The Steel Magnolia

Mu Pai licked the plum sauce from his fingers.

“Ah, pot stickers. A simple joy of life at home, yet a supernaturally delicious wonder here.” Pai ignored the ramblings of his friend Feng, picking up a fresh sticker and drowning it in sauce before popping it into his mouth. He rolled his eyes as another friend, Hsiao Meng, an aloof young man with a striking resemblance to Ling, retaliated to Feng's nostalgic mini-speech.

“Quiet, Feng, your family's too poor to eat real pot stickers,” he said through a jovial laugh. Feng shot him a dangerous glare.
“You might wanna shut your mouth before you find my fist in it,” he growled. Ming's brows shot up and he shrugged.

“If you can't beat Captain Fa, you can't beat me.”

His skin glowed with held-back cackles, but returned to normal pallor when he just barely dodged a glob of rice aimed at his head.

“Oh, you wanna play?” His face scrunched into an impish grin, and not a moment later, Feng had cool plum sauce dripping down his own face.
Deciding it was time to join in, Pai picked a pot sticker from his plate and tried to whip it at Ming's head, but Ming dodged it again and the sticker hit a tall, brawny and very dangerous-looking man in the back of the head.

A moment of silence followed, and then the entire mess tent broke out in a war of white rice, pot stickers and plum sauce.

Blocking off his hand and bringing up her foot, Mulan knocked the staff out of Shang's grip. Hiding a grin, she pressed her own staff against his (bare) chest, her expression solemn and challenging.

A warm smile took over Shang's face.
“You have learned well, young grasshopper.”

Pushing Mulan's staff away, he picked up his own and they fell in step with each other on their way out of the forest.
“What are you, a sage?” she said playfully, raising a brow at him. He chuckled.
“Far from it, Mulan.”
Mulan let her shoulder nudge his as she smirked.

“Sometimes I don't know about you, with all your talk about honor and duty,” the words rolled off her tongue with venom dripping from them, and she let her hatred for them be known as her face twisted into a grimace. Shang rolled his eyes. She would never get used to those two things that bound them to tradition.

“Speaking of duty, how's the commander's life treating you?” he asked her amicably, trying to put her back into a good mood.
“It's mainly what I'd expected, and to a degree it was worse at the beginning. You see, back then, I could almost see the hatred emanating from them. But they've grown to respect me, though it was a hard task to prove myself.” she confessed.
“That's all part of leadership, Mulan. You have to earn the respect, especially in your case, but in everyone else's, too.” He said it as if she didn't already know.

“I understand that.” She sighed and her shoulders sagged. Shang looked at her with a friendly gaze.

“You just wish they hadn't been so condescending towards you.”
She nodded sadly.

Shang pursed his lips. She was so brave, fearless, remarkable in her courage, but any scorn coming from someone who meant anything to her could quickly tear her apart. She was like a child, always trying to prove herself, and so hurt if someone pointed out a mistake, as if she wanted everything she did to be seen as perfect. Worst of all, she let others' disapproval get to her, and it ruined the sparkling personality that was so distinctive to her.

“You can't let the naysayers affect you, Mulan. In the long run, the only people who matter are those who have enough sense not to insult you.”

Mulan nodded, but it wasn't too convincing. So she decided it was about time to turn the tables.
“So, what's the life of a general like?” she inquired, elbowing him sharply in the ribs.
“It's, eheh, um...” he rubbed the back of his neck, as if uncomfortable with the question.

“It's too much paperwork!” he finally cried with frustration. Mulan leaned back in surprise, them smiled kindly, shaking her head.
“Patience is key, grasshopper.” She tried to keep her voice calm and serene as possible, holding up her index finger and raising her eyebrows. Shang chuckled—if he had been a girl, it very well could have been a giggle.

“What are you, a sage?” he asked, jestingly.
“Maybe.”
Her answer surprised him. She smiled coyly, still looking forward. A lopsided smile infected his features.

Before he could reply, though, they had stepped onto camp grounds. It should have been serene, quiet and undisturbed, but the nearby mess tent had apparently contained some large and loud fiasco. Captain and General looked to each other in confusion, silently agreeing to investigate.

It was too loud, there was no possible way the soldiers could have heard them coming, not even if they had set off cannons right outside the tent. So the two did not waste time worrying about being stealthy and unsuspected, rather marching right into the tent; Mulan with curiosity, Shang with authoritative meaning.
They did not have much time to gaze at the chaos in awe, though.

Bao Feng had aimed a sticky and gloopy handful of rice at Lo Kang, but the young body of the teenager was too limber for him to move slowly enough to let the rice find its target, and the glob pelted Mulan in the chest instead, making her stumble back from the force and the surprise. Shang caught her before she could lose her balance, though caught just as off-guard as she. The tent suddenly became silent.

The soldiers stood frozen, guilt and horror painted across their faces as their two superiors looked from the rice to them. They expected rage and a very loudly-announced punishment for themselves. They were about to get one from the General, but he halted as their Captain ran a finger through the glob of rice on her shirt and put it in her mouth.

“Mmm, needs more flavor. Cinnamon, perhaps.” she said with an easy tone, turning towards Shang and insisting he have an input. He was shellshocked for a moment, before picking up a bowl from a nearby table and using the chopsticks deposited in it, tasted a medium-sized amount of the rice. And then, suddenly, he began to laugh.

Mulan sighed as she felt the familiar tickle of Cri-Kee near her feet. The combination of his antennae and the dewy grass made her feet feel strange and tingly.

Tonight, the moon had been cut in half, and wasn't the dazzling sphere she so loved. It was also partially blocked by trees, so its light came down in milky beams across the forest's floor, flashing across her face as she walked along. When the pond came into view, she bowed her head and sped up, so the beams flitted across her hair.

She could feel the dew seeping into her pants as she knelt on the grass. For a moment, she stared at the placid water; then, curiouly, she dipped her toes into it. She drew back, shuddering audibly.

The late summer breeze was considerably warm, but Mulan knew it would soon be cold, signifying autumn's oncoming arrival. She sighed; Grandmother would know for sure when it would come, she thought.
Suddenly, a wave of nostalgia crashed through her and coursed through her blood like concrete in her veins. An image of her father appeared in the pond—standing tall despite his injury, a warm smile reaching his drooping eyes. And then, her mother materialized beside him, wearing the understanding smile that was trademark to only women. And then, her grandmother—wise, outrageous NiNi, always suggesting things she shouldn't. Soon, there was Little Brother, the chickens, the ancestral temple, the moon bridge, and the beautiful, weeping pink magnolia trees; it was her home.

She hadn't truly been homesick until now, even for the month and a half she'd been here. She now remembered how it had felt during the first campaign; she would cry herself to sleep most night, with only Mushu and her memories to comfort her. Now, crying was no option, for she had become much less reclusive this time and was more often than not surrounded. Her tent was also right next to Shang's, and should he hear her sobs, he would surely become worried and check on her.

Frustrated with grief, Mulan shoved her training shirt under the water, causing ripples in the formerly still pond. Trying to ignore the hot liquid pooling at her eyelashes and falling past her cheekbones, she rubbed at the brown sauce stains vigorously with the soap her mother had packed for her. The song her mother would sing to her as a child, the one she lulled herself to sleep with after her nightmare, somehow inched itself into her brain, her mother's voice interlaced with the soft wind that swept through her hair.

Subconsciously, she joined her mother in singing, and the sour nostalgia turned sweeter and was finally laid to rest.

After the shirt had been washed, she dabbed some homemade magnolia perfume on the cloth to ward off the smell of perspiration, and brought the shirt to her face, relishing in the scent. It was the same smell of the gardens at home.

Breathing a contented sigh, she dried her cheeks and rose, falling back on the path and returning to camp once more.

Nearby, behind some bushes, Shang fell back on his haunches, his wide eyes itching as if he didn't believe what he'd just seen (or heard).

On his nightly walk, he'd heard singing. Not the singing he'd heard the maids at home do when they were working—no, what he'd heard was entirely different. Every note was perfect, no matter how high the pitch climbed. He figured that kind of glass voice would belong to a siren or a water fairy. When he investigated, though, he found the voice belonged to a certain mortal woman that he was quite familiar with.

She never ceased to surprise him. A beautiful young Sun Tzu enthusiast who dressed formally for sparring matches and sung in perfect crystalline tones, enduring the hard life of military training, as a captain no less. He had endless doubts that a woman like this would be found in even the wildest of dreams.

He laid back on the grass, breathing heavily and blinking. Had he been dreaming?

Concluding that he must have been, he sprang to his feet and jogged back to camp, back to his peculiar relationship with this unique woman.