Foreword:
Somewhere, there's a place for us… This is the time. This is our place. The story of twenty blocks, told by the heart of its streets. A story that needs to be told and retold. Oil and water just don't mix. But two unlikely people realize they are meant to be. West Side Story meets Arcane. Violyn.
(This will be WITH Spanish–English Translations)
I love that Spielberg doesn't translate the Spanish, in order to give it equal power over the English. But for those that are curious, I will include the closest English translation to the Spanish at the end of each chapter. Obviously, the gender pronouns will be changed from the original dialogue. And some dialogue will be changed to fit the context better. Please be kind, I am not a native Spanish speaker.
Also, to note, like in the world of Arcane, this story doesn't quite reflect the same stigma of LGTBQ+ relationships as they were viewed in the 50's. I decided to write in a way that the boundary is still there, but it varies in acceptance from different characters. Hopefully, you'll see what I mean.
This was a challenging boundary to draw because, story-wise, that is literally what West Side is all about; boundaries and people violating those rules for love even though it would not be accepted by their social circles. But I wanted a story with its characters that were more inclusive, like in Arcane. And the conflict still deriving from that inclusive place, to highlight the hypocrisy of acceptance in one area but not in others. Especially when it comes to groups of people, like in West Side.
That said, Anybodys' storyline had to be changed to fit with the character I had in mind. But I thought I'd leave it up to interpretation. Anyway, I hope the conflict still gets across.
Gender terms are fairly fluid, mostly because, in my own female experience, I don't always call my girlfriends feminine nicknames or terms of endearment, like 'girls' or 'gals' or 'ladies'. Sometimes, it's more casual to be called, 'guys' or 'man', or the like. Or just use 'boy' as an expression of awe or wonder or worry.
And lastly, for the story to progress, certain Arcane characters are going to act marginally more like their West Side counterparts they are representing. For example, Jayce and Mel notably, since I love Bernardo and Anita's dynamic together so much. So, maybe these changes will make Jayce and Mel's relationship more enticing. ;) And certain ages for characters are going to be different than they are in Arcane. And a few familial relationships between characters are going to be different.
Anyway, hope you enjoy!
TRIGGER WARNINGS: gang violence, police brutality, street fighting, blood, gore, sexual themes, sexual assault, slurs, discrimination, imprisonment, drugs, tobacco, fire, weapons, death, etc.
P.S. I never played League before. My interest in the universe piqued because of Arcane, but I did include references from comics and character stories from researching League lore. They are a fascinating read! You can find them on League's website, if you're interested.
/
ACT ONE
Scene One:
"Prologue"
A whistle echoed in the distance.
It would be difficult to tell where it was coming from because it echoed off the walls of alleys, bouncing around corners, disappearing in a meandering maze of buildings.
The sun rose high over the island of Manhattan, casting everything in a harsh light. A few seagulls glided in the wide, blue sky, flying open and free. A hot summer day in 1958.
The birds looked down at the world below them; the small island with grid-like lines of a city that seemed to never end.
But one neighborhood was seeing a great change.
Huge, brown, billowing dust clouds lifted high in the sky. The activity below scared most birds away. Lining the streets were more and more broken bricks and twisted frames of fire escapes, torn to the ground. It could've looked like a bomb went off.
Nearby, a sign was posted on a construction fence. It read: "THIS PROPERTY PURCHASED BY THE NEW YORK HOUSING AUTHORITY FOR SLUM CLEARANCE."
Above it, was a billboard with an illustration of what looked like a shiny, new college campus. The caption read: "LINCOLN CENTER, FOR THE PERFORMING ARTS."
Beyond this gleaming billboard, was a vast and growing wasteland.
Half burying the crisscrossing roads and alleys, mountains of detritus rose up, nearly as tall as the tenements that were being torn down. All filled with concrete shards and the remnants of peoples' homes.
Here and there, piles of white washtubs, toilets, even iron bedframes littered the wreckage. Twisted bits of metal from fire escapes and shards of glass too fine to see left among the brick and mortar.
The air was dusty and clouded vision at times. The dust coated everything. Demolished and partially demolished tenements stood broken open, interior walls and doors exposed in the sun. Those that were still standing awaited their time, silently.
Cranes, wrecking balls, steam shovels, trucks, and clearance crews were busy pulling buildings down and carting the ruins away, moving like ants on the ground.
The devastation stretched nearly half of the island, all the way to the Hudson River.
But it was among one of these quiet, half demolished streets, underneath a wrecking ball that stood silent and still. Down an alley, where no crew were working, where nobody was looking… that our story begins…
Where a neighborhood would have one last shot at living… One last story to tell…
This part of the alley between West 64th and West 65th was quiet and still. The only movement happening was the occasional breeze that lifted minor dust clouds that danced in the air, always dissipating where it was most inconvenient.
Then, underneath the wrecking ball, there was different movement.
A few pebbles trembled, jumping from the ground. Once. Twice.
The earth suddenly opened, and the thick layer of pebbles scattered, falling away as two cellar doors opened up from under the ground.
A teenager, no more than seventeen, held up his hand to block his eyes from the bright noon sun. He waved his other hand in front of his face as dust gathered from the opening doors. Shaking out his spiky, brown hair, he did the same to his clothes, brushing off clouds from his threadbare white t-shirt and patched up blue jeans that hung loosely on his lanky body.
He steadied himself on the cellar ladder and looked up to the sky, giving a smirk. He gave a low whistle to the shadows he knew were his friends awaiting him, outside. He bent down in the cellar and tossed a paint can up through the door.
The paint can was caught by another lanky teenage boy, except he had blonde hair parted in the middle, a gap between his teeth, and wore a dark gray vest. He chuckled a bit in surprise as he caught the paint can, feeling the heft of it in his hands. It was full.
He nodded to his friends and tossed the can to a much larger boy beside him.
The large boy's meaty hands held up the paint can without a problem. Pulling down a pair of goggles through his curly brown hair, he inspected it for a moment, reading the label.
The boy in the cellar tossed up a second paint can. The blonde boy caught it and flung it to their other friend, standing nearby. A girl with black, choppy hair that fell over her left eye.
The boy at the top of the ladder, Deckard, caught one and tossed an extra to Claggor.
Bringing as much as they could carry, Deckard then took hold of Mylo's hand, hauling him out of the cellar with a can of his own. They squeezed wrists before letting go, nodding to each other, a chuckle between them.
Claggor, holding two cans, elbowed Mylo. Mylo wriggled his bushy eyebrows at Action, showing off his successful lock-picking infiltration. She merely rolled her eyes.
Turning to leave, the four teenagers made their way down the deserted alley with the paint cans hanging at their sides. They snapped their fingers in unison was they walked, casually, in rhythmic time, like the ticking of a clock.
A short walk brought them to a lot with an abandoned, gutted tenement.
In front of the half-demolished building stood a vandalized wrecking crane. One of the treads had been crowbarred off and the engine had been looted for parts. No crew had been around to guard the crane or claim it back. It just stood there, abandoned, rusting in the sun.
A whistle from the group of teenagers summoned someone else from inside the cab. Emerging from the open door, a teenage girl appeared, younger than them. She had long, powder-blue hair, tied in two braids at the nape of her neck, falling over her shoulders.
Despite her shorter height, the way the boys looked up to her, she was definitely their leader. And she dressed for the part.
Her dark, navy blue, denim capris were rolled up just below her knees. A dark gray tank top clung to her in the dusty, summer heat. Around her neck was tied a purple ascot, well-worn and fraying. Her shoulder showed off blue cloud tattoos spreading down her right arm.
She leaned against the cab doorframe, her nails painted blue and pink, colorful against her black biker gloves.
She blinked in the sun then smirked wryly at the group standing outside. She didn't say anything as she reached over the driver's seat and hung her black vest jacket behind her shoulder.
Stepping outside the cabin, another girl emerged behind her.
This girl had finger waves coiled in her curly hair; originally dark in color but dyed bright blonde. Her dark eyebrows above her green eyes the only indication that gave her away.
Unlike Action, she carried herself with a more feminine zeal. She dressed showing off more of her fair skin in turquoise blue shorts and a matching blouse tied off above her navel. She smiled her red lips like she was Marilyn Monroe, which earned her nickname, Roe.
The only jewelry that she wore was her bracelet. For every three green beads, there would be one larger red bead. The pattern continued, the length wrapping around her wrist multiple times.
Roe emerged from inside the cabin, behind their leader, smirking her red lips at the Jets. She wasn't embarrassed or shy to see them.
The blue haired girl kissed her, then hopped down to the pavement and held out her hand to help Roe down, gentlemanly. Taking her hand, the girl pirouetted with a little hop to the ground. She smiled at her girlfriend, squeezing her hand once more before turning to leave.
The blonde sashayed past Deckard, who gave an appreciative wolf-whistle that was cut off by –
"Jets!" Jinx announced.
They all looked to her as she picked up her black vest jacket and dawned it on, smirking at them. They all chuckled together.
She motioned for the group to gather and show the loot they'd collected. Pouting her lip, a little, she nodded her impressed approval and gave a small punch to Mylo's shoulder.
With a grin and a pat on Claggor's arm, Jinx took the extra paint can from him and nodded to the street that would lead the way out of the construction zone.
She started snapping her fingers at the side of her thigh, and the rest started copying her, flanking on both sides, behind her.
As they approached the street, they came to a sawhorse with a "Men Working" sign. Instead of going around it, Mylo and Claggor stepped forward and kicked it over for Jinx. Without having to stop, Jinx stepped over the obstacle with ease. They all walked over it in distain without a second thought, leaving it on the ground.
They headed off down a mostly deserted street, leaving most of the demolition behind them.
But as they turned a corner and entered the street, the group suddenly split apart, surprised, to allow a police cruiser to cruise between them.
The group, although tough, knew to get out of the way of the cruiser. Although unafraid, a collective breath was held and released as the cruiser went by without stopping them.
Flanking together again, the Jets passed in front of a small storefront, one of the few buildings still standing, named Doc's Drugstore.
Jinx rapped on the glass window and five more Jets bound out onto the street. Snowboy, Tiger, Mouthpiece, Big Deal, and Balkan. Mouthpiece, in the middle of licking his fingers to turn another page, quickly dropped his magazine on a table. Balkan flipped his lucky coin, his eyes squinting in the sun and dust over the bandage across his nose.
The five fell in line behind the group as they continued walking down the street. They knew it was time to go.
Some buildings the group passed were inhabited, but many were boarded up, chained, with signs warning, "CONDEMNED!" and "DANGER!"
Jinx led the Jets, swinging their paint cans, down the street to Broadway, past abandoned and ruined tenements, shops, and diners. Jinx snapped her fingers and more gang members joined from the alleys and side streets at the sound of her call.
Pedestrians cleared out of their way as other Jet members suddenly stopped what they were doing and jumped up from stoops, out of doorways, dropping from windows to fall in step behind the group.
At an intersection, Jinx looked up at a building and whistled as she spotted a member on the fire escape. Hearing the whistle, they saw the Jets below, then stepped on the fire escape ladder and rode it as it slid down to the street.
As the teens passed an underground bar, Jinx snapped her fingers again. Another Jet perked up from the descending staircase, realizing he was being summoned. He ditched his girlfriend as he was about to light her cigarette.
"Hey, hey!" she complained as he jumped up the stairs to the ground level.
Soon, all of them were falling in alongside Jinx.
Now they were complete, THE JETS! Moving together, they tossed paint cans back and forth, intimidating pedestrians, moving off the sidewalk and taking over the street.
They danced, playful but powerful, spinning and intimidating as they took over the street. This was their neighborhood, the place they grew up. They controlled it. It was freedom. It was their playground.
Then… they reached the end of the street.
At a crosswalk, they abruptly pulled up short as several black pedestrians crossed the street in front of them.
The pedestrians stared at the kids as they passed.
The Jets looked to each other, silently, then stepped into the intersection, crossing an invisible boundary into a new neighborhood.
The culture was vastly different. The store signs had shifted into Spanish:
"¡DELICIAS DE LA ISLA! ¡COMIDA FRESCA PARA LLEVAR O CENAR! VENDEMOS CAFÉ YAUCONO, EL COQUÍ, EL RICO. ALCAPPURIAS, ARROZ CON GANDULES, TOSTONES, EMPANADILLAS, RELLENOS DE PAPA, PASTELES, PASTELEON, PLANTANOS MADUROS, FLAN, ARROZ CON DULCE!"
Beyond a bodega restaurant at the corner of W. 68th St., Puerto Rican flags were fluttering. Baskets of mangoes, plantains, yautia, and guanabanas canvassed the sidewalk. The Jets stared suspiciously at the fruit, which was strange to them.
They crossed into the teeming Puerto Rican neighborhood, largely intact and alive. Spanish signs and bilingual posters protested the demolition of the neighborhood and the relocation of its residents. People stood at fruit stands, walked with friends, waved fans in their faces, working or enjoying the summer day.
Then Jinx held up her hand as a signal, snapped her fingers once, and... the Jets spread out through San Juan Hill.
Some banded together with their friends, splitting off in the intersection, down all three lanes, as small groups.
As the Jets split up, Jinx was left standing in the intersection.
But glancing behind her, she saw only one figure was left.
His name was Ajuna, but they all called him Baby John. The young fifteen-year-old hesitated, nervously rooted in place, in his striped t-shirt. Jinx looked at the fresh-faced rookie who couldn't decide where to go. She threw a supportive arm over his shoulder.
"C'mon," she said, guiding him.
Nearby, in front of Huck's general store, two Jets distracted the store owner, clapping into his face, as the third Jet stole a few paint brushes from his stand.
"¡Ya no, hija de mierda!" the store owner yelled at them as they ran away with their prize.
Another group of Jets also stopped at a restaurant. Knowing she'd be recognized, Jinx stayed back, watching from a distance, up the street.
The group banded together and lifted Baby John, getting him high enough to reach up and pull off the sign hanging over the street. The sign read: "Cocina Criolla de Jericó, Abierta Ahora."
Ripping it down, underneath was an old sign with a four-leaf clover that read, "Food and Drink, Irish Pub."
A large, rotund man in a black suit and tie burst out of the pub. He had an eyepatch and a goatee, and a gold tooth. He was clearly the owner. He had an apron tied around his waist and shook a broom in his hand.
"¡Por muchachitos como ustedes, es que este mundo esta lousy!" he angrily shouted, throwing his broom to the ground to scare them.
The Jets didn't look apologetic as they dropped the sign to the ground and made their escape down the street, laughing.
Onlookers stared in disgust after the teens as the owner yelled after them, "¡Dejennos en paz!"
Making their escape, all the Jets soon joined back together, reuniting and laughing as they ran down the street.
They passed a large asphalt playground, ringed with a chain linked fence, playfully jostling each other. Some reenacted the surprised and shocked expressions of the people they vandalized. Others frowned and mockingly yelled in gibberish Spanish. Some patted Baby John on the back.
But the group suddenly pulled up short again, their laughter cut off.
They came to their intended destination: the Puerto Rican mural.
A concrete wall overlooked a large basketball court. It read: "LA PATRIA ES VALOR Y SACRIFICIO. PEDRO ALBIZU CAMPOS." A giant red, white, and blue flag was painted across the stretch of concrete wall. Red and white stripes waving horizontally behind a blue triangle with a white star.
As the Jets were staring at the mural, one last Jet member hustled into the court to join the group. A smaller, dark skinned boy with bleach-white dreadlocks.
He bounded onto the court, dressed in similar converse shoes, blue overalls and grease-stained t-shirt. His heart was still pounding from running all the way there. His throat was dry. But he stood tall, ready to join.
A few of the Jets snickered. They were familiar with the overly persistent middle schooler. He'd been plaguing them for over five months.
Jinx rolled her eyes and snarled at the kid with a sideways glance, "Beat it."
The boy was crestfallen but stayed anyway, watching the group as they all pushed past him, ignoring his presence.
"Split, Ekko," Deckard said, pushing him out of his way.
Ekko grimaced but tried not to look hurt despite them constantly treating him like he was invisible.
He wasn't Puerto Rican. He wasn't white. He was black.
The Jets stared up at the wall, standing under it, then bent down and started popping open paint cans. They dipped their brushes, wads of newspaper, or even their bare hands. Whatever they had.
With a single splash, the splattering grew as more and more of the group started added their own 'artistic touch' to the Puerto Rican mural. They began whooping and hollering, seeing who could get a bigger splash. They were having a blast.
Gradually, the people in the neighborhood saw this. The store owner who had his paint brushes stollen pointed a finger toward the boys decimating the mural.
Among the crowd of onlookers, a group of teenage Puerto Ricans emerged from the throng of angry locals. A tall, coffee-toned, muscular teenager stood above most of them, his green eyes glaring past his flat nose. His shock of spiky, black hair tended to make his ears look a little bigger than they were. He was the first to find his friends in the crowd. While running, they gathered more of their friends as they raced to stop them at the mural.
"Se fue por allá."
"¡Vámonos, chicos! Sharks! ¡Vamos! ¡Por acá, por acá!"
Ekko, still standing apart from the action at the mural, saw the group coming, with faces he recognized. Ekko put his fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly in warning to the Jets, who turned – just as the Sharks arrived.
Chaos ensued as people started fighting each other, going at it without mercy.
The colors of the paint started to mix, getting smeared on each other and everywhere else. The ground got slippery with paint under their shoes.
Ekko was dismissed as a bystander, shoved to the ground by its front header, Scar. Ekko instinctually covered his head as the other Sharks leapt over him in pursuit of the Jets.
A teenager named Manolo lunged for Baby John, who got scared and reacted by slamming his near empty paint can, wildly, clouting the side of the Shark's head.
Outnumbered, the Jets ran, splitting off and running in separate directions. The Sharks gave chase.
…
There were separate skirmishes up and down the streets as the retreating Jets turned to fight.
Jinx led three Jets as they raced up a narrow alley staircase with some Sharks behind them. Near the top, the Jets turned to hurl trashcans down at their pursuers. Hitting them and scattering trash.
…
Down another street, Aníbal was being chased by Mylo, Big Deal, and Claggor.
"Hey! Hey, you!" Mylo shouted after him. "C'mon!"
As the three Jets gave chase after the one Shark, Aníbal ran and hauled himself into the bed of a passing melon truck. He smiled as he unlatched the gate, letting a cascade of watermelons smash into the street, tripping up the Jets.
…
In an alley off West 68th street, Baby John found himself running alone, pursued by three large Sharks: Scar, Manolo, and Sebas. He knew he didn't stand a chance against the older, taller men. He turned down a sharp corner, hoping to lose them.
Then he stopped as he realized his way was blocked off, a brick wall and a chain linked fence flanking him on both sides.
Baby John turned around to run back the way he came, but he saw his pursuers were catching up.
Nearly tripping, he tried once more to go down a side alley, but he ran into a third Shark member, the same Shark he'd clocked in the head. The three young men surrounded him as he shrank against the chain linked fence.
Panicking, Baby John immediately started to climb. The men grabbed at him, trying to drag him down to the ground. But he was fast.
Beyond the fence was a vacant lot. As Baby John crested the fence, Manolo and Sebas slipped through a loose seam in the chain link fence below him. They slipped into the vacant lot, surrounding him on both sides of the fence. The boy blocked off; Scar climbed toward him.
"Ven acá, blanquito!" he grunted, grabbing his ankle.
As the boy got pulled off the fence, he shouted, desperately, "JETS!"
The Sharks underneath caught him before he could hit the ground. But they weren't doing it to save him. They held the boy to the ground, pinning his limbs from fighting back.
At the sound of his cry, the other Jets came running down the alley, on the opposite side of the fence, pounding on the barrier between them. Jinx was leading them. She stared at the Sharks bending over Baby John, his legs kicking in vain in the dirt.
The Jets around her yelled in fury and quickly found the hole in the fence, climbing through. They outnumbered the Sharks who were assaulting their youngest Jet.
More and more members came running, from both sides of the lot.
Jets came running, yelling, "Hey, hey!"
Sharks came running, yelling, "Corre, corre!"
The vacant lot erupted with action and sound as the gangs engaged in a wild melee. With all the noise, more and more members on both sides came running to the scene, jumping in, to brawl with their enemies.
Then, out of a side alley, among the Sharks, emerged a tall, broad-shouldered young man. He had tan skin, a chiseled face, and black cropped hair, slicked back. Although a piece of hair curled in his face.
The sleeves of his red button-up shirt were rolled up, showing off his thick arms and muscular chest. The top button was open, revealing a gold medallion and a simple gold ring on a chain around his neck. Underneath, he had a white undershirt, and wore black slacks.
Emerging through the gap in the fence, opposite the lot, came Jinx.
As soon as they both stepped onto the scene, the two alphas locked eyes with each other.
They glared darkly as they walked through the chaos of their brawling friends. They pushed combatants aside, zeroing in straight toward their opponent, at the center of the scrum, murder in their eyes… blue against gold.
/
Spanish – English translations
"¡DELICIAS DE LA ISLA! ¡COMIDA FRESCA PARA LLEVAR O CENAR! VENDEMOS CAFÉ YAUCONO, EL COQUÍ, EL RICO. ALCAPPURIAS, ARROZ CON GANDULES, TOSTONES, EMPANADILLAS, RELLENOS DE PAPA, PASTELES, PASTELEON, PLANTANOS MADUROS, FLAN, ARROZ CON DULCE!"
"ISLAND DELIGHTS! FRESH FOOD TO GO OR DINE IN! WE SELL COFFEE YAUCONO, EL COQUÍ, EL RICO. ALCAPPURIAS, RICE WITH PIANS, TOSTONES, EMPANADILLAS, STUFFED WITH POTATOES, CAKES, CAKES, RIPE PLANTS, FLAN, RICE WITH SWEETS!"
"¡Ya no, hija de mierda!"
"Not anymore, motherfucker!"
"Cocina Criolla de Jericó, Abierta Ahora."
"Jericho's Creole Cuisine, Open Now."
"Por muchachitos como ustedes, es que este mundo esta lousy."
"Because of little boys like you, this world is lousy."
"¡Dejennos en paz!"
"Leave us alone!"
"LA PATRIA ES VALOR Y SACRIFICIO. PEDRO ALBIZU CAMPOS."
"THE COUNTRY IS VALUE AND SACRIFICE. PEDRO ALBIZU CAMPOS."
"Se fue por allá."
"He went over there."
"Vámonos, chicos! Vamos! ¡Por acá, por acá!"
"Come on, guys! Go! Over here, over here!"
"Ven acá, blanquito!"
"Come here, white!"
"Corre, corre!"
"Run, run!"
/