What does that girl care about dreams with her soft hands, fainted face and unfortunate lack of an education that could have made her think for herself, (not-)paid for by daddy dearest, the big-shot textile merchant?
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She inhales her pipe's cancerous smoke, swirls her wine, exhales and takes a sip of the wine. Sweet after the smoke, just heavy enough to roll over her tongue nicely.
"…terrifies me. The world is going to shit, I tell you," now that sounds worthwhile. The voice comes from directly behind her, young in a way that suggests he's not had the time to damage his vocal chords with whatever is trendy to slowly kill yourself with these days and very much brimming with honesty. How… disconcerting in between all those platitudes and pleasantries that leave such a bad taste in Ranra's ears that she almost hates other people on principle.
"Don't be such a baby," that's the girl he's with. Sweet, teasing, though she can hear the slight disgust. Oh, she wants a big boy, doesn't she? A strong man to hold her tight and fuck her right. Maybe the other way around.
"I'm serious," yes, that much is obvious. People take their own worries so seriously, Ranra wonders at how they manage to walk with every step weighing more than a cart of wheat, "They were just attacked on the street, not far from my apartment."
Mh, yes, that she's heard about. A boy and a girl, maybe twenty or so, found dead in an alley, the signs of a struggle evident on both of them. Their last friend is still missing. She doubts her remains will ever be recovered. She wonders at those young people sometimes, who believe that going out after dark on their own is a good idea. But it seems to be the privilege of the young to be too trusting and at the same time to demand that that trust never be broken. Or the Dai Li is doing good work. In their books, anyway.
The Dai Li may keep the civilian population quiet with their brainwashing, but everyone who came from the outside, everyone who ignores it, everyone who sees the scars and burns knows. The war is not as removed as it seems. Ranra knows. She lost all he had to it. To the Fire Nation. So there's not much to trust in this city, if it's not towards a single person who would do more than smile and nod and agree with everything.
"So? It happens all the time," a little bitch that one is. Well, not like Ranra's one to talk, although she likes to at the very least claim to be a big bitch. She's been called a bastard a lot, even though it was never her birth that was questionable. Even Boris sometimes gives her that look. However, she doubts the little shit's brain can actually process the insult. He does convey it very well, though. The cat picked well when he showed up on Ranra's doorstep and refused to 'shoo'. Instead it wound around her legs, flirting with danger.
"How can you be so… callous?" Someone's been reading books. How interesting, in this city. How intriguing, in the lower ring.
"How are you not, Haruto?" Good question. She drags on his pipe and takes the rest of her wine in a shallow swallow that she doesn't move her lips for. Time to leave. She knocks the ash from the pipe, gets up, thanking her good sense to pay the wine beforehand because she knows what a leech Guo is when he actually shows up and shrugs into her coat. She slings the scarf around her neck, feeling the coarseness of it, remembering why she doesn't just throw it out – an old thought-process, worn like the scarf and obsolete these days. Even if she wanted to, she couldn't be rid of it now, not without having to spend money on a replacement. She feels her brows draw together.
She turns to the door and notices the two young people, whose conversation she bothered listening to, looking up at her. She stares back blankly and the girl hastily avoids her eyes. The boy, though, can't be older than sixteen, stares wide-eyed. What an odd little bugger. She allows her eyes to brush over his form, then observes he's a on the scrawny side and looks back to the door while she's already back in motion. That boy is right to be terrified, poor thing. But there was more in those eyes than terror. An interest that should not have been there.
It's awkward, this gait of Ranra's, leaning too heavily on her cane for her tastes, but she can't change that, the leg just isn't as strong as it used to be and she hates it. Thighbone fractured at thirty-five and ten years later she's still limping. Doesn't even have the grey hair to make people think it's her age.
Guo bursts through the door just as she comes close enough to open it. He's panting, a mess of panic and relief in his face. He stumbles towards her and lays a heavy hand on her shoulder which she hates even more than the man's face, "Thank the spirits you're still here."
She raises her brows, "The spirits had very little to do with it."
Guo laughs, pushes past her, inside, ears red from the cold outside. "Come on, Ranra, I'm here now, aren't I?"
She sighs. "Why I bother, I have no idea."
They return to her table, ashtray and empty wine glass still there. Guo, of course, knows her usual and so knows which chair to sit in. At least this he does without his general air of obnoxiousness. Ranra removes her scarf, her coat and leans the cane against the table before she sits without grimacing. Guo looks at her knowingly anyway. Bastard.
He's responsible for it, so it's not surprising he's smug it still gives Ranra trouble. Arrogance is not attractive on Guo. His face is too plump for anyone to believe he could wear it well.
"So," she finally says, having observed enough of Guo to determine what has him in such a tizzy, "Who is it this time? Your sister? The dog? Your son?"
They are from the same town. Guo was a ward of Ranra's father, when they were children, a runaway and companion to Ranra and her brother. He grew up to be the stable master and when needed an enforcer. His sister was too young to have much to do with the boys and Ranra, how they'd been.
"She's your sister, too," Guo grumbles and so reveals that it is either the tiny creature they deign to call a dog or his son. Ranra thinks it's not the rat because it would never consider knocking on her door in the middle of the night. What is more, why would Guo consider Ranra family, still? Ranra certainly doesn't.
"Guo, we aren't related," she says and fishes her tabacco from her coat pocket. She packs the pipe again, puts the tobacco back where it belongs and lights it with the matches Guo hands her from where he's filched them earlier, the damned pickpocket. She doesn't comment, as she never did and the other doesn't say anything about it either. The fucker. No apologetic bone in his body.
"Close enough," he says, shrugging in that infuriating nonchalant manner that tells her exactly how embarrassed Guo is. Very. He clearly still has issues with expressing his feelings, just as he used to when he was a snot-nosed brat on Ranra's doorstep.
He wants something now, too. Only it's not food or shelter for his little sister, but the whereabouts of his son. If it weren't for the fact that Ranra knows of most of the goings-on in town – can't not, when it's all she does all day, listening in the tobacco shop she owns that the official police force frequent – Guo would never even consider asking him for help. (Like Boris, he chose right, didn't he?)
For good reason. They hate each other.
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