Meet office. Not emergency. Bring licensure.

In the garage, Katara shifted into park. Her eyes flicked from the blue screen in her palm to the gaudy orange door that led to the elevator. It was nearly noon. Gyatso's cream Volkswagen was missing from its usual spot, and she debated if she'd wait for him. Had he rode the metro this morning? Was he upstairs now, tapping his cane as he waited for her? Behind his desk, at the ready?

She'd taught Gyatso how to text two years ago when he'd purchased his first smartphone. The office was thrilled, so amused that they made a day of it. Suki bought Gyatso a 'Congratulations!' card, the inscription reading: Welcome to the digital age! We have been waiting for you patiently. Please don't ever text us about work. Actually, do not text us at all. Katara ordered a bulky phone case for him from ArmadilloLion Inc. Even the part-time writers fought amongst themselves to enter their contact info in his phone, adding 'his majesty' and 'the esteemed' before their names.

When the novelty settled, Katara sat beside him and went over basics. He adjusted his glasses, pulled the phone closer and farther away from his eyes, found it difficult to focus on the tiny, bright letters. "Something smart should be easier to use," Gyatso had fussed quietly. That small comment was the worst of his objections, though; he learned quickly and, despite his minimal use, never forgot what she taught him. Perhaps acting out of gratitude, he only ever texted her. The message he'd sent her before this one dated back four months ago, prior to Aang Yangchen's arrival, in which he'd shared: "How do we feel when there is no more coffee left? Depresso." Then, a coffee cup emoji.

"It's Saturday," she groaned to herself, already forgetting that she was not — technically — some star employee, not currently in a position to question his requests of her, not in the place to huff complaints.

She felt sweat bead along her upper lip as she locked her car and strode to the orange door with all the faux ease she could muster. The empty garage echoed her steps with a distinct ring. In the elevator, her act betrayed her: she stepped awkwardly on the edge of her heel and fell into the buttons, highlighting floors five through nine. She glanced at the security cam before dusting off her skirt and composing herself. Her encounter (ahem, she thought, repeating encounter again and again) with Aang Yangchen would surely be the topic of this unusual office hour. That, and her immediate dismissal. Or Gyatso would ask her about Meng. Or he would revoke her license —he had asked her to bring it, after all, and why would he need it now?

At floor fifteen, she walked straight to his office without turning to look at hers (the inviting clarity of the glass walls made her stomach turn), but the sight of Gyatso immediately startled her out of her self-pity.

This wasn't about her because he was not alone. A young man sat across from him, one long leg crossed over the knee of the other, a steaming mug gripped in his right hand, a silver wristwatch glinting with the midday light. His shoulders rested easily in the back of the chair. Gyatso appeared to be leaning towards him. Impulsion suggested Aang Yangchen sat there, but when she knocked and entered, no esoteric, meditative calm greeted her. The room felt charged. Frigid. Before she could shake Gyatso's hand, her eyes fell on the transgressor with inadvertent blame.

"This is the Publication's Manager, Dr. Kuruk." As he introduced her, Gyatso stood and motioned for her to take the seat next to the stranger. His eyes were their customary gray, but his words betrayed him. He was anxious. He never introduced her by way of last name and title. He'd said 'the' instead of 'our,' attempting to either distance himself or give her some gravity. He hadn't welcomed her or introduced him to her first, meaning the guest somehow outranked her.

She took his cues. She understood what he needed, but between placidity and defense, she opted for the latter. Aang's arrival this week had tamed her — shoved her into an agonizing, submissive corner in more ways than one — and she did not want to bend her neck for another. She outstretched a straight palm and met the man's eyes, locking them like a falcon. In the tone she used to lecture, she asked, "Who do I have the pleasure of meeting?"

He returned the icy stare with his own, a vivid gold. She could see he was not intimidated (he did not move in his chair, did not reach to adjust his tie, did not glance at his lap, did not cough or murmur), but she'd caught some part of his attention. Katara knew she had that effect on men — not necessarily an impending power, but a cue. An alarm.

She knew he was not an Earth Kingdom native but had trouble placing him. His black button-down (satin, she noted, and richly embroidered at the hem) contrasted his pale countenance in a way that made him appear less serious, like a boy inappropriately dressed for his cello recital. She found the same T. Lee brand symbol that marked her heels on his loafers. He had elegant taste, but it was simple. Not gaudy.

Gyatso offered, "This is Fire Lady Azula's brother, Mister Sozin."

"Zuko Sozin," he said, and after a brief, dry handshake, he turned his gruff monotone to Gyatso. "It wasn't my intention to come on your off time."

"We are glad to have you," Gyatso returned.

Katara pressed her pout into a thin smile. In the silence that followed, Gyatso stood and refilled Zuko's tea with the pot he reserved for honored guests — poets, writers, publishers, but never politicians. Until now.

Zuko sipped from the cup in small slurps. Without looking at the furiously curling steam or tasting from the cup Gyatso had prepared for her, she knew the airbender had overheated it. They did not drink tea in this office — only espresso: dark roasted, often burnt, terrible to taste without milk. They were not coffee snobs, just caffeine addicts, and the refinement of tea was lost on them. Why settle for a diluted version of the drug?

But he'd prepared tea for this guest. Texted her to come in on a Saturday. Introduced her as 'the' Dr. Kuruk. He was jittery, but she could not tell if this was born of distress or suspenseful anticipation. Aang Yangchen's arrival had derailed her relationship to this man, she knew — the supervisor she once read with ease and proficiency.

Now her abilities failed her and she wondered if she'd ever known him as well as she'd believed. She had no clue what he could want from her now, in the presence of a politician from a nation they both abhorred. Why treat this stranger like royalty, Katara thought, when they spent all their time avoiding Fire Nation legalities like land mines? Publishing banned books, banned authors? Outing civil cruelty cases? Writing article after article on their ethnic cleansing practices, their propaganda, even (what some anthropologists asserted) their unique brain biology? And Fire Lady Azula — that was another encyclopedia of its own.

Katara leaned forward and asked, more to Gyatso than Zuko, "What can I help with?"

"Our honorable friend has come with some news. Please transcribe for us, my dear."

"It isn't good news," Zuko warned. He reached into his bag and removed a folded map. The edges were worn, fuzzy and grayed with handling, but he spread it open with a quick, distracted maneuver. He removed a compass and pencil. To Katara's amusement, he also removed a pair of frameless glasses. He waited until her own pen was poised and ready before pressing forward.

In the light flooding Gyatso's office through the blinds, Katara could make out several small rectangles on the map. They seemed hastily added with different colored inks, as if a traveler had found these locales at various times and scribbled them in with whatever device he'd found at hand. Zuko was pointing to the peripheral markings first. She'd assumed it would be a map of the Fire Nation but was disturbed to find other countries there too — not in order, not to scale, but drawn nonetheless. Some even had rectangles of their own.

"These are the spots I mentioned earlier," Zuko said to Gyatso. With his compass, he traced a thin pencil arc through five of the rectangles. "This is the Zenith of Icarus." Through another four, he drew an arc that opposed this one, but touched it at its middle. "Zenith of Minos." In the center, between both arcs, was the last rectangle. Zuko mumbled, pushing his glasses along the bridge of his nose, "She'll likely start there."

Katara amended his dialogue: Sepia world map shows ten hand-drawn rectangles situated at Zenith Icarus + Minos. All nations appear represented. No author or legend depicted on map. No dates or initials visible.

Gyatso hesitated. He held his hand over the map — Katara detected a faint tremble, as if he was afraid to physically touch these places — before backtracking and holding his chin instead. "What other proof do you have, Mister Sozin, besides the journal?"

"The journal and this map," Zuko answered. "That, and an honest gut. I don't doubt what I know."

"And the meeting you mentioned?" Gyatso pressed.

"For the admirals. I was conveniently requested elsewhere, some busy work for a set of mayors from the west. But I sent an apprentice instead and listened in."

"Any valuable intel?"

"They mentioned the zeniths I've shown you. Requested dispatch." He paused and set the compass aside. He wound his fingers tight around his tea. The steam fogged his glasses but he did not remove them. He turned this now-murky gaze to Katara, who offered him a napkin and repressed the urge to laugh.

Though she wasn't expecting a response from Zuko, who — despite the notoriously ill-tempered ethnic background — was dispassionate and stony, she said, more to herself, "Hot beverages are the only reasons I wear contacts."

But as he took the napkin, he startled her. "If from this distance I still can see the blazing winter skies, I beg for one less lens to place before these crisscrossed eyes."

"Yizu Ro!" Gyatso laughed. "The Fire Nation's jester. Not as hilarious as his contemporaries, but somehow his couplets prevail."

"Popular taste is fickle," Zuko explained. Katara detected the faintest hint of a smile. "Unpopular poets outlast the zeitgeist with originality and compassion. There is a difference between a tailor who mends clothing and a seamstress who creates."

"What about you?" Katara ventured. "Seamstress or tailor?"

Zuko folded his map and began replacing the tools in his bag. "I don't write poetry."

"A regret or a scoff?"

"Neither," Zuko returned evenly, and it seemed true. His tone did not falter. "A fact."

"You're a politician." Katara felt Gyatso stiffen as she continued. She crossed her arms and reclined in her chair. "So, my initial question regards politics."

Zuko did not flinch. For the first time since their meeting, he turned to face her fully. His eyes seemed apologetic. "We aren't all cut from the same cloth," he remarked. "Some of us just want to rid the world of moths."

When he stood, he tossed back the scalding tea with a fluid wrist. His watch caught the sun and she averted her eyes. He was tall, and his form was as sturdy and full as her brother's. But his shoulders stooped inward. He seemed to carry an invisible weight from his neck. Perhaps grief. Something in his glasses caught her eye: the left lens was significantly thicker than the right, and he had not removed the frames after working on the map.

"Yizu Ro is not my favorite," Zuko told Gyatso at the door. "But he is close."

Gyatso nodded and — it seemed to Katara — calmed. Remarkably a few lines of poetry always had that effect. The couplet had brought Zuko in, seemed to baptize him as one of their own. Gyatso was no politician, but he could discuss rhyme, tone, taste, and meter until the proverbial kingdom came.

He was at the door soon too. He shook Zuko's hands with both of his. "We are grateful to you," he said. "The world will be grateful too."

Katara busied herself with her notes, but Gyatso's hand on her shoulder suggested she thank the politician as well. She stood and straightened her skirt. She bowed. "We are grateful," she repeated.

Zuko bowed back. When he straightened, he offered his hand to her. "I'm glad you are working with me," he said. The preposition 'with' instead of 'for' softened her. She took his hand. "Even if it isn't by will."