CHAPTER WARNINGS: Extreme graphic violence, victim blaming.
CHAPTER 1 - The Birth of an Equalist
Three years earlier, at Hunan Hills Academy for Boys…
14-year-old Blaine Anderson stops to take a breath on his way indoors. He's almost there. Just a few more yards…
"Hey, Blanderson!"
Blaine turns to meet a full-on facial flood, courtesy of resident waterbending jerkass Mark Landers, one of several reasons why physical education is his least favorite class. He spits out a mouthful of water in the most refined manner he can manage. "Funny," he deadpans. "Very funny. The classics, they never get old, do they?"
"Just trying to help you rinse all that gel out of your hair," Mark sneers. "You look like you're part sandbeetle."
"Well gosh, Mark, I didn't realize you had such a strong opinion on my hair," Blaine says. "Thank you for your input, but I like it the way it is."
He tries to walk away, but the same water that just splashed him forms an ice slick under his feet. He does a quick accidental tapdance and falls flat on his back. Mark and his sycophants howl with laughter, and Blaine just lies on the grass and waits for them to finish. He knows how this game works. He's been playing it for as long as he can remember. When you're one of the only non-benders at a prestigious school full of wealthy bending kids, you learn very quickly that there are certain rules you have to follow. Rules that exist for no one else, rules that no one ever bothered to write down or explain to you, but rules that exist nonetheless.
He lists them off in his head.
Rule 1. Don't antagonize the benders.
Rule 2. Don't show them up or make them look foolish.
Rule 3. When they knock you down, just stay down.
And finally, and most importantly of all…
Rule 4. Whatever you do, never, ever fight back.
Blaine is a good boy. He follows the rules. Even if they are stupid and make no sense. Even if they only apply to him and the few other kids unlucky enough to be born without bending in an old-money bender family.
Really, he should be thankful. At least his parents didn't disown him (he's heard rumors about other families). At least he was born into a family wealthy enough to pay for him to attend such a prestigious school. Even if they ignore him most of the time, even if all they ever talk about is his big-shot waterbender brother, even if their only response to his problems at school is 'Cooper never had this kind of trouble.' Even if neither of his parents can even relate to him just because he can't move rocks like mommy or water like dear old dad (at least, not without touching them). Really. He should be grateful.
Eventually, Mark and company get bored and wander off. Blaine picks himself back up, feeling safe enough to head to the showers.
A small rock suddenly juts out of the ground in front of him, catching his foot and sending him face-first into the mud. His ears catch the distinct laughter of Dirk Spencer, resident earthbending jerkass, reason number two that PE class sucks.
"Watch your step, Blanderson," he calls.
Blaine grits his teeth, and remembers the last rule. The alpha-omega rule, the rule that encompasses all others for non-bending students in the twisted social games of Hunan Hills Academy.
Rule 0. You lose.
In the showers, Blaine takes a second to just breathe. No one else is around, so he feels reasonably safe—something he can't say very often. He's had to learn, from a very early age, when he's safe and when he isn't, and the question isn't as straightforward as it would seem.
At first, the benders were relatively predictable. They'd throw a little water, dirt, or mud at him, maybe light a fire in their hand and hold it too close to his face. Annoying, but manageable. He developed pretty good dodging reflexes, learned not to call attention to himself, not to react too strongly when they got him, because his reactions entertained them. The more entertaining he was to torment, the more torment he received, so he's tried to make himself as boring as possible. Blanderson, they call him. Get it? Because he's bland. And he doesn't have an element. He's boring on two levels. Har-dee-har-har.
The door opens, and Blaine flinches and listens for who it is. Two voices—Nick and Jeff, both earthbenders, relatively harmless. He breathes a sigh of relief. Even if they were feeling antagonistic, there's not much earthbenders can do to him in the showers. No, in the locker rooms and bathrooms, it's the waterbenders you have to watch out for.
As Blaine got older, the kids got more creative. He's had to learn what times to go to the bathroom so that no waterbenders would be around—otherwise he'd be almost certain to get a face full of toilet water, or (more embarrassingly), a strategically placed splash on the front side of his pants. Oh, yes, he learned very well that you don't go to the bathroom with waterbenders around.
With the earthbenders, the courtyard is the caution zone. They tend to hang out in groups, so they can trip you, sink your feet into the ground, or peg you with clumps of dirt from any direction, all without ever losing plausible deniability. 'It wasn't me!' they'd say, and the teachers always believe them. Rocks don't throw themselves, but the teachers don't care. They never really have. Not about Blaine, anyway.
The locker room door opens again, and Blaine's pulse quickens at the tell-tale drawl of Sebastian Smythe, firebender and prime candidate for biggest asshole in the entire school (and the third reason PE sucks turtleduck eggs). He finishes washing in a hurry and heads to get dressed.
Firebenders are the entire reason he wears gel in his hair—he uses a special kind that actually makes it less flammable. It's unbelievably thick and makes his hair look like a helmet, but helmet hair is better than no hair. With earth and waterbenders, there are times and places where you are safe from them. No such luck with firebenders. They can get you any time, any place. The teachers are at least relatively strict about open firebending in the hallways, but over time, they've gotten better and better at subtle burns. Fire, after all, comes in and goes out just like that. It leaves no evidence except the red mark on your skin, and that's not exactly a fingerprint.
Blaine towels off and shoves himself back into his uniform (dark grey, to signify no bending, color-coded for easy elemental recognition). If he finishes quickly enough, he might be able to sneak by without Sebastian noticing.
"Wow, Blaine, you're in an awful hurry. Where's the fire?"
Blaine sighs. No such luck.
"No fire," he says calmly, trying to pull up his pants. "I'm just eager to get to class."
"Is that so?" Sebastian drawls. "In that case, I think I can help…"
Before he can even flinch, the distinctive hiss of firebending hits his ears, and a stinging heat hits his naked backside. Immediately, he flinches forward, gets tangled in his own pants, and falls face-first against the lockers. He just cannot seem to stay upright today.
"Whoops," Sebastian drawls from somewhere above him. "I guess that wasn't helpful after all, was it? I've always heard that lighting a fire under a guy makes him hurry, but all it did with Blaine was knock him over. Maybe it's just a dumb saying."
"Or maybe Blanderson can't do anything right," Dirk sneers from somewhere behind him.
"Poor guy can't even stand on his own two feet," Mark calls out.
Sebastian, Mark, and Dirk; Hunan Hills's very own Triple Threat Triad. With teeth grinding in frustration, Blaine picks himself up and tries to finish dressing.
"Aw, loosen up, Blanderson," Sebastian says, walking past him to the showers. "Look at him, little butt all clenched up with rage."
"Maybe we should lay off," Dirk says. "Wouldn't want to get him upset. He might—" Dramatic gasp. "—tell on us!"
"Or yell at us really loud!" Mark hoots. "Man, it must suck to be you, huh?"
Blaine remains silent as he grabs his books and heads to his next class.
Oh, if Mark only knew.
The rest of Blaine's week is much the same. For whatever reason, Sebastian has now taken a special interest in him, which means Dirk and Mark are never far behind. On Tuesday, Sebastian 'accidentally' torches Blaine's book report. Now, on top of writing Dirk's book report, he has to rewrite his own from memory. On Wednesday, Mark ambushes Blaine as he's getting dressed and freezes his underwear solid. The only way to get it off is to bang his freezing cold ass against the wall until it shatters and go without the rest of the day, which isn't a problem until Sebastian 'accidentally' burns a hole in the back of his pants.
"Aww, where you going, Blaine? I was just admiring the view!" Sebastian calls as he storms away red-faced, covering his exposed cheeks with his history book.
Thursday, Blaine somehow manages to avoid both Sebastian and Mark throughout the entire day, only running into Dirk in the locker room where he can't do anything. Blaine is so focused on getting dressed and getting out of there before anyone else shows up that he completely fails to notice that his shoes don't quite fit, even though they look the same from the outside. It isn't until he takes a couple of steps in them that he realizes what's happened.
By then it's too late.
Without warning, Blaine's feet jerk to opposite sides, nearly forcing him into a split. Just as he regains his balance, they jump back underneath him, and start kicking out in rhythm. It's all Blaine can do to keep himself from falling.
"Whoa," Sebastian says from the doorway. "Nice moves, Anderson!"
"Look at that boy dance!" Mark says. "He's a natural!"
"He's got his dancing shoes on," Dirk says, moving his hands back and forth, bending the dirt he stuffed in Blaine's shoes.
They trot Blaine up and down the room, force him into everything from the waltz to the oxfoxtrot, hooting and hollering all the while.
"Guys, please!" Blaine calls out, aching legs begging for mercy. "Enough, okay? You've had your fun, just let me go!"
By now, most of the rest of Blaine's class is in the locker rooms, laughing and enjoying the show
"Not all of us," Dirk says. "Who else wants to make Blanderson dance?"
Several more earthbenders raise their hands, and suddenly, Blaine's feet lose all sense of coordination, flying out from under him in random directions. Stuck on the ground with his feet still kicking, Blaine desperately twists his ankles until the shoes finally fly off. The entire room bursts into raucous laughter as Blaine lies on the floor, humiliated.
"Always knew you were a song-and-dance man, Blainey-boy!" Sebastian drawls.
And there it is. The Line. Blaine didn't even know he was looking for it, but now that it has appeared, he feels like a lifelong quest has come to an end. He's reached his limit. After 14 years of nonstop torment, first from his brother, then from his classmates, it is now official.
Blaine Anderson has had enough.
He stands up, his face is bright red with fury and embarrassment and exertion. "That's enough!" he shouts. "What is wrong with you? What, exactly, is your problem with me? Seriously!"
The room titters in delight. 'The little dog is barking at us, how precious!'
"Whoa!" Sebastian says, still smirking. "What's got your bloomers in a twist?"
"You do!" Blaine shouts. "You and your jackwagon friends!"
And there, Blaine breaks his first rule.
Rule 1. Don't antagonize the benders.
"Oooh, such language!" Dirk says.
"Careful!" Mark says. "He's all red. I think he's about to blow!"
"Blaine, seriously" Sebastian says. "Take the stick out of your ass. Loosen up! It's just a little harmless fun."
"It's not harmless or fun to me!" Blaine growls. "Don't you idiots have anything better to do with your time?"
"Idiots?" Dirk says, looking a little less smug.
"Yeah, idiots," Blaine says. "I-D-I-O-T-S, in case you were wondering, Dirk. I know you have trouble spelling anything with more than three letters—I'm the one you force to do your book reports, remember?"
'Oooooh!' calls the room. A few people have to cover up their mouths to hide their smiles. Mark is one of them, so Blaine calls him out. "Don't laugh, Mark. Everyone knows you have a solid C average, and you only have that because the teachers are afraid of your father."
Mark shrugs. "Who cares about grades, anyway? I'm gonna run the family business."
"Yeah, good for you," Blaine says. "You were born rich. It's a damn good thing you were, because we all know that anywhere else in the world, you'd be lucky to get a job as a day laborer."
Several slightly awkward coughs indicate the room's agreement. The crowd is less willing to openly oppose Mark, who is currently sputtering in outrage and trying desperately to come up with a comeback. Sebastian shakes his head, still smirking.
"And Sebastian… spirits of the earth, what can I even say about you? You think you slide through life on your charm and good looks, but the only reason you slide through anything is because of the thin layer of slime that covers your every move. I fear for the day you meet a teacher or a businessman who doesn't want to sleep with you; how will you negotiate? That's pretty much all you bring to the table."
'OH!' The room reels with the heat. Blaine isn't even a firebender and he just burned Sebastian like nobody's business. Sebastian's smirk drops, and suddenly, Blaine notices that all three of the Triple Threat Turnip-heads are very cross with him.
He's broken his second rule of the day.
Rule 2. Don't show them up or make them look foolish.
"You know, Anderson, now that you've loosened up," Sebastian says. "I really think I liked you better with the stick up your ass."
"Yeah," Mark says. "Maybe we oughta put it back in."
Blaine pitches forward as something slams into his rear-end and knocks him over; his own dirt-filled shoe.
He gets to his hands and knees, but the shoe knocks him flat again. Dirk slams it into him toe-first, like he's actually trying to violate him with it. And again, everyone laughs. Blaine is just a big joke.
Blaine grits his teeth and starts to stand up, breaking his third rule.
Rule 3. When they knock you down, just stay down. Broken.
The shoe knocks him down again.
"Wow," Dirk smirks. "Hey guys, check it out. Blanderson is kicking his own ass!"
Laughter. Endless laughter.
Jaw clenched, Blaine starts to stand again. The shoe flies towards him, but his time Blaine is ready. He donkey-kicks it to the side and rockets to his feet before it can recover. With one eye on the shoe and the other on the jerks, he completely misses the second shoe until it rams him in the gut, knocking the wind out of him. He doubles over, leaving him open for the first shoe, which kicks him to the ground right in front of the Three-Pronged Dickheads. He slams into the floor so hard his bag flies open, scattering his books, pencils, papers, even his hair gel.
By now, several people are laughing so hard they can barely stand. Blaine is prone on the ground, so furious and ashamed that he actually wants to explode.
"Oh, Blaine," Sebastian says. "I like you, I really do. But you said a lot of mean things about us just now. Things we can't just let slide. Now, my friends here would love to keep humiliating you, but I might be willing to call them off… if you do a little something for me."
Blaine takes several deeps breaths. "What do you want?" he grits.
A polished, black shoe steps into Blaine's field of vision. "I want you to shine my shoes. With your tongue."
The room bursts into a confetti shower of anticipatory chatter.
"And if I don't want to?" Blaine asks.
Sebastian puts the sole of his shoe on Blaine's face. "You're licking my boots one way or another, Anderson. You can do it willingly, or by force. Your choice."
And isn't this just what it all comes down to? Someone's foot always on his face, pressing him down, threatening to stomp him into nothing. Pinning him underfoot until Blaine has to ask permission to breathe.
Blaine sighs. What choice does he have? "I'll… I'll do it," he says quietly.
Three triumphant smirks beam down at him as the room begins chanting. He hears a few snippets of a new nickname. 'Bootlicker Blanderson.'
Blaine gets to his hands and knees as Sebastian sits on a bench, his cronies at his side. Smythe leans against the lockers, heads behind his hand, as he kicks his foot into Blaine's laugh.
"Be sure to get all the grimy spots in the arch," Sebastian says. "Those are always trickiest to clean, or so I'm told."
Blaine stares at the foot. At the grimy sole, the little flecks of dirt and hair and gum and spirits-only-know what else. And then something else catches his eye. The lid on his hair gel popped open when it flew out of his bag. And a thought occurs to him.
He's broken pretty much every rule but one.
Why stop now?
Rule 4: Whatever you do, never, ever fight back.
Blaine grins and grabs Sebastian's leg, yanking him off the bench so hard that it actually turns over. Dirk and Mark stumble away from the bench in shock, giving Blaine time to grab his hair gel. Before they know what's happening, Blaine throws two huge gobs of it into their faces. As they sputter in outrage and confusion, Blaine grabs Mark and shoves him into Dirk. The two stop just sort of Sebastian, who is trying to rise on his feet. It's almost too poetic to be real. With a single thrust kick, Blaine knocks Mark into Dirk into Sebastian, and all three tumble into a flailing pile of outrage.
There is a thick, heavy silence.
And then the entire room erupts into raucous laughter and a smattering of actual applause.
Blaine beams. He knows they're probably about to get up and kick his ass six ways to Sunday, but he doesn't care. It'll be worth it. This one moment of triumph is quite possibly the greatest high he has ever felt. He, Blaine 'Blanderson' Anderson, powerless nobody, just publically made jackasses out of three of the best benders in the school. At the moment, he feels like they could kill him, and he wouldn't mind. His tombstone would read 'Worth it.'
"What's going on in there?" the gym teacher bellows, finally drawn in by all the racket. He steps into the room just as the three amigos disentangle themselves. "Alright, break it up, all of you! If you haven't showered, get in the damn showers. If you have, then get out!"
Well, Blaine knows how to follow directions. He nods to the three humiliated bullies, all of whom glare daggers at his back as he leaves. They're pissed, of course. But under the watchful eyes of the a teacher, they won't dare retaliate.
He smiles through the rest of the day.
For once in his life, he's beaten the benders at something.
He's won. And damn does it feel good.
He floats through Friday, still high on the taste of victory, seeing neither hide nor hair of Sebastard, Dick, or Smarm. Instead, he sees the other kids, the non-asshole benders, smiling at him. Congratulating him for taking those three down a peg. It's nice to be seen for once; almost nice enough to forget all the times those very same kids sat by and did nothing to help him.
When his last class is done, he struts to his room and packs his bags. During the week, he boards at the Academy, but sometimes he heads home for the weekend. This week, he's expected at the house. Cooper is coming over for dinner, and heaven knows Blaine wouldn't want to miss that, insert eyeroll.
Still, not even Cooper is enough to harsh his mellow. Blaine coasts through the walk home in a warm glow of happiness, oblivious to the world right up until the world pitches beneath his feet and tosses him into an alleyway.
As he recovers from the shock, he looks up to see three familiar sets of eyes glaring down at him, their faces hidden by strips of cloth. And suddenly, he realizes that his misery is a lot like the ocean.
The further the tide of pain goes out, the more violently it is going to come back in. And Blaine just walked into a tsunami.
"Don't move," Dirk growls, punctuating the command with a stomp, causing Blaine's feet and hands to sink into the ground. The rocks hold him in a painful, crushing grip, but no matter how he struggles, he can't get free. A foot stomps on his chest, driving the breath from his lungs. "I said don't move!" Dirk repeats, his foot keeping Blaine pinned.
"That was a tretty fucking stupid move you pulled yesterday, Blaine," Sebastian says. "You made us look bad. Made us look like fools, in front of everyone.
Blaine grunts. "You are foo—"
Another foot smashes into his jaw, knocking the sense out of him. His pained yelp is halted suddenly when a rope of water wraps around his mouth and freezes. His skin burns at the cold, though his jaw, at least, is thankful for the ice.
"Don't interrupt," Mark says. "Rude little shit…"
"You hit us where it hurts, Blaine," Sebastian says, kneeling next to him and holding a hand over his heart. "Our pride. Our reputations. I have to give you credit—if you were trying to wound us, you succeeded," he says with a small smile that fades like the afterimage of a blown bulb. "But we can't let you get away with that."
The ground releases Blaine and catapults him down the alley, slamming him back-first into a metal dumpster. The world becomes stars, colors, and shadows, too bright and too dim all at once. Every muscle in his back screams at the abuse, and Blaine cries out against the ice gag.
He barely has time to register what's happening before the earth spins him around and throws him upright against a brick wall. He's too stunned to stand on his own, but Dirk has that taken care of—the bricks reach out to wrap around Blaine's hands like manacles, cutting into his wrists and dangling him from the wall like a prisoner.
He tries his best to stand up, to relieve the pressure on his wrecked back. His head sags unsteadily as Sebastian approaches him. His voice echoes, barely audible over the sound of ringing and Blaine's own rushing blood. "You see, reputation is everything around here. We worked too hard on ours to let some upstart little shit like you ruin things for us. So… as much as it pains me to do so, we have to make an example out of you."
Blaine looks at Sebastian and shakes his head, pleading with his eyes, groaning pitifully through his frozen-shut mouth.
"Sorry, Blaine," Sebastian says, "We gave you a chance to get out of this, but you just spat in our faces. Now, let's be perfectly clear—this isn't us. It is, of course, but you can't prove that. We're somewhere else right now, and we've got friends more than willing to testify to that fact. Nobody is going to know who did this to you. But, really, everyone will know." He puts a companionable hand on Blaine's bruised shoulder, and smiles when he flinches. "That's the power of reputation."
Blaine keeps shaking his head, a few tears escaping from his eyes.
Sebastian just shrugs and steps out of the way. "Now, let's not waste anymore time. Boys?"
And it begins.
A rock to the gut. An ice ball to the chest. A stone disc to the ribcage. Impact after impact after impact. He quickly loses track of who does what. Each hit grinds him into the bricks, stripping the skin off his back. Stone and ice shatter with every hit, splitting skin, splintering bone. He feels his ribs crack, one by one. He feels his right elbow smashed inside out. He feels his left shoulder ripped from its socket. He feels his right femur splinter, and his left kneecap explode, and his legs give out, leaving skin and muscle as the only things holding him upright, his tendons stretching, tearing, shrieking at the strain. And it just keeps going. Blow after blow after blow pulverizes his chest, tenderizes his stomach. He vomits and quickly chokes on it, the gag preventing it from escaping. His lungs spasm and heave in panic, jostling his broken ribs.
He coughs. He chokes. He cries.
He tries and fails to scream for help.
No one hears him.
Just as the trauma threatens to render him unconscious, his entire body is blasted with ice cold water. The shock prompts a full-body spasm, injecting each and every agony with fresh new life. He feels every broken bone, every pulped muscle, every torn tendon, every ruptured blood vessel. His body is the aftermath of a battlefield, blasted and ruined and broken in a thousand different places.
The impacts stop. Mark and Dirk back off, and Blaine has a moment to think. And then he realizes something that makes his blood run cold.
He isn't burned. Sebastian hasn't had his turn yet.
As Sebastian steps forward, he flicks out his hands, two fingers extended on each. First he moves them together, then he pulls them apart. A distinctive crackle, a loud buzz, and erratic flashes of blue light, and suddenly, it's all clear.
Why Mark finished by getting him soaking wet.
Why Sebastian saved himself for last.
The firebender's expression is cold, merciless, in the light of the electricity dancing between his hands. "You knew the rules," Sebastian says. "Remember that. You brought this on yourself."
He releases the bolt, splitting the air with a CRACK.
It doesn't last long. But it's long enough for Blaine to feel it.
Everything. Absolutely everything hurts. Pain like Blaine has never known or imagined races up and down his body, lighting every cell of every nerve with white-hot fire. It fills him up and bursts out of him, his whole body tearing itself apart in its wake, all control lost. Every part of him fires at full strength in a spasm so powerful that muscles partially liquefy, tearing free from bone. His wrists break as the force of his muscle contractions literally rips him out of his stone shackles.
He remains conscious for only the fraction of a second it takes for him to hit the ground. And in that time, he remembers. The alpha-omega rule. The one that encompasses all others.
The one that people like Blaine will never be able to break.
Rule 0. You lose.
"Oh… oh, no. Oh, no no. Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. Oh, shit fuck."
"Shut up."
"We killed him!"
"Shut up!"
"We killed him!"
"SHUT UP!"
"Ohfuckohshitohspiritsohgods—"
"Fucking damn it, Smythe! I told you the lightning was too much."
"I told you to shut up, you fucking morons! I need to think!"
"What do we do? What do we do? Oh, fuck. We have to hide him. We need to hide the body, we need—"
"He's still twitching, badgermole breath. And… wait, what's that smell? Did he…?"
"EW!"
"Yea, you get shocked sometime and try to hold it in! Here, help me—"
"I'm not touching that!"
"We can't take him anywhere, people will see us!"
"We just need to drag him closer to the street. Somebody'll see him. Come on!"
"Oh fuck. Oh man. Oh spirits. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Blanderson! Fuck, I swear, we weren't trying to—"
"Shut up! It's not like he can hear you."
"Alright, that's far enough. Put him down right— you IDIOT! Don't DROP him!"
"You said to put him down!"
"Oh fuck. Oh fuck!"
"Fuck it. Everybody split. We were never here. GO!"
Silence.
"What on earth… is that… oh, good gods! SOMEBODY, HELP! CALL THE POLICE! CALL AN AMBULANCE!"
"Agni's breath! Is he… is he…?"
"He's still alive! He's alive!"
"Is there a waterbender around? A healer? Anybody? Please!"
"I am! I'm a trained healer! Everyone, step back, I am a trained… oh, La protect me."
"Who would do something like this?"
"This city… I swear to the fucking sky."
"There, there, buddy-boy, I got ya. I got ya. You're gonna be alright…"
"Somebody call the fucking cops! Why do I not hear sirens?"
"Everything's gonna be alright…"
It's two weeks before he even wakes up.
That much, Blaine knows for sure. Cooper tells him. Cooper is the only one who visits.
Father and mother came by once, and only once, while he was still unconscious. They send their love, but he has to understand, it's just… too difficult for them to see him like this.
Blaine feels ever-so-sorry for them.
The painkillers make time difficult, but he keeps track as best he can. He has little else to do.
At a little over three weeks, the swelling starts to go down, and the doctors start taking the stitches out of his face, allowing Blaine to feel a little less like they replaced his head with a water balloon.
It's around a month or so before they take all the bandages off of the second and third degree burns where the lightning entered and left his body.
A month-and-a-half before they take out the wires and pins holding his jaw together so that he can open his mouth again. Before he can rasp out the names of the people who did this to him. Another week after that before he learns that all three boys have alibis and people willing to corroborate them. That the monsters who nearly killed him will receive no punishment whatsoever for their actions, because the only evidence they have is Blaine's word, and Blaine's word doesn't mean shit.
Two months before any part of him is removed from traction—before any part of him besides his fingers and face can even move. His right arm is the first limb to be freed, and Blaine is shocked at the sight of it. It is not the arm of a teenager; it's the arm of a 5-year-old. When he tries to use it, he finds that he is too weak to properly hold a pen.
Two-and-a-half months, and the doctors think that they are done with his major surgeries. They've got his bones properly pinned in place, reattached the muscles that tore loose, repaired any internal damage that waterbenders couldn't reach. There will be more minor surgeries, of course, mostly to remove the various things they inserted to hold him together. But really, as far as major surgeries go, they're done now. They think.
(They're wrong).
At about three months, he loses the world again. He doesn't see it coming or going. All he remembers is his blood on fire, every breath a storm of sharp glass, a gentle hand rubbing something on his forehead and a kind voice praying for his peaceful passage to the spirit world.
He lives, but only just. Four weeks are consumed by the infection.
Four months in, and Cooper still visits him once a week. Blaine finds him impossibly grating; all Cooper talks about is Cooper. But he's so bored and so hurt and so damn lonely that he can't tell him to leave, even if he likes him a little less with every visit.
And then, at four-and-a-half months, something happens that Blaine will never forget. It seems innocuous enough. A guy comes in with a basin of water, smiles at Blaine, calls him 'sport' and says it's time to wash him up (of course he can't wash himself yet). Blaine foolishly assumes that he is going to use a sponge like all the other nurses.
When he levitates the water between his hands, Blaine nearly flinches out of traction in shock (which would've probably added another month or so to his recovery).
"I know it hurts, buddy-boy, but we gotta keep you clean. Don't want another infection, do we? I'll up your painkillers a bit, help you suffer through it," the guy says, still smiling. Blaine starts to protest, it dies on his lips as his body is flooded with warm fuzzies.
He's almost unconscious when the water touches his skin, and that's when it happens. That's when everything finally crystallizes. It's been floating around inside of him, vague and formless, ever since the day he was destroyed, maybe even longer. This guy—this waterbender— gives it shape. Gives it form. Gives it a name.
All at once, Blaine realizes how powerless he is. How powerless he will always be compared to them, these superhumans whose bodies command the raw forces of nature. These people who can give him pain and take it away, who can keep him in the world as long as they want or dispose of him just as easily. These people who provide electricity for the machines that keep him alive. These people who control everything about his life, who decide everything right up to and including how fast he heals from the injuries they gave him.
He makes Blaine understand what he has, on some level, always known.
The painkillers are making him drowsy, and he knows he's too far gone to speak, but with his last little bit of strength, he does his best to communicate. With everything his tiny broken body has left, he projects a single thought at this man whose name he does not even know. A thought that flies from him with such force that it drags a tear from his eyes as it as it goes.
I hate you.
Roughly half a year—half a year—after Blaine's beating, he is out of traction and cast-free. He's far from healed, though—he finds that out the first time he tries to walk, and realizes that he no longer knows how.
A doctor evaluates him, looking over Blaine and hmming and writing down things with very little input from Blaine himself. When he is satisfied with what he sees, a nurse brings in something Blaine never thought he would be so excited to see; a wheelchair.
He gets to leave his room.
Blaine is overjoyed. He's so excited to get to actually go somewhere that he completely forgets to ask where he is going.
The nurse rolls him into an unknown ward that appears to be full of contortionists and their slave drivers, and that's when he meets her. She's a mountain of muscle, with arms like tree trunks and a face like the noblest of ancient oaks. Her imposing presence is mitigated only by how soft her eyes are when she smiles at him.
"You must be Blaine," she says. "My name's Shannon Beiste. You can call me Coach. For the next few months, I'll be your physical terrorist."
Blaine blinks at her. "Don't you mean physical therapist?"
Coach Beiste grins at him. "Nope."
She's not lying.
Physical therapy is not easy. His wrecked body is still kitten-weak. His muscles are small and stiff, but what's really bad is that he's gone so long without using them that his mind no longer remembers how. Coach Beiste's job is to help him with that. She will help him stretch so that his range of motion is restored. No matter how weak he is, she will help him push himself so that he can become stronger. The things his mind has forgotten, she will teach him again.
None of the above is pleasant, of course. The stretching is supposed to stop just below the point where it hurts, but neither of them knows where that is until it actually hurts. Likewise, she doesn't want to push him too hard, but everything is hard for Blaine at the moment. Her job basically boils down to making Blaine do far more than he feels like doing, so that one day, he might feel like doing more.
She helps make it suck a little less, though.
Blaine is gritting his teeth as he pushes against her hand with his own.
"Come on, push!" she says. "Feel the burn, kiddo! You are Blaine-the-Pain! You eat agony for breakfast, digest the awesomeness, and crap out weakness nuggets!"
Blaine laughs, and pushes a little harder.
Next, he's lying on a table as Coach stretches his legs. He winches. "Ah! Stop!"
"Alright, alright," she says. "We'll ease off here, Tender-Tendons. Don't get your ligaments in a bunch."
Blaine laughs, and it hurts a little less.
Then, he's looking a little miserable as he squeezes a squishy ball with his hand and barely makes an indent.
"Don't get down on yourself, y'hear?" she says. "Keep that up, and one day, they'll call you the Crusher. Man and beast will fear your handshake. People will come from far and wide with nuts for you to crack."
Blaine laughs, and squeezes until his hand starts getting sore.
Every session ends the same. Blaine is sore, sweaty, and exhausted. And yet, somehow, he feels better.
"Thanks, Coach," Blaine breathes as they wheel him back to his room.
"Any time, Blaine-the-Pain, on a train to the plains. Where it rains," she grins.
Blaine laughs at the ridiculousness the whole way back to his room, and just like that, Physical Therapy becomes the highlight of Blaine's day.
After a few weeks, Blaine looks a little less like the Ghost of Winter Solstice, and a little more like himself thanks to Coach Beiste. He kind of loves her for it.
She always pushes him to be better, to want more, to believe he can reach just that little bit higher. She, in stark contrast to everything else in his life, actually believes in him and wants him to succeed. This, in turn, makes Blaine believe in himself and want to succeed. It's a nice change of pace.
He's training on the parallel bars, trying to relearn the process of putting one foot in front of the other, when something catches his eye. One of the other kids in the ward is having trouble getting his legs to move at all. He eventually gets so frustrated that he sets his pants on fire out of sheer spite.
When he sees the flames, his mind just shuts down. When it turns back on, he's lying on the ground, and Coach Beiste is hovering over him asking how many fingers she's holding up. Which is weird, because both her hands are on him, checking his pulse and feeling for internal injuries, so… zero?
When she's satisfied that he's not going to drop dead, she plops him back in his wheelchair. "What was that? You forget about gravity for a second? 'cause it sure didn't forget about you!"
"Sorry," Blaine says. "I just… I saw something, and I… freaked out a little bit."
"Saw something?" Coach Beiste asks. "What like a ghost? Is this place haunted? 'cause I got a buddy who's a certified onmyōji. If we need to exorcise the exercise room, we'll…"
She trails off when she follows Blaine's eyes to find him glaring at the paralyzed firebender, whose pants have been extinguished. His own physical therapist is giving him a firm talking-to about his recklessness.
"Oh," she says quietly. "I think I get it."
Blaine looks away, somewhat ashamed. "Sorry. I didn't… I just… I don't…"
"Hey," she says quietly. "It's okay, kiddo." She pins him with a long, thoughtful look. "You know," she says, "I've worked in here for a solid decade now. Seen kids come through smashed and burned all to pieces in ways that'd make your guts flip upside-down and inside-out. And you know what happened to most of 'em?"
"What?" Blaine asks.
"Bending," she says quietly. "It tears 'em up."
Blaine feels a little less petty and petulant at that, so he resumes glaring at the firebender boy. "It's not fair," he mutters.
"Hey, don't be mad at him," Coach cautions. "Bending hurts benders too, y'know?"
As she speaks, the firebender boy crosses his arms and purses his lips in a blatant attempt at holding in his emotions. His therapist stops his lecture and puts a hand on his shoulder, and the boy breaks down in tears.
Blaine is suitably ashamed, but he can't quite quell his anger. "It's not the same," he mutters, eyes downward.
Coach looks at Blaine again, deep in thought. "You're right," she says quietly. "It's not."
The next day, she brings a book for him to read.
"I got a friend who owns a bookstore," she says. "Just look it over and tell me what you think."
Blaine looks at the cover. "Oman and the Three Kings," he reads aloud. The art is colorful and simplistic. The language seems very simple. It's clearly a children's book. "Aren't I a little old for this?" he asks.
"You're never too old for a good lesson," Coach Beiste grins.
Blaine reads the book that night. It's… interesting. It's about a little boy named Oman lives with his friends in the World of the Three Kings; the King of the Ground, the Kind of the Sea, and the King of the Sun.
The Kings are always fighting each other, and Oman and his friends are always caught in the middle. The King of the Ground takes the ground from under their houses, knocking them down. The King of the Sea sends so much rain that they nearly drown. The King of the Sun throws down fire from heaven, nearly burning them alive.
Oman grows tired of the three Kings always fighting, so he goes on a journey to visit them…
"Why should you be King?" Oman asks the Ground King.
"Because I am the strongest," says the King of the Ground. "Because I am steady like the earth, and I always do what is best. And because I have a crown!"
Oman shakes his head. "Just because you are strongest does not mean you should rule. You are not steady; you always fight the other kings, shaking everything up and knocking it down. That is not what is best. I think you should not be King."
Oman takes his crown, and the Ground King is sad, for the ground will no longer obey him.
"Why should you be King?" Oman asks the Sea King.
"Because I am the greatest," says the King of the Sea. "Because I am mighty and calm, like the ocean, and I always do what is right. And because I have a crown!"
Oman shakes his head. "Just because you are greatest does not mean you should rule. You are not calm; you fight the other kings all the time, sending storms and flooding our homes. That is not what is right. I think you should not be King."
Oman takes his crown, and the Sea King is sad, for the sea will no longer rise at his command.
"Why should you be King?" Oman asks the Sun King.
"Because I am the brightest," says the King of the Sun. "Because I am nice and warm, like the sun, and I always make things better. And because I have a crown!"
Oman shakes his head. "Just because you are brightest does not mean you should rule. You are not nice; you always fight the other kings, burning down and raining fire on our heads. That does not make things better. I think you should not be King."
Oman takes his crown, and the Sun King is sad, because the sun will no longer shine just for him.
Oman takes the three crowns and smashes them. "There," he says. "Now no one is king. Rejoice, my friends, and let us play in peace!"
And all of Oman's friends cheer and laugh and play together.
The Three Kings are still sad, but Oman approaches them as well. "You are no longer kings, so you don't have to fight each other anymore. We are the same now. Come and play with us!"
The Kings are afraid, having never lived without their crowns. But soon, they too join in the fun, laughing and playing along with the rest.
The air is filled with their joy.
And Earth, Sea, and Sun rule themselves.
~The End
"So," Coach Beiste asks the next day. "What'd you think?"
Blaine grunts and tries to sit up, while Coach gently supports him. "It was…" he breathes. "Pretty interesting."
"You think so?" Beiste asks.
Blaine reaches the apex of his sit-up and collapses into Coach's arms. "Yeah," he says. "But… I don't get what the point was. I mean…" He takes a couple of seconds to breathe. "The metaphor was pretty transparent. The kings were all benders. But… I mean, it's not like bending can just be taken away from people."
Beiste helps him back into his chair and pushes him to a quiet corner of the room to take a breather. After a few moments rest, she turns to him, and says, very seriously, "What if I said you were wrong?"
Blaine looks at her, confused. "What do you mean?"
Coach looks around the room to see if anyone's listening before she continues. "What I said you're not alone? You ain't the first to get bent over by bending, and you probably won't be the last. It's a sad world we live in, where people like those bullies of yours can put a kid in the hospital and get off scott-free, am I right? So what if I said there were others out there like us? Non-benders like you and me sick of bending beating everybody down? People willing to fight to change things?"
He can hardly believe his ears, because he is fairly sure he knows what she's talking about. He's heard of it in rumors and whispers; kids at school talking about it dismissively, teachers discussing it in hushed tones, his parents speaking of it disparagingly.
"Are you talking about—?"
"I'm not saying anything," Coach Bieste says, hands open. "This is purely hippocratical. You know, a 'what-if' thing. If I said that kind of thing… would you be want to know more?"
Blaine thinks about it for a bit. "I… I'm not… I mean, I really don't…"
"Hey," Coach Beiste says gently, "it's okay. Calm down, alright? You don't have to answer me right now. Just… think about it, okay?" She smiles at him. "You're still scared, and you've got damn good reason. But you don't have to live in fear. If you want… there are people out there who can teach you not to be afraid."
Blaine sits back in his wheelchair, breathing heavily, unsure of what to say. Do. Think.
"Alright, that's enough about that," Coach Beiste says. "I'm putting the ball in your courtroom—if you ever want to know more, you just let me know, okay? Otherwise, I won't mention it again. Don't want to stress you out, or anything."
"Thanks," Blaine says quietly.
"Anytime, buddy," Coach Beiste says. "Now, let's go get you locomoting again, what do you say?"
Roughly nine months after Blaine's vicious beating at the hands of his schoolmates, he takes his first steps on his own. No cane, no arm braces, no walker, no parallel bars. Just Blaine and his own two wobbly legs. He walks about ten feet before he collapses into the arms of his physical therapist and sobs with joy.
The doctors clear him to go home shortly after.
He still isn't completely healed, of course. This is just the 'outpatient' phase of his therapy. He's independent enough to go back to the world he once knew and try to learn to function again. His parents will be picking him up in about an hour.
"See you soon, buddy," Beiste says. "We've still got PT twice a week, okay? You've got a long road ahead, but I'm your satomobile mechanic. You need anything, you give me a call, alright?" She gives him a card with her name and address, and Blaine tries not to cry as she ruffles his slightly shaggy, un-gelled hair and walks away. Over the past few months, she's become more his family than his actual family. She understood him and helped him like no one else ever has, and the thought of not seeing her every day is actually kind of horrible, now that he thinks about it.
Still, he's getting out of the hospital. That is a great big giant plus in his book. No more sterile white walls, no more chemical smell, no more bandages, no more crappy bed, no more obnoxious benders.
Oh, wait, he forgot his family. Nevermind that last one.
It's weird, seeing his parents after so long without them. They hug and kiss him, congratulate him on his recovery, tell him he looks 'like a real boy again,' whatever that means. The drive home is mostly silent. Blaine spends most of it looking out the window, rejoicing in a world full of color and sunlight.
His mother forces a haircut on him almost immediately. He doesn't mind, though. Interesting as shaggy hair was, it's easier to manage when there's less of it.
It isn't until the haircut is finished, however, that the reason for it is explained.
"There we go," his mother says as the stylist brushes the hair off of his shoulders. "As dapper as ever. This will be perfect for your return to school Monday morning."
Blaine's heart forgets how to beat. "My return to what?"
"Oh, come now, Blaine," his father says warmly. "Surely you didn't think you were going to lie around the house and eat dumplings? You've missed an entire school year. We have to get you back up to speed!"
Blaine focuses everything he has on remaining calm. He has missed a lot of school. He probably should get to work on making up for lost time. Besides, surely they wouldn't…
"Okay," he says. "So what school am I going to?"
"The same one you always have, silly," his mother says.
Oh.
They would.
That.
Just.
No. No. No, no, no, no, no. He can't do that. He absolutely cannot do that. How dare they? How could they even think that he would? "I'm not going back there," Blaine says, his voice shaking slightly with the intensity of the statement. "No. Absolutely not. I will go anywhere else in the city. I'm not going back to Hunan Hills."
"Don't be ridiculous, son," his father says. "Three generations of Anderson men have graduated from the Hunan Academy. It's the best education money can buy in this city. No son of mine will have anything less."
"I don't care if it's the best!" Blaine says, completely losing his cool. "I'm not going back to the same school as the people who nearly beat me to death. Are you fucking insane?"
"Blaine Anderson!" his mother says, shocked. "You watch your mouth!"
"Do not speak to me in that tone, young man!" his father replies tersely. "You will do as you are told!" He shakes his head, jaw clenching. "Honestly, after what happened to you, I would have hoped you'd learned your lesson about the price of your insubordination, but it appears you haven't learned anything at all."
Blaine's jaw drops. He literally can do nothing but sit there, open-mouthed in awe, at the words that were just spoken to him. "My insubordination," he repeats flatly. "You… you think this is my fault?"
"Son," his father sighs, massaging his forehead. "There are just certain things you do not do. Everyone has their place in the social strata of Hunan Hills, you have to—where are you going? Blaine? Blaine!"
Blaine is out of the chair and walking away as fast as he can. Which isn't very fast, but still.
"Blaine Anderson, you get back here this instant! Don't you walk away from me!"
He keeps right on walking, refusing to stop until he reaches his bedroom, where he collapses on his bed, exhausted emotionally and physically.
He will not go back. No. No, no way, uh-uh, never, not happening. He cannot deal with those people again. If he has to deal with one more day of stupid pranks, sadistic humor, one more day of looking over his shoulder and fearing for his life, he'll… he'll…
He'd honestly rather die.
Over the weekend, he tries. He tries to make his parents see reason, tries to make them understand why he isn't being difficult, why he literally cannot go back to that place.
They don't get it.
"Just keep your head down and do your work," his father says, "and you'll have nothing to worry about."
And suddenly, it's Sunday night. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he will be sent back to that place. Tomorrow he will again be in the presence of countless benders who seem to hate his very presence. He will have to see the stupid, smug faces Sebastian, Mark, and Dirk, and weather their whims weaker and more vulnerable than he's ever been before.
He can't.
He won't.
With nothing but the clothes on his back and a single knapsack of possessions, Blaine waits until his parents are asleep and calls Coach Beiste, praying that she will answer him.
A couple of hours later, Shannon Beiste pulls into Hunan Heights and opens her passenger side door to an exhausted, teary-eyed Blaine Anderson.
"What's wrong, kiddo?" she asks. "I could barely make out what you were saying under all that blubbering."
I can't, he wants to say. I can't stay here. I can't live with people who don't understand me in the slightest and have no desire to try. I can't go to school with people who have the power to hurt me or even kill me whenever they feel like it with no consequences. I can't live in this world anymore. I just can't.
But he doesn't say that.
Instead, he looks at the person in the car beside him, and speaks with all the courage he can muster. "I want to know more," he says. "About… about what you told me. I want to know everything."
Coach Beiste just gives him a sad smile and hands him a small booklet from under her seat. Blaine takes it gently, and stares at the cover. A picture of a man in a striking white mask stares up at him with impossibly intense eyes, rays of light emerging from behind his head. Beneath his face is the title…
Equality Now!
…and the subtitle; four words that will change his life forever…
Welcome to the Revolution.
A/N: I tried to do some research on Blaine's recovery, but I had an unusually hard time finding good info. Plus, the Avatar world is a little different than ours—they aren't quite as advanced (1920s level technology, supposedly), but they do have healers and benders that might be able to help with certain things. His recovery time is a very rough estimate, and I apologize for any inaccuracies.
Next: We fast forward a year, and meet firebender Kurt Hummel, who is having bullying problems of his own. A chance encounter with a kindred spirit sparks a friendship that may become something more. But both boys carry secrets that, unbeknownst to the other, will set each of them on the path of destiny...