[AtLA] Better Red Than Dead

His skin itches. Crawls really. He feels all too exposed. Wearing the livery of the Fire Nation makes him feel dirty somehow, as though he’s betraying everything his family has fought for, his own people have died for.

Disguising themselves as legitimate members of the Fire Nation is a good idea. It’s one that will keep them alive, enable them to travel freely through the Fire Nation. Yet, Sokka does not like it. And he won’t ever like it.

He knows that Katara probably feels the same way. They are both smart enough to recognize a good plan when they see one, but still… this isn’t easy.

Aang is practically giddy. The pacifist probably sees this as a closer step toward a worldwide peace that he’s been dreaming of. Small steps, baby, small steps.

Toph… well, it’s always hard to read Toph. She can’t see what colors she’s wearing anyway, so she probably doesn’t care. She doesn’t carry the same level of dislike for the Fire Nation as Sokka and Katara anyway.

His skin itches again. Sokka casually drags his fingers over his neck where he’s itching. Then his arm. Then his right side. Then his elbow. Gah, itching everywhere.

It’s too much. He understands, but still… it’s like everything the Fire Nation has threatened is being experienced right now. Because isn’t that what Ozai is trying to do? Take over their entire world, turn everything to Fire Nation red, wipe out what exists of the Water Tribes and the Earth Kingdom. He’s already succeeded with the Air Nomads! Their temples have been covered in Fire Nation victory flags, Fire Nation livery, red everywhere.

And here Sokka is. Here is Team Avatar. Dressed up like the very thing they are trying to fight. It just… ugh. It has to be done, but deep inside, Sokka loathes this with every portion of his being.

His knee itches again. And around his collar. The small of his back. His wrists and his ankles get treated to a scratch, too.

“Sokka!”

“What?” he demands, looking sourly at Katara, who’s giving him a perplexed expression.

“Stop scratching,” she says. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Sokka sighs. And obeys. Katara’s right after all. He doesn’t really itch; he just thinks he ought to. But, he supposes, better a little red than a lot dead.

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