So here it is, chapter three. The first real reason why this story is rated T. It's rather...gruesome. You'll see when you read it.

Also, I do not own Avatar: The Last Airbender.

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Chapter 3

To think how differently things would have gone if she'd just looked up. If she had known, she would have laughed. And then she would have cursed and cried. He'd been right there in front of her, held in the same thrall as all other benders by her music. If she'd kept playing, he would have given her everything he had, and she still wouldn't have known. She wouldn't have let herself look at him, just like she wouldn't let herself look at any of the countless other people she tricked into 'donating' to her. The Avatar would have given her everything she needed, eventually would have helped her find her brother, if guilt's hold on her hadn't forced her head down.

As it were, Zana played until nightfall, not long after he had left, taking money from the wealthy and unfortunate alike through her music. She knew she'd have to move on soon. Never before had she stayed more than a few days at any one city, and here she was already pushing a week. People would wonder why it was they felt so compelled to pay her, and the smarter ones would figure it out. She'd be attacked and chased out, just as she had been at Omashu, back before she knew what the music could do.

Once the light of the sun was gone and none but the city's drunkards remained on the streets, Zana tucked the flute away into an inside pocket of the white robes of mourning she had received at Fire Lord Azulan's death. She smirked at the memories of that day, when all people, royalty and peasants alike, had worn them, saddened by their loss. But locked away in her room, not allowed out for even her grandfather's death, she alone had worn the red suitable for everyday life. Her face fell, however, when she recalled the day she had finally donned them, when no one else did. The day her uncle left with her brother, whose face she didn't know and name she couldn't remember.

Lost in her memories, she almost didn't notice the crowd of people that moved towards her. Most were drunk, that was easy enough to see by the way they staggered and stumbled as they approached her, and those that weren't fully inebriated were at least a little tipsy. Several shouted raucously, and the stench of alcohol on their breaths made Zana gag. They stopped in front of her and although they were not silenced, they were quieter, and vaguely expectant.

"Can I help you with something?" she asked nervously, a discomforting feeling settling in her stomach.

"Yeah," said a large man, stepping forward. "Yeah, you really can." He was obviously the spokesman, as no one else made to speak beyond wordless shouts.

Zana eyed him up and down. He was a short, rather square-shaped man with broad muscular shoulders and arms that hung down to the knees of his short legs. His angular jaw was thickly bearded with coarse brown whiskers of the same color as his hair, which was short and unkempt.

"You," he growled menacingly, "have been stealing from us."

"No!" Zana protested. "I haven't stolen anything! I just play my flute, that's all!"

"Like hell you do!" the man spat at her feet. "Then how is it that none of us remember giving money to you, you little harlot? If you're not stealing from us, why do you have all of that?" He pointed angrily at the full bag of currency in front of her.

"Please, calm yourself," her voice raised a pitch as her heart pounded faster from fear. She'd stayed too long. "You've had too much to drink, that's all. In the morning you'll remember it, I'm sure!"

"I HAVE NOT HAD TOO MUCH TO DRINK, YOU WHORE!" the man's voice escalated to a furious roar as his hand formed a fist and struck her across the face. The force of the blow sent Zana sprawling on the ground, and the flute fell out of her pocket, clattering on the ground. Her face stinging and tears in her eyes, she reached for the unnoticed instrument as the men behind her gathered up the sack of money.

After struggling to push herself back into a sitting position with her weak arms, Zana brought her reclaimed instrument to her lips and played two quiet, feeble notes before it was snatched away from her. Another, taller man with longer hair smirked at the horrified look on her face, her flute held in his strong hands.

"No!" she cried, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. "Not that! Keep the money, fine, just give it back!"

Wordlessly, he knocked her on the head with a closed fist and laughed. Again on the ground, Zana struggled to keep her consciousness only to slip into darkness.

The girl out of the way, the crowd of men turned their animosity from her onto each other. They fought among themselves about who should get how much of the money, and which one of them would get the flute. Focused on their bickering as they were, not one of them noticed as Zana rose from her place on the ground in an effortless puff of air. Her colorless hair was now the deepest of blacks, and it seemed as though the whites of her eyes had been consumed by her pupils. With a single, graceful, sweep of her arm, white-hot flames circled around the men, trapping them in a frightened huddle. A flick of her wrist, and gusts of wind made the fire climb higher, magnifying its heat.

"What...what are you?" the man who had first antagonized her whimpered, his eyes wide in terror.

Zana did not reply; merely twist her lips into a smirk, an unnerving sight with her blackened eyes. Then she pulled both arms upwards, and two slabs of stone slid out of the ground on either side of them. As she slammed her arms together, the pillars did the same, crushing the men between them. She didn't flinch at the sound of their screams or crushing bones. She didn't even twitch as their blood fell on and around her like rain. She only looked up at the night sky and circled her arms, watching uninterestedly as the distant clouds flowed downwards and settled on the ring of fire, extinguishing it with a loud hiss and the rising of steam.

With no change of expression, no hint of remorse for the lives so ruthlessly ended, Zana turned and walked out of the city gates, unheeded and unchecked. It was many hours before the color of her hair and eyes became normal and her mind became her own again. She discovered that she had no memories of what had happened. She didn't know where she was, how she had gotten there, or why she had so much blood on her robes. But foremost on her mind was the absence of her flute. After searching desperately for it, she slumped against a tree in the lonely forest she found herself in and cried for the loss of the only reminder of her uncle.

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Alright, so the ending's not all that impressive, but I was tired when I wrote it. It could be worse, right?

Anways, R&R please.