Chapter Text
Lin may be done with her work, but her focus remains the same in intensity. Emerald eyes stare at her canvas as she wipes down the complete picture. It’s a large dragon finalizing the sleeve she’s been tattooing over the past week — one of the biggest projects she’s finished. The next step is also done with care, hands slowly wrapping up the polished design.
She doesn’t talk much during these things. Lin would much rather listen to the music that blasts throughout her shop, a mixture of various hip hop artists. The metal needle always seems to flow with the beat and lyrics. The bass blares through speakers, reverberating throughout the room as if she can feel the earth and connect it with her art. She’s become a natural with so many years of experience in her job.
Art has always been something appreciated by her entire family. She learned how to treasure it in every way, and in a more special way than most. Her blind mother taught her that even without sight, art is everywhere. Music has vibrations, and her mother always used that to her advantage as she toured the world with her band as a young woman. Her half-sister had excelled in dance, joining an academy when she was a little girl.
Lin found her place first with little doodles. It only expanded after that. She can’t explain what it is about tattooing and how it became her life. There’s different tools when creating pictures, and the metal needle has always called to her. And there’s a clear difference between paper and skin. Paper can be discarded as if it is nothing. Art on skin will last forever.
She knows what it’s like to have something eternal located on her body. Lin has a marking of her own, one inflicted long ago. One that carried no choice. She doesn’t like reflecting much on that experience. Lin tends to melt into the feelings spurred from it. Bitterness. Anger. Resentment. And that motivates her work. Let people have that choice. Let people have markings they find beautiful — not those that stain, a blemish that cannot be wiped away. Let her design pictures with beautiful, personal meanings rather than a reminder of a pain that has followed her around for decades.
Lin slumps against her seat. The process has finally been completed. “You’re good to go.” Her arms fold, chin jutting forward to the front of the store to signal exit. Her cashier Mako waits for the final installment of payment. Once they’re on their way, she heads to the back to wash her hands, stretching out her body. Staying in this position for too long tires her figure, especially when she’s getting as old as she is. But even at age 50 her hands show no hint towards deterioration. They still remain steady as always.
As she’s exiting the washroom, Mako meets her there with cash in hand. “They left you a good tip, Chief.” It’s a nickname she’d picked up over the years in the industry. It’s a mix of reasons. First, it’s the way she runs her shop. Always barking orders and ready to absolutely pummel someone in the ground should they cause trouble. And the second is how she’s handled herself over these years. Men have always dominated this field. Lin’s never found any trouble rising to the top. She excels, and it helps that her body fits the image. The artist wears a white muscle tee nearly every time she enters the shop, muscular biceps protruding from it with her tattooed sleeve located on her left arm. It’s a gorgeous vine sprawling up and down. Leaves are shadowed, highlighting just how toned she is. Anyone in the right mindset would steer clear of her.
She looks down at the money Mako clutches for a second, only humming in response. Money means a lot to Mako. The kid has been through some hard times, there’s no doubt about that. But Lin’s family came from a lot of it , and she makes more than enough of it running her own, successful parlor.
“Remind me again — anyone else I’ve got booked today?”
“Yeah. Someone’s coming in for a consultation. They said they have a lot of ideas they wanna iron out.”
“They out there?” Her head signals to the front of the store.
“No. They’re a couple minutes late. You want to bother to wait around? I can call them and tell them to forget it.” Mako knows how she functions. As long as the customer respects her time, she’ll respect theirs equally. So the fact that this particular person has decided to waste it . . . it makes Lin roll her eyes. But there’s a gut feeling that she should wait around, so she just shakes her head in response.
“It’s fine. Let me know if they show.” She won’t admit it, but her hands need a break anyway. It’s done a lot of work over the past week. Lin decides to return to the washroom, turning on the faucet to spray cold water on her face. It’s a nice wake-up call. Her eyes flit to the mirror, and she gives herself a long, hard stare. Eyes automatically pilot to the scars, angling her head to give it a good look. Lips purse in disgust and she’s quick to turn away to head out front. Has this mystery customer finally appeared?
“Hey, Chief!” Mako’s voice calls right on time, signaling that the person is here. Good. Even still, a grimace rests on Lin’s face. This individual being late doesn’t exactly put her in a great mood. Lin doesn’t really intend to speak much to this person though, even though this is going to be a consultation. She usually lets the other talk. Lin wants to hear the inspiration behind the idea, drawing from its origin to influence her art. Still . . . her own Beifong attitude might shine through.
“On my way.” Her hands quickly find the towel to bury them in the fluff. And even though they’re dry, Lin quickly swipes them across her black pants to go out front.
The woman’s back is to her as she’s talking to Mako. Well, someone wants to strike up a conversation . Much like Lin, Mako’s not the most talkative person and doesn’t find much pleasure in small chat. She appreciates that about him.
Grey hair flows down the woman’s back, half of it pulled up in an intricate up-do. The woman has to be around Lin’s age, if not older. Lin takes mental note of that — this canvas isn’t young . She’s working on worn skin. Tan, too. Might influence the colors of the ink, she thinks. A long, silk skirt brushes against the hardwood floors of the store. Looks like she thrifted it , especially with that lacy top she’s wearing.
Lin always observes every customer that comes in her store. You can tell a lot about a person by what they look like, and that always helps with the style of their tattoo.
“Hey.” She raises her voice enough for the woman to whip her head around, and the breath immediately hitches in Lin’s throat. Mentally, Lin can’t tell why at first. Why is her body reacting in this way? But familiarity strikes, a large sense of nostalgia. It brings her back, back to before the scar, back to before her being consumed by bitterness and loneliness and isolation.
The other woman isn’t reacting in the same way, though. Why isn’t she consumed by this feeling, too? Why does Lin seem to be the only one who is unbalanced? She doesn’t like it. She needs control , needs something to hang on to —
“Lin.” The woman’s voice grounds her. How did she do that? Why did that happen? And then it all clicks together. The woven handbag that’s gripped tight by fingers. The gentle smile. The arctic-icy eyes. And how much she looks like her mother. It’s like she’s staring Katara in the face. It’s Kya. Standing here. In her parlor.
She hasn’t seen her for over thirty years.
Lin’s too preoccupied to notice how Mako is staring at her. The young man’s eyebrows are furrowed with confusion. He’s never seen the Chief like this. She goes into every situation knowing exactly what to do, always unafraid, and never unprepared. So why does she suddenly look so off of her game? That’s . . . that’s unheard of for Lin Beifong.
“Hey. Earth to Lin.” The woman leans in a bit, a gentle smile on her face. She looks so casual saying this, but Lin can detect that there’s a bit of shakiness in her voice. Lin’s good at noticing emotions, if people are telling the truth or not. Kya’s nervous, but she’s playing it off like she’s not. And she’s almost perfecting that front. Almost.
“Why are you here?” No hello, no nice to see you after three decades , no . . . Lin cuts to the chase. But she also doesn’t realize how stupid that particular question sounds.
“I’m here for my consultation?” It’s spoken like a question, because isn’t it obvious? This isn’t how I remember Lin , Kya thinks. She’s genuinely thrown her off her guard. Kya can recall Lin as a little girl, and it’s mirrored now. Always unafraid, always has a plan, and never unprepared. “With you?”
Mako’s face is what breaks Lin’s trance as her gaze shifts to him. God, his look is sobering. She clears her throat, back straightening to snap into full attention. Lin needs to be in the present. No more being thrown off guard. That’s dangerous. When you do that, you get hurt. Her eyes return to meet Kya’s, only for a moment.
“Right. You can follow me to the back.” Lin feels lucky to even get any words out. “Thanks, kid.” She reassures Mako that she’ll be alright. He still looks uncertain, taking some time to start slowly heading back to the front desk.
A silence swallows them, and that fifteen-second walk to the private room is the longest fifteen seconds Lin Beifong has ever felt. And she’s been through a lot. Her mind is running with a million things, which is something she’s not used to. It’s her instincts that speak. Just act. Don’t overthink. But she can’t help from overthinking. Did she know I was here beforehand? How did she find me? Why is she in Republic City in the first place? Does she know about me and Tenzin? What’s she been up to? She’s lucky she knows her parlor like the back of her hand, or else she might actually get lost in thought.
Lin leads Kya into the room, taking her time to close the door behind them. Her arms cross as always, glare hardening.
“Okay, now I need the truth. And I’ll know if you’re lying. Why are you here?”