A/n: For warnings and disclaimer, please see chapter one. Feedback is, as always, appreciated!
Thanks for reading! :D
Part II
Mako awoke well after sunrise with a coppery taste in his mouth. His lightweight body ached from all directions, his confidence devastated by the blow, but he forced himself to stand and limped to the nearest public restroom. This happened to be in a breakfast shop down the road. Ignoring the shocked look he received from the manager, he went straight to the toilet room, where he spent twenty minutes tending to his various sores and washing the dried blood off of his lips and chin. Luckily, the signs of abuse were only in places that he could easily cover. He'd thought his nose might be broken, it had bled so much, but there was hardly a mark. Once he appeared more like himself, Mako walked out to the register, dug into his pocket, and slammed three crumpled yuans on the countertop.
"Give me a loaf of bread and a large tea. Whatever's strongest."
He ate his half of the meal as he shuffle-walked back down the street, only stopping at the herbalist before he passed through City Station and arrived at his home. Bolin was there, pacing across the tiny space with his hands clasped behind his head. He looked about to faint when Mako ducked through the gap in the door. Mako listened patiently to his brother as the younger ran into a tangent about how scared he had been when Mako wasn't back by morning. Then Bolin spotted the bags in Mako's hand and stopped short. He took the bag very slowly, clearly suspicious that its contents were real. And when he saw the bread within, tears sprung up in his eyes.
His total purchases, including the shared meal and a cough remedy from the herbalist, had totaled five yuans. Bolin was enthralled at his brother's success, especially when Mako revealed the five remaining bills. He asked what kind of work it was, and Mako replied that he counted inventory at a junk yard. Only when Bolin asked if he could help him work next time did Mako let the suppressed sharpness bite into his voice as he refused. And when Bolin's eyebrows shot skyward in surprise, Mako quickly added that it was kind of a one-man job. And it was over anyway; he wouldn't be going back.
The trouble was that, after only a week of carefully-rationed meals, the money had run out again. Mako desperately tried to find work, spending much of the day wandering from business to business, asking if any of the owners needed assistance. Work was, as usual, scarce, and when he got it the employers paid him poorly. Soon he and his brother found themselves back where they had been a few weeks ago, crouched in the shelter with their knees drawn up to their chests to keep the chills away. Mako deliberated. He paced, he considered the risk, he bit his nails down to nothing. And when all hope of ulterior plans had escaped him, he returned to the Triad once more and became an on-call employee.
So it went. Two months passed, and then three, and suddenly Mako felt as if he had lost something he couldn't get back. He was no longer the sole proprietor of his body, surrendering himself for several nights a week. The money was more than he could get anywhere else — they paid him more than the wages he could earn with regular labor, but not enough to keep them afloat for long. And though Mako well knew that he was being taken advantage of, he also realized that as time passed, it became easier to close his eyes and disappear.
Bolin was a greater challenge. By nature he was easy-going and sweet, but he wasn't dull. When Mako returned home, bruised and carrying fistfuls of cash, he felt Bolin's eyes sweeping him over. Assessing the damage. Finally, when Bolin confronted him about working for the gangs, Mako admitted that he was doing freelance jobs. Paperwork mostly, but sometimes the tasks were dangerous or meticulous, and he risked being slapped around a bit if he did anything wrong. This explained the wounds well enough to quell Bolin's questions, but it did not put him at ease. Where Mako had once been confident, he drew back and spoke seldom even with his brother. In conversing with strangers and adults, he would not meet their eyes. Bolin didn't pry, but it became clear that the longer Mako spent working with the gangs, the further he closed himself in.
It didn't take Mako long to get arrested. At fifteen, Mako learned about the prison system when the police raided the Triad headquarters after hours and accosted everyone who didn't flee fast enough. He didn't bother resisting arrest. For the first time in his life, Mako felt largely indifferent to his fate. The officers tackled him down like a dangerous criminal, tied his wrists behind his back, and escorted him to the station. When they hollered at him for information, he neither spoke nor spared them a glance.
He was sitting quietly in his cell when a door opened just out of eyeshot. Two pairs of boots clanked down the hall, and only when the voice behind a stern "Hello, Mako" rang familiar did he grow remotely curious. The Chief was glancing over a clipboard, a definitive crease growing between her brows as she ran down the list. Beside her stood another officer, clad in similar armor and scowling down at Mako where he sat. He was holding in his hands a cardboard box, which he dropped onto a table along the wall.
He didn't lift his eyes as Chief Bei Fong appraised him, but watched from the top of his periphery. Unlike the male officer, she looked more exhausted than annoyed. She ran a finger along the list from top to bottom, pausing between each to glance at him through the metal bars, clearly putting an image to each of the descriptions. There was certainly enough to see after today's vicious client. After a strike to his nose, blood had pooled under the skin below his left eye, leaving a dark band behind. His bottom lip was puffy, but when he put his fingers to his mouth he found that the cut had stopped bleeding. Someone had confiscated his scarf (along with his pocket knife and a rolled-up wad of bills) upon arrest, more likely to keep him from harming himself than others. But Mako had turned up his collar, so the blackening teeth marks on his shoulder remained unseen.
After a long pause, the Chief announced that, despite the alleged charges of "gang affiliation", this looked like a classic case of 'in the wrong place at the wrong time'.
Beside her, the officer looked as if she had forced a lime wedge down his throat. As the officer in charge of the raid, he clearly saw Mako's arrest as an opportunity to punch a few holes in the gang's confidence. The Chief ignored him completely, tapping her fingers boredly against the clip board. She asked Mako if he knew he had been standing outside the Triad's headquarters, and Mako replied that he had not. Then she asked if he had gotten into a fight with someone, only to later find that the person was a gang member. Mako, wary that she was feeding him answers for an ulterior purpose, nevertheless answered yes. On that note, she drew an X over the sheet on the clipboard, signed it, and passed it off to the officer with his dismissal from the room. Yet even after the officer stomped out, slamming the door behind him, Mako did not look up.
The Chief waved the cell door aside with a wave of her hand. She did not step forward to help Mako stand, but rather watched expressionlessly as he hoisted himself up, leaning heavily on the wall until he had found his balance. As he half-limped to the door, she reached into the cardboard box and withdrew Mako's confiscated possessions, wrapped neatly into his scarf. Passing it to him, she told him he was free to go. He muttered a quiet thank you to his feet.
Her final word, as Mako accepted the bundle and cradled it into his chest, was a quiet "Please, be careful."
Some ten minutes later, Mako found a folded scrap of paper pinned to the fold of his scarf. Written in neat print was the name and address of a medical clinic on the opposite end of the city, with the hours for their free walk-in appointments each month. He stared at the note, read it a second time, and flipped it over. The other side was blank.
Mako stopped by the market on his way home, ignoring the wide range of stares his wounds attracted. He spent a quarter of his payment on pre-cooked komodo-chicken, steamed rice, and a basket of moonpeaches. As long as they kept the containers tightly sealed, the rations would last several days if kept in a dark, cool place. When he arrived home, though, he quickly noticed that Bolin had been hard at work, too. In one corner of the shelter — the "storage" corner — he had piled up two crates and topped it off with a bottle of wine. Bolin threw his arms around his brother the moment Mako slipped through the door, the latter almost dropping his purchases in surprise.
In an excited voice Bolin explained how he had found some work down at the port, loading crates on and off the ships in exchange for a sampling of the product. This was something that Mako had attempted many times, but never to any avail. Bolin, however, appeared to have a gift. Mako always knew that Bolin's good nature and natural talent for conversation would help him make friends. What he hadn't considered was that this combination of talents also made people more likely to hire Bolin; he made people laugh, he made them feel at ease, and then they offered to help in return. It also didn't hurt that Bolin was broad-shouldered and strong by nature—when Mako considered his own lean and lanky build, he had to admit that he would probably hire Bolin over himself, too.
Mako was immensely proud of his brother, and told him as much as Bolin began showing off his prizes. He set the bottle of wine aside and opened the crates. The first of the two was filled with vacuum-sealed packets of cowhippo jerky (Water Tribe-made, their favorite kind) and dried plums. The second had different kinds of nuts, as well as a huge store of fresh water surrounded by a few bags of ice. A little too casually, Bolin tossed Mako one of the bags, which Mako applied directly to his left eye. When his brother's back was turned, Mako double-checked that his shoulder was covered properly.
That night they ate the fruit with a few strips of jerky, passing the wine bottle back and forth until neither was particularly sober. It was one of the best meals they had ever shared, far better than dinners served in the old shelter. They became a bit giggly, but only once Bolin's loud proclamation of "I feel like a king!" was disrupted by a loud hiccup did they dissolve into howling laughter and eventually fall asleep.
That same night, Mako awoke when he heard a rummaging noise. Sitting up, Mako Bended a flame into his palm and cast a wary glance. When he spotted the small animal rummaging through the crates, he cried out so loudly that Bolin snapped to attention at and threw his arms up for a fight. Never before had any rat or rodent gotten into their home at night—once Bolin sealed off the entrance, there was no way in or out except with his permission. A chaotic scramble ensued, in which Mako lurched (still quite drunk) after the rodent. Then, to Mako's utmost surprise, Bolin dived in front of Mako and threw himself between his brother and the animal. The result was a brief struggle, where both boys tried to grab the rodent, Bolin to protect it and Mako to tear it apart. Bolin finally got his hands around it and heaved it out from inside the jerky crate.
"Pabu, no!"
Mako fell back, baffled, thinking that he must have imagined the words coming from Bolin's mouth. Pabu? He tried to grab the squeaking rodent from Bolin, but Bolin easily fended him off with one hand. Mako tripped backward and fell. The flame went out. A flash of light passed over his vision when his head connected with the earthen wall, and seconds later he heard Bolin's frantic apologies. These he dismissed, slapping Bolin's hands away when the younger tried to help him up.
"Did you catch that thing?" Mako said. He shook his head to clear out the fog, then Firebended another tiny flame into his palm.
Bolin shifted from foot to foot and all at once he confessed that he had found the weasel-looking thing—he called it 'Pabu', as if it were already a member of the family—in one of the cargo ships. It was cold and hungry and hurting, he said, just like them, and he wanted to keep it until it was healthy again. Mako, spotting the cage that Bolin had Earthbended moments before, told him that they couldn't afford any pets. He started after it with the intent of booting the weasel out the door. And once again, Bolin stepped between Mako and his quarry.
Mako couldn't remember the last time they fought like this. His perfectly adequate reasoning—that they couldn't afford to feed another mouth, that the weasel probably carried some awful disease that would kill them—didn't even reach Bolin's ears. The Earthbender stubbornly refused to accept logic. He could feed it on his own, he said, because Pabu didn't eat much. He would share his own ration if he had to, so they wouldn't have to worry about getting more food. Bolin didn't seem to care that this meant sacrificing meals when he already wasn't getting enough. Somehow this flea-bitten weasel had captured Bolin's heart and eroded his good reason. Eventually Mako had to relent, agreeing to talk about it in the morning when they were fully back in their heads.
However, just as Mako had feared, Bolin hadn't come around by the time they awoke. On the contrary, when Mako woke up Bolin was hand-feeding the weasel scraps of jerky ("He's a fire ferret, and his name is Pabu" Bolin chided in response to Mako's "get rid of that weasel."). Mako watched with mild disgust as the fire ferret ate right from Bolin's fingers, squeaking contentedly. In the daylight, Pabu looked much less like an overgrown rat. His matted fur was actually a brilliant shade of orange-red, his amber eyes peering at Mako as if the human were an intruder in the home. After the ferret had eaten, Bolin announced that he was taking him to the river for a bath. Mako shook his head. He had a vivid image of Bolin trying to wrestle the wriggling ferret into the water, only to be chased away by the police (who had an annoying tendency to kick the homeless out of the park). He rolled his eyes and told Bolin not to get too attached. They couldn't afford to keep any pets. He could hardly keep the two of them from starvation as it was.
Naturally, Pabu stayed. Mako gave up after several weeks of scornfully staring at the ferret. And though he would never admit it, he grew to enjoy Pabu's presence in the shelter. He really didn't eat all that much (and, better yet, ate the occasional bug), he was quiet, and Bolin had somehow trained him to do his business outside. Even more important, he made Bolin genuinely happy. The two were inseparable, Pabu perching himself on Bolin's shoulder as they hunted for work. Though the food lasted quite a while—long enough for Mako to physically recover from his last appointment with the Triad—they learned many years ago that they could not afford to get complacent. They had varied success in procuring food and payment, but as usual, they spent most of the time plotting rather than working.
For a while they were able to maintain relative stability. The brothers celebrated Mako's sixteenth birthday by splitting a lemon bar and a beer Bolin swiped from some picnickers at the park. At one point, they even had enough money to restock some of the essentials that they'd let slide in recent years—new toothbrushes, a pair of second-hand scissors that would actually cut through hair, clothes that fit. The trip to the used clothing store occurred after Bolin joked they might have better luck if they looked a little less like men in children's clothing. Mako bought a tunic, some black fabric for patches, and pair of shoes that were not three sizes too small (Bolin had grown out of his, too, but he preferred to go barefoot anyway). Bolin got for himself a second pair of too-long pants with elastic at the bottom hem, so that he could roll them down as he grew taller. Then, after squabbling over whose facial hair was growing in more evenly (they eventually decided that neither had an impressive beard), they purchased a brand new razor. They arrived back at home in high spirits, shopper's remorse for once very distant on their minds, and had a small dinner. Afterward, Bolin finger-combed Pabu's fur while Mako repaired their old clothes using the new patch cloth and his sewing kit.
Somehow the gangs appeared in an otherwise easy conversation. Mako, who usually did his best to avoid the topic, wasn't sure how they had arrived here. He hadn't worked for the gang in a while now—the upswing in the market meant that he'd been able to get jobs elsewhere. He had hoped the thought would leave Bolin's mind. Evidently this was not the case. There had been a pause, and then Bolin asked why Mako let the gangsters beat him up. When he first began working for the gangs, Mako had specifically said that they fought when Mako had done something wrong. But Bolin didn't think this could possibly be the case, as he had seen his brother successfully fight off people in the past (usually only in situations where they had no other choice). So he, in his beautiful naiveté, decided that the fight must be rather one-sided. He admitted that he wasn't very comfortable with the notion of Mako sacrificing his well-being in order to feed and clothe them, even if they had no other choice.
For a long time after Bolin stopped speaking, Mako contemplated this notion. He replied that it wasn't as bad as it looked sometimes, and even though he didn't like working for the gangs, it often looked like their best ticket out of poverty for good. If they kept saving, kept clean, and kept persevering through the hard times, then eventually they would get the right sort of opportunity. In the meantime, all they could do was try to make the best of it.
Another pause. Then Bolin set Pabu (who had fallen asleep in his master's lap) aside, crawled over to his bag, and resurfaced with a hefty stack of papers. At the very top of this pile was a flyer for the annual Pro Bending tournament, which he handed over with the explanation that he had been reading about the tournament in the newspaper and thought it might be worth a shot. A pang ran through Mako's chest as he skimmed the ad; over two years ago, he had listened to the kids fantasize about becoming Pro Benders and living the high life until the end of their days, so surrounded by money and adoring fans that the hard times were hardly a bad dream on the periphery. Back then he had thought the idea silly and stupid. He still thought as much. He and his brother used Bending fairly often, using the basics for survival and, when they were up to it, the occasional spar. It was as much a part of them as anything else, just another tool in the arsenal, so integral to their everyday life that he often didn't even notice it. On the occasions when he did have to fight, he fared well—one of the most serious instances had been when a group of older vagabonds had tried to commandeer Mako and Bolin's shelter, only to wind up running off with their clothes singed (and, thanks to a few choice hits from a nine-year-old Bolin, probable concussions). But competitively…?
Mako looked up from the page, eyebrows aloft, to see that hope had crept into Bolin's expression.
"Bo, this tournament is for people who are professionals. People who've been trained all their lives and think they can make a career out of it. That's why they call it 'Pro' Bending, not 'mediocre' Bending."
"I don't think we're mediocre, Mako! Well, at least you're not. But look, I've been taking notes at the library—" here Bolin spread the rest of the papers out over the space between them, revealing newspaper clippings and about a hundred forms that he had copied meticulously from instructional books. "We can teach ourselves everything we don't already know. Maybe if we practice enough, we can try out for a spot!"
Though Mako didn't think there was much merit in the idea, he couldn't bring himself to say it in front of Bolin, who had clearly poured much of his time and energy into designing a training program. For once they were fed enough to spare a little extra energy, and practice might do them good even if nothing came of the overall plan. They had missed this year's tryouts, but by this time next year… they'd never tried to reach their potential as Benders before; who was he to count them out?
Thus training began. Newly energized by the opportunity to make a tangible contribution to the family, Bolin dragged Mako out of bed each morning for a warm-up jog around the block. Then they went to the park and found a stretch of grass far away from the Equalist protestors (their constant chanting and jeering annoyed both brothers immensely). Mako was handed a stack of Bolin's hand-drawn Firebending forms and told to go practice.
In the middle of the pile Mako discovered what looked like forms for Bending lightning. Bolin spotted him frowning at the description and said it couldn't hurt to try it—they couldn't use it in the tournament, but it might be useful someday. There was no way Bolin could remember that their father had picked up shifts at the factory. Still, the sharp jab of homesickness was so unfamiliar after all these years that it overrode Mako's skepticism. It would be stupid to try to actually Bend lightning without real instruction; he'd heard of people who had accidentally stopped their own hearts during accidents with real instructors. He memorized the form, paying close attention to Bolin's copied scribbles about chi flow, then shuffled the sheet to the bottom of the stack.
They spent a few hours on their own elements, then studied the game itself by going over game synopses from the newspaper, and finally ended training with a scrimmage, using real Bending whenever they were sure they wouldn't be caught. The prospect of throwing fireballs at his little brother was not one that particularly thrilled Mako, but Bolin fared well. The Earthbender certainly had an interesting style—it was a strange combination of scrappiness with the agility of the light-footed form used by most of the pros. Against Firebenders (or at least Mako) it seemed quite effective, with Bolin's natural strength often overcoming Mako's resilience. In the evenings where games were broadcast, they sat outside a local bar and listened to the match on the radio.
After a few months, they had reached a point where sparring usually ended in either a stalemate or a de-evolution into fist fighting. They were hungrier than usual, but they were also growing stronger, putting on the muscle mass that might have come easily with a little extra nutrition. Their training sessions, always held outdoors in remote, tree-shaded corner of Republic City Park, even occasionally attracted attention from passers-by. Mako paid these curious eyes little heed, limiting his reaction to a smirk-and-nod combination whenever somebody cute made their acute attention very clear. He preferred to channel his focus into getting stronger, faster, not out of lacking interest but… well. After the last few years, Mako had replaced the urge for intimacy with the desperate drive to win the opportunity to pursue it on his own terms. Bolin, however, had no such preoccupation.
If Bolin had ever experienced an interest in romance, he kept it quiet from Mako until now. As soon as he noticed that he was being watched, he became annoyingly attentive to his regular "fans", which made him an easy target in practice. He exaggerated his Bending forms, flexed his biceps, did countless pushups, chatted with the girls and guys who stopped to enjoy the show. Mako couldn't remember feeling this secure in his own body at Bolin's age (fourteen going on twenty-five, apparently). Quite the opposite, he remembered thinking that his needs—the "itch" and all the accompanying daydreams—were bothersome, even shameful.
But then, fourteen for Mako had been a very strange year. He didn't have an expansive knowledge of other peoples' experiences, but Bolin's way of exploring this side of adolescence seemed more… normal. More so, at least, than dropping his pants around his ankles and shimmying with a girl he barely knew in a dark alley at the age of twelve. Still, he thought he ought to bring up the topic of puberty and sex with his little brother before Bolin could get himself into a stupid situation. Mako didn't need an addition to the family legacy, not when he could barely support two (three, if Pabu counted) and their record wasn't great to begin with. However, one afternoon when he tried to confront Bolin for a talk, Bolin waved away Mako's book about human development with the comment that he "knew all that stuff already". Then, in the enthusiastic air with which he approached all things, Bolin proceeded to inform his brother about things that Mako hadn't even known. Evidently Mako's concerns about Bolin's awareness of puberty, chemicals, and body smarts had been unfounded. He promptly shut his mouth.
At seventeen, Mako learned about confidence and optimism. Unfortunately, the universe seemed to enjoy poking holes in his plans. Just as the brothers were finally starting to feel self-assured, the employment rush came to an abrupt end. Food once more became a worrisome factor. Mako tried not to let the downturn worry him much (it was easier to accomplish with an adamantly optimistic brother at his side). The Pro Bending tryouts were in two months, they had some cash left over, and in the meantime he was still finding work here and there. He was finally growing into his lanky frame, building self-esteem that had been tarnished by repeated failure, starvation, and abuse. For the first time in months, Mako had begun to feel more like himself.
This newfound positivity did not last long after the downturn. The jobs ran out, funds wore thin, and the brothers resorted back to their deplorably tiny portions and infrequent meals. By the time the tournament tryouts arrived, they had fallen off of their game. No food meant no energy, which meant that all the improvements they had made through rigorous training were wasted in the arena. Even with a decent Waterbender standing in on their team, the brothers couldn't contend with the well-fed, professionally-trained competition. Crestfallen from the rejection, soaked from being tossed effortlessly into the water pit, Mako and Bolin trudged back home to contemplate their situation.
Not two days later, a satomobile pulled up along the sidewalk while Mako and Bolin were passing through the Station. A voice called out Mako's name, and he was instantly struck with such a strong sense of terror that he almost couldn't respond to the summons. Mako halted mid-step, Bolin stutter-stopped to keep himself from crashing into his brother, and Pabu went flying straight off Bolin's shoulder. Mako told his decidedly confused brother to stay put before he walked, chin angled downward, over to the vehicle.
Mako had learned only a handful of names during the affiliation with the Triad, all of whom belonged to the types of people Bolin called 'nasty dudes'. There was Lightning Bolt Zolt, of course, and then there was his second in command: Shady Shin. The latter of the two gangsters occupied the driver's seat of the satomobile, one elbow propped on the open window and a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. When Mako arrived at the side of the satomobile, Shady Shin greeted him with a "Long time no see, pal. How's it been?"
In a subdued voice, Mako asked what Shady Shin wanted. Shady Shin said that if Mako was strapped for cash there was a potential job offer.
Mako told him that he wasn't interested. Shady Shin asked him if he could afford to be disinterested, and Mako replied that he could. Shady Shin said the deal was worth fifty yuans. When Mako retorted he'd heard that excuse before and wasn't interested anyway, Shady Shin remedied his offer to seventy-five yuans and his good word.
This sum gave Mako some pause. Even if they ripped him off by eighty percent, as they were apt to do, he'd still be making more than double the usual payment. He shoved his hands into his pockets, glanced from the stone curb to the steering wheel of the vehicle, anywhere but straight at his propositioner. He asked who the client would be, and Shady Shin replied with a name that Mako knew quite well. Then Mako shook his head, stepping back from the vehicle as he did so. This client had been his last before he was arrested, and it had been one of his very worst nights. The ugly bite mark on his shoulder had only just faded away. He was not in a hurry to earn another. Again he refused.
Then Shady Shin looked over Mako's shoulder, to where Bolin stood watching just out of earshot. "Your friend's cute. Maybe he'd like to make a few—"
"Don't even think about it."
Shady Shin shrank away from the window as Mako grasped the sill in both hands and leaned right in, squarely blocking the gangster's view of Bolin. It took him a full three seconds to recover, and even once he had, it was with an unsettled laugh.
"Then I'd better see you two hours before midnight. Otherwise, you know, anything could happen." Shady Shin shrugged, falling back into nonchalance and putting the satomobile into gear. A moment later had driven off, leaving Mako coughing in a plume of exhaust.
The day did not improve from that point. Mako could not be sure which part of this situation bothered him more: his immediate resignation, or Bolin's reaction to it. Until now he hadn't realized how visible his state of mind had been, much less how deeply it affected his brother. Bolin once had voiced his discomfort at being fed and clothed at the expense of Mako's immediate well-being, but he had never reacted as he did now. But then, neither had Mako. After weeks of improvement and growing back into his former self—not withdrawn and quiet, but curious and competitive—it was terrifying to acknowledge how quickly it all went away. Side-by-side he and Bolin walked back home, Mako's eyes now trained devoutly to the ground. They lapsed into a silence that lasted until long after dinner. For the most part, Mako sat in silence. He snapped back to life only when he realized Bolin had said his name four times, starting as if he'd been touched with a spark.
Hanging on the brink of tears, Bolin begged Mako to stay home. He offered to go in his brother's place. He said he would learn how to do the job and then they could split shifts. Anything was better than this…seeing Mako shut down from the inside out, leave his body, and disappear into someone neither of them knew. Mako shook his head and pried Bolin's fingers from around his wrists and told him he would be back in the morning, but it was too late for Mako to prove that he was strong. He had revealed the person he became at the click of the lock, when there was no escape—obedient, passive. Empty and indifferent.
Mako removed his scarf and set it down, gently, on the floor before he left. On his walk to the meeting place, Mako wondered how Bolin could be so blind to what was happening. He wasn't too young to understand, and he was particularly tuned to Mako's moods and thoughts. To Mako the made-up excuses sounded out like a horn, bafflingly obvious in his own ears. The Chief of Police had figured him out after one good look-over, and she only saw him in the direct aftermath. She hadn't gotten to witness his slow retreat.
But then, the answer was just as blatant. Never in their whole lives had Mako given Bolin reason to suspect that he would lie. Mako walked.
Half an hour later Mako reached the factory neighborhood. He went into the clubhouse door, up a flight of stairs, recalling as he went the very first time he had come here expecting to tally stolen parts. That this path had become routine was never part of his plan, yet so it was. Taro was waiting for him there, tapping his fingers on his belt buckle.
Without a greeting, Taro told him that the client would arrive in ten minutes. He said that the client had requested him specifically, and that if Mako didn't screw it up then he would become a regular and there could be good money for both of them. Once Mako was released, Taro said, he would have to walk to headquarters to collect his cut. Then he opened the door to Mako's room and let him inside. For the first time, he did not lock the door on his way out. Mako had nowhere else to go.
Mako was at first confused why Taro hadn't stayed. He usually stood outside the door for the thirty or so minutes and then tossed Mako his money when he was done. Anxious, Mako sat down on the chair and then stood up again. He wrung his hands, stretched his arms and shoulders. He took a few slow, deep breaths. The client arrived exactly on time, stayed for an hour, and did not waste a single minute.
Mako stayed long after the client left, sprawled out across the cool metal floor with his mind drifting in and out of sleep. After about an hour he rose, dressed, and stuck his head into the dim hallway. He had heard the sounds of others in the building, but they had left sometime during his doze. Only a handful of times had he ever heard the other employees, and only once had he seen one—Mako had just arrived when a woman was leaving, and he had been so taken aback by her straggled appearance that he at first didn't realize that she was completely high. Her name was Mara. He'd heard Taro say her name as he flipped her a wad of bills. Since then, the only encounter he had with the others was the occasional sound through the thin walls. Taro had always been there to make sure he never had the chance to speak with them.
But since Taro wasn't here, Mako padded barefoot down the hallway, peeking in through the doors as he went. The building—at least this floor—was vacant save for him. Every other room was just as barren as the one he often occupied, with the same chair and dirty mattress occupying about half of the space. Finally, at the very back end of the hall, Mako made a discovery. There was a staircase leading down to the lower level (the stairs leading up had been roped off and marked as dangerous), and there Mako found what must have been a locker room at some point. He supposed this made sense. The production wing of the factory was adjacent to this part, and even the more modern factories had a place for the manual workers to freshen up. Here, there was a wall of lockers, a toilet in a separate room, a row of sinks, and two shower stalls made private by an old curtain on rungs. The first shower was missing its faucet. The second, miraculously, not only had a faucet but also running water. Mako stuck his hand in the water and recoiled from the cold. Among other survival tricks, being a Firebender meant that the water in their wash basin was always warm.
After suspiciously eyeing the sporadic water stream, Mako decided that he would rather shower here than not at all. He crossed back to the room's only entrance and blocked the door with a heavy bench, just in case someone wandered down stairs. In a metal cabinet he found a few hand towels that looked clean enough to use. Then he undressed and stepped under the spray. The icy water hit him like a knee to the gut, forcing him a few steps backward until he bumped up against the wall. His skin recoiled and numbed on contact, but Mako forced himself to stay put until he had washed away every speck of that man from his body—the echo of unwelcome touch, glued down with the sticky-slickness of lubricant and whatever else was left over. His sweat wasn't even his own, but a sickly mixture of the two. Mako scrubbed himself raw, dug it out with his finger nails, letting the water run down the drain by his feet before shutting off the flow. He was shivering, but he didn't mind. The cold had shocked him back to life.
Mako warmed up with a breath of fire, wiped the excess water away with a hand towel, and stepped into his pants. Before tugging his shirt over his head, Mako used the mirror to check for any damage. This time he was lucky; whatever marks he bore were the type to fade in a few hours (and in fact the red lines around his wrists were almost gone already). He also noticed, with clinical impassivity, that despite his hunger he looked stronger than he used to. Training had put some muscle on his skinny frame. The client, too, had noticed this change and hissed it in his ear. Briefly Mako thought that it would have been nice to have the chance to feel pride in his newer, older appearance, before it was taken away from him as well.
Only one very visible wound would remain in the next days, and this he could cover up. Mako scooted closer to the dusty mirror, bending over double to get a better look. He counted eight little crescent moons around his waist. Of these, only three were actively bleeding. Satisfied with his luck, Mako finished dressing and took the short walk to headquarters, where he found about ten gang members playing cards around the table. Taro stood when he spotted the Firebender approaching, reached into his pocket, and withdrew a fistful of cash. Before he handed it over he asked with a smirk how it had gone. Mako ignored this question and, alarmed by his own nerve, reached up and plucked a cigarette out of Taro's breast pocket. Taro did not blink as Mako stuck the smoke in his mouth and lit the end between his fingers. He told Mako to come back the same time next week. Slipping the yuans into his pocket, Mako backed out the door.
Heading home was usually a bittersweet affair. It meant returning to his brother, but usually with the burden of having to create a story for his new bruises. Generally he allowed himself the entire night to recover before taking the long walk as well, but despite the longer appointment, the client had been rather gentle and left Mako feeling half as wounded as usual. More than normal he looked forward to getting back to where he felt safe, to Bolin and a warm place to sleep. So instead of seeking an alley corner, Mako went straight to their shelter (he even thought he felt fine enough to jog, but this was a mistake; after only a few seconds he was back to his wide-gaited walk). When he reached the entrance, the slab of earth Bolin sealed in place every night was standing unlocked. Mako easily pushed it aside and ducked into the space.
Bolin wasn't inside. At first Mako was alarmed, until he realized that Pabu was gone too, along with the tape that Bolin used to wrap his hands when he practiced heavy lifting. Mako closed the entrance and lay down. He sought his scarf, but the scarf was not there.
xXx
TBC