Where Words Fail
Book 1: A Fight for Survival
Chapter 2: The Creed: "Food is food"
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is a fan fiction - nothing more, nothing less. It has been made purely for entertainment purposes, and is not meant for commercial gain. Avatar: The Last Airbender and all characters, places and concepts are copyright of Nickelodeon, Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko. All original characters are copyright their respective owners and are used with their permission. The story has been illustrated by the talented and awesome SioUte, and this chapter's cover can be found here:
sioute(dot)deviantart(dot)com/art/WWF-1-2-126521208
SCENE DIVIDE
Now
"Starvation...what a dumb way to go."
Smellerbee laughed - a high, giddy, mad sound, one which made Longshot wince. He could make out the scrawny Freedom Fighter against the pale, green light - a single glowing, lime-green crystal had survived the collapse of the tunnel on either side of their cells, but it flickered now and then. Longshot needed to have great eyesight, acute enough to rival the Fire Nation's Yuu Yan, and right now his eyes were telling him that their light source diminished over time. It wouldn't be long before he and Smellerbee became engulfed in complete darkness, an inky black wax seal on their fate.
"You - you know something, Longshot?" Bee continued, her voice cracking on his name. "We should have fought harder. We should have given them no other choice but to kill us. None of this...torture garbage."
Longshot fixed Smellerbee with a solemn gaze, and he saw the girl scrutinizing him through the dimming light - her eyes, while hardly dull, weren't as sharp as Longshot's and she was already having trouble seeing through the murk. She wasn't giving up, was she...? Come on - there had to be a way out of this. They just needed to find it.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." She gave a sheepish laugh, hanging and shaking her head. "I'm trying to come up with a plan. I just can't seem to latch onto anything that'd work. Jet would have an idea by now..."
Longshot dipped his head down in a motion that substituted for a shrug. Neither of them were Jet, though. They didn't have him to fall back on this time.
Smellerbee sighed in response. "I know...I'm tryin' really hard. And it's frustrating. The whole thing."
After the fight, the Dai Li had escorted them down, down, into the belly of what remained of their base. They had collapsed most of this room; it had originally been a long corridor with several jail cells lining their walls, each one blocked off by iron bars. After throwing the two Freedom Fighters into opposite rooms, they bound their wrists in shackles that had been chained to the walls. There was enough give in the chains for Longshot to move them comfortably, but he had to stick close to the wall either way. After the Dai Li left, they collapsed the corridor, leaving just their two cells intact, walls of crumbled stone on either side.
Smellerbee had estimated the distance they'd traveled from that room - the one where Jet had died. With the entrance to the catacombs undoubtedly destroyed as the rest of the base had been, Toph, the Avatar's blind Earthbending friend, would probably not be able to sense them at this distance if the group coerced the Earth King to follow them, as that Dai Li agent had said. The only way the Avatar's group could possibly find them was if Katara actually parted the lake water and performed a very thorough search of the bed...but Longshot doubted the Earth King would let them go that far without the entrance to serve as proof, unless the he was a very patient man.
The archer didn't get his hopes up.
Besides, that was all assuming Aang could gain audience with His Majesty the King in the first place. Longshot snorted; he held a small level of contempt for the Earth King, even having never met with the man. He was a political tool and probably didn't even know he was being used by Long Feng.
To add insult to injury, to make sure the Freedom Fighters died a slow death, their Dai Li escorts had worked together to carve them an air hole; a small square gap that, if the group of secret police were to be believed, wound beneath the lakebed before twisting upward and opening between a small cluster of rocks far away from the lake's shore. The area in question was presumably surrounded by very poisonous cacti, and people avoided it in order to also avoid taking a fatal sting.
Neither Freedom Fighter had any way of telling how much time had passed, but Longshot estimated it had been about one day - give or take a few hours. Already his stomach rumbled, growling for something to eat, but neither he nor Smellerbee were any stranger to hunger. Longshot only ever remembered full meals with the rest of the Freedom Fighters - Jet and Pipsqueak and The Duke and Sneers and Skillet and all the countless others. The thing about that, though, was that a good dinner was never guaranteed; it all depended on how successful a hunt went, and how well supplied their recently-raided Fire Nation caravans were. There had been several periods of time where there hadn't been much more to eat than stale bread...and then there was that winter, seasons ago, where they barely had even that.
To any Freedom Fighter, going hungry wasn't an unfamiliar sensation - even here in Ba Sing Se, where they barely made enough to keep up with rent. He crooked his head, allowing him a small smirk. No, he'd gone much longer than this without food, and he could go even longer still.
SCENE DIVIDE
Then
Seven Years Ago
Mute plucked through the garbage, pinching the most disgusting things between the thumb and forefinger on his left hand, setting them gently to the side lest they burst from rot. His once-white tunic and pants were already filthy enough with stains and the petulant odor of other peoples' trash permeating the fabric, and the last thing he wanted was the remains of an elephant rat splattered against his leg. Ugh. This wasn't any way for a human being to eat. If it weren't for the other orphans he'd seen rooting through similar piles of crap around the city, he'd have been lead to believe that he was the only one with this misfortune. Even with that knowledge, it still felt like this was a punishment reserved for him exclusively.
He was careful to search only for those things that were vaguely edible; the gurgling in his stomach hadn't been sated for days now, but it felt more like an eternity at this point. The shadows of his old life hadn't been cast just yet; he wouldn't lower himself to eating something too far gone, that was for somebody in a lesser position, for a child who had not been born into noble blood. Regardless of the ends - living on the streets and scavenging for his next meal - he was better than the others, darn it, and he wouldn't settle for just any old scrap of food.
"You're too picky," a youthful voice chided from behind him. "You won't find any good food in there...if people throw it out, it's usually because it's already spoiled. Or it's been half-eaten."
Mute bristled at the sound; he whirled around to face another young boy with tan skin and shaggy, dust-brown hair that went down past his shoulders. Because of that outrageous, unkempt peasant mop of his, the young scavenger had taken to calling this person Mop-Head behind the shelter of his eyes, where he wouldn't be able to hear.
Mop-Head - he had a real name, but Mute couldn't remember it - crossed his arms over his chest and grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. He wore a dirty, brown shirt that could barely be called proper clothing; it looked more like a burlap sack that Mop-Head had torn holes in for his head and arms, going down past his waist. Stained, sooty pants covered his legs, leaving only his feet bare against the rough dirt alley running between huts.
"Of course, you probably wouldn't know that," Mop-Head shot, a lopsided grin pulling up on his lips. "You were born into an easy life - couldn't be more obvious, the way you pick at that stuff. It ain't so simple here. You're gonna have to adjust, Mute."
Almost in compliment to the nickname the young scavenger had assigned to this roguish, tan-skinned boy, Mop-Head had given him the name "Mute," a title he neither protested nor disagreed with. After all, it wasn't like he could just impart his own name...the words would be too heavy and tainted for someone as frivolous as Mop-Head to appreciate. He didn't deserve to know it.
Mop-Head sidled up beside Mute and pointed at the garbage. "You can certainly eat some'a this slop if you gotta...it's not exactly a feast, but it's better than nothing." The boy crouched down on his haunches and pulled away at some of the trash, not hesitating to bury his hands into it all the way into the wrist so he could more efficiently hunt down a scrap of food. Mute shuddered and winced; how could this kid get so...so personal with other peoples' discarded filth? Didn't he know what kind of disease lurked in the heap?
A few seconds and a triumphant "Ah!" later, Mop-Head withdrew an apple - mostly eaten, the remaining skin riddled with pockmarks, the exposed innards turned brown and mushy. "I love apples," Mop-Head explained, turning around to face Mute again. He held the apple sideways and bit into it; Mute made an audible gagging noise and stuck his tongue out. He had to turn away when Mop-Head began chewing with his mouth open, revealing chunks of red and brown and gross. "May be rotten, but it's still kinda sweet. Almost."
This time Mute was the one to cross his hands over his chest, and he twisted his head to the side; he put on an indignant frown, closing his eyes. Mop-Head was nuts if he thought Mute would dig into the pile of rotten food and trash so willingly.
"Sure, sure...at least my tummy's full." Mop-Head chuckled, his voice slightly muffled by the apple. He began to twist the remains in his hand and picked away at any scraps large enough to be eaten, finally tossing the core back on top of the junk heap. "Look, you've been here for a week and you've eaten less than you've spoken, and you haven't said a damn thing. You can't keep going on like this."
The silent boy didn't respond to this; it was better to keep his silence (so to speak), because, if habit were to be believed, Mop-Head would only aggravate the matter.
If only Mute were so lucky; instead of chastising him, goading him into throwing his standards away, Mop-Head sighed and placed a sticky hand on his shoulder, causing the younger boy to jump back and throw his arms up in the air. Mop-Head withdrew his hand and shook his head.
"Look." His voice took on an unusually firm tone, making Mute blink. "I like you. You don't hit me like the adults in this town, and you don't avoid me like the kids. If you aren't gonna eat anything from here - " Another finger aimed at the garbage pile. " - which is the only food we can steal without getting into trouble...then I guess it's time to go after the stuff that will."
Mute craned his head sideways, eyes narrowing - trying to figure out what had changed in his companion's attitude. The pieces to the puzzle eluded him, and he gave a slow shrug. Well, if it wasn't rotten and disgusting, it was worth a try...
"Okay then. Obviously, you won't be a good distraction...you don't talk." Mop-Head dropped his voice low, causing Mute to lean in closer so he could listen. "Think you can steal some fruit without being seen?"
Wait - this shaggy-headed kid was actually willing to help him...? That was a shock; it wasn't like Mop-Head was a jerk, he'd actually gone out of his way to be nice to Mute where the other orphans around here had shunned him...just that, the pair didn't know each other that well. Mute hadn't told Mop-Head where he'd come from and why he was in this dusty, nameless town, and he never explained why he didn't speak. But the way Mop-Head acted, the way he'd been treating the younger, pale-skinned boy...it was almost like he knew.
Plus, he never assumed Mute couldn't speak - he was the first to root out the fact that he chose not to. He'd even said it himself: "You don't talk." Everyone else he'd encountered here - since he ran from his home, from the heat and the burns and the screaming - mocked him, accusing him of being too simple to know how to verbalize. Well, to heck with them; Mop-Head had stuck by Mute for the last week straight, and now he was gonna stick his neck out so Mute could eat something that hadn't been part of someone else's meal first. A grin split the silent boy's face, wide enough to match the severity of the rumbling in his tummy.
Maybe it wasn't such a surprise. The way Mop-Head treated him...it said something about the kid's character. So, they may as well go for it.
Mop-Head nodded, picking up Mute's response as clearly as if it had been said aloud.
SCENE DIVIDE
"There. That one. The one that looks like his face is eating his eyes and mouth."
Mop-Head directed his gaze at a stooped old man, his skin tanned and covered in dark spots. He wore robes and a tunic that looked older than he was, red and maroon and crimson all faded as to have a touch of dust-brown. Beside the man, their prize - a cart full of round, red apples, skins shining in the midday summer light. Just looking at them made Mute's mouth water.
Mute knew Mop-Head referred to this particular vendor, but he didn't understand the part about face-eating; sure, the man was old and wrinkled, but the outlines of his eyes and mouth were still clearly visible against the drapery of his skin. He simply shrugged and stuck to Mop-Head's side as they peered out between two buildings.
It was gonna be dangerous; this being the only apple stand in town, their heist would have to take place in the town's market. The stand sat directly against another building on the opposite side of the plaza from where the two boys watched, and there were plenty of other people milling about - customers buying their weekly groceries, other shop keeps peddling their wares...and Fire Nation soldiers. The latter group didn't look to be on any sort of patrol or guard duty - they just walked through the plaza, chatting with each other. One of them must have said something funny, because his comrades started laughing; that was...odd. Could Fire Nation people actually laugh like their victims once did?
The sight of the red and black armor, the skull-like helmets, made Mute pause; these people were dangerous, laughing or not, and he knew firsthand the damage Firebenders were capable of rendering. So large and monstrous, their appearance made Mute shiver, threatened to liquefy his resolve. It almost made the prize not worth having to cross paths with them again...
...but then, his tummy growled again, reminding him that anything would be better than becoming a garbage gourmet.
"Those Fire Nation troops will try to stop us if we get caught," Mop-Head murmured, his eyes narrowing as he cast his gaze outward, sweeping the area. "This far away from the front, they'll be bored without any action...so be really careful. Take only what you think you can get away with and no more, okay?"
Mute only nodded, his brow furrowed; this had gotten a lot riskier with those guys hanging around. He tried to mask his concern, but Mop-Head seemed to pick up on it even though he wasn't looking at the younger boy.
"You're worried."
Mute nodded.
"We can try another place, you know. Somewhere less dangerous...but this is the only one with apples. Not to mention the stall owner's a sympathizer."
A sympathizer...? What did that mean?
Mop-Head scowled in the old man's direction, the venom in his eyes unmasked and lethal. "He agrees with what the Fire Nation's doing. He deserves to get robbed."
Mute drew a low, deep breath. Mop-Head changed moods so fast that it was almost hard to keep up, but despite his extremist point of view, Mute couldn't really disagree. He set his mouth into a straight line and nodded again.
"Okay. Here's the plan: you cut around so you're on the opposite side of the stall from the old man." Mop-Head stood upright. "I'll work my way over to him and keep him occupied. The alleys running behind the shops here are out of plain sight; the Fire Nation never goes there."
That sounded like a good idea. He touched Mop-Head on the shoulder before turning, delving into the darkened back roads that awaited him.
SCENE DIVIDE
It took a few minutes to get across to the opposite side of the plaza; the alleys were spooky and dank and smelled of old hay and dust. They were littered with all sorts of detritus, like broken brooms, empty barrels, and shattered jars that carried lingering fumes of various origins. He had to pick his way through the alley carefully, because it'd be only too easy to step on something sharp and put a premature and very anti-climactic end to this daring mission.
Arriving to the opposite side of the plaza without incident, Mute crouched down beside a building, the stone cool and rough beneath his palms. The apple cart loomed tantalizingly close, just around the corner of his hiding spot; if he leaned out of the alley and reached far enough, he could have touched one of the apples, red and shining and they would be so smooth.
Through the throng of people, he caught a glimpse of Mop-Head, still standing beside the same building as before. The silent child nodded in his companion's direction; he was ready, and he'd start to move as soon as Mop-Head did. The older boy narrowed his eyes and grinned, pushing away from the building and diving into the crowd.
Weaving and dancing through the people, Mop-Head began to dash - smiling, laughing, as if playing a game of shadow thief with invisible friends. Mute allowed himself a small grin. A few clever zigzags later, and Mop-Head found himself aimed right for the old merchant's stall; he glanced over his shoulder, mocking the other "children" following behind him, before running full force into the side of it. It teetered for a moment, the wooden legs creaking, before toppling over, the resounding crash echoing through the plaza. The apples in the cart spilled over onto the ground, creating a low rumbling noise that was not unlike an earthquake.
As Mop-Head had anticipated, the ruckus drew the attention of everyone nearby; so even though one of the delicious apples bounced into the alley which Mute had taken shelter, the young boy remained still, pressed up against the wall in the shadows. Wait for the right moment to move.
"Hey - what's the big idea, kid?" The merchant's voice sounded like a sheet of sandpaper scraping along a metal pipe, and it made Mute wince. "Whadderya doin', runnin' around without lookin' where yer goin'?
"Ahh - " Mop-Head scrambled up to his feet and took a quick glance left and right, looking for his "friends," and maybe a chance to escape. The illusion was furthered by the surrounding people with their eyes pasted on him, and a nervous mewling noise escaped his lips. He pressed his arms to his sides and lowered his head, eyes squinched shut. "I'm sorry, mister! It - it was an accident. I'm really sorry!"
Mute smirked. Everyone's attention was on Mop-Head now, leaving him to do what was needed. The boy started by collecting the apple in the alley, opening the front of his shirt and sticking it inside; the skin was cool against his own, thanks to the awning spread over the stall, keeping out the sun's rays. He resisted the urge to moan - he could already taste it, the juices sweet and bursting along his tongue.
The next step was to actually edge outward and start gathering what was closest without drawing attention to himself; he walked out into the street, acting as entranced as everyone else by the scene playing out before him. The old merchant had started berating Mop-Head and raised one shaky fist as if to cuff him, making Mop-Head wince and shrink back. The older boy was a brilliant actor, and it served both their needs just fine.
Mop-Head's performance sparked a flash of inspiration in the silent boy; before anyone really noticed him, he stooped down, as if he had a bad knee or ankle. This made his job so much easier; all it took was a swift dip of the hand, and he clutched a smooth, cool apple in his palm without the gathered people realizing. Beautiful.
Seven, eight, nine, ten...okay, ten would be enough. Mop-Head had warned to take only what he could, and any more than that would be pressing his luck. His shirt bulged with the apples' presence, and if anyone actually bothered looking his way, it'd be more than just a little conspicuous. Time to turn tail and let Mop-Head make a break for it -
Mute froze. The heavy, cantankerous rattle of armor drew close, and he realized with a jolt that it had been getting louder ever since the older boy had crashed into the apple stand. Craning his head up, Mute saw them - imposing, six figures looming over the crowd, monsters in human armor, faces obscured by those skull plate masks. A hushed silence fell over the crowd; even the cart owner seemed to swallow his tongue, but the silent boy could see him shaking visibly at the effort to keep it in.
Mop-Head had gone completely still; He kept his head down, but Mute could see his eyes were wide open, and his mouth had pulled down into a vicious scowl. His tiny fists shook at his sides, and Mute felt an ice cube slide down his throat. Mop-Head was going to do something rash and would blow the whole thing.
"What seems to be the problem?" One of the soldiers demanded, his voice filtering through his skull-mask with a haunted echo that made Mute shiver.
"This boy just plowed inna my stall!" The merchant yowled, pointing an arthritic finger at Mop-Head. "Totally reckless, an' he ain't even offered t'help pick up these apples! I'm ninety-four years old an' I got no other help!"
"Okay, son, you're gonna have to help the old-timer out." The soldier stepped forward and rested a hand on Mop-Head's shoulders.
It was a simple gesture - from where Mute stood, even between the merchant and the collapsed stall, he could tell there wasn't any animosity on the soldier's part. He was just being a kind adult (two words that never seemed to fit well together in this town, so ironic that it came in the form of one of them) trying to make Mop-Head take responsibility for his actions.
Mop-Head, though...something had scarred him, a long time ago, and just as the older boy could tell that Mute had come from a well-to-do family, the younger saw the trauma crackling behind Mop-Head's eyes. Rationality very visibly vanished from him; one small hand lashed out, knocking the larger, armored one from his shoulder.
The motion had enough momentum to it to cause a bright, shiny, delicious apple to fly from Mop-Head's sleeve.
Mute watched with wide eyes as the apple bounced and rolled across the earthen ground, skipping over pieces of the stall and dodging around other apples. It came to a stop, finally, at Mute's dirty feet, and the boy felt one of his father's favorite words drop inside his head. All eyes turned towards the silent boy, whose shirt had distended with round lumps that couldn't possibly be passed off as a bad knee.
"Thieves!" The merchant's voice took on a strangled, high pitch, a shrieking, drowning cat owl, and that was all the signal Mute needed.
Before the soldiers could advance on the two boys, Mute heard Mop-Head yell, "RUN!," but he had already started moving, his tiny feet carrying him as fast as they could, the apples jiggling and bouncing against his belly and sides. Going into the alleys would be a mistake now, since there'd be too much room for the soldiers to catch up; instead, the boy dove between the legs of the onlooking crowd, taking advantage of his size to wriggle between them and escape. Adults couldn't do that.
An uproar sounded from behind him, and he could vaguely pick out orders from one of the soldiers. Mute cast a glance to his left, and he could see Mop-Head running alongside him; the younger boy tried to converge with the older, dodging stalls and people alike, until finally the two were side-by-side.
"Hff - hff - go to the rooftops - " Mop-Head grit his teeth and lowered his head. " - Fire Nation - won't be able to - follow us - "
Mute gave a simple nod, eyes wide, chest heaving and burning. He juked to the right to get around another merchant; the sound of the Fire Nation soldiers chasing after them rung high in his ears, their armor rattling and clanking. A quick glance to his side told him that Mop-Head had split off, or had gotten lost in the crowds; Mute was on his own. He decided to head back for their initial hiding place; a stack of barrels had been set up against it which he could use for his escape.
He navigated the crowd, clutching his arms to his stomach to keep the apples there, and this had better be worth it when they got out of this, if they got out of this. He broke through, the legs and bodies of the assembly giving way to a clear path; the building with the barrels lurked right ahead, he'd just have to round the corner and -
A ball of fire spewed out from, from where? It exploded against the ground just to his left, sending up a spray of embers and sparks that licked against Mute's ankles. He let another one of his father's choice words fall internally, eyes wide and jaw clenched; the soldiers weren't trying to capture the boys, they were trying to kill them! Heart thundering under his tunic, knees quivering and, and he wasn't entirely sure he hadn't peed himself, all he could do was keep running, keep moving, get away, get to the roof where they wouldn't be able to give chase.
He made a sharp turn into the alley, kicking up dust behind him; he spotted the barrels, stacked up in a triangular formation all the way to the roof of the building they laid against. He paused for a moment, glancing up; it was...pretty high, wasn't it? Getting all the way up there...what if the Fire Nation knew he'd gone up and kicked the barrels out from under him, left him stranded? Then he'd never be able to get down, and all he'd have were ten apples to his name. Before he could contemplate it further, though, another fireball splashed the ground behind him, the flames licking too close to his ankles. He didn't remember actually climbing the barrels, but he'd crested the topmost one and pulled himself over the edge of the roof, too fast to really register. He landed hard, and a couple apples jabbed him in the small of the back, having slid around inside his tunic; he hissed, but that was okay, he was alive. All he knew was that, that the lip of the roof would hide him, keep him safe, and so long as they didn't knew he was here (did they, though?), they'd probably maybe hopefully give up, leave him alone.
"Where is he? Where'd the brat go?" One of the men called to his compatriots.
Tiny chest heaving, Mute clenched his jaw; the soldiers hadn't seen him go up onto the roof! It was tempting to look over, to peek, just to make sure - but then they could see him, and they could scalp him with their flames, like they'd done to his family, his friends - to everyone who had ever been important to him.
"I can't see him, but he must'a gotten away somewhere. Should we search for him?" Another voice - the one that had tried to make Mop-Head take responsibility for his actions.
"No - we'll draw him to us. Grab the other one and clear out an area in the middle of the plaza!"
Mute felt his eyes go wide again, and his stomach gave a protesting growl; 'The other one.' Had they caught Mop-Head...? Crap, crap, crap! He scrunched his eyes shut; if only he could will this awful mess-up away, to go back in time and talk Mop-Head out of it, to prevent the entire thing from coming to pass. But the clattering the soldiers' armor made as they walked away - their voices filtering through their skull masks, ordering the market goers to clear out, to make space for the Fire Nation - planted Mute in a very firm, very troubled reality.
"Listen up, thief!" The voice to follow was deep and commanding - not the soldier that had touched Mop-Head before. He shouted, to make sure he could be heard wherever Mute had hidden - but it wasn't necessary, really, Mute could hear pretty well without the circumstances surrounding him. He hadn't escaped the plaza, either. "We have your little friend! Surrender now, or the brat won't be able to pick his nose without your help!"
It was only when the soldier fell silent that Mute realized a tiny voice in his head had been going 'stay down stay hidden don't look save yourself,' but he couldn't just stand by...he'd hidden when the Fire Nation invaded his home the first time, and all it got Mute was a day of searching garbage heaps for his next meal.
But...
The cool apples pressed against his skin sang a different story. Not much good had come of that experience, but he had met Mop-Head; the older boy was a bit cocky and very scary when it came to the Fire Nation, but he was the only person in the entire town that had been willing to help Mute get by. Now his life was on the line just so the pair could eat something that hadn't already rotted away and that should have made it more than worth the risk.
Mute rolled over and pushed up to his hands and knees, crawling over to the edge of the roof, the tile rough and dusty beneath his grubby fingers. The air smelled of singed dirt, and the sky's fringe had already begun curling into dusk, a light orange color flecking the horizon. Using the lip to stay hidden, he peered over, into the plaza; a wave of nausea washed over him as he spotted the six Fire Nation soldiers arranged in a cluster in the center of the market, in the center of a wide ring of people. Customers and merchants alike had cleared out the space for them, backing away in either respect or terror, drawing away slowly, as if any sudden movement was likely to set them off. One soldier wore more ornate armor than the other five; while their plate mail was the standard mix of maroon and black, with spike-toed boots, Number Six's was highlighted with yellow trim, with flames were etched across his chest piece. Mute hadn't noticed it before; he'd been too busy trying to stay low-key, or stealing apples, or running away. If he was to take an educated guess, then Number Six was higher-ranked than the rest and could also be the commanding officer of the unit stationed here. Maybe.
It didn't stop him from making the silent youth want to listen to that high, cowering voice nagging at the back of his mind.
One of the regular soldiers held Mop-Head in the air with a full-nelson, pinning the boy's arms up; he wriggled and cursed in his grasp, his face contorted into an animalistic fusion of hatred, rage and pain. It was almost as if the very notion of touching the soldier brought him physical agony. The higher-ranked soldier had one of Mop-Head's wrists in one hand, the other clenched into a fist; small trails of flame trickled out from the gap made by his thumb and forefinger, taking the shape of a small dagger. He brought the fire-dagger up close to the exposed skin of Mop-Head's forearm; the proximity was so close that Mute winced for his partner, an imagined, blistering heat welling up against his skin.
"Don't listen to 'em, Mute!" Mop-Head yelled, his voice shrill. The silent boy saw his jaw working, muscles all over his body tense and shaking, but - not out of fear. He wasn't like the cowering masses that stood away from the soldiers, from the public display they were putting on; he was defiant, ferocious, even in his position, and watching him in action...as acute as his hearing was, watching Mop-Head fight with all odds against him made that tiny, yellow-bellied voice in Mute's head unperceivable. "They're Fire Nation bastards! Run!"
"I mean it, boy!" The lead soldier tightened his grip on Mop-Head's wrist, but he didn't cry out; he clenched his teeth and his eyes, keeping his face pointed at the ground. "I'll give you to the count of five to show yourself! One - two - three - "
Mute scowled. No - he wouldn't lose anyone else he cared about to the Fire Nation. It didn't matter if the Fire Nation soldiers were bigger, stronger and scarier - all adults looked like that on the outside, right? These guys were picking on children who were so hungry that they'd risk stealing apples. They were bullies, and - and bullies were all cowards on the inside.
" - four - "
Pushing himself up into a kneeling position, Mute drew the apple from his shirt, the skin cool and hard and crunchy and delicious beneath his fingertips. Clutching it tightly, he reared back with it, clenching his jaw - it wouldn't taste nearly as good if he were eating it alone - and hurled it, grunting, the muscles in his arm burning. He dropped back down before anyone could spot him, keeping his eyes over the lip of the roof; the apple soared in a high, narrow arc, splattering against the helmet of the lead soldier before he could finish the count. The apple exploded in a brilliant splash of pale green innards and red skin, knocking the soldier off his balance and skewing his helmet; Mute could hear him cry out, his voice even more muffled without the mouthpiece centered where it ought to have been, and he had released his grip on Mop-Head's wrist.
A grin had split the shaggy-haired boy's face, and his eyes had gone dangerously narrow. "You're gonna get it now - my buddy is still out there!" He bared his teeth, his lips pulling into a fierce smirk.
The soldiers took defensive positions and glanced around - they couldn't figure out where Mute had attacked from! The boy felt a wicked grin crossing his face. Good; this could still work to his advantage. He drew two more apples, hurling them at two different soldiers, his arms alight, but it felt so good. He dropped down again, but only long enough to grab more of his makeshift ammunition; red citrus bombs, soaring across the heads of the assembled bystanders, pelting the soldiers - hitting their helmets, their knees, their crotches, all sensitive points. One-by-one they fell, groaning, to the ground, their armor soaked in ruined apples. Only the one holding Mop-Head and the leader remained standing, the latter of which stumbled around, still blinded; one well-placed line drive to the back of his knee was enough to fell him, collapsing on top of one of his subordinates with a sharp clatter. In the back of his head, in a part secluded from the here and now, the sound reminded Mute of fine china falling from a shelf, shattering and ricocheting off the wood floor.
The one holding Mop-Head took a quick glance around; realizing he was alone amongst his comrades, he hoisted the boy upward as a flesh shield. Mop-Head's smirk widened, becoming more lopsided with every passing second; Mute realized, probably at the same time Mop-Head did, that while he was still held captive, the Fire Nation soldier couldn't mount a counter-attack. "I tolja you bastards would get what's coming to ya!"
Mute grabbed another apple - one of the last three, but this would be all he needed. His view of the last soldier's helmet was obscured mostly by Mop-Head's obnoxious hair...but Mute could still see a sliver of glimmering maroon, and that was more than enough. He reared back and threw as hard as he could - this one didn't just soar, it rocketed through the air, connecting with its target, spraying Mop-Head with the apple's guts. The soldier cried out and lost his grip on the boy; Mop-Head broke away from his captive, dropping down to the ground and lashing out with a tiny leg, nailing the soldier in the shin. It was enough to send the armored monstrosity off-kilter, and he used the opportunity to dash for the crowd, vanishing between their legs.
The silent boy nodded and skittered over to the edge of the roof. He didn't need to talk to Mop-Head to know where they'd meet up, so all he needed to do was get away from the marketplace and wait. As he clambered down the barrels, returning to the dusty, filthy ground, his pulse hammering in in his ears and against his chest, a grin tugged back on his lips, cheeks tingling. That had been...exhilarating. As if standing up on the roof, standing his ground against the Fire Nation, standing for those he loved that had fallen, had awakened something inside him. A greater sense of purpose, kinda...hard to pin down. Maybe Mop-Head would understand when he told him.
SCENE DIVIDE
"Damn."
Mute looked up from the garbage heap, a grin on his face; Mop-Head stood in the mouth of the alley, his hands on his knees, chest heaving and sweat glistening on his brow. He raised his head up and matched Mute's grin with his own. It had been two hours since the incident in the market place, and Mute had been starting to worry that the soldiers had caught his friend again - but of course, he should have known better than that.
"Hell yeah, you should," Mop-Head replied, walking over to the younger boy and crouching down beside him. "You're absolutely insane, did you know that? Taking down adults with apples - apples! - from forty yards away?"
Mute let his grin fade into a something more modest, and he crooked his head to the side. Hey, it wasn't anything special; he was just covering Mop-Head's butt, was all. Anyone could'a done it.
Mop-Head snorted and shook his head. "Oh give it up, Captain Humblepants. Nobody could ever have done that, especially the one that'd been holding me - I could feel the apple in my hair when it flew past, fer crying out loud!"
The black-haired boy shrugged and crooked his head to the side. Well, if it was special, how come he'd been able to do that sorta stuff since forever?
"Maybe it's a natural gift. If I believed in Spirits, I'd say that maybe gave it to you for a reason." Mop-Head let his grin fall as well, taking a contemplative frown. He picked up a long stick and prodded at the garbage heap, as if no longer willing to search through it so vigorously. "You know...it's not so hard to figure out why you're here, even though you don't say a word. Actually, I should say it's because you don't say a word."
What exactly was he getting at? Mute hiked an eyebrow, but Mop-Head didn't bother to look up at him to see his reaction.
"The Fire Nation - they did this to you."
Despite himself - despite the fact that Mute had figured Mop-Head wouldn't have known any better- his stomach did a flip-flop, and he had to fight off the urge to vomit, knowing only bile would come up. How - how had this silly, crazy boy gotten down to the truth so candidly? Mute lost his balance and sat down on the ground, hard, and felt his eyes sting - tears. Crying, again, for the first time in days. Instead of eliciting amusement from the older boy, it only made his frown deepen into a true scowl.
"They probably burned down your entire home, killed everyone you loved." Mop-Head's hands clenched into fists, and Mute had to look away - to hide his shame. Because he'd hidden himself, hidden away while his siblings and family burned. "And you...you were defenseless. That's why you don't speak anymore. You come from Jìn, didn't you...?"
Mute flinched at the name of his hometown and nodded. He tried so hard not to sob - but the tears flowed anyway, and he wiped them away with his sleeve, leaving damp, dirty smudges on his cheeks. Spirits, why was it so hard to face up to, even now...?
"I'm sorry." Mop-Head's voice became hushed. "The Fire Nation is terrible - they burn and murder and destroy everything in their paths without any consequence. Friends, family, homes - everything that's familiar, everything that you love - so much ash and soot. They came to my town two years ago and burned it to the ground. I was the only survivor."
Mute blinked and looked up to Mop-Head again, eyes wide; he'd suffered the same fate...? Mute was good at gauging people, but he never saw the same sorrow or shame in Mop-Head's eyes that he himself felt. How could he be so wild, so ready to live this life, so eager to take to the garbage piles and kick soldiers in the shins?
"I can't do much now," Mop-Head murmured, head bowed down - whether he had picked up on Mute's message or not, the silent boy couldn't tell. "All I can do is steal from sympathizers and run. But when I'm big - when I'm an adult - I'll take as many down as I can. Even if I die fighting them, it'll be worth it if I can make their families suffer as much as I have for mine. I'll make sure nobody ever has to feel the same pain we have, ever again. They need to be stopped."
The younger of the two boys paused for a moment, soaking in his companion's words; he closed his eyes for a moment and - there, he could see the flames, hear the screams of his family, his friends, but they were much further away now than they'd been for the past week. Something about the older boy's promise - his vow - made the pain hurt less. Mute doubted it would ever go away for good...but the older boy had applied some salve to the wound.
He took a deep, calming breath, and rested his hand on Mop-Head's shoulder. The older boy glanced back to see Mute's gaze; somber, with his thick brows furrowed, Mute gave a slow, single nod. Mop-Head didn't have anything to worry about; Mute wouldn't let him take on these glorified bullies on by himself.
"You - you'll help me...?"
Another nod; nothing more really needed saying. Mop-Head smiled.
"Thanks...Longshot."
Mute tilted his head to the side and hiked an eyebrow. Longshot...?
"Well - I figure...if we're gonna take things into our own hands, we need cool names, right...?" Mop-Head grinned and shot up to his feet, thrusting one arm sideways with the fingers sticking straight out. "With your aim - the way you hit those Fire Nation jerks from so far away...I was thinking to myself, 'it'd take a long shot for him to help me now.' But you came through anyway! Besides...'Mute' is kind of a mean name anyway. You deserve to have 'Longshot.' It's who you are and what you can do." He shrugged. "We don't have anything else but us now, right? I think we should stick with that idea. Get a fresh start, build up on the people we used to be as we fight for our freedom."
The boy whose name used to be Mute, which used to be something else - a different word with a more beautiful meaning a week and a lifetime ago - smiled and motioned for the stick in his partner's hand. The older boy hiked an eyebrow but passed it along anyway; Longshot took it and used it to trace the necessary characters into the grime. When finished, he passed the stick back to Mop-Head, beaming. The shaggy-headed boy leaned forward, pursing his lips and furrowing his brow
"Hum. 'Jet...?'" The older of the two boys - Jet, now - fixed Longshot with a curious stare. "Why 'Jet?'"
Well, that should be pretty obvious, shouldn't it? Longshot shifted into a squat and propped his elbows up onto his knees, smirking. The way he ran? It was like a jet stream. He could seriously haul when necessary. If Longshot was Longshot for his aim, then Jet should be Jet for his speed.
For a moment, incredulity flickered in Jet's eyes, brown and wide and shimmering in the fading sunlight, and Longshot felt a niggling doubt that he'd chosen poorly. The notion dispelled, though, when Jet rocked backwards, landing on his butt and giving himself to gales of laughter, youthful and almost pure - a stark contrast to how he stood in regards to the Fire Nation. He'd said he didn't believe in Spirits, but Longshot could feel the Spirit of Irony looming nearby, cast-iron skillet in hand.
"That's hilarious!" He staggered back up to his feet and clapped Longshot on the shoulder. "I get it."
Longshot smiled. It was the least he could do, right? In any case, now was the time for them to enjoy the spoils of their raid. Standing up and reaching into his shirt, he withdrew the last two apples from inside it; both were pretty squished from him landing on them, and while they weren't as crisp and hard and cool as the others had been, they were still apples. He passed the better of the two to Jet before hunkering down to start working on his own.
"What - ? Why are you keeping the bad one?"
The younger boy shrugged and simply took a bite out of it. Did it matter? Food is food, after all. Even though it had been damaged when he fell onto it back in the plaza, the juice burst inside his mouth, over his tongue - filling him with an incredible sense of achievement. The skin snapped and the innards crunched as he chewed, careful to not let even a drop of juice escape his lips. Ohhh, this was delicious, so much so that words defied him, that he couldn't think of anything more apt. He paced himself as to not get sick, and one bite at a time, his tummy stopped its incessant rumbling.
"Then here's to us, huh? Jet an' Longshot. The Freedom Fighters." Jet held his apple up in a mock toast before taking a large bite out of it.
And that had been the start of things.
SCENE DIVIDE
Now
No, a few days wasn't an issue. Hunger was an old friend to any Freedom Fighter...but for Longshot in particular, it culled up a lot of nostalgic memories. As he sat on the cold, unyielding stone in the fading light with only Bee as his company, he thought most of all about how ironic Jet's statement had been back then...about dying fighting the Fire Nation, and how it'd be worthwhile.
Jet hadn't died fighting the Fire Nation at all...he'd died fighting against the Earth Kingdom, his kingdom. Longshot had to wonder if, even in the face of all that had come to pass, if Jet's murder had justified his life at all...