Apologies for the upbeat prologue; nothing's worse than fake cheer. We now return to the conclusion of Descendants 3 and the perfect happily-ever-after that certainly had no consequences, no seismic ramifications, no sirree, not here.
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ROSE IN CRUEL CURVES (2) — Water Under the Burning Bridge _1
It draws out like a deflating balloon: whimpering through a final breath, throbbing with false starts before ceasing entirely. The temperature cools, the music fades, and the dancing settles. The people disperse, finally crossed over the bridge and into the grand ole United States of Auradon.
Break this down!
At the edge of the courtyard, Evie—the Evil Queen's beloved daughter—effuses joy. Whatever she's saying is the most interesting thought possible to guess from the look of the dopey-looking ponytailed kid next to her. Dopey Jr. looks up at her and hangs on every word when Evie talks, which is weird because he's definitely taller than her.
On a distant balcony, Mal—daughter of Maleficent—watches over the enormous citizen spread with a faint grin. Not normally one for optimism, she nevertheless wears a look of relief like she just exhaled after years of holding an anxious breath. The air carries static festivity. King Benjamin, the classically handsome son of Queen Mother Belle and King Father Adam, stands proudly by her side, arm around her waist and eyes on the impromptu celebration.
Below the balcony, Cruella de Vil's kid, Carlos, laughs and swings goofily at Jay, son of Jafar. They have a natural sort of chemistry, a bromance of sorts, and it enchants a nearby clump of spectacularly preppy students. For a group that would've turned their noses and called for help at the sight of those same villains only a short time ago, the Auradonians have as big a hunger for devilish charisma as for dancing and singing.
All over, the jubilant crowd is spread thin, winding down. A party completed. But...
...it feels like the Calm Before The Storm.
Not "calm" like a winter evening wrapped in blankets, settled in to read for the night. "Calm" like a hot night with the electricity cut off and all hell on the brink of breaking loose. "Calm" like a sinking ship's figurehead reaching into the sky for a glorious few seconds before plummeting into the inky depths. "Calm" like the sick ache of an uncomfortable silence, wishing somebody would speak or scream or cry just to break the spell. The kind of "calm" a hero wouldn't wish on their worst enemy.
"...got it twisted. Just listen..."
Just a smidge louder than conversational volume, the words slip through the dull roar of conversation floating around inside the walls of Auradon.
"Just listen," a small feminine voice repeats.
The tiny command gathers slight attention with the help of a provoking visual: a grown man glaring at a skinny teenage girl. The ornate blue and gold armor marks him as an Aurandon guard; the growing frown as a displeased one; and the dropping tone of his voice as one on the edge of patience.
"There's nothing to explain, miss."
"It's just a tribute! What's your deal?"
A crowd starts to gather, interested in the growing commotion and drawn in by the stark size differences: she is short, skinny, tiny compared to the guard who easily stands at twice her size and weight. She's dressed in typical atypical Villain Kid attire, rags cobbled into a passable outfit, and holds her hands out with earnest innocence.
"It's not a 'deal,' it's a crime, miss," the guard replies, pointing downward.
The crowd slowly parts into a clear frame around Exhibit A: a tag hastily spray painted on the floor, fuschia and neon blue, flowing with round letters reading "BID." The girl innocently holds out her hands, bringing to plain view a pair of fingerless gloves lightly stained with neon paint. It isn't a good look.
From out of a growing crowd of nosy bodies, Jay slips out, all smiles, like he's just showing up late to a casual hangout. "Hey guys, what's the problem?"
"No problem here," the guard answers with a well-timed huff. "This young lady just vandalized the floor during the celebration and thought she could get away with it."
"I didn't vandalize anything!"
"Miss, your—"
"—I have a name! And I—"
"—Miss, your hands are covered in paint. That's all the evidence we need for now. So, please—"
"Maybe I can help here," Jay interjects, shooting a glance at an increasing congestion around them. Nothing is out-of-hand, but he can't help noticing the guard's tensing face... and the way he keeps inching a hand toward the sword at his waist. "How can I explain? It's like an... Isle of the Lost thing?"
Whispers sparks in the sizable crowd, faces turn to neighbors, and chatter draws attention from curious onlookers across the courtyard. The rising commotion builds around him like a wave, until suddenly, something snatches Carlos' attention. Mid-sentence with his preppy audience, he trails off and faces the noise.
"Where's Jay?" Almost in a trance, Carlos moves away... only a few steps closer before finding it impossible to cut a path through the multitudes.
"What's going on!?"
High above on the balcony, Mal listens politely to the King Father expounding on the historical development of Auradonian royal matrimony precepts from multicultural kingdoms. Why he chose that exact moment to wax historical was a mystery but it fit his fatherly dorkiness pretty well. The talk is intricate (considering they were singing and dancing less than an hour ago), extremely dry (even for typical Auradon history), and made worse by being no closer to reaching the point after twenty-five minutes. It's almost like Ben's Father is purposely dancing around the conversation topic he chose. As the names and dates cascade over her, a wandering glance at the courtyard suddenly tugs at her attention. Mal squints curiously at the social ripples...
"Yeah, it's our thing," the villain girl interjects. "On the Isle, we spray paint pretty much everything. It's what we do. Just decoration and celebration of what we like. Makes everything homey and stuff."
"And the gang tag?"
"Gang tag?!"
"The writing."
"Is he serious?" she shouts at Jay. "Are you serious? BID? 'Break It Down?' As in, 'we're gonna break it down,' what we were all literally just singing like five minutes ago?! What kinda idiotic—?"
"Okay, can you—" Jay interrupts her in a curt whisper as the mass around him mutters louder. "—please shut your adorable trap and let me handle this."
He faces the guard and turns the charm up to eleven. "See? Just a misunderstanding. Just celebrating too hard. Kids will be kids! Rascals! No harm, no foul!"
The guard balks. "Of course there's a foul! Someone will have to break their back cleaning this mess up now. Do you two think we just live in our filth like on the Isle of the Lost? Auradon isn't a pack of villains!"
Loud grunts and murmurs pass through the crowd of mixed Auradon and Isle natives. It's impossible to tell how much of the sound is agreement and how much is protest, but it is, unmistakably, a louder reaction than the ones before it. At least one voice shouts what others are thinking: Show some respect!
"No one's saying that," Jay answers, desperately struggling—probably more than ever since those first few days in Auradon—to stay still and keep a smile while talking to an authority. "We'll clean it. I'll help. No Harm. No Foul."
"Everybody, relax!"
Few heads initially turned to the distant voice. Attention gathers on the second, louder attempt.
"Everybody, relax!"
King Ben leans over the balcony ledge with an easy smile and a comforting wave. He looks, for all intents and purposes, like it's business as usual, as if nothing uncomfortable is occurring. Mal stands slightly to the side and behind his tall body, trying to not look as alarmed as she feels.
"People, let's slow down. It's no big deal, none at all; it's just a minor, honest mistake," Ben says to the guard. Even over a long distance, it somehow still feels very direct and sincere. "Sir, let's pardon her and allow the simple mistake to be corrected."
"As for you," Ben continues with a gesture at the girl, "we do things a little differently here in Auradon. But don't worry, you'll learn. I'm sure you'll be fitting in in no time."
"What if I don't want to learn?" she answers.
A heavy calm falls on the courtyard.
In their place at each corner of the outdoor plaza, Carlos, Jay, Mal, and Evie look sick.
By now, the entire attention of the outdoor scene is pinpointed on the unfolding drama. Whatever earlier celebrations existed have faded and all eyes and ears are fixed on the speakers. It's readily apparent how loud the voices are to travel across the courtyard.
"Tagging is my favorite thing in the world!"
"Well… I… Well, you're gonna have… Umm, I'm sorry, but..."
"HELP!"
With even better choreography than the recent dance party, the crowd whips their heads in the opposite direction of the courtyard.
"Somebody arrest her!"
Only a few steps from the entrance to the magnificent plaza, and fewer steps still from Evie, a pretty Auradonian blonde stands with a hand held up like she's asking for permission to go to the school's bathrooms. Her left hand points at the VK girl right next to her—a plain-faced brunette indistinguishable from the rest of the crowd save for a pink denim jacket loudly contrasting with her ratty flannel shirt. The VK holds both palms up, eyebrows raised, looking awkward as can be.
"Hello? Can somebody please do their job and arrest this criminal!"
The voices pick up again, sharing whispers, and pressing in closer. The sudden and loud attention prompts her to continue without reserve.
"What do I mean? I mean this girl is a thief. Help!"
The VK beside her rolls her eyes and scoffs. "What's your problem, Karen-or-whatever-your-name-is?"
"My problem..." the blonde answers, loudly and with more flair than necessary. She directs her words as much to the VK as to the crowd at large, making furtive eye contact with her audience. "My problem is that I'm being victimized, and I need help!"
"Yeah, we heard that. How?"
"Don't play dumb. My pink jacket! I set it down for one second and then, poof, it's gone and there's a sneaky little VK stretching it out!"
Like that, the calm breaks.
The audience's reaction is more mixed and louder than before. More than one Auradonian seems to suddenly clutch their belongings tighter; children everywhere find themselves tugged in closer by a collar or a sleeve. An anxious guard, identical in everything from uniform to scowl as the previous one, pushes past the pool of gawking bystanders and posts at the center of the clearing.
"Ladies, what seems to be the problem?"
Simultaneously, Evie breaks through the wall of shuffling bodies, regains her composure, and perches between the contending ladies. "What's the matter, girls?"
"My jacket! She stole my jacket and nobody is DOING anything!"
Evie nods sagely and clasps her hands. "I'm sure this is just a big misunderstanding! Let's—"
"Is that true?" the guard asks the nameless VK. "Is that her property?"
"No!"
"Of course, it is!"
"But I've been wearing it all day?"
"So was I before you stole it!"
"Can you prove it's yours, miss?" the guard asks the accused.
She scoffs in reply. "I wore it over the bridge. Sorry I don't have a receipt?"
"Can you prove it's yours?" Evie asks with a stiff smile, an even-tone, and a pointing finger at the distraught blonde.
"It literally matches my whole outfit! Of course it's mine, sweetie. Plus, pink denim doesn't go with anything that she's wearing!"
The loudest crowd response yet. Maybe it's the confidence, maybe it's the condescension, maybe it's the ease of the accusation, but the words startle movement like the crack of a whip. Onlookers lean from one side to the other, loudly agreeing, shouting questions, and scooting away from suspicious characters. The voices spread out like cracks on a frozen lake.
"Bad fashion sense isn't a crime," Evie answers loudly, voice unwavering. The VK behind her raises a protesting hand. Evie waves it down tensely. Sorry but shut it, girl.
"Yeah, but where would somebody from the Isle even get their hands on something like that?"
"I got it from the dump, okay!" the VK answers, pushing past Evie. "On the Island, when you can't make your own clothes, you dig through the mountains of secondhand fashion dumped on us by you chumps. Not all of us are born with a silver spoon stuck up our butts."
"Like I believe any of that! Give me the jacket or everybody here is going to—"
"Everybody, relax!" Ben shouts again to the teeming courtyard. This time, he's too far away, and his shouts are swallowed up by the intensifying jabber of spectators-turned-malcontents. Even the ears that pick them up—few and far between—pay little heed to the beseeching words.
"I said give it back!"
"Are you serious?" Evie balks. "All of this over a tacky jacket?"
"It's not about the jacket! It's about Auradon!"
Loud scattered shouts from the crowd agree with her. Emboldened by verbal support and the distracted guard in front of her, the blonde Auradonian attempts to lunge past his open arms.
Clumsy as the grab is, Evie and the accused VK still reel back, scrambling to stay upright. A distracted bystander catches the tumble on his shoulder and stumbles face-first into the circle. At the same time, the lunge knocks the Auradon guard off-balance and he flails, throwing an armored elbow directly into the bystander's nose.
Blood sprays.
"Get YOUR HANDS off MY MATE!"
In an instant, two villian boys leap from the crowd and onto the guard, who is speechless at his sudden violent turn. The boys claw at his armor and shout indignant nonsense.
And just like that... there is no more "Calm before—", there is only "the Storm."
The crowd rattles, voices overlapping and growing like violent winds.
Minor bumps turn to quarrels.
In every corner, bystander becomes participant and discussion turns to argument.
"What is everybody doing? This is crazy!" Evie shouts.
Nearby, a man in a powder blue blazer retorts with a dismissive grin: "'Crazy' is how Villain Kids just danced over to Auradon just because our 'King' felt like doing some charity!"
"No, wait," a nearby woman shouts, "are you sure it wasn't because of the puppy love he felt for the witch's daughter?"
"...rybody, relax!…" Ben's voice is a distant whine.
A wild sea of blunt objects lurch through the air, improvised clubs searching for a target, any target. Most civilized folks retreat, scrambling around each other toward the castle to avoid aggressive blows from random instruments of destruction. Uma and Harry are among the fortunate few parrying blows (using smuggled weapons, no less), but even they eke their way toward the ocean's edge in desperation.
Carlos emerges from the tumultuous bodies and helplessly searches the crowd for the obvious: the boiling point is long past, the crowd is at a vicious boil. And the calm has turned to full-scale storm. Wide-eyed, he grabs his nearest friend, Evie, by her delicate shoulders and frantically yanks her down a nearby corridor.
Up on the balcony, a distressed Mal snaps out of a daze.
One, two, three blinks, then an indescribable instinct makes her reach out over the crowd. At the end of her outstretched arm, gripped tightly in her dainty hand, Mal finds the Fairy Godmother's magic wand.
How did that appear in my—? Before the thought can complete, she instinctively coils back with the incantation...
"Extinguish the flames—"
A plump hand snatches the wand from her hand, hushing the words bubbling up from deep inside.
"Mal, where the bibbity dadgum bobbity did you get…?" Fairy Godmother leans back with wide eyes, as surprised as Mal but much more distraught. "How could you…?"
Mal flaps her mouth for a few instants, unable to explain. An instinct flares up again, and then she feels her heart drop: her skin is itchy. Immediately, Mal knows what's happening, but it's too far along to stop. She opens her mouth to say something, anything, to the Fairy Godmother, but her tongue is already thick with change.
The crowd below spots it immediately.
"WATCH OUT!"
"She's turning into a dragon!"
"She's gonna drive away the Villains!"
"She IS a Villain!"
"SHE'S GONNA EAT US!"
The storm erupts into full-blown chaos.
Everybody scatters like rain.
I side-step into a corridor and make a futile escape.