"Safe," Sokka says eagerly, "safe is good. I like safe."

The last triffid's sting is removed almost scientifically, the meteorite blade cutting through the stem as if it's butter. Sokka peers at it, slightly disappointed that nothing more dramatic happened, and then slices a few more times through the bole and shaggy roots of the thing just for good measure.

"You like safe, right, Jack?"