Chapter Text
Washington, District of Columbia
Purge Night 2035
5:30 P.M.
The shrill ring knifed through the ambient hum, startling the drink from Wei Ying’s hand. He cussed, and once again at the stain fizzing suddenly across Li-jie’s carpets. Pepsi was a bitch to get out (and the fact his beloved cousin– practically a sister! His own adoptive blood! –had married into something so deranged as a Pepsi household kept him awake at night) even without the muted, millennial beige opulence that draped every corner of his townhouse. What kind of people had white rugs with a new baby?
He sighed, resigning himself to scouring her pantry of overpriced, conspicuously all-natural cleaning supplies for something with actual heft. The maids were off until Monday and he was not about to let Jin Zixuan destroy jie’s carpet in his bumbling attempt to help. He had seen the mess that poor man had made of dishes during her pregnancy, so out of his depths without her guiding hand over his domestic efforts that Li-jie had finally conceded to hiring help. It was either maids or a nanny and jie was firmly in the modern mommy camp of co-sleeping and cloth diapers, no way was Jin Ling detaching from his sling for more than a moment at a time.
Wei Ying tried his best not to judge his cousin’s new, conscientious uptown yuppie lifestyle. Tried was the operative. He had (mostly) moved past his resentment towards her (awful) husband and his (obscene) lifestyle, but it was a struggle to see her assimilating so thoroughly into their east coast ABC Tesla-Trader Joe’s friend group. Of course Jiang Yanli had always been sweet, charitable at heart and generous of spirit. Always, perhaps, a bit naive, though it felt blasphemous to think as one of the main beneficiaries of her kindness.
The move to America certainly didn’t help things, her rush to assimilate and the whirlwind of firsts with her infant and also the baby (okay, seriously, he’ll stop). Yanli-jie’s only former experience with the country was sweltering summers in Wei Ying’s back pocket where he played her chauffer DC Chinatown to New York Chinatown and back in his crumbling Honda Accord to avoid the arrest on his record if anyone ever looked at her sideways on the metro. She had a tourist’s impression of the Americas, despite her lilting Oxford English and her unerring mental calculator for the exchange rate; the reality had left her unmoored, desperately lost and newly furious at all the inequities and injustices Wei Ying had tirelessly shielded her from and that her grace and beauty and can’t forget wealth had warded off in the motherland.
And so, baby liberal Jiang Yanli and budding actual human being Jin Zixuan had thrown themselves fully into what class-conscious-socially-liberal eco-friendly-queer-nuetral circles existed in their extremely wealthy and white Mount Pleasant neighborhood. Wei Ying could only grit his teeth and endure their new ‘friends’ rolling their eyes at his DIY denim vest and (fancy! gifted from Yu-ayi of all people!) army boots until his invitations to punk rock karaoke at the Black Cat and mutual aid volunteering yielded them some better friends.
Grousing, he shifted the shotgun off his lap. Served him right for doing this in jie’s living room. Their audacious two car garage (a garage! in uptown!) was too full of unpacked boxes for him to maneuver. To the side lay the hacksaw he'd used to file away the end of the barrel, gleaming with metal filings in the fluorescent light. It was slow, careful work, especially keeping all the shavings off Yanli's clean floor. He would have done this at the shop last week, with Wen Ning’s gorgeous bandsaw that he seemingly owned primarily to loan out, but it was only that morning Wei Wuxian had discovered Yanli had lost her entire mind.
The gun went on the table after a triple check it was unloaded, his mind burning with the knowledge of his presence. Despite his upbringing and, well, everything about him, he wasn’t a gun guy. Sure, his dad took him hunting every winter out by the gulf with his Wei cousins near Biloxi, hauling back enough venison to keep his ma in sausages year-round. He knew his way around a rifle and, courtesy of weird uncle Leroy who’d gone native far more than Wei Changze’s folks, could disassemble an AK at a pace that made his ma ban future visits. But just because he spent the majority of his adult life either in lockup or planning the activities to get himself back there didn’t mean he was a violent person– his alleged interactions with the MPD notwithstanding. He was an activist and, yes, maybe an overly enthusiastic one, but there was a difference between throwing punches to break up a line of cops determined to make a protest match their claims of violence and using a weapon whose explicit purpose was ending lives.
In any other circumstances, any other night like tonight, he would be holed up in his apartment with a baseball bat and he’d like his chances fine. But this was Yanli. Sweet, secure Yanli who had never had anything to fear of the world except the ways it constrained her. Yanli who had moved to D.C. on his recommendation, who had spent the warm months of every year hooked at the elbows when his parents and her dad still halfway thought they could get a marriage out of it. She was as good as his sister and part of him, no matter how mature she proved and no matter how much she babied him, always thought of her as somehow fundamentally younger– sequestered in the boudoir or sewn to his shadow, either way out of harm’s reach so help him God.
His big sister, his responsibility, and as far as he was concerned at the moment, the stupidest woman alive.
The kitchen had a huge bay window overlooking the emptied street. Jie's multi-million dollar corner of Mount Pleasant felt like outer space compared to the surrounding neighborhoods: Lanier Heights a slumping decline from rent-stabilized luxury apartments to perilous single family homes with their gates a bared-teeth warning against the gentrifiers; Columbia Heights crowded and clucking upwind where college kids haggled fiercely with street vendors over the perpetual wail of sirens; and downstream Adams Morgan making its case for the new gayborhood with neon signs and cell phone flashlights blinding the luxury liners above all the night long. The margins were the same everywhere in town– ducked heads and dark scowls as the long-term natives muscled for a hundred square feet of their rightful inheritance against the ever-flowing river of foreign students and fed workers driving up rent, though in Mount Pleasant it was the Salvadorans who stood braced against the tide, while AdMo and Lanier’s stubborn Black natives clung by tooth and claw. Friendly people, honest to a fault and startlingly impolitic for a place so vehemently political, but with their edges sanded thin by stagnating wages until the meat peaked through, red and raw and riotous.
Then there were streets like this, a single-family oasis of rowhomes tucked down so many circuitous side-streets it was a wonder the mail could find them. The block was lined with flags, stars and stripes and city flags next to rainbow standards and "No Human Is Illegal." A teenager down the street had come back from their first protest– either Compass Coffee or Nellie’s, he couldn’t remember– and proudly displayed a poster board inscribed “Protect Black Women” on her front porch like marching orders. He liked that kid, and he tried not to openly dislike their parents; they didn’t attempt the same.
Another sharp wail from the fucking landline Jin Zixuan had insisted on– the couple had spent a month on the dumbphone trend before agreeing those tiny keypads were unendurable, but decided to keep up their twee little rotary in the den. Wei Ying was still acclimating to knowing someone with a den, one that could fit all three of his roommates from his last sublet. It was undoubtedly Yu-ayi making another grasping attempt to convince her only daughter out of the insanity of remaining in the city. Her reasoning was certainly different– unapologetically anti-Black and undoubtedly Fox News motivated– but in this they were allies. Unfortunately, Jiang Yanli hadn’t lived the kind of life where ‘no’ had any real weight, floating from permissive father to an academic career powered entirely by her dazzling mind and into a doting marriage. It was pure dumb luck Wei Ying had even found out about her crazy fucking plan to wait out the Purge in her goddamn mansion since she apparently ‘didn’t want to worry him.’ As much as he would play accessory to felony murder for her, he was this close to letting her and Jin Zixuan deal with this one on their own.
Yeah right. Just like every idea she got– getting in the van on Canal Street for a shiny fake Louie bag when she could afford a dozen retail, joining a rowdy throng against some anti-union bar just as the cops closed in, fucking DND night with her NoVa friends– he’d be right beside her looking out, tearing the shirt off his back to polish her rose colored glasses.
On cue came a cascade of thuds from upstairs (upstairs. Like seriously?) Jiang Yanli rounded the corner in a control slide, socked feet skidding an Olympic-worthy axle on the hardwood. She had her hair piled in a bun, the edges where she let a friend talk her into a thin undercut prickly with stubble that held her reading glasses in place. Her loungewear of boy shorts and What's More Punk Than The Public Library tee was elevated to a Vogue feature by her hard-won elegance, years under her mother's criticism melting all the awkwardness off her like baby fat.
"喂!" she greeted before launching into bright, chirpy Mandarin at a rate Wei Ying's Canto-Pop-and-Wuxia phase hadn't prepped him for. His mother never spoke Mandarin at home, and his father's Cantonese was five generations removed from the mainland, so his grasp of the languages was tenuous at best which Yu-ayi had ruthlessly exploited to criticize him in his youth. There were, of course, plenty of better excuses these days, but he couldn't help the sense memory of ducking in shame when her sharp voice darted from the receiver.
Wei Ying hurried out with a wave before Yanli thought to offer him the receiver. She seemed to be under the impression that more exposure would help Madam Yu come to terms with his existence (survey says: not fucking likely). After a while spent scrubbing the rug with the first thing he found (dish soap? maybe? what in hell's name was 'Targeted Cleaning Solution'?) she emerged, hands on her hips and eyebrows canted. He gave his sunniest smile in reply, "Good talk with the Madam?"
"Don't call her that," Yanli chided without heat, her lips twitching as ever at the old nickname. Wei Ying had spent a few months in youth convinced that Yu-ayi was actually a secret Wuxia heroine who, for reasons inexplicable, pretended to be an ordinary society wife for her vague but certainly badass purposes. It had been the closest he'd come to pleasing her, though she made a great show of scolding him about it.
Yanli hip-checked him away from the mess, smothering his protests with fluttering hands. Once he was perched on her blindingly white couch, she whisked a steaming tea tray and platter of snacks from whatever arcane hammerspace motherhood had given her. He was two macarons deep when she noticed the shotgun, carefully out of reach for little hands despite the fact Jin Ling couldn't walk yet. Just to be safe. "Ying'er," she sighed.
"Ah, jiejie," he whined, voice thick with crumbs. "I promise it's not even loaded. See?"
He scurried over and back, breaking it open to show her the echoing barrels. The hacksaw had left a slightly rough edge, not quite enough to cut but prickling against his palms as he carefully went over the rules. If it isn't open, it's loaded. Always check the safety twice, but even then it's still off. Never raise it before you're ready to fire. Never leave it where a child can access it (Jin Ling was cribbed upstairs was but you never, never knew).
Most of all: never point at anyone you aren't willing to die in jail over.
Well, every night but tonight.
"This is unnecessary," she groused after he made her repeat every rule in turn. Yanli hadn't grown up with his casual relationship to guns but she had certainly interacted with them. Of course, she wasn't talking about his admittedly excessive gun safety paranoia— she'd sat through all the same speeches from his dad, three times a week since they were five. No, it was that he had one in the first place, had bought it at a gun show in NoVa first thing this morning. H'd had to scrounge up the cash for a zip car and drive like the devil was behind to make it before his shift at the gallery— unnecessary, since his boss sent him home almost immediately. No one wanted to be out any longer than necessary on the eve. The streets were empty before noon even though the sirens wouldn't start until nightfall. Just in case, just to be sure, just be careful— but Jiang Yanli didn't see the point and Wei Ying simply couldn't convince her.
“It’s all propaganda, anyway. Studies show the ‘Event’," here she rolled her eyes through the euphemism literally no one outside her elevated circles used. "-Is statistically as safe as any night in major American cities. Considering economic factors–”
“I know, I know, jie,” Wei Ying grinned, bashful, as he shut the barrel. “Just let me be silly, okay? Just in case.”
In a way she was right. The Purge was a nightmare, but a controlled one, a planned burst of chaos that people spent all year anticipating rather than the usual random terrors of the world. Most major cities saw a spike in robberies and a handful of belligerents taking their opportunity to do crimes they would've gotten around to anyway. March barely saw a tick up in the crime rate for places like New York, Seattle, Austin— hell, L.A. saw a reduction since everyone there was either too tired or too famous to risk their lives acting out.
Wei Ying was politically opposed to Purging in a way that made some of his younger anarcho-communist comrades antsy— the law didn't actually maintain order, but the Purge was symbolically repugnant. It undermined everything their 'free democracy' pretended to value at the expense of mostly those to poor to prepare. Not to mention it was wildly unpopular, increasingly so as the years went by. But he understood that there wasn't a big practicaldifference. Sure, every year had a death cult or some jackass with a machine gun who made the news, but there were plenty of those year round. He certainly appreciated the kid who annihilated student loan infrastructure two years back, and the guy who unloaded Paramount's entire catalog onto fucking Limewire of all places back in '28.
Most DC residents would be sleeping easy tonight— behind locked doors, with only your closest companions, but still. But Yanli wasn't camped out in a multi-unit apartment building with vaguely trustworthy neighbors on either side. She was out of the way, in a fucking million dollar rowhome with no one but her useless husband for clear half a mile. The neighborhood had been clear for days, SUVs and town cars shoved full of suitcases and flying off like traffic signs were a suggestion. Hell, even the streetlamps were further apart out here, mere blocks from the city center but worlds away from any intervention.
If Yanli needed help no one was coming. So, the clear solution was to make sure she didn't need any help.
Jin Zixuan appeared before she could argue, dopily floating over to kiss her forehead. Ugh. He gave Wei Ying his usual brusque nod as though they hadn't already seen each other five times that night. Weirdo. His pajamas, in contrast to Yanli's off duty soccer mom, were raw silk in a burnished brown, as close as he could get to flouncing around in gold threads. His hair was slicked and mildly damp, the drying traces of an overnight mask sinking into his skin. At least he's pretty, Wei Ying thought, far from the first time, while he and Yanli performed their usual heterosexual mating ritual at length.
"You tell him," Yanli said once they were done shoving dog food at Wei Ying. "Guns in the house are dangerous! At least he can leave it in the car."
Jin Zixuan's face did a rough twist, one Wei Ying recognized as meaning 'I completely disagree with you but I would never tell you anything, ever, please don't get mad at me.' Wei Ying felt an unwanted surge of sympathy. "Well..." Jin Zixuan hedged.
Jiang Yanli slapped him arm playfully. "Don't tell me! You too?"
"I just think it's better to be safe than sorry," Jin Zixuan soothed. "Especially with A-Yu staying over. He's so anxious, this'll help him feel better."
"A gun isn't a solution to anxiety Zixuan."
"No, but his favorite 'gege' looking out certainly is."
Wei Ying pointed to himself with exaggerated shock. Yanli giggled. They had here there; ever since Mo Xuanyu had moved in he'd been enamored with Wei Ying. He was all of fourteen, skittish and bruised all over, the guardianship papers still hot from the courthouse printer. Yanli was undeniable, but as far Jin Zixuan and any otherd it was a long slog to earn his trust. Even years later he was slow to warm to anyone— except weird punk homo uncle Wei Ying, who he latched onto immediately and with force. Whether it was having a queer elder for the first time or the fact that Wei Ying was inarguably a bit badass, tattooed on both arms and with a rap sheet hip to ankle from protesting for both of their rights, Mo Xuanyu had decided as soon as he left his awful maternal relatives behind that there was only one truly trustworthy adult. A shame he had such poor taste, but there it was.
Unwilling to sit in an argument she was losing, Yanli slid over to their delicate turntable atop its stately speaker cabinet, her fingers glancing over the records displayed at its side. "Let's put on some music while we wait. What do you want?"
"Nick Cave!" Wei Ying shouted before Jin Zixuan could get out, "Cash."
"Boys," Yanli rolled her eyes and put on Live at the BBC.
'Stronger Than Me' came in on a rustling snare and twirling strings, the crowd in the background quickly settling in the presence of greatness. Wei Wuxian had been barely out of high school when Amy Winehouse died, staring down the barrel of his twenties with both hands raised in surrender. Twenty-seven seemed a looming maw, a great and insatiable beast down the way that could neither be avoided nor appeased. Adulthood, new and fearsome and free, never quite let him forget that growing up was sure to kill him.
You should be stronger than me was a far-off lament, warmed from the grave's cold clutches by the bouncing needle. Li-jie sang along, her voice brazen if not beautiful, yanking Jin Zixuan off the couch and into an offbeat waltz. Wei Ying immediately complained the favoritism, the neglect, how dare, until she led him through 'Take The Box' in a spirited and completely inappropriate tango. Jin Zixuan, with an impressive poker face, hit the dougie with such conviction that Wei Ying fell over laughing to the crooning chorus.
For five swaying tracks they ignored the shotgun on the counter, the bars on the door. The minutes ticking by where A-Yu procrastinated coming home, probably hoping to make it late enough with his boyfriend they were forced to let him sleep over. Eventually, another call at half-past five and Yanli heaved a sigh, leaving the warm clutch of levity as 'Tears Dry On Their Own' wound down.
The sound of the phone dropping was loud as a cymbals. Jin Zixuan was over there before Wei Ying even registered Yanli's sharp cry. "No, no," she was saying as he followed, into the kitchen where she stared at the pile of plastic and wire where the landline had exploded on impact.
"Car," she said. "There was- we have to- A-Xuan."
"A car?" Wei Ying picked out what he hoped was the operative word. "He doesn't have a license. Was he driving? Who was driving him? What happened?"
"T-boned," Yanli managed, all out of order. "It got- the Uber driver didn't make it that's why, why he was running late, I thought-"
"A-Yu?" Jin Zixuan said, small and strange and young. The track clicked incongruously to Monkey Man and Wei Ying wished he had the presence of mind to change it.
"He's fine," she rushed to assure him. "He's fine but he's at the hospital. He's across town, he didn't- lost his cell phone and they- they. We have to go get him."
All her ease from earlier was gone, her stubborn assurance giving way to steel-eyed determination. Wei Ying had lingered often over the stories of mothers hauling cars off their children, fighting bears, running into fires. He had known from the instant she met her exactly what kind of mother Yanli would be. No amount of comfort and wealth could smother that core of her, someone who would kill and die for her child. The future resolved, light and possibility coalescing around her clenched jaw and wild eyes.
Her voice firmed, conviction ironing all the tremors out. "I have to go get him."
Wei Ying felt the future coming on like deja vu. Felt his body moving like it was a memory. Jin Zixuan played his part, said his lines, "Absolutely not. No. No.
"He's still at the hospital. We have time."
"Half the city's about to be barricaded. They already closed Embassy Row— no, Yanli."
"He's right there. I can walk there. I can get there."
"You can get killed!" and Wei Ying's instincts to snap, to lurch up at his suddenly shout were as insubstantial as dust motes.
Yanli howled back, her eyes wild. "Then we have to call someone. We have to— a fucking car, a taxi, a- a-"
Upstairs, the baby began to wail. This was not a house of shouting. This was not a house for rage. He was probably terrified at this new strange world where parents screamed and fought and feared. An awful world.
"We can't," Wei Ying said, and her shocked eyes locked on him. "Yanli, we can't. It's almost six."
Almost sundown. Every Uber and cab was off the road. The Metro was empty, the city buses parked. Even if the cops answered, and that was a long shot, within thirty minutes they'd be off the lines and on their asses waiting for the chaos to end.
"There's no one to call," he said.
Yanli's shoulder dropped. Not resignation, but realization. She whirled towards the door and it was only her husband's speed that stopped her from marching outside into the dark and savage night. "I'm not leaving him. I'm not leaving him. I'm going."
Jin Zixuan snarled. "You have a child Yanli! A child!"
"A-Yu is a child! A-Yu is his uncle! I'm not leaving him."
"A-Yu is seventeen years old," Jin Zixuan said like the words were glass, like they cut him. "He can make choices, he can, he can try to protect himself, he- fucking call us so we know where to find him, he can get a phone he has to- A-Ling is new, he needs you, he needs you. He needs his mother. He's my brother, he's- I'll go."
"No. No, no, absolutely not Zixuan-"
Too late Wei Ying caught his mouth moving, heard the words like a dream."You're not going . Neither of you. You're not going anywhere."
"I am."