It's also the name of a Deadmau5 song.

Summary: Three times it was Hope's fault.

Characters/pairings: Hom-Tom

Prompts:

Impel/inchoate

Inveigle/libation (2-14-11 and 2-18-11 dictionary [dot] com word of the day, respectively)

(None)

Word count: 1,110

Author's note: The last one took forever. But I was watching anime and managed to finish Death Note (12 days), Inuyasha (17 days), and Bokusatsu Tenshii (3 days), and I started watching Fullmetal Alchemist.

So yeah.


I. In which a stink bomb is thrown

Toss, catch. Toss, catch. Up, down. Spin. Repeat.

Hope repeated this mantra to herself as she tossed the wooden ball in her hand. Standing across from her, Tom-Tom frowned. "No," he said, "I'm not going to do it."

"Aww, but it'll be funny!" Hope insisted as she tossed up her toy again. Tom-Tom glared at her, a girl two years younger than him and three inches taller.

"I only see a bunch of angry earthbenders and — hey, hands off the hair, HANDS OFF THE HAIR!"

Hope snatched her fingers back, which had been pulling on the boy's thick locks. Her face scrunched up into a pathetic pout and she then whimpered. "It's just so fluffy though," she whined.

"No; don't cry! I'll come with you, kid; promise."

"YAY!" squealed Hope as she flung her arms around her friend. "So here's the plan..."

oOo

"How did I ever get into this?" complained Tom-Tom. "There's no way your so-called 'plan' will work, Hope."

"So maybe I haven't worked out all the kinks yet," admitted the girl, "big deal."

"Are you kidding me? We're not even benders! How are we even supposed to get close to the generals?"

"Well, it's simple. You're a dude. So, you take this stink bomb, throw it, and run. That's all you have to do."

"You do it."

"I told you I can't; if I get caught messing with them one more time my mom will kill me."

Tom-Tom rolled his eyes. "That's what you say every time. I'm always the one who gets in trouble."

Hope smirked. "Exactly."

oOo

Perfect shot. Target in view. Trajectory probable. Path unobstructed. Ready for launch.

Tom-Tom lowered his telescope and handed it to Hope, who was crouched behind a bush like he was. Across the palace garden, the Council of Seven lingered after a long morning of meetings. The seven generals were not far from where the two children hid.

The youth behind the shrub weighed the small object in his hand. Developed by Chief Sokka, it was a small, versatile explosive device that released a powerful stench upon impact. It made its way from the boy's palm, through the air, and hit the ground in front of General Fong.

"Shoot," said both non-benders simultaneously. They made a mad dash for the garden gate, hoping to outrun the surely furious, stinky Earthbender.


II. In which someone gets dead drunk

Two cloaked figures, one visibly male and the other, female, weave through the dwindling crowd. It is dusk, when all loyal children of fire retreat. However, these two are not descended from Agni. It is true that the male lives among their clan and adopts their customs, but the girl is of another race completely and bears no relation to most in the City of the Phoenix.

But this is irrelevant. Both appear identical to every other person on the streets anyway, so why pay attention to these two in particular?

It is because they are going in a different direction, away from the residential district. Now, this may seem unimportant, but for every action, there is a reason behind it. It just so happens that their motive – rather, the girl's motive – is not completely innocent.

They make their way past the commercial section and into the lower districts, covertly slipping past bystanders who give them one look and no more. The girl leads the man into a small tavern tucked between two taller buildings.

Once inside, they throw off their hoods. "This is the place," says the girl in a brash voice dripping with sarcasm. She nudges her friend.

The man surveys his surroundings: a brawl in a corner, several burly men crowded around a bar and a woman with a tattooed shoulder casually sipping a drink as if she hadn't a care in the world.

He cringes. The girl beside him senses his hesitation and adds, "You deserve a drink; after all, it IS your eighteenth birthday. You're officially an adult now."

"Just one," the man shakily replies. The girl grins.

"Hey Tom, have I ever mentioned you're sooo sexy when you're swingin' aroun' tha huge ass sword?" slurs the girl as she staggers out the door.

"Yes; you said that eight times already," says her mostly-coherent companion. He caught her when she lurched forward. "Now wouldn't you look at the irony?"

"Whut ironyy, is that like, a type o' metal?"

"Alright, we're taking you home." Tom-Tom drags the stumbling Hope down the dimly lit street.


III. In which a fate is morbid.

Aunt Wu's fingers are wrinkly as they run across the young woman's palm, the nineteen-year-old notes. Streaks of gray run through the fortune teller's carefully styled hair adorned with a single golden crescent.

"I see your fortune laid out in front of you. You will never grow more beautiful; however, you will be adored by some and scorned by others. When you reach the age of thirty-three, your territory will be under siege by a horrible enemy. You shall be the one everyone will turn to, although you have no bending whatsoever.

"It is true that you will have been a renowned conqueror at the time of which I speak. Indeed, you will have under your control the entire region of Basu, as well as the upper islands of Juzi. To be more precise, they will belong to your husband, but he will have relinquished all power over these areas and turned them over to you, having abolished all laws pertaining to discrimination by sex years before.

"'Save us,' they will entreat, as if they have no other to turn to. One in particular, I see, will fall upon his knees in hopes of gaining favor. He will grovel at your feet, catering to your every order.

"You shall refuse despite his pitiful cries. 'Silence,' you will command. 'I have no patience for such trivial matters.'

"'Please, I beg of you,' he will sob. Still you shall turn a blind eye, for you bear no sympathy for such weaklings.

"You dismiss your disciples. Then you turn to the gentleman presently kneeling on the elaborate carpet before you. Your hand instinctively falls to the hilt of your great blade. It unsheathes with a shink.

"A bloody mass drops to the floor. Crimson liquid seeps into the expensive carpeting and pools at your feet.

"You look upon the disembodied head. Your sword is reinserted into its scabbard. 'Farewell, my beloved,' you murmur.

"Of course, I could always be wrong."

"Bullshit," snorts Hope. "As if I'd be stupid enough to marry Tom-Tom, of all people. Fuck him, maybe. Marry? Hell no."


I swear, I'ma get back to the whole prompt thing next month.