Story Summary
This is the way the world falls; this is the way the world crumbles. How our choices and their consequences ultimately draw the lines between mirages and reality, and how sometimes, there is no line.

Series Summary
In wake of trauma, we tend to forget things, ranging from small to large. But usually you don’t lose all memory of a previous existence… unless, of course, your world has changed in the blink of an eye. And the more things change, the more they stay the same, up until that one day when you’d rather be anywhere but here.

Note
The American school system is a mystery to me. I live in Australia. Therefore, if you spot any mistakes, point them out, okay? Unless it’s the fact that Katarina is technically not supposed to be in AP English. I made the curriculum up. The syllabus is invented, as are the essay questions. I’m not sure if Katarina can take AP English, but it’s a plot device. Think of it as creative license. And if it annoys you, assume they aren’t in America, but in a modern day Ba Sing Se instead.
Hope that my character development is realistic! All feedback on it is appreciated.

Story Recommendation
Just because I can, I’m recommending ‘King of Naught’ by LizzyRebel to everyone. And for a nice AU Zutara, read Chiaroscuro by helium lost. There, my shameless plugs done for the day.

anywhere but here: part one
f a t a m o r g a n a
蜃景
chapter ii: layers

Love one another. It’s as simple and difficult as that.
- Michael Leunig

unfolding you
layers unfold in rustling
papered butterflies drawn
in feint-ruled margins
layers of blue and white
on your mask and on
my book and this is how
we meet and part and
layers unfold in muted
conversation of Shakespeare
and as we talk and as
we smile something
within my heart falls to place
layers unfold in slowly
moving ways and for
another time we meet
meet and part ways
once again and as we do
layers unfold in harmony

She tucks her books neatly under her arm, glances around quickly. Soft waves of brown hair drift around her face, though the weight of her hair around her shoulders is still strange. Somehow, she keeps imagining it in a braid, though she has long since stopped braiding her hair. Another one of the strange things about her, she supposes.

As she turns the corner, her eyes are drawn to a sudden blur of movement. Consequently, she walks straight into someone.

“Sorry,” she apologises, face flushing and hands fumbling to pick up her fallen possessions.

Handing a stack of books to the person who has had the misfortune to be the victim of her dazedness, she smiles politely. Their hands brush briefly, and she pulls away abruptly. Her hand feels like it has been burnt, and she doesn’t think she likes the feeling.

“I…”

He looks at her, an unreadable expression flitting across his face. “Do I know you?” he frowns, staring at the awkward fifteen-year-old.

She shakes her head mutely, still cradling her hand. “I don’t - I don’t think so.”

For some reason, her words feel wrong; there is a hollow tone to them. She feels like she is lying; this face is all-too familiar. The raw red scar around his right eye glares at her, and she doesn’t like the feeling. The scar is far too similar to that of the boy in her dreams. This boy is far too similar to that boy in her dreams.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats, and smiling vaguely again, she makes to leave.

He catches her arm as she pivots on her heel, and she recoils almost immediately.

“Wait.”

“I’ll save you from the pirates.”

“What?” she says softly, her breathing quick and shallow.

“This is yours, I think.”

“Perhaps in exchange I can restore something you’ve lost.”

She stifles a gasp at the resonating echo underneath his words, and accepts her book mutely. “Thank you.”

He gives her a forced smile in reply. “I should get to class now.”

“Maybe you should.” Immediately, she winces at the unintended rudeness. But the (too-familiar) boy has already left, leaving behind nothing but a faint wisp of memory.

He draws his thumb slowly over the blade of the knife, relishing in the feel of the cold steel. This is the feeling he always gets before the chase; adrenaline, or something close to it. He thinks that the Master will be happy. The Master will be delighted. After all, the Master needs this over soon, before anymore bad news leaks out.

He spares no thought for his victims. He never does. They are merely puppets on string, he tells himself.

He stopped caring a long time ago (there are reasons, and she is only one of them).

He dispels this train of thought, because that train of thought leads to nowhere good. It never does. Turning his gaze back to the streets, a cold smile graces his lips.

Target spotted.

And to make things more interesting, the girl crossing the road is the one he’d been told to watch out for. His smile widens.

Targets in sight.

This is easier than I thought.

Orion will be pleased.

Zhao smirks, and surreptitiously follows the girl.

She hastens across the road, grocery bags swinging back and forth dangerously. She has to get home soon; Scott might panic otherwise. Though, if she recalls correctly, he’s on a date with Selene again. Frankly, she doesn’t mind that much. Selene is a perfect match for her brother. Katarina quickens her step. She doesn’t particularly like crossing the road (she has a deathly paranoia towards cars, ever since she was eight).

Suddenly, she gives a short exclamation of pain. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, here, I’ll - ” she blathers, before looking up in shock. “I… You… I’m sorry, this is the second time, here…”

She holds out her hand to the fallen boy. He looks at her for a while, then takes her proffered hand; smiles in a false sort of way. She supposes it’s not his fault, yet the obvious detachment from the smile disarms her. His hand is warm; he smells faintly of hickory smoke and some sort of spice she can’t quite place. And somehow, with their hands touching, something clicks. She’s not sure what, and she’s not sure if she likes the feeling. Flushing, she pulls away, yet she can still feel a vague ghost of his hand around hers.

She can feel his eyes on her, and there is something oddly peaceful about it all, standing still with this stranger who’s not quite a stranger on this crowded bustling road. Her heart seems to have stopped, and his face holds some faint flicker of recognition. Like this has happened before, only she knows far too well it couldn’t have.

She manages a smile again, links her fingers together, expects him to maybe respond. He doesn’t. Remains taciturn, and she supposes she can’t blame him. Everything between them is awkward - she doesn’t know why, but it just is. His eyes glance down on her hands (her hands know his, is that strange for perfect strangers?).

“Do I know you?” he asks bluntly.

She bites her lip, not sure of how exactly to answer (does she or doesn’t she). How do you say yes when you’re not even sure you do? His gaze meets hers, and for one moment, she feels like time has fallen back and rewound to some other era. It’s horribly clichéd and horribly romance-novel-esque, but it’s not quite the same.

In the end, she shakes her head, says a soft ‘I don’t think so.’ Frowning, his eyes remain on hers. Silence stretches to infinity between the two of them, regardless of the hum of traffic and click-clacking of feet on pavement.

He nods, replies that she just seems familiar. She says it may be that they have passed in the corridors from time to time.

“And you are…”

“Oh… I’m - I’m Katarina Lan,” she replies, trying to curb the incessant fluttering of her heart (but she can’t, and she doesn’t know why, doesn’t know how, doesn’t know anything, least of all this bitter young man in front of her).

“Zach Yan,” he replies.

Her eyes widen almost imperceptibly. She knows the name, has heard of the wealthy family and their estranged son and their vanished mother. It is not a name that gives her comfort (why, she doesn’t know, but the chill she hears at that last name make her wonder). She looks closer at him, and supposes she should have known. Amber eyes, she notes (in her mind, they are far colder than they actually are, but in her mind, he’s not this person at all). Scar around his eye - his distinguishing feature, she realises (and immediately feels stupid for not realising earlier).

“Done staring?” he asks frostily, a tinge of acridity in his voice.

She jumps, looks away from him, apologises in a quiet voice. She needs time to sort this out in her head. “I shouldn’t have.”

“Everyone says that,” he answers. “No one actually means it.”

Taken aback, she bites her lip. There is something under his words that seems out-of-place. She thinks that maybe, just maybe, his bitterness is a façade.

After all, she can sympathise.

She walks down the hallway slowly, weaving in amongst gossip and giggles. Left turn here, she reminds herself. Stopping at a locker marked with a five-two-eight, she pulls out a glossy new textbook. She whirls around suddenly at the sound of her name (her senses are strangely attuned, for some reason - there’s no real reason for it, but they are).

“Hey Rina.”

“Hey,” the older girl replies, her eyes holding a strangely vacant expression.

She frowns. It is not like Katarina to look dreamy and off on the clouds.

“Are you,” she starts.

“Okay? I’m fine. Fine,” the girl finishes.

You don’t sound too sure, she thinks to herself, but the fifteen-year-old has already started to speak again.

“I should go now. I can’t be late for the first AP English lesson of the year.”

“You do Advanced Placement English?” Tora asks incredulously.

Katarina nods, bids her friend goodbye. She watches as the girl turns away and walks off. Something seems odd; out of place - Tora’s senses are attuned enough to tell her that something is wrong (that odd buzzing in her ear especially).

She shakes her head. She has to get to class; she doesn’t have the time to dwell on vague fairytales of what should have been her life.

She hasn’t had time for a long while.

She thinks it might be a good thing.

Zach frowns at the class in front of him. He knows no one in the room well; he supposes it is his isolation from the rest of the school; after all, he barely knows anyone well (despite his giggling fanclub, but he ignores them like he always has). Out of the corner of his eye, he sees one of the mindless idiots that follows him around waving at him. He makes a beeline for the other side of the room. He is more than thankful that this particular class has less than the usual number of giggling brain-dead morons.

Casting his eyes around, he sighs. The only vacant seat on the other side of the room is next to a girl. A girl with strands of long brown hair with a book open on her desk and taking down notes at an alarming rate. He assures himself that this means that she perhaps has a brain. He pulls out his chair, takes out a pen. The girl looks familiar, but he doesn’t place her until she looks up.

His mouth almost drops open. Her eyes are an uncanny shade of blue (they are her distinguishing feature), and her hair is a mismatched brown. Some unbidden thought of the sea and caves and betrayal and fire burning bright floats to the top of his consciousness. And for a reason unbeknownst to him, he feels guilty. A common loss and an offer not taken up on; a lock of shock that imprints itself into his memory.

He frowns.

“Zach?” she questions tentatively.

She is heartache and forbidden and something he lost and then got back, before he lost her again. She is a misplaced trace of his fictitious past. She is not that same girl, he tells himself.

He nods politely, with a short acknowledgement that he knows her. Something he can’t place flitters between them - not romance, not love, but something deeper, more meaningful - and she breaks eye contact.

It seems odd, their chance meetings and their sudden realisation that the other exists. He passes it off as coincidence.

There is no such thing as coincidence, or so his mother used to say.

His mother was probably right.

Her heart flutters again; it is a butterfly, and it will not stop. Sitting here is almost painful in its awkward quiescence. She feels almost dirty, like the fact that her heartbeat quickens almost indiscernibly around this person is wrong and politically incorrect - she could go as far as to say taboo, but that feels wrong as well. But even so, she still feels the innate attraction; vestiges of some dreamlike world in which there was a boy like this, only different.

Different in his rudeness, different in his coldness, different in his haughtiness. The dream boy was ruder, colder and haughtier, all at once. This boy is kinder, politer, more grounded, like the dream boy in the cave. Different in his hair. The dream boy had a topknot almost, with a head shaved bold, and short spiky hair that is all too reminiscent of days long gone that were always non-existent. This boy has a ponytail, a ponytail like that portrait of the dream boy. Different in his smile. The dream boy never ever smiled. This boy smiles, no matter how coerced the smiles seem.

This boy is different, after all.

And no matter how hard she tries (and she tries as hard as humanly possible), she can’t even think of why the similarities. Their names were different, though she can’t recall (for the life of her) the dream boy’s name.

She supposes it is inconsequential, as she has not had her dreams for a while (since the Tuesday she met this boy).

She wonders if she’s happy they’ve stopped. She says she is.

A little part of her begs to disagree.

That little part had been consumed by the world with the boy who wielded fire and the boy with the two swords and the boy with the blue tattoo and the boy with the long hair. The world where Tora wasn’t quite Tora (the one where she was blind and made rocks move and fly). The world where her brother wasn’t quite her brother (the one where he had a boomerang and was a warrior).

She supposes she’s looking for connections to something that will never be (has never been) real. Just a little deranged.

It runs in her family.

Ill at ease, Andrew has a strong urge to run into a corner of the room and hide there. He is being stared at; he can hear the whispers, muted mutterings of a too familiar name.

He’s her son, isn’t he? Who? Xia Yun. Kiera Yun. He’s Kiera Yun’s son? Oh, the poor boy. I know. Famous mother, and then she dies in a fatal accident. And his dad, too. Wasn’t that story so sad? Totally. I loved that song he wrote for her. ‘Even After Eternity’? I loved that song too. And he died of grief. How romantic.

He stops listening at that point. He doesn’t particularly see the romance in his father’s death. His parents are gone, and he doesn’t need the reminder that they’re not here. He thinks he knows it well enough without the extra prompting. Almost all the eyes in the class fixate themselves on his; analyse his every move. He knew that moving was a bad idea, but he supposes that he owes it to Gary, if only to stop making him feel like he is leeching off Andrew (because when it comes down to it, Gary is the sole reason he has not gone crazy).

The teacher gives him a saccharine smile, introduces him to the class in a sickeningly sweet voice. Asks if they know this person already, and gets a murmur of assent in reply. She looks pleased, beckons towards Andrew. Gesturing him to an empty seat, asks if he doesn’t mind sitting there. A shake of his head only makes her pleased look even more noticeable.

Making his way to the table, he catches sight of someone sitting in second row. Catches sight of someone who looks all too like the girl in the taxi window.

He shrugs it off as just a mere coincidence.

But really, is there such thing as coincidence? Because it confuses him, because he knows this girl.

Many scholars believe Shakespeare's later tragedies to be aesthetically superior to his earlier tragedies. Select two tragedies of his from two different periods of writing and compare them to either justify or refute this claim.

Her eyes skim over the paper; a smile graces her lips. She writes down a list of possible plays, discards all but two. Romeo and Juliet; she is more than familiar with that one, and Othello; she likes the ethical debate behind that one. A glance over at Zach finds him in deep thought.

“Which two are you doing?” she asks.

He frowns. “Not sure. Macbeth, I think. Maybe Julius Caesar.”

She nods, dredges up what she remembers of the two. Julius Caesar was quite possibly one of her least favourite plays - it was tedious, and she dislikes tedious. Macbeth, on the other hand, was among her favourites. It’s insignificant and useless what she thinks anyways, because it doesn’t really matter to this boy (Zach, she reminds herself). They are perfect strangers and she means nothing to him and he nothing to her, no matter the butterflies that flitter around her chest when she looks at him, and no matter the connections between then and now, because then wasn’t real.

“You?”

“What? Oh, I’m doing Othello as compared to Romeo and Juliet.”

Her hand flies across her page, notes in sharp blue ink curling on top of pale blue feint-ruled lines.

Analyse characteristics of heroines; the ability to make us sympathise with them. Romeo and Juliet romance too rushed? Desdemona - tragic heroine - downfall and catalyst. Juliet/Romeo romance - soliloquies used to prove to us their feasibility as couple. In Othello, soliloquies used to make us sympathise with Othello - insecurities and so on.

Zach reads over her shoulder at her hastily written outline. “You can understand that?”

“Well, they’re my notes, so yes, I understand them.”

He just gives her a look, and turns away.

Katarina resists the strong urge to stick out her tongue, turns back to her book. Her mother-hen instinct (the one that says to be nice to Zach and to try and be on better terms with him) is starting to dwindle, and she has work to do.

Andrew navigates his way across the crowded lunch hall, ignores the waves and giggles. He wants to sit somewhere with a normal person - he has gone through enough in the last few periods. Two hands clutch onto a bright orange tray stacked with food and dishes, some of which he has to hazard a guess as to their identity (is that meat?).

“Andrew?” an incredulous voice asks.

He turns around, looks up into the face of a girl with moon-dark skin and a night-pale smile. “Katarina?”

She beams, happy that he remembers her, though he does not know how he could ever forget her. Katarina is the one girl he cannot forget, but he doesn’t quite know why (he doesn’t like her, at least doesn’t think he does, wasn’t old enough at age six to understand, but maybe in that once-upon-a-time that Gary never speaks about).

“You should sit down,” she comments.

He replies that he really has nowhere to sit.

“Well, you could sit with us,” she offers, grinning.

“I shouldn’t…”

“Don’t worry,” she exclaims, tugging at his arm.

Acquiescing, he follows the enthusiastic girl.

Little does he know that his one decision will change his life.

Katarina’s friend is annoying and talkative and obviously has a crush on the blue-eyed girl. It annoys Tora to no end. Drumming her fingers on the table, she rolls her eyes as he babbles away. She can tell that the others at the table think him oh-so-cute, and oh-my-God-he’s-Kiera-Yun’s-son, but she already knows from class, and frankly she couldn’t really care less. Kiera Yun is Kiera Yun, and she leaves it at that. It doesn’t really matter that her son is ‘like-the-cutest-thing-ever’, because cute doesn’t always mean good things. And she respects Kiera Yun, she really does, but her son is an entirely different matter.

A sudden ‘ring’ interrupts her semi-coherent rant to herself. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she scowls at the boy (Andrew) as he blushes when Katarina addresses him.

“Hey, Tora, wait!” he calls after her.

She chooses not to reply, dubbing him Twinkletoes in her mind for the way he seems to hover above the ground.

“We have class together, right?”

She gives him a curt nod.

“Can you show me to the classroom, then?” he asks, undeterred.

“Well, what do you think, Twinkletoes?”

He stops. “Repeat that… the last word.”

“Twinkletoes. Do you have a problem with me calling you that?”

“No, just… I…” he trails off. He doesn’t want to complete the sentence; he isn’t even sure why the name registers as familiar.

She shakes her head in annoyance and quickens her steps in an attempt to rid of him. It doesn’t work. “Why are you following me again?”

“Because I’m new and don’t know where to go,” he shoots back.

Rolling her eyes at him, she keeps walking. And without realising it, their steps fall into time, a steady rhythm of shoes clicking on tiled floors.

Katarina ignores the groans of the class and focuses her attention on the new assignment (second in as many days) in front of her. She doesn’t mind so much the giant workload that AP English has dumped on her; she likes composition well enough. Jotting down a few extra titles, she reflects on the tension so clearly evident between Andrew and Tora. She supposes she is over-analysing it, but something about their arguments ring true in her mind. It is unsettling and frightening all at once, and she’s not quite sure what to think.

The boy next to her is silent and scowling and her nerves are starting to fray, but really, she’s not sure if he even understands the definition of ‘happy’. She tries to ignore the vibes emanating off him and focus on her page again, but the aura of discontent is slightly unnerving.

“Is there a word limit?” They are the first words he has spoken all lesson, and she jumps in surprise.

“It has to constitute a short story and has to be a thousand words or more, but that’s all.”

He mutters a quick thank you and returns to his icy demeanour.

And the chief reason why she hates it isn’t because he’s ignoring her, but because it resonates too soundly of a past she never had, and it scares her.

A piece of paper flutters out of his pocket as he leaves, and she makes to stop him, but it is too late. She stoops, picks up the fragile slip.

Unfolding it, another fragment of torn paper falls out. She reaches for it to catch it, holds the pieces side by side.

And almost immediately, she claps a hand over her mouth.

“Oh my God.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches as the girl tightens her grip on the papers.

My job just got a whole lot easier. Let her get closer to him, then yank it out from under them.

Oh, I don’t think I’ll have any trouble with that now.

Zhao takes out his pager and keys in a short abrupt message.

Orion owes him, and he knows it.

And Zhao fully intends to use that to his advantage. After all, it isn’t every day you have a senator owing you a large sum of money and one rather large favour.

Rest in peace, Lian. I’ll get him back for you.

Even if you’ll never be able to see it.

A/N: My longest chapter to date... 8 pages on Word in size 8.5 Verdana.
Shakespeare is important to this play. And that’s all I’m saying. Katarina is an English nerd.
Romance too rushed? I hope it’s not, because if you think about it, they do kind of know each other, and it’s not romance. Just familiarity. And maybe more, but I’m not saying anything. Choose to ignore it if you want… That’s just my reason.
Zhao’s name is still Zhao for a reason: Zhao is his last name in this story. Zach and Katarina’s last names are my inventions.
Oh, and one last thing, I’ve drawn on Chinese culture and numerology for this chapter. In little off-hand ways.