#another Phoenix Rising tells the story of a woman who like. got a little sick at work and diagnosed as 'stress' and prescribed a

[brittlebutch]

forgive any incomprehensibility but the notion that the world can be cleanly split between the two immutable categories of 'the neurotypical' and 'the neurodiverse' ignores the reality that any person can at any point for any reason be arbitrarily 'diagnosed' by a 'professional' and shuttled between categories with no regard for the notions of 'accurate traits' or 'specific symptoms'. nice dichotomy what lies outside of it? you understand me?

[onestowatch]

Luna Aura Aims to Set Fire to Society’s White Picket Fences in “English Boys” [PREMIERE + Q&A]

Photo: Quincey Sablan 

Luna Aura is cutting as she is cunning. A woman dedicated to living life unapologetically, Luna Aura has gone through a wide variety of life experiences, both euphoric and painful. The result is an artist who exited the other side with a deeper understanding of herself and the world around her. 

Yet, at times this world can be unforgiving to some of its most poignant inhabitants. Growing up amongst the Mormon community, Luna Aura became well versed in the flagrant injustices and inconsistencies that plague women in our society today. Thousands of years of mass accepted oppression does a number on the psyche of all those involved. Therefore, to truly combat this we must question how we as a community have internalized and personify this discrimination, women included.  

Luna Aura’s latest single, “English Boys,” takes the ironies of self-inflicted oppressive behaviors and, in Luna Aura and her gang of female choristers’ own words, “burn(s) it down.” Synth-driven and visceral in nature from the get-go, JT Daly's (K.Flay, PVRIS) production chops shine effervescently, getting that head banging violently before the finish of the first bar. About 20-seconds in Luna Aura enters with prowess, setting the stage that she intends to destroy. 

“My English boy / He calls my name / He breaks my heart / But I’m to blame,” Luna Aura sings as she transitions into an explosive chorus, reminiscent of the children’s choir present on Pink Floyd's “Another Brick In The Wall,” a fitting comparison considering both artist’s fervent penchant for social justice.   

It is this feminist-focused fight for equality that encapsulates the themes of Luna Aura’s highly-anticipated debut EP Three Cheers For The American Beauty, due 2020. From her previous single “Crash Dive” which explores freeing women’s sexuality, focusing on the fact that women masturbate too and shocker, they like it. Now onto “English Boys,” each song on the EP champions a different feminist theme in punk-rock fashion, holding nothing back and grinning widely at the face of disapproval. 

Luna Aura’s grin is defiant in nature, incorrigible if you are so inclined, and how could it not be? We had the chance to catch up with the rising rockstar on everything from transitioning out of the Mormon church peacefully, how the loss of her younger brother has affected her relationship with music, and her continual riposte to those who attempt to silence her.   

  OTW: Can you share the birthing story of the artist persona Luna Aura?  

Luna Aura: The name Luna Aura comes from a Marvel comic book character named Luna Maximoff. I was inspired by her power, which is the ability to see and feel what others are feeling and manipulate those emotions. It really spoke to me as an artist and stuck. 

OTW: What made you decide to move from Arizona to LA to pursue music as your career?  

Luna Aura: I chose to move to LA for the opportunity to grow as a songwriter and creative mind. I love Arizona, I go back frequently, but there is a level of community and opportunity that exists in Los Angeles that you really can’t get anywhere else. I also just wanted to be challenged. 

OTW: Tell us about growing up Mormon. What elements of that part of your life do you hold onto and what have you relinquished?  

Luna Aura: The Mormon faith has beautiful teachings. Forgiveness, family, love. It was never the teachings that turned me off of the Church. The Mormon community consists of some of the best people I’ve met to this day, but I’m not someone who does well with organized religion. There were things I was being exposed to as a young woman that didn’t align with the person I wanted to be. Some practices and teachings felt archaic, especially as a woman. 

OTW: In January 2015 your brother passed away from a tragic accident. How does his spirit inspire you in your music and how you live your life?  

Luna Aura: My brother taught me the greatest lessons I will ever learn. Life is not promised to you, and every day spent breathing is a gift. As my little brother and friend, he taught me what it meant to love and care for somebody, and his passing taught me to never let a day go by without doing what I love. My music is a direct reflection of that.    

OTW: You are a well-versed and accomplished performer, having shared the stage with the likes of The Killers, K. Flay, Chance the Rapper, P!nk, Run the Jewels, and more. How did you develop your performance style? How do you prepare for your performances?   

Luna Aura: I’m working really hard on building a solid health routine! These shows we’ve been playing are no joke, and your girl loves to Netflix and chill with a saucy burrito from time to time. I’ve been getting better about respecting my body and making sure I’m in the best shape possible, so I can deliver the high-energy show that people deserve. I used to be trash when I first started performing, but I got better by learning from my mistakes and never giving up.  

Photo: Sam Katz 

OTW: Can you expand on your recent sonic transition? What made you decide to move from pop to a more rock-based sound? 

Luna Aura: I LOVE a good pop song, and I truly had an affinity for it growing up. I got into pop because I enjoyed it but, as an artist, I didn’t know who I was yet. My voice, my sound, what I wanted to say. None of that was figured out when I started this whole music journey. You build your identity off of your experiences, and it took me a while to figure that out. But here I am, and I’m proud as hell of it.

OTW: You’ve been working very closely with the producer JT Daly, best known for his work with K.Flay and PVRIS. How has working with JT shaped the sound of the new EP? 

Luna Aura: JT was incredibly instrumental in shaping my new sound. He heard a song I wrote called “Baby Be Cool” and wanted to work with me to my disbelief. I couldn’t find a single producer that understood my vision, and/or wanted to be a part of what I was trying to create. He just let me be who I was, and didn’t stand in the way. He completely elevated this project to something I never thought it could be. 

OTW: We know there is some ironic symbolism present in your latest single. What does “English Boys” represent? 

Luna Aura: I was going on a trip to London a couple years ago, and I remember having conversations about how excited I was to meet and marry an English Boy. There I was, about to travel out of the country for the first time and I was talking about meeting a guy. I sounded brainwashed, kind of made me sick. I realized it was stemming from the whole white picket fence fraudulent dream that gets put in every little girl’s head at one point or another. This song is my recognition of that in myself and choosing to let it go, even if that means setting it on fire I guess.

OTW: Is that a choir we hear on the track? Can you tell us about the creative process of this single in particular? 

Luna Aura: My friend Matt Keller was able to find and record a group of young female singers who work with an amazing vocal coach named Satyam in Phoenix. That element was extremely important to me and it added a lot of dimension to the song sonically. 

OTW: We know that your upcoming EP Three Cheers for the American Beauty is based on various feminist themes. Were there any specific events that inspired the project? 

Luna Aura: I just got to thinking what it meant to be an American woman. I researched the societal pressures of young women in American culture and realized I was looking into a mirror. I hated that. I want to create a world where all that conditioning gets thrown out the window, and women take back the life that belongs to them. In my world, it’s not just about fighting against those who stand in the way of female advancement in American culture, but also the war we fight within ourselves. 

OTW: Who are your Ones to Watch?

Luna Aura: I’ve been listening to girl in red, Slaves, and Fidlar a ton lately!  

Thirsty for more Luna Aura? Quench your thirst with her performance of “Crash Dive” for our sister site The Noise. 

[atlaswriting]

STEPS TO GRIEVING:

Denial.

The calm before the storm settles in like the beginning of winter, an aching chill bites at my bones—his side of the bed is empty and unslept. I sit up. Wait for any rustling in the kitchen, peak over into Theodore’s nursery; pause for the dismemberment of his room—silence.

Unsteady feet drag me across my bedroom door, tear open our closet—my closet now; I should have guessed that boys with matchsticks for hands would burn down everything they touch.

Knowing hands curl and uncurl into fists, white knuckling as I hurdle my body down the hallway—girl into comet. Nausea rises up my throat, bile in the form of everything left unsaid. I run back toward our room—my room—and tear open the drawers of his bureau. Unapologetic wood stares back at me and I slam it close.

I don’t cry.

Anger.

I break every plate we have—all of our glasses and bowls. When there’s nothing left to break in the kitchen and my feet are bloodied, I’m left with the gentle reminder of all the pieces he’s left behind.

Ellie begs me to stop—says these smoke signals won’t bring him home. Tells me that bleeding myself dry isn’t a sacrifice I have to make.

I want to laugh—tell her that destroying everything else means I can’t destroy myself. Instead I find a t-shirt of his and cut it up. Instead I walk into Theo’s room and rip at the blue and green walls until the paint is covered in scratches and his crib is nothing more than firewood.

Still, the tears refuse to come.

Depression.

Three months and the ache hasn’t become any less dull. The door in my chest that kept all my hauntings inside begins to rattle and I wonder—would it be such a bad thing for the ghosts to sneak out? For my body to not be their only playground?

I forget to eat. Forget to purge. Forget to shower and go to class—I forget to talk, speak to Ellie in grunts and nods, eventually she gives up, gives me my space. She stays in her room and I stay in mine.

I’ve changed the bed sheets three times—but they all smell like him. I think of setting fire to the bed, burn him out of me once and for all.

Lately, I drink more wine than water—and drink tequila every time the tears well: will myself not to let them fall—he doesn’t get to win this.

Bargaining.

Please come back.

I’ll be better. Do better.

We can try again. They won’t be him – but we can try.

I love you, Abram.

Please please please.

Abram, it’s Elise. I’m using Ellie’s phone. For the love of God please text me. Call me.

You’re it for me.

I lost him and I lost you, how is that fair?

It was supposed to be always.

I’m done trying – I can’t do this anymore, this begging, this awful need. It’s been a year. I don’t even think you’re at this number anymore. But I’m done trying. This is it. I’m closing my heart to you. You get what you wanted.

You win.

Acceptance.

“You’ve been sitting in these groups for months, do you want to share anything? This is a safe space.” Georgette smiles at me, tucking a piece of brown hair behind her ears.

“I… don’t know what to say? Um—Hi—my name is Elise and I—I killed my son.”

“Hi Elise.”

I look around at all the faces; some were aged with wrinkles while others looked fresh out of high school.

“You don’t have to say anything you aren’t comfortable with,” Georgie urges softly, “No one here is going to judge you.”

The brutally honest in’s and out’s of these people’s lives lay bare in their hands clutched between fingertips and held out—hoping someone else is just as fucked as they are.

“I guess I was sick—am sick—always gonna be sick,” I press my lips together; “I never liked who I was?” I keep my eyes focused on the wringing of my hands, “I wanted to tear myself to pieces because it was the one thing I could control. But I killed him—I let the sickness take control. I fell to my knees in front of the toilet, focused more on the immediate relief than on keeping him strong—,” I stop and a woman next to me hands me a tissue—I don’t realize I’m crying until warm tears fall into my palms. “I allowed this… thing inside of me to infect him.”

“Who, Elise?” Georgie urges.

Brows crease, I look up at her—all eyes on me I realize that the letters of his name feel foreign to me. I haven’t spoken his name in so long it felt fake.

“Theodore,” I admit, “He would have been one a month ago and I often wonder what would he be doing? Would he look more like me or his father? What would have been his first words?”

“And the father—has he been supportive through this?”

I laugh, drawing puzzled looks from a crying woman across from me. By the way her shoulders shake with a sob I could tell this was her first meeting.

“He…left.” I say, “I don’t blame him, I guess.” Lie. “He had to do what’s best for him. I’m over it.”

“Elise…” Georgie begins.

“I’m writing again, though.” I change the subject, “I’m almost done with my first manuscript.”

That night I don’t stop crying—let the tears fall until Ellie’s small body wraps around mine, feel her arms tighten, they push back the pieces of myself I’ve dislodged.

/ / / / / / /

I find love again in between empty take away containers and highlighters.

“We need a break!” Delaney declares as she pushes herself up from her stomach, “It’s perfect—you know it’s perfect. I know it’s perfect. So let’s take a break.”

Using chopsticks I shovel another mouthful of lo-mein between my lips and stare at her. After I swallow I say, “It’s nowhere near perfect, Laney. It can be better—do you think the end is a little…aggressive?”

“She died of a broken heart, Elise. If that isn’t the opposite of aggressive—,”

“I just don’t want it to trigger people.”

“It won’t.”

“Or try to tell them that this is what you strive for. That suicide is the right end when somebody breaks your heart… I don’t want girls to read this and—”

“They won’t.” She sighs and stands, holding her hand out to me, “Dance with me.”

I roll my eyes, flip through my pages and shake my head, “There’s no music.”

Laney wiggles her fingers, “It wasn’t a question.”

I stare back at her—sunflower yellow curls and a bright smile that just about disarmed me. Reluctantly I take her hand and stand. Wrap my hands around her waist, Laney’s curls around my neck. “Are you distracted yet?”

“A little.”

Our bodies sway to nothing—the raucous from London’s nightlife died down to a whisper and her brown eyes swallowed me. Not the blue I wanted, but I knew she was safe.

Leaning forward, she presses her lips to mine, “And now?” Soft and slow, Laney kisses me now like how she’ll kiss me in fifty years. She tastes like cheap wine and even cheaper take away—but I love it.

“Completely.”

/ / / / / / /

I’ve torn myself apart. Dug my fingers into the space between ribs and pulled, cracked apart the pomegranate and choked on the seeds.

I razed myself to cinder—breathed in the ash and re-birthed in ruin.

Refused to pray. Got up off my scarred knees, unclasped my hands and burned the bible. Spent so much time thinking I could stick my fingers down my throat and regurgitate holy water—spent so much time thinking that was the only way to be divine.

Less girl, more phoenix—holding ghosts under skin, dead parts of myself I’ve killed to get to where I am.

“Tell us about your book—a debut, correct?”

I look over at Robin Roberts who holds a copy of my book, “Yes. My first—hopefully not my last, but,” I shrug, “Nothing is ever guaranteed.” My fake laugh matches hers. “It’s… about a girl who lost everything—herself, her love—herself. There is no happy ending in Heartbreak Hattrick—which is sad for me, I’m a Lifetime kind of gal, but I don’t think we’re all awarded happy endings.”

“It’s sold as fiction—but is it something more? Something a little realer?”

I shrug, “Some parts. I suppose Annie, the main character’s end is how I saw myself years ago. After my son’s miscarriage, I sort of just—shut down. Luckily for both Annie and I, I made it out alive so I could tell her story.”

Robin nods, “There was some buzz in the Twittersphere that you had gone through something traumatic. Do you feel comfortable talking about it?”

I expected the question—braced myself for it and somehow the words still manage to hit like bullets. I try to maintain a smile, look toward Laney who stands next to a camera man, she smiles back at me, gives me a thumbs up and I look over at Robin, “Not completely. It’s been five years and there isn’t a day that passes where I don’t miss him.” I pull back the sleeve of my blazer and show her—and the camera the delicate script of his name on the outside of my wrist. “What I do want to say about it is: to any person who gives birth, if you ever go through a miscarriage it is not your fault. Despite what your partner may think or say or do—it is not your fault.”

“Your partner at the time he—,”

“Oh, Robin, you’re going to have to get me drunk for me to answer that.”

We laugh and she nods, “Fair enough—but I do have to ask one more question before we finish. Is it true that there’s movie talks in the works.”

I feign my best surprise face, “You won’t tell anyone will you?” She shakes her head and my eyes fall onto the camera as the words come out of my mouth, fully rehearsed with my manager before walking on set, “We may already be filming.”

/ / / / / / /

“Do you still love him?” Delaney asks that night before we fall asleep, “This is a 250 page love letter, isn’t it?”

I turn toward her, cup her cheeks in my hand and weigh my options: ‘yes’ feels wrong lingering on the tongue but ‘no’ feels like a lie. Finally I sigh and kiss her forehead, “I don’t think so. It’s more of an apology I guess.”

/ / / / / / /

Laney groans as I pull her into a coffee shop, adjust my glasses and order our coffees.

“I don’t know why you wanted to move back to LA,” she whines, “It’s so hot and sunny. Don’t you miss London and New York?”

“Sure, but LA feels like home to me. Not Paris home but good enough.”

“We can move to Paris,” Laney muses, “We haven’t gone there yet. Maybe we should go this year? Besides,” Laney pouts, “I don’t think your friend Ellie likes me much. Ever since we’ve moved next door to her she’s been rather…standoffish”

I nod, lean in and kiss her, “Ellie isn’t—oh—shoot, I forgot our straws hold on.” Laney waits by the door as I hold our coffees and rush toward the end table of extras: milk, cream, sugar and straws. Paying attention to the coffee and little else, I don’t notice when I turn around and the six dollar, overpriced ( but totally worth it ) iced latte winds up down the sweat pants of some guy standing too close for comfort. Immediately I drop the saved coffee onto the counter as he fumbles around apologies and let me buy you another—I reach for a handful of napkins and begin rubbing at his pants—ignoring Laney’s call to my name, looking up only when I hear his voice say it.

“Elise?”

I stop wiping and look up—“Holy fuck.” I drop the napkins into the trash and step away, reaching out my arm for the cup on the counter and holding it tight against my chest. “Sorry I didn’t—,”

“You mean you don’t always accost strangers’ crotches with ice and napkins in public?”

I glare up at him—staring over the thin rim of my glasses—the first sentence he’s spoken to me in five years and it’s a joke.

“If I knew the stranger was you it probably would’ve been fire or acid or—,”

“Elise, love—are you okay?” Laney closes in on us, arm sneaking between mine.

Nodding I look up at Abram then at her, “Delaney this is Abram. An old…friend.”

Abram snorts into his own coffee.

[emmeiine]

I CAN HANDLE THIS, HAVE A GOOD DAY! EMMELINE VANCE / GRYFFINDOR ALUMNA / FC: PAULINA SINGER / TAKEN

PROMPT OO6. ORIGIN STORY

AFFILIATION : Order of the Phoenix

BLOOD STATUS : Pureblood

CHARACTER INFORMATION

CHARACTER’S FULL NAME : Emmeline Betty Vance.

The story behind her name isn’t a particularly emotional one nor a particularly fanciful one. She wasn’t planned, they hadn’t even brooked the thought of pregnancy and babies and all that came with them, the crying, the screaming, the clothes, toys, what they would do when she got older and grew taller, grew stronger. In fact, they hadn’t even come up with a name when she had arrived - she was Unnamed Baby Vance for weeks, the nickname ‘sweet baby girl’ substituted as her name. It was something that had caused her mothers family (the little known Wilkinson’s,) to slip into disarray, for even a small pureblood family as they were, they were meant to be prepared in all cases, for an heir. They eventually decided on Emmeline, an age old name that her mother had spied a novel by Charlotte Turner Smith. It was quickly shortened to ‘Line and Emme, and her middle name was decided on as a byproduct of her parents distinct fascination with muggle music - in particular, the American Jazz movement.

They had been to America a few times, even trying one of those muggle flying contraptions, as her father put it, and were practically in awe of the place. New York was one of their favourites, even after hearing stories of what had happened with the near complete shattering of the International Statute of Secrecy. One of their favourite artists was Betty Carter, ‘Meet Betty Carter and Ray Bryant’ lingered in the corridors of their small manor (more like a large house, if anything.) A few months after Emmeline became Emmeline, her new album, ‘Social Call’ arrived on their doorstep and they finally gave her a middle name. Emmeline Betty Vance was Christened in the December of 1956, a small affair in their extremely small village, where they were known for their oddities, and their dedication to making sure that they were there for people, even if they were known to hold no openly political views, when the town itself was small and utterly depraved of good representation in Parliament.

CHARACTER’S AGE / BIRTHDAY : 23 / August 19th, 1956.

Born in the middle of a storm at home, Emmeline Vance came into life three weeks early, a little underweight, but, otherwise perfectly healthy. She had a full head of hair, each and every toe and finger, tiny hand that cradled her mothers pinky finger. She cried, wails rising from her lips, and did not cease until the next evening. She didn’t settle, even then, only distracted for a short while by the bright burst of colour emerging from her fathers wand, who had sat rocking her for hours while her mother slept on, exhausted from the unpleasantness of childbirth. Each Birthday was celebrated with exuberance, muggle and wizard friends alike mixing on days that were striped with joy. She would get everything she asked for, with her father working as an Obliviator and mother an Unspeakable (both of whom retired after Emmeline’s 22nd birthday came around,) and tried not to take her life and family for granted. People were still sore, still healing, in their Northern Industrial town from the war, and the loss it brought with it.

OCCUPATION : Auror in training.

Emmeline, as a byproduct of being fearless and at the same time almost tyrannical, hadn’t lasted at a job for more than four months, before she signed up to become an Auror. It wasn’t the career she had planned, nor was it the dream job from her childhood. She had, originally, wanted to work far away from England, from the privileges of being pureblood and the downsides of being achingly friendly with muggles, which garnered some disdain from the Sacred 28. By her seventeenth and breaking of the Trace, Emmeline was sick of the Wizarding world and had decided to try her luck at muggle labour. She lasted two months at an export business before they received a complaint that she was overruling the manager (who had been wrong, but, they didn’t care.) Then, she worked in Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour for four months - she wasn’t bad at her job, she showed up on time, sold as many ice creams as she could, brought them to tables in a timely fashion. It just wasn’t what she was meant to do.

Eventually, Emmeline threw caution to the wind and signed up to Auror training a few days after her 21st birthday and many failed opportunities outside of the Ministry. By this point, she had already been picked up by the Order of the Phoenix, her logic and eagerness to fight useful to them. She was all brute force, all chaos, forgive but never forget, intimidation and unhampered fire, the flames that lick the surface, a hurricane of a girl with aggression and stark fearlessness. It got her the job, along with a sharp logic that challenged everybody around her to keep up with her. In her second year of training, nearing the final examination for Dark Magic Tracing, she has flexed her muscles at the Auror office more than she has anywhere else. She enjoys her job, enjoys living some form of a double life with Kingsley Shacklebolt as her mentor in both the Auror office and Order. She might appear to some as delicate, somewhat stately when she tries to be, but, she’s fire, resolute when she burns and consuming everything.

SHIPS / ANTI-SHIPS : Emmeline/Kingsley (this may end in DISASTER, but, the idea of it is so beautiful to me), Emmeline/Travers (because I’m here for THAT angst), Emmeline/Charity, Emmeline/Millicent, Emmeline/Chemistry. / Emmeline/Forced, Emmeline/No Chemistry.

As far as intimacy goes, Emmeline is no stranger to hook ups and short-lived relationships, warier of long-term relationships, believing they might shackle her down to a live she swore she would never to resign herself to. She’d watched muggle women go about their days, never talking of the bruises beneath their cotton blouses or the makeup that dances over the tender spots on their chin, and go home every day, never catching the small, weird girl from next door looking at them as if she knew their secrets. No topic ever makes her squirm, but, marriage is one thing that has always managed to come damn close. She’s been caught lookingbefore, with a less than carnal look on her face when she thought of being what her parents families thought a pureblood woman ought to be. The domestic life does appeal to her - the idea of being in love enthrals her, to some extent. She just won’t admit that she’s terrified of it - that it’s one of the only things she’s genuinely afraid of, that she needs someone and can’t decide if she wants someone.

It would be very interesting to approach Emmeline’s different relationships with people in the Order. Given her ability to be both unreliable and astoundingly logical, there is a neutral ground that tosses up possible friendships and possible problems for her and them. She’s good, intelligent, resolutely fearless, but, she’s also too eager to pull punches, too ready to use her wand rather than talk, bossier rather than able to take orders. It’d be nice to see her as someone that not everyone considers trustworthy enough to rely on, but trusted desperately by others.  It would also be interesting to consider her relationships with those who refuse to partake in the political aspect of war or any aspect of war, at all, and those who are on the opposite side of the metaphorical river to her. There are sides to friendships that people rarely get to see - the blistering, falling apart sides, the sides that are ugly to everyone but one another. The friendships she forms are just as important as any possibility of romance are, to Emmeline.

WAND DESCRIPTION : A rune-enscribed Red Oak wand, nine inches long exactly, less round with edges and a core of Phoenix Feather.

Emmeline has found that her Red Oak wand makes for a strong and assured partner in duels, allowing her to react as quickly or as slowly as she chooses - perfect for those anger filled duels that started quickly and ended as such. She doesn’t particularly care that her wand is of average length - it’s easy enough to hide, easy enough to buy a perfectly sized wand holster to store it on those days when she isn’t technically supposed to have her wand with her. It’s aided her during Auror training sessions and surprise faux attacks, orchestrated by the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The core means she’s got a powerful wand at her fingertips, that learns as quickly as she can extract observations. Her wand doesn’t bond to many - for some, it will take lifetimes to tame and personalise, but, for Emmeline - it was easy. Her wand core and herself are so alike, much in their initiative and hard-won allegiance. On occasion, she has been attracted to the flamboyance of great spells, and her wand has expressed that, many a time.

WHY THIS CHARACTER? : This is going to sound really, overwhelmingly cheesy, but, she was one of my first. One of the first characters I ever picked up and roleplayed - one of the few that is so deeply embedded in my heart that I can’t seem to walk away from her. She might not seen spectacular, too arrogant in her own abilities, something she doesn’t really grow out of, fearless, almost to a point that it is stupid, but, she is. She’s a member of the Order of the Phoenix. She knows the risks she’s taking - in both Wizarding Wars. She fights in both, fights for what she believes in, and never backs down, not even when there’s a wand pointed at her throat in the middle of Muggle London. I feel like every character deserves to have their stories told, deserves to have their voices heard, even if the writer of the original story doesn’t want to expand on the lives she destroyed in her books. Emmeline is one of the few I would love to tell the story of. She risked her everything, and I admire her for that.

We know little to nothing about her from the books. All we can gather is that she was in both the Original Order of the Phoenix and the reformed Order, seen in Harry’s fifth year, and that she looked to be a ‘stately’ witch, whose death saddens most (if not all) of the modern Order’s members. It is also said that Snape claimed to have given information to Voldemort that lead to her death, and that she was a member of the Advanced Guard. I would love to expand on the things we don’t know and humanise her. No human is ever flawless. If they are perfect, they are bound to be arrogant. If they are not, they are bound to be insecure about that fact. I perceive Emmeline as being caught between the two: arrogant because she knows what she is capable of, but, insecure because she knows what she isn’t. The traits you’ve assigned her leave so much room to explore, so many things to think about - so many reasons and paths to consider. She is so different to other Emmeline’s I’ve played and I would be honoured to play her.

AFFILIATION : Order of the Phoenix.

Emmeline was covered in sweat when she got the invitation, the barn owl undistinctive and one she had seen in the Owlery at Hogwarts. She had been at work, shifting delivery boxes from the back of vans, for twelve hours and had just returned home, a sweltering bruise on her thigh and hands aching for warmth and one day of calm. It was in Moody’s handwriting, the mans gruff voice playing like static in the back of her mind. She was that girl at Hogwarts, the one that hung out with everyone you didn’t think she would, considering her last name and the fact she was, by all means, to outsiders, a successful pureblood daughter. She was the one who would get into fights in the hallways, be sat in class with blood beneath her fingernails and an ache in her stomach that made her more calm than anyone would like to hear, hear echoes in the halls of mudbloods being scum and feel rage pool in her mind that left her unable to do anything other than react in the only way she knew how.

There had been whispers. Tiny inklings from people older than her that there was more than two sides to this war - more than just the helpless and the Ministry against the Death Eaters. She wasn’t daft: she could read between the lines better than most she knew, even if acting on the things she read often left her to become a bundle of tenacity. She said yes before the words even fell from Dumbledore’s lips, sat in Alastor Moody’s quietly kept together kitchen, the defiance in her gaze obvious as she gritted her teeth and whispered that the pureblood society could go fuck itself, the battered wooden chair she sat in feeling like an embrace in the last few seconds before she focused on the fact that she was at war. She had missed feeling like she belonged, the familiar thumping of having something to fight for, not just for the same of it, ringing through her head. Her world tipped on it’s edge that day, a grounding force that has left her scrappy and hungry for a world without the power hungry Death Eaters.

She hates the pureblood society, the values they’ve instilled in such brilliant young minds that could’ve been so much more if they had been kept away from the ideal that not everyone deserved to be magical, to be their own person. There are many things she doesn’t like, but, the ideology that surrounds the elite is something she wants to tear apart, from the inside out. The people they want to rip apart, the people they’ve tried to curse to hell and back, are the people she cares about. It is the only thing people can rely on about her - that she is fearless, frightless, downright terrifying when you’re on the other end of her wand, her stance calculated so she gets the perfect spot at your neck. She fights out of hatred and out of love, the snarl that forms on her face nothing compared to the smiles that those she cares about can elicit. She lived in a world where blood purity mattered more than what you were good at, and that is a cold, barren, unhappy world that she fled as soon as she was introduced to it.

HOW DOES YOUR CHARACTER FEEL ABOUT THE WAR? : Emmeline’s never been one for blithe optimism or harsh cynicism, she’s only ever known one thing: fighting. There wasn’t a doubt in her head, not even as she weighed up the risks, hours later when she was sat in bed, tearing through her memories to pinpoint the moment that Moody said it wasn’t a choice to take lightly, that it could kill her. It didn’t scare her so much as spur her into reality. For her, it wasn’t a choice. It wasn’t some tossup between naivety and innocence or war and death, as they made everyone else believe. It was so much more than that. She didn’t blame anyone for deciding not to take part - if she were any less her, she would be scared shitless. There is something about the fight, something about the long nights stationed outside potential Death Eater hotspots, curling in safe houses when she’s sure it’s not safe enough for her to go home, that makes her come alive, that makes her blood flow faster, a little more sure of herself.

Emmeline hates the fact that they are at war, and yet, craves the feeling of the chase, of her flesh pounding against skin, boots hitting the floor, dungarees over a shirt that’s a bright shade of pink with specks of blood and dirt flying through the air around her. She hates how it’s making martyrs of everybody, how they’re sacrificing pieces of themselves, from their soft-hearted smiles to hearts that will open for anybody who needs it. She lives for the thrill, for the longing, the love it brings out in people, the courage, the discovery of new things about old friends, and despises herself for it, all the same. She keeps it all hidden away, in the corners of her mind she rarely ventures to. War has made soldiers of them all, soldiers of children, who barely knew their own minds before they were thrust into a war for all of the things they had probably taken for granted, for all the people whose faces surely blended into a crowd, strangers who didn’t know there was a tornado that was headed straight for them.

WHAT IS YOUR CHARACTER’S GREATEST AMBITION? : Emmeline’s driven, calculated, logical, dauntless, and at the same time, terribly unambitious about life. She’s always punching over her weight, but, never to get anything. It’s one of the reasons why she wasn’t sorted into Slytherin - that and her inability to just be cunning (she was more a drive-her-fist-into-your-nose to get information kind of girl.) There is only one thing she has ever felt like she wants to strive towards. Her greatest ambition in life is to be remembered. She doesn’t care how she dies - doesn’t care if she dies in a firefight, or asleep in her bed at the age of 93, or sat at her desk in the Auror office. She just wants people to remember her name - Emmeline Vance, the girl who looked nothing like she acted, the girl who wore bright colours and strange patterned socks and still managed to kick ass and ruin the pureblood patriarchy, while she was at it. That’s her greatest ambition, and rules over both her head and heart, at times.

HEADCANONS :

i. Emmeline, up until November last year, had never owned a pet in her life. It was a byproduct of her mothers hatred of owls and the way their eyes seemed to follow wherever you went, and her fathers indifference to cats or dogs. As a child, she reigned and created chaos all by herself, and had never craved the companionship of an animal, preferring the muggle children or wizarding children she made friends with during childhood. In late November, she fostered a three year old Springer Spaniel-Unknown cross from an agency that specialised in animals that were used to magic, and fell in love. She trained the dog from the ground up and is thankful for the affection and reliability of her dog, who is the stark opposite of her, and can calm her down from the after effects of a duel. Her nights are spent at a dog-friendly flat, with her dog spread out across the sofa next to her and wand in the holster at her ankle, listening to some muggle music that is, thankfully, not entirely similar to Celestina Warbeck.

ii. Emmeline narrowly avoided being arrested earlier this year, after being discovered at the scene of a robbery. She explained away her presence by stating that she had followed somebody, something that was true, and that she had done nothing. She was just grateful they didn’t catch her when she was using her wand to petrify someone or send them flying back into a wall, that would need some explaining and a good Obliviate to the forehead. She currently has no criminal record, trying to keep on the good side of both muggle law and Wizarding law. It took the police eighteen hours to clear her, and she was lucky enough that she was able to get a message off to (Edgar) Bones, via the even more unreliable Mundungus, before being taken for questioning. Ever since then, she’s managed to stay away from trouble in both the Wizarding and muggle world, yet still can’t keep a straight face whenever she thinks of the night she nearly got towed into a jail cell at the police station.

iii. Irena and Roscoe Vance live in Broomfleet, a very, very small town on the Humber estuary, where Emmeline Vance took the population from 284 to 283. Emmeline adored the place where she grew up, with a house that was slightly bigger on the inside (more so when it came to the bedrooms,) and went to primary school. It was a very non-Pureblood thing for the Vance’s to do, something that the Wilkinson’s and the Vance’s extended family supported, stating that it was the right thing to do. Emmeline learnt Maths, English, and on occasion, Science, working as hard as she could while simultaneously correcting everything that was said in her head. When she turned eighteen, she moved away to be nearer to the other Order safe houses and away from the prying eyes of the neighbours. She still owls her parents on a near daily basis, catching up with them, and making sure they’re okay - the Vance’s were never ones to back down from a fight, it’s what she got when she inherited their genes.

iv. Emmeline prefers hot chocolate to tea or coffee. She just never acquired the taste for either one, despite being at the centre of what seems like hundreds of debates about which one is better, as the unbiased party. She will drink hot chocolate any day of the week, no matter the weather and no matter where she is. Tea, sometimes, just seems too milky or too strong and coffee, most of the time, means she stays awake for hours and hours and hours, longer than she had planned on, and it tends to make her space out when she’s doing something important. There have been days, days when everyone has thought she wouldn’t be able to bounce back, that were cured by a single cup of hot chocolate, a mug warm to the touch and smell sweet, but never overpowering. If she absolutely has to have tea, she’ll take it with no milk and two sugars, and coffee is only reserved for long, long nights, and she’ll usually only have one sugar, unless the situation calls for a butt load of coffee and sugar.

v. Emmeline’s parents only introduced her to pureblood society once. As they weren’t a member of the Sacred 28, it was quite a shock when they got a letter when Emmeline was 15, inviting them to an event purely for the pure families in the region. The decision to go was Irena’s - who wanted her daughter to know she still had a choice, between a society hellbent on judging her for her skin colour or a society hellbent on destroying all muggles, muggleborns and everything other than themselves. They attended the gala, three days before Emmeline’s birthday, and she was anything but cordial to the hosts. It took less than an hour for her to be thrown out, something she certainly doesn’t regret, knowing she was raised up in what felt like a completely different world to the way the other purebloods had been raised. Hell, she had learned about the muggle part of the world before she had learned about purebloods, and had a fierce indifference to any pureblood who took a neutral stance in the war (unless they were friends.)

vi. As a child, Emmeline would dream of running off to America. She dreamt of watching Broadway shows and wearing the finest of dresses, being more refined than she’d ever managed to discipline herself into, with the insistence that she didn’t start fights, only finished them. She dreamt of joining MACUSA, or joining the Ministry of some foreign country, more often than not Bulgaria or working for the wizarding school, Uagadou, carved out of the mountains. She loved England, loved the place where she lived, but, the world was an exciting place for a young girl who didn’t yet know that the world wasn’t as kind as she wanted it to be. She soon grew out of these fantasies, though, would still entertain the idea of a trip to America, if ever the situation grants her the option. Her dream occupation was a professor or a member of MACUSA, something she has since forgotten about, in the rush of war that has left her half an adult and half a child, still stuck between where she needs to be and where she wants to be.

vii. Emmeline was a Hat Stall. It took the Sorting Hat five minutes to sort her, eight torturous minutes of a voice inside her head that nobody else could hear, starting up like an old record and booming like it could see all of her secrets, all of the parts of herself that she didn’t want to talk about. She sat, hands curled around the seat armrests, fingernails short and purple tights visible beneath her robes, torn slightly where her knees were grazed and a jaunty smile on her face. She insisted that she wasn’t Ravenclaw material, something the Hat became stuck on, before deciding that she was, in fact, right and that Gryffindor was the most suitable house for someone with such a soul as hers. By that time, many of the people watching the sorting were sat with their heads in their hands, though the Gryffindor house seemed to roar with delight, feet hammering against the floor and hands slapping against the table or one another’s. She didn’t really think much of it, growing into her ability to be systematic and incisive.

viii. Emmeline rarely ever remembered her tie. Hell, most of the time she didn’t wear school tights, and her shirt was usually speckled with some dirt (or was it blood? She could never remember,) and her shoes weren’t always suitable for lessons. If she ever did remember to wear the correct uniform, it never lasted more than an hour before she took her robe off and her tie came to tie around her wrist. She hated the idea of a school uniform, had approached the idea with a quiet indifference that blossomed into an uneasy sensation of dislike. Her old school uniform had been purple and yellow, with black vests that went over their white polo shirts, adorned with the purple and yellow logo. On occasion, her primary school would sell purple or yellow polo shirts. Emmeline still has hers, hung up in her wardrobe. In some pictures, you can tell that she’s wearing brightly coloured tights before you see her legs, the hatred of uniform having dissipated after she left Hogwarts.

ix. When Emmeline sleeps, she doesn’t sleep heavy. Her sleep is light and any sign of movement beside her can jostle her out of whatever semblance of dream-like sleep she was experiencing at the time. She rarely was able to sleep so deeply at Hogwarts, casting the silencing charm so she was in complete silence in her own bed, her own four quarters, and four four years at Hogwarts - she slept soundly, without stirring once in the night. It meant that she could get up and function normally, for her day writing essays and practising transfiguration and DADA spells that they were never taught. Her sleeping pattern hasn’t changed much, only the fact that it’s when she always sleeps, she could sleep through a lightbulb or something crashing on her head. Now, she can sleep through a hurricane or significant spell damage to the building outside, compared to the images she’s used to seeing. Her unorthodox napping method means that she spreads out the 12 hours of sleep she needs over the day.

x. Emmeline loves being the exact opposite of what people say she is. She loves being one of the few pureblood girls who recognised that there was a problem that needed to be fixed, rather than perpetuating the problem and supporting all the people who created the problem, itself. She doesn’t appear to be much, on the outside. She doesn’t seem spectacular, doesn’t really look as if she’s that interesting, but, she has learned how to produce grandiose spells, how to duel so efficiently the other barely sees her wand moving. She doesn’t want to be predictable. That’s why it’s so easy for her to be unreliable - in one place one minute, and another the next. She, despite the fact that she is so unreliable, has never considered betting any money on anything or anything like that in her life, choosing to live life her own way. She likes it when people think she’s delicate, when she’s perfectly able of disembowelling whoever she hates enough. She’s always said when she fights is when she’s calmest, having never known real calmness.

EXTRA INFORMATION :

xi. Emmeline’s star sign is Leo and her paired element is Fire. “Fire is your paired element, and as a Leo, you have the most fundamental relationship with fire of all the zodiac signs. Fire’s influence burns within you, usually materializing in the passionate way you deal with life. If there is a cause or challenge that sparks your interest, your flame does not falter as you push to conquer it. Fire’s influence can become one of your greatest assets in life, but be careful to avoid the impatience and impulsiveness that are amongst its negative qualities.”

xii. Emmeline’s Amortentia is vanilla, freshly brewed hot chocolate, the underpinning of a light cologne, the scent of daisies and red roses and orchids in a bouquet and another persons hair. Emmeline discovered this during her seventh year, when Slughorn made them all brew it, making sure to keep an eye on them so they came and checked on it on a daily basis. She wasn’t surprised to smell hot chocolate or vanilla, and it’s one of the few secrets she keeps, one of the few things she’s never told anyone else.

xiii. Emmeline’s Boggart is death. The idea of dying before she’s done is the only thing that she can actually say she’s scared of. Whenever she sees her Boggart, it’s so often just her corpse, laying in the middle of a back-lit street, an unnamed body, forgotten by the rest of the world. For someone so comfortable with the thought of blood and the idea of others dying, her own fear of death is the only thing that she’ll crumble to, in her last moments. She fears next to nothing, and it’s that attitude that’s left her unable to deal with it.

xiv. Emmeline’s Patronus is a Buffalo. “The buffalo is full of many feelings, the strong stature of them showing through a person in this way. They try to appear stoic, but it often backfires and they wear their hearts on their sleeves. They are passionate about everything they do and headstrong. They make sure their opinions are known by all that they concern, because they want to show that they are not weak. They feel as though their emotion and lack of control over it does in a way give them weakness, and it angers them greatly.“

xv. Emmeline’s favorite spell is Lacarnum Inflamare. “It is pronounced as la-CAR-num in-fla-MA-ray, and it sends a ball of fire from the wand. Latin inflammo, or the verb inflammatio meaning "to set on fire”. Lacarnum, from the Latin “lacerna”, meaning “cloak.”.”

BIOGRAPHY

Irena Wilkinson and Roscoe Vance had never planned on children. They were barely married six months before they fell pregnant, living without a clue about it until the five month mark when Irena was well into her second trimester, of course. Neither were upset, yet neither were overjoyed. The following four months of pregnancy - forgiving the fact that Emmeline was three weeks early - weren’t easy, by any stretch of the imagination. The constant cravings, rapid weight gain, sudden hatred of beloved foods, the blasted snoring and bouts of insomnia, sent both Irena and Roscoe, newlyweds, up the wall. By three weeks before the due date, the two were both exhausted and sat in sweltering heat in their bedroom.

On the evening of August 19th, Emmeline Betty Vance was brought into the world, thoroughly displeased by the world she came into, fits and bursts of wails falling from her lips until the afternoon of August 20th. Each toe and finger was counted as present and the midwife from the nearest muggle Hospital was the only witness of the natural birth of Emmeline Vance. From there, Emmeline’s life began. She reached every milestone she was supposed to, with the smallest hint of magic seeping through her first year, the slight jolts people would get when holding her, the momentary flashes of movement from perfectly stationary objects. By the time she was a year old, she was happy, the ebb and flow of magic.

There were no traditional views in the Vance household - no you-must-stand-up-straight rule, no you-have-to-wear-a-dress rule, and no every-year-we-go-to-the-pureblood-galas rule. They were lenient, allowing Emmeline to learn for herself. Of course, this was something that had been used to bring up both Irena and Roscoe, who had grown up just fine. She would share her toys on the playground, never run in front of the swings at the park and knew the perfect place in the village that let you survey everything at once. For years, Emmeline grew up without knowing she was any different to any other child she knew, apart from the strange events that occurred in the safety of the Vance’s own home, apart from the magic in her veins.

Emmeline treated everyone as equal, growing up as the one who threw herself in front of the bully’s fists to stop another from facing harm, as the one who could wheedle a promise out of them that they’d stop bullying others, as the one who was friends with as many people who weren’t the norm. She didn’t learn, until she was nine, that muggles and wizards were not the same, nor alike in any particular way, only different in a multitude of ways that left so much room for a sweeping hatred. Irena had sat her down to tell her something when they got a long winded letter from another pureblood family, stating the inevitability of the Vance’s being branded as blood traitors for their open affiliation with muggles.

When she got her letter at eleven, there was a fight that nearly broke the Vance family in three. Emmeline refused to go, refused to leave a life she was so comfortable in, where Irena was insistent that she had to go, that it was the only god damned tradition her family had kept and she would be damned if Emmeline didn’t follow, and where Roscoe was insistent that she could go to another wizarding school, possibly Uagadou, if they could only get an Owl there. Eventually, the fight reconciled with a visit to Diagon Alley where Emmeline realised that the rift between wizards and muggles also afflicted muggleborns and purebloods and halfbloods. It hurt everyone, even the girl who was so resolute and strong.

On the train to Hogwarts, she picked a carriage with an amalgamation of people in. She was her usual loud, domineering self, taking their troubles into her hands and compacting them into small bubbles that refuted their own ability to burst. She hid the bruise forming on her thigh, the grazed knees on show for the world and a dull ache in her hands from when she had punched her way into a fight, changing into her new robes without a complaint. She could barely contain her excitement as they clambered down the steps, feeling perfectly at home with what others would have perceived as a band of misfits. She watched the half-giant with a quiet understanding in her gaze, after learning the world wasn’t what she expected it to be.

After the five minute long Hat Stall that left people bored and near dribbling into their empty bowls, Emmeline was sorted into Gryffindor and didn’t look back. She nursed her own logic, tested her own limits, bettered herself and worsened herself until she was comfortable with herself. For seven years, Emmeline used the Owls from the school Owlery to send letters back to her parents, would think clearly in situations where others were paralysed by fear or stress or any number of other things. She discovered who she was - that girls were just as attractive as guys, that she hated pumpkin juice, that she loved whiskey and that muggle liquor was just better than wizarding liquor, the opposite of what she had heard.

By the time she graduated, she had become Hogwarts duelling champion four years in a row, was known for her inability to run away from any proposition of a fight, and was the girl who would make friends with anyone as long as they were trustworthy. She had all her Owls, passed all of them with flying colours, not stumbling once with her NEWTs, either, and was utterly clueless about the life she wanted to lead after her time at Hogwarts was over. She took a job at a muggle manual labour firm, working hard to earn any scrap of money she could, without muggle qualifications. After losing that job, she worked in Diagon Alley, and after that, tried her luck at Hogsmeade. Eventually, she signed up for Auror training.

Emmeline was hellbent on being remembered, by anyone, even if said person didn’t really know her name and just thought of her as the girl who would fight more than she would speak, if given the chance. She was accepted to Auror training, knowing the studying would take time and that it wouldn’t be easy, given the fact that nobody had been accepted to Auror training in three years. Training was intense and it didn’t come as much of a surprise when she came home one day to find that Dumbledore wanted to meet with her. She was as smart as she was intimidating, and that was a dangerous equation when you brought the idea of joining a secret organisation to the table, even for someone as wise as Dumbledore.

It took him seven minutes to convince her, before she interrupted him and blurted out a ‘yes,’ and a ‘fuck pureblood society.’ The next morning, she went back to Auror training and carried on, the prospect of being a soldier in what was sure to become a glorified war was heavy in her mind as she studied, with both her mind and her muscle memory. She passed every Auror exam, did everything the other Aurors wanted, watching Kingsley with bright eyes, and worked hard to complete every task set before her. She worked for the Order on nights, even though she was famous for her recklessness and ability to be fickle. She feels like a soldier, feels the pain of other people wrestling with her own in her mind and is determined to do something good.

PARA SAMPLE

Emmeline glares around her, catching the bench and the streetlight in her wake, with a light frown on her face. She might be 42, might be just another ‘old person,’ to everyone else but she’d fought in the first Wizarding war and she would be damned before she stopped fighting for what was right. With the return of Lord Voldemort had come the bizarre refusal to believe from the Ministry, to which Kingsley, herself and Tonks could only laugh at. In recent months, the Ministry had seen his return and Cornelius Fudge had folded, like a house of cards, in on himself. The world was a completely different place and nothing seemed clear or easy in the face of such terrible power, rising from the ashes again.

“Who’s there? Who’s fucking there?” Emmeline swung her wand around, brandishing it in every direction before she hears a cold ringing of laughter. She had heard that laughter before, she knew why they were there, and stiffened her shoulders as she stepped beneath the streetlight. She’d been assigned to patrol the street outside the Prime Minister’s home, which was now strangely deserted, as if it had been cordoned off by a force that only wizards could explain. She had seen the world be pinned down by Voldemort’s grasp once and had seen remarkable wizards and witches put themselves through hell to stop him. Her voice is cold, rage seeping into the edges as she spat out her words. “Show yourself.”

Her knock-off muggle shirt, scuffed boots and jeans catch the Death Eaters attention, a snarl curling on their face underneath their mask. It had, once upon a few years earlier, been so easy to recall their name, but, now it fails as her as she flicks her wand, watching a beam of fire hit a protection spell before she can react. “Talk, then, asshole. Or does a cat have your tongue?” She seethed, the familiar rattle of anger shaking her lungs as she breathed out, utterly calm under the light of the distant moon, determined that they wouldn’t catch her. She knew she was a target - she was an outspoken Auror who refused to let the people who knew other Order members forget their names and why they died. It was inevitable that they’d come for her.

“Crucio!” The spell bursts forth from the others wand and she barely dodged it, sending a “Reducto!” back that shatters the bollard beside them. The duel isn’t back and forth, and at some point, she was knocked back into a wall and the other ended up with a cut slicing through their chest, blood seeping through. She sent a bunch of spells forward and they counter, stepping through the dancing of light against the building. There’s no recollection in her mind of another, of another parading the street behind her, shooting a spell over her shoulder, before it’s too late. As one steps away, the other steps forward - a yell of ‘Avada Kedavra!’ countered by ‘Alarte Ascendare!’ before there’s a ripping sensation through her skin.

There were two people in masks now, almost seeming to mock her as they stand above her when she sinks to the ground, wound gaping and growing until it seems like her innards are falling, and she breathes out a “Well, fuck it.” before flicking her wrist and sending them straight into a wall. Everything aches and she quickly loses her strength, her nature slipping from her reach as she breathed out shakily, the sound seeming to echo in her chest as she began to cry. There were many things Emmeline danced in the face of and death had been one of those things - death had been one of those things that she had never said she was terrified of. She wasn’t done yet; there was so much to do.

She had to get a Patronus to Kingsley, had to tell them someone had told the Death Eaters their schedule, had to tell Tonks that every life may end but there is a beautiful beginning at the end, too, had to live to win the war, to watch the people who had sworn to rule over them fall. Her t-shirt, a knock-off Fresh Prince of Bel-Air design, was beginning to soak in her own blood. She couldn’t speak anymore, lips parting but no sound coming out but a low moan, a low noise of pain, before she lost consciousness and slipped away. The lights of 10 Downing Street remain off, the night going on as she dies, the world seeming to stagnate around her as she grapples with her own inescapable fate.

As she blinks her eyes open to a white light, she chokes on her own disbelief. This wasn’t supposed to happen - there was a system, something she had designed, that would notify the others when the worst came to be. Nobody had heard her calls and she had died alone, returning to being in the bright canvas of the afterlife. She hadn’t been there when many people had needed her and it was as if the world was repaying the favour, something she registers, before she sits up and takes in the brightness around her, the faces who come into view to help her up. There was no fighting anymore, no need for aggression. Her time was done and all she could do was watch. She licks her lips, breathes in, calm settling in her bones and parts her lips. “Hi.”