Chapter Text
Other than the painfully slow task of earning Blue’s trust, there’s not a lot to do in the caravan. There have been problems with the food and water supply, a few thieves reported, and a couple deaths due to heat, injury, or sickness, but for the most part their journey into the desert has been problem free. It makes Jet feel uneasy.
Things don’t go this well for long, in his experience.
Smellerbee seems to be just as edgy, and Longshot is getting… well, not antsy, but tightly cautious. Longshot’s been a little off for a good week; something is bugging him and Jet hasn’t had the opportunity to handle it. There is a certain way to approach Longshot, and in the presence of strangers is definitely not it. Blue’s pretty tightly wound himself, although Jet’s pretty sure that is for different reasons. Blue seems to be some kind of tragedy sponge, observing every atrocity, every pain, every injustice within the ranks of the refugees, and cradling it within himself. Where Jet listens to the sad stories of others its to remind himself why he fights, Blue just… holds them. Feels them.
Jet wonders if Blue is such a loner because he can’t quit caring. If Jet couldn’t stop hurting for every person he met he wouldn’t want to meet many people either.
“What is that?” a girl asks, and Jet turns his head in the direction she is pointing. There’s a dark haze on the horizon, deluding the blue of the sky. Smoke is Jet’s first instinct, but the haze is too spread out, with no telltale glow beneath it. There’s nothing to burn out here anyways.
“Sandstorm,” someone murmurs, and the word passes person to person through the gathered people, quiet and unnerved, like a chill. Jet whistles a warning to the others, keeping his eyes on the horizon and the grin off of his face for the sake of the refugees around him. He’s not happy about the coming danger, but he's grimly satisfied to have something to fight. Jet always feels more alive when he has something to fight.
---
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Smellerbee says, staring at the incoming storm. It’s grown at an alarming rate for something so far away, having nearly doubled its size since it was first spotted. It only covers a sixth of the sky, but it's still massive, and the sunlight is already losing its brightness due to the dust in the air.
“Me neither,” Jet says. “We’ll have to stop and tie everything down before it gets here, make sure all the kids are rounded up. It’d be way too easy to lose someone in something like that.”
Blue nods grimly. “We’d never find them.”
“Right. We might as well do that now. Just make sure the parents understand what’s going on and have their kids handy, and that the orphans have a place to stay.” Smellerbee and Longshot dart off, Blue only waiting to nod again at Jet before he follows.
It feels good to give an order and have it followed. It feels like control, like protection, like trust. It’s an illusion, of course; although she’s loosened up a little, Smellerbee still watches him like he could lose his mind at any moment, Longshot’s usual calm is touched with the signs of a problem he isn’t coming to Jet about, and Blue hasn’t even given him a NAME yet. Still, it’s better than those first weeks after their forest burned, when anything Jet said was taken like the ravings of a madman. Anything is better than that. He’s doing better. He's gaining their trust, little by little.
All of them.
Most of the parents already have their children in hand, reacting to the foreboding atmosphere caused by the hushed caravan and the darkening sky, but Jet does happen upon a panicked father looking for his young son. By the time Jet finds the kid, who hid himself in the back of the last wagon in the caravan with the instinctual reaction to danger that kills as many kids as it saves, the sky is thick and dark, and the storm nearly upon them.
There is no time to regroup, so Jet whistles ‘find shelter’ into the growing wind, a warbling sound made between his palms. It feels thin in the air, like the wind and sand will destroy it before it can reach its target, but it’s the best he can do. The sand is stinging against his skin, surprisingly painful, by the time he finds himself a spot amongst the people huddled around one of the wagons. Jet's lungs feel heavy and itch. He pulls his shirt up against his mouth to filter out the dust and breaths in, coughing in alarm when a familiar scent invades his nose and hits the back of his throat. His shirt still smells like smoke. He grits his teeth, wishing strongly for something he could chew to get the sudden taste of ash out of his mouth, but his last stalk of grass lost its taste days ago, so he fists his hands and bears it.
The wind really hits them with the sound of roaring, loud and vicious against Jet’s ears. Jet remembers it from his fight with the Avatar, the rushing almost like the crash of a wave, but hostile in how it is accompanied by the physical force of the air buffeting his body. It isn’t a sensation he’d wanted to relive.
Jet turns his head, finding that while the noise subsides when his ear is turned directly to the wind, the unpredictable direction of the gusts and the sting of sand against the side of his face is too much to make it worth it. He finally has to tuck his head into his knees and clasps his hands over his neck for protection. The sand hits the metal of his shoulder guards in uneven tinny rhythms, and the wind tugs at his clothes like grasping hands. He can feel the pressure against his back, a slapping press of force that almost feels like an attack.
Longshot’s hat is going to fly away, Jet thinks inanely.
Someone shouts in alarm, and Jet looks up to see the wagon tilted towards them precariously. Several people scramble out of the way, but most leap up with Jet to push against the wooden side and right the leaning wagon. It’s alarming, as they have to push until the wheels are completely on the ground before the pressure lets up, gravity’s aide greatly hindered within the influence of the sandstorm. Jet tries to count the refugees when they come shuffling back to the wagon, but it’s impossible to tell if everyone made it back.
There’s no way they’re getting through this without losing someone, Jet thinks grimly.
--
Jet whistles into the clearing air, marveling at the sunlight filtering through the thinning dust. He had no idea how dark it had gotten until the wind began to calm, the oppressive press of air and sand slowly stilling. The reemergence of the sun gives him a curious feeling of beginning, like a small dawn to a short day.
There’s an answering whistle, and the tightness in Jet’s chest eases. He may have every faith in his Freedom Fighter’s abilities, but it’s always hard not to worry when they're out of his line of sight.
There’s no echo to the welcome sound, so the others must be together. Jet scans the shifted desert landscape. People are shuffling out of hiding places, shaking dirt from their clothes and surveying the damage. The wagon he was huddled beside is half buried in a sand drift, and some of the more abled bodied refugees have begun organizing themselves to dig it out. Overall, Jet thinks they weathered the storm well. They only have another day alone in the desert before the scouts Lu told them about are supposed to find them, and things are looking good.
Not everyone faired so well, of course. As Jet walks through the clusters of people he hears the frantic calling of names, the desperate cries to stop, turn the caravan around, send out a search party, anything. It won’t happen, he knows. Supplies are dangerously low, and the people already slow and desperate due to days in the hot killing sun. They won’t risk themselves for the few too stupid to find shelter in time. No one here has gotten this far by being a bleeding heart.
Except for Blue, maybe. Jet’s still trying to figure that one out.
He spots Longshot leaning against the third wagon and waves, knowing the archer has already spotted him. Longshot dips his head in greeting. It looks like he miraculously kept hold of his hat, although it does seem a bit more battered than it had been. His clothes are also uncharacteristically askew, coated liberally with dust, which washes out the colors. He still fared better than Jet, who’s already scruffy hair has become a tangled mess beyond mortal help.
“Looks like you guys did alright,” Jet grins. “I almost got pinned by a tipped wagon.” Longshot frowns, tapping one finger against the outside of his thigh, and Jet’s heart freezes.
Longshot is alone.
Jet whistles again, cupping his hands around his mouth to amplify the noise.
There’s no answer.
He tries again.
Nothing.
Smellerbee isn’t answering, and neither is Blue.
It takes him a moment to process it. Unless Jet seriously overestimated him, Blue is a survivor tough enough to hold his own, and Jet stopped underestimating Smellerbee when she was ten. Neither of them would have wandered off during the storm. Neither of them would have taken a single chance they didn’t have to.To lose one of them could be a freak twist of fate, but both? It doesn't make sense.
Longshot steps even with him, thrumming with tension. He scans the horizon, then scans it again, his tightening shoulders telling Jet everything he needs to know.
Blue is gone. Smellerbee is gone.
“We’ll find them," he vows, and spits the taste of smoke out of his mouth.
---
They comb the caravan, starting at the back and moving forward. People answer their questions, or turn away to protect themselves from confronting Jet’s growing panic, or just sit and cry, lost in their own pain.
Jet never remembers what this pain is like until its back again. He always thinks he does, but it becomes dulled with time, in both emotion and memory. He’s always surprised by how sharp it is, how aware of the world he becomes, how physical the grief is, when he’s just lost someone.
No.
He hasn’t lost them. He won’t admit it until there’s a body in front of his feet.
They’re fine. They have to be.
When Jet spots Chao-Xing and her kid his heart lifts, sure Blue will be close to his favorite refugees, only to plummet when he nears he doesn’t spot the distinctive boy anywhere.
"Have you seen Blue?” Jet calls to her, still scanning the area around him.
The woman looks up, her pleasant face slipping into worry. “Not since before the storm,” she answers. “He made sure we were as safe as he could make us, and then kept going. You can’t find him?”
“I’m sure he’s fine,” Jet tells her, even though he’s pretty sure he’s not. Min is watching with wide eyes, terrified of a pain he knows she recognizes, and he doesn’t want to hurt her.
He salutes the young girl with two fingers, making her smile, and holds a smirk on his face like a shield until he’s facing away. He lets it drop, staring into Longshot’s dark eyes and feeling like his chest has been shredded. “I’m sure they’ll be fine,” he says, half to himself and half to assure Longshot. The archer doesn’t buy it; he’s known Jet for far too long to fall for his comfort, but he nods a little anyways. Because he does know Jet, and Jet needs people to believe him.
If he can’t get people to believe him, he can’t believe himself. And if Jet stops believing he’ll stop fighting, and if he stops fighting he’ll die.
It’s as simple as that.
--
When they find out that the fourth wagon is missing warning bells start chiming in Jet’s head. To lose a few people is one thing, but to lose an entire wagon?
“There’s nothing we can do about it,” the man he’s talking to sighs. “Without the supplies in that wagon we’re even less prepared to search out the lost than we were before.”
“We can’t leave them out there to starve!” A woman yells, and Jet nods in agreement, even though he would have agreed with the man if Smellerbee and Blue weren’t out there. It’s always different, when the victims are his.
“It’s impossible," the man says.
“It’s convenient,” Jet counters darkly.
The man narrows his eyes at him. “What are you suggesting?”
Jet doesn’t answer, just shaking his head. He doesn’t have a theory really, just enough experience with how shitty life can be to know there’s something off about this.
--
They comb the caravan twice before Jet gives up the hope that they simply overlooked the two missing kids. As soon as he realizes they really are gone, he shuts down the fear and the panic, and THINKS.
“We’ll need supplies,” he murmurs. There isn’t much left to take, but he bets a few of the refugees have some food and water hoarded out of sight. They’ll have to wait until it starts getting dark and gather up whatever’s useful. He chafes at the thought of waiting until nightfall to begin their search, but all leaving now would do is kill him and Longshot along with the others.
No. He can’t think about that.
He eyes the camelephants pulling the remaining wagons, but dismisses them. They’ve already been pushed to their breaking points, and he’d need a lot more people than just him and Longshot to appropriate one of them without being seen. And Jet doesn’t want to be seen; there’s something wrong about this situation, and he isn’t trusting anyone that isn't his until he knows exactly what.
“We’ll have to move out on foot,” he mutters unhappily. Longshot straightens beside him, and Jet follows his line of sight, spotting something approaching the caravan moments before a jubilant cry rings through the remaining refugees.
The scouts have arrived with fresh supplies, to guide them out of this blasted desert.
And they came with ostrich-horses.
Jet grins.
---
The sky is bleeding into night when Jet ties the last of their stolen supplies to the back of the ostrich horse Longshot is seated on. As he’s securing the last knot his friend twitches to warn him, and Jet placed his hand on the grip of the hook sword hanging at his hip and casts a glance over his shoulder to find a woman and child watching from the growing shadows.
“He’s gone, and you’re going after him,” Chao-Xing states.
Jet shrugs, not denying it. “Smellerbee’s gone too.”
Chao-Xing frowns. “Neither of those children would appreciate you following them into certain death.”
“I’ve lived through too much shit to believe in ‘certain’ anything.”
“It’s insanity.”
Jet chuckles darkly. “Yeah well, I've been told I'm a bit crazy.” He turns to her and lets his face soften. “I won’t leave them out there to die.”
She looks at him with wet mother’s eyes. “Then I wish you the best of luck. Find us, when you reach Ba Sing Se," she offers. "We'll have tea together.”
“We will,” he nods, and then after a moment’s thought copies the bow he’s seen Blue give her, as best he can. “Take care of yourself. He likes you.”
“Likewise,” she smiles warmly, and turns towards back into the moving caravan, her little girl wide eyed and scared at her side. Jet watches her for a moment before swinging onto the ostrich-horse's back behind Longshot.
“Let’s go,” he says, and Longshot dips his head in agreement, and urges the beast forward.
Jet knows she's right, that there's no way this will end well, but there's nothing else to do.
The thing about Jet is this: He doesn’t let go.
--
The next morning is breaking when they catch their first glimpse of something other than sand. Jet is staring straight ahead, tired and fighting the fears in his head, when Longshot turns their mount to the left and urges it into a trot, bringing them closer to a black smudge on the canvas of tan.
It’s a young man, Jet realizes as they near him. He’s laying prone, making a wet click when he breathes, his chest caved in alarmingly and his legs twisted sickeningly. There’s blood on his mouth and wild fear in his eyes, and he begins to cry the moment he sees Jet and Longshot.
Jet dismounts, surveying the scene for a moment before he sinks to his knees beside the dying man. “Shh,” he sooths, running one careful hand down the man’s arm and gripping his cold hand, and cupping the back of his neck with the other.
“I can’t feel my legs,” The man whispers, and Jet feels sick.
“Tell me what happened,” he says, rubbing his thumb over the back of the man’s hand comfortingly, “and I’ll help you.”
“There were people inside the sand,” the man says, his voice thin and panicked.
“Did you see a boy with a sword and a scar and a kid with a headband and marks on their face?” Jet asks urgently. The man makes a sound of distress, and Jet loosens his tight grip on his hand. “I’m sorry.”
“They, they weren’t…” The man coughs, and Jet feels hot flecks of blood hit his face. “Not our people. Someone else.”
“What do you mean?” Jet breathes, suddenly very aware, and very angry.
“Earthbenders,” the man whispers. “There were people inside the sand.”
“They did this?” Jet asks, looking down at the broken refugee’s twisted body.
"I tried to run,” the man says, and begins to cry again.
“Hey, hey,” Jet whispers. He rubs his hand over the dying refugee's sweat covered forehead. “Don’t cry. It’s going to be alright.” He waits until the tears stop, rubbing his hand up and down the man’s arm, gripping the hair at the scruff of his neck comfortingly. “Which direction did they go?”
The man lifts a shaking finger and points past his feet. “There.” He shifts his hand to grab at Jet’s wrist with the surprising intensity of someone near death. “Help me.” He pleads.
“Okay.” Jet says. He meets Longshots eyes, the only mercy he’s capable of giving naked on his face. Longshot gives a long pained look, and turns away. Jet looks back at the dying man and steels himself.
“Relax,” Jet says, removing his fingers from their grip on the back of the man’s neck and rubbing his hand over the man’s forehead one last time. Then he clasps his palm over the man’s mouth and nose and holds on. The man jerks, his eyes shooting open and his broken chest bucking. He scrambles at Jet’s hand with his own, but the Freedom Fighter has no trouble taking his wrists in his free hand and holding them to the sand in the gentlest position he can manage. The man makes a low noise of alarm, but Jet knows how cruel it would be to listen to it, so he shuts his ears and does what must be done. He can feel warm blood and spit against his palm, the graze of teeth as the man fights.
“It’s okay, let go,” Jet says with as much kindness as he can manage. “Don’t struggle and it won’t hurt for much longer. You did well, kid. You did just fine, you can let go now.” It takes so long, moments of long silence broken by desperate fighting, growing weaker and weaker. It always takes so long. Jet doesn’t look away. He won’t disrespect the man by looking away.
“We’ll get them for you,” he promises, his oldest and dearest lie. He’s said it before, so many times. It’s gained him smiles, and spit, and pity, and he’s taken them all, because this is the last gift he knows how to give, and the kid on the ground can take it however they want. They’ve earned that.
The man looks at him through bloodshot eyes, accusation in his gaze, as he slowly stills. Jet keeps his hand where it is a few minutes after the man’s face goes slack and his hand falls limply away, to be sure, before letting go and carefully brushing the corpses eyelids shut. He sits back on his heels feeling raw and burnt and so very old.
He gets up, walks a respectful distance away, and vomits until he can believe the water leaking from his eyes is because of the retching.
Breathe in, breathe out, push it down, in, drown it in rage and twist it into fighting spirit.
Get up.
Move on.
“Let’s go,” Jet says as he rejoins Longshot, his voice strong and hard and his head tilted up. Longshot brushes his shoulder against Jet’s as they walk back to the ostrich-horse, and Jet takes the comfort and wraps the little kid crying in his head with it.
“We’ll find them,” Jet promises Longshot in return, and prays that this lie, like his last one, will be one he can twist into a truth.
Smellerbee will be fine. Blue too.
And if they aren’t… Well.
Now he knows there’s someone he can make pay for it. And they will.
Every last one of them.