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re-presenting haeran, one of ur local council members posing as a human and hanging onto the disguise by her fingernails. she's really a hellhound, a product of her mother fucking around the blight and eventually finding out. for the most part she's the same core character as her canon version but i've included au specific details under the cut. + like this if u want to plot a little thread tgt !! lets have some dramaaa

[ . . . ] "does saying it's a serious hobby make me sound a little better? i really just like--- fixing things, even if it's cars, anything mechanical. i love working on little old world things that i find around the shop, too. but cybertech is where i started." yeona admits, earnest grin and shine in her eyes as she talks about it, hopes that it can put some faith into the other's heart that she's as serious about this as she can be, as enthusiastic as she seems, too.

"ah. the feathers don't get in the way, nothing like that?" she muses, but her teasing is light, lacking the teeth it would have if it were anyone else.

there's pride in yeona's words. it isn't the kind of pride haeran would scorn --- she's used to vanity, ego, some hobby collector throwing a boa like this over their shoulder and gushing about how it's from some astran actress or something equally ludicrous. she wonders if that's embarrassment she's picking up on, but she's not sure what for. she thinks of the first time she found something organic in the market, the cumulative time she'd spent running her fingers over the synthetic skin of the stall fruits and how marked the difference was when she finally rifled her hand over an organic peach --- how the stallkeeper had seemed embarrassed by its texture and pointed her to a different basket of them instead, all manufactured cleanly without the natural fuzz and colorations that made it taste all the more vivid when, later, haeran took a bite of it on the train ride back.

she looks warily at the space yeona pats for her to take. not a table? she keeps herself from asking, at the risk of it sounding like a complaint. it's jarring enough to see the damn mechanics coiled around her hand. the clinic tables made inspections feel like dissections.

"makes you sound a little geeky. but it's fine. it's cute."

she shifts as close as she can from her seat. carefully, she sets her arm across yeona's lap, feels the shape of her thighs beneath the cover draped across them. yeona is warmer than the tables, too. makes haeran detest how alien the mechanical joints of her hand look against the backdrop of her.

"don't worry about hurting me, i can't feel anything from the wrist down without the feelers on, and they've been kind of fucked too." occasionally the sensitivity spikes. most times, she just doesn't feel anything at all. she slides two fingers over the manual release over her inner wrist, trying to unlatch it for yeona, but the prosthetic only clicks and sticks. haeran purses her lips before deciding to look at somewhere else less infuriating.

🡦 sent, " what do you think will happen if we drink it ? "

"you seriously want to know?"

she says this, but as the moments tick by and the loose gathering around them fails to fall into any kind of order, she becomes more uncertain whether it actually matters whether they want to or not.

some good samaritans had called for an impromptu resident meeting down by the first floor of the building as soon as the news broke. impromptu, because haeran is sure the only ones here were the ones they managed to snag during their panic. the suddenness of it was the only reason she didn't leave as soon as she caught sight of it.

"i don't know what to believe right now. too much has been happening lately," she mutters, angling herself towards the only other one who seemed sane here. "the news didn't make it sound too bad. i'm more concerned about who was fucking around in the water supply and did this."

or so she assumes. jaehyun, she thinks his name is. she's seen him around the place a few times, and she has decided he's saner than most because she hasn't seen him act otherwise yet.

SCRIPT.

you are struck blind, robbed of your sight in broad daylight. using your other senses, you think you can navigate to safety. what path do you take? where do you arrive?

SCENE.

[ - - - ] "you can sit in my chair. i'm sorry for the mess, i was a little bored earlier and then i had to leave it when a customer suddenly came in."

"oh, please. if your work isn't worth that ring, then theirs definitely wasn't worth what i paid them." a matching smile tugs at the corners of her lips. "yeona. pleasure to meet you. i've never met an appraiser who also dabbles in..." her eyes drift to the boa, amused. "...theater."

she hasn't been in a place like this since--- was she ever? her mother's house had always had one foot in the past and another in the present: new world knockoff electronics, old world upholstery. vain and perpetually mirror-conscious, her mother had laid down some silent decree that if they couldn't afford the real thing, then they would settle for what looked most like it. only when they couldn't afford that either was the old world finally welcomed, and suddenly the traditional dark oak coffee table wasn't antiquated, it was chic.

haeran remembers that house well, with its decor like fragments of a greater mirror, each one a small reflection of who they were. you are what the world sees, her mother used to say. supposedly that was why, even when short on bills, there was somehow always enough every month for a nail appointment, where her mother made her watch her cuticles as they were meticulously pushed back into place.

no one wants to see the mess.

when haeran last saw her the day before her trial, her nails had still been perfectly trimmed. when haeran thinks of her standing over somebody else, pooling gutsy red, her mother is always pristine.

it's why, maybe, she hesitates again when yeona reveals the chair to sit in. she takes a seat, one hand resting over her prosthetic, and takes the opportunity to look around. it's not easy to unhear her mother's voice whispering in the back of her mind, but it is easier to appreciate the colors thrown on the walls, the way it's easy to walk through the halls of an exhibit and forget that anything else outside of it exists.

there's an art here too. romantic, haeran thinks. or baroque, if she reframes her attention to only the objects on yeona's desk and the little stickers peppered all over it. haeran can see the appeal of staying shuttered up in here all day.

[ - - - ] “showing off like that doesn’t look good on you.” his tone wavered through his anger, and yet it was dangerously calm. “makes your win sound pathetic.” sin knows he won, what’s the point of keeping score?

knowing who was under the helmet should have dulled the moment sin watches it come off. having seen glimpses of him all this time, that should have helped too, that longstanding fact that though he burned his bridges, he never really walked away from the unrecognizable rubble of it, still peering into the smoke and embers for any glimpse of who he'd left on the other side.

but that's all it ever was, wasn't it? in the end, glimpses and whispers don't compare to watching iseul unlatch his helmet.

he looks different. of course he does. haeran's memories of him over the years are patchwork at best, like seeing only notches marked up the doorway of an old house. one notch: the day he found out about iseul's father and the first time he came close to calling out for him again. another: the day he heard iseul's name around seonjaedo for the first time, not just as an addendum to his father's but a competitor on his own. iseul has changed all the more since that last glimpse. sin can't get past it, how familiar his voice sounds with its calmness. how unfamiliar, that anger.

sin watches him swallow it down. that's unfamiliar too --- the iseul he remembers was gentle. if there was any competition he cared about, haeran never saw it break surface.

"crowd says otherwise," he says mildly. "you don't bore anyone into placing their bets on you. i think you know that, though."

too quiet, and no one cared. too quiet, and no one noticed.

she'd been quieter once too. and good. and dutiful. does iseul also remember? none of it had made a difference in the end: haeran was still her mother's daughter.

sin, though, sin can look iseul in the eye. this shame and this guilt, it isn't his, and he's not that girl anymore, and he's not his mother, he's not batshit crazy, you'll see, that one's just waiting to snap.

"dew, right? i've heard about you. been thinking about racing you for a long time." and because iseul looks like a spring coiled tight into the ground, sin's the one to move forward first, putting out his good hand expectantly between them.

he's got some new notches of his own, but this isn't one of them. no matter how quiet and good she used to be, haeran has never been able to resist dipping her hands into fire.

[ . . . ] "i have some tools in the back, and we were going to close soon anyways. so it wouldn't be any trouble, really, i'd feel bad letting you leave when i know i can fix it for you. i won't ask anything for it, either, just being able to look at it and fix it is enough for me."

the offer is the last thing she expects, and haeran eyes them warily for it at first. she'd grown up hiding away scrapes and bruises from her mother, tending to them clumsily before her mother came home from work and had a fit about it. the last people to work on her hand were the ones who installed it, so if even they couldn't get it right, who could?

no, not quite. who could get it right, without naming some kind of price in return?

she studies the clerk for a moment, but maybe because it's late or because she's just exhausted of being reminded that not all of her hand was organic, was hers anymore, the suspicion doesn't last for long. she accepts the towel with a shake of her head and starts dabbing at the ink stains on her skin. the ones on her cybertech, she could just wash clean later. "you know what, i believe it," she says, letting out a dry, humorless little chuckle. her lofty tone drops like a curtain, unveiling something more informal, unimpressed, and simply tired. "i've tried going back to the same installation center to get it fixed, but it usually only lasts a couple of days before i hit something too hard and it breaks again."

for the most part, the downtimes were annoying but tolerable. she's been getting better at teaching both of her hands how to do things in case one or the other gave out. but it was significantly less acceptable when it happened while she was on the road.

she glances behind them, trying to find where they mean by in the back. she runs her fingers pensively over her prosthetic as she does. she has nothing to lose, she supposes.

[ . . . ] "will you show me where you had your bike before the race?" he casts a gaze to where sin holds onto the handlebars, eyes searching over the body, the metal. "if it'll make it there. might as well look around. if they're as stupid as i think they are, that means they're messy, too."

"too easy, yeah. don't worry, you're not the only one who lost out on that tonight," sin tells him, raising an eyebrow. there's surprise and satisfaction in his voice. "thought you were here for the money, s'all." blade questions the ease of it the same way she would, a strange little reminder that if she looked down, she'd find more common ground between them than she thought.

but that'd be too easy, too. if she wanted easy conversation, she'd call someone up at la mariposa---or sin would be here every night, taking up every racer who put their name down on the list. this one tonight should have been the highlight of his night, but now the win didn't even sit right in his mouth. not when those fuckers were still out there in the crowd.

a sneer tugs at his mouth at blade's words, like a cult. "sounds about right. i'm sure you know their type. they need him calling the shots, but i don't think it's got anything to do with loyalty. i think it's 'cause there's nothing in those heads that can think for themselves."

he eyes the floating embers of blade's smoke. maybe once he cashes out, he can trade blade a slice of it for a light.

"yeah, why not. wheels are still hot, i'd say it has another half hour before the tires start to give out." with an irritated grunt, he hauls his bike off its stand. like he suspected, the tires are still warm enough from the race that he can push its weight along easily, but soon it's going to need a mechanic.

motioning for blade to follow, he leads them away from the crowd. it's easy to escape notice when the wasp and his followers are still in the middle of rallying themselves up after that "robbery of a loss," and soon they round the makeshift stands where the audience normally sits. there are a few booths here, traces of oil and rubber from last-minute tune ups from other racers and their mechanics. sin's entertained the idea of getting one before, but now this seemed like the perfect reason why that was a horrible idea.

"here. left her for a few minutes when i had to piss. i can't believe i have to worry about getting someone to watch my bike now, like we're in grade school." he toes at the sand, near the half-faded imprints of where he'd dragged gaenari in and out of the small pen.

the way it looks, he feels like an idiot for just leaving her there. the pen isn't even locked, just a small, informal corral where racers left their bikes when it wasn't their competition yet. there are still a few bikes around, but with most of the races out of the way, it's mostly empty, save for some busted parts strewn about and a small black toolbox at the other end.

[ . . . ] she can't help the annoyance the colors her words. " i do love waiting for hours while you've been here the entire time. " uncaring if anyone overheard her, taking too long to finally sit when asked as the man begins to speak in great length. taking forever to even get to the meat of why they're actually meeting her.

it's not by coincidence that haeran learns of the exchange; there were no demarcations, but there were places around the city that were hers, and the notice of a certain someone's arrival comes to her private booth as a pluck along her spidersweb of connections. it's a passing whisper from a right-hand friend: do junyeong has come back.

that's all haeran needs to hear to excuse herself from her seat. she leaves her company tonight with a few easy words, then routes a path towards the other side of the club. she finds do junyoung by the back of his head and his habitual seat, that goddamn booth he always felt entitled to. the only consolation is that the back exit is nearby --- that if he was smart, he would listen and leave as soon as she asked.

if not?

she had left her pocketknife in her purse at the booth, but surely a fist would work as well.

but do junyeong isn't alone. haeran's irritation sparks into low anger at the sight of somebody else, somebody new. do junyeong and his gaggle loved to snap up fresh blood, reeled them in by inviting them to flashy places like this and promising more of it. who would say no to it, after all? to more of this glitz, more of this music, more of these clothes and this life? all he ever asked for was a simple favor in return.

haeran has seen the grisly endings of these favors. had been on the receiving end of one, in fact.

"junyeong-ssi." she interrupts something he's saying. "i believe my fiancé barred you from coming here, hasn't he?"

she only spares the newcomer a glance for now. as much as she would like to shake out every detail of what exactly they have discussed already, how much of this bastard's claws have already sunk in, but the last thing she wants is her bolting too. or, worse, thinking that she was the villain here.

do junyeong glances up, sees her, and laughs. he angles it at deiji, as if sharing a joke over haeran's arrival. "well, shit, kid. we've got the hotshots keeping an eye on us tonight. deiji, this is haeran." he reaches for his drink, and his next airy words are directed to haeran. "no one's seen him in months, haeran, i'm not afraid of ghosts. besides," he nods towards deiji, "'m here on business. proper business. tell her, deiji. we got things to discuss."

[ . . . ] some memories stayed. changed and shifted and became her own, and some were given away to time, to making space for new ones, rewritten, replaced. some lingered even though she wished they didn't, gives them more time instead, tries to make peace. she hopes this is peace, the ring tucked away, now. some things she wished it was as easy as signing it out of sight, instead of when even if it's gone, the memory can still stay. still linger. still haunt. the glasses slide down her nose, hair in her eyes. instead, despite, she still wishes for that peace. here, and again, and again. despite. despite.

haeran's lips twitch when the appraiser slips on their glasses to look. "do those help? tell between the good and bad ones?" there's an art to these things, she knows that. it's the same with people, though she's never been as good with objects, at the observation of them --- object permanence, haeran, is something still there when it can't be seen? how long does it exist out of sight until it can finally no longer be there anymore? inference is easier. easier to spin fiction out of things she can't really see, like the appraiser's easy humming that still rings in the back of her mind, like the closeness with which they study the ring in the light.

which one is it running through their mind, haeran wonders, observation or inference? do they see the lives that diamond has seen in its reflection? do they see the dispassion of the engagement it honored? does it feel as cold through that glove as it had always felt around her finger?

haeran sees every possible version of herself spring forth from each face of the gem. standing under the light of someone's perception has always felt akin to a glass mirror splintering under a precise strike. she keeps waiting for it, for the appraiser's gaze to wander to her instead.

it doesn't. haeran feels like the cat in that batty scientist's box, waiting anxiously for them to open the flaps and peer in and resolve the reality of her. who? who am i? who can i be for you? but when still she's given no cue, she takes the tentative step to observe them instead.

they look practiced. the music she'd walked into might have led her to think of someone careless, but now, less than an arm's width away, they look nothing short of meticulous. pretty, too. haeran decides that she's in good hands, proven right when the appraiser seems to finish and note down a price without another word about the ring.

yes. this time, haeran allows herself a small smile. perhaps there was no reason to dread walking back into this shop of memories after all.

"that looks agreeable enough to me. thank you for accepting it." not all of it was for show; something in her throat dislodges once the appraiser finally shuts the box and the ring is out of her sight.

all that's left now is to forget the permanence of it.

haeran's eyes fall on the pen, the most difficult part of the encounter so far. the accident had forced her to become ambidextrous, yet it hadn't killed enough nerve endings to keep her from favoring her left hand for writing. "do people come to sell often?" she asks because she's curious, but also because she hopes to mask the irritating click of her prosthetic as she forces its synthetic tendons to bend. "it looks quiet here." she glances at the dice. "a little dull, too."

the distraction is all it takes for her control to slip. her prosthetic snaps too hard too tightly, jamming the tip of the pen down too hard and sending ink onto the paper and her hand.

[ - - - ] "it's not even worth joining the betting pools in your races anymore. have half a mind to take it up with the ones in charge, it's almost like it's fucking rigged." he drags his eyes up to the sky and immediately changes the course, finds there's really no where else he wants to look between the two. "don't you have business somewhere else? having to watch you race is enough."

there's something endearing about blade. it's in the unhappy pixels of his mask, the tone that his voicebox does nothing to hide either --- sin finds him fascinating, like turning over a glass ball in his hands. it's far from the first time they've had this conversation, and blade's consistency continues to surprise him for someone who seems so intent on hiding his hand. "or, maybe, one of these days you could try putting your bets in my odds," sin sighs, lifting a shoulder in a shrug. "i make it so easy for anyone on my side of the ring, you know."

in reality it's none of her business, and nothing that he really, truly cares about. everyone had their reasons here, and he knew better than most to fuck with whatever compelled people to throw their money into chance. hell, he did it too, when a matchup seemed especially promising at the underground. the rush of winning a bet and proving some kind of upper hand over fate --- yes, sin understands, and he thinks he can understand that air of restlessness he senses from blade too. past the thorns around these conversations, there's always a faint and vaguely troubling feeling that blade might not be so different from haeran after all.

"i do have business elsewhere, don't worry. i'll be out of your hair soon." he pets over gaenari's handlebars idly, watching the commotion still bubbling over in the distance. it looked increasingly troubling, but that was to be expected. he had done his due diligence before tonight and acquainted himself with his opponent, through the words of the other competitors who'd had the misfortune of matching against him.

"it was almost rigged tonight, though. in your favor too." he nods towards the spectacle. "that one. calls himself the wasp, with his gaggle of friends who think they own the place by buzzing around him. you ever seen him race someone else before? bikes have a habit of careening out of control or bursting into flames right before a match with him. i caught a nail lodged in one of my tires, waiting to pop out mid-route and toss me into the waves." he taps his boot against gaenari's back tire, a particular spot in the inner bend where tape had been wrapped tightly around the shape of a nailhead. "now i've gotta get her fixed up."

she can't lean around when there's a customer, so she busies herself with refolding a shirt on the counter behind her, waiting if they happen to need help or not, not trying to be too obvious by peering over the clothing racks like she wants to, body moving back and forth to the radio as she hums under her breath. "let me know if you need help!" she tosses over her shoulder. for good measure, of course.

hands clasped dutifully over her old engagement ring, haeran enters the pawn shop for the first time in fourteen years.

when she was little, she trailed her mother here like a shadow and watched with hands carefully folded as she haggled her way through haeran's father's things. it bought them a pretty penny back then; haeran remembers the bus ride home after that last time they went, her mother's arms finally empty, how she'd still been naive enough to ask, was it really okay to sell appa's things? how her mother had grunted, that was the least that piece of shit could do for us.

naive still, maybe. despite everything. haeran picks absently at her stiff prosthetic as she takes in the shop again, each rediscovered sight slotting over her dusty memory of it. she doesn't see any of her father's things out in the open. she also doesn't expect to hear a much different voice call out to her, brighter than any voice in that memory.

she glances warily at the front counter, spotting the clerk --- unfamiliar too, which is another surprise, but it does take the edge off of being recognized. haeran lowers her gaze as she approaches the counter, letting the curtains of her hair frame her cheeks in a show of politeness. in her periphery, she watches the clerk as best as she can, gauging that easygoing hum to the radio's tune.

"i was hoping to get something appraised."

the engagement ring is shaped by twin silver ribbons, coming together to cup a gentle diamond in the center.

her ex-fiancé had been good at masquerades too. it's a trait that haeran can appreciate, despite how it ended. jung hanbin had understood the game too, understood that it was easier to knock people down the ladder of this world with someone climbing up with him. understood, at least, until it was him below haeran's rung.

haeran still thinks of him sometimes. thinks of him now, that last time she saw him backed into a corner, his gentle facade shot-through by murderous eyes and his mouth twisted in hysteria, you crazy bitch. you're just like your mother.

haeran brushes at a phantom tear with a knuckle. her prosthetic clicks in protest. "it's my old engagement ring, actually. which... well. i hope you can understand that i'd like to keep this a quiet sale, if possible. " she smiles, the trying kind, the kind that a despondent almost-bride might try to give as she presents the ring on the counter.