Work Text:
Dad friend. Mom?
Bring mom.
There dad. Mom dad talk.
Food. Where food.
Mom bag. Den. Food bag. Bag food.
Where food. Where food.
Bag. Bag bag bag bag. Food. Bag.
Mom friend?
Mom friend.
Food! Food food food food food. Food!!!!!
Zoey might need some kind of rehab. This was the millionth time that she had stayed up till 1 or 2 am, even though the trio had appointments at 6, which meant waking up at 4. Mira and Rumi already went to bed, and here was Zoey raging at the muted Mario Kart on the TV. She mouthed every expletive she knew and summoned all six of her shin-kal to hold them like claws. She had the posture of a werewolf ripping its shirt open.
The shin-kal (and posture) remained for only a second. Zoey’s head flopped over to stare at the floor, buried in shame. Her phone now said 01:34. With a deep breath, she shut off the TV and console and turned around.
She expected to see empty wood floors behind the couch. Not a blue tiger.
The shin-kal returned. Defensive pose. Environment check—alone, dark, single threat. Tiger slow and occupied. Zoey’s shoulders loosened. The tiger was pawing at a plain black backpack, with huge yellow eyes fixated on it. The strange creature moved with such little intent and delicateness.
“What are you?” Zoey whispered.
Derpy lifted his head in one smooth movement to stare into Zoey’s very being.
It heard that?!
He blinked, left eye then right eye, and returned to pawing at the bag. Zoey suppressed a giggle and approached the tiger as slow as she could. Her arms stayed primed, shin-kal ready, in case this was some sort of trap.
She was just one step away from the tiger when she decided to relinquish her blades. The tiger didn’t react, his pawing still ongoing. He looked up, did the same mindless blinking, and restored his attention to the bag. Zoey didn’t recognize it. She squatted down, now eye-level with the tiger. A tentative hand of hers dragged the bag away. Derpy followed the movement of it before tracing up Zoey’s arms and landing his gaze on Zoey for the third time. This time, he held eye contact. She had the bag up to her chest and stared back, eyes almost as wide as his.
“Did you want something in here?”
Derpy tilted his head to the side for a second. He blinked, right then left.
Zoey unzipped the first zipper and looked inside.
Socks. Underwear. Lots of them. Tampons. A packed-up down jacket. A small blanket.
Second zipper.
Tons of granola bars. Some water bottles. A flashlight. Razors.
When she pulled one of the bars out, she nearly yelped when Derpy came up and nuzzled his head and paws against her hand.
“Awww, are you hungry?”
...
“I guess that’s a yes?”
She extended her hand, open, granola bar for the taking. He planted his tongue onto her hand. Zoey tried not to gag at the sensation or at the saliva that remained after he removed it. Now the bar stuck to his tongue, and he retracted it.
One gulp.
“You ate the wrapper.”
Not the slightest reaction.
“Dude.”
Zoey forgot about the tiger spit all over her palm.
Oh well, third zipper.
An impressive assortment of makeup palettes and brushes. They were the same brands that Rumi liked.
While wrestling with the bag, it moved into just the right angle such that a shine in the side pocket caught Zoey’s eye. A prepaid cellphone?
“Okay, seriously, what is this?” Zoey blurted out. She covered her mouth with her hand to avoid screaming and waking Mira. She screamed anyway, once that hand smeared Derpy’s saliva all over.
Zoey flicked her head back to check the hallway, slimy hand twitching in the air. All quiet. Was that a snore? Mira’s bedroom door stayed closed. Zoey swore she heard snoring. Well, Mira always was a deep sleeper.
When wiping her hand on her pajamas, she saw it—in the first zipper. There was a blue folder. Too dark, at first, to notice. She set the backpack down and slid the folder out. Derpy resumed pawing in the exact same manner again, while she perused the folder’s contents like she was back in school, studying.
First up, a photo of the three hunters. So sweet.
Then birth certificate.
Medical records.
Family relations certificate.
And more.
All Rumi’s.
Original copies.
And photocopies.
A passport?
Rumi’s passport?!
Derpy interrupted Zoey’s complete, utter shock with some head nudges.
“Oh, still hungry? I, uh, gotta go now, though.”
She reached out a brave hand to pet Derpy’s head. He accepted and didn’t seem to react to her question in any way, though he was still messing with the bag. Zoey took it and pulled out another food bar. She decided to remove the wrapper for him.
“Good boy.”
Then Zoey stood up and backed away, leaving the backpack, and not turning her back at first. As for Derpy, well, one must imagine Derpy happy.
***
Knock.
Knock.
There was no one in Rumi’s room, apparently. Zoey whipped out her phone.
rumi wya?
Read 01:56
midnight snack run, be back in like an hour?
Read 01:58
An hour for snacks?
Zoey stared at her phone in disbelief. Then she laughed.
lmao okay girl, but be quick. please?
Read 02:03
Wait. Why didn’t she ask what I was doing up so late? Ah, forget it.
She returned to Derpy and took back the backpack. Going a bit further down the hall, she knocked again.
“Mira?”
Again.
“Miraaaa?”
Aga—
“What!?!? It’s 2 am!!!” a muffled voice screamed through the wall.
“I think there’s a homeless stalker girl living in the tower.”
...
Click.
Mira looked like she flew through a tornado. Sounded like one too.
“If this is your idea of a—”
Zoey held up the birth certificates and backpack, opened and oriented to show the various essential items inside. The gears in Mira’s head spun and calculated, and then she gave a heavy sigh.
“Where did you find this?”
“Oh! Um, uh, haha, uh uh uh, uhhh, the... lobby?”
Mira raised an eyebrow.
“Okay! I snuck out to buy some snacks! Even though I know we have to wake up in 2 hours! Then I found this while coming back! Please don’t be mad!”
“You’re so easy.” Mira smiled, much to Zoey’s relief. “Guess we got a code S,” she said. “We’ll call Bobby in the morning. What else is in there? Any clues?”
“Just the bare minimum to survive,” Zoey said, walking into Mira’s room. They swept flat the eldritch horror that was Mira’s blankets, and she dumped out all the backpack’s items. Mira took note of all the same stuff that Zoey had already seen, although there was also a USB stick and a lot more makeup than Zoey remembered.
“Damn.”
“You know, maybe I shouldn’t have touched this. Fingerprints might be contaminated now.” Zoey was not about to reveal the existence of an extradimensional blue tiger or that it distracted her from this very obvious precaution.
“Oh, well, whatever. We can handle Gwi-ma, why not sasaengs?”
She picked up the blue folder, apparently drawn toward it as much as Zoey had been. Flipping through the files, each document brought her eyes closer and closer to exploding out of their sockets. All of that froze at the end of the folder.
“Yeah, it’s wild,” Zoey said upon noticing her eyebrows furrow.
“This is Rumi’s handwriting.”
...
“Zoey, this is Rumi’s handwriting!”
So it seemed that Zoey had missed a document.
Mira flipped through a couple more pages and reasoned that this last set was a single bundle. She pulled them all out and sprayed them over the bed. Each page was a separate bullet to the chest, yet they read in silence.
IF EXPOSED:
1. GOLDEN HONMOON ACHIEVED
a. STILL HAVE PATTERNS
i. MIRA ZOEY ACCEPT
ii. MIRA ZOEY DON’T ACCEPT
iii. UNKNOWN REACTION
iv. MIRA ZOEY ATTACK
b. PATTERNS GONE
i. HONMOON SEALS ME TOO
ii. ,, HURTS ME
iii. ,, KILLS ME
iv. MIRA ZOEY DON’T ACCEPT
2. GOLDEN HONMOON NOT ACHIEVED YET
a. MIRA ZOEY ACCEPT
b. ,, DON’T ACCEPT
c. UNKNOWN REACTION
d. ,, ATTACK
...
3. HONMOON DESTROYED
a. MY FAULT?
i. FIXABLE?
1. MIRA ZOEY AGREE TO HELP
2. DON’T AGREE
ii. NOT FIXABLE
b. SOMEONE ELSE’S FAULT?
i. BLAMED ME
ii. BLAMED OTHER
...
1. GOLDEN HONMOON ACHIEVED
a. STILL HAVE PATTERNS?
i. MIRA ZOEY ACCEPT
Remove the goodbye note. Best time is Wednesday night: Zoey too drunk, Mira sleeps earlier than usual.
ii. MIRA ZOEY DON’T ACCEPT
If you’re currently safe/isolated/away, get out WITH THIS BACKPACK. Call and proceed to Defense.
Else, couch—psychological comfort. STAND BY THE WINDOWS. DO NOT be between them and door!!!!!!
Defense
LEAD WITH THE DEMON FATHER—means someone can be born with patterns.
Emphasize security and efficacy of golden Honmoon.
Call Celine. Maybe will vouch.
Proceed to 1.a.i or iv.
iii. UNKNOWN REACTION
If exposed in heat of the moment: proceed to 1.a.ii.
Otherwise, get out WITH THIS BACKPACK. Put about 5km distance. They’ll call/text eventually. Gauge reaction. Then proceed to 1.a.i or ii.
iv. MIRA ZOEY ATTACK
Let them.
b. PATTERNS GONE
If you must reveal, follow 1.a.ii. Proceed to 1.b.iv if necessary.
Otherwise, don’t reveal past unless truly, utterly cornered.
Bathhouse excuses:
- Insist that it was shyness/modesty
- If fail: traumatized by 18+ horror movie that you accidentally watched as a kid. MAKE SURE YOU PRETEND that you’re embarrassed to admit
Transgenderthey rent out the entire bathhouse for their sessions- Sensitive skin [CLAIM IT’S GENETIC AND NOTHING WORKS, WILL COUNTER “Why didn’t you ask for lotion?” AS FOR “Why now?? SKIN CAN SUFFER, PUBLIC IMAGE LESS IMPORTANT NOW]
- Protecting my giant hair; admit/agree with them that it sounds stupid to evade progressing the topic
Autism???too easy to disprove
Long sleeve excuses:
- Genuinely just cold [WILL NEED TO CONTINUE WEARING FOR COUPLE YEARS, THEN SAY YOUR COLD TOLERANCE IMPROVED, THEN PHASE OUT LONG SLEEVES]
- UGH I don’t know.
- Fashion trend
...
ii. HONMOON HURTS ME
Unless lethal, can’t hide this, must reveal. Proceed to 2.a.
If lethal, follow next section.
iii. HONMOON KILLS ME
Can’t do anything so prepare the following:
Record my parts for 50 almost-finished songs. Should last a decade, will help cover up my “disappearance”donePut almost-finished songs on a USB stick. Put inside my guitar. They’ll pick it up at some point, it’ll rattle and they find itdonePut extra USB stick in this backpackdoneDouble envelope with goodbye note, inside my bed sheets. Don’t use white paper—they might not noticedone
...
2. GOLDEN HONMOON NOT ACHIEVED YET
a. MIRA ZOEY ACCEPT
Subin is most trustworthy makeup artist. Ask ███████████████ just write the NDA yourself
I can average 30 20 10 8 min for face/torso/arms.
Coach Subin to cover up patterns.
b. MIRA ZOEY DON’T ACCEPT
Get out.
Ensure 1.b.iii preparations are complete. They should get a decade’s worth of songs from my samples to finish the job and make it gold.
Proceed to 2.d if necessary.
Cut hair. NO plastic surgery, can’t hide patterns from doctors. Wait for media attention to falter. Then wait 2 years. Attempt a solo career if possible.
c. UNKNOWN REACTION
If exposed in heat of the moment, proceed to 1.a.ii. (NOT 2.b!!!)
Otherwise, get out WITH THIS BACKPACK. Put about 5km distance. They’ll call/text eventually. Gauge reaction. Proceed to 2.a or b.
...
3. HONMOON DESTROYED
a. MY FAULT?
Find Celine. Ensure 1.b.iii preparations are complete. Attempt construction of a new
...
“Mira?”
“Zoey?”
“What.”
“The fuck.”
“Rumi’s... a demon?”
“Her dad was? No wonder Celine never talked about him. And then her mom—”
“So they—she’s, what, a half-de—no wonder she’s so uncomfortable with Takedown,” Zoey realized, tears forming.
“No wonder she always wears long sleeves.”
“Wait, she used to wear short sleeves.”
Pause.
“Maybe patterns grow?” Mira reached for her phone on the nightstand. They both grimaced when the clock read 02:50. She scrolled through the album of photos of just the three of them.
Turtlenecks. Long sleeves. Hoodies. Short sleeves. Crop tops. T-shirts.
“Oh my God, it was right under our noses. And why are these plans so detailed?”
“Does she really think we would kill her?” Mira’s voice broke.
“Mira. Look. How. Detailed. They are.”
“Oh my goodness, s-so she really thinks we would kill her.”
“Can you blame her?”
“Yes! No. I don’t know.”
“Okay. God. Jesus, alright. Let’s just deal with this in the morning! We need that last hour of sleep. I’ll go hide all this stuff for now.”
It did not take much protest for Mira to agree, i.e. none at all. Zoey made sure to completely close the door before checking for Derpy. He sat by the window, watching, without a care in the world, before turning to look at Zoey. Setting the backpack down next to him, she began a conversation.
“Where did you find this?”
Derpy blinked.
“Can you take me there?”
Mystical threads appeared and glowed. Light shined everywhere. Derpy sunk into the Honmoon, bringing the bag with him. Zoey tried to grab it, but her hands phased right through. The light of the Honmoon dissipated. All that was left was some cold wood floor.
“Uh oh.”
She kept it behind a loose panel in the maintenance shaft, where she could grab it while on the run. Why was it here, on her balcony? After a night with Jinu being stupid again, she expected to come home to relax in bed like usual. Now her whole world might be crumbling down. She picked up the backpack and—the weight distribution felt different.
She barged inside. Curtains closed—batten down the hatches. Double check: door locked. Ready. Zippers ripped open. Contents emptied.
The entire arrangement had changed. Underwear was less compactly folded. Her instructions were out of order. The group photo had moved from the left pocket to the right. At least the water bottles were still sealed.
Two granola bars were missing.
And Derpy could not have opened Rumi’s backpack by himself.
Stick to the plan. Stick to the plan, stick to the plan, stick to the plan... 2.c.
Rumi, wearing the backpack, saddled back onto Derpy.
“Derpy, get us out of here.”
Before lift off, there came a knock.
“Hey, are you in there, Rumi? Are you ready for the photoshoot? Come on!”
What? What time is it? Oh no. Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Okay. They must not have done this, then.
This development wouldn’t reverse the fact that she got zero sleep this night. She would take the day off to investigate the tower, top to bottom, to figure out the culprit. No, a day off would look suspicious coming from her. Ask Bobby for security camera footage. Better.
Unless this is a trick?
“Just a minute, you two go ahead for now!”
She threw the backpack into the darkest pit of her closet and paced back and forth for a while. Her sword stayed ready; Derpy was in position to fly her away if necessary.
Nothing.
She opened the door.
She peeked out, side to side, and above.
All clear.
Mira and Zoey were waiting by the elevator.
The room went cold. Their faces were still and neutral. Rumi froze for an instant upon seeing them, before resuming her stride to avoid suspicion. She tried to scrutinize their faces, but when they looked back, matching the length and intensity of her gaze, it hit her.
So they did find it.
This is a trap.
Zoey launched onto Rumi for an enormous hug.
“Morning!”
Rumi tried to repeat it, what with Zoey constricting her airways.
So they didn’t find it?
Okay, stick to the plan.
***
There was no plan for this, but they finished their work like usual. Save for professional talk, Mira and Zoey said nothing, although Zoey chimed in with the occasional pun or turtle fact. If Rumi’s mind hadn’t been fixated on the impending nuclear bomb, it honestly wasn’t that strange of a morning.
Back at the penthouse kitchen, Mira leaned against the counter and scrolled through her phone, sometimes glancing at Rumi for no discernible reason. Rumi pretended to not notice. Meanwhile, Zoey made some ramyeon and gave Rumi the last one of her favorite flavor. But they had the same favorite. And Zoey would never give up her favorite! Especially if it—
They know. They know they know they know they know they—
“Hey, uh, Rumi,” Zoey began, sliding the cup across the kitchen island. “You know, you can talk to us about anything. Always. If you’re ever stressed or something, ‘cause I know things are, heh, ramping up. You know. Idol Awards and all. Right? Yeah?”
Yep. Red alert.
Okay.
Stick. To. The. Plan.
Rumi’s face softened, though underneath it was not relief or connection or friendship. She nodded once. “Yeah, Zoey.” She stood up, about to walk to ground zero, but was interrupted.
“Rumi. We found... a bag. With run-away supplies. And instructions. For...” Mira scanned up and down Rumi’s body. “Was that your bag?”
From muscle memory, she walked backwards to the couch without tripping and avoided sudden movements, all while keeping her eyes on them. The elevator revealed itself in her vision, just past the kitchen they were in. Perfect—she turned to face the window but kept the other two in her periphery.
She couldn’t see it now: Zoey and Mira’s eyes ballooned to comical proportions. Terror brewed inside them, exchanging nervous, knowing glances to each other. Zoey—and evidently, Mira—remembered this step from the pages.
Everything was in position. It was go time.
“Yeah. That’s my bag.”
She folded in on herself, instinctively hugging her arms. Words of comfort, counterarguments and rebuttals, and methods of reassurance flashed in her mind, primed and ready to fire. Although, when she was massaging her sides and grimacing, eyes half-shut, one wouldn’t expect her to be locked and loaded for a potential fight for her life.
Mira and Zoey didn’t remember the steps that came after this, so they lost the guarantee that they could twist their predicament into a victory for Rumi. With Derpy having stolen or eaten the instructions—Zoey didn’t know which, and Mira was pissed either way—their plan was simple.
A mess of black and pink filled Rumi’s world, and four arms wrapped around her so hard she gasped for breath.
She hadn’t planned for this next part. A gut reaction. Hot tears streamed down her face and stained the other two hunters’ hair. Couldn’t stop it.
No. Wouldn’t stop it. She needed this. She pulled them in, tightening the hug. For the very first time, she wasn’t pushing away.
“No! Don’t cry, Rumi!” Zoey said while crying. “Please, Rumi, I’m so sorry! I can’t imagine how it felt to hear us talk about demons all these years! We’ll never sing Takedown again!”
“Rumi, please never do that again.”
“Do what again?”
“Lie to us, and yourself. Rumi, I would never—we would never hurt you!”
“I’ll burn all those demon insult notebooks!!! I’ll write ten billion songs about how beautiful you are and I’ll—”
“Rumi, do you know how it felt to read that? Please never ever talk about your life like that.”
“But, i-i-it’s my... But I’m the enemy... and the Honm—”
“Rumiiiii!” Zoey sobbed into her shoulder. “You’re not the enemy!”
“Forget the Honmoon!” Mira commanded. “It’s always golden this, golden that!”
“I’m so sorry, guys. I never wanted—I didn’t want to lie, but—and I just—I wanted to tell you, but, and, I never—it’s okay. We can fix this together now. We just need to get the makeup crew acquainted. The patterns aren’t hard to cover with a bit of—”
“No!” they both yelled and released the hug.
“What?” Out came raw, unrehearsed emotion. She backed up one step, cowering a little.
“You don’t have to cover up anymore, Rumi,” said Zoey.
“But, our public image. The Honmoon w—”
“Rumi! Come on!” Mira begged. She held Rumi’s shoulders, trying to shake some sense into her, and tore out her heart to speak to the soul inside. Her voice escalated with every sentence. “Can you, for one minute, forget about work! And just show us you! The real you!”
“The real me is only hunter—”
“ALL OF YOU!”
The dam burst.
Rumi collapsed into Mira’s shoulder, and Mira followed suit. Zoey tried to wrap around the two like a confused puppy. The wailing, that horrible hollow sobbing, sent shockwaves through the walls fortifying Rumi’s heart. The cracks formed, showed, screamed, glowed. The light from her patterns now penetrated the thick fabric of her oppressive hoodie and turtleneck.
They cried and laughed and talked and talked and talked.
Every last lie and secret evaporated through the newfound fissures and stayed out.
Explanations—many rehearsed—and apologies—most unrehearsed—poured out, one after another. Unpaid debts, unresolved resentments. Everything was all going down the trash.
The hunters will form a new promise, a new bond.
For now, no Honmoon and no hunting. That could wait.
It was time to bring the walls down.
Ah, there was one thing that Rumi hadn’t put down the trash yet.
At 3 am on a cold Wednesday morning, Rumi crumpled the paper and buried it at the bottom of the recycle bin.
The future... was secure.