too clear for him, and the shame settled into his chest and made his fists tighten without consent. Everything had changed when the Fire Nation had brought them here five years ago, when Katara was only twelve and him only fourteen. Now things were more complex. Filthier—full of lying and hate and starvation.

He fell back on his mattress and said nothing. He couldn't lie to himself and say that his sister was the only one. Once he had taken her money and spent it on a prostitute from the Earth Kingdom down at Tsu's Bar, as a few of his friends were doing the same. He remembered Katara's face had paled up and she had cried for days over the two hundred gold pieces that "someone stole."

But...this was his sister.

And she was only seventeen—too young to be doing this—too innocent to have done it.

"New workers tomorrow," Katara said, in an effort to change the subject and end the conversation and pull him out of whatever thoughts he was thinking about her. "From the Air Temples," she continued, "...or, whatever's left of them."

Sokka clenched and unclenched his fists to control the temper that was beating inside of him. New workers meant less pay. "I was sure that last attack killed them off," he answered.

"Everyone thought that," his sister affirmed, yawning. "I mean...even if they bring anyone, they'll probably be all cancerous from the radiation."

"You mean like half the workers here?"

"Sokka!" She threw her pillow at him, her voice growing stern and low. "Don't talk like that in front of me, for God's sake! No one here has cancer."

Sokka shrugged this off and waved dismissively. "We work with uranium on a daily basis," he said. "And you said it yourself—that shit they're feeding us must have something in it too."

"We're not going back to that conversation," she ordered furiously. "I'm going to sleep."

"Katara, we need to be up in an hour," he pointed out, crossing his arms. "Good night."

She blinked and shrugged herself deeper into the mattress. Her face was wet from the drizzling outside and from the musty pillow Sokka had handed back to her. She closed her eyes and tried to think of something distant. "Good morning," she said.