Where Words Fail: Book 6: It's All or Nothing

by TEi Has Pants

Smellerbee and Longshot are almost home. The forest is only a few days away, but things are only going to get more difficult from here. How much have things changed since they left for Ba Sing Se, and will their presence be welcomed?

7. Chapter 4

Where Words Fail

Book Six: It's All or Nothing

Chapter 4: The Creed: "Look out for those weaker than yourself"

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.

SCENE DIVIDE

"Come on, it'll be okay...it'll be okay."

Skillet wanted to curse, to scream, to yell, but all she could do was console - and even then, she wasn't sure if they were for her two young charges, or for herself. Because Spirits knew she needed it, after the last month's worth of events (has it really been that long since Pipsqueak and The Duke returned?), after their hectic escape, after - after Sneers, and the other children...

The only two she had managed to secret away were Bedrock and Wind-Up. A sickly nine-year-old girl with a heart of gold, and the youngest kid of the entire group, a five-year-old boy. Skillet was supposed to be the teacher of those children! She might not have been their leader, but her position and seniority gave her an undeniable responsibility to care for them, and she had to - to run away, like a coward, like she had when the Fire Nation killed her family, because Wind-Up and Bedrock would not have been able to survive. It left a bitter taste in her mouth, but if a combat-trained monk like Sneers could fall in a battle to the man who had invaded the forest, what chance did an angry cook with a frying pan have?

Maybe - maybe she could have used the children's safety to fuel her on, to fight, to win...

...No, don't be stupid. She wasn't a warrior, end of story.

Cradling Bedrock in her arms, Skillet ran as fast as she dared through the outskirts of the forest, the pale-skinned girl resting with her eyes closed, her head crooked at an angle. The poor child was already exhausted, and - and there wasn't anything Skillet could do to tend to her, because the forest wasn't safe anymore, because -

"Miss Skillet," Wind-Up called from behind her, his breath short and voice ragged. "Please, my leg is cramping! Can we rest now?"

"I'm sorry, Wind-Up," Skillet said, using one of the voices in her teacher's reservoir - calming, encouraging, pushing him to be stronger. "We have to keep moving for a little while longer. We can rest soon, I promise. Can you keep running for me in the meantime?"

"Yeah," he said, and Skillet detected a smidgen of pride in his voice - of course he could, he was such a brave boy, he'd keep running if Skillet asked him in earnest, and they couldn't stop now because the Overdweller had taken control -

The trees around them thinned so much that Skillet could no longer really say they were in the forest - and, as soon as the last of those trees dispersed, and they were in the clear, she stopped, stooping over and panting. Wind-Up plodded to a stop beside her, his face red and soaked with sweat, caked in dirt, his hair ruffled by the wind.

Now - now, where could they go? Skillet wanted to explode, to yell - to cry, to do something! - but the children needed her to be brave right now, because Sneers wasn't around to flaunt his arrogant courage. She could try to take them to the caves the Freedom Fighters used as a storage shelter, but the Overdweller might find out about them by bullying one of the others that hadn't made it out. (While she was worried for all of the Freedom Fighters, she was most concerned for the younger ones, because...better not to think about it.) The underground reserve headquarters Jet had had built for winters or in the event that the treetop base actually got found by the Fire Nation presented the same problem...and she, personally, did not have any back-up places to take them. Her home, far away as it was, had been decimated in the war, and she doubted Bedrock could survive such a long and strenuous journey.

A dozen curse words of various intensities and ethnic flavors shuffled through her head like a deck of playing cards. She couldn't do the leader thing. That had always been a Jet-Sneers-Smellerbee deal, because there were just too many possibilities to consider and, in this case, not enough options worth the risk.

(The children are worth the risk!)

No. This time, they weren't, because if Skillet died trying to fight the Overdweller (the concept got more and more laughable the more distance she placed between herself and the idea's inception), then who would help them?

It was so hard to not break down and start crying. It would have left her feeling so much lighter.

"There! The woman that escaped!"

This time, Skillet did curse, and she whipped her head around to see a trio of men - adults! - struggling to break free of the forest, wearing filth-encrusted black tunics, the poster children for why regular bathing and good oral hygiene weren't optional. They served the Overdweller as flunkies - muscle, nothing more, but that was all that they needed, wasn't it? Reaffirming her grip on Bedrock, Skillet turned away and began running again, Wind-Up at her side without a word. The men would be able to catch up, though, Skillet knew it. The trees wouldn't stop them for long. Skillet wasn't an athlete, and the men would close the distance and they'd try to hurt Bedrock and Wind-Up and, and, and already she could feel their hot breath on the back of her neck, a hand tangling in one of her pigtails while another grabbed for her tunic, and she yelled and Wind-Up was yelling too and and and and -

Suddenly, the men's grasp on her loosened and their wails overrode hers, and Skillet felt herself stumbling; she whirled in time, falling on her butt, cradling Bedrock as firmly as possible. The man that had grabbed for her knelt on the ground a few yards away, holding his arms up into the air - soaked with blood, the hands severed at the wrists, leaving stumps. If Skillet hadn't been in survive-at-all-costs-fight-or-flight mode, she - she knew she'd be shocked, sickened, but she just didn't have that in her, not now.

The other two men - one clutching Wind-Up in a headlock - stopped to stare, first at their comrade, then at the person who had - had saved Skillet and Bedrock - sitting on an ostrich horse, with a familiar, curved sword held backwards in one hand, head adorned with a straw hat, cheeks streaked with red paint -

"Smellerbee!" Skillet cried, feeling her cheeks tingle as a smile curled up on her face. The - the girl was alive! She was missing some of the armor and clothing the cook had last seen her wearing, replaced by others - but it was her! Oh thank the Spirits, she'd survived!

Smellerbee glared at the man holding Wind-Up; his grip slackened enough for the boy to open his mouth wide and sink his teeth into the filthy, fleshy bit between his captor's thumb and forefinger. The man howled and Wind-Up slipped free, skittering away and coming to a halt beside Skillet.

"You three think you're tough enough to pick on a cook and two kids?" Smellerbee said, her voice low and threatening. "Let's see if you've got the balls to square off against someone who can fight back."

"L-Lao! That's the boy who killed our brothers three years ago!" One of the uninjured men turned to the other, pointing at Smellerbee. "We're screwed if we stick around here!"

"Tch!" The other one, Lao, scowled and rubbed the spot where Wind-Up had bit him. "Fine, we're gone! But when the Overdweller hears about this, you're a dead man!"

Helping their wounded brother to his feet - the third man sobbing and yowling between them - they turned and ran, disappearing again between the trees of the forest.

Smellerbee snorted and spat on the bloodstained ground before turning her attention to Skillet and her charges. Her expression softened and she dismounted from her ostrich horse, landing in a crouch. "Are you okay? Skillet, what the hell is going on - "

"I could ask you the same thing," Skillet laughed. "You're supposed to be dead - you and Jet and Longshot, you jerk!"

A soft smile crossed Smellerbee's face, and - and, for a moment, the cook saw a glimmer of sadness in her eyes. She tilted back the hat with her free hand - a hat that, Skillet realized, was surprisingly similar to Longshot's old one. "Well, you're at least a third wrong."

She glanced at the sword in her hand - Skillet followed her gaze, eyebrows hiked, and - and, they were his, there couldn't be any doubt - and before she could say anything about it, Wind-Up chirped, "Those're Jet's swords!"

They were. The sadness in Smellerbee's eyes did not fade; wordlessly, she sheathed the sword onto her back and extended her arms to Skillet. The cook passed the still-sleeping Bedrock off to the tomboy, and, hands free, pushed herself up into a standing position, stepping on the hems of her pants and almost tripping again. The pigtail that the man had grabbed had come undone, getting into her eyes, brushing her earlobe.

"Jet and Longshot didn't make it, did they...?" Skillet murmured, tucking the loose strands of hair behind her ear and glancing at the distant treetops, crimson red and brushy from this distance. "That's why - the swords, and the hat..."

"I don't know if Longshot is alive or not." Smellerbee shook her head. "We escaped Ba Sing Se together and we spent most of the last two months getting here - then we ran into the Rough Rhinos and I...I messed up. Longshot got hit with an arrow to the belly and I got knocked out - when I woke up, he and the Rough Rhinos were gone. No body or anything."

"So, Jet...?"

She hung her head - her eyes obscured by - by Longshot's hat, Skillet knew. That sadness vanished, obscured by a mask only that piece of familiarity could provide. "Yeah. We were with him to the end."

Skillet had nothing. She - she wanted to say, to say something - but what would do justice? Smellerbee had known Longshot and Jet for years, had been closer to them than any other Freedom Fighter. Closing her eyes, she mumbled, "I'm sorry," and left it at that - keeping it simple.

"It's...alright." Smellerbee drew a deep breath and glanced back up at Skillet, and the cook found herself locking gazes with an entirely different person; hard-faced and with eyes of ice, Smellerbee set her lips into a flat line and asked instead, "Now you have to tell me something. What's going on with the three stooges there? Why were you being chased out of our forest?"

This different Smellerbee had shed the sadness and mourning so suddenly that Skillet found herself caught off-guard by the question; she shook her head, tucking renegade strands of hair behind her ear again when they refused to stay put. "We're in trouble," she began, shaking her head and frowning. "A goon calling himself the Overdweller invaded the forest a few days ago. Sneers knew about it right away - we'd been keeping up on our patrols - and went to head him off personally, because the Overdweller kept a huge sword on him. I - I don't know of the specifics, but somehow the Overdweller knew about the hideout, all of us, and had come to depose Sneers. Before I knew it, he and his men had Sneers with his hands tied behind his back, leading him to the center of the base; I managed to stay out of sight, I knew something was wrong...and, I didn't see it myself, but Wind-Up said that they forced him to make the others submit to them." She felt her voice shaking, and her eyes began to sting. "I don't know what the hell that idiot is thinking, but he - he wouldn't endanger the other Freedom Fighters, so there must be some logic behind it..."

Smellerbee sighed and squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. "How did you three get away?"

"I didn't do anything, really, not at first." Skillet placed a hand on Wind-Up's head, a warm smile crossing her face, the familiar warmth of pride radiating out from her core - a welcome deterrent to the toll the Overdweller had put on her mind and body. "Wind-Up snuck away from the Overdweller and was courageous enough to save Bedrock from her hut before she could be found. They came to me, and I...well, I ran. We managed to keep from being found for the past four or five days, but those three stumbled across us before I could..."

"Lead the children out," Smellerbee whispered, and for a moment that soft grin had returned. "You did fine. You kept them alive, and you can't ask for anything more of a good leader."

"It's not my place," Skillet admitted, chuckling and scratching her cheek. "I'll leave that to Sneers. Or you."

Smellerbee shrugged. "It's something he and I'll have to resolve later, isn't it? For the time being, I'm going to take this Overdweller down and I'll need Sneers and the others' help. Do we know anything about him and his men?" She knelt down and set Bedrock's feet on the ground, quietly urging the girl to open her eyes. "I mean - are they benders? Do they specialize in a particular kind of weapon? Those three said they knew me, but...I dunno, I've killed a lot of bandits."

"I - " Skillet glanced back to the forest, then turned her gaze back to Smellerbee, biting her lower lip. "Telltale said he saw Overdweller beat Sneers without using any bending or weapons. He didn't even use that sword."

"Doesn't eliminate anything, but it gives me a direction to go in, in any case." Smellerbee shook her head, her shaggy mane whipping underneath Longshot's hat. "Does he have any other cronies, or just those three?"

"More than that," Wind-Up chimed in, taking Skillet's fingers into his chubby hands. "There were like a billion zillion!"

"Mmm. I think I can handle those odds." Smellerbee fixed Wind-Up with a roguish smirk and laid a hand on his shoulder. "I'm the invincible Smellerbee, after all. Right?"

(Where had Skillet seen that grin before? She swore it looked familiar, but she couldn't remember where it came from.)

"Yeah!"

"Yeah," Bedrock agreed, her fair, cocoa-colored hair floating behind her - Skillet was amazed at how it seemed like she was floating in water, it was a unique trait that only this amazingly strong-willed child seemed to have. Skillet saw the sickness on her face (pale skin, shadows under her eyes) and heard it in her voice (weak and frail and ready to give out), but she still smiled, she still lived on. She reached into the pocket of her torn, baggy blue pants, withdrawing something with a closed fist; she held the fist out to Smellerbee, and the young warrior's eyebrows shot up beneath Longshot's hat. She cupped her hands beneath Bedrock's; the younger of the two overturned her fist and spread her fingers wide, a small pendant tied to a leather cord slipping free from her palm.

"Bedrock..." Smellerbee murmured, eyes falling on the object cradled in her hands, before returning her gaze to the younger girl. "This is - "

"My good luck charm," Bedrock said, smiling (and Skillet felt that warm pride welling up inside again, so strong and sudden this time that she felt ready to burst - her eyes burned, vision gone blurry all over again, and her children were so brave and kind). "My mommy and daddy gave it to me before the Fire Nation came. They said it was a tooth from a baby whale shark, and I was wearing it when Wind-Up saved me. I - I can't do much to help, but..."

Oh, the want to hug the child...!

Smellerbee looked at the fang once more - a yellowing, razor-edged triangle (thin and long like a snake's fang) against her worn, no-longer-white gloves, before moving close to Bedrock and wrapping her arms around her, giving a gentle squeeze.

Smellerbee had - had never been much of a physical contact sort of person, at least not so intimately. She doled out affection in arm-punches, and hugging was...it was big, bigger than Skillet. Longshot may well have opened his mouth and spoken. At long last, Skillet felt the walls inside her breaking down, and she sniffled as tears squeezed past her hastily-erected barriers and began to roll down her cheeks.

The hug was brief, for the sake of Bedrock's frailty, but the power behind it had touched Skillet in a way she hadn't been so since the other Freedom Fighters left the forest. As Smellerbee stood up, tying the cord around her neck, she turned her attention back to Skillet, the warrior's face once more set into that neutral expression. (But Skillet swore - she swore - that a hint of the...the love, power, joy, that Smellerbee had experienced jointly with the cook, still lingered behind those cold eyes that let nothing in.)

"I've got to go. Is there anything else you can tell me before I leave?" She asked, finishing the knot and giving the necklace a light tug to make sure it was securely locked in place.

"I don't have anything solid, but...but I don't think this guy killed Sneers." Skillet shook her head. "In fact, I'd bet on it. He's absolutely nuts, and as a teacher who's had to deal with all sorts of behavioral issues, I'm at a loss for his motives. All I can ask is that you save Sneers and the others and give this Overdweller a swift kick to the crotch for me."

"Count on it." Smellerbee nodded, paused for a moment, and - so suddenly that Skillet didn't even register it happening - had pulled the cook in for a hug as well, this one tight and full of a strange, professed friendship that Skillet had never encountered before. "I'm glad you're okay, Skillet. Gimme enough time and I'll set this mess right."

Skillet nodded, whispered, "It's great to see you too, Bee," and returned the hug, burying herself in it because this was part of the old life healing, moving on, after the past season and a half. She clapped the younger girl on the shoulder. "Kick ass and take names, huh?"

Pulling away, Smellerbee flashed that familiar roguish grin again. "Damn straight."

Parting from the cook, Smellerbee glanced away and whistled; another ostrich horse, out of Skillet's line of sight this whole time, whinnied and trotted up next to the swordswoman. Grabbing its reins, Smellerbee cooed at it, "Easy, girl. Good girl, Fletcher. I have an important job for you."

SCENE DIVIDE

"Head to Bi Nan, it's about four miles south of here," Smellerbee explained, craning her head back to meet Skillet's eyes, the older girl sitting precariously in a saddle meant for one, but currently occupying three. "They're occupied by the Fire Nation, and they're sympathizers, but their military influence isn't strong enough to keep a couple of children out. Play up Bedrock's sickness, too - that'll get you in for sure. The Overdweller shouldn't look for you there, especially if he's as hard-on for bullying and fighting as you say he is. There's a local shrine that will give you sanctuary and food - if you help with their chores, they'll maintain their hospitality. And that shouldn't be a problem for the best chef in the world."

Fletcher did not buck or sway under the weight of Skillet and her two young charges. The ostrich horse seemed to know her delicate load and realize Skillet's nervousness as the poor girl white-knuckled the leather reins clamped in Fletcher's beak.

"Is that really a good idea, staying so close to the forest?" Skillet asked, although Smellerbee could tell how much she'd rather not bring the point up. A further journey meant a longer ostrich horseback ride, and Smellerbee felt a tiny grin drawing on her face.

"It's the safest option, given who you're traveling with." Crossing her arms over her chest, the sun bright in the sky and blotted out by the brim of the straw hat that smelled like him, she whistled for Surestance, her own steed sidling up beside her. "Fletcher's a smart beastie - I'm pretty sure she and Surestance were put where we found them on purpose. Fate or something like that. Spirits, maybe, but that's not quite how they operate."

"I thought you didn't believe in the Spirit World?"

She gave an uncomfortable shrug. "Times change."

"Sorry."

"No, it's alright. But Fletcher's not going to do you wrong. She'll go careful for you, and she won't buck you or anything." Crooking her head to the side, she added, "Just be sure to feed her some red apples, or she gets cranky. I have no idea why - Surestance doesn't like the things."

Skillet gulped, but nodded, and damned if Smellerbee couldn't see her heart thundering in her chest like a hummingbird's wings. The poor girl was tenacious as hell with an attitude the swordswoman definitely had an appreciation for, but when it came to heights and, apparently, riding ostrich horses, even she had limitations.

Lodging her foot into one of Surestance's stirrups, Smellerbee hoisted herself up into his saddle, grabbing the reins. "I'll send for you guys when everything is clear. It might take a few days, so be patient, okay?"

"You got it." Skillet turned Fletcher around, aiming south, and said, "Good luck, Bee."

"You too. Catch you on the other side."

She flicked the leather straps, and Surestance took off, charging full bore into the familiar turf that had at one point been Smellerbee's home.

She had imagined her homecoming would be something to be celebrated; Smellerbee and Longshot, returning to the forest after triumphing over that which had killed their leader and friend, and all the trials they had faced along the way. In her version, there had been fanfare and a feast, celebrating the first step towards reuniting the Freedom Fighters, the first step in saving the world without the Avatar's aid, and Sneers would...well, he'd be upset, but it would be a familiar kind of upset, and that would have been great because his flusteredness would be just like old times, and she would tease him for it (and vice versa).

That had been a naive tunnel dream. Longshot wasn't here, and Sneers was captured or possibly worse (Smellerbee couldn't afford Skillet's optimistic hunch), and there ultimately wouldn't be a feast. Even though there'd been a few good meals along the way, nothing beat Skillet's culinary mastery. Here, now, in Hong Ye Forest, Smellerbee was a foreign agent - a disease, a sickness that this lunatic Overdweller would try to cure himself of. Ironic, right?

Well, good freakin' luck to him. Because Smellerbee had at least one edge on the Over-nutcase, and that was the home field advantage. She had spent most of her life jumping, swinging, hiding, sparring and living amongst these trees, and she knew it better than any certified wacko who just dropped in and decided to claim the place for himself. He'd have to have some powerful stuff to out-trump that.

(And she could be a persistent illness, where necessary. Or at least that itch in the center of your back you could never reach.)

The trees engulfed her from all sides and she navigated Surestance through them with body leaning forward, eyes narrowed against the wind. The familiar scent of honey welled up against her nostrils, and - and, yes, she was home, she was back at last, and the Overdweller had better watch out for Crimson-Faced Smellerbee.

SCENE DIVIDE

They kept her arms bound at the wrists, behind her back - to keep her from Earthbending, from escaping, from - they'd even taken away her tool belt, Mortar had given it to her -

Pestle bit her lower lip to keep from sobbing. She was hungry, her shoulders were sore, and her throat had gone dry, there wasn't any light in this place and she'd been locked in here for - how long? Days, probably, so hard to tell, time just kind of slipped away when there wasn't any light and when her captors only came in once in a while to give her water and a little bit of stale bread, sporadically at that.

'Here' was a closet in Skillet's classroom. Wood on all sides, the boards pressed together tightly enough to keep any sunlight from getting in (Pestle would know, she helped build the place). A few shelves of supplies - ink wells, quills, parchment, scrolls, chalk, et cetera - framed her on either side, and Spirits it was so cold and dark in here. The chalk's odor - dry, stale - made her nose itch, she didn't like the scent of the stuff at all, and she'd have asked her captors to get rid of it if she thought they'd listen - they probably wouldn't. They would just laugh. And it was so quiet in here - hushed, as if the world didn't exist beyond the walls of the closet, though occasionally she'd pick up the muffled sounds of people talking, the clopping footsteps of the people who brought her water, their chatter much clearer the closer they became.

Her eyes hurt - dry, all the way in the back, and her cheeks had gone stiff, were covered with trails of salt. She couldn't actually cry anymore, because she'd done it so much while locked up in here, because worry gnawed at her and left her frayed, like the end of a rope that had started to come undone. She was alone! She didn't have Mortar to help her through this, Mortar was - was out there, Mortar had had the guts to stand up to the Overdweller when Sneers made the others submit to him, and Pestle had just hung back, scared, a coward, and for Mortar's effort they - they broke her arm, and when even that didn't sway her - just when Mortar began to, to drum up charisma, support from the others, and Pestle finally felt herself ready to jump in there, to do something to not be useless - hands, strong, adult hands, grabbed her, pinned her down, and a, a blade, rusty and chipped but still sharp enough to cut the skin, pressed to her throat - could still feel the grain against her skin even now, how damaged the edge had been - and they'd taken her, told Mortar that if she didn't cooperate, then they'd kill Pestle, and, and, that had put an end to that, everyone else who had been ready to take up arms dropped back, and, and!

Pestle didn't know if Mortar was still okay, and - and she'd been such a scaredy-cat, letting Mortar fight without doing anything. Her captors were - mouthy enough, really - sometimes, when they came to give her water, they'd tell her how useful she was being, the perfect blackmail bait, and that they didn't need to hurt her, just keep her secreted away for...

...for how long? She knew she could starve to death, she wasn't a kid anymore and she'd seen some Freedom Fighters - who hadn't been much younger than herself at the time - die during that one winter, starved and frozen. And she didn't want to die because - because she needed Mortar, and Mortar needed Pestle in return, and - !

No. Okay. Calm down, Pestle, calm down - Mortar might not be here, but Pestle still had her support, always and forever. Nothing would keep them apart. And...and there had to be a way out here, right? But what if - what if she left, they hurt Mortar even more...? That was a huge risk to take, but...but waiting here, so hungry - it'd been torture and she couldn't take anymore and she couldn't be a whimpering coward. Mortar was depending on her, and if she had to - if Pestle wanted to make it up to her sister, make up for the fact that she'd chickened out when Mortar really needed her...

Still - her wrists were bound, and for all she knew, the bandits - Sneers had called them bandits - had locked her in, and she had no idea how to pick a lock, let alone in the dark. Maybe if they'd left her with her tools, she could have broken the lock with a hammer and chisel, but...no, no buts. Pestle clenched her jaw and expelled a breath through her nose. Escape. You've got to escape, because you're useless to Mortar in here. One step at a time! Focus. The rope around her wrists had to go first, and - and maybe there was something in here that she could use to cut it? But what? It wasn't like they kept knives or saws or anything in the closet used for school supplies.

What she wouldn't give for some earth - small enough for her to use with her limited range of motion. There was always the foundation the school sat on, but it was out of sight and she doubted she could bend it with her arms behind her back. There had to be something! There -

The chalk.

The stinky, dry, dusty chalk! Chalk was made from stone! She scrunched her eyes tight - she made a scooping motion with one hand, trying to bend a piece to her - she heard something shuffle and clatter from just to her right - another scooping motion, and she saw a pale streak liberate itself from a wooden box, and, and, yes - !

It took some work - whittling and hardening the chalk, reshaping it so it had an edge, a makeshift knife - grunting, brow furrowed and jaw clenched, Pestle worked at it with bound hands until finally it looked sharp enough to slice through the rope. All she had to do now was - use the chalk - saw it back and forth, careful not to cut herself - the stone and rope hissed against each other, and - suddenly - no more tension -

Gasping, Pestle yanked her hands apart, the chalk-knife clattering to the wood. She stood up - stretched - rolled her shoulders - trying to will away the sores, how stiff her body had become, but it felt so good to be unbound, and now - she'd taken the first step, she'd made it - okay, hadn't really made it, but she was that much closer to freedom.

Freedom.

Yeah. Yeah, she could do that. Now all she needed was a way out of here - and she already had that, it lay just below her feet, only a few inches away and hidden out of sight. As Pestle hunkered down, clutching at the air with bent elbows and curled fingers, she thought to herself how loud this would be - how she'd probably give herself away - but fine, let them figure it out, if they didn't have her then there was nothing they could do to keep Mortar in line anymore and all Pestle needed to do was let her know somehow. Clenching her jaw again, she wrenched upward, and the floorboards squealed - protested - yelped as they were torn apart, splinters and dust pelting the Earthbender, the noise cacophonous enough to pierce her ears, make her flinch - but in, in from the back wall flooded sunlight, bright and painful to look at, but beautiful, she'd fought for and earned her freedom and she'd show just how brave she could be and save Mortar. Squinting, Pestle stumbled past the slab of rock that had erupted through the floor - backhanded the air, making a stone spire jut up against the door, pinning it closed - and masked her eyes, outside, where the air was warm but not stifling, where nature still sang despite the serious nature that had been cast over the forest, where -

A hand

Clamped on her arm, over her mouth

Oh no

SCENE DIVIDE

Wait.

That's all he could do now, and Sneers hated it. His body kept sending him signals that it should hurt, should ache from being left shackled to a tree for four days, but he kept tuning those warnings out, because as soon as he opened his mind to the aches and pains, they would overwhelm him and attack every muscle. As a monk-in-training, he had been forced to stand for long periods of time, but at least he'd had the freedom to move around then; here, the metal bonds around his wrists kept him so close to the great tree emerging through the floor of the dining hall that the most he could do was shift his neck - and even that suffered from the dull, throbbing hurt.

At least they fed him and gave him water. He supposed, with a hint of bitterness, he was better off alive and well than as a completely dejected prisoner.

There wasn't much else. Occasionally the Overdweller would approach him with questions - sometimes about the children, the ones too young and unskilled to fight, but more often about the Freedom Fighters' supplies. At first, Sneers sandbagged with the egocentric maniac, but - but that hadn't worked, really, because somehow the bastard knew that Sneers cared for the wellbeing of the children more than he himself. He'd had his goon squad (a collection of bandits, hodgepodge and ramshackle and probably infested with more parasites, insects and diseases than the most disgusting swamp boar) drag Flitter away from the hard labor the girl had been sentenced to and - and threatened to break her arm, just like they'd done with Mortar, and Sneers had to talk to keep them from doing it, and -

- and the safety of the children always came first. That had not changed, and for the first time, Sneers absolutely couldn't stand himself for it. As long as the children remained in harm's way, the Overdweller had the monk by the balls. Sneers didn't even know if the Overdweller had hurt any more of them, had no way of knowing if Spike or the others had tried (failed?) to fight back against them, and - and he hadn't seen Skillet since before being deposed...

No, it wasn't what he wanted to do. He would have preferred to headbutt the jerkbelly, then get under him and body-check him into the air, and then maybe break his kneecaps - no, wait, the kneecap-breaking should come first. Yeah, that'd make the whole thing hurt more for the bastard, and in blocking out the impending soreness, the monk found himself well-stocked in vengeance. Maybe this is what it felt like to be Jet: so angry at his shortcomings that the need to lash out at those who crossed him couldn't be reined in.

The revelation unnerved him. He used to think he was so much better than Jet for his control, for his ability to see clearly from point A to point B without a vendetta...but the current context had clobbered the monk with the Perspective Brick, and suddenly Sneers found himself knocked clear from his holier-than-thou perch.

Sitting in a high-backed, wooden chair at the head of the dining hall, perpendicular to Sneers, sat the object of his loathing - the Overdweller, a tall sonuvabitch wearing a faded brown longcoat with trim that had been a pristine, golden fabric at one point - it had since become so filth-encrusted that it lost its glimmer and sheen. With a long face and pronounced cheekbones, he must have been in his forties; long, oily black hair clung to his scalp and dangled in rattails down around his shoulders, thinning and filthy. One eye peered past his curved, beak-like nose, black and beady and unreadable; the other, beyond the monk's line of sight, remained hidden by an eye patch. (Sneers couldn't really tell if he needed it or not - he was eccentric, unpredictable, and for all the monk knew, it was a style choice. A dumb one. The Freedom Fighters had better fashion sense than this guy, and they only had a hodgepodge of hand-me-downs to work with.) Lanky to the point of almost being scrawny, it was a surprise he could actually - actually fight, and well enough to beat Sneers hand-to-hand.

If Smellerbee ever found out he'd lost to this wiry sociopath, she'd tease him to the end of the world and back. The thought made him grimace.

Slouching in the chair - a fancy thing of Fire Nation craftsmanship, with ornate armrests and legs shaped like sinewy, twisting dragons that doubled and redoubled back upon each other - the Overdweller held in one hand a calligraphy brush, up near his chin, gnawing on the handle absent-mindedly. The brush dripped, wet with ink that went unused, splattering on his pant legs, droplets spraying onto the scales of the dragons laying claim to the armrests. On a low, beat-up table in front of the chair lay a pile of scrolls, mostly blank, but from here Sneers could make out the scrawled listings of a madman creating his own order in a society that hadn't needed one before. The Freedom Fighters had grown accustomed to their own way of life, to following the Creed as guidelines, and the Overdweller scribing a twisted charter to enforce something much - harsher, restricting, not Freedom at all, just...he didn't have the right to do that! It was a perversion, a sick man's ego pushing itself onto children who couldn't do anything to stop him.

"Boss! Boss Overdweller!"

Sneers raised his head, blinking slowly - some of the bandits cowering beneath the bastard (because they didn't actually follow him; the Overdweller led by fear and chose his path through madness) approached from the far end of the dining platform, one dangling between the other two - their grimy tunics and pants stained dark and wet with blood. The one in the middle didn't move, his feet dragging on the wood and his head hanging low - and it took a few seconds, but Sneer realized that the man had no hands, that his arms hung over his comrades' shoulders and ended in seeping stumps. Despite his initial reaction, nausea tugging at his throat, he smirked. Good. The monster had it coming.

"What is it?" The Overdweller growled, his eye locked on the boughs of the forest overhead. "I told you fools not to bother me. I'm working on my list of laws for the children to obey."

"We found the woman who escaped - " Sneers drew a sharp breath (Skillet and Mama Marlin were the only ones old enough to actually be considered women, but the latter had been amongst the group of Freedom Fighters Sneers had been forced to surrender leadership in front of) and struggled to keep the glimmer of interest off his face. " - and she has two of your children with her. The other three are still unaccounted for, though."

"Bitch," Overdweller murmured, as if it were an afterthought. The - the bastards, Sneers felt heat surging through his body, his face, his ears, his breath tight in his chest, he wanted to hurl himself at the man, to yell and scream and punch the message into him, they aren't your children, you aren't taking care of them, you're subjugating them, treating them like slaves!, but - no, have to wait, keep your wits about you, Sneers, or else the creep has already won. His grin curled into a scowl as he bit down the urge to say something that could work against his precious charges. At least six of his Freedom Fighters had escaped. "Did you capture them and bring them back as I instructed?"

"A-actually, Boss Overdweller, a boy on an ostrich horse came and saved them before we could - "

The Overdweller was on his feet instantly, knocking over the table, his scrolls thrown to the wind and his ink pot shattering at his feet, staining the wooden platform and the toes of his boots a shimmering black. Livid, he clenched a gloved fist and scowled, glaring at his underlings. "Idiots! I need the woman and those children! Without them, we are incomplete! Go back out there and find them!"

Flecks of spit flew from the sides of the Overdweller's mouth, his voice raising an octave on the last two words. Sneers narrowed his eyes. Was the idiot blind in both eyes? Didn't he see that the middle of the three was wounded and in shock from blood loss?

One of the bandits had been following Sneers' train of thought (another unnerving discovery, but one that shouldn't have surprised him) and chose to pursue it. "But sir - the boy cut off Pong's hands, he - he needs help, he's dying - "

The Overdweller's gaze shifted, at last, to the injured bandit between his two partners. Settling his right hand on the hilt of the broadsword hanging on the same hip, the would-be tyrant moved slowly towards the bandits, closing the remaining distance between them, each step heavy and cautious, as if planned in advance and part of an intricate dance. At last, he came to a stop in front of the injured man, and with his free hand (fingertips stained by the ink), he tilted the bandit's head back. The Overdweller pursed his lips, brow furrowed - as if scrutinizing the man, whose eyes had gone wide and distant, face pale and slick with sweat.

"Poor baby," the Overdweller crooned, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Did you get a boo-boo? Do not worry, the Overdweller will make you feel all better."

Sneers drew a tight, hot breath through his nose - he knew what was coming, the two idiots thought the Overdweller would help their partner, that bringing him to their lunatic boss after failing a mission he was quite clearly passionate about succeeding.

The injured man's eyes quivered, pupils dilated - he didn't have long, he'd gone into shock and he'd die soon anyway, and - and then his head jerked back, eyes rolled up into his skull, white and round and blood leaked from the corners of his mouth, and - and something shimmering under his tongue -

The Overdweller drew his hand back; a small blade, no longer than eight inches, pressed flat against his palm and streaked with red, emerged from the bandit's jaw. The man fell completely slack between his two partners, sliding free of their grasp and landing with a thunk! to the wood. Sneers' eyes widened, he'd seen the man's execution coming a mile away, but not like - not like that, not so subtly! He knew he shouldn't feel, feel anything for these monsters, but the Overdweller's cold-hearted cruelty jilted something in the monk's chest, something he wasn't comfortable in feeling. The monk pressed his mouth into a flat line - if nothing else, the Overdweller had just lost a surprise attack he might have used against Sneers for their impending rematch. Because it would happen, and this time, Sneers would win.

"Summon the children." The Overdweller hissed, turning on a heel and hunching his shoulders. He scowled so deep that the corners of his mouth almost looked ready to vanish off the sides of his face, and the blade in his palm sunk back into his sleeve. When the two remaining henchmen hesitated, glancing nervously at each other instead of complying, the Overdweller threw his head back and screamed. "I SAID SUMMON. THE. CHILDREN!"

The two living bandits turned, ran, their partner left dead on the dining hall. Sneers drew another deep breath, his mind churning, tingling; he clamped down on the raw emotions scraping his skull, the cold facts piercing his brain, trying to piece together what he'd just learned. Skillet was out there somewhere and - and she had two of the kids with her. Good. Good, that was great, because - because as long as she was still free, there was a chance. Somebody had saved her from the bandit trio, somebody who - who might just be a good enough soul to come to the Freedom Fighters' aid. Hopefully. All he could do was wish that -

- he couldn't finish his thought, because the Overdweller had crossed over to him. The monk hadn't even noticed, trying to separate what he needed to know from the emotional wringer he'd been shoved through. The man leaned so close that his breath was hot and rancid in Sneers' face, his one eye wide had gone wide and was focused sharply on the monk. "You think you're clever, allowing the wench and her brats to escape, yes you do, but I'm wise to your game! I shall not let such lackadaisical behavior stand long amongst my men! Your ilk will be found, we will be complete, and you, yes, you will watch as I administer care to those children like you could only dream! Yes yes yes yes!"

(Nothing nothing say nothing or risk winding up like the handless bandit, a spring-blade through the jaw)

Dammit! There was nothing he could do, nothing to be done, and and and and just glower, keep stoic or else they might - might do worse to the children than break Mortar's arm, and it was so frustrating! Just, just...

The others came first.

Turning away, the Overdweller threw his arms up into the air. "Without those six, we aren't complete, and without being complete we cannot move forward, no, evolution will be denied to us! I will have them and you will watch and envy as I do what you wish you could do, I will raise these children with my ultimate vision, yes yes yes!"

With that, he stalked off, vanishing from the dining hall - to do what, Sneers didn't know. He was gone at last, alone, and he let himself sag as much as his shackles would allow.

How much longer could he wait? The man was absolutely out of his mind! If he could just get the children to safety - move them somewhere, somewhere safe, where the Overdweller couldn't find them right away, then he could - could fight back, could...

"Wow, that guy is crazy, Skillet wasn't kidding."

Sneers whipped his head up too suddenly, and his scalp smashed into the tree behind him; cursing, he scowled and scrunched his eyes shut. "Who the hell's there?"

"Come on, Sneers, it's only been a season and a half. You can't be that forgetful." And - and Sneers knew that voice, he knew it because it was -

- Smellerbee jumped away from the tree branch she'd been hiding on, landing in a crouch in front of Sneers, a wiry smirk on her face.

"Stinkbug!" Sneers exclaimed, an unfamiliar, tickling sensation working its way up through his gut; he, he felt his cheeks tingle, he'd smile, dammit, he hated laying his emotions out so openly, but, but she was supposed to be dead and she wasn't, she was here and free and she could, she could help! "You're alive!"

"I've been getting that a lot lately," the swordswoman admitted, tilting her head to the side. "It looks like you've seen better days, though. Gimme a second and I'll pop you free of those shackles."

"Wait - no, stop - listen," Sneers cut in, stamping a foot, drawing the girl's attention away from the metal bonds and back to his face. This was all coming so suddenly that, that he didn't have time to register anything else about the swordswoman, it was more important to make sure that she knew. "I can't go just yet. If I escape, that lunatic will hurt the others."

"...hmm." Smellerbee crossed her arms over her chest and let her eyes flicker to the body of the bandit lying a few yards away. "He could be bluffing."

"He isn't," Sneers insisted, leaning his head forward. "He broke Mortar's arm when she tried to lead the others to fight back against him. I don't even know if the others are in one piece, and if - if Bedrock is still here, she - "

"Don't worry." Smellerbee shook her head. "Wind-Up helped her escape before they could be found by the Overdweller. Both of them are with Skillet, and they're heading to Bi Nan. They won't be able to find them there, at least not yet."

"Thank the Spirits for small victories," Sneers murmured, earning a nod of agreement from Smellerbee. "There's still three more that the Overdweller hasn't captured yet - I have no idea which ones, or where they are...you must have been the one to cut off that guy's hands, then."

"Oh, yeah." Smellerbee shrugged. "Idiots thought they could outrun me. I gave 'em a head start, but I know the forest better and I have an ostrich horse now. Following them was cake."

Silence fell between them, and Sneers' mind continued to churn - thought after thought running through his head, so many important things to say but not enough time (could there ever be enough time now? It's not often a comrade in arms returned from the dead, after all) - and, and there was just such a big jumble that figuring out where to start was tasking enough. At last, though, his brain grasped something - he wrestled with it, found it, and pulled the thought free like unearthing a stubborn turnip.

"You should go. The Overdweller's going to be back soon." Sneers narrowed his eyes. "I can hold my own for now. As long as you're out there, we have a chance."

Smellerbee's expression changed from ponderous to - to, what, ireful? Something like that, but there was a sheet of ice behind that, and the combination made Sneers' head throb. The swordswoman hadn't been a frost queen before leaving. "What the hell happened to you? You used to be a little more gung-ho about kicking butt."

"I have other concerns in mind," Sneers retorted, twisting his head away. "The others, remember? I - I can't fight when they're in the crossfire. If you can find some way to save them - secret them away from the forest in pairs, gradually, then I'll be glad to help you - "

"We don't have time for that sort of crap," Smellerbee shot, and Sneers winced, the statement - a fact, he hated to admit even that - piercing and oiled and cold and sharp, like one of Longshot's arrows. "We need something faster and more efficient. The risk will be higher, yes, but if we take down the Overdweller's mook squad before they can do anything, then all of a sudden it's you and me and the others versus him, and I think I like those odds. If we do it slowly, he'll notice - and then he'll take it out on our friends anyway. It's a matter of immediate versus gradual risk, and if we go for the faster option, he'll be off his guard and won't be able to formulate a counter-plan."

"What, do you have something up your sleeve, then?" He turned his attention back to the swordswoman, scowling, feeling heat rise up from his stomach - angry, so angry, the emotional wringer not going away, always pulling him through and through and through; what the hell did she think she was doing, trying to cut in on his leadership like this? "Unless you've got Longshot up in the trees and he's capable of hitting a dozen targets at once - "

Smellerbee turned away. "No, I don't have Longshot."

And, and then - Sneers felt his mind slow down enough to register, to see, to know - the hat. Not Longshot's from before, but - similar. Plus the swords on her back, and...

Oh, Spirits, had he been so caught up with this mess to not even realize...? The anger that threatened to overtake him receded, like the tide going out at night, replaced by a hollow, dull sensation of - guilt, shame. He remembered, a month ago, Pipsqueak telling him that Jet had died, and that ache shone through more clearly than any his body attempted to suffer.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, bowing his head a little as he spoke. "How did - I know how Jet died...but Longshot...?"

"I - don't know if he's dead." Smellerbee glanced to the side. "He got gutshot with an arrow - it was a hectic fight. I couldn't find his body after losing track of him. I don't know, and it's - it's better if we don't talk about him now." Turning back to Sneers, she reached into the hem of her left glove and withdrew from it a bobby pin - slender and crimped on one side, glistening darkly in the sunlight. "I'm going to undo your shackles, but you gotta keep pretending like you're trapped, okay? I'll go prepare once I've finished this, and then I'll wait for the right moment to strike. That's when you break free and do some damage, okay?"

"How long do you plan on waiting for this to happen?" Sneers asked. It would be better this way than to outright fight her call; she seemed intent to do whatever the hell it was she planned on doing. As the swordswoman bent forward and began working on the shackle binding his right wrist, the monk continued with, "they check on me pretty frequently throughout the day. His goons might not catch it, but he's observant when he's not going off on his madman tangents. He'll notice that the shackles aren't locked."

"The best time will be when he least expects it: when we have the most to lose." Smellerbee kept her voice low. From this angle, the straw hat obscured her face, and Sneers couldn't read any expression she might have been pulling. "Once he's got his men and the kids here - that's when I'll make my move. Some of the others are combat ready - at least, they were when I was here. Enough where, I think, we can rally them. The ones who can will protect the ones who can't, because that's how the Freedom Fighters work, isn't it? We look out for each other because nobody else will."

Sneers sighed, and under different circumstances, he would have fixed her with an amused smirk. "The more things change..."

"Exactly." She gave a soft "Aha!" as the shackle came undone, moving over to the next one. "I know you led the kids with the rest of us gone and I can respect that. You make a great parental figure, even if you're a huge jerkbelly. But you ain't a tactician, despite Jet's best efforts to make you one; so, like it or not, I'm taking charge for the next while. You got a problem with that? Fine. We'll sort it out later. Like you said, we're short on time - both on the short term and in the grand scheme of things." She popped the second lock and straightened up just long enough to make eye contact with the monk, and - yes, there was the fire, familiar and almost comforting to see behind those almond-shaped, brown eyes of hers. "And if you don't want to wait that long, I have no problems beating the shit outta you to set you straight. We have an understanding?"

Sneers resisted the urge to bring his hands together, to massage his wrists after being clamped to the tree for so long - because he wasn't sure he'd be able to get his hands back into the damnable things afterwards. Fixing Smellerbee with one of his namesakes, the monk nodded and said, "Fine. But when we do settle the leadership issue, don't expect me to lie down. I'll take the position and those swords on your back as proof."

Smellerbee turned her nose up at him. "You'd have to pry them from my dead fingers. Jet didn't say, 'take my swords and bring them to Sneers,' an' I never put that kinda symbolism on carrying them in the first place. Remember that."

The tilts and turns of emotions - finding out Smellerbee was actually alive, and then having her so crassly usurp his power and challenge him for control of his Freedom Fighters - combined with, just, everything, was enough to make Sneers finally feel a little bit ill. He was tired of this mess. Maybe the swordswoman had a point; maybe it was just an appropriate time to clean up house.