Work Text:
When he first sees the boy, he places him at around nine or ten. When Lightning Bolt Zolt looks again, he realizes the kid isn’t so young, just skinny. Scary skinny.
“You old enough to shave, kid?” he asks, placing his pipe down on the table, waving his accountant away.
“No, but I’m old enough to work,” the punk scowls back. His hair is shaggy and his feet are bare but for the rags wrapped around them. Everything about him is grey grey grey, except a red scarf, tattered and long, wrapped around his neck and mouth like some kind of armor.
His voice hasn’t dropped yet, he can’t be older than thirteen, but his eyes are a mean kind of gold, hungry and scared. Zolt knows those eyes. He’d seen them in a dirty mirror, back when he still went by Shuei and thought that playing by the rules would get you anywhere.
“What makes you think I’d hire you?” he smirks wide. He’s a big shot now, a big man, he’s not Shuei anymore. Nobody respects guys named Shuei. They respect Lightning Bolt Zolt.
“Because your accountant’s been skimming off your revenue,” the boy shoots back, calm and self-assured, “I’ve seen him at the dice tables, all he does is talk about how you’re too dumb to notice.”
Zolt feels a twitch in his eye, he shoots a glare at the man he’s been paying to keep his books, a rat-faced little goon, but one who’d come to him highly recommended. He’s terrified. He doesn’t even try to protest his innocence. He breaks out in a yell and tries to leap over the table to the backdoor.
Zolt fries him and lets Shin handle clean up.
When he looks back the boy is still standing there, eyes wide but face stern and cold. He didn’t even flinch when the hot electricity shot across the room into Zolt’s now defunct employee. He looks from the body to the edges of Zolt’s fingers, still smoking and hot.
“I don’t eat much, all I’m asking is a spot for me and my kid brother. I can do sums and I won’t steal from you.”
“You got a lot of guts kid,” Zolt scratches his beard, “You a firebender?”
“Yeah,” he looks down at his feet, teeth gritted hard.
“Heh, yeah…yeah you got the look a’ one,” Zolt comes over and kneels down to meet the kid’s eyes, hand pressed firmly into his shoulder.
The boy stares back defiant.
“Okay kid, I’ll hire you, on one condition,” he holds up a finger, “You ever cross me, you even think about trying to pull one over on old Zolt, and it’ll be that kid brother a’ yours who gets the shock treatment, we clear?”
The boy’s eyes narrow, his brows thick and dark and furrowed, making his face look older than it is.
“Crystal.”
“You got a name, runt?” Zolt asks as he stands and retrieves his pipe. He gives the kid a sidelong glance and presents it to him, bell forward, tobacco unlit.
“…Mako,” the boy says, igniting the pipe with his finger, sharp eyes never leaving Zolt’s face.