Work Text:
(1)
This is the picture of a boy: bloody knuckles, broken bones. He is small, and quiet, and does not cry though his eyes are dark, fierce, furious. The rock before him is whole, unmoved, smeared with blood. The rock before him is a force of nature, and he. . . he is not.
He strikes out again, screaming. The smear of blood on the rock's face grows wider, darker--and he is still just a boy, nobody, *nothing.*
*
He lives in a small house next to a girl who can lift boulders with her bare hands. She speaks loudly, quickly, too easily of inconsequential things. He thinks her slow and stupid and undeserving of power--but the earth bends to her will, shakes beneath her steps, flies and shatters against her palms.
His mother calls it a crush, that he watches the way her feet shift against the earth. Studies the set of her shoulders, the angle of her arms, the length of her spine. Breathes in unison with her. Curls his hands into fists when the earth bends to her will, and does not answer his call.
He is smart, and strong, and better than her--than everyone who 'bends as easily as they breathe.
*
He gains nothing from watching but sore muscles, hands that ache at night and in the rain. Watching is too simple, and far from enough.
The girl is slow, and stupid, and too charmed by his smile, his voice, to react when he hits her. She falls to the ground, and the earth doesn't rumble in protest, doesn't lash out in retaliation.
He slits the skin from her frame, studies bones, ligaments, veins, heart. Splits her open wide on the ground, and traces the inside of her skull.
*
He walks, and stones jitter and dance and shake in his wake.
It is a beginning.
Only the beginning, and so he smiles and scraps and bows to an old man who can command mountains into being, and calls him master.
(2)
He says, "what is the meaning of this power? Why does it exist?"
Blood trickles from the old man's mouth. His arms are bent, his legs shattered. He is weak, useless--powerless, now.
"That's right," Sylar says, "all power exists to be *used.*"
He strokes the old master's face, and shatters his skull.
*
The woman's eyes are hard with distrust. Her partner shifts back and forth, back and forth, bored by the the long stretch of dusty road before him, the great wall at his back, Sylar, everyone and everything.
Sylar hands them the old man's papers. They are neat, legal, and he is no threat to anyone.
The woman and her partner turn, feet spread wide and solid on the earth. The great wall splits, slides open.
This is Ba Sing Se, the greatest city in the world.
*
Inside the walls of Ba Sing Se, Earthbenders are at work. Sylar pulls his hat low over his eyes, sneers as he watches men and women of great power toil at their pathetic jobs, their pathetic lives.
Most 'benders, he thinks, are too simple-minded, too stupid to make use of the incredible power granted to them. They work at ordinary jobs, fight for other people's causes--are born, live, die as nothing more than average.
He has taken power, made it his own, and he will be *great.*
*
Ba Sing Se--the Impenetrable City, capital of the mighty Earth Kingdom--falls quickly, easily.
The streets of the city are awash in red, gold, black. The Fire Nation's banners snap overhead, cast flickering shadows across the city from atop the great walls. Children cry behind their mother's skirts, and proud men slump in defeat, the fight burned clean of them.
Sylar watches, alive with possibilities.
When he sees her for the first time--princess of the Fire Nation, the conquerer of the Earth Kingdom's greatest city--Sylar thinks that he can feel the firm hand of Fate on his shoulder.
(3)
"You," the girl
(Sylar knows: Ty Lee, her name is Ty Lee. He wonders: how far could I bend her before she breaks: before joints dislocate, her spine snaps?)
says, "have been following us."
The other girl's expression is bland; her voice names the threat as a familiar chore: "Azula doesn't like stalkers."
"Azula doesn't like *you,*" Ty Lee chirps, bright and cruel.
Sylar smiles at them, and smiles wider when both girls stiffen slightly at the expression. He is eager, hungry for the future, and his words are the absolute truth. "She *will* meet with me," he says.
Mai holds tight to her indifference
(if she were strong, if she were powerful, she would not allow the world to bore her, but would bend, and break, and build a world to suit her)
and says, "Azula does what she wants to do."
Sylar is confident, absolutely terrifying in his belief. "Oh, she'll want to see me."
*
Azula is perfect. She is brilliant, beautiful, a perfectly polished princess and sharpened blade. There are volumes of poetry written in her honour, and entire galleries of paintings try to capture a fraction of her greatness.
Sylar does not care about the shade of her eyes, the fullness of her lips, the haughty angle of her chin. He sees that her mouth is the perfect shape of cruelty, and that her expression is shrewd, hungry.
She's perfect, he thinks, and wonders if her blood would eat his hands down to the bone.
"I have more than enough sycophants and worshipers," she says, "so tell me, why do I need an Earthbender peasant?"
"I'm no worshiper, Princess," Sylar says.
"Are you telling me that you're an enemy?" Azula says. She laughs, and her eyes never leave his. She is ready to burn him to ash, and Sylar's heart beats quickly, his body taut with anticipation, excitement.
Sylar shifts his feet like the girl next door used to; bends his knees just like the old master did. He remembers how muscles moved, blood flowed, how their breath felt against his palm. He doesn't hesitate, and shakes the broken bodies of the Dai Li from the walls, ceiling, floors.
"I'm your *equal,*" Sylar says, "and I would be your ally, if you let me."
Azula wipes blood from her cheek. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find good help?" she sighs.
"I'm better than they ever were."
"We'll see, won't we?" Azula says.