fic: Solar Winds (17/?) Part 1/3
~~~
The streets are quiet here.
The riots seemed to have started here, in the center of the city, and moved outwards. People roaring and raging, shouting and smashing, looking for something, anything to destroy. They’ve moved on from this place, because now there is precious little left to ruin. Most of the buildings are in shambles-broken windows, splintered doors, crumbled walls, scorched rooftops. And that’s the ones that are still standing at all.
Blaine doesn’t see many people as he runs. More notably, the people he does see don’t seem to notice him at all. They all have their attention on other things.
He passes a woman staring at the remains of a house, tears running down her face with no accompanying sound. She cries soundlessly, as if no longer able to contain her grief but still afraid to draw attention to herself.
He passes a man sitting against a burnt wall, staring off into space with a clenched jaw. His eyes don’t even flicker when Blaine passes in front of him. He doesn’t even blink. Between the sound of his own footsteps, Blaine is fairly sure he can hear the steady grinding of teeth.
He passes a boy, no older than 12, clutching a smaller girl to his chest and whispering softly to her as he rocks her back and forth. His eyes are rooted to the ground in front of him, as if afraid to look at anything else. Not even the sound of approaching footsteps is cause enough to look up. He never stops his soft chanting, and as Blaine passes him, he realizes the boy isn’t even using words-he’s whispering gibberish in the most soothing tone possible.
He wants to stop. To help them, to ask what’s wrong, what happened, what he can do, how he can fix this. But he can’t. These people are giving him all the regard he deserves-he doesn’t know what to do, he doesn’t know how to help. He is useless to them.
He has to get to the Palace. If he can just get to his father, everything will be alright.
Unfortunately, by the time he reaches the Royal Gates, his injuries have caught up with him. No, that’s an understatement-they’ve caught up with him, passed him, run all the way around the course and lapped him, leaving him in their proverbial dust. He feels like his entire body is a giant bruise, his chest is on fire (and not the way he likes), his legs are sending jolts of pain through his nervous system with almost every step. Now that ‘the Chase’ seems to be over, the adrenaline that enabled him to ignore his injuries has started to ebb, allowing pain to come in and make itself comfortable. He’s hurt, he’s tired, and… worst of all…
He is so, so scared.
Collapsing against the massive iron doors, he tries in vain to catch his breath. It doesn’t work, because his mind refuses to rest even as his body begs for reprieve. The gates are closed. The gates can only be opened or closed from inside. If what Wes said is true, all the guards are in the city, looking for him. Not only would they not have closed the gates and locked themselves out-they wouldn’t have been able to. Someone else had to close them.
Surely… surely there is a gatekeeper or something. The guards wouldn’t be that shortsighted. Someone has to be in there, because the alternative is that his father is locked in his own Palace with someone who wants his throne and is willing to do anything to get it.
There has to be someone there.
“Hey!” Blaine yells, standing up and pounding on the door. “Open the gate!”
He is greeted by nothing but silence.
“HEY!” he shouts again, his voice cracking slightly, rough from use, dry from all the running, clogged slightly with blood. “This is Prince Blaine! I’m RIGHT HERE! PLEASE, OPEN UP!”
His cry bounces uselessly off the massive doors.
Growling in frustration, he slams his fist into the metal again. “COME ON!”
An identical nothing, same as before. Nothing after nothing after nothing parades out to greet him.
He has no idea what to do. He can already feel panic and hopelessness climbing up his windpipe, threatening to lodge themselves in his throat and choke him to death. His only other option is to climb the wall, but fuck if he can climb anything right now. He can barely stand.
He’s stuck. Helpless. Useless. To his father, and everyone.
The Prince has just started hobbling away from the door, aiming to at least try to climb back up the Wall, when he hears the sound of the massive, mechanical gates grinding slowly open. Just a crack. Just large enough for one person to fit through.
He approaches them cautiously. The glow of the Spirit Lights paints everything a strange shade of red, and it looks far too much like blood for his liking. “Hello?” he says. “Whoever opened the gates, please, come out so I can see you!”
It takes a few seconds, but Blaine can hear the sounds of movement echoing through the enormous doors. The sight that pops up to greet him could not possibly be more welcome.
“Oh, thank Agni,” he breathes, smiling and nearly collapsing with relief right there on the spot. A Royal Guard appears through the crack. The sight of the familiar armor, helmet and facemask included, has never relieved him more in his life. “I was afraid there was no one in here.”
The Guard just seems to stare at him for a moment.
“Hey,” Blaine says. “You guys are looking for me, aren’t you?”
The Guard continues to stare. Blaine is just starting to feel a little uneasy when the man finally speaks. “Prince Blaine,” he says, his voice oddly distorted by the mask. “Yes. I apologize. I didn’t recognize you due to your… injuries.”
“Oh,” Blaine says. “Yes, I’d imagine I look pretty rough right now. But I’m still in one piece. That’s all that matters, right?”
There is a slight hesitation before the Guard answers. “Right.” He slowly moves aside to allow Blaine entrance to the Palace Grounds.
He feels the tension easing off of him as walks into the familiar courtyard. “I’ve got a lot of explaining to do, I know. But I promise, there is a good reason I was out. I just need to explain it to Dad. I know he’ll understand, even if he’s ma-”
He stops short, both in his trek towards the Palace, and his speech. The Guard has a tight grip on his shoulder, his gloved hand digging into a fresh bruise. The Prince winces and sucks air through his teeth, but the Guard doesn’t seem to notice. “Wait here,” he says, “while I close the Gates. Then, I will take you to your father.”
“It’s okay,” Blaine says. “I can find my own way to the Throne Roo-”
“He is not in the Throne Room,” the Guard says quickly. “Wait here,” he continues, sounding almost impatient. “It is not… safe, for you to travel alone.”
The armored man is climbing up to the Gate Controls before Blaine has a chance to reply. Other than the sounds of his boots on the ladder, the Courtyard is powerfully, eerily silent. The Palace seems darker than ever-the primarily red color scheme has become black in the red light of this night. There seems to be no one else on the Palace Grounds at all. Everything is incredibly still.
The metallic screech of the Gates grinding shut is so jarring that he nearly trips and falls over himself when they smash through the silence. The mechanism takes its sweet time, gears clanking loudly against one another for several seconds before the Gates are sealed with an echoing clang.
As the Royal Guard descends the ladder to rejoin him, Blaine voices a question. “Why isn’t it safe? Is something wrong? Are there enemies in the Palace?”
The Guard finishes his descent, and turns to face Blaine before speaking, his voice still sounding odd through the thick face guard. “We have reason to believe that your life is in danger,” he says. “It is merely a precaution.”
“‘Precaution,’” Blaine says. “That sounds like Dad, alright.”
“Indeed,” the Guard says, walking past him without even glancing towards him. He seems to be heading towards a side-area of the main Palace. Blaine has no idea what his father might be doing in there, but he has certainly witnessed stranger things than this during the course of the night. “Prince Blaine,” the Guard says when he notices that Blaine has not yet moved.
“Sorry,” he says, walking up to join him. “Just a little winded. It’s been kind of an awful night.”
“Don’t worry,” the Guard says in a tone that Blaine can’t quite place. “It will all be over soon. Come…” he finishes, moving again. “The Fire Lord awaits.”
~~~
“Alright,” Kurt says. “So we need to get there in a hurry. We don’t care who is tracking us, and the City is inside-out-pants-on-head insane at the moment, so I think a little property damage is justifiable.”
“You thinkin’ Rockmobile?” Mercedes asks.
“Awwww, yeah!” Artie grins, sliding up to slap his fellow Earthbender some skin.
“Isn’t that, like, dangerous? We don’t want to run anybody over,” Finn says.
“Don’t worry your precious little potato head, Finn Hudson,” Kurt says gently. “If anyone wanders into our path, I will gently sweep them aside with La’s loving arms.”
To illustrate the point, Kurt begins a series of graceful steps and arm motions, condensing a great deal of the fog in the air into a pair of large water ropes, which he slips over his own arms to use like a pair of tentacles, before casually bending the water into an ice block and setting it down so he can come back to it later.
Finn is mostly okay with this plan. Well, except for one thing. He turns to Artie. “Do I have a potato head?”
Artie purses his lips and tilts his head, squinting at Finn.
His silence is answer enough. “Thanks a lot, dude,” he grumbles.
“What?” Artie asks, honestly confused. “I’m just trying to give you an honest answer!”
The Rockmobile was an idea born from an ever-so-slightly tipsy conversation between Mercedes and Artie about bending-based transportation. One minute, Mercedes is trying to wheedle the secret of Artie’s high-speed Earth Slide out of him, the next; the two of them are carving up some kind of vehicle out of rock. The results were surprisingly successful, if a bit… destructive.
Mercedes and Kurt square themselves and stomp in unison, calling up a large, rectangular block of stone. Artie slides in and chops it a few times, tossing in a few punches for good measure, causing a series of seemingly chaotic cracks to appear in the stone before it crumbles into roughly the shape of a bullet. Kurt carves off a large portion of the stone in the back, leaving just enough of the foundation to support their combined weight. Mercedes hollows out the ‘tip’ of the bullet, leaving a semi-spherical shield where Artie slides into place as ‘Driver’ of their little device (punching out a hole so he can see where they’re going). Mercedes takes her place in back, while Finn and Kurt hop in the middle. The overall effect looks kind of like a small boat made of rock, with a shield in front.
“Everybody ready?” Mercedes calls out.
Kurt melts his ice block and ‘re-arms’ himself with the tendrils of water. “I was, quite literally, born ready.”
“Wait!” Finn shouts, bending a little fog of his own into just enough water to refill his waterskin. “Okay,” he says, capping the thing and stepping onto the large earthen device. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Destination is the Palace. Property damage to be avoided if possible, but it’s not the end of the world if a house or two gets knocked down. Kurt is on pedestrian duty, and Finn, as usual, is holding on for dear life and trying not to die. Do I have everything right?” Artie calls out.
“Try really hard not to knock down any houses, but yes, other than that, you’ve hit the proverbial bullseye,” Kurt says.
“Very well then. Mercedes, my lady! Propulsion, if you please,” Artie shouts.
“Hold on tight,” Mercedes replies. She thrusts her hands to the ‘rear’ of the vehicle, and the thing launches itself forward, blasting over the top of the street at a shockingly high speed and making a terrific racket the entire time. The Rockmobile is noisy, obnoxious, and incredibly easy to track thanks to the sizeable ditch it cuts into the ground and leaves in its wake. It’s also taxing to propel, difficult to steer, more difficult to stop, and highly dangerous to both people and property that might be in the way. All-in-all, it’s not a great way to get around…
…unless you happen to have a desperate need to get somewhere fast and no better transportation options than a couple of Earthbenders. Then, it’s fantastic.
The Rockmobile takes a corner about as well as you’d expect from a hastily-created land-boat made of stone (which is to say, ‘not well’) but Kurt manages to avert any serious damages by sweeping his newly added watery appendages around, and knocking several unsuspecting citizens out of harm’s way. Well, okay, not completely out of harm’s way-he hits them kind of hard and it probably hurts like a bitch, but in the grand script of life, bruised is better than flattened, creamed is preferable to crushed, and being hurt is much better than being dead.
The Palace looms in the distance, getting closer with every second. It isn’t fast enough. Kurt has a really bad feeling about Blaine. Something is calling him urgently, telling him to get to the Prince ASAP, and as much as he hates to admit it… he has his priorities. He has to help Blaine, and if helping Blaine involves inadvertently causing a few extra injuries to the Fire Nation citizens, then so be it.
Because he’s only just gotten Blaine. He just got someone beautiful, amazing, kind, intelligent who honestly seemed to like him, maybe even love him. He can’t lose him so soon. He can’t lose him because he made the decision to save his friends and left Blaine to fend for himself.
He just… can’t lose him. Period.
~~~
So, so quiet.
Blaine has never seen the Palace this empty. There were always Guards patrolling, on the lookout for thieves or trespassers. Always a servant or two milling about, attending to cleaning duties, delivering messages among the staff, running some odd errand for one of the officials. Gardeners, cooks, musicians, all sorts of odd characters could be seen in the Palace at various times. But now, the entire building seems deserted-an empty, lifeless shell, like a body left to rot in the night air. It honestly seems like Blaine and the Guard might be the only ones here.
“Where did you say my father was, again?” Blaine asks.
“I didn’t say,” the Guard states simply. Burn it! That usually works.
“I see no harm in telling me where we’re going,” Blaine says simply.
“You will understand when we arrive,” the Guard says shortly. It seems Blaine is beginning to wear on the man’s patience. It’s understandable that the evening’s events might be taxing on a defender of the Royal Family, but… really. There’s no need to be rude. None of the Guards has ever spoken… to him… like that…
It suddenly feels as if something dark, cold, and slimy has wrapped itself around Blaine’s heart. There is something off about this guy. His attitude isn’t the best, and Blaine still can’t place what’s wrong with his voice, but now that he is leading him around the Palace, the Prince has gotten several chances to watch him move. There is something wrong with it. It’s like he isn’t used to moving in armor at all.
Oh.
“The kitchens are right around here,” Blaine says, keeping his voice even. “I’m really thirsty. Can we please… stop for a drink?”
“Not now,” the Guard says. “It is important we get you to your destination as soon as possible.”
Oh.
Oh, no.
I’m going to die, Blaine thinks. I made it this far, and now I’m going to die because I’m too stupid to recognize when a Guard isn’t a Guard…
~~~
“Stand watch,” Sue had told her. “Make sure no one gets in or interferes.”
They were right outside the throne room when the Lady had drawn her aside and given her special orders. “But… my Lady,” she had said, “I don’t understand. I’m your top Captain. I should be with you in your moment of triumph.”
“Oh, pah,” Sue replied. “I don’t need you to triumph. I can triumph on my own. What I need is someone I can trust to make good and darn sure that my moment of triumph is not unduly interrupted. I want enough time to cremate the Fire Lord and use his ashes as confetti. You’re the best of the best, Q. I’m putting you on this job because I trust you. Are you saying that’s a bad idea?”
It isn’t a question so much as a threat, and Quinn gets the message. “No, my Lady. I understand.”
“Good,” Sue says, giving her a swordshark smile. “Now get to it.”
With that, Sue and the rest of the ‘Royal Guards’ had entered the throne room, leaving her alone in the silent Palace. She had accepted the Lady’s reasoning, even if she didn’t entirely believe it. She’d never imagined she would actually need to stifle a would-be intrusion, let alone one of such vital importance to their mission…
Speaking of which… the stupid brat seems to have forgotten how to walk, again.
“Prince Blaine,” she says, keeping her voice in the lowest register she can manage. “Is something the matter?”
The boy looks sick. Well, truth be told, he looked sick when she first saw him, but there’s something different about it now. His breathing is off. His eyes seem twitchier. He looks… afraid.
Quinn has seen that skittish look before. She hovers her hand near the hilt of her sword, just in case he tries to run. Lady Sylvester made her reasons for hiring the (apparently grossly incompetent) assassins perfectly clear-the Fire Lord can be taken down however, but the Prince needs to be killed by something other than Firebending. If Sue and her Chi-Ryus kill the Fire Lord and the Prince, it’s a coup. But if the people fly into an uncontrolled rage and murder their leader and the successor to the throne… well, that’s another matter entirely. And while she would much rather just stuff him in a closet somewhere until the Lady decides how best to deal with this minor setback, she is willing to do what must be done herself should he give her occasion.
“Please,” the boy says, moving towards a doorway. “The kitchens are right here. I just need to get a drink. Just a little sip of water.” His voice is pitiful, and Quinn feels perfectly comfortable rolling her eyes at this display of weakness. Does he think this is hard? Try not eating, drinking or sleeping for twenty-four hours and still pulling off a flawless Chi-Ryu kata series from first stance to hundred-and-eighth. That’s hard.
If he thinks he is getting away from her, he is sorely mistaken. She steps forward and grabs the shoulder she knows is injured, prompting a gasp from the pitiful Prince.. “Do you not listen?” she growls, slowly running out of patience. “Your life is in danger. Any shadow could hide an assassin. If you wander off alone, you could be killed.”
Alright, maybe she is being a little too overt with the naked aggression. That probably sounded more like a threat than a warning.
“Please,” he pleads with her, breathing heavily and seeming unsteady on his feet. “I just need a drink. Just one drink. You can go first, I’ll follow you, I’ll stay close, just… please.”
She stares at him for a moment. His whining is seriously starting to grate on her nerves. She debates the merits of just running him through, right then and there, but decides against it. The Lady is very specific when making her plans. The boy was supposed to die in the City. That he is here now presents a significant problem, one that Sue will want to know about so she can come up with the perfect solution. Until then, the brat remains alive.
“Very well,” Quinn sighs. “But do not wander away again.”
The Prince nods. “Thank you,” he rasps, obediently standing down and waiting for her to take the lead.
She fights off a sigh as she opens the door to the kitchens…
…only to find what is very much not a kitchen on the other side.
It happens quickly. Before she can even turn around, she feels the impact of a snap kick on her helmet, striking with enough force to knock the thing off of her even as the force sends her right into the closet she has inadvertently opened the door to. She recovers quickly, but not quite quickly enough-the boy has just enough time to take a good look at her face before he slams the door shut.
If held at firepoint, Quinn would admit she was ever-so-slightly impressed. Clever little boy. She’s underestimated him.
“You’re not one of my father’s men,” he says through the door. “You’re… actually not a man at all,” he continues, sounding honestly surprised.
“Excellent deduction,” she coos mockingly as she turns the handle and tries push the door open, to no avail. “What gave me away?”
“You don’t know where the kitchens are,” he says simply. “There’s not a single guard who works here who would not have memorized the kitchen’s location on their first day. The food here is that awesome.”
“Great,” Quinn says. “I can’t wait to try it for myself!” She punctuates her statement with a twin-footed kick to the door, but is shocked to find it rebuffs her easily.
“Yeah, I don’t think so,” the Prince says, and she can practically feel his smug, self-satisfied smirk through the wood. “This door is one hundred percent refined Blazewood. You could throw a fireball at it, and all you’d do is cook yourself. Every door in the Palace is this tough.”
Part of her wants to call his bluff, but it isn’t worth the risk. There are easier ways to get out of here.
“Who are you?” the Prince demands.
“It doesn’t matter who I am,” Quinn says. “I am not important in the evening’s events. I’m just one of many.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks.
“Exactly what I said,” Quinn says, smirking and hoping it comes across in her voice. “There are plenty of others here, Prince. It’s not safe for you out there. Maybe you should just come in here with me until the Fire Lord is killed. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”
“…what did you just say?” the Prince growls. Ha! Hook, line, and sinker.
“Do I look like a fortune cookie?” Quinn bitches at him. “Take your quest for answers to someone else. Maybe Daddy can tell you something useful. Better hurry, though. I don’t think he’ll be in a position to take questions much longer.”
She can practically hear the panic pumping his heartrate through the roof. “Shut up,” he says. She hears the sound of something heavy being moved in front of the door, and curses the royal pain for having the presence of mind to think of that. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go find my father. I’ll be back for you later,” he promises through the door.
She waits until she hears the sound of his rapid footsteps trampling off into the distance. “Not if I come for you first,” she smiles, lighting up the dark closet with a small flame from her manicured fingers. Holding the flame to the edges of the door, she moves up and down until she finds what she is looking for through the cracks.
Any door is only as strong as its weakest part.
And with a powerful, concentrated explosion, Quinn quickly proves that the weakest part of this particular door is its hinges.
~~~
To the Next Part
The streets are quiet here.
The riots seemed to have started here, in the center of the city, and moved outwards. People roaring and raging, shouting and smashing, looking for something, anything to destroy. They’ve moved on from this place, because now there is precious little left to ruin. Most of the buildings are in shambles-broken windows, splintered doors, crumbled walls, scorched rooftops. And that’s the ones that are still standing at all.
Blaine doesn’t see many people as he runs. More notably, the people he does see don’t seem to notice him at all. They all have their attention on other things.
He passes a woman staring at the remains of a house, tears running down her face with no accompanying sound. She cries soundlessly, as if no longer able to contain her grief but still afraid to draw attention to herself.
He passes a man sitting against a burnt wall, staring off into space with a clenched jaw. His eyes don’t even flicker when Blaine passes in front of him. He doesn’t even blink. Between the sound of his own footsteps, Blaine is fairly sure he can hear the steady grinding of teeth.
He passes a boy, no older than 12, clutching a smaller girl to his chest and whispering softly to her as he rocks her back and forth. His eyes are rooted to the ground in front of him, as if afraid to look at anything else. Not even the sound of approaching footsteps is cause enough to look up. He never stops his soft chanting, and as Blaine passes him, he realizes the boy isn’t even using words-he’s whispering gibberish in the most soothing tone possible.
He wants to stop. To help them, to ask what’s wrong, what happened, what he can do, how he can fix this. But he can’t. These people are giving him all the regard he deserves-he doesn’t know what to do, he doesn’t know how to help. He is useless to them.
He has to get to the Palace. If he can just get to his father, everything will be alright.
Unfortunately, by the time he reaches the Royal Gates, his injuries have caught up with him. No, that’s an understatement-they’ve caught up with him, passed him, run all the way around the course and lapped him, leaving him in their proverbial dust. He feels like his entire body is a giant bruise, his chest is on fire (and not the way he likes), his legs are sending jolts of pain through his nervous system with almost every step. Now that ‘the Chase’ seems to be over, the adrenaline that enabled him to ignore his injuries has started to ebb, allowing pain to come in and make itself comfortable. He’s hurt, he’s tired, and… worst of all…
He is so, so scared.
Collapsing against the massive iron doors, he tries in vain to catch his breath. It doesn’t work, because his mind refuses to rest even as his body begs for reprieve. The gates are closed. The gates can only be opened or closed from inside. If what Wes said is true, all the guards are in the city, looking for him. Not only would they not have closed the gates and locked themselves out-they wouldn’t have been able to. Someone else had to close them.
Surely… surely there is a gatekeeper or something. The guards wouldn’t be that shortsighted. Someone has to be in there, because the alternative is that his father is locked in his own Palace with someone who wants his throne and is willing to do anything to get it.
There has to be someone there.
“Hey!” Blaine yells, standing up and pounding on the door. “Open the gate!”
He is greeted by nothing but silence.
“HEY!” he shouts again, his voice cracking slightly, rough from use, dry from all the running, clogged slightly with blood. “This is Prince Blaine! I’m RIGHT HERE! PLEASE, OPEN UP!”
His cry bounces uselessly off the massive doors.
Growling in frustration, he slams his fist into the metal again. “COME ON!”
An identical nothing, same as before. Nothing after nothing after nothing parades out to greet him.
He has no idea what to do. He can already feel panic and hopelessness climbing up his windpipe, threatening to lodge themselves in his throat and choke him to death. His only other option is to climb the wall, but fuck if he can climb anything right now. He can barely stand.
He’s stuck. Helpless. Useless. To his father, and everyone.
The Prince has just started hobbling away from the door, aiming to at least try to climb back up the Wall, when he hears the sound of the massive, mechanical gates grinding slowly open. Just a crack. Just large enough for one person to fit through.
He approaches them cautiously. The glow of the Spirit Lights paints everything a strange shade of red, and it looks far too much like blood for his liking. “Hello?” he says. “Whoever opened the gates, please, come out so I can see you!”
It takes a few seconds, but Blaine can hear the sounds of movement echoing through the enormous doors. The sight that pops up to greet him could not possibly be more welcome.
“Oh, thank Agni,” he breathes, smiling and nearly collapsing with relief right there on the spot. A Royal Guard appears through the crack. The sight of the familiar armor, helmet and facemask included, has never relieved him more in his life. “I was afraid there was no one in here.”
The Guard just seems to stare at him for a moment.
“Hey,” Blaine says. “You guys are looking for me, aren’t you?”
The Guard continues to stare. Blaine is just starting to feel a little uneasy when the man finally speaks. “Prince Blaine,” he says, his voice oddly distorted by the mask. “Yes. I apologize. I didn’t recognize you due to your… injuries.”
“Oh,” Blaine says. “Yes, I’d imagine I look pretty rough right now. But I’m still in one piece. That’s all that matters, right?”
There is a slight hesitation before the Guard answers. “Right.” He slowly moves aside to allow Blaine entrance to the Palace Grounds.
He feels the tension easing off of him as walks into the familiar courtyard. “I’ve got a lot of explaining to do, I know. But I promise, there is a good reason I was out. I just need to explain it to Dad. I know he’ll understand, even if he’s ma-”
He stops short, both in his trek towards the Palace, and his speech. The Guard has a tight grip on his shoulder, his gloved hand digging into a fresh bruise. The Prince winces and sucks air through his teeth, but the Guard doesn’t seem to notice. “Wait here,” he says, “while I close the Gates. Then, I will take you to your father.”
“It’s okay,” Blaine says. “I can find my own way to the Throne Roo-”
“He is not in the Throne Room,” the Guard says quickly. “Wait here,” he continues, sounding almost impatient. “It is not… safe, for you to travel alone.”
The armored man is climbing up to the Gate Controls before Blaine has a chance to reply. Other than the sounds of his boots on the ladder, the Courtyard is powerfully, eerily silent. The Palace seems darker than ever-the primarily red color scheme has become black in the red light of this night. There seems to be no one else on the Palace Grounds at all. Everything is incredibly still.
The metallic screech of the Gates grinding shut is so jarring that he nearly trips and falls over himself when they smash through the silence. The mechanism takes its sweet time, gears clanking loudly against one another for several seconds before the Gates are sealed with an echoing clang.
As the Royal Guard descends the ladder to rejoin him, Blaine voices a question. “Why isn’t it safe? Is something wrong? Are there enemies in the Palace?”
The Guard finishes his descent, and turns to face Blaine before speaking, his voice still sounding odd through the thick face guard. “We have reason to believe that your life is in danger,” he says. “It is merely a precaution.”
“‘Precaution,’” Blaine says. “That sounds like Dad, alright.”
“Indeed,” the Guard says, walking past him without even glancing towards him. He seems to be heading towards a side-area of the main Palace. Blaine has no idea what his father might be doing in there, but he has certainly witnessed stranger things than this during the course of the night. “Prince Blaine,” the Guard says when he notices that Blaine has not yet moved.
“Sorry,” he says, walking up to join him. “Just a little winded. It’s been kind of an awful night.”
“Don’t worry,” the Guard says in a tone that Blaine can’t quite place. “It will all be over soon. Come…” he finishes, moving again. “The Fire Lord awaits.”
~~~
“Alright,” Kurt says. “So we need to get there in a hurry. We don’t care who is tracking us, and the City is inside-out-pants-on-head insane at the moment, so I think a little property damage is justifiable.”
“You thinkin’ Rockmobile?” Mercedes asks.
“Awwww, yeah!” Artie grins, sliding up to slap his fellow Earthbender some skin.
“Isn’t that, like, dangerous? We don’t want to run anybody over,” Finn says.
“Don’t worry your precious little potato head, Finn Hudson,” Kurt says gently. “If anyone wanders into our path, I will gently sweep them aside with La’s loving arms.”
To illustrate the point, Kurt begins a series of graceful steps and arm motions, condensing a great deal of the fog in the air into a pair of large water ropes, which he slips over his own arms to use like a pair of tentacles, before casually bending the water into an ice block and setting it down so he can come back to it later.
Finn is mostly okay with this plan. Well, except for one thing. He turns to Artie. “Do I have a potato head?”
Artie purses his lips and tilts his head, squinting at Finn.
His silence is answer enough. “Thanks a lot, dude,” he grumbles.
“What?” Artie asks, honestly confused. “I’m just trying to give you an honest answer!”
The Rockmobile was an idea born from an ever-so-slightly tipsy conversation between Mercedes and Artie about bending-based transportation. One minute, Mercedes is trying to wheedle the secret of Artie’s high-speed Earth Slide out of him, the next; the two of them are carving up some kind of vehicle out of rock. The results were surprisingly successful, if a bit… destructive.
Mercedes and Kurt square themselves and stomp in unison, calling up a large, rectangular block of stone. Artie slides in and chops it a few times, tossing in a few punches for good measure, causing a series of seemingly chaotic cracks to appear in the stone before it crumbles into roughly the shape of a bullet. Kurt carves off a large portion of the stone in the back, leaving just enough of the foundation to support their combined weight. Mercedes hollows out the ‘tip’ of the bullet, leaving a semi-spherical shield where Artie slides into place as ‘Driver’ of their little device (punching out a hole so he can see where they’re going). Mercedes takes her place in back, while Finn and Kurt hop in the middle. The overall effect looks kind of like a small boat made of rock, with a shield in front.
“Everybody ready?” Mercedes calls out.
Kurt melts his ice block and ‘re-arms’ himself with the tendrils of water. “I was, quite literally, born ready.”
“Wait!” Finn shouts, bending a little fog of his own into just enough water to refill his waterskin. “Okay,” he says, capping the thing and stepping onto the large earthen device. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Destination is the Palace. Property damage to be avoided if possible, but it’s not the end of the world if a house or two gets knocked down. Kurt is on pedestrian duty, and Finn, as usual, is holding on for dear life and trying not to die. Do I have everything right?” Artie calls out.
“Try really hard not to knock down any houses, but yes, other than that, you’ve hit the proverbial bullseye,” Kurt says.
“Very well then. Mercedes, my lady! Propulsion, if you please,” Artie shouts.
“Hold on tight,” Mercedes replies. She thrusts her hands to the ‘rear’ of the vehicle, and the thing launches itself forward, blasting over the top of the street at a shockingly high speed and making a terrific racket the entire time. The Rockmobile is noisy, obnoxious, and incredibly easy to track thanks to the sizeable ditch it cuts into the ground and leaves in its wake. It’s also taxing to propel, difficult to steer, more difficult to stop, and highly dangerous to both people and property that might be in the way. All-in-all, it’s not a great way to get around…
…unless you happen to have a desperate need to get somewhere fast and no better transportation options than a couple of Earthbenders. Then, it’s fantastic.
The Rockmobile takes a corner about as well as you’d expect from a hastily-created land-boat made of stone (which is to say, ‘not well’) but Kurt manages to avert any serious damages by sweeping his newly added watery appendages around, and knocking several unsuspecting citizens out of harm’s way. Well, okay, not completely out of harm’s way-he hits them kind of hard and it probably hurts like a bitch, but in the grand script of life, bruised is better than flattened, creamed is preferable to crushed, and being hurt is much better than being dead.
The Palace looms in the distance, getting closer with every second. It isn’t fast enough. Kurt has a really bad feeling about Blaine. Something is calling him urgently, telling him to get to the Prince ASAP, and as much as he hates to admit it… he has his priorities. He has to help Blaine, and if helping Blaine involves inadvertently causing a few extra injuries to the Fire Nation citizens, then so be it.
Because he’s only just gotten Blaine. He just got someone beautiful, amazing, kind, intelligent who honestly seemed to like him, maybe even love him. He can’t lose him so soon. He can’t lose him because he made the decision to save his friends and left Blaine to fend for himself.
He just… can’t lose him. Period.
~~~
So, so quiet.
Blaine has never seen the Palace this empty. There were always Guards patrolling, on the lookout for thieves or trespassers. Always a servant or two milling about, attending to cleaning duties, delivering messages among the staff, running some odd errand for one of the officials. Gardeners, cooks, musicians, all sorts of odd characters could be seen in the Palace at various times. But now, the entire building seems deserted-an empty, lifeless shell, like a body left to rot in the night air. It honestly seems like Blaine and the Guard might be the only ones here.
“Where did you say my father was, again?” Blaine asks.
“I didn’t say,” the Guard states simply. Burn it! That usually works.
“I see no harm in telling me where we’re going,” Blaine says simply.
“You will understand when we arrive,” the Guard says shortly. It seems Blaine is beginning to wear on the man’s patience. It’s understandable that the evening’s events might be taxing on a defender of the Royal Family, but… really. There’s no need to be rude. None of the Guards has ever spoken… to him… like that…
It suddenly feels as if something dark, cold, and slimy has wrapped itself around Blaine’s heart. There is something off about this guy. His attitude isn’t the best, and Blaine still can’t place what’s wrong with his voice, but now that he is leading him around the Palace, the Prince has gotten several chances to watch him move. There is something wrong with it. It’s like he isn’t used to moving in armor at all.
Oh.
“The kitchens are right around here,” Blaine says, keeping his voice even. “I’m really thirsty. Can we please… stop for a drink?”
“Not now,” the Guard says. “It is important we get you to your destination as soon as possible.”
Oh.
Oh, no.
I’m going to die, Blaine thinks. I made it this far, and now I’m going to die because I’m too stupid to recognize when a Guard isn’t a Guard…
~~~
“Stand watch,” Sue had told her. “Make sure no one gets in or interferes.”
They were right outside the throne room when the Lady had drawn her aside and given her special orders. “But… my Lady,” she had said, “I don’t understand. I’m your top Captain. I should be with you in your moment of triumph.”
“Oh, pah,” Sue replied. “I don’t need you to triumph. I can triumph on my own. What I need is someone I can trust to make good and darn sure that my moment of triumph is not unduly interrupted. I want enough time to cremate the Fire Lord and use his ashes as confetti. You’re the best of the best, Q. I’m putting you on this job because I trust you. Are you saying that’s a bad idea?”
It isn’t a question so much as a threat, and Quinn gets the message. “No, my Lady. I understand.”
“Good,” Sue says, giving her a swordshark smile. “Now get to it.”
With that, Sue and the rest of the ‘Royal Guards’ had entered the throne room, leaving her alone in the silent Palace. She had accepted the Lady’s reasoning, even if she didn’t entirely believe it. She’d never imagined she would actually need to stifle a would-be intrusion, let alone one of such vital importance to their mission…
Speaking of which… the stupid brat seems to have forgotten how to walk, again.
“Prince Blaine,” she says, keeping her voice in the lowest register she can manage. “Is something the matter?”
The boy looks sick. Well, truth be told, he looked sick when she first saw him, but there’s something different about it now. His breathing is off. His eyes seem twitchier. He looks… afraid.
Quinn has seen that skittish look before. She hovers her hand near the hilt of her sword, just in case he tries to run. Lady Sylvester made her reasons for hiring the (apparently grossly incompetent) assassins perfectly clear-the Fire Lord can be taken down however, but the Prince needs to be killed by something other than Firebending. If Sue and her Chi-Ryus kill the Fire Lord and the Prince, it’s a coup. But if the people fly into an uncontrolled rage and murder their leader and the successor to the throne… well, that’s another matter entirely. And while she would much rather just stuff him in a closet somewhere until the Lady decides how best to deal with this minor setback, she is willing to do what must be done herself should he give her occasion.
“Please,” the boy says, moving towards a doorway. “The kitchens are right here. I just need to get a drink. Just a little sip of water.” His voice is pitiful, and Quinn feels perfectly comfortable rolling her eyes at this display of weakness. Does he think this is hard? Try not eating, drinking or sleeping for twenty-four hours and still pulling off a flawless Chi-Ryu kata series from first stance to hundred-and-eighth. That’s hard.
If he thinks he is getting away from her, he is sorely mistaken. She steps forward and grabs the shoulder she knows is injured, prompting a gasp from the pitiful Prince.. “Do you not listen?” she growls, slowly running out of patience. “Your life is in danger. Any shadow could hide an assassin. If you wander off alone, you could be killed.”
Alright, maybe she is being a little too overt with the naked aggression. That probably sounded more like a threat than a warning.
“Please,” he pleads with her, breathing heavily and seeming unsteady on his feet. “I just need a drink. Just one drink. You can go first, I’ll follow you, I’ll stay close, just… please.”
She stares at him for a moment. His whining is seriously starting to grate on her nerves. She debates the merits of just running him through, right then and there, but decides against it. The Lady is very specific when making her plans. The boy was supposed to die in the City. That he is here now presents a significant problem, one that Sue will want to know about so she can come up with the perfect solution. Until then, the brat remains alive.
“Very well,” Quinn sighs. “But do not wander away again.”
The Prince nods. “Thank you,” he rasps, obediently standing down and waiting for her to take the lead.
She fights off a sigh as she opens the door to the kitchens…
…only to find what is very much not a kitchen on the other side.
It happens quickly. Before she can even turn around, she feels the impact of a snap kick on her helmet, striking with enough force to knock the thing off of her even as the force sends her right into the closet she has inadvertently opened the door to. She recovers quickly, but not quite quickly enough-the boy has just enough time to take a good look at her face before he slams the door shut.
If held at firepoint, Quinn would admit she was ever-so-slightly impressed. Clever little boy. She’s underestimated him.
“You’re not one of my father’s men,” he says through the door. “You’re… actually not a man at all,” he continues, sounding honestly surprised.
“Excellent deduction,” she coos mockingly as she turns the handle and tries push the door open, to no avail. “What gave me away?”
“You don’t know where the kitchens are,” he says simply. “There’s not a single guard who works here who would not have memorized the kitchen’s location on their first day. The food here is that awesome.”
“Great,” Quinn says. “I can’t wait to try it for myself!” She punctuates her statement with a twin-footed kick to the door, but is shocked to find it rebuffs her easily.
“Yeah, I don’t think so,” the Prince says, and she can practically feel his smug, self-satisfied smirk through the wood. “This door is one hundred percent refined Blazewood. You could throw a fireball at it, and all you’d do is cook yourself. Every door in the Palace is this tough.”
Part of her wants to call his bluff, but it isn’t worth the risk. There are easier ways to get out of here.
“Who are you?” the Prince demands.
“It doesn’t matter who I am,” Quinn says. “I am not important in the evening’s events. I’m just one of many.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks.
“Exactly what I said,” Quinn says, smirking and hoping it comes across in her voice. “There are plenty of others here, Prince. It’s not safe for you out there. Maybe you should just come in here with me until the Fire Lord is killed. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”
“…what did you just say?” the Prince growls. Ha! Hook, line, and sinker.
“Do I look like a fortune cookie?” Quinn bitches at him. “Take your quest for answers to someone else. Maybe Daddy can tell you something useful. Better hurry, though. I don’t think he’ll be in a position to take questions much longer.”
She can practically hear the panic pumping his heartrate through the roof. “Shut up,” he says. She hears the sound of something heavy being moved in front of the door, and curses the royal pain for having the presence of mind to think of that. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go find my father. I’ll be back for you later,” he promises through the door.
She waits until she hears the sound of his rapid footsteps trampling off into the distance. “Not if I come for you first,” she smiles, lighting up the dark closet with a small flame from her manicured fingers. Holding the flame to the edges of the door, she moves up and down until she finds what she is looking for through the cracks.
Any door is only as strong as its weakest part.
And with a powerful, concentrated explosion, Quinn quickly proves that the weakest part of this particular door is its hinges.
~~~
To the Next Part