poly_chromatic | ♦ ♦ 17th Contract

[But whatever. Like it really matters. They'd had a few good times together; that doesn't mean she has to care about him (except she does). And is it really a surprise? She'd seen the way he had looked at that green haired girl in the club. It's not like he really cares about her (except in his strange twisted way, she's pretty sure he does. Why else would he let her keep her memories?)

It's not like you haven't done inappropriate things with someone else's boyfriend.

WHATEVER. It doesn't matter. She has more important things to do, like make sure the cats don't kill each other and Hamlet doesn't tease Naga and the sheep don't try to eat sand. Then there's meditation with Jinora, maybe some sparring with Chief Bei Fong, and before she knows it it's time to go to work.

Ugh. Work. She still hates it in the Underground, but she hasn't quit and somehow has managed not to get fired, either. The nights she works tend to be full of ladies -- she's developed a reputation for busting the balls of skeevy pervs.

Like this slimy little asshole who likes to wander around and grope unsuspecting women. Who let him in?! Korra's going to read the riot act to the guy who works the shift before her, but for now she's lifting the little perv into the air by his collar.]

What have I told you about coming here?

[ He's made perfunctory rounds of the Underground. His nighttime body count is climbing, even as the tension -- the aimlessness in him -- refuses to settle. But it's not just him. The City's atmosphere is on edge too. His contacts are all on tenterhooks. Something big is about to go down. Not sure if it's Deity-spawned. But he's keeping his eyes peeled. ]

[ With the drunk-text curse sweeping aboveground, he's retreated to his safehouse. But he can't focus on assembling weapons, meditating or shadowboxing. Sleep, as always, is elusive. Might as well walk. Everything feels so desultory. He's tired of acting like 'Li' in daylight -- so much energy tamped down to pretend he's just a schnook with a cookbook. What a waste. What a bore. Yet that restlessness makes him feel so fucking ungrateful. He's away from the Syndicate, getting a much-needed breather. He has that damn cat. He has Yin. He should be happy. That he still feels itchy is like a personal failing. ]

[ He doesn't want to get into it. ]

[ It's late when he drifts by Korra's bar. It's one of the few places with a last-call past one-thirty. As soon as the clubs start playing the last song, the casinos shut down and the after-parties begin, the nocturnals tend to congregate here. He leans by the fence, watching the army of loud-talking bikers and girls in tight clothes, trying to decide if he wants to go in, or head topside for patrolling. Maybe he'll skip both. Give Korra a call and indulge in some time-sinkage. ]

[ Except Korra is right there. ]

[Korra hurls the skeevy perv onto the street, where he lands on his arm. Ouch. Except she neither notices nor cares. The late night crowd has arrived and her focus is on making sure a couple teenagers she knows don't try to sneak in with the bikers.

She recognizes the head biker, though, and quirks a little grin. They've had an understanding since she beat the crap out of him (he's a smart guy; you just have to punch sense into him). He won't let any of the twerps in with his gang. She relaxes her guard just a bit and looks around.

There's a stab in her chest when she catches sight of Li. What's he doing here? Doesn't matter. You've got a job to do. For another...twenty minutes, at least.]

[ Idly, he watches her Take Out the Trash with a voyeur's ringside view. He's still counting the days before she washes her hands of this establishment. Not her type of place, although she's certainly a sparkly lure that draws in customers. Word of the Little Ballbuster has gotten around to neighboring bars. Jokes are being cracked and bets drawn on the inevitable catfight. No better stroking for the hedonist's ego. ]

[ He meets her gaze through the crowd with a brief nod. Decides, in that moment, to forgo drinks at the bar. He's not in the mood for hazy alcohol and a hazy atmosphere. This feels like a night for clarity. A new entourage of bikers rolls in, popping wheelies, showboating with acrobatics on the handlebars. The rumbling engines and beaming headlights fill the dark lot. He glances away from Korra, mildly absorbed in the mini-circus. ]

[ Maybe he'll hang around a few minutes longer. ]

[Argh, why is he hanging around? Korra doesn't want to deal with him and the queasy feeling in her belly that's an awful lot like jealousy.

Unfortunately, she doesn't get a choice in the matter. Her replacement taps her out, saying the boss is letting her out early. Any chance she can get out of here without talking to him?

Yeeeeeeeah no. She sighs, shoving her hands into her pockets and snuggling deeper into her jacket (the one from home, that Li gave back to her).]

[ He's in a conversation with a biker chick -- hair dyed three different shades of red, jacket cut open to pimp a hardbelly and a glittery navel ring -- when Korra approaches. (Her accent is making it tricky to determine if she's trying to sell him bootlegged DVDs, or if she's propositioning him. He doubts she understands his way of speaking any better.) ]

[ After a moment of Babelfishiness, he lets her go. Focuses on Korra, and the sulkiness she radiates. ]

[ Either she had a bad day, or she's pissed off at him. ]

[Definitely propositioning you. Korra's seen this girl leave the bar with her hand down someone's pants more than once -- a different person, every time. Which, okay, whatever, like Korra cares what other people do with their bits and pieces. But -- no, no buts. She doesn't care. She's not the tiniest bit relieved when the woman leaves, her hands in her own pants.]

What are you doing here?

[ It might've been, yeah. But in the end, flash-&-trash hasn't much appeal for him. As with any aspect of his life, he gravitates toward the low-key. (So where does Korra fit into that? ]

[ He shrugs it off. ]

[ Her question earns a faint frown. Why does she preface half their encounters with an interrogation? (You know why). He ignores that too. ]

It's a bar. Use your imagination.

[Yeah, Hei. Where does Korra fit into all this? Why play around with her? Why let her keep her memories but not Chekov? Lots of unanswered questions.

She snorts at his answer.]

You know where the door is.

[And she's going home.]

[ Lots of unanswered questions. No simple answers. ]

[ His brow arches, but he offers no comeback. Definitely pissed off at him. He doesn't particularly care if she is. (She's hot-tempered, hormonal, young, and lives in a world of emotion, a kind of joy-and-crisis-du-jour lifestyle. These aren't real crises by his standards.) However he is curious as to why. ]

Something's eating you.

Long day.

[ Her tone radiates I Don't Want To Talk. He's ready to let her go; his mood is tetchy, hers is punch-in-the-nosy. The combination equates disaster. ]

[ But he can't resist a spark of sarcasm, ]

That time of the month again? [ Because what is this if not raging PMS? ]

[...............................................................................................................................]

Say that again.

[ He understands women and boundaries enough to know he should shut up. But if she's taking her irritation out on him, he can certainly play tit for tat. Like Amber, like Pai, she doesn't exactly bring out the best in him. ]

You're not deaf. You heard me.

[She's tired. She's cranky. She hasn't slept well in what feels like months. She's jealous and she doesn't want to be jealous because he's the world's biggest jerkbender and she misses Mako. She misses Bolin and Asami and friends that made sense. She misses feeling like she had people she could fall back on, not just people she had to protect.

She's not thinking clearly. Which is probably why she reaches out to grab the collar of his shirt. She is this close to punching him in the face.]

[ She steps in -- and a cold black butterfly blooms inside Hei. He can dislocate her shoulder before she touches him with even a fingertip. Can fracture her nose, break her jaw, stop her heart with one jolt. He's killed others for far less. Could never tolerate -- can never tolerate -- his space invaded. When she touches him, the butterfly blazes into hundreds of wings, crackling and icy in his field of vision. Dimly, he's aware of spectators staring and whispering. The air is supercharged, and they can sense drama. It's always more blatant -- more interesting -- when it's personal. ]

[ Somehow, that decides him. Korra's anger has made her sensibilities catch fire, smoke rising from her flesh. But he won't start a brawl for anyone's entertainment. ]

Back off, Korra.

[ The simple sentence drops the temperature between them to subzero. ]

[She feels the temperature drop and a frisson of fear, but it doesn't stop her, doesn't cool her down. A part of her is itching for...something; she couldn't even say what.]

Or you'll do what?

[ Matter-of-factly, his hand closes -- with a lightness she must know is deceptive -- on her wrist. Detaches her grip from his collar. His gaze warns her that whatever rage he feels over the scene she's causing, he feels for her in equal measure. But when he speaks, he sounds calm. Preternaturally calm. ]

Try that again. And you'll find out.

The same thing you did to Chekov?

[Her voice is pitched low -- she's not that dumb. This isn't how you wanted to ask him. But the question is out there, hovering between them.]

[ His detached air doesn't evaporate: it drops to a lower somesthesia, a palpable chill. There are still curious eyes on the two of them. But his brain is functioning optimally now, all distractions erased. Still gripping her wrist, he steers her to a secluded pocket of the lot. Behind him, a troupe of riders are getting geared up, headlights flaring, engines roaring. ]

[ He speaks in a monotone, cool and terse, audible over the din. ]

Is that what you want? [ No headgames. No double-meanings. If she's subconsciously trying to rile him up so he erases her memory like Chekov's, he'll oblige her. Make a Deity trade. Erase all their knowledge of his business. Ideally, it's what he should've done all along. These kids aren't his friends. They're thorns in his side, pebbles in shoe, flies in his soup. The whole shebang. ]

[ That he can't reconcile that unavoidable fact to his own damn sentiment is a weakness. ]

What? No!

[How could he even ask? She already had the chance to do that, to give up ugly and painful memories in exchange for her identity back. She'd said no then; her memories, good and bad, were too precious to her. That's twice as true now.

(He doesn't know about that failed trade, of course. She never told anyone the details, not even Chekov.)]

[ Hei drags a hand through his hair. It's not an impatient gesture, but there are edges of frustration in the corners of his eyes, in the faint pinch between his brows. He wants to pursue this cord to the elusive umbilicus. She doesn't want her memories erased -- but she should. She's trying to piss him off -- but she shouldn't. A goddamn marvel of foolishness. Doesn't she realize he's practically offering her a ticket out of his filth. Scar-free and scot-free. ]

[ She brought up Chekov. Which means that Chekov told her about Hei's warning. But this seems to be about more than just Chekov. There's something else -- something more deep-seated. Accusations. Spleen. Mistrust. Given the amount of sketchy details and bullshit between them, it's inevitable. But the only way he can get it over with is to wrench it out of her. ]

What then? [ There's a vicious edge to his voice. ] You have something to say. Either say it, or stop wasting my time.

Why didn't you?

[The last time, her question had been Why didn't you kill me? And he hadn't answered, but she had assumed it was a matter of not killing unless strictly necessary. Threatening her had been plenty effective. But if Hei had the ability to take away her memories, leaving her none the wiser, why hadn't he? Why bother threatening her? Why keep up the dorky facade with Chekov but drop the mask for her?

What is she to him?]

[ He expects her to lash out. It would make things so much simpler. Instead there's the earnestness again, calm and unconcealed. It makes him feel livid and apprehensive and confused. Why didn't you? The words sizzle in the air, renewing themselves with every slow breath. His mind refuses to make sense of them, to leap ahead of her meaning. ]

[ He could assemble a perfect lie. Say something innocent. Or something cutting. Something to ensure she'd never ask him again. Or he could ignore her entirely. Walk away. He owes her nothing. She may be Pai-eyed and Pai-spirited -- but she's not his dead sister. He just refuses to let the illusion go. You have to. Just walk away. ]

[ Instead he exhales, and cuts his gaze aside. He feels like he's about to step into an ice-floe. That same chilling plunge, a fall into hypothermic darkness. ]

Because... you're like someone I knew. A long time ago. [ No inflection. No sign at all that he's engaged in this conversation. His eyes are flat and dull as glass. ] Someone who was important to me. Who I couldn't save. [ because she'd saved him instead. A beat, then his eyes narrow. Colder, he says, ] I should've killed you. I should. It's an irrational reason to spare someone's life. But -- [ A half-shrug. ] It's true that people want to preserve what's familiar to them.

[......an honest answer. Her heart stops, and for a moment it's like she can't breathe. The words are disturbing -- I should've killed you. I should. It's an irrational reason to spare someone's life. -- they're not words anyone expects to hear or wants to hear, and it's one thing to know he's violent and another to hear him talk about killing her so calmly.

It's not like she even understands. The people in her life are wholly unique to her -- she's never felt anything towards someone because they remind her of someone else. The idea that he sees someone else when he looks at her (touches her) is uncomfortable, creepy.

But that's not the part that matters most to her. Who I couldn't save are the words that claw into her heart. They translate his monotone and flat expression into something she understands: pain. That's a pain she's felt and feared, a feeling she knows well.]

I'm sorry.

[It's not pity -- it's a pain shared.]

Edited 2013-01-30 15:26 (UTC)

♦ ♦ 17th Contract

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