Work Text:
Rêve D'étoiles:
(Une étoile est née)
Kurapika brushed her bangs out of her eyes with the back of her arm, as she watched the paper cup fill halfway with freshly brewed espresso, fragrant and dark. She reached for the water kettle, and let it dilute the espresso just enough to make sure it didn’t have too much of a kick.
“One caffe americano!” she called from the counter. The customer, a tired-looking young woman with brown eyes, went up to take her order. She looked vaguely familiar, though Kurapika couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
“Thank you,” the woman said, taking in her appearance. “You look worn out. Don’t work too hard, okay? A young girl like you shouldn’t waste away in a place like this.”
Kurapika plastered on a shaky smile, though inside she felt a bit offended. As if she’d allow herself to be a slave to the Nostrade Cafe Company for the rest of her years. What kind of person did she take her for?
No offense to the other baristas out there. Kurapika was just a judgemental little twat is all. She knew it, too.
The woman’s phone rang, right as she was getting out her wallet to pay. She whipped it out and put it to her ear with resounding ease, trapping it between her shoulder and ear.
“I told you you wouldn’t last very long. What do you want?”
The woman waited patiently, as the caller explained what order she wanted, in extreme detail if the time it took was anything to go by.
“I’m sorry to trouble you further,” the woman said. “But would you mind taking another order?”
Kurapika’s plastered smile widened into a terrifying grin. “Not at all, Miss. I’m here to serve.”
“I wish all the kids were as polite as you,” the woman commended. “Most teens are so bratty these days.”
Kurapika’s grin grew. “Is that so?” She was hitting twenty next week.
“I’m sorry, I assumed your age,” she apologized as if reading into Kurapika’s mind. “You’re welcome to correct me whenever. I’m not one to care.”
About other people’s feelings?
“Anyway, my friend would like to order a cinnamon caramel latte with whole milk, double caramel, just really lay on the whipped cream, and take the most concentrated espresso you’ve got.”
So much sugar. That was a heart attack waiting to happen.
But Kurapika relented and got to work on that second drink with the emotionless speed of one of those robots that were taking over all the barista jobs. Espresso, milk, sugar, sugar, sugar, cinnamon, espresso, a mountain of whipped cream, and that amber caramel swirled overtop the cream, more cinnamon sprinkled over top. Kurapika lodged the lid on the top and walked back to the woman.
“There you go.” She handed her the warm beverage. “Anything else?”
“Do you perhaps sell any pudding here?”
“Ah, yes,” Kurapika answered, tossing a glance towards the menu behind her. Why she had to crane her neck to see things when pretty much anyone on the other side of the counter could see the menu with stark clarity was beyond her. “We carry vanilla, chocolate, lemon, butterscotch, and banana and chocolate.”
“I’ll take the vanilla, thank you,” the woman spoke, and Kurapika disappeared into the kitchen and foraged through the fridge. Not many people ordered pudding at the cafe, so their stock was relatively low, but she managed to find a few vanillas sandwiched between the chocolates and butterscotches, shoved into a tiny cup with the purple ‘ Nostrade Cafe’ logo painted over the see-through plastic.
“There you go.” Kurapika placed the pudding on the counter with a slight click from the plastic. “Will that be all?”
Please let that be all.
“Yes, thank you,” the woman replied, the sleek black debit card already in her hand.
“Are you a member of our rewards program?” Kurapika droned, the words coming to her with ease.
“No, I am not,” the woman replied. “I don’t believe she is either.”
“Would you consider becoming a member?”
“We’ll see. If the coffee is to our liking, you can expect us to buy one.”
Kurapika smiled despite the patronizing tone, nodding for her to swipe her card. “I hope it’s to your liking then.”
She turned back to her screen and her heart nearly climbed into her throat.
Pakunoda Atmintis.
The Pakunoda Atmintis? Chrollo Lucilfer’s agent? That Pakunoda Atmintis?
Pakunoda laughed a bit. “What a cute girl, you are. Chrollo would’ve liked you. I think another visit is guaranteed when she hears about the barista sweetheart working at the Nostrade Cafe at the corner.”
Meeting Chrollo Lucilfer? Kurapika could hardly imagine that. Her focal point of inspiration had always been separated from her by a screen. She’d never even thought of how it would be to actually meet her.
Kurapika’s heart was so starstruck that her mind forgot to be annoyed at being called cute.
“Thank you.”
The woman rose an eyebrow at that.
“For shopping with us today!” she quickly added. “A-and please come back soon.”
Pakunoda chuckled but said nothing more, giving her an amused glance before gracefully waltzing out of the shop.
“Aw,” a cheerful voice squealed, as two slim arms wound around Kurapika’s shoulders. “Even the heartless Pika can get starstruck.”
“Neon, get off. I’m working.”
Neon laughed an evil laugh. “Oh, sweetie, not anymore. You and I.”
“No.”
“Are.”
“No.”
“Going.”
“No.”
“Shopping,” she called, triumphantly, her arm raised in front of her moving from side to side as if she was cleaning a window at arm’s length.
“Neon, I need to work,” Kurapika insisted. “I can’t go off whenever I feel like it without having anyone to man the counter.”
Neon scoffed, untangling herself and waving her off. “Don’t you worry about that. I got someone who’s willing to stand-in for you.”
“And who might that be?” Kurapika asked, leaning against the counter.
The girl gestured past her, to a tall, gangly young man with the tiniest glasses she’d ever seen, dressed in a blue suit and trousers, his spiky black hair almost brushing one of the low-hanging beams by the doorway. Clutched in his hand was a checkered black and red suitcase. He waved awkwardly at her, clearly uncertain of what he was doing there.
Please tell her she didn’t pick him off the street.
Kurapika whipped her head back in Neon’s direction and hissed, “Does he know anything about being a barista?”
Neon pouted in ponderance. “Well, no, but he’s a doctor so he must be good with his hands and quick on his feet.”
The barista’s eyes widened, mouth pulled into a tight frown. No, she couldn’t scream at her boss’ daughter. She’d be fired for sure.
“Neon, you can’t just take a random person with no training and stick them in here. He’s got no qualifications, no background check. Hell, he could be lying about being a doctor for all we know.”
“Why would he do that?” asked Neon. Kurapika wondered how someone so annoying and twisted could be so innocent at the same time.
“Because that’s what people do sometimes.”
“Actually,” the man spoke, appearing behind them without warning, a student ID in his hand. Kurapika briefly wondered how anyone could have such audacity as to sneak up on her. “I’m a med student now. I’ll be graduating in two years.”
“That’s irrelevant,” said the barista. “You still have no idea what you’re doing.”
“You just said that I was lying about being a doctor!” he defended. “I’m just stating my case.”
“No, I implied you might be lying, and for all I know, you might still be faking your identity.” She swiped his card away from him. “It’s quite easy to make a fake ID these days. All you have to do is know the right people.”
He snatched the ID back, an affronted look on his face. “Well, you seem to know more about it than I.”
“Excuse me?”
They locked eyes, the hostile energy forcing a few customers to edge away. Neon, noticing this, quickly grabbed onto Kurapika’s arm.
“Okay!” she interrupted. “If anything happens, we’ll tell Daddy that he forced us into letting him take over. It was all a plot, he threatened our lives, yadda yadda yadda, Kurapika, you’re an actress, you can pull it off without a hitch.”
“It’s not just your father,” Kurapika said. “Consider that he is telling the truth. Even then, he might mix up orders, or mistake the sugar for the salt, or the cleaning supplies for flavoring, or -”
Leorio had sidled his way around the counter and now stood shoulder to shoulder with Kurapika.
“It’s just coffee,” he reasoned. “How bad can it be?”
Was that a question he really wanted answered?
But alas, Kurapika was already being pulled towards the doorway by an upbeat teenager. She squinted as the spring Sun attacked her eyes. How could it be so bright? Why did it constantly feel the need to blind her?
“Okay, fine, but I need to cha -”
“No need,” Neon reassured, taking her hand.
The girl continued to pull her down the street, and Kurapika admitted to herself that a walk would most likely serve her well. Even if the air in LA was polluted as all hell, and the cars zoomed by and coughed up smoke, the spring air could still be felt. Especially in the slower part of the city where the Nostrades had set up shop. Trees, still bare, though Kurapika saw some buds on a few of them, lined the streets in an attempt to convince them they weren’t living in a hellhole. The pavement under their feet was beaten and bland, a dull gray that reminded her of all those horror movies she used to watch as a kid. This, in turn, reminded her of the star of all those movies.
Chrollo Lucilfer.
She’d remembered the woman once saying in an interview that she adored sweets, but she’d never taken her for someone who had that much of a sweet tooth. It was nice knowing even her idol had quirks like that. She wondered what she was like when she wasn’t on screen or on stage. In interviews, Chrollo was always so calm and polite, a bit on the quieter side. She didn’t rely on the media much for her fame, so she was also one of the few celebrities that had never acted up in her two decades of work. Ever since she was four, she’d been everyone’s favorite little star. A natural actress, with an amazing personality.
Did Pakunoda really mean it when she said she’d come back with Chrollo? Or, was that just her making meaningless small talk?
Damn, her arm hurt.
“Neon, where are we going?” the aspiring actress finally asked, Neon’s hand still clasped in hers.
“Only the best clothing store in LA,” she replied. “Perila.”
“The one with the stupid dresses you made me wear?”
“You looked amazing!” she insisted.
“I’d never felt so exposed,” Kurapika shivered, still scarred from that experience.
Neon waved her trauma. “It wasn’t even that bad! The hem of the dress reached the floor! So what if it was sort of backless and the neckline was a little lower than what you’d usually go for. Anyway, they’ve got some great business casual wear that will work perfectly for your audition.”
“I’ve already picked my outfit out, though.” After five hours of debating what to choose as well.
“Kurapika, you and I both know that your fashion sense is below average. Way below. As in, in a fashion course, you’d get an F minus,” Neon explained. “Honestly, the fact that you wear such cruddy clothes keeps you from letting your beauty really glow.”
“I don’t want them to pick me for my outer beauty,” Kurapika reminded, though she suspected Neon would beg to differ. “I want them to pick me because I’m the best suited for the role.”
Neon pulled her into a brick building, the words ‘Perila’ waited above them in bold, white letters written against a black backdrop. The walls inside were covered with pictures of the eiffel tower and of beautiful models wearing clothes most likely made by Perila themselves, as if to say all their beauty was given to them by Perila and not by professional make-up artists and costume designers.
They were greeted by a young woman dressed in a black uniform, her name-tag stuck onto her blouse, her pink hair falling a little past her shoulders. Her face remained neutral throughout, blue eyes wholly uninterested in her new customers.
“Hello, my name is Machi, how may I help you?”
Neon linked her arm with Kurapika’s. “We’re here to buy some business casual for Miss Actress over here. What would you suggest?”
Machi stepped forward, circled around Kurapika like a vulture fashionista, asked her to tip her chin up a bit and square her shoulders.
“I have just the thing,” Machi said, monotonously, leading them to what Kurapika supposed would have to be the business casual side of the store. “What are you auditioning for?”
“Oh, just a small role in ‘Lady Oscar.’ I want to give Rosalie a chance,” she replied. “Many people found her rather dull, but I think she’s quite interesting.”
“‘Lady Oscar,’” the woman repeated. “The upcoming adaptation directed by Illumi Zoldyck?”
Kurapika nodded in confirmation.
“I see. It’s fortunate that you are not trying out for the main role.”
Kurapika frowned, both offended and intrigued. “Why is that?”
“You’ll understand when you get there,” Machi replied, reaching for a black pencil skirt and placing it in her hands. “Illumi Zoldyck likes simplicity, so it’s best to keep things as straightforward as possible.” She picked up a long-sleeved surplice top. “Go try these on.”
Kurapika obeyed, though it wasn’t like she had much of a choice. Not when the woman ordering her around had sharp needles jutting out of the pin cushion strapped to her hand.
When she walked out dressed head to toe in comfortable business attire, all Machi did was circle around her a few times, nodding her head. The young ship assistant ordered her to keep her chin up and her back straight, and to keep a coy smile on her face when she wasn’t sure what to do with herself.
“It’ll make you seem more confident in your abilities,” the young woman said, as she led Kurapika to another corner of the store. “We’ll do your makeup and hair now.”
“Oh, I really shouldn’t -”
“You look like you haven’t slept in over a week. You need to give those people a reason to believe you got it together. And when all else fails, makeup does the trick,” she said, leading the young woman away, with her hand wrapped around her wrist now. They entered a well-lit studio, with many, many randomly colored vanities lining the walls. The room was well-kept, the tiled floor so well-polished you could almost see your reflection in the dark obsidian. There were a few windows here and there lighting up the room in all its Spring-like glory.
Machi sat her down at a gold-trimmed white vanity, and Kurapika got a good look at herself for the first time since around six a.m. that morning. She didn’t look that bad. Her eyes were a bit sunken, and her lips a bit chapped, and her long hair in disarray, but other than that, she looked fine. And she felt fine. So, she was fine.
“I’ll do your hair first,” Machi said, reaching past Kurapika’s shoulder and opening up one of the drawers. She pulled out a pair of scissors and some hair ties. It was so crowded in their, it was a wonder how she managed to find exactly what she needed in so little time. “I think the ruffled look suits you, so layers will work well. I’ll cut off your split ends and access hair, and then I’ll shampoo it for you.”
One look at the expression on Machi’s reflected face and Kurapika knew this wasn’t a suggestion, she was just running through the details with her so Kurapika wouldn’t get in her way. “Uh . . . okay?”
Machi spun the scissors around in her hand, grabbed a comb off the vanity, and quickly got to work. The woman peered down at her locks with disdain, which slowly melded into acceptance, until finally determination as she began to see the hair sculpt itself to her bidding. Her victim inwardly flinched with every snip of the blades, as more of her think, blond tresses were lost to the abyss. Kurapika had never been picky about her hair, but something about the sound of the blades cutting through it sent a shiver down her spine.
By the time she was finished, Kurapika’s hair was sliced up to her shoulder.
“Shampoo, now,” Machi said, hand circling around her wrist and dragging her to a small, dark back room. A perfect place for murder. “Sit. Put your head back into the sink.”
Kurapika did as she was told.
“Tell me if the water gets too hot.” Machi ran a hand through Kurapika’s sunny hair, pushing her bangs back. She took hold of a shower handle and proceed to dampen her locks with hot water. Kurapika told her it was too warm, but she didn’t listen, simply massaging some sort of hair product into her hair. The woman rinsed it out once more, and then told her to get up and follow her back into the make-up room. Then it was back to the snipping.
Machi nodded, satisfied, as she finished applying some hairspray. “Adequate.”
Her hair had morphed into the image of a hair magazine cover. It was just above her shoulder now, sleek and shiny and cut into layers that were a bit wavy at the ends, reminding Kurapika of her mother.
Then came the brushes and lipstick and eyeshadow. “We’ll go with a professional look. Nothing too flashy.”
Even so, it was too flashy for Kurapika. It was going to be such a pain to take all of it off when she went back to her apartment. Though, she supposed it would be worth it if it got her a step closer to her role as Rosalie.
“Alright, you can go now,” Machi said, spinning her around in the chair.
“Ah, how much -”
“Free of charge,” Machi replied. “It’s already taken care of.”
Neon gripped her hand now, pulling her out of the room. “C’mon, you’re going to be late.”
“Neon, did you?”
“Of course,” Neon replied, waving her hand at the trivial matter. “This is really important to you, right?”
Kurapika smiled, “thank you, Neon.”
The girl responded with a dark blush, but smiled in return, hugging Kurapika’s arm. Kurapika just pat her head, albeit awkwardly.
. . .
The windows of Cemetery Building gleamed in the afternoon sun intimidatingly, as Kurapika drew closer to the towering structure. Neon had bid her goodbye a few minutes before due to a panicked phone call from Leorio. And so, she stood alone, just her and her dreams and the people who could break them completely just a few minutes away. No pressure.
Kurapika’s hand rested on the glass door of the skyscraper, anxiety clumping together in her core. She took a deep breath and the nausea lessened a bit. Just go in.
The interior of the building was sparsely decorated, just a few paintings and prints lining the walls, the word “ WELCOME” written on the lobby desk in golden letters. The floor was tiled in a checkered pattern, the furniture consisting of a few green cushioned armchairs and mahogany tables. The domed ceiling reminded you this place was big, and don’t you forget.
Kurapika swallowed thickly, as she walked up to the receptionists at the table.
“I’m here for the Lady Oscar audition,” she said.
The woman, a pigtailed redhead with brown eyes, dressed in a pink outfit and a large smile. “Wah, you’re here for the audition? I should’ve guessed. You’re so pretty! Where do you get your hair done? Oh my God, is that prada?”
“Cocco,” the other receptionist interrupted. “Give the young woman her answer.”
“Oh! Right, that’d be room 365 on the third floor. It’s basically a huge lecture hall, you can’t miss it!” Cocco explained, bubbly. Kurapika thanked her and walked towards the elevator. “Break a leg, Miss!”
“Thank you,” Kurapika called back. She walked into the elevator, a red-haired man joining her at the last second. He looked familiar, somehow, though she couldn’t quite place his face.
“You have exquisite taste,” he spoke, and his voice came out as a lilting purr, the sort of seductive tone she’d heard only one man use before. Hisoka Morow.
He looked so different from his characters, so normal in his dark suit and straight candy red hair, even handsome.
“Thank you,” she replied, not sure if she should be elated or suspicious. The man was an enigma even to the persistent media. It took a unique person to be able to evade them so easily.
“How hostile,” he purred again, leaning against the elevator’s metal wall and considering her with a strange expression on his face. The type where you were certain he was peering into your head.
He started to approach her. They didn’t break eye contact as Kurapika backed away slowly. He smiled. Kurapika calculated what move in her ten years of karate training would best knock the guy out. It was terrifyingly easy to put too much strength into a blow, and she certainly didn’t want to kill him. She breathed a sigh of relief as she heard the beep. The elevator doors slowly parted, and Kurapika darted away and dashed down the hallway, away from the stupid clown. He let her go.
The bathroom was conveniently placed just around the corner, and Kurapika quietly slipped in. As if she wasn’t stressed enough. This was why going in the elevator alone was inadvisable. God, how was she to focus on her audition? Alright, breathing exercises, do your thing. Do not have a panic attack. You will not have an attack.
“You alright, sweetie?” a smooth, accented voice alerted her. Kurapika’s head shot up at the realization that there was another person currently watching her nervous breakdown. Her breath hitched, heart clenching painfully in her chest as she kept a girlish squeal befitting the thirteen-year-old Kurapika within her.
Chrollo Lucilfer stood at one of the sinks, one of her hands balancing a mascara brush still hovering near her eyelashes. Dressed in all black, a lacy tank-top under a black jacket, with a skirt slit a few inches up her thigh. Her sleek, straight black hair was shaped into her signature bob, and her pink lips turned down in curiosity.
“You look so pale,” she said, coming over to her and tucking a finger under her chin. “Mon pauvre. Like you’ve seen a ghost. Or maybe . . .” her eyes darkened, “a clown.”
. End of Chapter .