Chapter Text
Eventually every hunt leads to moments like these, encounters where a coin is tossed, a die cast, and something inevitable is set in motion. For a seasoned hunter, one who has seen many such moments and knows how to walk the edge expertly, they start feeling insignificant, and often they remain so. But no matter how many times one survives, one must remain aware, and never forget to respect them. For this is a fickle world. And every so often, no matter what one does, the future brews bitter drinks.
***
A ranch rests somewhat haphazardly among muddy fields full of corn and cattle, humid heat casting a haze across all of it. An ill-maintained dirt road slashes crookedly through the landscape, wagons having carved shallow ruts into the soft earth. None of the recent loads had been heavy, then, meaning this place was on the bad side of luck.
A lone figure travels down said road on horseback, pace steady but unhurried. Horse and rider move together so fluidly it betrays a deep resonance speaking of many shared moments of hardship and triumph and countless long days of travel.
The horse is a tall, well-groomed Turkoman with a golden-brown coat, braided mane and tail, a proud bearing, and shrewd eyes. The figure, a purple-braided woman clad in plaid and leather and all the accoutremants of a professional bounty hunter, surveys her surroundings with dark eyes and the detached interest of someone who’d survived many an ambush and had vigilance beaten into their bones, as automatic and easy as breathing.
Rumi squints against the setting sun, tugging her hat lower. Most others would’ve seen a ranch like any other, common as dirt this side of the country, but the details revealed much more than that.
None of the pastures are at capacity, some even barren. Too few workers roam the fields, she guesses perhaps half the corn might end up in the harvest, the other half…
She gently urges Geum forward, nerves steadied by familiarity. Folk who saw a heavily armed stranger approaching their homestead would often react with caution, if not hostility. Especially if they were involved in nasty business.
She hopes this one will go smoothly.
A magpie as big as her forearm flutters smoothly onto a branch nearby and calls to her with its signature hoarse song. It looks between her and the house, three visible eyes blinking in sequence. She nods at it in silent communication. “Remember, carefully.”
It flies off with a sullen squawk that roughly translates into ‘we’ve done this a hundred times, lay off’.
It is quite articulate. For a not-quite-bird.
The men working the fields close by the road notice her approach. They watch her curiously, gesture in silent greeting, but continue tending the ranch. Not overly suspicious folk then, or hired hands not paid enough to care. She nods to them, meets their eyes, stays casual, even starts quietly humming a tune as she ambles forward. A familiar one. Tends to calm her down, keeps her head clear, focuses the senses. And Geum seems to like her voice.
A warning call sounds from far above, meaning: movement, caution. Someone exits the house before she’s made it past the gate. A woman, mostly indicated by the flowery apron she’s wearing and the glimpse of two dark braids, shotgun perched on her hip. A threat, but a casual one. A wise precaution, in Rumi’s mind. The woman stays on the porch, watching her approach patiently.
It feels like entering the lair of a wild animal, but, for now, all it’s doing is watching you. Part of her relishes in it.
She dismounts Geum just past the final gate, permanently open by the look of its rotten slant, leaves her horse untied, and holds up her hands in a gesture of both greeting and peace. She leaves all weapons but the revolver at her hip and the knife at her thigh behind. There should be no need for anything but her words, God willing. A few more steps are taken, even-paced and slow, enough to get her within comfortable speaking distance, but not too far from her horse in case she needs to run for it.
“What’s your business here?” The woman asks, widening her stance a little. She’s short, strong, handles the shotgun with ease, but not with practice. It’s clear the weapon feels awkward to her. Not entirely alien, but insecure. Most folk wouldn’t get close enough to see the cracks.
The clothes beneath her apron are well-worn, stained from husbandry, sleeves rolled up. Black hair is tamed into twin braids underneath a straw hat. There’s a tan and a flex to her arms telling of frequent and hard manual labor, mostly outside. Her voice is high, strong, only a little waver gives her nervousness away. A little younger than Rumi, if she had to guess, which makes it interesting that she’s the one defending the house.
Perhaps husband or father are away, or this is an exceptionally young widow.
“I’m just here to ask a few questions, ma’am.” Rumi states calmly, the words so familiar to her mouth they’ve nearly lost all meaning. The magpie, named Sussie after its constant narrow-eyed glare, settles itself at her back, perched high on the edge of a shed. She doesn’t acknowledge it. She knows it’s always there, watching keenly for danger, for any movement she would see too late.
“Why?” The young woman narrows her eyes suspiciously, probably with the intent of threat. Awkward grip or not, there isn’t much Rumi could do against a shotgun at this distance, some risks are in no need of taking.
“I’m looking for a missing woman.”
“And what does that make you? Too young to be the mother. Wife maybe? Sister? Oh, is it tax evasion? You don’t look like a tax collector, but honestly, I’d be that armed if I carried a lot of money too.”
Rumi had to admit, tax collector stung a little. At least this time she wasn’t assumed to be the night’s entertainment. “A bounty hunter, ma’am. Taxmen travel with armed escorts. And in carriages.”
The woman’s grip on the shotgun tightens and Rumi tenses, ready to burst into movement. “Wait, you’re not here for me, right? I swear I didn’t know those were Mr. Farrow’s pigs.”
Rumi’s lips twitch despite herself, better not ask before she gets pulled into some petty farmer drama. “I’m not here about any pigs, I can assure you there was no bounty out on anyone fitting your description when I checked yesterday.”
The white-knuckled grip on the shotgun relents a fraction. “Well, that’s a relief! Not that I did anything wrong, that is, bounty hunter, ma’am.” For an uncomfortable moment, they just look at each other as the thread of conversation slowly sinks.
“I-”
“So-”
A beat, then the delicate bloom of two smiles, one wry, the other embarrassed. Rumi dips her head for the other woman to go first.
“So, missing woman, huh. What’s her story?”
Rumi nods, back on track. “Kidnapped or runaway, her family’d like to know she’s safe.”
“Oh, uh…” The woman glances to the side for a moment, almost as if she’s calculating something, before frowning at Rumi. “Well which is it?”
“Pardon me?”
“Kidnapped, or runaway?” The woman shifts the shotgun from her hip to rest barrel-down on the ground, leans on the railing of her porch, and, for some inexplicable reason, smiles at Rumi. “I’d say which makes a difference.”
Rumi just frowns at her, unsure where this is going.
“See,” the woman’s smile deepens and her cheeks dimple charmingly, “if it was kidnapping, I wouldn’t hesitate to tell you what I know, since the woman would want to be found, right?”
“...Right.” This wasn’t usually part of the script, and Rumi finds herself subtly off-balance.
“But! If she ran away, well, there might be a good reason for it. Of course, she could be some spoiled rich brat with naive, romantic ideals about the world and in for a terrible time, in which case being found would probably be for the best. But there’s always a chance she actually knows exactly what she’s doing and being found would, in fact, not be in her best interest. In which case I’d feel morally obliged to not tell you a thing. So… which is it?”
“Uh-” Rumi winces, hands clenching, a flush rising to her cheeks as the words hit close to home. Celine’s calm, disapproving gaze is briefly superimposed onto the stranger’s face before the memory is swiftly suppressed.
It raises a valid question, one she had asked herself: what were the circumstances of the woman’s disappearance? Most of these cases, involving disappeared rich kids and panicked parents, were the same. The kid runs away with a new lover or friend with romantic ideas about the world in their head, finds out reality is far more apathetic and uncomfortable than they imagine, and they are reluctantly grateful to be escorted back home. That, or kidnapping with the intent of ransom, in which case they are also grateful to be escorted home.
The only thing different about this particular missing person’s case was the detail that said person was apparently ‘hysterical’ and ‘delusional’ and thus potentially dangerous. She figured she’d find out what exactly her target’s deal was once she’d found them and just proceed with caution. Perhaps she could ask the sheriff tomorrow.
For now, though, she will not lie, even if it works against her. “The contract didn’t specify that, but-.”
“Then how do you know you’re doing the right thing?” For all her casual demeanor and easy smiles, the words are knife-sharp. The way she looks at her, head tilted and eyes unblinking in challenge, feels like a blade to her throat.
Rumi almost finds herself lured into defending herself but then just sighs. Letting herself be provoked would not help, and she would do her damndest to keep this peaceful. “Look, I just want to know if you’ve seen a woman with pink hair recently, her name is Mira Song, she’s lost and might be unstable, even dangerous, and if you have, I’d appreciate to know the details.”
You’ll never have to see me again, she doesn’t add.
“But you could be a kidnapper!” The woman protests. “She might have escaped your clutches, and now you’re pretending to be helpful while really you’re a criminal!”
“Ma’am-”
“Or you could be someone sent to silence her, or steal her family fortune! You’ve got one of those faces, you know, made for- for scheming and scowling.”
Rumi scowls. “Excuse me-”
“See? Why should I trust you, I don’t know you, for all I know you’re a burglar casing my ranch! Well, I won’t have it.”
“No,” Rumi uses her best soothing tone, “I-”
The woman, in a motion more quick and smooth than Rumi is comfortable with, whips her shotgun back up and aims it straight at her. “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”
Rumi takes a step back, heart rate spiking, hands placating. She hears Sussie squawk in alarm behind her and flutter further to the side, out of any potential crosshairs. This is going entirely off-rails. She can feel a familiar tingle start in her hands and feet. Suddenly the sighs and creaks of the house become audible. She can smell something cooking, hearty, full of meat, someone’s gentle perfume on the breeze mixing with sunheated corn and wet earth. There are freckles on the woman’s face, her brown eyes are flecked with dark gold and darker green, her hands are not shaking. The thing rising up within her is decisively coaxed back down, quieted, restrained. “I swear,” she talks fast and low, almost practiced, “I’m here in the name of the law. The sheriff sent me here, said he heard talk of a woman fitting the description in the area a few days ago. You can inquire with him, if you wish, he can confirm I’m here on legitimate business. There’s no need to start shooting.”
“What’s your name?” The question is asked as if they’re at the saloon, sitting next to each other at the bar for a casual evening drink.
“I, uh- what?”
“Your name, so I can ‘inquire’.” An impish grin, “you know, like you said.”
“Rumi Kang,” Rumi nearly goes to tip her hat in pure reflex, and then hides a grimace. Stupid move when someone’s got an itchy trigger finger. “A… pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”
No sign of recognition, only a pleased tilt of the woman’s head. “Oh, that’s a pretty name! I’m Zoey Jones, if you were wondering. You’re very polite, you know, even with a gun pointed at you. That’s pretty admirable. Does that mean it happens to you a lot?”
Rumi blinks, looking from Ms. Jones’ genuinely welcoming smile to the shotgun still aimed at her. “Not quite like this, I admit.”
“Hm? What makes me so different?” Ms. Jones seems almost eager to find out.
“You don’t seem as eager to get rid of me, despite…” She gestures at the gun, “and you haven’t yelled at me either.”
“I find it important to be a good host, even if my guests are uninvited and look suspicious.” A sage nod, then a flash of teeth, not aggressive but not entirely friendly either. “You could have been a distressed runaway looking for shelter from her dreadful family, for example.”
Rumi huffs in amusement before she can stop herself. They both know she looks very much like a bounty hunter, well-armed, well-prepared, and well-accustomed to the road. But, point taken.
Ms. Jones’ delighted chuckle at her reaction makes her cheeks darken with embarrassment, and she quickly schools her features back into calm neutrality. Suddenly all she wants to do is retreat. This interaction has spiraled into something altogether unexpected, her control rapidly slipping, and she’s learned absolutely nothing of use, nor does it look like she will today. Staying longer, she fears, might only cost her more of her dignity, and it might be wise to preserve as much of it as she could.
She would return another time, better prepared. Somehow.
Ms. Jones grins mischievously, dimples returning with a vengeance, lowering her gun. “However pleasant our conversation was, Ms. Kang, I think you should leave. I’ve got horses to feed. Don’t bother coming by until I’ve confirmed about your business with the sheriff. If you do, I will shoot you before you’re past my gate.”
There isn’t a doubt in Rumi’s mind that Ms. Jones would. She huffs, exasperation mixing with a weird sense of approval. “Fair enough. I hope to see you again soon, ma’am.”
“How forward!” Ms. Jones laughs, a warm and carefree sound, “I see you’ve made chasing women your specialty!”
“No! I-I didn’t mean-” Rumi scrambles, annoyed and flustered, “I’m a bounty hunter, it’s professional! I’m not here to- oh forget it.” She turns on her heel, stalks to her horse, mounts it quickly, and starts off at a trot without looking back. Not because she doesn’t want to, but because she doesn’t trust herself to not somehow make things even worse, and reveal just how red her cheeks are to the woman probably still laughing at her from her porch. She’s not sure the warmth at her back is from the sun or those brown eyes watching her leave.
Technically that could have gone worse, but somehow worse would have probably left Rumi feeling better. Getting shot at is simple, getting yelled at is simple. People understand what she is, what she does, and either help or hinder. Not this… thing in between. Not debates and questions and introductions. Not this dueling and circling with words. Celine had tried to teach her to navigate these kinds of battles of will, but the moment Rumi loses control of a conversation she just… scrambles. Besides, her job rarely offers chances for significant conversation. In understated terms: she’s rusty.
Her life contains simple conflicts, survival, hunts and fights. Talking pretty she leaves to pinkertons, the lawmen. Bounty hunters get a contract, track the target, and deal with them as instructed. That’s the life she chose, the one that suits her. It isn’t often she is so thoroughly disarmed, and without a single step on Ms. Jones’ part.
With a smooth glide ending in a flutter, Sussie lands on Geum’s head, tilts their head, and she swears it’s mocking her with a smirk. At the same time Geum huffs at her, tilts his head to the side to make eye-contact and bares his teeth in a way Rumi can only describe as amused. At her expense. “Oh shut up.”
Her only two companions are both assholes.
She sighs as she goes over her plans, knowing this would cause a hitch. Hopefully other folk will be more direct so as to not warrant a return. The town and its surrounding farms are a map she is still filling in, optimizing how many people and places she can cover per day by subdividing the region into smaller pieces, based on ease of access, travel time, and which folk are known to frequent the saloon. The more efficient she is at gathering information, the bigger the chance she will solve this thing before others come sniffing around.
Maybe she can save some money and time if she camps outside of town? No, she should show her face, become familiar, build trust. The community is small, protective, they might tell her more if she consistently shows she means no harm. Maybe she can do some odd jobs to help mitigate the cost of a longer stay…
Something pulls at her before she crests the hill, and she stills. For a moment she thinks she sees a trill in the Honmoon, a shimmer stirring around her, but it’s merely the setting sun reflecting off a sea of corn. If there were demons nearby, it would let her know with unerring certainty.
Her return to town is uneventful, a slow travel past rolling farm and field, drenched in the soft golden light of dusk. In the saloon, she finds herself sitting by the single dusty window in her room, chatter, cheers, and music beneath her feet while watching the stars glimmer to life until the dark between pulls her up, and in.
Her sleep is haunted by faceless pink-haired women always at her periphery, dissolving into smoke when she grasps at them. And another, just watching. Eyes dark and wide, owl-like, judging her in a way she just can’t figure out, and a too-broad smile. Celine tells her to be better if she wants to see her parents again, but no matter how many bounties she turns in, they remain wish-shaped shadows dancing in the flames.