"Hello Aang, and Sokka, and Katara, and Toph, and Matthew," the strange woman said with an off-puttingly stretched smile. Her words were measured, and slow. As though she were reading a script for the first time. "I am Joo Dee. I am going to be your host while you are in our wonderful city."

"It's uh, nice to meet you," Aang greeted, feeling a little confused. They'd just saved the whole city, but…just inside, only the distance of one eerily quiet train ride over the farms, it was as though no one even realized.

In fact, people around here looked like they were trying very hard not to look their way at all.

Even in the face of creepy behavior, Sokka was not to be deterred. "Yeah, hi. We need to speak to the Earth King immediately. It's crucial for the war—"

"There is no war in Ba Sing Se." Despite her pleasant tone, Joo Dee sounded firm on that particular point. "Now come, your carriage awaits." She turned around and walked towards the indicated vehicle without waiting to see if they followed.

Sokka fumed in her wake. "Is she deaf?"

Katara looked uncertain, reaching up to touch her mother's necklace for comfort. "I don't know, but–..."

"Something is off," Matthew finished quietly, watching their new guide carefully.

"C'mon, you heard her, our carriage awaits. It's rude to dawdle." Toph waved expansively for them to follow, her own expression more sardonic than usual. "Welcome to the big city."

'Carriage to where?' Because…Joo Dee hadn't told them what was going to happen next. Neither did that general, for that matter. But going just by what Joo Dee had told them, they weren't about to go to the palace.

What immediately followed was a long, uncomfortably crowded ride through what looked to be the worst of Ba Sing Se. Even with the carriage as fancy as it was, one of them had to ride up top with the driver.

Toph had drawn that particular short straw, not that she seemed to mind. In fact, from the cheery murmurs and occasional snort Aang heard from outside, she had really lucked out on this one.

Joo Dee spent most of the carriage ride singing the city's praises, talking about all the 'interesting' places to see and the 'unique cultures' of various 'vibrant communities' throughout all the rings. No one else in the carriage could really share her enthusiasm with how obvious reality was just through the small window of their vehicle.

Most of the hundreds of thousands of refugees flooding into the city were in the Lower Ring, eking out livings in shabby hovels and overcrowded apartments. 'Artisans and tradesmen' Joo Dee had said, which very clearly translated to 'overworked and undercompensated.' Those who couldn't manage that much, old or sick or alone as they were, were left in the filthy streets, open to criminals and starvation.

The Middle And Upper Ring were both utopic in comparison, shielded well from each other by thick walls and checkpoints. Well-kept gardens. Finance centers. Fine clothes.

'You could almost pretend the Lower Ring doesn't exist,' Aang reflected, wondering how many people around here did exactly that.

He remembered now why he'd never visited this place before. He'd heard how different this place was from the Temples…and seeing it now in real life…

The agonizingly slow carriage ride finally ended in the Upper Ring, before what the airbender guessed would be their accommodations while they were here. It was a nice house…but the guilt settling in was heavy in his gut. If he wasn't the Avatar, he knew this place wouldn't be nearly so kind to him or his friends. Topiaries weren't enough to erase the memory of poorly patched roofs and desperation being displayed just beyond the Middle Ring.

It wasn't until Joo Dee bid them a cheerful goodbye and departed that he asked Toph the question that had been burning him for hours, now. "Do you think the Earth King…knows?" Would a King who wouldn't help his own people even be willing to help the whole world?

Toph shrugged. Her own expression was hard to read, but she didn't look particularly comfortable either. "It's hard to say. In case you haven't noticed, he's kinda untouchable."

Sokka didn't seem quite as bothered as them, but when he closed the front door, he did so firmly. Like a door was about to shield them from the situation outside. "Well—...Joo Dee said about a month for the petition. We should focus on finding Appa in the meantime."

"At least there's that." Katara scowled slightly. "Aang's the Avatar and we just saved the city. You'd think that'd bump up our petition a bit on the waitlist, right?"

"She would not hear us," Matthew recalled, curiously inspecting a pitcher of juice that had been left for them before shrugging and pouring himself a glass. "Our questions went…ah, wait, how do I say…our questions went through both ears?"

Sokka snapped his fingers and smiled. "Oh! You mean, 'In one ear and out the other'?"

"Yes, that. We also say that back home."

"We're being handled," Toph explained sourly. "We're guests with political clout. I know you guys don't really think in those terms, but I promise that's exactly what's going through everyone else's heads right now. So, you know…get used to it."

"There is a balance they want to keep here," Matthew agreed. He scowled at his drink as it immediately began to frost in his hand. "We might tip it accidentally…or on purpose."

"Look at you with all the metaphors and stuff," Sokka praised. "At this rate, you could be making bad puns in just a few weeks."

"Something to aspire for," Matthew agreed drily, toasting his now-frozen drink in his direction.

Pao was clearly happy to put America's strength to use. Alfred didn't mind, of course. He was getting paid, after all, and it wasn't like the slender older man was about to manage this all on his own.

Alfred just wished he could coherently ask why Pao specifically wanted the awkwardest and heaviest crates on the top shelf in the storage room.

The storeroom was unusually tall and narrow, considering the proportions of the people around here. Alfred had to stretch to reach the top shelf, even with this weird, creaky medieval Asian equivalent of a folding step stool he'd found.

In a world that was so stiltedly pre-industrial, Alfred felt that this was a weirdly specific thing to innovate. It was as he was taking a second to investigate the contraption further that something tapped sharply on his shoulder, scaring the absolute shit outta him.

"GE–HAH!" Alfred jumped and spun around, the awkwardly narrow space and his own surprise coming together to create what was probably one of the worst attempts at a Kung Fu-ish stance that had ever occurred.

Zuko treated him to one of his trademarked mild glares, saying something in Common Language that was probably along the lines of, 'What are you even doing?'

Alfred coughed and straightened his clothes, remembering the "Common Language Only While At Work" statute. Oh, wait, he knew a good word for this. "…Nnnothing?"

Zuko sighed, sounding far more beleaguered than he had any right to sound. He wasn't the one moving heavy shit around. He held up the three knotted sacks in his hand and pointed at it for emphasis, saying a single word.

Alfred blinked. Going by the soggy, rotten smell coming from the bags, he guessed this meant garbage. Probably mostly spent tea leaves. "Uh-huh?"

"Garbage." Zuko pointed over Alfred's shoulder then, towards the back of the storage room and the shop's only back door, saying another new word.

'Out,' Alfred guessed. Or maybe, 'Outside.'

"Garbage…out." Alfred sounded out the new words carefully as he accepted the smelly bags.

"Yes." Zuko turned on his heel without another word and marched off without even a grumbled comment. Alfred marveled at just how hard Zuko was working right now, trying to be polite in public to someone that wasn't Iroh.

He thought better of slinging the garbage over his shoulder. It looked wet.

Jet was rather proud of himself for tracking them down so quickly, rapidly assembling a plan as he scoped the place out.

It was awfully public to out them like he really wanted to do. To expose them as the monsters they truly were, something that would shatter the peaceful veneer of this city and show them all just how close the War really was.

But Jet knew better than most just how dangerous firebenders were. They'd burn the whole neighborhood down just to save themselves…he wanted to avoid that if he could. For his comrades' sakes, if nothing else. They wanted this done cleanly.

So. Ambush one. Drag it to the guards and explain the situation. Inform them of the rest, and leave them to interrogate the spies from there. Then on to the life he'd promised Smellerbee and Longshot.

Jet used roofs to approach unnoticed. The weird quiet one was coming out, carrying what looked like garbage sacks at an arm's length with a comically ill expression. This one, he figured, would be one of the easy ones to grab.

Except somehow, someway, he must have been seen. Because inexplicably blue eyes turned on him right as he pounced with a liberated coil of rope in hand. Something immediately clamped onto his throat and slammed him hard into the wall of the tea shop. A single hand kept him there, as the firebender took a moment to stare at him—

"Let go of me, you monster!"

His enemy's head tilted slightly in confusion. He would have smacked his own forehead if his hands weren't already being deftly tied together with his own rope. He'd forgotten that this one was deaf.

He yelped as he was yanked up into the air, hands bound to uselessness. Jet struggled as best he could, but it was like kicking at a stone wall. "Help! Someone! Fire Nation! Murder!"

They stopped in front of the garbage receptacle.

"Wait–don't—!"

Jet was bodily tossed into the garbage, the three garbage sacks following closely after. One of them burst, spilling soggy old tea leaves and other damp refuse all over his clothes and armor. The lid was quickly slammed shut above him, leaving the thrashing guerilla fighter in smelly darkness.

Alfred took way longer than he should have with the garbage. When he came back looking oddly pleased with himself, Zuko was immediately suspicious.

"Garbage out," the blond chirped happily, his smile indicating that there was much, much more to that particular story.

Zuko regarded Alfred for a few long seconds before deciding, against his better judgment, to let it go. Alfred was easily entertained, and today was full of new things for him…so whatever it was that had him so amused, it was probably not worth an interrogation.

It had been a very long day, and everyone was tired. So after unpacking the meager belongings he'd collected during his time in this world, Matthew lounged back on a pile of pillows in the corner of the room he'd claimed to peruse the journal he'd discovered in relative peace.

It was very old, and written entirely in Latin. Seeing as how Latin letters were otherwise completely absent from this world, Matthew felt that it was a fair guess that this came from his own.

It helped that he'd recognized the name on the cover almost immediately.

North Italy liked to talk about his grandfather. It was one of his favorite subjects, really. This journal had once belonged to a man named Romulus, and…nothing was definitive, but Matthew didn't really think the name wasn't a coincidence. Rome had been here before, a long time ago.

The issue was, Latin was never his strongest subject.

See, Matthew was as good with languages as any self-respecting Nation that was home to multiple cultures. Perhaps even better. But–he never could fully wrap his head around Latin specifically. It just ran into all the French and fragments of First Nations' languages in his head and came out sounding like what Arthur had (after a particularly frustrating lesson) said sounded like, 'a Gaul trying to speak Italian for the first time.'

Canada had been young at the time. To be fair, Arthur had mumbled this, and probably didn't intend for his newer colony (whose grasp on English was still very hit-or-miss) to hear. But he had understood. And for a high achiever like Matthew, it had stung quite a bit. Alfred, who had no patience for lessons and only ever bothered with a new language when it became a barrier for him somewhere back home, picked up Latin easily by comparison.

It was so odd. French was a romance language. Why was Latin so hard for him?

And why was that the shortcoming that had decided to come to bite him? This far away from home, let alone the Mediterranean?

Matthew sighed, flipping (carefully) through the book. It'd be slow going without a dictionary to help him, but he could probably get the gist of most of these passages eventually. There were pictures of people he couldn't know. A few maps, without context. It wasn't a shock that Rome had been a good artist when both Italies have works from their teenage years in museums under pseudonyms. He'd parse through Sokka's maps soon to see if he could match things up–maybe try the library of that university they'd passed on the tour. It was a long shot, but maybe he could retrace Rome's steps that way and figure out how he got home.

Matthew eventually caught himself yawning. The house was unexpectedly quiet for the company he'd been keeping. 'The others must be sleeping or something.'

Which…was probably a good idea. He had a sneaking suspicion that things were going to be very busy tomorrow.

For their first day in the city, and since the crowd was thinning significantly, Pao let them all leave for the evening a little earlier so that they could get to their new living quarters and settle in properly.

Zuko couldn't remove his dingy apron fast enough.

"That was a good first day of work," Iroh decided as they walked down the dimly lit and nearly deserted street. "Don't you think?"

"Too many people," Zuko grunted back at him. "And tea." He was going to end his day with a cup of water, thank you very much.

"There's no such thing as too much tea," Iroh dismissed with a wave. "Alfred seems like he enjoyed it, at least."

"I think he just finds it funny," the scarred teen retorted, glancing back to ensure that the blond was still following them. "The novelty of the whole thing, I mean. He doesn't really strike me as…domestic."

"There may be some truth in that," Iroh conceded. "I look forward to finding out for sure."

"Mm, good luck with that. Alfred's stubbornness goes well beyond the boundary of reasonableness."

Alfred, whose thoughts had seemed far away from the conversation he didn't understand, snapped back to attention, likely as he began hearing his name. He raised both eyebrows in askance.

"Don't worry about it, Alfred," Iroh reassured easily…in Common Language.

The taller man crossed his arms huffily and retorted with something in his own language that included both of their names and a funny noise.

"Not understanding Common Language is your own damn fault at this point," Zuko pointed out. A deliberate pause, then, "Alfred."

Another line of harsh gibberish and a rude gesture was the response. This was how Zuko learned that the middle finger was, in fact, a multi-universal thing.

The address they'd been given by Iroh's contacts landed them at a rundown apartment building. Zuko examined every crevasse as the landlord came out to let them in, taking in every stairwell and exit point. Clothes and rugs hanging on rails. The presence of at least one child being signaled by a misplaced toy; a for-hire rickshaw standing ready just inside the wall of the small enclosed courtyard for the owner to emerge and seek early morning fares. The other residents' carefully kept plants in cracked pots. The bent gates with surprisingly sturdy locks. The distinct lack of graffiti.

Zuko found himself altering his initial judgment of their new lodgings. It was shabby, and definitely not a palace—but it wasn't a cesspool like some of what they'd seen today.

Once the landlord (a man of remarkably few words) had left them, Alfred stretched his arms high above his head and murmured in High Court, "Home, sweet…home? I guess?"

The little apartment unit, with its small living area separated from a smaller bedroom by a thin screen, a wash area, and a tiled area with a counter and a tiny cooking hearth, was still leagues better than what they'd been putting up with since…well, since Zuko's ship had been blown up.

The sitting area was already furnished with a tattered rug, a low table, and some colorless cushions to sit on.

"It may not look like much," Iroh said, "But it's better than the last place we slept."

Zuko stared hard at the questionable stain on the wall, and the shoddily repaired window. "This place has been broken into before."

"Looks like blood, too," Alfred said, by way of agreement. "But hey, the roof can't leak until it rains, right?"

While Alfred and Iroh started to chat about optimism or something, Zuko decided there that he was done for the day. He found a spot for his bag, and unrolled one of the mats in the bedroom. He was out in a matter of seconds.

Time flies when you're drowning in college stuff. I really have no other excuses here. Buuuut I just finished my summer critical language intensive so I figured I could use this newfound breathing room to put out a chapter.

Later dudes (more sheepishly than usual). ^J^