Fluke
Reki. His name had been Reki.
We must have been no older than six-years-old when we decided to no longer use the names we remembered ourselves by. For me, it'd been what others had already taken to calling me, and so it came naturally. For Reki, I'd already managed to make fun of his name enough times by calling him Reek that I supposed it just stuck at some point. I would jokingly reassure him by saying that it was close enough to his name to hardly be noticeable.
There was something amusing about it. In a city where so few had any remembrance of what their mothers had named them, instead longing for the opportunity to go by something other than the first nickname they'd been given, more often a sick joke than a heartfelt compliment, Reki and I had decided to do the exact opposite. We decided to get rid of them, forget the last things tying us to our families and our pasts.
Granted, I didn't remember my mother, or much of my past at all at that, and Reki only had fragments of what her voice had sounded like left inside his head. More likely than not, our families had been killed during the Fire Nation's siege. Or, also likely, though a tad less romantic, we'd been sold for scraps or left on the side of the street. Still, we'd had more than most, and had told ourselves, some years after the siege, before the riots had even begun, that our best bet was to let go of the pasts we hardly remembered anyway. We'd convinced ourselves that it would be in our best interests. That it was the only way to survive out here.
Even when he was bleeding out every drop of blood in his body as I'd held him in my arms, I'd refused to call him by his real name thinking that, maybe, it would be exactly as we'd assured one another, and he would keep on living if I just stuck by the code we'd agreed to, thinking that, if I just refused to call him Reki, he would live.
What a sick fucking joke that'd been.
He was dead, along with about five dozen other Rats and Hornets that'd been slaughtered like animals in a completely avoidable bloodshed, and only because I'd stuck my nose somewhere it didn't belong. Because I thought I could do some good, because I wanted to get rid of the guilt I'd rightfully accumulated after a life in the slums spent looking after nobody but myself, watching as people around me suffered because of it. What just irony it was then that my attempts had resulted in no more than getting everybody I ever knew getting killed in one fell swoop, and all the more guilt to pile atop me.
Five dozen dead in what couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes, their blood on my hands, and me, the person responsible, sitting in a quiet steel box of a room on a cotton mattress. Whatever cruel sense of karmic justice this was, it evaded me.
They were over me like vultures when first I'd entered past those walls. They ordered me to strip down to nothing as I stood still, facing a steel wall. I watched years' worth of collected dirt and grime wash off of me as they sprayed me with high-powered hoses, chuckling to themselves as I unsuccessfully tried to scrub grime off of me that seemed like it itself was a part of my skin. The blood washed off easier, and going all down the drain into Citadel's sewers as one interrupted flow of watered down red, it was impossible to tell which of it was Janick's, which of it was Reek's, and which of it was mine.
I never realized just how much hair I had until it was falling to the ground in clumps around me as they shaved it down to the centimeter so as to remove a lifetime spent accumulating lice.
They'd confiscated my personal effects, which included only, at that point, the clothes off my back. I had no doubt that they would burn them, considering them too much a risk to leave unattended to, quite possibly carrying remnants of the old plague still between the seams.
Then it'd been the wounds. They cleaned, disinfected, and sewed them shut one at a time, painstakingly removing pieces of debris from my insides with the exception of an earthen fragment lodged deep enough inside my chin that it would be more a danger to remove it than sew it shut around it. It was inconsequential anyway, small enough not to do any harm, but still, it would always be there, a reminder of what'd happened, and so would the scar
By the end of that day, I could no longer recognize myself in the mirror of the steel room they'd shut me in. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen my reflection. I'd always had an image in my head of what I'd looked like, spawned from ages ago because I sure as hell was not that same person now. I recognized none of what I saw. I didn't recognize the uniform I wore, I didn't recognize my hair, I didn't recognize the scar on my chin, the bags under my eyes, the creases in my skin. I only recognized my eyes–still gray, though tired. More tired than I think they'd ever been.
It would have been nice if I'd been able to sleep that night.
I had no idea how much time had passed since that day. I had no window to watch the sun rise or set, and counting the days by the meals they fed me didn't help. I was unaccustomed to what the stretch of time between meals was like for those who didn't live in scarcity and squalor, and the variety in the foods they brought for me meant nothing. I was served eggs for some meals, stew for others, and I imagined those accustomed to such variety and inner city and/or Fire Nation norms would have been able to identify when each was appropriately served, but not for me. I'd tried counting the time down to the seconds between meals, the highest I'd been able to go twenty-seven minutes before one stray thought or another would throw me off path, make me lose count, and send me down a spiral of regret, and worse, self-pity, which made me all the more angry at myself.
I couldn't bring it in me to ask the personnel who brought me my meals what day it was, what was happening, or anything for that matter. Sooner or later, with enough silence, I imagined I would forget what my own voice sounded like just as I'd forgotten what my face looked like. I would have liked that too. To never talk again. The words I spoke, whether it was trading secrets for meals, standing watch for the Hornets, or trying to broker peace, had only ever gotten people hurt, whether I wanted them to or not. The world was a better place without them, I figured.
The Fire Nation didn't give me that choice though as after an indeterminate number of days, they sat me down in a room that wasn't the one I'd been sleeping in, with questions to ask.
I only vaguely recognized the man. He wasn't the same one who had first come to put us Hornets to the sword after our first attack on that Fire Nation merchant's caravan, nor was he the one who'd come with Danev as a hostage, and a proposition to present–a proposition that'd gotten us into our last and bloodiest war, of which there was nothing left. Nothing except for me. I had no idea who else may have made it out of that alive, and considered asking if only he hadn't spoken first.
"I'm sergeant Zarrow," he said, pulling out a small pile of papers that'd been stacked previously by the foot of his chair. The recognition struck me, and I remembered where I'd seen his face. More than anything though, I did recognize his name. He was the Fire Nation liaison that'd been sent to the Hornets, giving orders and providing the supplies needed to get them done. I couldn't help but immediately resent the man though I knew nothing more about him.
He lit a small candle on the edge of the table to improve the light as he looked across his papers, and resumed, "I have a few questions to ask you."
I didn't take it they were questions I was in any position to refuse to answer. I gave sergeant Zarrow no indication that I would answer, still studying his face, remembering that day once again. Zar'un had needed to contain him, to hold him and drag him back behind the portcullis had shut. Zarrow had tried to help us, but it'd been too little, too late.
"Can you tell me your name?"
Aegis. That'd been Reki's last word to me. His last breath of life had been to call me by the name that I hadn't used in nearly a decade. I couldn't even do the same for him. I'd so foolishly believed the pact we'd made, that if I continued to call him by anything other than his real name, he could live just that little bit longer.
What a fucking idiot I'd been.
But Aegis wasn't my name. An aegis protected, shielded, but a fluke…a fluke looked out only for itself, got all others near it hurt, and even when it tries, gets lucky only once.
"Fluke," I said, the first word I'd spoken since that day.
"A street name," the sergeant observed.
I nodded.
"Do you have a birth name?"
I shook my head.
The sergeant clicked his tongue. "Well, that won't do. But you're not alone there. Many like you. We have a list of names that you can choose from, one more befitting a Fire…"
His voice trailed off inside my head as I stopped listening, not able to make one name out from the next. At some point, I'd grown tired of hearing him say them one at a time and just echoed one he'd said. I don't even remember which I'd chosen for myself, only that it was enough to satisfy him. That was what mattered.
He wrote something down, likely my name, but I couldn't find the care in me to pay attention. My focus was placed elsewhere–on the small candle that, in just the last five or so minutes, had burned down to a stub.
The hell?
The sergeant finished writing, and seemed to notice too. "Seems we're done for today then."
What? I watched as he picked up the wax-filled tin that the candle had been sitting in, grabbed his papers, and stood. All the while, I was still trying to figure out what'd just happened. Had it been some sort of timed candle, meant to burn down so quick? Why so soon? Isn't there more?
"That's it?" I asked.
"A clean uniform has been left in your room, private. You are to report to the trainee mess hall in ten minutes for lunch and unit assignment. Understood?"
So, they're done holding me in place then? I'm going with others? I'm going to see who else made it?
"O-okay," I stammered.
"The proper response when addressing a superior is 'yes sir,' and a salute."
I took it that he meant me to do that just now, and so tried to search my memory for times I'd seen soldiers saluting before, but found nothing, recalling only the mock salutes that street kids had done to one another jokingly from time to time. It was the closest thing I knew, and so performed it as closely to memory as I could.
I knew just while doing it that it was completely wrong. I didn't need to see the amusement in Sergeant Zarrow's eyes, but he left me off easy with nothing more than a scoff and, "close enough."
He left me alone there in that room, but I knew that I wasn't meant to stay there. Apparently, I had my first assignment.
I'd half been expecting the uniform they'd provided in my cell to not fit me in the slightest. But somehow, more concerningly, it did perfectly. It was impossible for me not to wonder just how many other 13-year-olds such as me wore uniforms like this, fit into Fire Nation armor, being readied to be sent to the front.
Finding the trainee mess hall was no easy task, and I was quite sure that I overshot the ten minutes I was meant to be there within. I had no idea where I was until I came across a stairway that, rather than leading simply up or down, took me both ways, and not just for one or two more stories, no. I was in Citadel's strongest structure, the military district tower, connected to just about every other military installation in the inner city through one hallway, bridge, or underground passage or another.
I could still remember watching it be erected over the course of just a few years beyond the inner wall, incapable of understanding just how quickly it could all be done, but the Fire Nation had seen to find a way. It'd always been a grim reminder of just what the reality of our situation was, under the Fire Nation's constant vigilance. It'd been a fact of life, but never had I imagined that I would one day find myself, much less in their uniform, but there I was.
It was not a victory.
I eventually found the trainee mess hall that was being referred to, in the structure that seemed to be the barracks. The Citadel military complex, a U-shaped structure that reminded me of the Hive, facing north, it was the northeasternmost wing. The mess hall in question was on the first story, and it was fully occupied.
I didn't know what to expect, but it hadn't been hundreds of other children, all more or less my age, eating at different tables in a cafeteria that dwarfed the Hive's. A few heads turned to face me, and though they all had shaved heads like mine, slightly longer for the occasional girl or two, I could see the same thing in all of their eyes. They were street kids.
What in spirits' name?
The mess hall, large as it was, had no window offering natural light. Rather, it was lit by lights that lined the walls and ceiling, illuminating the many hundreds of children more or less my age that either already sat with their meals, or stood in line for them. It was far easier to see those coming into the room such as myself rather than those within, which was fortunate as it was nearly impossible to distinguish between those inside, so tightly-packed and so uniform in appearance. The fact I came in alone, however, seemed to help me be singled out, hardly by the room, but just by one that mattered.
"Fluke?"
I recognized that voice. I would have been able to bet everything I had on him having died that day and be considered to have had good odds. I was glad to see they were beaten, however, as I turned to where the noise came from, and saw him–Danev.
By the merit of me turning to face him, his recognition of me was improved, no longer questioning himself. Different though we both looked from a distance away, nearly identical with our haircuts and uniforms, from up close, we could easily see the things that made us, us. .
He stood in front of me as though I was a ghost, but in spite of that shock, I could see there was relief. I could see it because I knew I was registering the exact same emotion. The last I'd seen of him, Janick had brought him right to the ground right before killing Riu. I'd assumed Janick had finished him off, but it seemed that he'd still had living fish to fry. By the look on his face, he seemed just about ready to hug me right then and there, but thought against it, and reconsidered.
I thought back on the last real thing he'd said to me before this all, how I was done being a Hornet and how, once within these inner walls, we were done. I wondered if that same sentiment still stood. I wondered if that was what was on his mind, but he sure as hell wasn't going to bring it up, only really capable of saying, "I thought you killed out there."
"Thought you did too," I said.
"Almost."
I could see it playing out before my eyes again–Janick sending him to the ground, and taking the opportunity to finish off Riu. Leader of the Hornets and, for all intents and purpose, ruler of the slums for years, killed in just a few seconds. I could see in his eyes that it was all he could think about too. Riu had been his to protect, as well as the Hornets as a whole, and judging by how none others were with Danev to greet us, I took it we were the last left of its ranks. It weighed heavily on him. As for me, I still was trying to process it all.
"Janick," Danev said with some difficulty. "We gonna have to worry about him?"
I shook my head. "He's dead."
"What happened?"
I killed him. That's what'd happened. At the same time though, I felt as though I could hardly make that claim. He'd fallen on my sword while trying to kill me. I still felt sick thinking about it, almost guilty too, even though I was perfectly capable of realizing that I had no reason to. The man deserved to die, but, all the same, that didn't help the knot in my stomach. It was as though my stomach forced me to take the blame for his death, but my mind didn't allow me to take the credit. It was a hypocritical contradiction at its finest, but Danev was looking for simple answers, especially as he reiterated, perhaps seeing the time it was taking me to answer, "You kill him?"
I nodded and he let out a breath that he'd been holding, just needing to know the man was dead and in the ground. "That's good," he said, unknown to me whether he was speaking simply of the man's death, or that it'd been me to do it. Isn't that what you wanted? I felt the desire to ask, though couldn't. To see if I could take a life to save my own?
And just how many lives had been taken in order to appease myself, to rid myself of my guilt? The Hornets would all be alive if I hadn't gone to the Rats, and more likely too, with the Hornets gone, the Rats would have found one way or another to survive. And I got them all killed. None of them had to die.
It was that same guilt that prompted me to feel as though I should say something. While I only had a fragment of the truth–that which Reki had told me, it was more than Danev knew. "Danev," I started, before he interrupted me.
"Come on," he cut me off. "You should eat something."
He placed a hand on my back and guided me past the rows of metal tables that lined the room, packed to the brim with children of the same uniforms, same haircuts, and same background. I decided what I had to say could wait, and asked instead so as to verify what I already believed, "They're all from the slums?"
Danev nodded. "Just like us. After what happened, Fire Nation took advantage of the vacuum. Sent in soldiers to round up as many kids as they could find."
And a damn good number of them too. When had this happen? "How long has it been?" I asked, and Danev gave me a look that seemed confused, but soon enough gathered that I'd been out of the action for a reason it seemed he hadn't yet put together.
"Been trickling in for a bit over a week. The hell were you anyway?"
"They were keeping me separated," I shrugged as we got in line for the meal.
"Any idea why?"
"No. Might've thought I was sick?"
"Didn't separate the rest of us, but it wasn't just you. There've been a few others coming in after."
"Anyone we know?" I asked, and Danev shook his head. He knew the real question I was asking. Are we all that's left?
"Far as I know, nobody that was there made it out except for us. Aden's still out of it, I hear, and there's some Rats here, but only the ones we gave over to the Fire Nation. They're sticking together, they don't know what happened, and we're sure as hell not going to say anything."
'We,' he'd said. That answered one question at least. I wondered how much of it was sincere and how much desperation. It wasn't as though he had many other choices for allies right now.
The food being served was not dissimilar to that which I was being fed while in solitary confinement for a reason I still couldn't put a finger to. It still didn't help me at all to determine when in the day it was. "Any idea what time it is?" I asked as a bowl of rice and a side dish of some kind of meat link was placed on my tray alongside a clay cup of water.
"'Bout noon," Danev answered, not taking any food for himself, likely having already eaten. I'd been late to show up after all.
We found a table that still had some empty seats and filled them, surrounded by others I didn't recognize, but who nodded to Danev with some small familiarity. I wondered if it was acquaintances made back in the slums, or newly forged ones. A thought forged in my mind that he might already be falling into Riu's footsteps, putting together his own power structure, gathering people, and likely not unwarranted if Rats still remained here, no doubt bitter for having been thrown into this Fire Nation captivity because of us.
And that's what it was at the end of it–captivity. That sentiment seemed shared by many others eating around us, I observed. They were uncomfortable, jittering in their seats, trying not to look up at the Fire Nation soldiers that stood along the walls, spears in hand, at the ready, prepared to ensure we all stayed in line.
I couldn't speak for the others, but as for myself, I didn't care. I didn't know what the Fire Nation had in mind for me, as long as it didn't mean going back to the Slums. As long as we went nowhere near there again, and so I asked Danev, needing to know if we were on the same page, "So what happens now?"
If old systems of loyalty were still going to be clung to as seemed the case with the Rats, then Danev was the next in line for leadership.
He seemed in the middle of answering before his eyes drifted back towards the entrance of the cafeteria, and I turned to see what he was looking at.
Match noticed us as soon as we noticed him. Another late arrival like me. His stature, initially confused and insecure as I had been when first entering, immediately tensed. He said nothing as his pace slowed, and he walked past us. He didn't need to say anything. The look on his face as he stepped past us, gaze fixed on us, said it all–if he found us alone, he would finish what'd been started on the streets.
I could've sworn that Chote had killed him. I'd seen the injury that'd spared me of Match's wrath on the street. No. Not saved. Delayed. He was alive, and very much not over what'd happened. The wounds on his morale were just as deep as the physical one that Chote had inflicted as indicated by the limp he still wore.
He looked up towards the Fire Nation soldiers, then refused to look back at us, but he'd made note of us amongst the survivors, and he wasn't done. Far from it. He was just waiting.
It made Danev's net words ring all the more true. "First of all," he said, "We look after each other. Spirits know nobody else will."
And these same spirits also knew I was the last person deserving to be looked out over. Not after what'd happened on the streets. Not after what I'd caused. "We need to talk about what happened," I said, putting down my chopsticks, only having been able to take a few bites from my tray in light of how twisted my guts were.
Once again though, as though the divine itself was forbidding me from speaking, I was interrupted, this time by a bell that rang from above the doorway that led.
"Hour past noon," Danev observed, finishing answering my question about what time it was as other ex-slumdogs around us began to rise, and I looked around and back at Danev, questioning what was going on, him certainly seeming to have a better grasp on things than I did. "Back to barracks," he filled me in. "We can talk there."
The constant delays did no good for guts, but I nodded. I just wanted to get it over with now. I just needed to finally get it off my chest, damned be the consequences.
I stood up after Danev, and joined the procession of slumdogs, no, Fire Nation recruits leaving the cafeteria.
Captain Zar'un
For the most part, I couldn't argue that things hadn't worked out.
The nastiness between the Rats and the Hornets aside, there was no way for me to say that the results hadn't been a net positive. I had my doubts that the survivors, few though they were, would agree, but that hardly mattered anymore.
I got the soldiers that I was looking for, nearly five hundred. Nearly a battalion's worth.
Colonel Eemusan sure wasn't about to complain about the boon to his division's forces, even in spite of those that'd been lost in that last street brawl. Granted, I knew more about just what we'd lost because of that final mess: two earthbenders, one of whom was already actively bending, a firebender, and even a waterbender. Spirits knew where that last one had come from.
Major General Deming on the other hand, he always seemed to find something worthy of raising his concerns about, and in this case now, it was particularly about just how many fresh bodies he was getting.
"That's nearly 5 percent of my division," he said. I would have liked to pretend that I didn't know where he was coming from, but I suspected that I already had in mind just what he was worried about. It would have helped, however, if he'd perhaps decided to say something before I'd spent the last week sending my soldiers into the lion's den to pick up strays. Granted, with the Hornets and the Rats gone, there was little in the way of organized resistance. Notwithstanding, it felt particularly insulting that he chose now of all times to voice his concerns. "5 percent of my division is street rats you pulled out of your slums."
"Street rats you asked for," I reminded him.
"I'm grateful for the benders you've provided, of course, and I have no doubt in master Jeong Jeong's abilities to turn them into useful assets, but the rest of the children you've sent me, they're untrained and undisciplined."
"We can train that out of them."
"That's hardly my chief concern. It's their loyalty I'm concerned about."
"As opposed to the benders?" I asked.
"They'll be willing enough to help when we show them once they're capable of, as is usually the case." He wasn't wrong. Being shown you had the power to burn the world to the ground generally was incentive enough to be given the chance to use it. "But the rest, they're liable to mutiny once they realize they don't like taking orders."
"So split them apart," I shrugged. Troop arrangements were hardly my field of expertise. It'd just been my job to acquire them for the 29th.
Colonel Eemusan, who had been rather quiet up to this point, now interjected, seemingly rather concerned with my suggestion, to say, "Seems a waste of their talents, no? Units of similar origins tend to work better as a unit. More camaraderie on the battlefield."
"Too much of it and they forget who they're loyal to," Deming countered.
This had been the point of discussion for the last few days once the slum dogs had really started being brought in in droves. The slum dogs were set to be divided into training units today. We were on a tight schedule, intending to have the 29th brigade on the front of Ba Sing Se before Autumn's end, which left us just around six months to organize the new 'recruits' and turn them into soldiers. Six months normally would have been more than enough time to raise, train, and mobilize a commendable levy, but for uneducated, illiterate, and undisciplined street rats, six months was being hopeful.
"You asked for fresh bodies," I said, now realizing that in the last few weeks, I'd grown more bold with Deming. Now, it wasn't just that he could throw me around with the threat of cutting off food supplies. I had something he very much needed–soldiers, and more specifically, benders. He could complain about the rank-and-file slumdogs I was providing as much as he wanted, but as long as I had benders to offer, he would stick around.
"I asked for soldiers. What I have here is a liability. I put them in their own unit, they'll run rampant. And I can't split them apart. Would need to reorganize the 29th's entire structure." And that sure as hell was a responsibility he didn't want to undertake. He looked towards his colonel, the man who that would fall to, as though waiting for him to say he would be glad to accommodate, but instead, he offered a compromise.
"We can promote soldiers from our present ranks, transfer them to serve as squad leaders for the 114th and 122nd."
The 114th and 122nd, the new infantry companies that would be formed from the gathered street kids.
"We'd still have all the street kids in the same units. No promise they don't mutiny. We need to split them apart."
"I agree. We can divide them, but not scatter them. I have an armored company, the 62nd, that requires reinforcements. Recruits we send there will be well-integrated with serving troops."
"And the infantry companies?" Deming prompted Eemusan to continue.
"Still slum dogs with homeland commanders, but separated from those they could make trouble with."
"And how do we gauge how we split them apart?" The Major General looked towards me from across my office table, figuring I may have a suggestion or two on that matter. He was right. I did.
"Would recommend splitting apart any gang elements that are left," I suggested. "You'd also want to consider the present abilities of the recruits, how you want to assign your benders, and the like."
"The benders," Deming smiled. "Of course. How many does the latest batch bring us up to?"
"About fifty. The first batch is already showing promising potential, but I have faith in Jeong Jeong's ability to catch the latest up to speed. They'll have to be put in a separate group of course, but-"
Deming shook his head. "I don't think so. They'll only lag further behind and we don't have time to spare." The last month had made him uncharacteristically eager to return to the front. Perhaps it was news of the Dragon's victories coming in from the front that allowed Deming to feel that there was glory to be had on the field. His suggestion on the other hand, it was worrisome. I shook my head. I'd seen Jeong Jeong's present firebenders and was capable of seeing that they were already on their way to proficiency. The firebending master was a legend. He had a knack for being able to turn even the most incompetent of soldiers into more than capable benders. Stories of his last student had verified just that much, some upstart lieutenant in the Navy.
"They'll be out of their league," I said.
"What better way to catch them up?" It was, at the end of the day, his choice. Though Citadel's facilities were mine, me lending them over to him for training the new men, the soldiers were in fact his. I'd handed them over, and so my words were just those–words, no more than suggestions that I was powerless to enforce. Deming looked over to his subordinate, Eemusan, and said, "Ensure the benders are on a fast track towards training. I want them assigned to Jeong Jeong today." With the rest of the unit assignment.
Eemusan shared my doubts, however, and advised, once again seeming to know how to find compromise with his commander where I'd failed, "The other benders were given time to adjust first. We've gauged that they have potential, but they're still untrained in basic combat and discipline. Might I recommend basic training with the rest before they're thrown in training with the others?" So they would still be thrown in with the others, but at least they'd have some breathing room first.
"How long in basic then?"
"The other benders were given two months."
"We don't have that time."
"A month then
That was a timeframe Deming could consider at least. He pondered it, then conceded, saying, "four weeks." Only a few days less, but still a successful plea from Eemusan. It was thankful Deming was finally beginning to see results from the new troops that were being raised. Much longer, and I wouldn't have been surprised if he simply decided to put hundred-year old spears into the street rats' hands, fit them into uniforms, and send them to the front with only a week's most of training in order to 'make up for lost time.' Now though, things were looking up enough for him that he was willing to moderate himself, or rather, allow himself to be moderated by others such as Eemusan.
I prayed the young colonel would be able to keep it up once on the front. I wouldn't go so far as to call him a sympathetic man who cared for the individual lives of those under his command, but he was intelligent, and where he perhaps didn't value them as human beings, he did as weapons that were best sharpened, honed, and used correctly. Deming, on the other hand, saw his men like arrows from a bow or grapeshots from a howitzer. So long as he had more of them than the enemy did, he could throw them away without consequence.
For the sake of the Siege that I still found myself questioning the viability of, I was putting my hopes in Eemusan managing to temper his commander's short-sightedness.
"My aide can provide you with information about the men for unit matching," I said to the pair, hinting that we had little more to talk about for the moment. 'Men.' I wanted to laugh at myself for using those words. The oldest of them that knew their age was only nineteen. They were children, but then again, we'd recruited younger in the past. We had the uniforms to prove it. In a few months' time, they wouldn't be children anymore. They would be soldiers, men.
Deming and Eemusan stood as well, indicating they had nothing more to say either.
We exchanged the regular formalities of bowing to one another to say farewell, and they left my office, escorted outside by Zhorou who would provide the mentioned documents soon enough that held what little information we'd managed to gather of the near five-hundred slumdogs now gathering in the mess for their noon lunch, and, soon enough, division into their units.
The information in question had been collected and organized by Sergeant Zarrow, still bearing the marks of his demotion. In spite of his diligence, his unhidden sympathy for the street rats did him no favors. I did not fear bias in his reporting however, as much as I did his judgment. He would speak the truth even if worried of what the results in doing so may be, such as now splitting apart the remnants of the Rats and Hornets. He was the product of a middle-class colonial family. He wasn't low-born enough that military command was out of the picture for him, but neither was he upper-class enough that the "new way" of political maneuvering was ingrained in his blood, as I wanted to think it was for me. He still made the same mistakes of being honest which, though detrimental it was to him, meant I could rely on him.
It was for that reason, as well as the fact that he knew the streets best out of everybody else in my command, that I'd had him organize the rounding up of slumdogs as well as cleaning up any remaining hostile elements. Though a week had passed, we'd had yet to find the Earth Kingdom agents we suspected of sowing discord amongst our subjects.
I generally would have thought that after the final bloodbath between the Hornets and the Rats, whatever agents had been working through the latter would have left, but something that sergeant Zarrow had said had given me cause to reconsider. He'd begrudgingly spoken of how more gangs would pop up in due time and nothing would change in the slums. He was right. The Earth Kingdom would try again, but with a new batch of gangers, meaning their agents would be here still.
As such, I hadn't given up the search, and so had put Zarrow's squadron on finding what they could. It was the best time I was going to get to have my soldiers on the streets. The streets' biggest gangs gone, they wouldn't be met with much resistance. And so they continued their search. I was sure that more children would be found along the way, and Zarrow's sympathy would incline him to take him a few more strays.
With the proxy war mostly over, I'd begun to allow for the passage of food, water, and other essentials back into the slums. It was a dual-edged sword. On one hand, we had to dig into our stores and had less from the food shipments from Keifeng to indulge in. On the other hand though, similar to with the Fire Sages, it provided us with the perfect opportunity to root out the desperate and hidden elements that would prove useful.
Such was where the other platoons and their lieutenants such as Zaisum had gone. They were, obviously, nowhere nearly as integrated into the slums as the Sages had been, their food distribution centers set up by the interior gates. All the same, it was something that needed to finally be done, and now that it was no longer a strategic detriment, and there were no longer enemies in the streets I was worried of providing supplies to, I could do my job as warden of this city with a clear conscience.
More slumdogs would trickle in a little at a time, but we'd rounded up the vast majority of those who were of age and physically viable (albeit by a wide margin). Most of them already seemed well on the way towards by starvation from what I've seen, but if they could survive those streets, I wanted to think they could survive a battlefield, and find a way to make themselves of use.
And if I could finally find those Earth Kingdom saboteurs, then all the better. I couldn't help but afford myself a smile. A half year ago, this city was starving, interior and exterior alike. I was only a few bad days left from defaulting and ending this entire venture, but I'd done what I needed to. I'd made the right deals, sacrificed the unnecessary morals and ethics, known when to speak up and when to shut up, and what move to make at a given moment. Now I had favor with the governor of the XInhou district, I had a well-fed city, and I had access to a resource more important than food–manpower. All that was left–removing the last security threats that remained, and they would be rooted out. In time.
It felt like the first time in half a year that I could finally breathe out, and so I did. It was the first time too that I felt I could allow myself a drink that wasn't intended to make me forget, but to help me rejoice. I imagined Zhorou would be done with helping Deming and Eemusan by now. Perhaps I would let the boy enjoy a sip or two as well.
"Zhorou!" I called out, knowing the boy was listening from the other side. "I need a drink!"
Danev
It would have been the easiest thing in the world for me to let him take the blame for it. For all of it. He'd said it himself, every detail of it. He'd told me again what he'd already said that last time before we'd left for the inner city. He retold everything he'd said to Miro, the deal he'd made, and how it all had gone wrong, according to him. Apparently, according to Reek as retold now through Fluke, Janick had killed Miro, I suppose deciding that defeat was unacceptable, and so had convinced the rest of the Rats it'd been us responsible for Miro's death.
That'd been what'd prompted the attack that morning, what had gotten us all killed. And Fluke, he blamed it all on himself.
"They're dead because of me."
It would have been the easiest thing in the world to agree, and let him take the fall for it all. It's what he was expecting. He couldn't bear to look me in the eye, instead staring down at his feet where they dangled off of the bunk we were sitting atop. I'd claimed the pair of beds from another slumdog I'd previously been sharing the bunk bed with, some gangless kid named Raosem. He'd attested over the course of the last three days that he'd been here that his real name was 'downhill, but clearly the Fire Nation had thought otherwise. I'd been lucky enough to remember my birth name, and so kept mine. Raosem, or, 'downhill' hadn't been so lucky. I humored him though, and so he was willing enough to surrender the bunk to Fluke who now still couldn't face, just waiting for me to condemn him for all that he'd done.
Except, the truth of the matter was that blame was hardly his to claim alone, and so the only honest response was "no." Because it was true. They weren't. "Janick who's to blame." Him, and so many others, not excluding myself. The rabbit hole of blame was one that went endlessly deep, starting at the top with Janick who himself had killed Miro and started this all, then after some more steps, founds Fluke, who perhaps could have prevented this all by never going to the Rats, then to me, who could have stopped Chote and stopped Mishi from being killed then and there, then to Riu, me, me some more, and so far down that one way or another, I was just as responsible for all that'd happened as Fluke was. It'd been the exact thing agonizing my mind for the week that I'd thought myself the last living Hornet aside from Aden who I still was unable to get any information about.
So easy, I could have cleansed myself at all, and let it all fall onto Fluke, but I couldn't. It simply wasn't true. Even if he seemed to believe otherwise.
"Nothing would have happened if I'd just done nothing," he asserted. "I should've just laid on that floor and fucking died."
"That changes nothing."
"It would have."
I wasn't speaking in the past tense, and so felt the need to clarify, "No. In spite of the hundreds of others in the room with us, it still felt as though we were alone. None were paying us any mind, and so I continued, speaking only to Fluke, "Beating yourself over it. It changes nothing. It's done."
"But,-"
He didn't seem to understand. "Whether it's what you did that got us here, or me making a deal with the Fire Nation, or anything else, it doesn't matter anymore." It seemed that he still believed I was saying this all only for his sake when that couldn't be further from the truth. It wasn't charity. Me telling him not to dwell on it, that was hardly for him alone. I was speaking to myself just as much.
I sighed. There was still that knot in my stomach–one I knew I so easily could have gotten rid of if I'd just let the kid take the damned blame, but he was no more guilty of getting the Hornets killed than I was. Right now, him and me, we were the only ones left. I couldn't get just leave him. I was unsure if it was more for his sake or mine that I couldn't, but I decided to leave it at us needing one another.
I changed the topic. "You get the top bunk," I said, mostly on account of me lacking the energy to pull myself up at this moment.
"You sure?" he asked.
"Not gonna piss yourself in your sleep, are you?"
He shook his head, finally no longer staring at his dangling feet hanging off the side of the bed, donned in red-black boots with golden trims the likes of which we'd never seen in the slums.
"Then take it," I reiterated to Fluke in reference to the top bunk.
He nodded, and crawled up.
The bed was made of a weak metal frame and flimsy spring that creaked whenever I shifted on the mattress. But, there was a frame, there was a spring, and there was a mattress which, by merit of those things alone, made it better than anything I'd ever slept on in the slums.
I looked at the other slumdogs around us. That was the same mentality that guided most of them. They were content to let these relative luxuries that the Fire Nation was offering us blind their eyes to the fact that we were prisoners here, being shipped off to a war none of us knew anything about. I suspected that it wouldn't be long until protests raged and soft beds and warm meals were no longer considered preferable to the 'freedom' that the streets offered. Some would try to run while those who chose to stay would try and replicate the streets here. You could take the kids off of the street, but the Fire Nation would be hard-pressed to take the street out of them.
My eyes drew towards Match, who stood out from the crowd, but clearly enough was gathered with the other surviving Rats he'd managed to link up with. They would use their old names with one another, and their old allegiances would remain strong. I had little doubt they would try to recruit more, establish their prominence as a gang once again, but now inside the inner city. And Fluke and I, the last of the Hornets, would be their first targets.
Every now and then, I caught sight of Match turning his head to look in our direction, as though keeping tabs on us.
He wouldn't try anything. Not in the barracks at least where there were Fire Nation soldiers stationed to ensure we stayed in line. Not that they'd done anything yet nor had any reason to. Sometimes I couldn't help but wonder if they were real. I'd never seen them move, not even when rotating shifts which I knew had to happen, likely while we took our meals as there were always new faces when we'd come back from the mess.
Match wouldn't test to see if they would act on their threats. Not here at least. But somewhere else, when we weren't being watched, he'd see an opportunity, and from what I knew of Match by reputation, he would take advantage of it.
I hardly knew anybody here aside from those who'd already clearly marked themselves as our 'enemies,' failing to understand that there was no reason this nonsense had to continue. It was in our blood though, born and raised on the street, and I had my doubts that even the Fire Nation could drill that out. As such, we were hardly done with these petty gang squabbles. Their resentment for us would continue until we were dead or they were, and I didn't like our odds.
I wasn't sure if Fluke saw it. He recognized Match's resentment at least, but I don't think he understood the position we were in. He would have to though, sooner or later, if any of us were going to make it through this.
It would be different if Riu was here. That much was obvious. In the last week alone, I had no doubt that he'd have been capable of rallying at least a dozen or two with promises of strength, a return to the slums with a cartload of Fire Nation supplies, and dominance over the entire city. But that hadn't happened. Riu was dead, killed by Janick. I'd failed my one job of protecting him. I hadn't been given time to grieve either. By the time I came to, I only had a few seconds of time to ascertain that he was in fact dead before I was hauled away by two Fire Nation soldiers. I'd managed to get a good punch on the first and grab Riu's dagger to try and fend off the second, but they'd overpowered me, and dragged me away.
They'd even taken the knife too. I hadn't even been allowed to hold onto that last piece of him. The piece of him that, maybe, could've helped me figure just how to get through all this bullshit.
I wasn't like him though. A knife wouldn't change that. Maybe if I had been, things would've been different for us, but as I'd told Fluke, there was no point dwelling on the past. It solved nothing.
Match's eyes drifted over to us again, as did those of a few other Rats as they chatted. They were talking about us, and the look on Match's face was enough to give me reason to suspect that he might walk across the length of the barracks at any moment and take care of things personally regardless of the Fire Nation presence. Only, he wasn't given the chance.
The barracks doors were flung open and so came the bellow of a horn that raised us all to attention immediately, including even Fluke who seemed as though he'd been trying to fall asleep.
At the door to the barracks stood a man I recognized, and three I didn't. They were officers, I could tell quickly enough, judging by their uniforms. The one I recognized, the highest rank of them, was Colonel Eemusan, commander of the soldiers that were temporarily garrisoning in Citadel, on their way to Ba Sing Se–the 29th Brigade.
He needn't scream across the barracks of five hundred plus children. Our attention was on him, slowly, but surely, incapable of missing the sound of his horn as it echoed across the steel walls, nigh deafening. That quieted the clamor of the room quickly enough, affording him the chance to speak for all to hear.
"Attention!"
He had it.
"Everybody! Off your bunks!"
Some who were still on their bunks, did, dropping to the ground, Fluke next to me. Others, however, didn't, and so it was that we found out what the Fire Nation soldiers guarding us were good for.
It was fortunate there were so many soldiers so they didn't need to go bunk to bunk one at a time. All it took was them choosing their targets, and moving to engage. I heard a thump from behind me, and turned to see a slumdog on the ground, a soldier standing above him. I saw another pull by the collar of his uniform and dragged off of his bunk the ground before being kicked in the stomach. Another caught sight of what was going on quickly enough and tried to get off his bunk on his own volition, but it was too late for him. Mid-descending, he was caught by the back of his shirt and yanked off, thrown to the ground like all the others.
"Attention on me!"
I turned on my heel to face the colonel, not wanting to test his patience. I noticed Fluke's attention still lingering on the unfortunate recruits in the room, and so placed a hand on his shoulder to turn him back to attention.
"I am Colonel Eemusan, commander of the 29th Brigade, of which you are all now soldiers. From now on, when I address you, you will respond, 'Sir, yes, sir!' Is that understood?"
A few scattered voices, including mine and Fluke's, who seemed quicker on it than me, declared, "Sir, yes, sir!"
Less than half of the room.
Perhaps it was that Eemusan didn't want to waste any time having his soldiers track down those who hadn't gotten the message, but he gave us a second chance, asking, even louder, "Is that understood!"
The room caught up, save for a few more crashes, thumps, and cries of pain behind us. Neither Fluke nor I turned to look.
The 'sir' then addressed his subordinates: the three commanders of lesser rank, and said, in order, "These are Captains Yuzeh, Amala, and Chaasa of the 114th Company, 122nd Company, and the 62nd Armored Brigade respectively. During training, when they address you, you will respond with, 'Yes, drill sergeant, sir!'"
"Is that understood?" Captain Yuzeh asked out loud?"
He was met with only a few, 'Yes, drill sergeant, sirs,' including, fortunately, Fluke and myself. Most still repeated, 'sir, yes, sir' incorrectly.' The soldiers went to work punishing those who'd been mistaken.
Captain Amala did not wait for the beatings to conclude, asking second, 'Is that understood?'
More responded correctly this time, but some still were mistaken, now getting so lucky so as to escape a beating the second time, and so more carnage was heard around us.
And it was then Captain Chaasa who asked, last but not least, "Is that understood?"
Hardly any responded incorrectly this time. We'd gotten the memo. Eemusan showed no sign of pride or joy, only stern dedication. My time in the slums had taught me quick enough how to distinguish between those who hurt others for fun, and those who did it because it was a necessity. I could tell now that Eemusan was the latter, which, though it made him less of a sadist, made him more dangerous. With the former, the kind who hurt others for their own amusement, it was easy to know what to expect–the worst at any possible moment. But somebody who had reason to their cruelty, that was what you needed to be careful of. It's what I had been in the streets, in what was only a little under two weeks, felt like a lifetime ago.
The man was here for results, and he didn't have time to lose.
"I am going to call your names!" he said. "Followed by a number! This is your roster number! Remember it! The first number is '64,' the same for all of you! This is your division number. The second, for all of you, is '29!' This is your brigade number. The number after is your company number! Remember this! The letter after is your platoon! Remember your roster numbers!"
He did not need to explain that there would be consequences. The groans of the beaten around us was evidence enough of that, and Eemusan wasted no time. He had a lot of numbers to get through.
"Private Aimuro! 6429114A!" Private Amorok! 6429122C! Private Amusum! 6429122B!"
His voice did not weaken throughout any of this. I listened for my name, and couldn't help but wonder what Fluke's was. I considered asking, but didn't dare incur the wrath of the Fire Nation soldiers who slowly stalked past our lines of bunks, searching for the slightest sign of negligence on our parts. I knew the names of only myself and a few select others, such as Private Chuta, 6429114B or Private Daiming , 642962A. Armored. It'd been called least as opposed to the others.
The colonel was going in alphabetical order and so, following Daiming, I knew my turn was coming up. I braced, not about to let myself mess up here. This early on.
"Private Danev! 6429114D!"
And there it was. I didn't need to turn to know that Match was remembering it just as well as I was. He had me at an extraordinary disadvantage. I didn't know the name he was being called by nor where his assignment was. For all I knew, we could be in the same company, platoon, and perhaps when the time came for it, even squad.
I wondered as the names continued to be read out what was the methodology in assigning us. Had it been at random, or by intent? As I listened though, I certainly noticed something. The Rats were being split apart. I heard Eraim get sent to the 114th's E platoon, Luhing to the 62nd's A platoon, and Rino to the 122nd's B platoon. That provided some relief at least. They wouldn't be gathered together.
Raosem himself was in the same company as me, but in B platoon. At least I had somebody I knew of some relative proximity.
I looked at Fluke's face for a reaction as the names and assignments were read, wondering if perhaps I may be able to determine which had been his, but nothing came. By the end of it, I'd gotten nothing from looking at Fluke's face, and so wondered if I'd missed it. I wanted to ask, but hardly could just yet with the soldiers still stalking the barracks and the brigade's commanders only a few yards away.
Somehow, Eemusan didn't seem the least bit winded. He was committed, I gave him that, and did not hold back with his voice, nor his next orders. He gave us no time, no flexibility, only straight demands.
"You will all still be quartered in this barracks, but training will be with your individual units, beginning now! Form single file lines in front of your respective captains!" Bodies shuffled cautiously, unsure.
Eemusan provided some clarity, but none of the good kind. "If you have forgotten your roster number and do not line up, you will be beaten on the spot until you remember!"
More bodies moved, but there was doubt. Doubt and fear.
"If you have forgotten your number and line up at the wrong commander, you will be beaten, you will be starved, and you will sleep in a cell in a pile of your own piss and shit until your memory returns to you!"
And that same hesitation again. Some moved with confidence, including myself as my eyes were drawn to Captain Yuzeh and the line slowly forming before him. Many others though, they needed to make decisions. Did they want to stay in place and be beaten with certainty, or risk choosing a unit that could very well be wrong. I repeated my number in my head. 6429114D. It was right. I knew that much, and so I knew where I was walking.
I turned back to see if Fluke had that same certainty, but he was already gone. I just barely caught sight of him approaching his own line, and it occurred to me then that the Fire Nation's pattern of splitting apart those who knew one another hadn't been isolated to the Rats.
There he was, looking one last time back at me, in the line belonging to the 62nd Armored Brigade.
