notes: stella morta/the city of dead stars is a city that i created, and it is nestled in a small corner of the world. idk where though lol. i've taken ideas off new york, tokyo and seoul.
the schooling system in this fic is based off australia though, which is where i live. i figure it'll be easier for me than trying to understand other education systems. so here, after highschool, you go straight to university, not college (i still don't know exactly what purpose college has), which is what elsa has done.
the king of hearts that i talk about in here is the king of hearts that you would find in playing cards.
cameos: rapunzel from tangled (she'll probably be a permanent add to the cast); the stabbington brothers from tangled (i have named them hugo and herbert); hook hand, pub thug of the snuggly duckling, also from tangled; li shang, army captain and love interest from mulan; scar (prince taka) antagonist from the lion king.
chapter two: the red crowns
I often associate certain characteristics with certain cities. It makes it easier to remember them, gives them a defining point, much like pasting onto them a personality stereotype. But it doesn't last for long, because cities transform with the people, and people are constantly merging and emerging and warping and clearing. That is the nature of humans. I like this part of them, though, because it keeps me on my toes. Just when I think I have humans all figured out, one of them does something that throws me completely off. But more on that later.
Stella Morta is one of my favourite cities. There is something different about it, I can't exactly put into words. Among all the cities of the world, I feel like it best reflects human nature. There are so many facets to this city; it's a puppet, made to echo humans, made to represent how humans act and feel and think. But it's also an abstract shape, an exaggeration on humanity; a puppet can move in ways no human can, it is distorted, and through its clicking mouth flows the words of an ever-changing civilisation.
This city came into being around four hundred years ago. I wasn't interested in it at its founding time; however, I visited it a lot because the settlers that came had left families and friends behind. As Loneliness, I was obligated to come. But now, it has changed. Now, it is interesting.
It is very hard to explain, for you, who have never lived in this city. The people are all of the middle-class or higher, with around one million struggling in the downtown areas. But I will tell you about the one 'class' that I find absolutely captivating. They are the youth of the city.
Gangs run Stella Morta, and Families run the gangs. Of the six million people, three million of them are in a gang of some form or other. Of the three million, around two million are made up of kids from as young as seven to around twenty-five. No one really knows why. The police speculate, crime analysis experts speculate, but there is nothing wrong with these children. Three-quarters of them come from well-to-do families; the other quarter is made up of your clichéd parentless hooligans. But the one thing they all have in common is their love of blood and knives and violence and terror.
There are hundreds of gangs around the city, but one of the biggest ones is called the Red Crowns.
Jack Frost is a member of the Red Crowns. He is twenty-one years old. He joined them when he was twelve.
I was there, the day he asked to join. He was Lonely.
[five years ago]
Jack remembers his initiation very well. But when asked, he mumbles that he just had to do something so inexplicably horrifying that he never wants to think of it again.
(It still haunts him sometimes, the screams. When the night is dying and it's the darkest hour before dawn, that's when he recalls it the most.)
He finishes his initiation quite successfully.
(The man who oversaw his initiation is a strong, imposing Chinese man named Li Shang. He tells Jack that the number four in Chinese is unlucky, because it sounds like the word for death, and that it is no accident that it took Jack four tries to pass his test.)
At his initiation, I came not as Loneliness, but as Fear. Jack was terrified, but what twelve-year-old wouldn't be? The test is something that even most grown men can't do. The willpower Jack possessed to finish it is strengthened by the love he holds for his sister.
For Clara. Jack joined the Red Crowns only for Clara.
And then the next day, Jack is taken to a tattooist in the outer areas of Stella Morta. Printed onto his skin, ink forever sealed into his flesh, an image of the King of Hearts surrounded by a thin circle is pricked just under his left collarbone. It takes days to finish, but the result is an elaborate symbol of his membership, and, as Jack would later come to call it, his slavery.
[present day]
It's noon.
Everyone is going out to lunch, bathing in the streaks of sunlight that is just the right temperature of warm.
There's an abandoned building right beside a cheerful coffee shop. In contrast with the shop's bright atmosphere and yellow sunflowers displaying in front, the building is made of elderly crimson bricks and its windows are sealed with planks of rotting wood.
That's how Stella Morta works. Complete opposites living side by side. Gang members sneaking through schools filled with kids, a sniper having lunch back to back with an office worker, delinquents smoking right outside of hospitals.
The abandoned building once was a bank, but it was shut down because, quite honestly, it's in one of the worst spots a bank could be: a neutral zone right at the dividing line of two hostile gang territories.
When you walk inside, there's a huge room. And it's empty, save for the long table situated right in the very middle. It's too dark to see anything else, shadows clinging to the sides and dust caking every available surface.
There's a silent assembly in this room. On one end of the table sits two brothers, both strikingly huge and each displaying a gun clearly on their hips. Three men stand behind them, one guards the entrance, and the other patrols the overhanging balcony on the second floor, which overlooks the whole scene. It is a picture of grim tension, hatred smothering their hard faces.
On the other end, however, a young boy slouches in a high-backed chair. His legs are propped up on the table, cheek resting in a palm, and he lolls his head arrogantly as he stares down the brothers on the other side. Only one man is behind him; another is swinging idly on the chandelier above, and the last crouches in the corner, a soft glow lighting up periodically as he takes drag after drag from his cigarette.
"You stole from us," the boy says. His voice is delicately smooth, icy, and even. His lips pull up in a cocky smirk, but his blue eyes spark with irritation. "You haven't paid yet, but you still took our stock. That's a big no-no. The Red King isn't happy."
Silence rings after his statement. No one moves. The boy is the only one relaxed enough to snort and give a huge yawn.
"Come on, what do you say, Misters Hugo and Herbert Stabbington?" the boy asks mockingly.
The two figures shift in unison, but they keep their faces blank. They've been trained well.
"We always give you the money after we've retrieved the goods," Hugo says quietly. His voice is a rumble of thunder. "That's how we work, and that's always been fine with you."
"Yes," Jack says, and then he smiles sweetly at them; in the dim room, his face floats white in the darkness, a demented marionette whose mouth has been whittled into a hysterical grin. "But we've decided that we want our payment on the day you take our stock. We've decided that since you didn't do that last time, you are now considered thieves."
Herbert stands up; he's always been the more short-tempered of the twins. "You never warned us. If you had, this misunderstanding would never have happened."
Jack rocks his legs back onto the ground. "But you didn't just steal from us," Jack whispers, and suddenly his voice is fire, flaming with rage, "you hurt one of our own. You stabbed a knife through one of our people."
"That was an accident," Hugo insisted. He slams his hand down on the table, and it shakes the floor; Jack feels the tremors through the soles of his boots. "We thought she was cops! She shouldn't have come out at us so sudden–"
"You hurt one of our people," Jack interrupted. He runs a hand through his white hair, noting absent-mindedly that he needed a cut. He sighs, posture drooping, and then he gets to his feet. "Seriously…"
There's a strange look in his glassy eyes, and the Stabbington brothers share a glance, before they rise up as well. There is no hesitation, and for all intents and purposes, they are confident. But Jack has been trained by the best; he can see the way their muscles tense ever so slightly, the way their hands are slanted towards their guns.
"You have our apologies, on behalf of the Godmother, and ours, her second-in-commands," Hugo says, seeing the fury blaze across the boy's face. Jack is angry; it's not wise to anger him any further.
"That's not enough," Jack responds carelessly, waving a hand. "Consider this a warning."
He jerks his head to his men, and they all head towards the murky glass doors. Only the one hanging off the chandelier remains, and a gleeful smile spreads across his face.
"Do I get to cut them?" he asks excitedly.
"Only a little bit," Jack says without turning around. "Control yourself, Hook Hand. I'll see you back at Headquarters."
Hook Hand whines but nods in resignation and looks over to the Stabbington brothers. The door closes behind Jack and his remaining men.
"So," Hook Hand says conversationally, and there is something off about him. He smells of death, reeks of insanity, and his eyes are wild and his lips are strained into what cannot be called a smile; it's a slash of madness across his face, lighting up his otherwise emotionless eyes with embers of frenzied enjoyment. He raises his left hand, the scarred stump curving into a gleaming bronze hook. "Which two fingers would you guys rather lose?"
[queen apartment]
"Anna," Elsa says quietly. She leans against the doorway, arms crossed and lips pressed tightly together. "Anna, come on. Don't be like this."
"But why?" Anna is a lump on her bed, muffled and quivering with anger. The blinds are halfway pulled up, and sunlight reflects off of a colourful crystal paperweight on the desk. Its light refracts and casts odd rainbows everywhere. Cardboard boxes still left untouched are stacked up against the furthest wall, despite the fact that they had been living in this apartment for close to two years already. "It's not fair!"
"I'm uncomfortable with you going off on a weekend trip with your friends with no adult supervision," Elsa says. She's always been like this, formal, straight to the point, unwilling to skirt around the subject.
"But all my friends are going," Anna cries, and she sits up and faces her elder sister. Anna is a month shy of turning eighteen, just grown out of her awkward teenage years, rebellious, face sprinkled with light freckles and strawberry blonde hair tied up in a messy bun. Her fists clench. "Elsa, please. I really want to go."
"I know," Elsa says, and she's trying to hide her regret. She's trying so hard. "I'm sorry, Anna, but I can't allow you to."
"Why?"
"I just–no. It's not happening."
Anna stares at her wordlessly for a second, and then she jumps up and pushes her sister out of the door.
"Fine," Anna snarls, and she slams the door in her face. Elsa gazes at the painted green wood for a long time, and then she stumbles into the living room and buries her face into a worn cushion and tries very, very hard not to cry.
Gone to work.
Will be back at 11.
Food in the fridge.
Stay safe. Call if
emergency.
Elsa waves goodbye to the last customer of the day, and as soon as they're out of sight, slumps over the till and moans.
"Bad day?" her coworker Rapunzel asks sympathetically. Rapunzel is twenty, a year younger than Elsa. She's got long blonde hair and small, delicate features. She is a happy sort of person, outgoing and always laughing between sentences. She has wings on her feet and the sun in her smile. Elsa finds herself wishing many times that she could be like that, wishing to see the positivity in life, the ability to stop and smell the roses.
They both work part-time at The Red Lily, which is how they met, a Chinese restaurant that is forever busy, serves good food, and, most importantly, pays very well.
"A bit," Elsa croaks out.
"Want to talk?"
Elsa walks slowly over to a cluttered table and begin stacking the dishes and wiping down the grease and oil. It takes her a while to speak, but Rapunzel is patient, and she clears the drinks away as Elsa sorts out her thoughts.
"Anna wants to go on a weekend trip with her friends. At a beach, renting a penthouse," Elsa says finally. "I said no."
"She's your little sister, right?" Rapunzel says, tucking a stray hair behind her ears. "Why not, though?"
Lifting up the tray, Elsa pauses and wonders if it's worth sharing a piece of her life to her coworker. She knows she's secretive, clamming up whenever someone asks about her life and refusing politely when invited out. But she likes to consider Rapunzel as a friend, has done so for the past three years.
"I don't like it when Anna goes off with boys by herself," Elsa confesses quietly, and the admittance slices at her throat, and she's almost unable to choke out her next words. "And also… this trip will cost. I don't have enough money to pay for her."
Rapunzel sets down a glass and touches Elsa's shoulder gently. "Hey," she says, giving her a small smile that's much too bright, and Elsa wants to look away because it's blinding her, "why don't you just explain that to her? She'll understand."
"Yes, she'll understand," Elsa says, "but I can't do that to her. She'll–she'll feel responsible, and she'll feel guilty that she hasn't been helping out. She'll skip things, like parties or outings; she'll probably drop out of school to find a job. And I can't–I can't ruin this for her. I want her to have fun, like a normal teenager."
"That's…" Rapunzel is at a loss, words stuck, wondering at just how selfless a person could be. "But that's unfair for you, too. I mean, how many jobs are you working again?"
"Three," Elsa says, "but we need the money. My university fees aren't going to pay itself."
"Elsa, seriously," Rapunzel says, and she pulls the girl into a tight hug. "Take care of yourself, alright?"
"Yeah."
Elsa squeezes Rapunzel, and the younger winces and pulls away.
"Sorry," Rapunzel says cheekily, patting her abdomen, "my waist screwed up when I was playing netball. Pushed myself too hard, apparently."
"That completely ruined the moment," Elsa deadpans, and Rapunzel laughs, and Elsa laughs, and for a second everything seems right in the world.
(But then Rapunzel turns and heads off into the kitchen. And Elsa knows, logically, that she's only a few steps away, but now she's alone in the room, surrounded by glaring white tables, and she feels like she's falling and falling and she can't ever stop.)
Technically, Elsa's shift ends at nine. Technically, she should be home by at least nine-thirty. But it's not ten o'clock. She can't go back home yet.
She and Rapunzel head off to the food district on the east end of the city. It's a short bus ride, made even shorter by the lack of traffic and time of night, and they roam in a maze of stalls selling foods from all over the world.
(Ten o'clock comes, and when the clock strikes, Elsa stiffens and looks up to the sky, chicken kebab temporarily forgotten in her hand, and Rapunzel is too busy stuffing her face in a bowl of noodles to notice.
Tonight, it's a deep, rolling blue. The sort of blue you associate with the depths of the oceans, smudged with inky black. One or two stars manage to fight their way out, the rest burned away by the bright lights of Stella Morta. And the moon, like a silver oyster, hangs suspended right at the very centre of this cosmic canvas.
And then ten o'clock is over, and Elsa lowers her head again to chuckle at a joke Rapunzel has just made.)
Rapunzel has university classes the next day, and so when they've eaten their belly's worth, Rapunzel waves a cheery goodbye and a "be careful on the way back!" and disappears.
(I stand there, drifting just behind Elsa as she lowers her hand. I am close enough to touch her.
I don't.)
It's just hit ten-thirty, but Elsa can't convince herself to leave yet.
"Anna's waiting," Elsa murmurs into the night air, as if saying it out loud will be enough for her to board the next bus home. "Don't make her wait."
Her words are lost, swallowed up by the moon, and no one hears. (No one, except me. But then again, I always do.)
For a second, all Jack sees is black.
His head is knocked around, cracking dangerously on the brick wall. He stumbles and slides onto the slick concrete, one hand thrown out to catch his fall. Fireworks burst in front of his eyes, and the ground is wavering dizzily. The smell of the alleyway heightens, and he feels himself dry-heave.
His stomach contracts as a well-aimed kick is delivered, and Jack focuses on trying not to puke out his dinner of curry and rice.
"So, little Spirit, looks like you aren't as strong as they say," a voice above him mutters. A rough, callused hand grabs him by the hair and drags him up. Jack opens his eyes blearily to find himself staring into the face of the gang member known as Scar.
STATISTICS
Name: Taka (last name unknown)
Alias: Scar
Title: the Betrayer (unofficial)
Position: King
Affiliations: the Pride
Favoured weapons:
brass knuckles, brass claws
Scar growls, black eyes glinting with sadistic delight. He and Jack had been at each other's necks for years now, ever since Jack had ridiculed him for filing his canines to lethally sharp points at an inter-gang meeting. Huge scabs run across Scar's face, tearing it apart in a conflict of white and pink flesh. His right eye doesn't close properly, the socket cracked and broken too many times to be healthy and too many times to heal completely right.
"Oh?" Jack breathes, giving Scar a smile stained with blood. "So the Betrayer King is out doing the dirty work. How pitiful."
His comment is rewarded by a punch to the jaw.
"You took out one of my own," Scar hisses. "You have to pay."
"What? You mean the ones you call the Hyenas?" Jack says, and he's dancing a terrible dance around the edges of Scar's wrath. "Ha! So the mighty Betrayer cares! How sweet of you!"
"I'll kill you–"
"Oh."
Both Scar and Jack turn to the entrance of the alleyway. Standing there silhouetted against the glow of life behind her, a girl stands frozen, feet glued to the ground, eyes wide with Fear.
(I drift closer to her. I breathe down her neck.)
"Get out of here," Scar grunts. "Stay out of this, this isn't your place."
(I reach out a hand; I lift it just over the girl's heart. I nudge her. The girl gives a small whimper, and she bolts away.)
Elsa is walking along a side-street, away from the buzz of the markets, but close enough to be able to shout for help if need be. She's eyeing the alleys warily, always cautious, always on guard (it's taken her years to get to here, to get to the point where she doesn't jump at the slightest sounds and is able to go into dark, isolated places without screaming out in fear).
And then suddenly, a girl is running in her direction, and Elsa barely has time to process that before the girl dashes headfirst into her and knocks her over.
By the time Elsa gets up, the girl is long gone.
"Really?" Elsa yells after her. She picks up her bag and, grumbling, continues on her way.
But then she hears voices. And they're low and guttural, and Elsa knows it's probably gang business. She knows she should just keep on walking. But something makes her turn her head into a shadowed alley and halt completely at what she sees.
Really, I must commend Elsa for her stupidity. I appear perhaps five seconds after Elsa stops, when the situation catches up with her and I am bidden to come as Fear. I search Elsa's thoughts, lightly sifting through her emotions, to find out exactly why she was afraid. Of course, there's the obvious: two gang members beating each other up, and Elsa being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But there is something more, and it takes me around half a minute, but then I realise that Elsa had been attacked in an alley like this, a long time ago. When the night flowed by like a speeding train, and a man with gold for teeth and clubs for hands smashed her down onto the slimy ground and ripped her skirt aside.
I want to say I'm sorry. I want to express to her that I am sorry that ever happened to her, and that no one should ever deserve something like that. (I witnessed the whole thing; it was terrible to watch, but I was not allowed to look away. I had a job to do.
Sometimes, I hate my job.)
I don't say a word. Talking is against my rules.
The distraction of yet another girl is enough for Scar's hold on him to loosen. Jack uses this to his advantage, crashing his elbow into Scar's nose. Scar howls and lets go automatically, and Jack clumsily kicks at his knees and then gets up and sprints.
He pulls the girl by the arm, yanking her away from an extremely furious Scar because he'd feel bad if he finds the girl dead on the front of a newspaper the following morning just because Scar is feeling particularly murderous.
"Move faster!" he hollers behind his shoulder; the girl is panting already.
They lose Scar in the market crowds, and Jack and the girl huddle down next to a stall as they catch their breath. Jack's vision is swimming, and he's trying to figure out if he has a concussion or not.
The girl is shaking, Jack sees. She has white hair that spills over her back and ends at her elbows, most of it falling out of her loose ponytail. Her eyes are large twin pools of blue, framed by thick lashes, and she's wearing an employee button-down shirt that reads THE RED LILY in curling crimson stitching at the breast pocket.
"You–" the girl wheezes, and she staggers upwards. "I–leave–you–away."
"Hey, wait," Jack calls after her; she's already stumbling off in the opposite direction.
"What?" the girl snaps, rounding on him. Her face is flushed red.
"Some help?" Jack asks, spreading his arms. He knows he looks like a mess, and he doesn't want to go back to Headquarters because Bunnymund is never going to let him live this down.
The girl gapes at him disbelievingly. "Go to a hospital! Leave me alone!"
Jack sets his jaw. Using the last bit of his effort, and he hurries over and blocks her path. "I wasn't asking," he says almost inaudibly. His voice has changed, and there's a dark outline in his eyes. The girl steps back, hands quivering.
And then she turns around and flees. Jack stares after her for a moment.
"Fuck."
It's eleven-fifteen, and Elsa slides down the door she has just locked, dragging a hand down her face as she tries to calm her jumping heart.
"Elsa?" Anna's footsteps are growing louder, and she gasps when she sees Elsa lying against their front door. "Oh my god, are you okay?"
Anna had been planning on giving her sister the silent treatment, but that is forgotten when she panics because she'd thought Elsa had had a stroke or something.
"I'm fine," Elsa says tiredly, forcing herself up, "really. I just had a really long night."
There's a knock on the door, and Elsa groans and turns around and opens the door a crack. "Who is–?"
The boy from the alleyway is collapsed in the hallway, and even as she opens, he sways forward and rests heavily on her. Her knees buckle under his weight, and she's a hair's breadth away from shoving him off.
"Seriously," the boy mumbles into her shirt, face pressed against her neck, "you were hard to follow. Almost lost you a few times. Really… need help."
And then he passes out, and Elsa gawks at Anna, who gawks back, and both sisters try exceptionally hard not to scream.
author's note:
thank you all so much for the wonderful feedback from last chapter. it's really reassured me, and i love you guys seriously ;A;
updated: 17 february 2014