#sector one

you say, "i wouldn't have used it for everyone then. that's not fair."

joy shakes her head, and her expression grows extremely gentle. kind, even. for some reason, it angers you. she looks at you like you're one of the little children tucked away in the school room, throwing a tantrum because you don't understand something.

"sector one is a commune, y/n," joy says. "everything we bring into these walls is to be shared with everyone."

"i don't think that's fair." you say, flat out ignoring her kind, frankly condescending tone.

joy shrugs, "it's every person for themselves beyond this wall, but if we want to build a healthy community then we need to share our resources. we can't be so individualistic. we must survive for the future of humanity."

she's not wrong, annoyingly enough, but the way joy's eyes soften with her words makes you frown still. you sigh. she won't budge in this, and you still don't want to cause any waves - not with joy. you concede, "i'd appreciate if you tell me where you got it from next time at least."

so you don't get blindsided by another angry newbie next time.

"sure," joy says, and her tone grows an edge to it that is unexpected. almost as if she's holding back an eye roll. you'd done that often with annoying customers back before to catch it in her voice. joy says, "did you want to know where every single bag of flour comes from, too? a map of every neighborhood and every house each team has raided just to find a single can of condensed milk? do you want a debrief of what we found in each of those houses along the way? maybe you want pictures of the families that lived there back Before?"

you blink at her tone, bristling. you did not imagine the contempt, clearly. you should not match her tone or her energy. you've always told yourself to remain calm, to maintain a demeanor that kept you out of trouble, but perhaps staying here has softened your rules for the worst. you bite out in the same politely cutting tone, "if you think it's necessary, then why not?"

joy meets your steady gaze from across the room, and there's a tick in her jaw that you would have missed if you were not looking. she lets out a long drawn out sigh, and says, "it's early, y/n. we'll talk later. and," joy smiles and her gentleness, softness, returns, "i'll consider your request, alright?"

you know what a dismissal sounds like, so you nod and say, "thanks."

~.~.~.~.~

your annoyance grows as you head to the kitchens. you walk past the training grounds - it’s closed off to the rest of the commune by wooden fences that are chest height. the showers are accessible from the training grounds and from the rest of the communes, though you doubt one could call them showers really, since it was just a giant room with a dozen shower heads installed all across one wall and bathroom stalls on the other side. there were allotted times for certain genders and age groups to shower and it was heavily enforced by both joy and the people themselves. it still lacked privacy, nothing but a measly hooks separating each shower head that was meant for you to hang up your own towel for privacy, but it was better than nothing. you'd gone months without a proper shower before sector one so you really could not complain about these, especially because sector one somehow had hot water.

you sigh as you head past the courtyard that held all the dining tables - benches lined up side by side like a picnic camp ground - and through the bustling kitchen. joy was never quite so abrasive with anyone, and you wondered if she'd bristled at your request, or because of something else entirely.

the kitchen is hard at work on breakfast already, the head chef - kyungsoo - shouting instructions over to his bustling aids. the main kitchen is huge, with scratched up industrial steel tables, an oven, and a gas stove with blackened coils. everything is mismatched and broken in some way, but it's all the scavenging crews could find. tiny potatoes are piled in boxes in the far corner. an aid calls, behind you! and you step out of the way as they stumbled past with an armful of canned vegetables. another one follows with a couple large knives. you’d worked with kyungsoo during your first week in sector one, and you did not enjoy it. he was particular about everything, and ran the kitchen like the military. being late was not tolerated, and messiness resulted in punishment - usually hand washing the dozens upon dozens of dishes after meals, and getting more water from the wells. he'd despise the way you ran the baking kitchen, and you knew that was why he never crossed the line to your kitchen unless absolutely necessary. kyungsoo was also awful at baking, apparently.

kyungsoo tips his chin in your direction and you wave back before you slip into the back hallway, kyungsoo's shouts and the banging of pots and pans echoes behind you. the dark hallway is used as storage for both your kitchens, and serves as a small pathway leading to your bakery. there are a decent amount of flour bags lined up along one wall, and some small containers of cooking oil on the other. cooking oil is a precious resource these days and the main kitchen had priority over yours when any food hauls came in, so you often had to improvise with your recipes to substitute oil. sugar, though, was the hardest to replace, and often you had to look for natural sugar alternatives, or worse, go sugar free until the next food haul.

the lights to the bakery are on. you wonder if yeri arrived early to prepare all the dough left to rise overnight. unlike kyungsoo's kitchen, you did not get very many assistants assigned to your kitchen. it was a small space, and bread was really deemed the most necessary of baked goods that came out of your kitchen. everything else is a luxury. a treat.

you are startled when you step into the kitchen, and you're greeted by a deep grunt in response. that is certainly not yeri.

you pull your knife that you keep hidden at your hip - you cannot help it - spinning in the direction of the grunt.

you blink.

mingi has both arms up in the air in a placating manner, his eyes wide. he tries to make himself look less threatening but his height does not help.

"shit, sorry," you say, dropping your arm to your side, sheathing the knife quickly.

mingi shakes his head as he slowly lowers his arms. he says, "you're better with a knife than fists."

you frown at him. he cracks a small smile. it lights up his face, though you notice his smile does not reach his eyes. you've seen it quite a bit in everyone's faces, the dim look in their eyes, but his eyes are something else. something sallow. broken, maybe, like cracked bread or all those crushed picture frames you'd seen since the world went to shit or the way your heart shattered when you left your parent's house for the last time.

mingi peers around the kitchen, and you break the silence first, shaking yourself from your thoughts, "why are you here?"

he says, "i've been assigned to help here."

his deep voice helps expel your spiraling thoughts. broken eyes are common these days. nothing was worth fixing unless it helped you survive, especially people.

"really?" you ask, surprised. kyungsoo hinted a while back (with infuriatingly gleeful audacity) that your kitchen would only get one kitchen aide, and you and yeri had grown resigned to the fact.

"i used to work at a bakery back..." mingi trails off, shrugging, "i guess someone told joy."

the way his voice curls around someone makes you think mingi knows exactly who told joy. he's nonchalant still, unbothered in a way that makes you wary. where yeosang is guarded and, frankly, angry, mingi is calm and unbothered. you don't know which is worse. one put his cards out on the table right away, and the other felt like a mysterious ticking bomb.

"you have more experience than me, then," you say, laughing a little as you grab two aprons from the hook beside the counter. you toss him one, and he catches it easily.

mingi shakes his head, "i was just a cashier."

"even better," you say, tying off your apron, "my head baker position is secure."

a beat of silence passes between you both as you pull out dough left to cool in the fridge overnight by yeri during your day off.

then, mingi says, voice soft, "for now."

you look up at him. mingi grins once more, and his face is softer, his shoulders less stiff. you can't help but laugh. his grin grows a little wider.

you think mingi is easy to like. that makes you a bit wary.

~.~.~.~.~

you can't sleep. it's difficult to ignore what night brings, even if you are supposed to be safe in sector one.

nights are always quiet in sector one. days are often filled with chores, and the hustle and bustle of getting things done. the older compound members would sit under one of the three shade structures built along the three walls of sector one that did not hold the training, dining, and kitchen facilities, the canopies made of mismatched wood and plastic, sandbags holding the posts down, and they would weave baskets, sandals, plates, and other necessities, or scrub laundry. your first few months, you found the way they hollered at each other or howled in laughter jarring. but now, it was comforting. stronger able-bodied folks would carry pails of water in from the wells, or spend time in the greenhouses and gardens. the scavenger teams and patrol parties would walk with purpose, busy whispering to each other of their plans. an occasional child would run about, weaving through groups of people and kicking up dirt and grass. it was overwhelming when you'd first arrived. especially with how quickly the atmosphere changed as night approached.

once the sun set, everyone retreated back to their quarters. there was a large common room, with couches and ratty cushions and board games missing half their pieces and unfinished puzzles on the floor, and the hallways to the individual bedrooms and family rooms were lit up with dim torch lights, but conversations remained hushed, and no one dared to step outside. despite joy's promises, despite the fact that sector one truly did seem safe from the black fog and whatever lurked outside at night, everyone remained cautious, quiet.

perhaps, it was indication enough that the survival instincts from beyond the wall still lived on in these people. it made you feel less strange for still being wary. but the switch from lively to dead silence made it difficult to sleep.

this particular night, you wander outside the common room. oftentimes, you would not be the only one sitting quietly in the common room. a pretty boy with dark freckles and kind eyes always sits in the corner and reads under dim candlelight. he never says anything to you, and you to him, but you find his presence reassuring.

tonight, however, you step outside. the boy looks up from his book as moonlight douses him. he frowns, opens his mouth, but does not say anything. you shut the door quietly behind you, the wooden door clicking shut softly.

it's cold outside, and the hairs at the back of your neck stand on end. it feels as if there are eyes on you - there very well might be. whatever attacked humanity, whatever hung between the moon and stars and caused the black fog and horrible screams at night, is probably watching you walk around like a goddamned idiot.

you clutch your sweater closer as you pass by the training fences.

the grass slopes off into a short hill, that leads down to the courtyards and the kitchens. at the top of the small hill sits a familiar figure. he is awash in moonlight, and his pretty features are almost ethereal like this. he's staring up, presumably at the moon.

you still don't have the guts to follow his gaze. he's brave. you've looked up at it once, just briefly, and you still remember the tiny reflective silver objects flitting in and out between the clouds, darkening the whites of the moon. you still remember the way your stomach sank at the sight, as if your instincts knew there was something very, very wrong. it was a deep-rooted, evolutionary fear that curled under your bones and never really left you.

a burning ember sets yeosang's face ablaze, orange mixing with white moonlight. the smell of cigarette smoke is strong. you didn't know those still existed.

he looks back at you over his shoulder, his dark eyes widening slightly at the sight of you before he looks away as if he is disappointed.

you step closer, plopping down uninvited next to him in the grass.

yeosang rests his hands on his folded knees, the cigarette burning out between you both. one of his knees are shaking.

after a moment of silence, yeosang speaks.

"sorry for being a dick earlier," yeosang mumbles, "and for disappearing."

"thanks," you say, fixing your gaze on the gates straight ahead. "appreciate the apology. appreciated the silence a bit more though."

yeosang snorts as he sticks the burning cigarette in a patch of dirt, grinding the end until the orange ember sputters out.

you look at him. yeosang looks tired. you say, "can you tell your friend wooyoung to apologize though? he beat me up because of you and a bag of chocolate chips."

yeosang laughs then, and the sound is unexpected. it's pretty. softer than his walls. "wooyoung is an idiot."

"that doesn't excuse him trying to dislocate my arm."

"yeah," yeosang mutters, frowning suddenly, "it doesn't. i'll tell him."

the silence afterwards is tense. you have no idea why. you want to ask, but you also don't care to know.

suddenly, yeosang says, "i heard mingi is helping you now."

"yeah," you say, "he said he used to work at a bakery."

"i met him there."

you raise a brow, "oh, back Before?"

"no, during the Invasion," yeosang cranes his neck as he peers up at the moon. you don't dare to follow his gaze. he says, "mingi killed someone who tried to kill me. was still wearing his apron and everything."

he speaks so casually, as if that day is not still a sore spot for nearly everyone you've ever met.

"you've been together ever since?"

yeosang nods.

you can't help it when you ask, "how?"

yeosang frowns at you, "what do you mean?"

how were you meant to explain that with longevity comes attachment? that survival in this world meant to remain detached, and therefore protected? that you thought him ridiculous for judging the way these people coped when he clung to mingi for so long you were sure he'd lose his mind if something ever happened to the other man? that level of commitment was insane to you. maybe yeosang was not brave, but rather insane, and that was why he could so easily look at the moon.

yeosang's eyes flickers between yours, waiting for a response. you shrug, "i don't know. i've just never stuck around with the same people for -"

a loud screech cuts you off. it's clearly from beyond the walls, triggering a chorus of shrill bird caws and the rustling of leaves. the keening sound is piercing, and you wince. you've heard that sound often when you were beyond the walls, when you were holed up in a stranger's home or some abandoned shed.

yeosang jumps to his feet, bristling like a startled cat, his gaze fixed in that direction beyond the walls.

then the keening abruptly stops, the same way symphonies stop with a conductor. the same way screams stop when someone puts a hand over the person's mouth. you'd seen that once, with one of the groups you'd left after just a few hours.

the silence afterwards is utterly engulfing. the crickets do not chirp. the breeze does not blow. it is as if the world has stilled, and even a single breath or a single twitch of your fingers will bring whatever was beyond the walls back.

you open your mouth. you want to say something, but you are struck once more by that primal fear, the kind that has every cell in your body begging for you to run.

grass crunches behind you, the softest sound turned into a blaring horn in the silence.

you spin, knife in hand. yeosang's head snaps over his shoulder.

joy stands illuminated by torchlight, soft yellow-orange lighting up her rounded features.

she's staring at both of you, eyes flickering back and forth, back and forth.

you say, "did you hear that?"

joy holds the torch higher, and she says, "it's nothing to worry about."

you glance over at yeosang, and he frowns, but he doesn't say anything. your heart slams against your ribs, still injected with fear.

"we're safe in sector one," joy says gently. "there's nothing to worry about. just breathe, y/n."

her voice is soothing enough. you let yourself breathe.

joy gestures back to the sleeping quarters, "you both should go inside."

"okay," yeosang says after a beat of silence. "fine."

joy's smile is reassuring, but her eyes are fixed above your head. behind you.

“You’re either an asshole or you greatly undervalue your own worth. I’ve been having trouble deciding.” The man before her jumped and turned. When he saw her face, he bowed lowly. “Princess, I’m sorry - whatever I’ve done --” “It’s more what you haven’t done.” “I’m sorry, your--” “He loves you.”

Broad shoulders snapped back and a brow previously furrowed in concern smooths into a darkly shuttered expression.

“With all due respect, Your Highness --” “It’s not my business, I know. Not really, but --” “As Alexei’s wife, it’s certainly your business, but it’s no longer mine.” “Which is a shame. Because it breaks my heart to know that my friend’s happy ending is actually possible, but he won’t get it anyway.” “I may only be a gardener, but that doesn’t mean I want to sit at the edge of the table begging for scraps. I won’t be a dirty secret.”

At that, Maricela reached out. Hugo was as large as Alexei had said he was. But, he stopped at Maricela’s touch.

“No one’s asking you to be. He did this for you.” “Because the husband of a Rios is even more attainable than a minor noble’s son? Right.”

“Because my grandfather taught that love was above all - above class and wealth and power. The nobles in this Sector may have forgotten that, but I haven’t. And neither has Alexei. Just. Just talk to him.”

It took a couple of weeks, but Hugo did reach out. 

Which Maricela found out only after inquiring with the palace guards when Alexei missed dinner two nights in a row.

“Marry me, Nita.”

“What?”

The temple gardens were uncommonly quiet. In the distance, Alexei sat on a bench, book in hand, as Hugo bent to his work. Alexei laughed at some something on his page and called out to share it with Hugo. Nita and Maricela were too far away to hear the specifics, but Hugo blushed prettily, and Alexei’s smile softened into something unbearably gentle.

“Marry me, Nita.”

“Maricela--”

“No, you’ve waited for -- you’ve waited long enough Nita. And I know your mom’s been coming down on you harder.” “I’m not looking for your pity, Maricela.”

“I’m not looking to give you any. I just want to see you happy again. You used to smile. I used to smile. Maybe not like that,” she pointed toward Hugo and Alexei, “but it’d make me happy to see you free to help your siblings.”

“But bound in a marriage.”

“That look bound to you? Nita, you know he --” Maricela catches herself. They have a code, a sacred code, that one’s impossible love isn’t talked about. “If you ever -- I wouldn’t stop you.”

Nita paused, seemed to take a moment to actually think about the offer on the table.

“I hate to give my mom a victory,” she laughed finally. “Marrying a damned Rios.” Maricela chuckled. “Sure, but you’ll only be my second spouse. And, if I want my new baby sisters and brothers to become little designers and gardeners or marry their kitchen staff, she’ll hardly be able to argue.”

“Oh man, who could argue with a damned Rios!” Nita laughed. “Okay, honey, let’s get married.”

They married quietly, another message to Estela Reyes that Nita’s life would no longer be hers to control. She’d exchanged vows with Nita as Hugo exchanged vows with Alexei. 

Nita’d signed the papers after Hugo making her Maricela’s third. The smile on her face when she did so, it made it all worth it. 

As a concession to the powerful Reyes family, though, they’d scheduled the wedding for the week before the Reyes’ annual party. They kept the nuptials quiet until they arrived at the Reyes compound and gave her the opportunity to announce to the world that the Reyes and Rios families were combined at last. 

Of course, Hunter decided to get his head out of his ass after Maricela had gotten Nita to marry her. 

It was fine. Her vision of sharing quiet morning with Nita in bed, huddled together against the cool air, even if it was just as friends, wouldn’t come to pass.

But, she wouldn’t trade Nita’s smile for anything.

Marrying Hunter in an unseemly spectacle at the Reyes’ party the next year was the gift that finally seemed to earn Estela Reyes’s forgiveness, even if the woman couldn’t quite bring herself to say Hunter’s name without the creases around her eyes tightening.

The night was warm, and the press of the crowd had become unbearable. She’d normally find her way to Nita when she needed a moment away, but, tonight, Nita belonged to no one but Hunter.

She glowed in his arms, and he’d hardly let her go save for an obligatory dance with his other new spouses. She’d been sure to keep her dance with him short and to talk only of Nita’s beauty. He’d picked up on it shortly before the music came to an end and was clearly embarrassed.

“Forgive me, little Mari,” he’d whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. 

“For what? She’s glorious.” 

And then she’d made her way to the gardens. For a breath. For a moment away from her glowing spouses. A moment to wrestle her wretched heart into place.

“Princess.”

Maricela gasped, and then relaxed as Ivan stepped forward hands raised in silent apology.

“I didn’t mean to startle you.” “Which is why you approached without sound from the shadowed maze,” she huffed.

His lips tilted in the whisper of a smile.

“It’s hard to break training.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve been consciously resisting training since I was a little girl.”

“Which is why you’ve dutifully married not once, not twice, but four times.”

“One a gardener, the other a Rider. I’m a walking scandal.”

“And for all that rebellion, you never smile.”

“Of course I do.”

He shook his head. In the moonlight, his hair shown silver, and his blue eyes were dark. He looked as she imagined a knight would, one from the tales of old about a round table served by faithful warriors.

It hurt to look at him.

“I’ve beautiful spouses, kind ones. My people flourish, and I’ve finally been able to renovate and expand our refugee housing. I’ve got everything to smile about.”

“Like I said: you’ve been dutiful.”

“I don’t serve my people out of duty.”

“That’s not - I didn’t mean - just because it’s your duty doesn’t mean it’s wrong. And it doesn’t mean you didn’t do it because you cared. I just meant.” He paused, clearly at a loss. 

And in all the years that Maricela had known Ivan, in all the years she’d quietly watched him and tried not to watch him, this was the most he’d ever said to her at one time.

His sincerity was clear.

“I just meant that you spend so much of yourself serving others. But, who serves you?”

“Ivan. I have more than enough of people looking to serve the Prophet’s granddaughter. I don’t--”

“I’m not talking about serving Maricela Rios. Who takes care of you, Mari?”

There were any number of correct answers that come to mind:

She and Alexei share breakfast together every morning, no matter how late a night he has. She and Hugo have exchanged books every week for the last year and a half. Nita, as ever, has remained her best friend and partner in work and fun. Even Hunter had become a friend.

But there was no room in Ivan’s gaze for anything less than complete honesty.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “It wasn’t in our terns & agreements.”

“You weren’t supposed to have contracts when you married.”

“Oh no?”

“No. No, I --”

“You what, Ivan?”

“I stayed away, so you could have something real, something forever.”

“Well, I’ve got that, friendships and contracts, and I’m sure kids that will come.”

“And what about passion?”

“Dammit, Ivan, what do you want me to say? You stayed away!” It comes out more of a sob than she intended, but it’d been so long. 

She’d spent years second guessing whether the heat between them had been one-sided, whether the intensity in his gaze was hers alone or just the wishful longing of an infatuated mind. Whether the quiet glimpses into his life were shared intentionally in a show of trust or were merely the work of convenient timing and fatigue.

“I didn’t think it would matter.”

“Why wouldn’t it matter? Why wouldn’t you matter?”

“I’m just a Rider.”

“A servant to your people just like me.”

She hadn’t intentionally moved closer. She wasn’t sure if she had or if it was he who moved. But he was there, pushing hair away from her face all the same.

“And it’s exhausting sometimes isn’t it.”

The look in his eyes was tender and kind, and Maricela leaned into the broad expanse of his chest.

“Let me take care of you, Mari.”

joy has a bright smile on her face, her eyes sparkling, as she turns to face the group. the two unfamiliar people at her shoulders - one tall and the other shorter, but both angular, made rugged by their days beyond the wall, no doubt, with matching knitted brows, watchful eyes, and an air to them that you knew meant they were New - merely loomed behind her, like a brewing storm.

joy gestures to the two men beside her. the tall one towers over her, a looming figure with a quiet, intense aura. somehow the shorter one is scarier, his features sharp. he looks like the type of man that would have been casted in a television show about gangs.

the tall one, though terrifying in his height and stoic demeanor, appears almost docile in nature, gentler, in comparison. he keeps his distance from joy, you notice, but his eyes flit over the class attendees, lingering on each of you as if he is making mental notes in his head. he is rightfully wary, but he did not seem explosive or impulsive, which was hard to come by in this new world where many attacked first and asked questions last.

"as you may have already heard, hyori is out indefinitely until she's fully recovered. luckily for us, a couple newcomers have enthusiastically agreed to help with combat training during this time slot."

joy waves at the two men. neither of them look remotely enthusiastic.

"hyori has given them her approval, so i'm sure they'll do great. everyone, meet san," joy gestures to the shorter, sharp-featured man. his name suited him, his demeanor jagged like a mountain. joy turns, craning her neck to look up at the tall man, smiling brightly as she points at him, "and mingi. i know you all have things to do, so i won't keep you any longer. i hope you all treat each other kindly. san, mingi, if you need anything you know where to find me."

joy waves as she leaves, her personal guard following behind her. you stare at the two men.

mingi. back Before you would have thought this was merely a coincidence, but the world was truly small nowadays so coincidences no longer existed, at least not with names. this had to be that mingi. chocolate chip mingi. yeosang's friend.

yeosang comes by at least three times a week to request pastries. it was not the norm, really, and the kitchen head often looked down upon such a thing, but you allowed it. you liked the company, and he seemed more relaxed with each visit. it fascinated you, watching him open up to you so slowly. unfortunately, you didn't have chocolate chip cookies, as that last bit of chocolate chips was devoured quite quickly by dinner time the very same day you met yeosang, but you you still referred to yeosang's friend as the chocolate chip man. yeosang's friend who was named mingi. who is here in front of you. you you could finally put a face to.

yeosang never really bothered to bring mingi around.

"i swear you only come around here so you can get first dibs on any fresh batches," you muttered after you swatted yeosang's hand away when he tried to pick at a scone you'd just pulled from the oven.

"it's for my friend," yeosang said, "he's sad."

"yeah, yeah, yeah," you'd rolled your eyes, "i'm starting to think this sad chocolate chip man isn't real."

yeosang had laughed, but he did not say anything to refute your half-assed joke. you still gave him an extra scone before shooing him away from your kitchen.

you'd started to think you might have liked yeosang's company.

most importantly, you started to think his friend did not exist. perhaps yeosang needed company himself, and had no idea how to ask for it. you understood that need; you've had plenty of newcomers linger in your kitchen in search of someone to listen as they rambled on and on. yeosang mostly lurked in your kitchen in silence though. so clearly, this mingi was not real.

except now you know he is very much real.

mingi's eyes meets yours over a few heads, and you find yourself quickly looking away first, shuffling from foot to foot as you focus your attention on san. you feel as if you know him, when he likely has no idea who you are.

"...start with a few simple stretches and then i want you to show me your defensive st..." san's voice drones.

~.~.~.~.~

the rest of the session is quick, and on par with hyori's level of skill, though san and mingi clearly lack her positivity. san does not smile once, and mingi did not speak. somehow, san's intimidating, piercing stares and one-worded corrections as he walked around the training field is motivating though, because the class seemed much more serious this morning than you've ever thought it'd be.

when you first arrived at sector one, the disregard in everyone's demeanor had put you off. it was disconcerting, to think that you'd spent so long living in constant vigilance, while everyone here treated important things such as combat training like it was a boxing class at a local gym.

even after so much time in sector one, the nonchalance still bothered you. you could not shake the fear and anxiety, despite everything. san's stoic demeanor brings with it a sense of urgency in the other members of sector one that you often did not see. perhaps it was more present in those who did supply runs or worked outside the wall, but not in classes like this. it's as if his wariness is contagious.

where san is stoic, his directions short and his patience shorter, mingi does not say a word. he merely taps on shoulders, taps at incorrect points in someone's form, and demonstrates the correct form over and over until the person understands. he certainly has patience, and his presence draws command, despite his inability to speak. you find your eyes drifting to him, even as you try to keep your focus on san.

after class, you sit sprawled in the grass, fanning yourself. the sun has gotten hotter over the last few days, and sweat drips down your back at the simplest of tasks.

san and mingi are talking quietly as the other sector one training session attendees disperse. you didn't think mingi could speak, but it seemed he could, but he chose not to.

"hey, mingi, san!" a familiar voice calls. yeosang appears, waving at mingi and san. so, this is chocolate chip mingi. "do either of you want to -"

yeosang cuts himself off when san walks away mid-sentence, disappearing into the shower rooms at the edge of the training field. he did not look back or acknowledge yeosang. yeosang stares after him, a long look that has you scrambling to your feet, suddenly feeling as if you are intruding on something that was none of your business.

being nosy, though tempting, only spelled trouble, Before and After. besides, the secondhand embarrassment curling at the pit of your stomach as you watched yeosang's shoulders droop and his smile slip from his face was enough to have you scurry to the showers as quickly as you could.

~.~.~.~.~

"it seems this mingi character is in fact very real," you say to yeosang moments after he appears like clockwork at the door of your kitchen the next day.

"what?"

"so it turned out my new combat instructor's name is mingi."

"oh," yeosang nods. "yeah, joy's forced us all to take up hobbies."

there's scorn in his tone as he spits out the last word. you laugh and he scowls at you as you say, "so what does she have you doing?"

"take care of the livestock," yeosang mutters.

"that sounds nice." it did. sector one only had a handful of cattle and chicken, but they were sweet. joy mentioned during your tour that the cattle would not be used for meat unless absolutely necessary, as their manure and milk were more beneficial to the compound. the chicken were used solely for their eggs. it was as if joy was giving you reassurance, as if you were allowed to get attached to these animals if you wanted to, because they would remain. she listed it off as if she'd repeated the same sentiment time and time again.

"well, it's not nice." yeosang rolls his eyes, "it smells like shit."

"sounds like cuddling a cow or two would do you some good, yeosang."

yeosang glares at you, "that is exactly what joy said."

"and now you have a second opinion."

yeosang's glare deepens, but he keeps his mouth shut.

you cut the sourdough loaf in front of you into thin slices. the crunch as you slice into the bread with your dull knife fills the room for a long moment.

"it's so fucking stupid."

you look up at yeosang, "what is?"

yeosang gestures around you both, "all of this. everything is so...nice, and it's fucking insane. how do any of you...why is everyone so..."

yeosang's frown only deepens as he crosses his arms over his chest.

"normal?" you finish for him.

he nods, "it's fucking insane."

you'd thought the same thing, when you were alone in your little cot in your tiny room - it was a little brick room that fit a small cot, a tiny rickety chair, and a scratched up table that you were sure they'd swiped from a school. your clothes were stacked neatly in a woven basket you'd made yourself the first few weeks after you'd arrived. it wasn't much, and you figured the single rooms were so tiny so no one would spend all their time in their rooms - you spent countless nights staring up at the stone ceilings, counting scratches on the brick or missing pieces in the grout, and wondered the same thing. how was this sane? what if the compound was attacked? would anyone be prepared? what if none of this was real, and you'd succumbed to some kind of madness? how was everyone okay with pretending things were normal?

you still wonder the same thing. but the thing is, more often than not you find yourself looking forward to your shifts in the bakery. you watch exhausted smiles stretch across the faces of people - fellow survivors - as they bite into fresh bread or a sweet treat you'd made, and you understand it. it feels like living again. you hadn't had the chance before the invasion, really. everyday, rumors spread of new couples dating. two pregnancies were announced during your time here. it's insane, and you think everyone around you knew it as well. yet you congratulated them anyway. you kept an escape bag under your bed just in case. yet you returned to your kitchen shift like clockwork. you understood it so well. was that naive of you? of all of you?

you wipe your hands on your apron and you say, "why do you come here everyday asking for sweets for mingi?"

yeosang frowns, tone harsh, "why the fuck does that matter?"

you glare at him, matching his harsh tone, "do you think you're the only person in this entire compound that comes here asking for fresh bread or something sweet for a friend? everybody is just trying to cope. is it a little insane? probably, but who the hell are you to judge when you're the same?"

yeosang maintains his scowl, his lips pressed into a thin line. he says, "i don't trust places like this. you're an idiot if you do."

"do you think i do?" you snap back.

yeosang scoffs, "whatever."

you watch as he rolls his eyes, turns on his heels and storms off, a whirlwind of anger, and you wonder if yeosang had a bad experience with settlements like this before. you'd ran from a previous group when they started plans to settle. yeosang did not seem like the type to run from things before they got difficult, at least not the way you did.

~.~.~.~.~

"partner up!" san calls out, clapping his hands as he looks around expectantly. "we're going to practice one-on-one now."

there's been an influx of participants in this particular class ever since last week - likely due to whispers of the new instructors. yeri had mentioned to you how dreamy the newbies were, especially the tall kind medic who she assisted the other day. you did not blame them, really. san is handsome, in an angst-ridden sort of way - a rugged mysterious man whose serious demeanor leaves everyone wanting to know more. mingi was a chiseled handsome, more sad than anything else to you, and, frankly, you found it fascinating how quiet he was. but most of all, you liked that he seemed gentle, like he would not even hurt a fly. his presence made you more comfortable than san's for that reason.

"you're the baker right?" you turn at the voice.

a man with longer black hair, tanned skin, a stocky build, and twinkling eyes crosses his arms over his chest as he peers at you.

you frown, "yeah, i am. why are you asking?"

"let's partner up," he says, ignoring your question. he does not smile as he holds a hand out, though he does keep talking, "i'm wooyoung. i'm new."

you introduce yourself, and his expression twitches. you watch as he settles into a fighting stance, fists in front of his face, legs solid and wide. you settle into your own fighting stance.

san calls for you all to start, his voice ringing through the training fields.

wooyoung says, "so you're the one who's upset yeosang."

he says it more as a statement rather than a question. you blink in surprise. you hadn't seen yeosang since he walked out. you wondered where he was - maybe you even worried a bit - but at the end of the day you and yeosang were not friends, so did it really matter if you checked on him or asked around about him?

"i..." you frown at wooyoung, "he upset himself."

wooyoung's eyes narrow. suddenly he lunges at you. you're unprepared for when he easily side swipes your limp hands and pulls your hands back, shoving you into the ground. you certainly eat dirt. wooyoung lets go of you pretty quickly. you glare at him, "what the fuck was that for?"

wooyoung shrugs, says, "you should have been ready."

you get to your feet, swinging at him as soon as you do, but wooyoung is ready. he's too good at hand-to-hand combat. it pisses you off. he grabs your wrist and twists it until you're turned with your back to him. then he jabs you in the knees and you collapse. he lets go of you, stepping into your view.

you rub your twisted arm, bewildered, "are you serious? is this because yeosang is upset?"

wooyoung hums, "nah that last one was because you used up my entire chocolate chip stash."

before you can say anything, someone clears their throat behind you. wooyoung's flick up behind you and you turn from where you are still sitting on the floor clutching your arm.

mingi looms over you, nearly blocking out the sun. he is a shadowed outline, his chiseled features softened by the shadows he casts. his hands are stuffed into his pockets, and he does not say a word. he just holds out a hand towards you. you take his hand, and he easily hauls you up to your feet.

wooyoung rolls his eyes, "i'm just having a bit of fun."

"you're being mean." mingi says. you startle at his voice. it's a deep rumble, a little raspy. you look between mingi and wooyoung, as they both seem to have a conversation with only their eyes, leaving you to stand awkwardly in silence between them.

wooyoung throws his hands in the air, "whatever, i'll spar with san."

you watch wooyoung stalk away, and all you can think about is that those chocolate chips must have come from the newbies. from yeosang and his friends. why didn't joy tell you when she gave you the bag? all you can think about is wooyoung clearly being pissed at you because yeosang was upset. protectiveness like that was normal these days, though you found such codependency dangerous. you were with a group once who would kill people just for looking at them the wrong way. it was dangerous and strange, and you were never one for codependency, even back before the invasion.

"thanks for that," you say, after a beat of silence.

mingi just shrugs.

the silence lasts another moment before you add, "i'm y/n."

mingi smiles then, even as he says, "the baker."

you loved your parents, and they were the only people you’ve ever truly loved. they were the only people you ever really knew.

but they did not live in the city, and when you’d escaped the city after the initial Invasion - it took you a week of sneaking and crawling through back alleys just to end up hot wiring an abandoned car at the outskirts of the city - you drove to your childhood home. you’d pulled into the dirt path leading up the the old lopsided house with a heaviness in your heart, wary of the eerie emptiness. during the day, your mother often left the windows open to air out the house. all the windows were shut right, curtains drawn. you’d unlocked the door and watched as the door swung open, knocking into the shoe rack with a dull thud in the tiny threshold up into the kitchen and living room. your mother was never the neatest, so the basket of laundry on the kitchen counter, folded perfectly, sent a chill down your spine. your father always locked the liquor cabinet, but the scratched wooden door swung open, creaking on its hinges. you'd brandished the crowbar you'd found in the trunk of the car you stole, your hands trembling, as you stepped into your house and searched the two small bedrooms down the hallway. the bedrolls were tucked into the corner, pillows laid neatly atop of them. your mother’s little table that usually spilled over with products was spotless. the kitchen was the cleanest you’d ever seen it. your room remained as you left it, childhood band posters and all. the only thing that was off were the two soju glasses and the two plates of food - half eaten and rotting, flies buzzing - on the table in the living room. four soju bottles sat lined up on the table. all empty. you'd gone out back, to the tiny workshop you'd saved up to buy your father a few years back.

the garage door would always be open, but this time the door was shut. there was the faint smell of gasoline in the air. you'd stepped closer, your heart beating heavily against your chest, and with closer inspection you found your father’s pickup truck parked neatly inside. he never parked it inside.

the garage door was not locked, and the sound of it groaning as you dragged it open echoed. it made the hairs at the back of your neck stand on end. but the worst part, you thought, was the smell. it smelled like something had died, and your breath grew heavy in your chest at that thought as you choked on the lump in your throat, pressing your fingers to your mouth to suppress an involuntary sob. you did not have to look. deep down, you knew the outcome that awaited you at the other end of the garage. but you were always one to dig. to want to know everything, no matter how badly it'd hurt you.

that day, you found your parents dead in the front seat of their pickup truck, the windows cracked open slightly, the garage smelling heavily of exhaust smoke, gasoline, and death. the keys were still in the truck. they looked as if they could have been sleeping, heads resting on the other. you'd gagged still, and ran from the garage, heaving for air.

you'd found yourself in your childhood bedroom, back pressed to your closed door, surrounded by a room still stuck in the past, before all this, and you lamented the fact that even now, you could not cry. you’d been so focused on survival for so long, that you just did not know how to cry. all you could was lay on the floor of your childhood bedroom, stare at the ceiling, and wonder what you were supposed to do now. you'd never had so much time to just...sit.

still, despite the lack of tears, you allowed yourself the night to grieve. to feel sad, at least, only because you knew that was what you were supposed to do. then you'd raided your parent's pantry for anything edible and packed extra clothes, books, a couple tools, and a carefully folded photo of you and your parents. you threw it all in the backseat of your stolen car, taking one last look at your childhood home, before you drove. your vision blurred from lack of sleep, and your heart ached, and you did not know where you were going. you just knew you needed to put as much space between yourself and your parents as you could.

the weather was beautiful and the sky was blue, cloudless, and you hated that the breeze kissed your cheek so gently as you left. you wanted so badly to cry then. to sob. you would not learn to cry again u til much later, but this was perhaps a start. as you drove, you realized you had time to think. for the first time in your life, you had time to think and feel and wonder what to do. you had all the time in the world. the thought was more freeing than you wanted to admit, yet you did not feel entirely guilty for it.

after the Invasion, you decided to spend your time looking for food. you spent a lot of time thinking, and living, and learning about yourself and your wants and needs, and for the first time in years you felt as if you could just simply exist. for the first time in years, you sat down and cried. it was perhaps a month or two later, after you’d barricaded yourself in an empty apartment for the night and you happened upon a locked bedroom. you’d opened it with a hairpin, and immediately regretted it - it was merely an empty nursery, but there was a wall of family photos, and you found yourself examining each picture until your knees buckled beneath you and you cried for the first time in decades.

as you drove from ghost town to ghost town, and eventually walked because your car ran out of fuel, you found that the end of the world wasn’t so bad. sure, whatever was in the fog at night was terrifying, and the scratching and screaming and clicking noises at night made you skin crawl - it was a sound you heard everywhere the night of the Invasion, leading you to conclude that the only explanation had to be an Invasion. of what? you had no idea, and, frankly, you did not want to know. your curiosity certainly did not extend that far - not when the things hanging in the sky made the hairs at the back of your neck stand on end.

sure, some of the other survivors you met while you stocked up on food and weapons were, frankly, unsettling as fuck. but you were a quick learner and you knew to stay out of trouble - you always had since you were a kid - and, maybe, the end of the world and whatever Invaded the planet didn’t have to matter in the grand scheme of things.

maybe, you could ignore it.

all you had to do was survive.

for years, you befriended groups of other survivors and then fled when things started to get too intense. you stayed with one group until they started tracking other survivor groups down on purpose, and their intentions went from stealing things your group needed for survival to so much worse. the moment you caught a smug, almost-excited glint in one of the men's eyes as he told your group that a small group consisting of mostly women and children were camped out in the woods further north, you'd gathered your things and ran as far as you could.

another group wanted to create a safe haven for survivors and started talking about settling, hope marring their expressions. you’d fled in the middle of the night with just enough supplies to keep you afloat until you found some other place to squat in or some other group to gain temporary protection from until the cycle began again.

you kept yourself quiet and easy to digest, but not weak, never weak. you had to make yourself useful, of course, so the groups wouldn't feel like they were taking on a burden, and you did not want to be an easy target. however, when one group you met kept calling you pretty, when their eyes held a glint that sent shivers down your back, and their lingering touches made you want to gag, you’d ditched that group that very same hour, and you did not feel an inkling of guilt as you took their biggest weapon and the precious ramyun packs they’d found two towns over. you’d run far, far away from that group, in case they decided to come looking for you. after that encounter, you kept your head down and made it a point to leave a group at the first sign of trouble. you refused to get attached, or worse.

until you stumbled upon a place with a purple flag fluttering over a tower and sturdy walls and the sounds of people laughing drifting out from the walls and military trucks. something akin to hope fluttered at the pit of your stomach, a dangerous thing to feel, but inevitable as you stared down at the walls to a settlement that looked and sounded too good to be true. you wanted to turn away, but you were tired and you hadn’t found an inkling of food for nearly a week. so you stepped over the hill with your hands raised in surrender.

a beautiful woman with dark eyes, inky black hair, and an air of cheerful authority that entered the room long before she did, met you in the small room they'd isolated you in for. she introduced herself as joy - a fitting name really, especially when she smiled. her voice was gentle and soft, airy even. she was like a breath of fresh air. it left you wary, despite your exhaustion and hunger.

she stood between you and the door. she seemed to be waiting for you to speak. when you remained silent, she only smiled, "where are my manners? welcome to sector one. we've been attack-free for one hundred and ninety-two days."

you'd blinked at that admission.

"how?" you croaked, your throat dry.

she waved a hand, and the guard at the door brought a small mug of water to where you sat. you’d stared at it. she reached over and took a sip of it herself, before she handed it to you. it wasn’t drugged, at least, so you gulped it down.

her voice was so soft, kind, as she waited for you to put the mug down, "if you wish to stay, i'll tell you. otherwise, i only hope you enjoy your stay."

"i..." you'd blinked, "i can leave?"

she'd smiled, and although her smile was genuine and wide, contagious almost, it did not reach her eyes. despite the years of living in a post-invasion world, you knew a customer service smile when you saw one.

she said, "this isn't a prison. you may stay for as long as you'd like. as long as you help out and clean up after yourself, that is."

you were not sure if you believed her, but you did not question it. instead, you introduced yourself.

joy smiled.

~.~.~.~.~

you meant to only stay for a little while. you had half a mind to find the supply room, steal the best they had to offer, and sneak away in the middle of the night. this was only supposed to be a short term stay anyway.

but joy, with her sweet smile and piercing gaze, sat down beside you during dinner your second evening and asked, “what did you like to do before the aliens?”

“i don’t know,” you’d shrugged, “i didn’t have much time to figure out what i liked.”

she raised a brow, “why?”

“i worked a lot. needed the money.”

“understandable,” she laughed, but her smile grew sad, "you’ll have to earn your keep during your stay. i only wanted to place you somewhere you’d enjoy."

“that’s…” you frowned at her, “kind of you.”

“they don’t call me joy for nothing,” she said with another small smile. then she squeezed your shoulder and waved goodbye, moving onto another table.

you’d been assigned all over the compound after that.

laundry and weapons and scouting and teaching and cleaning and the kitchens. you found you liked baking. you were kneading dough, with flour all over your hands. you hadn’t noticed joy enter the room until she tapped lightly on the entrance to the kitchen. you looked up, and joy leaned against the door frame, grinning, a hint of excitement in her airy voice, “i think we finally found something you like.”

you blinked back tears at the kind smile. you were beginning to think you’d never know what you liked, that you were incapable of remembering something so menial. for once, you could relax.

joy only smiled, and turned on her heels, leaving you alone. after that encounter, however, you were assigned most of your shifts in the kitchen, and for once you enjoyed getting up to go to work.

you should have known you’d end up staying then. it was difficult to give up a place that seemed safe from the things in the fog and in the sky. that first night, after the sun set, you were on edge, worried you’d get devoured or torn apart by whatever lived in the thick fog that engulfed the world. instead, the compound was peaceful, quiet. distant clicks were just that: distant.

you wondered what kept the monsters away. perhaps it was military equipment - that would explain the military cars. perhaps it was something else. either way, you were safe here, and you knew you’d be an idiot to throw something as precious as safety away. you’d always remember sitting in your tiny apartment that first night, with the door barricaded and a symphony of screams echoing all around you. the horrors on the television, of the live news broadcast showing the news anchor at the scene, talking one second, before she looked up. the pure terror in her eyes as a sudden shadow loomed over her like a dark cloud, and her scream that followed after before the camera was knocked to the ground would remained etched in your memory. a loud keening echoed through your apartment before the television turned to static. you saw something on that television that night, but you did not know how to explain it. you couldn’t even truly comprehend it. it was black, and long, and it had your instincts screaming at you to get far, far away. yet, you had no idea what to call it. you didn’t have the time to figure that out either, compartmentalizing the memory as neatly as you could. you meant to deal with it later, but as many of the things in your life did, it fell to the wayside and you never got to unpacking it.

during those first days, you’d established two rules for yourself. one: no going out after sunset, and, two, no getting attached to anyone or anything.

easy rules, really.

but then you stood in front of joy, and you said, “i want to stay.”

~.~.~.~.~

a year later, and you are the head baker in the kitchens. most of the time, you figure out different bread recipes with what little ingredients you have available to you. sometimes, you get permission to make sweets - cream breads and cakes and mousses and cookies - and those are your favorite days.

to think the life you'd lived after you drove away from your family home was all you were going to have in this world. you truly believed that even then, despite the time to think and exist, you'd been living, when in fact you were only surviving. this past year was spent learning how to truly live.

despite a whole entire year, you still did not figure out much.

you like baking.

you do not know your favorite color.

maybe it’s green? or purple? pink? blue?

your sheets are a faded green. the shirt you gravitate towards is a deep blue. the only food coloring anyone's found on runs is pink, so your icing and decorations are always pink. you don't know what that means for you.

you don’t like jackfruit. there’s a couple trees growing in the greenhouse out back, past the weapons training tents and the exit used for scavenging groups.

you kind of like tangerines. a lot of them grow in the greenhouse.

you like joy. yeri is assigned as your assistant more often than not, and though she talks too much, you like her too.

you don’t know much else about yourself, and it’s a strange place to be in, where you are trying to just be but you do not have the capacity to do so.

“hey.”

you look up. a, frankly, beautiful man with pointed, delicate features and longer black hair hovers near the entrance of the kitchen, his hands stuffed in his pocket. his eyes sparkle under the bright fluorescent lighting.

Before the Invasion, he may have looked kinder, sweeter, but his eyes have a hardened look to them you've seen in everyone you'd come across since the Invasion. he's pretty though, unbelievably so despite the circumstances of life now.

his movements, however, are stilted, awkward, and you notice the way he fidgets with his fingers, even when he stuffs his hands in his pockets when he notices you looking at his hands.

you understand the fidgeting - you got into the habit of fiddling with the old pocketknife you swiped from one of the houses you'd holed up in long ago. maybe, he was the same. sector one allowed for everyone to carry small weapons like pocket knives, but no one was allowed to take them out. bigger weapons had to be signed out from the weapons room, and you could only use it in the training field or outside the walls. newcomers, however, were not allowed to carry anything for six months. you'd fidgeted a lot like him when joy had your pocketknife locked up.

"hey," you match his tone, watching as he shuffles from foot to foot before he meets your gaze. his hardened eyes hold more confidence than his body language. it's almost unsettling how steady his gaze is. "the pastry kitchen isn't open until after lunch, if that's what you're here for."

he blinked, his gaze flitting to your flour-covered fingers.

"oh," he said, "joy said...i thought it was open, sorry."

"did joy send you here?" you call before he can swivel away.

"yeah."

"okay," you draw out the word. perhaps it's your decades of customer service skills, or perhaps it's because you understand how strange it was to live in a place like this, after years of living beyond the walls, but you find yourself softening for him. "we have some pastries leftover from last night. what is this for? usually joy doesn't send anyone so early unless there's a good reason."

his eyes narrow in suspicion, "is that any of your business?"

you raise a brow at his biting tone. you get it, you really do, the mistrust and the caution. you get all of it. but you're the head baker, and there were plenty of newcomers here since you'd been appointed your position that could force at least a civil tone, despite their misgivings.

"yes, it is entirely my business," you responded, frowning at him. "do you really want to piss off the head baker at the only bakery in sector one?"

he tenses at your response, glancing away. he mutters something under his breath.

you cross your arms, "excuse me? i didn't catch that."

"sorry," he mumbles.

"it's fine. just don't do it again. i wouldn't want to have to start a wall of shame because of you," you respond.

he snorts a little, rolling his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders has lessened the smallest bit, at least. after a beat, he says, "my friend is upset, and i wanted to get him something to make him feel better. he's a big fan of anything sweet. joy said to come here."

"anything specific for...?"

"his name is mingi."

"sounds like a cookie type of guy."

the pretty man says, "he is."

"well, i have some baking right now, if you'd like to wait a few minutes," you wipe your hands on your apron, before you meet his steady, almost unsettling gaze, and you ask, "and what about you? what kind of pastry guy are you?"

"I don't really like pastries anymore," the man shrugs as he breaks eye contact with you. you get that, too.

"that's fair," you say.

he leans against the wall, and the room falls into silence. you take that as a sign to return to your work, kneading the dough before letting it settle in a small bowl. you already have a few loaves of bread done settling. you can feel his eyes on you as you work. you're not sure if you like it or not.

the oven beeps - you'd been shocked to find a working oven in a world like this, so shocked in fact that you did not ask how the electricity was so constant, or how the pastry kitchen was so state-of-the-art. the kitchen used to cook was down the hall, and it was much bigger, with more staff than this one.

you take the cookies out, and the smell of baked chocolate chip cookies fills the little pastry kitchen.

the man stares in awe - at least you think that is it with the way his eyes widen, twinkling slightly under the bright fluorescent lighting. he seems to be fighting a grin.

you ramble, as you wait for the cookies to cool, "one of the groups found a couple packs of chocolate chips in an underground bunker. i didn't think i'd have these again, honestly. everyone's going to lose their minds."

you look up, and the mans expression is twisted, his brows furrowed, and frown prominent.

he doesn't say anything, so you don't push it.

instead, you pick up a ceramic plate, and place two warm cookies on it. they're hot to the touch, even through the plate. you hold out the plate to him, and you say, "here's one for your friend mingi, and one for you..."

you trail off, waiting patiently.

"yeosang," he says, after a long moment. "it's yeosang."

"well, yeosang," you say, smiling as he takes the plate, "bring back the plate. washed. or i really will create a wall of shame just to put up a big picture of you."

he nods briskly, his other hand shoved in his pocket.