The Traitor's Kiss

The air was thick with the smells of coal smoke and industry, a scent Sokka had come to associate with war. From the deck of the ship, the Fire Nation capital wasn't a marvel of architecture; it was a fortress. Every sharp, upturned roof was a defensive position. Every wide, paved street was designed for the rapid movement of troops. He didn't see a city celebrating a new era of peace. He saw a machine of conquest, idling but not dismantled.

His father had wanted to come, but Hakoda was needed at home, overseeing the slow, arduous process of rebuilding. So Sokka had volunteered. He was the diplomat, the strategist. He was the one who had walked through the Fire Lord’s own palace during the invasion. He wouldn’t be intimidated.

He adjusted the formal Water Tribe tunic he wore, the stiff sealskin feeling foreign and restrictive against his neck. This wasn't a friendly visit. It was a negotiation. The Southern Water Tribe was still reeling, its infrastructure shattered, its warriors decimated. The Fire Nation, even in defeat, was prosperous. They owed a debt, and Sokka was here to collect.

As he disembarked, a line of royal guards in polished crimson armor formed a rigid corridor leading to the palace steps. They were unnervingly still, their faces hidden behind impassive metal masks. And at the top of the steps, waiting for him, was Fire Lord Zuko.

He was no longer the conflicted teenager Sokka had traveled with. Zuko stood with a ramrod-straight posture, his hands clasped behind his back. The Fire Lord’s crown, a severe golden spike, sat heavy in his topknot. He wore layers of ornate red and gold silks that looked more like armor than clothing, swallowing his lean frame and making him seem broader, more imposing. The only familiar thing about him was the raw, puckered scar that pulled at the corner of his left eye.

Sokka ascended the steps, his gaze steady, cataloging the changes. The boy was gone, replaced by a monarch. When he reached the top, Zuko gave a short, formal bow. Sokka returned it, the movement clipped.

“Ambassador Sokka,” Zuko’s voice was deeper than he remembered, and devoid of warmth. It was the voice of a ruler addressing a subordinate. “Welcome to the capital. I trust your journey was uneventful.”

“It was fine, Fire Lord Zuko,” Sokka replied, deliberately using the title. They weren’t friends here. They were leaders of two nations, one victorious and one desperate.

Zuko’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He gestured towards the towering palace doors. “My council is waiting. We can discuss the terms of your proposal immediately.”

He turned without waiting for a reply, and Sokka fell into step beside him. The air between them was thick with unspoken history. Sokka could feel the heat radiating from Zuko’s body, a dry, intense warmth that was uniquely his. He remembered huddling close to that warmth for survival in the cooler at the Boiling Rock, a lifetime ago. Now, it felt like a warning.

They walked through cavernous hallways of polished red stone and gleaming gold leaf. Sokka ignored the opulent tapestries depicting Fire Nation victories and focused instead on the guard rotations, the lines of sight from the arched windows, the structural weaknesses in the ceiling beams. Leverage. That’s what he needed. If Zuko’s political maneuvering failed to provide for the South, Sokka would find another way. He would find a crack in this fortress and pry it open himself.

The council chamber was a circle of fire. Flames licked up from ornate braziers set between each high-backed chair, casting flickering, distorted shadows on the faces of the old men and women who stared at Sokka. They were generals and ministers, their faces etched with the harsh lines of entitlement and suspicion. At the head of the polished obsidian table, on a slightly raised dais, sat Zuko. The firelight danced across his scarred skin, making it impossible to read his expression.

Sokka stood alone in the center of the room, the heat pressing in on him. He had laid it all out: the destroyed infrastructure, the decimated hunting grounds, the need for ships, tools, and grain to survive the next winter. He spoke without emotion, presenting facts. It was a debt, plain and simple.

When he finished, a thick, suffocating silence filled the chamber. An elderly general with a severe, white topknot leaned forward. “The Fire Nation is also recovering, Ambassador. Our own people have needs. We cannot simply hand over our resources because the Water Tribe failed to adequately defend itself.”

A murmur of agreement went around the table. Sokka’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He looked directly at Zuko, waiting. This was Zuko’s test.

Zuko’s gaze was fixed on the polished surface of the table in front of him. He didn’t look at Sokka. He didn’t look at his council. His voice, when he finally spoke, was flat and detached. “General Shinu has a point. The stability of the Fire Nation must be my first priority. A direct payment of reparations, as you’ve requested, would be seen as a weakness by my people. It would invite dissent.”

The words were like a physical blow. Sokka felt the air leave his lungs, a cold dread washing through him. It was a politician’s answer. A calculated refusal wrapped in the language of pragmatism. He had traveled all this way, swallowed his pride to come to the heart of their enemy, for nothing. For a moment, all he could see was the spoiled prince who had hunted the Avatar across the globe, the boy who only ever thought of himself.

“So you’re saying no,” Sokka said, his voice dangerously quiet.

Finally, Zuko lifted his head, and his gold eyes met Sokka’s. There was a flicker of something in their depths—conflict, maybe even regret—but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the unyielding mask of a monarch.

“I am saying there is another way,” Zuko stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. “A better way. Not reparations, but a partnership.” He stood, projecting an authority that seemed to settle over him like a heavy cloak. “The Fire Nation will fund and oversee the reconstruction of the Earth Kingdom coastal colony of Pohuai. It was badly damaged in the final months of the war. Your people, Sokka, have unparalleled knowledge of maritime engineering and construction. The Southern Water Tribe will provide the expertise and a portion of the labor. We will rebuild it together.”

Sokka stared at him, the full implication of the proposal crashing down on him. It was brilliant, in a sickeningly political way. It wasn’t aid. It was an occupation under a different name. The Fire Nation would establish a permanent foothold in a strategic Earth Kingdom port, all under the guise of a benevolent joint project. They would be seen as healers, as partners, while the Water Tribe did the work. It was a public relations campaign, and Zuko was asking Sokka to be the face of it. The rage inside him was a cold, sharp thing.

“The Fire Lord’s generosity is… unexpected,” Sokka managed, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

Zuko’s jaw was tight. “It is an opportunity to show the world that we can build as well as we can fight. To create a new legacy. I expect you to be there, Sokka. To lead your people’s contingent. We leave in three days.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a command. The council members were nodding, their expressions smug. They had given nothing and gained a new colonial project. Zuko had outmaneuvered him completely. The meeting was dismissed, and as the council members filed out, Zuko remained on his dais, watching him. The heat from his body seemed to reach across the room, a silent, suffocating pressure. Sokka gave him a stiff, formal bow, turned his back on the Fire Lord, and walked away, his mind already racing, searching for a new weapon.

The rage was a solid, indigestible lump in Sokka’s throat. He walked from the council chamber without looking back, his footsteps echoing too loudly in the cavernous, empty halls. Each gilded screen and polished stone floor felt like a personal insult. Zuko had humiliated him, had made him a pawn in a game Sokka hadn't even known he was playing. A partnership. It was colonialism with a friendlier name.

He was shown to his quarters—a suite of rooms so lavish they were offensive. Silks the color of blood and gold draped the walls, and a balcony overlooked a manicured garden where fire-lilies bloomed in perfect, symmetrical patterns. It was a beautiful cage. He felt suffocated by the perfumed air, by the silence, by the sheer, unyielding wealth of it all. He stripped off the formal Water Tribe tunic, the stiff garment feeling like a costume for a fool, and threw it onto a silk-covered settee. He needed to get out. He needed air that wasn’t filtered through the palace’s oppressive luxury.

Dressed in his simpler, more practical traveling clothes, he felt more like himself. He bypassed the main entrance, instead finding a small service door in a quiet corridor, slipping out into the late afternoon sun. He kept his head down, pulling his hood up just enough to shadow his face, and melted into the city's flow.

He left the pristine avenues of the upper city behind, deliberately seeking out the grit and noise of the lower districts. The air grew thicker here, heavy with the metallic tang of forges and the smell of coal dust that clung to everything, staining the stone buildings a permanent gray. The streets narrowed, becoming a tangled web of cobblestone alleys crowded with people. Their faces weren’t serene or smug like the ones in Zuko’s council. They were tired, strained, and wary. He saw decommissioned soldiers with missing limbs begging for coin, women haggling fiercely over the price of wilted vegetables, and children with soot-smudged cheeks playing in the gutters. This was the Fire Nation Zuko claimed to be stabilizing. It looked a lot like the places the Fire Nation had broken.

Sokka found a small, steamy noodle stand tucked into an alley and took a seat on a rickety bench in the corner, nursing a bowl of broth he had no intention of eating. He just watched. Listened. The conversations around him were muted, careful. No one spoke of the Fire Lord, but there was a current of resentment that was unmistakable—complaints about food prices, about the new work edicts, about the sons who never came home from a war that was supposedly over.

He was so focused on the crowd that he didn't notice the man who sat down on the bench across from him until he spoke.

“The Avatar’s friend looks out of place,” the man said, his voice low and even. He was older, with the broad shoulders of a stonemason and hands calloused from hard labor. He didn't look at Sokka, his eyes fixed on the street.

Sokka’s body went rigid. His hand instinctively moved to the hilt of his boomerang tucked against his back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The man gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “Of course not. You’re just another tourist admiring our great capital. Enjoying the Fire Lord’s hospitality.” The word ‘hospitality’ was laced with a quiet poison. “Heard he made you a generous offer today. A real partnership.”

Sokka’s jaw tightened. He said nothing.

The man finally turned his head, and his eyes—dark and intelligent—met Sokka’s. There was no threat in them, but there was an intensity that was just as unsettling. “Some partnerships are just a different kind of chain. Some of us think the Fire Nation needs to be broken of its old habits, not just given a new master with a sad story.”

The man stood up, dropping a few coins on the table for Sokka’s untouched noodles. As he turned to leave, he leaned in close, his voice barely a whisper against the noise of the alley. “If you want to find allies who can offer your people real strength, not just a role in the Fire Lord’s theater, be at the abandoned foundry by the west docks. Midnight. Come alone.”

Before Sokka could process the words, the man was gone, disappearing into the river of people as if he’d never been there at all. Sokka sat frozen, the man’s words hanging in the air. A new master with a sad story. The phrase struck a nerve, articulating the very betrayal he felt churning in his gut. He looked down at the coins on the table, then back towards the distant, untouchable spires of the Royal Palace. Zuko had offered him a political solution. This man, whoever he was, was offering him a weapon.

Midnight was a long way off. Sokka returned to his gilded prison in the palace, the man’s words turning over and over in his mind. A new master with a sad story. It was a brutally accurate assessment. He paced the length of his chambers, the silk rugs feeling slick and insecure beneath his boots. Zuko’s offer was a leash, gilded and presented as a gift. It was a way to bind the Southern Water Tribe to the Fire Nation’s agenda, to make them complicit in their own subjugation. This other offer… it was a risk. A dark, unknown path. But it felt like the only one that treated him not as a petitioner, but as a warrior.

When the moon was high and the palace had fallen into a deep, guarded silence, Sokka slipped out again. He moved through the shadows with a practiced ease honed by years of war, a ghost in the city that had once been the engine of his world’s destruction.

The west docks were a skeleton of industry. The air was thick with the brine of the sea and the cold scent of rusted metal. The abandoned foundry was a hulking black shape against the star-dusted sky, its smokestacks like broken teeth. He approached with caution, his hand resting on his boomerang. He didn’t have to wait long. A shadow detached itself from the foundry’s wall.

“You came,” a voice grunted. It wasn’t the man from the noodle shop. This one was larger, built like a battering ram. He gestured with his head. “He’s waiting.”

Sokka followed him through a gap in the corroded wall. The inside of the foundry was cavernous, a cathedral of dead industry. A single fire pit in the center cast flickering, monstrous shadows against the silent machinery. Around the fire stood about twenty people—a mix of hard-faced men and women, some in the worn-out fatigues of soldiers, others in the simple clothes of laborers. They all turned to watch him, their expressions unreadable.

A man stepped out of the circle of firelight, and the others parted for him with a quiet reverence. He was tall and carried himself with an unshakable military posture, though he wore civilian clothes. His hair was streaked with gray at the temples, and his face was lined, but his eyes were sharp and clear, radiating an intense, controlled energy. This was a man accustomed to command.

“Councilman Sokka,” the man said. His voice was calm and resonant, filling the vast space. “I am Jeong. I was a general under Fire Lord Ozai.” He paused, letting the weight of that title settle. “I surrendered my commission the day his son took the throne.”

Sokka’s hand tightened on his weapon. “I fought against Ozai’s generals. I don’t have much reason to trust them.”

A flicker of a smile touched Jeong’s lips. “Good. Trust is earned. And Fire Lord Zuko has done nothing to earn yours. He proved that today.” He began to circle the fire, his movements deliberate, his gaze never leaving Sokka. “He offered you a project. A chance to rebuild an Earth Kingdom colony. It sounds noble, doesn't it? A new era of cooperation.”

Jeong stopped directly across the fire from Sokka, the flames dancing between them. “Do not be fooled. It is the same empire, just with a more palatable face. Ozai conquered with armies. Zuko conquers with contracts and infrastructure. He will rebuild Pohuai with Fire Nation materials, under Fire Nation supervision, and it will become a Fire Nation port in all but name. Your people will simply be the labor that builds their own cage.”

Every word landed like a stone, striking the bruises Zuko’s political maneuvering had already left. Jeong was articulating Sokka’s own furious, unspoken thoughts.

“Zuko is a boy playing at being king,” Jeong continued, his voice dropping, becoming more intimate, more persuasive. “He sits in his father’s throne room, listening to his father’s council, and he is paralyzed by his fear of looking weak. He will never give your people what they deserve because he is too busy trying to hold onto a power he never truly earned. We, on the other hand, believe in true autonomy. We believe the Fire Nation’s days of empire are over.”

He stepped closer, moving around the edge of the fire pit until he was standing beside Sokka, speaking directly to him. “You are a strategist. A leader. You are wasting your talents begging for scraps from a broken prince. We offer you a real alliance. Help us disrupt this Pohuai project. Use your position to feed us information, to create vulnerabilities. In return, when we have removed Zuko from a throne he is unfit to hold, we will guarantee the Southern Water Tribe’s sovereignty and provide you with the resources and reparations you are owed, with no strings attached. A partnership between equals.”

Jeong extended a hand. It was not a gesture of supplication, but one of invitation. An offer to be a kingmaker, not a pawn. Sokka looked at the steady, calloused hand, then up at the general’s unwavering eyes. The path Zuko offered was one of slow compromise, of swallowing his pride for the hope of future gains. The path Jeong offered was a blade in the dark. It was dangerous, it was treason, but it promised him everything he had come here to get.