life after the end of the world

[anatural]

WHO: Hei, Korra
WHAT: Another day, another ruined identity.

[You can't change the essential nature of an element. You can turn water into ice, but you cannot make it stone. You can make a rock explode, but you cannot make it burn. Water is not earth, and earth is not fire. Common sense, but it took the Syndicate a surprisingly long time to realize this. Korra would never be their ideal undercover assassin, slipping in & out of masks with the same deadly ease that she wielded the elements. The ability to think rationally, regardless of the circumstances, was not the same thing as being able to lie under any circumstances. She wasn't going to be another Hei for them.

After six months, they settled her into the role of "nuclear option." She was the big, threatening, intimidating weapon that they used to convince their enemies that they Meant Business, when subtlety and quiet intimidation proved ineffective. When not flying places to brutally intimidate men with more power than sense, Korra's new life was quiet. She was a student outside of Washington, D.C. (They had tried to settle her in Shanghai, but the "Indian" woman who couldn't speak a word of Chinese stood out too much. In Washington, she blended in a little better and was close enough to major international airports to get wherever they needed her to go quickly.) She lived in a cute little apartment with Naga and taught yoga on Wednesday mornings to help pay the bills. Her neighbors sometimes grumbled about Naga's barking and how loud Korra would shout at her favorite sports games, but overall, she was a nice quiet girl who caused no trouble.

When asked about the cute Asian boy who would stop by sometimes, she'd just smile and say he was "a friend". Jury was still out on whether he was a friend or her boyfriend. (The answer? Neither.)

This morning, seven months after life as she knew it ended, she's jogging back to her apartment after yoga. Exhausted from a late night with some guy she'd met at a local bar on top of two hours of yoga instruction, but she has a paper to finish before tomorrow. Sleep? Or paper? Sleep? Or paper? She's leaning heavily towards sleep as she unlocks her front door.]

Comments

[anatural]

[Korra just waves her hands in lieu of thanks herself. Not like there's a whole lot to thank him for.

Not thinking about it. That's really the only way she can deal with situations like this. It's not the first time she's had to abruptly leave a life and start a new one. The hard part isn't leaving one life behind and starting up another. The hard part is remembering the first life she'd left behind. Just don’t think about it.

It's a long bus ride to Minnesota Avenue. Kind of hard not to think about it. But she manages. Lets herself into that spare apartment -- new home? waystation? who knows -- and gets Naga a bowl of water before heading for the shower. She smells like sweat, sex, and blood. Not the most pleasant combination.]

[mortemscintilla]

[ Don't think about it. ]

[ At this point in his life, that's easy for Hei to do. Too much else to focus on. And he's learnt that if he doesn't establish some measure of control over his mind early on, he'll always be reacting, always trying to recover, every step of the way, until finally, no matter how ruthless his efforts to survive in this life, or slow-burning his hope, he'll trip up and end up dead. So with the cold energized burn of purpose inside him, it's simpler to enjoy the sensation of being carried somewhere he wants to go. In this case: a safehouse. Somewhere to interrogate the enemy. He doesn't think about other assignments and journeys that began and ended in this vein; he sinks deeper and deeper down into the current situation, mind flaring up in spiral shapes, thoughts hurrying smoothly across it like ripples over a pond. ]

[ It takes three hours for the man to crack. It's part theater, part cruelty and absolutely no hesitation to use it. Hei lays all the steps out methodically, hooks and needles and blades and a lighter for if he needs it. Toolsets and low lights and a battered body tied in the chair in-front of him, his gaze cold and sharp on purpose when he says, You'll tell me what you know. ]

[ After that, it's a matter of disposing the body -- then tracking Korra down. He sends her a message: a rendezvous point at a sparsely-crowded dinette several blocks from her apartment. ]

[ (Well, she did say he owed her a breakfast.) ]

[anatural]

[She shows up up at the diner about 30 minutes later, not about to rush for him. She had to find a new backup apartment now that this one is burned.

She slips into the booth and steals one of his plates. She's too hungry to wait and order her own meal, and he's already had plenty.]

So. Spill.

[mortemscintilla]

[ He's at the corner booth, his back to the wall, with a clear view of the interior. Above, the ceiling fan twirls lazily; the diner is empty save for a frumpy waitress and a few sullen-looking men hunched in their stools. Belly-up in piles of empty plates, Hei glances up as the doorway jingles. His hands are open, resting on the pitted table; in their profession, a good sign, or at least the absence of a bad one. He waits until she's slipped into the booth opposite. Makes no remark when she steals his plate of grilled cheese. Instead he sweeps his gaze once over the diner -- the plate-glass reflections, the exits, the entrance -- to make sure she hasn't been followed. ]

[ Satisfied, he re-focuses on Korra. Under the bubbly pop music and ambient conversation, his voice is low. ]

Freelancers. Deniable cannon fodder. Their client wasn't well-connected enough to hire real Contractors. [ A beat, before he sips his tea. ] Whoever's after you is a leftover from your last op. Someone who lost money in the attack, and is stupid enough to hold a grudge.

[ It's something for the Syndicate to handle. What Korra needs to focus on is contacting a cobbler and forging a fresh identity for herself. ]

[anatural]

[Grilled cheese. Bleh. Korra makes a face but keeps eating, too hungry not too. The first chance she gets, she waves the waitress over and orders steak & waffles.]

Spend money because you lost money? [She snorts and rolls her eyes.] People make no sense.

[mortemscintilla]

For some, it's not about money. It's about saving face.

[ It's not a sociological concept exclusive to the East, despite what anyone thinks. Especially when an organization is wobbling on its last legs. What was it that Maxley used to say? A dying animal will claw anything to shreds. Even itself. Remembering the words, a cold tickle begins at the base of his skull. Not at the low-level threat simmering in the horizon, but something about Korra. Slumping back, he drums his fingers in an idle series of plinks against his mug and regards her. She seems wan and bleary under the fluorescents; something he'd ordinarily dismiss as a trick of light. But now, it makes him pause. ]

[ Mildly, he asks, ]

What made you decide to come back and fight those men?

[ She could have kept things simple. Left him to fend for himself. They're Contractors, after all. Me, myself and I is pretty much their raison d'etre. ]

[anatural]

I repeat: it makes. no sense. [Why waste money saving face? There's never any guarantee that you'll make people think the way you want them to. Throwing good money after bad. It's stupid.

She blinks in confusion at his question.]

You didn't leave me much fighting. All I did was splash some water.

[mortemscintilla]

[ It wouldn't make sense, no. Not to a Contractor, or a simple pragmatist. But she needs to comprehend that people have a hierarchy of understanding and behavior -- things that drive what they do, say, and are. At the most fundamental level of the hierarchy are their beliefs. These are simply the things they hold to be true. Not necessarily objective truths (the sky is blue) but often subjective ones: dinosaurs were killed by meteors; God does not exist; that people are basically evil and selfish. Beliefs are the internal assumptions about the world and they lay the foundation for everything people do or say. ]

[ When something is that deeply planted, it's not about logic. It's about navigating through the world as you see it. ]

You could've made yourself scarce instead, [ he says, an elbow propped on the table, chin resting on his palm. It's not an admonition or a thank-you; it's a statement of fact. ] We're not teammates.

[anatural]

[She shrugs.] I could do something, so I did. So what? [She looks at him suspiciously, wondering where this line of questioning is coming from.]

[mortemscintilla]

[ So what? He falls silent, and turns to look through the window, at a couple of pedestrians passing by. A man and woman, his age, swinging a giggly little girl by both her arms as they walk. Hei gazes at them with blank sort of intensity, before blinking and returning his attention to Korra. ]

So: there's only two kinds of people who do that. Those doing the other guy a favor. And those doing themselves a favor. Because there are tensions in them that finally become too much -- they can't daydream it away, can't jack it off, can't sleep it off. Everytime they leave the house, they think, 'Please God let there be something out there to kill.'

[ A beat, before he lifts the cup to his lips, taking a long languid swallow. ]

It's just code for 'Let there be something that will kill me. Which wouldn't be so bad.'

[ He regards her, mellow, but the expression doesn't reach his eyes. They're a touch too empty in the bright harsh lights. ]

[anatural]

[She doesn't like the way he's looking at her. His eyes are too empty; they look straight through her and see too much.]

Since when did you become a shrink? And not a very good one.

[mortemscintilla]

[ Hei tips a shoulder, his expression neither here nor there (a dismissive, It is what it is). He's been trained since childhood to pull back skin and sinew and see what's small and secret in the graft of another's bones. What he sees in Korra -- something so emptied and sad -- it isn't smart and it isn't beneficial. There is little softness and empathy left in him, but that doesn't mean he can't notice all the signs of a life, burning so bright it's eating itself alive. She's a paradox; both well-suited for the profession and utterly in over her head. Then again, he knows someone else who once fit that descriptor too. ]

[ At length, ]

I'm not your camp counselor. No one's responsible for your state of mind but you. [ Two swallows, and he drains his cup and sets it aside. Picks at a platter of lukewarm cheese blintzes. ] Just know that if you fly off the handle and get yourself killed in some no-brainer act -- it'll be a waste. You need to keep a lid on whatever deathwish you have. You can get everything you want in life. [ Except freedom, unless she's ready to pay the price ] But you're going about it all wrong.

[anatural]

Wow. Yeah, I was thinking about dying, but you totally just changed my mind. [That's sarcasm, by the way. S a r c a s m.] I mean, I'd hate to think of wasting the organization's valuable resources. That would be a real shame.

[She leans in, her expression unimpressed.] Don't quit your dayjob. [You'd make the world's shittiest fucking counselor.

Whatever darkness had been in Korra's expression before vanishes when the waitress comes over with her breakfast.]

Thanks. Could I get this in a to-go container, actually? I appreciate it.

[The last thing she wants is to sit around for a lecture on why life is worth living by the same asshole who killed her. ]

[mortemscintilla]

[ Weariness reshapes Hei's brow and lip. Right now, there's something dark and quiet and raw about the way she is, the anger banked like hot-boiling clouds at the horizon. It's a look he's seen before. It makes him wonder -- was he such a nitwit when he was just starting out? So stubbornly nihilistic, so unwilling to be shown anything, told anything? Instruction really isn't his métier, he lacks the right kind of patience. Amber would've been better at this. But Amber was better at a lot of things -- betrayal and lies foremost among them. ]

[ He seals off the lid on that wellspring of bitterness. Digs into the paper cup of sour cream on the edge of his plate, instead, and starts spreading it on the golden backs of the blintzes. There's a beat, before he murmurs, ]

You're not the first person to get reamed. Not be the organization. Or by -- [ a shrug. ] Life. Karma. Whatever. [ There's a complete lack of rancor in his voice. He tucks into the blintzes with gusto. ] You want to die, that's your call. Or you can keep living. Do some dirty work for the higher ups in a dirty world, hitch your wagon to their star. You'll have money and a good life as long as you stay sharp and keep your wits about you. The more you succeed, the better care they'll take of you; the more layers of protection will build up around you. You'll never have to punch a clock. Or join a union. Or shovel forms in triplicate or suffer any of the daily indignities of a square working life, at least.

[ As a civilian, she'd never been beyond her sheltered little realm. She doesn't realize that in the Syndicate's violent world, or in quotidian civilian reality, the system is the same. Just with different types of casualties. ]

[anatural]

[She can recite the speech by heart at this point. She's gotten it from pretty much everyone -- her instructors at the Syndicate's torture centers, her superior officers during debriefs. Hell, there's even been a one night stand or two who'd managed to get a peek behind her facade and figured that insight gave them the right to lecture her.]

And look how happy it's made you, Mr. Silver Lining. You're a regular motivational poster. The "Hang in there!" kitten better watch its back.

[All the terrible things he's seen, all the worse things he's done, and his idea of comfort is "at least you don't have to do paperwork"? Like that was even going to be her life in the first place. He just assumed that he knew what her life would have been like, that "civilian" life was the same everywhere.

But she had been a shaman -- the first shaman in her village for decades. Her parents had been too concerned with hiding her from people like Hei to think of what that meant for the village, but Korra had always known that the spirits wanted her to protect her culture. And look at her now. Living in the heart of the Great Melting Pot, constantly getting mistaken for a Mexican, teaching a sacred practice from someone else's culture entirely to a bunch of white people who wanted to lose weight. But at least she doesn’t have to join a union. What fucking reality does he live in?]

[mortemscintilla]

[ The word Happy pings off Hei's brain with a sharp resonance akin to static crawling up an iron tooth-filling. Playing Little Miss Victim really doesn't become her. But his expression stays impassive; conscious effort to reject the irritation that boils through him. ]

[ No, he doesn't know what her life was going to be. But she's not a shaman to the world's heavy-hitters. She's a Contractor. A weapon; a tool; the veritable scum of the earth. That's all she'd ever be if anyone beyond her village got wind of her powers. Society would take her in, find the truth of her bitter-tasting, spit her out, and she'd exist on the fringes as human garbage. Because that's what all Contractors are, in the eyes of 'normal people.' A moat of human garbage eddying around every pristine scenic park, disqualified from sharing the picnic baskets. ]

[ But oh, the pain of being a Syndicate lackie! The stigma of being a killer! She's too young -- too stupid -- to realize it could be worse. She could be forced to work as a honeytrap or provocateurix, and suffer psychic wounds that would give a seasoned streetwalker the chills. She could be stuck in a cell, starved and beaten, let loose like a wild dog only when the Syndicate wanted something done. Instead she's been given a function. Her family hasn't been threatened or killed. She hasn't lost any beloved comrades, or been forced to operate with teams of predators who'd doublecross her. ]

[ At the end of the day, Hei can't feel the way she does, because his lifestyle was designed to make a killer of him anyway. And it isn't difficult to feel like an outcast in a world where your basic self puts you at odds with the ideals of inclusion. At least in the Syndicate, if you are a cunning risk-taker, you manage to obtain all that is officially unavailable to the 'normal people' -- money, power, influence. It's better than an ordinary existence of ignorance, monotony, minor offenses and despair. Infinitely better than a pointless death. ]

[ He sets the empty tray of blintzes aside. His tone is mild as ever. ]

Happy is subjective. If the Syndicate hadn't found you, some lower-ranking organization would have. Even if you escaped them, it'd be impossible to stay in your village. Not without endangering everyone there. You'd have had to leave, at some point. Spent a miserable daily existence ducking the cops and other agencies, and probably wind up dead by age twenty, most likely a suicide in a jail cell or a stabbing victim in a prison shower.

[anatural]

[Fuck you, sir. "Playing the victim," because she fails to accept your great and magnificent wisdom? Because instead of taking comfort in the fact that if she obeys the rules, she'll get paid, she takes comfort in the fact that if she dies, they can't use her anymore? She's not taking extravagant risks with her life here. She's not doing drugs, or picking fights in every bar, or deliberately going after suicide missions. It's a little risk here, a little risk there, and a few more casual fucks than she'd probably have had otherwise. She's not wearing fuck-me boots and giving Death a come-hither look. She's just not crossing to the other side of the street when she sees it and praying it doesn't notice her. (Perhaps another factor is her people's traditional belief in reincarnation. It's not something that Korra actively, consciously chooses to believe in, but it is a part of her cultural subconscious.)

She arches an eyebrow at his little speech -- again, nothing she hasn't heard before, from rich white men trying to convince her they did her a favor, like a rapist going "Hey, you should be glad I didn't murder you." Gee, thanks mister, that was awful nice of you.]

Once again, thank you for that stirring inspirational speech, Mr. Sunshine. [On a slightly more serious -- okay, not more serious, but on a slightly less sarcastic note] You seriously need to get laid more often.

[mortemscintilla]

[ It's those little risks that give it away. A lapse in judgement here, a dissolution of restraint there. Gears chafing; bolts rusting and creaking. Psychological atrophying doesn't occur in one fell swoop. It's a process. The fact that Korra's flirting with it already means she's been inhaled like a dust mote into the lungs of the dragon. And every breath the dragon takes will carry her deeper into its bowels and farther from the light. She is in so deep already, how the hell is she going to get out? ]

[ Except that's not his concern. It's hers. For all the Syndicate thinks it knows about Hei, it doesn't realize he's not driven by bloodlust, glory or ego -- for him it comes down to survival, his sights set not on money or medals but staying alive to fight another battle, another stepping-stone in his path to a heretofore unknown destination. (Except he knows that destination. Like a series of framed picture in his mind: red in the delicate dips of pale knuckles; wisps of dark hair pasted with blood; a child's burning blue eyes. The word Pai will always hold the same flavor as oxygen in his mouth.) ]

[ At her words, he doesn't blink. But there's something that shutters in his gaze -- brief as a flutter of wings. It isn't confusion or annoyance or even temptation. It's a blank sort of dismissal. ]

Let me worry about that non-issue.

[ Don't think you're fooling him by changing tacks this way. ]

[anatural]

Right, right. Your blueballs aren't any of my business. And unless they're paying you a lot better than I think they are, my life isn't any of yours.

[The waitress comes by with Korra's meal in a to-go container and Korra takes it with a smile that is surprisingly genuine.]

Thanks for breakfast.

[mortemscintilla]

[ Hei doesn't say anything; gaze steady, lips flat, the expression never falters. (Two thoughts bloom in a narrow fold of his mind, though. 1) Her smile, he decides, is an unexpectedly sweet thing to behold. 2) The Syndicate, he realizes, is going to devour her until that spark is completely extinguished.) Something almost like pity bubbles in him, but it's so brief he dismisses it as nothing more than a gurgling stomach. ]

[ As she gets up to leave, he doesn't stop her. But when she passes by, he slips a finger into the rear pocket of her jeans, to hold her back a moment. Without looking over, he says, ]

Be ready for a relocation in 48 hours.

[ It's phrased as both a You're welcome and a Goodbye. ]

[anatural]

[Well if you have indigestion, Hei, it's probably from all that food you've been scarfing down.

There's an instinct to slap his hand -- not because it's him, but because she's been in to many clubs with handsy assholes -- but, being a Contractor, she manages to suppress it.]

Yeah, yeah. Been there, done that, have the t-shirt collection to prove it. [She knows the drill by heart at this point.]

[mortemscintilla]

[ Don't mock his appetite, ok. He's still growing. (Though what exactly it is, that's 'growing', the world may never know. ]

[ A tip of the chin is the only indication that he's heard. Slipping his finger loose, returns his attention to the brimming plates, and lets Korra drift off to rejoin the indistinguishable civilian blur outside. (There may be a fingertip-sized tracker imprinted into the fabric of her jeans; a failproof device in case something goes awry.) ]