I thought it would be one of those moments where minutes felt like hours, walking up to that shabby old home. Instead I felt like I was flying, hiding in the shadows up to the window on tippy-toes, sliding open the dusty glass window with the broken lock. I used what Mai called my "sneaky fingers".

I could be a master thief, if I wanted. I knew I was stealthy, I knew I was fit for the job, but murder? That was…a little unorthodox. A little impetuous.

A hop, skip, and a jump off the low led sill and onto the old wood paneled floor was child's play, yet still the aged pine moaned loudly under my soft bare feet (because shoes make too much noise, of course) and that was new to me. I stared down curiously at my footing. What had caused the floor to shriek so loudly under me? Did I DO that…?

I think, perhaps physiologically, I wanted to be distracted. My ID wanted so badly to please Azula, yet my ego and superego so desperately desired a hasty failure.

I shimmied across the floor quietly to where the pots and pans hung somewhat neatly in a row, nailed to the wallpapered kitchen wall. I caught my reflection in the least worn pot.

My hands trailed down my breasts, down stomach, my hips… Perhaps I had gained weight. However, I would never be the one to call it bad weight, my hips more developed, my theighs more defined, it was a softening weight, a lady-weight, a sexy weight.

However, it was hindering, would I keep my somewhat post-pubescent curves at the sake of flawless stealth, or would I need to work masterfully to regain my muscular posture and demeanor? How often would I truly have to do this? It seems as though I'd be with Azula more than anything, and for that sake, yes, I would keep my curves, perhaps she could enter me in a dog and pony show. Metaphorically, of course.

Becoming lost in my own thoughts, my own vanity, even if for a moment, became a deadly flaw, sidetracked and blind my hands shook. Unaware, the vial dropped from my left grasp onto the wood-floor with a light pink and a crack, I could only stare as the vicious liquid oozed into a puddle on the ground.

And in such a simple blunder, such an amateur mistake, the mission became near impossible. I quickly had to reanalyze, I had already been in there too long and I feared that if I took any longer I would risk the chance of Azula leaving on without me. What was the mission? To kill. Did it matter how? Perhaps not, it was to ensure my loyalty to Azula. Could it still be done? Of course, there's a million ways to kill. Could I do it?

…Could I?

My eyes, never resting, scanning the room corner to corner for anything that could do the job. What would be less painless? A blunt object to the head, or a bread knife to the jugular? I thought of the blood. No I could not do that. I thought of the warped skull. No, I could not do that either. Suffocation, perhaps. But he would struggle, put up a fight, know he was about to die. Remember my face, unforgiving. No, I could not do that as well.

But I could always block chakra, I could always block arteries. Could I use my talent like this? To murder blindly? I had to, I was a trapped butterfly caught up in the flame of a candle, too close to fly away, all I could do now was fly though quickly with precision and mastery, and hope my wings weren't so fragile.

There was nothing like the feeling of that moment, knowing you can't turn back, that there is NO way out but onward. I had to let go of my own mind, I had to do this blindly, like a machine, unfeeling.

I stopped worrying about my stealth and more about my time, I was becoming blatant, I tromped down a hall and through the door where I found the old man lay, snoring lightly, on his bed under his quilt.

I walked up to him more quietly, more aware of what needed to happen next, there was no stalling. No more detours.

The first blow was, and always is, the hardest, located near the pulmonary artery, it was a swift motion, like a frogs tongue jutting out for that spilt second to catch the butterfly, then recoiling with its prey, just as fast as it appeared.

He lay motionless, still in REM sleep, I could see his eyes flutter behind the lids. One after another, I hit more arteries, more chakra. Now it was only a matter of time, to watch as the blood would struggle and hope perhaps he would not suffer. His pulse began to slow, and eventually his eyes began to flutter open.

I held my breath.

"Gaia…?" His voice was dry and hoarse, and his eyes fell in and out of focus on me. I remained silent, still holding onto what little breath I managed to suck in.

"Gaia is that you…? Why haven't you come to see me sooner, Gaia? Aren't you still my little girl…?"

I had never felt such emotionally intense pain, this man was going to die, I was going to kill a father, one who still felt so dearly about a daughter he mistook me for.

I hesitated then spoke lightly "Of course… You know how busy I am…"

"Are you still seeing that boy, Gaia? He's such a nice boy… I knew you'd have the best in life…Your mother was the same way…"

If he was going to die, I'd make his last moments pleasant. I would play along, only to regret it later.

"Yes, daddy, we're getting married. I wanted you to be the first to know…"

"Oh, my little flower… you're getting married…you're getting married…" His smile was only a silhouette in the dark room, but it was weak, and his eyes were beginning to roll back slightly.

"I'm so glad you're happy for me. I can count on your blessings?"

"Of course… my blessings…" he became breathy quickly, I sat on the bed near his and held the old mans hand. It was soft and wrinkled, old strong hands, hands that solved many problems and held many darling people.

"I love you, daddy."

"My Gaia…" with a final squeeze of my hand, he fell into eternal slumber. I lifted my hand and let his slip off of mine. Holding back tears, I covered him up neatly, and made him look presentable for whoever may find him this way, perhaps his Gaia, his precious flower.

My exit was hasty and rash, I couldn't leave the presence of the area soon enough. I wanted to get back to Azula, back to something comforting, something I knew well.

I learned my wings were made of steel, yet my heart was made of the finest sand.