Adventuring teenagers; the hidden talents of a common boy
A question, a question old as fire in the dark, primitive as rubbing two hands together for a little heat, a little substance, a little spark; a question spoken by milk-fed babes tugging at at a mother's skirt, by wide-eyed knights seeking treasure maps and reasons for living; a question born in innocence, bringing beginnings; the question that follows the pilgrim as he breaches a mountain and sees the slicing valleys and dipping hills that mark the journey ahead, a question—where are we going?
"Where are we going?" Korra asks, laughing, breaking into a run, one hand caught up in the warmth of a boy's fingers. For once she, an Avatar, the blessed prodigal daughter with the wisdom of a thousand gods, doesn't know where she goes—and the teenage waiter in the plaid apron who smells of ginger root and crushed mint and buckwheat, he is the child trusted with the answers.
"You'll see!" Bolin says cheerfully, looking back every so often to smile encouragingly at her. His eyes seem greener than usual, if such a biological miracle is possible, and the feel of this boyish gaze on her stirs something strange in her stomach (a few hundred years from now, another Avatar will see a blinking emerald in a market stall, a green very similar to the sixteen-year-old Bo's eyes, and she will suddenly feel the ghost of Korra's young heart, and the skittering glee that accompanies adolescent sentiment).
They race up the streets, underneath the glow of the dying evening sun, weaving through crowds of returning day laborers. They slip by young women burnt red by hours in the fields, factory workers with ruined hands and tongues black as pitch, businessmen spilling numbers like prayers: all the quiet denizens that sustain a city and its fledging monsters of industrial and technological revolution. The sky is filled with the smoke of their life blood and their daily talk (our heroes don't hear it, but one working man whispers to another: didja read in the papers, those miles and miles of flowers gone black, with the water just comin' right outta them—but these explanations will come later, let our kids laugh and be free of danger for as long as they are able).
After a childhood spent sprinting out of the arms of the local law enforcement, Bolin is quick on his feet, but she is not one to be bested by a mortal busboy: they run and run, as though pursuing hellhounds, as though chasing down the glories of myth, up and over rising slopes and under bridges, passing knee-deep in rainwater. They pass through short-cuts and jump over wire fences, egging each other on like the simpletons they are ("betcha a set of noodles I can clear that pile of bricks and still beat you to the corner" "noodles, ha, by the time we're done the only thing you'll be eating is my dust!")
Bolin comes to a stop a few blocks away from the center of the city; they stand in a little side-street alone but for a few unattended flower pots above and a skinny stray cat sprawled on a stoop who eyes them with the casual disinterest so characteristic of felines. Hands on his knees, Bolin pauses to catch his breath ("tired already, bow tie?" "yes ma'am") before pulling himself to full height and signalling at something in the distance.
"You seen this before?" He's pointing at the gigantic, glowing monument right up ahead, at the next corner; a famous landmark, major tourist attraction, and Republic City's architectural pride and joy.
"Uh-huh, I've already been to Sato Tower," Korra says, "Tenzin took me sight-seeing last week. Jinora told me all there is to know about it, too. It was built by Mister...something or the other Sato because he's… really rich or some such." She shrugs, raising her hand in an aimless, casual sort of wave. She is never purposefully indifferent, but the intentions of man seldom mean much to her, and she is not one to feign interest. Divinities, by their very nature, would rather speak than listen. "Tallest tower thing in the four nations."
"Ah-hah, that's where you're wrong," Bolin grins, "Sato Tower sure is big, but it's only the second tallest."
Before Korra can roll her eyes and huff (just what are you going on about), Bolin takes a deep breath and strikes the ground with both feet, clumsily but energetically, ripping through the pavement and revealing, in a city's hidden sleeve of concrete, a passageway that dips deep down into the damp viscera of the earth. At this disturbance, the cat jumps up, glaring at Bolin with unconcealed irritation before settling down again.
"Ha, look at that!" Korra exclaims. Then she exhales sharply and turns to him, surprised. "Hey, wait a second, you can earthbend?"
"Only a little. Mostly I just make holes." There is a reason behind this: holes are easy to hide in (necessity is the mother of invention, and boys without mothers encounter necessity quite often). After all, Bolin's done more than his fair share of hiding (from police in the night, and gangsters with knives, from disconsolate dreaming and the interminable waits for bro to come home), though he doesn't tell Korra that. "I'm not good at it."
"You should have told me! I'll help you get better!"
Bolin shifts his feet, scratching his cheek and smiling at her a bit apologetically. "Thanks, but I'm not much of a bender, really. Anyway, that's not important right now." He gestures theatrically at the passage. "Ta-da! Ladies and gentleman! A secret tunnel!"
His distractions prove efficacious for his ends; Korra laughs, abandoning the topic of bending, much to his relief. "Where's it lead? Where are we going?"
He leans in close to her and lowers his voice to a whisper, twice the coquettish liberty; her proximity numbs his better senses, filling the crevices in his mind with dark honey and the gaps in his syntax with the breathy pauses common in the dumbstruck adolescent. But for a moment it seems the cosmos have grown grudgingly sympathetic towards a little boyish indiscretion, loosening Bo's tongue and giving him sufficient confidence to answer her with question with an open invitation (though perhaps it is Korra's own influence that imparts this confidence: the blue heat and gutsiness she exudes enveloping and uplifting his childish spirit; often it is friendship rather than the forces of the universe that change the malleable metal of the heart).
"What do you say," he starts, "to a little adventuring?"
Korra grins slowly, purposefully (the stray cat turns to look at her with some surprise—perhaps it senses something in this blue-eyed god or her trembling realm; animals often notice what people will not). She steps forward, lifts her arms and drops wordlessly into the hole, as simply as slipping into sleep, as easily as falling in love. The air in her wake, the street she leaves behind—these seem drier and colder for her absence, in Bolin's eyes. So it makes all the sense in the world to rush in, smiling despite the dark, and follow her.