Melinoe does not need the protection of a gang to get around.
It's not because she's powerful, or terrifying, or anything like that. Her mother is, though, and that gives Melinoe a wide berth when she strides through the streets, her head held high.
Lesser people cower and shrink back as she stomps to a stand, staring intensely at the owner, who gives and hands her one of his wares with trembling hands. He doesn't seem to want to get too close.
She snatches it out of his hand, pivoting sharply on her heel without so much as a second glance and continues on her way. People rush to get out of her path.
She's not as powerful or as terrifying as her mother, she knows, but she's not as cowardly as her dad at least. That's something she prides herself in.
(Seriously. He's a god, for fucks sake. Why leave an infant with Maleficent of all people when he could so easily take her away?)
He'd named her, for some unknown reason she'll never fathom. He'd named her before ditching her and her mother to go fuck off onto the other side of the Isle.
Her mother refuses to call her by her name, for the sole reason that, "her father had given it to her." Melinoe has been, instead, referred to as "Mal" by her mother and everyone else in the Isle.
(The only people who know her real name are her, her mother, and her dad. Her dad won't acknowledge her, and her mother simply ignores any connection to him, finding her own way around them. Melinoe is left in the middle, to decide her path.)
(She decides to trail behind her mother. At least she stuck around, even if she rages and hisses and fixes her with a harsh, disappointed glare.)
Mal swallows, pushing back memories threatening to flood her mind, as she hurries through the streets, almost as if she were running from something she could never escape.
0-0-0-0-0-0
The quota needs to be finished.
Jarin knows this; he's no fool. The quota needs to be finished. Otherwise he won't have anything to eat tonight, nothing to soothe the aches of hunger.
(It's not anything he's not used to. But he likes to avoid it when he can.)
How much of the quota is left? He runs through the list as he leaps between the rooftops, landing nimbly before darting off again. Not much, he's certain. But he's never sure with his dad.
His pockets jingle with stolen goods that threaten to slip out. He quickly shoves them back in before dashing off again. You're only in trouble if you're caught, he thinks, and you're only caught if you stop running.
His feet pound rhythmically against the concrete rooftops, hardly thinking about where he's going. He's run through this path many times; it's engraved deeply into his mind.
He wonders what his dad will do if he doesn't make the quota. Deprive him of food? Lock him out of the house? Beat him? None of these things are anything he's not used to.
That's just how the Isle is. It hardens you, puts you through unspeakable horrors. You don't complain about it, though. You don't cry. You don't apologize. You don't say thank you or please or pardon me because those are things that would get you killed on the Isle.
Jarin lands gracefully on the ground, before slinking through the shadows to his dad's pawn shop. He holds himself arrogantly, head held high and chest puffed out.
Never let them know they got to you. Never let your guard down. Mess with them before they mess with you. If you want it, take it. If you can't take it, break it.
The rules kept him alive. They're the only rules he ever really follows because he has to, not because he wants to.
The Isle is a dangerous place, especially if you're caught unawares. Jarin knows this. He's no fool.
0-0-0-0-0-0
Her hands tremble on the sink as she grips it tightly, her knuckles turning white. Her reflection stares at her, almost mockingly, and she stares right back, picking out every imperfection in it.
Everything is wrong. Everything is so fucking wrong about her .
She sucks in a rattling breath, her grasp on the chipped porcelain tightening. She swallows, a bitter taste in her mouth, and she blinks away unshed tears.
Her mother's voice sings out everything wrong with her appearance; her mascara is crooked, her lipstick smudged, her brows too thick. . .
Her fingers twitch with the urge to punch the mirror, to shatter it into a thousand pieces that will split her skin and draw little red lines on her knuckles.
Evelyn takes another deep breath. She can't destroy the mirror, no matter how badly she wants to. Even if its surface is cracked and chipped, dirtied and cloudy, it was still useful, and it was the only decent one they had. If she got rid of it, if she fucking shattered it, her mother would be furious with her. And she can't bear to face the disappointment again.
(Her stomach won't be able to handle it either. The last time she made a mistake was at the price of a week's worth of food. She still remembers the pain from it.)
So Evelyn sucks in a sharp breath, releasing the porcelain from her ever tensing hands, and stares long and hard into the mirror. Her reflection dances across the thread-thin cracks, matching her gaze with an equally distressed one.
0-0-0-0-0-0
Bubbles lather underneath his fingers, bursting as the worn sponge is dragged against the scuffed floor.
Carlos stays silent as he does this. He's not to make a sound; his mother had told him so. And he never disobeyed his mother. Disobeying meant punishment, and his mother's punishments were things he was all too keen to avoid. His chest still aches from the last time.
He dunks the sponge into the bucket of dirtied water next to him, hardly wincing at the coolness of it. Air bubbles rise to the surface, creating a foamy layer just above the water. He lets his arm rest there for a moment, before pulling it out and dropping the sponge on the floor with a splat .
His fingers curl into its soft surface as he slowly drags it along, leaving a trail of suds in its wake. He wipes them away soon after.
"I want the floor spotless. Spotless! You hear me?"
Yes, mother. He continues his chore, his mind wandering to his mother. She's upstairs, probably smoking her life away in her bedroom. Carlos makes a disgruntled sound at the thought of having to wash the sheets again.
I really should hurry up, he thinks, casting a brief, cautious glance at the stairway, before she comes down. There are still several areas he has yet to get to, and he quickens his pace. Though his scars have long since healed, the thought of his mother makes them burn again.
It's silent in Hell Hall, except for the sound of swishing water and his quiet breathing. His mother is as unpredictable as her mood swings, meaning she could come down any minute, and the last thing he needs is another beating on top of the previous one.
Time's running out for Carlos. It's running out and he doesn't know what he'll do when the imaginary timer reaches zero.
0-0-0-0-0-0
Ben fights to keep himself still as the tailor stretches a measuring tape along the length of his leg, to not twitch. It's hard though; he's antsy, and he itches to move.
"Head."
Ben cranes his away from the window to match the direction his body is facing. The tailor hums, wrapping a measuring tape around his head. After a moment or two he releases the young prince, scribbling down the measurements.
He turns his head once again to look out the window, staring at the island in the distance. He takes it all in, eyes tracing over every detail.
The island is surrounded by a magical barrier, which shimmers gold in the little sunlight that reaches it. The island itself is as gray as the clouds that constantly brew over it, with buildings that even he can see are worn and sagging from this distance.
The Isle of the Lost, he muses. Something that's been ignored for far too long.
Ben knows why it was created: to imprison all the villains, as death was "too good for them". And though Ben can't deny that they do deserve to be there, their children don't. Children whose only crime was to be born.
Ben swallows, his heart aching at the thought of kids his age—kids younger than him—being trapped there, on an island with no sun, crumbling buildings, and no way out. He continues to stare out the pristine window, and he knows he should look away before he works himself up, but he can't. His eyes are glued on the dying island.
"How is it possible that you're going to be crowned king in a month? You're just a baby!"
Ben chuckles, finally prying his gaze away from the window and to the two people how have just entered the room.
His dad beams proudly at him, one hand on his wife's, who has looped her arm through his. She's smiling at him too.
"He's 16, dear," she says to her husband, her smile never wavering.
"That's far too young to be crowned king!" Dad places his free hand dramatically over his chest. "I didn't make a good decision until I was 42."
Mom gives him a look. "You decided to marry me at 28."
"Well, it was either you or a teapot. Kidding!" Dad adds on quickly at mom's look.
Ben shakes his head at his parents' antics, a smile working its way onto his face. The tailor makes a disgruntled sound, and Ben sighs as he corrects his posture.
"Oh!" The young prince's mind catches up with him, and he twists his body around to face his parents. The tailor sighs, gathering up his stuff and following, attempting to get the measurements. "Mom, dad, I have an idea for my first proclamation."
Dad hums, nodding for him to continue. Mom flashes him an encouraging smile.
Ben swallows, steeling his nerve. "I've decided that—that the children of the Isle of the Lost deserve to have a chance to live in Auradon with us." He turns to the window, exhaling at the sight of the island. "Every time—every time I look at the Isle, I can't help but feel that they've been abandoned."
"The children of our sworn enemies?" Ben winces at his dad's tone; he can hear the slight snarl. "Here? With us?"
"We'll start off with a few," he continues, keeping his voice steady. He doesn't turn to face his parents. "Only the ones who need our help the most. I've already chosen them."
"Have you now?"
"I have you a chance," Mom chides quietly. And then to Ben, "Who are their parents?"
"Cruella de Vil," he says. He pauses before continuing, "Jafar, Evil Queen, and. . . Maleficent."
The tailor gasps loudly at that, and Ben hears the clatter of the measuring tape drop to the ground. It's quickly scooped up as the tailor rushes out of the room, arms filled with his tools.
"Maleficent?!" his father bursts out, fury evident in his voice. "She's the worst villain in the land!"
Whirling around towards his parents, his eyes wide, he pleads, "Dad, just hear me out!"
"I won't hear of it!" This time his dad turns away from him. "They're guilty of unspeakable crimes!"
"But their children aren't!" Ben takes a step closer as he cries this. "Don't you think they deserve a chance? To live a normal life?"
His dad stops in his tracks, craning his head around to give him a long, long look. His eyes glance to his mom's face, her lips pursed, her eyes staring at him with something along the lines of disappointment.
"I—I suppose their children are innocent," Dad admits begrudgingly after a moment. Ben relaxes, letting out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.
Belle smiles gently, and Ben returns it, albeit strained. Hie attempts to convey a silent thank you through his eyes.
"When will they arrive?" she asks, her voice calm and steady and yet oh so gentle.
"The end of this week," he replies, "on Friday. The idea was to give them time to adjust to Auradon before they begin school."
Mom nods in agreement. His dad, meanwhile, sucks in a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. His hands are clenched tightly at his side.
"I suppose you've already sent the invitations?" he asks in a bit of a gruff voice, tilting his head slightly.
"Yeah." Ben nods, clasping his hands in front of him nervously. "I sent them just, uh, just this morning."
"Very well then." His dad sighs again, his tense hands relaxing just a fraction. "We'll leave you to it." And with that he sweeps out of the room, mom's arm slipping out of his. She casts a brief look that he can't quite interpret, before following dad, her soft footsteps fading away.
Ben exhales, his heart racing. His hands relax, and he drops them to his side.
His eyes wander to the Isle once again. As he takes in its appearance, he can't help but pray that things will go as smoothly as he hopes they will.