Chapter Text
Prolog.
Zuko was born twice: first as a prince, on a remarkably sunny day at the end of summer. It had been a complicated delivery and for a couple of haunted seconds his mother and the midwife had feared him to be stillborn, before he had parted his lips, lungs shaky with the newfound breath of life, and screamed.
He was born again as a teenage boy, onboard a ship to a foreign land, and this time his scream had been instant.
What they do not tell you, however, is that before you are born you also must die.
Chapter One.
The tea shop is nearly empty with the exception of an old man sitting cross-legged by a Kong table, playing Pai Sho, and waiting for death. The man has a pipe resting in the corner of his mouth, scared to meet his end without it, and hours-old tobacco smoke lingers heavy in the air.
There is a storm outside, the pressing heat of summer giving way to lightning crackling like a whip of silver against the night sky, turning raindrops into crystals, and then back to rain again within the blink of an eye. The only thing that can be heard except for the rain smattering against the windows of the shop is the static voice of a woman singing sorrowfully through the speakers of a radio; of boys going to war and men coming back, of fire and sun that will not reach, and of caskets filled with water.
A clay teapot that cooled hours before fills the room with its sweet jasmine scent just as the clock strikes midnight. Hot steam curling from its spout like the tired breath of a dragon. It is an omen like thunder; a warning that the old man is no longer alone. Death had given him a day's notice, something that is by all things considered, a very generous gesture.
Lightning flashes across the sky, blinding the man by its intensity— spilling in through the windows of the shop like a wave crashing against the shore— and when the man’s sight finally returns it is to a figure standing above him, like a shadow given solid form. Death is a boy with a familiar yet unrecognizable face; unrecognizable because of the mask that hides it, familiar because of the golden eyes staring back at the man from slanted slits like burning ambers dipped in poison.
“I always knew you'd come for me. Long before they found General Li, but unlike that coward, I will not run from you,” the old man says, his words are spoken with vigour and with the type of pride that has been cultivated by a near lifelong title.
”Is that a confession, Admiral Ukano?” The boy asks, his voice curling around the sharp edge of a smile.
“My son, Shiro, is two years older than you, he died in the battle of Kyoshi Island two months ago, his body was lost at sea,” Ukano says, as he takes a deep drag from his pipe and exhales through his nose, the smoke twisting like the tale of an idle cat, tinted red by lantern light. “He fell into the sea when he was five or six, on Emerald Island, nearly drowned… It used to infuriate me, how he never conquered his fear of water and never learnt how to swim.” The Admiral taps his pipe against the wood of the tabletop, right next to an ashtray filled with lynched cigarette buds. “I know what it feels like, the loss of a firstborn son, Prince Zuko, and I do not wish it upon anyone.”
“Sentiment will not spare you,” Zuko responds. “And I care little for it.”
“And I have little time for it, all things considered,” the Admiral says crudely but not unkindly. “I understand now that there is something fundamentally wrong with this nation, something I should have realized years before, when I witnessed a father burn his son in front of crown and kingdom, yet without anyone speaking out to stop him.”
The swords are heard before they are seen, cutting through the air in deadly precision until they rest a near breath away from the admirals neck. The light from the lanterns flickers, shifting the boys’ mask into something living; shadows pooling in the sockets of its eyes and morphing it into an expression that can only be described as fury.“I did not come here to listen to the sorrows or realizations of an old man. I came here to seek revenge; for the death of my mother, and it will be paid by you in blood.” Zuko responds with a voice drenched in smoke, a raspy drawl trying to hide the posh accent of a prince once meant to be king but the tells are still there; in the square line of his shoulders and straight back, in the colour of his eyes.
“Your mother knew kindness and love, and that became the death of her in a nation that cared little for either. What would she say, if she could see you now, dirtying your hands in her name?”
“Have they not told you, Admiral Ukano? The dead do not talk, or are your son still writing you letters?” Zuko asks, just as the radio crackles and the woman stops singing, but the sorrow in her voice still lingers like a foreboding fog, sticking to the walls of the shop and seeping into the splinted wooden flooring. It curls around their feet like something tangible. It is the sorrow of a son without a mother, and a father without a son; the spoils of war.
“I have a message I need you to deliver, as I cannot be there to deliver it myself tonight,” Ukano says, with the voice of an admiral, expecting his demands to be met.
Zuko chuckles softly.“I'm not in the business of taking on final requests.”
“Perhaps not, but something tells me it would be in your best interest. You are not the Fire Lord's only enemy, Prince Zuko,” Ukano says.
“I am not an enemy of the Fire Lord and I could not care less about his kingdom,” Zuko says, leaning forward until he is looming over the Admiral. “I am an enemy to the man that killed my mother, and the women and men that let him.”
“I can smell your ambition as they rot by your feet, Prince Zuko,” Ukano says.
“I have no ambitions, only obtainable goals,” Zuko responds with a snarl. “And last time I checked my father cast me out. Burned me, and left me for dead on board of a ship with no sails. I am no more prince than you.”
“Being prince is more than a title, it is a birthright. It is not something that can be taken away.” The Admiral’s eyes are a warm brown colour with a ring of ember embracing wide pupils. “This vicious cycle of oppression and hatred must come to an end, and it can only do so by your hand.”
“By me and what army?” Zuko mocks, leaning back. “The loss of your son has made you delusional.”
“But you still intend to assassinate the fire lord, be it your father or your mother's killer it would not be counted as such, it would be regicide even if you sought only revenge. Such an act changes history. It changes the world.” Zuko lifts his sword from the Admiral's neck and points it towards the ground, mimicking its twin blade.
“The world can burn for all I care,” Zuko bites out through gritted teeth, his voice a contrast to the cold iron mask he wears, filled with heat. Zuko is dressed in black, a colour that belongs to no nation or element, it belongs to thieves and wrongdoers trying to blend into the night. It is the colour of coal and ash, of deep waters and the fraying edges of a wound sweet with infection. They had worn the same colours once, when the world had seemed a much kinder place, however time has marked them differently because time changes all things but never once the same.
“Then you are no better than the man you claim to hate,” Ukano says, his mouth a straight line, stretched thin over yellow teeth, stained by tobacco smoke.
“I fear this conversation has dragged on for longer than I intended,” Zuko says, raising his swords once more. “It will be easier if you close your eyes, Admiral, I won’t consider you a coward for it, and even if I did, I will be your only witness in a world that thinks me dead.”
The admiral looks down at his pipe, loosely held in a ring-covered hand with wrinkles stretching over knuckles and bony fingers. “I wish I could undo the damage I have already done, and I am sorry, for the pain I have caused you, and for the pain I still must inflict,” Ukano says, as regret creeps into his voice, with the familiarity of an old friend.
“Your head will do in terms of apology,” Zuko cuts in dryly, his blades gleaming red.
“The Avatar is alive.” The Admiral says.
“You’re lying,” Zuko bites out.
“Perhaps it would be kinder if I was but I am not.”
Zuko’s hands clench around the handle of his swords, and when he speaks his voice is barely a whisper.“I don’t believe you.”
“What purpose does the lies of a dead man serve?” The Admiral asks. “I was meant to deliver this message to the resistance tonight, but then I received your letter, and I knew it must be Agni’s doing. Your role in this war is far from over and your path goes further than that of revenge.”
“You’re wrong,” Zuko hisses as smoke billows from the nostrils of his mask, dark and angry. “The Avatar is dead!” He roars, kicking the low table so that it goes tumbling across the floor, the teapot breaking into a hundred fragmented pieces by the Admiral's crossed legs, bleeding with the sweet scent of jasmine. “You’re lying!” It sounds like a plea.
“I swear it, on my son’s grave.” The admiral responds. “The Avatar is alive and in the fire nation.”
Those words could have granted Zuko freedom once.
Five years ago they would have brought him hope when Zuko had first been asked to chase after what he thought was nothing more but a legend meant to mock him. Meant to chain him to a fate that would have driven him mad. Now they bring him only pain.
Zuko falls to his knees, swords still in hand like two broken wings of gleaming metal, like a bird shot in flight. His knees scrape against porcelain and ash.
“Why are you doing this to me?” Zuko asks, tears in his voice, his words an echo from a different time, from the great halls of a castle, from a son that just lost a mother.
“Because the Avatar alone can not do what must be done, you need to teach him fire. You need to show him that our people are worth saving,” the Admiral says. Zuko lifts his head, eyes glistening with conflicting emotions; fear mingled with hope slowly shifting into hate until something cold and hard stagnates and cracks. The young boy who once was a prince chuckles softly, shaking his head in what must be disbelief.
“Perhaps once, before you held me down while I watched my mother bleed, would your words have meant something to me. I used to admire you, Admiral, used to count your word in gold,” Zuko smiles, watching how regret takes hold of Ukano’s face. “However, that was a long time ago.”
“Prince Zuko—“ The Admiral’s head falls to the floor like a sack of overripe fruit before his fingers go slack around the pipe, and his body follows with a low ‘thud’. Blood sprays from the gaping hole of his neck, painting Zuko in the colour of his homeland.
“I told you, Admiral, that I am no more prince than you,” Zuko says, with a voice as dead as the old man in front of him.
A lotus tile sits by his bent knees, nearly buried in a pile of splintered wood. It gleams like a copper coin, with eight golden petals framing a circle the size of a fingerprint. Zuko stares at it, at the droplets of blood staining its face like red tears.
“Most people think that the lotus tile in Pai sho is insignificant,” Iroh tells him, on a sunny day when Zuko is five, sitting in his mother’s lap. She smells like saffron and roses, and her long hair tickles his face. “But for the strategy I employ the white lotus tile is essential.” His uncle says, holding up the tile so that it catches the sun. “Never underestimate its value, my nephew, it can lose you the game.”
Zuko sheathes his swords across his back and picks up the tile. It weighs close to nothing, yet he feels something within him fold with it. Zuko pockets it, turns around, and leaves without sparing Ukano a second glance.
Lightning frames Zuko’s silhouette every two hundred meters. His black tunic and trousers cling to his skin, caked with dry blood and heavy with the onslaught of rain falling from the sky like needles of silver.
Zuko knows Caldera City like the back of his hand; knows what alleys to dart between and what rooftops to jump across to escape the wandering eyes of the city watch. Has spent years roaming its streets protected by the night and with only the moon’s round belly, and a handful of stars for company.
He has fallen off enough slanted rooftops to learn how to land, and how to tuck his legs and elbows in to prevent a broken bone or a cracked rib. Knows what shops throw away expired food instead of sending it straight to The Pyre. And perhaps most importantly; he knows what area of the city a burn mark or the wrong colored eyes will become a problem and where no one will offer you a second glance; war criminal or not.
The Sink is located by the west end of Coal Drop Harbor, as far away from the staggering towers and shielding walls of the Royal Palace as you can get without leaving the city. It has more than earned its infamous nickname, being close enough to the port that waves crash against its cobblestone streets, filling them with ankle-deep seawater with the help of the high rise of the tide, and far enough from the city centre that the drainage is nearly as poor as the people living there.
Refugees from nearby colonies swarm the harbor nearly daily on board big metal ships so full of bodies they look like ant hills stacked with people; their faces covered in soot, smelling like smoke and gunpowder.
More than once has Zuko spotted eyes the same colour as the sea on open water and skin like burnt sugar. More than once has he caught the gaze of someone so clearly water tribe, so clearly enemy, and only offered them his scarred cheek and a curt nod in response, a secret for a secret, ‘I won’t tell as long as you don’t.’
So for the past three years, Zuko has claimed The Sink as his home, and in turn, The Sink has claimed him.
“You look awful,” June tells him when she sees Zuko approaching with his mask carelessly slung around his neck. She stands leaning against the doorframe to Patch’s gambling den, poorly disguised as a tea shop, with yellow lights spilling through boarded shut windows. A sign hangs over the door, swaying in the wind on rusty chains, The Pot, it reads in fraying red letters.
“So do you,” Zuko responds.
“Want a cigarette?” June asks, deciding to ignore him. “Looks like you need one.” She pulls a small silver case from the chest pocket of her leather coat and opens it with the flick of her wrist, holding it out towards him in offering. Zuko sighs, accepting one with a quiet ‘thanks’. He leans against the door next to her, so he is partly shielded from the worst of the rain and lights it with the snap of his fingers.
“Got a spark to spare?” June asks. Zuko snaps his fingers once more, lighting her cigarette for her. She is not a fire bender, Zuko doubts she is even from The Fire Nation; it is not like he has asked or like he cares. She is passing though, her hair is a dark chocolate brown and her eyes a warm chestnut colour, but her accent is not from the capital. It is softer, more of a lazy drawl than a stoic, posh ‘clang’.
“Where have you been? Patch has been asking for you. Dow and Chio have been placing bets on whether or not you will come back in a coffin or not.” June says, with her gaze firmly glued to his face, no doubt taking in the dark circles cradling his eyes and the blood thick in his hair, weighted heavily with rain. He must look crazed, like something that crawled out of a grave.
“What’s the bets?” Zuko asks, taking a deep drag from his cigarette and breathing out through his nose, the scent of Ukano’s pipe still lingers like an invisible veil over his head, sweet and tinted with Jasmine.
“Dow said you’d never let them catch you, Choi claimed there would be nothing left to send back if they did,” she shrugs. “By the looks of it, either of them could have won.“
“It’s not my blood,” Zuko responds.
“No shit, you’d be fucking dead if it was,” she sighs, taking a last toke of her cigarette before she flicks the bud into the darkness of the alley, Zuko can hear it hiss when it kisses the wet ground. “People disappear in The Sink all the time, that ain’t nothing new, tale old as time.” She shrugs. “Sometimes you found em’ in pieces, floating in some alley behind a butcher's shop, or sold to a whorehouse. Most of the time you don’t though, most of the time The Pyre gets em’.”
The Pyre is an island a couple of hundred meters away from the coast of Coal Drop Harbor with a constant, burning fire used to cremate garbage accumulated by the city and nearby islands, however, garbage is not the only thing that tends to burn in The Pyre. During the night you can see it, flames growing high in the breeze of the open sea, like the setting sun against the horizon with billowing, black smoke that can be seen for miles. ‘The Pyre is always hungry.’
“What I’m trying to get at,” June says, pulling a hand through her hair. “Is that I don’t know what it is you’re doing out there, to be honest with you it’s none of my business, but I know what a man looks like when he starts craving death, stars seeking it out.” She turns her head and offers Zuko a long look, and her voice is uncharacteristically grave when she finally says, “And it’s not a good look on you.” Zuko takes another long drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke burn in his lungs before he breathes out.
“You’re right,” he responds, throwing his cigarette away and crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s none of your business.”
“It’s your funeral,” she says, offering a one-sided shrug before she kicks off the wall, resting her hands behind her head in a lazy fashion. “Would be a damn shame though, I’d miss our evening smokes, and it would probably break your uncle's heart.” She spins around, offering him an unimpressed glare. “Patch asked me to wait around in case you showed your ugly face, wants to talk to you tomorrow morning, some new job showed up, good money.”
“Yeah,” Zuko sighs, too tired to argue. “And- and thanks, for the cigarette.”
“What can I say, Sparky, I like it when you owe me.” She grins. Zuko watches her go until she is nothing more than a blurry shape, hidden in the rain.
Zuko climbs the metal staircase behind Patch’s shop and up to the second landing with legs that feel like lead. His muscles ache and hurt in a way he has not let himself acknowledge previously tonight, and when he opens the door to his small flat he nearly falls through the threshold face first. He groans, kicking off his boots one after the other.
He throws his mask carelessly in the direction of one of the four corners of the room. It lands with a clang, its fall broken by a couple of empty glass bottles stuffed with unlit candles.
Darkness covers the flat, musky and old like a thin layer of dust. Zuko has not been home for nearly a week. Admiral Ukano proved a difficult man to find, and after his assassination of General Li, two weeks prior security has tightened significantly within the city centre.
He has tried not to think about his conversation with the Admiral, what Ukano told him; about the resistance and the return of the Avatar. He does not believe Ukano lied to him but that does not necessarily mean he knows the truth. Hope can be a very dangerous thing, especially when combined with loss.
Suddenly the darkness inside the room feels too cramped, too restrictive. It reminds Zuko of the steady rocking of a ship out at sea, of caked sweat against his brow, and eyes that refuse to open. There is a sweetness in the air that was not there seconds before thick with illness and his own crying wish for death. “Hush, my boy, the worst is over, I swear it.”
Zuko clenches his fists and every candle still standing inside the room bursts to life, flames growing high, he forces himself to take low, steadying breaths; in through his nose and out through his mouth, until the fire settles with the beat of his own heart.
It is not a memory he likes to dwell on, those first broken weeks after his banishment, when death had seemed like a sweet and tender friend in comparison to the pain burning underneath his skin. He was reborn on that ship, in the wake of his own pain and suffering.
Zuko had sworn his revenge still drunk with fever and clinging to his uncle's side. “You should have stayed,” he had told Iroh, with a voice that barely carried above a whisper. “By coming with me you signed your own death certificate.”
“I am too old and too lazy to sign anything, Prince Zuko,” Iroh had responded, with a voice as quiet as Zuko’s own had been.
He wonders still if things would have been better if Iroh had stayed in the palace, would he have known then what he knows now, he would possibly have forced it. Before Iroh’s mind had started to fail him under a sickness slow and consuming like the fog rolling across the mountain chain in the east, visible from the high towers of the palace.
Zuko puts his face in the palm of his hands, cradling his cheeks, his breath hot against his skin. He stands like that for a handful of minutes, letting the events of the night wash over him like the rain still pouring down outside before he straightens his back and takes a deep, staggering breath.
His tunic is heavy with rain and blood and licks up his back when he pulls it off over his head, throwing it in the same direction as the Blue Spirit mask. The air inside the room is cold against his bare chest, and blood still sticks to his naked skin, making it look like someone carved his chest open and tried to figure out what made him tick; a deep-rooted hatred for his father and fear of his sister, Zuko thinks bitterly.
He looks around for a cloth, about to warm up the wash basin when he hears a low ‘thud’ coming from down the hallway.
“Uncle?” Zuko asks but receives no response. He moves towards the noise coming from the single bedroom by the end of the hallway. The door is not properly closed so Zuko pushes it open with his foot.
Iroh sits on the bed, his legs firmly planted in the carpet like he has grown roots. His grey hair falls down his back and over his face in thick strands of grime and sweat. He is wearing what Zuko last saw him in, nearly a week ago, a red dressing gown so big he is nearly swimming in it, and the smell of unwashed skin and piss stains the air. “Oh, uncle,” Zuko whispers miserably, staring into a pair of eyes the same colour as his own, eyes that used to be filled with so much but are now vacant and empty, like someone left without turning the lights off.
Zuko quickly walks into the sitting room, grabbing the wash basin and a cloth hanging from the back of a chair, before he hurries back to his uncle’s room, putting the items down and crouching by Iroh’s feet. He warms the water with his fire until steam starts to curl from it and bathes the towel, wringing it out before he grabs one of Iroh’s hands and begins to wash the filth off his skin, his heart heavy with guilt.
“I'm sorry uncle,” Zuko whispers. “I should not have left you alone for as long as I have. It was cruel of me.”
“You're bleeding,” His uncle says and when Zuko looks up he is met by the heavy weight of his uncle’s gaze, his eyes clear and warm like an open fire, and Zuko takes a calming breath that sounds an awful lot like a sob.
“Uncle,” he whispers, scared of breaking eye contact, scared that he will blink and once again stare into eyes clouded with poison. “I-I'm fine,” Zuko manages to say. “It's not my blood.”
“Revenge is a wound that bleeds from but one wound, Prince Zuko,” Iroh responds, voice weighted. He puts his free hand on top of Zuko’s who is still grasping the towel in a vice-like grip, his skin stretched tight over clenched knuckles. Zuko sighs and leans his head forward until his forehead is resting against Iroh’s warm chest and underneath the filth, the coppery tang of blood, sweat and illness, he smells like home. The steam of rich spices, of cherry blossom trees swaying in the wind, of the old sheen of polished stone floors, and volcanic rock. However, it is a home from a different life, a different childhood that had yet been tainted with loss, seen through a different lens; the eyes of a firstborn prince, of red silk robes billowing in the wind, of ribboned kites flying along the coast of Emerald Islands sapphire waters, the loving smile of a Queen that was a mother first.
Zuko has learned that the past is a foreign place, they do things differently there. “The Avatar might be alive, uncle,” Zuko mumbles, ignoring how his eyes sting with unshed tears. “I- I don’t know…” He trails off. “I don’t know what to do.” He looks up, expecting to be met by his uncle's searching gaze but Iroh is not even looking at him anymore, his eyes straight forward, staring into the corridor behind Zuko like it might hide the answer to his question, his eyes the colour of whiskey and honey are cloudy, like poorly cut gemstones.
Zuko sighs, untangling his hands from his uncle's loose grip and dips the cloth back into the wash bin, as he tries to ignore the ache in his chest. An ache he has not felt in years, did not think himself capable of.
He dabs the cloth over Iroh’s brow, much like his uncle had done to him all those years ago. “I might have to leave again soon,” Zuko says, even though he knows that his words are pointless, spoken only to himself. “But I will not leave you alone for this long ever again, I swear it.” His voice is fierce, fingers trembling around the cloth.
Ukano had been wrong, Zuko was not meant to save his nation, to mend the world. He was meant to die, die on a ship without sails, and by the hands of a father stripping him of his title and a future that knew love. It is only through pure spite he still breathes.
The path to the throne is not very different than the path he still walks upon, stained in blood; a prince killing a king, much like his father before him.
The only difference is that Zuko has no intention to claim the throne for himself. His family’s legacy will die with him, and perhaps the world will be better for it, but Zuko does not intend to stick around long enough to find out. He is living on borrowed time, he knows it and can feel every life he takes chip away at his own soul like a grain of sand falling down an hourglass.
The Avatar might be alive but Zuko does not care, as long as he gets to his father first, because Zuko has a list and will not rest until every single name on that list are crossed out, one of the names is his father's, the last one is his own.
Patch is sitting by himself by a kong table when Zuko walks into The Pot the next morning, with his knees crossed and elbows balanced on the tabletop. He has a deck of cards scattered in front of him, like the plucked feathers of a bird, and a cigarette is resting in the corner of his mouth, glowing dully in the early morning light.
“So he lives,” Patch says when Zuko joins him, mouth moving around his cigarette like it has grown attached, tip heavy with ash. “And got all your limbs in one piece too. Dow owes me three silver pieces.”
“You didn’t bet against me?” Zuko asks. Patch eyes are hidden behind a pair of round spectacles with dark tinted glass, making his expression difficult to read but Zuko can tell that the man is not impressed, bushy salt and pepper eyebrows hanging low on his forehead.
“Why would I bet against my own investment?” Patch asks. His face is a mask of scars, of burns and crisscross patterns of raised skin. His lips are chipped like the rim of a broken teacup, stretched dangerously thin over the hint of a smile.
“I thought you always played to win,” Zuko says, it earns him a low, smoke-drenched chuckle.
“I do, but I also play to gamble, and you’re a gamble, Zuko,” Patch responds, he picks a card up from the table, juggling it between his fingers like one might a knife. The deck is contraband, Earth Kingdom made, with a brown bear instead of a Queen. “I heard a rumour,” Patch says.
“Is that so?”
“From one of Daisys ladies.” Patch responds, his voice rough like gravel, ash falls from his cigarette, landing on his lap like snow. “A young soldier boy visited her house yesterday and got full in his cup, told half of West Harbour about a shipment they had to escort to The Pyre and make sure burnt before sunrise.” Zuko studies the card in Patch’s hand and watches it turn from a soldier into a king and then back again. “Except it wasn’t just your regular shipment, the palace burns things all the time, war plans and secret documents. Always sealed in boxes.”
“And you are telling me this because?” Zuko asks because Patch is not the sort of man who hands out information for free, he sits on it, and hoards it like a magpie would with something that sparkles or shines.
“Because last night the box was a lot larger, a lot heavier, so the soldier boy got curious, decided to crack it open, have a peek inside, and turns out it wasn’t just a box, it was a coffin.”
“They found a body? Do they know who it is?” Zuko asks, careful to keep his voice level. He already knows it must be Ukano. Two high-ranking military men both found dead within the span of a fortnight. Of course the Fire Nation would try and hide such a crime, such a weakness. Zuko hopes his father is sitting in a courtroom right now, sweating. The thought nearly makes him smile.
“An Admiral, high up as well, palace born, blood still warm, don’t know his name, didn’t ask, such things are never good knowing. Can get a man like me killed,” Patch responds.
“And you think I know who it was?”
“Do you?”
“No,” Zuko says. Patch's eyes are two bottomless pits hidden behind black glass, and his gaze crawls over Zuko’s skin like hundreds of ants.
“You know what makes a good gambler, Zuko?” Patch asks, it is clear by his tone that he does not expect an answer, so Zuko does not offer him one. “It's not about reading cards, or hiding tiles, that’s not gambling, that’s hustling. That’s something liars do. If we catch a hustler in The Sink, we break their hand, might take a finger, we turn them into honest men and women. So you don’t read the cards, you read the players, you look for a tell.”
“I thought there was no such thing as honest men and women in The Sink,” Zuko says. Patch barks a laugh, and the cigarette falls from his mouth, rolling across the table between them. Patch squashes it with a closed fist.
“Keeping secrets is different than telling lies. In The Sink, we have to live by code, or otherwise, we will start robbing each other blind,” Patch says, still grinning, he pulls another cigarette from the sleeve of his black dagua and lights it with the help of a silver zippo-lighter, sucking on it thoughtfully. “Your tell is your eyes. In my home town we had a name for it, do you know what it is?”
“No,” Zuko responds flatly.
“Didn’t think so,” Patch says. “We called them butter eyes, yellow like buttercups, most nobles are greasy and fat too. Slippy. When I first saw you, I thought you must be some rich nobleman’s son, wanting to be a bit rebellious, perhaps escaping an arranged marriage, trying to prove a point.” He shrugs. “So I took you in, thought I’d invest; I’d take you under my wing, let you live out your rebellion until a wanted poster popped up, and I’d send you back with a slap on the wrist, and get a reward from father dearest as thanks. So imagine my surprise when time ticked by and nothing showed up. No posters, no reward, no claim.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” Zuko responds darkly.
“Don’t be,” Patch grunts. “It was still a good investment, nobles might know how to hold a sword, but they rarely know how to fight with it, and you know how, like a man that’s had to fight to survive.” Patch strokes a hand across his scarred chin, the gold rings he wears on each finger gleaming greedily, colourful gemstones winking at Zuko like the fangs on a snake ready to pounce.
“Maybe I’m just a bastard, that got cast out, trying to make a living with the cards I’ve been dealt,” Zuko says, it sounds like a dare, a bet.
“Perhaps,” Patch hums. “But I doubt it. You walk and talk like someone who grew up rich, that got taught there was a right or wrong way to do it. Maybe you are a bastard, maybe your mother got down on her knees and begged your father to keep you around until you were old enough to piss standing up, or maybe you did run away but no one cares enough to come looking for you,” Patch pauses to take a drag from his cigarette. “But one thing is for sure, you didn’t grow up in The Sink, you came here for a reason.”
“You’re making an awful lot of guessing,” Zuko says. “And I’m not going to entertain it. Why I’m here is none of your business.”
“Normally I’d agree with you,” Patch responds. “But it becomes my business when it starts to affect my business. You can drink yourself rotten in every whore house from Coal Drop Harbor to Merchants’ Point for all I care, but when you disappear for a week, and show up on my doorstep drenched in blood like you just gutted an entire pigsty the same night an Admiral is found with his head chopped off… People will talk.” Zuko can feel his own heart sink to the pit of his stomach like a lump of smouldering coal, however, when he speaks his voice is steady.
“Did June tell you?”
“June tells me as much as you do, Daisy told me, had to pay her not to repeat it too,” Patch responds. “And I told you, your tell is your eyes, makes you stand out like a black sheep in a herd of white,” he taps a finger against the frame of his glasses. “What reason does a butter eye have to live on the streets, to become my patron, to bathe in blood? Makes people speculate, and speculation is usually more dangerous than the truth itself. So, mind telling me what you were doing for the past week?”
“I was gutting pigs for my father, apparently it’s the only thing a bastard like me is good for,” Zuko says. Patch scoffs.
“And the dead Admiral?”
“Circumstances,” Zuko responds.
“There is no such thing as circumstances, only half-truths and decent lies,” Patch says, breathing out a cloud of smoke. “But I suppose it might be some truth in what you said.” He hums, tapping his fingers across the table. “You owe me for paying off Daisy, and if you show up on my doorstep one more time looking like you just slaughtered king and country, I’ll have you back on the streets quicker than you can say ‘sorry Patch’.”
“Sorry Patch,” Zuko says. The corner of Patch’s mouth twitches like he is fighting a smile.
“Too cheeky for your own good too, consider yourself lucky I like you, kid, otherwise you’d be dead two times over,” he sighs, shaking his head before he hands Zuko a cigarette like it is a peace offering. Zuko accepts it, lighting it with the snap of his fingers, he coughs on the first inhale, being too greedy in trying to soot his own fraying nerves. If Patch notices the slight tremor in his hand, he does not comment on it.
“Got a job for you,” Patch says, once Zuko has finished his cigarette and Dow has served them both a cup of rose tea, offering Zuko’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before she leaves.
“June said,” Zuko responds, taking a sip of his tea. “What is it?” Patch leans forward on his elbows so that they are only a breath away from bumping their foreheads together, and when he speaks his voice is nearly a whisper.
“I’ve had problems with a couple of shipments, Earth Kingdom goods smuggled from Ba Sing Se, cigarettes, dried fruit, tea, nothing special, but getting things across the border is a nightmare, an expensive nightmare.”
“I thought it was impossible to get into Ba Sing Se,” Zuko says, feeling the scar tissue around his right eye pull with the furrow of his brows. Patch leans back a little.
“Getting in yes, as far as I know, that is impossible, getting things out, however, that is a different story.”
“What’s the problem with the shipment, it didn’t show up?” Zuko asks.
“Oh no, it did show up, and if it didn’t I could handle it myself, the journey here isn’t an issue, the issue is keeping it safe once it gets here.” Patch breathes out a cloud of cigarette smoke, tilting his head enough to not blow it directly in Zuko’s face. “A terrorist group that calls themselves the Freedom Fighters have been blowing up shipping containers down at West Harbor. Mostly weapons and military rations, but I’ve been getting caught in the crossfire.”
“If they’re damaging military goods surely the City Watch would be after them, how come they haven’t captured them yet?” Zuko asks. Patch shrugs.
“Your guess is as good as mine, I was planning to leave it, and let the Watch take care of it, but they haven’t, and I’m getting impatient.”
“So you want me to take care of it for you,” Zuko guesses.
“You and a small team of people, June, Dow, Hatch and Hitch.” Zuko has worked with June and Dow before, but never Hatch and Hitch, the twins have a habit of keeping to themselves, they are waterbenders, or so Zuko has heard, but their blue eyes and tanned skin make it easy enough to believe.
“That’s a lot of manpower,” Zuko says.
“I need you to guard the goods, from when it arrives until we have time to move it, it usually takes two nights, and it can only be transported in small quantities,” Patch explains. “I would appreciate a verbal confrontation, but the Freedom Fighters don’t seem like the kind of folk that likes to stick around for a chat. If something would happen I’d like to know we could fight our way out. They’re anti-war, we are capitalizing on it, I don’t think we’ll be very popular.”
“When do we start?” Zuko asks.
“Tonight.” Patch responds. “You’ll leave just before sunrise, the Freedom fighters only operate during the night.”
“Fine,” Zuko says. “But only because I owe you.”
“Then we have an agreement.” Patch holds out his right hand, pulling his sleeve up with his left, Zuko mimics the movement, grasping Patch’s arm by the elbow. Their forearms are pressed together, skin against skin. It’s a thief’s handshake, something Zuko has only witnessed in The Sink, where trust is short at hand, it makes robbing someone difficult and reveals any concealed weapons.
“The deal is the deal,” Patch says.
“The deal is the deal,” Zuko responds. They shake once before they let go.
The sun is setting, painting the ocean in vivid hues of pink and blood orange. The pyre is burning in the distance, the wind carrying traces of smoke and the dust of coal, flames flickering like a red curtain with traces of baby blue.
They are as far away from Coal Drop Harbour as you can get, on the other side of the city and the safety of the Sink. The ocean does not flood the harbour here, waves crashing against the port in contained sprays of sea salt, making the sky glitter.
Rows upon rows of containers cast long shadows over the port, stacked close together like dominos in various hues of grey and coppery red. Most ships have docked for the night, massive military vessels gleam in the setting sun like beetles, with fire nation flags whisking in the wind, a stark red in contrast to the blue of the ocean with black flames like spilt ink.
“Seen any red coats?” Dow asks, she stands leaning against the container they have been set to guard, cleaning the pipe of one of her pistols.
“No, Patch got the time right,” June says. “The Military Police change shifts at sundown, the night watch will start patrolling in an hour, by then the sun should have set.”
“When is Patch not right?” Hitch asks. The twin is standing with his arms crossed, a couple of meters away from their group, creating a dent in their circle, with Hatch only a few steps behind. “That man is all-knowing, give me the creeps.” He shudders.
“Well, I’d rather he’ll be right than wrong,” June says, her hand resting on one of her daggers, its hilt curved like a smile. Her dark hair is tied up in a tight ponytail and she has given up her leather coat in favour of a jacket ending by her waist. “The smuggler should be here within the next two hours, I don’t expect we will run into trouble before then,” she says, pulling out a cigarette from her silver case, putting it in her mouth and shielding it with cupped hands, Zuko discreetly lights it for her without question. “We should take shifts guarding the container. Dow you’ll take the first watch, then Hatch and Hitch, last Zuko and me.”
“How come Dow gets the first watch?” Hitch asks.
“Beauty before age,” Dow responds, grinning. Her black hair grows like a crown of broken feathers around her head, cut short around her ears. Her cheeks are still rounded with youth despite how thin she is, and her smile is framed by a set of dimples. She looks so young, Zuko thinks, like a child, her pistol looks big and wrongly placed in her small hands. “Besides, I'm not good at close combat, It's better if I take the first watch before it gets too dark.” She raises her pistol. “Better if I can see them coming.”
“So that settles it,” June says, blowing out a cloud of smoke through her nose. “At least all of us will manage to cramp a couple of hours of sleep in that way. Me and Zuko will take the graveyard shift because we’re old and bitter, and he’s the only one who smokes.” Hitch raises his hand, June gives him a pointed look and adds. “Cigarettes.” Hitch lowers his hand again with a wry smile.
“Whatever,” Zuko responds, sliding down the container until he is sitting cross-legged with his back against it, closing his eyes.
He did not sleep last night, between the hours he spent caring for Iroh and cleaning himself after his assassination on Ukano there was not much time left, and once he did lay down in the early hours of dawn, on the futon by his uncle's bedside, sleep did not manage to find him. It rarely does these days.
His eyes feel like gravel behind the darkness of his eyelids, and once Zuko has closed them he finds it difficult to muster the strength to open them again.
A soft breeze ruffles his hair with gentle fingers, the ground underneath him is warm from the setting sun, he puts his palms flat against it like he can soak up the heat. Warm his bones. He can hear Dow and Hitch bickering, their voices drowned out by the purling of the sea.
He doses off, vivid dreams flickering behind his eyelids like a bird lost in flight. He chases the laughter of children, light and melodic like wind chimes echoing through the great halls of a palace, he counts the petals on a lotus flower that shines golden. “Remember,” his uncle says, his eyes clear and bright like the sun on water. “Who you are.”
Zuko wakes up like someone falling in reverse, and when he opens his eyes it is to the sight of June’s face only inches away from his own. Her brown eyes are wide and nearly crimson in the dull light from the new moon. Her hand is hovering, ghostly pale near his shoulder bent at an odd angle and it is not until Zuko sees his hand gripping her wrist, tight like a snake trying to choke its victim, that he realizes he is the reason for it. He quickly lets go as if burnt.
“I’m sorry,” he says in a hoarse voice. June cracks a smile. Zuko can feel something cold and sharp press against his neck; one of her daggers, gleaming tiredly but with intent.
“Old habits die hard, I guess,” she chuckles, twirling the dagger before it disappears in the sleeve of her jacket like it had never existed in the first place. “I was going to wake you, the smugglers are here.” She stands up, offering him one of her hands, Zuko accepts it with a quiet ‘thanks’.
“You got quick reflexes,” June tells him. “Bet you’re not too bad at picking pockets.”
“I could say the same about you,” Zuko responds, dodging her question. June hums thoughtfully.
“Care to see who can manage to steal the smuggler's purse first? Loser owes a cigarette.” June grins.
He smiles. “You’re on.”
The smuggler is a short man with a greying goat beard, and wrinkles line his face like a fisherman’s net. He is standing next to a carriage filled to the brim with cabbages with his arms crossed and chin held high.
“Typical Patch to get a bunch of kids to do his dirty work,” the smuggler says, spitting a lump of tobacco onto the pavement black like tar.
“You’re late,” June says, with a smile that is everything but inviting.
“Oh, yeah?” The smuggler says. “We better get to it then.”
The container is closed with a bolt lock, and it takes both of the twins to open it, the hinges groan in protest, stubborn after so long at sea.
It is filled with boxes stacked on top of each other like teeth in a tight-lipped smile. Dow whistles.
“Damn,” she says. “No wonder it’s a two-night gig. Patch must be a rich man.”
“We split it thirty-twenty, that cheap fuck,” the smuggler says, pulling out two crowbars from his wagon dusted with rost. “Rest is bribe money, it ain’t cheap to make people look the other way.” He throws one of the crowbars at Hatch, the twin catches it in one hand without batting an eye. “Let’s get to it."
They open nearly thirty boxes, lids nailed shut, the wood is damp and weather bitten but it still takes them nearly an hour to open most of them. Zuko’s shoulders ache with the effort, his palms blistering despite his thick skin, used to his swords and the rough streets of the city, however, his swords fit his hands like a glove, whilst the crowbar cuts into his skin from ragged edges.
“Are we done soon?” Hitch complains whilst Hatch groans, they are both filthy from sweat, their matching beige shirts rolled up to their elbows.
"That should be enough,” the smuggler says, wiping sweat off his brow. “Let’s load the wagon, but only enough so that we can hide it under the cabbages, can’t afford to bribe the entire military police. Those red coats are expensive.” He spits again.
The wagon is only big enough for one man to manoeuvre, so loading it goes quickly. Everything is packed in bags full of dried fruit and rich pillows stuffed with goose feathers, both a luxury, Zuko has seen neither since his time in the palace and behind window displays in shops around the Red Square.
“We’re not gonna be able to fit anything else,” the smuggler that Zuko has learnt goes by the name Hakusai, says. “It will take me about an hour and a half to get to the first checkpoint and back, and then we’ll do one more load and we’re done for the night.” He spits another slob onto the cobblestones, wiping spit from his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “I feel bad leaving a bunch of kids alone in the dark but I ain’t the boss, so what do I know.”
“Don’t worry,” Zuko says, eyeing Dow and her gun with furrowed eyebrows. “I’m not.”
“Yeah, whatever, just… Don’t touch the stuff while I’m gone.” Hakusai says, as he picks the carriage up by the rails, groaning under its weight, his steps are loud when he leaves, echoing in the dark.
Zuko hears something jingle by his right ear, the sound of coins mingling together. “Got it,” June says, once the cabbage man is out of sight, her face is split into a wide smile showing a row of white teeth.
Zuko pulls another pouch out from the lining of his coat, it is bigger than June’s and sits in his palm like a hefty stone.
“You got the wrong one,” he says, matching her smile with a rare one of his own. “Yours is a thief’s debt.”
“A thief’s debt?” June asks with furrowed eyebrows, her smile dropping slowly as she stares at the pouch in Zuko’s outstretched hand.
“A penny for my mother, a penny for the king and his brother. A last penny for the thief and his debt, may it always be kept,” Zuko says, pocketing the purse. “It’s a decoy, a lot of travelling merchants do it or people dealing business in West Port. You know you’re gonna get targeted, so you never carry all your money in the same purse, you leave a smaller one where it’s easy to find and keep your real one better hidden.” June stares at him with something wide in her gaze like she is seeing him in a new light. She looks down at the smaller pouch of coins in her hand, weighing it, she looks up at Zuko again.
“You talk like a street rat, how do you even know that?” She asks.
“You said it yourself, “Zuko says, shrugging one shoulder. “I’d probably make a good pick pocketer, maybe I’ve had more practice than you think.” He holds two fingers out as if in offering. “You owe me a cigarette.”
It is late evening, nearly early morning once the smuggler returns with a less full wagon, and together they quickly stock it again, it goes quicker this time. They work in silence except for Dow who is sleeping, curled up inside the container on top of a crate.
The smuggler does not ask for his missing pouch, either one of them. June smiles gleefully once he finally leaves again after he threatens them to stay until he returns for the last time to lock the container for the night.
It’s Zuko and June's turn to take the last shift until sunrise. They sit together on the roof of the metal box, their legs dangling over the edge. Close enough so that they can talk without raising their voices but they could still fit a person in between them. It is a comfortable distance, a token of friendship that Zuko never thought he would receive.
June offers him a cigarette and takes one for herself, and in an unspoken agreement, Zuko lights it for her, like he always does. The smoke they breathe out mingles together in the air, and there is something poetic about it Zuko thinks.
“You won the game,” June says, breaking their silence. The air is comfortable, a light breeze, still warm, coming in from the open sea. Zuko scoffs.
“You’re still not over that?” He asks, the smuggler's pouch sits as a comfortable weight against his chest. Years ago Zuko would have been counting his blessings twice for it, would have opened it and counted the coins.
“I’ll give him mine back,” he says. “He will get suspicious if both are missing.”
“I’m keeping mine, that fucker hates us. Nearly put a dagger in him.” She takes an angry drag of her cigarette, huffing. “But that still doesn’t explain how you know about a thief’s debt.”
“Why? Because of my eyes?” Zuko asks despite himself, remembering what Patch had called them; butter eyes. He hates the colour in them, so like his fathers. Burning. Bright and angry.
“I’ve only ever seen rich nobles, Admirals and such with eyes like yours,” June confesses. “Ain’t nothing wrong with it but we don’t see your lot around The Sink very often. Hitch and Hatch are the same, they got water nation eyes,” she widens her own as if to make a point. “It marks you, that’s all, more than that scar of yours ever could.” It is true when it comes to The Sink, with the number of war veterans they receive by the nearby harbour. Water tribe men and women escaping the colonies, wanting to disappear in the closest big city. Zuko has seen scars like his more than once; the imprint of a hand over a shoulder or the lick of flames down a bare chest.
“Fire changes people,” his uncle said once. “Unlike water, or earth, it is not something you find in nature, it must be summoned. It is a hard element to master, Prince Zuko, and it affects us all in different ways.”
“I spent a couple of years on the streets when I first got to know the city. Picking pockets in West Harbor and the shops around Red Square,” Zuko says. That time had been like a fever dream, a fog of anger and pain, growling stomachs and the fear of a cold winter. First with Iroh taking care of Zuko and then with Zuko having to take care of his uncle.
“Couldn’t imagine you on the street,” June says softly. “Is that where you learnt to fight?” During the year they have known each other she has never asked him anything about his past, people from the Sink rarely do, it’s usually not a good story to tell.
“I got my bending late, and I wanted to know how to fight, in case I’d never learn fire. So I found someone to teach me.” Piandao had been a good teacher, he had grown up in a farmers' town east of the capital, his skin tan and thick like leather after spending his youth out in the fields. He was a common man who had created a legacy for himself. Had earned the respect other nobles had been so freely given. “In the art of the sword, we are all equal, any man or woman can learn it if they so choose, when you fight with a sword you leave yourself behind.”
“Your master must have been a good swordsman,” June says, Zuko hums in agreement.
“He was a great swordsman but he was an even greater man,” he confesses, smiling despite himself, remembering the hushed whisper of a waterfall and the soft breeze coming in from the mountains overlooking the swordsman’s mansion. How they had stood like father and son, Piandao’s hand resting on top of Zuko’s shoulder like a quiet promise of comfort. He never had to be more than he was with Piandao, not a prince, or a future king. He was a student, someone willing to learn and listen, and that had been enough.
“You sound fond of him,” June says. “Do you know where he is now?”
“The war has spared his town, thanks to him it is prospering,” Zuko responds with a hint of pride in his voice. He will never see his old master again, his face is a ghost, one of many, haunting the memories of a boy that no longer exists. The world thinks him dead; the sad story of a young prince lost at sea.
'It is a song just as sad as any, in for just a pound but out for a penny.
Of prince Zuko, a boy once meant to be king,
It is truly a sad tale to sing.'
They would sing about him, in the taverns near Coal Drop Harbor, travelling ballads or troupers full in their cups, crude tales about a queen and her brunt, one lost to madness and one lost to pride.
Zuko is a common enough name in the fire nation, especially after the year he was born, so he still goes by his given name. He is not starting anew it is a continuation, a promise, that he will finish what he has started; one more name crossed over. Only a few more to go. He wonders distantly what they will sing about him once he kills his father.
“It’s nice to hear that there are still good men left in this world. The war has claimed so many, made criminals out of honest men,” June says. She pulls her legs up, resting her chin on her bent knees. She looks younger like this, almost vulnerable, but her face is set in harsh lines, and her gaze is firm like she has thrown herself at the world and watched it yield.
“I’m from a colony in the earth kingdom, a fisherman’s town that has been under fire nation rule for the past twenty years. My mother died from illness, just a common farmer's flue.” She fiddles with one of her daggers, making it disappear and reappear, it looks like a dance, the movements of her fingers fluid, it reminds Zuko of the court maids that used to weave and spin silk. “My family was never rich but we were comfortable. My father was a rice farmer but the war got more violent each year. They started bombing nearby cities, ruined harvests, and homes. Split families apart.” She takes a deep drag from her cigarette, her eyes gleaming like tarnished steal. “My father took a loan on the farm, started drinking and gambling, owed the wrong people money. When he couldn’t pay them back they took me. Sold me to traffickers. That’s how I ended up here. I got bought by The Ruby.”
The Ruby is a brothel by Coal Drop Harbor that is frequently visited by the military police. They are known for their beautiful women and cheap drinks, and people have lost more than their pennies worth gambling there. You have to pass it if you are coming from down the harbour up to The Sink. Lightly dressed women in red silk with painted lips and cheap sparkling jewels usually stand outside, trying to lure people in. He cannot imagine June working there. Cannot picture her in anything but her leather coat armed with more daggers than an armoury.
“Patch released me of my contract, so now I owe him,” she says.
“I’m sorry,” Zuko whispers, June sends him a sharp look.
“I don’t need your pity.”
“I know,” Zuko says. “I’m not pitying you. I’m just sorry it happened.”
“Well, don’t be,” June says. “It made me who I am.” She offers Zuko another cigarette. “I killed the first man that tried to touch me. A red coat. He was my father's age and rank of cheap whiskey.” She makes a face of disgust, wrinkling her nose as if she can still smell it. “Patch got rid of the body, made it all go away as if it never happened in the first place. I’m grateful to him. He’s a good man, even though he likes to pretend that he isn’t.”
Zuko had heard of Patch years ago when he was still on the streets, the man’s reputation proceeding him. “If you are looking for a pair of swords you should talk to Patch, he can get you anything for the right price.”
“Patch? Do you mean the gambler from down the sink, with the scars and the weird glasses? I heard he was a war criminal, broke himself and some other men out of the boiling rock.”
“-Owner of the Pot, people say he lives to gamble and never loses a bet.”
“He found me while I was stealing from him,” Zuko admits. “My swords.”
He will never forget his first meeting with Patch. How the other man’s gaze had found him in the dark, piercing like a fired arrow meeting its target head-on. “How did you get in here?” Patch had asked, his voice like a scar, hoarse with the promise of danger.
“I picked the lock on the top floor window,” Zuko had responded, not seeing a point in lying. The swords had been in his hands, their grip a comfortable weight. He could have fought his way out, could have dropped them and made a run for it, but instead, he had stayed.
“It’s a three-part lock, I was promised it would be impossible to break.”
“Then whoever sold it to you is a liar,” Zuko said and for some reason, Patch had laughed at that, a deep smoke-drenched chuckle, the cigarette in his mouth moving like the baton carrying an orchestra.
“How about this, I’ll let you keep the swords and in turn, you’ll show me how you picked that lock.” And so Zuko had stayed, he had shown Patch how he broke into the Pot, how he had climbed down the slanted roof and balanced his foot on the windowsill.
Patch had watched him, his eyes unrecognizable behind the shade of his glasses, like two bottomless pools reflecting the darkness of the night. He did not say a word until Zuko had picked the lock for a second time.
“He could have handed me into the Military Police but instead he offered me a contract,” Zuko tells June. “A place to stay and an honourable wage if I agreed to work for him.”
“Patch would cut your hand off before he offered you up to a red coat,” June says, scoffing as if the mere thought is offensive. “I can’t believe you got away with stealing from him.” Her gaze lands on the Tatchi twin blades on Zuko’s back, and the look in her eyes is nearly foreign to him but he recognizes it nonetheless; it’s pride. “That’s pretty cool,” she smiles like she means it, and her eyes sparkle with mischief, the same way they do when one of her daggers finds its target.
Zuko coughs awkwardly, unable to meet her gaze. “I'm not sure if cool is the word I’d use, I think ‘stupid’ would be more fitting.”
“Why can’t it the both?” June asks, grinning, she closes the distance between them, bumping their shoulders together playfully while she swings her legs back and forth over the edge of the container. “I think it’s going to rain;” she says, looking up at the clear, dark blue night sky.
“What makes you say that?” Zuko asks, following her gaze. A vail of light blue licks the horizon, it’s nearly morning. The sound of birds chirping is growing louder. West Port never sleeps for long. Soon the first big shipping boats will come sailing into the harbor. They need to be done before then, they promised Patch to be back before sunrise.
“Just a hunch,” June responds, shrugging. “Come on,” she says, moving to stand up. “Cabbage guy should be back soon, we should wake the others.”
June wakes the twins by pumping their heads together earning her two echoing groans of complaint. “Whatever was that for?” Hitch asks grimacing in pain as he rubs the back of his head, ruffling his cinnamon-brown hair.
“Is the smuggler here?” Dow asks, peaking her head out between two craters, yawning shamelessly. She has one of the twins' red leather jackets thrown over her shoulders, her hand rubbing at a trail of dried drool from the corner of her mouth down her chin.
“Not yet,” June tells her. “But he should be here shortly. The guards will change shifts within the hour, and by that time we’ll need to be far away from here.”
“Cabbage man!” Hitch yells, bumping his fist into the air as he stands up, stretching his back like a cat in the sun. “Our saviour.”
“Hurray us,” Dow mumbles, scowling while she stifles yet another yawn, making her eyes water with the effort. “I’m not meant for this sort of thing,” she complains, rubbing the back of her arm against her eyes, trying to chase away the last traces of sleep. “Patch better give me a bonus for losing so many hours of beauty sleep.”
“You’re getting paid?” Hitch asks as he helps his brother to stand up, nearly loosing his grip around Hatch’s arm, his eyes bulging comically, jaw slack. Hatch sighs.
“So would you,” June says with a wry grin. “If you didn’t owe him your weight in gold.”
“I thought you paid that off years ago?” Dow asks, swinging her legs over the crater.
“He would, if he hadn’t kept gambling even whilst knee-high in debt,” June says, with a hand on her hip. “Lucky you Patch doesn’t accept gambles from drunk bastards or otherwise you’d owe him a lifetime.”
“I’m no bastard,” Hitch says. Zuko notices that he does not rebuke being called a drunk. “I just know how to have a good time.”
“And a costly one at that,” June says, rolling her eyes. “How Hatch hasn’t abandoned you years ago is a mystery to me.” They all stare at the second twin, who scratched his shaved head, kicking at the dust on the floor, shrugging his shoulders.
“He’s alright,” Hatch says in a quiet voice.
“Naw,” Dow coos, smiling softly. “How sweet,” and it sounds like she genuinely means it. She shrugs the jacket off her shoulders and hands it to Hitch who accepts it with a mumbled thanks.
“How much longer do we have?” Zuko asks June who turns towards the gap in the container, grimacing at the newfound light. The sun has nearly started to peak its head out, the sky is a muddy blend of red and dark blue. The sound of the sea can be heard, rippling restlessly, and the scent of smoke from the pyre has strengthened, leaving traces of soot dancing in the air, falling like snow.
“If the smuggler isn’t here within a quarter we’ll leave without him,” she says.
“Patch is not going to like that,” Hitch says with a low whistle, but there is a worried frown between his eyebrows, his blue eyes are staring at the sky like it has personally offended him as he puts a hand on the hip-flask attached to his belt, and despite the jokes about him being a drunk Zuko knows that it contains nothing but water.
“Patch will like it even less if we get stranded here, it’s too dangerous to cross the harbour in daylight,” June says, twirling a knife between her fingers. She is not good at staying idle, never has been, waiting for the smuggler must be driving her half-mad, if it was up to her they would have left hours ago. The tightness of her lips confirms it.
“Remember the plan?” She asks.
“Follow the water line until the third checkpoint, and then cross it up towards Merchants Point, split up, blend into the crowd, and regroup back at The Pot,” Hitch says.
“Do you think something happened to him?” Dow asks. “The smuggler?”
“I don’t know,” June says. “Either way, we’ve held up our end of the deal, if he got caught by a red coat then there’s nothing we can do about it.”
The wind has picked up outside, and so has the black dust, the scent of it lingers in Zuko’s nose, making his eyes sting. The Pyre is always burning, its flames meter high and hungry, but even on a day such as this with a storm brewing outside, it is seldom this active at this part of the harbour.
Something is wrong, and the second Zuko thinks it he can also feel it, deep within the marrow of his bones. He closes his eyes and feels The Pyre, its fire so large that it is impossible to miss, like the sun, always there, tugging at him, but there is something else there as well. Not the sun, or The Pyre, but a third fire, weaker but still burning.
He runs towards the mouth of the container, exiting so that he has free vision at all sides and sees it, the guard tower by the third checkpoint is on fire like a light house facing the open sea. The sky thick with smoke, blending into the night like smudges of charcoal.
“Guys!” He yells, just as June follows him outside, her brown eyes wide with worry. “I don’t think the smuggler is going to come.”
Zuko can tell it will happen before it does, can feel the heat of the explosion building up like thunder before the strike of lightning. June is not a fire bender, so she is oblivious to the pressure of heat-heat-heat pulling inwards, she is still standing between the doors of the container, looking up and out towards the guard tower, shielded by rows upon rows of shipping-containers like stacks of dominos, her expression closed off as the flames dance in her gaze.
Zuko runs towards her, tackling her with his body. June fights him, her stance is solid as steel, so they go down hard, landing with their upper bodies inside the container and with their legs still splayed on the outside. Zuko is on top of her, covering her body with his torso, and their heads with his arms, creating a fort of flesh and bones. “Get down!” He yells.
“What the f—“ June starts but gets interrupted as the explosion rips through the air, it must be handmade and not one of the military’s, as pieces of metal and nails scrape against the roof of the container. Zuko can feel the heat of it dig through his clothes, as something catches in his right leg, something sharp and blunt that cuts through the thick fabric of his cargo trousers, taking a bite out of his calf.
He closes his eyes and can hear Dow scream as the guard tower shatters. They are too far away for the debris to reach them still the sound of it is nearly deafening. Zuko clamps his hands over his ears but it is already too late. His ears are ringing even as silence covers them in the aftermath of the explosion like a heavy, unwelcoming blanket.
June pushes him off, not unkindly, until Zuko is on his back. His chest ache from the hot air, making every breath he takes feel shallow and rough down his lungs.
June leans over him, her hair a mess where it falls over her face and the curve of her shoulders in black, long waves. Her eyes are wide and frantic, Zuko has never seen her like this before, out of control, she is always in her element, no matter what, always the master of her own words and keeper of all her silences.
She is screaming now, Zuko can tell by how her mouth moves, how her lips form his name as if blowing a kiss around each vowel. Sweat drips down her brow, her hands are firm around the collar of his shirt.
“-uko— Zuko!” June yells as the ringing in his ears ebbs out to a whistle. “Zuko! We need to movie!” He groans, slapping her hands away as he struggles to sit up, cutting off a hiss of pain as he moves his injured leg.
“Fuck!” June curses as she spots his injury. “Fuck,” she repeats as if the first time was not enough. “Zuko, your leg.”
“It’s fine,” Zuko bites out through clenched teeth. “Give me one of your knives,” he says, holding out his hand. She offers him one without hesitation, hilt first. It’s one of her favourites, Xiao Hui— little wisdom— with a curved blade and a handle white and smooth like polished bone.
"Is he seriously considering amputating his leg?" Hitch's voice quivers with nausea as his head peeks out from behind June's shoulder. Hatch hovers nearby, gripping Hitch's shoulder as if fearing his twin might topple forward in shock.
Both of them appear unscathed, though their typically tanned skin is noticeably paler. A cowlick sticks out defiantly from the left side of Hitch's head, a testament to his position facing the entrance. Their faces bear the marks of soot, but it is clear that Zuko is the sole casualty among them.
“There’s red coats everywhere!” Dow yells from where she stands, revolver raised, peeking her head around the corner of the entrance. “None coming this way!”
“He’s not gonna cut his fucking leg off!” June tells Hitch with an angry frown before she turns back to Zuko. “Right?”
“Why?” Zuko grits out, pushing the knife against the fabric of his trousers right below his knee, making a small cut so he can rip it off. “Not crippled enough for you?”
“You’re not crippled,” June is quick to defend.
“I can’t see through my left eye, is that not crippled enough for you?” He asks, as he untucks his shirt from his trousers and slices through it up to his navel, ripping strips off as a poor excuse for bandages. Hitch wolf whistles lowly.
“Shut up!” Dow says.
“It’s hard to think of you as a cripple when you fight like the devil,” Hitch says, grinning.
“And fighting like the devil made me who I am!” Dow says, pulling a bad imitation of a soldier's salute, her heels tight together, and her chin held high.
The cut is long but it is not as deep as he feared, the edges jagged but clean, the metal did not cut through any arteries but it is still going to be a pain to walk on.
“Want me to clean that?” Hitch asks, scratching his chin. “Looks kinda painful.”
“Save your water,” Zuko says, wrapping the strips around his leg. “You’re going to need it.”
“Who says I can’t fight red coats with wound water?” Hitch asks. “Can’t do any healing though, at least not open wounds, only fevers, and such,” he says shrugging. “Never had a knack for it.”
“He was too busy blowing things up,” Hatch mumbles solemnly.
“Hydrothermal explosion,” Hitch says, nodding. “Superheated water, trap it until it becomes steam and—“ he closes his fist before he opens it, splaying his fingers. “Kaboom— what, why are you all so quiet?”
“PTSD,” Hatch says, shaking his head.
“Yeah, let’s keep the explosions to a minimum,” June says, standing up and offering Zuko her hand, he accepts it, biting down hard on his bottom lip as he forces his injured leg to carry his weight.
“I’m just surprised you knew the word hydrothermal,” Dow adds.
“We need a plan,” June says. “We can’t stay here.”
“We need to split up,” Zuko says. “We can’t afford to move as a group, we’ll be too easy to spot.”
“You can barely stand on that,” Dow points out, gesturing towards his injured leg as if it has personally offended her. “I doubt you’ll manage to stealth your way past an entire brigade.”
“I’ve had worse,” Zuko responds, testing his leg out. “And I’d rather not slow you guys down.”
“Ooh,” Dow says, in a poor mock imitation of his voice, waving her hands. “My name is Zuko, I’m dark and mysterious, and love being self-sacrificing.” She levels him with a pointed glare. “Nah, not as cool as you think.”
“I’m not trying to be cool,” Zuko bites out. “We need to split up, and soon.”
“I’m not sure if you’ve noticed but there’s a massive fire out there, and at least twenty firebenders, and last time I checked you’re not,” Dow says.
“She has a point— are you smoking?!” Hitch asks incredulously, turning to June who has a cigarette resting between her lips.
“Not yet,” June says. “Sparky?”
“Really?” Zuko asks, staring at her in disbelief. “We’re really doing this now?”
“I’m stressed,” June responds, but there is a challenge in her gaze, a dare. He knows why she is doing it, otherwise Dow would never let him go, but he hates how she took away his choice. Zuko glares at her before he snaps his fingers and lights her cigarette for her, making the flame burn a bit brighter, eating away at half her cigarette just to spite her.
“Wow!” Dow says. “How?” She asks.
“You’re a fire bender,” Hitch whispers, taking a step back as if Zuko might decide to turn him into a human torch.
“Me and Patch are the only ones that know, and we’re going to keep it that way, isn’t that right boys?” June asks, glaring at the twins.
There is a reason only three people including his uncle— when his mind is clear enough for him to remember— that knows Zuko is a firebender. All firebenders have strict orders to enlist, all men and women between the ages of twelve and forty-five. If they can hold a weapon they can fight, and fire is a weapon, a weapon strong enough to have him hunted down by the Military Police if ever discovered.
Now all they see when they look at him is an orphan boy, with a burn bad enough to write him off. Firebenders rarely have burns, they would know better, how to defend themselves. Usually, they think he is a deserter, Zuko knows that some admirals brand deserters with fire, marking them as cowards and enemies of the fire nation, and all things considered, it is not far from the truth.
Fire benders are also forbidden in The Sink, untrusted and chased out. His swords have served him well in that regard because why would a fire bender lower themselves to fight with a weapon when they have been blessed by Agni.
“Right,” Hitch says, his voice clipped as he stares Zuko up and down. “Maybe we should split up.”
“Hitch,” Hatch mumbles, reaching for his twin who takes a step away from him, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender.
“It’s fine,” he says. “We’re in the fire nation, after all, can’t escape them, would be stupid to think that The Sink would be any different.”
“I can barely fire bend, if that makes you feel any better,” Zuko says, and it is true enough, ever since his father burned him his inner flame has been nothing but a distant warmth.
“It does actually,” Hitch spits out.
“So what’s the plan?” Dow asks. “We split up?” She looks at Zuko nervously, fidgeting with her pistol. “I still don’t like the idea of Zuko going by himself.
“I’ll be fine,” Zuko says, clenching his hands and remembers that he is still holding onto June’s knife. “Here,” he says, holding it out towards her. She must be truly stressed if she has yet to ask for it back.
“Thanks,” she says, blowing out a cloud of smoke, juggling it between her fingers until it disappears as if snatched from thin air, Agni only knows where she stores them all. “Okay so this is the plan,” June says. “Hatch and Hitch—“
“Will go together,” Hitch finishes. “It’s always Hatch and Hitch, why not Hitch and Hatch, huh?”
“Because I like Hatch better,” June smirks ignoring Hitch's noice of complaint.
“And I and Dow will go together, Zuko will find his way back by himself, he knows the harbour better than the rest of us, and he’s right, he’ll only slow us down.”
“Why? Because I’m too weak to go by myself?” Dow asks, pouting.
“No,” June responds. “Because I’ll feel safer with you there to protect me.” Dow blushes, folding her arms over her chest.
“Fine,” Dow responds. “But I still don’t like it, If Zuko gets taken or-or worse I’ll never forgive either of you,” she says, glaring at June and Zuko respectively.
“It’s the best plan that we got,” June says, smiling fondly. “And don’t worry, Zuko is tougher than he looks, even if the crop-top begs to differ.” Zuko groans. Hitch coughs, and June’s smile is nearly deadly.
“Alright then,” June says. “Meet you all back at The Sink, the entire city must be crawling with red coats right now, so keep your heads down. They’re probably looking for a description matching the freedom fighters or another terrorist group, but we’ll be coming straight from the harbour, so it won’t be easy to get through to Merchant's Point.” She holds her hand out. Hitch rolls his eyes but he still does the same and so does the rest of them.
“No caskets,” Dow says.
“No funerals,” they all echo back, before pulling their hands away.