Chapter Text
Zoey has always known too much, too soon, too fast. She was the first to guess her grandmother’s health had taken a nosedive when the woman started staying at home more and more, and the first to no notice her cousin seemed to by chronically not hungry, despite her thinning body. It was Zoey who pointed out their second grande teacher was pregnant, long before even the woman herself was made aware, and she who noticed that despite their best efforts, her parents did not like each other. At all.
She has never thought about it as a talent. She was crying for her grandma long before her funeral, and was eaten away by guilt the whole time her cousin spent hospitalized. She ruined the surprise for her teacher, and her parents… well, at least she had been somewhat ready, when the fights started. Not completely, Zoey could have never predicted just how bad it was going to get, but she never had any happy dream of a happy family for the world to shatter into pieces.
Still, she wished she hadn't know. That she could stop. Wasn't it enough that Zoey sometimes saw the world rippling around her, when people sung pretty songs or played interesting instruments? That she had seen Weird Jacob, her neighbor, turn green one day only to be quickly dispatched by her other neighbor Conan, who then had quickly become an international popstar, the case of actual murder never mentioned? Wasn't it enough that she alone seemed to be the only one to remember Weird Jacob after, like everyone else had been put under a spell? Why did she also have to know when misfortune was soon to strike?
Was she cursed? Zoey spent most of middle school locked in utility closets and smelly bathrooms thinking that maybe she was. It would explain why her parents fought so much over her custody when neither seemed to actually want her around, and why every schoolmate she ever had found so easy to bully her. Surely it wasn't the braces? Many people had braces. And thick glasses. And acne. And a minor stutter. And a tendency to talk too much, too fast. And liked writing poetry and songs. Right?
Maybe not all together, though. Maybe that was just Zoey.
Yes, for the longest time, it seemed that it was just Zoey. The odd one out, forever. No friends, little family, and the slightest bit of talent, never enough to really count.
And then, the Consciousness and Awareness of My Surroundings test happened. A standard test for second-year middle schoolers to ensure everything was right with their development. Zoey had gone in entirely sure she would fail, and indeed she had. She didn't expect it would get her sent to the Headmaster’s office though. Her parents would not mind it, but come on, it couldn't be that bad, right?
Right?
She had been thirteen years old then, and she remembers keenly how she had sat there in the lumpy couch, sweating rivers and so ashamed, and also so relieved. Something was wrong with Zoey, that was bad. But something was wrong with Zoey, which was good. It meant that something could be done, too. That maybe she could be fixed, be normal.
And then Musa Xiaoting Yijon came in, and her whole life changed.
Zoey had to take a moment to lay on the floor despite the fact that her childhood hero was right in front of her after discovering that said woman was not only the most kickass singer ever but also apparently a demon hunter. Because the odd people and the monsters Zoey sometimes hallucinated apparently were real, and they were demons; and the glowy lights and ripples she saw way more often was apparently the Honmoon, which kept the demons away, except that it needed constant maintenance, which was the reason artists from everywhere fought constantly to keep the love and attention of their fans while also killing demons.
Demons were real. And one fought them with songs and the power of friendship. And apparently Zoey, as proven by the Overall Awareness Test, was not a freak—she was special. Because she could see the demons and interact with the Honmoon.
She could be trained to fight demons and draw power from the Honmoon, actually.
It was all so cool.
Musa, the poor woman, had had to deal with nearly apoplectic Zoey, her endless barrage of questions, her fanaticism, and also a healthy dose of Zoey's trauma, self-esteem issues and her over-enthusiastic agreement to move to Korea as soon as she finished my middle school. Because apparently there was a high school in Korea specially dedicated to train demon hunters-slash-idols. There were several in America too, of course, which Musa had pointedly assured her were very good, but Zoey had always longed for a home she did not have, and really, who could blame her little thirteen-years-old heart for looking for it in his father's home, which she had heard so much about but never seen or steps a foot in?
So after finishing middle school, more or less in peace after she learned how to dodge, hide and fight back enough that people learned to either be nice or be gone, and with a new understanding in how to throw daggers, defend herself, and spot strange stuff—the latter for which she needed little to none coaching at all—she left Burbank, California for Seoul, South Korea. And there she met Janggok Jeong, the coolest, most badass girl ever, and Sagong Ho, the most awesome, lovely one.
Which would have been perfect, if it hadn't been for the fact that Zoey's knowing of too much too soon too fast was not, in fact, a demon hunter-adjacent ability. Musa had assured Zoey that she would come to appreciate the ability anyway, but she had not. She hated it, in fact, ever since she immediately clocked the way Janggok Jeong was way too independent for a fifteen years old, how she lashed out when criticized with a defiant, fragile look in her eyes; and how Sagong Ho was the exact opposite, doing exactly and anxiously as she was told and looking guilty the whole way, like she had done something wrong the second they weren't looking.
Zoey had barely, barely met them, already adored them, and two weeks in, she had already been sure that they were just like her. Odd ones out, the weird children, the Others.
It felt like she was condemning them. It always happened like that. Zoey realized something, and then it sparkled to life, it got set in motion. It had been like that with her grandmother's illness and her cousin's disorder and her parents divorce. She didn't want to think about what it would do to her tentative new friends. She tried her best to not do so—but she failed miserably.
Zoey spent many sleepless nights pouring her guilt and anxiety into her notebooks, tuning them into heavy, dark ballads and breathless tunes and fast-paced songs and then getting rid of them one after the other. She could not stand looking at them. She could barely stand writing the feelings down.
But unlike before, nothing really happened. Nothing bad, at least. Weeks and months and years went on, and Jeong became Mira, and Ho became Rumi, and she, Ae-cha, finally, officially became Zoey, and the three of them together became the HUNTR/X. They became friends and then best friends and then family. Sisters, Zoey thought for a second, and then as soon as the hope rose she realized that sisters likely did not entertain thoughts of kissing each other, so—something more.
More. Zoey, weird kid extraordinaire, former otaku, lifelong bullying victim, maladaptive daydreamer with a certificate in delusions, years-long gacha kid, Wattpad fanfiction reader and writer, FNAF fan, Hamilton fan, gamer, and, yes, a person who still listened to Nightcore on occasion, had never felt like more. She had grown up thinking herself something subhuman, even, the self-consciousness and insecurities gnawing at her like mites until she was a shapeless blob of worry and apprehension with a nervous smile and a happy disposition.
So after that first time they topped the charts, and she realized that they were not going down; after people started to fawn over her lyrics and make truly incredible edits of her rapping; after both her parents called her to tell her they were proud of her, and were sorry for not having supported her; after Mira bought a king sized bed with three pillows and throw blankets in pink, purple and blue and started to leave her room's door open—after all of that, Zoey took the conscious and forced decision to mind her own business.
So Zoey did not say anything when Mira started to readily hug her to her side and Rumi heard her song ideas out with heart in her eyes—she just cuddled closer and kept Rumi’s intense gaze for as long as she physically could. She did not say anything when their things all started to mix together, including clothes and weapons and skincare products—she just took to file Rumi's practice sword along with her spare throwing knives when she did it, all the way while dressed in Mira’s oversized sweaters and, yes, sometimes her underwear too.
Her brain gave her zaps when Rumi stopped staying the night for their “sleepovers”, and when she noticed her sorting their laundry and only putting her stuff on separate piles—but no, Zoey just started keeping them both awake much longer, and in turn tiring her groupmates out more, forcing them to stay togueter until way later, and began using her very extensive salary to buy gifts, among them matching clothes and accessories that no one could really distinguish the true ownership of. Zoey, of course, was sure she could have deduced it if she had allowed herself to—but she refused. No, she was not going to think about it.
She was not going to think about how little of Rumi's skin they really saw despite the fact they spent many blistering summers training together, in both dance and fight, and how often Rumi’s hands ended up wrapping protectively around her arms. She was not going to think about Mira's increasing questions and visible worry, and the way their oldest, forever more mature-looking and put-together (to their standards) member seemed more and more like a lost, scared girl.
Zoey refused to acknowledge the evasions and the pointed remarks and the barely restrained fights and the sinking hole in her chest that only grew deeper as they started acting less and less like an unit—she just redoubled her efforts into dragging them to places, even to little success. She put more energy into their songs, even when most of them ended up being rejected by either Celine or Bobby or Mira and Rumi themselves. Zoey grew more twitchy, and got less sleep, and acquired a whole tower of notebooks that she steadfastly did not look at in the corner of her room—and still, she persevered. She remained none-the-wiser and told herself it was an accomplishment, that it was for the better—
Right up until one day, out of nowhere, everything—loosened. Rumi saw them on the couch together and, instead of marching to the loveseat, she curled up on Mira's other side and sighed. Mira wrapped an arm around her shoulders with easy confidence. The evasión continued, but the fighting stopped, and suddenly their clothes, products and beings were close again.
And Zoey knew, without a doubt, that Mira knew, that she had realized something, gotten her answers—and as soon as Zoey allowed herself to think about that, she, too, became aware.
Rumi was Other, yes, just like them both, but in her own way. Because there was no way that sometimes-has-ragged-pupils, occasionally-flashes-a-fanged-smile, often-flinches-back-from-their-weapons-with-a-helpless-look-on-her-face Rumi was 100%, fully human.
It took one sleepover, long after midnight but minutes after Rumi had fallen asleep, and Zoey turning to face Mira, to confirm it.
“You know,” Mira had whispered, somewhere between despair and elation. Unfortunately, Zoey had though, I always do.
But instead of saying that, she smiled, and wrapped a steady hand around Mira's shaking one.
“Does it change anything, for you?” Zoey had asked, though she, of course, was well aware of the answer.
“No,” Mira had frowned. “Of course not. It's just—why didn't she tell us? Does she…?” Not trust us? Not like us? Hates us? Plans to kill us?
Rumi would never. Of that, too, Zoey was sure.
“You know it’s hard to be different. And even worse to acknowledge it. She will tell us when she can.”
“She won't.”
At that, Zoey's eyes widened.
“What—?”
“She will not tell us—she’s too scared. No, this will—it will get big. Blow up. Think about it.”
Zoey thought about it. Then she nodded. Mira was right, yes.
“We are going to need a backup plan.”
Mira huffed. “You are telling me you don't have two dozen of those written down in a very abused piece of paper somewhere?”
I only allowed myself to acknowledge this whole situation yesterday, Zoey thought. And yet, she's right.
Too much too soon too fast, that's the way Zoey's mind worked. For the first time in her life, she was glad of it.
“We will have to be very ready.”
Mira nodded, wisps of her hair falling beautifully down her face with the motion.
“I'm in.”
“Me, too.”
And, yes, maybe Knowing wasn't so bad—because, right now, Zoey knew with absolute certainty that, if push came to shove, they would not take that lying down. Mira and Zoey would support and protect Rumi, no hesitation, no further promise needed.
So what if she was half-demon? She was theirs first.