He wakes to the clink of keys and a dark figure in a blue mask leering from the doorway. The guy’s head is bowed over his task, and Jet bites back a grunt as he gets up. He’s stiff and aching, some of it from cold, some from the weight of his gut.
Blue-Mask looks up and lays a gloved finger atop his carved lips; Jet crosses his arms, as much to keep out the chill as to emphasize his glower.
The man at the bars fiddles with the keys a little more, and with a faint click the door eases open. No squeal- must’ve been oiled before he’d woken up. Blue-Mask gives him a necessarily blank look and eases in, glancing behind before he reaches back into the rucksack he’s wearing and comes up with-
Well, what do you know? Someone’s thought things out- there’s boots to guard against the snow he knows is laying thick on the ground. Overlarge tunic to layer over his prison-issued one, a cloak as well. And behind his back-
Jet reaches out for the shang gou, and if they aren’t the pair they took off him on arrest then they’re damn well good enough for now. Only Blue-Mask straight-arms him, square in the tenderest part of his chest, and gestures him both to hush and to wait at his hiss- and Jet wants to suckerpunch him and take them anyway, but he’s fat with child and awaiting execution and he wants out more than he wants his weapons.
Mostly.
He hurries into the clothes he’s been provided and watches as Blue-Mask moves to the hard bench where he’d been sleeping, lithe muscle moving expertly under black cloth. He takes another thing from his pack- a scroll of parchment that looks like it cost more than anything Jet’s ever owned, seals in red and gold and black dangling from the edge, and fancy-carved end-caps that shout High! Class! Fire Nation!
This is set carefully in place in the middle of his bunk, and Jet feels his fists clench. Blue Mask turns around and looks at him, and he forces them to relax, to pull the cloak close around him and follow when his rescuer indicates the door with a jerk of his head and ghosts away.
Jet follows at his quickest waddle, and they pad swiftly through the halls, evading the jailers and the guards on the rounds and waking anyone else- it’s not a fortress, and soon enough they’re out and not a drop of blood spilled nor alarm raised.
It’s just as cold out as he thought, and as they make their way through alleys and shadowed paths, snow starts to fall. It’s not a blizzard- yet- but before morning, hell, before an hour’s gone past, their tracks are going to be gone.
Someone really thought this through. He’s not sure he trusts the intent behind it, but he can admire the mind that came up with the scheme.
A lot of luck and a lot more breathless struggling sees them over the town wall- a rope over each side could be missed where a ladder wouldn’t, and Jet tries to appreciate the subtlety, but needing a boost to get his ass over is doing nothing to improve his mood. Still- they’re down, and from there it’s a straight shot into the woods and he knows where to go from there.
Blue-Mask doesn’t take off. In fact, once they’re well into the tree-line, he stops and perforce Jet stops as well, a black-gloved hand grasping his wrist.
Now that there are no guards around to tempt him into confrontation, the silent man offers up the shang gou, and Jet grasps them for a moment, grinning in satisfaction to feel them in his hands again. But the snow is falling, thick if not fast, and he’s cold. The hookswords go onto his belt, and he follows the shadowy figure as they wade deeper into the night.
It’s not easy going. The groundcover’s nearly knee-high and rising with the snowfall, and Jet is losing feeling in his hands, his feet, his face. Blue-Mask holds on to his arm, and guides him as he clutches the cloak tight. The wind’s picking up, and his teeth chatter as he tries to keep his eyes open for the Freedom Fighters and their own secret trail signs.
Soon he’s just trying to keep his eyes open at all, trying not to tumble forward into the snow. He’s losing it, and all he can hope is that this wasn’t how Blue-Mask meant to kill him.
Late!late!Bonus!fic- After The War 3/?
Blue-Mask looks up and lays a gloved finger atop his carved lips; Jet crosses his arms, as much to keep out the chill as to emphasize his glower.
The man at the bars fiddles with the keys a little more, and with a faint click the door eases open. No squeal- must’ve been oiled before he’d woken up. Blue-Mask gives him a necessarily blank look and eases in, glancing behind before he reaches back into the rucksack he’s wearing and comes up with-
Well, what do you know? Someone’s thought things out- there’s boots to guard against the snow he knows is laying thick on the ground. Overlarge tunic to layer over his prison-issued one, a cloak as well. And behind his back-
Jet reaches out for the shang gou, and if they aren’t the pair they took off him on arrest then they’re damn well good enough for now. Only Blue-Mask straight-arms him, square in the tenderest part of his chest, and gestures him both to hush and to wait at his hiss- and Jet wants to suckerpunch him and take them anyway, but he’s fat with child and awaiting execution and he wants out more than he wants his weapons.
Mostly.
He hurries into the clothes he’s been provided and watches as Blue-Mask moves to the hard bench where he’d been sleeping, lithe muscle moving expertly under black cloth. He takes another thing from his pack- a scroll of parchment that looks like it cost more than anything Jet’s ever owned, seals in red and gold and black dangling from the edge, and fancy-carved end-caps that shout High! Class! Fire Nation!
This is set carefully in place in the middle of his bunk, and Jet feels his fists clench. Blue Mask turns around and looks at him, and he forces them to relax, to pull the cloak close around him and follow when his rescuer indicates the door with a jerk of his head and ghosts away.
Jet follows at his quickest waddle, and they pad swiftly through the halls, evading the jailers and the guards on the rounds and waking anyone else- it’s not a fortress, and soon enough they’re out and not a drop of blood spilled nor alarm raised.
It’s just as cold out as he thought, and as they make their way through alleys and shadowed paths, snow starts to fall. It’s not a blizzard- yet- but before morning, hell, before an hour’s gone past, their tracks are going to be gone.
Someone really thought this through. He’s not sure he trusts the intent behind it, but he can admire the mind that came up with the scheme.
A lot of luck and a lot more breathless struggling sees them over the town wall- a rope over each side could be missed where a ladder wouldn’t, and Jet tries to appreciate the subtlety, but needing a boost to get his ass over is doing nothing to improve his mood. Still- they’re down, and from there it’s a straight shot into the woods and he knows where to go from there.
Blue-Mask doesn’t take off. In fact, once they’re well into the tree-line, he stops and perforce Jet stops as well, a black-gloved hand grasping his wrist.
Now that there are no guards around to tempt him into confrontation, the silent man offers up the shang gou, and Jet grasps them for a moment, grinning in satisfaction to feel them in his hands again. But the snow is falling, thick if not fast, and he’s cold. The hookswords go onto his belt, and he follows the shadowy figure as they wade deeper into the night.
It’s not easy going. The groundcover’s nearly knee-high and rising with the snowfall, and Jet is losing feeling in his hands, his feet, his face. Blue-Mask holds on to his arm, and guides him as he clutches the cloak tight. The wind’s picking up, and his teeth chatter as he tries to keep his eyes open for the Freedom Fighters and their own secret trail signs.
Soon he’s just trying to keep his eyes open at all, trying not to tumble forward into the snow. He’s losing it, and all he can hope is that this wasn’t how Blue-Mask meant to kill him.
…