#I think it was mostly for kids that had troubles with the tase of most liquid medicines

[brindlestorm]

One of the worst things about having memory problems (for me at least) is when you have a totally mundane memory about something that somehow manage to stick with you for so long and someone says “that was never a thing”, so you spend months or years thinking it’s not real and you just made it up until someone else comes along and says “yeah I totally remember [x] thing, loved/hated that stuff growing up”.

And then suddenly you have validation that its real so you start questioning everything else people told you wasn’t real and leads to more and more anxiety as your world kind of crumbles without actually falling apart if that makes sense.

[poppy-battenberg]

feral  //  self

Her nails were broken and jagged. 

While she was in the hospital, no one filed them down. No one came too close to her, unless she was sedated. Even then, there were handcuffs on her wrists and ankles to keep her chained to the hospital bed. She hated to be awake, to feel the pain that was not eased until the last few minutes before she drifted into unconsciousness. Most of the time, when she was awake, they gagged her to keep her from asking questions. All she saw were nurses with eyelash extensions and horrifyingly stark, bare walls around her. 

When they finally released her, it was into the firm grip of a robotic Peacekeeper. It was suggested she not be tased, but if she fought against them too much, they would obviously have to do what was necessary. So she fought. She was tased. She ended up on the sidewalk outside the hospital, and used her forearms to try to avoid hitting her head there. The force of the taser and the sudden fall were still enough to give her a headache, but nothing like those first few days. She spit up on the Peacekeeper’s metallic foot, little more than some hospital fluids in her system. She was hauled into the truck with spit dribbling down her chin, and blood running down her clothes from where the skin on her forearms was torn. She was quiet only as long as it took her to catch her breath, then she started to spit and scream. She really didn’t know what had happened outside the walls of the hospital. She had no idea how many days had passed. She had no idea if she was on her way to her execution, prison, or a comfortable meal at home. 

A soldier was in the truck with the Peacekeepers. She was the one who stuck a needle in Poppy’s arm, and the world drifted away quickly again. She hated it. She hated that it was welcome. 

When she opened her eyes again, she was staring at a gray wall. Something was missing from her. She was certain she was naked, but when she tilted her head down, she found herself in clothes that matched the wall. The cuffs. They were gone from her wrist and ankles. She reached a hand up to press against the wall in front of her. Rough. Concrete. She dragged her fingertips down through a groove, staring at that broken and jagged index finger nail. It disgusted her. The daughter of a Capitol stylist, there were always certain things she kept tidy and pretty: her nails and her hair. Now she barely recognized her own hand, aside from the bruises on the wrist and scratches on her palm. Her forearms were wrapped in gauze. 

Beneath her, the gray was smooth, cool. Like the rails on the hospital bed. Metal.

“You’re up.”

Poppy flipped over quickly. Her stomach was empty, she was dehydrated, and she felt the room spin as she gripped at the edge of the metal bed. Someone else was in this room with her. Another girl, another brunette. Another person in gray, the same gray as her clothes and the wall and the bed.

“Wh-Where am I?” Poppy did not recognize her own voice. She did not recognize her own dry mouth as it opened and closed. 

“Capitol prison. My name is Seela.” No games, just a simple response. Poppy could finally see the woman. See the metallic tattoos torn up with scars, the space where her left ear no longer stuck out, the split ends of hair that had clearly been messily chopped off. There was still a little bit of pink dye at the tips. “It’s October 16th. Primrose Everdeen is dead. We eat dinner in five minutes.”

Poppy did not care about Primrose Everdeen. She did not care that the woman she’d only known as a face on a television was dead. That was not a concern to her. She cared if her family made it through this. She cared only about that. When she asked Seela to tell her more, Seela said she wasn’t the Capitol Gazette and sat with her back to Poppy to go back to reading.

When a bell rang, Poppy followed Seela’s lead. Lined up in the cell, then lined up outside the cell. She tried to keep her head straightforward, but her eyes were darting around, looking for a familiar face. Nothing. No one. All these women, and she didn’t recognize a single one. Were they all rebels? There was a sharp jab of someone’s knee to her back, and she realized she’d come to a standstill at the top of the stairs. She started to walk down, holding the railing for support. 

Her body was weak. She hadn’t felt this way in a long time. She’d had mono in high school, and it knocked her off her routine for months. She lost muscle, lost motivation. Following the row of prisoners into the mess hall, she wondered what else she lost. Despite her hunger, the smell in the hall did not appeal to her, and the strange soup she was ladled out did not look appetizing. The bread she was given was stale. The milk carton was closed, she could feel the curdled bits inside sloshing against the side as she walked.

Out of line, without Seela walking in front of her, she suddenly felt very lost. Exposed. Looking around the room, she was very aware that all eyes were on her. It was not paranoia. Everyone was looking at her. She could do nothing but stare back, unable to focus on any one set of eyes. What could she do? Apologize for her aunt? Apologize for their loss? For what reason did they blame her for the failed rebellion? 

Who was going to come for her first?

She took a seat at the end the only empty table in the hall. No one came to sit with her. No one looked at her once she was seated. She forced down the soup and bread. She opened the milk and set it away quickly, afraid the smell might make her soup come back up. 

They lined up again. Poppy could do nothing but sit on her bed as she waited for lights out. She tried to ask Seela if anyone there was from Twelve, and Seela told Poppy to find a hobby. 

Lights out.

Wake up at 6. 

Line up at 6:15.

Breakfast is over at 6:45. 

Rotating shower schedule at 8.

Cell time until 10.

Outdoor rec time until 11.

Lunch at 11:15.

Indoor rec time at 11:45.

Cell time at 12:30.

Line up at 4:45.

Dinner at 5.

Rotating shower schedule at 5:30.

Lights out at 9.

Poppy was punched for the first time on the second day. She tried to fight back, but was easily knocked back down again. There was a shadow of her strength left, and it would need coaxing. It would need help. 

Seela leant her a book. Poppy got a headache within ten minutes of trying to read it. She was sent for an evaluation at the infirmary, had her gauze pads changed, and was given something for her head. She barely made it back in time for lights out. She was awoken by a middle of the night cell check. She had nothing for the guards to look through, and Seela only had Capitol-approved books that were mostly about gardening. Two prisoners were found with secret notes from rebels outside the prison walls. The gunshots went off before the cells were all locked back up. 

Lights out again.

Wake up at 6. Get up, kid.

Line up at 6:15. Don’t be last in line or you’ll get no bread and whatever is at the bottom of the soup pot. 

Breakfast is over at 6:45. Again, don’t be last in line out of here. You’ll be a target for the guards. Cell time. I like silence at these times.

Rotating shower schedule at 8. Don’t get the soap in your eyes. 

Cell time until 10. You need to get a hobby. 

Outdoor rec time until 11. You should run. Don’t look at her.

Lunch at 11:15. This is the best meal of the day. Don’t get busted up beforehand or you’ll miss it.

Indoor rec time at 11:45. None of the board games have all the pieces.

Cell time at 12:30. You need to get a hobby.

Line up at 4:45. Walk in front of me. 

Dinner at 5. Sit with me. 

Rotating shower schedule at 5:30. I’m going to shower. Don’t touch my books.

Lights out at 9. Stay. Quiet.

Poppy didn’t think Seela liked her, but every few days someone else was marched out of the cell after another sweep fo the cells. Seela didn’t like her, but she liked blood on her bedsheets less. An occupied cellmate was better than one that got in trouble. Poppy had the energy a week later to say that trouble had a way of finding her.

Poppy started her first fight an hour later.

It was outside, when she was running (or rather, slowly jogging) at Seela’s insistence so she  couldtire herself out to sleep. She’d gotten too close to someone else’s territory. Irritated, hungry after being last in line for breakfast, she didn’t have time for a shouting match. She split her knuckles on the woman’s jaw and later had to use her own bed sheets to wrap it. If she started a fight, she wouldn’t get treatment for it, Seela said. There was a bruise forming in the center of Poppy’s back by the time she showered, right where the guard had brought down her baton to end the fight. Poppy was given a warning and told that was all she got. No matter who you are. 

Lights out.

Wake up at 6. Stretch. 

Line up at 6:15. Don’t look around. 

Breakfast is over at 6:45. Cell time. More stretching. Write down goals for the day.

Rotating shower schedule at 8. Calisthenics. 

Cell time until 10. Upper body strength and shadow boxing. 

Outdoor rec time until 11. Run. Alternate interval sprints and endurance laps around the yard.

Lunch at 11:15. Do not rush. 

Indoor rec time at 11:45. Watch the news. 

Cell time at 12:30. Lower body strength and hand-to-hand combat drills. 

Line up at 4:45. 

Dinner at 5. 

Rotating shower schedule at 5:30. Cold shower. This is not a time for comfort.

Lights out at 9. Stretch.

Some days, early on, she was so sore she did nothing. Whenever someone new showed up, she asked if they knew anything about Twelve. When they did not, she never spoke to them again. When they did, they never had the answers she was looking for. No one seemed to know what happened to the Battenbergs who’d been hiding in Twelve.

No one also seemed to know when they were getting out, or if they were getting out, either. They hadn’t been executed on the spot, but what came next? No one really knew. No one really knew who was actually a rebel, either. Some were arrested for affiliation, for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Some lied and just pretended that was the reason they were there. 

One day it was too cold to go outside. Poppy was agitated. She’d grown up in the Capitol, she could stand a November chill. She wanted to run, anyway. She’d warm up. She’d be fine. All arguments she kept to herself as she found a space in the corner of the rec room to sit and contemplate what to do next. She was yelled at for blocking the heating vent. 

The guard was not faster than Poppy as she lunged at the woman. She was desperate to hit something solid, something real. Something that would bleed. As she got the woman in a chokehold, a baton came down on her shoulder, then her back, then her leg. She was stronger than the prisoner, but not stronger than the guards. When she tried to grab at the guard’s leg to drag the woman down, another guard yanked her arms back and snapped on handcuffs.

Poppy was marched through a new concrete corridor, beyond the infirmary and beyond the mess hall for the male prisoners on the other side of the building. A guard had to turn on a flashlight to walk through a hallway lined with solid doors and Peacekeepers stationed outside each one. A door was waiting wide open, Poppy was shoved inside, and the door shut rapidly behind her. There was a little window just beyond the reach of her raised hand, where light filtered into the concrete room. There was no metal bed, just a thin mattress on the ground with suspicious stains. Poppy slowly moved her arms and twisted her body, testing out where she knew the pain would only get worse. No amount of stretching would prevent the soreness of the next morning. 

She sat on the ground, and began to recite to herself survival skills she would tell her tributes.

“Never assume water is drinkable, but always collect it. You can create a fire to boil something easier than you can create water. There are a lot of ways to start a fire...”

Her first stint in solitary was 24 hours. The air shifted around her after that. Seela, favored by the guards for her good behavior, requested to be moved to a different cell. Poppy’s first new cellmate was removed on her second night for a shiv she was hiding in her shoe. The next cellmate tried to strangle Poppy in her sleep, and Poppy slammed the girl’s head on the metal corner of the bed. The guards found them both awake at 6, but only one bleeding, and Poppy was hauled off to solitary again. 

Two days this time. She recited her survival tips again. Her first meal back in the mess hall, she and several others got food poisoning. The amount of rebels in the infirmary was so concerning that several Peacekeepers were stationed there as they were all handed medicine. Among the group, Poppy spotted some familiar faces. The older brother of an old school friend. A girl she’d played soccer with. 

No one from Twelve. 

Weeks had passed, and there was not even a crumb of news about her family. She’d seen the replays of her aunt’s Victor’s Ball speech. She wondered if the woman was cowardly enough to keep hiding out in District Thirteen. Surely, her aunt would’ve said something if rebels killed her only living sibling and his children. Or would that require her to admit to the nation that her own niece was among those rebels?

It made Poppy sick to think about. Her father knew Twelve better than her. Other rebels knew her family was hiding out in the old butcher shop. They must have gotten away. They were helped to escape. Maybe Ian was reading through all new books in District Thirteen now. Maybe Sara was learning that strange language their leader spoke. Maybe her father had lost enough, he was at peace with being separated from his daughter.

She wasn’t dead, after all. She was alive, and as well as she could be under the circumstances. 

The headaches ceased. She challenged other prisoners to arm wrestling competitions to win part of their meal portions. She stacked her cell mattresses and pillows against the wall and punched and kicked at them until she was exhausted. 

She wasn’t dead. Even after her third stint in solitary, that lasted four days and had her ready to scream her head off, she was not dead. And still no word came of her family. No word came that her aunt gave a single flying fuck that her niece was starting to cause a stir in the rebel prison. Poppy didn’t care for any talk of revolution or rebellion. She didn’t care for much talk at all, really. But she cared for the thrill of animosity directed at her, for the chance to fight once more. Maybe if she was sent to death’s doorstep, someone would finally fucking tell her something.

Lights out.

Wake up at 6.

Line up at 6:15.

Breakfast is over at 6:45.

Rotating shower schedule at 8.

Cell time until 10.

Indoor rec time until 11. Bitch, what are you looking at?

Her nails were broken and jagged. As they curled into her palm, she sliced a little of her own skin. She didn’t care. She took a moment to relish the pinch, the impression, and when the guard swung a baton at her, she ducked. One strike with a closed fist to the guard’s ribs. An unclenched but strong hand jabbed hard at the side of the guard’s neck. The guard used two hands on the baton to shoved at Poppy’s chest. Poppy latched onto the stick as she was tackled, pushing back against the pressure on her sternum. Her legs were pinned by the guard. There was little hope for her in this fight, but she refused to give up as she groaned and pushed back against the guard. A group of guards were present within moments, ready to grab Poppy the moment she was freed. She spit and scratched and kicked and screamed, but the rebels were not the only ones who’d gone to war. The guards had dealt with worse. There was a pinch at her neck, and then the drifting feeling she barely recognized almost two months later.

It was December 15th when she woke up in solitary. 

A guard delivered her first breakfast through the meal slot, a change from the usual Peacekeeper delivery. She asked how long she was there this time. She must’ve already been passed out when the guards iterated their usual “for your punishment, you will spend X hours in solitary.” There was no answer from this guard. The meal flap slapped shut.

Lunch was hand-delivered, too, by a different guard. And dinner also. Poppy was unnerved. She tried to exercise, to find a way to train as snow dimmed the outside light from coming in. But her mind was racing, and each time she heard something in the hallway, she found herself suddenly jumping. Had they injected her with anything else? Was she even still in the Capitol prison? There was no way to tell if this was the same cell she’d always been put in.

December 16th. 

The worst thing about solitary was the lack of structure. Poppy thought she hated structure, but there was some level of it that was absolutely needed in human life. She lost count of her squats, she barely broke a sweat, she was hesitant to strike even at the air. All meals were delivered by guards. They were more solid than anything she’d ever had in the mess hall. She wasn’t sure when it was night, and she didn’t know if she really slept. 

December 17th. 

Shortly after breakfast, before her tray was even taken away, there was a clicking sound nearby. The door. It was the door unlocking. Poppy stood immediately, dumping the crumbs from her tray and holding the spoon out like a weapon as she waited to see who would enter. A guard, with a taser already drawn and a new pair of overall in her arms. They were thicker, for the weather that was getting even colder. Poppy did not go after her, and the guard kept the taser drawn until the door was locked again. Poppy changed.

December 18th.

She slept the night before. She started to count to sixty repeatedly, then remembered she hadn’t gone through her usual list of survival tips. She didn’t know why she did it, but it was all she could think to do. Seela told her to get a hobby. This was her hobby. Staying alive. 

She thought a lot about Niko and Gemma that day. The inked reminders of her dead tributes were still so fresh on her skin that even in pale light, she could still see each line. Niko’s and Gemma’s were the biggest, perhaps wishful thinking she would not have need for extra space for homages to the rest of the tributes she could not keep alive. 

Maybe she’d been saving all the good tips for herself.

December 19th.

A steak knife was on her dinner plate. She kept it tight in her grip as she watched a guard pull back the tray through the meal plate. There was no hesitation as the tray scraped on the floor, then there were footsteps down the hallway. Poppy clutched the knife in outstretched arms, defensive, as she lied down on her bed. She fell asleep that way.

December 25th.

She slept with the knife every night. When the sun rose, the cell flooded with light. She got a new set of overalls, but did not change. She stuffed the collar into a crack in the wall. She used her boots to weigh down the end of the stained mattress, and propped it up to rest under the overalls. The arms rested awkwardly and it ended up shorter than most people, but that didn’t matter. Poppy started to do high-knees, jumping jacks, squats, jump squats, push-ups, anything she could think of to get her heart pumping. The steak knife remained always within reach. When she felt sweat start to drip down her hairline, she snatched up the knife and slashed at the overalls. She cut through the fabric, and through the thin cover of her mattress. She swung again, cut again. 

She asked the darkness that night where her family was, as she tried to sleep on a torn up mattress. She got no answer. She’d hoped she was being spied on, that someone, somewhere, might have mercy on her and turn on a tiny little speaker to finally give her an answer. She asked once more, just to see if she hadn’t been loud enough the first time.

She told the darkness to go fuck itself.

January 15th. 

She should’ve known something was different when dinner the night before was heartier than usual. She assumed it was going to be an especially cold night, or a blizzard might be coming. When she woke, the first thing she noticed were her empty hands. Before her vision was fully cleared of sleep, she began to feel around in the dark to find the knife handle. Nothing. Nowhere.

“Oh, look at the poor dear.”

The light that hit her wasn’t from the sun. It was electric. A flashlight. Poppy’s groan at the sight of it bordered on a growl as she squinted her eyes, forcing herself not to close her eyes entirely. 

“What the f-” The voice was so high-pitched and nasally Poppy wanted to tear the woman’s throat out before she could see the full outline of her ridiculous hairstyle. 

“Don’t be a brat, Poppy.” 

Poppy sprang up. Before she could take another step, two guards had swiftly moved to grab her and pull her arms behind her, clapping on handcuffs. Behind the woman with the ridiculous hairstyle stood her older brother. Adam. She’d thought about him often, but never when concerned about the health of her family. She never second-guessed he’d always find a way to survive. She still wondered if he played any part in leading the rebels to their aunt’s bunker. 

Now here he stood, the man who had the answer to every single fucking question she had. The man with the answer to her one burning question, and his arms were crossed, and his nose was wrinkled up. When had he stopped loving her? Or had he always just been a good actor, and their family the unknowing cast?

“Sara-”

The baby first. The one she feared for the most. Her name was the first thing out of Poppy’s mouth. Adam uncrossed his arms. 

“Safe. Of course. Your friends aren’t nearly as good at keeping secrets as you think. We got them out of Twelve before you even got to the Hob.”

The Hob. The hideout. It didn’t affect her, not nearly as much as he was clearly hoping it would. She could see him watching her, waiting for a reaction to a revealed secret she didn’t care about. She didn’t know what past life the Hob belonged to, but it was hazy enough in her memory for her to barely blink. All she cared about was the reassurance, finally, that her family was safe. The palms of her hands grew warm, no longer feeling bare and empty without the knife clutched there.

The woman with the absurd hair cleared her throat. “And it’s Reaping Day!” she exclaimed with a grin. 

Sunrise

Poppy was eased back into the outside world. First a quiet, slow car ride in the dark, then her handcuffs were taken off. There was a long pause after, as everyone stared at her, waiting to see what she would do. She was tempted to go after her brother again, but she knew now where that would land her. She folded her arms instead, exactly mimicking her brother’s stance. He sighed, then just her brother and the stylist brought her up the elevator to a Capitol apartment. She saw the name of the apartment on the sign out front. She recalled something she’d heard in the prison.

“Did you get sick when they poisoned the water?” she asked her brother. 

“No. I’ve been testing my water for years.”

After the long period of silence, it startled her to hear a response. She imagined it might take some getting used to hearing other voices again. Had Adam always sounded so much like their father? She wished she could talk to him. They’d left Twelve, but gone where?

“Where-”

“Poppy, we don’t have much time. We’ll talk after.”

The stylist reached out to wrap her arms around Poppy’s shoulders, and Poppy immediately shoved her away. She felt no need to warn the woman not to fucking touch her again. She was handed a towel, a robe, a facial waxing kit, and a razor. 

For the first five minutes, she showered in only cold water. Slowly, she began to twist the other knob. More and more, then a little off the cold knob. The room filled with steam as her fingers began to prune. She reached out her hands on the wall to steady herself as she began to lower her body, her movements deliberate. Curled up on the tub floor, with nothing but the hot tap on, and sobbed for the first time in months. 

Adam said they did not have much time. It was utter bullshit. The sun was an hour away from rising when they arrived in the apartment. He knew. His heart had turned to ice with all his time around their aunt, but his mind was made sharper by it. When Poppy finally emerged from the bathroom, well after the sun rose, he said they were right on schedule. For a moment, she was comforted to see him drinking tea. She thought he might offer her some.

“You need to wax your eyebrows before anything,” he said instead.

“Bitch, you too,” she snapped. 

The stylist kept her distance as she led Poppy into the bathroom again. She stood several feet away as she guided Poppy through the proper hair removal and grooming steps. Poppy barely glanced at her, moving on what felt like a reclaimed instinct. When the stylist spoke, Poppy’s memory drowned her out with her mother’s voice. After her skin was calmed, and her hair was dried and styled, the stylist excitedly handed her a garment bag and left. Inside was a simple dark red dress, and Benjy’s old leather jacket on the hanger behind it. She hadn’t worn it since the Presidential Ball, but she’d brought it along to Twelve. She didn’t know how Adam found it. 

She remembered something he’d said once, a lifetime ago.

“We thought it was only us. Before you. Me and Benjy and Arissa. We were best friends.”

Adam was a rebel once. Maybe it was a bad family trait, to always want to rebel. Was that it? Or was it the desire to surprise, to draw attention? To be something more than just another bad hairdo at the Hearth Day afterparty? 

She laughed. It felt horrible, but she kept at it. She laughed at her own thoughts, as she imagined her mother’s ghost wreaking havoc if a single one of her children dared to go to a party with a bad hairstyle. Still shaking, not wanting to give up on laughing just yet, she started to dress. Wool tights, and a wool bodysuit under the long sleeve dress. Her brother’s jacket was many things, but it was not warm. Inside the sleeves of the dress she could feel the roughness of a lining of fleece that was added. There was a small packet of gold jewelry hanging from the hangers. She reached up to tug and feel at her ears suddenly, but felt no indentations. All her piercings, closed up. 

She would get them redone. She didn’t think much beyond that. She didn’t know what came after this, what came after playing dress up to watch someone be trotted off to the death. But she told herself she’d get a piercing again, and it was final. She slipped out the bracelets and rings, and adorned herself with such carefree movements, she didn’t recognize her hands. They were too clean, too soft. Except her nails.

Her nails were broken and jagged.

She stared at them, wondered if she should ask for a file to shape them and apply a sticker manicure. But that wasn’t right. This, these jagged, sharp edges, were the reminder of where she’d slept just the night before. She did not look in the mirror after pulling on the jacket, and walked out of the bathroom.

The Reaping

Poppy hadn’t seen so many people in months. It set her on edge. She kept her hands balled up, and continued to look over her shoulder as the stylist, still keeping her distance, led the way for Poppy to check in. Adam hadn’t driven with them to the center of the city. It’d just been Poppy and this stranger. Now, Poppy and this sea of strangers. She braced herself for the pinprick of the blood draw, told herself not to punch someone in the face. But as the draw came, a familiar scent filled her with calm. It was a perfume that told her it was time to smile, to play, to learn, to trust. 

“Poppy.”

Gentle. Aunt Titaniara was always so gentle. Poppy felt the light touch at her elbow before her hand pulled away from the worker. She jerked it away immediately, stared blankly at her aunt. It was not for lack of thought, or emotion. It was too much. She did not know what to do. Did she brave the phalanx of Peacekeepers surrounding her aunt to try to choke her out? Did she thank her for saving the rest of their family? Now, face to face with her, Poppy couldn’t imagine anyone getting close enough to kill this woman. Even now, dressed in white and with an expression of kindness, she looked untouchable.

Poppy realized that her brother chose a pair of short heels that exactly matched the height of her aunt’s. They were the same height, eye to eye. 

Poppy remembered the Seam. Remembered the stench of death everywhere. Death did not scare someone like her aunt, born and raised in a district like Twelve. 

Death is certain. So her aunt took a bigger gamble: to win or lose. Small games don’t matter, not really. There are greater games, with greater stakes. Auntie Titaniara always loved an underdog, and her greatest bet ever had been on herself. 

Death did not scare someone like her aunt. But losing would pack a punch. Maybe that was why she never let Poppy beat her at any games they played, no matter how young and sensitive Poppy was.

“Sit with me,” Titaniara said, as if it was really a suggestion. She held out her hand.

Poppy looked at the Peacekeepers first, and then at her aunt’s hand. Slowly, she reached out. The last time she’d reached for her aunt, she was tased. She tensed her muscles, readied for the pain, but all she felt was her aunt’s gloved hand wrap around her own.

She forgot how swiftly her aunt moved. Poppy had no time to relax into the familiar grasp before her aunt was walking. The Peacekeepers moved in formation. Stiff. Everything was so stiff in this little square that moved around her aunt, who moved so fluidly. Poppy’s feet moved quick, and she was suddenly a child again, rushing to keep up with Auntie Ti in her fun heels as she strolled into the Tower. They scaled the stairs, and it was not until they were seated that Titaniara let go. Not until Poppy was settled did she feel the blood flow quickly to her fingertips, and realized how tight her aunt’s grip was.

Snapping to attention, Poppy checked the clock. Her eyes scanned the crowds, looking for two familiar faces in the crowds. Sara and Ian. She’d never gotten an answer. Where were they? Had her aunt broken the rules to keep them out of the Reaping? Were they out of Panem? Were they in District Thirteen? Was that enough to keep them out of the Reaping? Were -

There she was. In a crowd that never seemed to stop moving, there was her baby sister, looking right at her. Sara was already crying, Poppy could tell from this far away. Her face was flushed, and she wasn’t moving. Poppy looked from her sister, to her aunt, and then back to the crowd. But Sara was already gone. There’d been some commotion as more thirteen-year-old girls joined the group, and a rapid shift took her sister away. 

Among the shifting crowds, she saw a familiar gray. Not every prisoner had her privilege. The rest had to show up in their gray overalls, while she sat in a new dress on stage next to her aunt.

The Reaping ceremony began. 

While the nation watched a pre-recorded video about Panem, Poppy watched her aunt. Watched her unchanging facial expression. Watched the way she kept a small, tight smile on her lips as there was a disclaimer about rebels paying for their actions.

The Black Eagles never stood a chance against a bitch who refused to die, and refused to lose. Even to a fucking kid.

Poppy really didn’t care about interrupting Honey Bellerose. Poppy looked at her aunt. She was tempted to mimic Titaniara, to match her smile exactly. 

Poppy clenched her jaw, and slowly released the tension with an exhale. Poppy found her aunt’s gaze as she raised her hand. Eye to eye.

Her nails were broken and jagged against the blue sky. 

“I volunteer as tribute!”

[thelillykane]

he’s so bad, but he does it so well 

OR, the one where Logan’s in trouble but the kids just wanna make out. 

this is yet another excerpt from that bigger fic in which Keith becomes Logan’s legal guardian and Logan and Veronica are, you know, epic, eventually. (you may be asking yourselves why I don’t just finish and post the entire damn fic at this point and the answer is -- eat your scraps and shut up)

previous posted excerpts are here and here.  title is from wildest dreams by taylor swift. 

also keith’s name in logan’s phone is, “╭∩╮（︶︿︶）╭∩╮” which didn’t quite make it into the story, but is still very important to me that y’all know.

“Who’s the frowny face?” Veronica fiddled with the dials on Logan’s dash, blasting the AC all the way up and angling the vents towards her for good measure, the heat stifiling even as the sky was filled with city lights.

“Huh?”

“Whoever it is they’ve called you six times.” Veronica flashed the screen of Logan’s phone at him quick for proof, and then focused on tying her hair into a knot, giving some much needed relief to her neck.

“Oh, fuck.” Logan swallowed. “That’s your dad.”

Veronica banged her forehead and her knee and her elbow diving into the seat-well.

“What are you doing??” She hissed at Logan. “Get us out of here before he sees us.”

“The frowny face. It’s your dad.”

Veronica clambered up back onto the seat with as much dignity as she could muster and shot Logan a nasty look. “What did you do?”

“Me?” He chewed his thumb. “I didn’t do anything.”

“He has never called me six times in a row, so you definitely did something.”

“That’s because he likes you,” Logan groused, sitting in the car with a huff.

“That’s because I’m trustworthy,” she chirped, and then winced, shooting Logan a sheepish look. “Sorry.”

“No, I am corrupting his only daughter.”

Logan’s hand found her waist again, and he held her there, his hand with a fistful of her dress while he placed greedy little kisses along her chin and her collarbone.

“It’s too hot,” Veronica whined, but she arched towards him eagerly even as she said so, her fingers getting a good, strong grip in his hair so she could direct his attention towards her mouth, which she parted open expectantly, grinning as he was quick to give her what she wanted.

Her hair quickly unraveled again, spilling free from its confines to swing in a curtain around their heads. Logan had one hand warm and unassuming on her knee, while the other danced across her back and her face and her arm at whim, like Logan couldn’t decide which part of her he most wanted to touch, so he’d decided to try and touch everything.

Veronica pulled away once she was sure she could memorize the feel of every single one of his teeth, but she left her hands tangled up behind his neck as she took time to catch her breath and slow her heart rate down.

“We’re going to be late,” she finally said, once she remembered how to speak.

Logan kissed the palms of each of her hands and then her knuckles too. “We have a few more minutes.” 

“Nope,” Veronica slid back onto her side of the car, watching Logan pout as he lost her touch and the hyper-proximity of her body. “If you get another speeding ticket he’s going to take your keys away, and my cars still in the shop.”

“He could just tell his deputies to stop giving me tickets.”

Veronica rolled her eyes. “You could not drive 75MPH in the most obnoxiously noticeable car ever.” 

Logan shot her a look. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you all folded up like origami down there.” 

“You’re one to talk!” She smacked him in the side. “You went out the window last week because Lilly called me. She wasn’t even in the room.”

“Oh, whatever!” Logan fidgeted. “You know she has that third eye shit, I’m not fucking risking it.”

“Do you feel....bad? About not telling them?”

“Lilly? No. She can rot for all I care.”

Veronica looked down at her hands. “You can’t stay mad at her forever.”

Logan set his jaw and didn’t answer. 

//

As pre-decided, Logan pulled over a few blocks away from the house, so Veronica could walk the rest of the way.

“You’re throwing me to the wolves,” he complained.

“If we come in together he’ll take one look at us and know.” 

“He also won’t shoot me if we come in together, and I think that should be our main focus right now.”

“I thought you didn’t do anything.”

“I didn’t.” Logan chewed his thumb again.

Veronica shut the door firmly. “I’ll see you at home, Logan.”

Unsurprisingly, when Veronica walked through the door a few minutes later, Keith was speaking to Logan in that low, you-are-on-the-thinnest-of-ice-voice and Logan was staring at Keith bored, with that same stubborn set to his jaw that he’d sported earlier when she tried to talk about Lilly.

“Am I interrupting something?”

Keith spared her a tired smile. “Did you have a nice time with Wallace, honey?”

“Um, yeah. You know,” she shrugged, inching past them to snag a Skist out of the refrigerator. “Did you have a good day at work?”

“Honey, why don’t you go upstairs and see if your mom’s feeling any better, she’s having one of her headaches.” 

“Headaches?” Logan repeated, with a menacing thrill to his voice. “Is that what we’re calling them now?”

Veronica glowered at Logan as she went up the stairs, but he didn’t even glance in her direction, too focused on pissing off her dad.

“Knock it off,” Keith warned. “You really don’t want to be pushing the envelope anymore with me right now, kid.”

“Pushing the envelope? Dude, I don’t know what outdated fucking parenting books you’re reading about how to talk to somebody else’s child, but they’re not getting through to me— you can stop.”

Keith snagged Logan by the arm and pulled him in close. “l’m getting pretty sick of telling you not to call me dude, and I’m getting pretty sick of your mouthing off.”

“Yeah, and I’m pretty sick of you always bitching at me, so, I guess neither of us is getting what we want.” Logan yanked his arm free. “Can I go?”

Keith took a breath and held his hand out expectantly.

“What? Do you wanna sing kumbaya or something?”

“Phone, wallet, keys — you know the drill.”

“For how long?”

“Until I see a serious attitude adjustment.”

Logan wrapped his arms around himself defensively. “This is total bullshit, you don’t punish Veronica when she tases somebody, but I defend myself and you’re all over my ass about it.”

“I’ve seen the surveillance tapes, Logan, that was not self defense. You broke the mans nose, for christ’s sake. And since you’re not mature enough to have a civilized conversation with me about it, we’re doing this instead.”

“A civilized conversation about what? I just told you it was self defense and you already don’t believe me. How the fuck do you expect us to have a conversation about it?”

“You assaulted a stranger, broke his nose, and you’ve been lying through your teeth to me about it ever since. And this morning when I told you to come home straight after school so we could talk, what did you do instead?”

“Well, I’m fucking here now, aren’t I?”

“Yes, and you’ve been belligerent and disrespectful the whole time. Keys, wallet, phone, I’m not going to tell you again.”

He threw all three onto the floor to be petty, and then wished he hadn’t when Keith fixed him with a look so stern and so unimpressed that Logan honest to god squirmed.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

“Pick those up. Right now.”

Logan quickly did just that, placing each item gently onto the kitchen island this time, his heart thundering in his chest. Please let this be over, please let this be over...

“Did you get your history test back yet?”

“Oh. Um.” Logan fidgeted. “Not yet.”

Keith nodded slowly. “Your teacher emailed me and said she handed them back out today.”

Logan cringed. “I passed it.”

“I think I’ll decide that for myself.”

Logan sighed, reluctantly fishing through his backpack for the test and handing it over to Keith. “I really did pass it,” he muttered.

Keith frowned at the test, frowned up at Logan, and then frowned at the test again. “Why would you lie about this?” He asked finally. “You did good.”

“You don’t have to sound surprised.”

“I’m surprised, because usually when somebody lies about not getting a test back, it’s because they failed it. You got a 91. Why would you lie about that?”

“I don’t know,” Logan shrugged. “But if you’re so thrilled about the test can I not be grounded?”

“Not a chance,” Keith said. “But really— good work on the test.”

Keith squeezed Logan’s shoulder fondly as he left the room, taking Logan’s stuff with him as went.

Fuck. 

Veronica was not going to be pleased.

//

“Do you need something?”

“Oh, come on,” Logan groaned. “You can’t be pissed at me, this wasn’t my fault.”

Veronica set her book aside and stared at him. “In which way was this not your fault.”

“Were you eavesdropping?”

“Why? Are you trying to figure out if you can bullshit me, and I won’t notice?”

“No!” Logan defended, hotly. “But....were you?”

Veronica crossed her arms.

“Okay,” he conceded. “It was maybe a little bit my fault, but mostly it was just your dad blowing a gasket for no reason.”

“It sounded to me like the reason was because you broke somebody’s fucking nose, Logan.”

“The guy was being a little bitch, Veronica, it’s not my fault he couldn’t fight.”

“Okay, that’s it,” Veronica rose from the bed and began herding him out of her room. “We’re done here, goodnight.”

“Waaaaiiiiit,” Logan whined, clawing at the sides of the door so she couldn’t force him out. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“And how will you do that with no car, no money, and no phone?”

“Like this.”

Logan bounced twice on his toes and then leaned down, cradling her face softly in between his hands as he kissed her lazily. Veronica rose onto her tiptoes to better accommodate him, her fingers curled into the fabric of his t-shirt as she gasped delightedly into his mouth.

They heard a noise down the hall and broke apart so fast Veronica was sure they both dislocated something. Keith poked his head in a moment later.

“Goodnight, kids.”

“Night, dad.” She smiled at him, willing herself not to touch her face, or look at Logan, or look like she was trying not to touch her face or not look at Logan.

Logan waved distractedly over his shoulder, afraid to face Keith or to even speak aloud, sure that if he did Keith would some how be able to deduce the last thing his tongue had been doing.

They both held their breath while they waited for the telltale sound of the bedroom door shutting, Veronica exhaling loudly as soon as they did. “This is getting out of hand.”

“You’re telling me,” Logan whispered. “It is a little hot though.”

“You have a death wish.”

“You and me both, sister.”

“Okay, don’t call me sister when your tongue has just been down my throat. That’s just gross.” She wrinkled her nose. “Better yet, don’t call me sister ever.”

Logan smirked. “I can make that up to you too.”

“I don’t know,” Veronica said shrugging airily. “So far I’ve been kind of unimpressed.”

“Oh?” Logan’s grin was positively sinful. “Well, let’s see what we can do about that.”

He kissed her, giddy and giggling, and Veronica kissed back demanding, her heart singing more, more, more.

[trippin-over-my-fandoms]

Unexpected Repercussions

(COMPLETE)

Peter Parker goes missing and SHIELD suspects Quentin Beck. The only problem is that he's been on house arrest. He has no clue where Spider-Man is. As it turns out- Peter is closer to Quentin than could have ever been guessed.

excerpt - (basically chapter 1)

Quentin Beck's apartment wasn't small by any means. His previous career at Stark Industries had left him a rather wealthy man and with that money he was able to afford a nicely sized apartment for one man. It was the size of a medium house and with an open floor plan for the kitchen, dining, and living along with a high ceiling the place felt larger than it was. Especially with the mostly white interior and minimalist style the furnishings had. It had become more cluttered recently after he was fired but before hand he was hardly ever at home and too many decorations distracted him. It was just enough to sate his OCD without over stimulating him.

Though, no matter how big it felt or how neat the decor was, it got small and boring fast for a man who had been on house arrest since July.

It was embarrassing really, absolutely humiliating. Oh how damaged his pride was.

To this day he still wasn't sure how Nick Fury and SHIELD had gotten the jump on him. One minute he's mentally tormenting Spider-Man in Berlin and the next he's stunned, electricity coursing through his veins and taking him to the ground. He had been electrocuted by plenty of experiments but never tased. It was certainly something he never wanted to feel again.

At least his own apartment was better than a five by five foot containment cell in some SHIELD facility. They had him in one of those for at least a month if not longer before they got tired of hearing him complain about it. At least that's what he told himself. It was better than being reminded that he was being used. They needed a new Tony Stark and they used him for tech upgrades. That was the most humiliating part of it all. He hated being used and working for someone else, especially when he got no credit whatsoever. His goal had been to rise up on top, be a hero and never work for anyone ever again. Only to get knocked down a reasonable amount of pegs and to wind up working for SHIELD.

He would have just hacked his way out of an ankle monitor if it had been that easy. The scar that marked the chip surgically implanted in his arm itched as a reminder that we was now basically a slave. He had tried to sort it out so maybe he could run, never to be found again, but he had only succeeded in harming himself.

Originally when it was set the perimeter was the entire building. So when he needed to stretch his legs and go beyond his apartment he'd walk the halls and sometimes take the stairs to the roof. This is when he learned he had not only a chip but an agent watching him as well. One day he had climbed up to the roof of the building only to be startled when the guy busted through the door panting (the idiot probably climbed the stairs instead of taking the elevator) an brandishing one of those damn tasers. He immediately recognized him too. He had seen the guy lingering in the hall outside his apartment once or twice. After that his perimeter was set to just his apartment. He couldn't even walk out the front door without getting a small jolt from the chip. It was as if he were a dog with a shock collar.

So now he paced about his apartment restlessly. He had a treadmill but it wasn't energy he needed to burn, he needed a change of scenery. At least he had a balcony. It was awful though for the days he was stuck. When he couldn't think and ideas just weren't coming. Usually he would walk down to the park just a five minute walk from his building but now he couldn't even do that.

His frustration was pent up and he felt like screaming but he knew that would irritate the neighbors and someone would call to complain meaning the building would call SHIELD and Fury would be on his ass about it. He really hated that guy.

Quentin settled for a growl and a huff as he plopped down on his couch. He growled again as he rubbed his temples, sinking lower to where he was almost uncomfortably slouching against the cushions. He needed to think but his mind wasn't giving him anything, it was just blank, empty, void of anything helpful.

A meow sounds from his left and he glares at the cat who's positioned herself on the pillow next to him. For a cat he kept around only to keep out bugs and snakes and rodents she sure was spoiled. Well, she was mostly there for the snake part. He was deathly afraid of those but that bit of information was usually the very last thing he would tell anyone.

She meows again and even though Quentin glares at her she remains in her place. She must want food. Tomorrow was supposed to be the day they brought him groceries. Hopefully that included cat food.

They end up starring at each other for a while. Quentin tries to figure out where the couch stops and where his white cat begins. She was very good at startling him, she blended in so well with the walls that he almost never saw her coming unless he was looking for her. He assumed somehow she figured this out because she got into the habit of making her presence known when she entered a room he was in. Usually by meowing.

The cat jumps off the couch rather suddenly and runs off when the front door suddenly opens. Quentin nearly does the same since he wasn't expecting the sudden intrusion. Though, that was expected with SHIELD unfortunately.

What's odd is that Fury is the first to walk in and behind him are Hill as well as several other agents. It seems like a raid almost. Fury looks pissed but when does he ever not.

"Is it too much to hope you're bringing me groceries a day early?" He quips, still sitting and watching as the agents begin to look around the apartment. There wasn't much in it so it would be a quick job.

"Watch it or we'll send military rations again. Another two weeks of MRE's sound good to you Beck?" Nick Fury scowls, looking down at him with a challenge in his eye. Quentin rolls his eyes, the memory not exactly pleasant. He had managed to piss off SHIELD somehow and they sent him two weeks worth of military field food. He practically starved to death as a refusal to eat them. They tasted nasty anyways and he could hardly believe they fed that to their armed forces.

"I'm good thanks." He huffs, taking another glance around his apartment and the chaos going on as the agents looked in everything with a door. "Look, the tech you asked for isn't done yet so unless there's some other reason for you disturbing Delilah and me-"

"Where's Spider-Man?" Fury is blunt and his anger seeps out in his tone. He looks like he wants to grab him and pull him onto his feet. Quentin saves him the trouble and stands up, keeping eye contact the entire time. "How the hell should I know? I've been on house arrest for the past two months. Can't exactly leave the place to kidnap a kid without your dogs sniffing me out first." He's just as pointed, making sure to let it be known how unhappy he is with only being allowed as far as his balcony.

Fury doesn't ask, instead he looks up at a Maria Hill who looks eager to speak to him and all the other agents have stopped moving about. Quentin looks towards her as well.

"He's not here sir. No sign of fowl play either." She looks almost disappointed and if he thought Fury couldn't look angrier somehow he was capable. Geeze, you'd thing what your prime suspect not being the one to blame would be a relief. It doesn't stop him from throwing a mocking grin his way though. He was innocent and he felt he had every right to be upset they disrupted his day and accused him of Parker's disappearance.

He opens his mouth to say something but Hill adds, "he hasn't been taking the medications either. All but one dosage untouched since last delivery." At which his smile drops and Fury quirks a brow.

Another dreadful thing that had come out of everything. When he was still being held at the facility they did a mentally evaluation on him. If he remembered correctly he had OCD (which he already knew about), NPD, BPD, and Bipolar One. Afterwards they practically forced him to take various medicines for all of them. One time when things got bad, when he was having a rough time from being cooped up and frustrated with his work he thought he would try and take all the pills they had provided him with until he realized they were in measures doses. No more than three days worth of each. They didn't even give him more until he was out.

"And why not?" Fury asks, crossing his arms and stiffening his posture. If he didn't know any better he'd think the man was about ready to shove them down his throat.

"They don't work and I hate them," he says with a shrug, "I took them this morning and all they've managed to do was frustrate me and delay working on your shit. And the blue one makes me tired."

Of course Hill just has to argue, "it's supposed to. It's for your Bipolar One and you're supposed to take it at night to help with sleep."

He rolls his eyes and turns from Fury to her, why did they care so much about his headspace? He hadn't killed himself yet and apparently the narcissistic part of him kept him from doing just that. "Well how was I supposed to know there were different times?" Mostly he's giving her a hard time just to be a little shit but at the same time he actually didn't know that.

"If you read the directions taped onto your mirror-"

"That's enough." Fury cuts in and that's the end of it. He makes a movement with his head and the agents file out of the apartment. "If we find out Parker's disappearance has anything to do with you Beck you lose any and all privileges you have left."

Quentin rolls his eyes yet again but nods anyways. Gosh, the stick up that guys ass. He was ready for him to leave. Thankfully he does just that and he's alone yet again.

He couldn't help but wonder though, what had happened to Peter that SHIELD was looking for him. It wasn't a 'he's avoiding us' approach it was 'he's been taken and possibly dead' kind. Or maybe they were just always over dramatic.

At least he didn't have to deal with it anymore.

READ CHAPTERS 2 & 3 ON AO3

[awkwardwritersyndrome]

Chapter 3: The Earth Queen

The morning sun is starting to get hot. Bumi and Kai sharpen their new airbending skills but it’s proving to be hard for an old beardog to learn new tricks. Kai out-maneuvers Bumi and knocks him off his feet as Korra, Asami, and Jinora look on. Moments later the airship glides over the inner wall of Ba Sing Se and floats over the lower ring. All the passengers on the ship can smell the filth and squalor down below. Bolin cringes at the thought of his dad growing up in this place. The middle and upper rings are drastically different, revealing a cruel caste system in the great Earth Kingdom. A bad feeling creeps up Korra’s spine but she can’t quite figure what it is.

As the airship landed, Grand Secretariat Gun shuffled towards the visiting aircraft. As passengers filed down the ramp he greeted them quickly before listing off a host of rules. It sounded as if the queen didn’t even want visitors based on all the stipulations put in place before meeting her. Korra remarked that there were “an awful lot of rules,” with a perturbed frown. 

Gun ignored her complaint and rushed the guests to hide the animals before the highly allergic queen spotted them. He then hurried Korra out of the guest house and across the estate to the queen’s topiary. When the Avatar stepped out onto the balcony overlooking the garden, whirlpools, and walkways, the queen was berating her servants. Garden keepers hustled about rearranging earth at their queen’s request. Korra had never met someone so rude and demanding. 

Queen Hou-Ting seemed disinterested in actually hearing what the Avatar had to say. In fact, she requested a favor from Korra before agreeing to help her. She claimed she had tax money stored in a nearby town that had been overrun with outlaws. If Korra retrieved the money, Hou-Ting would have the Dai Li help find any new airbenders in the city. 

Despite feeling unsettled by the queen’s character, the young Avatar agreed to retrieve the money. When she returned to the guest house everyone was looking for Kai. He was missing and Mako was pretty confident he was up to no good. Despite his bad track record, Tenzin argued that such a young kid should not be left to fend for himself. Korra suggested that Mako and Bolin search for Kai, Tenzin and Jinora wait at the house in case he returned, and her and Asami would go retrieve the queen’s money. 

“Sounds like a plan,” said Asami as she stepped toward Korra.”If we take the airship we can be back by this evening.”

Korra liked the idea of them teaming up for an important Avatar mission. Katara used to tell stories all the time about her and Aang working together before they defeated Ozai. They did serious stuff like take down the Fire Nation factory that was polluting a nearby river village. But they also did fun stuff together like penguin sledding. 

A subtle smile formed on Korra’s face until she remembered that Aang and Katara were a couple. Her own thoughts made her blush. “Yup, okay, good. Sounds great. I’m just gonna...head...somewhere else...to get ready,” Korra stammered before jetting off to avoid anyone noticing how red her face was.

That afternoon the two women left Ba Sing Se to find the secluded vault. 

Looking out at the vast rugged land beyond the city’s walls, Asami wondered, “Are you sure we shouldn’t have bought more people to collect the tax money?”

“Royal Guard’s waiting at the vault,” Korra explained. “I doubt anything will happen. I think her majesty just likes ordering me around.”

Asami raised one brow at her friend. “You mean someone can actually tell you what to do?”

“Hey. I’m not that stubborn...Am I?” Korra was at it again, asking questions she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer to.

The CEO’s face softened and she giggled. “No. I’m just messing with you. When it comes to the most important stuff, you’re the first person looking for sound advice. I admire that about you.” Asami wasn’t sure if her compliment came off weird so her posture stiffened and she trained her eyes on the skies outside the windows.

Korra didn’t even notice, she was just flattered by her friend’s words. “That means a lot coming from you,” she said. 

“Coming from me? What does that mean,” Asami probed. 

Then it was Korra wondering if she had said something odd. She tried to explain her thinking. “I just mean that you’re so successful to be 19. I spent my whole life on a compound training to be the Avatar and I’m not even all that good at it. It’s just impressive, is all.” Korra rubbed the back of her neck as it started to sweat from nervousness. This friendship thing was harder than people made it out to be. No wonder Asami was her first true best friend. 

“I never thought of my success as my own. Most of what I have was handed down from my father. Now that his legacy is tarnished, I feel like I’m at square one. I haven’t accomplished anything on my own,” Asami replied with a defeated tone.

“No way! You’ve accomplished a lot since your father went to prison,” Korra rebutted. She grabbed each of the other woman’s arms just above the elbow and craned her neck downward to look into those bright green eyes. “You made the mecha suits mass producible. You dug Future Industries out of debt after its reputation was ruined. You revamped the airship division and you hammered out a deal with the world’s craziest business mogul. That’s all pretty amazing,” Korra insisted tenderly.

“Well that last one was mostly Bolin and kind of backfired on me, but I get your point.” Asami looked back into Korra’s blue eyes and realized how similar they were in being hard on themselves. “I could rattle off a similar list for you,” she sassed.

“Don’t worry, Tenzin beat you to it the day we finally found Daw. I guess I’m pretty hard on myself too,” the Avatar admitted as if she could read Asami’s mind. The two of them hovered near each other until the closeness felt hot and almost unbearable.

A ridge of mountains appeared on the horizon and they knew they were getting close. “I should land this thing,” Asami suggested bashfully, still standing with only inches between them.

Korra took a big step back and away from the helm so Asami could work her magic. “Right. Aye aye, captain,” she said awkwardly before making an about face towards the exit ramp.

The ship floated to a halt in the middle of the town where there were no buildings or homes. The duo quickly identified the vault and the Royal Guard and made their way over. The money was loaded onto a wheel barrel and three guards began walking it to the ship. Suddenly a red flare shot into the sky and the women immediately knew trouble was afoot. A hoard of outlaws with mopeds and an armored truck began speeding towards the guards and the money. Two earthbenders cartwheeled off their hotrods and hurled three boulders at the queen’s guards. They didn’t even attempt to fight and scurried away from the mob.

“So much for our escort,” Asami panned while sliding on her electrified glove.

“Maybe we should’ve bought everybody,” Korra added, swallowing the lump that formed in her throat. 

The pair dashed towards the money and made their stand. A battle ensued, two against twelve. Korra crumbled the ground beneath the outlaws and sent them all stumbling backwards. Two men gunned it towards Asami but she propelled herself over them in a flying roundoff and tased them with her glove. As she stuck the landing, an air strike narrowly caught another bandit as he reached out to grab her. The industrialist looked over and saw Korra was covering her blindspots. The two advanced towards the few men left standing but they began to retreat. As the leader of the mob hopped on the back of the armored truck he yelled, “You’re on the wrong side of this fight, Avatar. That gold belongs to the people, not the queen.”

The proclamation echoed through Korra’s ears. “Why do I get the feeling that he’s right?”

They loaded the money onto the airship and returned to Ba Sing Se. Gun escorted Korra to the throne room to report her successes to Queen Hou-Ting. Turns out, Korra’s gut was right. The queen made up a lie that the Dai Li didn’t find any new airbenders and she asked the Avatar to leave the city. 

That was the last straw for the hot headed young woman. “You make me do your dirty work, extorting your own citizens, for your stupid palaces and topiaries and then you just want to send me away? We’re not going anywhere until we find some airbenders,” Korra hollered at Hou-Ting. The queen looked on silently and Korra added, “we know there are some here!”

The queen promptly banished Korra from her sight. Korra began to storm off but spun around and pointed her finger up at the throne like a deadly arrow. “This isn’t over. I’m going to find the airbenders!”

Korra burst into the guest house after stomping all the way across the estate. She was sporting a seriously contorted frown and tightly wound shoulders. When she got to the dining room she dropped her weight in the nearest chair and huffed in anger. Tenzin was asleep with Jinora and the brothers hadn’t returned yet. 

Asami was the only one around to comfort the young Avatar. She approached cautiously and announced herself calmly. Just hearing her soothing voice made Korra relax some. The younger woman let her scowl melt away and said “I’m glad to see someone I don’t want to punch.”

Asami winced at the thought of taking a hit delivered by Korra’s muscular arms. “I’m guessing the queen isn’t going to help us,” the businesswoman assumed.

“No! She isn’t! And I’m the total idiot that ran off to the middle of nowhere like her evil henchman. This search for the airbenders is a complete disaster,” Korra lamented. She folded her arms on the table and buried her head between them. She might have stayed like that all night if two soft hands didn’t take hold of her achy shoulders. A firm but gentle pressure relieved her muscles of knots and tension. Without knowing it she let out a guttural moan.

Asami smirked as her fingers undid the stress in her friend’s body. “How’s that,” she asked coyishly. 

“Huh?...It’s uh... really nice,” Korra crooned with delight. All the rigidity in her body was gone and all she could think of was the image of Asami delicately untangling string the other night. In that moment, Korra felt like she was a knotted mess of string herself.

Asami leaned against the table next to Korra and shared a caring smile. “You could use a real massage. I know a guy in Republic City if you’re interested.”

A drunken grin overtook Korra’s face and she nodded in agreement. 

The two women sat at the table while Korra described all the ways she disliked the Earth Queen. Asami challenged some of her poorly thought out grievances, but generally understood why Korra was so upset. They talked for several hours before they noticed the time. They decided to get some rest, so they both stood up at the same time. “I’m no masseuse, but I give good hugs,” Korra announced with open arms.

The other woman laughed and shifted her weight so she sort of fell into Korra’s arms for a hug. Each woman headed to a different side of the house to find their beds. Even as the night wore on in different rooms, the warm embrace left a tantalizing feeling in each of their heads.

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