A/N: I DID IT I FINALLY DID IT I WROTE CHAPTER 6 okay i'm in college and i have lots of stuff going on but i powered through for y'all, dear readers, hope you're not too pressed that this took forever.

I. SISTERS/swadisthana

"Stand up," Noatak says, and Mako stands up. He shoulders Bolin's weight and lifts him to his feet, his eyes relit with determination. The way he stands is full of a bracing, cool pride; and Korra wonders where he got the willpower to do it, how he made lightning after nine days deep underground, away from the sun. Her eyes fall on Bolin, who groans in a low tone as he slumps against Mako; he gives her a feeble, sunny smile and she stops wondering.

"Training starts tomorrow. For now, you're going back to your cells," Noatak says, and Mako's face turns calm and still.

"I'm gonna stay with my brother," he says, in an unwavering voice, and Noatak frowns; "I have to take care of him."

"That's totally fine, go ahead," Korra tells him, before Noatak can say anything, because she likes Mako better like this…. she doesn't want to think about Mako alone with this fresh regret, breaking himself down on fever dreams in the dark. His only response is to dip his head, slightly; and then to hitch Bolin up more securely and wait until Noatak marches towards the far door, the crate of food in arm.

Korra watches them go, her hand resting just below her navel; there's a cold, numb feeling there, the threads of her own guilt tangled and knotted together. Mako unhinged, Bolin almost died; they're just - just benders - but she's the one who messed up in the first place. Redeem yourself, Avatar, but Korra has her own mistakes.

And when Noatak comes back, they leave and climb the stairs as Amon and Tenchu and they don't talk, the echoes of their footsteps beating against each other in the dark.

They're just about to cross the threshold onto the factory floor when Amon stops, turns, and tips her chin up in one hand, forcing her vision to fill with the mask, its knife-edged swirls and bone-white planes and the red sun that gives no warmth.

"Korra," he says, "don't get attached to them. Don't trust them. Don't be so weak to their charm that you think you're friends."

Korra swallows his words, their bitter flavor thorny in her throat, and nods, but he doesn't let her go just yet. In the half-light his eyes are the color of stars if stars were black.

"It's how their kind survive. I would not see you get hurt."

"Yes, Dad," she says. She just wants him to stop talking, his fingertips bruising doubt into her skin.

"Good girl," he says. Then he links his arm through hers and she has to keep up as he strides onto the factory floor, lifting his other hand high over his head in casual, indifferent acceptance of the attention that comes tumbling towards them. All the Equalists on the floor pause in their work and turn to look and bow their heads in deference, a wave of maroon and brown, glinting with brass - their leaders, their saviors, their grief and their anger, weaponized and honed into a girl and a man.

They reach the middle of the floor, surrounded by mecha tanks with their brushed-shiny insect hulls and rivets gleaming under the white lights. As more people realize they're here, the sounds of metal shearing and blowtorches hissing fall out and end.

And then someone shouts - "Tenchu, way to go!" - followed by someone else's enthusiastic wolf whistle, and then the Equalists break into shouts and cheers of approval.

"Oh, what?" Korra says, slowing down, slightly thrilled; and Amon stops, leaning in.

"For getting the better of Tarrlok," he says, and Korra grins, waving her hand high over herself, opening herself to their admiration.

"Hey, how'd you do it?!" someone asks, as their voices die down, and Korra turns in the direction of the voice.

"Oh, I'm the Avatar, didn't you know?" she calls back, with a gleeful smirk, and it's met with laughter. Like they would believe it.

"Yes, she did quite well, didn't she? Couldn't have asked the spirits for a better child. I think I'll raise her allowance," Amon says, his arm coming around her shoulders, the pride in his words ringing out through the vault, and that's the first she's heard of it. But the Equalists eat it up, the way he squeezes her in a one-armed hug, beaming through his gestures. They love the soft spots in his invulnerability, the bits of spontaneous affection between their dear leader and his daughter. She helps it along by closing the hug, standing on tip toes to give him a clumsy, quick tuck of her arm around his neck.

It's showboating, and she's hollow as she does it, a rough bitterness scouring her out. He almost killed a sixteen-year-old boy, out of spite for his desperate brother.

"Can I get a hug too?" yells an Equalist from the top of a mecha tank, a jovial young man with a grease-streaked face.

"No," Amon says bluntly, with a touch of humor, and Korra is close enough to hear the note of possessiveness; "not until after we've won. Carry on, brothers and sisters, there is work to be done."

And then Amon guides her off the floor to where the Lieutenant is standing, waiting with a clipboard in hand, his expression stoic and indifferent. Hiroshi Sato is with him, dapper and refined in his black and red waistcoat, his plump lower lip curling under his mustache. The Lieutenant looks grungy and sleepless next to Hiroshi. He has his cowl tucked into his belt and his kali sticks buzzing on his back, a geometric, electric turtle shell, crackling full of energy.

Hiroshi is fidgeting but the Lieutenant moves first, his voice cool and rich.

"The council is up to something," he says, without prelude, handing the clipboard to Amon. Korra scowls and distracts herself with a mecha tank, her gaze drifting over the rivets. The Lieutenant called her a disaster, that night behind Narook's. Well, thisdisaster won over Tarrlok, now what?

But he's distinctly unimpressed, so Korra presses in close to Amon, reading the report over his elbow, skimming the lacy-sharp characters. An after-hours closed meeting on Air Temple Island, with Tenzin, Tarrlok, Lin Bei Fong, the Fire Nation ambassador…and…

"What is Katara doing in a closed council session?" Amon asks, flipping through the rest of the pages; his irritation is plain, all traces of good humor gone.

Katara. The name quickens something in Korra, rushes around her like she's standing barefoot in a stream. She can feel her heart shift out of place, almost; and the space is filled with longing. She's never met Katara; only seen the woman's face in the newspapers, her weathered leathery face and crinkling eyes, and heard her voice on the radio, aged and dry, but somehow she knows Katara so well - she knows Katara with the nostalgia of a river turned from the sea, hurtling, rushing home -

Amon mutters under his breath and pauses, curving a page between his thumb and forefinger, and Korra feels his eyes on her, searching, thinking. Nothing in the news about an Equalist Avatar defeating Tarrlok. Avatar Aang's widow meeting with her airbending son, the chief of police, and Tarrlok, in secret… they both know what that meeting was about.

"I want wiretaps on that island. Did you manage to obtain the minutes, at least?"

"No minutes, sir; just that it happened," the Lieutenant gravels, and Amon makes a noise of disapproval. He rips the report pages off the clipboard, folds them into a square, and tucks them into a side pocket of his pants, reading through the rest of the reports without a word. Korra and the Lieutenant watch this and glance at each other, like he's trying to read the answer on her somewhere.

"Tenchu, you need to turn in your list of recruits to be advanced," the Lieutenant says, as an afterthought; "we'll need that soon."

"Yeah, I'll do it, don't get your mustache in a knot," Korra says, and he scoffs, rolling his head away from her.

"Hiroshi, you have something to say…?" Amon asks, passing the clipboard to the Lieutenant. Hiroshi is anxious, his mouth working frantically; scrapping thoughts together.

"Yes, to Tenchu," he says, with a twitchy little nod of his head, and they all look at her.

"Sure, what's up, Mr. Sato?" Korra says, vaguely surprised; she never really has anything to do with the mechanical front of the revolution.

"Would you speak to Asami for me? About Equalism? It's about time she learns the truth about… this," he says lamely, waving towards the mecha tanks and Amon.

What lingered of Katara vanishes, replaced with a sudden inner itch of irritation.

"What do you mean, speak to her?" she asks, "like what, take her on a tour of the factory or something?"

"No, no," Hiroshi says quickly, "Asami doesn't know anything about this, and - "

"And so you want me to tell her."

Korra thinks of Asami - sweet, beautiful Asami, whom she hasn't seen in four years - and scowls at him. Asami should know by now; know that her father was making tanks and gloves and airships for Equalism, arming the grand ideas of equality and freedom with weapons that boomed and sizzled with righteous power. Why would he wait so long to tell her, when they were so close to the beginning?

"If you would," Hiroshi adds, and Korra's disdain forms easily across her face, her mouth a tilted sneer.

"No, you can do your own dirty work," she says, one hand on her hip, looking him up and down: from his pompadour of salt-and-pepper hair to the luxurious watch-chain dangling across his vest, to his shiny black shoes, embroidered with gold braids. And then back to Hiroshi's face, doughy and preened. He uses his wealth like a clamshell, armoring some slimy grey thing.

"'Dirty work' - ? I am merely asking you to talk to her, from a perspective she will better understand - " Hiroshi blusters, and Korra feels her blood heat and rise, running an agitated warmth through her.

"No, you talk to her, you're her father! Why're you trying to pass it off on me?!" Korra says, her voice climbing on every word; she doesn't stumble over a single sound and Hiroshi looks taken aback by her tone, but she doesn't care. It irks her, the way he's trying to weasel out of this, like he'll be free of blame if someone else does it - and she hasn't talked to Asami in four years, what the heck would she even say?

"Asami would be more inclined to - " Hiroshi starts with a huff, scowling.

And Korra doesn't know what she's saying anymore -

"You're just scared, aren't you? You don't wanna see the look on her face when you have to tell her the truth, like it's something to be ashamed of, like it's somethingwrong, Mr. Sato - "

Her anger sharpens with clarity. Korra's fists are clenched, tensed away from her, her nerves are searing, cutting through her. She can't stop herself because she's so disgusted with him, what a coward -

"She's your daughter, telling her the truth is your problem, so you deal with it - "

"She's out of line," the Lieutenant says, in an undertone, even as Korra feels Amon's hand on her shoulder, to pull her back -

"Don't touch me!" she shouts, and her startled panic bursts through her - it's the hand that turned Mako's own body against him, and she can see Bolin's face as he screams, twisted in agony, and she can feel the knife and the blows and the pain, all of it, like there is nothing else to feel - she jerks away and blocks him without thinking, her forearm hitting solidly to Amon's wrist - and Korra gapes dumbly at her fist, at him, at his stance braced with a wiry taut anger. She can sense people looking at them, her skin crawling with their questioning gazes, their suspicions.

"I - I didn't - " she stutters, all of her adrenaline pooling out, and whatever she meant to say gets lost in her yelp as Amon grabs her wrist and drags her away, far from the Lieutenant and Hiroshi, until they are out of earshot and hidden behind the nearest completed mecha tank. They glare at each other for a moment as she catches her breath, her chest rising shallow and tight; and then Amon squares her up with purposeful, rough motions, until he's forced her into standing up straight and stiff in front of him.

"You petulant brat," he starts, "don't you dare embarrass me like that again."

Korra opens her mouth to protest and he stops all thought with a sharp knock to the forehead, his knuckles rapping against the mask.

"If you are still upset about my particular lie of omission," Amon says, in a low, growling voice, "then you will work it out with me. But for the love of Princess fucking Yue and all her fucking moonfish, don't take it out on Hiroshi. The man is gutless."

She fixes him with a look, and he heaves a sigh.

"At the very least, do what he cannot," Amon says, "and go tell her the truth."

His hand moves out but Korra doesn't want to be touched, doesn't want his hand on her shoulder or her face, not right now; and she raises her hand to stop him.

"Fine," she snaps, "I'll do it. In fact, I'll go do it right now. Do you wanna write me some lines, too or should I just - "

"That's enough," Amon says, "now - " and she can hear the words before he says them, their rhythm more real to her than the beat of her own heart - do what needs to be done.

Korra remembers the Sato mansion, with its cool gleaming surfaces and overstuffed armchairs and the long ornate runners in the hallways, like prairies of flowers flattened and woven under her bare feet; and she remembers the glass dome over the atrium, full of the slate winter sky, and she remembers being eight and clinging to her father's pants, her cheek pressed to his thigh, as he spoke to Hiroshi Sato: This is Korra, I think your daughter might like to meet her…

She remembers Asami, bright and quiet, with her lively dark curls and pale petal lips that were quick to smile, and their games of pretend and galloping out to the racetrack to tug on the test drivers' hands, please take us driving, please please please. And they had sparring matches for fun (Asami won often, much to Korra's dismay) and then when they were thirteen, Asami told her about the probending match she saw at the arena and it was cool, it was so awesome, you should come next time, I think you'd really like it!

And that was the last time she saw Asami.

Hiroshi tells her that Asami had gone out for a few hours, she'd be back soon, and so Korra absconds to the mansion to wait, rather than spend those hours with her father and his stupid boys' club. She sits at the top of the steps that spread like a bird's tail to the driveway, which loops around the second gate and then slopes down to the first. She thinks of her own apartment, the clanky iron fire escape and the old wooden door, wearing a pale scar into the floorboards with each stiff sweep; and figures that the whole thing could fit comfortably inside the promenade between the gates. The Sato mansion is in the bottom of a valley and the mountains rise around it, fog spilling through the forests faint and grey, the air quiet and cold.

Korra takes the mask off, knotting it to her belt again, and wraps her arms around her knees. She's tired and wasted from the morning. So she muses about bending and Bolin and Mako, stringing daydreams together like notes in an idle melody and then pushing them out with an atonal twinge of guilt. It's nothing to get excited about.

She drops her head, tries to doze, and the daydreams slip from her, sand through her fingers, falling away from something hidden inside them… and she dreams of a girl with no light in her eyes because it's all in her laugh and her smile. Broad, determined, as immovable as stone. And a smirk, full of amusement and affection:you gotta face things head on, twinkletoes -

Korra wakes with a start as an engine turns over and stops. There is a dark red convertible parked on the drive at the bottom of the steps. The tall, trim girl in the driver's seat pulls off her gloves and shakes out her dark tresses of hair, shining and tumbling like ribbons of oil. Asami swings her legs out of the automobile and starts walking up the steps, preoccupied with her driving goggles, and then looks up to see Korra - and she stops, half on one step, half on another.

"…Korra? Is that you?" she says, her voice rising incredulously, and her green eyes go wide, the color of pale spring leaves and rimmed in black.

"Hey, I was waiting for you," Korra says, grinning in spite of herself; despite what she has to do, she's happy to see Asami. She takes the steps down two at a time and catches Asami in a hug that gets returned, carefully, after a moment's pause.

"Korra, what are you doing here? I haven't seen you in years," Asami says, pulling away, her shapely rosebud mouth lilting around the words. And Korra starts flicking through possibilities in her head, like a film reel casting scenes onto a screen, trying to figure out how to play this one out - it took a lot to rile Asami but she had to tell her a lot of things… and Korra feels another snap of irritation at Hiroshi, that coward.

"My dad's doing some work with your dad right now, so I figured I'd say hey. Listen, do you wanna go for a drive, catch up?" she says, her hands around Asami's arms, and Asami hesitates, still slightly shocked, her expression full of confusion. Her eyes drop to Korra's boots and then travel up, slowly, back to Korra's face, and she reaches out for the mask dangling from Korra's belt -

"Great, let's go for a drive," Korra says, taking the keys from Asami's hand and grabbing the other. She marches down the steps to the automobile, dragging Asami with her.

"Korra, what - wait, are you - why do you look like an Equalist?!" Asami says loudly, trying to pull her hand out of Korra's, and Korra stops, frowning inwardly. This would turn into a mess if she didn't do this right. Face things head on, twinkletoes, whatever the fuck that meant.

She turns on her heel, keeping her voice as friendly and casual as possible, but it's going to be hard - Asami's eyes are narrowing, her eyebrows tilting sharply.

"Do you have a problem with Equalism?"

"Yeah, sometimes - I mean, that crazy man with the mask has some pretty awful ideas - " Asami starts, but falls quiet at the look on Korra's face. And Korra's skin feels hot with annoyance. Her father is not crazy.

"Asami, I'm gonna be on the level with you, trust me… but first, can you just get in the car?" she says, unlocking the door and holding it open for Asami. "Please?"

She motions with her head and Asami gives her a questioning look, full of apprehension. Korra resists the urge to shove her.

"Korra, you're freaking me out - "

"Just get in the breezer, Dollface," Korra orders, pressing the keys back into Asami's hand, "everything's fine. I just have to tell you some stuff."

And Asami looks like she's on the verge of fleeing, her whole body drawn up with tension, her face pale and anxious. But she gets in the automobile and slides across the leather to the driver's seat. Korra slides in after her, slamming the door shut.

The engine stutters twice, turns over, and grumbles to life as Asami turns the keys, and the full-legged motion of her foot pressing against the brake pedal is steady and calm, even with the alarm in her eyes. She wraps her leather-gloved hand around the polished wooden stick shift and glances at Korra.

"Wherever you wanna go, it's up to you," Korra says, settling into the seat, "and I'll tell you what's going on."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm dressed like an Equalist because I am an Equalist. I'm Tenchu," she says. Overhead the sky sags downwards with the weight of overcast grey, a coarse fabric soaked in winter. "And that crazy man with the mask is my dad. Which means your dad is an Equalist, too."

Asami opens her mouth, purses her lips, and then, with a startlingly aggressive motion, yanks the shift into position, slamming her foot onto the gas pedal. The car tears off with a rubbery screech and Korra stiffens helplessly into her seat, clutching the sideboard, gripped by the sudden acceleration - thank the spirits they were in the car. When Asami won their childhood sparring matches, it was because of her absolutely brutal palm strike, but she can't fight if she has to watch the road.

Asami drives all the way to the end of the valley, where the road hugs the forested mountain slopes. If they keep driving there's a turn-off that winds several dozen miles into the wilderness, to the compound where the flying machines are kept. The chill wind bites at their faces, streaking them with raw color, and Asami nearly runs the automobile off the road when Korra tells her that there's a factory and prison cells under the mansion.

She pulls over onto a lookout point, a gravel half-moon clinging to the side of a mountain, and turns the engine off, crossing her arms and staring blankly through the windshield. The valley sprawls before them, shallow and lush, and Korra can see the scattered rooftops poking through the greenery and the angular black tangle of the Sato racetrack. The city and the sea are gone in the fog. The rest of the world vanishes into the greyness, like they've reached the end of existence, the border where things merely fade out.

"So that's why I never met your dad… But what I don't get is why," Asami says plainly, slouching low in her seat, her mane of curls bunching up around her shoulders; "why would my father get involved with you people?"

Korra rolls her eyes but lets the undisguised jab in Asami's tone glance off her. She tucks her hands to her sides, to keep them warm, and thinks to herself, her lower lip curled out. She has a stump speech. She's used it before, during secret meetings in basements and abandoned warehouses, but it works on anger and secrecy and hatred, the thrill of conspiratorial solidarity and resentment turned into revenge.Equalism is the fire that forges us into soldiers of freedom; take back your life from those bender scum. But those weren't her words, her reasons. Noatak wrote them.

"Because bending is bad," she says, "bending causes suffering. He's suffered from it. Bending is abusive and wrong. Bending turns people into… into petty instruments of violence, and we can change that."

"Korra, I don't believe that," Asami says, "I don't believe it at all. Bending is - "

"Asami, you haven't heard half the stories I've heard about what nonbenders have faced at the hands of bending," Korra snaps, thinking of her students, and the way they come to her, hunted by their tragedies. "Extortion and assault and rape and all kinds of horrible things, people tell me the worst stories and so they turn to Equalism -"

"But that's not bending, that's people! People do horrible things, Korra! You can't be so black and white about it! There's bad and good benders. Look, my mom died because of a firebender, but I don't hate all firebenders because of it. Bending didn't kill my mom, it was a person - "

Korra's chest hurts like a fist closed around it and yanked, everything twisted, shunted out of place. Asami keeps going, her words hurtling forth with conviction.

"- a person born with bending who used it to hurt people, a bad, violent person. And bending can do lots of things but it's people who hurt each other. It's us, it's our fault when those things happen - "

"Shut up! It's not my fault!" Korra yells, her voice cutting through the mountain air, splitting the silence open with the sharpness of her outburst. Asami freezes, mouth half open, as Korra's heart rises in her throat, threatening to break out as a sob. She scrambles out of the automobile, not even bothering with the door, and storms off a few steps.

There's no where to go so she kicks the ground with an frustrated shout, spraying gravel over the edge of the cliff. Her breathing comes in deep and dry and empty, doing nothing to calm her, absolutely nothing. Korra puts her hands on her head and closes her eyes, reaching for something, anything; and the first thing that comes to her is Naga, coarse white fur and soulful dark eyes, the canine quirk of her brows.

Korra drops to the ground, crossing her ankles and throwing her hood over her head. She hears the automobile door open and slam shut, Asami's boots crunching on the gravel, and then feels Asami's hand warm on her shoulder.

"Korra, what… ?" Asami says, as she sits down next to Korra, and Korra doesn't even want to look at her, this sweet, innocent girl she has to feed the bitter herbs of war.

"It's not my fault," Korra says again, "I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I didn't want it."

"Want what to happen?" Asami says, and she's stricken with concern as she leans in, tilting her head to look past the edge of the hood into Korra's face. Heat spreads under Korra's eyes and she clamps her jaw shut against a growing ache.

Korra looks back at Asami, feeling ugly and swollen, bloated with regret and the unfairness of it all. And everything feels wrong. Everything always feels wrong, like she's living the wrong life.

"I'm a bender," she says, "Actually, I'm the Avatar. And my mom died because of my bending, and even though I was just three when it happened, I still feel so…so… "

The words are just beyond her, hidden under the surface of her grief.

"Asami, I don't want to be a bad person," she mumbles, and wipes a sniff from her nose. And the mountain is so still and so quiet that she might not even be talking at all, like she's trying to write on the air. Her voice is colorless.

"Korra, I'm sorry, I didn't know," Asami says, pulling Korra closer, so that Korra's head is on her shoulder. Korra loosens onto her because Asami is the only good thing she knows right now, here on this rock-strewn cliff, like a little bit of sunlight in an empty fog.

"I didn't know either," Korra adds dully, "until like, a week ago, when I went into the Avatar state and almost blew up an alleyway or something. And he said he wasn't mad but he just hates benders so much, he thinks they're all bad…"

"That's nonsense, Korra, and you know it. Even if you really are the Avatar…"

In response, Korra fans her fingers over the gravel and draws a spiral of pebbles up from the earth. They twist slowly, in lazy, rising circles, and underneath all her senses she can feel the mountain whispering to her bones. It bridges her to another place, somewhere beyond human life, and she wonders… but it's for another time. The pebbles clack back to the ground and Korra turns her palm over, sparking a flame and offering it to Asami.

Asami lifts her hand over the teardrop of fire, hesitantly, and then closes over it, taking Korra's in her own. The warmth is the same.

"Korra, do you really think you would've been chosen as the Avatar if you were a bad person?"

"I dunno," Korra mutters, "maybe the spirits made a mistake."

"I don't think they did," Asami says, "I think they chose someone who got a raw deal out of her anti-bender dad, but wants to do good things, wants to do right by everyone. You were three when your mom died. You barely knew how to talk, much less understand what you were doing. How could you hold that against yourself? You're a good person, Korra, I know you are."

She rubs her thumb over the back of Korra's hand, reassuring and confident, and Korra wants to believe her so much it hurts - the knot that's been eating away at her since she left the warehouse is still sitting in her gut. And then it starts whittling away, untangling, leaving her body in strips and flakes, like the subtle shift of a tide.

"They made me talk to you," she says, by way of apology, and Asami shrugs.

"So I'll be mad at my dad for not telling me. And I'm not sold on this Equalism thing, but I'll stick with you. I think you need it."

Korra smiles at Asami, squeezing her hand in thanks, and Asami gives her a smile in return. She almost doesn't understand why Asami is so nice, so gracious… she lets it be. Asami is full of a sincere earnestness, a quietly charismatic grace. She wants to be a good person, too.

On the way back to the mansion it starts to rain, first a fine mist and then slim, silver needles of water, and Korra has to feel her way through it but she keeps them both dry the whole way down. And it feels good, it feels wonderful, it doesn't feel bad at all. The asphalt glistens with rain and the dust runs off the red panels of the car in dark streaks; raindrops on the tips of leaves, rolling off and bursting open with a pop of sound. The storm hand of the sky touching the world in blessing. Like an absolution.

III. TRAINING

Noatak left the lights on. The prison hallway, lined with cells on one side, is full of dim yellow light, and Korra is grateful, for their sake.

Korra stands with the keys to the cell in her hand and the strap of the duffel bag cutting heavily into her chest, and she almost feels bad that she has to wake them up. Mako and Bolin are sleeping peacefully on the bed, curled towards each other like two halves of a whole coming together. She can hear the even cadences of their breathing, little sighs rising on good dreams. Or so she hopes. Their coats are folded over the wooden chair, their shoes neatly aligned to the foot of the bed. The box of food is under the table and it's odd, this heartbreak she feels… They shouldn't have had to make this a home.

But there's bending to learn.

Korra tilts the Tenchu mask up to the top of her head and grins. She unlocks the cell door and slides it all the way open with an enthusiastic metallic bang.

"Rise and shine, chumps! Ready to get your butts kicked in training?" she says gaily, and Mako bolts upright, the blanket tumbling off him, wide awake in a second.

"What the - oh, it's you," he says, as Bolin yawns widely, rounding it off with a dog-like whine. Pabu is nested against Bolin's chest, purring happily.

"She's a better wake-up call than Amon, bro," he mumbles, clapping Mako lazily on the back, and Mako groans, shoving the blanket aside and sitting on the edge of the bed. He stretches his arms, one at a time, high over his head, and the muscles of his bare upper body flex and roll with strength as he moves. There's a snap as he arches his back and he huffs with contentment, resting his forearms on his knees, blinking blearily at the floor. His forearm is wrapped in a stained, yellowing bandage, from elbow to wrist, and it looks just old enough to be slightly new…

A memory slices through the air: the blade of a knife, speckled with blood, and her breath catches.

Mako notices Korra staring at him and stiffens. A welt of anger rises in her, on the whiplash of her father's cruelty.

"I think Bolin kicked your butt last time, if I remember right," Mako says, after a pause, and Korra smirks.

"Lucky shot, pal, won't happen again!"

She slings the duffel bag off her back, tossing it onto the floor in front of him. Mako drags it forward and opens it with cautious movements, like something might leap out, but his eyes soften with pleasant surprise when he pulls out a shaving razor and leather strop. Korra had stuffed it full of things last night, on a whim that surfaced as her bad mood receded, and she'd puttered around the apartment plucking spare shirts from Noatak's closet and raiding the bathroom cabinet. And Noatak had merely looked up from his spot on the carpet of the den, surrounded by wax-paper blueprints, and warned her again not to get attached.

But there are bad benders, and good benders…

"Young lady, no disrespect to your sifu or I'm not showing you any of my moves," Bolin says cheerfully, sitting up with a throw of his hands, and his chest is wrapped in snug, clumsy bandages that Korra realizes are the remains of his and Mako's shirts.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Sifu Bolin, I got some moves of my own," she snorts, and Mako chuckles as he pulls a black undershirt over his head, rolling the fabric down, and then he reaches into the duffel bag again… His expression slips back into narrow-eyed ill humor as the Equalist uniform top unfolds from his hands, thick and maroon, the brass buttons flashing dully.

"I'm not wearing this," he mutters, and Bolin clambers out of bed and snatches it from Mako.

"Speak for yourself, big bro. It looks warm and you ruined my jacket," he says, and Mako mutters incomprehensibly, drawing a hand down his face, taking a moment to forget or remember or both. Korra wants to say something, the words swelling in her throat - it's not your fault - but he stands up and crosses the room in three steps, pulling aside the curtain in the wall and slipping into the tiny bathroom.

"Hey, you have a few minutes to get dressed, and then we're starting with firebending. So that's you, Sifu Mako," Korra says, and he grunts noncommittally and turns the tap in the sink, cupping his hands, dousing himself in cold water. Orphaned by fire. He's been dealing with this for much longer than she has, Korra thinks; he doesn't need anything she could say.

Bolin sits on a crate in the warehouse, Pabu crouched on his lap; and he stares into Amon's mask with an unflinching curiosity as Amon peels the bandages back and gingerly presses his fingers to the burn. It's only slightly better than yesterday, drier and less shiny. Amon pours water out of a canteen into his palm and passes it, bright blue, over the wound. And he does it like he's painting, brushstrokes of glowing water trailing from his fingertips.

Korra and Mako are stretching, loosening up. Mako sits on the floor with his legs straight out, doubled over with his chest to his knees, but he can't look away from Amon's hands as they sweep over Bolin. Korra can't look away either, as she strips off the bulk of her uniform, all the padding and the overcoat; but for a different reason. Her father is being unnervingly casual about using his bending in front of Mako and Bolin, what with the waterbending and healing… They better not be dumb enough to ask about it.

"You know, sir," Bolin says, with a sudden brightness, as he pulls the Equalist uniform over his head, fluffing his hair up in the process; "you don't have to wear that mask. We know what you look like, dude."

Amon yanks his hand away like Bolin bit him and straightens up, splashing water to the ground. Mako gapes in abject horror but Korra claps her hand to her mouth, the sound bursting out as a high-pitched giggle.

"Sorry, dude - I mean, Dad. Father. Sir," she says, as Amon glares at her.

But after several long seconds, the silence wound wiry tight around them, Amon tips the mask up and drops his hood. They again skipped applying the scar this morning and so he's fresh and clean, the austere angles of his face thrown into shallow relief in the pale light.

"Fine. You're healing well, young earthbender," Noatak says, bending the spilled water back into the canteen, "but if you have any problems sleeping or with your memory, you are to inform me at once. Lightning strikes disrupt the mind as much as they do the body."

"No sir, none at all," Bolin says, and Mako breathes a weightless sigh of relief.

"Are you two ready?" Noatak asks, shooting a look at Mako and Korra, and Korra can't keep her grin from splitting her face because this is bending practice. At last!

"Yes sir," Mako says, getting to his feet. He bows, fist to palm, to Korra. She bows back, feeling a thrill steal up her spine, into her fingers and toes; she can already feel fire beating in her, like a second heart, heat throbbing in her breast…

Mako steals a look at Noatak, who is watching impassively, his hands clasped behind his back, and he clears his throat.

"Okay, why don't we start with… Um, show me what you can do."

"What I can do?" Korra repeats, stupidly; she thinks back to all the hours she's spent on the roof, punching bolts of fire through the air, burning up loose-leafs of newspaper with clandestine relish, and her father doesn't know… Oops.

"Yeah, that's… what I said," Mako says, with mild exasperation, and she blushes.

"Alright, let's see…"

Korra drops into a stance, her fists up, rocking slightly on her feet; and she closes her eyes for a brief moment - searching for the feel of fire, the sun singing through her blood, the hot gold pulse of life coursing through her veins, her heart pumping flaming currents of joy to her fingertips and calling it back, there are good benders and bad benders and fire doesn't have to be death -

She opens her eyes and punches out, her body turning with the motion, all of her energy and power surging to her fist. An arrowhead of fire lances forward, fueled on breathless exhilaration; it burns through several yards of air and turns feathery, curling up on itself, shedding bronze flecks of light before vanishing. She laughs, her fist still out. It was beautiful.

"Wow, that was great!" Bolin gushes, beaming at her, and she shrugs happily, no big deal.

"Not bad," Mako says, and Korra rounds on him.

"Not bad?! But that was awesome!" Korra says, bouncing on her heels, pumping the air with both hands, "I've never made that much fire before!"

"Korra, he's being nice," Noatak interjects brusquely, and her excitement curdles on itself, stifled by a sudden glass coldness.

Mako jerks his head towards Noatak, his gold eyes narrowing.

"Actually, it was just fine, for an untrained Equalist Avatar," he retorts, hitting the word Equalist with a clipped frostiness, and carries on without waiting for a response: "Korra, your power was good, but your stance was off. Firebending is more direct, like this. "

He swings out, his arm straightening, and a plume of fire erupts from his fist, just like hers. Korra watches him, sharply aware of Noatak bristling with icy displeasure out of the corner of her eye. She puts the thought away and does the movement again, without fire.

"Better. But, um. May I?" Mako says, motioning towards her, and Korra nods. He moves behind her and lifts her arm, pushing her gently into the right position, one hand on her shoulder, and she lets him. His presence feels dark on her, like heat from coals, brimming with unspoken warmth… A feeling like a fingertip slides up her back, stripping a single nerve raw, all the way to the nape of her neck, and as Mako lets go and steps back, Korra finds her breath again.

"Okay, go ahead and do it again," Mako says; yes, again…

And she shoots a blistering comet of fire from her fist, the hot air rippling and warping around it, the space around her shimmering with heat and it feels, it feels like - it's not bad, not bad at all…

oh man Mako's pressed WHY SO PRESSED, MAKO

what's the council up to, hmm? what are asami and korra gonna do now, eh?

(as always, comments/reviews greatly appreciated, and shenanigans over at pulpofiction tumblr dot com.

p.s. help me hit 75 reviews? :D)