Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Meetings were Rumi’s least favorite part of working for Celine. It wasn’t the incessant frequency that was the problem, she never minded that. It was the length. 20, 30 minutes at a time. Eating into valuable time that could be spent doing much more important things than going to a meeting to plan the next meeting where they would discuss important work and actually something productive.

They were held in a windowless room most people Rumi knew in the company called The Coffin. It had terrible air-conditioning that hardly worked, old creaky swivel chairs that were prone to breaking, and smelled faintly burnt from the frequently on-and-off AC unit burning dust.

It’s not that they couldn’t afford a nicer meeting room. They already had a much nicer meeting room that was for the most important meetings. Rumi knew that one as The Hospital. That one had perfect air conditioning, brand new chairs, a gleaming conference table that Celine insisted on having cleaned daily regardless of if anyone had even stepped foot in the room, and had a strong scent of eucalyptus from the eucalyptus cutting sitting in the back by the A/C vent.

Celine would hold two meetings back-to-back as well, which drove her mad with boredom. The first meeting would always be something as dreadfully mind-numbing as statistical analysis statements or some form of training from HR. The second meetings were the ones she lived for.

Even then it wasn’t even necessarily that she disliked the meetings themselves. If anything, funnily enough, she managed to almost enjoy them. They were her primary way of getting time with her mom these days.

She had gone to college at Korea University and gotten her Master's in Electrical Engineering. Now the head of the Electronics department for her mother’s company, Rumi immensely enjoyed the rare moments when she could go in-depth on her passion. Those second meetings, per her request, were always run by her and her staff.

Rumi always attempted to show something positive, either something brand new or an improvement on something that already existed. Even if it was something inconceivably minor, such as a more final design choice or a slightly more efficient prototype of a pre-existing product.

But this time, for once, that beloved secondary meeting was not hers to run, and both were being held in the Hospital meeting room. She remembered the twang of annoyance that jerked within her when she read the memo; its tiny, weedy fingers suddenly snaked themselves up her neck and into her cheeks and face, forcing her to radiate the blooming, blossoming carmine that she so despised giving off when she became agitated.

It was an American, too energetic and enthusiastic for Rumi’s tastes. His light brown tweed suit was ill-fitting and inexpensive, as were his black cotton slacks and unshined leather shoes. It grated her nerves harshly, like a dull razor, each sentence a bloodcurdling, toe-clenchingly long scrape against them.
Though he did have a genuine smile, his enthusiasm was unmatched. With each new slide, his eyes would shine alight and a fine, sharp sigh, like he had just thought of someone he loved, or a particularly fond memory.

None of this helped with what he was here for.

“And as you can see from internal projections, provided by our fantastic accounting department, the proposed subsidization of ENCOM by Honmoon International would lead to a combined American market share of 43%, a Korean domestic market…”

Somehow, he managed to make this sound like the most intensely sleep-inducing economics lecture she could ever have the immense displeasure of experiencing for herself. And that was saying a lot. Her economics professor had been a little old lady at the ripe of 73 with a raspy, mute voice who spoke at the speed a turtle would walk. She always made sure to get the largest cup of cheap black coffee that she could find before attending lecture for her. That way, both the caffeine and mouth-destroying bitter taste staved off her slip into the realm of Morpheus.

Celine kept her face neutral, hands clasped together like a quiet, attentive student. And in this case, she was very much both. Since she briefly introduced herself to the American some twenty minutes ago, she hadn’t said a single word.

All she did was stare. Rumi glanced over to Celine every few minutes, and every time, Celine seemed unblinking, unfeeling. Nervousness, verdant in hue, ate away at her, a little tingling parasite at the periphery of her skin and mind.

That wasn’t far off from her baseline, honestly.

Despite her mixed first impression of him, Rumi decided to give him some quiet encouragement in the form of her own attention and a small smile. No need to be so put off by a potential business partner that she couldn’t at least feign greater sympathy than the none he was getting from Celine. He certainly seemed to appreciate the gesture, talking more animatedly about the merger while gesturing to the PowerPoint presentation’s colorful graphics behind him.

To her left, a work friend, a few years her senior in the shape of Yu-Jun, head of Engineering, stifled a yawn. Rumi was stifling her urge to smack him, the newborn irritation shoving any trepidation down to her core, all prickly and crimson. Celine was only a few seats away, and she knew that her mother wasn’t just looking at the presentation. It was a terrifying habit, but Rumi had lived and worked with her for too long not to be used to the idea.

The room itself was icy cold, just the way Celine liked it, but the creeping, tingling orange of the rising morning Sun helped, coming through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. Little wisps of dust danced and spun in the lumine glow, pushed and flung about with each breath, with each spoken word, yawn, and sigh.

“And that alone will put the new subsidized entity on a level of market dominance never seen before. By every metric, Honmoon will be a colossal entity, operating on every continent. Except Antarctica, of course, but I’m sure we could figure that out at a later date.” He gave a cocky half-smile and paused. Waiting for laughter, she assumed.

A few scattered chuckles and laughs. Her view fell to Celine once more. Celine’s eyes had narrowed, but her angular jaw finally relaxed, teeth unclenching. She had only seen that expression once directed at herself, when she graduated from university at the top of her class and gave a speech at graduation. Celine was pleased. Satisfied.

The American watched, gulping audibly as Celine stood from her chair. His confident smile decayed quickly. Buzzing from the overhead lights was the only thing Rumi could hear other than her bated breath. It was nearly impossible, even then, to tell exactly what her mom was thinking behind that stoic exterior.

She had seen, in any number of different circumstances, her mother become quite angry. Occasionally, someone unfamiliar with how she liked her business run would say something a little too casually, a touch too crass. Celine never, ever raised her voice when speaking in anger, and certainly not while at work. In a sense, the fact that Celine spoke with such a soft and calm voice made the simmering rage all the more heartstopping.

But she also had grown up with the many sky-high expectations her mom had for her. If someone went against those expectations, she would not hesitate to place as much pressure as needed to get them back in line.

All that to say, Rumi was never quite sure how her mother would react to something. Celine had a much harsher upbringing than her own, which she knew well. It made her brutally effective, brilliant, and one of the most powerful people in the world. But it also made her into a glass cannon. She couldn’t do everything herself, even though she certainly tried to. And sometimes, she could be… a lot.

Not in the way most people would. She would never yell, never break something, never eat the wrong thing, never say what needed to be kept unsaid. But what she would do is barge into people’s offices at random, asking them weird, unexpected questions. Talk to the cleaning staff so she could learn the information they happened to overhear (and get a fat tip of it). She had hours-long phone calls with business partners and investors, breaking down their resolve until she got what she wanted out of them.

Intense. Intense is how Rumi would describe her mother. On a good day.

So in this moment, watching her monolithic mother stare at the American in his cheap clothes and cheaper smile, his brazenly modern haircut, his too loud and boisterous navy blue cologne, the lightest twinge of wine purple fear pumped in her chest, like her heart had just spread something foreign and unliked throughout her body. Her hand gripping her chair’s armrest quivered, her knuckles turning white.

Celine rested her hands on the table beneath her. Then, like a storm breaking, she smiled warmly and began walking over to him. Her black heels added 3 inches of height, but that was all Celine needed to go from blazingly intense to downright intimidating, each clack and clop circulating the room.
Rumi let out a quiet sigh of relief, the snowy white of it dripping down her back all the way to her toes. Thank goodness that went well.

“Thank you, Colin. That was an excellent briefing. And I believe you, and your superiors, are correct. Acquiring ENCOM won’t be cheap, but it is exactly what Honmoon needs to remain at the forefront of modern technology, and it is exactly what ENCOM needs to continue doing its groundbreaking work.” She stood next to him and turned to face the rest of the room.

“Preparations will begin immediately. But first,” Celine said, looking around the room at the occupants, from members of the company’s board of directors to the various department heads. Rumi could feel Seo-Yun, head of Honmoon Biologics, bristling in her baby blue outfit to her right. “We need to have someone go to Los Angeles to complete the deal. I nominate our head of Electronics, Rumi Ryu. All in favor?” All members of the table raised their hands. No one would ever question Celine, certainly not on something as big as this.

Internally, Rumi could feel her chest give a huge honey-yellow leap. She gave Celine a curt nod and a thin smile, but all she wanted to do was jump up and hug her, thanking her profusely and loudly. Celine had not ever, not once in the last 2 years of Rumi working at her company, been given anything even half as important as this task.

And yet she still couldn’t remember the last time Celine had said “I love you.”

Her hand let go of the arm of her chair, ending her choking grasp. She had been squeezing a lot harder than she had thought, the relaxing muscles feeling all flushed pink and weak.

“Excellent.” Celine smiled and turned to Colin, who adjusted his circular glasses with a quick fidget and tucked a stray brunette hair behind his bulbous ears. “Please let your superiors know that Miss Ryu will be leaving for Los Angeles within the day.” She raised her hand, and Colin shook it excitedly.
Within the day? Rumi raised her carefully curated lavender eyebrow at that. Obviously, this was important, important enough to Celine to send her own adopted daughter, but how important could it possibly be that Celine wanted her to leave so quickly? There was something Celine knew that she didn’t. Given how Celine tended to operate, there’s a good chance that she knew from the very beginning of the meeting itself. Potentially as far back as when the meeting was being planned for some three weeks ago.

Colin left with a bow and a quick 감사합니다 (gamsahapnida), grabbing his dingy Apple laptop from the podium and immediately pulling his cracked iPhone out of his pocket, about to make a battery of phone calls. The room began to wake up all at once, activity and life returning. Conversation, texts, reading emails, and all are moving towards the glass doors at each end of the room.

With the meeting adjourned, Rumi shot out of her seat with a loud squeak of the aging chair legs and made her way to the front of the room, where Celine was talking to one of her assistants pointedly. She noticed Rumi coming over and hand-waved the assistant away, the poor girl muttering to herself as she slipped out of the room. Celine smiled as Rumi came to a stop in front of her, one of those fake smiles that she used with the press. That could only mean nothing good.

“Hey hun!” Celine said, her grin widening. Celine never called her a nickname like that unless they were near other people and she wanted to say something that Rumi might not like, but Rumi also knew better than to get ahead of herself and show her hand too early.

“Hey, so what was that about me going to LA? I didn’t realize the talks were that far along.” Rumi said as Celine pulled them off to the quiet corner of the room, nodding at the various members of the board and watching carefully as each of the other department heads removed themselves from the room with haste. Suspicion gripped her, clawing from her lower back up to her skull.

Everyone else knew something that she didn’t. And she didn’t like the thought of that.

Celine kept her hand on Rumi’s arm, her palm pressing softly. She was being weirdly motherly. Something else she did not do often. Alarm bells rang in Rumi’s brain. DANGER DANGER, they screeched, flashing bright red, the light echoing from head to toe.

“Look, this is something good for the company. For us.” Celine said, emphasizing with a brush down Rumi’s blazer sleeve to her hand. Temptation told her to rip her hand away, to bring it back to herself, but her logical mind knew better than to be too emotional around Celine. She let Celine take her hand gently.

“But it is going to require some sacrifice from you. When ENCOM merges, they will officially become the international headquarters of a more independent Honmoon Electronics. And when they do,” Celine’s hand squeezed hers, “I want you to lead it. As its new CEO and president.”
Rumi stepped back, her breath quickening, eyes widening, hands curling on her stack of files and papers in a vice. She didn’t often use the word around her, but since they were now alone, the room was echoey and empty as it usually was, and it was well-placed.

“Mom?” Celine’s steely eyes finally relented, filling up with the suppressed emotion that Rumi so rarely gets to see. Maybe it was a lack of sleep, or maybe she was just feeling emotional at the moment, but her eyes looked… warm. Loving. Sentimental.

For once.

“Does everyone know that’s what you want to do? That’s a… really big deal.” Celine sighed, tearing her eyes away from her daughter to glance outside the enormous windows, outside to the city all around them below. She looked back, unsure.

“Not quite yet. They only know that I intend to announce who will be the new CEO once you finish the deal in Los Angeles. I don’t want them to ruin this for you.” Rumi felt taken back. Her mother was not a very loving person. She was lucky to get a hug every once in a while from Celine. Even luckier to get a chaste little peck on the cheek. And every bit of that affection, that love, that attention? Rumi hungered for it, craved it, like an obsession, like a drought cries out for water or a monsoon begs for the Sun.

Celine turned to face the city fully now, staring hard out to the endless multi-colored infestation of concrete and steel, of roads and cars, of streets and skyscrapers. She went silent. Rumi knew this face as well, that set jaw with its tight lips and furrowed eyebrows,

Her mother was trying not to cry. It made Rumi want to cry, too.

“Rumi,” She said quietly, looking at her through the reflection of the window. “I know I don’t say it enough. I have never said it enough. But I am… so proud of you. Of who you have become. Your mother…” Now they were both silent, the hum of the air conditioning and the soft, eerie squeal of the lights their only companions. Celine faced the floor, eyes snapped shut in an instant. Rumi’s cheeks began to burn, her blood turning cold. It felt like being doused in ice water after being set on fire.

They never talked about Miyeong. Not anymore, at least. Not since that one Autumn night, when Rumi was in secondary school, at the beginning of her junior year. When Celine had been acting erratically, and got drunk on a fancy bottle of soju. That night, Rumi finally heard the full story.

It had all started with a business meeting. Celine was sent as the representative of Honmoon, and Miyeong was sent as the representative of her group, the Sunlight Sisters. Honmoon was well known for being extremely diversified across its vast portfolio, and this included funding of and direct ownership of K-pop groups. It was once thought to be silly, but now that the 90s were rolling around, things were changing. The country had only just entered its sixth and now democratic republic a few years earlier, and suddenly, not long after, pop groups were beginning to see massive success. Seo Taiji and Boys had recently gotten popular through their appearance and failure on a TV talent show. To put it bluntly, Honmoon smelled change and blood on the wind, and oftentimes what soon accompanied both was money.

They needed more groups, only owning a small handful at the time. Honmoon contacted dozens of the new groups popping up, hoping to get access to as many as possible. Instead, most thought it was a joke and either tore up the letters or ignored the phone call. Understandably so. Honmoon was the largest company in the country, even back then. Most people could be forgiven for thinking that it would be absurd to not only contact them but outright attempt to buy them. Miyeong, however, was a brilliant woman who could see the same change Honmoon did. And she answered the call, RSVPed through the letter.

And there she was, in a pretty salmon-tinted blouse and slacks, having dinner with the daughter of the most powerful family in all of Korea in a steakhouse that she would never have been able to afford working double shifts for a year.

It was a long first meeting, but it ended up being highly productive for them both. The purchase was made official only a few weeks and a few more meetings later.

Only, as they continued to have these quiet, clandestine meetings, they became more and more intimate. The first was in that expensive restaurant. The next was made in a much less formal setting: a local cat cafe. It was Miyeong’s idea.

Third meeting? Dinner (paid for by Celine), a walk together in the night, and a surprise kiss on the cheek from Miyeong.

Fourth? Quiet private time in Celine’s apartment. It was there that they confessed to each other at the end of an excellent American Rom-Com. Miyeong first, then Celine herself, albeit shakily and reluctantly. They shared their first kiss and then spent the night cuddling on her couch.

It didn’t take long for their relationship to blossom. Within a month, Celine often found herself sleeping over at Miyeong’s tiny apartment. Another, and they were effectively living together. It was never easy. There were plenty of close calls with paparazzi and with Celine’s parents. But they loved each other, and that’s all they needed for the time being.

They were dating for a little over 3 years when Celine surprised Miyeong with a ring. They had gone on their most excessively expensive date ever, but Miyeong knew all too well that this was one of her few ways of showing her love for her. The ring itself was far from the gaudy chunk of glittering diamond one would normally expect of a rich person. It was simple, but for Miyeong, it was perfect. A pure silver ring, with a gorgeously cut Amethyst stone surrounded by two glimmering little sapphires. Blue and purple were the colors of the Sunlight Sisters, ostensibly Miyeong’s greatest work in her life.

Not even a week later, they had their quasi-wedding. Attended only by themselves and by the other two members of the Sunlight Sisters, it was unofficial, but for them, it meant the world. The night of drinking, laughter, and fun ended with Celine holding her wife from behind as they slow-danced on the scratchy, creaky floor of a bar that they had bought out for the entire night. Truly, it was their greatest moment, their fondest memory.

A few months later, Miyeong dropped the bomb early in the morning, right when Celine had begun to sip her beloved cold coffee.

“Honey? I want a baby.”

Celine had never spat out her delicious coffee before. That day, she did it for the first time. It wasn’t easy keeping this hidden either, involving millions upon millions of won buying off the silence of individual doctors and NDAs from the floor to the ceiling. But in the end, they got their baby.

Miyeong carried Rumi the whole time. It went well, month to month, trimester to trimester. Celine did everything she could to pamper her increasingly pregnant wife’s many odd cravings and aches. The night Rumi arrived, they had been in bed together, sleeping relatively peacefully. Too peacefully.

The beginning came fast and hard. Miyeong woke up with a surprised cry, and Celine woke up blearily in a wet bed. Her water had broken. It was finally happening, after several close calls with Braxton-Hicks in the previous weeks, after so many sleepless nights, big emotional moments, and after their 4-year relationship had recently reached its anniversary once again.

Initially, things were going well. Initially, everything was fine. Things were fine for the majority of the time the contractions were happening. Rumi was almost out, Miyeong was almost done. And then, like out of a nightmare, it all went horribly wrong.

When telling the story, Celine couldn’t and wouldn’t tell Rumi everything that happened. All she said was that it had felt like one moment Miyeong was crying out in pain, turning Celine’s hand purple. And the next, Celine was holding her bawling newborn daughter in a chair outside of the room, doctors desperately trying to save Miyeong’s life.

An hour later, a single doctor emerged, face like stone. Celine began to cry before the doctor could even open her mouth. She already knew what had happened.

The coming hours and days were torture. First, she had to help arrange the funeral. That whole affair had been one of intense humiliation. She didn’t even get the dignity of being told that her wife had died. On top of that, she had to fight tooth and nail for custody of her own daughter, HER child, HER baby. She had to mobilize her entire law team and pay them triple their normal rate to get what she needed. She even had to spend money lobbying members of the Korean National Assembly itself.

It took all of her effort and a tremendous amount of money, even for someone like her. But she was able to get Miyeong cremated and to keep the urn. And she was able to get full legal custody of Rumi. A full month after Miyeong died, Celine finally collapsed onto her couch, completely exhausted, but her daughter was snoozing in her arms, and her wife’s ashes were kept close by.

Celine had finished telling the story. And for the first time, they held each other and cried and cried until they fell asleep on the very same couch all those years ago.

By how things were going at present, it seemed like Celine might be about to break her vow of emotional silence. Her lower lip trembled, the corners trying to pull themselves up involuntarily. With a deep breath, they were expelled away. They had almost gotten through to the real Celine. Too close for Celine’s comfort.
Rumi put her hand on Celine’s shoulder slowly and lightly, afraid to be pushing things too far. She could feel the silky white fabric of her mother’s expensive blouse rippling underneath, muscles tightening, hardening. Celine didn’t react, not yet. Rumi’s own breath shook within her lungs and throat, the windows to her soul stinging and watering.

Finally, she let it out. “She would be proud of you, too.” Celine’s voice strained, the choked words coming out achingly slow. But the words were finally said. Celine moved away from Rumi’s feathery, delicate embrace, blinking away her almost-tears and swallowing her near-sobs. Her shoulders shuddered and wavered, and then as soon as it began, it ended, her body stilling itself.

The feeling didn’t leave. Weight, unspoken and pulverizing, pulsed from Rumi’s head down to her chest, her lungs heaving. Celine talked as she walked out of the room, heels clicking against the mahogany flooring. “Your assistant should have sent you your ticket by email. And you should already know where your passport is.” Celine wrenched open the crystal-like glass door, then suddenly stopped. She turned back one last time to look at her daughter.

For a split second, Rumi could almost see the words forming in her mom’s mouth. It was hard to forget why they were seldom said. Rumi simply looked too much like her mother, and hardly anything like Celine. She could hope this time, maybe, just maybe, she was wrong, and Celine would say it.

“Good luck.” Celine left, unable to bear looking at Rumi again through the glass. And for a little while, a few minutes, Rumi stood, now entirely alone and entirely very emotional, in that conference room.

After a few minutes gathering herself, she left the room as well. The hallway felt imposing, moving all around her as she tried to walk the minute distance to her personal office. Barren wood-paneled walls squeezed in, compressed tighter and tighter with each unyielding moment. Emotionless, dead lights with their needlessly medical cold white ripped and tore their way past her crossed arms, pitifully protecting her torso, and settled into her heart. When she shut the big, imposing door to her office with a slam, the first and only thing she felt like doing was crying.

So, for a change, she let herself unleash from her job, from the work she needed to do, from her mother and all of her expectations, from the full realization of the implications of what this promotion would bring, and simply cried. All alone, all by herself. But it was better than bottling it all up forever like her only living mother.

Chapter Text

Across the glittering Pacific Ocean, on the other side of the world, midnight ruined supreme. And ruling supreme over it, like the owl she was, was Zoey Park.

Granted, her “office” was dismal. A minuscule, dying wood desk still yellowed from the vigorous daily smoking the previous occupant had done back in the 70s. Her peeling polyester cubicle gave her limited privacy, with myriad holes and nothing in the way of soundproofing. The computer they supplied her was in similar disrepair. At this point, she had become an expert at diagnosing and fixing issues with it. In her opinion, it was lucky to still be working. It was from the early 2010s and had been kept in a closet with a leak in the corner, so persistent rust was an ongoing issue.

Not to mention her keyboard (which had extremely sticky keys for reasons she really didn’t want to find out), her office chair (missing one of its five wheels and creakier than the Tin Man), the mouse (if the wire was anything but in the perfect position, it refused to work) and her desk drawers (perpetually stuck, impossible to open).

But it was hers, and Zoey made it her home away from home.

The PC was covered in as many fun, cute stickers as she could find. Anything and everything, from her much-loved turtles as well as adorable sharks, smiling dolphins, and leaping whales, to chibi cats and little motivational phrases to keep her going throughout her insanely long days. Her mousepad was shaped and colored like a Galapagos Tortoise. Dexterous usage of tinfoil made her connection to the building’s WiFi among the fastest of anyone working for the paper. The walls of her cubicle were practically painted in cutouts of articles she had written, pictures of friends, family, and nostalgic-tinted memories, and a few posters of her favorite K-pop groups.

She even had a tiny little desk plant she lovingly called Bae Won-I. It was, unfortunately, her third Bae Won-I. Zoey had come to realize she was a truly awful plant mom, but she tried her best to keep the poor spider plant moist and cut.

But the most important part of her little “office” was her two prized framed desk pictures. Well, one. One of the two was of herself and her parents after her college graduation ceremony, wearing her cardinal red and gold USC cap and gown, all smiling and hugging close to each other. Even if she wasn’t very far from them, she still missed them deeply.

It was the second framed photo, in its golden, gleaming frame, that she had personally picked out from her favorite thrift store closer to Burbank, the one she usually had turned away from view, that was now problematic. And it was all she could think about today, despite her several irritating deadlines.

That photo had been taken mere minutes later. Zoey remembered every second leading up to it. Searching through the crowd desperately, even if she knew exactly how to find who she was looking for: her distinctly hot pink, waist-length straight hair, and a pair of brass circular glasses. A gasp of surprise as hands snaked around her waist from behind. Laughter, warmth, brushing lips, a hand lingering on her hip, a pleasurable chill going up her spine.

Her parents had been so good about Zoey’s dating life, and that didn’t change here either. They were adamant about making sure that they got a picture of the two of them together in their caps and gowns before they ripped them off to go have fun for the remainder of the day together in the city. She even remembered what they had said to get the smile from the picture itself.

“Say turtles!”

Mira had thought it was funny too. Her smile in the picture was the widest that Zoey had ever seen taken, all the way to her ears for a change, and that was among the many reasons that she had originally put it on the desk.
With everything that had happened in the last 2 months, though? Zoey was somewhere between tossing out the picture entirely and staring at it for half an hour at a time. She had nearly done the former several times and was currently doing the latter.

Until she was unexpectedly interrupted.

“Hey, Park?”

Shit. It was her boss, Johnny. She spun her chair around, smiling at the newcomer. Apparently, today had been a press day with Governor Wolfington yet again, Johnny sporting an uncharacteristic grey blazer and khakis as well as a characteristically undone tie, unshined dress shoes, and forever unkempt stringy hazel-brown hair.
Not to mention the practically permanent pungent patina of his rather flowery perfume.

“Hey, Johnny! If you’re here for that article about the State Attorney General’s statement yesterday, don’t worry, I’m almost done!” She gestured to her flickering monitor screen, the computer buffering in its few seconds away from her rapt attention. Yet again. “See!”

Johnny waved away her concerns flippantly. “Not here for that, although that’s good to hear.” He rested his elbow on the edge of her cubicle wall. Her face immediately became flushed, eyes flitting away from his to look at the placement of the elbow before getting back to him.

Secretly, she was really hoping he might not do the elbow-lean… thing this time. It was a positively infuriating habit Johnny had whenever he was by a cubicle. Anyone else’s, and maybe there wouldn’t be a problem. But every day Zoey came into work (if she didn’t pull another all-nighter), she was partly expecting to see her office walls on the ground, completely torn apart from a dramatic crash by someone bumping into it with just their foot, or in a pile of brown dust, all of her cherished posters and pictures and memories scattered everywhere after an earthquake that was just a touch too much.

Thankfully, that day wouldn’t be today. Her walls trembled, but remained standing. Johnny continued, seemingly not noticing her rapid nervousness. “There’s actually a really interesting story I got an email about from Greg, and I think you might be interested in taking it up? Someone from SONGS is whistleblowing about… something.” Zoey’s eyes narrowed, eyebrows falling from their previous home atop her forehead in her confusion. Greg was Johnny’s boss, the head of the paper itself. Odd that he would send something potentially big down to her.

“From that nuclear power station?” Johnny nodded, taking a quick sip of his steaming coffee out of his outrageously colorful LA Pride 2018 mug. “Why wouldn’t you or Greg handle it yourselves? I don’t mean to sound rude, not even a little, but this just sounds… above me?” Johnny sighed, at last lifting his elbow off of the cubicle wall as his eyes flew to the scratchy carpet floor, his hand scratching the back of his neck.

“Well, look, Greg and I have been really busy lately, and he has been thinking about retiring soon. If this goes the way he thinks it might, Greg’s thinking of promoting you to my job, and I’d get his.” Johnny put his free hand on her shoulder. Her skin underneath her violet hoodie raised in goosebumps, a uniquely warm chill running down from where his hand sat to her forearms. “This is make it or break it time. For you and for me. And you’re easily the best I’ve got.”

He let go and backed away, beginning to leave. “I already forwarded you the email. Good luck, Zoey!” Before she could ask any further questions, such as the many running through her head at the moment, Johnny turned and walked away, his shoes whimpering with each step as he made his way back to his office. She got up quickly, her chair groaning, hoping to catch him before he could go any further, but Johnny shut his door with an undignified slam.

Zoey slumped over back into the crying seat. She knew better than to bother him when that door was shut. Never ended well. Usually led to her working on the kinds of articles he knew she hated most: celebrity gossip rags. There was no time to waste. Her hand gingerly lay on top of her mouse, searching for its quiet answer. Finally, it began to respond on her screen, and she let out a silent sigh in relief.

She started working away on the story. The email was very interesting, that was certain. Johnny hadn’t been kidding, not at all. It was a brand new email address linked to the IP address of a computer in a local public library, and after a brief email exchange with a kind woman named Cassandra (who was definitely not supposed to be working nearly that late, Zoey figured out that there weren't any functional cameras in that library anymore. Some of its funding had been pulled some months ago, and that meant that even something as simple as a single working security camera had to go in lieu of getting rid of vital other services, or, “heavens forbid,” as Cassandra said, whole shelves worth of books.

The email itself included sparse details. No real name, the alias of ‘Deep Throat’, only a location, where this person worked, their job at the station as a nuclear engineer, and where they wanted to meet. 3 AM today in a parking garage on the other side of the city. It stank to the ceiling of Watergate. Zoey had learned a great deal of the history of Journalism in college, and this exact kind of scenario happened there, too. Same alias, same kind of meeting place, similar timing. It was incredibly suspicious, not to mention exceedingly fascinating.

There had been a short snack and bathroom break around 1 AM, then Zoey began her favorite kind of work: digging. She first looked into the history of the San Onofre station, learning about its overall public history until now. It was dreadfully boring, but she needed to understand the station itself before she tried to meet this person. Not long after, she moved on to looking into the not-so-public goings-on of the station.

It had recently passed its inspections with flying colors, a fact noteworthy enough to receive an entire mini-article by their rival, the LA Times. Apparently, the state government had long since considered pulling its funding due to recent troubles with power outages in spite of the station working at maximum safe capacity, but the excellent inspection delayed their hand a little longer. At the very end of the article, though? That’s where she saw something more real. A single paragraph about the state potentially privatizing it, and a canned quote from a corporate spokesperson. From…

“ENCOM?” She said out loud, leaning forward to read the quote again, as though she hadn’t read it right. No, she had. How interesting. “What would ENCOM want with a nuclear power station?” She looked out of the blackened window to the starlit city outside, the ENCOM Tower looming several miles away, then back to her screen.

Zoey soldiered on. Now she skimmed through the web as best she could, searching for an answer. Eventually, she arrived at a city website for publicly available blueprints. It was the blueprints for the building itself when it had been refurbished in the mid-90s. She wasn’t looking at the building itself, though. That wasn’t what she needed. What she really needed was the information on where it was drawing its power from, where it was connected to.

And to her bemusement, there it was. At the bottom of a single page, buried within about a hundred pages of building schematics. Written right at the bottom in Simplex font. San Onofre Nuclear Power Station. It was all coming together at once. Clearly, ENCOM needed the station for something, something important enough that it required an entire nuclear power station in order to run.

She shot up out of her chair, the legs of it shuddering as she did, and began pacing back and forth in front of her decaying desk and cubicle. It helped her to move while she was thinking. It made things easier on her brain to get her blood flowing. That must be what this engineer is going to tell her about. Whatever it was that ENCOM was planning on using that station for, it required a ton of electricity. And she was guessing that the station would be marginally for the public and largely for themselves. Mira would be⸺

Zoey paused, her hand moving to hold her beating, thumping heart and excitedly breathing chest. Guilt ate her, deep red like her blood, dripping from her chest down to the floor below, a festering, lingering wound that no one but she could see.

Memories flashed by in her mind’s eye. The shouting, the arguing, the crying, the slam of Mira’s apartment door behind her, her clothes and various knick-knacks stuffed haphazardly into bags and suitcases, themselves packed into the backseat of her tiny coupe.

Breaking up was not either of their choice to make, but it had ultimately come down to Zoey to do it. Things had been so good, so beautifully perfect until they graduated. Something in Mira changed. Not in their relationship, in fact, Mira had been everything she already was with Zoey and more. She had been more loving, more caring, so much more affectionate. It was in her politics.

Zoey always loved how stubborn Mira was about what she thought and believed. It was one of the things that drew her to Mira initially when they were just freshman roommates. But Mira’s politics had begun to change. Previously, she had been a pretty run-of-the-mill centrist type, and a real one. Not the kind to claim it and then, in actuality, be as far to the right as anyone could imagine. She wasn’t terribly involved in politics, although she always voted in every local, state, and federal election.

Mira had always cared and had always paid attention to what was going on in the world. Zoey, to her credit, had told her many times that she would fit in better among the political science students than she ever did with her native law majors, and this directly helped her point. Mira never seemed to pay the idea any mind. Not until they graduated.

Politics was a bit of a null subject for Zoey. It’s not that she didn’t care; she cared deeply, just as much as Mira did, but she didn’t have the heart to pay attention to everything bad going on in the world. She let herself care and know about local events and people in the state, but any further, and she hated to hear it.
That had been where the arguments slowly started seeping in. One about the nature of their economic system, another about the validity of politically motivated violence. And then another. And then another.

Then their whole relationship became swallowed, whole, alive, and writhing, into the maw of domestic political turmoil.

Zoey physically shook her head, trying not to cry, trying not to remember all of that still-fresh baggage. Better not to think of it right now. She had real work to do, and she was on the clock. She was not being paid to mope or brood about her ex.

She made a quick mental note of the time on the corner of the screen: 1:59 AM. Earlier, she had done the math on how long it would take for her to get to that parking garage (entered it into Google Maps and looked at the estimate), and it would take at least 25 minutes to get there, plus or minus any unexpected traffic and a number of red lights. Realistically, she then only had half an hour to prepare for the interview itself.

But how can you prepare for an interview, as the person interviewing, if you don’t even know what it is about? The ENCOM stuff was only a hunch, and while Zoey trusted her instincts, it was undeniable that she couldn’t be entirely certain. And if it was about ENCOM, a massive corporate monolith, both literally and figuratively, within Los Angeles?

Whatever it was this person was going to tell her had to be a big enough deal to warrant all of this secrecy. But why the references to Watergate? ENCOM had plenty of controversies, sure, but many of them were long past and long dealt with in one fashion or another. Sam Flynn has controlled his father’s company for the last 15 years, the same one that had quickly become his father’s brainchild after the shocking reveal of one Ed Dilinger having stolen and falsely claimed ownership of Kevin Flynn’s work, leading to his very public downfall back in the early 80s.

What on Earth, then, could they be hiding? What would require so much energy as to need an entire nuclear power plant?

Zoey cut herself off, standing up and giving a great, big, overdramatic stretch and yawn. What she really needed to prepare for the interview was energy, and plenty of it. She eyed the white mini-fridge in the corner of the room, mouth watering at the thought of its energy drink contents.
10 minutes and a cup of much-safer but incorrigible work coffee later out of her Sunlight Sisters mug, she got truly ready. Put on her bright green slip-on running shoes, grabbed her turtle-shaped phone charging on its port in the claustrophobic employee break room, and nabbed her car keys off her desk surface.

The drive itself was quiet. Traffic, as anticipated, was light, and the lack of cars on the road made any prolonged red lights a non-issue. As the Google Maps on her phone put her closer and closer yet to her destination, and as the voracious night sky loomed on the horizon and in every corner of her vision, only broken by the glass-smudged starry orange and cloud-white lights of the city, anxiety gnawed away at her resolve.

What if this was a mistake? What if Johnny or Greg really should have done this? Did she have it in her to take on a potentially huge story? Was she capable of it? Was she worthy of it?

All popping into her head as she got within 5 miles, 2 miles, 1 mile of the parking garage, with each grating, ailing, and rusty movement of anxiety’s gaping maw and blunt incisors. For her own sake, and for the sake of her career, she decided to ignore the pressing thoughts and the parasite named Anxiety. Focus, unfettered and unmuted either by others or her own choice, was precisely what she was going to need in the coming minutes.

A few more turns, and she was there. The garage was empty, despite how its walls tried their best to be nerve-racking, exacting in every little detail. Cement pillars, thick with unpassed time and tattooed with all manner of flamboyant graffiti and vivid stickers, held up the striking ceiling just as Atlas held up the sky. Cracks and veins in the light grey asphalt were numerous and frequent, her uninspiring little blue Subaru twitching and gyrating up and down, back and forth, as she slowed to a stop in a parking spot near the entrance of the 3rd floor.

Go time.

She exited her vehicle, doing her best to close the door silently behind her, and walked to the other end of the floor, by the furthest pillar. All according to plan, all in the same way the email had instructed. Zoey checked her phone, hoping to be graced with a good sign with the time. 2:59 AM. Perfect timing then.

A grating and hushed voice whispered out of the wispy, swirling darkness, from behind the pillar. “You showed up.”
Zoey’s body became frigid, both in feel and in movement. She dared not do a single thing, will a single muscle to extract an omen of death from the unknown figure. She only spoke, her quivering lip and fluttering eyelashes the only thing she felt she could do in her sudden bout of terror.

“Yes? Are you Deep Throat? Nice reference.”

In her fear, her mouth had moved in sync with her mind, every little thought put out for this person to hear. It was mortifying, but nonetheless what she had done. She cringed at her own words. The voice didn’t react.

“You know why you’re here?” It said, its sandpaper drawl dragging itself through her ears and into her head. She nodded once, only responding with a tentative “... yeah?”

Whoever this was, they were becoming impatient with their own theatrics. This time, the voice spoke from directly behind her, breathy with a sigh and an exasperation unbefitting what she had already previously heard. “Turn around.”

And she did.

He was an older man with a bushy grey mustache, hair hidden underneath an LA Chargers hat. Most of his other defining features were covered by the tan trench coat he was wearing, with only his grimy, worn brown leather shoes sticking out of the bottom, along with a pair of faded blue jeans. He had kind features, sporting rotund cheeks, a small nose, and a wide but toothless smile. Zoey wished she could look into his eyes for some kind of reassurance, some form of absolute confirmation that this was not some kind of kidnapping scheme, but she could not, for they were hidden too by some sunglasses.

He spoke again. “And why do you think you are here?” Zoey audibly swallowed the lump beginning to fester and gestate in her throat. “It’s about why ENCOM wants the San Onofre nuclear station? That’s my best guess.”

His smile opened to show well-brushed white teeth, all scraggly and jagged by a lifetime of not having braces. “You’re already close, good.” The smile died as fast as it had come. “This is about that, but it’s not why they want it that matters. It’s what.”

Zoey’s adrenaline-shaken hands fumbled for her phone out of her pocket. “How did you hear about that? Did someone tell you, did you overhear something, or…”
He shook his head, a few greying curls slipping out of the edges of his cap, and a pausing hand raised into the cool air of the night. “No phones. Please. I am being followed. Have been followed. I got lucky tonight and got them off of my case, but this? This is too important not to tell someone.”

Now she was the one becoming exasperated. Zoey huffed, shoving her phone back into its place in her back pocket. “Then just tell me. What’s going on with that station?”

The man sighed. “Alright, alright. Fair’s fair.” He pulled an orange folder out of his internal coat pocket. “This contains a document with the transcript of a secretly recorded conversation between an ENCOM representative, who was standing in for Mr. Flynn, and my supervisor, Carl Engels.”

She took the file and opened it, poring over the transcribed dialogue within. Her mystery man continued. “As you will see, most of it is nothing. Corporate talk, stuff about logistics, etcetera, etcetera. And then, right near the end, the rep from ENCOM slips up.” Zoey skips straight to the end and reads.

Confusion colored her face. “What is…” She checks the transcript again to make sure she read that correctly. “The Grid? They weren’t referring to the power grid. The ENCOM rep literally says, out loud, ‘the station will be needed for the Grid.’ If they’re going to buy it and privatize it, then why would it be needed for the LA power grid?”

He nods. “Exactly. I only found out because I was the one who put the listening device in Carl’s office.” Before Zoey could ask the obvious question, he answered it himself. “I did it because I thought what they were going to do was lay us all off and replace us when we went private. It's hard to have a good union contract with the government if you’re no longer working for the government.”

Zoey folds up the transcript and puts it in the same pocket as her phone. “Are you, at all, willing to give me your name? When we publish this, I mean. I’ll have to do some more digging and asking around, but I th-”

BANG BANG BANG

Gunshots, blasting and unrelenting, thunder through the garage, bouncing and leaping off the walls. The man runs off, yelling behind him, “RUN!” For the briefest moment, Zoey’s legs can’t move. She can’t move. Anxiety morphs into fear, wrapping itself tight around her neck, making it hard to breathe, impossible to think.
Then a tiny breath of air enters her desperate lungs, and she takes off towards her car. There was no indication where the shots had come from, but all she knew was that on foot, she was dead. Her goofy, old, crappy car that she called Shelly was her best chance at getting out of there alive.

An engine roared nearby, gear changes creating yet more banging, with someone yelling something indecipherable. She was almost to her car, she was so close, right there! A bullet punched its way through her rear driver’s side to her right, and the shock of it was enough of a distraction to make her trip on one of the asphalt cracks.

Air rushed out of her lungs, and a dull, throbbing pain radiated out of her left knee. Definitely a nasty scrape, but her fear overrode the pain. Her hand grasped at her car door handle, but not quite reaching it.

Tires screamed and screeched to a stop behind her, a boisterous engine growling in place. “ZOEY!” The driver shouted between the gunfire. She knew that voice. Zoey flipped around.

It was Mira, in a navy blue Skyline GT-R. She remembered when that car was merely a poster that Mira kept alongside about a dozen others above her dorm bed when they roomed together. It felt like a distant memory. The car itself was far from stock. A spoiler stuck out like a metal tail out of the back and side skirts ran along the edges. Exactly like the poster once did. And Mira herself looked… different.
Gone were her circular glasses that Zoey liked so much, replaced, no doubt, by contacts. Tattoos ran up her arms, leading up to her cream crop top and peeking out from her chest from its V-neck. Black leggings covered up her legs, also probably covered in new tattoos. She was wearing eyeliner, another new addition, and it was sharp. It, along with all of her other makeup, made her face look lethal, and her jaw like napalm. Her hair was still as pink as ever, though.

That was nice.

“GET THE FUCKING CAR!”

That was not nice.

But it woke her up from her stupor. She stumbled forward, yanking the passenger door open and throwing herself into the seat, trying her best to keep her head down.

With another lingering shriek, the car took off like a missile, slingshotting forward. Zoey scrambled to put on her seatbelt as Mira’s hands flew around the cabin of the car, from the steering wheel to the manual gearbox back to the steering wheel, each gear changing one of the many incredible booms and bangs coming from behind them.

“Keep your head down!” A bullet tore through the back windshield, thankfully not shattering it into a thousand teeny bits and showering them. Zoey did as she was told, trying to sink her head lower into the seat, away from the view of the windows.

Lights flashed by as they tore out of the garage, finally onto the street proper. The gunshots slowed, but didn’t stop. Mira pulled the steering wheel hard to the right, and they took a very tight turn into the next street. “Holy shit! Mira!”

Mira responded loudly, but not without that soft lilt she always took on with Zoey. “We’re going to be okay, but you need to trust me! I know where to go!” Beaming LED headlights got closer and closer to them, spiking the fear into Zoey’s chest.

“HELL NO!” Mira shouted. She slammed her foot on the gas, and Zoey could feel that familiar pull in her stomach, the same one that hit when they used to go on wildly fast rollercoasters together. Her whole body felt like it was pressed and pulled into the seat behind it. Zoey couldn’t help but to let out a giggle. It was exhilarating.

Another hard yank on the wheel, and the whole rear of the car flew out behind them. A moment of hands moving around, and Zoey realized that her ex-girlfriend was drifting a car. Her law school, deeply caring, nepo baby ex was drifting a race-ready modified car, drenched in tattoos and looking the hottest she had ever seen her. And she was in that car.

“How did you find me?” The answer didn’t come immediately, Mira’s attention raptly on the road in front of them and the rearview mirror above her, colors and lights zooming past in a blur. When it came, it was stuttering, embarrassed, and nervous. “I-I was… I was following you, alright? I wanted to make sure you were okay. You don’t normally leave work at 2:30 in the morning and go to the other side of town.”

It dawned on Zoey what Mira was really saying, underneath the care and concern. “Have you been stalking me?” She turned to look at her in the driver’s seat. Her cheeks blushed hard, sweat dropping down her forehead. It was actually because of how hot it was inside the car, but Zoey couldn’t help but to think and feel that it was also because of the admission of what she had been doing. Mira continued after getting them a whole street’s length between them and their pursuers.

“It has been… a recent development.” Instead of falling once again to the gearbox beside her, Mira’s hand fell on top of Zoey’s. It was rougher than she remembered. They were littered with calluses and a few scars. The world outside, for a second, for the briefest moment, melted away. And it felt like things had gone back to how they were before.

The way things were supposed to be.

“I missed you. I still miss you.”

Zoey wasn’t sure if she had said it or if Mira did. It didn’t matter. They both knew it was true. Her mind switched back to the current situation. “I… keep your eyes on the road. We can talk more when we’re safe.”

Another gear change, the warmth of Mira’s hand still prickling her palm, and the car continued its flight down the sea of watchful, hopeful stars, the cars behind them quickly becoming a forgotten memory.