Ba Sing Se is not a city easily navigated. The inner and outer ring sure, they're distinguishable, separated by a small circular canal, but that doesn't account for the sheer scale of the outer ring. No matter what the Dai Li may want, in truth, the outer ring is divided into gang territories. They're just far subtler about the markings than they ever were in my first life.

It's people who represent the marks.

That's the only thing that keeps the Dai Li from cutting them down brutally. Well, that and the trade the gangs bring in. All of them have strong ties to the merchants who deliver any goods to the city, if they're not already running the entire operation. It's the nobles who desire these goods, and try as the Dai Li might, there would be severe consequences to denying them their comforts. Because the nobles are still in charge of politics and the law. They have their own retainers, connections upon connections to one another and their guards tied to their service by loyalty and honour.

In the Impenetrable City, every noble worth their silks has a few benders as guards.

While in truth, the Dai Li might be the most physically powerful might within the city, it does still matter where the money is. Where the blood shows. No matter how disgusting that is, it makes things easier for me.

So, the city is hard to navigate when you know nothing of its workings, and it's even harder to go unnoticed while you get the hang of it. This is why it was such a good idea to try finding contacts who already know all of this, and would tell us.

Thankfully, there usually isn't a need for me to go unnoticed these days, which makes the transition smoother. We're just selling a few things. Trying to make a living, you know?

When I think about it, we're all not that different. We do what we can in our situations. We live and die by necessities that force us to consider things in a different light, every now and again.

But to the experienced eye, we're not here for the simplicity of a merchant's life. We're here to cause trouble for someone. And it pays to know for whom.

.

Oh, how I don't envy the countless refugees this. And I do mean countless. Some might call them a swarm, but that is not what they are. They are not a coordinated threat. They are not a wave. They are, quite simply, desperate in an all-too-human way.

Flat hunting in an over-populated city whose social hierarchy is far too explicit to even have a vague hope of finding a flat that's without holes in the roof, or vermin-infested, or near one of the ever-broken sewage pipes… it makes you realise just how those in power view those with less.

Well. It's a good thing that we have Dionu with us who has contacts and has managed to find us an acceptable place. I wouldn't even mind staying on the ship permanently, but there aren't enough proper cabins for all of us. It's rare to find such an apartment with four bedrooms. One for the women, one for Gorou and Fon, one for Haruto and I, one for Dionu. Peter will go where he wants. All I could complain about is the leaky roof, but that is repair work that we can manage to do in a day. Separate flats might have made some sense, but none of us have suggested it. And until the others decide they want to leave, this is easiest.

Besides, I don't know how Mai feels about it, but I'm sure neither Peter nor I would be glad to live separately. It's been such a relief, speaking to someone in my first language.

Gorou won't leave because he's interested in what I'm doing here. Gathering resources, allies and perhaps even recruiting people to move against the Fire Nation before the comet arrives.

Fon… does what either Gorou or Dionu tells him. Dionu won't suggest separation because he has orders to keep track of all of us.

Haruto won't because he doesn't want whatever familiarity he has with us to be lost. He's young and scared and angry. Especially the latter, which is why I'm almost hesitant to teach him how to fight before he's found some way to release his anger in a way that isn't violent. There's always two participants in a fistfight and the one who throws the punch… well, it can be quite detrimental to the emotional and psychological state.

I'm fairly certain that while neither Circus Girl, nor Mai know where to go from here, they'd prefer not to have to deal with the added danger of living alone. Unfortunately, being a woman does come with its own dangers.

All things considered, we're very lucky.

.

Ba Sing Se is a convoluted mess of well-groomed, blooming ignorance; the usual kind of systemic injustice, only more pronounced (accentuated with little flourishes because what is justice, really?); rampant, close to unregulated markets where you will starve if you don't haggle well; and pockets of crime that have spread themselves into tartan threads in order to survive. You would be lucky if someone wealthy enough needed a servant and made you into what basically amounts to a slave, since jobs are scarce or worse and money is everything. Money is time, is freedom; is nourishment; is meeting someone you can truly love; is the roof above your head; is little, pleasant things; is the people you can meet; is every fucking aspect of your life because humans are awful, greedy creatures who only love each other when they have the time. The money.

Ba Sing Se is an accurate picture of a fraction of the cruelty humans are capable of inflicting upon one another.

Ba Sing Se is also a little boy crying because he's lost and having to judge whether verifying the honesty of that is worth the potential suspicion of the parent. The child seems relatively clean and his clothing was mended well with sturdy patches that seem almost better quality than the original garments. I suppose he's not a thief – or just a very good one, but then won't he have earned it?

I've not done my shopping yet, so I crouch down, knowing my money is secured to my chest. "Hello," I say and look more closely at the big, round eyes watering a rounder face. Well-fed, for lower ring.

Mute.

"Have you lost your parent? If I lift you up high, shout and wave?" – a sad nod.

This is how, in the midst of a city bursting with horrors lurking behind every corner, I meet an honest woman whose lot in life saw fit to leave her and her son the only survivors of her fishing village. She makes a living off sex work, earning just enough for herself and her son from one of the slightly less exploitative brothels in the middle ring that they can afford him clothes and something of an education.

It's an unofficial school that some of the refugees started that survives off of small monthly payments from all who go there – and some anonymous donations. They make me wonder a bit at the do-gooder, but not all people are automatically horrible just because they have more money than they need. I doubt it's blood-money, but the anonymity is making me suspicious.

Anyway, I won't be telling Mai or Peter about the school because I doubt he'd want to go, but I do decide to check it out. It's a good idea, and perhaps something similar could be done in the lower ring, where the only education any child is likely to get is of the pickpocketing variety.

.

The school is a largely unused warehouse whose only redeeming quality is that the rainwater only drips down in some places, instead of everywhere. No one is repairing it because then the owner would use it for its intended purpose rather than tolerating the current goings-on because of ignorance of said goings-on.

It works because the children are entertained by four elderly refugees whose lessons vary depending on the children's interests. They're fed and housed for their efforts and it has the feeling of an improvised modern day-care, so the parents can go to work or secure other necessities for their existences.

My presence is accepted with a bit of wariness, but as soon as I manage to explain the sewage system to an eight-year-old in simple terms, I'm accepted, more or less. I decide to stop by every once in a while.

Doesn't hurt to impart knowledge to people to whom it will make a difference beyond curiosity. Not, that the latter is deplorable. It's just that knowledge can be an advantage that all of these brats could use.

I'll have to talk to Dionu about helping to set up something similar. Without the women finding out because Peter would never forgive me if it resulted in him ending up in day-care. That won't stop me from bringing Haruto here, though. He wants to learn to read. So he will. And it will keep him busy for a bit.

.

Iroh knows that you always meet twice in life.

But he never expected to meet that young waterbender who in his grief for the princess traded clothes with Zuko and let them go. He'd let them go and the only price to pay was that of staying out of trouble. That was a rare kind of goodwill, force of fate, whatever it deserved to be called – perhaps even spiritual intervention – but Iroh made certain to make use of it.

To find this waterbender here, in Ba Sing Se, in an attempt at helping to support the creation of a school, is more than surprising.

Iroh counts himself lucky that he won't have to travel to the Northern Watertribe to repay their debt. It's a convoluted string of events that allowed for Iroh and Zuko to escape that icy fortress alive and mostly uninjured.

And Kaito, of the Northern Watertribe, was at the centre of them. That he now helps to educate children with no means of gaining other knowledge beyond an apprenticeship somewhere – which are rare – is even more telling of his character than that he let Iroh and his nephew go. It reveals a benevolence towards other people that Iroh wishes Zuko would display on more occasions.

And the way he manages to keep the children still by offering enough interesting commentary, or stories, about a young lion turtle whose adventures requires the knowledge of how to calculate this exact problem is more than charming. Iroh is curious. He so likes to meet intriguing people. There are plenty here in Ba Sing Se. But he has especially good reasons for approaching this person.

He does so once the children have been sent packing.

"Don't go causing trouble you can't get out of on your own, brats!"

This seems less than constructive to proper child-rearing, but Iroh knows the value of causing mischief as a young child. It balances all other harsh repressions of growing up and it can only do them good to test their boundaries, of which there are many. And it is good advice.

"Hello," Iroh says to Kaito, uncertain of the name he uses in this place. The man is surprised, if not as surprised as Iroh expects him to be. "It's wonderful what you're doing for them here."

"Hello," Kaito stretches out a hand, a laugh in his eyes, "We do what we can. The name's Kai."

"Mushi. A pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise," he returns, and Iroh can tell that, for all it's worth, it's genuine. Iroh considers honesty in interactions to be a prize beyond mere riches. "Are you interested in helping out around here? We can always use it, if you have the time. There's no pay, I'm afraid."

"A shame. But all the more honourable of you to be here. I'm sure a young man has other things to be doing in a city like this."

"Oh, I do," he laughs, and Iroh doesn't doubt it. This is a man too shrewd, even in his kindness to lead a life of tranquillity as Iroh has come to enjoy so thoroughly. "I'm only here once a week."

"All the same, I'd be delighted to help."

And that is how Iroh ends up helping to teach delightful young children how to read.

.

The pipe smoke burns in the back of Ranra's throat as she watches the other people inside the restaurant talk and laugh and smile.

It's disgusting how fake it is. She can see it in the small shifts, the expressions when the other's gaze is averted and thinks to herself that she should've stayed inside her refugee hovel. Should've settled down with a book and a bit of rice wine and Boris purring in her lap.

The wine she's been served is quite savoury, so she supposes she can wait until she's finished it, but if the dolt doesn't show up soon, she's going to leave and ignore it the next time he sends a messenger Ranra's way, 'I need your help.'

It's almost pathetic how powerful it made her feel for a moment, being the one asked to help. It's the only thing that could get her to agree to meet the man anywhere and she has the suspicion that Guo knows it. If not consciously, then unconsciously.

She watches the lying continue all around, hates how the noise washes over her and does not stay noise, but she is forced to hear the words. "… you're so funny…" "…I don't know how you do it…" "I really admire the way you chase after your dreams…"

Yeah, right. His jokes are as flat as a ten-year-old's chest; whatever it is she's doing is clearly not important enough to be doing it herself and she really doesn't want to let her know just how high she is held in her esteem; and what does that girl care about dreams with her soft hands, fainted face and unfortunate lack of an education that could have made her think for herself, (not-)paid for by daddy dearest, the big-shot textile merchant?

She inhales her pipe's cancerous smoke, swirls her wine, exhales and takes a sip of the wine. Sweet after the smoke, just heavy enough to roll over her tongue nicely.

"…terrifies me. The world is going to shit, I tell you," now that sounds worthwhile. The voice comes from directly behind her, young in a way that suggests he's not had the time to damage his vocal chords with whatever is trendy to slowly kill yourself with these days and very much brimming with honesty. How… disconcerting in between all those platitudes and pleasantries that leave such a bad taste in Ranra's ears that she almost hates other people on principle.

"Don't be such a baby," that's the girl he's with. Sweet, teasing, though she can hear the slight disgust. Oh, she wants a big boy, doesn't she? A strong man to hold her tight and fuck her right. Maybe the other way around.

"I'm serious," yes, that much is obvious. People take their own worries so seriously, Ranra wonders at how they manage to walk with every step weighing more than a cart of wheat, "They were just attacked on the street, not far from my apartment."

Mh, yes, that she's heard about. A boy and a girl, maybe twenty or so, found dead in an alley, the signs of a struggle evident on both of them. Their last friend is still missing. She doubts her remains will ever be recovered. She wonders at those young people sometimes, who believe that going out after dark on their own is a good idea. But it seems to be the privilege of the young to be too trusting and at the same time to demand that that trust never be broken. Or the Dai Li is doing good work. In their books, anyway.

The Dai Li may keep the civilian population quiet with their brainwashing, but everyone who came from the outside, everyone who ignores it, everyone who sees the scars and burns knows. The war is not as removed as it seems. Ranra knows. She lost all he had to it. To the Fire Nation. So there's not much to trust in this city, if it's not towards a single person who would do more than smile and nod and agree with everything.

"So? It happens all the time," a little bitch that one is. Well, not like Ranra's one to talk, although she likes to at the very least claim to be a big bitch. She's been called a bastard a lot, even though it was never her birth that was questionable. Even Boris sometimes gives her that look. However, she doubts the little shit's brain can actually process the insult. He does convey it very well, though. The cat picked well when he showed up on Ranra's doorstep and refused to 'shoo'. Instead it wound around her legs, flirting with danger.

"How can you be so… callous?" Someone's been reading books. How interesting, in this city. How intriguing, in the lower ring.

"How are you not, Haruto?" Good question. She drags on his pipe and takes the rest of her wine in a shallow swallow that she doesn't move her lips for. Time to leave. She knocks the ash from the pipe, gets up, thanking her good sense to pay the wine beforehand because she knows what a leech Guo is when he actually shows up and shrugs into her coat. She slings the scarf around her neck, feeling the coarseness of it, remembering why she doesn't just throw it out – an old thought-process, worn like the scarf and obsolete these days. Even if she wanted to, she couldn't be rid of it now, not without having to spend money on a replacement. She feels her brows draw together.

She turns to the door and notices the two young people, whose conversation she bothered listening to, looking up at her. She stares back blankly and the girl hastily avoids her eyes. The boy, though, can't be older than sixteen, stares wide-eyed. What an odd little bugger. She allows her eyes to brush over his form, then observes he's a on the scrawny side and looks back to the door while she's already back in motion. That boy is right to be terrified, poor thing. But there was more in those eyes than terror. An interest that should not have been there.

It's awkward, this gait of Ranra's, leaning too heavily on her cane for her tastes, but she can't change that, the leg just isn't as strong as it used to be and she hates it. Thighbone fractured at thirty-five and ten years later she's still limping. Doesn't even have the grey hair to make people think it's her age.

Guo bursts through the door just as she comes close enough to open it. He's panting, a mess of panic and relief in his face. He stumbles towards her and lays a heavy hand on her shoulder which she hates even more than the man's face, "Thank the spirits you're still here."

She raises her brows, "The spirits had very little to do with it."

Guo laughs, pushes past her, inside, ears red from the cold outside. "Come on, Ranra, I'm here now, aren't I?"

She sighs. "Why I bother, I have no idea."

They return to her table, ashtray and empty wine glass still there. Guo, of course, knows her usual and so knows which chair to sit in. At least this he does without his general air of obnoxiousness. Ranra removes her scarf, her coat and leans the cane against the table before she sits without grimacing. Guo looks at her knowingly anyway. Bastard.

He's responsible for it, so it's not surprising he's smug it still gives Ranra trouble. Arrogance is not attractive on Guo. His face is too plump for anyone to believe he could wear it well.

"So," she finally says, having observed enough of Guo to determine what has him in such a tizzy, "Who is it this time? Your sister? The dog? Your son?"

They are from the same town. Guo was a ward of Ranra's father, when they were children, a runaway and companion to Ranra and her brother. He grew up to be the stable master and when needed an enforcer. His sister was too young to have much to do with the boys and Ranra, how they'd been.

"She's your sister, too," Guo grumbles and so reveals that it is either the tiny creature they deign to call a dog or his son. Ranra thinks it's not the rat because it would never consider knocking on her door in the middle of the night. What is more, why would Guo consider Ranra family, still? Ranra certainly doesn't.

"Guo, we aren't related," she says and fishes her tabacco from her coat pocket. She packs the pipe again, puts the tobacco back where it belongs and lights it with the matches Guo hands her from where he's filched them earlier, the damned pickpocket. She doesn't comment, as she never did and the other doesn't say anything about it either. The fucker. No apologetic bone in his body.

"Close enough," he says, shrugging in that infuriating nonchalant manner that tells her exactly how embarrassed Guo is. Very. He clearly still has issues with expressing his feelings, just as he used to when he was a snot-nosed brat on Ranra's doorstep.

He wants something now, too. Only it's not food or shelter for his little sister, but the whereabouts of his son. If it weren't for the fact that Ranra knows of most of the goings-on in town – can't not, when it's all she does all day, listening in the tobacco shop she owns that the official police force frequent – Guo would never even consider asking him for help. (Like Boris, he chose right, didn't he?)

For good reason. They hate each other.

She eyes the room for a moment as she takes a long drag from her pipe, contemplating the merits of allowing Guo to stall as she debates her contempt for all persons inside. She signals the young waiter for another glass of wine while she's at it. The boy nods and is off to the bar.

"Has the rat chewed on your knickers again, then?" she asks and enjoys Guo's blush. It doesn't reach his cheeks like it used to, but his neck turns a nice colour, as do the tips of his ears. How he still allows himself to be embarrassed by these things, Ranra doesn't know. They've certainly known each other for long enough that Ranra used to make a game of it, but it's in large parts lost its appeal, like most things. These days she exists as a creature of habit and little else. (Pathetic, like the rest of the abandoned world. Or not so abandoned, if the rumours about the Avatar are to be believed.)

"Thank the spirits, no," Guo says a little more forcefully than necessary.

"Then I don't see the emergency," the waiter appears at her elbow and exchanges the glasses without invading her space. He'll get a nice tip, that one. He's been working in this place for a while now, and never has he annoyed Ranra with smelly perfume, a horrible voice or spilling things. Must have grown up in a restaurant or something to know these sorts of things, he's too young to have been in the business for long otherwise.

"You never do," Guo is a little resentful at that. What does he expect? Ranra never cared much, won't start now.

"Hn," she says, smiles and adds, "Nothing to drink?"

Guo begins to snarl, then holds himself back. He needs something from Ranra, after all. "You arse. What a thing to ask someone who's trying to stop."

A light gasp from behind Ranra. Ah, the young ones are listening in. Good instincts for sniffing out interesting conversations. The waiter says nothing, but his posture shifts. Ranra thinks it might be amusement. Yes, a nice tip indeed.

"You weren't much of a drinker in the first place."

"Of course you think that. Because then you would have to admit that you have a problem," Guo really wants a fight. He often used to be like that, angry with the world, and often enough Ranra herself. Now what he wants is to vent and he'll do it passive-aggressively until he's gotten what he wants. Then, he'll be openly hostile and ungrateful. Ever the same. Ranra wonders how Nick will react to the presence of his father in the place he decided to hide from him in.

"Problems-"

"Are only opportunities. Heard that one before. Get us some bread and butter, will you?"

She raises a brow, Guo always likes hearing himself end that sentence more than when Ranra does it. The man only orders bread when he can't pick what he wants and when he can't decide, he is dealing with emotional problems of a magnitude Ranra doesn't care for. Never did. Guo is an imbecile at the best of times, but he gets worse when he worries. He's spent his entire life worrying. Ranra never did understand that. To worry is to hurt twice.

"Nick is missing," he suddenly blurts out.

Ranra smiles widely. Guo narrows his eyes.

"I spoke to him this morning just after breakfast. He wanted a place to stay. He should be in my so-called guest bedroom at this very moment," Ranra says coolly and wonders why she even left the place. Guo could've just said so and they wouldn't be having this conversation. (Maybe she wanted someone to pick a fight with.)

"And you didn't think to tell me?" the idiot knows perfectly well that Ranra doesn't care for alerting anyone about anyone's whereabouts. Especially when that 'anyone' can take care of themselves.

"Evidently not."

Guo's face twists, "You haughty miserable old hag!"

Ranra drags on her pipe and taps it against the rim of the ashtray. Then she looks at Guo again and sees that there's not much more of a rise to get out of him without risking a punch to the face. Guo would care little about the spectators. He's pesky that way.

The Dai Li doesn't get involved in domestic matters unless they 'disturb the peace'. Someone punching a middle-aged woman is hardly their concern. Then they would have to care about spousal abuse.

"Your son is fourteen. He goes to work. He knows which parts of the ring to avoid. You need to allow him some free reign over his own life before he decides it's too much and leaves," Ranra finally says, "Just think of how you were at that age."

.

I would have thought that building up contact with the university as someone not with the inner circle of nobility and using a false name would be far harder. Because these are the young scions of the most wealthy individuals within the country, it's an atmosphere of snobbery that I don't like and don't fit into well. However, it's where I have access to knowledge that at least isn't Fire Nation propaganda. Not, that it won't be carefully regulated and certainly redacted to suit at least the nobility's narrative.

But I am here, through the passing interest of Professor Singh whose interest in Gorou's small sculptures and my various efforts at traditional Watertribe carvings led us to hold a conversation of some substance.

"These look authentic," he'd commented, wire-framed glasses slipping on his nose as he brought one of the carvings to his face to better insect it.

"That's because they are," I'd replied lazily, allowing my native accent to flow into my speech, curious as to whether he would catch it.

He had. "You made them?"

I'd shrugged, smiled. "I figure if I get to see the world, the world should get to see some of me."

He'd laughed. "How long have you been away from the North Pole? Were you at the siege?"

The question was slightly insensitive, I'd thought then, but all I'd done was nod and narrow my eyes at him.

It'd been 'clear that he'd caught how improper I'd felt the question was. Even so, he'd continued, in that unapologetic way nobles tended to have around those they perceived of a lesser social standing than themselves. I wasn't used to that sort of treatment, and so it rankled. "Would you be willing to give the university the opportunity to hear of the events first-hand? We haven't been able to get a decent account of it, since the Northern Watertribe doesn't have dealings with Ba Sing Se University."

My eyebrows had risen, and my tone made it clear what I thought of the way he'd treated me. "Didn't you get an official account from one of the representatives? You must have some contacts at court."

"There is a difference between what the King is told and what one might tell a scholar," he'd said. He'd been frowning as he continued, scrutinising my posture, as though re-evaluating who I could be. "The King takes no interest in what the university does beyond offering some interesting conversation partners when he gets bored with his pet bear," he'd been rather dismissive of his ruler, but I'd thought then that this man had to be aware of who actually ran the country far better than myself. "Your description of the battle would be of great interest to myself and a few select others."

"For the chroniclers? Well. I suppose that you'd want to document this, eh?"

The casual way I'd spoken in had confused him once more. "…Yes."

I'd openly scrutinised him, then. Assessing. This man had access to documents and people that I would find very interesting. Looking over the Fire Nation archived documents I'd taken from Omashu and forgotten about for so long had been very interesting indeed. "So long as I get to look over what's written down for the history books, I'm not opposed. I would also require several copies," I didn't think this would go beneath the Dai Li's notice, but this was a great opportunity, "So long as I get something in return."

"What is that? Beside the copies," the last part he'd said as though he thought they should be enough.

Business. Negotiations here tended to go in such a way as bartering did at the market. Ask for more. "Access to the university's library, unlimited – that includes what isn't necessarily available to other students. And someone to bother about questions that I might have about what I read."

"Done," he'd surprised me with the easy acquiescence. Then again, many of the documents were probably rather old, for which one needed to know the specific dialect of the time to understand them. Little did he know that I was probably one of the few individuals who was fluent in enough of them to get by. Pakku had done a number on me.

He'd continued, "Is next Monday alright for you? I can organise a team of scribes until then and have the colleagues sit in. How detailed an account can you give?"

I'd shrugged. "Monday works. I was there for the battle, the strategizing and I briefly met the Avatar."

His eyes had shone with a manic glint. "Monday, eleven o'clock, at the university gates. I'll meet you there."

Then he'd hurried off. And turned on his heel, almost running over another person behind him.

"Your name!" he'd exclaimed. My grin must have reminded him that I was rather shrewd.

"I am Professor Singh of Ba Sing Se University, Head of Historical Studies," he'd introduced, tone pompous.

"Kai, son of Utakata of the Northern Watertribe," I'd lied, thinking of the young, dead warrior I'd known long ago. "Until Monday, Professor."

Now I sit at a large desk in the library, in a far-off alcove, private and full of nostalgia for another lifetime. I'd always wanted to know what was known about the Air Nomads and how they could have been wiped out so easily.