He rose quickly, and fell in much the same speed. His body hurtled through space, his body beautiful and obscure as the man’s ankle jerked to the side and brought with it his torso. His hands, slamming into the stage, his muscles rippling with tension as the camera zoomed in on his face hitting the stage. After the hospital, he had bribed someone and had gone unseen since. Zuko watched the video again, beautiful wings collapsing on the ground alongside him, covering the ballerina’s face.
Jet had passed out, only to be dragged out by a stagehand. Since then, neither hide nor hair had been seen of him, but that was nothing unusual. Zuko’s fingers brushed against the scar on his face, and he pressed the sticky note against the camera. Then he opened an …show more content…
I’m always doing work.” The light from the streets of Detroit barely reached him in his basement, where he worked and worked for the briefest sense of a purpose, as if he weren’t even allowed it. Without reprieve he marched forward with his writing, but it was never worth it. He hadn’t had an article accepted in months, not since his father fired him.
Iroh nodded, and looked at the numerous lamps he had given his nephew over the years. “It’s not good for your eyes.”
Zuko paused and pulled away from the laptop. He saw the ballerina’s made up face, from a ballet about a tragic artist. His eyes were bruised and his lips as red as a ripe apple. In the picture he looked towards with the spotlight with something wild in his eyes. No wonder he’d failed.
“That doesn’t matter, Uncle.” He sighed. “There’s not much to miss, here.”
His uncle didn’t flinch, just turned on the light and closed the door behind him. A small action, but the noise echoed through the house, and Zuko looked back at the boy before him. He’s my age, he thought, and scrolled. There were no interviews, save rumours. He clicked on one, with one of the boy’s understudies, a man named Keaton Dales. A man who was, interestingly enough,
Jet had passed out, only to be dragged out by a stagehand. Since then, neither hide nor hair had been seen of him, but that was nothing unusual. Zuko’s fingers brushed against the scar on his face, and he pressed the sticky note against the camera. Then he opened an …show more content…
I’m always doing work.” The light from the streets of Detroit barely reached him in his basement, where he worked and worked for the briefest sense of a purpose, as if he weren’t even allowed it. Without reprieve he marched forward with his writing, but it was never worth it. He hadn’t had an article accepted in months, not since his father fired him.
Iroh nodded, and looked at the numerous lamps he had given his nephew over the years. “It’s not good for your eyes.”
Zuko paused and pulled away from the laptop. He saw the ballerina’s made up face, from a ballet about a tragic artist. His eyes were bruised and his lips as red as a ripe apple. In the picture he looked towards with the spotlight with something wild in his eyes. No wonder he’d failed.
“That doesn’t matter, Uncle.” He sighed. “There’s not much to miss, here.”
His uncle didn’t flinch, just turned on the light and closed the door behind him. A small action, but the noise echoed through the house, and Zuko looked back at the boy before him. He’s my age, he thought, and scrolled. There were no interviews, save rumours. He clicked on one, with one of the boy’s understudies, a man named Keaton Dales. A man who was, interestingly enough,