Chapter Text
It’s well after midnight by the time Rumi makes it home.
Her whole body aches. They’d managed a pretty solid win in today’s match but their opponents had made her, in particular it seemed, pay for every point - she can feel the dull ache of bruises and scrapes on every limb and her left ankle, though she can’t even remember hurting it, throbs badly enough that she’d taken the Commission’s standing offer of a cab home for once, rather than walking the twenty-five minutes from the edge of her Division where the buses stop to her cottage. The driver barely waited for her to close the cab door before peeling back off through the silent, poorly-lit streets. She’d have rolled her eyes if she’d had the energy.
The cottage is cold when she walks in, as ever. Autumn’s really getting its boots on and the air outside is biting, the wind whistling ominously at the windows; Rumi’s sure there’s a draft coming from somewhere but she hasn’t had the time to figure it out. It’s not a priority. She doesn’t bother with the lights overhead, just navigates by memory alone through the little box of her living room/kitchen and into the even littler box of her bedroom and flicks on the lamp by her bed.
Even more appealing than the thought of that bed is the thought of a shower, the only appliance in the house that actually works as it’s supposed to. For Rumi, at least - her predecessor had warned her that she’d have to fight to keep the water temperature anywhere below ‘scalding’ but, fortunately for her, that’s exactly how she likes it. There’s something about standing underneath a stream of steaming water that’s almost meditative, a kind of peace she’s sorely lacking, where all she has to think about is the slight sting of the water as it hits her skin and managing her copious amount of hair. The Tournament doesn’t exist, under there. It’s just Rumi, and her body, and a little bit of pleasure she doesn’t even have to feel guilty about because everyone has to get clean, don’t they?
The tiled floor of the bathroom’s freezing, but Rumi doesn’t care. She chucks her sweaty, soiled uniform into the hamper and goes to shower - or burn - the day off.
It hadn’t even been that bad. They’d won. Added another couple thousand points to the score, a bit more money coming in for her people who were, as always, in dire need of it. A good day, unequivocally, her team sent home with cheers and the rest of the evening off.
Not for Rumi, though. There was just so much paperwork involved in a win, so many decisions only she could make - where that money went, how much and how soon, did she put it into the Hospital or the Academy or split it out among the food banks? What about the training centres, or the community groups that hardly ever got a look-in? Did they need it right now or could she put it to one side and save it for something other than the bare minimum? Patch the leaky roof or hold out for a new one and hope for better weather in the meantime?
The match ended at five and she’d only left that tiny, windowless office in the back of Namsan Stadium because the cleaning staff - her people, of course - had found her half-asleep at her laptop and made disappointed faces at her until she agreed to go home.
Did I get it right?
Is it even possible to get it right?
The spray kicks in, pelting her upturned face. She lets the heat wash it all clean and, for fifteen glorious minutes, doesn’t think about anything else.
Rumi steps out of the shower and her head fills right back up again. She doesn’t even bother to sigh; just wraps herself in a threadbare towel against the chill and heads to pull some clean pyjamas from the dresser in her bedroom.
The handful of framed photos on top of it catch her eye, as they usually do. The small collection is the closest thing to decoration in the room - in all three rooms, actually. Rumi doesn’t own much. Double bed with the lopsided headboard, nightstand with the drawer that won’t open, bedside lamp on top because she hates the overheads, and the dresser with its crown of four photographs. They’re honestly the only indication that a person’s living here and not a ghost with a particularly bad schedule.
Front and centre, the most recent of them - her and Celine at the ceremony for Rumi’s promotion to Captain, only six months ago. Both of them are in their formals, smiling at the camera, Celine’s arm loose around Rumi’s shoulder. Her eyes are proud but her jaw’s tight with resignation. Rumi just looks tired. There’s a copy of this same photo in Celine’s office and every time Rumi sees it she wants to scream.
To the right, Rumi’s graduation class. Eleven teenagers, lined up in two rows, staring at the camera with something far closer to apprehension than happiness. Only four of them are in uniform, worn and at least second-hand. Fewer than that have a family to walk out to at the end of the day. Perks of making Captain - Rumi knows where all of them are, now. She keeps the photo as a countdown. She’s been to two funerals already.
On the left, the only one she can look at with a smile, the only one she understands why she’s kept. Her Lieutenants, all five of them, caught in yet another moment of chaos. It was supposed to be an official team portrait but this one, like most, had come out unusable - they’re blurry at the edges because they couldn’t stay still for five more seconds, clambering over each other, taunting the bewildered guy behind the camera with endless bits only they - and, unfortunately, Rumi - understand. They’re idiots but they’re hers. The ‘Saja Boys’. God, it’s a stupid name but they show up at game-time and they don’t let her down, and in the end that’s all she can ask for. That they’re keeping her sane is a bonus she’ll never admit.
Rumi’s eyes fall inevitably on the last, though it’s half-hidden behind the rest. A futile gesture. She always comes back to it.
Two girls in their mid-teens, beaming at the camera. Rumi barely recognises herself in it. It’s not that her hair’s black instead of purple; it’s not that she’s pale and thin in a way that suggests less ‘gangly, growing teen’ and more ‘chronically undernourished child’; it’s not the fading black eye or the fraying bandage winding from her left hand all the way up past her elbow to disappear under the sleeve of a uniform that’s worn and patched, third- or fourth-hand at best.
It’s that smile. It’s the life in her eyes. It’s the way she’s looking into the camera like the hunger and the bruises are just footnotes, like she’s got all she’ll ever need right there in frame with her.
Because next to her is the reason for it all. Another girl, a little smaller and younger, black hair in twin buns, freckles bright on pale cheeks and beaming brighter than the sun. Zoey holds Rumi close with one arm around her waist and lifts a ball over their heads with the other in clear victory. Rumi’s cheek rests lightly against the top of Zoey’s head like that’s exactly where it belongs. She’s happy; they’re happy. She’s beginning to forget what that feels like.
The ball thuds into the meat of Rumi’s palms and she knows down to the bones of her, with every fibre of her being, that she can make the shot. She’s a fair distance from the net but the court between her and it is basically clear; Yellow has taken their eyes off her, assuming she’s too far away to be a threat. Their mistake. She can sink this. All she has to do is turn and throw and it’s done, match to Orange. That open spot in Green will be hers for sure. And if she manages the post-game stuff well? After a shot like this, Yellow might even make her an offer themselves. It’s everything she’s ever worked for - it’s everything Celine’s ever worked for, from last to second in the blink of an eye, and a life she doesn’t have to fight for.
Out of the corner of her eye - Zoey.
She’s a few feet closer to the net, with a Yellow blocker right on her heels. Rumi’s been watching this guy all game. Quick on his feet but clumsy on the intercept. She’d have put him on the outside, kept him running, not blocking. Either way, he’s no match for Zoey.
Zoey could make the shot too, Rumi’s as sure of that as she’s been of anything. The throw’s less impressive but with that blocker at her back she’ll get bonus points from the panel - more than Rumi would for her clear shot, even at this distance. She could pass it off. Let Zoey sink it, let her win the match for Orange. That spot in Green would go to her. And Zoey’s always been far better at the post-game bullshit than Rumi - she’s sweet and funny and cute, clever with her words, never misses a beat. Of course Yellow will want her. It’ll mean Green closes their free spot to re-evaluate but that won’t be forever. This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance.
It’s a split-second chain of thought, the space between heartbeats, calculations on calculations running through her mind in the way they have to when you’re a Captain - even just of an All-School team.
But Rumi doesn’t need even that time to make her decision. She made it years ago underneath a dormitory bed, a trembling body in her arms and tears on her cheeks, secrets swapped in the dark. It’s not a choice but a truth.
She turns, throws.
Zoey never forgives her.
With long years of discipline behind her, Rumi pulls her eyes away from the photo and back into the present. There’s no use lingering on old ghosts, and Rumi doesn’t regret her choices. This shitty little cottage with its drafty windows and dodgy appliances is exactly where she’s meant to be - for now. Not forever. She’s always been able to take the pain so long as it meant something.
Her bed calls, just a few feet away - but she likes to set herself up for the next day before going to sleep, even as bone-tired as she is right now, likes to at least try to start the morning with a calm, clear head and a plan.
The universe conspires again. That plan immediately goes out the window when she pulls open another drawer to find she’s only got one clean uniform left.
Goddamn it.
When had that happened? She swears she was just at the laundromat - but then she looks over at the hamper, visible through the open bathroom door, and has to admit maybe not. Time’s getting away from her again. Technically it’s already Sunday morning, the last day of the off-month; Rumi doesn’t know where the month’s gone, the days and weeks slipping through her fingers like so much sand until she’s buried to her ankles before she even knows it. God, she needs more than twenty four hours in her day.
She fishes the uniform out anyway, folds it on top of the dresser next to the photos, and dips back to pull some casual clothes out as well.
She hates being out of uniform, even though it isn’t strictly required outside of official team matters. Nobody else bothers, but she’s Orange Captain. Every single person in this Division relies on her to keep them above water, to fill in the gaping holes Central Government leaves. She can’t do that if they don’t know who she is, and she can’t do that if they’re afraid to approach her. Wearing the uniform means she’s on duty. It says ‘come and talk to me. Tell me about your wife who’s been waiting two years for her back surgery, about your friend who just got fired for not working through his break, your kid whose school’s roof just caved in. I’m here for you.’
It’s a point of pride, the burning drive that keeps her going. For her people. Everything and everyone else has already failed them; Rumi will not be another name on that list.
But, Rumi’s forced to concede, needs must. There’s a Commissioner’s meeting tomorrow afternoon and she can’t - won’t - show up to it wrinkled and mussed. She has pride in her position - even if the other team captains don’t even bother to show up themselves most of the time and send their lackeys instead, Rumi will hold herself to her own standards. She will wear the uniform, faded from years of washing in dingy laundromats as it is; it’s her armour, her mask, her refuge. They’ll see her in orange and look no further, and that will be their mistake.
She’ll have to put some laundry through. But it’s nearly 1am now, and her bones ache, so Rumi finally admits defeat and crawls into bed already planning out her changing schedule.
She needs to call in on Eusun and Sammy tomorrow, see how they’re doing after Sammy’s surgery last week and if there’s anything they need. Doubtless they’ll have laundry too - she can throw it in with hers and if she goes to the one on Dyen rather than the one on Ibis that she usually uses, she can duck out while it’s washing and check on things in Graven Street, make sure the reconstruction is getting started in good time and no-one’s been left without a safe place to sleep. Do a run to one of the food banks, grab some parcels for the folk who have trouble getting out themselves. Then, if she takes her laptop along - and if it holds together - she can knock out some more admin stuff while the washing dries, drop it back in with Eusun and Sammy with lunch from that deli on Sidle that always manages to get fresh veggies in, swing home and get changed in time to catch the 12.20 bus into Division Blue for the Commissioner’s meeting.
Her thoughts drift, sleep pulling her under. Zoey’s face. How long has it been? She wonders if it’ll be that Kang woman at the meeting tomorrow. She’s been showing up for Blue for at least as long as Rumi’s been showing up for Orange. What’s her name? Zoey’s in Blue, now. Do they know each other?
She’ll get the Saja Boys together with their groups for training as soon as the meeting’s done, when she knows what the Commission has planned for the first week of the match-up. God, she hopes they don’t match to Blue this time.
God, she hopes they do.
It’s the only way she’ll ever see Zoey again.
***
The morning passes in a blur. Sammy’s in a lot of pain, his prescription hasn’t come through yet though he’s been out of hospital for three days. She wishes that was more surprising. Rumi makes calls on her way to the laundromat, juggling heavy bags, and then more on the way to Graven Street, calling in favours and alternately cajoling and threatening until she’s ready to scream at the sheer unfeeling incompetence of it all, but in the end it all pays off. She hangs up with a promise she can actually believe; the prescription will be waiting for her to collect on the way back. Little victories. She’ll take any she can get.
Graven Street’s a mess but less of a mess than she’d feared. It’s crewed mostly by her own, Orange citizens, not players in the Tournament but regular people trying to get by on the scraps they’re given and whatever Rumi can win for them. They’re working hard to make sure the street’s safe, as many homes as possible put back to rights after the fire. It’s only right that Rumi makes sure they’re taken care of, too. On her way back from the food bank she calls into a takeout, gets enough chips to feed everyone - street and crew both. It’s cheap and not exactly healthy but it’s hot and filling, and she’s just as Orange as the rest of them despite her Captain’s band. She doesn’t have deep pockets.
Once she’s dropped off the laundry, the pain pills, and a couple hefty sandwiches with Eusun and Sammy (recovery needs veggies and Sammy’s argument that potatoes are a vegetable does not impress either his husband or Rumi), she’s got just enough time to swing home and change before she needs to head out for the bus. The air’s biting cold again, and she’s glad her last clean uniform’s got long sleeves even though they are paper thin, but the bus is on time for once and it’s even quiet enough that she can get a seat.
She spends the hour-long commute on her phone, catching up with emails, as miles of dreary highway blur past the grimy window. By the time the bus passes through the checkpoint into Blue, Rumi actually feels like she’s made a dent in her to-do list for once.
The boost that thought gives her doesn’t last long, though.
She hates coming here. It’s all gated communities on the outskirts, old Legacy names that haven’t quite made it out of the Divisions yet but still have the money to copy whatever’s trendy in the Circle. Fancy cars and copycat mansions, security at the gates glaring daggers at the bus as it passes by like it’s contaminated. The inner city’s all either high-rises or single-family homes she’d be expected to cram at least three families into back in Orange. Tree-lined streets, perfectly-maintained flower beds, no litter anywhere in sight. No pot holes in the roads, not even any fucking gum on the sidewalks. Even the bird shit gets power-washed off.
That’s what first place in the Tournament gets you. Money, and a functioning government to use it. Nobody in Blue has to spend three days in agony, waiting for their prescription medication. Blue team’s captain gets to focus on his game, not on making sure the survivors of a fire that ate three houses have somewhere safe to sleep.
Walking these clean streets leaves a sour taste on her tongue.
But Rumi can’t quite hate the people. They’re not all that different from her own, not really. Caught up in the same insane system, Tournaments and games, points measuring the worth of a human life, and every one of them closer to Orange than they are to making it out to the Circle. By luck they’ve just been born into better, and the handful of them that clawed their way up out of the lower Divisions through the Tournament, the way the system’s supposed to work? Well. Hypocritical of her to resent them for it.
But whenever she comes here, she’s the lone speck of orange in a sea of civilians. Many people from Orange make the commute to Blue every day for work, minimum-wage invisible workers keeping the Division running smoothly - the only reason there’s a highway connecting the two at all - but civilians don’t have a uniform to wear and can mostly blend in with their counterparts until it’s time to line up for the bus home.
With her Orange long-sleeves and Captain’s band, not to mention the purple hair, she sticks out like a sore thumb. Back home, that’s what she’s going for. Here? She hates how many eyes immediately find her, and immediately slide back off again like they’ll catch something just by staring.
Thankfully, the bus drops her off pretty close to Commissioner’s Plaza and there aren’t too many people on the streets at this time of day. It’s a wide courtyard, fountain in the middle surrounded by flowerbeds in shades of pinks and purples, a grand flight of steps leading up to the large town-hall-style building from which the Tournament is administrated.
The administrators themselves are all from the Circle, of course, and they only step foot here when they have to. There’s no amount of marble and bunting that could make even Blue comfortable, in their eyes.
The inside of the building’s a little less grand than the outside; it’s practical, purposeful. It’s where most of the business of running Blue is done, not just Tournament stuff. Her first time here had been overwhelming but Rumi’s used to it now; she makes it in without incident, early as usual, finds a place in the waiting room and pulls out her laptop. She’s always amazed to find it survived the bus journey.
Usually, she’s alone in here until a scant few minutes before the meeting starts. The Commissioners - or their delegates, more usually - are almost always inside already, waiting, and the other teams’ reps tend to cut it close. Rumi’s used to getting ten or so minutes to herself, save a couple brief pleasantries with the secretary who runs this floor. Florence, Blue civilian, likes crochet, grandson wants to be a player but they’re trying to talk him out of it. She remembers how Rumi likes her coffee and always gives her the good biscuits.
The routine’s interrupted today, though.
Rumi’s only been there a minute before the Kang woman walks in.
They’ve technically met - they’re on nodding terms, at least. Rumi’s pretty sure her name is Mira. They shake hands before a match - Kang on the field these days almost as much as Rumi is - and nod to each other in these meetings. A little bit of respect; more than she gets from Green or Yellow, for certain.
Rumi doesn’t know much about her. Kang’s a Legacy name - an old one, at that. Long since moved out to the Circle. Why she’s here, playing Lieutenant in Blue, is anyone’s guess; the closest a Legacy daughter like her should get to the grime of the Tournament is the sky-boxes at one of the bigger matches, air-conditioned and hand-waited, more food for the picking and the wasting than Rumi sees in a week.
But it’s almost always her at these things now, rather than the actual Blue team captain, Teo Guan. Rumi’s always liked Teo - he was kind to her when she first started attending these meetings in Rucker’s place, a hell of a lot more polite than anyone from Green or Yellow bothered to be, and had sent a genuinely lovely gift basket on her promotion. He’d always come along to more meetings than you’d expect out of the Blue captain, liked to ‘keep his foot in’, as he told her once.
She hasn’t seen him in over a year now, outside of big matches. The Kang woman comes to everything in his place - even Rumi’s promotion ceremony, which had surprised her until she’d heard the rumours of ill-health.
Players lead hard lives. She hopes he’s angling for retirement, rather than actually going downhill.
The Kang woman’s eyes land on Rumi as soon as she walks through the door. She smirks, just the barest quirk of her lips that Rumi can’t make head nor tails out of, nods her usual greeting, takes a seat opposite and then, before Rumi can nod back, speaks.
“Afternoon.” It’s short, to the point, but not clipped or curt. If she had to put a word to it, Rumi would have to say amused.
Rumi echoes. “Afternoon?” Hates the way it turns into a question without her permission. But the Kang woman only smirks again, and settles in languidly to wait.
Rumi turns her attention forcefully back to her laptop, willing away the slight flush gathering in her cheeks.
What the hell? Kang hasn’t said a direct word to her since her promotion ceremony, and that had just been a curt ‘congratulations’ in passing. They nod, a mark of mutual respect, and nothing beyond.
After what feels like five long minutes but is probably closer to thirty seconds, confusion and curiosity buzzing louder in Rumi’s head than any of her many plans and contingencies, she glances up again. Can’t help it.
Finds the other woman looking straight at her.
Kang is something else. You’d have to be blind not to notice it and Rumi is definitely not blind. Tall - she has to be at least six foot - with the body of the incredible athlete Rumi knows she is, all long lean limbs and carefully-maintained muscle, killer cheekbones, and a waterfall of bright pink hair kept partially up in two ponytails. As a look, it’s effective. And she never has a hair out of place - even after the hardest game she manages to make sweaty-and-exhausted look almost glamorous.
She’s a beast on the field, and clearly hates these meetings with a passion.
It’s unnerving, to be the centre of her attention.
“You ever take a break, Ryu?” Kang’s voice - low, melodic - rings out in the small waiting room and Rumi only barely keeps herself from jolting.
It takes her a beat, but she manages with an even voice. “I sleep.”
Kang laughs, a short bark that feels disbelieving but somehow not mocking. “Do you really?”
Rumi shrugs and decides to go with it. “An hour here, an hour there. Why, you need more than that?”
“Most humans do, Ryu,” Kang grins. “I get my eight hours. Don’t think I’ve ever seen you without a coffee in your hand, though.”
Rumi raises the mug Florence had readied for her. “We’ve all got our vices.”
She’s saved from whatever Kang’s response would be by Florence herself bustling in, clearly flustered.
“Lieutenant Kang, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t expecting you - oh, of course,” she stutters. “I was expecting you of course, for the meeting, it’s just it’s early -!”
“It’s fine,” Kang says, unfolding herself from where she’d lounged back in the chair, smiling patiently at the frazzled secretary. “I let myself in, I’m afraid. I’m sorry to have surprised you.”
Rumi watches Kang calm Florence down and makes a couple re-evaluations. It’s not the last thing she would have expected, but honestly it’s close. A Legacy name, giving a shit? Kang seems the aloof type, from everything Rumi’s seen of her before today. Not cruel, not dismissive, just - disconnected. The kind to let the secretary’s bluster and fuss roll off her back rather than try to reassure her.
She doesn’t get too much time to think on it, though, or to see where that unexpected conversation might end up. By the time Florence settles down - having brought Kang tea (not coffee) and biscuits and receiving an unsolicited promise never to ‘sneak’ past the reception desk again - the delegates from Green and Yellow have arrived and it’s time for the Commissioner’s meeting to start.
Rumi catches Kang’s eye one last time on the way in. Kang raises a perfectly-sculpted eyebrow, laughter in her brown eyes. Rumi doesn’t know what to make of it at all.
She hears the thud of running footsteps before she even gets the front door closed.
By the time she’s reached the kitchen those footsteps have hit the bottom of the stairs and Mira braces herself for what she knows is coming.
Zoey launches herself at Mira like she’s been gone a week and not a couple hours.
“Mira, you’re home!” Zoey bubbles. Mira can’t help but laugh, holding the smaller girl up easily, letting her press eager kisses to both her cheeks. She knows exactly the reason for the out-sized response but she can’t resent it. Any reason for Zoey to end up in her arms is all right by her.
“I am. Well observed,” she says, dryly.
“Aw, don’t be mean to me, I’ve missed you!” Zoey protests. “I’ve been all alone up here.” She pouts like its some bare little basement and not a luxury penthouse apartment.
“I’ve been gone like three hours.”
“And? Did you get lunch? I ate the leftovers, they were great, thank you so much, but I can order you something? Was the meeting as boring as ever? Did you fall asleep again?”
Mira laughs at the barrage, knows exactly why Zoey’s so keyed up. She kisses the top of her head and sets her down on the kitchen countertop. “You can just ask,” she says, with a wry grin. It’s honestly admirable that Zoey’s held on this long, with how excited she was this morning. They’ve been plotting this for a month, now - even Mira had to admit, if only to herself, to a little excitement as she walked into Commissioner’s Plaza.
“Was she there?” Zoey does ask, immediately. “Did you talk to her? How did she look?”
“She was there,” Mira nods. “Ryu’s always there. Yes, I talked to her, I promised I would. She looked the same. Tired. Determined.”
There’s a hint of concern in Zoey’s brow. “What did you say to her?” It might sound like an accusation coming from someone else, but Mira knows Zoey well enough now. She knows what this means to her.
“I asked her if she’s getting enough sleep.” Paraphrasing, but Mira thinks it’s close enough.
Zoey blinks. “Oh. What did she say?”
“Not much, but I’m pretty sure the answer’s no.”
Mira’d been just a little relieved when the secretary - Florence? - came bustling in. She’d fallen into a back-and-forth with Ryu way more easily than she expected, enjoying the way she’d flushed ever-so-slightly at even the gentlest of teasing. Mira didn’t exactly enjoy talking to most people but poking at Ryu was fun and, with Zoey’s voice in the back of her head egging her on, it had been all too easy to relax into it. Like they weren’t going to be interrupted at any moment, and by people who would read a hell of a lot more into that exchange than Florence.
Zoey sits back and worries her bottom lip between her teeth. Mira melts a little.
“Hey. She looked fine. They had that match yesterday, of course she’s tired. Florence kept giving her biscuits.”
“Who’s Florence?”
“The secretary,” Mira says. She doesn’t know why she feels the need to qualify it, but she does it anyway. “Motherly sort. Likes to fuss.”
“Oh,” Zoey repeats. Some of the wind’s gone out of her; she considers all this for a few moments with her eyes on something distant and then asks: “What’s the pair?”
“We’ve got Green. It’s Orange v Yellow.”
Zoey groans, crestfallen, and slumps forward until her forehead rests against Mira’s collarbone. Mira can feel her breath puffing warm against her skin. “So we’re a no-go for this month, then?”
Mira tilts her head, trying not to dislodge the girl resting against her. She’d spent the drive home thinking about just this, and not just because she didn’t want to see Zoey’s sad little face if they had to put her grand plan off by at least another two months. Orange winning yesterday’s match had changed some things - an unexpected win that would go largely overlooked because it happened in an off-month but which could still be significant.
Mira didn’t make Lieutenant because she’s got a Legacy name. Teo doesn’t play favourites like that. She’s Lieutenant because she’s damn good at this shit - all of it. Ryu’s win yesterday was important even if nobody else had eyes to see it.
And then there was the Commissioner’s meeting. The first match of the month’s a curve-ball. It could be a disaster - or it could be exactly what they need.
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Mira presses a grin to the top of Zoey’s head. “Let’s see what happens.”
Zoey, unfortunately, pulls back to squint up at her at this. Mira misses the warmth. “What’re you thinking? We were hoping they’d get Green.”
“We’re starting with the One v Ones,” Mira tells her, the taste of it still sour on her tongue. She doesn’t want to let that show, though. Zoey will worry enough.
Zoey pulls a face. “This early? That’s usually an end-of-month thing.”
Mira shrugs. “Guess the Commission’s in the mood for some blood.”
Zoey swats at her arm. “Don’t say that!”
“Relax,” Mira laughs, blocking another swipe. “There hasn’t been a death since your Rumi took over. Fact, there hasn’t been a death since that old lug Rucker started sending her in his place.”
The Tournament’s not meant to be deadly. That doesn’t mean it isn’t.
“Listen, Ryu’s gonna field herself in the Ones,” Mira continues, tries to skate past it for now. “She’d be stupid not to, and she’s not stupid. If she can pull off a win, then I say we go for it.”
“Pull for Orange against Yellow?” Mira’s distraction works - Zoey raises a surprised, but distinctly pleased, brow.
“Why not? There’s only a couple thousand points between Green and Yellow right now, and even less than that between Orange and Green. Things haven’t been this tight in decades. If Ryu can pull off a win in the Ones, they’ll be closer than they’ve been to getting out of last place in - like, ever.”
“It’s the ‘Rumi fielding herself’ part I’m worried about,” Zoey sighs, slumps a little. Mira squeezes the wrist she hasn’t let go of. She gets it. Combat matches are the most dangerous of them all - death’s not the objective but the weapons are real; the competition is real. If there’s a fatality, well. The winner doesn’t lose points for that. “Who’s Yellow going with, do you know?”
“Not for certain, but it’ll be Yuser if they’ve any sense.” Mira pauses, considering. She’s come up against Yuser once in the melee and would prefer not to repeat the experience, thank you very much. “He’s a demon but Ryu’s better. You know it. Girl’s a hurricane. She can do it - and it’ll be the kind of upset that gets the press in a fever. Especially with the way she looks, they’ll be all over it.”
Mira hadn’t meant to say quite so much. Zoey’s looking at her now with an expression that’s hard for the older woman to decode - they’ve only known each other six months and while Zoey’s a pretty open book, Mira’s not entirely fluent yet - and then she breaks into a massive grin.
“You like her!” Zoey crows.
Mira frowns. Wills herself not to flush. Feels a little more empathy for Ryu, now that’s she’s failing. “What nonsense are you talking now?”
“You like her!” Zoey repeats with glee. “You like Rumi! You’re gonna do that ‘oh, she’s my opponent, she’s my enemy’ thing but I can tell! You think she’s good!”
Mira scoffs. “She’s my opponent. She’s not my enemy. I can respect my opponent.”
“You like her!”
Mira sighs, grumbles, but wraps her arms around the girl wriggling in front of her. She can’t quite believe she’s going to say this but Zoey has done something to her in the last six months. All her ice is melting away.
“The woman who got you out of Orange at her own expense so you had the chance to earn your own way to Blue? To me? Yeah, Zo. I like her. She’s got class. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
Zoey makes a big deal out of it.
She makes a big deal out of it until Mira drags her down to their private training room and works them both ‘til they’re too exhausted to speak.
It’s the One v Ones next week, after all, and it’s even odds which of the two of them will field for Blue this time round. She has to be sure Zoey’s ready.
Which she is, of course. It’s only Green. There’s nobody in any of the four teams except Mira herself (and Rumi, a little voice pipes up) who could seriously challenge Zoey in a combat match. The girl’s a wonder to watch, lightening fast and clever with it, never where you think she’s going to be and always right where you don’t want her. The shin-kals she favours are fucking mean. She’s never seen anyone work them the way Zoey does, not live or in the decades’ worth of footage she’d spent half her childhood pouring over. Certainly no-one on the roster today comes close.
If Teo decides to field Zoey - and he should, she’s earned it - then Mira knows Zoey will win.
But she has to be sure.