*Moonbyul is Wheein's guardian angel (Part 1/2)

Sometimes, Moonbyul can’t help but scoff at the stories humans fabricate of the supernatural.

Sure, they do get some things right.

She’s got wings when she wants, when she’s tired of floating around aimlessly. She’s able to transform into random beings when necessary. She doesn’t have to worry about mortals seeing her when she’s just kicking dust up as she strolls around the streets.

However, what kind of irritates her is how they just put her kind on a pedestal.

No, she’s not all powerful and able to conjure up fire in a brilliant display of strength. No, she can’t grant wishes on a whim and make money appear in a poof of smoke. No, she’s not going to hack into the school system to change that depressing final grade from an F into an A.

Humans. Tsk. Always demanding something more than they often deserve.

Her work’s a bit more mundane than they all expect.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first meeting is at the very birth of life.

Due to budget cuts and her boss’s reluctance to outsource developmental services from elsewhere, Moonbyul is stuck frowning over a scribbled mess of a manual. She’s got a wooden bowl in front of her, unmarked. On the table beside the bowl are cylinders of something.

She crinkles her nose, trying to decipher the cryptic instructions. She’s stuck doing this confusing mixing and whatnot for every dossier thrown on her desk. If she has to explain it in familiar mortal terms, she would say this extended duty is similar to distributing stat points.

Anyways, she needs to hurry. She looks through the portal she’s created and sees the scramble of doctors and nurses around a wailing woman on the white hospital bed. It’s almost time. She flips open the dossier to the page indicating the exact proportions of the mixture she is to make. Bless the creation of that randomized algorithm to handle the individual cases. If they had left the decision of human characteristics to the impulsiveness of a twitching finger, well, the world would be a stranger place.

Moonbyul eyes the labels on the bottles.

Intelligence. A few reasonable dollops. Moonbyul taps her forefinger against the cylinder tilted towards the bowl, measured trickle flowing gently downward.

Artistry. Looks like this one will grow up to be decent sketcher. Moonbyul flicks a finger against the bottom of another cylinder, shaking residual droplets into the mix.

Humor. A large helping. Moonbyul chuckles, upturning the near empty cylinder of humor into the bowl and watches the now empty container fade to a wisp. It’ll naturally restore itself over time or they’ll get another supply shipment, but for now, she thinks the next few people will have to live without an ounce of comedy in their bones.

Next… Moonbyul’s gaze slides down to the next line. Ooh. General talent addition. It seems that this child will have a bright future ahead of her. Not many people are blessed with this option. It’s more common at this point that they’re poured a little charisma, a little courage, or a little stubbornness. More often than not, they’re even given a generous dose of general stupidity, based on hollow sloshing she hears from the extra-large sized cylinder floating mockingly in front of her.

Swatting stupidity away, Moonbyul reaches for the tiny cylinder of general talent and flicks off the cap, readying it over the bowl. The dossier says 5 drops. It’s these rarer, more potent qualities that Moonbyul needs to carefully measure out.

1…2...

Ringggggg.

Moonbyul scowls, one hand steady with the cylinder, other hand digging into her coat pocket. Who else would call but—

“Yo Moonbyul!”

“What do you need Hwasa.” Moonbyul rolls her eyes as she tucks her phone between her shoulder and cheek to focus on her task.

“Shouldn’t you be calling me boss during work hours,” complains the voice on the other end.

“Every hour is basically work hour for me. Thanks to somebody. I don’t even get paid for overtime!”

“Che. Anyways, are you busy right now?”

“I’m finishing up a mix. Why?” Moonbyul moves the phone to her other cheek, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“One of the cupids in the other department has been going wild and a bunch of the guardians have been complaining to me about how she’s screwing up their work.” The voice on the other end coughs discreetly. “I assume you know the very cupid I’m talking about?”

Moonbyul’s nostrils flare as she breathes out heavily, puff of disappointment blowing against the mix. Her hand turns lax as she shrugs the phone closer to her ear. “God damn it Solar.”

“Yeah. I’d go try to talk to her, but since I got promoted to department head and all that, it really isn’t my place to do that, unless it gets upgraded to an interdepartmental issue. I don’t really want her to get in trouble, so…”

“I’ll talk to her after I finish up here. That trigger happy idiot,” sighs Moonbyul.

“I know, right? Ever since they upgraded from bows and arrows, romance has been such a mess. I would understand if she’d been given a sniper rifle, a pistol, maybe even a shotgun! Simple, single shots of love. But no. Someone thought it would be ok to give Solar a fricking assault rifle.”

“Decision of the century,” mutters Moonbyul.

“You know what? Why don’t the three of us get a drink after you get her under control? It’s been decades since we’ve all been able to hang out. I’ll even sign off on that paid leave form you keep bugging me about.”

“Oh , really? I’ll be seeing you later. Don’t you dare take those words back.” With Hwasa’s chuckles fading as she hangs up, Moonbyul reaches up near her neck for her phone to put it away.

Her hands are too giddy with anticipation, however, and her phone slips, tumbling haphazardly as her hand smacks at it, trying to keep it in the air and catch it at the same time. Her hold on the cylindrical bottle is accidentally relinquished.

She’s caught her phone, for sure.

But now, she’s also staring with unease at the bubbling mixture before her, emptied bottle slowly dissolving into nothingness. Ah . If Hwasa finds out, she better kiss that vacation goodbye. She pokes her finger at it, wondering if it was at all possible to scoop out some of the excess and uh, toss it to the side. Her hands go straight through, much to her chagrin.

And to top it all off, the bowl is full. It’s the one failsafe they’ve established with the new system, to avoid some accident in which a guardian just dumps a crap ton of everything into the bowl.

What to do, what to do. Moonbyul paces back and forth against the table, racking her brains. Maybe she’ll—

A sizzling hiss sounds by the table. She freezes in her spot, desperate hope sinking into the pits of her stomach when smoke begins to waft from the letters being etched and burnt into the wood of the bowl.

Jung Wheein.

Her gaze flashes towards the portal, and it’s just as she expected. A wailing, wet baby huddles within her mother’s tired but smiling embrace while the surrounding doctors and nurses congratulate her.

Now it’s really too late. When the final letters on the bowl appear, the mixture inside swirls upward, gathered in a dense mist, and winds towards the portal. Moonbyul watches as it settles over this Jung Wheein, soaking into her skin, straight into her soul. The process is always quick once they are named.

Moonbyul can only pray that everything will turn out fine and that Hwasa never finds out. Truthfully, it isn’t too drastic of a mistake, and she’ll just have to pay extra close attention as the child grows up. The composition of the mixture is more or less similar to the assigned one, easily covered up with a minor edit or two on the documents.

She hopes this Jung Wheein won’t mind too much that she never managed to add in that little bit of height she was due.

Waving her hand, Moonbyul dissolves the portal with a sigh, closing the folder on the table. She can already imagine the endless hours she’ll have to spend monitoring her new charge on top of her other responsibilities.

For now, she’s got an idiot cupid to chase down.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Moonbyul has it sort of hard. There’s only one of her, but there’s way more than one human she’s charged with taking care of. She can’t be omnipresent, but there’s a little spiritual link between her and all those she has watched over since birth. She flits from person to person using the link to guide her in occasional checkups, making sure everything is still all right. When something urgent happens, it’s this link that tugs at her to quickly come.

Thanks to their long-standing agreement with the prophets, she manages to get to incidents before they actually occur.

Like right now.

Moonbyul is standing, invisible, at the corner of the street, glancing through the crosswalks to her left and right. If she is to believe her ‘gut feeling’ about the circumstance, this intersection is right where she’s needed, and Wheein cannot be far away.

Sure enough, the light changes color and the walk sign turns green. From across the street, little Wheein hefts her backpack up and begins to shuffle across the painted white lines towards Moonbyul.

Moonbyul, however, keeps her eyes peeled to the surroundings. A sense of danger rumbles within her and she jerks her head towards the right, where her heightened perception picks up a speeding vehicle rushing along the opposite side of the road, no intention of stopping. She scoffs as she looks inside the driver’s seat at the red, bloodshot eyes of the perpetrator of the soon to be accident.

With merely a few seconds left to spare, Moonbyul darts into the crosswalk behind little Wheein, who is frozen, staring helplessly at the bright headlights growing ever so nearer.

Rule number 2 of being a guardian: make sure your actions don’t spark too much suspicion in any human that may be watching.

Moonbyul sighs, and s her arms forward, toppling Wheein with just enough force that she lands ahead, beyond the path of the crashing car. Just before she herself is about to be hit, she leaps into the air, wings outstretched to keep her afloat.

Little Wheein scrambles to her feet, fear clouding her face. Safe. Moonbyul has a small smile of satisfaction on her face as she watches Wheein hurry forward to get off the road, avoiding the mass of stopped cars whose drivers are shouting and climbing out to assess the smoking wreckage in the distance. With only a click of her tongue at the crumbling brick wall the car has mowed into, Moonbyul follows the brisk, short steps of the elementary schooler. She’s Wheein’s guardian, after all.

There’s no harm in at least making sure Wheein gets home safe.

But little Wheein doesn’t head home. Right before that last turn onto her street, she veers in a different direction. Puzzled, Moonbyul trudges along, feet descending onto bare earth to silently step after those light yet weighted footsteps.

They’re at a nearby playground. Wheein runs to the empty swings and clambers on, backpack and all. Her legs are too short to reach and push off the floor with ease, but it seems swinging isn’t exactly what’s on Wheein’s mind.

Moonbyul stands with her hands slid inside jean pockets, head cocked to the side, figure unseen to the girl in front of her. She stares, mouth curling downward in a frown at the blank gaze Wheein sends throughout the empty playground.

It doesn’t take a genius to know that Wheein’s sad.

Wheein suddenly shrugs her backpack off and places it in her lap. She s the top, hands digging into the depths for something. Her eyes are on the verge on tearing up and all Moonbyul can think is she’s too young to be trying to hold back pain already.

Her hands emerge from the backpack cradling a trophy. It’s one of those gaudy looking awards they give to children, made of some cheap alloy, but shined to perfection, layered with glistening golden paint to impress those who don’t know any better.

First place, it reads. Moonbyul is impressed that little Wheein is winning awards at the young age of six, but what troubles her is that the girl doesn’t look happy at all to be holding the prestigious honor. In fact, her lower lip trembles as she fixes her eyes on the plaque, and a tear escapes her control, splattering against the metal.

Moonbyul’s curiosity gets the better of her, so she decides to bend rule number 3, which tells them to not invest too much interest into the life of humans because human life is too fragile and fluctuates far too erratically. There’s nothing they guardians can do but pity from afar, helping with only the little things. There’s an order to all things, and it isn’t up to them to mess with the larger cogs of fate.

There’s something about little Wheein that intrigues her, however. Maybe it’s because Moonbyul’s mistake has led her to be intricately involved in Wheein’s special existence, and she’s just waiting for anything potentially strange, a side effect or something similar, to happen.

She narrows her eyes and focuses on the trophy. Wait, connect, perceive. Moonbyul’s eyes cloud as the images rush into her head and she looks on.

Wheein skipping to school. Wheein unpacking her brown bag lunch with a small group of friends underneath the big tree in the center of the school grounds. Wheein smiling as she aces the spelling test.

Moonbyul can’t help the small smile that tugs at the corners of her lips. She doesn’t remember much of childhood herself, but this feeling, this nostalgia, is something nice.

Then, there’s Wheein sitting nervously in a row of foldable chairs, waiting for her name to be called. Wheein’s face lights up when it’s her turn and she rushes on to the stage, where she has to tiptoe and pull the mic down to her height, much to the adoring laughter of the audience. Wheein clears , and her eyes scan the room, hopeful.

Then Wheein is singing. Her voice is angelic, a rhythmic, powerful lilt absolutely unbelievable for someone her age. Moonbyul’s jaw drops as the echoes of the song ring in her head. This talent…Moonbyul wouldn’t put it below the rush induced by the songs of the choir angels.

But why is Wheein sad? The next memory flashes by; it’s Wheein, forcing a smile as she accepts the trophy from the principal. Her eyes flicker towards the audience once again, then falls to the floor.

I see.

Moonbyul returns to the present and kneels before little Wheein, biting taut lips as she stares at the loneliness now dripping without restraint, sliding off the trophy onto her skirt.

“Stupid mom,” mumbles Wheein through her tears. “Stupid dad.” In a sudden fit of anger, she hurls the trophy forward and watches it sink into the sand. She then begins to rock back and forth on the swings, trying to gain momentum and height.

Moonbyul eyes the half-sunk trophy with a sigh. Now, this is something beyond her ability. The relationships between humans isn’t something under her jurisdiction, and her duty stops at Wheein, only Wheein.

The little girl resolutely swings higher, pull of the wind drying her eyes. Moonbyul gets to her feet and moves beside the swing. Never has she felt so…helpless. Wheein is doing a better job of cheering herself up than Moonbyul is.

Some guardian angel.

Moonbyul exhales a puff of disappointment. She sticks out a hand and pushes against the seat of the swing next time Wheein swings back. Wheein shrieks in surprise and excitement as the next sway of the chains lift her up into unbelievable heights.

There’s a smile on Wheein’s face. Finally.

Moonbyul mirrors the expression with relief and gets ready to leave, for another of her duties is calling for her. She doesn’t notice that one of her coat buttons jiggles loosely and that the gust of wind borne by the swing catches the edges of her coat as she turns. The chain rips the button right off as she disappears to somewhere halfway across the city. The button makes a small clang as it hits the chain and flies off, light reflecting off the rotating circle.

Little Wheein drags her shoes against the flooring to bring the swing to a quick stop and rushes off in the direction that the button has fallen. She picks it up, turning it over in her hand, mix of confusion and interest behind her eyes as she traces the small crescent moon engraved into its surface.

When she picks up her fallen backpack and heads home, it’s without the trophy and with the button.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“No, Solar. NO MEANS NO, SOLAR!” Moonbyul wrestles with the pouting woman, wresting the weapon from her clutches. “Are you insane?”

“But it’s Christmas. The season of love! The time where the snow covered streets are filled with loving couples out on dates,” says Solar dreamily. “I should be out there making that happen!”

“That doesn’t mean you should literally shoot everyone you see! What kind of cupid hasn’t learned those basic rules in training! Your job isn’t to make people who are unrelated, unfated, to just randomly fall in love!”

“But Christmas—“

“There’s no buts!” Moonbyul digs into her pack furiously and pulls out a clipboard. “There. That’s the list you’re supposed to be following. Seem familiar?”

Solar side-eyes the clipboard. “Uh, where’d you find that, Moonbyul?”

“I found it tossed into trash sector 3. Isn’t it surprising? One of the workers there said he saw it fall down after you flew overhead earlier this week. How kind of him to tell me about it,” scoffs Moonbyul, sarcasm dripping off her words. “Wouldn’t want you to be handicapped in your job, you know?”

“Damn it,” groans Solar, snatching the stack back from Moonbyul’s triumphant hands. “You’re acting too smug today.”

“Well, it’s Christmas!” grins Moonbyul.

“Bull. You don’t even celebrate the holiday.”

“Well, I can surely celebrate a well-deserved break.” Moonbyul reclines against the arm chair, arms propped behind her head and legs sprawled onto the table. “This season is all on you guys. A happy, joyous human is one less assignment for us guardians.”

Solar takes the opportunity to snatch back her rifle, hugging it tightly to her chest. “I’ll let you enjoy your boring old peace and quiet then.” She flips the pages on the clipboard, mutters of annoyance growing louder with each page. “Can’t fricking believe how detailed central is with their demands! Even specifying down to the very intensity of the shot and the location and time of the occasion.” She slams the pages back down. “I miss the good old days when we were given more liberty with our jobs.”

“That was back when you had a crappy ol’ bow and arrow and you made one out of every twenty shots.”

“…”

“I win.” Moonbyul raises a lazy, victorious arm as Solar stares at her with all the intensity of a cream puff. Basically harmless. Perfect cupid material though. No one turns down a cream puff.

 Solar sighs and turns her gaze to the first names on her list. “I better get going.”

Moonbyul nods as Solar leaves her room, sinking back comfortably into her favorite chair. For once in a long time, she’s at peace. The links she has with those she is meant to guard are lax and free.

Before she actually decides to lay low and maybe get a drink or two, she thinks it better to do one last quick checkup.

First…

It’s been a while since she’s seen little Wheein. She’ll start there.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Moonbyul materializes in front of Wheein’s house. Light snowfall dusts the bushes and trees and forms a thin blanket over the neatly trimmed front lawn. She strolls around the side of the building, looking through iced windows for a peek at the girl. She passes by a woman, the mother, sitting at the kitchen table, hands typing away furiously as she stares intently at the screen in front of her. Through another window is the father, pacing back and forth across the rug in his study room, seemingly in an argument with whoever is on the other end of the call.

She’s already starting to know what to expect as she circles to the last side of the building. Sure enough, little Wheein is reading quietly, all alone on the sofa of an unadorned living room.

Moonbyul doesn’t even know she’s capable of so much sympathy until the sight of this lonely child tugs at her heartstrings in a way different from the demands of her job as a guardian angel.

Little Wheein doesn’t even seem surprised.

It’s definitely Moonbyul’s sense of responsibility that tells her no, it’s unacceptable. It’s unacceptable for Wheein to suffer like this.

Therefore, Moonbyul decides to break rule number 4 with the plan brewing in her mind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“ ,” hisses Moonbyul as she squeezes into the chimney. The red and white suit she’s ‘borrowed’ from the mall is getting stained black as she tries to sustain a slow, steady slide down to the grated fireplace. It doesn’t help that the burlap sack on her back is adding to her bulk and making the ride down difficult.

Idiot humans. How in the world did they ever manage to come up with a myth about a fat old man sliding down the chimney with their Christmas presents?

With more than a few curses, Moonbyul finally lands with a subdued thump onto the base of the fireplace and slides open the metal covering. She laboriously tosses out the sack first and tries to flick off as much soot as she can before she follows suit and crawls through the opening into the living room.

Maybe it’s a little too silly of her to try and keep things authentic. She should have just popped into Wheein’s room and left the presents at the foot of her bed or something. They didn’t even have a tree for god’s sake. Moonbyul her lips to cleanse them of the stuffy chimney air and flicks the bag up over her shoulder when she’s finally ready to traipse up the stairs to Wheein’s bedroom.

“W-Who are you?” A small voice sounds from behind the sofa and Moonbyul whirls around, loose red and white suit spraying black dust everywhere. A nervous pair of eyes pop over the back along with a small pair of hands, and they never waver from Moonbyul. “A-Are you a thief?”

What the hell. Moonbyul sputters and points to herself. “You mean me?”

She’s wearing a red and white suit, patterned in the very traditional, familiar way. She’s even gone the extra mile and ‘borrowed’ that fake moustache and beard combo, taping it onto her jaw. She’s followed through on all that research she’s done, coming down the chimney, fitting a little portal into the space of the sack to make it look sizable and ‘present-containing’. The only thing she could possibly be missing is the sleigh and reindeer.

“You. Don’t you know who I am?” She tries again and inches towards Wheein. Her hands gesture towards her attire, towards the chimney. “It’s Christmas…”

Wheein snorts behind the safety of the couch. “You actually think I’ll believe that you’re Santa?”

That she did. She runs the years through her mind again. Wheein should only be around ten years old right now? Still young enough to believe, surely. But the eyes peering at her are anything but adoring as one would stare at a mythical entity.

“You’ve got silver hair. You’re skinny as a stick. For a thief, I can’t believe you actually tried going down the chimney.” Wheein adds to her list of faults and Moonbyul wants to smack her own forehead in disbelief. She should have just morphed into a fat old white man.

Shoulders sunk, she drops her sack back down. She rips off the beard with a grimace when the tape tears roughly against skin and massages the tender patches left. “It was worth a try. You’re a smart child.”

“D-Don’t come closer! I’ll scream!” warns Wheein with a stutter as Moonbyul steps toward her. Moonbyul can see visibly shaking shoulders beneath the façade of confidence.

There’s no choice but for Moonbyul to exercise her influence. Her eyes glow briefly of the color of moonlight and a gentle wind breezes through the room, carrying with it a calming scent.

“I’m not a thief. I’m not Santa either. But I’m not here to hurt you.” Moonbyul gingerly drops to the floor, sitting cross legged. She drags the sack onto her lap and reaches inside. “I guess you can say I’m a bit like Santa though. Now, where was it?” Her hand finally touches thin cardboard and her face lights up as she tugs the package through. When it is fully on her side of the portal, her other hand comes out to keep the box balanced and she eases it out of the sack. Grinning, she makes sure Wheein can see her as she opens it up to present a cake, decorated messily with Christmas icons over the frosted surface. “I read that the Santa thing is done with cookies and milk, but I felt like a cake would suit the occasion a bit more.” Since you haven’t exactly had the opportunity to celebrate Christmas yet.

Wheein hesitantly exits her hiding spot when she sees Moonbyul pack a generous slice onto a paper plate and slide it towards her.

“It’s good mmm,” mumbles Moonbyul around her mouthful of cake. Her lips stretch wider, grin hidden beneath her chewing when Wheein finally picks up her plate and takes a bite. “Right? Now, tell me, would a thief be feeding you cake pulled out of nowhere?”

Wheein shakes her head ever so slightly, lips nibbling at her slice of cake.

“I don’t usually celebrate Christmas myself. So you can tell me if I screw up somewhere.” Moonbyul digs her fork into her piece, trying to swallow the huge lump she had shoved into .

“I-I don’t really celebrate it either,” whispers Wheein with her head bent, as if ashamed.

Moonbyul can’t help the swell of pity in her heart. She’s feeling tier with each hesitant sentence out of Wheein’s mouth. Real good guardian angel she’s been. She’s kind of more concerned why she hasn’t been able to catch on to what Wheein’s been going through earlier.

“That makes two of us loners then.” Moonbyul’s eyes twinkle as she rummages around her sack. “Anyways, I’ve got presents for you. Even with all my inexperience, I’m pretty sure that’s standard Christmas etiquette. I wasn’t too sure what you would want, though. I’m really bad with kids too, but don’t tell anyone.” She winks as she pulls forth a few more boxes and places them in front of Wheein.

As Wheein unwraps the giftboxes with a giddy smile, Moonbyul feels the urge to quickly explain just in case Wheein is disappointed with what she’s gotten for her. “I told you I’m not really a kid person, right? I was thinking about getting you some toys or something, but I was thinking that something that would last longer would be better. Ah…” Her words trail off as Wheein gets through the layer of wrapping paper.

Wheein pulls out a silvery, glistening scarf from the first box. “It’s so pretty,” she murmurs, awestruck by the gently flowing pattern of threads across its length. “It’s kind of like the color of your hair.” She turns towards Moonbyul, hesitant. “C-Can you help me put it on?”

Moonbyul nods and Wheein excitedly scoots over the carpet to face her. She fluffs out the ends of the scarf and wraps it loosely around Wheein’s neck. As she loops it around once more to shorten the length of the ends, she notices that Wheein has a makeshift necklace around her neck. It’s a simple piece of thread looped around a familiar looking button. Moonbyul chooses to ignore it and fixes the positioning of the scarf instead.

“Is it warm enough? It’s been getting cold lately and you need to dress warmly,” Moonbyul admonishes.

“It’s perfect.” Wheein giggles and turns back around to the box. “I love it.”

She pulls out a snow globe next, flakes of fake snow floating wildly through the sphere from the sudden movement. Moonbyul peeks over her shoulder at the two figures in the winter world trapped within.

As the snow continues to fall, Moonbyul points to the skating figure. “That little girl playing on ice is you.” She drags her finger to the other side of the globe to the vague winged, humanoid carving.  “And the other one is someone who will watch over you no matter what.”

“Is it you?” asks Wheein, wide eyed and innocent.

“Do I look like it?” teases Moonbyul. “Do I look like that angel?”

“Can you be her?” Wheein’s voice suddenly breaks. “Will you stay then?”

Moonbyul can’t answer.

She’s a guardian, but not one that can afford to lead a naïve child into dependence.

Her presence brings comfort and trust in those by her side, but in the end, it’s just temporary relief.

“There’ll be someone. It might be more than one. Don’t worry. Maybe if you think hard enough, that person will come help,” she says, trying to joke and lighten the atmosphere. Turning away from those terribly hopeful, young eyes, she picks up the last bundle in the box and hands it to little Wheein, who eagerly pulls away the tissue paper covering it.

“This…a notebook?” wonders Wheein out loud, flipping open the felt cover.

“It’s a secret notebook.” Moonbyul taps the special material of the pages. “What you write in it will become your own private memories. No one will be able to eavesdrop.” Moonbyul ruffles Wheein’s hair. “Use it to vent, confess, or just remember. That’s all.” She rests her hands on her knees, thinking for a bit, before she stands, sigh leaking out .

It’s gotten late.

It’s gotten too far.

“Are you leaving?” Wheein stumbles as she hurriedly gets to her feet. “You haven’t even told me your name—“

“Sleep.” The loaded order immediately sends Wheein into a daze and her eyes droop shut. Moonbyul catches the young girl before she falls and lays her onto the couch, tucking the blankets underneath her chin.

She sweeps the rest of the cake, the ripped wrapping paper, and packaging back into the sack, not caring about the mess made on the other end of the portal.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hours later, Moonbyul’s mulling over the reasons behind her sudden escape with a cold beer.

Hwasa sweeps into her small room without a knock and heads straight towards her fridge for a drink of her own.

“You’re looking pretty gloomy,” Hwasa comments as she snaps back the lid with a satisfying pop. “Not feeling the festivities? Or the break?”

Moonbyul wonders, randomly, “You ever feel like crap?”

“All the time. The paperwork you get stuck with as department head is ridiculous,” complains Hwasa as she takes a long gulp.

“But do you ever feel like you aren’t doing enough when you should be able to?”

Hwasa spins around on the chair and faces her, face growing serious. “What’s going on, Moonbyul?”

“I’ve been thinking lately. Why is it that the world’s split between us and them? Just because we have longer lifespans? Just because they outnumber us? Just because we’ve enforced the distinction between the mundane and the supernatural?”

“Humans are different in other ways.”

“But we’re able to help them.” Moonbyul lets her empty can drop onto the table with a clink. “Some of them deserve more.”

“Moonbyul,” warns Hwasa. “Don’t forget the rules. They’ve been established and have held for centuries because they’ve worked. Humans are part of our jobs.”

“Then why are they capable of being so happy and yet so sad?”

Hwasa holds Moonbyul shrewdly in her gaze as she chooses her words carefully. “It’s a consequence of being human.”

“Consequence, you say.”

She breathes in.

And out.

So, Wheein’s tearstained face and soulful cries transforming to a grin as wide and endless as the oceans is a consequence.

So, Wheein’s ability to tug emotion out of her is the unfortunate side effect of a consequence.

Hwasa’s right about certain things. They’ve been taught to retain a distance from humans they guard. Maybe to avoid these consequences.

Wheein’s very existence, then, is a consequence.

She’s curious to see more of it.

*This break in between Part 1 and 2 seems a bit weird, but I guess it'll have to do.

Wheein will be grown up in part 2, so it won't be as awkward.