AN: Hello? Anyone still there? I know, I know. It has been literally YEARS. US Presidents have come and gone since the last time I updated this story. I have no excuse, except to say that I went through a devastating period of writer's block where I couldn't write anything at all without emotionally breaking down. A writer's block I'm just now beginning to claw my way out of. I admit, I wasn't planning to return to this story - and I can't say if I'm back for good (it may be another year before I update, lol, but seriously though) - and after all of this time, I thought you all at least deserved an update while I was willing and able to provide one.
Please be reminded, it has been years since I've written, and even longer since I've thought about this story. Be understanding, if you can. I'm rusty as a doornail.
So, onward!
LONG COOL WOMAN (IN A BLACK DRESS)
Katara - Zuko was coming to remember - was a walker.
She walked to school every morning during high school, even as Zuko drove slowly next to her, urging her to just get in. She took the long way to dinner through the snow-draped streets of New York in brutal winter, just to see the Christmas lights. She walked the grounds of HQ to take advantage of the bracing up-state air. She walked in the blistering heat of the Sahara, in the fatal cold of Siberia, on vertical cliff-faces of Tibet. Like a US Green Lantern postal worker: Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat — in brightest day, or blackest night.
He remembered one such mission in the deep and untamed jungles of South America while searching for a cartel hideout when Katara insisted they walk the ten or so miles from their village base to the allegedly well-stocked shelter. Of course, there were other options. Jeeps, dune buggies, all variety of two-wheelers. Any and all resources were available to them, existing for the sole purpose of avoiding walking.
However, Katara insisted and persisted. "They'll hear or see any vehicles coming five miles away," she explained. "The noise alone will be enough to have them locked, loaded, and firing with deadly intent by the time we get anywhere close to the hideout. Walking is the best, stealthiest option."
Of course, she was right. She was always right, in the end. Yet, what both Zuko and Katara had failed to consider was that they wouldn't be hiking through a pleasant, well-maintained nature preserve, but a jungle. There were no roads, no signs, not even ruts in the earth to give them direction. A two-hour hike morphed into a struggle to survive. When the first stars began to show, with them no closer to their goal, Zuko knew they were in trouble. The sun rose and set and rose again before they literally stumbled, beaten and dehydrated, upon the cartel hideout. It was another day of waiting before their target actually showed up. Turns out, they weren't due for another few days.
Now, when given the opportunity to be driven around Paris, France in a luxurious — and heated — vehicle, Zuko was more shocked at his own surprise when Katara blatantly refused.
"Paris, Zuko," she'd said. "Paris."
That was a good hour ago.
"If we end up lost, Sage, I'm holding you personally responsible," Zuko said, beginning to sweat under his warm coat and feeling more than a little bit peckish. Katara, however, was having the time of her life. Her head was constantly facing up, towards the fine architecture, elegant promenades, and the gray Parisian sky.
"Don't you know where we're going?" she asked.
"Oh, sure, in theory. I might just as easily say I could get us to the lost city of Atlantis: just dive into the Atlantic Ocean and head straight down."
Katara turned to acknowledge him — one of the few times she had since they set out on their quest — and the smile she displayed was sparkling with a precious kind of contentment. It stopped Zuko's complaining. Stopped it dead.
In an unprecedented show of affection, Katara looped her arm with Zuko's, pulling her body close to his. When she started walking again, she kept pace with him.
"I'm sure we'll be fine," she said. "Besides, isn't this fun? I mean, just look at this city! There's something so ancient about this place, yet fashionably new. As if everything fantastical, and tragic, and magical has and will happen here."
Zuko grinned with her, helplessly caught up in her excitement. It was so easy to forget that all of this was old hat for him. Elegant and ancient cities were the backdrop to his life. For Katara, it was still new. She was able to see the brilliance in something that had become dull for him.
Settling in, Zuko wound his arm tighter with Katara's and let her easy, come-what-may pace guide him.
"You're right," he said. "I guess this is kinda nice."
They passed like this for a while, in the silence that comes with good company. It had been a long time.
-8-8-
Zuko did, in fact, have a vague notion of where they were going. Rue Montorgueil was a quintessentially Paris neighborhood: all bakeries, bistros, and boutiques lining walkable cultured streets. This building, in particular, was a narrow slab on plaster squeezed between two much larger buildings. A weathered sign above the door read simply: Costumier. Based on the large cracks in the walls and the worn hinges on the door-knocker, it appeared as if no one had darkened this doorway in many a year.
"Are you sure this is the place?" Katara asked, staring up at the windows made dark by heavy shades.
"Pretty sure," Zuko said. His uncle had mentioned this person only a handful of times, and his directions to their establishment — when shared — were touchy at best.
"And who exactly is this person meant to be?" Katara asked as they lingered on the curb. They'd knocked some time ago, to no response. "A member of the Order?"
"An honorary member," Zuko said. "Or so the legend goes. Apparently, there was a situation in the '50s… She was a member once, but now, she's only an outlier."
"Well," Katara said. "There's the lotus tile, etched into the doorframe. They can be no one else but Order, right?"
"True. Or it could be a trap."
"Zuko, just because something's suspicious doesn't mean it's a trap."
Zuko laughed, if a bit bitterly when hit by a sudden memory.
"Yeah, remember the last time you said that?"
"That wasn't a trap."
"Oh, really? Funny, I thought a situation where you're led into a false sense of security to be cornered and apprehended by one's enemies was exactly the meaning of a trap."
"Okay," Katara said, smirking. "Let me clarify. It was a trap, for you. Always a sucker for the honeypot, aren't you, ZuZu?"
To that, Zuko had no response. He was a shy, withdrawn teenager who held attractive women on some unreachable pedestal. Honeypots, while shameless, were clinically effective.
As they continued to wait, Katara turned from the door and faced the wide street with its cobbled stones and street lamps just beginning to shine in the winter's early-evening light. She closed her eyes and inhaled. Paris called to her, as it called to everyone, eventually. It was an oddly intimate moment, watching Katara experience all of this for the first time.
"You're made for this city," Zuko said quietly. It was something he'd wished to keep to himself, but his sentiments had an annoyingly untimely way of making themselves known.
"I'm sure everyone thinks they're made for Paris," Katara said, eyes still closed. Cold air brushed against her skin and caused goosebumps to break out on her neck, but she made no attempt to draw her coat tighter across her person.
"Yes, true," Zuko said. "But you appreciate it. You look at it with a lover's eyes. Hell, I should know." Katara's eyes opened, turned towards him, and there he saw it. It stopped his heart every time, most especially when it had nothing to do with him. "I'm quite acquainted with that look," he whispered.
Finally, old door hinges protested loudly, and the hard oaken door before them creaked open, only enough for a sliver of light to pass through.
"Oui?" a sandy, clipped voice said from somewhere within. Zuko attempted to peek inside — catch an eye or a face — but saw only darkness.
"The White Lotus opens wide," he said in ineloquent but effective French.
There was a heady pause before a voice answered back in accented English, "To those who know her secrets."
The door did indeed open wide, and they were welcomed inside.
-888-
It took a brief moment for Katara's eyes to adjust to the dismal lighting, but once they did, she was entranced. It was like walking back through time.
They were surrounded by clothes, finely made and rich in texture. Renaissance, Victorian, Medieval, Romantic: any time period one could bring to mind, Katara recognized a piece of clothing that fit that time to scale. Lining the walls, folded into corners, draped over mannequins, even suspended from the ceiling. As an art major, this display of history brought to life was a bit overwhelming for her.
"This is incredible," she said, speaking to Zuko but not entirely caring if he heard. A Tudor-era brocaded gown of scarlet caught her attention. "The detail on these pieces. I mean, these textiles are exact, all the way down to the cross stitching…"
Katara reached out her hand. The desire to touch was instant and hard to deny.
"No touching," said a voice, sharp like the edge of a knife, from somewhere behind her.
Katara stood up rod straight and spun on a heel with the precision of a soldier, half ready to salute. Before her stood a truly small woman. Katara had her by at least a head, and Zuko could lean against her like a stool. The only thing that might have made her height a bit more imposing was her silver hair, piled up on her head like some great blossoming flower. Her skin, drawn tight and gaunt over her face, was a milky pale from obvious lack of sunlight.
Her ensemble did wonders when it came to expanding her tiny frame. Layers, layers, and layers of silken red kimono. At first glance, it might be mistaken for recently made, but Katara thought that was impossible. The textures and images woven into the textiles were only ever seen in ages long past. There might not even be a way to properly duplicate them. It was possibly the most accurate representation of a kimono Katara had ever seen, and she wasn't quite sure what to make of the audacity of someone wearing it. Items like that belonged in a university vault or a museum exhibit behind armed guards, locked doors, and glass as thick as the trunk of a Sequoia tree. Not on some tiny old French woman whose face was forever turned down from permanent frowning.
"Forgive me, Master," Katara said. She fell back into old Order ways so easily, she surprised herself. "I couldn't help it. They're all so bea-"
"I'm no Master," the woman said. The word "master" came forth from her with such disdain that it sounded like a cough. "I don't have the bloodline, the money, or the foolish presumption to call myself a master like so many others do. Leave all of that Order connerie at the door while you're under this roof, child."
Katara blinked dumbly, not quite sure what to say or if she should bother risking embarrassing herself by speaking at all. She'd forgotten how ornery Order members could be, especially when discussing each other.
"Master Hama, I presume?" Zuko said, drawing the old Master's attention. "Or should I call you Hellebore?" The woman looked at Zuko once, quickly, and her mouth turned up in a cruel smile.
"Your uncle must be very ashamed, to send a pup to make his apologies," she said. "Only he's still alive to remember that name."
"The names the Order gives us never change," Zuko said. "And we've come on Order business."
-8-8-
Katara and Zuko were led into a kitchen so narrow and cramped that it seemed to actively combat with the grandeur and fantasy of the rest of the strange home. Katara sat primly in her seat at a linoleum kitchen table while Hama fumbled around, mumbling in Canadian French, supposedly making tea. Zuko sat adjacent to her with his legs crossed, right foot bouncing nervously. They'd been sitting like that for some time.
For all of Hama's claims, even Katara had heard of the great Squad assassin, Hellebore. She had a reputation as magnificent as it was infamous, called a witch by her enemies and allies alike.
She was initiated into the Squad at a very young age; what some might consider too young, even by the standards of an institution that coached teenagers on how to kill a person with a paperclip in between high school classes. She was allegedly found by the Grand Lotus' predecessor, so the story went. Her parents, siblings, and close family were all gruesomely murdered in the suburbs of Quebec, victims of a senseless anti-Inuit hate crime. Only Hama was spared, and only because she remained hidden by forcing a fist in her mouth to muffle her sobs. Apparently, brutally traumatized orphans made for ideal assassins. Hellebore's body count was high enough to be disturbing.
As Katara stared intently at Hama's back - still draped in an exceptionally made kimono - she struggled to see the one they once called Frost Bane. She stood straight, not even the hint of a crouch in her spine. Her hands shook slightly, enough to be noticeable; bony and fragile. She reminded Katara more of this kindly widow who lived in Katara's building, not a legendary killer. Suddenly, a pressing and rather obvious thought hit her.
"Does the Godfather know about this?" Katara whispered to Zuko across the cheap and shoddy kitchen table.
"Well, I didn't tell him," he said, not looking the least bit guilty. Katara leaned back. That meant that this entire visit wasn't even on the agenda.
"Don't look so scandalized," Zuko said with a playful smirk. "It's not like we're sitting down with my father and giving him a detailed explanation of how we plan to kill him. This is just visiting an old friend."
"The Frost Bane is an old friend?"
"Katara, I'm surprised at you. I swear you used to be much more spontaneous." Zuko stopped a moment, thinking, then shook his head. "No, never mind, pretty sure you were always this uptight."
A biting retort was poised on the edge of Katara's tongue, but she swallowed it back when Hama returned carrying a rattling tea set. It was another piece of refined history, something found in the Winter Palace of Imperial Russia. All gold, glass, and gemstone inlaid in bone-white porcelain. Against the mediocre setting of the small city kitchen, the tea set, the woman, and the entire situation stood out even more.
They sat quietly for a moment, sipping something earthy and bracing, nothing like the fruity tea to which Katara had grown accustomed. The Order communicated through tea, like how other organizations communicated through symbols. To drink of another's cup was to share each other's confidence.
Finally, Hama spoke.
"You, I do not know," she said. Katara noticeably balked when she realized Hama was speaking to her.
"No," Katara said. "No, I don't believe you do. Forgive me. I'm Katara Atka, called Sage by the Order."
"Aahh." Hama's dark eyes widened significantly in recognition, and she stirred a small spoon languidly around the edge of her teacup. "I have heard of you. They say you're like me."
Katara had the wherewithal not to choke on her tea. "What?" she said, incredulous. "I mean, I would never presume. Your skills as Hellebore are legendary."
"Are they?" Hama asked. "Tell me, do they rock young members of the Squad to sleep with the tales of my exploits? Do they encourage you to count bodies instead of sheep? Forgive me if I sound bitter. I know the young can find that type of honesty shocking."
Hama's lips curved around that bitterness in a dark smile, daring Katara to look affronted.
"We understand your...hesitancies when it comes to the Order, Hama," Zuko said with practiced composure. "However, this request is a special one. Comes directly from the top."
"Oh, I'm sure it does. Grand Lotus Master Iroh Hiryo. What pomp! Tell me, young man, what can little, old, and disgraced Hama Aok do for the great and wise leader of the Order?"
Zuko didn't blink when he said, "We need disguises."
Ah. Yes. Now it was coming together for Katara. All of those gorgeous costumes...
Hama's long, bony fingers tightened around her cooling teacup enough to make those bones creak. She sat still for a while, staring down at her lap. Then, she nodded her head once, resolutely, and reached into the folds of her kimono. With no ceremony or explanation, she pulled out a gleaming 2mm Kolibri and laid it flat on the table top.
"I admit, I'm surprised," she said. "Of all the things I thought Squad members would do upon showing up at my door, ask for a costume was the absolutely last thing."
-888-
Zuko's reaction upon hearing that the infamous Hellebore wasn't only real and breathing, but a little old lady sewing costumes in some Paris back alley, was deservingly awed.
Every time a member of the Squad showed the slightest bit of promise, they were compared to the Frost Bane, the fist of the Order during its most influential era. The '50s were days of war, death, corruption, and conspiracy: just begging for a morally righteous killer. Those stories seemed so far away and long ago, it was difficult for Zuko to accept them as anything but myth. Every culture had its mythos, why not the Order?
Yet, when Iroh sat him down and went through the whole dark history of Hama Aok, Zuko found nothing mythic or legendary about it. Only sad.
Now, here he stood in the midst of a small studio, the deadliest woman in the world measuring his waist and shoulders with an old tape measurer.
"You're awfully tall, aren't you?" she said to him accusingly as if he was tall for the sole purpose of frustrating her.
"I'm actually quite average," Zuko said. "Respectively." Katara giggled from the corner of the room. After Hama felt assured that they weren't in fact there to murder her, Katara had been given a bit of a looser leash when it came to the costumes. She was intent on studying them with all of the respect and attention of a scholar.
"How many targets?" Hama asked as the end of her tape measurer snapped back into place.
"Twelve," Katara said. "In half as many days. And we're staying with them all in the same hotel."
"Mon Dieu..." said Hama, shaking her head. "And I thought the Cold War was demanding. You'll need something completely different for every hit. You must… transform."
"And how exactly can we do that?" Zuko asked. He gestured between Katara and himself. "She's a brown-skinned, blue-eyed, goddess, and I have a scar covering a majority of my face. Usually the people we kill only see us once, and never again."
"Goddess, Zuko?" Katara asked. The way she smiled shyly at him warmed his heart.
"Disguising is not the problem," Hama said. "Contacts, hair, clothes. Selling a new identity is more than the superficial. Here. Let us try an experiment I use with the actors."
Hama opened a wide wardrobe, packed tight with hanging garments. She thumbed through pressed shirts, pants, dresses, and skirts until her arm was made heavy by a stack of clothes. She gave Zuko a rather casual outfit of sweater and jeans. Katara was given a voluptuous gown with a massive skirt.
"Take these, try them on," she said. "There is a changing room towards the back. Return, and I will show you what I mean."
There was only one designated dressing room in the studio, so Zuko allowed Katara to go first. While they waited for the fashion show, Zuko remembered an item he'd been asked to deliver.
"I believe," he said, reaching into the inside pocket of his coat. "This is yours, Hellebore."
He presented the ancient Master with a single knife. It was long, thin, and finely pointed like an icepick. There was no proper hilt, just a few inches of boiled leather the protect the hand. The metal was a dark and inky black, sucking in all surrounding light.
Hama reached out and slowly accepted the knife by its makeshift hilt. Even with shaking, arthritic hands, when she held that odd little knife, her grip was strong.
"My uncle says he's been keeping it for some time," Zuko said. "He never thought he'd have an opportunity to give it back to you."
"Il est encore si lourd," she said as she turned the knife over slowly in her hands.
"I never thought such a pencil of a knife could be heavy," Zuko said. "But carrying it, I was more aware of its presence than my own gun."
"It's a knife for killing. It makes itself known," Hama said. "A kiridashi. You use it once, just once. The poor fool never even knows you're there. I remember very clearly throwing this knife at your uncle thirty years ago. I refused to carry its souls with me any longer."
"How about now?" Zuko asked.
Hama grinned, although it was not a light, open grin. It was wolfish and sorrowful. "You reach a certain age, young man," she said. "You assume that any souls you claimed, you'll be meeting again soon enough. These nightmares no longer scare me."
The door to the dressing room opened, and Katara appeared from behind a divider wearing an enchanting cotton white dress. It was '50s in style with a wide, full skirt made cloud-like by a petticoat. The collar was popped and dramatic, the sleeves rolled up past her elbow. A line of buttons traveled down from her clavicle, ending just before the dressed dipped into her narrow waist and flared out in all directions. Zuko couldn't remember ever seeing Katara in white, never mind a white dress. It brought to his mind images of azure skies, green fields, and - he berated himself for thinking - a small brown chapel somewhere away from everything.
Obviously, Katara was enjoying it, as well. She sported a glorious smile and twirled in circles on bare feet.
"It's beautiful!" she said in a winded voice.
"Of course it's beautiful," Hama said. "I only make beautiful costumes. This was for an opera, a remake of Norma. It shimmered on stage. Now, Sage, come here. Look in this mirror."
Hama grasped Katara by the shoulders and moved her in front of a large three-way mirror. She unwound the plait in which Katara kept her hair and let it tumble about her shoulders in thick, curling waves.
"See, you have already changed. Your body is lifted, as if carried on the balls of your feet. Your shoulders are relaxed, your smile is easy. You must remember, both of you, that you're on a stage. You must play the part. What words would you use to describe the woman who wears this dress?"
Katara inhaled and watched herself move and adjust in the mirror. She observed her reflection, observed this new and unknown person walking around in her skin.
"Weightless," Katara said. "Confident. Innocent. Young. Quick to laugh, and jovial."
"Good," Hama said. "Very good. Now, your Order name is Blackthorn, oui? Tell me, these words Sage has just named. Weightless, innocent, jovial. Are these words you'd use to describe Sage, the assassin? Or even Katara, the woman?"
Zuko considered lying. He wanted to say, Yes, of course! Katara is the epitome of sunshine, rainbows, and good times. But then, that wasn't the truth, was it? Not anymore, anyway.
"No," Zuko answered instead. "Confident, yes. Young. But certainly not weightless. And too much blood to be innocent. I wouldn't know this girl if she approached me on the street."
A look almost like hurt passed across Katara's face, but it quickly dissipated into cool indifference.
"Voilà," Hama said. "There is your disguise. You must forget, pretend that you are not just wearing a costume. You must become someone new, every time."
Zuko chuckled, rather belligerently, and shook his head.
"Clothes make the man, right?" he asked.
"Exactly. Clothes make everything."
"How does this -" He circled his face sharply. " Fit into that philosophy, then?"
Zuko tried not to dwell on his scar. He was a grown man, far beyond the times when children would stop, stare, and laugh or sneer. He'd accepted it as something as essential to him as his hair or his hands. However, there were moments - brief and passing - when he remembered how different he was. Changing cosmetics was more than enough for most people, enough to have a new face, a new life. For him, however, to change his face was never an option. His identity was his alone. That is why his missions were often quick and final. His appearance was such that it stuck firmly in one's memory.
Hama gave Zuko the benefit of not looking pitiful, or empathetic. Instead, she looked determined.
"We shall see," she said. "Try on your ensemble. Let's see who you become."
-888-
Too much blood to be innocent.
That is what Zuko thought of her. Her partner in death, her friend and one-time lover. Someone who knew her well, possibly better than anyone. Katara looked down at her young, sinewy hands. Long fingers that knew how to wield a katana, deliver a left hook, and pull a trigger. No, certainly not innocent. She curled them into fists.
"You left the Order," Hama said. Katara turned to see Hama searching on a crowded workbench. She moved aside bolts of fabric, bright pens, pincushions, and sketchpads. All of the tools of an artist, not an assassin. All except for the odd stick-like knife she had displayed on the window pane.
"I did," Katara said. "Almost four years ago. There was a raid on HQ -"
"I know," Hama said. "I had heard. Many of our own were killed. Your father, correct?"
Katara tried to swallow, only to find her throat dry. "Yes, him. Among others. I couldn't stay after that."
"I left the Order, as well, once," Hama said. "I was 17 years old. I lived in HQ, never even left the grounds when I wasn't on missions. It was my home, my family. The Squad, the Order, everything. The only family I ever had for a very long time. Leaving them...it would have been easier to cut off my own arm. Still, it was necessary. I refused to be their puppet anymore."
"Is that how you found your way here? To this?" Katara asked.
"Yes, well. As I'm sure you've found, hiding from the Order is no easy task, especially if they're determined to find you. I had to learn how to hide. How to shield myself behind costumes. Soon, I suppose it became a profession. Besides, who doesn't enjoy a good show?"
Hama glanced up and smiled at Katara, a true, amiable smile. A friendly woman, if a bit lonely and lost.
"You learn how to find a new family," Hama said suddenly. "You lose the compulsion to fight, to defend yourself at every slight. You stop judging others and you stop judging yourself. It is a slow process. A kind of detox. Yet, when you come through the other side, you feel like...well."
Hama lifted a small bowl from her table. It was the blue of the ocean, deep and shifting with the turning of the light. Veins of gold ran throughout the bowl, binding together impossibly broken pieces. Katara nodded in understanding. Living kintsugi. Such was the life of anyone who left the Order on their feet, not on their back.
"Did you ever come back after you left?" Katara asked. "Even just for a moment."
"Once," Hama said. "For a funeral. Ah! C'est ici!"
She returned to Katara's side by the mirror, holding a blue mask. It mimicked the grinning face of a fanged demon with white teeth and black eyes. It was made from some kind of mesh material, sturdy but with considerable give.
"I'm sure you know that Iroh eventually gets what he wants," Hama said without preamble. "And what his nephew wants, Iroh wants."
Katara's hackles sensed an opportunity to rise. She wrapped her arms across her chest in an obvious show of confidence, without a hint joviality.
"Meeting another Squad agent who left the Order in drama and disgrace? Hearing my tragique story away from my loving Order family? I believe a moral is meant to be taken from this story, n'est-ce pas?"
"Hellebore," Katara said, feigning shock. "Don't tell me that the Grand Lotus has ulterior motives in bringing us together, outside of completing this difficult and game-changing mission."
Hama actually threw her head back and laughed. It was like the sound of ice shaking in a glass.
"That old man? He lives for ulterior motives. Like Parisians live for wine. Blackthorn! Come on out, let us see. Not even ballerinas are such prima donnas."
The changing room door opened, a bit too loudly. There was some controlled stomping, then Zuko appeared. His outfit certainly lacked the, well, impact of Katara's cotton dress. Simple, sturdy blue jeans and a loose-fitting gray sweater. Zuko's face displayed his disenchantment. His hands were deeply rooted in his pockets, and his shoulders bore a familiar hunch.
"Such a transformation," he deadpanned.
"Zuko, be respectful," Katara snapped, ever the uptight adult.
"Right, forgive me." Zuko bowed his head stiffly. "Thank you for such a transformation."
Hama didn't look in the least bit insulted. She moved Zuko to the dais in front of the mirror, and once again asked, "What words would you use to describe the man that wears this outfit?"
Zuko looked at the reflection, but mostly he was looking at himself.
"Reserved. Stubborn. A little bit boring."
Katara hid her loud guffaw behind her hand. That was Zuko to a T. At the very least, Zuko on a bad day.
"I see," Hama said thoughtfully. "I'd like you to try something for me. Put this on."
Hama lifted the mask to give Zuko a good look.
"I suppose it's technically a disguise," he said. "But a bit on the nose, don't you think?" He looked over to Katara and winked.
Hama slapped his bicep, hard enough to sting.
"Il suffit de le mettre," she said. Zuko laughed at her irritated tone, but he took the mask and began to fit it over his face. The material had more stretch than Katara had initially anticipated. It seemed to flatten almost completely to his skin, like latex but thicker.
"How does it feel?" Katara asked. Hama had begun feeling around the edges, stretching it back over Zuko's ears, and up into his hairline. Where it landed, it stuck, leaving no give anywhere.
"It's sticky," Zuko said. His voice came out very clear, not in the least bit muffled. "It has an energy to it. Almost like static."
"That's the electricity," Hama said. She reached up on her toes and pushed a spot on the crown of Zuko's head, right where the mask ended. Suddenly, the thing came to life. A ripple of light ran over the mask in quick succession. Hundreds of thousands of pixels were illuminated in different colors, shapes, and shades.
"This feels weird," Zuko said. He was standing stock still and his hand reached instinctively towards where his concealed Ruger should have been.
"Stay calm," Hama said. "It's just warming up."
She was holding a device in her hand, about the size of a deck of playing cards. It was predominately a black screen that Hama tapped and swiped at, and as she did, the mask morphed, shifted, and changed shape. Then, it began to slow it's frantic twitching until it formed a cohesive image.
Katara gasped so loudly, it might as well have been a scream. She fell backward, tripping over a mannequin and staggering into a chair.
"What?" Zuko cried. "What is it, what's wrong?"
Katara's mouth hung open as she stared. Her head felt heavy and off-kilter. The entire world was tilting at an angle.
Finally, she managed to slowly speak.
"Zuko," she said. "Your scar. It - it's gone."
For a long moment, Zuko copied her shocked and terrified stare. Suddenly, he all but flung himself at the three-way mirror, practically pushing Hama out of the way. He held his face close to the glass, enough to where he had to turn his head to see clearly. His eyes were symmetrical, wide and bright. His eyebrows grew in evenly on both sides, and skin that was once red, rough, ridged, and burnt was now as smooth as Hama's porcelain.
Then, Zuko laughed.
AN: I'm going to be honest with y'all, it is now 3:30 AM. I wrote this chapter in pretty much one sitting. I'm on a strange, marvelous high. So grateful for anyone and everyone who reads this chapter. It really represents a positive shift in my creative life, and I hope I can maintain it.
As always, R&R, please!