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.

They ask what is the first thing you do when you get out of jail. For Jet, it's find a job and a hot cup of tea.

"Hey old man! Over here!" He calls from his little table in the corner. The place smells like rice grain, scented steam, and fresh soap. It's nothing like the hard staleness of his cell, so it's the perfect place to go. Despite the bustling scene around him, the smiling old man goes patiently from table to table, taking and filling orders. Jet frowns and calls out again. "Hey! Can you hear me?"

"One moment!" The old man calls back, turning back to the family of four sitting before him. "And this particular brew I made myself, from flowers imported from—oh my nephew, you're here! Why don't you wait on that young man over there, he sounds very thirsty."

Jet's attention averts over to the scarred young man entering the shop. Sturdy in build, yet somehow still dejected-looking in stance, the nephew looks like he sincerely does not want to be here. Nevertheless, he silently obeys his uncle and makes a beeline for Jet's table. The brutal scar framing his left eye almost makes Jet respect him. That is, until he opens his mouth.

"Welcome to the Jasmine Dragon, we serve tea as fine and hot as dragon's fire itself," he says stiffly from memorization, not looking at Jet as he snaps his pad open to a clean page. "How may I help you?"

"Depends, you got any job openings here?"

This cheeky little statement causes the young man to raise his eyes and take a good look at his customer. Bronze from the sun, dangerously handsome, without a doubt, but slightly scrawny from his time in juvie, Jet sits as confidently as ever. And now that he has his attention, he levels his eyes with his waiter. "You're about my age, eh?" Jet says, unable to resist. "Good bit shorter though."

This makes him to grit his teeth in annoyance. "Do we look like we need help around here?"

"If this is what you call customer service, then yeah."

"I never asked to serve the likes of you."

"I'm not asking for much," Jet says calmly, "just whatever free shifts you have and a bed to sleep in for a few nights before I find a place of my own. I'll do as much work you need, free of charge. Except for maybe a hot cup or two."

At this, the young man rolls his eyes in annoyance. "Look, we don't take in strays."

"Oh?" Jet says, genuinely surprised. "Then what are you?"

"How dare—!"

"What's going on?" the old man finally comes around. "Why haven't you given the customer his tea yet?"

"I'd like a cup o' red, please," Jet says, face cheerful alongside his waiter's steaming red face. "Would you like any help washing dishes afterward?"

"Of course! I always welcome a helping hand," the old man replies without missing a beat, and then peers at the young man beside him. He could practically see the steam coming out his ears. "My dear nephew, what's gotten into you?"

"So you see," Jet says in a conclusive tone as he stands over the sink, talking to the old tea shop owner through the small window to the front, "I spent a lot of time thinking about my actions in juvie. It made me realize how many mistakes I've made. All this time, I thought I was right when I fought fire with fire. But I wasn't. Now I'm ready for a fresh start."

"That is very admirable," the old man smiles warmly. "I think everybody should be given a second chance. You're doing very well already."

"Yeah, well, the Avatar is really inspirational," Jet nods, now beginning to stack up clean cups on his right and moving on to the dirty ones on his left.

"…the Avatar?" the old man suddenly hesitates. "You've heard of him?"

Jet blinks. "I knew him personally," he says. "Before juvie, back when he first began to fight crime. He didn't start taking up against Ozai's people until after I got arrested, I hear, but he's been doing it ever since. He has a way with crime that I think is amazing. Most talented kid I ever saw, even against the likes of Ozai. I think he might be the answer."

As he listens, the old man's frown becomes deeper and deeper. "Ozai is a very dangerous name," he says slowly, "few know of him, and even fewer know him. You should not associate yourself with him."

Jet shakes his head solemnly. "Too late. That bastard's the reason why my parents are dead…"

As the two converse, Zuko watches from afar with narrowed eyes, catching a few words and not liking what he hears at all. Collecting dirty cups and unfinished sweets along the way, he walks over with purpose and demands, "Uncle, what are you—"

"Ah, there you are!" Iroh exclaims loudly, a slightly strained smile now gracing his features. "Jet, I don't think I've properly introduced you. This is my nephew, Li."

"Nice to meet you," Jet smirks at Zuko's bewildered face, not noticing Iroh gesturing wildly with his eyebrows. "That's a pretty common name, isn't it? And yours?" he asks, turning to Iroh, who composes himself immediately.

"I'm—"

"Mushi," Zuko interrupts cleanly, sending his glaring uncle a sardonic look before dumping the tray of dirty cups in the sink. Seeing the suds fly into Jet's hair, Zuko smirks grimly. "Hope you're having fun."

"Oh, I am!" Jet returns nastily, turning on the hot water with much more force than necessary. "So glad you're here to help, Li, I don't know what I'd do without you! You have any more dirty cups? What size? 36A? B? That seems a little small for you, why don't you try bigger?"

As Jet's loud jibes causes heads to turn, Zuko resists the urge to bash his head against the wall. Why, oh why, did they allow him in?

When Katara finds Aang by following the trail of blood, she actually bashes her head against the wall. "Aang!" She shouts, pinching her brow in frustration, "Oh my goodness, what's happened now?"

Aang jumps guiltily, holding the blood red rag tightly against his arm as he turns around to face Katara. "Sorry, I'll clean it up—"

"Oh, who cares about the floor?" Katara snaps, striding over and dragging Aang to the sink. "I'll just make Sokka clean it up. You need to come over here right now. I can't believe you didn't find me first!"

"But I just got here!"

"Make who clean what up?" a voice trails over from upstairs, and then Sokka appears twirling his police hat on his finger. "What's going on—oh lordy-lord Aang what's happened now?"

Aang doesn't have a chance to answer as Katara procures a new rag and presses down, hard. "Owww," he cries, "Katara, you're gonna slice the rest of my arm off."

"We need to stop the bleeding," Katara scolds. Aang can't deny she has the hands of a healer, but he can say her sympathy slows when she's angry. "And afterward we can wash it; you probably got it all dirty with that old rag. Sokka, get some baby soap, it'll be easier on the wound."

"Holy jabberwocky, Aang is this blood yours?" Sokka cries, ignoring Katara as he follows the dripping trail to the front of the house. "Why were you out in broad daylight like this? I thought you went to the bank to exchange the kids' coins."

"I did," Aang insists, "I just got sidetracked."

"By what?" Sokka demands. "Aw horse shit, you got some on the door knob too. Katara, do I seriously have to clean all this up?"

Katara pointedly ignores Sokka as she begins to run cold water on Aang's forearm. They stay silent for a moment. The only sounds come from the running water, the children playing in the backyard, the little radio Katara keeps in the living room. After a while, Sokka tosses them the baby soap and sets to scrubbing blood off the floor. They occasionally hear him muttering to himself about how he should clean up crime, not kitchens.

When Katara pulls back the rag and pours sudsy cool water onto the wound, she receives a soft "thank you" and a familiar look of appreciation. And now that she sees the wound for what it is, she raises an eyebrow and says, "It's actually not too bad. The blade just scraped a vein, that's why you bled so much."

"I knew it," Aang sighs, holding himself up with what dignity he can muster. As Katara is still holding his arm hostage to bandage it, it's not much. "I keep telling you, stop worrying so much about me."

At this, Katara returns to glaring at him crossly. "What do you mean, stop worrying about you? A cut one day, a bruise another; soon you'll come back with burns and gun wounds. For goodness sake Aang, the world isn't your playground. Can't you tell you're not just playing games anymore?"

"I never said I was playing games," Aang argues. "I'm seeing a pattern here, a real one. If you'd just let me help, I know I can find something out—"

"No," Katara shakes her head firmly, "not with the way you handle things. Honestly, switching monopoly money with wallets of armed pickpockets? Pie-ing armed drug dealers in the face? I don't care how noble your intentions are. You can't just dish out jokes and not expect it to stab you in the back, literally."

Aang's face becomes steadily more and more sullen as he realizes the truth in Katara's words, even though a large part of him still refuses to believe it.

"Not everyone thinks life is fun and games."

"Well, everyone should."

"You think that because you're fifteen, and they're not." Katara pauses, wondering if it's worth lecturing further. "…Alright, now go outside and explain to the kids why you've lost all their piggy bank money. Sokka, I see you sneaking off with ramen in your hands, get back here!"

Zuko didn't ask to see the movie. But Iroh insists that he enjoy himself, so naturally he kicks him out of the shop. It has raving reviews, Iroh says, and it seems like just the kind of film he would like.

The movie is black and white with a faint sepia tone, nothing like the brightly-colored, action- and sex-packed blockbusters that fill the theater every weekend. Zuko sits in the back, because it's close to the door and hard to be disturbed. When the movie starts, he realizes he didn't even read the summary. Bad idea, he realizes later on. Really bad idea.

He rolls his eyes for the hundredth time in an attempt to ignore the burn of tears in his throat, threatening to break free onto his face as the movie reveals the slowly heart-breaking story of a mother and her child caught in the middle of the Japanese Invasion. It's not entirely himself he sees, but he does see bits and pieces of his mother; regal and beautiful, yet somehow still nurturing and humble. Later, gone and dead.

Memories long forgotten trickle in slowly, as he wonders for the hundredth time where did you go, and why? Spraining his shoulder, running from a furious swarm of bees, and always he could envelope himself in her arms. A small birthday cake she baked herself. Trips to the dog shelter, where she always promises he can get one of his own if he's good. And he would be, he was determined to be.

Zuko stubbornly checks his watch for the hundredth time. When the movie merely proves half over, he can't take it anymore. He gets up, knocking over his popcorn on the way, and walks out of the theater.

There is no point in dwelling in the past, he decides, when there is a future to look to. The past is faint and faded. So he wipes away those memories like raindrops from a window. What once was his mother he longed to find now must become the Avatar.