Old Friends

The tents and pavilions go up under the artificial afternoon sun. Light – but no real heat – pours across the workers' shoulders. They sweat almost out of obligation, rather than need. If they look up, they see not a single sun, but near a dozen – the gigantic spotlight-stars high in the rafters of the Deep Shire's fourth level. Great perpetual devices that simulate the feel of sunlight and give its benefits. No rickets here in the Shire. No sir. No sky, either.

Across the wide park, the work crew pushes and pulls and strains against the rising structures, setting joints and nailing stakes and unspooling guide wires like steel ligaments. A pair of reedy volunteers stands atop step ladders and strings a banner from one light pole to another. Little by little, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY JIRAIYA!" appears on bright crepe paper. Other such slogans will unfurl as the afternoon goes on. For now, the workers and relatives and various hangers-on usher the party through its fetal stages, looking to every tent and folding table with expectations of a fine night to come.

--

About a Deep Shire home, there are certain things that one can always expect to see. Furniture of a style more functional than aesthetically pleasing. Stiff carpet in the living areas; false tile in the kitchen and washrooms. A copper kettle atop the stove. An old squat refrigerator and accompanying icebox – some still sporting locks, even long after the food shortages that helped topple the old regime. Homespun blankets on beds and the backs of sofas. A liquor cabinet half-empty and dusty with disuse. Full bookshelves, also dusty with disuse. A small corner shrine to the Old Gods – almost always perfunctory.

Jiraiya's home on the fourth level of the Deep Shire contains . . . some of these things.

Yes, the spotless kitchen and clean floors would pass muster. So would the great quantity of polished, antique furniture. All else, though, tends to raise Shire eyebrows.

Pile upon pile of dog-eared books, resting in corners and up against the legs of chairs. Telltale smudges of incense ash on table corners. Upon the walls are paintings of ambiguous and certainly suggestive quality. In the living room, the glass liquor cabinet towers like a shrine to a decidedly more raucous sort of god. Its empty bottle children line the tops of kitchen cabinets. Above the commode sit tiny statues of frogs, toads, and fertility goddesses from the far corners of Meridian. Pervasive smells of foreign cooking abound.

At the northeastern corner of the house sits a small study, walls lined with bookshelves and floors festooned with paper. Above a squat desk, a copper-inlaid clock stares out on the room. Steam rises from a mug waiting on the edge of the desk. Beside it, a brass flask leans uncapped and eager.

Jiraiya sits staring at a blank page – at the thin blue lines and the empty white spaces between. His pen hovers above the paper like a half-hearted threat. He blinks. The clock on the den wall ticks the seconds by with blind precision.

The pen falls and touches the notebook. A flat wet blob of blue ink spreads from its tip and spreads through the pulp. A moment, a breath, a flicker of the eyes: Jiraiya's pen moves through the fine white space under and over the lines.

Of course, he writes, it was completely understandable that spore masks were in such short supply. The Sea of Corruption had, in fact, reached the peak of its ten-year pollination cycle. The fungi were in bloom and their spores drifted skyward in great and strangely beautiful clouds. As close as the people of Tran Dome were to the edge of the toxic forests, it was no surprise that they were loath to part with even the spare protection they had in storage.

He pauses, thinking. Pressed against the page, the pen leaks forth another irregular blue dot. No more than a minute passes. Jiraiya's hand moves. The past moves with it.

Two days into our stay within the dome, Uchiha was becoming more and more impatient. Iroh, ever the statesman, calmly told our friend that a way across the forests would soon present itself. And so . . .

. . . And so, what?

Jiraiya sighs. He raps a big knuckle against the wood of the desk. His fingers snake out to bring the hot mug to his lips. Strong coffee, flavored lightly with whiskey. Not expensive whiskey – no sir – but good. Good coffee and good whiskey. He licks his lips and looks back upon the slowly-filling page.

A sound: Low, solid, staccato.

Jiraiya tenses.

The clock ticks; the clock tocks.

The sound comes again, from behind Jiraiya – out past the living room and the front hall. It repeats. A light, polite knocking at Jiraiya's door.

Though bereft of immediate family, Jiraiya has found himself increasingly plagued by a growing number of aunts, cousins, second cousins, and claimed relations of dubious origin. Their comings and goings have grown more frequent leading up to today – oh, this day of days. Bloody, twice-damned birthday. Thrice-damned, leeching cousins. Where were you when I was passing out in doorways with a bottle of methyl spirits in one hand?

The knock comes again.

"Bastards!" Jiraiya growls. He rises from his chair, pauses, and listens to the light, determined hand tapping on his door. His legs are in motion before he can even think about it.

He told them – told them! – not to disturb him until the party. Though the party itself was fine – ever so fine – the logistics of setting up and running the damned thing can go to hell. If it were up to Jiraiya, he would spend his eighty-eighth birthday in largely the same fashion as many previous birthdays: A quiet dinner with Aang, and then a night hopping from bar to pub. Preferably end it in someone else's bed, snuggled between bosoms like diremelons.

His fury peaking, Jiraiya thunders through the intervening rooms, into the front hall, and yanks open the front door.

"What, goddamn it?!"

He blinks. His anger goes out like an extinguished match.

On the doorstep is not one of the legion of grasping cousins-removed or withered, distant aunts. Instead, a man in voluminous red robes stands with arms crossed, his expression as calm and beatific as a saint. Between the gray fronds of his meticulously-groomed beard, the lips of Iroh the Red curl into a pleased grin.

--

Aang wanders.

After bidding Iroh farewell at the entrance to the Shire's fourth level, he took to the streets without a destination in mind. The cracked sidewalk passes beneath his feet slab after slab. He enters a district of buzzing shops and apartment blocks, webbed together with pipes and swaying wires.

Though he smiles gently to himself, the curve of his back and the hands jammed into his pockets speak to the disquiet suddenly stirring about his brain.

He wonders if Dib is home – sprawled out on a couch or bed, face buried in whatever book he has his damp hands on at the moment. Sokka is almost certainly out and about, putting wheels to pavement or cruising library stacks or flirting with passing girls on street corners. And Spider? Aang can safely write Spider off until this evening, when he will inevitably arrive at Jiraiya's party sweaty and smelling of shenanigans.

No matter. Nameless thoughts careen through Aang's skull, half-formed and irritating. As he walks, he reaches lithe fingers under his headband and scratches at the section of tattooed skin beneath. He curses himself for losing the excitement and enthusiasm he felt when he first saw Iroh and his cart chugging down the old roads. Foolish. You're a mess, Aang. A foolish, easily-addled mess.

He should have seen this coming. It seems that every time he travels to the surface, the heady rush of the sky and clouds and open air slides back into confused, confusing thoughts. Galling, uncomfortable emotions. A longing, deep in the fibers of his arms and legs, that he can neither understand nor satisfy. Even on the cusp of such a mad celebration as Jiraiya's birthday, Aang finds himself unable to quantify what can only be described as a tidal wave of nervous depression.

What is it? His wan smile gives way to a grimace. What is it about the world beyond the Deep Shire that fills him with such indescribable feelings? He was born out there, of course. Perhaps . . . No. That's silly. That's absurd.

So, he walks. Aang walks, and shuffles, and sidles, and plods, and eventually turns back toward the park where he knows Jiraiya's relatives will need a helping hand. A glimmer of hope stirs within him – the return of the wild promise of a night unbound.

--

Iroh is a short man. Granted, Jiraiya has always been big, and beside him even the tall feel slightly dwarfish. Even so, one cannot deny that Iroh is not the sort to immediately turn heads upon entering a room. He stands several inches lower than the average man.

Short, yes, Jiraiya reflects. Short but solid. When he first came sauntering through Jiraiya's apartment door some fifty years ago, Jiraiya mistook him for a crazed, pot-bellied derelict fresh off the street. It was only when Jiraiya stopped and examined Iroh in full that a sensation approaching awe bloomed within him.

Beneath the gray beard and ingratiating, quaint mannerisms, the old wizard's skin is smooth and lineless. He has cheerful dark eyes that Jiraiya knows full well can flare hot amber in the dark. Under those billowing robes, Iroh's seemingly-shapeless body is actually as strong as an auroch. A sharp chin; a cunning brow. When he speaks, his voice rolls rough and soothing as a river.

"Hello, Jiraiya!" Iroh smiles. "Happy birthday!" He crosses the threshold, ducking under Jiraiya's outstretched arm and into the front hallway. Fat paper packages bulge under each of his arms.

Jiraiya feels his lips move, fishlike, and then sputters, "Iroh! Holy hell, man!" He sweeps down and embraces the man at his side. Iroh's eyes bug out. His grin grows toothy and unrestrained.

They disengage the hug and Iroh waddles wordlessly into the living room. He sets his parcels next to the nearest couch and announces, "I have other things to unload, but those can wait for now. Mostly amusements for tonight's party, along with a few souvenirs I thought you might enjoy." He regards Jiraiya with sly eyes. "You look surprised to see me, old friend. Has Aang at long last discovered how to keep a secret?"

He can't help it: Jiraiya laughs, more than half in astonishment. "So, he was in on it? And here I thought he wanted to stay as far away from the details of this little farce as I have!" He takes a deep, dust-scented breath and realizes that he's grinning despite himself. "Clever little monkey. I might make something of him yet." Sniff. "To answer your question, I suspected you might come. Hoped, maybe. But as busy as you've been . . ."

Iroh waves a hand. "Pfah. Busy? Me? No, no. How can I miss the eighty-eighth birthday of a fine friend? And when have I ever missed a chance to impose upon your hospitality? Speaking of which, do you have any of that delightful mint-taro tea?"

The light slopes through the windows and summons copper mischief in Iroh's eyes.

"I do!" Jiraiya beams. "I'll go and put a kettle on. But – well – don't you think this calls for something better? Something stronger? I have just the thing. Many things, actually, but I'm certain I'll be able to find the right one."

"No, but thank you kindly. Tea will do."

"Are you sure you don't want to join me in a belt of scotch?"

"No, no. Truth be told, I've been looking forward to a spot of Shire tea."

And so they pass through the kitchen, trailing small talk, and make tea. They retire to the afternoon-soaked den. Iroh sips his tea with a contented look on his face.

"So," Iroh purrs, "I take it you are less excited than one might think about your impending birthday party?"

"Gods." Jiraiya sits down at his desk and takes a gulp of tepid, spiked coffee. It does little to relieve the sudden tension in his neck and shoulders. "Don't get me wrong, Iroh. I've not gone soft on you. I'm not one to shy away from a good celebration. It's these relatives, Iroh!" He brushes calloused fingers over the surface of the desk "They come up from the woodwork in their dozens, every one of them all but drooling at getting a piece of inheritance pie. They scuttle, Iroh. Scuttle like beetles waiting for a corpse to go lukewarm." Jiraiya chuckles and runs a hand through hair that's been snow white since he was thirty. "Do I look like a man about to die? Of course not. I'm fit as a goddamn fiddle. It's the whiskey and ninja training. I plan on living to be a thousand."

Iroh smiles thinly and nods.

"So, yes. I have not been looking forward to tonight. Though I must admit," he takes a gulp of coffee that sets his throat tingling, "the opportunities for, ah, research, will be fine and numerous."

Iroh's eyes rove to the open pages and inked words upon the desk. Jiraiya reaches down and closes the cover of the spiral notebook with a thin snap.

"Hmm?" Iroh raises his eyebrows. "Ah. Still writing pornography, I see."

Jiraiya coughs, shakes his head, and chuffs, "No, no. Nothing of the – hey, wait." He jabs a finger in Iroh's direction. "Pornography? Pornography? How many times do I have to tell you? It's erotica. I write erotica. Titillation for the discerning reader. All very classy stuff."

Iroh produces a single, barking chuckle. "Ah, yes. As I recall, Big Butt Paradise was an extremely classy little book. Especially that scene with the –"

Waving a dismissive hand, Jiraiya stutters, "Hey. Hey hey hey. That was, uh, a limited release. Something to tide me over between ideas."

It is, in fact, one of Jiraiya's favorites from within his own stable of work. He sometimes reads the scene in question with a carafe of hot wine at hand, laughing and blushing like a schoolboy, hardly able to believe that he wrote such a thing.

"How a man like you ever came into such a trade continues to elude me," Iroh muses. There is gentle good humor in his voice.

"Oh, you know how it was," Jiraiya sighs. "I came back from the Lonely War slightly rich and very tired of fighting. At first, I just wanted to write down what I had seen and done all those years in the East. I didn't really even know how to start. So I just wrote something based on the –"

"You mean the –"

"Yeah."

"In the Lire Dome?"

"Oh yeah." Jiraiya is sure that the glint off his teeth is blinding.

"Ah ha. I wondered if that first book had, ahm, factual elements in it." Iroh chuckles. "As ever, being an incorrigible pervert pays off for you. You're a very lucky man."

"Damn straight!" Jiraiya laughs. "I'm rather proud of this 'pornography' of mine. If I didn't use a pseudonym, my name would be spoken the world over! Why, just last month a far-trader told me that, while in Ba Sing Se, he had seen a little print shop reproducing copies of Naughty Paradise in the language of that city!" Jiraiya shrugs, but also nods approvingly. "Of course, I'm a little irritated that I won't ever see any money from that little venture. But at least these little 'dirty books' are known far and wide, eh? Eh?"

Sip. "Mmm. Good tea. As ever. And yes, I too have seen your fine little tomes far and wide. The Delvers of the Coal Straits colonies sell them wrapped in black paper. It's most amusing." Sip. "What is this new one about, pray tell? Are you finally going to tie up the loose threads left dangling at the end of Lusty Paradise, perhaps?"

"I knew you were a fan, you old lech."

"Oh, I read your work for its fine use of dialect and blunt, stream-of-consciousness description."

Jiraiya smirks. "I'll pass that along to my editor. It might make a good pull quote." The smile vanishes. Jiraiya feels his hand drift into his left trouser pocket. His index finger brushes cool metal. "If you must know, this is . . . I'm finally writing those memoirs. It only took thirty years to get back to it, but I'm just doing it."

Nodding approvingly, Iroh says, "How far back do you intend to go?"

"The current draft opens with you charging through my door to scare me out of a hangover. You know, before a dozen Uchihas and their retainers came to my apartment to do light drugs and make grand, stupid plans."

Jiraiya thinks. He can't help it; he's always been a thinker, a ruminator, a ponderer. Even as a young thug, slinking through alleyways and shaking down rival bangers for loose change, his mind was constantly adrift. Even while laughing-drunk or ogling shapely forms in twilit windows or in the middle of the act of love, Jiraiya's thoughts have a habit of wandering.

Even as he continues, outlining the current structure of his autobiography to Iroh, his inner eyes and ears and nose slip over the texture of his past. He remembers the day that he first met Iroh as the technomancer came like a jolly bull through his door. He remembers the sorry state of his apartment – littered with cigarette ash, beer bottles, food crumbs, and the husks of a dozen discarded identities. He remembers the myriad stinks of spoiled food, vomit, empty sex, and despair. Gods, what a time! How Iroh managed to make the place presentable before the night's prophetic gathering never ceases to amaze.

Thoughts of the past are always perilous for Jiraiya. He knows it. They have an ugly predictability to them; a turning that always seems to pass the same landmarks and end up in the same destinations.

So, with the reliability of dusty clockwork, his thoughts turn to Tsunade.

Their eyes first met over the scuffed felt of a pool table. Dark brown on flinty, earthen gray. The drunken confidence of a brash street kid meeting the haughty arrogance of a made man's daughter. He was handsome; she was gorgeous. They danced through each others' social circles for weeks until he was finally able to exchange even a word with her.

Oh, gods. What days those were. What long-dead days. Those were the days of the old regime's death spasms. Hungry days. Days of fire and barricades and the disintegration of the old mob families. Jiraiya remembers. He remembers pulling Tsunade into an alleyway as men in red scarves retreated through the streets. He remembers the oily stink of improvised firebombs and the choking pall of smoke that lay over the Deep Shire for almost a week after. He remembers her on his doorstep, the tracks of tears through the layer of soot on her face. My father is dead, she murmured, and collapsed in his arms.

In the face of it all, they persisted. They survived. His old compatriots died one by one, but he survived. Her family and its retainers were forced from power, but she survived. The old ways of the Shire collapsed and burned as Jiraiya and Tsunade fell in love.

Gods, how he had loved her. Her soft hair and hard eyes and sharp tongue and quick, clever mind.

And oh, how she could keep up with him! Drink for drink and barb for barb. She surprised even his own appetites – as when she had greeted him at the apartment door with her friend Shizune at her elbow, wearing nothing but thin robes and mischief on their lips. Come on, lover. Let's see how good you are at multitasking.

They were happy. He is sure that they were happy.

Then, there came a series of pale days. The electricity in her eyes dimmed with pain. They – the doctors – said the cancer started in the ovaries and spread quickly, like wildfire. Suddenly it was everywhere it shouldn't be, and money was tight, and it barely mattered anyway because of supply shortages.

Though his lips still move ("I think I can shed light on that aspect of things without Fugaku's sons getting too huffy, don't you agree?"), Jiraiya remembers. He remembers holding her thin hand in the antiseptic light of a Third Level hospital. He remembers her saying, I'm not going to die, dummy. I'll spit in the bastard's face if he comes for me. He'll leave holding his testicles in his hands.

By the time Tsunade died three weeks later, Jiraiya was sure he was never going to feel anything ever again. He was thirty-one years old.

Jiraiya fell away from the life he had built. He drank too much. He tried being a drug addict for a while, but that turned out to be not nearly as interesting as the stories all said. When he was offered a pity job as a security guard at the Deep Shire's nanoreactor, he had no higher goals in life than getting drunk as cheaply as possible and drowning out the roaring silence of the hole in his heart.

That was how he found himself in that filthy little apartment. That was how he found himself blinking in the pseudo-light of morning, looking down at the weird little man on his doorstep. That was how Iroh came into his life and filled it with adventure.

How long ago that was. How short a time it seems.

"Jiraiya?"

"Hm?"

"You stopped talking. Trailed off. Are you all right?"

Jiraiya nods. "Oh, yes. Just . . . remembering. Old times. The bad old days, I suppose." He stands. Again, he finds his hand falling. He finds his finger touching the metallic curve hidden in his pocket.

"Why don't I continue while we unload some of those packages?" Jiraiya says with a smile. "That fake, fake sun feels mighty inviting, and we have a party to prepare for. Yes. A party to remember."

Both he and Iroh laugh, as only men who have known each other for decades can.

--

Where was I born?

It is a question he asks often, but to which neither Jiraiya nor Iroh have been able to give a satisfactory answer. In the East, they say, and leave it at that.

Aang looks up twin lengths of chain to the top of the rusty swing set. Out in the park, volunteers and workers scurry like cockroaches.

Maybe that's it. Maybe some part of him yearns for the far-off land of his birth . . . Wherever that is. Maybe. It can't be that simple, can it?

The nameless, scrabbling sensation itches at him. It burns.

Aang squints. Across the expanse of bright green and brown, a black-clad figure lurches between tents and dodges about sullen workmen. The dimming light glints off large glasses. Dib. Aang rises from the swing and allows himself a smile.

Come on, Aang. Let it go. Leave it be. There are some things you just need to forget. Some things shouldn't be poked. He forces the thoughts out of his mind – or, tries to at least. They remain like the clicking of strange insects, waiting in the dark.

--

Down on the fifth level of the Shire, the world sits perpetually in shadow and it always seems to be very late. Very late indeed.

Spider and Sokka stand in the jaundiced light of a vacant alleyway. Spider stubs a cigarette out on a brick wall and makes a face that reminds Sokka of a rabid dog he once saw.

The deed is done; the package passed to a dead-eyed man standing like a fat silhouette in an office door. The man rummaged through the pockets of oily overalls and handed Spider a plastic bag containing what appeared to be shriveled chunks of old fruit. Spider sniffed at it warily before nodding and taking off into the gloom. Dib took two long, increasingly-tight looks at it and then confessed to a forgotten need to be elsewhere. Anywhere, probably. Spider will forgive his cowardice, in time. He's sure of it.

Now, he holds the baggie out reverently. "Cactus buttons," he intones. "No better way to spend a night, or so I'm told."

Sokka scratches the back of his head. "So, will these –?"

"Make us hallucinate our goddamn heads off? You bet your ass, Sokka mah boy. As your future journalist friend, I advise that we hit this shit."

"Wait." Sokka leans back a moment, stroking his chin. "Do you think that it'll be okay for us to go to Jiraiya's party tripping balls? Isn't that against, ah, decorum?"

"Sokka, my friend," Spider laughs, "decorum does not just permit that we go to this party on hallucinogens. It demands it."