Breakfast at the Fisherman’s Wharf Bayside Inn was luxurious.

Well, probably not for the average American—but for a goddess deprived of Earthly delights for so long, it was a culinary homecoming.

Momo appeared there like an overeager zombie at six am sharp, before even the culinary staff had time to tuck in their aprons, and took the first steaming hot plate off the pile. Already salivating, she loaded it up with precious cargo: six strips of limp bacon (doused in oil), a heaping pile of mushy scrambled eggs, a cup of stale cereal, one black coffee with maximum fat creamer, and finally, two pieces of finely burnt toast.

She laid her tray flat on a wobbly one-person dining table, and went on her tippy-toes in order to hop onto the stool by the window. It had a gorgeous view of the water, interrupted only slightly by a dollop of gray smog erupting from a nearby ship. She sipped on her too-hot coffee, instantly burning her tongue, and relished life as the noisy air conditioning unit above her poured freezing cold air over her damp, freshly washed hair.

It was perfect. It was peace.

That was until someone opened the window and the noise of a hundred cars honking at each other in the nearby parking lot filtered in. Summer allergies whisked their way in through the morning wind, causing Momo to sneeze, and then promptly knock her coffee mug onto the floor, shattering it into a hundred, milky-black pieces.

“Well,” she mumbled. “Perfect lasted longer than it usually does.”

Ten minutes might have been a new Momo-record.

***

Momo had been determined to visit her parents that day. She really had. But if that morning had been any indication, Momo’s plans very rarely managed to stay their course very long.

Momo was sitting in a plush armchair, patiently waiting her turn to check out of the hotel when the first sign of disruption arrived. Three bubbly girls shuffled in through the inn’s ever-revolving front doors. She really wouldn’t have looked twice at them if it wasn’t for their outlandish outfits—all of them identical, and strangely reminiscent of what Momo had been wearing when she arrived here.

A cat-hooded tunic. Clogs. Hakama-style wide leg pants. Definitely not the kind of clothes you’d find at your local H&M.

“I swear it said his name on the panel,” one of the girls said as they walked toward the seating area. They were all wearing long, white-colored wigs, but the girl speaking was most identifiable by just how tall she was, towering over the two other girls in both height and confidence. “I mean, he was literally advertised as the headliner for the whole festival.”

“Literally. Joon Lee is the only reason I bought tickets.”

“Same. I’ll be so pissed if he bows out at the last minute.”

The two smaller girls flopped into the armchairs on either side of Momo while the tall girl remained standing. She sighed, brought the plastic straw of her bubble tea to her lips, and grouchily sipped it as she leaned against the wall. None of the girls acknowledged Momo’s existence despite her sitting awkwardly in the middle of their conversation.

One of the girls looked up from her phone for a brief moment. “Is Emily not coming?”

Tall Girl blew out a breath. “No idea. Her shift was supposed to end like, two hours ago.”

“Her car probably broke down again.”

“She seriously needs to replace that thing.”

“She can’t. She’s totally broke.”

Tall Girl groaned. “She works that much and she’s still broke?”

“Not everyone’s mom is the CEO of a Fortune 500 company, Lacy.”

“Oh, shut up.” Tall Girl, presumably Lacy, rolled her eyes. “Your dad literally invented that self-driving car that rear-ended Emily’s car last week. If anything, you should be paying for the repairs on her sad little Yaris. Poor thing.”

Momo’s eyes darted back and forth between them, so caught up in the conversation that she failed to notice the soft whine of the revolving door.

“Emily! There you are.”

Momo craned her head, eyes widening in surprise. Small frigging world.

It was Emily from the mall.

“Hi Lacy,” Emily said, embracing the other girl. “Hi Olivia. Maxi. Oh, and—”

Emily’s jaw dropped comically when her eyes landed on Momo.

“Wait, you’re here for Momocon too?”

Momo choked on air. The girls’ eyes, which had previously never set on her, all flew to her at once. She felt very perceived.

“I’m sorry,” Momo said, her voice strained. “Did you just say Momo-con?”

“Yeah,” Emily said, more unsure. “The convention?”

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Lacy threw her bubble tea into the trash can. It was a perfect shot, even from halfway across the room. Momo wondered if maybe she had just run into a group of aliens.

“Emily, who is this?” Lacy asked.

Emily reddened. “Just someone I met at work.”

“Oh. Is she coming?”

“I don’t know,” Emily said. “Are you? We could give you a ride, if you want.”

Momo felt like she was being watched by gargoyles. Their stares were as piercing as the laser of a rifle. The pieces of this puzzle were floating together slowly in her mind—their costumes, from the hair to the clogs; the name of the convention; the discussion she’d had with Roger Earth about her legacy, and the implications of it across the multiverse.

She gulped.

“How are you guys getting there?”

***

Lacy slammed the door of the car shut, and huffed. Three heavily discombobulated teenage girls and one petrified goddess shuffled out from behind her.

“I thought we were going to die,” Emily whispered.

Lacy shoved a hand in the sewn-in pocket of her white cloak and pulled out a vape.

“Don’t be dramatic,” she said, exhaling white smoke. “We were completely safe.”

“It ran three red lights, Lacy!” Maxine hissed.

“So what?” Lacy groaned. “We got the ride free because we’re ‘helping to train the self-driving algorithm,’ or whatever. We just saved like, sixty dollars that we would have had to spend on a taxi. That’s sixty dollars we can now spend on merch.”

Maxine crossed her arms, then massaged them up and down with her hands to calm herself. She muttered, “At least a taxi wouldn’t have started beeping at a random fire hydrant because it thought it was a person. What person is three feet tall and red?”

Momo watched as the group of them steamrolled ahead toward the convention center. The place was completely packed. Girls—and the very occasional, but equally excited boy—dressed in cheap wigs and fake angel wings were snaked around the entrance to the building waiting to go through security.

Bordering the festival were food trucks selling all manner of Korean and Japanese fare; bulgogi beef bowls, kimchi fried rice, crispy Korean fried chicken, tteokbokki, bibimbap, ramen, takoyaki, onigiri. The heavenly scent was so overwhelming that Momo nearly collapsed. She instantly regretted stuffing her face earlier on oil-boiled bacon.

And if she wasn’t full that morning, she was absolutely bursting by the afternoon. She shoved down as much fried food as she could manage, her stomach becoming as hard and as round as a boulder. Still, she didn’t care. When else would she ever get to experience a food festival tailor-made to her exact tastes?

She had been so bewildered by everything Roger had been talking about back in the Lore Department that she had completely missed the fact that, by becoming a mythological figure—a motherflipping deity—the things she loved (fried chicken, dumplings, practical sandals, cat-themed memorabilia) would become so celebrated, so adored, that she could attend a fifty thousand person convention center and everyone there would appreciate them just as much as she did.

She took a deep breath.

This day was perfect, actually.

She prayed to Morgana to keep the universe alive for just a few more hours.

Politely shoving her way inside, she took a pamphlet from an overzealous man dressed head to toe in black cat-themed merchandise, and reviewed the upcoming panels and workshops. There was a great variety of different events and speakers: historians specializing in the goddess Momo’s debated origins—was she Korean or Japanese or maybe, actually, an American from San Francisco (clearly clickbait)?; then there was a cosplayers costume competition with the prize of a year’s worth of cat food; a workshop on becoming a better public speaker; a lecture on folk history's most famous introverts.

There was even a very intriguing event labeled “Forgotten Legends,” about goddesses that predated Momo, but were less popular in the current day. When she passed by that room, she leaned in to see several women on stage in black wigs and red-painted fingernails.

Valerica would have killed them for the mere impersonation.

Momo giggled. Oh, this was so wonderful.

Not wanting to miss a single glorious thing, Momo filled her schedule to the brink. She took a class on the art history of the Edo period, attended a cat show, and donated so much Nether-generated money to the foster animal fund that she worried momentarily about causing an unintentional inflationary period in California.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Momo was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the convention center’s auditorium. They were packed like mice waiting for the costume competition to start. It was apparently the main event of the entire evening, with well-known influencers in the “Momosphere” competing for the top prize—something Momo really needed to witness with her own eyes.

Bored, Momo had leaned over to the couple next to her. They were chatting animatedly to each other in a mix of German and English, and from what she could understand of their conversation, they had traveled a very long way to come to this specific convention.

“Of course,” the woman responded to Momo with a nod. She elbowed her husband in the stomach slightly to get a better look at Momo, and smiled. “What is it?”

Momo scratched the back of her neck sheepishly.

“I’m new to this whole … Momo … thing, and I’m kind of lost. How did a myth about a 15th century debatably-Japanese goddess become so popular in the 21st century West? Like—there are teenage girls here who do not seem like history buffs.”

The husband laughed. “How does anything get popular in the 21st century?”

“Don’t be sarcastic with the young woman.”

“A television show,” he continued, giving her a chastised look. “Some Hollywood executive dug up Momo’s story while on a trip to Japan and they made it into a big budget series. It is very famous in Germany. People love her because, ah— Sie ist ein bisschen lächerlich. ”

“No, no. That is not true.” The wife glared at him. “She is more than just ridiculous. She is beloved because she is very noble. Very… sweet, yes. Brave.”

Momo softened, feeling a tight pulling sensation in her chest.

“I see. She sounds cool,” she whispered.

“She is very cool,” the husband agreed, leaning back on his hands. “Just like Joon Lee.”

“Joon Lee?”

She had heard the girls mentioning that name earlier. Some sort of festival headliner.

“The actor who plays Momo’s brother in the television series,” the husband said, then cocked his eyebrow at Momo inquisitively. “You actually kind of look like him. Like, a lot.”

The wife slapped him on the chest. “Don’t say that.”

He put up his hands defensively. “What! She really does!” He sighed. “You’ll see. He is supposed to be one of the judges in the costume competition. That's why everyone came.”

The lights began to dim in the auditorium.

“Be quiet,” the wife said. “I think it’s starting.”

The stage went black, and a hush fell over the audience. A microphone was tested in the background, producing a whining technical sound. After a moment, the whine stopped, and a building crescendo of sound began to echo over the speakers. It was playing a song that sounded like a western music producer’s interpretation of a Korean folk tune.

A spotlight lit up the stage, and a man was standing there, excitedly waving to an instantly roaring audience. He was dressed in a perfectly ironed navy blue suit, his hair sleek and black. His jaw was sharp, his eyes a dark, deep brown. A familiar mole sat just below his neck, and Momo couldn’t stop staring at it.

Joon Lee didn’t look just “like” her.

Joon Lee wasn’t Joon Lee at all.

He was Daehyun Lim.

Momo’s younger brother.