Hit N Run
Summary – Zuko, the troubled firstborn of a ruthless gangster. Aang, the mischievous young vigilante. They meet on a rainy night, and their story opens the clouds.
Warning – This story includes violence, gang crime, rape, and homosexual relations.
Disclaimer – Nothing of ATLA belongs to me.
A/N – Don't hate Zuko too much, he's just trying to be a good boy.
Cereal and cold milk hit the bowl with a shuffle, gloop, and clatter as Zuko silently spoons himself breakfast for lunch.
From the other side of the door, Iroh's voice wanders over. "Zuko?" along with the sounds of customers and their hot tea. Iroh budges the door open with an elbow, a tray of empty cups in his hands. "Awake, I see. How are you feeling?"
"Fine," Zuko mutters. Seeing his uncle in the morning light, he wonders how the kind old man could've possibly been a menace like his father. Once just as scheming, ruthless, and intimidating. But the veteran eyes and grey beard don't lie. As far as Zuko can tell, he retreated out of weakness, not out of will, and the more Zuko lives with him, the more he'll be infected with his kindness. He averts his eyes, and sees a newspaper fly through the kitchen door, the screams of a young woman hot on its trails.
"Oh dear," Iroh says, face dropping dramatically as he rushes out, "Now calm down, calm down, I'm sure he didn't mean that—of course you're not fat, just look at my belly…"
Zuko wipes his mouth. His next class isn't until evening, he may as well stay here and help his uncle reassure female customers of their figure before they run out of business. He reaches for his apron and is about to head out front—when something catches his eye.
Maybe it's that blur of orange, or an echo of a laugh in printed words. Whatever it is, it's pulling him close, stronger than the likes of gravity, so he picks it up, unfolds it, and reads.
Cutting Curfew to Protect the Law?
Last night at 2:26 am, four men were reportedly found drugged and bound by the entrance of Smoyer Park. Upon regaining consciousness and undergoing questioning from the police, they urgently denied any wrongdoing and demanded immediate release. They are currently still under questioning.
This scene is not unfamiliar. In the past three months, there have been four other instances in which criminals are "pre-packaged" for arrest, usually with a note left detailing their crimes. The notes are light and playful in nature, and always end with, "We are very sorry". In this case there was no note, but a small bundle of weapons found lying beside them, assumed to be theirs.
Though police deny any knowledge or relation to this activity, many citizens believe these nightly parcels may correlate to recent events revolving around a masked young man now called "The Avatar".
Quick, agile, and somewhat of a trickster himself, "The Avatar" has often been sighted stopping crimes such as shoplifting, vandalism, and drug dealing. Most sightings occur in early morning or late evening. According to estimations of height and build, he must be no older than sixteen but no younger than twelve.
"This 'Avatar' is an admirable guy for many young people," Officer Arnook says. "But I doubt he's the one going out in the middle of the night and taking down guys three times his size. I think he's just dressing up as a superhero to amuse his friends."
Officer Arnook's opinion reflects the high majority of police opinion. None of the criminals previously bound in this situation have admitted to encountering such a character, though one of them vaguely recalls the color orange. According to police records, he said, "Orange…I saw orange moving…" This, Arnook insists, means nothing, as the individual was substance intoxicated at the time.
Orange mask. Smiling silence. The words burn themselves in Zuko's mind as bright as day, just like the photo, just like the figure standing alone that night. But before he can finish, thin fingers whip the newspaper out of his hands.
"What the fuck, give that ba—" he begins furiously, but then he catches Mai's eyes.
Stoic, sharp, and always perfectly dressed, his friend with benefits—not girlfriend oh no—shoots him a calculating look. Feeling oddly intimidated, Zuko shuts his mouth and waits until she gives a little smile (which is, for her, the warmest bear-hug you could imagine) and throws the newspaper in the trash.
"Good afternoon," She says, slipping him a kiss on the cheek. "Are you busy?"
Zuko shoots a sidelong glance at the teashop front, where there still lingers a small commotion. Jin has left, Iroh is alone at work. "I don't know…"
"Your father wants to see you."
Zuko's gaze snaps back. "What?"
"Follow me."
Meeting in broad daylight really isn't a problem when you own nearly half the businesses on the upper east side. Just past the innocent doors of an old antique shop, Zuko knows sits his father, Azula, maybe half a dozen or so men he trusts enough. He steps inside and resists the urge to cough—there is a peculiar scent of smoke, mixed in with dust and traces of cocaine, and the constant presence of blood red antiques.
His father likes red.
"In here," Mai says, breezing past him into a smaller, separate room. The walls are covered with clocks, all set precisely to the same time. Right beside the one in the shape of a hawk, Azula's face looks softly bored and sharply vicious at the same time. Zuko stands to greet Ozai.
"Father."
"Sit down."
Unlike Azula, Ozai keeps little facial expression. His face is deceivingly handsome instead, and by this aspect alone he is equally frightening. He gives Zuko his task, his very first, and Zuko listens carefully.
This is, after all, his first real chance to prove himself. He's not about to take it lightly.
"Everybody down! Nobody move!" Zuko watches as people scream and duck at his mercy. It's almost as if they feel his own fear. "Give me all your money!"
He keeps his gun trained on the shaking man behind the counter and doesn't notice a wide-eyed teenage boy disappear behind the corner. He throws bag after bag of Ben Franklins to his accomplices, his father gifted him with three, and doesn't stop until he hears sirens in the distance.
"This is the last of them," he says, running after the others into the van until he realizes something. "Hey, where are you going?"
And as the police draw nearer, the van draws farther, and Zuko is stuck panicking on the sidewalk with a knife in one hand and a gun in the other. Of all things he'd expected, he could not have foreseen a suicide mission.
He runs, but this is an open area, there are little places to hide. Glancing at the bank, where they would recognize his blue mask, he tears it off and keeps on sprinting into nothingness. Suddenly, a hand grabs onto him.
"Let go!" Zuko practically screams, snatching his wrist from a curiously small hand. He looks down. Then up into the hand's owner. The Avatar.
When Zuko halts to a stop out of pure shock, the Avatar takes the opportunity to grab a hold of his wrist once more and steer him block after block in the direction of a local gas station, where the emptiness attracts little attention and they can hide behind a large truck. They collapse together, heaving to catch their breath.
The Avatar hands him his mask.
Zuko stares at it, compares it to the bright orange mask next to it, and sees only a sad blue lion frowning at him in disappointment. Zuko closes his eyes. He's about to take it back, when he catches a whiff of something in the air.
"You dosed this in chloroform," Zuko says, more of an accusation than a question. The Avatar pauses, the silence of his mask staring back at him. Then he nods.
"The van, did you stop that too?" Zuko asks urgently, suddenly forgetting their betrayal and hoping to God almighty the money had gotten out alright. But the Avatar nods again. His spirits sink. "You ruined everything!" Zuko roars, tearing away, now realizing the gravity of what has just happened. The Avatar grabs him desperately, trying to reason with him, but Zuko can only see his own failure. He barely sees himself slice through just enough skin to get the Avatar's arm off him, but it happens anyway.
As Zuko runs free, the Avatar sits bleeding on the sidewalk. Neither sees the hurt look behind the mask of the other as they focus on their own pain.
That evening, Mai informs him of his new mission.
The Avatar has become too much of a nuisance for Ozai, unwittingly throwing himself onto the scene of more and more business dealings, legal and illegal. His cheeky interference has gone too far, especially as the three men trapped into the van nearly gave the police his name (one of his false aliases, but then again Ozai uses those just as often). And he must be dealt with.
Capture the Avatar, or you're not welcome back home. And no, Mai would not like a kiss good night. She disappears into the night without another word.