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. LESSONS
Korra doesn't notice it was ever there until it starts to leave, slink away on soft furred feet: an animal of restless unease, full of pale thirst. She wakes up every morning and sees it slip out the corner of her mind's eye, past the open door of her thoughts, an alley cat spooked by a passing light. She can feel why it's leaving. Every morning, she packs her uniform into her satchel, shrugs into her winter coat, and tears the asphalt with the rubbery squeal of her motorcycle as she rides to the Sato mansion, descending into the mountain, down the staircase, into the frigid, still air of the warehouse. And every training session is another nudge, another step towards the exit, it's time for you to go; or an itch in a spot just now within the reach of her fingers.
Mako shows her how to cut the air with a kick of fire and she starts to love it, the leap forward and the twist of her heel, the point of her toes burning a gold, glowing arc. Noatak gets held up at the factory on certain mornings and when he is gone, so is the militancy from her motions, and she feels free to just move.
And Korra loves the roar of her own body, the blurred ripples of heat, the nimble play of flames as she weaves them through her fingers. Fire is not about power but willpower: it won't respond if you're half-hearted, if you're unsure, if you don't love it like you love the insistent pulse of blood pounding alive in your neck as you stop to breathe, rolling the soot off your palms in sweat-slick clumps. Where does that come from? What does firebending even burn on?
"I don't really know," Mako says, with his hands over his head, a drop of steam salty wet sliding down his temple; his eyes brighten like sparks in fresh air when he works hard. Twelve sets of rhythmic, whirling kicks and throws wear them both out.
"Firebending's not fueled on anything normal, like wood. It burns… on powering through. On determination."
"That makes sense," Korra says, pulling on her tank top where the fabric sucks to the dampness on her skin, the small of her back, under her breasts; "in a weird, spiritual mumbo-jumbo kind of way."
"I never really had the chance to think about it in a 'spiritual mumbo-jumbo way,'" Mako muses, as he collapses to the cool floor and lays flat, arms spread; "I just had to do it."
She grabs a hand-cloth from atop a crate and drops it onto his chest. Mako feels for it and presses it over his face with both hands, soaking up the perspiration; his own shirt is blotted with dark spots, the damp exertion of discipline clinging heavily to his frame.
"You do it pretty well for not having any formal training, Hot Stuff," Korra says, nudging him in the shoulder with her foot, and when he pulls the hand-towel away to smile at her, she tips her canteen and spills water onto his face.
He splutters and scowls and Korra smirks. Mako is feline to her, self-serious in a lithe, aloof kind of way: easy to tease in the way cats are. He trains with his red scarf belted and knotted around his waist, the ends tucked in, and refuses to explain it.
"That was mean," he mutters, and she grins.
"But it felt good, right? Riiight?" Korra prompts, sitting on her heels next to him and pouring water onto another hand cloth, muffling the flush on her face, and Mako is sheepish.
"Fine, yeah, it felt good," he says; and when she does it again, Mako flails out, knocking her off-balance and onto her rear as she laughs. Something returns to her, something she didn't even know was missing; like an old tree putting forth its shoots after seasons of drought. Okay, Korra, that was good, but try it this way - and he's stopped saying her name like it's spelt with glass, breakable and sharp. Now it sounds good in his mouth; has all the flowing resoluteness of a wave crashing on a beach.
And it's different from the way her father says it.
After about a week and a half, Bolin's burn is almost healed, the discolored skin stretched tight with ropy seams of scar tissue. Noatak deems him fit to start training and they start earthbending the very next day.
"Okay, Korra, excited for earthbending? You know, only the best. Bending. Ever," he says, rubbing his hands together with glee, and the way Bolin says her name has a style all its own; the syllables spin when he throws them out, with all the energy of a child's top etching circles onto a sidewalk. Noatak is in the factory again and Mako is half-sprawled on the floor, Pabu draped lazily around his bare shoulders. Korra rolls her own shoulders and lets an easy relaxation push through her.
"Oh really? The best?" Korra says, thrusting her arms out behind her back and bending forward, stretching out an ache.
"Yeah, I mean, anybody can airbend, watch - " he blows a loose raspberry, his cheeks puffed out, and Korra laughs.
"That's about as much airbending as I can do, anyway," she says, and Bolin raises his eyebrows at her. The way he looks at her - slightly confused, a little sympathetic - makes her feel the absence of airbending for the first time, like waking up in a deep dawn hour, knowing sleep won't come again. Why can't she airbend?
"I have no idea why, my dad'll figure it out," Korra muses, more for herself than for him, and Bolin quirks his lips skeptically.
"Yeah, he seems like a pretty smart dude," Bolin says, "Anyway! Show me whatcha got."
Korra frowns and takes a wide-legged stance, bending at the knees; it seems right to ground herself this way, firm over the earth. She tries to pull up the feeling of earthbending like she did with firebending - and Korra can feel a hardened, cool energy deep in the bedrock; she is the stone pillar rising from the center of a still pond of enduring, endless power -
She lifts her foot and slams it down, feeling the ripples swell and course forward from the impact, and she grins as a column of rock breaks through the floor a dozen yards away, unyielding and firm, like it was always meant to be there.
"Beautiful, wow!" Bolin says, with an admiring look at her pillar; "that's some pretty solid earthbending!"
"Thanks, I learned that one by beating up Councilman Tarrlok. He tried to arrest me," she says, and Mako snorts into his hand, pulling a wry face.
"You're nuts," he says, half-laughing, and she fixes him with a defiant look. Whatever. Bolin lifts his hand, palm out, full of flair.
"Hush, oh brother of mine, it's my turn. Okay, so a little less loosey-goosey…"
They try again, Bolin miming each movement, and she imitates him until she feels each movement of chi under her feet like breath in her lungs, familiar and unfelt - and then she calls more pillars from the earth, over and over again, until the warehouse is studded with waist-high columns of earth and the floor around them is puckered and pulled tight, veined with cracks of earth. And Bolin shows her how to push each one back into the ground; call them back to the earth with a stomp of her foot and a downwards sweep of her palms, a motion graceful and assertive like the first wingbeat of a bird.
She pushes the last one back into the floor, stomp-sweep, and the floor flattens without a single trace of misplaced rock.
"You're a natural," he says, and gives her a double-handed high-five.
"So how does earthbending work?" Korra says, as he holds his hands out again, palms up, at waist-height; and she slaps them again with an impulsive thrill -
"Beats me - no, no, that's not how the game works, c'mon, don't you know how to play?" Bolin says, and does it again, offering his upturned hands. Korra lifts her own hesitantly and looks at him, wondering what he wants her to do, maybe it's some obscure bending game…
"She doesn't know, show her," Mako calls out.
"Nah, I don't wanna spring my master skills on a rookie. You play with me," Bolin says, and Mako hesitates, studying him with a guarded look. Bolin grins broadly and Mako gets to his feet, Pabu teetering on his shoulder and chirping at them.
"Play what?" Korra asks, feeling defensive: her chi-blocking, Equalist-meeting childhood was just fine, thank you very much. Mako smirks at her, in a challenging kind of way, and she scowls at him as he cracks his knuckles and steps in front of Bolin.
"It's a reflex game, watch," he says, as he places his hands lightly over Bolin's; "he has to try and hit my hands… Do your worst, little bro."
"I'm gonna kick your ass, you noodle," Bolin returns wholeheartedly, and Mako yanks his hands away as Bolin's fingers twitch - Mako puts them back, his brow furrowing with intense concentration, serious as usual. Bolin's eyes are lit full of childish good humor and Korra feels her smile grow. She never learned this game.
"You're gonna lose," Bolin says in a sing-song tone, and Mako jerks away again after a long pause. He puts them back delicately, his fingers easing into a loose splay, and his gaze flicks to Korra, a smile playing on his lips -
"Shit!" he mutters, as Bolin hits the tops of his hands with a resounding slap, and he shakes out the pain with a frustrated grunt, ugh.
"Okay, again - " and within seconds Bolin slaps again and Mako stares blankly in defeat as Korra giggles into her cupped hands.
"You're not very good at this, are you," she says, and he sighs and motions for her hands, his on top of hers.
"You hit me," he adds, but she already knows. Mako lifts his hands away as she flips hers and tries to hit; and there's several long moments where he just waits for her to move, avoiding her second attempt with ease. She chews on her lip, trying to hold back her excitement - she locks eyes with Bolin as he tries not to laugh - Korra lashes out and smacks Mako in the nose.
"Hey, ow!"
"Did I win?" she asks, as he rubs his face, and Bolin bursts out laughing and reaches out to double his brother over in a headlock, squeezing Mako's head to his waist. Pabu scrabbles up Bolin's arm and curls around his neck, a dusty-bright red over the dark olive Equalist jacket.
"She totally won, bro," Bolin says, ruffling his hair with a giddy fondness, and Mako responds with a dramatic groan.
"I can't believe you're taking her side," he complains, "she cheated!"
"Can't help it, she's my favorite Equalist," Bolin says, "and I'm her favorite bender. Right, Korra?"
He loops his free arm around her shoulders and she feels her skin flush on the warmth of their affection, an airy happiness expand inside her. She wants to name it, call it into being; let it open like a soft ruffled bloom in the rich loam of feeling.
"Right," she says, with a laugh, slipping her arm around Bolin's waist; and then she pats Mako on the cheek as he winces away good-naturedly. "Don't you worry, Hot Stuff, you can be my favorite bender tomorrow - "
They all startle as the far door opens, and Korra snaps up and steps away as Noatak strides in, pulling off the Amon mask as he does. Bolin and Mako detach from Korra like they've been jumped by a spark of current.
"Hi, Dad," she breathes, "We were just taking a br - "
She stops as his ill humor breaks like a storm. And she'd felt it, even before he walked in, a charcoal peal of thunder rolling in before him.
Noatak turns sharply to Mako and Bolin and their reactions are immediate. Mako's bristling, brassy posture Korra understands; his eyes flash with the strident tone of a note that's been struck one too many times. It's Bolin's studious slip into nonchalance she doesn't get. His expression bares itself; his shoulders sloped with the slouch of a tree branch heavy with low-hanging fruit, a passive offering of goodwill.
Korra swallows a dry unease as Noatak advances on Bolin -
"Under no circumstances are you ever to touch her in such a casual manner," he growls, his voice dropping an octave on the weight of his displeasure, and Bolin draws away, taking a half-step back; "she is my daughter and you will afford her that respect."
"Yes siree, you are absolutely correct. Hands to myself at all times, no hugs or high-fives - " Bolin says brightly, and cuts off with a squeak as Noatak whips his hand forward and catches him under the jaw, dragging him closer with a clawed grip.
"Don't mock me, boy," Noatak drawls, as Bolin winces, slightly bowed over.
"Wouldn't dream of it, sir, you are unmockable," Bolin mumbles, muffled by Noatak's hand, and Noatak makes a sound of utter contempt deep in his throat, his fingers curling -
Mako closes his hand around Noatak's wrist, calm and deliberate, pushing Bolin away at the same time. He muscles into the space between them with an open antagonism, shoulders squared and upright. And, lurking behind his expression, wrestled into submission by a staunch determination - fear.
"Get your hands off my brother," Mako says, and Noatak's anger falls like a shadow down his face. Korra looks at her father and then at Mako and back to her father again - he's staring Mako down, his wrist still caught, but the luster over his grey eyes - like the dark glimmer of ripples in a well, drawing memories from an opaque deepness of years. He's seeing something else.
"You forget your place, son," he says, "but if you don't want to remember it, that's fine with me - " and Korra feels a familiar dense queasiness settle into her stomach, bubble thickly into her throat - she knows it's coming - Noatak grabs his shoulder and crumples Mako with a knee to the midriff, forcing out a coarse grunt of pain - andcrack hooks his fist into Mako's face.
For half a second Mako looks like he's going to collapse; bent over with his hand bunched into the fabric of his shirt and gasping for air in stilted breaths, each one sticking audibly in his chest. He stares at the floor and the color in his eyes is dazed - they flash bright again as he straightens up. He's stubborn.
But Korra knows, as Noatak considers him with a hard-edged expression, that it's not enough. It will never be enough, he is never done - and Noatak goes tch with a disgusted look and slaps Mako, a sharp, open-handed clap that blotches pale red even as Mako turns his head back, bleeding from the nose.
"You just don't know when to stay down, do you," Noatak says, taking a step forward - and Mako takes a step away, a faltering half-motion of his foot, as his throat visibly jumps. He reaches behind him to push Bolin back again; slight and fearful - get behind me -
- and Bolin puts his hand on his shoulder and brushes past him, looking at Noatak.
"Sir, we're going to continue earthbending now," he announces, with his arms crossed, and Noatak blinks slowly, twice, like something is breaking down in his mind.
"Go clean yourself up," he orders, and Mako sits heavily on a crate instead, sniffling into his shirt as he pulls it up to wipe his face. Bolin's gaze drifts to his brother, a flicker of shimmering green, the lushness of a breeze filling a canopy.
"Korra. Don't make me say it a third time," Noatak says, and she tries to force the rage down, feels it boiling up inside her. Now is not the time. Don't get attached. The meaning is water, takes the shape of his mood, fills what he needs it to fill. He flips a nearby empty crate with an efficient kick and sits, fitting her with an expectant look.
Bolin takes a deep, quiet breath and lets it fall to his feet.
He smiles gamely at Korra.
"Okay, wanna learn how to raise a wall? It's kind of like what we just did, pretty similar move," he says, and she nods.
"Yeah, I'd like that," Korra says, and it's difficult and rough and sore, just like she thought it would be.
She and Noatak are almost to the top of the stairwell when Korra has a fit of impetuous inspiration and stops dead on the stairs, staring at his back; she wheels on her heel and starts down the staircase again.
"Korra! Where are you going?" he says, and she bluntly waves the question off.
"I forgot my mask, it's sitting on one of the crates," she calls back, as her mask dangles from her belt, bouncing against her hip. The lie is swift and easy on her tongue.
She sprints across the warehouse floor and shoulders through the door into the prison hallway. She can hear Mako and Bolin talking as she flies past the first empty cell and the second -
- not talking. Mako's back is to her and she stops just out of sight; they haven't noticed her yet.
"… kind of game are you playing? He doesn't need any more excuses to hurt us, so can you please cool it with the attitude - !" Mako's voice, agitated and rising. Bolin comes in, level and even-toned:
"I'm not scared of him, bro. I'm not going to be scared anymore and I don't want to be. He's just a guy, even with the mask and whatever - "
She draws their voices on the wall with her finger. Sharp-jointed and spiky, the snap of autumn leaves underfoot. A curling, rolling line, a hillside in fog.
"That's a really dumb decision, Bo, he's bad, he's sadistic! The man clearly does not give a damn about other people, maybe her but even that's a stretch - "
She's heard enough.
"My dad is not bad," Korra blurts, stepping into view; Bolin gapes at her with a slack mouth and Mako turns his head over his shoulder.
"He's not," she says again, but the words are stripped of feeling.
Mako wheels around and crosses the cell to the bars in a short burst of energy, slipping his forearm through the spaces and holding it out to her. He catches her gaze and forces it down to the dark lines of scars on his skin, running from elbow to wrist, and Korra feels her anger turn inwards and shrivel.
"Prove it," Mako snaps. Korra's mouth fills with all the things she wants to say - he's just intense, he's doing this for a good reason, he's under a lot of pressure - but none of them take shape and the words smoke away. She glances at Bolin, at his jade-green eyes polished by the tweak of his brows, hardened and determined. He doesn't want to be…
"Is that what earthbending is? Not being scared?" she says, and Bolin doesn't smile, doesn't offer a high-five, doesn't open for her like a fruit softened by bruising. He stays resilient. It's not the right answer.
"No," he says, finally; "it's making a decision. You make a decision and you don't back down."
II. SOLDIERS
Korra's chi-blocking class had been moved to a different basement after the raid, under a pawnshop in Orchid Hills district, a wide, squat room with low ceilings and no banners, thank the spirits. And she puts away thoughts of Mako and Bolin, to focus on teaching.
At the end of the night, her chi-blocking students thank Korra for the lesson and bow at the hips, palms pressed together; and as they slip into the tunnel, one by one, Korra motions at Daoming and Kinalik to stay behind. So they wait by the door, and Korra casts a glance at Asami, still stretching on a mat in the middle of the room.
When she first showed up to class, her style was a martial art in every sense of the latter term and none of the former: indulgent and luxurious, an early-evening dance of silky curves and lilting jazz, an artful small talk spoken by the body. Built for fine things, an ornamental knife, and completely unsuitable for war.
But now she is more of a sword, chi-blocking with austere poise, her expressions cooled by sang-froid. Korra feels like an axe next to her.
She scowls as the last student leaves.
"Okay," Korra says, and Kinalik and Daoming snap to attention: his expression is earnest over his brawny build (pleased at being singled out), a coy shrewdness in her gaze (she knows she's good). "You've made excellent progress and you're the top of the class, so I'm gonna advance both of you."
"Fuck yeah," Daoming says, pumping her fist, and then she remembers herself - "I mean, thank you," and she bows to Korra, hands together.
"Thank you," Kinalik says with a warm smile, his long braids sliding off his shoulders as he bows too.
"No problem, you're both great at this. So, I've recommended you to the naval branch," she says to Kinalik, who takes this with a shrug of acceptance, "and you, Daoming, to espionage."
Daoming lights up with glee, her smile toothy and dimpled. The assignments had been easy enough. Korra goes to her satchel against the wall and finds the sheet of paper with the camp locations, holding it out for them to read. She can feel Asami watching her, waiting; pale green eyes pressing into her.
"Tomorrow night you have to report to your locations. Let them know I sent you. Don't take the paper, just memorize where you have to be. They'll ask for a password," she says, as they nod, and with a look at Asami, Korra lowers her voice: "they're gonna ask you 'when are the lotuses in season' and the password is 'when they're called to bloom.' Got that?"
"When they're called to bloom," Daoming repeats, with a thoughtful tone; "what does that mean?"
"Doesn't mean anything. It was a real honor being your teacher, guys. Good luck, sister. Good luck, brother," Korra says, holding the door open; Kinalik salutes her with two fingers and slips out, vanishing into the dark tunnel. Daoming starts to follow him, just barely visible in the darkness, but then she turns and calls out to Korra.
"Tenchu!"
"Yeah?"
"When will… when does it begin?" Daoming asks, her voice charged with a quiet intensity, and Korra takes a breath, thinking - every day brings the final rivet in a new mecha tank, every night a new slogan spray-painted on a wall, and her father stumbles home at odd hours, smiling though a smug exhaustion, they have no idea what's coming. It's begun already. It began a long time ago.
"Soon," she says, "it begins soon."
Daoming grins and leaves, her form swallowed in the shadows, and Korra lets the door close as she turns back to Asami.
"You're looking like a real Equalist," she says.
Asami doesn't react to this. She just pulls the brass belt buckles tighter around her waist, tucks the maroon cowl in around her neck, and flips her hair out, gathering and pinning it up into a messy bun. She sniffs and slips her hands into the gloves; all of this with sloped shoulders, slouching back on her hips. Her movements have a mild, indifferent distaste written into them - she flexes her fingers, testing the fit, like something doesn't match; not the right color, not the right style.
She's not a soldier yet, not by any means.
Korra resists rolling her eyes as she opens her satchel again and pulls out her full uniform, working quickly with the straps and buttons. Then she finds the kohl pencil and mirror, and takes the mask off to darken her eyes, blacken the skin around them. She undoes her hair and pulls it back into a bun because - and she takes a deep breath before putting the mask back on, eyes closed - Tenchu is refined, Tenchu is polished, Tenchu does what needs to be done and does it well. Tenchu is a soldier.
What did he tell her before she left that evening? Held her by the forearm as she started to leave, pulled her close, his voice low and sanded with a soft ire: I don't need to tell you how disappointed I will be if you do not -
"Wow," Asami says, behind her, in a soft tone; "Korra, you look… different."
- if you do not come back with a satisfactory report -
"Tenchu," Korra says, turning around, both hands on her hips; "Right now, it's Tenchu, and you don't call me anything else. Are you ready to go or are we gonna sit around and wait?"
- I hope you've moved on from your bout of hesitation -
There's a flicker of annoyance, a shade off from Asami's normal doe-eyed niceness, and then it vanishes.
There is no use for the indecisive, he'd said.
"As ready as I'll ever be," Asami says, as she pulls the Equalist mask over her head, disappearing under the blank, round goggles and brass piping.
Korra opens the door for Asami and she strides through it, head held high. Ready to go. Not really.
The plan is simple: find them, test her. And Asami's arms are wrapped tight around Korra's waist as the motorcycle rumbles underneath them, growling into them, loosening their muscles.
Her lips start to numb in the relentless push of frozen air and the sky overhead is a dark yellow-grey as the city lights rise and push against the fog. It drifts down the edges of bricks, sanding all the sharp edges with soft winter touches, veiling the street lights until they hover as ghost-eyes in a pale void.
Korra and Asami careen around the corners, down the streets, past yawning empty plazas and gaping black alleyway gaps. It's late enough that almost no one is around, the streets are lifeless, stripped down to the bare concrete. Asami's grip stiffens when they do see people but Korra holds them in place with her speed, slams past them as a snarl of engine, a wraith of gunmetal and iron.
Asami is quiet the whole time, exists only as a warm presence pressed against Korra. Deep under the vibrations of the bike, Korra imagines she can feel the frantic, nervous pounding of her heart through the uniforms. Asami is not a soldier. Asami is not ready.
Korra slows and turns the bike down an alleyway, quietly, flexes warmth back into her fingers and breathes into her cupped hands. The street is barely visible, blanketed in fog, but she creeps towards it and peers around the corner - the dim shape of an entryway, illuminated by lanterns, just down the street. No one outside. A triad hangout. They think they're safe.
She puts a finger to her lips and waves Asami over. Asami moves without feeling in the Equalist uniform - Korra's used to reading people who hide their faces, but Asami is a closed book. Korra has no idea what she's thinking. It doesn't matter what she's thinking, anyway.
They slink down the block and by the entryway they listen for a minute, the night swelling around them. And then they hear - voices, laughter, flakes of dry words and phrases. Korra's breath hitches: they're here, good. She closes her eyes to steel herself, arm herself - do what needs to be done - her father, like a restless wind inside her, clearing the air for a storm, a wind hollowed by rage and - she is so angry, all the time -
- and then it's easy, it's so fucking easy, it's easy to kick the door down and tear into someone else, grab the nearest ugly face by the collar and snarl that benders are gonna get what they deserve but you don't have to wait, lucky you, slam your fist into his gut and laugh as he chokes, laugh as you dodge a whip of fire and drop the man with the hard edge of your elbow shunted into their neck, and they're just useless triad thugs, and the next one freezes water around her foot but the ice shatters as she kicks him in the face, slings him against the wall, blocks his chi points - a blow to the lower spine with a fleshy crack of knuckles and a silent wave of bloodlust that rises up, razes it all, burns her to the ground. But they all break like glass before her, like raindrops on iron, they scatter and there is a smear of blood on the wall and a limp body on the floor, will he be proud, will he be happy, is this what he wants - !
Someone hits her in the mouth and she doesn't care, he goes down faster than the rest - the last one throws a knife of ice at her and it slices through the shoulder of her uniform. She doesn't even bother to scream but lunges forward, pulls her fist back and grits her teeth as she tastes the heavy wet thud as bile in her mouth, she doesn't even need to block him -
"No, stop - " he starts, as she punches him again -
His eyes roll into the back of his head, his nose broken out of shape, knobby and bruised; and Korra stands over him as he slides to the floor. She twists on her heel, braces for the kick -
Someone grabs her by the shoulders, tries to drag her away, and Korra ducks out of the grip, whirls around, lances out with a fist -
Asami blocks it and shakes her, hard.
"Stop, you're done!" she yells, "you're done! Okay? He's done. There's no more, alright? Stop. Just… stop."
Korra stops and stares at her - Asami's voice is muffled through the mask, is it really Asami, it could be anyone in that uniform - and her heart drums dull into her throat, beating out a dizzying tattoo that stutters through her, pushes everything else out.
She smacks Asami's hands away.
"Yeah, we're done," she says, "did your chi-blocking work?"
"Ko - "
"Tenchu. Did your chi-blocking work or not?"
The Equalist mask covers Asami too well and there is a low moan from a man on the floor as he stirs and lies still; two of the chairs are broken and they tilt on their splintered, brittle legs. Korra wipes her mouth with her palm and it's smeared red, she's bleeding. She bites her lip, licks off the hot metallic taste, and Asami hasn't said anything yet.
The light glints on the goggles as Asami looks around the room, at the unconscious men on the floor, the wooden door jagged and cracked and bristling with splinters. Her eyes are colorless behind the green glass and she still hasn't said anything yet -
Asami turns and leaves, her footsteps hollow on the wooden planks, and Korra storms after her as the street spreads quiet before them.
Korra catches up as Asami pulls the Equalist mask off in the middle of the street, hair uncoiling and spilling out, and she grabs Asami's wrist.
"You're not supposed to take that off," Korra snaps, "put it back on. Right now."
Asami yanks her hand away, the Equalist mask bunched in her fist.
"Or what? What are you gonna do if I don't put this back on?" she retorts, and Korra can finally see her face, the fine lines bent with anger.
"What am I - what am I gonna do?" Korra yells, because it's not about what she's going to do, this is Asami, Asami is refusing, Asami is turning her back - "No, what areyou going to do? What are you gonna do when you go home and tell your dad you don't want to do this, you don't want to put that back on? Tell me that, Asami, what the fuck are you going to do?"
And she punctuates it with a pointed finger, a stab through the air. Asami draws away, shaking her head, her hand curled to her chest. The street is still sunken in fog, all the windows dark, the doors locked. It starts to snow.
"This is wrong. What we just did is wrong, Korra. I'm not going to do this. I don't - "
"You don't get to decide what's right or wrong! You just have to do what you're told!" Korra snarls, and startles as Asami grabs the Tenchu mask and rips it off her face with a hard yank and a snap as the ribbons break and come undone - no, he'll get mad -
Korra leaps for it but panic makes her sloppy and Asami shoves her away, hitting her hard in the collarbone, holding the mask away from her. The blow winds her, makes her breath wooden; and she glares at Asami.
"Korra," Asami says, "Korra, listen to yourself."
Korra's furious with her, a hot, dry fury - damn fucking princess, doesn't understand -
"You always have a choice. You do," Asami says, snow dancing in the warm wisps of her words, winking with orange streetlight.
"That's a nice thing to believe," Korra says, "I wish I could believe it too. But we're not here to do nice things, and we're not dealing with nice people. Give it to me."
She holds out her hand and Asami doesn't move, the mask still in her outstretched hand. The blue lotus is just barely visible, the color greyed out, a thin rim of pale glow where the curves bend the light.
"Korra, I'm not going to do this," Asami says, raw and plaintive; she can't hold onto her anger like Korra.
"Do you want to know how I do it?" Korra asks, in a flat voice. She's starting to grow tired of this. She gestures for the mask and Asami hesitates before putting the mask into Korra's hand. Korra fits it to her face and knots it, pulling the ribbons tight. Tenchu comes over her, a molten feeling, spilling into all her cracks and fractures.
"I don't do it," she says, lifting her head, catching Asami's gaze, "Tenchu does."
Asami is quiet again, wide-eyed and drawn. Her dark hair is dusted with snow, crisp flakes that melt into a gleam of water.
"But…"
Asami reaches out, gently, and Korra still finds herself leaning away; she stiffens and Asami presses her fingers to Korra's split lip and turns her hand over, letting the drops of coppery blood darken the fabric of her gloves. She drops her hand and looks down the empty street, sighing with a sort of hopeless resignation.
They crunch footprints into the snowy asphalt, and Korra can feel Asami thinking, thinking, thinking behind her - thinking about what? But what? she wants to ask, but doesn't.
It's almost three in the morning by the time they reach the Sato mansion, the motorcycle engine stuttering to a lazy stop, and Korra tilts all the weight onto her outstretched leg as Asami unwraps her arms and slides off. The cut in her uniform filled with snow and wind as they rode through the city and the chill slips into her, shining like steel in her bones.
The lamps on either side of the front doors are bright and yellow and Asami's silhouette is dark against the flow of light, still in the Equalist uniform. She slowly climbs the steps, one at a time…
"Asami, wait, hold on," she calls out, stumbling off the motorcycle and letting it crash to the driveway, and Korra runs the steps to where Asami is waiting for her, wearing a lofty look of stoicism.
"I just…" she starts, and trails off; this is the second time she's run after someone and had nothing to say. A minute passes, long and slow, filling with snow. Asami draws herself up, tall and regal, the light behind her darkening her face.
"You know, I'm trying to understand, I really am - but right now, you need to just go home," Asami says, and she marches to the front door, heaves it open, and leaves Korra standing on the steps.
She sits there for a while; arms on her knees, watching the snow. Little flakes that wink out of the light, vanishing like the earliest dreams of sleep. She lifts a hand and a flurry of snow uncurls out of the air, slips around her fingers as water. The cold burns and seizes her skin and Korra offers it back to the night with an upturned palm; the snow feathers off and disappears. Some things build without a sound, steady and unfelt, unnoticed until immovable.
And it would be nice just to sit, and not be alone -
Korra stands up and trots around to the back of the mansion, to Hiroshi's workshop, and she doesn't care that it's late, that there are always people in the factory. No one will question her. And she follows herself, some unspoken thought, all the way down to the factory, down the staircase, into the warehouse; and then across the warehouse floor to the prison hallway, where a single lit bulb casts a grey light on the walls.
Mako and Bolin are fast asleep again. Bolin is curled around the pillow, Pabu in the curve of his body; and Mako with his forearm over his eyes, like he's trying not to see.
"Hey," she whispers, "guys. Wake up."
Mako's arm jerks slightly, but otherwise they don't move. Korra fidgets - maybe this was a bad idea -
"Hey, Mako," she says, louder. He wakes up with a start, eyes flying open, hand hardening into a fist.
"Korra! What's going on?" he says in a strained whisper, as she tilts the Tenchu mask up to the top of her head, and Bolin starts to shift and mumble. Mako sits up and quiets him, leans over and mutters into his ear - don't know - handle this - back to sleep. He rolls out of bed and pads over to Korra, tugging a shirt over his head and resting his arms on the horizontal bar.
"So what's the big ide - are you okay?! What happened to your lip?" he says, squinting at her, and Korra touches the cut; scabbed and hard from the cold. His face is bruised, with a dapple of purple-blue.
"Oh, I just got in a fight with some triads thugs, no big deal," she says, shrugging it off, and he just looks at her.
"I'm not going to ask," he says, "but - what're you doing down here? Does he know you're here?"
A shiver takes Korra, thrills up her spine; she hadn't even thought about that. If Noatak knew she were here… he can't. He won't. Korra takes a step back
"Sorry. I should leave," Korra says, "Forget I came - " but Mako halts her mid-step by reaching through the bars and putting a hand on her shoulder. She stops and goes rigid, a stony air filling her lungs, as he finds the tear in the uniform, his fingertips hot on her skin.
"Spirits, you're freezing," he says, "can you open the door?"
"Why?"
"'Cause I'm a firebender," he says, and Korra side-eyes him even as she fumbles for the keys from the inner pocket in her uniform. He moves aside as she unlocks the cell door and slides it open, just enough for him to step through.
"I do this for Bolin all the time," Mako adds, and she doesn't even have time to ask do what before he hugs her, wraps his arms around her and pulls her in close, her hands up and pressed to his chest in defense because he - because Mako -
He's so warm.
He is so warm and Korra eases onto him as she starts to feel weightless, the warmth pooling through her, melting away all the frost on her thoughts. She wants to sink into him, be this warm forever; and he smells like kicked-up autumn leaves, smoky-rich and dry. The cold shudders out with a bitter tremble and Korra rests her head on him, feeling found. She didn't know she wanted this, that her heart ached for the mere simplicity of being held.
There's a hot, wet stain in her vision, heaviness in her throat; and so Korra sniffs and breaks away, wiping her eyes, staring at the floor next to his feet.
"Hey, you okay?" Mako says, his hand on her shoulder, tilting over to look at her; and Korra gives him a half-hearted laugh and nods.
"Yeah, I'm fine, don't worry about me," she says, even as she blots water from her eyes, and he laughs and shakes his head.
"No offense, but your 'fine' looks terrible," Mako says, and she tugs her hood around to wipe her face dry. And he smiles his slim, shy smile at her, waiting for her to say something.
"I came down here because - because I want you to teach me some firebending," Korra mutters, gesturing vaguely at his hands, and Mako raises his eyebrows.
"Yeah," he says, after a long pause, "okay. I'll teach you a trick. For breath control."
He cups his hands and looks around, searching for something; Mako passes over her and then his gaze swerves back, holding hers. He's still smiling, concentrating - a flame blossoms in his hands, a teardrop of fire, a robust, flowering yellow. In the dim light it casts their shadows on the walls, and the dark shapes shift and stretch as the fire shivers over his palms.
"Your eyes are blue," Mako says, and takes a deep, relaxed breath, his chest rolling up; "but not just blue, they're more like…"
The fire in his hands flickers and melts into a glowing shade of blue, the warmest blue she has ever seen; the blue of the sky in summer, sunlight in ice, the fresh touch of early morning and sound of free laughter.
"…more like a bittersweet, match-struck blue," Mako says, and even as he says it she can see him blush. He tips his hands forward, tumbling the fire into hers as she moves to catch it.
"Well, aren't you a poet," she says, as she stares into the little blue fire, heat pulsing into her palms, a heart beating bare and raw.
He makes a wry face.
"Even 'firebending thugs' can say nice things, you know - " and Korra puffs out her cheeks and blows a raspberry.
"Hey, come on - fine, I want my fire back," he jokes, deftly scooping it out of her hands, "you make your own. Um, pick any color that fire can make, and try to match it."
"Okay," Korra breathes, "let's see…" and she knows just what color she wants to try: the sweet honey in his eyes, full of sun, and she glances up to capture it just right. She makes a flame and it blinks once, twice… maybe just a shade off. He presses on her fingertips to lower her hands, see better - close, so close, close enough - Mako grins at her.
"Perfect," he says, as the fire ripples on itself, tapered and plump like a puckered lily.
"Mako, I don't know what to do," Korra murmurs, and the words crack in the middle. His eyes flick to hers, briefly, gleaming with firelight.
"Whatever you want to do, it's your fire," he says, in a voice full of calm. Mako is patient, so patient with her - whatever she wants to do. Strange thought.
He's exhausted. She can see it written on him, smudged like ink, a word he cannot bring himself to speak aloud, and Korra knows what it's like. It's a relentless, hourless drag, being bruised by your desires as you force them out, hiding yourself behind the face of all the things you have to do - prove it, he'd snarled, and he said he wouldhandle this - she's not being handled, is she - ?
The fire collapses and goes out with a puff as she drops her hands.
"I have to go," she announces, and jerks her head towards the cell.
"Korra," Mako says, but she shoves the mask down over her face and crosses her arms so that he can't come any closer.
Mako sighs, one hand on his hip, and doesn't resist much when she grunts in frustration and pushes him back inside the cell, a little harder than she means.
Finally Korra makes it home, flops facedown onto the couch, all sore and cold again, angry with Asami and Mako and Bolin, all of them. She doesn't have to prove shit to them; they can stay pressed for all she cares. Noatak isn't home yet so she falls asleep with all the lights on, has weird dreams of great creatures moving under the water, ageless beasts that fade out of fragile sight, dark and powerful and bristling with wisdom that grows on them, clings jealous to them, creatures that drag the waves of the sea like white threads on blue silk, the world wrinkles under their touch, they lift a god-hand and things come together -
And a man kneeling before her, high above a red sea of burning stones, her hands pulling power from him in threads of white. A face that startles her, a boyish, compassionate face belonging to a man with sorrowful grey eyes, wielding his mercy like a staff. And it comes so clearly to her - merciful even in the face of a corrupted power, even when everyone he'd ever loved had been cut away from him by a hundred years of howling violence.
But it's different, she wants to say, and Aang says yes, they are just as lost as you are, thrown into a war she does not understand, staying strong because it is all they have left -
Amon shakes her awake and she mumbles as she opens her eyes; her mouth is coated in the sticky tasteless of unfinished sleep. Her mask dropped from her hand as she slept and now it lies on the carpet, staring with blank eyes.
"Don't sleep on the couch, Korra, and go change out of those clothes," he says, and she groans and turns away from him, staring into the couch cushions, listening to him move around the apartment, washing his face, the distant muffle of him removing his uniform.
Noatak comes back to the living room and she lifts herself, feeling the stretch-pop of sore muscles and stiff bones, as he stops in the middle of the carpet and stares at her, arms crossed.
"Daddy, I don't wanna debrief right now," Korra says, sitting up, and he rolls his eyes and holds his hand out, palm down.
"Fine, no debrief," Noatak says, "but up. Bed. Now."
She takes him by the wrist and pulls, firmly; it's not a nice gesture but she's not in the mood to be nice with him. He leans in, face inches from hers, and she glares at him, at the spots of make-up he missed, burnt pink-reds, chalky and damp.
"Dad, listen," she starts, and his face hardens with suspicion.
"What, Korra?"
"I'm tired of being angry at you all the time," Korra says.
Noatak blinks, eyes fluttering, and then he huffs in exasperation.
"Forgive me, child," he says, "but I have no idea what you're talking about."
She doesn't miss the sharp cut of sarcasm but she doesn't care. He is her father; Korra knows how to love him and she knows how to hurt him.
"Do you want me to be happy?"
"Of course I do, but what is this about - " and Noatak moves his hand up to her face, to cradle it, smooth out the bristles in her tone, but she wants none of that right now and takes that hand too. Clasps both of them in the space between them, holding them with her thumbs pressed into his palms, denting the skin on the backs. Her anger burns and she is full of ashes. Whatever she wants to do, it's her fire -
"Then stop hurting Mako and Bolin," Korra says, and when he tries to move his hands out of her grasp she merely holds on harder. More than his voice, more than his schemes, more than the spirit of vengeance he crafted from a mask and an idea, everything he does is in his hands, and he can't have them back just yet.
"You're speaking nonse - "
"I don't want to be angry with you anymore, Dad, it makes it hard to love you."
His eyes widen and there is a breathless, composed silence.
"Alright," Noatak says, and she lets go.
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.
p.s. help me hit 75 reviews? :D)