The Fire Navy ship’s prison is dank and musky, drips of water running lazily down the cold hard steel of the walls. A nasty cut runs jagged on his right leg and burns are scattered across his dark skin. Hair from his wolf tail has slipped from its bondage and now falls in pleats around his face, and his signature blue tunic is tattered, burnt, and torn.
Dumped unceremoniously in the corner of the cell, he curses the spirits and their ability to do nothing. The raid itself had come unexpectedly. Sokka had seen the ships patrolling the area, but the initial attack had been a complete slap in the face. And now here he was, a lowly prisoner of his enemy nation.
Flinching and gritting his teeth he forces his leg to cooperate and shifts it into a position that will stop the blood flow as well as the rampant pain pulsing through it. The cut is ragged and raised around the edges. And a purplish red color has started to seep into the wound and Sokka holds back a curse.
Frustrated at his situation, Sokka lightly slams the back of his head into the back of the hull wall. He’ll never rid the look of pure terror on GranGran’s face, or the way she was using all her might to stop Katara from waterbending at the soldiers. But the real hard hitter was the look on Katara’s face. Never before had he seen such rage and confusion boiling up from within another human being.
Cursing, softly but fiercely, his muscles go tense. Footsteps where clanging down the stairs to his cell, and by the sound of it, it was someone who felt they belonged.
Deciding that it was degrading to be found in a crumpled position in the corner of his cell, Sokka painfully drags himself to his feet, making sure to keep most of the weight shifted to his left side. Bracing himself on the wall he sets his eyes on the shaded figures now headed for the bars of his confinement.
As they reach the light, Sokka is momentarily shocked to find an admiral and a cloaked figure on the other side of the bars.
“You see, Prince Zuko, the prisoner is perfectly sound and well kept,” the admiral drawls, sounding bored and like he has better things to do with his time. Sokka, on the other hand, can’t help but feel a shock go through him at the name he’d so carelessly thrown around. Was he really in the presence of his worst nightmare’s son?
“Yeah, well taken care of!” The cloaked figure outbursts, his hand sweeping in a wide motion, fist clenched, to finally land in a gesture at Sokka. “My father had specific requests that the water tribe peasant not be harmed! And look at him, look at his leg!”
“Prince Zuko, he’s your future problem, if you so wish to see him cared for than that’s your prerogative,” The admiral man drawls disrespectfully back, all but ignoring the title of “prince” and the way the figure's hands were smoking.
Then, watching the admiral man’s back disappear back into the shadows, Sokka slides his gaze back to the silhouette of the man. A moment passes before anything happens, but Sokka can feel his eyelids drooping as the pulsating in his leg grows worse with each passing second. And then, when the shadow man does move, Sokka all but convulses,
surprised at the sudden movement and vision hazy.
The man on the other side stops marginally, having seen the convulsion, but in a split decision continues his action.
As the hood of the cloak falls so does Sokka’s body. The last thing he see’s is the beautiful color of molten amber.