You don't know how you got here

[mortemscintilla]

WHO: Korra and Hei.
WHAT: Two Contractors after a messy hit.

[ The assignment is complete. After a fashion. ]

[ The target's stretch limousine explodes, a time-bomb hurtling at eighty miles per hour. Hei verifies the detonation in the side-view mirror of their getaway van. The brilliant flames glow across the express lane, a bonfire on a humid July night, the deadly cacophony fifty yards behind him on the I-95. The ferocity from the detonation rolls through the atmosphere, juddering both sides of the interstate and adjacent roads like in a San Francisco earthquake. Brake lights flare in a screeching chorus. Behind Hei, beyond the blazing limousine, four lanes of interstate crowded with cars, trucks, and motorcycles careen to an ear-splitting halt, too late for speed demons to swerve and avoid flying debris. ]

[ Their van keeps going. The target is dead. The botched mission completed in less than forty-eight hours. The teflon-coated politician inside the limo had coasted through a dream-life of caviar and champagne, bodyguards at his side, girls in his lap, boys paid to shoot and kill and girls trained to smile and please. A man who didn't hesitate to have his enemies dragged to the desert and fed to the buzzards. ]

[ A prominent Syndicate faction had become one of his problems. And so the politician became one of theirs. ]

[ All BK201 knows is what he'd been briefed on, during the overseas assignment. And that, in itself, isn't much. The less the killing-machines knew, the better. What mattered was that they rectified the situation as they'd been ordered to. ]

[ The remote trigger that sparked blast is still in Hei's gloved hand. With a zzzt and a curl of smoke, he shorts it out. Tosses it out the window, while their van lurches from right lane to left lane to right lane, threading traffic like a bulky needle, becoming a fast-moving blur vanishing down I-95. Hei exhales, absorbing the metal's chill; the van is a freezer. Across him is the only other survivor of the hit: NC-108. Korra. Both their faces are crusted in dried blood, clothes grimy, hair in tufts. But everything else is intact -- unlike the rest of their teammates. The politician managed to weed them out before they'd fully infiltrated his base. Two were murdered in their hotel room by a hitman dressed as a waiter. The other three were machine-gunned on the street last night during dinner in a café by hostiles in police uniforms. The Syndicate is still recovering their mangled bodies. ]

[ Hei and Korra were advised to abort the operation and contact their respective handlers. Neither had bothered. Hei, because his inner-completionist refused to leave the job undone. Korra, because -- let's face it -- she has a streak, miles wide, that compels her to throw herself into the maelstrom of disaster, daredevilry the cover for an easy exit. During their firefight with the politician's hitmen, Hei had to drag her away a few times from almost certain disembowelment or death -- narrow saves that made Korra grin like she was high, the fevery glow off her skin like an irradiated firefly. ]

[ Hei can't say it bodes well. Not for her -- or her long-term career. ]

[ It doesn't matter. They've both succeeded at this mission. Five dead teammates equal five less cuts on the final payment. There's a tidy sum waiting for the two of them. A quarter of a million dollars, each. Hei's cellphone has already vibrated with the message: FUNDS TRANSFERRED. ]

[ It's a living, he thinks, gazing out the window with a sedate veneer but a tensile edge to his jaw. Forty-eight hours, five eliminated associates, and he's earned $250,000. And all it took was a few scrapes and bruises, a tricky full-immersion identity, and a block of old-fashioned C-4. ]

[ The Syndicate's safehouse is in an old motel, one of twelve pink stucco cottages strung out around a gravel parking lot. The cabin reeks of must, and like everything that night, humidly salty. Switching on the rattling air-conditioner, Hei conducts his careful sweep for bugs across the room. Satisfied, he shrugs off his coat -- stiff with caked blood -- before glancing impassively toward Korra, ]

Take the first shower.

[ He's not being a gentleman. But the widest window for enemy retaliation -- and the Syndicate's own post-mission clean-ups -- occurs in the twelve hours after the successful hit. If they're ambushed, Hei doesn't plan to be naked, dripping wet and unarmed. ]

Comments

[anatural]

[She snorts. Fine, whatever.]

So we split up. Makes us less of a target.

[It's a question disguised as a statement. Korra's got a rough sense of strategy -- enough that solo missions aren't suicide -- but between the two of them, Hei's the master. Deferring to his judgement in this only makes sense.]

[mortemscintilla]

[ Hei shakes his head. ]

Odds are better if we stick together.

[ They're already a target. They don't know if their enemy was from a rival faction -- or on the Syndicate's payroll. And the only time it's rational to divide a force is when either its components retain a significant force advantage over the enemy, or enjoy other attributes, like mobility or communications, that negate any force advantage that the enemy might have. It's not feasible to divide a two-person team into one-man units that are subject to defeat in detail. This is what scouts or guerrilla forces are for -- and they don't have the luxury of either. It's not Heaven's War. ]

[ Quietly, ]

We have no intelligence. Or mutually supporting positions. Not until we're sure who those thugs were working for. [If you can achieve mobility, split up. Otherwise stay close. Amber's rule of thumb during battles. Ironic, that even after her betrayal, her advice has rarely failed him. ] Right now we should get to a secondary safehouse.

[anatural]

[Hunted, horny, and trapped with Mr. Ice Balls -- this is shaping up to be a great evening. But Korra doesn't bother getting upset about it.]

I know a place. Maybe twenty minutes away. Got cash for cab fare? [Her biker shorts are lacking in pockets. Fortunately, she doesn't need a key to get into the place she's thinking of -- an empty house in an affluent neighborhood. The houses were far enough apart that you couldn't tell if someone was breaking in unless you were looking really hard, but close enough that too much noise would get the cops swarming quickly. Not the typical Syndicate safehouse, and the kind of place where you'd hesitate to make a move unless you didn't care about attention. From what she can tell, the guys after them do. They won't want the noise and nuisance of frightened suburbanites.]

[mortemscintilla]

I do.

[ Cash in hand: always. But beyond that he's stitched the equivalent of five hundred dollars in large bills of various currencies beneath the lining of his jacket for this particular assignment. It's hardly the first time. He tends to keep an emergency fund on his person: easy cash converted into gold and gems -- a Rolex watch, for example, or a platinum bracelet, or expensive cufflinks worn out of sight. Any Contractor worth their salt has to be able to move from country to country as quickly as possible, freed from dependence on banks. He never worries that a thief who suspects his wealth will try to take it from him. They're only courting their own gruesome death. ]

[ It's almost reassuring, how Korra has managed to find her balance in this quivering web of spycraft. While Hei doesn't trust her, he knows she isn't a particular threat. It is in his best interests to go to ground with her -- as long as the place isn't insecure -- until he's formulated a proper exit strategy. ]

[ (What about her? He shakes the thought off, as if he's been dragged out of a dangerous undertow. She's as accustomed to the quicksand of spycraft as he is. Left alone, she can handle herself. ]

[anatural]

Let's go then.

[At the main road, she flags down a cab for them. Gives the cabbie the address of an apartment complex a few blocks away from their actual destination so the neighbors won't notice. As they drive, she cozies up to Hei, pretending to be sleepy to avoid making conversation with the driver, and so the driver doesn't wonder why his passengers aren't talking to each other. Considering how turned on she still is, the entire drive is torture.]

[mortemscintilla]

[ Despite his knee-jerk distaste, Hei doesn't nudge her off. That would just call attention to both of them. Instead he slips an arm around her ribs, dark head burrowed close to hers, giving the impression that they're just a giddy pair of lovers, both a little worse for drink, being carried off home. The cab's plastic seat feels slippery and sticky against his hands, and the interior stinks of cheap incense. Resisting the urge to slide all the way to the far side, away from Korra's fevery warmth, Hei keeps himself still, staring out the window, aware all the while of where the edge of her bare knee just touches the side of his leg. ]

[ The driver catches almost every green light; they race uptown on the nearly deserted avenues, turning left at last to stop in front of a neighborhood of cozily uniform houses, two stories tall. In the streetlight's yellow glow, Hei pays the driver his fare, then gently gathers Korra out of the cab, the picture of an indulgent hubby with his tipsy wife. ]

[ But once the cab has zoomed off, he drops his hands like they're a pair of dead spiders. ]

Let's get indoors.

[anatural]

[Ouch. That huts, man. That cuts real deep. Korra smiles like she's besotted and grabs his hand.]

Don't drop the act until we're inside. Suburbanites could be watching.

[But mostly she just wants to irritate him, and as much physical contact as she can get. She leads him down a few blocks, just a couple taking an evening stroll, until they reach a neighborhood of cozy little colonials. Korra strolls to the back door of the one with a bright red porch. There's an outside door to the basement, which is kept unlocked. A neighborhood this rich doesn't worry about squatters.

Once they're inside, she presses him against the wall and kisses him. It can definitely hurt to try — but she doesn't mind hurting.]

[mortemscintilla]

[ Hei steps into the darkened basement with her, his eyes tracking left and right, checking hotspots, logging his surroundings. The place seems secure enough, the walls wood-paneled, the air carrying the inescapable smell of dankness and dust. He's about to conduct a proper sweep, to determine weak-points of egress and entry -- when Korra is suddenly against him, her tip-toe feet touching his, her body too. Close enough to that he can feel her disquieting warmth, busy with hot pulse, the quick incessant beating of her heart that is like a war-drum, her lips soft and craving as they catch his. ]

[ What the hell? After the first spasm of alarm passes, Hei's temper flares, then flattens to coldness. It's tempting to knock her away with one sharp blow. Instead, catching her shoulders, he puts her back firmly. He can still feel the hot imprint of her kiss. Wants to wipe his mouth, but he's not sure if that impulse is triggered by disgust or a more disquieting radioactive throb. ]

[ His eyes, fixed on her in the dark, are like two glints of black ice. ]

No suburbanites watching anymore, NC-108.

[ The use of her messier code is a deliberate distancing, a verbal barb-wire. Reminding her that she's a Contractor, not a hormonal little wreck who can't keep her clothes on. ]

[anatural]

Well yeah. I'm not going to put on a free show. [Korra can't say she's surprised that he pushes her away, but it's still frustrating. It's not like she has many alternatives here. (Nor is she accustomed to being rebuffed. Most people have been happy to be one of her bad decisions.)]

[mortemscintilla]

There's no need for a show. Of any type.

[ He ignores her killing pout. Drops his hands, and steps past her. He knows she's probably used to her allure exerting its power. To men bending, complying, making the time pass for her. And while Hei is used to being the lowest common denominator, just a body, just a dick, a blank slate onto which a lover projects illusions -- that is exclusively on assignments. Beyond that, he prefers expediency: sex doesn't rank high on his list of priorities. After the life he's lived, after the red-rippling disaster with Amber, the scorching ruin of Heaven's War, even the linked drama between orgasm and death has become astonishingly flaccid. ]

[ Sidling away from her, he checks the perimeter. The windows and doors are secure: no rusty locks, no decaying wood. A set of steeply-angled steps lead to the upstairs: spacious, paneled, wooden beams and a prettily peaked ceiling, the furniture indistinguishable lumps beneath a cover of sheets. The whole darkened house has an almost melodious, haunted echo to it, like a spiral inside a conch shell. ]

[ Briskly, he tugs the sheet off a couch. Dust swirls. Without looking at Korra, he says, ]

You should contact your handler tomorrow. Tell him to figure out who those agents were, then make arrangements for you to exit the country.

[ He'll formulate an escape-plan of his own. Whatever gives him a secure passage out of the USA, and back to Japan. ]

[anatural]

Are you a patronizing asshole to everybody you work with, or am I special?

[Fuck it. If he's not going to wear her out enough to sleep, she'll just get wasted with the cache of liquor she keeps down here. While he futzes about with that stupid couch, Korra heads for the cabinet. Fishes the key out from behind it, unlocks & pulls out three bottles of plum wine. Locks the cabinet up again and drops the key into her bra. No, she isn't planning on sharing. And sure, he could always pick the lock. But him picking the lock just to get booze would be delightfully pathetic enough to make her feel better. So it's a win/win shitshow.]

[mortemscintilla]

[ Drunkenness isn't on tonight's menu. He doesn't want his alertness compromised. Can't understand why she would -- but then again, he can. With depthless hostility leaking at the edges of every waking moment, the world like a giant cage of teeth gnawing relentlessly at your nerves, the only palliative is gorgeous blotto oblivion. He can still remember that time, after Heaven's War, during the darkest period of Pai's absence, when he'd soaked himself in alcohol and indifference, a remote observer of himself and of the drama playing out on that distant screen, the world. Detached, pitiless, some crucial part of him had stopped acknowledging suffering and struggle -- within himself and in others. ]

[ He's not sure if Korra has reached that point yet. Or if she's crossed it. Reminds himself that it isn't his concern. She isn't his concern. ]

[ There is no tub in the bathroom. Just a rusty shower with lousy water pressure. But he stays there a while, letting the weak stream patter across his body, willing the buzzing tension in his muscles to subside. Dried and dressed, he walks around the wine-redolent heap of Korra and throws himself down on the couch, rolling a stale-smelling afghan around himself, scrunching down. ]

[ In a half-mutter, ]

Don't pass out. One of us needs to keep watch every two hours.

[anatural]

[Indifference? No, she's not at that point. Korra drinks just to fall asleep without nightmares. Otherwise the people she's killed stalk her dreams, and she drowns under the weight of the loves she's lost.

And it's Hei's fault. Sure, if it hadn't been him, it would have been someone else, but it wasn't. He was the one who destroyed her life. He was the one who brought her to this point. And now he doesn't even have the decency to give her the good fuck she needs to sleep.

He mutters, and she hurls an empty wine bottle at him. She doesn't want to hear him talk.]

[mortemscintilla]

[ Sex with her wouldn't be a decency. Certainly not in Hei's estimation. Time and distance might've made his disquiet for dragging Korra into the Syndicate's cesspool go into abeyance, but it's still there. He didn't make Korra what she is now, exactly, but he'd been the catalyst. He's already fucked her -- in the foulest way possible. Never mind that they're both tools of their trade: expensive yet expendable weapons who hold no sway, no voice, no futures. Never mind that he was following orders, because that's what a smart lackey did: it was you versus them. Never mind that Hei is -- if not another NC-108 -- then an equally damaged and tainted casualty of the trade. ]

[ It's irrelevant. If not for him, she wouldn't be here. The knowledge, the ambivalence, still twines in Hei's gut with more equivocal and disturbing feelings. Self-hatred. Regret. Rage. Just to name a few. ]

[ Her empty bottle bounces harmlessly off the couch. He doesn't acknowledge her violent display -- or even her presence. With the lights off, all the colors turn to shades of grey, and it seems as if his thoughts are caught and pinned in a similar twilight. Sleep drags him slowly past the surface of hard-wired alertness: his dreams are a blur -- nights in Heaven's War, full of star-silvered steel and blood the color of tar. ]

[ Vaguely, he registers cool fingers on his arm. A familiar scent: apples and cordite. He opens his heavy-lidded eyes. There is curl of green hair at the edges of his vision. Something is inscribed into his wrist: ink or blood. A pair of cool lips touch the point of his cheekbone: he gazes blearily up into golden eyes, at that familiar mona-lisa smile. ]

[ This isn't a dream, he thinks numbly. This is happening. ]

[ He tries to struggle, to shout, but his whole body is deadweight. A dopplering white light sears his vision. Jerking awake -- free from that eerie not-dream -- Hei glances around. The place is undisturbed: Korra is curled at the corner, empty bottles scattered around her like fallen soldiers. ]

[ But the apples-and-cordite scent lingers in the air. Along with the address imprinted on Hei's arm. The handwriting, in a red liquidy-seeming ink, is all curlicues and strange shapes and no punctuation. But he knows at once whose it is. ]

...Amber.

[ The word is buoyed up his throat by a strangling anger: zero to sixty in a nannosecond. She was here. She'd used her ability to bring time to a standstill. She'd left a message on his arm: date and place at a venue that practically screams This is a trap. ]

[ Except they both know he'll be there. ]

[anatural]

[Korra jerks awake, ready to hurl a fireball at any threat. But there's nothing there. Just Hei, looking angrier than she's ever seen him before. This is the real Reaper -- a creature of bloodlust and rage.

It doesn't frighten her.]

What's going on? Who's Amber?

[mortemscintilla]

[ Hei doesn't answer. It's as if he's already forgotten her. There is a cold humming tension scraping at the strings of his nerves. It is nothing like the wild electric thrill of adrenaline or sheer excitement; this is low-level and ruthless. A killing wrath. But that's no surprise. His mind is caught in a net, his thought-process narrowing down to the blood-red tunnel-vision of a wounded predator. And Amber has wounded him more than any person he's ever met. Others merely scratch -- she's stolen bone marrow. He will be incomplete until the day she is dead at his hands. ]

[ Jerking up like a shot, he drags his coat on, slips into his shoes. His movements are tight and snapping, like a wind-up toy's. He knows the address written on his arm could lead to an ambush. He knows he ought to think operationally. There's already a hit-team after him and Korra. He's not doing himself any favors by wading deeper into danger. He doesn't care. Every patterned defense, every backup plan, every ounce of lethal training, goes to hell the moment he hears Amber's callsign. He can never formulate a strategy beyond Get to her. Mental gymnastics are his forte, but to dwell in the disaster-stricken funhouse of his psyche at moments like these would melt his brain. So he switches his brain off and navigates on pure instinct. ]

[ For such a stone-cold killer, BK201 has an unfortunate habit of being overruled by emotions. ]

[ At the door, he pauses. Leaves a wad of cash at the table -- the equivalent for breakfast/lunch/dinner, and a bus ticket. In a voice bereft of emotion, ]

Contact your handler. Soon. I have somewhere else to be.

[anatural]

[Clearly this Amber is a major operational threat. Not just because she made Hei go all looney -- the way Hei treats Korra is proof enough that he isn't nearly as rational as he pretends to be -- but because she found them. She was able to sneak past the defenses of two Contractors and sneak out again. There is no way to know to what extent this hideout is compromised.

Korra wants to know more about this threat, what kind of person could get this strong a reaction from BK-201.

Still, she has to point out the obvious.]

You're being an idiot. We should be going to somewhere more secure.

[mortemscintilla]

[ She already knows Amber's name. As far as Hei's concerned, she's in much deeper in his business than he'd prefer. He doesn't want her on Amber's radar. Not a flicker, or a blip. UB001 is like a golden spider, spinning webs of spycraft across Hei's entire life, every shiver of a strand alerting her to invaders who will fast become prey, It's her fault his team is dead. It's because of her that Pai is gone. To be around her -- even for a millisecond -- is to inhale toxins so dangerously secret that they fuse into your bloodstream. Like in those dreams where you speak Latin even though you don't, you will awaken one day and exhale-inhale disaster like you've embodied it your whole life. ]

[ It's ironic. Because that's exactly what the espionage world whispers about BK201. ]

[ Korra's words bounce off him as harmlessly as pebbles. He's aware she's right. If they constructed a fifty foot neon sign that screams DANGER, it would be more subtle. Amber's got him in a tizzy, reacting emotionally rather than taking steps to mitigate the situation. ]

[ It doesn't matter. He's already at the door. ]

You need to go somewhere more secure.

[ A bored voice, a conductor saying Tickets, please for the hundred thousandth time. He doesn't stay to argue further. With a rustle of his coat, he's already gone. ]

[anatural]

[And Korra follows. She doesn't bother hiding it; Hei would probably notice her anyway but register her as a threat. This way she'll be an annoyance, if he pays attention to her at all. There's clearly only one thing on his mind.]

1/2

[mortemscintilla]

[ Stupid girl. ]

[ Hei is aware that she's tailing him. But it will be easy enough to shake her off. It is no reflection on her skills as a street artist. It is just that tailing someone efficiently requires an organized team of associates. In fact, most spycraft is the same: an exercise in uneasy trust, the science of getting people to work with and for you without ever compromising the essential solitude of your position. ]

[ Except for that debacle with Amber. There, he was compromised in every sense. He'd known UB001's reputation as a calculating puppet-master, a ruthless hellraiser. He'd known everything he stood to lose if he misstepped in their chess-game, if he made himself vulnerable to the outpouring of emotion. ]

[ Yet he'd done it anyway. He'd trusted a viper. She'd only been interested in him as prey -- an interest he'd mistaken for affection. He'd invented a heart for her -- only to be bitten by her fangs. That was the rotten core of the truth. ]

[ The trip to the address is a blur. He is wired, hyper-alert, but he isn't fully conscious, either. Mostly he navigates by robotic instinct, a practiced tradecraft of twists and turns to brush off Korra, and tries not to think. Always, before these meetings with Amber, he feels like Schrödinger's cat, trapped in a steel box, neither dead nor alive, waiting for the intervention of some outside event to resolve his ambiguous state once and for all and deliver him from purgatory. ]

[ (Except ... doesn't he feel that way every fucking minute?) ]

[mortemscintilla]

[ The spot is near Pine Mountain Buddhist Temple. A park, quiet and lush, almost unnaturally green. And completely silent. The low grumblings of the city are muted by the threadbare trees and the stone statues, in various states of ruin and repair, which rise around the park's perimeter. Or the silence could somehow be the fault of the woman sitting on one of the benches, with her pretty white hand on the handle of her umbrella, presenting Hei with a pale, familiar profile and a perfect cascade of hair as green as summer grass. It seems possible. ]

[ The adrenaline -- or is it anticipation? -- that streaks through Hei is incongruously brittle and bright. With a slow exhale, he hangs back. Scans the perimeter again, because this is perfect, too fucking perfect. Left and right: clear. No problems behind him. But further ahead... ]

[ There. Four punch-permed, stocky men in jeans and nondescript jackets, their mouths twisted in permanent ugly sneers. They are half-turned away from him. But he flags them easily: some guys are built for stealth and skill, others, for intimidation. These four are obviously of the latter variety. Mob central casting -- not Syndicate. But not individuals Amber would hire, either. ]

[ They are the same types who ambushed Hei and Korra at the bar. ]

[ But why are they there? What is Amber doing with them? Had she bargained to lure Hei out, so they could kill him? That makes no sense. If she wanted, she could've disclosed the location of Korra's safehouse. So why...? ]

[ That's when he notices a small flock of pigeons that is crossing through, hanging in the air at eye-level. Blinking, Hei steps closer -- and then the air, except it isn't the air, it is the space that contains the air, the reality that contains the air -- shakes like a square of Jell-o, then freezes. ]

[ The whole park is frozen. Including those men. The realization flares parallel to a sick epiphany: She's called me here ... to kill them. Not the other way around. Incredulous, he glances toward Amber. But the bench is empty. The flapping of the pigeons overhead breaks the silence; the frozen moment is liquid again. ]

[ A beat later, a bullet caraams near Hei's feet, tossing up clods of grassy soil. Whirling, he logs a second group of men, same type as the first, concealed behind the hedgerow. ]

[ Shit. ]

[ Amber is gone. All that remains is the hit-team ordered to take him and Korra out. She's just assembled them -- like inanimate chesspieces -- in a venue where he can fight them. ]

[anatural]

[He's certainly not working at his best. By all rights, Korra shouldn't have been able to follow him — but she is. When they reach the temple, she hangs back, waiting to see what happens.

Then - everything freezes. It gives Korra the chance to notice the bruisers. A trap. In the next breath, she changes her mind. Something about it doesn't seem right.

Then she's confronted by a woman with green hair and a disconcerting smile. Let him do this alone. It will make him feel better. Then Shh, no questions.

Korra stares, dumbfounded, as the woman leans in and kisses her, a brief peck on the lips, but enough to leave a trace of her lipstick. And then she's gone.

What the hell was that?]

[mortemscintilla]

[ What. The. Hell. Was. That? ]

[ There is a brief burst of light in the corner of his vision that disorients Hei. But only for a moment. In the next beat, everything speeds up, time crunching together like pleats in a discordant harmonium. The armed men converge on him like a hailstorm -- a foray of bullets strafing across the grass. They are determined, and merciless, and good shots. And they give him a fight. ]

[ Finally, a real fight. And oh, in the blood-red slipstream of the fugue, it is good. ]

[ Good to wield wires and blades, mind and muscle, with the same deadly synchrony. Good to break into a sweat as they play cat and mouse with him -- and then, better when he flips the tables, makes them the mice instead. Good to cut them down one by one, until there are only a pair of stragglers left. The first, battered and bruised, is trying to stagger to safety, doubled over. Hei trips him up with one sharp kick, sending him sprawling forward onto his face. Rather than zap his lights out with a single touch, he executes a knee drop onto his spine, mashes his face into the grass, and swipes his blade up under his neck, an efficient twist of the wrist. There is a wet gurgling noise, half cry, half bubbling liquid. ]

[ Leaping clear of the spray, Hei turns to the sole survivor -- on his ass now, scuttling backward. He bumps up against a stone wall and starts to struggle to his feet. In the grip of a cold, white-hot rage, Hei kicks him in the balls and the man folds forward with a grunt. Reaches out, gloved palm molded to his skull -- and delivers a sizzling death-charge. His victim thrashes like a live fish across a burning-hot skillet, before crumpling. ]

[ With the bodies littered across the grass, there is no sound left at all but Hei's faltering heart, beating drumlike against muscles in which nothing moves, and this is the center of silence. ]

[ A drum waning, silence growing more full. ]

[ Exhaling slowly, Hei wipes his smeary blade across his pant-leg before sheathing it. His arm throbs: there is deep gash from a bullet-graze across the fleshy part of the bicep, sluicing blood, the skin laid open neat and deep. But nothing fatal. Nothing that can't be ignored over his crashing rage over the knowledge that, once again, Amber played him like a violin, then left the tune aborted, no sense or structure. No coda. ]

[anatural]

[Korra's been in bars on St. Patrick's Day; she doesn't touch her lips in surprise or confusion. But she does feel a little discombobulated as she stomps towards him.]

What the hell was that all about?

[Even as she speaks, she draws water from the nearby pond to deal with his injury.]

[mortemscintilla]

[ Her voice rocks Hei to a semblance of life. Inhaling sharply, he swings to face her -- blindsided yet entirely unsurprised to find her there. His eyes flick across the lipstick smudged across her mouth, logging it without fully absorbing its meaning. He's still stymied by the enormity of his own fury and disappointment. He'd been so close to getting his hands on Amber. So fucking close. And like every single time, she'd slipped like mist from between his fingers, elusive as all the answers he wants from her. ]

[ In her place, there is Korra. She smells like fresh air; it is swirling off her skin, circulating in her clothes -- a reminder of how sweat-soaked and grimy and bloodsplattered he is. ]

[ Hei doesn't answer her. His gaze sweeps across the park, logging anything unusual. Operational faculties kick-start with a drunken jolt, as if the machinery of his mind was jammed: his muscles are still taut with adrenaline, and he forces them to ease into a more innocent shape. ]

We should get out of here.