Where Words Fail
Book Six: It's All or Nothing
Chapter 3: Spatula, Part 5: I get by with a little help from my friends
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is a fan fiction - nothing more, nothing less. It has been made purely for entertainment purposes, and is not meant for commercial gain. Avatar: The Last Airbender and all characters, places and concepts are copyright of Nickelodeon, Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko. All original characters are copyright their respective owners and are used with their permission. The story has been illustrated by the talented and awesome SioUte, and this chapter's cover can be found here:
sioute(dot)deviantart(dot)com/art/WWF-6-3-153641281
SCENE DIVIDE
Now
Oooh, Longshot wasn't happy to see him, was he? Spatula could see it on the archer's face - the way his eyes narrowed, his mouth curled into a barely noticeable frown. Spatula swallowed, felt a jitter run through his stomach, and hesitated. What was the right thing to do in this situation? Longshot would know he was a Firebender, all of the Freedom Fighters probably did at this point, but it wasn't like Spatula had ever meant to actually, you know, hurt anybody.
He couldn't just - just turn his back on his old teammate, though, even if the truth reared back and bared its fangs. Even if they had parted on less than friendly terms and the archer assumed Spatula to be dead, like Smellerbee had promised.
He wormed an arm under Longshot's shoulder, the cold metal floor of the cell rough and ragged on the back of his fingers. Pulling him upright and slinging his arm over his shoulder, Spatula lead him over to one of the rickety cots the Fire Nation gave to its prisoners - built into the wall with no legs below. Rigid, metal things that gave no support to the back and made waking up an ordeal, joints and muscles screaming in protest. It made him miss sleeping on the dingy mats the Freedom Fighters had that doubled for beds; while no more comfortable, at least you knew you were waking up sore with a day of doing good ahead of you. Here, you didn't get that benefit...in this place, all you could do was wake up and look forward to another day of cooking food for the kind of people who had made Spatula defect in the first place to keep from being a punching bag (or worse).
Something wasn't right about this scenario. Sitting down beside the Freedom Fighter, Spatula tried to piece together what was really going on that didn't fit. Like - why would Longshot, of all people, wind up here, on Pan Xing Island? This place was a step below Boiling Rock so far as Fire Nation prisons were concerned, and third in line as the most secure overall. You had to have a pretty big name for yourself in order to get sentenced here, and the last Spatula had heard, the Freedom Fighters weren't exactly a major threat to the Fire Nation's operations.
Second...Longshot was more...what was the word? His face. He did more with it - more expressive, that's it. Spatula had always struggled so much to read the Freedom Fighter because of his nonvocal nature, even though Smellerbee and the rest hadn't had a problem. Longshot had made it harder by not showing much expression, keeping his face a blank slate at all times - especially when Spatula tried talking to him. Those always lead to awkward, one-sided conversations that, ironically, left Spatula feeling left out. In a similar situation three years ago, Longshot wouldn't'a even shown the tiniest hint of disgust. Maybe it was whatever had injured him, and just keeping it all to himself was taking up his willpower...but Spatula doubted it, and shook his head with a frown on his face.
"I - I guess it's a surprise to see me here," he mumbled, casting a glance at Longshot before looking away. He saw the mute's chocolate brown eyes digging into him - felt it, when he broke eye contact. "You thought I was dead."
Motion from his peripheral vision - Longshot, nodding. Spatula drew a deep breath, the jittering in his stomach continuing to flip-flop. "Look, it's...it's kind of a long story. I can explain it to you if you'll hear me out. But - but please, believe me - it wasn't Smellerbee's fault. Okay?"
His new cellmate said nothing, and Spatula felt heat rising up into his face. "I know you're probably thinking something like, 'you don't have any right to accuse Smellerbee of anything,' but - I promised her I wouldn't tell anyone and it's really my mistake that got me into that mess, and - "
Longshot held up a hand, cutting Spatula off; the latter glanced up again at the former, who pantomimed suffering from a headache by massaging his sinuses. Can he please hurry it up? The heat in Spatula's cheeks grew warmer as embarrassment set in. He wasn't earning any points, and this could - could be a second chance at redemption -
Wait. Had he - had he understood Longshot? Something had flitted through his mind, like a fleeting thought that hadn't been his own. No, it couldn't be...
Nodding, Spatula lowered his head and clasped his hands together between his knees. "Okay. Like I said, rec time is coming up soon and there's a Waterbender here who'll heal your wounds if you give him some of your day's water rations." He sighed. "Before I start - where are the others? Are they okay?"
Longshot's shoulders slumped and closed his eyes.
"...that bad, huh?"
The archer nodded, followed by a half-hearted shrug that made him wince.
"Are they all...you know..." Spatula felt the words catching in his throat, as if saying it - as if just vocalizing the word dead would make it real, finalize it, actualize it.
Longshot shrugged again. He didn't know.
Great. A dull ache grew in his chest - one Spatula was familiar with. He wasn't used to his vision blurring like this when - whenever he thought of how wonderful the entire group of Freedom Fighters had been -
No. Calm.
Drawing slow, steady breaths, Spatula shook his head again and said, "Well. I'll just...get on with my story, huh?"
Longshot gave him a dismissive wave of the hand - either he didn't care, or he was giving permission to go ahead. Unsure of how to go about reading that, Spatula stuttered and stumbled into the tale he had to weave. Longshot deserved some answers, anyway.
SCENE DIVIDE
Then
Three years ago
Smellerbee limped as they sprinted, and around the curvature of his profile – the nub that served as his nose and his puffy, upper lip – Sheng could see the rough, discolored lumps swelling up from the beating the younger boy had endured a few days ago. (He still looked a little fubar, but his color had started returning to his face, and he'd managed to pry himself away from Sheng, stumbling along without his support - hopefully this strange Earth Kingdom kid would get nothing worse than a cold.) Despite that, despite how sick he'd become, this kid didn't even look winded, even though he'd just manufactured a genius escape from captivity and had been leading Sheng through a pissing typhoon of a storm for the better part of a half hour.
Sheng, meanwhile, didn't feel so fleet-footed; his side cramped and his lungs burned and his muscles just wanted to stop but it wasn't his place to give up here-and-now. He'd chosen to abandon his nation to stick with this crazy boy, and in doing so, he'd allowed him to set the pace.
That was okay, he figured. He didn't have the stuff it took to be a leader, that was why he'd never made it past corporal in the army. Still, a rest would be nice…he drew a deep breath. No more cowardly Corporal Sheng – time to strengthen your resolve and act like, you know, an adult. Just don't phrase it in a way that makes it sound like you're whining, because then the Freedom Fighter might think you were – well – whining.
"How much farther d'you think we should go?" He hazarded, lowering his head. His breath hitched out of exhaustion, and he winced – Smellerbee heard it, he knew he had, and for a nigh-paralyzing moment, he feared the younger boy would be able to read his true intentions and call him out on it.
No such thing; Smellerbee narrowed his good eye and seemed to take Sheng's question into genuine consideration. "I slashed Ke with his sword in the fight. Assuming he's still alive, by now he knows we've escaped and freed the slaves. He might be an egomaniac, but he's not dumb. The storm'll throw them off our trail for a little bit, but if your camp had any good trackers or hunters, it won't buy us enough time for a rest."
Sheng took the cue and nodded. "We relied more on compass work, star charts, and t-rats."
"T-rats?"
"'Tray-pack field rations.' Disgusting stuff."
"Ah. Then…the sun looked like it was just a little after midday before the storm set in." Smellerbee's strides slowed to a gradual stop, and Sheng's entire body could have sang praises in response. The ex-soldier doubled over, panting, his body sweltering with heat from his stuffy armor. "So long as the storm keeps up, we'll be okay – and it don't feel like it's gonna clear up any time soon."
"'Feel like it?'" Sheng echoed, craning his neck to look at Smellerbee. When the ex-soldier stooped like this, the Freedom Fighter stood as the taller of the two, planting his fists on his hips. "Whaddaya mean by that?"
"My wrists break out when it rains like this," the boy explained, waving a dismissive hand up at the sky. "I can tell when a storm's about to stop when the burning turns into more of a tingling sorta deal and hurts less."
"Right, how silly of me." Sheng shook his head and grimaced. He glanced around; nothing but plains visible in all directions, the garrison so far behind them that it had been swallowed up by the gently rolling horizon. Dark green grass soaked up the rain, almost humming in its splendor, and patches of dirt had shifted from tan to murky brown. The rain made a rhythmic, hypnotizing pattering sound on his helmet. Given the break, he started to realize how tired he was…it'd been an eventful day, and the desire to just curl up and sleep was a very tempting one.
Maybe some fresh air would do him good.
He reached up and pulled away his helmet, letting his charcoal-black hair fall free; a cool breeze pushed by, running its wispy fingers through his shortened locks. Oh, he could feel it on his scalp…felt sooo good. The gradual onset of drowsiness dispersed, and he felt reinvigorated already.
He caught Smellerbee looking at him from the corner of his eye; he turned his attention to the younger boy, hiking an eyebrow. "What?"
"You don't have a topknot," he noted, shaking his head and giving a quizzical frown. "Every Fire Nation soldier I've seen's worn one."
"We put them down when wearing brain buckets," Sheng said, a faint grin splitting his face. He dropped the helmet to the grass – black and red and emblazoned with a flamed crest around the frame for his face. It bounced and rolled a foot or two before coming to a stop against a rock. "There's no room for 'em. I won't need to use the helmet, but I can't put my hair up in the topknot anymore, either."
"Huh." Smellerbee shook his head, droplets of water flicking from the ends of his hair, which clung to his face and scalp like rat tails. "What - against the rules or something?"
"It's tradition, really," Sheng murmured, a bemused grin crossing his face. He shrugged, as if to say, 'I can't abandon all of my culture.' "In the Fire Nation, when a person faces exile or commits treason and becomes an enemy to the state, they have to sever their topknots. I could always put mine up and slice it just for the sake of completion, but then I'd have a big divot in my scalp."
Smellerbee laughed at this, and Sheng felt shock at how youthful the sound was; it wasn't hearty, it was more like a giggle, like grade schoolers trading dirty jokes in featherlight whispers so the teacher wouldn't hear. (Of course, they always heard regardless of how much you tried to stifle yourself - how tightly wound you became to avoid leaking.)
"Yeah," the Freedom Fighter agreed, a grin playing across his lips. "The last thing you need is a second hole in the head."
"Oh, har-dee-har," Sheng replied, heaving as heavy an eye-roll as he could lay on...and fighting back a grin that struggled to show at the same time. "Oh...I found this, by the way." Sheng reached into his armor, withdrawing from it a brown sheath made of hide with a dagger inside, the leather straps dangling free like noodles clutched between a pair of chopsticks. "During that brawl. I think one of the others took it as a war souvenir, or something – but it was on the ground near the fight. I know it's yours, so…"
Smellerbee hiked an eyebrow, fixing him with a cynical gaze – as if he didn't believe the salvation of his dagger had even been possible. Or it hadn't even crossed his mind. Sheng felt his cheeks grow hot as the shaggy-haired boy reached out and plucked the sheathed weapon away from him without so much as a word, drawing the blade and examining its sinewy curves as they cast a silver reflection of the clouds overhead.
"Huh. Doesn't look damaged," he murmured, turning it over once before sheathing it again. He kept a tight grip on it and didn't bother to harness it around him; Sheng imagined his thumb still hurt from dislocating it, even though he'd managed to re-set it as they moved. Ah well. At least he had it back.
SCENE DIVIDE
The village was small and dusty - a feeble, shabby little thing with only a few businesses and ten or twelve houses. But they had food, and they had Earth Kingdom clothing, and Sheng's Fire Nation armor went for enough coin to get both. Sitting against the side of the decrepit old armory, with the wood moist and ragged and digging into his worn, faded green tunic, Sheng had to stop and wonder how, exactly, he would break the news to Smellerbee that he was utterly and completely lost.
Sure, they had started by running away from the garrison and heading back in the direction they'd come from the night before, but the slave line and its captors hadn't come anywhere near this ramshackle village. Sheng knew he was a bumbler and could be forgetful at times, but he'd have remembered a village - especially since the only people living here were so old that looked as if they predated the war itself. (At least, he hoped he'd remember.) (Plus, if anybody here were young enough to be just his grandfather, Sheng would openly admit to being very, very surprised.)
The storm had lessened in the hours of their travel, and a flicker of conversation ran through Sheng's mind from earlier: Smellerbee mentioning about his wrists. That - that might make a good starting place, you know? A good way to break the ice and just ease into the topic he really wanted to get to. Maybe the Freedom Fighter wouldn't get irritated with him (because the younger boy did seem irritable when he wasn't giggling about Sheng's intelligence, or lack thereof), and they'd be able to, you know...get back on the right path.
He felt like burying his face in his hands. As a chronic victim of foot-in-mouth disease, he could tell when something really dumb sprouted up in his head before he verbalized it. Still...it was better than nothing, right?
Sheng glanced over to Smellerbee, a roasted, gamy slab of meat slapped gracelessly onto the plate he held in one hand. Sheng had liked how the food tasted, even though it wasn't all that spicy (a few of the proper herbs and fifteen minutes' less cooking at ten degrees higher a temperature would have made a supreme steak out of this passable poultry), but Smellerbee...the younger boy ate it, and didn't really seem to mind, but he'd...it was hard to explain, it's like he'd gone idle to keep from realizing how par it was. The awning of the armory kept the rain far enough away from the two that they could chow down without getting wet.
"You don't like it," Sheng noted, prodding at the remnants of his own demi-steak with a fork. He impaled it and took a moderate bite, wincing as his teeth sunk first into gristle and fighting off his gag reflex.
"You caught me red-handed," Smellerbee admitted, chuckling and grinning. "That's okay. It's food. Sometimes we don't get enough meals to go around back in the forest - and there's a lot of mouths to feed. I remember one winter, right before it got bitter-cold, our storage space got plundered by curious skunk bears. Skillet - our cook - was furious, and if we hadn't held her back, she would'a gone right after those bastards with a frying pan in each hand." His lips settled into an even line, his unswollen eye coming to rest on the meat slab before him. "That was a hard one. We lost a few of us to the cold and famine. Jet, Longshot, Pipsqueak, Sneers, Skillet and I ate maybe once every couple days or so; they were the oldest and I couldn't'a lived with myself for eating more than them, and it wasn't right to have what the kids couldn't. Lemme tell you...when it's so cold your fingers hurt from bein' numb and you haven't had a meal more substantial than a half loaf of stale bread in two months, you get to appreciate whatever is put on the plate in front of you."
Sheng sagged as the Freedom Fighter weaved his anecdote, feeling his heart sink a little. It wasn't like he was so ignorant that he didn't know of the world's impoverishes (hell, just look around this town, which seemed to be composed almost entirely of dust, probably down to a molecular level). If Smellerbee was right, the Fire Nation was responsible for most of it (just more weight on those shoulders, hope you don't mind). What really got him, though - a fact that was really kind of upsetting - was that children had to endure it, children without proper homes or families. Sheng felt responsible for it, because here he had been striving for the glory of his nation, oblivious to what extent their 'enemy' had to endure in the meanwhile. He felt his head hang a little bit and tried to come up with something - anything - to say, but every time he tried to put the letters together in the right order, they'd get big and complex and turn asinine.
Maybe best to keep it simple, then.
In this event where words failed, Sheng drew a deep, low breath, and whispered, "I'm sorry."
"Yeah," Smellerbee murmured, casting a sideways glance at him. "You should be."
"I know it doesn't fix anything," he offered, and a curse threatened to well up inside him and explode. He'd already said too much, now it just looked feeble on his part, but Smellerbee latched onto it anyway, and Sheng noticed that when the Freedom Fighter's lips peeled back to expose his teeth, they looked strangely like fangs.
"You're right, it doesn't," he snapped, setting his plate down on the ground between them, his steak unfinished. "But you wanna know something? Redemption's a long road and there's somethin' about you that keeps me from giving you a new hole to breath out of. Maybe - and I don't know why I'm botherin' to say this because I feel like an idiot just mentioning it to you at all - maybe I think you can change. Maybe I'm willing to give you the benefit of a doubt Jet's telling me I shouldn't. For some dumb reason, I believe you're actually being sincere, even if you don't know how deep into the hole you've fallen just by taking your share of the guilt. So you're sorry; good on you. Until you can prove it, though, you're still just Fire Nation - armor or no armor, topknot or no topknot."
"Then let me help." Sheng felt a certain rhythm flowing between himself and the swordsman that had opened his eyes, returning the volley back to him with a warming self-confidence he didn't know he had in him. "You said you've got a cook, right? I can cook, too. I've never been that great of a Firebender and even worse a soldier. I can help make meals for your group."
"You? You want to be a Freedom Fighter?" Smellerbee snorted and crossed his arms. "No way in hell. I won't let it happen."
"Please," Sheng begged, and he felt himself standing, moving, and then sitting again with his legs folded beneath him, this time facing Smellerbee directly; he bowed down as low as he could and pressed his hands into the dirt, rough and grainy and tiny enough to get under his fingernails. He could feel the stuff pressed against his forehead, threatening to get into his bangs, but that was small penance to pay, wasn't it? "You're right, redemption's a long road. I'm willing to do my part - to haul my weight and help those around me. I haven't drawn a drop of blood in a fight, but my nation's crimes are my crimes - from the lowliest soldier to Fire Lord Ozai himself. I can't do much on my own, but I can cook, and I want to cook for those who have suffered the most from the war my people are inflicting."
"..." Smellerbee said nothing for what felt like the longest time - probably only just a few seconds, but Sheng didn't move, did not rise, didn't even crane his neck back to look at the Freedom Fighter; and when that time passed, the younger boy shifted his weight, scuffed his boots on the ground (what was he doing?) and, suddenly, Sheng felt something cold, unyielding and thin against the nape of his neck, making him shudder.
"I could kill you right now, like I ought to," Smellerbee hissed. "You say your people's burdens are yours? Then you got a lot to owe up to."
Sheng swallowed, but kept silent. The rhythm still flowed in Smellerbee's favor. Breaking it meant that the knife would find a new home in his flesh.
"Fortunately for you, there are people in my life who don't always agree with Jet's way of thinking. Right now, I'm inclined to listen to that person, even if he ain't here. So here's what'll happen: I'll bring you back to the forest and introduce you to the Freedom Fighters. They'll judge you, see if you're fit to help us, and - if the others agree - you're in. But you can't be Sheng from the Fire Nation, because that man died when he took off his helmet and didn't pull his topknot up to sever it. You're an Earth Kingdom kid now, you helped me escape from the slave line and that's all the others are ever going to know. Keep it simple, so we don't get caught up in too many lies. And so help me, if you Firebend - if your cover gets blown - you're on your own because I will deny ever knowing the truth and the others will believe me any day over some scheming Fire Nation spy. And if you try to hurt any of us, I'll kill you myself. Are we clear?"
"Yes," Sheng said – and his face was pressed so close to the ground that the word made a cloud of dirt swirl up. He choked a little on it, coughed, and the thought that Smellerbee would misread that as hesitation welled up like a bloated bubble of fear.
Silence fell over the pair again, and at last, Smellerbee withdrew his knife and shifted his weight again, sheathing it. Voice gruff and low, he murmured, "Fine. Now get up, you're embarrassing me."
Sheng pushed himself upright and exhaled, coughing. "Thanks. S - hckk - sorry."
Smellerbee crossed his arms over his chest and turned his head to the side, sticking out his lower lip. "Whatever."
"But if I'm gonna be Earth Kingdom, what's my name gonna be? 'Sheng' isn't very native." Sheng hunch-walked back to his seat against the side of the armory, picking up his plate and working at the steak again.
"Shit, I dunno." Smellerbee shrugged. "Lee, or something like that. There're a million Lees in the world."
Sheng sighed. It wasn't the most incredible name and it certainly didn't come close to the unique flavor of 'Smellerbee' or 'Jet'... but it would do for now. It wasn't like he had any more creative solutions at hand. Glancing up at the silver-gray sky, he murmured, "You know...we're lost."
"Huh?" Smellerbee turned his half-gaze to Sheng again, a cool smirk blooming on his face. "Oh, yeah. I've known for hours now."
"Sorr - I...wha?" Sheng shook his head and blinked, turning to face the Freedom Fighter with wide eyes. "How?"
"Pfft. I'm a hunter. I gather a lot of the meat and animal supplies we need when I'm not fighting you guys. It's my job to know where I'm going...and right now, I don't care where that is so long as it's away from that garrison." He drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them - a gesture that was more feminine than not, and something that threw the Fire Nation cook off-guard. "Once the stars come out, I'll be able to navigate us a way home."
"...oh." Sheng rubbed the back of his neck, heat rising up and undoubtedly turning his cheeks ruby-red. "That's a weight off my back, in any case."
Smellerbee quirked his head. "Well, as long as we're coming clean with obvious mistruths, I might as well tell you mine: I ain't really a boy. It's just easier to let you guys - those guys - think that I am. But I'm sure a smart cookie like your figured that out, right?" Another smirk curled her lips, and her good eye narrowed - a facial expression so dangerous that Sheng felt paralyzed just looking at it, as if she could cut him just by looking at him. Sheng gulped, swallowing a razor-edged lump of fear that had appeared as suddenly as a sparrowkeet from a street entertainer's sleeve. It didn't matter that Sheng hadn't been bright enough to figure it out until now, and it didn't matter that he had trouble believing it because this - this little girl had kicked so much butt three days ago and today, and she really did look kind of ugly. But this ugly little girl knew how to outsmart and outfight adults twice her size and three times her weight, sooo...
He wasn't a complete moron. He picked up on the barb where she'd so clearly left it; denying her would be a mistake, and so any shock the Firebender had in him remained internal. "Of - of course," he agreed, putting on something he hoped would pass as a grin. He doubted it would be convincing enough, but maybe all Smellerbee would need was the verbal confirmation. "Knew the entire time."
"Good," Smellerbee replied, haughty and smug. "That's what I thought."
SCENE DIVIDE
Apparently, Sheng had a ghastly sense of direction, because whatever route Smellerbee chose to lead them on had been a days-long journey so far, with no end in sight. When the Fire Nation boy asked how close they were to the forest of hers, she would just grunt and shake her head, muttering under her breath about how dumb he was - but that was alright, really. By now it was just part of their flow, their rhythm...she seemed to operate better with him creating the chemistry needed for her to be grumpy over something, and he really felt kind of welcomed by her reactions. They never felt belittling at heart, like those of the officers or his peers in the army. They had called him stupid and useless to wound, to demoralize; Smellerbee, meanwhile, said these things more to fuel her own fires, and Sheng wouldn't mind being a scapegoat if that meant getting to (what was hopefully) his new home more efficiently.
Sitting out in the wilderness one night, the air cool on his face and ruffling his Earth Kingdom clothes, Sheng stared up at the stars - white, shining freckles set against the black face of the sky. He'd always thought that the stars were pretty - if not distant and cold, something that made him feel very small in comparison to the greater working of things. Their distance and their beauty always put him at ease, though, and made the bumbling awkwardness of puberty and life a little more tolerable. You know? Like, everything would be alright in the end because you're just not important enough to really matter.
Sometimes, he wondered what it was like to be relevant in the light of the stars. You'd pretty much have to be an Avatar to stand up next to them, and he hadn't been seen in almost a century by this point.
Hah. Sheng, the Avatar...? He could barely bend his own native element, and he couldn't imagine working with something as, as alien as water, let alone air and earth. Water would be the tricky one, because it involved so much fluidity. Firebending had too much structure, and what little Sheng did know was enough to tell him that much. No, he'd have to settle for just admiring these stars and their eternal nature.
A fire crackled nearby, the smell of burning wood wafting up into the air, and Sheng took a long, deep breath, inhaling the scent. He'd had to eat a lot of meals by firelight ever since being sent to work in the field, but - as he'd mentioned to Smellerbee days before, it wasn't for cooking the meals so much as lighting their camp. He sat alone this time, as well - the young Freedom Fighter had set off to find something to kill. Said how, because they were in a thin, woodsy area, a deer hare or two would be lurking around in the tall grass, fast asleep. It'd be easy pickings.
Sheng didn't think he'd ever eaten meat off something so freshly deceased, and the thought made him a little queasy. But Smellerbee's survivalist meals thus far hadn't been too bad, if lacking in the meat department (mostly edible berries and nuts thus far, and he wouldn't mind something a bit more filling).
The Firebender had been so lost in thought that he didn't realize Smellerbee had been approaching until she entered their little clearing; he started at first, his breath catching in his chest and a spark of fire flitting across his right palm, before sighing and settling back into a sitting position.
"You gotta be a little more careful," Smellerbee said, fixing Sheng with a look. The swelling on her lips and around her eye had gone down noticeably, although her upper lip still had that unique, accentuated curl to it that struck Sheng as a decidedly feminine thing the more he thought about it. In one hand, the wiry girl clutched her dagger, mostly clean but still streaked with blood, as if she'd cleaned it with a leaf or something along those lines; in her right hand, she clutched a misshapen lump of fur, brown with white spots stippling the side, a little larger than her head. "I could see that small 'outburst' from over here, an' some of my friends are a lot more observant than I am. I know you aren't all that great a Firebender - "
" - I still only light the campfires because we don't have spark rocks, and it's embarrassing the way you stand over me to watch me do it - "
" - because you suck at it, but that's no excuse for you to let your guard down like that." She wandered over to the center of the camp and set her catch on the ground. From this angle, Sheng could make out the almond-shaped head, nubbin antlers, and the curves of the animal's thighs, but no more. That was okay. Getting any better a view of it would probably make him throw up, or at least give him a heavy sensation of nausea. "Firebending even a little would be bad news all the way around in Hong Ye."
"Well, that's just fine," Sheng retorted, huffing and crossing his arms over his chest. "I do better absorbing fire than making it, anyway."
"You - what?"
"It's - it's embarrassing," he repeated, looking away from her. "I don't do great with external Firebending, but I'm pretty good at taking the stuff in. It's a fluke."
She paused, and at last shook her head, sighing. "Whatever. Just don't do anything because somebody's gonna catch you."
Sheng nodded, falling silent as Smellerbee went to work with her catch - skinning it, slowly, carefully, and then setting the pelt aside when it had come free of the carcass, to work at the muscle. In dire need of a distraction, Sheng closed his eyes and took a steady, calming breath; he let it out slowly, drawing another, releasing it, repeating the process for about a minute before he felt ready. He opened his eyes again and looked into the flickering, orange flames of the campfire, and reached one hand into it, feeling the flames caress the back of his hand, his fingers, but daring not to hesitate lest his concentration break. He scooped away a handful of the stuff and brought it close to his chest; the campfire itself continued to burn onward as strongly as it had before, at no loss for what had been stolen from it, while the smaller mass - and you couldn't really call it that, could you? - of flame continued to burn away in Sheng's grip without a fuel source, just the man's own chi and willpower, and - and it was great.
He shamed himself, not being able to think of a better word. His peers had all been better Firebenders than he had, and he felt grateful for what little control he had over the stuff. He wasn't a fighter, but that hadn't ever stopped him from admiring those who wielded it. Much like the stars, it was something greater than he could ever really hope to be.
He stared down at the flickering ball of fire hovering over his palm, its tendrils reaching up into the air, trying to comb his face. Setting his mouth into a straight line, Sheng began to breathe through his nose again - deep in, slow out, deep in, slow out, the fire shifting and waving and changing in size each time he alternated, reaching upward and outward, like a cobra mongoose arched back to snap its venomous fangs into unsuspecting prey - until, at last, he drew one long, sharp breath inward through his mouth, the fire arcing upward and vanishing between his lips.
He craned his head back, glancing up at the sky. He doubted the fire remained as such while inside of him, although he'd always been curious; he could feel heat, so much heat, inside his sinuses and throat, but he could never breathe like this because - because once he did then it would come out, and...and, well, it was all a matter of timing, of breath control, and the world was starting to get stuffy and stifling and -
Opening his mouth, he breathed outward, expelling a thin cone of flame that arched up into the sky and vanished. He let his head fall forward again and he sucked in sweet, clean air. Yeah. That felt better. It felt as if, alongside the fire, he'd released a spray of pressure that had been building up inside his chest and stomach.
"Nice trick."
Sheng glanced over to Smellerbee and saw Freedom Fighter staring at him, her brow furrowed, a frown drawn onto her face.
"Sorry. Our dinner was making me queasy." Sheng gave a nervous chuckle, rubbing the back of his head and digging his fingers into his scalp. "I've never been familiar with my ingredients while they were so...fresh."
"Sissy." Smellerbee shook her head and smirked. "Think you can handle skewering the meat?"
"Yeah, I should be able to do that." Internally, Sheng didn't feel so confident, but Smellerbee was already doing all of the work. "How do you want it cooked? Rotisserie? Roasted? Or are you more of a carnal type and prefer yours still bleeding?"
"Um." Smellerbee fixed him with a puzzled stare, and Sheng wasn't quite sure what to make of it. He blushed, feeling like he'd asked another dumb question, and readied himself for a verbal lashing. "I was just gonna make jerky out of it."
Sheng blinked and felt as if he'd stumbled. Of all the answers he'd been expecting, that wasn't the one – and, before he new it, a broiling confidence welled up inside him and he shook his head. "Are you kidding? You'd rather eat something so melancholy when you could have something with a bit more flair?"
"I save flair for when I'm not on the road," she explained, pouting as if hurt by the statement, but Sheng saw a glimmer in her eyes that belied hidden amusement. He was getting better at understanding the little things that made this lanky girl work, he realized. "There's nothin' wrong with jerky."
"Hmph. You and your barbarian palette." Sheng beamed, and in response, Smellerbee chucked one of the peeled strips of muscle at him. The Firebender, caught off guard, fumbled and almost dropped the slick, dripping foodstuff, and even though he managed to close his fingers around it he suddenly felt the nausea wash back over him, like a cold, hard wave while at the beach. Pinching the meat between his forefinger and thumb, a red stain coloring the palm of his hand, Sheng gagged and went to grab one of the wooden skewers Smellerbee had carved.
SCENE DIVIDE
They settled on a compromise; he could cook a few strips of meat however the hell he wanted for himself, while she would preserve the remainder for the next few days of their trip. Sheng didn't have a whole lot to work with out in the wild, but the lack of ingredients wasn't a complete handicap. Part of the whole equation involved cooking it directly: how long, how near or far away it was to the fire, that sorta thing. He could make this tasty even without the help of seasoning or spices (although he longed for some good, spicy food - the army rations had been meager on many fronts and that was one of them).
As the meat crackled on their makeshift cabob skewers, impaled and roasting over the campfire, Sheng let his eyes wander back up to the stars - then down again, to see Smellerbee wrapping some of the cooked and salted jerky in "borrowed" wax paper from the same town in which he'd parted ways with his armor. Something nagged at the back of his head, like an itch that wouldn't go away no matter how much he scratched at it; he vainly tried to pluck the thought out by sticking his finger in his ear and twisting, trying to get out whatever it was that had gotten stuck in there, to no avail.
"What's bothering you?" Smellerbee asked, not looking up from her jerky, catching Sheng off his guard. How had she known...? This girl never stopped surprising, did she?
Sheng shook his head. "I can't tell. Weird, huh?"
"Not really. Try your best."
"Well - uh - oh, yeah!" With a snap of the fingers, he felt his expression brighten. "Why are we taking so long to get to your forest? I mean - we were only a few days out from where we'd captured you by the time I, uh, admitted I didn't know where I was going."
Smellerbee shrugged. "You're persistent...fine. Like I said, Ke's not a moron. I doubt he'd let us get away so easily and I wouldn't be surprised if we were being tailed by one of his men. I won't lead a Fire Nation soldier back to the forest, so until I can make sure we're clear, I've been cutting a wide arc instead of a straight line to where we're heading."
"How could you be sure?"
She crossed her arms over her chest. "I'd need someone else's help - someone a lot stealthier than you could manage, I think."
Sheng yielded the point, nodding and frowning.
"'Zactly. But for now, let's keep it on the down-low, because I can't tell if they're close by, or - "
She fell silent so suddenly that Sheng felt his breath catch in his chest, as if it weren't just her that had been affected - as if the very air had been sucked from around the two, leaving them in a speechless void. His heart throbbed against his ribcage, felt his pulse in his throat, watching as Smellerbee cocked her head to one side, her shaggy mop of hair flopping at an angle. Her eyes - almond shaped and lined with mascara - flitted left, right, left again without really focusing on anything in particular. Something wasn't right. Sheng clenched his fists, one pulling out the grass his fingers had been entangled in, snapping the blades clean from their roots.
The tension killed him; aside from his fists, he sat perfectly still, listening - trying to hear something out of the ordinary like Smellerbee must have, but nothing registered to his ears aside from the typical chirruping of insects and hooting, screeching cat-owls in the distance. Still, this once-calming and open night suddenly felt stifling, like he'd inhaled the entire campfire and his mouth refused to open so he could let it all out - and, and, dammit, sweat beaded on his brow, and he knew something was going to happen and he'd fuck it up -
A branch snapped behind Smellerbee, and the Freedom Fighter moved so fast Sheng could barely register the movement; she whipped around, grabbed her dagger, and hurled it into the bushes, drawing a strangled yowl that sounded far too human to be an animal.
The move acted like a signal; from the brush all around them emerged too many men for Sheng to count, and he was on his feet, stumbling, reaching for - what, a weapon? Smellerbee had already pushed herself up and around, whirling, rushing at the nearest bandit (because that's what they were, right, they were bandits looking for a quick meal or to slake their bloodlust) and dropping to the ground, sliding between his legs. She bound back to her feet and in one fluid, dance-like motion, grabbed the man's right arm (holding a glimmering short sword), snapping it backwards with a wet crunch. He cried out, dropped the sword, and Smellerbee caught it before it landed, turning to Sheng and tossing it through the air at him.
He felt the urge to yell out, Swords aren't meat! and probably did (he could hear somebody's voice cracking and going shrill with panic), but he reached out and, thank the Spirits, actually caught the weapon by the hilt – it impacted against his palm and like the slab of meat had, his fingers clumsy and slow to close around it, but he caught it, the leather worn and rough under his grip.
It weighed heavy in his hand, but – but it was better than nothing and he heard footsteps rushing from behind and he whirled around and stuck the sword out with eyes wide and –
- and the bandit that had been rushing at him impaled himself on the blade, shock registering on his face, blood dribbling down his bearded chin, his cheeks and brow covered in grime –
Too many bandits swarmed around them, and Sheng wrenched the blade from the gut of the dying one – that had been a fluke, really – and there, more – no, there – aaaah, too many! He swung, blindly, trying to – to focus, to be half the soldier he'd claimed to be, maybe he could – you know, do that thing with his bending where he integrated the sword into it but – that was advanced and he wasn't even that good and – and something nipped at his side but it didn't dig into him too deep, he just lashed out instinctively –
Where had all these bandits come from and how'd they sneak up on both himself and Smellerbee so easily? Looked like – eight of them, maybe, still remained standing and Smellerbee tore through them with two different swords, one a short sword and the other a bit longer – unbalanced, but each strike debilitating or lethal and, and, and…
Sheng felt himself enthralled by it. Death and violence and beauty all in one wiry, tomboyish bundle. For a moment, watching her dance amongst their enemies with flickering, shimmering waves of silver-orange whirling around her body, Sheng faltered.
Dumb, stupid mistake – but that was the story of his life.
One of the bandits must have blindsided him because the next moment he realized his hands were empty and he was on his hands and knees, a coppery taste welling up in his mouth. The grass swam and doubled just a few inches away, and his peripheral vision buzzed and turned black. Head jumbled, thoughts – unclear, not making much sense, dull throbbing under his hair, his scalp sticky and warm, but distant –
A flash of brown overhead. It took a moment to realize, but – Smellerbee? Yeah. She – she must have seen Sheng go down (great, now he was a liability) and lunged in to save him, her arms were under his, she hefted him to his feet even though he must have weighed so much and he was just a sandbag-man, his legs like jelly.
"Snap out of it," Smellerbee hissed into his ear, her voice distant, coated in fuzz. "Four left, I can't kill them and save your ass at the same time!"
"R-right," he mumbled back, shaking his head and groping for the sword – on the ground, so far away now – but Smellerbee realized this and knew, passing him one of the ones she'd stolen - too suddenly, he was stumbling away, and Smellerbee was yowling like a pissed off pygmy puma, and Sheng was on the ground again because his legs wouldn't hold him up - he landed on his back, grunted, and craned his head up enough to see the remaining four bandits between her and him. Two kept her arms pinned behind her back and crossed their swords in front of her, one dangerously close to her neck, while the other two loomed over Sheng, scowling.
"We were just gonna steal your food," one of the bandits growled, baring his few remaining teeth and furrowing his brow. "But you went an' made it hard! Now all our brothers are dead, you miserable fleas - so we decided that we're gonna gut'cha and take your food anyway."
Smellerbee narrowed her eyes, a smirk crossing her face. Sheng gulped, realizing the venom on her face, and seeing the calculating glimmer in her gaze, recognized a plan brewing in that skull of hers. Major Ke would get a look like that when trouble arose for his platoon, and all it would take was the proper timing.
Would - would Sheng have a part in this plan? He tightened his grip on the sword in his hand and felt himself trembling. It'd be stupid to just up and move because the two guys had their swords pressed to her, so - he hiked an eyebrow at her, and she gave a minute shake of the head. Okay, good. No. He wouldn't move, not just yet.
"Hey, listen, guys," Smellerbee said, her voice calm and even somehow, despite the imminent threat to her well-being. She drew the attention of three of the bandits - but the fourth, one of the ones closer to Sheng, kept his attention on the young Firebender. "There's no reason we still can't work this out. There's plenty of meat left to go around, and I can always catch more."
"The meat's not important anymore. For the sake of our brothers - "
"You'll do what, exactly?" Smellerbee scoffed. "Sure, you'll have taken care of yourselves now, but I wouldn't doubt that you got a long journey ahead of you. You'll take the meat and have enough to last the four of you a couple days, maybe, but after that you'll just be a sad quartet of bandits without any food or applicable hunting and cooking skill."
This gave pause to the bandits as they exchanged unsettled glances - but that one, that one, kept his gaze on Sheng. The Firebender thought he understood what Smellerbee had wanted, she was planning on getting all four to focus on her so he could attack them...but what good would that do? He wasn't really that good a fighter, she knew it, and she couldn't'a been banking everything on him, could she...?
"I'll cut you four a bargain," Smellerbee continued, a wicked grin forming and causing her to bare her teeth in a way that reminded Sheng even further of a pygmy puma. "Let us go, and I won't kill the rest of you - in fact, I'd be so grateful, I'd be willing to hunt more meat for you. Lee over there'd be thrilled just to get the chance to cook for you, since he won't shut up about it."
"R-right," Sheng stuttered, eyes wide and heart racing, feeling their attention shift to him. "I - I - I - I love to cook and - and you look like you gentlemen truly have exquisite taste - "
"Shut. Mouth," The one bandit who never took his gaze of Sheng growled, whipping his sword around and pointing it at the Firebender's neck. Sheng gulped and let his gaze slide down - the blade disappeared beneath the arc of his nose. He couldn't feel it yet, so it must only be an inch or two away from his throat, and the urge to pee his pants became a sudden and alarming priority that he couldn't deny for much longer. "We're dirty, not dumb. You killed eight of my brothers and I ain't gonna let you free again to get the rest of us. Your time is done, boys."
The bandit drew his sword back and Sheng saw the blade glisten against the fire. This was it - this was all he had left - but his body didn't want to move, all he could do was scrunch his eyes tight, drawing a sharp breath - his last, that would be it, wouldn't it? - and then, and then -
Thwip!
Nothing...but not nothingness. Sheng opened an eye, cautiously, in case the bandit was just waiting for him to look before making the kill - but no, the sword just wasn't there anymore, and the bandit's hand instead held an arrow. Except he wasn't actually holding it, it was more that the arrow had been lodged through his palm, and his fingers were arced and splayed at the same time, blood seeping down the cracks and lines of his hand and dribbling to the ground. Retroactively, Sheng realized he'd heard the sword clatter when it landed on the ground, but panic had done its work in deafening him to it.
Sheng glanced over to Smellerbee and that her eyes had gone wide, her jaw slack - she looked as surprised as the bandit, as Sheng probably looked, and the other bandits had trouble registering the fact that something had, you know, happened. As if the past five minutes hadn't been enough of a wake-up call.
The wounded bandit opened his gap-toothed mouth - Sheng assumed it was to scream, either in anger or pain - but before any sound could come out, another arrow pierced his neck, and the bandit's eyebrows hiked so high that they almost vanished between his scraggly bangs. All that escaped from him was a low whisper, a gurgle, and the wound only left a small trickle of blood (the arrow went clean through, holy crap!). He crumpled, collapsing in a heap on top of his own sword.
The remaining three bandits must'a known their number was up, because they didn't wait around long enough to wind up like their supposed leader; dropping their weapons, they turned and ran, leaving Sheng and Smellerbee alone in the small clearing with their savior - leaping down from a tree, just out of sight cast by night's shadow, landing in a crouch with bow in hand. He wore a blue tunic and red mantle, with a straw cone hat on his head; he looked to be about Sheng's age, with a pale, narrow face and a large nose.
"Longshot!" Smellerbee called, beaming and - and, crying? Well, not sobbing, but Sheng could see tears in her eyes, streaming down her face, cross-hatching the remains of the crimson war paint slashed across her cheeks. She and Longshot ran for each other - and their arms and bodies, entangled, and, and, her face in his shoulder, and Smellerbee, talking, saying, "You idiot. I had it under control. I could'a taken 'em," and the archer, Longshot - another Freedom Fighter? Just pressed his hand to the back of her head, his expression even, silent.
Smellerbee pushed back from him and punched him in the arm, her grin not fading. "You're a jerk. How long were you waiting in the tree to make a dramatic entrance?"
Sheng looked over to Longshot, expecting - something, anything really, but he remained mute and stoic...and yet, Smellerbee scoffed, retorting to some unspoken reply. "Sure, you'd just found us. And Pipsqueak doesn't get gas after eating moon peaches."
Still nothing from Longshot, the boy didn't grin or chuckle or anything...and, Sheng found himself thinking, if all of the Freedom Fighters came bundled with their own eccentricities like this, it would take a very long time to get used to them.
As if feeling Sheng's scrutinizing, the archer turned his attention to the Firebender; Sheng felt his chest caving in on itself and air refused to fill his lungs, and, and, what the hell was up with this guy? Smellerbee followed Longshot's gaze and cut in quickly, before Sheng got the chance to open his mouth and say anything. "Oh, Longshot - that's, uh, Lee. He helped me escape from the Fire Nation camp that had caught me, and managed to free a lot of the slaves in the slave line. He - he wants to become a Freedom Fighter, work under Skillet as a cook."
"H-hi," Sheng said, clambering to his feet, letting the dingy, uncared-for swords rest on the ground where he laid them. He brushed off the back of his pants and, the awkwardness of Longshot's silence seeping into the atmosphere, added, "So, you...you're an archer, huh? That's - that's cool, you really saved our butts back there. Thanks."
Still nothing. The Firebender felt his face heating up out of embarrassment. "But - uh - yeah - "
"Well, in any case," The swordswoman cut in, leaving Sheng's sentiment half-finished, "I think - we need to make sure we're not being tailed by that Fire Nation convoy before we can make a line straight home. Longshot, did you - ?"
The archer turned his attention back to Smellerbee, and a slow, sly grin crossed her face. "You dog, you. Of course you'd get ahead of 'em and cover up the trail we'd been leaving. You're the best, Longshot."
"So, does that mean we can head to the forest now?" Sheng asked, hiking his eyebrows.
"Yeah." Smellerbee crossed her arms over her chest and smirked. "Yes, it does."
SCENE DIVIDE
Now
Of course - at the time, Spatula hadn't known how to read Longshot, even as little as he did now. How his emotions were, oftentimes, just ghosts or hauntings of true expressions - how you had to pay attention in order to see his face move the way it ought to. And how, recently, because Spatula swore it wasn't his imagination now, if you looked into his eyes, you could understand what he was saying. It wasn't easy...then again, neither were Firebending or fighting.
Before he could continue with his story - his voice hurt a little bit, and he felt like he'd been talking for hours - a brief, shrill buzzing noise filled the air, making Longshot wince.
"Ah, rec time." Spatula pointed up at the ceiling, even though nothing had been hooked up there to broadcast the noise directly into the room. "Looks like my story's gonna have to wait. The guards are gonna lead us all out into this courtyard, and I'll show you where the Waterbender works, okay?"
Longshot nodded, dark shadows impacted underneath his eyes. He looked sick, tired, and probably had a bigger migraine than the one he'd pantomimed following the first part of Spatula's tale (not like he blamed him). The sooner Spatula could get him healed up, the better the archer's stay would get...because, really, that's all the comfort he could offer for him right now, with answers on hold.