[ Is it guilt? Hei doesn't think so, because guilt is an indulgence, and he has been stripped of that long ago, his life pared down to the barest blade's edge. Guilt is useless because it gets to be a habit, something you live in. You wear it like a cumbersome shell, its heaviness a reminder of how vulnerable you are underneath. ]
[ Hei needs vulnerability like he needs a hole in the head. ]
[ So why? Why the concern for her well-being? Sure, altogether Korra would've been a pitiable case, if Hei were the pitying kind. But the balance of life is too lopsided for him to give pity away for nothing. Crazy, scarred people are nonetheless people, and most are despicable. Especially if they're Contractors. ]
[ Maybe that's the problem. In Hei's memory are snapshots of a different person. A Contractor, but also a girl, wide-eyed and wide-smiled, eager to play out in the snow, bathing her pet dog in the sunlight, sassing her protective parents; the girl she'd been before he'd plucked her from her hometown; a wellspring of destructive power, yet so benignly sweet. Whereas this newer version, reshaped by the Syndicate, is an unhappier Korra who wears darker shades of clothes, darker moods. At times, it's impossible not to see Pai, superimposed across her face like a ghost. An invention of eerie nostalgia. ]
[ Forcibly, Hei shakes it off. Her snarky remark pings off his brain: his own temper is towing at its leash, and there is a dim desire to either be elsewhere, away from Korra's colorful tide of chaos -- or else to punch the girl somewhere tender, in a way that will jog her senses. Unnecessary. He's not her caretaker, or her counselor, or even her colleague. Their alliance is temporary: by tomorrow, they will both be reassigned, she to a different part of the States, Hei back to Tokyo with his default team. Her wellbeing -- or her disregard for it -- isn't his concern. ]
[ His look is flatly inexpressive: both at her mock-salute, and her racy little ensemble when she re-emerges from the bathroom. Her whole manner radiates a stymied arousal, ornery yet entirely unsurprising. He's spent enough years in this profession to recognize the almost sexual charge adrenaline feeds -- during and after. In his case, however, sex is always a secondary priority. He has little tolerance for physical frivolity with impending explosions and rampant cutthraot agendas as the background noise. If there's anything Heaven's War -- the disaster with Amber -- taught him, it's that to stay alive, you need to keep your brain in your skull, not your dick. ]
[ A cursory nod, before he steps past her. In the bathroom, steam curls everywhere, redolent of Korra's particular scent. A hot blast of water and soap allows him to scrub clean the dirt and crusting cuts: aside from a violet spiderwebbing bruise on his right knee, his injuries are superficial. Rinsing the suds and shampoo off with an icy-cold secondary spray, Hei consigns the two garbage bags of their wrecked clothing to the corner, for the Syndicate to dispose of later. ]
[ Dried and dressed -- jeans, gray sweatshirt, tousled wet hair -- he steps out, without letting his eyes turn toward Korra. Straight to the fridge for something to eat or drink: hunger gnaws with sharp little teeth at his gut. With his mouth full, it will be easier to ignore the anger -- and something deeper -- bouncing in his body whenever he glances at Korra. ]
no subject
[ Hei needs vulnerability like he needs a hole in the head. ]
[ So why? Why the concern for her well-being? Sure, altogether Korra would've been a pitiable case, if Hei were the pitying kind. But the balance of life is too lopsided for him to give pity away for nothing. Crazy, scarred people are nonetheless people, and most are despicable. Especially if they're Contractors. ]
[ Maybe that's the problem. In Hei's memory are snapshots of a different person. A Contractor, but also a girl, wide-eyed and wide-smiled, eager to play out in the snow, bathing her pet dog in the sunlight, sassing her protective parents; the girl she'd been before he'd plucked her from her hometown; a wellspring of destructive power, yet so benignly sweet. Whereas this newer version, reshaped by the Syndicate, is an unhappier Korra who wears darker shades of clothes, darker moods. At times, it's impossible not to see Pai, superimposed across her face like a ghost. An invention of eerie nostalgia. ]
[ Forcibly, Hei shakes it off. Her snarky remark pings off his brain: his own temper is towing at its leash, and there is a dim desire to either be elsewhere, away from Korra's colorful tide of chaos -- or else to punch the girl somewhere tender, in a way that will jog her senses. Unnecessary. He's not her caretaker, or her counselor, or even her colleague. Their alliance is temporary: by tomorrow, they will both be reassigned, she to a different part of the States, Hei back to Tokyo with his default team. Her wellbeing -- or her disregard for it -- isn't his concern. ]
[ His look is flatly inexpressive: both at her mock-salute, and her racy little ensemble when she re-emerges from the bathroom. Her whole manner radiates a stymied arousal, ornery yet entirely unsurprising. He's spent enough years in this profession to recognize the almost sexual charge adrenaline feeds -- during and after. In his case, however, sex is always a secondary priority. He has little tolerance for physical frivolity with impending explosions and rampant cutthraot agendas as the background noise. If there's anything Heaven's War -- the disaster with Amber -- taught him, it's that to stay alive, you need to keep your brain in your skull, not your dick. ]
[ A cursory nod, before he steps past her. In the bathroom, steam curls everywhere, redolent of Korra's particular scent. A hot blast of water and soap allows him to scrub clean the dirt and crusting cuts: aside from a violet spiderwebbing bruise on his right knee, his injuries are superficial. Rinsing the suds and shampoo off with an icy-cold secondary spray, Hei consigns the two garbage bags of their wrecked clothing to the corner, for the Syndicate to dispose of later. ]
[ Dried and dressed -- jeans, gray sweatshirt, tousled wet hair -- he steps out, without letting his eyes turn toward Korra. Straight to the fridge for something to eat or drink: hunger gnaws with sharp little teeth at his gut. With his mouth full, it will be easier to ignore the anger -- and something deeper -- bouncing in his body whenever he glances at Korra. ]