gemsofformenos:

Yes, that was one of the heavier chapters and this one is gonna be rather intense too. Ineed, Azula has a lot to think about but she kind of needed that kind of self reflection. It is a humbling thing. At the same time it is a double edged sword because she has a lot to deal with at the moment and thinking of how she treated others just adds to it. "She is searching for support and a way to ease the weight of her problems, that's why she had stand up for Teo in my opinion." This is a large part of it whether she realizes it or not. It is a silent cry for help of sorts. "Realizing how hard it is to be the target of mockery and humiliation has changed her sight on many things it seems." And yeah, it's very humbling to her to know what she has put others through. " Zukos drugs are only one room away." This is also true. "And in this chapter she has started a vicious circle of her need to get control back over her body, losing control and trying to regain it with throwing up." Yes, the cycle has officially begun, things are about to get very rocky for her and rough from here on out. Rougher than before as she kind fights with herself in a sense. "It seems to me, that he not only doesn't care, how she get back in shape to restart with her training, no I think he's pushing her on purpose towards this misery." He is yes not only because he wants fast results, but because he wants to shame her for letting herself go in the first place. To make her fear letting it happen again. To make her feel bad about having it happen once. "I think he's expecting from her to use throwing up as a fast way to get back in trainings shape and then to go on like before the accident." Exactly, he does want the fast results and he wants her to feel guilty. But he also doesn't want it to go public and create a scene if that makes sense. "I hope Azula will find a shoulder to lean on." We shall see.

Azula's concern was somehow more aggravating than her mockery. He hated her pity and he hated her. If she couldn't play nice before her accident, why should he accept her kindness after? He told himself that she just wanted some support, that she would use him until she lost some weight and gained some friends. But deep down he knew that he was wrong, he has learned how to sort out her lies and truths decently well. He could see genuine concern as she continued to scold him for using drugs and warn him to go to school. He didn't like to acknowledge her concern because doing so would mean recognizing just how deep he was in.

She fixed him with one final offer, "come with me, Zuzu." He knew that if he didn't take it, he would be on his own and left at Ozai's mercy. He ought to go, but his heroin was calling pretty loudly. It was a conundrum in itself because Ozai was practically guarding his door. He couldn't get to his room without passing his father first.

He had to stay home and find a way to get to it. So he bursted out a quick and harsh, "take care of yourself!" It was just so much easier to pretend that she was just using him. That way he wouldn't have to worry about being a good brother to her. Wouldn't have to worry about building another relationship for the heroin to ruin. He abruptly got to his feet and slammed his chair against the table. Azula didn't flinch.

Thanks to Ozai, she was used to that kind of thing.

Sparing her a final look, it occurred to him that she shouldn't be used to it.

He stormed up the stairs, momentarily forgetting that he needed to be sneaky. Mercifully he could hear his father on the phone—a conference call, probably—prattling on and on about smart business partnerships and marketing strategies. Occasional he would hear a boast about how they were crushing BeiFong Electronics.

His father seemed rather invested in that call, which meant that he had a chance. He took a deep breath and headed back in the direction he had left.

Azula was already gone.

He wanted to be angry, but he had made it pretty clear that he had no intention of going with her.

So he ventured back upstairs once more. Ozai was still deep into the call. This time the heroin could wait just a little longer. He was growing twitchy and agitated, he was short of breath and his mouth was so dry. He ought to get a drink, but he hadn't the time to spare. He just had to power though this. As soon as he got to a safer place, he could shoot up all he wanted. Hell, he might even take an extra dose.

He heard his phone buzz and paid it no mind. He grabbed his backpack, emptied it of its textbooks and notebooks and began stuffing in clothes and electronics. He took his heroin first and put it in the backpack. His iPod was next, he slipped that into one of the side pockets and a charger with it. That reminded him to stick his phone in his pocket. But those were already stuffed with cash so he hid it away in a less noticeable pocket. The clothes went haphazardly into the main opening. He found the heroin and concealed it between layers of clothing. He tore a few pillows and the warmest looking blanket from his bed. He thought of taking a few books for entertainment's sake, but he no longer had the attention span for reading. He did snatch up his journal—though untouched for months—and slipped it in with the clothes. Amid the disorganization of his room, he found a lighter and a half used packet of cigarettes and arranged those into the remaining side pocket. From his closet he withdrew a spare pair of shoes. And then he wandered down the hall and stole some of his father's travel sized soaps and shampoos as well as a razor or two. He hastily shoved those in with the rest of the mess. He could sense that he was running out of time and it brought a film of sweat to his head.

He heard his father muttering an, "our next conference will be at the same time, on the same day, next week."

"Fuck." He hissed to himself. He charged down the hall without a second thought and didn't stop running until the estate was no longer in sight.

.oOo.

He had walked for hours, morning had bled into afternoon and then from there, into the early stages of sunset. What else was there to do? He'd never done something like this before, it felt both wrong and liberating all at once. He knew, in some sense where he needed to go. It was the only place to go, if he really put some thought into it. A place where doors and windows were barred at night and graffiti covered nearly every nook and crevice of the place. Buildings in worse condition showed signs of robbery and violence; windows that ranged from cracked to broken, the worst of them had a bullet hole or two.

He kept his eyes peeled for the insignia of the White Lotus. Back in the day, perhaps the 60's and early 70's the group was composed of a, more or less, innocent group of people. They were folks who condoned the use of LSD and other hallucinogenics for the sake of creativity and inspiration. His uncle had been a part of that movement until it corrupted itself into a decently famed drug cartel.

He heard a bottle break and an angry howl.

He drew his hood over his head and kept his gaze low, the less he saw the better. It was best not to make eye contact with the types who lived around these parts. He stuffed his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and made his way past taking the care not to be too fast nor too slow.

He heard another shout from behind and the sound of knuckles on cheekbone. He couldn't help but hasten his pace. He would find the White Lotus and get his ass back to a safer part of town and then decide what to do next. Ideally, that was what he would do. More plausibly, he was going to steal away and finish off the last of his old stash.

He was nearing the center of the slum. If he had heard Chan right, the White Lotus was very close. Apparently, they were fantastic for roofies and ecstasy. He hoped that they weren't lacking as far as tar went. He observed the graffiti around a broken and dry fountain that teemed with mold and creepy ivy. Amid it, he spotted the insignia. He wandered down the sidewalk closest to it until he noticed a second insignia sprayed on the wall of an alley.

He strayed from the sidewalk.

His eyes were feeling heavy and his movements, sluggish. It was a wonder he had even made it this far. He thought that it was the product of adrenaline alone. Now that he was out of Ozai's reach, the kick was wearing away faster than his highs. The drowsiness was settling in. Or maybe his spike in energy and then the drop was just another side effect of his addiction. Just another thing to toss in with his waves of disorientation and his dry mouth.

His dry mouth…

He dug around in his backpack, noting with dread that in his hustle to flee Ozai he hadn't packed himself any food or water.

He wanted to scream. Maybe to cry even. But more than ever he needed his heroin.

He came to a door and he pounded on it. He was rash, he wasn't thinking. He pulled out his wallet and practically shoved a fat wad of cash into the palm of the man at the door. "Hard stuff. I need the hard stuff."

"Not from around here are ya, kid?"

"I'm not a kid!" He snapped.

"Ya sure ain't an adult either."

"I need the hard stuff. I have money, give me…"

The man beckoned him inside. His brain begged him not to enter, but he did. He had to. The place was a complete shithole. Dirty dishes stacked on tables and discarded on the floor amid cigarette butts and empty bottles. Bullet shells littered other parts of the floor, the size of the bugs that scuttled about. He couldn't identify the types of stains on the walls and carpets.

That was only the entry room, the kitchen was even more horrific and the bedroom, that was expectedly occupied. The woman was topless, still clad in high heels and fishnets. She was as disheveled as he felt within. He didn't know how she could sleep with discarded lingerie and boxers everywhere. It smelled foul, like drugs and booze and sweat.

"Stop starein'." The man grumbled gruffly and roughly dragged him away from that and to another scene. One that was more dizzying than the one before it. A woman sat fully, but scantly, dressed in a bathtub. Her stare was fierce as she exhaled a puff of smoke. There was another person in the room, she was getting more ink done. She looked at least a little tipsy, her lip curved up. "Haven't seen you in class lately, Zuko."

He looked at the time, noting that school had let out an hour ago. He shuddered and rushed passed on his own accord. He wondered just how often she came to this place, it didn't look like she frequented it. At last, Zuko is hustled into a room at the far end. The man counts the cash Zuko had handed him and tossed him a roll of needles. "I paid for more than…"

"Ya get what I give ya."

"I paid for…"

The man's hand went for his pocket.

"I paid for this much." Zuko conceded. He hid his new goods under the folds and in the pockets of clothes in his backpack.

The man flashed him a shark's grin and directed him towards the door. "Pleasure doing business."

Just like that it dawned on him that he hadn't the street smarts he needed to survive. It was becoming more and more obvious as he continued meandering about the place. He tried to find himself an isolated space to pump his poison, but the better of them have already been occupied.

As inconspicuous as he was trying to make himself, he could see people staring. Could hear them chattering amid themselves. And, with a sense of dread, he realized that he was overdressed for a place like this.

Overdressed and surrounded.

He kicked himself again for being fool enough to forget to bring a knife.

His stomach took the first blow. An unexpected deliverance that stole his breath as a second assailant snatched his backpack. He scrambled to his feet with an angry yowl and shoved the thief. A mistake, the thief's companion had a bat and it collided with his shin. He toppled again, watching the first boy pick out his iPod. He pocked it as the other brought the bat down again. That time it met his ribcage and he feared that he would find a new thing to bond with Azula over.

Quickly, the thief patted the easily spotted pockets of his pants. Unsatisfied, the boy picked up Zuko's sleeping supply.

He winced as the boy shook out his pillow, finding one of his syringes. Zuko decided to make a scene over that and over his clothes, for it he was earned a blow to the forehead. Still, it was the only smart thing he had done himself. The boy smirked and stole one more shirt, the cigarettes, and the single syringe. Thinking that he had found the best of the loot, he tossed the backpack back at Zuko.

It nailed him on the head.

It nailed him on the head, but at least he had the rest of his stash and the goods he had just acquired.

.oOo.

Zuko shivered to himself feeling wholly alone. The night was growing cold and he still hadn't a place to sleep nor a pillow to sleep on. He felt lost. He ought to go home but he knew that Ozai would be waiting. Waiting to worsen the wounds he'd achieved on his own.

A good distance away from the shady parts of town, he found himself an underpass and slumped to the dirty ground. He only had the light of a flickering streetlamp.

He couldn't help but wonder what his sister was doing. It was probably dinner time. He genuinely hoped that Ozai wasn't taking his hasty departure out on her. He couldn't see Ozai doing something like that; no, as always, Azula was probably costing at least moderately comfortably by as he suffered terribly.

He thought of Mai.

No doubt she was doing better now that he was gone.

Gone, hunched over, and poising his needle.

His bloodied head left him all the more relieved when the needle bit his arm. Soon the throbbing would be gone. Soon, the lashes Ozai left on his back would sting. Soon the bruises would pound. Soon he was feeling the first tingles of his rush coming on.

He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. It was almost dead and he had nowhere to charge it and nothing to charge it with. He looked at the caller ID, and his eyes brimmed with tears. He answered the call.

"Zuko, where are you?"

Through the rush he was weeping. He was so scared, but now he had a way out.