AN: This will probably be a couple chapters, however short. 600 words each?

you already know, credits to Konietzko and DiMartino

-party time-

Suki's voice is statics mixed with gold through the phone. "Hey, girl, you ready?"

"I think so."

The mirror, like a friend, offers compliments. She looks beautiful enough— tight jeans, torn in all the right places. Her jet-black top, cut right above a rebel's yell. The boys are gonna love you, Suki will tell her later.

It's all about boys. The trending topic. Suki and Sokka are still very new and Suki cares too much. Katara's only twenty-one; she wants to care less.

(She knows what boys want.)

But there's something. Hidden and yet found. Katara looks in the drawer of her desk. Cherry Girl. It's almost a weapon: Cherry Girl.

With a license to kill.

Sokka wants the top down; he's a slave to the culture. "Try not to mess her up. She's gotta be in the lot by morning."

Zuko smiles in his sunglasses, pearly whites nice in the rearview. "I knew it was rented."

"Yeah, well, we all don't have daddy's money."

It's push-to-start and the engine is some great beast to roar. Aang finds its hum in the steering wheel, in his fingertips. It feels like a page out of liberty.

And when he tears away from the curb, hears the gravel shift under wheels, Aang remembers to let go.

"Ready?"

Her drink tastes like real venom.

(Katara doesn't drink for taste.)

It sits in her veins, loud, moving in the music. She gets lost here. Drifts away. Leaving smiles to remember her.

And she's close. So, so close.

"Baby," someone whispers in her ear, alcohol in tandem. "Be careful; you're too close to the floor."

He's nervous, almost— there's a lot of movement. And enough sin to convict laughter, sweat and song.

But, Sokka's at his side now. And everything becomes unpredictable, too. "Hey, buddy! Take this. You'll need it if you're gonna stay here on the dance floor."

He can protest; his mouth moves before his voice does. But Sokka's already a number in the crowd.

Aang searches his pockets clear— Sokka is discreet in this way.

He shakes his head, blushing red under the club lights.

It's a condom.

Dancing with strangers is a game of hearts.

And Katara never loses.

(The club has no windows—time is no love—and the dance floor is flooded with sharks.)

Aang stops dancing when she does. This girl. Of diamonds and sublime status.

"Tell me your name." he says.

Her eyes are blue. Sapphires pool into her iris and there's waves like water in her hair. Aang thinks she's the only of her kind.

"Katara."