This was the year of the rooster; it was his sister’s year.

The more superstitious (read: “old”) among his peers would say that the year of one’s birth sign is unlucky, that one must always be wary and unsurprised if things tended to go wrong. Yuji wasn’t so sure himself. Every twelfth year is one of bad luck for every person alive, and the other eleven years are always business as usual? No, no, that was the rationale of those who believed that one should sleep with their mouth open so spirits can eat the bad dreams, or that objects with faces should never be turned towards a wall.

Then again, perhaps there was something to that. Mei Ling’s year must be off to a rough start, what with her top boss being murdered in the middle of the night. He wondered vaguely if the department would make her and her coworkers come in to work, or if they got a bit of a break. Or perhaps she’d never met the man.

Regardless, the sun had risen to a cold, dreary day in Republic City and Yuji Song had risen with it.

Though he took no issue serving that morning at the Monks of Koh shelter he normally attended, something had been nagging at him, rather like a song getting stuck in his head. Only after he had finished breakfast and reviewed the paper did he recall why. There, at the bottom of the page, was the request to donate… to the Monks. Though benders generally weren’t outright opposed to donating to the charity, many of them expressed concern that they were funding some terrorist cell or cult or something. Maybe he was taking it a step too far, but Yuji found the request deeply unusual and somewhat disturbing.

He took time after the breakfast service to head to a secluded courtyard around the corner from the soup kitchen. Someone had set up a trio of straw-stuffed training dummies, long enough ago that the burlap had begun to fray and an odd punch might reward you with a splinter of straw in your knuckle. Still, Yuji like to work out there sometimes, practicing his punches, open palms, elbow and knee strikes, or just enjoying the solitude to stretch and relax. Maybe, at one time, someone had set up these dummies for probending training; maybe they had been used by undercover Equalists. Regardless, it seemed as if few really knew the little cove existed at all, or at least no one who came at the same time he did.

It gave him time to ponder the mysterious message he’d found in his pocket, written on a scrap of paper: Your help was invaluable. The Monks have recognized your work.

Yuji took a solid stance, body angled so he could keep an eye on the entrance to the alley, and began to jab at his dummy. One, two, with quick exhales, quick inhales, right, left. He had found the note just recently, but couldn’t recall what it referred to. The weather had turned cold, and he had begun to use the pockets of his heavier coats to store items instead of his pants pockets. But one day he rummaged through one and found the note, and since then was trying to recall what exactly he had done to earn such recognition. He almost wanted to ask around, see who else might have received a similar message… but the idea of discussing it with anyone else put a pit in his stomach. What if he wasn’t supposed to tell anyone?

The Monks were almost unerringly kind and peaceful, but Yuji wasn’t willing to see what they would do if he were to step out of line.

So instead, he kept it to himself. The note he had hidden in his cap, tucked up and concealed inside its flat brim. It wasn’t like any Monk had approached him about it, but Yuji kept it just in case. The rumors of the Galgori Six were running stronger than ever, and the words of the interim police chief had done nothing but throw fuel on the fire. The young man’s breath fogged in the air and he took a measured step to one side, trying to keep his thoughts calm and collected, trying not to linger on the face of his sister, the words written on a secretive note, an ominous description of a lightning bolt…

He punched the dummy again. And again. And again.