Where Words Fail

Book 7: A Game of Pai Sho

Chapter 4: Spatula Finale, Part 1: It's red versus red, and blue versus blue, it's I against I and me against you...

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-7-4-160741609

SCENE DIVIDE

Pan Xing Island

Twenty-five days until Sozin's Comet

The door to his cell squealed open, and Longshot shuffled inside, his eyelids heavier than stones. Okay, so maybe he hadn't cut Spatula enough slack. Solitary really hadn't been fun. Locked away in a cold, dark room, complete sensory deprivation...it had been worth it, though.

He didn't flinch when the guards slammed the door shut unnecessarily hard, and felt no shame when they laughed at him, taunting the mighty Longshot the Hawkeye for failing to lead a jailbreak. That was alright, though. It brought him and the others closer to freedom than they'd been in recent history, and it served as a lesson on how to go about it the right way next time.

Freedom. Yeah, that word - he'd battled tooth and nail for it. He guessed he still was a Freedom Fighter after all, and despite his exhaustion, he smirked. It felt like being complete, because at least he'd managed to do some good here instead of just letting himself rot.

The noise was enough to jar Spatula out of his sleep; the Firebender jerked into a sitting position from his cot, and even in the dim light Longshot could sense bewilderment in his eyes at first, glancing around, panicking - and then he saw the archer and came about his senses. Shaking his head, Spatula pushed up to his feet and crossed the threshold, grabbing Longshot by the shoulders.

"Hey, they finally let you out," he whispered, eyebrows hiked with concern. "Are you okay? I haven't seen you since this afternoon."

Longshot felt his eyes slide shut as he nodded, shrugging. Aside from the fact that parts of him hurt that he didn't know he'd had a few hours ago and the throbbing ache in his temples, yeah, he was okay. Spatula led the archer to his bunk, where he sat down with a low, barely audible grunt. Looking up at the Firebender with his so-tired eyes (dry enough that they felt like they could fall right out of the sockets), he offered his thanks one more time; Spatula hadn't had to cover Longshot's back in that fight, especially since combat wasn't his strength.

"Hey, you said it yourself," the cook said, quirking his head and grinning. "It was an opportunity we had to take. Doesn't matter if it didn't work out or not; I could get rid of the fire, and you couldn't. Er, no offense."

Longshot shook his head and let a phantasmal grin light across his mouth. That was okay. Facts were facts, right? Besides - he was too tired to really worry about the red tape of the whole thing. He just wanted to lie down and sleep.

Spatula nodded and backed off a few steps, letting Longshot swing his legs up onto the cot. The archer flopped backwards, sighed, and stared up at the bulls-eye painted on the ceiling. Frowning, he wondered what had happened to the others - Pipsqueak in particular, but The Boulder and Huu concerned him also...not to mention the other inmates that had been eager to take a piece out of their jailers' hides, however minimal that was (it was silly to assume they stood beside the archer out of any reason beyond personal gain).

"You and that wannabe Yuu Yan were the only two actually punished," Spatula explained, crossing over to his own cot on the opposite side of the room and sitting down on it. "The guards set off a few tear gas bombs in the room, which is what knocked everyone silly; afterwards, they tossed us all back into our cells and they've been letting us rattle our cages since. I think that we did a number on the cafeteria 'cause they had to bring dinner right to us."

Well, any progress was progress.

Spatula laughed and nodded, but the pair fell into a muted silence after. As Longshot began to doze, he heard Spatula speak up one more time; opening his eyes partway, the archer cast his gaze to the Firebender, who himself laid back on his own cot.

"Longshot...d'you think I could rejoin the Freedom Fighters? Do you think Jet would let me back in?"

...

Drawing a deep breath that cast him further into the waiting abyss of sleep, Longshot tried to think of the most straightforward thing to say that wouldn't get the Firebender bent out of shape (because doing that would bum him out and make him whine and, well, a whining Spatula meant a sleepless Longshot). Picking his thoughts carefully, he sifted his ideas (the good ones went in one invisible pile, while the obviously bad ones and the questionable ones where drowsiness hindered his judgment went into another) and finally came up with a suitable way to put it.

It wasn't really Jet's call to make anymore. It wasn't exclusively up to Longshot, either, but if it had been - then, yeah. Yeah, Spatula could come back. He'd earned his stripes.

"Thanks," Spatula murmured, he himself sounding ready to dive into the sandman's maw. And that was the last thing Longshot knew until the next morning.

SCENE DIVIDE

Then

Three years ago

"Well..."

Smellerbee made sure her gaze remained prudent. Prying too much, looking too intent on either dispelling or approving Sheng would just make Jet suspicious, and - and she couldn't have that, regardless of the outcome. She would get in trouble if he was outed as a Firebender because the timing was too convenient, and the last thing she wanted was to become an outcast. The Freedom Fighters were her life, after all.

At last, Jet craned his head back, eyes sharp and resting on Sheng's face. His lips quirked up into that trademarked, crooked grin of his. "I don't see why not, Bee. I mean, he helped you, right? Anybody willing to save a Freedom Fighter is welcome here."

"Are - are you sure?" Smellerbee asked, throwing an arm out in Sheng's direction. One last time, he wouldn't read too much into it, would it? She didn't want to tip the scales, but to be honest the Firebender drove her insane. He was obnoxious even without taking his blood into account and she'd rather have him cast out on his own merits. (Why had she even agreed to bring him here, if he was that insufferable?) "Don'tcha think we should, you know, interview him or something?"

Jet shrugged, the white robes he wore appearing more as if they had been just draped over his shoulders. It couldn't be more obvious he had been hit pretty hard (in the same battle she was taken prisoner, no less) and still remained on the mend. The bandages wrapped around his temples caused his hair to hang down over it like the leaves of a pineapple. "Why? We never interview anyone else willing to join - or anyone we save, for that matter. Besides, we could use another cook around; Skillet's starting to run herself ragged trying to keep up with everyone."

"I - " Smellerbee held up a hand to the shaggy-headed boy before withdrawing it, pursing her lips. Well, that was it then, wasn't it? "Sure. Sounds good."

Jet closed his eyes and drew a slow breath through his nose; the motion made him look a little frail, and maybe it was for that reason that he didn't find Smellerbee's protests out of place. "Okay, then. Now Li - joining the Freedom Fighters means getting a fresh start, and a fresh start means a new name. So...from now on, you're going to be called Spatula, okay?"

Smellerbee saw Sheng's - now Spatula's - cheeks flush red, but he gave a swift, powerful nod, a grin dominating his face. "S-sure thing, Jet. It's a great name. I love it. Thank you for letting me join."

Ugh. What a cornball.

"We're glad to have you," Jet responded, chuckling and shaking his head. "Bee, do you think you can show him around?"

"Sure." She felt her eyes drawn to her leader in earnest now; he looked a little thin under his robes, and the shadows under his eyes couldn't'a been more apparent. Longshot had said on their trip home that Jet was fighting off infection from his wounds and had been comatose…but how long he stayed that way, Smellerbee still didn't know, 'cause she hadn't gotten the chance to talk to Sneers or Pipsqueak yet.

Spatula wouldn't be able to see it, because he was too nervous about the whole meeting - and probably too giddy for being accepted into the Freedom Fighters - but Smellerbee could tell that even this personal assembly in Jet's quarters between just the three of them had drained the poor guy. Seeing someone as passionate, as brilliant as Jet looking so feeble and anemic and, just, well, tired…it didn't feel right. Not at all. Jet was too firmly planted in reality; he was supposed to be…you know, impervious. That was the right word for it. But she couldn't say anything to him about it, because verbalizing his weakness would give it power. Leaving it silent…keeping it unsaid…it was A Longshot Thing. It would help Jet bounce back and keep Smellerbee from worrying about it.

She turned and led Spatula away from Jet's mattress, to the entrance of his hut - and stopped, when his voice (deep and calm and rooted) reached out to her from the depths of inky shadow in which he sat.

"Bee?"

She glanced back over her shoulder at him and felt heat rising up into her face. Did he - did he figure out she'd been thinking about the infection? "Yeah, Jet?"

Even though light didn't reach the far end of Jet's hut, his teeth shone through the umbra as he smiled out at her. "I'm glad you're alright."

And, despite herself, she smiled back and said, "Back atcha."

SCENE DIVIDE

There was something odd about the new Freedom Fighter.

Sneers, ever the realist, didn't like - well, a lot of things about him, really. Observing Spatula from afar - his posture, so withdrawn, so nervous, like he had something to hide. The way he always stuttered, or over-talked to others (though he could just be naturally obnoxious), it all led to some vague sense of secrecy. Sneers had no proof of anything, but...call it an investigative hunch. Either the guy was a terrible actor, or he was a natural schmuck.

In situations like this, though, prudent silence was wisest. Jet favored the kid (okay, so he was probably the same age as Sneers, but he had an irrefutable, childlike glimmer in his eyes that shone even at the distances the monk had kept), and Smellerbee might have some sort of attachment to him even though it looked like she wanted as little to do with him as possible. Not to mention Skillet, Pipsqueak and the rest of the Freedom Fighters had so far been amiable with Spatula - which only left Longshot, who was a mystery in and of himself, maintaining equidistant to the new cook as Sneers.

It'd be a hell of a thing of Longshot was Sneers' only ally in uncovering the skeletons Spatula kept secreted away. But - no, right now just sit back and observe things.

Twilight had cast its lithe, lavender fingers over the sky, freckling through the crimson canopy overhead. Insects thrummed and flitted around the torches erected around the dining platform, filling the cooling air with their chirruping music. Sitting near the head of the table, Sneers worked his way through a split, roasted sweet potato and a salad. It'd be a start, until the second course - the meaty part, the part that mattered - came through and made the rounds. It wouldn't be long now before Jet made his speech - because he always did on a Freedom Fighter's first night. The teen loved to make flashy impressions.

Jet sat at the head of the table, of course, his normal gear replaced by those off-white robes. Smellerbee and Longshot sat to his right, while Sneers and Pipsqueak to the left; Pipsqueak's pet hog monkey, The Duke, took up the seat on the other side of the behemoth, his round, cherubic face stained with potato crumbs and glistening with butter.

The Duke never got properly initiated, because Jet had been too ill with infection to eat at the head table, so tonight would be like swallowing a bitter pill twice the size of a normal one. Sneers didn't care for either new recruit, even though The Duke would be on his way home in a day or two.

Mph. Just sit back and let fate deal its hand. Getting cranky over anything would only make it harder to deal with.

Amidst the clatter of flatware on plates and the roiling sound of the Freedom Fighters chattering, Sneers cast a glance over to their leader. He looked - better, really, even from this morning. It was amazing how much difference taking a nap had done for him, between Smellerbee and Longshot's return and now. Once he got a hot meal in his belly, he'd probably be ready to roll again.

Sneers normally would have lamented the loss of his status as leader, but that would have been shallow in the face of knowing his allies had all managed to survive the events of that ill-fated mission days ago. He figured as long as he didn't let thoughts of that nature become habit-forming, he was alright.

When Jet realized Sneers had been staring at him, the older teen caught the monk's gaze and smirked before gradually unfurling himself from his seat. Silence fell over the Freedom Fighters as their leader rose to his full height, clutching a tea cup in hand, his wheat stalk bobbing appreciatively. (A tea cup filled with actual tea - Skillet, always the nagging maternal one, refused to let him drink any sake (or anything else with alcohol) while he was still weakened, much to Jet's ire and Sneers' amusement.) Holding the cup over his head, Jet paused, allowing for the appropriate amount of tension to build up - and, while Sneers felt himself obtuse to such things, he could still feel it culminating from all sides. Jet had charisma, that much was an undeniable truth.

"It's not every day we get to welcome a new Freedom Fighter into our ranks," Jet began, his voice soothing and commanding at the same time, already weaving the inspiring tale that would captivate his audience. Sneers simply leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, smirking. "There aren't many requirements when we look for new members, as all of you know; as long as they're willing to stand up against the Fire Nation with us, then that's enough for us. But any added bonuses certainly help, right?"

Sneers cheered alongside the rest of the Freedom Fighters, a short, vociferous agreement, because - okay, immune to Jet's charm or not, the monk still felt a level of camaraderie with the rest. Jet's mentality had a pure, righteous logic to it.

"Tonight we have the unique honor of inducting not one, but two new Freedom Fighters, both of whom have made exemplary impacts on the team. The Duke, stolen away from his village by the Fire Nation - "

A chorus of jeers rose up, the Freedom Fighters booing and hissing their natural enemies. Jet waited for silence to fall again before continuing.

"While he still has a home to go back to, The Duke has shown remarkable combat potential in the short time he's been here." Jet hiked an eyebrow. "With myself debilitated, his presence helped Sneers immensely, and he will always be welcome as one of us.

"Meanwhile, Spatula, a regular guy, showed some real chops in saving one of our own from the clutches of the Fire Nation." Jet nodded, adjusting the direction in which he held his cup - pointing it instead at Spatula, who sat further down the table, his paste-colored face alight with a brilliant flush. Sneers turned away from him, glanced over at Smellerbee - who hunched her shoulders and shrunk away from Jet a little bit, she herself blushing as well. The monk felt his smirk widening, because he knew, he knew, she was mortified by the rescue, for one reason or another (if not because of Spatula's bumbling nature alone). Sneers filed that one away into his mental cabinet of things he used to antagonize the girl with.

"It is thanks to Spatula that Smellerbee is back with us today, and that our initial mission of foiling Fire Nation slavers met success. Starting tomorrow, he will be joining Skillet as a cook, to help provide us with more meals!"

This earned another, more vocal cheer - because, more food was a good thing, especially when actually receiving meals was never guaranteed.

That did nothing to lighten Sneers' suspicions, though, and as Jet continued his speech, the monk narrowed his eyes, his gaze shifting to the tabletop and his unfinished sweet potato. If he planned on outing Spatula somehow, he'd not only have to be discrete, but he'd have to plan several steps ahead. Because if it turned out the cook really didn't have anything worth uncovering, the last thing Sneers wanted to do was make waves...

SCENE DIVIDE

Longshot did not cheer or boo when the other Freedom Fighters did during Jet's speeches. That was alright, though, because everyone sorta understood the not-speaking thing, and all Longshot needed to do was raise his glass, or pump a fist into the air, and that was enough to serve him.

A long time ago - before the Freedom Fighters, before Jet and the incident with the apples - Longshot remembered being taught etiquette lessons. His family had been in that ambiguous zone between middle and high class, and his mother was the ambitious sort who got what she wanted through trickery and deception. Longshot never judged her wrongly for it; at the time, it was because he had been too young to know any better, but with age also came the realization that she did so in order to improve his life, and those of his siblings. She hadn't been a bad person, either (she had been a caring, beautiful woman, a true 'mom' and not a stuffy 'mother')...but those stood beside the point, tangential to what he was really trying to think of.

In learning etiquette, most of it had been high-class society stuff...the intent had been to cast a good impression, but in learning the contemporary uses, he first had to do independent research on more traditional things. One of the most interesting ones, something he had learned with one of his sisters, was the concept behind the shared meal - how, dating far back to ancient times, even before the age of the Avatar, inviting guests to share a meal with you was a sign of respect for both parties. How the hosts would treat the guests with utmost respect, and how the guests would return the gesture in kind. How the Spirits frowned on those who broke the unspoken honor-pact and punished them.

The last bit had made a fun spook-story to weave at the time, but the overall concept had fascinated a younger Longshot, and it was for that reason why he persuaded Jet to induct new members at dinnertime. The way Jet performed didn't make the whole thing seem like a high-class etiquette thing, because he would (normally) stand on top of the table while delivering his speech, and he could get rowdy, and he would call for Chameleon to lend his talents on occasion, and he could get crass and rude, but the meaning would still be there. It thrilled the archer. He absolutely loved it, every time.

SCENE DIVIDE

Weeks later

"I have to admit, for a person of mysterious origin, you sure have one hell of a way about your food." Skillet leaned back against the wooden counter of her kitchen (her kitchen, it made her almost want to swoon every time she thought of it), crossing her arms over her chest as she watched Spatula sauté...some kind of meat-and-vegetable combo. He used a wide, black tray coated in sizzling vegetable oil, a massive orange flame stoked underneath; and though he kept his namesake spatula nearby, he looked more intent on coating this new concoction with spices and peppers.

"Thanks," Spatch returned, grinning - but not taking his eyes off the tray. He reached for a wooden shelf nearby (on the wooden counter against the wood walls...everything in this place was made of wood, but they didn't have any better materials to work with, so they always needed to be careful with the cooking fires) and pulled a small shaker of a pepper he called cayenne from its cradle. Sprinkling the cayenne pepper over the tray's contents, he said, "This is a special recipe I learned when I was a kid, and I'd like to serve it sometime - but I need a guinea pig. Are you game to try one of my awesome Kabal skewers?"

"Just how spicy are we looking at this time?" Skillet asked, and she felt her mouth quirking into a smirk that would have made Sneers proud. "You know we don't have high tolerance for that stuff. You must have learned to cook from a Firebender."

Spatula's brow furrowed, and a blush highlighted his pale cheeks. "I, uh - possibly. I come from - from near some Fire Nation colonies to the west."

Skillet's grin fell into a thoughtful frown, and she hiked an eyebrow. Really, now...? This wasn't the first time she'd heard something of this sort from a Freedom Fighter, but it was the first tidbit of personal history Spatula had shared with probably anybody. She had to wonder how much anyone else in the Freedom Fighters had gotten out of this shy, clumsy cook who only seemed to shine in the kitchen.

"Still, I - I learned from last time, no more food hot enough to make the younger ones sick." Spatula winced. "Sneers really laid into me for that...he kinda hounds me sometimes when nobody else is around. So I've toned down the spiciness...but a Kabal skewer with watery spices isn't really a Kabal skewer, you know?"

Skillet sighed. She knew all about Sneers and what he thought about Spatula; try as he could, the monk relied on Skillet as an intellectual peer, and she'd managed to coax some details out of him. Sneers really had vague speculations, but nothing else to his name, and if wind of Spatula's home got out to him -

"So, you're from near the Fire Nation colonies, you say?"

Oh, ostrich horse shit.

Skillet sighed and buried her face in her palm. Spatula emitted a tiny eep! sound, dropping the cayenne shaker. It clattered to the ground and from around the curve of her hand Skillet saw its cap pop off and the contents spill across the floor.

Sneers took a few steps in, his footfalls heavy and rooted and unique because of his squat stature. Skillet could just imagine the steel behind his gaze, his lips curling downward into his namesake sneer, his teeth bared.

"Y-yeah, I am," Spatula replied, and Skillet heard enough defiance in him (despite his stammer) to make her pull her hand away, to - to see exactly what was going on in the fool's head. He'd grabbed up his spatula and clenched it tightly in front of his chest, his lips pressed into a tight line. His Kabal skewers sizzled on the tray behind him, and the delectable scent of spiced meat wafted through the air. It clashed with the tension between the cook and the monk, neither of whom looked ready to back down. "Freedom F-Fighters come from all over, right?"

"Of course," Sneers responded, crossing his arms over his chest and frowning. "And you wouldn't be the first we've had from that way. I just find it interesting that this is the first fact about your past to crop up. That's all."

"Sneers, lay off him." Skillet rolled her eyes and planted her fists on her hips. "He's my cook. If you wanna harass him, you'll have to do it somewhere else."

"No, that's okay." Spatula's voice wavered, but he didn't stammer this time, and he sounded more steeled than before. Skillet raised her eyebrows at him, and she pushed back the urge to clean out her ears to make sure she'd heard him right. "I'd rather it be here than anywhere else. I'm more confident of myself in the kitchen. It's obvious by the way that you glare at me that you don't trust me, Sneers."

The monk's frown melted into a scowl, and a burbling sensation of pride started to well up in Skillet's stomach. Damn - put a spatula in the kid's hand and he became more competent on all fronts, apparently. Skillet's cheeks tingled, and as hard as she tried not to, she felt her mouth curling into a small, crescent grin.

"But you know what, I'm fine with that," the cook continued, determination setting in on his face. "I never sought your approval in the first place. I'm feeding children that have suffered from the war and if you have a problem with that, then it says more about you than it does me."

Turning away, Spatula continued to prepare his dish, leaving Sneers to glower at his back. The tension in the air had vanished with Spatula absorbed once again in his work, nudging the balls of meat over with the corner of his spatula, flipping the vegetables. Skillet quirked an eyebrow and shook her head, chuckling silently.

"Oh, and Sneers - you're welcome to help taste test my Kabal skewers if you want."

The offer - sincere to Skillet's ears, if not a little aloof - made Sneers step back a pace, as if revolted. "Uh - no thanks." He turned and stalked out of the kitchen, leaving Skillet and Spatula alone again.

Skillet finally let the urge to grin overtake her, and beaming, she clapped Skillet hard on the back. "Way to go. It takes stones standing up to Sneers." Saying she expected no less from her cooking staff of one would be a lie (really, it wasn't part of his job to do it, but it was nice having somebody on the clock who could), but the pride bursting in her chest felt identical to that of experiencing a student who had grasped a difficult subject and managed to best it.

"Thanks, but I gotta check to make sure I didn't pee my pants."

Skillet threw her head back and laughed.

SCENE DIVIDE

Weeks later

Oofa.

Pipsqueak rotated his left shoulder, wincing at the soreness that flared up with every peak. Bad enough that the trip to The Duke's hometown, Ying Hua, had ended so morosely that despite their best intentions, The Duke was now a permanent fixture to the Freedom Fighters; worse that he'd really messed up his arm cutting himself another new log, after his replacement following the slave line mission got busted up against a renegade platypus bear. Weird that making the new weapon was what hurt him and not aforementioned platypus bear. (He could still remember the way his muscles...screltched, that was the only way to really describe it, when he brought the axe up for that first swing.) But who was he to count when stuff like that cropped up? Besides, it was a hot day - summer'd set in, full force, and the lake would be nice and cool. His body felt gross and sticky and stuffy, so it'd be a good place to rest up for a bit.

Yeah. Even though it'd been a few days, the events from Ying Hua still bothered him a bit. Whenever he relaxed in the lake, the stress that built up in his head from that day's events would float out and away from the giant, and he'd be able to just soak in his surroundings without having to worry about much else.

As Pipsqueak walked along the path to the lake, trees on either side, he became partially aware of - voices, from ahead, but that wasn't outta the ordinary. It wasn't like the Freedom Fighters had a schedule for using the lake, so more than one person winding up there at a time happened pretty often. (For that very reason, amongst the first things Pipsqueak had learned to discard from his old lifestyle was shame, since entering or escaping the lake nekkid and unseen was pretty much impossible.) So swallowed by his thoughts, he didn't really make any effort to identify whose voices they were - until a shrill, alarmed screech rose up into the air.

Pipsqueak's eyes went wide, and he was running before he could actually register. Each footstep thundered across the dirt path - he was sure to leap over that one tree root that always crawled, wormlike, across the path - and he pulled that last corner, his heart thundering, his pulse roaring behind his ears, his breath short and hot and -

- Spatula stumbled into view, one arm thrown up over his head, and a knife whizzed through the air after him, missing his shin by inches. The blade lodged itself into a tree trunk, and Spatula barged past Pipsqueak, barely giving him a second glance. He shouted behind him, "Run for the hills! She's crazy!" before vanishing into the trees.

Pipsqueak shook his head, turning his attention forward again - just in time to see Smellerbee slide into sight with a towel wrapped around her torso, her bare feet scraping against the dirt, kicking up a cloud of dust. Her skin glistened from having recently emerged from the water, and her hair clung tightly to her head. Even her face paint and mascara had been wiped away, which in its own was a pretty rare sight. Shoulders bunched, her hackles raised, she clenched her fists and yelled, "Damn right I'm crazy, now get the hell outta here!"

The behemoth Freedom Fighter blinked, hiking his eyebrows at his friend. "Uh, Smellerbee...you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine," she huffed. Still, it took her a moment to regain her composure, and she shook out her lanky arms, cracking her neck. "He caught me by surprise is all."

"I don't get it, though," Pipsqueak murmured, walking over to the knife and pulling it free from the trunk Smellerbee'd hucked it into. He offered it over to the girl, who took it without looking at the giant. "You ain't shy. I can't think of any other Freedom Fighters that ain't seen you in the buff."

"It's different with him." Snarling, Smellerbee stalked back towards the lake, and Pipsqueak followed (because he still needed to clean himself up, after all). Something about the way she said it, though...kinda weird, something he couldn't quite place -

Oh! Pipsqueak felt himself beaming, and he clapped a hand on Smellerbee's bare shoulder. His chest tingled with pride and he said, "I get it now! You like him, don'tcha?"

"I - what?" Sputtering, Smellerbee blinked and twisted her head up to meet the giant's gaze, her eyes wide and lips curled. "No. No no no. You're absolutely insane. I do not have a crush on Spatula."

"You know, they say denial is one of the signs...or something like that, I dunno how it goes. Sneers would." Despite himself, his grin became devious. They stopped at the shore of the lake, where Pipsqueak shucked off his vest, draping it over a low-hanging branch, next to Smellerbee's pants and tunic. "I'll ask him later."

"No, trust me." Smellerbee shook her head and frowned. "It's not denial. I did not, cannot and will not ever have a thing for that - that - schmuck." She waded back into the water, the surface eating up her feet, her shins, her knees, shimmering black and yellow from this angle. "Count on that."

Pipsqueak just felt his grin widening.

SCENE DIVIDE

Weeks later

The Duke - because that was his name now, he'd left Dian far behind him - scoured over the book laid out before him, the characters etched onto the parchment in pristine, neat, tiny calligraphy. Just columns of columns of text, and that was - okay, because it helped him keep his mind off his past, off Ying Hua, off the Momma that was no longer a part of his life. Lying flat on his stomach on one of the platforms that made up the tree house headquarters, The Duke found himself alone, absorbed by silence.

Knowing that he was a Freedom Fighter for good, The Duke dedicated himself more readily to the lifestyle. He took pike lessons from Spike, learned how to use his size to his advantage from Sneers, and thanks to an inadvertent accident on Spatula's part, found a way to utilize exploding seeds as part of his developing fighting style. He aided the watches and patrols, he slept in Pipsqueak's tent, he reluctantly learned to bathe in front of others. He studied, hard, learning history, math, even basic chemistry and biology, absorbing every new big word and working it over and over in his head until it glimmered like a flawless pearl.

Skillet, in particular, took keen interest in The Duke's progress on that front. She never verbalized anything, but The Duke could see the way her eyes gleamed in class, the way a phantasmal smile crossed her lips whenever she looked at him. It didn't unnerve him or anything, but it'd still be nice to figure out what was going on in her head.

This particular book - all the books he owned now, really - came from Old Man Chang. He'd called them a parting gift, and the inflection that they would never see each other again - that The Duke would never get another opportunity to read one of Chang's tomes aloud to his friend - had gone unsaid. But the strength, the passion behind that nonverbal sentiment, had been almost permeable (he loved that word) and The Duke's voice got thick whenever he thought about that moment.

Dang. His eyes began to sting - his vision got blurry and he bowed his head, squeezing his eyes shut because - because he had gone back, he had remembered, he…

"Hey, The Duke. You okay?"

Ack. Wiping the pending tears from his eyes, The Duke craned his neck back to see Smellerbee and Jet standing over him, the former with traces of concern on her boyish face, the latter quirking a curious eyebrow.

"Y-yeah. I'm fine. Thanks for asking, Jet." The Duke pushed himself up into a sitting position, folding his legs in front of him. "It's just…"

"That's okay. You did everything you could," the renegade said, a calming smile crossing his face. He pivoted and sat down beside The Duke, casting his gaze at the book before them. "You're pretty intent on this stuff, aren't you?"

"Yeah." The Duke blushed, hunching his shoulders up around his head. "I - it's really fascinating."

"You're better off than I was at your age," Jet conceded, grinning and glancing at The Duke from the corner of his eyes. The stalk of wheat in his mouth arced upwards, and The Duke felt the heat in his face intensify. "I was still on children's scrolls when I was five, nevermind The Collected Works of Earth Kingdom Mythology."

Smellerbee, who had been silent until now, moved to sit on the other side of The Duke, hunching her shoulders and leaning forward to better soak in the book's contents. Smirking, she added, "And he hasn't gotten any better since."

"Hah. Shows what you know." Jet scoffed and crossed his arms. "Why, just last week I managed Tale of Twisted Lip and the Demon."

Smellerbee snickered, and The Duke just - just joined in, because that was pretty funny. Tale of Twisted Lip and the Demon made an interesting story, but it was a fairy tale at best and The Duke knew Jet's reading skill had to be higher than that. His eyes no longer stung and the thickness in his throat receded a bit.

"And if it helps, I didn't know how to read until I was nine or so." Smellerbee's mouth pulled into a warm grin as she read over the characters sprawled out before her. "And I still have trouble with it. I understand Longshot better than I do these things."

"Why don't you have Skillet help you?" The Duke blurted, curiosity suddenly piqued. How could someone so much older than him struggle with literacy…? "I'm sure she wouldn't mind."

"Nah, that's okay." Smellerbee crooked her head to the side, her hair flopping down over one eye. "It'd be…awkward. I like to learn things on my own where I can."

"It's true, she knows as much about sword fighting only by her own volition," Jet said.

"Oooh, 'volition' is a good vocabulary word."

Jet rested his chin in the crook of his thumb and forefinger and flashed a roguish grin. "It is, isn't it?"

"Besides." Smellerbee coughed loudly and shook her head. "Skillet has enough on her plate as it stands."

As silence settled over the trio, The Duke contemplated the idea of - of offering to teach Smellerbee himself because he was up for the task. It'd be a good way to repay her for freeing him from the slavers…but if she was anything like Pipsqueak, she'd turn him down. "We saved you because we wanted to and because it's what Freedom Fighters do. So don't worry about it," he'd said, grinning that calm, broad smile of his, and that had been the end of the discussion.

So probably better to let it drop for now. The hush pressed in around them further until Jet broke it, his voice quiet and level.

"The Duke, the pain the Fire Nation's caused you is something a lot of people here can relate to," the renegade said. The Duke turned his head to better gauge him; the older boy leaned forward and frowned, his gaze somber and locked on the boughs spanning ahead of them. "I lost everything I had to them. I can't ever forgive them for that, not a single one of them."

"I…" The Duke frowned. "I'm sorry." Was that it? Was that the best he could come up with? It sounded kind of weak in the face of what Jet was saying, but the leader of the Freedom Fighters had caught The Duke off-guard with his sudden, sneaking venom.

"You can come talk to any of us about it if you need to. Just think about it, okay?" Jet asked, and as suddenly as it had appeared, the poison vanished from his eyes. They twinkled again and he clapped The Duke on his shoulder; the transition both startled and intrigued the young Freedom Fighter - Jet's passion for his charges and kin seemed to be the only thing that could rival his hatred for the Fire Nation. Maybe it was his way of making up for what he couldn't protect as a kid.

With a warm grin, he was up on his feet, away, Smellerbee once more at his side, leaving The Duke alone again with his book. That was Jet's way: swooping into the lives of those in need with a dramatic flair and the skills to back up his showmanship, only to vanish just as quickly. The young Freedom Fighter just wished he hadn't left such a conflicting message behind.

Before he could settle back into The Collected Works of Earth Kingdom Mythology properly, though, something clomped down to the wooden platform behind him; he started, flipping over to his feet and and and unarmed no pike or seeds and was he already thinking like that? But -

- Spatula stood there, his usually pale face flushed bright red, half-hunching behind a pile of crates, (one of which had been knocked over), his eyes wide and his lips parted into something that could have passed for a grin, but looked instead more like a paralyzed grimace. Didn't take a genius to tell the boy had been pretty thoroughly spooked by something.

"Ahaha, s-s-sorry," Spatula laughed, rubbing the back of his head before leaning over to right the crate he'd bowled over. "I just - I, I was - I lost my, my uh, my frying pan and I - I - it's not here so I - "

And with that, he turned on a heel and rushed away, and The Duke grabbed at his chest, heart still thundering, his body still half-jilted into combat mode, ready to fight off an impending attack that wouldn't come.

Had Spatula been eavesdropping? It didn't matter if he had been, but - it'd be kind of weird either way. Guy certainly had an eccentric side to him…