He was not, he decided long ago, a “good” person.  Nit-picking over the minutia of context and perception aside, he could generously apply an “amoral” label to his personal code of ethics (if he had one – another topic suitable for pondering at a later date). 

If one wanted to go into specifics, he supposed he was “pragmatic” or even “opportunistic.”  (He preferred the former to the latter, for obvious reasons.)

It would be all too easy to lay the blame for the condition of his psyche in the laps of others: his neglectful parents, his vindictive teachers, Life and the Universe in general.

But he knew, as he looked frankly into his heart as he would look into a mirror, that he had chosen to be the way he was.  He had seen how “good” people suffered – how the opportunistic (there was that word again) could take advantage of their generosity, their kind hearts, their sympathy, and drain them away like vampires, leaving them dazed shells of themselves. 

If one was “good,” one was also “weak” – easily hurt, easily damaged beyond all repair, because Life and the Universe were unmercifully spiteful.

He liked to think that he never pushed a “good” person to the depths that someone “evil” would.  He liked to think that, given a good reason, he could act unselfishly, that he could do “the right thing.”

The paradox was this: did he want to do “the right thing” now?

“Jet?”

Jet snapped out of his internal debate, refocusing on the present. 

“Are you okay?”  She was staring at him, blue, blue eyes shimmering with tears, her face etched with heartache and loss, but she was concerned for him as well, wanting to know if there was a hurt in him she could heal - because the hurt she wanted to heal most was beyond her reach.

He had vanished, taking his pain with him, and like a sailor without a pole star to steer by, she turned to someone she thought could understand, could comfort (and be comforted).

She was a “good” person – she was also (at this vulnerable instant), “weak.”

“Yeah… yeah, I’m okay,” he said, his voice pitched low, husky, as though he desperately did not want to cry, “How about you, Katara?”

 “I’m… fine… I think,” she said, biting her lip and lowering her eyes as she toyed with the black satin of her skirt.

 “Come here,” he ordered, taking her in his arms, and because she was “good” (“weak”), she let him hold her, embrace her.  “You can cry… for both of us.”

 And because he asked it of her, she did.

 ‘You left her alone – you abandoned her,’ he reasoned (excused), ‘Don’t blame me for wanting what you ran away from.’

 “Thank you, Jet… I feel better now.”  She pulled away, and he released her… but caught her hand.

 “If you need to talk to anyone, anytime, Katara – you know I’ll be here for you.”  He squeezed her hand to demonstrate his sincerity.

 She nodded.  “Thank you – I will.”

 The opportunist smiled at her.  A smile of victory.