General Iroh, while not meaning any offense to Aang, will thank the spirits if he never has to hang from a flag again. The jump, while brief and softened by the fire he used to propel himself down onto the foot of the memorial, catches a whiff of the unease in the air. It lingers in his throat.

Though he's young for his station, careening into such circumstances takes a lot out of him. He isn't accustomed to brashness and fierce action. Society bred him to follow plans and act systematically. Given that several United Forces ships now sleep in Republic City's waters, perhaps his straightforward tactics aren't the best approach against cunning innovation and rapid progress.

Red isn't the best color when your enemies can take to the skies.

Though he maintains his stolid composure through the worst scrapes, this position was essentially ordained to him; the son of the Firelord won't be dwelling in the countryside, shelling beans and herding livestock. His path was set toward diplomacy, leadership, and while his mother is a charitable woman, she is also vastly proud.

Yes, he's just stopped a fleet of flying crafts from obliterating his reinforcements (another set of men who could've been vanquished), but will they be strong enough to fight the Equalists off? Has the Avatar defeated Amon, cut the weasel-snake at its head? Will there be anything left of his companions when he returns with help?

He smiles desperately as he imagines the ships on the horizon. We can win this, he assures himself. There have been worse odds in the past. The condition the city is a sensitive matter when there are groups of various interests wrestling for either representation or a stabilization of the current status quo.

Iroh refuses to bow before Amon and let this end in failure. His blood won't allow it; his honor won't allow it.

The city will plunge into chaos, yet when the entire world fell at the hands of the Fire Nation, a light shone at the end of that bloody era. Heroes rose, refusing to prostrate themselves before the enemy.

We will win this.


Mako comes to in a haze. Not knowing where he is, he balances himself onto his knees. He stretches his arms out, his nails scratching against the floor, the agony too much to bear.

Immediately, the wrongness of everything stuns him. They were—and he—

"Korra? Korra!" He gets up in a hasty blur of queasiness and sparks smoldering in his veins, ignoring the dizziness.

In a frenzy of thoughts, he almost misses the mustache guy emerging from where Amon propelled him. Mako shifts to face him quickly, an ugly flaring of loathing surfacing from underneath his lungs. Amon's second-in-command doubles over, and Mako pushes him down when he tries to stand.

"Where's Korra?" Mako says, and he lowers himself onto the man's level. "Answer me!"

Silence is his only reward, and he swears that if this guy doesn't talk, he'll—

"I-I don't know," Amon's lieutenant rasps.

Mako snarls. "How can you not know?" Mako watched as Amon betrayed his lieutenant and flung him like a useless doll, but he can't get past Korra's disappearance, and if Amon is gone too—

A hoarse, bitter laugh escapes the Lieutenant. "We aren't quite on speaking terms anymore."

Wait, he's joking about this? Mako's anger boils over. He grabs the front of the man's uniform. "If you don't tell me—"

"You'll what? Threaten to scar me for life? A bit late for that, boy; besides, I doubt you have that ability anymore."

He's tempted to try out his firebending on this undone man, but, as if finding himself, Mako snatches his hand back and edges away.

The Lieutenant raises his head, reciprocating Mako's heated glare.

"How does it feel to be helpless?" the Lieutenant barks, steeling himself before rage fades into despair.

Mako shakes violently, the hate melting into an icy fear as he runs. He doesn't care if there are Equalists milling around outside. He just needs to find her.

His bending—he can't probend again, can't work that job. It's a part of his father, but he never considered it that until now.

Fire. Yes, his father hugged him when they learned that they shared the same element, but it was also what killed him and his mom, what forced Mako to crawl to his little brother sobbing, holding the scarf he picked off of his father's corpse. It wasn't ruined or frayed, and he took it as a sign that his father would follow Mako and Bolin wherever they went, whatever they went through.

How can he help his brother this way? He's nothing, nothing.

Muffling his pained grunts, the Lieutenant collects himself into a crouching position, not bothering to further acknowledge the Avatar's friend. Of course Amon ran. Abandoned those who relied on him to get through to the next dawn. The reason why the rejuvenated Lieutenant hadn't hanged himself or died destitute and reeking of spirits in the streets. The coward. Traitor.

Groaning, he crawls, sliding his body so that he may lean on a box of shipments. He closes his eyes.

I'll find you, Amon. I'll make you look into my face and tell me the truth, even if it means my death.


General Iroh arrives to disorder. There are citizens in unassuming attire dashing around and yelling threats and complaints. It isn't quite the pandemonium he expected; he expected a battle. He watches as Bumi's men work to restrain them, though he can't see any discernible weapons lugged around by the bystanders.

"Evil benders!"

"What have you done with our leader?"

"Tyrants!"

Iroh steps forward. The morning is cool, but nothing but heat sinks underneath his uniform. Not dwelling on the pandemonium, he straightens with purpose.

"Leave them be! Our fight is with Amon." The men in their military garb—with their scarlet uniforms—stand out amongst the drab colors, exchanging looks of bemusement.

"Have you checked the premises?" he asks one of the men.

He's greeted with a quick salute. "Not completely yet, sir. We just landed. All located Equalists have been neutralized and are awaiting containment." Iroh's heart leaps when he sees Commander Bumi and another person walking toward him.

Bumi smirks. "Look what I found, other Iroh!"

Asami steps forward, her eyes earnest. "General Iroh! Are you all right?"

"Yes. Jumped onto a few planes." He raises his voice so he can be heard over the shouting. "Careened into a statue. Ended up stranded in the streets with several masked vigilantes attempting to electrocute me and no reinforcements. Waited until night to go forward. I've seen worse. You were able to do this without heavy casualties?"

Bumi grunts. "Not much fighting goin' on anymore."

"Odd," Iroh tells Asami, "if Amon is here, the focus should be on the arena."

"It—It was difficult. The knuckleheads kept coming—and they had those gloves with the electrical shocks, but there weren't that many. We drove 'em back. The rest are probably dispersed elsewhere."

Asami says, "Any sign of Korra or Mako?"

"Not yet," Bumi says, shrugging and cracking a large smile, "but she might not be here. Actually, I ran into my brother, Pema, and the tykes. They were steering clear from the air temple and hiding out in this makeshift community. Whoooo, the smell was pretty rank, but I met these pretty swingin' vagrants."

Asami brows furrow. "Did you check the air temple?"

"Yuuup, we did. The place's been torn through, but nobody was there."

Just then, the crowd grows louder, panicked. Screams, fingers pointing.

"What's he doing?"

"Look!"

"There's someone on the top of the arena!"

"He's about to jump!"


"Mako? Mako, wake up!"

"Bro, Mako, don't leave me, please."

Mako awakes to find his brother hovering over him, panting heavily. The rush when he stood, when he dashed away, the exertion caused him to collapse outside of the doors he'd exited.

"B-Bolin?"

"Oh—oh man. Thank you, thank you." Bolin's breathing slows. All of his life, Mako has called the shots, made the crucial decisions. And he's the dumb brother, the dorky, goofy one. Yes, sometimes he wishes that he'd grow a backbone, that Mako would be less protective now that they're off of the streets, even considering Bolin's habit of making bad decisions.

Mako croaks, "We're—still at the arena? How long have I been here?"

"Yeah. It's been real tough getting to here. All night we tried to drive them back. But Bumi just arrived, so it was just me and Asami. Don't know where Iroh is yet. Where's Korra?"

Mako's breath hitches. "You haven't found her?"

"I-I thought she'd be with you. Y-You don't know where she is?"

Mako rises a bit, only to fall down.

"Bro, what happened?" Bolin asks, his eyes as large as saucers. Mako's supposed to be the strong one. He can't support his big brother. He can't even take decent care of himself.

"Amon, he . . ."

"H-He took your bending, didn't he?"

"Just find Korra."

"The general's on his way. A bunch of Equalists have been arrested, but they're all scattered." Somebody rushes past them. Bolin catches a glimpse, but the person doesn't acknowledge his presence.

"Whoa, was that—Mustache Guy? Yeah, he had that funny mustache."

Mako says, "Guess I wasn't the only one who took a snooze."

"There's no way. He's going to get caught. There are soldier dudes all over." Bolin scratches his head before throwing Mako's arm around his shoulders. Mako winces.

"Sorry, bro. Okay, here we go—"


There, a ladder. So they can repair the dome at any necessary times. Asami ignores the heaviness in her bones as she climbs, ignores the protests of men baffled as soon as she dashed into the arena entrance. But ma'am, you—we haven't—

The morning wind flutters her hair into her face. She doesn't know why she insists on being the one to climb to the top when there are others who can assist and aren't as fatigued as she is, but Asami has never been one to shirk off fights.

Though she isn't here to fight. Not anymore. Even if she is capable of doing so, it's such a fruitless thing. To butt heads, to exchange blows instead of words. The man turns to peer at her, not standing to greet her, and something jolts within her, stirring up older memories.

"It's been awhile." Her eye make-up runs down one of her cheeks, and her lipstick has mostly been rubbed off, but she still commands attention in the gray hours of a new day. "Asami Sato."

He hopes she'll strike him down there. But oh, he underestimates the awful mercy of those not willing to kill. Those who prolong suffering by standing back, by adopting passivity. The Lieutenant prefers incapacitating his foes instead of needlessly wasting lives, but he had listened to Amon. Fully and without reservations. They've killed with the bombings. Benders. Nonbenders. Innocents.

Asami rummages through her mind, and her eyes widen.


Asami isn't naïve enough to say that she doesn't understand. She may be young, but her father's slurred rants and never seeing her mother's glimmering eyes or smile like rubies and pearls cements her resolve. Her mommy and daddy were happy together—they all were. But now it's just the two of them and she'll have to be two people to support the family. To both smother herself under her dad's limp and straggling wing while wiping up his vomit out of the plush carpet, not wanting to burden the staff. They already hear the yelling enough.

Picking him up off the floor. She does that as well in the nights where it's too much. But she can't because she's small and delicate and frail like a butterfly-hornet with no stinger and half-formed wings. Daddy, Daddy, you have to wake up, she goads.

His cheeks taste like tears whenever she kisses his cheek before bed—knowing he'll be with the spirits tonight and the next night and all the time 'cause he can afford it. He's rich and influential and capable and why couldn't he have been the one who died that day?

Joining Mom or not, her dad has already.

So one evening she goes down to the large garage with so many satomobiles. She settles into one that's lower to the ground and shiny and black like a large beetle, and finds a spider-wasp in the front passenger seat. It can sting her with it's angry-red butt-end, but there aren't really any bad endings to her little fairytale world.

The young girl with her hair meticulously combed and her eyes glazed with convincing youth lets the ugly thing crawl into her hand. Asami then leans out of the car slightly, her short arm stretching so she can put it down. The spider-wasp half-flies, half-tumbles out of her small hands and skitters, and an odd kinship warms her throat and tummy.

No, Dad needs her. Dad needs her.

His heart still beats when she hugs him and his grip is tighter than usual, less flippant and forgotten.

Then what's she doing here?

Asami jaw clenches. She looks so much like her mother. She's a reminder outside of the pictures her father stares at like they hide spirits skittering in the gray corners, waiting to crawl out at his summons.

Besides, he has new distractions. People she guessed were "condolencers" or whatever they call people who give meaningless condolences to those they hardly know. Knock knock, and here come two men like characters out of ancient scrolls. One is a tall, thin man that reminded her of a weasel-snake. She doesn't like his crack-toothed smile, doesn't like how his companion always burrows himself hidden under a cloak. She is just a little girl, now surrounded by grown men.

There are no women with soft folds to tuck her into and steal her away from the grimness of lights glinting off uninterested eyes. Eyes who don't care about her, don't even care about themselves. Her strong, blunt father who collapses in the hallway and weeps her mother's name in harsh gulps. The man with the funny mustache, the man with a low voice and no face.

They hole themselves into her dad's office, bring more men, men who smell of streets Asami never had had to step onto. She wishes that she can give them a bath, make their frowns and muddy tear tracks disappear. She hushes, stays in her room with its myriad toys and colors and size fit for a princess—what's expected of her. The demure, clueless child stricken with an affluent background. Helpless, pretty, sad. The princess acting as the prince and magical caretaker.

She sits there with her hands all prim and settled in her lap, biting her lip. For how long has she sat there? And then footsteps resound, echoing from behind like thick raindrops and fire, the worst element, kindles inside her. She can't go anywhere, can't do anything in quiet! Stupid, stupid people who think they knew her mother and buddy up with her rich dad.

"What are you doing?" a deep voice says, and she looks up to see the creepy mustache guy. Not allowing herself to shrink back, she straightens her posture. He watches her with kind eyes, though his sharp features make him look devious.

"I'm going out for a drive," Asami says, tilting her chin up defiantly.

The weasel-snake man frowns. "Your father's been worried. Aren't you a bit young to drive?"

Asami breaks the eye contact, brushing her fingers against the steering wheel. "My dad made them. I can use them whenever I want." Always—people telling her where she should be, who she should know, what she can't do.

The mustache man gestures to the passenger seat beside her. "May I?"

She bristles, still not meeting his gaze. "No, I don't know you."

"I'm a friend of your father's."

Asami laughs, a sound that startles the man. It's such an adult thing—to laugh with so much contempt. "Everyone's my dad's friend, but I'm the one who picks up after him."

The weasel-snake man maintains his frown. Yes, he's heard the slurring voice, seen the shirts buttoned incorrectly like a child's broken puzzle. And a heat boils in his stomach at the thought of Hiroshi's grief; he'd never thought Asami would be exposed to that side of Mr. Sato. Hiroshi Sato, a man of poise and merit, allowing his child to lose moth parent in the span of a few weeks. He steps away and leans on the hood of the car, and Asami follows his every move with darkened rabbit-doe eyes.

Without turning toward the girl, the weasel-snake man says, "You seem like a tough girl. Have you ever been taught how to defend yourself?"

Asami chews on the inside of her cheek before replying, "Kick the bad places."

"The world won't be generous to you. You'll have people constantly trying to manipulate you because of your status. A nonbending women above them—it frightens them, and they'll want to control you." His eyes bore into her then, a watery blue that says things to Asami about how her mom's a spirit now, where they can't touch or meet again. "Don't give them a chance to doubt you."

Asami bows her head because she won't cry. Not in front of her dad, not in front of strange men, though those terms have intermingled lately.

If the weasel-snake man were to scratch out his own eyes and replace them with the scarred man's, he'd only witness the blood of the benders. The solution to the pain: removal. But the man with blue eyes sees that there's more to healing than taking away.

Something buzzes at his feet. A familiar sound. Pushing away from the car, the weasel-snake man steps on the spider-wasp, satisfied in the faint crunch. He never much liked spider-rats or spider-wasps. Acquainted with quite a few of 'em on the job.


"Are you okay?" Asami says, her forehead creasing in worry. She sits beside him, her legs hanging off the dome. There are shouts below, but she doesn't listen. "I don't understand. What are you doing here?"

"You don't recognize me?"

"Of course I do. You're my father's old friend. You're . . ." She looks down, closing her eyes briefly before peering at him again. Her mouth is straightened. "You're Amon's second-in-command?"

"I've retired," the Lieutenant says with a joyless grin. His eyes meet her own, the skin under his eyes swollen from what he will account to a nasty blow to his head. "Or rather, I've been relieved of duty."

Asami curbs the disappointment in her voice. All of the important people in her life—no, now's not the time for self-pity. This isn't about her insecurities. Not when others are counting on her. "I've fought you."

"And beat me a couple of times."

"You've hurt dozens of innocent people. And you were my father's 'friend', which means you convinced him to destroy everything he worked for."

"Both your father and I joined Amon under similar circumstances," the Lieutenant says, "but the only difference was that he had a child to protect."

"That makes it worse. He betrayed me. He gave me up to pursue an agenda for revenge a-and—hate. He hurt my friends."

The Lieutenant's arms dangle carelessly in front of him as he slouches. "Well, I'm not in your shoes, but in my eyes, that's the most important reason for joining the Equalists: a better future for the next generation. So you wouldn't end up like your mother. That's all your father wanted."

Asami frowns. "He told me I was ungrateful and tried to murder me."

"I'm sorry to hear that," the Lieutenant says with surprising softness. He's the first person to hand her an apology that doesn't result in an exit. Her mother, her father, they both apologized. "You were his only reason for living."

"And the man in the cloak?"

"Yes," he answers, and then adds, "Amon is gone."

Coward. Traitor.

"Did he kidnap Korra?" Her voice is cold, demanding, lined with indignation. "Did he take her bending?"

He rotates his head to consider her question, her pleading eyes. Even with her gentleness, there's no frailty concentrated inside of this individual.

Admittedly, he'd been too indignant to bother checking on the Avatar's status. She'd been on the ground when he'd confronted Amon. She had one arm keeping herself from lying fully on her side.

"I don't know. Her firebender friend couldn't find her. At least when we were in that same room."

They stand, her hand around his arm tightly. She releases him only when he's stable, then rethinks it and clutches his arm again. Even if this man assisted in orchestrating a movement that caused so much harm to the city, she believes in his intentions. Benders do have more power than nonbenders, and a tiger-cobra will strike when cornered long enough, but there has to be a way to settle things without a permanent divide between benders and nonbenders.

The Lieutenant spreads his arms out like a bird ready for flight, separating his fingers. Everything he's prepared for has gone to shambles. Never again will he taste victory.

"Don't jump," Asami says, "please."

A bitter smile. This cunning woman who's gone through so much—still clinging to idealism, still brimming with assurances like he once did. They were what he thrived upon before he found reason.

"Our leader is a traitor!" he shouts. He peers down. An assortment of faces regard him. Soldiers, civilians, masked and unmasked. Some with mouths opening, telling him to retreat from the edge of the roof, some spouting asinine questions.

Noatak. That name chimes in his mind. When the former Councilman said it, he shrugged it off. Yes, he presumed that Tarrlok called upon a relative in the darkest time of his left, but he didn't attribute that name to the man who stood beside him in their conquest against the bending elite and their supporters.

Grimacing, eyes wild, he steps away from the edge.

"If my brothers and sisters must be in chains for fighting tyranny," the Lieutenant says hoarsely, the hope dying in his eyes, "then I will join them."


The next few days, at the reclaimed air temple, Mako grows ill. They hover in and around the room he sleeps in, his brother and Asami. Only at night. There's so many preparations to make, so many repairs. Several people are recovering from their lost bending as well, and the United Forces is flooded with tasks. A widespread manhunt that is too sparse when their efforts are needed in the city, in other areas of the world to ensure stability.

And so Tenzin cares for his family and waits uneasily. Has his pupil, an incarnation of his father, met harm? Surely Amon is not so unhinged.

"Y'know," Bumi says, "I always thought you two were too serious for each other. Opposites attract. You need someone with a sense of—"

"Not the time, Bumi," Lin says. They peer at the boy's unconscious form. Mako hasn't awakened since his brother found him, but they need answers.

"I'm sorry about your father." Iroh sets a hand on Asami's shoulder.

She smiles sadly and grips his hand into hers, lifting it off. "Don't be. He made his choice." Bolin paces, and Asami goes to him.

"We haven't found Councilman Tarrlok anywhere," Bumi says with unnatural seriousness. "He wasn't at the top of the temple."

"They took her," Mako says, eyes boring into the ceiling. They shift their attentions to him in astonishment. "I—he took my bending, and when I woke up, she was gone."

"Bro!" Bolin is at his side in an instant.

Tenzin shakes his head. "Why would he—he can't kidnap Korra, unless—"

Mako says, "He took her bending first."

Lin closes her eyes, her head lowering. "No."

"Mako, are you sure?"

Bumi says, "And are you sure he took her?"

His hands balling into fists on the sheets, Mako says, "I don't think she'd walk out and leave."

"If that's the case, do you think Amon might be responsible for Tarrlok not being in the attic?"

"That's ridiculous. Why would Tarrlok and Amon work together?"

"They're brothers," Mako rasps. A stunned moment passes.

"Whoa," Bolin says, his face pained, "first Tarrlok is Yakone's son, and then—how?"

"You haven't heard yet?" Mako replies, remembering the rally. "Amon used bloodbending to take people's bending away." They had heard from whispers in the streets, but several, several false reports were coming as the city was thrown into chaos. Now, some refuse to leave their homes. Others start brawls, pointing fingers and committing awful deeds: arson; murder; impolite hand gestures.

"He can bloodbend with his mind," Mako says, "and he has Korra. I've got to . . ." Bolin steadies his brother when Mako sits up.

"I'm here for you, bro." Mako's head swarms. What if he's killed her?

Lin says quietly, "And now we don't know where he is." Yakone attacked her mother all those years ago, and his legacy has once again submerged the city into anarchy.

"Have they been working together all along?" Asami asks.

"No," Mako says, "at least, Tarrlok says he just found out."

"And you thought we had a rough relationship," Bumi says to Tenzin. "Makes you glad for our family, doesn't it?"


"Asami, I'm sorry for what I put you through." Worry etches into her forehead, the tilt of her lips. He's the one confined to a bed.

"Just rest. You're going to be okay." Asami reaches out to pat his trembling hand.

"All of this time, I've blamed Bolin for how I act. Then I blamed Korra." Mako turns his head, his cheek against the pillow. "Your dad, is he—"

"He's in prison."

"I'm sorry, Asami." To himself, he says, "I couldn't save her."

Asami rests a hand on his. "Korra's one of the strongest people I know, Mako. She doesn't need anyone to save her."

Later, when Tenzin goes outside in the dead of night, Naga greets him, padding along the path back and forth until her pads are sore. Going to the docks and howling. She whines dolefully.

"Don't worry, girl," Tenzin says, wishing he can reassure everyone. That he can reassure himself. "We'll find her."


When the Lieutenant was arrested, the wind at his back, he passed some of Amon's followers. His followers. As they passed him, they nodded or bowed their heads.

"Everything Amon said was a lie," he whispers. The visitor room is cramped, angular, and gray.

Asami doesn't know what it's like for the foundation of her life's purpose to be a lie. What it's like to stand up for something so distant, but maybe she'll learn.

She's had the stability torn from under her after her father's deceit. After he attempted to kill her. She can't condone the indiscriminate bombing of the city, the violence. Yes, she's a privileged nonbender, and she's sheltered, but that doesn't mean that she cannot try. Now that she's in control of her father's company, there must be something she can do to help her people without bloodshed. But will they listen to a pampered traitor of a woman?

"I know that it's over," he says numbly.

You served me well, Lieutenant.

His fingers twitch. He was a servant. The benders marched around as the spirit-blessed ones, but then there was Amon, someone chosen by the spirits to confront them.

No, he won't get choked up in front of Sato's daughter.

Lifting her hand off of the doorknob, Asami settles in the chair across from him, resting her elbows on the table. She mellows her expressions. All of her life, she's rarely had to need something, to have something out of her grasp.

"What my father tried to do—it was wrong. But I do think nonbenders have legitimate grievances, and prejudices against us will be stronger than ever before." She waits for him to respond to her statement. When he doesn't, she continues, "I'm the new president of Future Industries. If money and influence are what sway the powerful, then I think I have a fighting chance."

The Lieutenant says, his voice gruff, "You don't think we've tried to do matters peacefully? Benders never listen, and even if they do, they have all of the time in the world. You're Hiroshi's daughter, which benders will only accept as a chance to discredit you."

"I've also proven time and time again that I'll fight alongside the Avatar."

"Then you'll make no friends with my companions. My brothers and sisters have no love for the Avatar's methods of 'protecting' the city." The Lieutenant narrows his eyes, his mouth set into a firm line. "What are you playing at?"

"I don't think the police force will pardon all of the Equalists, and I don't agree with your methods, but there is a problem, an inequality. I still think it can be helped through nonviolent means.

Her words are a festering wound in the back of his mind. It won't work. It never works. If people are not forced to act, they will be passive.

"It didn't work then. It won't work now," he says.

Asami nods, smiling with no mirth laced into her countenance. "I promise you, this isn't the end."