Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mira doesn’t do parents, and parents of all kinds never approved of her. They claim she’s too jagged, corrupting their children into having sharp tongues. That she lacks control. A wolf ready to slaughter their innocent little lambs. As if Mira herself hadn’t once been a child dressed in a fluffy white fleece. One kicked into the ground until the grime stained her coat and matted it into dark clumps that restricted. Mira sharpened her own teeth to shear the mess off. It didn’t seem to matter, her fur had turned dark… and dark fur and sharp teeth can no longer be called a lamb. So Mira doesn’t pretend to be.

Up until now, it never really mattered. Random critics didn’t matter when she had fans cheering her name. Her parents didn’t matter when she had her girls. Her girls’ parents didn’t matter, not in any critical way. For the near decade that she had known her girls, Rumi’s only (acknowledged) parent was dead, and Zoey’s spent too much time hating each other to be able to exert energy on anything else. That sucked in a way that worked for Mira. They could all collectively shove the issue into a taped-up box and chuck it off their airplane, out of sight. Never out of mind. Zoey still scrapes off pieces of herself to give to others. Rumi believes that she has to earn the air she breathes. Mira still waits to wake up to find them both there but not. That she’ll reach out to touch them and her fingers pass through. Her girls have welts and scars, but Mira could wrap them in bandages and kiss the pain away and sink her sharpened teeth into anything that dared to try to touch them.

It’s an issue now. Celine decided that haunting Rumi’s life is no longer satisfactory. The woman decided to solidify into an elephant tromping through the room, crushing things unknowingly with its feet. Frequently. Almost weekly now. She comes to see Rumi, and Rumi twists herself into a knot every time. Celine comes and disrupts. Sure, she hasn’t made Rumi cry yet , but Rumi retreats to her room with a notebook that Zoey has gifted her, covered in a million stickers and hearts all over the inside cover, to journal like her therapist suggests. And sure, it’s great to see Rumi processing and healing, but she shouldn’t have been hurt to begin with! Plus, if Mira glares too noticeably or Zoey shoves herself between mentor and mentee when Rumi starts twisting her hands too much, Rumi will grab their hands, give them a squeeze, and whisper that ‘ she’s okay’ in their ear. And maybe she’s okay now, but Mira’s seen how fast Rumi can crumble, and that can’t happen again.

There’s also the fact that she wants to punch Celine so bad . One for every time Rumi refused to join them in the bathhouse. One for every time Rumi charged into battle without them because she was their short-range, and thus their first line of attack. One for every time she sees Rumi look in the mirror, patterns open to the world, and Rumi flinches at the sight. 

One right to the sternum, hard and breath stealing, for making her first reaction to seeing those patterns glowing on Rumi’s body, to be to call her woldo and raise it against someone she loved.

Parents have never been an issue. It’s an issue now. Rumi cares so now Mira has to try to care. She’s always cared. Mira has to try to care because Rumi’s a forgiving person and wants the mother she has left and looks at her two partners with those big eyes and says, “Please, just let us try? I know it’s a lot to ask of you both, but please?” 

Then Zoey grabs their leader by the shoulders in a bear hug that sends the two of them tumbling off the bed. Drops kisses across Rumi’s face like she’s trying to transfer a likeness of her own freckles in lipstick until Rumi’s laughing. She looks to Mira as their Rumi gasps for air, eyes knowing and giving and, ugh, of course Zoey folds and leaves the final say to Mira.

” Fine .”

Zoey and Mira still have a twelve-step plan with alibis. Then brainstorm another twenty-five, less detailed, backups just in case. They are hunters, after all. 

“I still don’t get why you’re doing this after all that shit. Celine has had a bo staff shoved up her ass since the dawn of time.” Didn’t Rumi see? Celine won’t ever be what Rumi deserves. Rumi deserves everything. She shouldn’t settle for anything less.

”She’s trying, really trying. It’s going to be hard. My therapist said as much, but… Well, when life gives you lemons, right?” Rumi shrugs at them with a smile so small ( so hopeful ) 

“Actually,” Zoey chirps from where she’s burrowed into Rumi’s stomach. She springs up like a toy whose gear has been cranked, space buns bouncing just a second too late because they couldn’t keep up with her energy. “Lemons don’t occur in nature. They’re a hybrid of a sour orange and a citron and only as abundant as they are because of humans!”

“So… people gave us lemons? The metaphor for all the bad shit that gets thrown at us is all caused by other people?”

Zoey cringes a little and smiles apologetically at Mira. Her hands flail a little at Mira.

“I mean, kind of? You can still make lemonade, though! And lemonade is still super good!”

“Or squeeze the juice in the bitch’s eyes,” Mira drawls out as she leans back against the cushions, arms crossed and eyes drawn into a sharp scowl.

Rumi turns to her so fast that her braid smacks the dancer flat in the mouth.

“Mira! No!” 

Chapter Text

Rumi is pacing like a tiger in a cage, patterns flashing when they catch the light like sun on stripes. It would be beautiful if it weren’t tragic, watching Rumi’s patterns flicker over taunt muscles, lumbering with strength in each step. It’s beautiful, but Mira can’t appreciate it when Rumi is a ball of nerves and flashing colors like a broken streetlight. 

Her patterns flare with her emotions. Zoey affectionately calls her a mood ring and then giggles when it causes Rumi to flush pink. Rumi pouts about it, eyebrows furrowed deep. Zoey kisses the expression away. Mira watches in awe with her heart in her throat. With tongue fat in her mouth, Mira calls her a disco ball and doesn’t even attempt to dodge when Rumi lunges at her. Mira will grab her by the waist, fingers tracing the pattern that crawls around her Rumi’s waistline, and loom over the shorter girl. Rumi will show her little teeth in what’s supposed to be a threat and act offended when Mira scoffs at her. 

“You look like a beaver.”

“A- a beaver?!”

“Oh, I could kind of see it!” Zoey adds with a chirp. “Hard worker. Big cheeks! But beavers don’t have stripes.” Zoey gasps and claps her hands together. “Chipmunk! Chipmunk!”

“With how she eats gimbap? Totally.”

“Lisa Frank chipmunk!”

“I’m not a chipmunk!” Rumi insists and tries to grapple at Zoey.

Mira keeps her grip firm, even if holding back Rumi takes more effort than one would expect. Zoey teases their leader from a safe distance, and Rumi’s patterns fade back into their neutral iridescent hue. Mira releases their monster, laughs at Zoey’s betrayed yowl as Rumi tackles their mankae onto the floor, rolling around like two children. 

The elevator door chimes, and the entire penthouse freezes. Celine steps into the apartment, her sharp gaze narrowing in on the huddle on the floor. Rumi instantly rises from the ground and pulls her clothes straight. Her patterns glow red, just slightly, and it makes Mira scowl just a little.

Fucking Celine- ruining it.

Mira circles the edges of the room during these visits. Her muscles tensed and waiting to strike. Rumi is such a beautiful creature. At all times, but especially when she’s happy. When she’s secure. Mira swears to keep her that way.

Mira remembers the darkness of backstage, blood in her ears because she and Zoey had fallen for the demons’ ploy, and now their sweet Rumi was not with them. Isolated. Alone. Circled. Hunted . They had to run, run, run . Get to her. Protect her! Like no one had ever protected Mira. They were the hunters! The wolves in the night. Not the lonely lamb cornered in the dark, calling for a herd too selfish to come. Mira’s not a sheep anymore.

Then the lights had burst. Then Rumi’s terrified scream had hit her ears. And then there were patterns. Bright and branching and exactly like the ones Celine had tested them on as teenagers. There were patterns, and that meant monster. That meant draw your blade. That meant fight, fight, fight, or you will die, die, die . The patterns made monsters, and Mira had sworn to cut down monsters to protect this family that accepted her into their pack. But the patterns were Rumi. Rumi was never a monster. Rumi, who sat quietly in the door as Mira screamed about the murder of her childhood by uncaring adults, into a punching bag. Rumi, who promised that Huntr/x came before everything. Rumi, who lied when Mira asked her things, and liars break promises. Rumi, who had been talking with Jinu, and Rumi, who claimed to have used Jinu ( Did she use Mira? Was that all anyone would ever do to Mira? ). 

Mira raised her woldo. Mira raised her woldo because she remembered what she was taught. Patterns meant monsters, and monsters meant death, and Mira still had Zoey (sweet Zoey, shaking like a leaf beside her) to protect because she was a hunter and could not be weak. Mira would ignore the monster pleading to her in Rumi’s voice because she was a hunter, not prey. Mira was a sheep, falling into panic when the shadows turned too sharp.

Celine tuts as Rumi draws back, grabbing the girl’s hand and examining the small cut from a failed attempt at chopping a vegetable.

“I taught you better than this,” the old huntress chides as she gently nudges Rumi to the side and picks up the knife herself.

Mira scoffs from the couch, as if Celine had ever been a good teacher.

Mira knows that her disdain is too plain on her face. She’s never been good at hiding her negativity, no matter how she tried to soften it. Her words were sharpened on the fangs that she had grown, and it seems no length of time will dull them. Her fangs were blades that even cut up the softness she had left. She tried to handle things gently because gentle is what Rumi and Zoey deserved. She still accidentally bit too deep. Her fangs are too sharp and they cut when they meant to hold. She didn’t mean to, but it doesn’t erase the fact that Rumi keeps glancing at her nervously when Celine is in the room. Doesn’t change that Zoey has started running interference, flitting into the middle to keep the peace in a way Mira knows stresses her. Mira’s teeth are sharp to hunt and protect, not to hurt her girls. 

Mira tells herself she’ll try.

Mira doesn’t last long. 

She doesn’t know what it is. Doesn’t know why she can’t temper her ire. Liar, liar, liar . But seeing Celine with Rumi lit her skin on fire. Celine, who had never touched more than necessary, started brushing aside stray hairs and gently cupping Rumi’s cheek. Celine, who used to hold entire conversations with Rumi without looking at her, sits in front of her daughter and sets tea before both of them, and then lets her mug go cold as she listens to Rumi talk about anything. It makes her blood boil. It’s not natural, and Mira insistsently tells Zoey it’s not genuine. Celine hesitates to touch Rumi. Celine visibly pulls whatever she’s about to say back into her mouth and molds it into something else. People don’t just change like this. It can’t be genuine.

It can’t be because people like her parents Celine don’t change. They may look like they are, but there’s always a motive underneath. They will smile at you in public, then scowl behind closed doors. They will lather you with promises and curse your name when you act up. 

Zoey looks up from her notebook, where she’s been scribbling down alibis. Notes from true crime podcasts scribbled into the margins. Her maknae looks at her, eyes searching.

“Maybe it’s real, though. Plus, it makes Rumi really happy. So shouldn’t we be happy for her? Besides, we have backup plans for the moment things go wrong! Right?”

“Yeah,” Mira agrees slowly and lets Zoey go back to her notebook.

Zoey is right. Rumi is happy, and Celine’s been behaving, been improving (at least visually). Rumi is happy. That’s all Mira could ever ask for.  So why is she still so mad

Mira tries to mellow her features. It does not work.

Celine braids Rumi’s hair on their couch. Rumi is rambling about something work-related, even though Huntr/x is meant to be on hiatus. Celine smiles softly, brushes more hair into the braid. Mira clenches her jaw as her gut twists and focuses on her phone.

“Bobby asked me about my ‘tattoos’. If I wanted to incorporate it into my image.“

Tattoos were their cover story for why Rumi suddenly had patterns curling around her skin even when not on stage. Huntr/x can pass off anything as special effects on stage. Off stage is another matter. 

“It will cause backlash. It’s not as if it's just a small patch. Parents won't like it.”

“You would say that,” Mira grumbles.

Rumi stiffens at the words as Celine pauses her braiding. The older woman gently grasps her daughter's shoulder and continues to weave, not looking at Mira.

“It’s merely a fact. Tattoos may be more frequent among your age, but many parents won’t enjoy their children being influenced into getting them. I’d rather protect you all from that, if I can.”

“ Protect us ,” Mira hisses. People like Celine don’t protect their kids. They led them to stand before a life they did not prepare them for and tck in disappointment as they bled on the floor. Blame the child when the one they raised gets butchered instead. Mira knows about people like that. She was raised by them.

“If you would like to talk, we can talk, but I won’t just stand here to have you attack me.”

Anger burns in Mira’s veins. Hot and viscous as it pulls at her tendons. Attacking her ? No fucks, Mira is going to attack! After everything she’s done to Rumi? After all that shit she taught her ( what she taught Mira. A woldo raised in the bowels of a stage.) ? She thinks she can just come here and, and… 

“Mira?” Rumi looks at her with concerned eyes.

“You want me to talk? Fine! I don’t trust your bullshit. You think you can just come here and mess everything up and pretend you’ve never done shit? That Rumi isn’t fucked up because of you?”

Rumi calls for her, but Mira ignores it. She’s standing now, shaking with adrenaline like she’s in the middle of a demon purge. She’ll protect Rumi from Celine because people like her don’t change. She’ll fight because she loves Rumi more than Celine ever did, and because people don’t change. She’ll fight for Rumi like no one ever fought for her. She’ll fight because she’s angry that her parents never tried to change for her. 

“Mira, stop!” Rumi’s voice is firm and steady. She rises from where she’s sitting on the floor to look Mira in the face. “We agreed that we could try. We agreed this is my choice, and… I don’t like you attacking Celine like this.”

“I’m trying to protect you!”

“No, you’re not,” Rumi denies with a small frown. “I would never ask you to get along with her, but she means a lot to me, Mira. I want this, and you attacking her, that hurts me .”

Mira stiffens, hunches into herself as her heart stutters under Rumi’s piercing words. She tears out of the room and ignores Rumi’s calls for her.

Chapter Text

Zoey is used to the ground under her feet not being solid. From the way sand gave under her feet as she ran over beaches to the wobble of her skateboard when she's taking a sudden turn. She got her sea legs earlier than most. Has learned to sway with movement and keep herself upright in a way that even Mira, their lead dancer, can't. Rumi has the hardest time adjusting to any turbulence. Stumbles around like a baby fawn whenever Zoey tries to teach her to balance with no solid ground beneath her. Their leader will pout that little frown she gets when she is frustrated. It's not often that the Ryu Rumi doesn't learn quickly. Rumi insists it's because Zoey is from California that Zoey grew up with beaches and oceans and surfboards, so of course she's good at these things. As if Burbank isn't completely landlocked on all sides. Zoey lets the excuse slide because Rumi's cute. Mira doesn't because Rumi's cuter when she's pouting.

Zoey is the most prone to motion sickness out of the three of them. Zoey is used to the ground rocking beneath her feet; she doesn't like it . It makes her stomach twist and pull. Nausea curdling in her belly like a heavy stone. Zoey is used to being the fastest thing in the room, pulling everyone into her orbit. She made it that way. Motion sickness, by definition, is her brain getting its wires crossed. The world moving without her body in the know.  Zoey moves fast because if she's moving and the world is also moving, she won't feel that disgusting pull in her gut. If she's moving, it's her choice it's not . Not some outside force tugging on her body without her consent. She bends to its will anyway.

In the dark of night, when she has no stimulation to distract her, Zoey knows she moves fast because it makes the ground feel solid under her feet. She's learned to be fast and agile so that she doesn't capsize into the undertow. The boat may rock and her parents may hate each other and the world may swirl fast, but it couldn't catch her if she just moved faster. People couldn't pull her notebooks from her arms if they were too slow. Her parents' tearing couldn't overturn their sinking ship if Zoey tethered it to herself and towed it into calmer waters. But there are some things you can't outrun. Zoey hadn't been fast enough to prevent her family from capsizing, and she drowned in the rocking waves. Her gravity had been rewired; she couldn't figure out which direction was up, and her lungs burned from the exertion of trying to. She was tossed until dizzy and washed up vomiting her nausea across the floor, body still uselessly trying to match the sway of her life around her.

Her girls found her like that. Nauseous and lost. Pulled her out of the quagmire with tethering hands and grounded touches onto solid earth. They made everything go still, go stable. A lighthouse perched on an island, resistant to the corroding waves. Zoey still moved fast. She couldn't help it anymore- an action turned instinct. But when she circled back to start, they were always still there, constant. Grounding... A weighted blanket soft and warm to cover her shoulders and settle her down safely. 

Then the foundation rumbled. The tide pulled out, and the waves congealed. Zoey got swept up in it as her guiding light flickered and tower creaked under the strain. Mira pushed, Rumi snapped back, and their little island shook with the colliding force. Their lighthouse crumbled, Zoey clinging to its pieces in the shallows, nothing more than a rocking raft as the water lurched beneath her. She tethered the three of them as best she could, working the sea legs she earned in her youth to keep them afloat. It hadn't been enough in the end. A tsunami rocked them overboard, and the ropes tangled around her legs so that she sank. But a light had flickered in her fuzzing peripherals, and the Honmoon had fed it until it grew brighter, and with three pairs of hands they weaved a new float out of the Honmoon's threads. Rumi's patterns glow ever bright, leading the way, and Mira's firm conviction is the rudder keeping them on track. Zoey blows the wind into the sails and ensures that her girls have as smooth a journey as possible. Keeps them steady so that Rumi doesn't fall and Mira doesn't get seasick.

She can't seem to perfect it, recently. Putting too much wind in the sails threatens to blow out Rumi's fragile light. Holding her breath makes the sails go flat until there's no movement besides Mira's floundering as she tries to steer them somewhere, anywhere . Too much. Not enough. She flitters between them, trying to find the balance- the right rhythm to match so that her legs seem steady underneath her and the twisting nausea of rocking stops. 

Zoey has the best sea legs, but she fears nothing more than a rocking boat.

Zoey watches wide-eyed as Mira flees the scene like a scared animal. Watches as Rumi curls in on herself and grips her arms tight. Their leader is spiraling, Zoey can tell. That look in her eyes so familiar it hurts. Her hands twitch towards Rumi, wanting to hold her. Her legs jerk toward Mira, wanting to chase. And here she is, swaying. Pulled in two directions until her soul stretches taut. She's usually a fluid thing, but even the most limber of materials will eventually contort and snap. 

Zoey's sick of the pulling.

The maknae grits her teeth and steels herself, compacts her focus like when she's rapping.  If she can't stop the rocking, then she'll throw herself into the water and swim to the seabed and anchor them to the ground.

Chapter Text

Zoey’s ^{(+ Mira)}  12-step, foolproof plan to get rid of Celine (ONLY if necessary)

1. Create an alibi that convinces Rumi first and everyone else second 

Rumi first?

Duh, Rumi first. 

She knows our BS too much

*Alibi*: say we are going to the studio to hash out some choreography during Rumi’s weekly therapy session.

Rumi always journals and naps afterwards. Should give us a solid three hours AT THE LEAST

2. Ensure that the studio people see us go in. Bring practice duffles.

Say the choreography is for a surprise release, and it's hush-hush so they can't bother us.

3. Get Derpy to teleport them out of the building into the back alley

with the broken security camera, so no footage.

Leave demo music on repeat LOUD in the room. 

How are we supposed to do that?

Derpy’s a sweetie! He’d totally let us

That thing has the brain the size of a pea

He can do it!!

Ok... but what demo? We don’t have a demo

We make one duh

4. Move all prior steps down one. Replace step one with make a demo

We could just restart the list

I’M NOT DOING THAT!!

5. Travel to the estate in a rental car. Drop rental car at the town motel.

That drive is way more than two hours.

Rumi will be texting us asking where we are

We’ll just text her that we’re 

taking longer than expected

That’ll leave a phone trail

… Rumi sleeps like the dead 

after therapy, unless we wake 

her to eat. We’ll be fine

6. Do the deed. WEAR GLOVES!

That’s all we’re going to put here?

Well, we never agreed on what to do. 

Just that she has to never see Rumi again   

I want her corpse eaten by the birds

Pigs would be better actually. 

It would leave less evidence. 

WAIT we never agreed to actually kill her

How else would this work??

Threats? Forced relocation?? 

7. Move the body (method TBD)

A TBD does not make a plan foolproof. 

It will be once I figure out how to 

ship a living woman out of the country. 

Can’t we just kill her?

I’d like to keep that as a last resort. 

8. Drive back to studio. Crash the car in a staged accident.

*Car must be beyond repair. 

9.  Have Derpy get us back in

There’s no way we can count on that cat TWICE

10. Shower at studio or, at the very least, get hair wet so Rumi thinks we showered. 

11.  Talk with the staff on the way out. Solifies alibi!

12. Pamper Rumi to distract her until she feels better 

You mean fuck her dumb?

Whatever works! But definitely also that

                       12.a Burn this notebook