Originally written for the Avatarcontest community over on LiveJournal.

When she was nine years old, a visiting nobleman gave Princess Azula a clockwork doll, bought from a trading caravan that had come the entire distance from Ba Sing Se. It was a cunning device, glass and lacquer and wire and ironwood, and sweetly wrought, no taller than a woman's hand; while obviously not meant to represent a Fire Nation maiden, and thus not a perfect beauty, it still had a lovely face, and the green lacquer eyes seemed to glow under even the faintest of light. Its dress was Earth Kingdom silk, and it floated if you turned her this way or that, catching on the faintest breeze like milkweed tufts. But its outer design was not the cleverest part of it. Between its shoulderblades was a slim silver catch, the entry to which fit a slim silver key, itself part of a bracelet meant to be worn by the doll's owner. If you set the key to the doll and wound it--carefully, carefully, hear and feel the delicate ticking of machinery no Fire Nation artificer might easily mend!--and then set the doll's feet to the floor, a miracle occurred.
Her arms would go out. Her chin would lift, the lacquer eyes seeming to stare into yours. And of her own accord, almost, she would dance.
Her feet were bare, barbarian Earth Kingdom maid that she was, edged with silver, and they chimed gently with every step. Her knees would bend, her waist would dip, she would sway like a flower, and all the while those gentle quiet feet tapped insistently on the tiled floor.
Azula loathed it.

She was clutching it, trying to decide if she wanted to throw it in the turtleduck-pond or into one of the ceremonial incense braziers at the closest family shrine (how the face would melt, the eyes would run, those hateful feet go slick with their own dew! The pale arms would crack, and the sound of so much ruined clockwork would be like laughter to her ears, and all the priests would look up at the smell and the greasy smoke), when a messenger came from her father. "He says it's time for particular training, Princess." the man said, avoiding her eyes like all the weak and stupid servants did. Azula moved ahead of him, pausing almost imperceptibly six steps in, just enough that the man had to stop short to keep from ramming into her. He was better at it than her chambermaid was, how annoying.
Concentrating on trying to make him stumble helped her to ignore the lead in her stomach.

Zuko never got called for particular training. Their father said his stomach was too weak, that he had too much of their mother in him. Azula knew that all that she should feel, being summoned thus, was pride; but after the last time, she couldn't keep her hands from trembling just a little. If it showed on her face, though, the servant made no sign, simply opened the door to her father's training-chambers and bowed, closing it behind her.

The training room had once had high windows to let in the summer light, but they'd been walled over before Azula was born, by her father's express decree. The salle was curtained off with draperies so thick and heavy that they muffled even sound. Azula paused before them, considering, breathing.
The air was thick, clotted with the smell of charcoal and incense and sweat, and something rather less palatable. Azula listened for any sign of her father, unwilling to call for him, her hands twisting tight with anxiety. They closed sharply around the doll, and she stiffened in dismay. To bring a toy along with her to train with her father! She was worse than Zuko! The broad stone floor was bare of decoration, no resting pillows or deep plush rugs as might be found in other parts of the Palace; frustrated, she stuffed the doll into the back of her waistband, trusting that she would not have to show her father her back. She tucked its thin limbs under her sash, hoping the lump that the thing made would be invisible in shadow.

"Azula." her father's voice was calm, commanding, and she stiffened. "Yes, father. I am here."
"Come."
She pushed through the first dividing curtain, her throat closing as the unpalatable smell she'd noticed earlier became stronger. She hoped that dinner tonight would be mostly greens and fruit dishes. Firelord Ozai was bare to the waist, the torchlight catching off of his skin. He half-turned to see her part the heavy curtains, his eyes cold, his lips curved slightly. "My daughter, I want you to continue from the last lesson. Do you remember everything clearly?" Azula focussed on him, ignoring the low stone table beyond him, the straps on it tight around--around--

It danced so smoothly, it's true, as long as the floor was also smooth. But some trick to its inner workings, or perhaps some flaw in a spring or a coil, gave it a peculiar habit. It would move like a bird, swooping here and there, until, utterly at random, some part of what commanded it twisted; and it would freeze for an instant, balanced on one foot, the other one outstretched as if to take a step. And then it would whirl in another direction, a quarter-turn or a half, sometimes turning entirely in the opposite way. Its limbs would twitch, as if it were in terrible pain, as if it faced something horrible, as if it were a puppet rather than something that moved under its own spirit.

--the man on the table, who whimpered softly, the blood on his lips making the sound bubble just a little. "What is the first thing I have taught you about pain, Azula?" Ozai asked, gesturing for her to step forward. Azula blinked, forcing her attention back. She summoned her confidence, smiled. "Like everything else, father. It's a tool."
Ozai nodded. "Exactly. Now. Do you remember the process we undertook with the last spy?"
The man's eyes were open now, and he stared at her in staunch disbelief. His dark hair was plastered to his head, and his dark bare shoulders; his blue eyes held an edge of panic. Why did they always panic when they saw her?
"You're--you're just a little girl. Oh, child."
Without looking away from her, Ozai reached back with one wide hand, placed it almost delicately on the man's chest. The stink of sizzling flesh rose anew, and the man hissed, moaned, finally screamed before Ozai removed his touch. "Oh, child." the man groaned. "Oh, child, the things this must do to you."
Ozai held her eyes like a hunting hawk held the eyes of a rabbit. "Do you?"
"Yes, father." Azula said. She reached over at his gesture, found pincers. "Fingers first?" she asked. Ozai nodded, as close to a bow of respect as he would ever, ever show his daughter. And Azula leaned forward, and began.

It would stiffen, and it would spin, and then it would dance again, its path changed but plainly not of its own will. Wherever it had been heading, whatever its dance would have been, those chances were lost to it now; some factor the eye that watched it could not see had altered it irrevocably. And from there, it would again be beautiful, and its movements would take the breath away, so clever, so cleverly made.