Thanks, Guest. :D I realize that last one was a little… around the bend, but I felt like I had to write something like that when mad, bad Azula was involved. Thankfully the Jolly Old Elf made it through okay.

I apologize for the long, long hiatus here; a lot of things have come up over the past few years, but I hope to get back to writing and publishing somewhat regularly. It will, however, be in a different story thread than this one; I think an even 40 is a good place to end this one. I would ask you to join me over in the new thread I'm making, ATLA Ponderings, which I should be starting shortly.

This last story involves a meme that I think you'll be able to pick up on if you've seen it before, but I felt it applied to ATLA pretty well—and particularly to a certain hot-headed Admiral. :D Please tell me what you think. And once again, thanks for reading and commenting down through the years.

Irresistible Force

The Fire Nation battleship Dominion plowed through the night sea, her golden dragon figurehead glinting dully in what light there was. Behind her in long lines of darkened shapes, the rest of the Fire Nation's Northern Fleet followed.

The bridge of the Dominion was a still place; very little light showed there too. Dull red lamps gave just enough light to see by. The helmsman and navigator manned their posts, quiet but attentive; the signalman stood by, ready. The captain had the watch that night… and it could have been said that he glowed a dull red, too.

A white light appeared ahead in the distance… then went out.

Frown lines on the captain's face grew deeper.

The light appeared again, swelled… and then went out.

"Navigator."

The navigator turned. "Sir?"

"What's our position?"

"Here, sir." The navigator lifted a visor on a lamp over his mapboard, and yellow light spilled out. The captain came over, and the navigator pointed. "Still along the coast of the northwestern Earth Kingdom. We're about to make for open sea."

"Near enemy territory, then."

"No, sir. That area is long pacified."

"And the light up ahead?"

"In my opinion… this, sir." The navigator pointed again.

The captain scowled even more. He stood there a moment. The navigator waited.

"I was hoping we'd be here in daylight. Fine time for our engines to be so productive." The captain turned. "Runner."

A sailor stepped up. "Sir?"

"Alert the Admiral. Tell him—"

"Tell him what?" said a voice at the rear of the bridge.

The captain turned—and came to ramrod attention. "Sir."

Zhao came onto the bridge, wearing black combat armor despite the hour. "Go ahead, Captain… complete your sentence. Tell the Admiral what?"

The captain kept his voice firmly controlled. "We've reached the turning point early, sir. Request permission to signal the fleet."

"To?"

"To turn onto our new heading, sir."

A small smile came to Zhao's lips. "Because?"

"In accordance with the plan, sir."

"As it is in accordance with the plan, Captain," Zhao said, coming closer, "an efficient officer might want to go ahead and give the order."

"Not without your order, sir."

"That's—right." Zhao came closer, almost uncomfortably so. "I do believe that's how you wound up manning the night watch of your own ship. Isn't it, Captain?"

The captain was about to reply, but the helmsman cut him off. "Sir—another flashing light, dead ahead."

"Another flashing light?" Disbelief shone on the captain's face. That vanished. "Are we showing any lights?" he demanded sharply.

"No, sir," the signalman cut in. "I mean, we shouldn't be. Only the night watch and stern running lights, as ordered."

"There had better not be any lights showing, Captain," Zhao said quietly, menacingly. "For lights to be showing at night on the Northern Fleet's flagship… you'd be lucky if you stayed on the ship, if that were the case."

Things were happening in the captain's belly that were not pleasant. He turned. "Runner. Make sure we're not showing any lights."

"Yes, sir." The runner sped from the bridge.

"Sir!" The helmsman again. "The second light is flashing again!"

The captain turned. There were indeed two lights, one slowly waxing, waning, vanishing, then repeating, the other flashing sporadically. He squinted to focus—then his eyes slowly widened.

"Suggest… course… change… two… marks… west," said the signalman. "Sir. It's Navy code, sir."

"I can see that," the captain said irritably. The thrum of the engines and the shoosh of the waves below filled the bridge as the captain thought.

Then turned sharply to Zhao. "Sir. Request permission to order the fleet to turn."

Zhao's brow furrowed. "Why?"

"As per the plan, sir. We've reached the point where the fleet needs to turn."

"I understand that," said Zhao, "but there is a ship ahead that is 'suggesting' you make that turn. Don't you find that odd? Even suspicious?"

"It—I suppose so, sir, but we have a fleet of ships behind us, and—"

"And this could be the beginning of a trap. Haven't you thought of that?"

"With the fleet behind me, waiting for the turn, no, sir. I hadn't thought of that." Which, while an honest reply, the captain reflected, probably just sank the rest of his career.

"And to think you displayed such initiative recently." Zhao clucked his tongue. "I think we need to have a chat."

"Sir! Another signal, as before!"

"They are persistent, aren't they?" Zhao turned. "Signalman. Send the following in reply: 'Suggest course change two marks east.' "

"Yes, sir." The signalman went to his lamp, turned it in the direction of the lights, and sent the signal, raising and lowering the visor on the lamp.

Zhao turned away, satisfied. "That should give them something to think about."

More sea-filled silence. Maybe it was because Zhao was on the bridge, maybe it was because of the warships surging behind, but to the captain the pulsing light ahead seemed to grow, and loom.

Again the lights ahead replied.

"Negative… cannot comply… must… request… course change… four… points… west…" the signalman said, then he paused as the lights sent something else. "Sir, I sent our standard sign/countersign challenge at the end of our previous message. They sent the correct countersign."

Zhao raised an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

"The sender ahead is legitimate, sir. Our flasher code is standard; anyone can send that from reading a book. Our sign/countersign challenge changes every three months."

"There you are, Captain," Zhao said, turning back to him. "That is how you display initiative."

"Admiral, the fleet is still waiting for our signal," the captain replied quietly, urgently. "We now know whoever is ahead of us is sending a legitimate signal. If we don't turn now—"

"—Then whoever is ahead of us will be very disappointed!" said Zhao, snarling. "This fleet turns when I say it turns!" Fire rimmed his hands as he brought them down; the temperature on the bridge rose. He wheeled. "Signalman, send this: 'This is Admiral Zhao, Commander of the Northern Fleet. Identify yourself and comply with my last order!' "

The signalman set to work. The lamp's visor clattered away a lot longer than before, as the signalman had to send words rather than coded shorthand. Eventually he finished, and things were quiet again. For the moment.

That moment was a long one. The signal light ahead sent nothing for a while as the bigger light overhead flared, pulsed, waned, then went out, flared, pulsed, waned, then went out. The captain knew he couldn't possibly see anything ahead besides the light, or at least reasoned he couldn't. But still…

Then the signal light returned, flashing.

"This… is… the… cape…" The signalman's eyes widened, and he snorted slightly. He quickly turned to the senior officers. "Sorry, sir."

Any other time, the captain would have snapped at his subordinate for the lack of decorum on the bridge. Right now he didn't care as much. Zhao, on the other hand, had turned red, a red easily seen in the dark. His fists were clenched, hard, and the captain could smell smoke.

And I'm the one that has to say something to him, don't I? the captain said to himself. Inside, he sighed. Outside… "Sir?"

After a long moment, Zhao all but grumbled. "Make… the turn."

"Sir?"

"I said make the turn! And see that I don't throw you off the bridge as well!" With that, Zhao turned sharply and left.

"Yes, sir." The captain looked to the helm. "Helmsman—head a course five marks west. Signalman—signal the fleet to follow our turn."

"Yes, sir." "Yes, sir."

The helmsman threw the wheel over hard left to make the required turn; the ship in response tilted to the left. The signalman for his part went to the signal on the left side of the bridge, hauled it around to point at the fleet behind the ship, and started signaling. Ships came onto the new course very quickly.

The temperature cooled on the bridge. The captain dared to relax—or at least return to his usual state of watchfulness.

"Sir?"

The captain looked up. "Yes, helmsman."

"A question…"

"Go ahead."

"I… didn't catch the end of the last message. What did it—"

"Helmsman…" The captain was incredulous. "How could you be on the bridge of the flagship of the Northern Fleet without having a decent understanding of flasher code?"

"Sir, I apologize, they were sending words rather than code, and I lost track when the signalman—"

"Helmsman Lu. I have an unfortunate feeling that I am going to be manning the night watch on this bridge for the duration of the campaign. I think I will use that time productively in providing you with further instruction in the Navy's flasher code."

The helmsman swallowed. "Yes, sir."

The sea continued to rush by. The engines thrummed below decks, and the strange light, now on the ship's right side, continued to wax and wane.

"The message was, 'This is the Cape Bailong Lighthouse.' "