[ He narrows down the rally to the dingy labyrinth of an old factory. Wet, weeping cinderblock walls, harsh halogen lights, the acrid stench of smoke and sweat from jam-packed bodies. The following is over 1000-strong. The leader is a harshly-angular man, with shoulder-blades that rise into jagged peaks, long dark hair and a sharply curved nose, cold black eyes like crosshairs. His booming voice oozes force and magnetism. ]
[ Invisible in the jostling crowd, his face just a flesh-colored dot, Hei watches him deliver his sermon. Full of poisonous invective, couched in self-righteous rationalization. As each word tumbles out, Hei tunes out its hypnotic allure. Sketches a detailed character-study, from the man's gestures and glances. He's looking at a snake-oil peddler, a puppeteer. An egotist with a sharply incisive mind and an overabundance of charisma. What he seeks is a way to make weak-minded men lend him their blind and unwavering support. Harnesses the power of social insecurity, honing it like a blade on a whetstone. ]
[ Ordinarily, Hei wouldn't care. Cults like these are a dime a dozen. People are desperate for something -- anything -- to believe in. But his concern rises up a notch at how well-guarded he is. At the immensity of non-benders flocking to him. Men and women, young and old, all with the same hunger in their eyes -- the same terrible hatred. ]
[ He watches as a group of benders -- bruised, shackled, gagged -- are forced upon the stage. A few he knows by name. Enforcers for powerful triads. He watches as, one by one, they're gutted execution style, to the deafening roars of the crowd. ]
[ For too long we've remained at the fringes, burning with our sufferings, the leader exhorts over the terrible clamor. But when we make our own fires in this City, the benders will be our tinder. ]
[ A dark thought for the darkness of the carnage. The words linger as Hei watches the blood spill slickly across the stage, oil-spill-black in the fierce lights. Senses the unspooling hatred in the air, like something terrible being born. ]
[ This, he decides, when the rally is over. I investigate. ]
[ Drifting home, the scent of smoke and coppery blood trapped in the weave of his clothes, he resolves not to share details with Korra. It's not necessary. She's under enough stress; he refuses to worsen it. Is half-convinced, in the crawling night hours, that it was stress, as much as anything else, that catalyzed her miscarriage while they were fighting the Red Lotus. No. He can handle this by himself. With patience and stealth -- until he's infiltrated the Equalists' security entourage and disposed of their leader. No one suspects a death stemming from 'natural causes.' ]
[ Returning home, he's aware, abruptly, of the time that's drained away. It is later than he realized. And -- shit. He'd promised to help her with the nursery. He feels the blood flush into his face, right to the tips of his ears. Every excuse tumbleweeding through his head is lame-brained, ineffective. What is he supposed to tell her? ]
[ No point obsessing about it now. Exhaling, he unlocks the door. Steps inside, as if wading through murky waters, unable to gauge the depth of the sea-floor with his feet. ]
no subject
[ He narrows down the rally to the dingy labyrinth of an old factory. Wet, weeping cinderblock walls, harsh halogen lights, the acrid stench of smoke and sweat from jam-packed bodies. The following is over 1000-strong. The leader is a harshly-angular man, with shoulder-blades that rise into jagged peaks, long dark hair and a sharply curved nose, cold black eyes like crosshairs. His booming voice oozes force and magnetism. ]
[ Invisible in the jostling crowd, his face just a flesh-colored dot, Hei watches him deliver his sermon. Full of poisonous invective, couched in self-righteous rationalization. As each word tumbles out, Hei tunes out its hypnotic allure. Sketches a detailed character-study, from the man's gestures and glances. He's looking at a snake-oil peddler, a puppeteer. An egotist with a sharply incisive mind and an overabundance of charisma. What he seeks is a way to make weak-minded men lend him their blind and unwavering support. Harnesses the power of social insecurity, honing it like a blade on a whetstone. ]
[ Ordinarily, Hei wouldn't care. Cults like these are a dime a dozen. People are desperate for something -- anything -- to believe in. But his concern rises up a notch at how well-guarded he is. At the immensity of non-benders flocking to him. Men and women, young and old, all with the same hunger in their eyes -- the same terrible hatred. ]
[ He watches as a group of benders -- bruised, shackled, gagged -- are forced upon the stage. A few he knows by name. Enforcers for powerful triads. He watches as, one by one, they're gutted execution style, to the deafening roars of the crowd. ]
[ For too long we've remained at the fringes, burning with our sufferings, the leader exhorts over the terrible clamor. But when we make our own fires in this City, the benders will be our tinder. ]
[ A dark thought for the darkness of the carnage. The words linger as Hei watches the blood spill slickly across the stage, oil-spill-black in the fierce lights. Senses the unspooling hatred in the air, like something terrible being born. ]
[ This, he decides, when the rally is over. I investigate. ]
[ Drifting home, the scent of smoke and coppery blood trapped in the weave of his clothes, he resolves not to share details with Korra. It's not necessary. She's under enough stress; he refuses to worsen it. Is half-convinced, in the crawling night hours, that it was stress, as much as anything else, that catalyzed her miscarriage while they were fighting the Red Lotus. No. He can handle this by himself. With patience and stealth -- until he's infiltrated the Equalists' security entourage and disposed of their leader. No one suspects a death stemming from 'natural causes.' ]
[ Returning home, he's aware, abruptly, of the time that's drained away. It is later than he realized. And -- shit. He'd promised to help her with the nursery. He feels the blood flush into his face, right to the tips of his ears. Every excuse tumbleweeding through his head is lame-brained, ineffective. What is he supposed to tell her? ]
[ No point obsessing about it now. Exhaling, he unlocks the door. Steps inside, as if wading through murky waters, unable to gauge the depth of the sea-floor with his feet. ]
[ Quietly, ]
I'm back.