Chapter Text
Serango had spent her childhood drifting through the Earth Kingdom, untethered and forgotten. Auburn-haired and blue-eyed, she stood out in a crowd, yet went unnoticed—a silent witness to a world that passed her by. Her mother, a politician from Ba Sing Se, traveled constantly, moving from city to village to distant outposts. But wherever they went, Serango was left to her own devices, a ghost in the shadow of her mother’s ambition. She was never included in the meetings, never taught the intricacies of diplomacy. Her presence was a burden, a mistake quite literally born from a fleeting night of indulgence.
Her mother provided nothing beyond the basic necessities, and even those were unreliable. Freedom was the only gift Serango had consistently been given, and it came without care, guidance, or protection. She wandered through markets unattended, weaving between bustling vendors and strange faces. She had run-ins with the law as early as the age of four. With no hand to hold, she sought fulfillment and happiness from whatever caught her eye in the moment. The lines between right and wrong were practically nonexistent, and danger found her easily. She climbed trees and high walls, explored forests and dark tunnels, was swept up in unfamiliar crowds, and nearly lost herself more times than she could count. Yet her mother remained indifferent, her mind always on whatever lie ahead.
It was during one of their lengthy, frigid stops at the remote Northern Air Temple that Serango encountered the creature who would come to mean more to her than anyone ever had. She had been left alone again, her mother entangled in endless discussions with the Air Acolytes about their traditions and temple politics. The wind howled around her as she sat on the cold stone steps, her small body shivering and her cheeks stained with tears. She hugged her knees to her chest, trying to find some comfort in the beautiful gardens and otherworldly architecture that spanned before her. Then, suddenly—a soft flutter interrupted her solitude. She looked up to see a small flying creature swoop down from one of the towering statues to land delicately a few steps away. The lemur tilted its head, eyes large and inquisitive, its gaze seeming to hold a compassion Serango had never seen before.
The animal studied her for a moment, its head cocked to the side as though trying to understand why this tiny human was crying. Then, with a gentle chirp, it hopped closer, just within reach, its presence both comforting and curious. Serango sniffled, wiping her face with her sleeve, surprised by the creature’s boldness. “H-hello,” she said softly, her voice wavering. She reached out a hesitant hand, but before she could touch it, the lemur chirped again and leapt into the air, vanishing into the shadows of the temple’s interior. Disappointment weighed heavy on her, and she lowered her hand. Her lip had begun to tremble, a telltale sign that the child had resigned herself to being alone once more. But moments later, a soft flutter signaled the lemur’s return. This time, it was holding something— a small, freshly baked tart, warm and fragrant, loaded with glistening slices of fruit. Serango’s eyes widened, and she could hardly believe the sight. She took the tart from the lemur with trembling fingers and devoured it, the sweetness filling her mouth, warming her from the inside out.
As she ate, the lemur remained by her side, and when she had finished, it gently licked her face before curling up on her lap, soft and radiating much needed heat. For the first time in as long as she could remember, Serango felt… loved. She stroked the lemur’s fur gently, feeling an overwhelming urge to keep this creature close. “Will you stay with me?” she asked, her voice filled with a hope she hadn’t dared feel in years. “I… I could call you Ling-ling, if you want. That’s a pretty name, right? Please stay, Ling-ling.” The lemur chirped, nestling deeper into her lap, and Serango took it as a promise. She wrapped her arms around Ling-ling, tears welling in her eyes again—this time not from sadness, but from the pure, unexpected joy of finally feeling like she wasn’t completely alone. In all her life, she couldn’t remember a happier moment.
From that day on, Ling-ling became more than a companion; she became the caretaker Serango never had. When hunger gnawed at her after days of neglect, it was Ling-ling who would return with food pilfered from nearby stalls or foraged from the wilderness. She would lie beside Serango during the long, lonely nights, soft fur absorbing the tears the child couldn’t hold back. The lemur’s presence was the closest thing to love Serango had ever known.
Through the years, Serango followed her mother across nations with Ling-ling in tow, from the icy Water Tribes to the Fire Nation archipelago. Each place was just another stop in an endless line of brief, disconnected visits. Serango was never told why they traveled or what her mother was doing. She only knew that wherever they went, she was the last on the list of priorities, like unpacked baggage.
It wasn’t long before Serango realized her lack of bending made her more disposable than ever. Other children displayed signs by now—earth shifting beneath them, water rippling with their movements, flames flickering at their fingertips. But Serango had nothing. No bending, no skills, no worth. To her mother, this made her decisively and indisputably useless. One day, when they were traveling through a small, forgotten village near the eastern shores of their homeland, her mother simply left her behind. Without explanation, without a goodbye, without even a glance backward.
At ten years old, Serango stood in the empty village square, watching the silhouette of her mother’s carriage fade into the distance. Ling-ling, always loyal, still stayed. The lemur perched on her shoulder, a silent witness to the rejection that stung sharper than any physical blow ever could. It was in that moment Serango knew—the two of them were alone.
Serango and Ling-ling were on the brink of starvation when they crossed paths with a group of wandering musicians. The group was welcoming. They were nomads, lovers of philosophy and spirituality, free spirits who roamed the Earth Kingdom with their instruments slung across their backs and songs in their hearts. They took her in without question, offering her a place among their ranks with open arms. Though they had little to give, something was better than nothing at all, and performing for money was far less dangerous than stealing. The carefree lifestyle of the group was filled with laughter and fun, but it lacked direction, rules, or purpose. For a time, Serango found comfort in their ways, drifting from town to town, singing songs, sharing poems, dancing, and playing melodies. But she often wondered if it was really what she wanted for herself in the longterm. Nearing twelve years old, and having accompanied them for almost two years, she had seen too much for this lifestyle to ever feel truly fulfilling.
She continued to travel with a change in mind, journeying to Omashu in search of the one person she still believed could save her—her father. She had never met him, but she clung to the hope that he might be different. He might embrace her in a way her mother never had, give her a home, and help her find a path. Omashu’s towering walls loomed before her like a fortress of possibilities. Yet, when she finally arrived, the truth crushed her. Her father, the soldier she had dreamed of meeting, was already gone. Dead for years. The hope she had carried for so long evaporated, leaving nothing but a hollow ache in its place. There was no family left, no place she belonged. Only the endless road, and the silent comfort of a flying lemur who had never left her side.
———
The years she spent on the streets of Omashu were a haze of survival; not adventure, not uncertainty. There was seldom time between the hunger and exhaustion to tie any emotions to anything. After discovering her father was long dead, she wandered through the alleys and backstreets, finding temporary refuge on benches, under aunings, in abandoned homes,—wherever the elements seemed a little less hostile. The city was a maze, and she drifted through it, an unnoticed face among many. She watched people go about their lives, their paths crossing hers without a second glance. They had places to go, families, homes to return to, and names that someone cared about. Serango had none of that.
As she grew older though, something began to shift in the way people looked at her. The passing glances from strangers turned into lingering stares. She saw how shopkeepers softened when she approached their stalls, offering small kindnesses they hadn’t before—a few free scraps of bread, the gift of a used but still usable blanket. Guards turned away instead of questioning her loitering. It was subtle, almost imperceptible at first, but it didn’t take long for Serango to understand. She was changing, and people were noticing. It wasn’t something she took pride in; it felt like a burden more than a gift, a cruel irony for someone who had always been invisible. She saw the way her reflection had shifted in puddles and dirty mirrors—a young woman with auburn hair that caught the sunlight, blue eyes that others found captivating, and a face that had softened into something quietly beautiful despite her hardships. She had never been taught to value herself, but she had the bitter awareness that others valued her. Just—not in a way that benefited anyone but themselves. She was still not a human being—she was the human equivilant of strawberry cake; tasty to eat, but not worth more than the price of consumption. A few copper pieces—silver, maybe? Wait! Could she, perhaps, use that?
She fought against the idea at first. The trouble was, without bending, without connections, and without having attended school or inherited a family trade, There were little options in terms of employment. The thought of selling herself made her stomach twist, made her feel like she was crossing an unspoken line she hadn’t even known existed. But hunger gnawed at her, and each night grew colder. Desperation slowly strangled her sense of self-preservation, pushing her closer to a decision she didn’t want to make. There was no one to tell her it would be alright. No hand to guide her away from that ledge. The truth of it was, there were few paths left for a woman alone in Omashu with no element, no education, no marketable skills, and nothing but the clothes on her back. It was inevitable, almost mechanical—a series of tiny steps that led her to a single conclusion.
The first time, she felt disconnected, as if watching it happen to someone else. It was surreal, like moving through a fog where everything was muted and distant. It had been with a military man, likely twice her age. If the experience taught her one thing, it was that she was fairly certain she did not like men the way she was supposed to. It wasn’t just some misguided side effect of the circumstance—it was deeper than that. If she could have helped it, she would have only stuck to female clients going forward.
The trouble was that—in the Earth Kingdom—those were few and far between, or entirely nonexistent. If she had been residing in the Fire Nation, it would have been easy. They had become much more tolerant in the decades that followed the Hundred Years War, and Firebenders expressed their sexualities almost as openly as the Airbenders these days, but this wasn’t the archipelago of gorgeous fire women. This was the backwards Earth Kingdom, so… she did what she had to do, and when it was over, she was left feeling hollow every time. At least she had money now—just enough to buy food and an actual, decent, enclosed place to sleep for a few nights. It was something concrete, something tangible, and so much more than she’d had in a long time. As she nestled in the blankets of a proper bed with Ling-ling, she realized that she had actually forgotten how good it felt to lay in one. So, she convinced herself that this new way of doing things… was necessary. It was survival.
As the days turned into months and months into years, the work became routine, and so did the emptiness. She felt fragile, like a dried leaf caught in the breeze, drifting from one encounter to the next, detached from her own life. Each transaction took a little piece of her, and she hardened herself to the feeling of being used. She told herself it was just another price she had to pay for the chance to keep living. At least now, she wasn’t starving, and that was worth something.
But then the Earth Queen was assassinated.
News of her death spread like wildfire through the continent, and suddenly, the world turned upside down. Serango didn’t know much about politics, but she could feel the shift in the air—the way fear and anger crackled like dry tinder waiting for a spark. The streets of Omashu, once chaotic but predictable, became dangerous in new and terrifying ways. People who had been indifferent to her presence now eyed her with suspicion, hostility, or worse—possessiveness. The guards, once a looming but distant threat, now seemed more like tyrants looking for an excuse. Law enforcement, once so willing to look the other way for her, now seemed set on catching and detaining her for something, anything.
Order collapsed almost overnight, and with it, any sense of safety Serango had. The criminal underworld thrived in the chaos, and violence broke out with alarming frequency. She saw people beaten in broad daylight, their cries going unanswered as the city continued to unravel. Living in a major city like Omashu was no longer an option. The danger of staying outweighed the abundance of resources it once offered, and Serango felt the old need to run—flee into the wilds, find some semblance of stability in movement.
The roads were fraught with uncertainty. Bandits prowled the wilderness, preying on the weak and the displaced. Small towns became battlegrounds for rival factions seeking control. The people she traveled with changed frequently—refugees fleeing from burned villages, nomads trying to outrun the spreading anarchy, soldiers turned deserters trying to disappear. Some were kind, some were cruel, and none of them stayed long enough for her to know them beyond their names and the fleeting conversations shared around campfires.
In this new life, Serango was constantly on edge. She had to be alert to every sound, every movement, always watching for the next threat. There were days when it felt like she was a wild animal, always running, always afraid. The constant travel wore on her, and there was no room for weakness, no time for mourning the life she had left behind in Omashu. All she could do was keep moving forward, keep surviving.
———
A decade had passed since her mother’s unceremonious abandonment of her, and Serango’s life had carried her to more places than most could ever hope to see. Today, it lead her to Kyoshi Island. It was here, amidst the sea-swept cliffs and verdant forests of the late Earth Avatar’s home, that she found a sense of purpose in recent times—helping those who had been cut off from the world by the growing power of the Earth Empire. Kuvira’s regime had closed Kyoshi’s trade routes, effectively severing the island’s lifeline to mainland resources. Her military forces patrolled the waters with rigid control, blocking vital supplies from reaching the residents. The official line was that the Earth Empire was consolidating its territories to strengthen national unity. In reality, it was economic strangulation, a tactic often used in political maneuvering, forcing weaker regions into compliance through deprivation.
Kyoshi Island, proud and independent, resisted Kuvira’s offers for unification. The elders viewed the Great Uniter’s campaign with deep distrust, remembering too well the promises of past leaders who had sought to exert their control. The people of Kyoshi had learned to value their autonomy above all else, and they would not yield without a fight.
Serango had joined a group of missionaries who had come from all over the Earth Kingdom, drawn by stories of the islanders’ struggles. Together, they sought to bring aid in the form of food, medicines, and basic supplies. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. For Serango, helping others filled the void her past had left. There was something deeply fulfilling in offering the kind of care and compassion she had never received herself. Besides, Avatar Kyoshi had been an orphan, and that shared experience was enough to makeSerango want to feel closer to her—the Avatar of her own time proving quite the controversial, disappointing figure, and having been awol for years.
Serango had made this journey twice before—in the span of three short weeks. Spending so much time on the open waters, constantly in danger of being spotted and reprimanded by navy ships, was not for everyone. It wasn’t easy, but it was fulfilling in ways nothing else could rival. The plan was simple: the missionaries would arrive in secret under the cover of night, distribute their supplies quickly, and depart the following night after a meal and some much needed rest. But Kuvira’s grip was ironclad, her vigilance unwavering. Her patrols intercepted their vessel, and before long, the entire missionary group was rounded up and detained. Serango could see the fear in her companions’ eyes as Earth Empire forces ordered them to dock near a large, makeshift encampment on the island’s southern edge. Amidst the panic, there was an unspoken resolve—none of them would betray the islanders by advocating for their submission.
Soldiers surrounded the unarmed group the moment their boots touched the sand, blocking all escape routes. The Admiral stepped forward, her face devoid of expression, her voice hard as she spoke.
“You are under arrest for the illegal transport of goods through Earth Empire waters, in direct violation of our nation’s maritime laws and the active sanctions against your destination. Your actions are a clear breach of international protocols and endanger the security of this region. Any resistance will be met with the full force of the naval command. Surrender your vessel and prepare to be taken into custody. Your fate now rests with the Great Uniter,” she declared. There was no malice in her voice, only the cold authority of a woman doing her job.
The missionaries were bound, their supplies confiscated, and herded like criminals through the streets of the island. Serango’s heart pounded as the realization of what was happening set in. She had known this was a possibility, but seeing the islanders watch silently from their windows and doorways—afraid to intervene, afraid to fight—left a bitter taste in her mouth. Kuvira had already won here, even if the Kyoshi leadership refused to admit it. She didn’t understand it! The group had been here only days ago. How did Kuvira manage all of this so quickly?
They were taken to a makeshift command center within the island’s capital, a building that had once housed council meetings now repurposed as Kuvira’s staging ground. Inside, the air was heavy with an almost tangible oppressive, domineering power. The presence of the Empire pressing down on everything felt hopeless for those that did not wish to be part of it. The larger it became, the more foolish it was to resist, and this was the ultimate example.
It was there that Serango first laid eyes on her…
The Great Uniter was as imposing as the rumors said. Tall and regal in her military uniform, she exuded control and embodied authority—in everything down to the way she breathed. Her posture alone demanded obedience. She moved through the room with an air of someone who had long since conquered not just lands, but doubts of her ability to do so. Her sharp gaze fell on the missionaries, lingering on Serango longer than the others. The auburn haired missionary, a standout as ever, felt the intensity of that look—assessing, curious. It was enough to unnerve anyone, but Serango did not look away. Kuvira was… there was no other way to put it—beautiful.
“Who is in charge here?” Kuvira’s voice cut through the silence, steady and deep.
No one spoke at first, afraid and likely feeling in over their heads. The rumors of what happened to people like them were enough to detour most from even considering such work. The air grew increasingly tense as the Great Uniter waited, until Serango—sensing that their fate rested on someone’s willingness to step forward in self-sacrifice—raised her chin in what she hoped looked like a confident, dignified display. Her little group didn’t really have a leader, and she thought herself more disposable than the rest. They had children to go back home to, husbands, wives, jobs. She had nothing, and if she was the one to never come home. Well… better her than them. Besides, she was curious; a moth drawn to a flame.
“I am,” she said, the words stronger than she felt.
Kuvira’s expression shifted, a faint smirk curling at the corner of her lips. “Interesting,” she murmured, studying Serango as if she were something to be played with. “You’ve made quite the bold move, defying my orders to bring aid to this island. Did you think you wouldn’t be caught?”
The auburn haired missionary held her ground. “People here are suffering. They need—”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” Kuvira interrupted, her voice icy. She took a step closer, her eyes narrowing. “You must have known what the consequences would be.”
There was a pause, the still air before the storm. Kuvira let the silence hang, savoring it. Her eyes didn’t leave Serango’s as she gestured to her soldiers. “Take them to holding.”
Days passed, and as negotiations between Earth Empire representatives and Kyoshi Island elders reached a stalemate, Serango found her mind drifting to Kuvira in the quiet moments, in the moments before sleep. She imagined being alone with the Metalbender, entirely at her mercy. She could almost feel the Great Uniter’s strong, steady hands on her—exploring, conquering, claiming. She scolded herself for it, was ashamed of it, but she wanted to see more of Kuvira. So, it felt like a vindictive gift from the spirits when she was inexplicably called forward by the soldiers one night to meet with her; a cautionary act to punish the missionary for such elicit, poisonous thoughts. They led her through a series of winding paths until she reached a tent on the outskirts of the encampment. Inside, her silent obsession awaited her, standing tall with her back to the entrance, her hands clasped lazily behind her. The tent was sparsely furnished, but a large map of Kyoshi Island lay spread out on a table, covered with markers indicating positions of interest and where the most valuable natural resources lay waiting.
“Serango,” Kuvira greeted without turning, her voice smooth and composed. “You’ve caused quite a stir, you and your friends.”
Serango remained silent, standing rigidly just inside the entrance. Her mouth was dry, her eyes flitting about as if searching for the other person that might be being addressed.
Kuvira finally turned to face her, a faint smile playing at the corners of her lips. As she studied her guest closely, her own expression seemed to almost say “How adorable”, but the words she went with aloud were a simple “Come in.”
Serango held her gaze, refusing to let fear betray her as her legs carried her forward. Every part of her wanted to look away—needed to. It wasn’t just fear she had to contend with. Kuvira was magnetic, fascinating, alluring. She had always pictured, during her other journeys here, that if she ever came face to face with the Great Uniter, it would be like staring down a tiger shark in its own waters. She’d try to run, maybe fight for her life, but it would ultimately be pointless—a terrifying, violent death. But this?…
Kuvira was not a tiger shark, but an angler shark, and Serango was looking into its light—the relationship between predator and prey more complicated, more intimate than she could have imagined. It muted her instincts, blurred lines that should have been sharply defined. She was far more willing to be still, and let the jaws come to her than she would, ever, admit. A part of her wanted to be consumed, just to be that much closer, and they both knew it. Kuvira knew it. It was evident in the way Kuvira stood in wait—no weapons, back to the door, completely trusting that she was as safe as she had ever been in her life. Serango could have rushed in with something sharp concealed, but the Great Uniter had seen enough already to know that it would never happen—not with this one.
“I need someone to speak with the village elders, someone they might listen to,” Kuvira continued, her tone calculated. “You have a connection to these people, don’t you? At least—more so than most from the mainland. They respect you for your efforts. It’s a rare thing to earn the trust of such a proud community.”
“Respect isn’t the same as influence,” Serango replied, her voice steady despite the tension in her chest. “And even if it were, I wouldn’t convince them to bow to you.”
Kuvira’s smile widened ever so slightly, as if amused by Serango’s defiance. “I didn’t expect you to agree so quickly,” she said, circling the table with deliberate grace. “But I think you’ll come to see that the choice isn’t yours to make. You’ll relay my terms, or the consequences will fall on your fellow missionaries. And trust me, I know how to get what I want.”
Serango’s insides jolted, twisted with a spiral of excitement and terror—a dizzying combination, but she maintained her composure. Kuvira moved closer, watching her with an intensity that felt almost personal, as though she were searching for something beyond words. There was a quiet pause before Kuvira spoke again, her tone shifting to something more intimate. “I think—despite all of your posturing—that you would bow to me. Right here, right now—if I asked it, it would happen. Care to find out?”
Serango’s lips parted in a silent display of anticipation? Shock? The inability to deny it? She could hardly think, let alone answer. Luckily, she didn’t have to.
“You’re not like the others,” Kuvira murmured, her eyes lingering on Serango’s face. “You’ve seen hardship. You know what it’s like to survive alone, to find your own way in a world that doesn’t care if you’re lost.” Her fingers brushed a thin strand of the missionary’s auburn hair from her face. “So tell me—what is it you’re searching for out here? What is it you want in life?”
Serango stiffened at the question, sensing the genuine curiosity in Kuvira’s voice. She didn’t answer, unwilling to share anything personal with the woman who held her fate in her hands.
Kuvira seemed to sense this reluctance and leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a low, almost teasing whisper. “Are you afraid of me, Serango?”
The question caught her off guard. Serango met Kuvira’s gaze, blue eyes locking with green. “No,” she replied quietly, though her heart was racing so loud that a herd of ostrich horses might have been galloping in her head.
“I’m glad to hear,” Kuvira responded silkily. “You have no need to—if you’re good.” She straightened, her demeanor returning to one of professional composure. “Now, go to the elders. Convince them that resistance is futile. It’s only a matter of time before they run out of options. Make them see reason. I’ll not see you again until it is done. Do not disappoint me.”
Serango left the tent with her head swimming, and the weight of the fascist’s implications pressing down on her, unsure of what lay ahead. Negotiations continued over the following days, with Serango acting as the reluctant intermediary. Finally, after much deliberation, when everyone could see that the island’s residents were at their lowest point, the elders reluctantly agreed to partial compliance, accepting Kuvira’s terms in exchange for a temporary reprieve. Serango hoped this would be the end of her involvement, that she would be released along with her companions. Whatever it was that drew her to Kuvira, it was dangerous, despicable, at war with her own nature. It had to stop! But when she returned to Kuvira’s tent for the final report, the commander had one last surprise up her sleeve.
“I’ll take you with me,” the conqueror stated simply, as though the decision had been proposed to her, rather than made herself.
Serango felt as though her heart stopped, spun around, and dropped from its proper spot in her chest. All intrigue and daydreams aside, she didn’t ever actually want something like this! “Why? I have no value to you. I’m not—”
“Useful?” Kuvira interrupted, a sharp smirk crossing her lips. “You underestimate yourself. I’m always in need of new staff. So many disappoint me in the end. You might be different.”
Serango opened her mouth to protest, but Kuvira’s expression hardened, her patience thinning. “You’ve been given a choice, Serango,” she said firmly. “Stay here and watch your fellow missionaries face the consequences of your disrespect to me, or come with me and ensure their safety.”
The reality of the situation settled over Serango like a shroud. She could see no way out. The spirits really did love tormenting her, didn’t they? “Fine,” she conceded, her voice almost inaudible. “I’ll go with you.”
Kuvira’s smile returned, satisfied and victorious. “Good,” she said softly, her tone almost affectionate. “I knew you were smart enough to make the right decision. You've seen hardships in this country, first hand–the way things have fallen apart without Order. I vow to restore that order… whatever it takes. In time, you will come to appreciate my efforts.”
———
Serango had always been a survivor. But surviving in Kuvira’s world proved a different challenge altogether. The transition to life among the Great Uniter’s forces was jarring, to say the least. Kuvira’s soldiers were efficient, meticulous, and disciplined, qualities Serango struggled to emulate. They were warriors trained for combat and strategy, while she was a girl raised on the unpredictable winds of a world that had never made space for her.
During sparring matches, the former missionary’s lack of combat training showed in every sloppily executed movement. She was repeatedly knocked to the ground by her fellow recruits, each fall leaving her more flustered and ashamed. Serango’s attempts to engage with strategy discussions were no better; the nuances of politics and logistics danced beyond her grasp, making her contributions feel feeble and unwelcome. Her parents had been model examples to behold in both of these fields! Why couldn’t one of them have come naturally to her? She didn’t feel as though it was selfish to ask for just one. It wasn’t like she wanted to be the master of the army! A general—or whatever.
Worst of all, the discovery of the smuggled in Ling-ling, had drawn the ire of more than one of Kuvira’s lieutenants. A lemur, of all things, on the Great Uniter’s train!? Perhaps if Ling-ling hadn’t specifically been caught stealing… More than once, at that. Old habits really do die hard.
One officer had scoffed at her behind her back, muttering, “She can’t even take care of her pet, let alone serve the Great Uniter.” The words stung, lodging themselves deep in her thoughts, festering like an old wound.
Fear of being dismissed, of once again being discarded like she had been so many times before, drove her to desperation. Serango knew that if she failed here, Kuvira’s wrath wouldn’t just mean exile—it would mean punishment, disgrace, and the end of any hope she had of finding a place to belong in the Earth Kingd—Empire. The anxiety gnawed at her each night as she lay awake, Ling-ling curled protectively at her side. So, she made a decision: if she couldn’t be strong like Kuvira’s soldiers or clever like her advisors, then she would become indispensable in a different way.
Serango began observing Kuvira more closely, studying her like a scroll of secrets, memorizing every detail she could. She took note of when the General preferred her morning tea and how she liked it prepared—just a touch of honey to cut the bitterness, never too hot. She watched the pattern of Kuvira’s daily routine, noting which meals she enjoyed most after long meetings, which incense she preferred during moments of quiet reflection. Serango lingered near the personal attendants, listening intently to their instructions, observing their mistakes, and taking note of what won them praise. When she couldn’t ask directly, she found subtle ways to acquire information, piecing together an intricate mental map of the Great Uniter’s preferences, pet peeves, routines,, and habits.
It was a lot to keep track of, but she committed herself to it. By the time the position of personal attendant opened up, following the abrupt dismissal of the previous one, Serango was ready. When she received the summons to the General’s car, her heart pounded furiously in her chest, but she kept her face calm. She knew how to do this—better than anyone. As she approached the door, she offered a small prayer to the spirits—not for luck, but for a lack of any surprises. “Here we go,” she urged herself on with a quiet, steady voice. “Memory, don’t fail me!”
Kuvira sat at her desk when Serango entered, engrossed in paperwork. Without looking up, the Metalbender issued a simple command, her tone indifferent. “Tea.”
Serango moved quickly, recalling the exact instructions she had stored in her mind. She brewed the leaves for precisely the right amount of time, ensuring the water was just hot enough to release the aroma but not enough to overpower the taste. A single spoonful of honey, stirred counterclockwise until dissolved. She presented the cup without a word, standing at attention as she awaited any reaction.
Kuvira took a careful sip, her eyes finally lifting to study Serango. A faint smile crossed her lips, a rare expression of approval that left Serango’s breath catching in her throat. She had forgotten just how intoxicating that smile could be. “Perfect,” Kuvira murmured, almost to herself, before returning to her papers.
Serango’s chest swelled with a mixture of relief and something else—something deeper. That single word, spoken so casually, filled her with a sense of validation that felt different. It wasn’t that “feeling proud after a hard day’s work” sort of thing, nor was it warming in a charitable sort of way. It was deep, primal. It wasn’t just about avoiding failure; it was about earning Kuvira’s praise. Serango had found a way to prove her worth, and more importantly, she had found a way to stay close to the woman who had become the center of her world.
Over the next few weeks, Serango’s role as Kuvira’s attendant became mor permanent. She anticipated the Great Uniter’s needs with a precision that bordered on intuition, serving Kuvira’s meals, ensuring her uniforms were pristine, and maintaining the order of her quarters. Serango learned to read the smallest changes in the Metalbender’s mood—when she preferred silence, when she was open to conversation, when her anger simmered beneath a calm facade. She took pride in these small victories, each one a step further into Kuvira’s confidence, each one a confirmation that she belonged by her side.
There was just one problem…
Baatar Jr.
Serango’s growing resentment toward Kuvira’s fiance simmered beneath the surface, an ever-present thorn pricking at her every time she watched them together—the simpering fool, and her beloved Great Uniter. It wasn’t difficult to find fault with him—his unassuming demeanor, the awkward way he tried to please Kuvira with no actual understanding of her, his constant prattling about technical details that bored even the attendants. He was plain, uninspiring, and whenever he touched Kuvira, Serango couldn’t help but feel that it was a gesture wasted. She noticed how Kuvira never seemed eager in his presence, never initiated contact unless it served a purpose. She saw the way Kuvira’s eyes didn’t soften when he reached for her hand, how she returned kisses without the smallest flicker of fire in her eyes, how her smile remained strictly diplomatic. It was painfully clear to Serango that Kuvira was using him for his talents, his engineering prowess, his connection to Suyin.
Serango despised him for it. She couldn’t bear to watch him fail so miserably at being the partner the Great Uniter deserved. In her most secret thoughts, Serango fantasized about throwing him from the train, imagining the way his startled expression would turn to terror as he disappeared into the landscape, leaving Kuvira free at last. She knew these thoughts were dangerous, absurd even, but she couldn’t stop them. It was too easy to picture, too satisfying to imagine herself standing at Kuvira’s side without him in the way.
She tried to suppress these feelings, reminding herself that she had no place challenging someone like him. What did she have to offer? She wasn’t clever, wasn’t powerful; she wasn’t essential to Kuvira’s plans in any meaningful way. Her only value was in the small comforts she provided—a hot meal, a clean uniform, a word of solace when tension ran high. Serango knew she wasn’t enough, yet still, she couldn’t stop hoping.
That hope felt a little less ridiculous one evening, when Serango stumbled upon Baatar Jr. attempting to give Kuvira a shoulder massage. It was a strange sight, to be sure. He stood behind her, his large hands awkwardly kneading her shoulders with all the finesse of a baby turtleduck trying to climb onto a dragon’s back! Kuvira’s face remained expressionless, her eyes focused on the paperwork in front of her, showing no sign of enjoying his efforts. Her posture was rigid, her lips pressed into a thin line, and it was clear to Serango that Kuvira’s patience was wearing thin.
When Kuvira let out a tired sigh, the imbecile took it as encouragement and continued. Serango’s stomach twisted with an odd mix of disgust and satisfaction as she watched his clumsy attempts. Then, as if the spirits were smiling on her for once, an opportunity presented itself. Serango approached with a quiet suggestion, something about an urgent matter requiring his immediate attention. “I’m sorry sir,” she had answered his string of follow-up questions, “But I don’t know much about technical things. Something about the train… or was it the weaponry? Hmm… I wonder which weapon it was. Perhaps it really was the train.” The excuse was flimsy, but it worked. Kuvira seized on it, dismissing Baatar Jr. to investigate the matter with a thinly veiled relief that didn’t go unnoticed by Serango.
Once he was gone, Kuvira leaned back in her chair, her shoulders visibly tense. She glanced at Serango, her eyes narrowing slightly, as if considering something. “Serango,” she said, her voice firm but not unkind. “Come here.”
Serango obeyed without question, moving behind Kuvira and hesitantly placing her hands on the woman’s shoulders. She assumed this was what the Metalbender wanted—or at least, she hoped as much. She felt the taut muscles beneath her fingers, the weight of responsibility and exhaustion that Kuvira carried so effortlessly on the surface. Serango began to work, her touch gentle yet firm, fingers moving with care.
At first, Kuvira remained silent, her posture stiff, as though waiting for the inevitable misstep. But as the minutes passed, she began to relax, her breathing evening out, the tension in her muscles slowly unraveling. “Good girl,” she said softly. Encouraged, Serango pressed on, feeling a quiet sense of triumph as Kuvira allowed herself to let go, even if just a little. It was a victory more satisfying than any word of praise.
Then something unexpected happened. Kuvira leaned back, resting her head against her attendant’s chest, letting out a soft, contented sigh. It was such a simple gesture, but it sent Serango’s heart racing. She stood there, motionless, hardly daring to breathe, her mind racing with fear and exhilaration. It felt like a fragile moment, a thread that could snap at the slightest wrong move.
In a reckless surge of boldness, Serango bent down and pressed a featherlight kiss to the top of Kuvira’s head. Her lips barely brushed the dark hair, but it was enough. She expected Kuvira to react—perhaps with anger, or at the very least, with a sharp reprimand. But instead, Kuvira remained still, her eyes closed, seemingly content to let the moment linger.
———
As Serango slipped out of Kuvira’s private car and made her way back to her own quarters, she struggled to maintain her composure. Her heart was hammering in her chest, and her skin tingled with the lingering warmth of the intimate moment. She could still smell the faint traces of the incense that always burned in the Great Uniter’s car—crisp sandalwood mixed with a hint of fresh cedar. It clung to her like perfume, reminding her of every second she had spent so dangerously close to the woman her heart belonged to.
When she reached the small compartment that she shared with Ling-ling, the door slid shut behind her with a quiet click, and Serango finally let out the breath she had been holding. Ling-ling, perched on a narrow shelf, peered at her curiously, chirping softly in greeting. The lemur hopped down with a flutter of wings, landing gracefully on the narrow bed where Serango had already collapsed.
A bright smile spread across Serango’s face, and she giggled, an almost musical sound of disbelief and relief. “Ling-ling, you wouldn’t believe it,” she whispered, her voice trembling with excitement. “I was so close to her… I kissed her hair!”
The lemur nuzzled against her cheek, as if to share in her joy, and Serango felt a bubbling laugh rise in her throat. She hugged Ling-ling tightly, unable to contain her happiness. There was something almost surreal about it all. She had dared to touch Kuvira, to kiss her, and she hadn’t been scolded or dismissed. It was like living in a dream where she was finally seen, finally valued.
For so long, Serango’s life had been a storm without a North Star to guide her. There were other guides, but none provided her true stability and direction. Even her missionary work was by and by—not always needed, and often requiring the world to be in crisis. But now there was a light—a purpose that centered her chaotic world. She could serve Kuvira, learn from her, and in doing so, find meaning beyond the aimless wandering of her past. The Great Uniter’s strict routines, her unwavering discipline, and her demand for perfection were like a beacon, calling Serango’s scattered spirit together at last. It was a strange paradox, finding freedom in someone else’s control, but for Serango, it was exactly what she needed.
“I’m finally free,” she murmured, her fingers stroking Ling-ling’s soft fur. “Free from all the confusion and doubt… Kuvira knows what needs to be done, and I—I can just follow. I don’t have to keep searching. I don’t have to wonder what to do or where to go. Ling-ling, we’re… safe!”
Serango’s excitement built, and she found herself unable to stay still. She let out another delighted laugh, louder this time, and Ling-ling chirped enthusiastically in response. It was like the joy had bubbled up inside her, too much to contain. She rolled onto her back on the narrow bed, kicking her legs playfully into the air, her laughter ringing out in the tiny compartment. It felt reckless, almost childish, but Serango didn’t care. She hadn’t felt this light in years.
“I kissed her!” she repeated, as if saying it again would make it even more real. She hugged the lemur closer, kicking her legs once more in an outburst of pure exhilaration. She tossed and rolled about until she fell right off the bed, crashing to the floor in a laughing heap. It was then that she felt it—a whisper of movement in the air, a gentle current brushing against her skin. Her laughter faltered, and she stilled, holding her breath, as if the world around her had shifted ever so slightly.
The air stirred again as she shot a hand upward to examine it, swirling faintly around her wrist. Serango sat up quickly, her wide blue eyes scanning the compartment for an open window, a crack in the door—anything to explain the breeze that seemed to be alive in the room. But everything was closed, perfectly sealed. Panic began to creep in, replacing the thrill she had felt only moments ago. Her mind raced, searching for a logical explanation, but deep down, she already knew the truth.
“No,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Not me… it can’t be.”
She stood, but her movements only seemed to agitate the air more, as if her emotions were somehow tied to the restless current. She felt it swirling around her legs, lifting her up into a standing position, tossing stray locks of her auburn hair, wrapping around her like invisible fingers. Serango reached out a shakier hand this time, and the air responded. It coiled around her wrist with a strange, almost sentient caress.
“It can’t be…” she repeated, her voice rising in desperation. Airbending? Her? The very idea seemed impossible. Ridiculous. She had been well over 16 when the Airbenders began appearing across the world—just after Harmonic Convergence. Children younger than her had been awakening to their gifts! Her heart pounded in her chest, and she stumbled back against the wall, feeling trapped in the tiny room that now seemed to breathe with its own life. This was all wrong. She couldn’t be one of them—one of the nomads, the wanderers, the symbols of freedom that Kuvira sought to control and unify.
She couldn’t be an Airbender. She wasn’t free! She had tasted freedom all her life, and wanted no part of it! Not in the way the Airbenders seemed to revel in it, anyway. Their stories spoke of liberation by detachment, of finding balance and harmony in a life untethered, but to Serango, such a life had always been a curse. It was empty in its vastness, unpredictable, forcing her to wander aimlessly through a world where she didn’t belong. She hated it—had hated being left to drift like a kite who had lost its string—with no hand to hold her.
What she had now wasn’t freedom. It was something better. It was freedom from freedom—freedom from the uncertainty and chaos that had marked her entire life. With Kuvira, she had found direction, discipline, a place to call home. And now this? This so-called blessing that others had discovered with joy felt like a curse, something that would take away everything she had finally found.
“No,” Serango said, more forcefully this time, as if she could will the bending away through sheer denial. But the air only seemed to grow more agitated, reacting to her emotions like an extension of her own mind. She felt it tugging at her clothes, lifting Ling-ling’s wings and tail, messing her sheets more than they already had been, and swirling papers off the desk and all over the place. The lemur chattered in alarm, flapping her wings to steady herself, but even Ling-ling couldn’t calm the tempest that Serango had unwittingly unleashed.
“Stop,” Serango pleaded, her voice trembling. “Please, stop!” She backed away, but the air followed, relentless in its insistence. The more she panicked, the stronger it became, until the tiny room felt like a vortex confined to a box. Her thoughts spiraled, fear choking her, until a realization hit her like a slap. This bending had awakened because of her joy—because of how free she had felt, at last, in Kuvira’s embrace.
That happiness, that closeness to Kuvira, had been the trigger.
The irony was cruel. When she had nothing—no purpose, no bonds, no sense of belonging—this power had never appeared to save her. It was only now, when she had finally found something worth holding onto, that it had awakened to ruin everything. Now, in this twisted moment, when she had truly felt safe for the first time in her life, she was in more danger than ever before.
Tears blurred her vision, and she sank to the floor, her hands trembling. Ling-ling fluttered down to her side, pressing against her cheek in a desperate attempt to comfort her. But nothing could soothe the storm that raged inside Serango, both in her heart and in the air around her.
“What am I going to do?” she whispered, her voice breaking on the last word. The wind began to slow, responding to the quiet despair in her tone, and she let out a shuddering breath. She had to hide this—bury it deep, where no one could find out. Not Kuvira, not the other soldiers, not anyone.