Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever, own any part of Avatar: The Last Airbender. The idea of my story (that Aang lost to Ozai on the day of Sozin's Comet), however, is my own original idea and is (obviously) not canon with the series, along with the main pairing of my story: TophxAang (Taang).

Anyways, enjoy :)

Chapter 1: Regretful Cowardice

Sometimes, when he lies in his hopelessly dilapidated bed and watches the leftover rain slip through the holes in his roof, he thinks that life his would be much simpler, even easier, if he had a set goal to work towards.

He pushes himself up slowly, back to elbow to palm until he's in a sitting position on his bed, his fuzzy mind a constant reminder that he didn't sleep a wink last night. The past week has been full of restless nights for him. Instead of sleeping, he stays up and ponders his past mistake and daily struggle. He hates how he lies to himself every day by believing that what happened so many years ago hadn't been foreseeable, or that hiding from it is acceptable.

Back then, more than a while ago, his life was easier, a trait he relates to his goal of defeating a fire-breathing king. A long time ago, he had spare time to goof around and act like the kid he was, but was still able to focus on what eventually had to be done. Unfortunately, when the time came and destiny called, he couldn't deliver.

He tugs the sheets off his noticeably long legs, regretting it in an instant when he feels the chill of his room. His ratty blankets are in desperate need of a washing, as are his overused clothes. He places his bare feet down on the creaking wooden floor and looks down at them, then at the backs of his hands. His eternal markings mock him daily, so much so that hiding them every day almost gives him solace. He rubs a hand over his dark bed head as he releases a mentally and physically exhausted sigh.

Almost.

He can't run from it anymore. No matter how much he avoids them during the day, his memories take the form of a nightmare every time he closes his eyes and hopes for a dreamless sleep. If he stays up all night to avoid the frightening dreams, his daytime hours are haunted by deformed daydreams akin to hallucinations. No matter what he does, he can't hide from his past.

Perhaps the most terrifying part of his dreams, whether they be in the day or night, is that they portray the absolute truth. Every second of it is cruelly honest, from the heat of his enemy's fire to the wind on his face as he ran away. Ran away from the one person he was expected to stop. Ran away from that fight, that life, forever.

He slams a closed fist down onto his bed.

He was a coward.

He looks up and catches a glimpse at his own face in the reflection of his dusty mirror. Lightly tanned skin, defined facial features, a cleanly cut patch of facial hair on his chin that doesn't stick out quite enough to be a goatee, storm-cloud eyes stuck between dark circles and narrowed eyebrows that portray his current emotions: guilt, self-abhorrence, shame. And of course, the sky blue arrow on his forehead, the sight of it forcing the horrid memory back into his mind for the umpteenth time. His eyes fall to the floor.

He still is a coward.

Ten years ago, he didn't feel this way.

Back then he was happy, careless even, as he rode giant Koi fish and slid down giant mail chutes. Even with these childish antics, almost everyone around him admired and respected him because of his label. Nowadays, his label would lead to him loosing his head after long periods of torture that would leave him begging for death. But a decade ago, practically everyone wanted to know him, even befriend him. Then, of course, there were his real friends.

He was so close to them that they were like the mismatched family that he'd never had. They were all so different, yet they found it so rudimentary to stay close-nit and be able to comfort one another. He used to think that they'd be that way forever: happy, loving, together.

Now he has to wonder if any of them are even still alive.

He groans as he finally leaves his bed and stretches, breathing out heavily as his bones crack. He yawns before igniting a small flame above his hand, illuminating his dark, damp room to a degree.

He quickly finds his long sleeved undershirt and tugs it over his bare torso. The fabric of it is a deep red, almost maroon color. One of Phoenix King Ozai's many laws is that each citizen must be wearing national colors at all times. Because of that, his wardrobe consists of blacks, reds, and golds. Because of his need to cover his tattoos, almost every shirt he owns is long sleeved. The only exception to this is his sleeveless uniform top that's required at his workplace. He lazily pulls the faded piece of clothing over his dark red shirt. It used to be gold, but after years of daily wear, it'd be lucky to pass for tan.

His black work boots are next. They're curled a bit at the toes, like most shoes from Fire Nation culture are. He stuffs his loose red pants into the mid-calf high boots and fastens a black and red belt around his waist.

Lastly, he ties a black headband around his forehead to cover the main piece of his tattoo. The red symbol of the tyrannical Fire Nation is stitched in the center of the headband, but he wears it upside-down to resemble his arrow. Whatever pride he still possesses is displayed by this small act of rebellion. Lately, it's the only thing that can tug at the corners of his permanent frown.

Every day of the past three years has been the same. He has an everyday routine that seldom changes, so much so that it's almost like clockwork. Deathly, mind-numbing clockwork, but consistent nonetheless.

He works as a coal miners in a nearby cave network. It's simple enough, his job. He mines the coal with a pickaxe then shovels it into carts to be taken to the local coal merchant. It's tedious to have to mine without his bending, but he'd be stupid to try. Any form of bending, other than firebending, is legal only in the Fire Nation capital city, and is only used for hard labor.

Sometimes, as he shovels the dusty coal, he'd find himself thinking of the old times, back when he still possessed a child's mental capacity, still found things to laugh at, and was still surrounded by people he could fully and completely trust. In short, he'd think about back when he was happy. Most of the time, his thoughts would consume his whole being.

Eventually, though, one of the firebending managers would yell at him to 'get on back to work, maggot'. The managers are grisly men, with their snarky grins, pressed red jackets, and furry facial hair. They don't do any actual work in the caves. No, they're just there to watch over the coal miners and make sure they make their quota. He wishes he could yell back at them sometimes, but he's no fool, so he says nothing. None of his coworkers ever talk. Instead, they work in lonely silence, exchanging pained glances whenever the managers have their backs turned.

Before his job in the mines, he'd spent seven years on the run. He never stayed in one place for too long and never made any acquaintances. Who could he trust in a world where so many people wanted and still want him dead?

The small town he lives in, Lu Ren, is a very secluded part of a small Fire Nation colony near the coast of what used to be the EarthKingdom. He's had no trouble for the past three years, but he's not entirely comfortable here. The people around here know him as Kuzon Rai, a young, coal-mining bachelor who prefers to keep to himself and hardly ever leaves his home for anything besides work. If only they knew who he really is.

He meanders to his bedroom window and opens his shutters to allow a bit of light into his dreary room. The early morning sun is just above the horizon, turning the sky into a peachy field of fluffy white clouds. He unconsciously smiles. He can always count on nature to give him beautiful landscapes to appreciate.

Then again, the beauty is devastating, taunting him and pulling him deeper into his pit of despair.

He closes his shutters with a sudden force.

Other than his bedroom, his meager house contains just a small restroom and kitchenette. All of his furniture is old, picked from deposited piles of chairs and tables that no one else wanted. They're not much, but they do the job.

Sitting at his rickety table, he eats a mediocre breakfast of stale bread and a bruised apple. Even though his life seems hopeless at times, he still follows the ways of the monks, if not to continue his forgotten culture, then to help him cling to his wavering sanity.

His walk to work is a long one. He must travel through town then down a long dirt road before he arrives at the entrance to the cave. When he leaves his home, he subtly earthbends a small block on the inside of the door to prevent anyone from pushing it open. He'd never had a proper lock attached to his door for two reasons: one, he can't afford it, and two, it's unnecessary, for no thief if his right mind would waste his time stealing from a house that looks like it's about to collapse onto itself.

As he approaches the center of town, he double-checks that his headband it secure, but his motion is almost unnecessary. Even the main square of Lu Ren is silent, inhabited only by a few early risers, most of them on their way to the mines as well. It's a sad silence that chills him to his core. He walks faster.

A wall decorated with wanted posters catches his eye. The wanted pictures are typical: quick sketches of burly men in some kind of disguise, some brandishing a weapon. One poster, though, manages to catch is eye. It must have been put up late last night.

The face belongs to a woman with pale skin and ebony hair, strands of it covering her eyes. A piece of fabric is tied around the lower half of her face, no doubt in attempt to conceal her identity. Her nickname, "Silent Landslide", is scrawled in medium sized symbols under the somewhat lifelike headshot. Even smaller still is instructions on how to act if one should come in contact with the criminal, printed under her name: "Very dangerous and prone to violence. Do not approach. Contact local law enforcement with information regarding this criminal".

He absentmindedly puts a hand on the piece of paper. The pictured girl is twenty if she's a day, but she's already one of the most wanted people around. Not only that, but she seems heartbreakingly familiar.

He tears his eyes and hand from the poster and keeps on moving, trying not to look back at it or at the wanted poster with his face on it. The picture of him, though, is far off. The artist had to guess what he would look like after ten years elapsed, and he was, thankfully, very far off. The man pictured is still bald, has glowing eyes, and no facial hair whatsoever.

Unable to contain himself, he turns and looks at the girl's wanted poster again, but doesn't stop walking. Not watching where he's going, he walks right into someone and knocks them and himself over.

He sees a bag hit the ground and a small hand reach for it. He mentally slaps himself.

"I'm so sorry, miss," he says to the woman as he stands and holds out a hand to help her up. She finally gets a hand on her satchel and looks up at him. Her hair is a rusty brown, her eyes a golden amber, her face kind. She can't be any older than nineteen. She grasps his hand and he pulls her up easily. "I really must learn to watch where I'm going."

She lets go of his hand after she's back on her feet and dusts off the white apron over her faded red dress. "No, no, I'm sorry," she replies, her voice light and friendly. "I was too busy watching the clouds to watch where I was going." She giggles slightly and holds out her hand for him to shake. "I'm Eri, by the way." When she meets his gaze, her face gets pink and she averts her eyes.

Aang takes her hand and shakes it. "Kuzon. Sorry again." She opens her mouth to say something else, but he's already gone, walking briskly away with a stoic expression. When he's a safe distance away, he leans against a building and exhales heavily.

The girl was pretty, and was, if he guessed right, a bit interested in him. That's why he retreated, for his safety and hers.

He'll never be able to get involved with any woman. Even if she promises to keep his identity a secret, knowing who he truly is would put her in danger. He could never be so selfish.

He sighs and walks on, making it to the rock quarry just barely on time. One of the managers looks at him as he rushes to join the assembled group of miners. "Rai, so wonderful of you to join us."

Per usual, he says nothing.

Kuzon Rai is a silent man, seemingly very skittish and allergic to human interaction, specifically between himself and a young woman. He has an unknown reason for tying a headband around his forehead, never giving a straight answer when asked about it. Some say he's antisocial; others say he's just shy. No one can make factual assumptions about him, as no one really knows him. No one knows that Kuzon is actually an alias for a wanted man, perhaps the most wanted man in the entire world.

Kuzon's real name is Aang. He's been on the run from Phoenix King Ozai for almost a decade, because in a world ruled by a tyrannical, pyromanic king, the Avatar can't exactly stop to smell the lotuses.

Soooo there's chapter 1, which I affectionately call "The Headband's Revenge". I'm hoping to have frequent updates for this story, once a week (every Friday) if I can manage it. For now I should be able to, but when school starts up again I'm not so sure. Anyways, Review!

-Katiebunchesofoats