Note: You may have noticed that his story has a new rating. The reason for that is very simple. As we were writing this chapter, we read it over, and thought, "Yeah, this is way too disturbing for a T-Rating." With that being said, try to enjoy this horrible nightmare.
Korra never felt happier to see the sunlight. The moment the morning light rose above the horizon, Lin whisked her into her squad car, wrapped her in blankets, and took her back to Air Temple Island. She was freezing, but deep down, she was grateful. Things would have gotten far worse if Lin never arrived, and she knew how incredibly fortunate she was that a shiver was the worst of her problems. Yet, she also knew that she did not have time to relax. She doubted Masaki would be happy that his game failed, and she only hoped that her repercussions would not be as severe.
"Hey, Lin," Korra said softly. The Police Chief kept her eyes locked on the road. "Thank you. For everything."
"Don't mention it," Lin nodded. "Let's just hope it doesn't get any worse than this."
Lin's words were empty, but Korra believed them, whether because she was naïve, or those words were the only hope she had to hold onto.
Korra wasted little time rushing upon arriving home. She rushed into her room, past the confused and worried stares of the children, and slipped into her standard blue outfit. She breathed a sigh of relief as the clothing clung to her skin, embracing her with more warmth than any hug. Her room appeared normal, and for a moment, she forgot that just a day earlier, it swarmed with police as part of an active crime scene.
No sooner did she reflect on that did the phone ring. Her heart sank and she froze. All it took was a mere phone call to violate her protective space, and she hated it. But, she was powerless to do anything but answer the call. Against her better judgment, she did.
"Hi, Korra. It's Masaki," the child greeted her. He sounded no different than any young boy, speaking with the same innocence and quirkiness that would come from hours of rehearsing proper speaking etiquette with his parents. Even his wording showed no sign of the malice and contempt that consumed his heart. "Did you have a good time last night?"
"A good time?" Korra snapped. "You tried to have me raped, you sick son of a—"
"Patience, Korra," Masaki said in a lecturing tone. "There's no need to raise your voice. You did a good job last night. You won the game. Besides, it's not like anything actually happened to you… thanks to Beifong."
"How did you—"
"I checked in on you last night," Masaki explained casually. "Right after midnight. I'll come clean: I was considering failing you because of that, but really, I only had myself to blame. What I should have done was tell you to go sleep with other men as part of your test. Instead, I put too much faith in people who didn't deserve it. So, I'll give you this once, but be warned: you aren't getting out unscathed next time."
"You don't have to do this," Korra pleaded. "You can end this right now without anyone else getting hurt. Please, think about it. Would your mother want you to do this?"
Masaki was caught off-guard. He stuttered nervously. "My… my mother? Wh-why would you—"
But then, he paused, and began to giggle.
"Oh, I get it!" he stated proudly. "You ran an investigation on me! That's pretty cool. What else did you find on me?"
"That you killed your father. That you killed anybody you thought wronged you."
"Almost everybody."
"This isn't going to fix anything, Masaki," Korra warned. "I know that you've been through a lot, but believe me, taking your pain out on the world won't make the pain stop. All it does is cause more suffering. You are holding people hostage who have done nothing to wrong you."
"They haven't. You have."
"What happened to your mother was an accident," Korra stated. "I'm sorry that I couldn't protect her, but I wasn't responsible for that. Kuvira was the one destroying the city. I was just trying to help."
"I don't hate you specifically, Korra," Masaki sighed. "Well, I sort of hate you. No, I hate the idea of you. When I was younger, I used to look up to you Korra. You were my idol. To me, you were a hero. It didn't matter what you went up against; whether it was Equalists, Dark Spirits, or anything, you took them down like they were nothing. It didn't matter that you were born different than everybody else. Everyone loved you, and I did, too. In my head, you were perfect, the kind of selfless, compassionate person that I wanted to be like someday.
"It's amazing how stupid I was back then, how easily I was tricked into thinking you were something you were not," Masaki said, suddenly growing bitter and violent. "It was only years after the accident, after my father threw his life away to drinking, after the constant abuse did I finally manage to see through it. You're not a hero. You don't care about any of us. Because you were born different, you had friends and teachers who cared about you from the day you were born. What did I get by being different? Bullying, harassment, and twisted glares from everyone I meet, smiling through it was if that will somehow hide the fact that I mean nothing. You don't know what's like to suffer, do you, Korra? You don't know what it's like to lose anything."
"That's not true," Korra said, hushed. "I know what loss feels like all too well."
"Really?" Masaki questioned harshly. "Tell me, what exactly have you lost? Your legs seem to be working fine to me. All your friends are still alive. Face it: You haven't experienced true loss before. You never had to watch the only person who ever loved you wither away right before your very eyes, knowing that there was nothing you could do to save them."
Masaki's rage subsided. He sighed happily into the receiver. "But that's why I'm here: to right the wrongs. Which reminds me why I called. We still have more games to play together, and this next one should more than make up for the last one's disappointing conclusion. At six o'clock sharp, head inland toward the Spirit Portal. Just to the east, you'll find a small, abandoned house with a partial red roof. You'll know it's the right one because… well, you'll know it when you see it. Remember, six o'clock sharp. Oh, and Korra, be sure to come alone this time. Bye-bye."
The conversation ended before Korra could get in another word.
Mako watched closely as Sy shuffled uncomfortably in her bed. Her half-opened eyes stared blankly at the casts on his arms. He could not tell whether she was fully conscious or even aware of what was going on. An IV steadily dripped a strange, unknown fluid into her arm, keeping her sedated. A large, white bandage was plastered onto her reconstructed face, blocking the scars from her surgery. Her two blackened eyes contrasted sharply with the rest of her pale features, and her tongue occasionally darted between the gap in her mouth that used to house her two front teeth.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"Ugggghhh," Sy responded drowsily.
"It's okay," he stated kindly. "The doctors said that your wounds were healing nicely. They even said that you might be able to breathe through your nose in a few weeks."
"Zashrealgood."
Mako cursed his immobile arms. He wished that he could reach down and hold her, but he was forced to stand there and only witness.
"I'm sorry that you got dragged into this. I should have done more to protect you."
"Dontbezohaaaard," Sy moaned. "Ishnotyourfault. Takeit…takeiteazzzzzy, bro."
"What did they put you on?"
"Drugz," Sy said with a pleased smile. "Gooooood drugz. Feelznize."
"I think I might ask them to turn down the dosage," Mako said, turning to leave.
"Hey… werezmymom?"
"She visited you while you were under," Mako explained. "She was a bit distraught."
"Heh. Zats her," Sy chuckled. She moaned again, and closed her eyes. "MIsherzough. Maybeimnotready…to leavehomeyet."
"I should give her a call. She'll want to know that you woke up," Mako said, trying to head out. Once again, Sy stopped him, faintly calling to him.
"Stoptryintaleaf. Itzlonelywizoutya."
"I'm not even supposed to be out of bed. Besides, you need rest."
"Idontneednozin," Sy proclaimed weakly. "Egzept some newteed."
"New teeth?"
"Dats it," Sy giggled, as the tiredness overtook her. "You…cantleaf. Nooneknowz…whatimsayin."
"I'll be back soon," Mako promised. Sy babbled something incomprehensible, before falling fast asleep. Mako hung his head. He wanted to go out and help Korra, but with his injuries, he was sidelined. That small, precious thing lying on the hospital bed was all he had. Everyone else he knew was either incapacitated, or off fighting the Hanzi Killer. The hospital was his whole world, and he hated it. All he could do was wait for life to pass him by. But, somehow, as Sy rested, he felt alright. He had someone to fight through the pain with. He supposed that was all he could ask for.
Usually, when Korra saw the Spirit Portal, she was flooded with pleasant memories. However, as darkness conquered the light, and she approached the massive beam of energy, she felt nothing but dread. She spotted the designated house with ease, its red roof being the only splash of color in the green-yellow fog. Yet, what caught her eye was not the color, but rather the presence of a small boy sitting on the dismantled porch. Korra pulled her car over in front of the broken house, and made her way to the splintered wooden steps leading to the front door. The child sat cross-legged in tattered clothes, his face held in his hands. Sobs wracked through his thin, malnourished frame. She recognized him as Quan Irro, one of the victims, having seen him in family photographs while talking to his parents shortly after his disappearance.
Korra knelt by his side, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, are you alright?"
The boy did not respond.
"It's okay," she said sweetly. "I'm here to help you. Everything will be—"
The boy turned to look at her, and her blood ran cold. A razor blade pierced his eye, jutting sharply out of his face as blood spurted from the unclean wound. He tried to pull it out over and over, but the ruptured eyeball moved with it, bulging outwards with every tug. Korra quickly took his hands, and pushed them to his side, trying to stop any further damage. Surely, she figured, the dust and grime from his hands had already infected the wound, and his vision would not be saved, but she tried regardless. She wanted to hug him, to comfort him, but for some reason unbeknownst to her, she did not.
Korra hoisted Quan to his feet, and carried him to her car. His feet dragged along the floor, and his body was limp and limber, as if he were a ragdoll. She propped him up in the backseat, and buckled him in.
"Stay right here," she ordered, though she doubted he had the strength to run away. "I'll be right back to take you to the hospital. You'll be back with your parents soon, okay?"
The boy did not respond.
Korra marched back up the stairs and pushed in the front door. The bright glow of the Spirit Portal shined in through the broken roof, allowing Korra to see the remains of the room before her. The furniture was all but destroyed; a caved-in table, crushed chairs and a torn couch were the only clues that someone used to live there. The only piece of furniture left standing stood out distinctly from the rest, as Korra suspected that it was never part of the house until very recently. Before here was a long, rectangular, dark wooden table, resting squarely halfway between the roof and the open sky. On top of the table were three large, glass boxes, each with a slot on the front big enough to squeeze a hand through. On top of each box was a lever, a simple pully mechanism, and one unique item directed inwards.
The first box contained an active power drill, sharp enough to drill a perfect hole into either wood or steel. The second box contained the head of a sledgehammer, capable of crushing a cinderblock into dust. The third and final box contained a red-hot branding iron, used to mark cattle for the slaughter. Each hung from the roof of the box, dangling precariously over the table. On the floor in front of the contraption was a telephone, and a message scribbled in blood:
Will You Sacrifice Your Body?
It only took a moment for Korra to figure out what the game was, but just as the color drained from her skin, and the terror truly sunk in, the phone rang. Like a fool, she answered.
"Ready for Game Number Two?" Masaki asked.
"This is insane, Masaki," Korra said, panicked. "I'm not doing this. I can't. I—"
"You really should stop protesting. It's getting pretty boring now," Masaki said, ignoring her pleas. He went on with his clearly-prepared statements. "Korra, I'm sure that we both know a lot about scars. We both have them. Mine just happen to be a bit more visible than yours. But tonight, we fix that. What you see in front of you is a machine that creates scars. Pull a lever, and ta-da! The scar is created. Now, I've decided to change up the rules a bit, since you cheated during the last game. Here's what you're going to do: you are going to pick two of the boxes, stick one of your hands in, and pull the lever. But, choose wisely, because whatever scar you decide not to give to yourself… I'm going to give to Asami."
"Leave her out of this," Korra said with desperation. "She's innocent."
"No one in this world is innocent, Korra," said Masaki. "Especially when they're associated with you. Oh, and make sure to stay on the phone so I know which options you chose."
Korra didn't know what she would do. There did not seem to be any way to cheat the game. There was no water nearby she could heal with, and she was trapped in the most abandoned part of the city. She tried to use her airbending teachings to calm her racing heart, but she couldn't keep her head straight. She looked down at her hands, eyeing the tender flesh that she would be forced to destroy. The choice was simple: She either mutilated herself, or Asami died.
She studied the options in front of her. The question she asked herself wasn't what was least painful, but the opposite. Whatever she did not pick would be forced upon the woman she loved, so she needed to make the decision that would save Asami the most amount of lasting harm. None of the choices were particularly welcoming. She thought of the drill grinding into Asami's delicate hand, roaring as it ripped up the bones and tendons. She thought of the sledgehammer crashing downwards, flattening the meat like a pancake.
Still, her mind locked onto the branding iron. Upon further examination, she noticed that the iron itself was shaped into a word: Bitch. The other two weapons would cause pain for a couple of seconds. The pain and humiliation from the burn would never stop. Everywhere she went, Asami would have to carry that label with her. Everyone she ever shook hands with would see that scar and look down on her. It would never fade. It couldn't be healed. And, in that instant, Korra realized that she couldn't bear to subject Asami to it.
Korra felt like she was in a dream as she stuck her left hand into the glass box. She tucked phone beneath her ear and her shoulder, and grabbed the lever. The back of her hand was mere inches from the hot metal, and its intensity was unlike any fire she had ever faced.
"I'm using the iron." The words slipped out of her mouth effortlessly. Masaki waited in silence. She wondered if he was in the same room as Asami, forcing her to listen to the madness as it unfolded. Korra braced herself for the impact, took a deep breath, and counted to three.
The response was immediate. She pulled the lever, and instantaneously, the iron slammed into her hand, searing the hateful word into her skin. She fell to her knees, and screamed madly. Her first instinct was to pull away from the heat, but she held the lever down, keeping her hand pressed against the wooden table. The mark burned her deeply, charring the skin underneath. The raw flesh sizzled as a thin layer of smoke rose from the burning tissue. Her voice became as raw and tender as her skin, and as she released the lever, she let one final broken cry before falling onto the floor and clutching the fresh marking. The phone rocked back and forth on the floor next to her, and she heard Masaki's distant voice chuckle.
"Wow, I could hear that sizzling from here!" he said, satisfied. "It sounded just like you were cooking a steak!"
Tears flooded down Korra's cheeks. She stared in shock at her trembling hand, and the damaged, pink dermis that displayed itself in the light of the Spirit Portal. Korra couldn't think straight. Nothing existed other than the pain and the mark. Underneath the surface, she felt the Avatar State attempting to take hold, as her body went into a state of emergency. Somehow, someway, she managed to suppress the urge. There was still work to be done. She staggered to her feet against her will, and looked at the two remaining options. Neither looked appealing. The idea of being in any more pain was unfathomable. On one hand, the drill could cause severe nerve damage, eventually forcing the amputation of the hand. On the other hand, crushing the hand would render it completely unusable, as well as damage the fingers. Either way, she was sentencing Asami to some form of suffering. In the end, after many excruciating seconds, with her mind clouded by agony, Korra came to one simple conclusion: at least broken bones heal.
She stuck her remaining hand beneath the power drill, and without giving herself time to worry, pulled the lever. The tool whirred loudly as it plunged into her hand, shoving past the bones and muscle as if they weren't even there, and bursting through her palm. It churned the tendons and ligaments until they were a fine paste, and stirred around the chunks of bone effortless. Korra cried out for a moment before her strength failed her. She dropped to the floor, the lever sliding from her grip and freeing her the bloodied remains of her right hand. Bits of tissue remained stuck to the metal as it continued to drill in the empty air.
Korra could not feel her fingers. In fact, she could not feel anything. Pain removed her from her senses, and dragged her into unconsciousness. The last thing she heard before she passed out in the dark was Masaki laughing in delight over the phone.