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Thus far: college student Zoey got kidnapped by cultists and watched unwilling cult member Mira get beaten in her defense before they awakened not so ancient, not so evil Rumi. After Mira took a turn in the damsel seat (being kidnapped to be used in opening a gate to hell) and so did Rumi (taking a trip to hell), the trio—along with shaman!Celine—finally have a moment to breathe. But they left a few loose ends (and dead bodies) behind them…
Ryu Miyeong would be the first to admit that she was not a perfect woman.
Once upon a time, she’d had big dreams—the kind of journalist who wrote stories that unconverted corruption and overturned governments, defended the underserved and kept the public informed of the truth.
But truth was a bitch who didn’t really exist, and print journalism was a dying industry.
So she learned to write what she needed to so she could eat, and if that kept her only a step above the idiots stalking idols just trying to live their lives? Well, at least Miyeong still had some standards.
But she thinks, maybe, if only because it reminds her of Yeonggi, if only because Jeremy hadn’t picked up any of her phone calls to say he had a secret twin, even if using this information isn’t the most legal thing she’s ever done and her editor’s going to kill her, whatever the hell happened to Kang Mira is the first story she’s cared about in a long time.
So she cuts the engine and walks up to the house.
It’s a long walk. She probably could’ve driven up to the door, but a person’s house says a lot about them. Mira’s says her family has too much money for their own good.
Miyeong wonders if it’s the kind of money that makes enemies.
Enemies who could fucking brainwash people? a mocking voice in the back of her head asks.
Reasonably, Miyeong decides not to draw any conclusions about that yet. Her job is just to put facts together in the right order, not to analyze them. Meaning is the reader’s job.
Jeremy might hate blood, but he didn’t just work with her. Could’ve been some kind of weird undercover thing—Sanguk had a habit of squirming around privacy ethics, and he was happy to bully other people into going along with him. Maybe.
Too many possibilities to draw conclusions, she tells herself, and she doesn’t believe it.
The house itself is an old-style hanok, well-kept. Something about it sends a shiver down her spine.
The door is hanging awkwardly on its hinges.
This is the part where Miyeong should call 112,
She thinks about what Park had said. That it looked like someone assaulted her patient. That people were trying to visit her.
She slips inside.
The smell hits her first. Rotting meat, so strong she nearly pukes all over the crime scene.
Then her eyes finally give in and put together the scene in front of her. Red and brown and black and yellow assemble themselves into a body. On the floor. A body without a face.
A body without a face because it has been pulverized.
This is the part where Miyeong calls 112.
(But she should’ve known that wouldn’t work, really. Truth was a bitch who didn’t really exist, so what the hell did that make justice?)
Miyeong frowns at her phone as the 'call ended' text blinks to her lock screen. She knew the operators on the emergency line were trained to be unflappably calm no matter what catastrophe was being reported from the other end of the line. But this...
You'd think she'd just reported the pettiest of thefts, not a break-in and violent murder.
"I'll send someone once they're available," the operator had said before hanging up. Weren't they supposed to stay on the line? And be a little more concerned about a murder?
Pocketing her phone, she turned back towards the room. Pointedly not looking at the faceless body on the floor, she breathes through her mouth and, after a considering moment, cat steps over the threshold.
Technically, she should stay well outside the crime scene, leave it undisturbed for the authorities.
But also technically, tiptoeing through the room and not disturbing so much as a speck of dust was leaving the room undisturbed.
Fishing for more disciplinary action? The ever-obnoxious voice in her head piped up. Looks like you're gonna get a bite!
Miyeong ignored it; she had practice.
Besides, this has all the trappings of her...special interest.
('X-Files fantasy,' her colleagues would say)
The room is some bizarre mix of the Kangs' high and expensive style and the aesthetic of an ancient cult. The parquet floor is scribbled over with strange markings, some of which have been halfway rubbed off. The shelves lining the far wall hold a mix of sleek modern sculptures and what seem to be ancient relics, all charred and singed as if there's been a conflagration bursting in the space. The mantel around the fireplace was completely obliterated, like there'd been an explosion of sorts. And the- the body is wearing a robe the likes of which would look right at home in, well, a cult.
Not that the Kangs could possibly belong to a cult; cults were secretive and ascetic and kept to themselves; the Kangs were regular faces on the society pages!
But.... She looked again at the markings, the relics, the body (briefly), the shreds of rope on the floor in the center of the incomprehensible design. What other explanation was there?
Checking the time, she made her way out of the room lest 'once they're available' happened while she was still technically not disturbing a crime scene and she got on yet another officer's bad side. Still, even surrounded by the pedestrian (well, pedestrian for the Kangs; she was pretty sure that painting was worth at least half her paycheck), furnishings of the foyer, she couldn't shake the feeling that there was something afoot. Something...not of this plane.
She could hear her colleagues now: "Miyeong's at it again. What is it today? Gwishin? Gumiho? Demons?"
It wasn't that she believed in all that. She didn't. Maybe? It was just- when Yeonggi passed, as sudden as a summer storm, she'd felt that there had to be an explanation, no matter the coroner's report. So she'd done what any semi-decent reporter would do and investigated; the places he'd been, the people he'd been in contact with.
She didn't find the answers she'd hoped. But she'd found...she could hardly describe it. An intangible sense of something that defied all explanation sans the impossible; an ancient something that smelled of incense and vellum, that swirled through the periphery of her thoughts like smoke from a storyteller's fire and rolled like a shaman's ritual chant.
No one else seemed to see it, sense it. If anything, though, their disbelief committed her more thoroughly to sussing out the truth, reasoning that if she dug hard enough, she'd strike gold.
Then Kang Mira mysteriously vanished from a hospital, and 112 couldn't care less about a break-in and murder in her home.
She loops around the thought as she drifts through the house and winds up in the kitchen. She stops.
Someone's been here.
The dregs of what must be a smoothie are in the bottom of the blender, room temperature but still liquid, the water not yet evaporated to turn the remnants sticky. Various other ingredients- honey, sugar, a carton of milk that's also warm but not yet soured- are scattered around the counter. She looks around suspiciously.
The murdered man's concoction, perhaps, before death came calling? Probably. But...there was no glass in the crime scene, no evidence of a spilled drink, and given the state of the kitchen he wouldn't have cleaned and put away the glass. So-
Wait. Hadn't Kang Mira's jaw been broken? And hadn't a pair of girls been asking after her?
Rumi is fascinated by the ‘running water’—as seems to be the most general term her companions have for it. It seems almost too broad, she thinks, but such smaller ones as ‘indoor plumbing’ and ‘the faucet’ are clearly not at all what she wants.
The shaman—Celine, a name Rumi knows she will have to practice to get completely right—offers to show her all of the modifications that have been made to her home over the years.
“Well,” Celine says, the tiniest of smirks playing at her lips as she looked between the three of them, “perhaps some new clothing first.”
Instead, this is when Mira’s hands begin to shake and she sits herself directly down on the floor.
“Mira?” Celine asks.
“Fuck,” she says, voice hoarse, instead of using her phone. Then, immediately regretful, she clutches at her throat and goes to check her jaw, like she can make certain the one word had not shattered the bone again.
No sooner have her hands reached the bruised skin than she begins to sob.
Zoey squeaks and drops to her knees, one hand under Mira’s jaw and the other on top of her head. Rumi settles beside them, the only thing she can do.
But Mira cries quietly, with a stillness to her. She doesn’t want anyone to notice that she san no longer keep the tears at bay.
“You are safe,” Rumi says. “You are among friends. It is done. You are safe.”
They are words she has said many times before.
They are words that burn, when she thinks of what she has done to put Mira in this position.
She looks up at Celine and mouths ‘handkerchief?’
Even so, Mira reaches out her hand and clasps Rumi’s tightly, with all the strength that had pulled her back from Gwi-Ma’s grasp.
“You are strong,” Rumi declares, squeezing in answer. “You have been so strong, Mira.”
“We’ve got you,” Zoey promises. She laughs, the sound high and wild. “Might be going a little crazy too, but that’s why there’s three of us, right? Gotta have all of those nice checks and balances.”
She says it almost with the air of one quoting, her hands sliding from Mira’s head down to the water ground of her shoulders, leaving Mira to smile back, as if she understood, and to place her free hand firmly over one of Zoey’s.
Rumi resists the urge to reach out and close the circle for no reason. Besides she’s still covered in blood—no one would want her touching them.
Celine drops between them a strange box with fine, white papers sticking from it.
Zoey did not, in fact, puke. It was a small mercy, as now that both Rumi and Mira were back and safe—Celine had assured them the house was safe—she had time to think. Actually think.
This was fine.
Mira had stopped crying, and Rumi and Zoey had dragged her back to bed, and Celine had gotten a little food in everyone, and it was fine.
The torrent slammed into her with the force of a rhino. Her thoughts whirled at a mile a minute.
Holy shit she’d been kidnapped, she’d almost died. Monsters were real? Mira had almost died?! Mira is really pretty! Rumi is really pretty! Magic exists? Hell is real!? She killed a chicken! Would she go to hell for that?! Rumi has demon powers?! She’d almost died! Mira had almost died! They’d almost lost Rumi forever. (As if Rumi would want to be around someone like her.)
She couldn’t, it didn’t. At some point she hit the floor. Her back slammed into the bedframe, from atop the bed, Mira mumbled something incoherent.
Get a grip Zoey, before you ruin something else, get a grip get a grip get a gripgetagripgetagrip.
A cool hand touched her shoulder light, hesitant.
“My lady, are you alright?” Rumi asked.
“I’m fine, I’m okay.” She has just been pulled out of hell, you do not need to be adding your stupid shit to her worries. Get. A. Grip. Something else was mumbled. Zoey didn’t hear it.
The hand went away. She didn’t miss it, she could handle herself, it was better this way, she was too much, she should just pack it in. She didn’t—Zoey forced herself to drag air in, hold it for two, and let it out. She clenched her fists. You’re fine. Get. A. Grip.
In the corner of her eye, a shadow settled next to her.
The gentle notes of a gayageum being strummed filled the air. Mira had played it with an alarming proficiency, but this was something else entirely. Rumi’s fingers danced across the instrument like flowing water. The sound caressed something in Zoey’s heart. From her spot on the bed, Mira let out a sleepy sigh of contentment.
Then Rumi started to sing.
Rumi sings an old lullaby, mindless as she does, too busy watching Zoey.
The aftermath of violence is always difficult. But Zoey and Mira are strong. They will be well.
Slowly, Zoey relaxes.
“You’re really good at that,” she says, sniffing into her hand.
Rumi tries not to think about the papers that she had been promised were much easier to create than they had been before, in spite of ‘deforestation’. She also tries not to think about the soft, warm feeling that melts in her chest at the compliment.
“Thank you,” she says. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yeah,” Zoey says. “Trying to decide if I can shower. It always makes me feel better to wash everything off when I cry and it’s been, like, three days now? Which is super gross. But I don’t wanna get all lightheaded and fall over.”
Mira grunts at her, a clear ‘Don’t remind me’.
“Perhaps I could help you?” Rumi asks.
Zoey squeaks, an inexplicable blush staining her cheeks.
Mira makes a soft sound of resignation, rolling towards them, clearly having given up on rest. Part of Rumi feels guilty, but most of her is simply pleased to be in Mira’s presence.
“Can you still not talk?” Zoey asks quickly. “I mean, like, no offense, the text-to-speech is super chill, I get it if words are just not your friend, but usually people can talk with their jaws wired shut.”
After a long pause, Mira says, her voice soft and raspy with disuse, “…I didn’t want to make it worse.”
“Should I ask the honorable shaman to summon another ambulance?” Rumi asks worriedly. If there is a medical situation, they should certainly be getting Mira to a healer who was more qualified than they.
It makes her companions laugh, even if they try to stifle it. Rumi’s heart flips in her chest.
“Ambulances are for emergencies, usually,” Zoey explains. “We could just drive there ourselves if we needed to go see a doctor.”
Rumi nods in understanding.
“We should ask Celine for some clean clothes, though,” Zoey says. “Whether or not we shower.”
Mira points at Rumi and says, “Biohazard.”
Rumi does not fully understand this word, but Zoey makes a face and nods her agreement, so Rumi expects that she, at least, will certainly be showering
Rumi volunteers to fetch the bathing supplies; it is the least she can do, to return the kindness Mira and Zoey have shown her. Plus neither of them looks up to it. But this is fine; she likes being helpful.
(especially, she is fast learning, helpful to them).
Besides, this is her house, as the honorable shaman said, making her the host and them her guests. It is her duty to make sure their needs are met. Only...
She had been too concerned with assuaging Mira's tears and the aftershocks of panic wracking Zoey to pay attention to her dwelling beyond letting the shaman usher them from den to bedroom, pointing out the bathroom on the way.
(the most magical bathroom, covered in shiny surfaces and with multiple fonts of springs gushing forth at a silver command and with a privy that defied description)
But now, standing in the doorway of the bedroom, a mission in her hands, she realizes the house...it is hers, but at the same time not hers.
There were not quite this many doors when last she was here, the hallway not quite this long. The shadows are not a problem, no ward can diminish a demon's night vision, but they lie in strange ways, and the sounds that reach her are a disorienting mix of the familiar creaks and groans of a settling building and an alien hummmmmmm that drones like summer cicadas from the kitchen.
She tries to think, think back to the last time she was here-
"Hey. I was thinking, Rumi...that we go up to the cave tonight."
-that was not a wise decision.
She casts the thought away, pushes past the way the slashes in her side throb anew and how the memory left her feeling like an ass had kicked her in the chest, and tries to refocus.
Well, when she lived here she had a storeroom. It was...on the north side, so it would be shaded and cool even in high summer.
But there are no stars in the hallway, and...she isn't sure which of her rooms this bedroom corresponds to (was it even here?).
Mira and Zoey need their bathing supplies, though (and, apparently, so does she), so she guesses, turns to her left, and opens a door.
Not a storeroom. A table, large metal boxes, and something on the table that resembles a very large phone, 'screen' (a new word she has learned) black and silent.
Interesting. But not helpful. Next door. Boxes and chests fill it to the ceiling. A storeroom, but the wrong sort. Not the sort she ever remembers having. She shuts that door and pauses, leaning against the wall. Something turns in her chest, like a pebble against her palm, hard and lonesome.
There is a clicking sound, and one of the doors on the facing wall opens, revealing the shaman. She gasps, hand flying to her chest as she startles back. "Rumi-nim!" She lowers the hand, bowing even as she pants. "I didn't hear you."
"Apologies, honorable shaman," Rumi bows. (she got that a lot; clearly this has not changed with the years). "I hope I did not disturb you."
The shaman waves off her attempt at absolution. "I' was already up. Thought I'd make some tea. Is something wrong?"
Yes. I am a stranger to my own home.
But of course, Rumi doesn't say that; there are more pressing needs, and people with problems bigger than hers. "I require bathing supplies for Mira and Zoey and myself, for they say I am 'biohazard.'"
The shaman presses her lips together, eyes glistening in a way similar to Mira and Zoey's when she suggested an ambulance. "I can get those for you."
Something Zoey called to her as she was leaving taps against her mind. "Mira also needs more elixir; the powers of the one you gave her at supper have worn off."
The shaman nods. "I suspected they would right about now."
Rumi is impressed. Clearly, this is a shaman gifted with clairvoyance.
“Blood can carry diseases,” Celine says, careful not to sound condescending—her! Condescending! Towards Rumi!—as they walk. “Biological material that is hazardous. A biohazard.”
Rumi looks down at herself. “Oh, I see!”
She certainly does not seem embarrassed in the least, but rather delighted to learn something new, just as she has received each explanation from Mira and Zoey. Her humility is something many—Celine included—could stand to learn from.
And yet, Rumi is a young woman dressed in a shredded sports bra, a mass of bandages, and dirty, bloody jeans.
Celine is still trying to reconcile the two.
She nudges open the door to her bedroom, and turns to Rumi with bow. “I apologize, but I only have clothing in my own sizes. Please, take whatever is most comfortable for you.”
Rumi—Rumi!—bows even lower. “You have my thanks, mudang-nim. Your generosity is more than enough.”
She hurriedly takes one of Celine’s cardigans, but hesitates over the next open drawer before turning, blushing deeply as she holds up a pair of shorts. “I… Mudang-nim, I am not very familiar with the clothing of this time. Please, are these an appropriate undergarment?”
///
Miyeong calls 112 again. And then again, on speaker, with her recorder right next to the phone. And then she calls 182, the non-emergency line, and asks pointed questions about procedure.
That conversation goes great, right up until she explains that, yeah, she found a dead body—the operator is deeply concerned—and gives the address of the Kang house. Because she thinks it’s Kang Jaeho.
Five, four, three, two—
Click.
So Miyeong calls her editor. “I have a story about police corruption.”
“Ryu,” he says slowly, “what?”
“I’m standing outside a house with a dead body in it, and the police have hung up on me four times now,” she says, as calmly as she can. “I can play you the recordings from two of the calls if you want.”
There’s a very long silence. Then he says, not unsympathetically, “Must’ve had some morning. Pitch it to me.”
“It started with Kang Mira getting kidnapped from the hospital,” she says.
And he turns on a dime: “Ah, Ryu, not more of this hospital nonsense!”
“Look, no, I swear—“
“Shut up. Just shut up. Find me a normal story and we’ll ignore you ever brought this up.”
“I can send you photos of a murder victim! Right now!” Miyeong tries, desperately, but there’s silence for five, four, three, two—
And click.
So she paces back and forth along the porch until she can almost breathe again. Then she looks back through her call history and calls Park Minji. “When do you get off?”
“Who is this?” Park asks.
“Ryu. When do you get off?”
“Why are you calling? I gave you what you needed,” she says.
“I’m calling because I think you’re the only person who’s going to listen when I say that I’m at Kang Mira’s house, and there’s a dead body inside,” she snarls.
Park takes a sharp breath.
“Well?” Miyeong demands.
Park takes a ragged breath. “Nine. I’ll give you my cell number. Text me the address.”
And she does.
And she hangs up.
One, two, three, four, five. Miyeong takes a deep breath and lets it out with a breathless laugh.
Celine doesn't know how she winds up in these sorts of situations.
Forty-eight hours ago she started what she'd thought was a normal workday. Now here she is, explaining twenty-first century undergarments to the great (albeit very confused) Rumi-nim.
"These do not have a great deal of fabric..." Rumi looks skeptically at the garment in her hand. Celine's ears flame.
Correction: she knows how she winds up in these sorts of situations: pursuing a mudang's calling rather than "practical" accounting.
No matter. She can't turn back the clock, and even if she could...she does not think she would want to give this up. Even if she feels like she's about to combust explaining the intricacies of...wardrobe items not meant for public display.
Rumi is at least satisfied when she finishes. Arms full of garments she bows again, an exemplar of humility and politeness. "I thank you, mudang-nim, for you aid and understanding." When she straightens she is smiling shyly, like a child who's been given a gift they're not sure they deserve.
Not like a mighty hero.
It's disorienting, reality compared to legend. Like when her family vacationed in Paris once and she saw the Mona Lisa, far smaller and unassuming than she'd expected. She's not sure what to make of it.
So she does what she always does when she's not sure what to make of life: slips on a businesslike, professional air and bows back, ever gracious, before escorting Rumi to the door.
As they make their way back down the hall, she can't help but notice Rumi frowning at the doors and walls and decor. A horrible thought seizes Celine's chest.
"Is the house not to your liking?" She asked, unable to stop the creeping anxiety. The mudangs over the years had done their best to maintain the architectural integrity of the structure, but updates and additions were inevitable as it changed hands and centuries rolled by.
Rumi-nim bites her lip, a girlish gesture that is glaringly incongruent with the image in Celine's head. "No. You have kept it well. It's just...strange." She looks around, shivers slightly. "The air is...cooler than I remember. And..." she sniffs, wrinkles her nose, and looks what Celine can only describe as crestfallen. "I cannot smell the forest from here."
It is officially too late for Celine to explain air conditioning, so she just mentally commits to turning up the thermostat and opening some windows.
And fighting the bizarre, highly unprofessional urge to give the great Rumi-nim a hug.
Rumi manages to figure out the shower on her own, at least—use the curtain like so to keep the water in, this makes it hotter, that makes it colder, the small object in the dish is… probably soap?
(Thankfully, the bottles have instructions written in Hangul—she might’ve died of embarrassment if she’d had to ask for any more help.)
She tries to pronounce the shaman’s name, now that she is alone—a jangled mass of sound thuds from her mouth.
Rumi will have to continue hiding from humiliation behind pleasantries, then.
She is rather used to bathing while injured, but the shower is… new. It takes her some work to figure out how to keep from falling on her face, even without taking into account her bandages.
Baths are much nicer, she thinks, even if she can understand the logic of wanting to be able to drain away the dirty water immediately, and it must be good to be able to meet hot with cold and cold with hot with such ease.
However, baths do not involve standing on wet, slick tiles while your legs ache, and you get to get to soak.
This invention is not superior.
She can’t even keep her bandages dry!
There are a few lotions in the room, but Rumi admits that she does not have the mobility to apply them at the moment, nor the energy—she is only barely able to button the jacket she had borrowed from the shaman. At least she is able, though it hangs awkwardly low over her collarbones, even when she buttons it all the way.
The pants, at least, are far closer to the sort she is familiar with stealing from Jinu, and much more comfortable than the ‘jeans’ Zoey had helped her buy.
She is startled to open the door and find Zoey and Mira waiting just outside of it.
She blinks at them.
They blink at her.
“We wanted to make sure you weren’t going anywhere,” Mira says. Her voice is clearer than before, though still quiet, and pleasingly deep and rough.
Rumi averts her eyes instinctively, though she is certain they can see her blushing, if only because of how much skin she’s baring.
“I would ask your aid,” she mumbles, after a moment. Why must she be plagued by women who are so wonderful and beautiful as Mira and Zoey, and desires as shameful and maddening as her own?
Warnings for typical themes of Jane The Virgin and the Pitt. Catholicism and religious imagery and discussions, discussions of past cancer, non consensual pregnancy/unintentional artificial insemination, …which is medical malpractice, discussions of abortion, protective Dana Evans, soft Brendon Park, Emma Nolan’s whole nun thing. Religious devout Emma Nolan. Author is not catholic. Author is a Jew from New York however, so she thinks she has a pretty good handle on Catholics.
Always adding to my tag list so don’t be afraid to request to join!
The Surreal Virtual Digiscape: Heatwave (Hoppypatch)
( Please do NOT repost my art on ANY platform. Thank you. )
... HOOOOH it's been a hot minute since I had anything to post. April weather in the Philiplines hasn't exactly been the friendliest and neither did it like me drawing, so I more or less took an art break till this 😮💨
Anyways since it's the unforgiving summer heat, I'm making my favorite trio suffer a similar unforgiving heat. Caine might be tampering with a new update to implement in the mansion, but he forgot to factor in the tenants that would suffer the consequences of his tests... so here's our threeio trying (in vain) to cool off somewhere in Ragatha’s room...
... until they decided to move to Ribbits room. This is only a small portion of their bedroom (it's a bit large, almost as large as Jaxs' bedroom) and the idea of a nice swim was there-- they changed into their beach outfits and all-- but the heat didn't leave any place untouched 🥲 so now they suffer IN the water...
Anyways that's all, I got stuff to do and the summer heatwave to battle. BYEEEUH--
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Instead of cursing her to an eternal sleep or death, Maleficent declares that the princess will grow up to betray the kingdom and serve her instead. So the king sends Aurora away, but one day the young adventurous girl strays a bit too far and right into her territory.
And of course Maleficent is like "hey kid do you wanna learn some totally normal magic that is not dark or evil at all"
wanted to post it later but honestly can't wait to so I'll just drop it now. Harley and one of his test subjects 🥰 that pointlessly tries to fight back, but Doctor has eyes everywhere
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So does Elliot also lose an eye at some point or is it just everyone else in his 'family'
its inverted but shhhh
Elliots "family" being a shamble of people who attempt to dig themselves deeper into the factory walls because the surface isn't 'safe' enough for them is something i am so normal about. so normal. The only one trying to not do that is Poppy herself.
kidnapping stalking insanity sleepwalking cannibalism and teeth, gaslighting gun violence pipe murder and silence and medical trauma and meat. bugs in your body and poisoned black coffee and self-mutilation and lies, police brutality breaks from reality suicide spiders and eyes. paaaaaranoia degloving the uncanny valley and running like prey to survive, agonies torture and drowning and falling and then being buried alive.
doubly funny that I saw a compilation of all the corporate accounts like "aw thanks elmo, we're doing well" meanwhile all the flesh and blood real human people are extremely not okay
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