The Universe's Mixer

When Clarice had been in the Academy, and college before that, and the orphanage before that, homemaking had not been a serious option. Meals were to be found at cafeterias and the occasional friend's house or restaurant. Now, she had spare time, which annoyed her deeply on some level. There was no convenient cafeteria where she could mindlessly take care of food in between classes.

Now, unless she wanted peanut butter sandwiches and cereal for every meal, she would have to cook.

At first, it annoyed her. It was time she could have spent productively elsewhere. But soon she began to find the pleasure in it. Rediscovering meals that reminded her of her childhood with a bittersweet pang. There were several attempts at making old recipes only to realize that they had been intended for a family of six, which resulted in leftover pot roast being taken to the precinct.

Shopping for the week was now less of a grudging act of necessity and more a chance to feel at home, in whatever small way possible. With that vague thought in mind, Clarice strode through the City market, intent on having shrimp and grits for dinner.

"Do you need some help?" Piotr was smiling as he jogged up to the older couple who were looking at a rather large piano, a moving truck, and a broken ramp. He wondered why they didn't have somebody doing this professionally, but he was too polite to ask. They looked frustrated and tired.

"Oh, if you've got some friends that can assist, or a ramp..." The woman said, surprised.

"It just broke." The man followed it up. "Piece of crap. They said that it was brand new, obviously they lied. And they're not open today or something, at least they're not answering the phone."

"I am sorry for your troubles." Piotr was still smiling, knowing that he needed neither ramp nor friends. He noted that the man was holding his arm curiously. "Did you hurt yourself?"

"I don't know how serious it is." The man shook his head. "But yes, I did. Something with the shoulder."

"We should take care of that before dealing with the piano..." Piotr started.

"Oh, no. We can't just leave it here. It's too valuable." The woman interjected. "We're selling it to the opera house, it's an antique. What if it gets stolen? Or what if somebody takes the truck? Vandalism? Anything could happen to it here. Dinosaurs might run over it."

"Da." Piotr made a face, dejected. He knew quite well that dinosaurs might happen. He'd seen them. He wasn't sure what to do.

It was a nice day. The days since she'd arrived had all been nice, which Clarice had only noticed in a vague sort of way. She had been busy reading old files, familiarizing herself with the problems of the City, learning the ins and outs of the new technology, and then putting together a file on Hannibal Lecter in her spare time. He--they?--had been very quiet in her time here, but she would not be caught off guard.

The fourth time the booking officer found her asleep on a couch in the break room, he had ordered her out. "Nothing's going on, Starling," he said. "The City won't fall apart if you take an afternoon off."

Clarice, unsure of that, had protested but found herself shooed outside. There she'd noticed the weather and decided to walk in the City that she'd been studying. She found herself sitting on a bench in the park, people-watching, leaning back with her arms crossed. The vast majority of those that she saw were the people she now recognized as City-born natives, the ones with a certain something missing. They were almost uniformly pleasant but somehow emotionally flattened. Like pigeons, she thought, watching them walk by. Someone of a certain mindset could easily see them as less than human, animal-like, a subhuman flock to be hunted.

The thought chilled her.

Clarice was still familiarizing herself with the City's police offices. She was not a beat cop, but she had experience with local police offices thanks to her work on the Buffalo Bill case. Having a desk in an office like this still felt alien even as it felt like a purpose in this new, strange place.

In between examining the files that occasionally showed up on her desk, Clarice examined the station. She learned the names of the City-born officers that manned the front desk and evidence room. She lingered in the exam rooms, tracing her fingers over the metal tables and scarred wooden chairs. And she made her way to the forensics lab.

Forensics was not Clarice's domain; she had experience in morgues, knew how to examine a body and collect evidence, but testing the evidence was not what she did. Even so, she needed to know and trust whoever did the testing. She knocked on the door to the lab. "Is anyone there? May I come in?"

She had been meditating. It wasn't the sort of activity that Kuvira had done in a very long time, and just the sort of thing she expected to fill her days for the years to come. She promised to submit to whatever punishment Republic City saw fit, perhaps then she'd be transfered to the independent city-state of Zaofu after that, and the Earth Kingdom after that. She'd committed crimes against them all.

Even if she were to remain in a cell until the day she died, Kuvira wondered if that would be enough.

There were rumors that the criminal Zaheer could transfer his consciousness into the Spirit Lands like the Avatar. In his prison cell, his spirit could roam free whenever he wished. Kuvira was not so enlightened. She opened her eyes.

This was not the cell they'd put her in at Republic City. It was similar to the holding cell back home, made with similar iron bars and a concrete floor, but nothing else was familiar. She'd never seen a room or hallways designed quite like this. Although she could have easily used her bending to manipulate the bars or tunnel through the floor, she waited.

"Hello?" she called.

There were two officers in blue uniforms, but they weren't like anything worn by the Water Tribes, North or South.

"I think she's a transfer," she heard one of the officers say.

"Then why is she locked up in a holding cell?" said the other.

One of the men had hair the color of gold. Kuvira couldn't help but stare openly, she'd never seen anything like it.

"I dunno. The paperwork probably hasn't gone through yet."

"Did you read her file?"

"Captain of the City Guard?"

"No, the other part."

"Deposed Commander of the Earth Empire?"

"Jesus, where does The City dig up these people?"

"Excuse me?" Kuvira found her voice. She was a handsome woman and her voice had always carried a certain level of authority. When she spoke people listened. Except neither of the officers paid any attention to her now. They continued arguing whether she was headed for booking or assignment with City PD.

"What city is this?" Kuvira asked again, firm but without anger. Her posture was straight, her gloved hands were settled peacefully on her knees. Her hair was loose over her shoulders. She was still wearing her old green uniform, lined with strips of metal at the shoulders, back and belt.

"It's just The City, lady. Welcome to your new home," one of the officers finally replied.

Kuvira exhaled and waited. Earth is the element of substance, she reminded herself. When she was just a child, her first lessons were about how to utilize neutral jing; waiting and listening for the right moment, acting decisively when it comes. She would endure until the answers revealed themselves.

She closed her eyes and began to meditate once more.

When the courier delivered the no-doubt expensive watch, Clarice had no doubt where it had come from.

She sat in the kitchen of her still plain apartment, staring at it as it shone on the table in a patch of sunlight. It was beautifully understated, not in the least bit gaudy, and would go well with her coloration. It was also from him. She stared at it for a good half hour before finally putting it on, as it would be rude to ignore a gift and she knew how he felt about the rude.

Of course, the first thing she did once she was fully dressed was find the City police department and march herself inside. "I'd like to speak to whoever's in charge of hiring," she said at the reception desk. "My name is Clarice Starling. I'm new in the City and I'm a former FBI trainee. I'd like to do some good here and I can provide a resumé for all the good it'll do me."

That done, she sat down to wait, watching everyone. The watch, half-hidden under the sleeve of her jacket, gleamed.

Clarice Starling sat at a street corner café with her hands around a ceramic mug of coffee, though she did not drink from it. The local newspaper sat in front of her, but she had stopped reading it some time ago. Instead, she watched.

When she'd woken up in a strange place she'd initially dismissed it as a dream, but the solidness of it had very quickly dispelled that notion. Instead of sitting in the little apartment--presumably hers, given the few decorations and the clothes in the closet and drawers--she dressed and went out, trying to get the lay of the land. Which was how she came to be here, people-watching.

Everyone looked so normal. Everything seemed unremarkable. It was the very picture of idyllic city life. Except city life was never idyllic. There were traffic jams, and rat problems; homeless people begging on street corners and urban decay creeping in.

She finally sipped on her coffee and grimaced. It had gone cold in the time that she had been sitting. She turned, looking for the waitress.