"Aren't you warm, though?"

Kazou pulls on the heavy silk of his robes. "Yeah, I guess. But I'm always hot. It's part of being a firebender."

"Can I . . ." Rini reaches over and he holds out his sleeve to her. She runs her fingers, nails neat, over the red fabric. The silk itself is airy, but it's layered to create a rather spiky and scary look and although it's rather cool on his skin outdoors it can get sweaty when he's inside. And they're both inside right now, sitting in his . . . receiving room, or whatever this is supposed to be. He doesn't think he's ever been here before even though it connects to his bedroom. "Yeah, I don't know why there are so many layers here. Well, I guess it makes you look bigger than you are . . ."

"Should I be offended?" He kind of is.

". . . No. It's a tactic that a lot of the seamstresses in the middle district use with the younger nobles in the market. But with the older ones they have to try to hide the stomachs and stuff."

She lets go and he tenses back into the cushion. "Do you want to be one of those seamstresses?"

"I guess. I mean," she swallows and her brown hair falls into her face. It tends to do that when she's nervous. "My dream would be to work at the palace. Working for the royal family is everyone's dream. Well, not everyone's dream. But you know what I mean."

He taps his hands against the low table, tracing her hands with his eyes as she grabs another cup of tea. He doesn't know why she is because it took her two hours to finish the last one and he'd constantly had to heat it up, but to each their own. "There are seamstresses who work at the palace?"

She points to the fabric draping off of his arms before gesturing at her clean and yet rather plain outfit. "Who do you think makes your clothes?"

Kaz blushes because he honestly hasn't thought about it in a while. At home Mom used to make or mend theirs, and occasionally they'd get new items — usually for special events, or for school — from the market. The clothing here just appears with Ryozo and he's never questioned it. "I don't know."

She looks at him with a rather serious look on her face and he's scared that he's terribly messed up for a second before she bursts out into laughter. "You're so easy, Kaz. Really. I'm not mad at you. I doubt any of you fancy people know what goes on around you."

Rini says his name differently than his parents do — without the hard sound that constitutes his mother's name. She says it softly and it's different and strange, because she's the only person in the Fire Nation who he's trusted yet to call him by the nickname. An image comes to his mind, briefly, of Nen or Genji summoning him with nothing by the monosyllabic word, and the corners of his mouth turn up.

"There you have it," she leans back, her smile still easy-going, but he feels guilty.

"I don't want to be ignorant or anything. I . . ." he doesn't think this will help. "I didn't really have much help like this before. Or anything like this before."

He's braced for her interrogation, the incessant questions which are sure to follow that statement — you appeared out of nowhere, where are you from — but she suddenly clams up. And he finds that odd because this might only be his fourth or fifth civil conversation with Rini but he definitely knows at this point that she's a rapid-fire speaker and doesn't stop unless it's to listen to his small interjections while she rolls on the balls of her feet.

"Oh."

"That's it?"

She takes a sip of her tea gingerly, and that's how he knows something is wrong. The steam already looks like it's gone so he reaches out a hand underneath it and she pulls it back, droplets falling on her white outfit. He moves back with a frown and something heavy in his chest when he takes in her green eyes staring intently at the cold liquid and her bottom lip bitten. "What's wrong?"

"Just — we're not supposed to ask you about what happened before you came here," she says uncharacteristically quietly, and he frowns at that.

"Did my aunt tell you that?" She nods and he taps harder against the table, moving the teapot a notch to the side. "You can ask me. It doesn't matter."

"She's kinda scary, you know."

"I'm scary too," he says almost petulantly, and that brings a smile back to her face.

"Yeah, you can act like you're tough. But you're not," the words are lighthearted, probably teasing if he's analyzing them correctly, and he almost turns red again. And also a little like a failure, like he should snap back and say something but — no. He takes a sip of his steaming cup, reaching out a hand once again. She allows him to reheat the tea. "But if you're okay with answering questions. And you won't sell me out . . ."

"Never."

"Okay," she smiles. "Who did help you before? With your clothes and stuff?"

The innocent way she says that, hair flopping in her eyes again and mouth quirking, breaks him a bit. He'd thought she would ask the basic and curious questions: ones about where he was and who his parents are and if his father is alive. His clothing is much too irreproachable an enquiry and any doubts about her sincerity evaporate when he sees the trusting look in her eyes.

"My mom," he admits. "She used to just help me figure out what to wear."

"You're your mother's son, then, aren't you?" he's goaded, and he bites his lip to hide the fact that the statement elicits a sobering visage. Yeah, he is.

"What about your mother? Does she work here too?"

Rini looks outside the window, where it's dark, turning her face away from his. "No, she works near our home, taking care of some of the neighbor's kids."

"Oh." Then another thought comes to mind. "How old are you?"

"I don't —" she starts. "Uh, fifteen."

She sounds uncertain and he puts that away because he's confused. "Shouldn't you be in school?"

Her cup hits the table hard. "I finished school last year. It's fine. It's not like you go to school —"

Her fast pace and worried features give her away; she feels something about this. "I have tutors and lessons and things. It's basically school."

"We don't all need school. I can be smart without having fancy tutors —"

"Whoa," he holds out his hands for a second, his voice almost edging out of its constantly unemotional state. "I didn't mean that — you're smart. Really smart. I was just curious. You're one of the youngest people here." She is.

"Yeah, I," she breathes out and holds the cup again, taking an awkward sip. "I get sort of defensive about that, sorry. My mother . . . got really hurt, last year, in an accident in one of the factories. One of her arms. We didn't have much —"

"I'm sorry," he blurts out, and it's fully genuine. "You shouldn't have had to — you shouldn't be here."

She smiles weakly and almost comically chugs what's left in her glass before picking up his and the pot, balancing it in her arms, pointing her chin out to where the sun has set. "I should go back to the kitchens before I have to go home."

Kaz draws himself up to his feet. "Don't stay alone," he notes before something else starts worming its way into his mind. Rini's mother unable to work — the days she has to spend working here instead of going to school because of that. Before the shop did well when he was younger his mom and dad used to live in a small beaten down apartment, and for years they hadn't had much at all. It had been a few years after he was born that they'd managed to save up enough to buy their house, and even then it had been longer before that loan was paid off. She doesn't know that he knows her struggle, and he might not, completely, but he wants to help anyway.

"Hey," he says before she rounds out the door. "You live in the Cabbage District, don't you? Like where that rice was, the buildings that got torn down."

"Yeah. We don't usually call it that, though."

"It's where a lot of the silos are, right?"

"Yeah," she balances the teacup against her hip and he reaches out to grab it. "You don't have to do that. Why do you ask, anyway?"

"The investigation I'm doing. I feel like the person I'm trying to catch might target the area again," he smirks before grabbing the pot from her as well and coming out. "I need to stop by the library and the archives. I'll walk you to the kitchen."

Unfortunately, he isn't able to find targets as easy as the enticingly challenging silos this time, but after a few hours going through the Fire Nation's meticulous merchant notes he's able to figure out that there was a shipment of fresh vegetables which came through the dockside this morning — it'll be kept in a warehouse in the Cabbage (or lower-east, he supposes) District overnight until it's ready to be sold to restaurants and struggling vendors the next morning. He knows vegetables are staples, at least.

It isn't until he's climbed a tree and is poised to jump on top of the wooden structure that he once again realizes that this isn't going to be like the rice, where he can just cut open a hole and everything will come out. The vegetables are packed tightly inside of cartons, he thinks, and he doesn't have the strength to just throw dozens of boxes out onto the street.

The mask is clammy against his skin and he's debating a retreat when he feels cool metal next to his throat. A small movement of his legs lets him realize that his sword is still clinging to his back. So this is someone else's weapon.

If he's executed right now a lot of bad things will happen. He'll probably never see his parents again and they might not like anymore but he's pretty positive they don't want him dead. Azula will probably be pissed and she'll learn that he's the one causing the mayhem here. The rest of her cabinet will figure it out. Iroh will probably die in that cell.

"Who are you?" he hisses through clenched teeth, muscles tensed and ready to jump to the side. Off the branch, probably. His eyes dip down and he can see that the leap is significant. Still, he'd rather take another broken bone than death. He's not sure how he would explain that, either —

"The question is who are you?" A rather deep male voice booms, almost happily. The blade retracts from his neck but he doesn't dare turn around. "And what exactly are you trying to do?"

He sounds curious.

"Did you follow me?"

"Sorry to say . . . son? You're rather young, aren't you — you're not the quietest. You should work on your stealth. I could hear you going through the leaves here like an ostrich-horse."

"Fine," he says tightly. "You've made your point."

A heartbeat passed. "What are you trying to do?"

He's not at risk of death anymore but the ground is starting to look rather tempting. This man could change his mind at any moment and slice his neck open. "What do you think?"

"Ah, a mask," a hand reaches out to trace the smooth contours of it, and Kaz, shocked, reaches up to deflect it. He almost loses his balance on the branch before a hand, large and warm, sits on his shoulder and holds him down. He wishes he'd fallen down — he probably can't even try in this position. "Oh, you're the one who did that incident with the rice. I heard about that on my first day here," his tone is so bright. "What's this? You trying to cause trouble again?"

"Are you going to report me?" he scoffs.

"No, son. I don't work for the Fire Nation," those words don't sound calming. "Not the biggest fan of them at all, actually," and that's worse, because this man could kill this nation's prince if he wanted to. "What's in the building?"

"Produce," he says. "I was going to —"

"You were going to play hero again," he can almost feel the nod from behind his shoulder. "Great. What's the plan?:

"W—wait. What?"

The hand on him swivels and turns him until he's facing the large person behind him. It's hard to see a face in the moonlight, but the man is taller than him, his hair shorn at the sides, and his muscles are outlined between the leaves.

"Not a big fan of the Fire Nation, didn't I say? I think you're trying to do the right thing."

Kaz freezes. "I don't have a plan."

"That's fine," and suddenly the moon moves overhead so that he can see dimples and skin that's the same warm shade as his own. "I'm good at plans. What's your name, son?"

He stays silent. "Okay, then. I'll call you Blue. Had an old friend once who liked wearing masks and running around causing trouble. You Fire Nation, Blue?"

Kazou nods roughly, because the sharpness of this man's jawbone and the soft edges of his face, the warm tone, look like his mother's. There's a sword strapped across his back, black as night, and his eyes are blue and sparkling. "I'm Sokka. Master Sokka, actually, but you don't have to call me that. Let's go in, yeah?"