markofthewise | Sokka the 79th

Over two months ago, Sokka died. His penalty was something incredibly intangible. It took from him his empathy, his ability to love, and so many other things. He didn't have a way of describing it, but he was empty. In truth, he wasn't sure he felt anything. There was nothing that truly touched him on the inside.

More than a week ago, Sokka left for a mission. A week and a half with the Depot where they instituted the kind of justice he could appreciate. He certainly felt no remorse when he shot a man for stealing water. When bandits attacked the depot, they rounded up most of them and then strung them up for their trouble. It was a simple morality and for a short while, things actually made sense. Not like the gray morality in Luceti, where people were stupid enough to think that sparing the lives of murderers and thieves meant anything.

And then he got his reward. Cashing in the bulk of mission points he'd accumulated for over a year, he was given what he really coveted the most. Power. And now he had it. As he walked into Luceti, he imagined that he could feel the difference. It was not quite so dramatic as what he had been given by the Rogue Malnosso, but he was content with the knowledge that he'd be keeping what he'd earned. There'd be no scientists taking it away from him this time.

It's mid-day when Sokka returns to town and he's still wearing the cowboy hat he took to the Depot with him. Maybe it doesn't exactly mesh with the Water Tribe clothes he's accustomed to, but he likes it. The hat makes him feel gritty and intimidating. He'll eventually get tired of hat hair, though. Just not today.

So today for his time spent back in Luceti, he heads home to greet whoever might be there. He checks in Foo Foo, the saber toothed moose lion he received from Christmas. It's getting quite big now, having reached the size of medium-sized dog. The tips of his antlers are even starting to become a bit more visible. Although the animal does seem quieter around Sokka, its at least obedient and follows him as he goes about Luceti. For today that includes the Smithy until evening, the Library for an hour, back at House 56 for dinner, and then out in the forest to try and teach Foo Foo to hunt.

The next morning, he makes sure that Okita Souji will meet him for their training session. Sokka is looking forward to seeing the results.

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"I'm afraid it takes longer to perfect a craft than three years. But, you don't do too badly for yourself. Eh? Plenty of practice to be had in a place like this."

"So I've noticed. But I get people who still want things from me. So that's something." Or perhaps he was just fortunate that a truly masterful smith had not shown up to replace him yet.

"You provide a service." He flicked his eyes 'round to the smithy's selection -- gaze lingering on what was still locked up. "There are plenty who'll give a fair share in return for not dependin' entirely upon the Malnosso. You allow it."

In the meantime, Sokka was reaching under the counter, setting down the short sword he had made for Sharpe out to display.

"Speaking of 'fair share', those buttons worked out pretty well for me."

His smile was lop-sided as he lifted the sword up in his hands. Inspecting it. Eyeing it. But thinking about those silver trinkets 'round Katniss's neck.

"Aye, is that so...?"

The sword was typical of Sokka's work. Certainly no match for the other sword sitting on the counter, but a solid construction nonetheless. If anything stood out about it, though, it was that it was functional and plain. There was no artistic flair to it or its sheathe. It was a rarity that Sokka didn't impress some kind of design on his works. But not this one.

"Yeah. Let's just say someone was very pleased by it."

It was simple; Sharpe liked it. Though he'd noted the fine designs on other pieces, he appreciated this sword's sparse nature and -- perhaps -- mistook its plainness for Sokka playing to his own aesthetic. After all, Sharpe's sword was as plain as they came. And somehow, he suspected Arya would not turn her nose up at a simple sword.

"...Someone?" He queried -- his face an easy mask of disinterest. Soldiering taught a man not to give away too much with his face.

Sokka suspected Sharpe cared little. Or at worst, he did care only in the interest of tracking his buttons down now that they were no longer in Sokka's possession. So Sokka decided to be vague for Katniss's sake.

"Just a girl that I like. She was very impressed with them. And one thing ld to another and..." He trailed off. "Let's just say I got a bargain."

"A bargain." Once again, he settled on repeating a key word -- feeding little into the conversation aside from his own acknowledgement. But Sharpe now lifted his weathered eyes from the new sword and fixed them steelishly upon the lad. A bargain. Well, Jesus bloody wept. Talking about Katniss as though she were some sorta...

Sharpe sighed. It wasn't as though he'd never paid for a woman's company. And his mother had been a prostitute. And he'd been raised by a prostitute. The first woman he'd ever loved and killed for had been a prostitute. Sharpe had nothing 'gainst those women, working however they could. And when it came to his men, he would rather they pay for their recreation than take it by other means. And often enough, in an unofficial capacity, payment could simply be a pretty trinket for a night's worth of not being lonely.

But when the concept was tied to Katniss, he felt his blood heat. It made him angry. It made him scathing. "Couldn't manage to win her by the skin of your own nose, eh?"

Sokka hadn't expected much of a response. Maybe a manly nod of affirmation and respect about what had happened. Certainly with Sharpe, Sokka never expected him to be the type to give him any kind of moral backlash. If anything, it's why Sokka had come to like the guy.

So he was surprised and annoyed.

"What's it matter to you? I wasn't trying to win her. She knew exactly what it was."

...The entire concept had been entirely amenable to Sharpe when Katniss had described it. He'd told her -- rightly so -- that there was nothing wrong with finding solace in someone else, so long as no one was getting hurt. But then she'd asked him how she could know if Sokka was being good to her. And Sharpe hadn't thought much of it then; however, now the question stuck in his mind. What if the lad was taking advantage, and Katniss simply didn't realize...?

Rationality evaporating, Sharpe pressed his case: "Perhaps this woman's the sort what ought to be won, eh?"

Sokka glared at Sharpe with an increasing anger and annoyance. The kind he could often reign in under dry sarcasm and complaining. But he was impatient and wanted to get the older man off his back.

"Maybe she is. Maybe she isn't. It's not any of your business what I do. You bartered your buttons away. They're gone now and you got your sword out of it."

With all the charm and chauvinism of a 19th century almost-gentleman: "Nah, Sokka. None of my bloody business what you do. But what she does sure as shite is."

He tapped a calloused finger on the counter top, as if to punctuate his point.

He set his hands on the counter as well, leaning forward.

"No. It's not." A pause before he tilted his head. "Or maybe you're just mad I got to use your buttons better than you ever did. Maybe you could have got a girl out of them instead."

Sharpe could never be mad to see those buttons 'round Katniss's neck, but he didn't say so. He didn't have the finesse nor the conversational care to make his own arguments clear. Instead, he let his dismay rumble forth: "If I did, I wouldn't go boasting 'bout it behind her back. It's a bloody disgrace, that."

"Well, thank you for that. I feel really bad now. Is there anything else you need to get off your chest?"

He'd never known the lad all that well. To Sharpe, Sokka was a tiger who was only now showing his stripes. And those stripes were hard and rancid and wrong. But what was a man to do? He couldn't march home and order a strongwilled creature like Katniss to abandon this affair. And he couldn't threaten Sokka much further without engaging the complicated question of how one does exact vengeance in a place like Luceti.

So Sharpe settled on gathering his commissioned sword and taking a few swift steps back from the counter. "Whatever the bloody hell you do, don't do it 'round the house. I catch you on the wrong side of our walls and I'll show an amateur like you how truly mastered steel tastes."

It was the only thing he could control, really: the house. And it was ineffectual at best, given the fact that he'd yet to witness the smith there. Either way, he said nothing else as he strode his way back into the spring sunlight.

It was in that moment, Sokka realized that Sharpe had a first name. And that Katniss had mentioned some other name when calling off the list of people who lived at her house.

Richard. Richard Sharpe.

He mentally kicked himself as he watched the major leave. Dammit, that was going to be a pain if he had to explain this to Katniss.

Edited 2013-05-10 15:56 (UTC)

Sokka the 79th - [Action]

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