Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rumi Ryu allowed her eyes to go unfocused. The motionless landscape outside the window of Celine’s aging sedan blurring into horizontal bands of gray, brown, and green. Every few miles a checkpoint. A ugly knot of concrete barriers and men in navy jackets. Their faces set in bored rigidity. Celine’s knuckles tightened, white on the steering wheel, and the muscles on her jaw worked like she was chewing glass. Rumi kept her hands folded in her lap. Fingers pressing lines into the fraying of her cargo pants. She would see the woods plenty. But keeping her eyes busy left little room for reconsideration.

It was, technically, the first, and now, only road trip of her life.

The letter had arrived three days ago. The past seventy-two hours, a blur of emotions, a rollercoaster. In the car, Celine had said nothing to her. Not a word, not even when Rumi had forced herself to hum softly along with the pop songs that trickled through the car’s old speakers. She’d given up humming after the first hour, when a sharp inhale from Celine shut her up.

Rumi pressed the side of her forehead to the window, letting the vibration of the engine rattle her skull. If she was honest with herself, she didn’t find these last few hours as a free person particularly precious. It was all a kind of blank space in which nothing mattered. By the time the sea came into view- a deep blue horizon, she’d nearly managed to convince herself that this was just a trip. She'd be home in a few days.

But of course, it wasn't just a trip. And there was a very real possibility that she wouldn't be home in a few days.

A couple days ago she had come home, the day of the letter, to the tightness in Celine’s mouth signaling something already lost. Celine sat her down. The envelope lay splayed open on the linoleum of the counter. Celine’s hands shaking, with anger? Maybe it was fear as she read the words.

“You’re going to withdraw, Rumi. You can’t- You’re not going.”

It was not a question. She understood, even then, that this was a desperate, clawing need to keep a promise made to someone who no longer had the power to ask for it.

“But I am,” she’d said, “Somebody else will just get picked. It’s not- we need this.” Celine’s tears had caught her off guard. She was not a crier, not even after Rumi’s parents died. But then she wept, shaking, her head hung so low Rumi worried she’d collapse on the floor. The sound of it made Rumi’s features hang with a complicated shame.

“I promised her I’d keep you alive,” Celine said, voice strangled with phlegm, “I promised her I would not let you-” she couldn’t finish it. Rumi stood there, hands at her sides, a bystander, unable to summon anything that could fix it.

This memory was still blooming in her mind as the car reached the final barricade and slowed. Celine looked at her briefly, a sideways glance, the kind parents gave just before they told you to behave. Rumi met her gaze, then looked away, swallowing what she wanted to say.

There once was great pride in the competition of The Long Walk. It lost its glory long ago when it became apparent that the prize wasn't quite worth the physical and mental exertion. Once word came out that Rumi had registered, adults looked at her with the same sad eyes. She had even gotten apologies and hugs from strangers.

The uniformed man at the barricade was young, maybe twenty. He leaned in, “ID, please.”

Celine’s hand fumbled for her purse- navy blue, synthetic leather, similar to one her mother might've owned -and pulled out the card. She hesitated, thumb pressed against the corner, and then gave it over. He scanned it with a handheld reader, then added it to a pile and waved them forward. Rumi waited for Celine to say something, to protest the confiscation, but Celine just smiled at the officer, lips tight and stretched, and pulled ahead.

Celine turned off the ignition and they sat in the sudden silence. Rumi thought maybe Celine would say something then, a final benediction or a curse, but she only stared straight ahead.

“A century,” Celine said finally, “and the only thing they could do to boost ratings is let girls walk.” There was a bitterness to her voice. Rumi stared at the ocean to her left just beyond Celine.

Rumi’s own reasons for volunteering weren’t easy to explain, least of all to herself. It wasn’t the hope of winning, or the pride of sacrifice, or even the notion of victory as reward. She had seen the household budget. The way Celine skipped meals when the rations ran low. The way she pawned her jewelry to keep the lights on. Maybe Rumi believed, in a stunted way, that her absence would be a gift. The money would stretch farther. Celine could finally sleep without worrying which of them would eat tomorrow.

“The coast is pretty,” Rumi replied. Celine nodded, and there was a wet shine in her eyes.

“If your mother was here- ” Celine began, but Rumi cut her off.

“Well, she’s not.”Heavy and cruel. Rumi regretted it the moment she said it, but she could not retract it, “It’s only for a couple of days. When I get back, we can take a real road trip,” Celine’s smile, when it came, was only for show. Rumi saw through it, and she knew Celine saw through her, too. It was a goodbye.

“Yeah, I think that would be nice, kiddo,” Celine said, and for a brief moment, she reached out and rested her palm on Rumi’s shoulder. The warmth of it was unbearable. Rumi wanted to lean in, but instead she pulled away. Unlatching her seatbelt and reaching for her bag. The bag was packed exactly as instructed, no more and no less. She cradled it to her chest as she stepped out into the warm, salty air.

She was about to close the car door when Celine’s voice called after her, “Rumi, wait!” There was a panic in it. Rumi paused, turning back just as Celine’s hand shot out and caught her wrist.

Rumi looked down at the hand on her arm, the blue veins, freckled skin. Her nails ragged from months of work and worry. She wondered if Celine realized how much strength she had left, or how little.

“I know I could never be your mother,” Rumi flinched. Exhaustion of a woman who had spent two decades surviving on nothing more than a promise, “But I tried, Rumi. Every day, I tried.” She was blinking rapidly, her eyelids fluttering. Rumi could see the wet threads gathering in the corners of her aunt’s eyes.

She watched the face before her, the sharp features that had only grown thinner with time. Celine was a beautiful woman, she had never apologized for it, never tried to make herself small for the comfort of a world that did not want to see her.

“I-” Celine started to speak and then stopped, as if the next word might kill them both right there. “I love you,” Rumi was left with the sense of having been given a thing she could not possibly carry. It was the first time Celine had ever said such a thing. Rumi after all wasn't her daughter, Celine never married and didn't have her own children, but Rumi wasn't hers. At least that was the excuse Rumi made for her.

The silence swelled around them, the roar of the ocean in the distance. Rumi knew she was supposed to say something, she loved her too. But all she could offer was a kind of stunned stillness.

“You’re going to do whatever you have to,” Celine said, “I just want you to know- if - when you get through this, and you win, and you make that wish- don’t waste it, okay? Not on me. You use it for yourself for once.” Her grip released, slow as a mercy killing. “You walk for yourself.”

Rumi blinked, unsure if she was supposed to cry. No tears came.

“I'll see you later okay?” Rumi placed her hand over the tight grip at her wrist, “I'll be right back.” It was more so for herself. Saying goodbye was a harmful hurtful thing that would ensure she wouldn't make it a mile, “I gotta go.”

The door thunked shut behind her. Above, the sky was a featureless blue. She did not look back at Celine, she could not. But she felt her gaze on her back.

The crowd of contestants sat just beyond the gate. Army vehicles ahead of them, but those weren't new to her. She was accustomed to seeing the ugly green and grey trucks. Even used to seeing the soldiers at arms staring back at her. She handed the soldier at the gate her bag letting them search it, her eyes flicked from the soldier to the guard with apprehension. A breath of relief passed as the guard tilted her chin waving her past.

She hadn’t seen the girl fall beside her. A petite, wiry, younger girl. Her black hair coiled into two tight buns, she couldn't be older than the mandatory eight-teen. The girl's shoes were battered sneakers. Hint 3, Do not, repeat, do not wear sneakers. Nothing will give you blisters faster than sneakers on a Long Walk. But these sneakers had words on the whites of them. Rumi couldn't read what they read, but they must've had some sort of significance.

The girl was peeling an orange, the rind coming away in a perfect spiral.

The scent hit Rumi immediately. A burst of citrus so incongruent it might have been a hallucination. She could feel her mouth water involuntarily, her stomach twisting in response. Fruit, real fruit. Rare enough that she could count on one hand the number of times she'd tasted anything other than the bland, hydroponic fare distributed by the rationing offices.

The girl noticed her watching, she smiled, wide and lopsided, and offered a wedge of orange between her fingers.

“Want some?" she asked, tilting her head slightly. Her voice was bright, cheery. No obvious malice. No expectation of reciprocation.

Rumi hesitated, but decided she was far too nervous to eat. She shook her head, “No. No thanks.”

The girl shrugged, popped the wedge into her own mouth, and chewed, “Suit yourself,” she said, “I’m Zoey, by the way.” Focusing on the orange.

“Rumi”

“Is your hair heavy?” Zoey asked, as they settled on a patch of pavement, they would be standing soon enough. Hint number 13 right? Conserve energy whenever possible. Rumi brought her knees to her chest. The trees above provided a canopy of shade.

“Sometimes. I figured if it started to bother me I might just cut it off. I even brought scissors.”

Zoey’s whole face seemed to light up at that. “Smart! I brought, um… nothing useful. Well- ” She fished around in her knapsack, which looked like it had survived a decade, she produced a limp, grimy stuffed turtle. “This guy,” Zoey said, holding it up with what looked like genuine reverence. The turtle’s shell was stained a dozen shades of brown. Its head lolling to one side. Its body floppy and well loved. Rumi smiled, unable to suppress it.

“He’s pretty great.” The turtle acquired a third admirer instantly, another girl, this one tall and with a mess of magenta hair in a ponytail, regarded the stuffed animal with open curiosity.

“Cute,”she responded from beside them.

“Wanna hold him?” She offered. Kindness shouldn't belong here. Rumi felt it in her to respond to it. Be pleasant, be kind.

“Duh,” the girl responded, taking the creature gently as if it possessed life.

“I'm Zoey, this is Rumi,”

“Mira.” The turtle was passed back to Zoey, she tenderly tucked the animal back in her pack and continued with her orange, “Take a look at the boys,” Mira said, gesturing with her chin. A loose pack of boys were posturing at the edge of the barricade, a few making exaggerated shadowboxing motions at each other. One, tall and thin, had another in a playful headlock, the two of them laughing as if this was their own backyard instead of being surrounded by dozens of trained soldiers, “I’d give them ten miles before they burn out.”

“Ha. Generous,” Zoey shot back, “Five, more like?” She turned the full force of her smile on Mira.

“One,” Rumi added. Easy to joke about, she knew it would be harder to see. Zoey tapped her arm with a playful fist. Cheeks stuffed full of the orange she had finished.

“We're friends now, and no protesting it. Otherwise it's going to be a boring day, “ Zoey declared. Rumi's lips downturned.

“The Long Walk is a terrible place to make friends.” A girl with short cut brunette hair. Toned arms spotted from the sun. She wore a beige tank top, exposing her very muscular form. Rumi rubbed her own arms, feeling not nearly as fit as she perhaps should be for The Walk.

“That's dumb.” Rumi narrowed her eyes at Zoey's response, perhaps it was the bluntness, “If you're getting your ticket why would you wanna do it without being surrounded by friends.”

“If you're getting your ticket, your friends will be one step closer to winning.” The girl leaned back. Her muscles flexing. If she looked across the unspoken gap that had formed between the girls and the boys, she knew she would see a similar gesture. Zoey shrugged. Rumi couldn't interpret what exactly she was being indifferent to. But she came to the conclusion it was uncertainty that Zoey was rolling away.

“I give it an hour before you change your mind,” a blonde chimed in from her spot. She was working her long wavy hair into a ponytail. Sitting atop a military green windbreaker, “I'm Maya.”

“Zoey,” She gave back brightly, glad to add to the collection she was forming, “And this is Rumi, and Mira,” Mira gave a lift of her chin, but Rumi gave a small wave.

She was never good at making friends, well, she mostly kept to herself. It was much easier to navigate high school that way. She was, what most called, focused. The only thing on her mind before this was college. That had been her parents' dream for her. But she hadn't been accepted. And now she was here, cultivating friends, even though it felt a little too late to make them.

“Im Ellie.” The brunette gave despite her earlier reluctance.

“And I'm Dina,” Another brunette joined them gracefully, taking a seat in between Maya and Ellie. To hell with her plan. At least if she got her ticket someone would know her name. And she would know theirs.

“I'm Roman,” A guy took a seat beside Mira, they hadn't even seen his arrival. Rumi supposed he was handsome, it wasn't the kind of thing Rumi was trying to pay attention to. But his features were above average. Chiseled, and defined jawline, his cheekbones were high, blonde hair swooped backwards. His attention was on Mira. Mira had a never changing expression, plastered in a perpetual look of annoyance. He took her hand and pressed her fingers to his lips. Mira had momentarily allowed this, but then she quickly snatched her hand back, her new look disgusted, and annoyed. Zoey pouted her bottom lip eyes wide as she held her hands to her chest.

“They're so cute together,” Zoey whinily-whispered. Rumi couldn't help but grin.

“Hey Romance! Leave the girls alone!” The boys traded laughs, trying to wave him back over the gap.

“It's the Major…” Rumi hardly heard Ellie's warning over the sound of the military engine. Suddenly a stillness possessed the once energetic group. Rumi didn't think she could sit much straighter, but she did. She tightened her shoulders and unwrapped her arms from around her legs, criss-crossing her legs, then tucking her hands in the middle. It meant it was almost time to start. The swell in Rumi's throat grew wider and wider till she was suddenly thirsty and needed something to gulp it away.

The truck came to an abrupt stop. The Major’s face was a monument of neutrality. The close-cropped hair had surrendered to grey. Most unnerving were his eyes. A stare that looked nearly past them. Those eyes swept over the fifty. Mira’s jaw, set in a defiant line but chin raised. The boys, even the ones who had been play-fighting, suddenly stood at attention.

There was a table already set up she hadn't noticed until now. A folding one. Covered with a black cloth. Two subordinate officers, faceless behind mirrored visors, stood at either end. This is it, Rumi realized with regrettable clarity.

“Welcome to the One Hundredth Annual Long Walk. Congratulations on your selection. This is a moment of great honor.”

The Major continued, “Now, as I call your name, step forward and take your tags. Put ’em around your neck, and then go back to your place until I instruct otherwise. Number One Herring, Richard.” Rumi’s mind leapt to Celine, to her aunt’s hands clenching the letter. To the way she had watched her eat breakfast that morning. She thought of the hospital bills, the hidden debts. The Major might as well have already written the condolence letter on government stationery.

“Number Seven. Owens, Roman,” Before he parted ways with Mira, Roman, (or Romance,) Rumi decided to encourage, reached for Mira's hand again. Mira's lower eye lid twitched as she continued to guard her hands from his lips. Once he had his dog tag, he didn't return to her side, although he seemed to consider it.

“Number Twenty-five. Saja, Jinu.” Rumi looked up to the last boy taking his tag. There was one or two females that could possibly put some of the boys to shame. Ellie would be equal. If it was based on percentage of body fat, and not based on gender. Jinu, he would be hard to beat. Thank god there were two winners. Otherwise she would never stand a chance,

“Number Twenty-six. Seo, Mira,” Mira lifted herself with power, striding over to the table in a determined gait. Where most people refused to look the major directly into the eyes Mira didn't seem to cower.

Zoey was just after her number Twenty-Seven. Visibly suppressing the skip in her step, she put the dog tag around her neck herself, kissing it in her fists before striding back to where they were sitting. Next was Ellie, Maya, a girl named Vanny, Dina. “Ryu, Rumi,” If she froze now what would her body do when they started, maybe she would just get her ticket then and there and get it over with.

She walked through the part, towards the table refusing eye contact as the dog tag slipped over her head. She took the belt and the canteen, and rejoined Mira, who had her arms crossed now. Zoey, who was lively with energy practically ready to burst, like some kinda puppy begging to be released from its leash into the open field. Except her field would be miles of road. Rumi thumbed the number Forty-Seven on her tag.

Forty-Seven was bad luck. She couldn't remember where she had heard that. Somewhere in a classroom, where the live stream was projected on a dull grey screen, they were forced to watch the final two contestants. Forty-Seven and Number Two. Forty-Seven didn't win that year…

“Line up by fives, in no particular order. Ladies and gentlemen it takes great determination to sign up for this contest, and you’ve all got it,” The major started. Zoey and Mira ended up in the row behind her. Everyone now worked to strap their beige belts around their hips. The small slots filled with protein tubes, a place for her canteen. Soldiers stepped down each line. Handing watches out. It was rumored that they were reused. And judging by the scrapes and scratches on the silver cover it was most likely true. Rumi swallowed, she stared at the small screens, one to track milage. The other for speed.

“As you all know, our country has been in a period of financial struggle since the war, and we did the first Long Walk all those years ago to inspire and reintegrate the value of work ethic.” It was the same speech every year. Even after the last Major passed it seemed to be carried down, “Each year after the event, there’s a spike in production. We have the means to return to our former glory. Our problem now is an epidemic of laziness. You are the answer. The Long Walk is the answer. When this is broadcast for all the states, your inspiration will continue to elevate our gross national product.” Rumi heard the small noise Mira made in the back of her throat in disapproval, it reminded her of Celine. Celine also disagreed with the purpose of The Long Walk.

“Walk until there’s only one Male and one Female left. Maintain a speed of three miles per hour. If you fall below the speed, you get a warning. If you can’t make speed in ten seconds, you get an additional warning. Three warnings, you get your ticket. Walk one hour at speed, one warning is erased and so on. If you step off the pavement, you will get your ticket without warning. The goal is to last the longest.”

“There’s two winners, one male and one female, no finish line. Any of you can win. Any of you can do it if you walk long and steady enough. If you refuse to give up. I look at each and every one of you, and I see hope.” The Major raised his sidearm, a ceremonial antique that glinted in the sunlight. She would freeze, she realized as the gun fired. All around her, the cohort lurched into motion, some tripping over their own adrenaline, but all, crucially, in motion.

She was not.

A dozen others surged ahead. She imagined the cameras zeroing in on her. The girl who froze at the starting shot. A lifetime of preparation and she’d fail in the first ten seconds- her ticket would be pulled before the first bend in the road.

She willed her foot to move. Nothing. The shame was numbing. Two seconds gone. Five.

Something jostled her, a shoulder from behind- Zoey, brushing past with a look tossed over her own shoulder. A nonverbal, move. Now.

Rumi’s body finally jerked. The limbic system, or maybe the sheer animal fear, overwhelmed her paralysis. The first step was a stumble, the knee nearly buckling.

Her watch leapt to 2.8, then 3.1.

The road ahead was straight for a mile. Then, a slow, imperceptible curve toward the east, where the sea met the sky in an unbroken bruise of blue. Beyond that, the route dissolved into the unknown, and the only certainty was that the number of walkers would diminish, and probably soon. And she was thankful for now that she was in motion.