A/N: Wow, I honestly didn't expect this much enthusiasm! Thankfully, my exams are finally over and I can get back to writing. Thanks for all your wonderful comments!
Chapter Two: Hunters and Nightmares
Bolin was a year old. He smiled delightedly up at his parents' faces. Just out of sight, he could hear his older brother conversing with other relatives. Everyone sounded happy, content.
"Go on, baby, pick something from the pile, that's a good boy," his mother chided, her warm brown eyes smiling encouragingly.
Bolin looked at the array of toys spread out in front of him. There was a spinning wooden contraption, a bright rubber ball, and several shiny metal rings among various other trinkets. Babbling excitedly, Bolin reached out a pudgy hand to grasp the rings when something else caught his attention. It was a clay doll sitting propped up against a pile of building blocks. With a broad red gash for a mouth, the doll was dressed in overalls made of cheap green fabric. Two coal-black eyes were imbedded in its smooth face. Something about the piercing gaze scared Bolin and he immediately started to whimper.
"What's the matter, Bo, something wrong?" It was his father who was peering down at him with his usual reassuring smile. "It's okay, buddy, just take it slow."
But it was no use. The doll continued to stare, leering at him with its bloody smile, its hair arranged in tufts of white yarn across its head. Bolin started crying, his high-pitched wails attracting the attention of the other guests. All eyes were on him now, some of them trying to cheer him up by making ludicrous faces. He cried harder.
"Maybe he's just tired," suggested his mother, trying to hold Bolin though he thrashed his tiny fists, snot and tears dribbling down his chin.
And then it happened. Someone shrieked as the doll's head exploded: chunks of clay flew in every direction and the body, bleeding cotton fluff from its torn neck, soared into the air. The room went silent.
The deflated cloth body of the doll landed in Bolin's lap, the head missing, most of the cotton stuffing floating to the ground like wispy snowflakes. Then, after gingerly examining the torn green overalls, he stopped crying. All around, faces peered down at him: his mother and father, his brother, his relatives. Suddenly, Bolin broke into a radiant smile, emitted a gurgling giggle, and held the headless doll aloft for everyone to see. Strangely, none of them smiled back.
...
She was a resilient Hunter. She didn't believe in spirits or saints, nor did she ponder her own choices, however bloodstained they might be. Her decisions were based on orders, not instincts. She served one master, one allegiance, one cause. And last night, she had failed that cause; or rather, others had interfered with her success.
"How could they let this happen!" she shouted, literally spitting sparks as she paced up and down the room. In her rage, she knocked an ornate china figurine from an antique desk. It fell and shattered on the mahogany floor, no doubt leaving a dent. She couldn't care less.
A nervous-looking messenger stood watching her furious reaction, quailing under her scalding anger despite the fact that she was half his age. However, what she lacked in years was more than compensated by the way she commanded authority; how she lived and breathed it like her personal oxygen; how it permeated her like rich perfume.
"Lady Ona," said the messenger, sweating profusely. "It – it would be advisable to p-postpone the pursuit. We've already lost two men –"
"LOST TWO MEN?" Ona thundered, her gray eyes lighting up with cold fury. "We've lost more than two men, you idiot, we've lost –"
Before she could finish, the oak doors were flung open to reveal a man dressed in muted tones of burgundy. At the sight of him, the messenger bowed deeply. Ona nodded in recognition but did not return the intruder's open smile.
"Not interrupting, I hope?" said the newcomer, brushing snow out of his dark hair. He removed his jacket and dusted off a layer of frost. "Do you mind taking this down to the coatroom, my good fellow?" he asked the messenger, who hurriedly took the proffered jacket and scurried from the room.
"You've heard the news." Ona said. It wasn't a question. She'd known Ty Rhan for several years now. The man never missed a thing.
Ty Rhan shrugged, settling himself into a comfortable armchair by the fireplace. A former intelligence officer under the United Nations Forces, he was surprisingly laid back, almost as though espionage and covert dealings were equivalent to a pleasant hobby. With disarming brown eyes and a striking face, hardly anyone guessed his current line of work – until it was too late, of course.
"Let's hear it then," Ona snapped, annoyed by his nonchalant behavior. She glanced down at the floor which was scattered with the fragments of broken china, and regretted having lost her temper so quickly. "What could possibly fix this utter disaster?"
"Not an utter disaster. Actually, I find it rather… intriguing." He smiled at Ona's doubtful expression.
Ona walked over to the fireplace, her brunette ponytail swishing behind her. As though acknowledging her approach, the orange flames reared like a frightened poodle-pony, its wild manes grazing the steel grate. "If they had succeeded, we'd have that Spec in our hands already."
"If they had succeeded, one of your men wouldn't be in the hospital right now and the other wouldn't be in a matchbox." Ty Rhan glanced over at Ona who was still contemplating the flames. "You know, sometimes I get the feeling you actually want your men to suffer."
"Since when did you care about my subordinates?" She sneered. "You'd sooner kill them yourself than watch them fail."
"True," Ty Rhan conceded, examining his fingernails with mild interest. "But then again, I don't call the shots. Now, we might've lost the child but we've gained some interesting information."
"We don't need more interesting information on the Earthbender Spec. Our sources were clear that –"
"Not the Spec, Ona, his brother. The Firebender," he said, stressing the final word. When Ona remained silent he continued, "I've just been to visit Aizon – you know, the one who escaped. Apparently, he woke up this morning and seems fairly clearheaded, although the healers did say he would lose his left arm –"
" – your point?"
"Naturally, I questioned him about last night. Says he and his partner managed to kill the parents before cornering the children. That bit does check out since both bodies were recovered from the scene… along with Aizon's partner – what was left of him anyway."
"You're asking me to believe that they were overpowered by a couple of children?"
"I'm not asking you believe anything, I'm just giving you the facts." Ty Rhan shifted slightly in his chair, the better to observe Ona who still had her back turned. "The Firebender boy incinerated Aizon's partner and most of Aizon's left arm."
For the first time, Ona turned to face Ty Rhan directly. Her expression was colder than ever, her gray eyes like steel in a wintry gale. Like a puppy sensing its master's scorn, the flames behind her died down to smoldering embers, hiding among the logs.
"Send word to others," She said abruptly, spearing Ty Rhan with her icy gaze. "Double the ransom money on the Spec. I don't care which triad gets to him first, I just want him found alive. Him and his Firebender brother."
Ty Rhan smirked – not his usual warm smile – but a pitiless grin that betrayed the true character behind the respectable façade. He rose from the armchair and bowed slightly. Just before he opened the oak doors to leave, he turned back with the air of a dutiful butler addressing his mistress and asked: "Anything else?"
"Yes, actually, there is," said Ona, walking over to the desk, the china fragments crunching beneath her leather boots. "Take care of Aizon for me, won't you?" Her calm words might have passed for solemn sincerity, but then – without the slightest change in her voice – Ona added, "And make it painless. Wouldn't want him to suffer, do we?"
...
He saw only darkness, black, horrifying darkness.
But then the sounds came, the sounds that pressed in on him, suffocating him, drowning him. They were screams and cries, voices he knew, voices he'd learned to trust, to seek. Mommy and Daddy's voices… He could smell something, something horrible, something like burning meat and wood smoke mixed with the strange scent of rust and salt. Bolin could not see a single thing but still heard the voices, heard them screaming, and now he was screaming too –
"Bolin!"
Bolin's eyes fluttered open. It was still dark on the streets but he could make out the outline of his brother's face. Mako, his brother.
Tears filling his eyes, Bolin clung to the front of Mako's sweater, not caring that they smelled of the same smoke from his dreams. Shivering in the cold night air, Bolin sniffled quietly while Mako hugged him tightly, whispering soothingly in his ear.
"It's okay, Bo, you're okay. You're safe."
"I… I… want t-to go h-home…" Bolin hiccupped, rubbing his wet cheeks against Mako's chest.
The two of them were currently crouched beneath a store shop awning. Around them, a white dusting of snow covered the gray, dingy streets, the dented trash can lids, and the dim street lamps. A few blocks away, the warbling song of a drunk echoed in the gloom.
"We will, I promise," whispered Mako gently. He lay Bolin back down on the gunnysack he had rummaged from a dumpster. "Go back to sleep."
"I'm… I'm cold." Bolin mumbled but he closed his eyes anyways, the tears already drying on his face.
Mako lay down beside his little brother, trying to warm him as much as possible. A few minutes later, Bolin's sniffling subsided, his breathing slowing to a gentle rhythm as he eased into a slumber.
Mako felt exhausted but couldn't sleep and not because of either the cold or the aching hunger. A new fear was gripping his heart: minutes before waking, he had felt the ground's violent shudder – almost as if to echo Bolin's nightmares, the tortured dreams of a six-year-old Spec.
To be continued...
A/N: "Hunters" are people who seek out and capture Special Benders (Specs). Most Hunters operate within a triad and work in groups, although some work as freelancers. Freelance Hunters are usually hired independently to hunt specific targets by powerful individuals such as politicians, industrialists, and even royal families. Hunters are ranked depending on efficiency and the number of successful captures.
