#with a story built on cause-and-effect rather than just “that's how the fairy tale goes”

[bookshelf-in-progress]

I want you guys to read this retelling so bad.

But first I gotta write it. And that takes so long.

[riversofmars]

New chapter as I’m on a bit of a roll, yay! Please enjoy more questions and very few answers :)

Chapter 6: When Good People Go To War

Space, 52nd Century

“So the Library…“ Yaz crossed her arms in front of her chest feeling uncomfortable. She didn’t like not knowing what she was in for. “What are we going to find there?“

“A Library is a collection of books.“ Strax retorted matter-of-factly as he set the course. Even with hyper speed travel, it would take them a while to get there.

“It’s a planet.“ Vastra answered as Strax’s response was not very helpful. “A planet that has been turned into the biggest Library in the universe. At its core, the greatest computer and hard drive ever built, to store a copy of every book ever written… and after the Doctor left, also the consciousnesses of those who lost their lives there.“

“That must be really weird, people coming and going, checking out books and they’re there, watching it all?“ Yaz frowned, trying to wrap her head around it.

“Well, not quite like that. The Library isn’t actually being used anymore.“ Vastra smiled, though for a moment, the idea was a pleasant one. It certainly would make the Professor’s fate less lonely. “The Vashta Nerada have taken over the Library so no organic being would be safe to enter.“

“The what?“ Yaz asked, confused.

“The Vashta Nerada, shadows that can kill. Piranhas of the air, people like to call them, nasty things.“ Dorium threw in, shuddering at the thought.

“And Professor Song, her consciousness is in that computer?“ Yaz clarified and there were nods all round. “So, like… can we turn on a computer screen and talk to her?“ She was still struggling to imagine how they would go about this.

“If we can get past the Nashta Nerada first…“ Vastra nodded.

“It will be no matter, I shall take great joy in obliterating them.“ Strax announced.

“You do realise you can’t shoot shadows, Strax.“ Jenny pointed out with a roll of her eyes.

“I have brought UV grenades.“ The Sontaran grinned with excitement.

“We shall assess the situation upon our arrival, Strax.“ Vastra decided to put an end to the conversation before it would turn into a presentation of weapons equipment and engagement strategies.

“You wouldn’t mind… dropping me off somewhere first, would you?“ Dorium piped up. He wasn’t exactly eager to be part of this expedition. “Keep the shuttle as my contribution to the cause but I’d really much rather…“

“No, you played a large part in creating this mess. You can see to it being resolved.“ Vastra retorted curtly.

“It’s just, last time I was made to sign up to one of the Doctor’s causes, I lost a lot of… myself as it were. And all of you were there, too, so I’m not taking this for a good omen.“ Dorium tried to reason but Vastra wouldn’t hear of it.

“None of this is good, Mr. Maldovar.“

“Then, perhaps you wouldn’t mind clarifying something for me…“ He sighed, realising that he wouldn’t be able to get out of this that easily.

“What’s that then?“ Jenny asked.  

“You spoke of a child. Not the Timeless Child, the message I gave to the Professor, but an actual child… the Doctor’s child?“ Dorium said slowly, making sure he had heard them right. It shed a completely different light on things if it were true.

“The Professor was pregnant when she left Darillium chasing after the information you provided.“ Vastra replied pointedly. It didn’t serve to keep him in the dark but she also didn’t feel like sharing the Doctor’s personal affairs with him in great detail.

“The child was kidnapped. That’s why we’re here.“ Jenny explained more patiently than her wife.

“And you believe the same person that had me pass information to Professor Song is also behind the kidnapping.“ Dorium frowned, connecting the dots.

“The Master, yes.“ Yaz put in. That subject, at least, was one on which she could speak with some authority. She had met the Master and he seemed cruel and clever enough to be behind this, should he really have escaped death.

“And you’re sure of that?“ Dorium retorted with a frown.

“You yourself gave the description of the man.“ Yaz retorted. “And it sounded an awful lot like him.“

“It’s just… the last time a child was kidnapped…“ Dorium glanced to Vastra who lowered her gaze, recalling what he was referring to. “Am I the only one who feels like history is repeating itself?“

“How so?“ Yaz asked, looking around the room.

“The day Mr. Maldovar lost his body was the day that Doctor went after another stolen child. The child of their best friends…“ Vastra took it upon herself to explain. It was about time the caught Yaz up on key events of the Doctor’s past.

“She’s not dead, you know, Madame Kovarian.“ Dorium threw in.

“She has no power now. The Order of the Silence has disbanded. The Church stood with the Doctor at Tranzelore.“ Vastra shook her head, refusing to believe what he was inferring. Madame Kovarian’s plan to kill the Doctor had failed and the Order of the Silence hadn’t been heard of in a long time.

“A fanatic like Kovarian doesn’t just go away. Her obsession and anger just festers…“ Dorium carried on. “And what better way to take revenge than by taking the child of River Song herself…“

“I’m afraid you will have to fill me in on this…“ Yaz felt at a loss again. “Does the Doctor really have so many enemies?“ Having enemies seemed to come with the territory for the Doctor but neither the Cybermen nor the Daleks seemed the type to kidnap a child. The Master seemed to fit the brief a lot more but Yaz hadn’t considered that there were any number of past foes of the Doctor’s that could also be involved.

“There are a great many people out there who would do unspeakable things to hurt the Doctor.“ Vastra retorted bitterly.

“But to use a child…“ Yaz shook her head. The Master was without a doubt a lunatic so she could imagine it, but any sane person would surely draw the line at using someone’s child.

“It’s Kovarian’s modus operandi.“ Dorium couldn’t help but point out.

“A long time ago, the Doctor travelled with Amy Pond and Rory Williams. A lovely couple. Kind. Courageous…“ Vastra gave a little smile as she remembered the Ponds fondly. “The Doctor’s greatest weakness have always been the people they love… Amy was pregnant and the Order of the Silence kidnapped her, lead by the fanatic that is Madame Kovarian. The Doctor raised an army to get her back.“

“You were part of that army?“ Yaz looked to Dorium who gave a wary smile.

“We all were.“ Jenny interjected.

“A glorious battle! I very nearly met my demise.“ Strax stated, gratified at the memory. “What a disappointment when I woke up two days later…“ He added grumpily.

“I can see why you feel like history is repeating itself…“ Yaz nodded slowly. “Did you succeed?“

“Amy had her daughter while imprisoned by the Silence. Melody, she called her, Melody Pond.“ Vastra carried on. “And there was a battle: the battle for Demon’s Run.“

“Demons run when a good man goes to war.“ Dorium mumbled, the words still haunting him.

“The Doctor is a good man… woman, I mean…“ Yaz felt the need to point out.

“No doubt about that.“ Vastra nodded but with a bittersweet smile. “But their hubris got the better of them. Kovarian tricked them. We saved Amy but the child remained with Kovarian and they took her away…“

“What happened to her?“ Yaz’s eyes widened in shock. She couldn’t imagine the Doctor failing to save the child.

“She went to prison.“ Strax announced.

“Strax.“ Jenny shot him a glare and he huffed:

“Sorry, I got ahead of myself.“

“She was raised by the Silence and trained to be an assassin, her one purpose was to kill the Doctor.“ Vastra revealed.

“They raised a child to be a weapon?“ Yaz shook her head in disbelief.

“A most effective one.“ Vastra gave a sad smile.

“And did she…? I mean… the Doctor is still alive so… what happened to Melody? In the end?“ Yaz wasn’t sure whether she wanted to know the answer. She so badly wanted there to be a happy ending to the story but it seemed unlikely.

“She grew up and instead of killing the Doctor, she fell in love with them. Melody Pond became River Song.“ Vastra smiled at how wonderful a turn of events it had been. Tragic yes. And it didn’t undo all the pain any of them had been through, but something good had come out of it in the end.

Yaz didn’t know what to say. That was not the answer she had expected but somehow, it seemed to make perfect sense. River was a time traveller, too; and the Doctor had said how their timelines were running in complex patterns. Of course the Doctor’s wife was something extraordinary in herself. They seemed to suit each other just fine and despite everything, Yaz smiled at how extraordinary a tale it was. The lost child, the would be assassin, to become their wife. In many ways, it seemed like a fairy tale.

“She did go to prison though…“ Strax huffed, intent on making his point.

“She took the blame for the Doctor’s supposed death and went to prison but that’s just one of the examples of the length to which they will do for each other.“ Vastra conceded.

“But her parents… did they…“ Yaz couldn’t imagine what the parents must have gone through.

“They didn’t get to raise their child, no. They came to know her well and spent a lot of time with her but at the end of the day, they still lost their child…“ Vastra gave a sad smile.

“We can’t let that happen to the Doctor, we can’t!“ Yaz exclaimed, as she understood. The Doctor had seen the pain at the loss of a child in her best friends, it was no wonder she couldn’t think clearly. She was beginning to understand why the Doctor was acting the way she was. History was repeating itself and they couldn’t allow that to happen.

“I fully agree.“ Vastra nodded, as did the others.

“But you can see why taking their child would be the perfect revenge for someone like Madame Kovarian.“ Dorium mused.

“We can’t discount that possibility…“ Vastra admitted thoughtfully. So far, they had no evidence one way or another. All they could do was follow all possible leads until one paid off.

“I shall make some enquires…“ Dorium decided. He knew she wasn’t going to be let of the hook so he might as well get on with it. “If you wouldn’t mind getting me a neuro transmitter to pair to the shuttles communication equipment, in the drawer to your left…“ Strax followed his instruction and retrieved the item. “So annoying, I was gonna have the chip for instant control of this ship implanted next week…“ Dorium sighed. Dreadful timing.

“I shall leave you to make your enquires, Mr. Maldovar. I fear I may require a lie down, I don’t think I’m quite myself yet…“ Vastra nodded and stood slowly, feeling exhausted.

“This way, Ma’am.“ Jenny looped her arm around her and lead her further into the shuttle.

Strax supplied Dorium with a little chip that he attached to his temple before returning to his apparent favourite activity: searching the shuttle for anything that could be used as a weapon. There was no way of knowing what might come in handy, he’d insisted.

They left Yaz to ponder what she had just learned. She found a seat by the window, stars rushing past so quickly she couldn’t make them out. So she stared into the emptiness of deep space. Learning about the Doctor’s past was painful. She couldn’t even begin to understand what she had been through. It certainly cast her behaviour in a a different light. She could only hope they would succeed where the Doctor had failed in the past.

——

The TARDIS

The TARDIS landed on Gallifrey with it’s usual wheezing and groaning and somewhere in the back of the Doctor’s mind, River scolded her for leaving the breaks on. Thousands of years worth of habit weren’t corrected as easily as that. The memory made her smile, despite herself. She flicked on a monitor and scanned the outsides to see whether the death particle had rendered the planet uninhabitable or if its effects had dispersed. It appeared to be the latter as the TARDIS couldn’t detect anything that would be harmful to her.

She didn’t step outside straight away. She wasn’t quite prepared to face Gallifrey again just yet. It wasn’t just the destruction she had left in her wake, or the prospect of finding the Master - dead or alive. It was the painful memories of both the recent and the very distant past. Stalling for time, the Doctor decided to put on a fresh shirt as she was starting to feel uncomfortable in her sweaty, sticky clothes.

The Doctor hadn’t used her bedroom in over nineteen years, since before her imprisonment by the Juddoon. She hadn’t exactly had time for a lie down whilst fighting the Daleks upon her return. She’d barely had had a moment to breath, let alone sleep. Thankfully, Time Lords didn't require much sleep as she used to point out to River. She corrected herself in her own mind. It wasn’t that Time Lords didn’t require much sleep… whatever species she was didn’t require it… Or should she continue referring to herself as a Time Lord and just adjust her viewpoint that the people of Gallifrey weren’t? Had they just been poor imitations of what a Time Lord should be? She shook her head to herself, clearing her mind. She was distracting herself with things that were entirely inconsequential.

She found her bedroom the way she had left it: A mess. She stepped over books, clothes and empty custard creams packets on her way to the wardrobe. The content of the wardrobe itself was the oddest collection of clothes one could have imagined. There were shirts and jumpers dotted with question marks, various three piece suits, capes, leather jackets and blazers, long coats in all shapes and sizes, scarfs, bow ties, hats, braces… The Doctor stalled her flicking through when she found a green dress. They weren’t just her clothes. The Doctor pushed it aside and carried on, but there was the suit she’d worn on Darillium, the Stetson River had put a hole through, River’s Melody Malone trench coat… Tears blurred the Doctor’s vision. She had kept her emotions concerning River locked away so neatly all that time and everything was boiling to the surface. She missed her so much. She was furious with her for leaving Darillium when she did, particularly keeping the secrets she had, but there was so much love too. So much longing. The had worked through her grief in the years since Darillium. She had locked the painful feelings away, and now, the loss of her love hurt more keenly than ever before.

The Doctor took a deep breath and grabbed a change of clothes. Her emotional state would only get worse if she delayed.

The trousers were a bit long, but she stuffed them into the tops of her boots. The shirt fitted surprisingly well, she had been stick-thin a few regenerations back, all she had to do was turn the sleeves up. Braces were braces, they didn’t get sweaty so she kept them. She contemplated the bow tie but decided against it. Perhaps that would be going a bit far. She took comfort in the familiar clothes. The shirt she’d worn the first time she had met River in the Library, the trousers that still had sand from the beach of Lake Silencio in its pockets… She was just about to grab what River had like to refer to as a magician’s coat when the TARDIS interrupted: It came to life around her, humming and wheezing, demanding her attention. Colour drained from the Doctor’s face as she bolted from her bedroom, down the corridor towards the control deck. She had made a grave mistake.

——

Sheffield, 2021

“Did we really have to go right now?“ Graham looked to Kate who was driving. She had insisted they pack the essential right away so they could get going.

“Well, it’s a four-and-a-half-hour drive and I would like to sleep in my own bed tonight. Well, I say my own bed… it’s been home for a few months now.“ The former UNIT chief answered as she indicated and pulled onto the motorway. “But we really can’t take the risk of hanging around. We don’t have time to lose.“

“Where are we going?“ Ryan asked looking out of the window, well-lit Meadowhall shrunk away in the distance.

“UNIT officially doesn’t exist anymore so we can’t use their bases or equipment, it would be too easy to find us if activity was detected, but we can’t do completely without resources. There have been other organisations dealing with the extraterrestrial that have closed down as well, there are bases all over the UK if you know where to look.“ Kate explained focusing on the road ahead.

“Four and half hours… London?“ Graham asked, looking outside as well. That wouldn’t be right. They were heading north on the M1.  

“No, other direction, we’re going to Glasgow.“ Kate revealed with a smile.

“Okay, this is not what I expected…“ Graham looked out of the window as they pulled up at their destination. It was the middle of the night but it was a clear one. The moon provided enough light to outline the surrounding area.

“You should know not to judge a book by its cover by now.“ Kate smile, amused, as they got out of the car. They found themselves in a parking lot not far from the River Clyde. The area seemed rough, there weren’t any people around. “This way, gentlemen.“ She called over her shoulder as she marched up to an abandoned warehouse and opened up a rushy looking panel on the wall.

“That’s a bit more like it.“ Ryan mumbled to Graham as he spotted the hand print reader that didn’t look rusty at all.

“Nothing like a good disguise. It’s not a chameleon circuit but it does the trick.“ Kate pressed her hand to the pad and the door slid opened. They stepped into what looked like an empty warehouse and this time, Graham and Ryan knew not to comment until Kate had revealed the next level of security. “Just over there, the elevator.“

“You have to be kidding me.“ Graham shook his head to himself. The elevator, if it could be called that, was a metal cage that looked a good fifty years old. It didn’t exactly look safe.

“I’m sure you’ve experienced worse with the Doctor.“ Kate pointed out as she got inside.

“I suppose that’s true.“ Ryan huffed. The got in the lift and Kate pressed the button to send them down. Wherever down was. The elevator stuttered a little, then it went through what looked like two rings of light and suddenly, the brittle metal around them transformed to sleek carbon alloy. The warehouse disappeared from view as they sped towards their destination.

“Woah…“ Ryan didn't know what else to say as the cart ground to a halt and they found themselves in a sort of air lock. This was not what they had expected to find below a riverside warehouse in a dodgy area of Glasgow.

“Where are we?“ Graham asked as the airlock opened, rolling aside to grant them passage.

“This, gentlemen, is Torchwood Two.“ The stepped into what looked like a vast laboratory. It was like a whole building under ground. There was an entrance area, a corridor with rooms shooting off it, most of the walls were made of glass and allowed them to scan the impressive underground structure. There were stairs going downward too and some more leading up again. It wasn’t unlike stepping out of the TARDIS and finding yourself on an advanced alien planet.

“Torchwood? Isn’t that where what’d-his-face used to…“ Ryan started but was interrupted:

“Welcome home, Chief!“ A voice boomed down the corridor as none other than Jack Harkness stuck his head out of what appeared to be the kitchen. He saluted, as he always did, with great enthusiasm. “Oh, I don’t know which one of you to kiss first, come here you two, I’ve missed you!“ He grinned at Ryan and Graham.

“Steady on, Captain.“ Kate smirked and Jack settled for tight hugs.

“Careful with the wandering hands.“ Another female and distinctly Welsh voice sounded rather amused.

“You obviously know Captain Jack Harkness.“ Kate chuckled. “And this is Agent Gwen Cooper.“ She gestured towards a brunette that made her way towards them. Gwen gave a little wave.

“Nice to meet you.“ She greeted them with a warm smile as she joined them at the entrance. “Glad to have all the help we can get.“

“This is awesome, I had no idea we have places like this on Earth.“ Ryan was still in awe, looking around.

“No-one is supposed to know. UNIT has several places like this but they would be too tightly guarded. The Torchwood Institute disbanded quite a long time ago now.“ Kate explained patiently as they started making their way down the main corridor. “With Torchwood One and Three destroyed and Four missing, Two was our best bet. It had been shut down but we’ve done our best to revive it.“

——

The Library, 52nd Century

“What are you doing here?“ Anita found her voice and she addressed the woman who had appeared with the child. The woman didn’t respond, she didn’t seem to have heard her at all, she just carried on with her work. “Hello?“ Anita walked around them and waved her arms but no reaction from either her, or the child.

“This is a memory.“ River realised as she looked around. She watched, fascinated and horrified in equal measures as time seemed to skip ahead. The examinations, experimentations and tests continued but the child changed!

“Are they experimenting on children?“ Anita exclaimed in shock but River started to slowly shake her head. As they watched, things were started to make sense to her.

“Not children… child. It’s all the same child, just regenerated…“ Her Time Lord like senses told her as much.

“The Timeless Child?“ Anita felt like she was finally catching on.

“I was wrong, I was so very wrong.“ River mumbled feeling incredibly stupid all of a sudden. “We’re not talking about my child, not at all. This is the long distant past on Gallifrey, this…“

She watched mortified as the woman injected herself with the result of her work and suddenly, she regenerated. She had created the ability to regenerate, using the child!

“River, what is happening?“ Anita stepped closer to River again. Why were they seeing this?

“I saw glimpses of this when I was in the Matrix.“ River realised. “This is a Time Lord’s memory. A very old and most likely very well hidden memory…“

“But what is it doing here?!“ Anita’s voice was turning more anxious and River could feel it too. Something was very wrong. Were they still in the Library computer or had they been transported somewhere? Surely, they had to still be in the computer, they had no bodies in the real world; but something was very wrong indeed. Maybe some sort of virus? But why was it reflecting her own memories. Was she making it happen? “River, what’s going on?“

“I don’t know…“ River admitted weakly, her head spinning.

“River?“ The looked around to see CAL who had suddenly appeared inside the lab with them.

“What is it, CAL? Did something happen to the core, is there a malfunction or…“ River felt better for seeing her. It confirmed that they were still in the Library but the look on the young girl’s face was disconcerting. “Are you creating this?“

“No.“ The girl shook her head. “Are you?“

“I don’t know. I was just thinking about this but… everything that’s happening now, I didn’t see before. It’s new.“ She turned back to find the scene suddenly paused. They seemed to have reached the end of the memory.

“You said the Matrix was similar to this computer…“ Anita seemed to feel a little better when the memory stopped playing. “Maybe that’s why…“

Suddenly, CAL went very pale. She looked around, her eyes staring into nothingness, like she was looking beyond the artificial world they were in.

“Someone is in the Library.“ She said fearful. She had noticed too late, she had let her guard down in the peaceful world she had created.

“Are you sure?“ River didn’t know whether to be unsettled or excited. Who could have come to the Library? Who would have known to come and where to look and how to get in? As curious and disturbing the change to the virtual reality was, she couldn’t help but hope that maybe, the Doctor had come to find her. “Who is it?“ She asked quickly. “Is it the Doctor? Did he do this?“

“Oh no, actually, that would have been me.“

The voice was unfamiliar and yet, somehow, River recognised it. Regeneration could be funny like that.

[phantomphangphucker]

Ectober Day 4: Illusions - A Fairy Tale Town

Danny always needed to become Phantom, for everyone’s sake. And the Observants knew this well, so they made sure he would be exactly what they needed and wanted.

The Observants remember the day clearly, the day a human child opened a portal into their realm. Subsequently dying instantly, yet only halfway. The very fabric of the Ghost Realm had shook with shock and the boys' screams had filled every inch of the Realm. The hole that was torn sucked in ectoplasm like a massive black hole, bombarding the boy with ectoplasmic energy. Creating the world's second halfa and the start of a heroes career, protecting his human town and the humans in it.

...Or that’s how the story goes, what everyone believes to be true. And that’s what they have to believe, for the town’s sake, for Phantom’s sake, for the Realms sake.

And most of the story is indeed true. They boy truly was a halfa, and a hero. But what the Observants covered up, made sure not even Phantom knew, was that the portal he created had pulled in so much ectoplasmic energy that it had enveloped and killed the entire town. In an instant pulling the whole place into the Ghost Realm. Every single human, animal, plant, and insect becoming ghosts due to the massive shock of pure ectoplasmic energy. It had thrown the geography of the Realm askew and created a massive new pocket in the Realm.

But they had seen this coming, knew it would happen. So they had prepared, made sure the area where the town would merge into their Realm, was closed off and empty. Dubbing it the Barren Lands, and warding other ghosts away from the place. When the town finally did appear, the portal the boy activated became the only access point between the Barren Lands and the rest of the Ghost Realm.

ClockWork had come to them then, knowing this was going to happen as well as they did. ClockWork had done their job, freezing the town in time. Ensuring not a single of Amity’s ghosts ever actually saw or realised they were ghosts. While the Observants did their duty. Casting glamours on everyone and everything, returning it to how it looked before death. Sealing away any powers, hiding the ecto-signatures, making their ectoplasm mimic human blood and organs, heartbeats, pulses, brainwaves. They did this for everything and everyone, except the young halfa. Who by his very impossible nature, would be too unstable to dare mess with. But it was far more than that.

The Observants knew, had seen, who he’d become. Phantom, the High King of ghosts. The most powerful, but irrevocably merciful, ghost to ever exist. The trials and errors he needed to experience. And the sad truth was, he couldn’t experience those without being a hero and protector to his ‘humans’.

Because in truth, there was nothing truly wrong with letting the entire town exist in its natural ghostly state. The Realm was more than used to adjusting to massive influxes and geography changes. Especially with the prep work having been done. But then Phantom wouldn’t grow to be who and what he needed to be. What they needed him to be. What both Realms needed him to be.

He wouldn’t have grown the be adored as a hero and protector. He wouldn’t have learned how to hide and lie. He wouldn’t have learned how to battle and provide first aid. He wouldn’t have been given all the hardships. He wouldn’t have learned to deal with hunters. He wouldn’t have had to fight battles alone or believe that everything relied on him. Because, in the end, everything did rely on him becoming Phantom. Not just another ghost. Without all the lessons he wouldn’t be Phantom. He’d just be Danny the halfa, as average as any full ghost outside of his biology. If the town’s folk knew they were ghosts, that the whole town was dead, and thusly knew Danny was a halfa. He would have been much more of an outcast and he never would have felt like a wolf surrounded by sheep.

So they built an illusion for him, his own private world in the form of a small town and it’s people. Procured something for him to protect, something to keep him tied to his humanity. A little habitat to hide away in, and to hide himself from. A stage for him to struggle on, with an audience intentionally made unable to help much. Because heroes are built-in storybooks, fabricated by writers always looking to the future for the best end result. And suffering heroes make for the strongest ones.

They made sure this illusion worked in all directions as well, not wanting to risk any ghosts finding the truth or knowing what they had done. As far as the rest of the Ghost Realm knew, Amity was a human town in the Mortal Realm filled with humans and their one halfa protector.

So the boy went about his half-life none the wiser. Learning, growing and being guided into who he would become. And they all made a decision, that the boy was to never ever know. That the blame of killing off the whole town instead of just himself would destroy him. Being indirectly responsible for just six deaths was enough to break him. So this being discovered could not be allowed.

That, however, had left them with a problem. The ghosts made ‘human’ would eventually have to ‘die’. Of course, if any of them ‘died’ non-natural deaths that would be bad for the development of the future High King. So they had allowed the ‘humans’ to retrain a ghosts heightened durability. Able to handle legs getting crushed in lockers without sustaining broken bones. Buildings coming down on them with nothing but scratches. Ensuring everyone would ‘die’ of old age or sickness. At which point an Observant would take the ghost to be relocated into the Ghost Realm proper. Never telling them of the fact that they had actually been dead for a while. Not only would telling them the truth risk the town and Phantom finding out. But informing someone they’ve been dead for a while and were forced not to know it, well that was a level of cruelty they’d rather not stoop to.

Of course, there were other issues, humans liked to travel and logically some of the ‘humans’ would move out of town. Which is why they made it so that any of the Amity ghosts would be subtly transported to the Mortal Realm if they went far enough out of Amity’s/the Barren Lands territory. They would inevitably mistake the need to return to the Ghost Realms ectoplasm rich environment for homesickness. Returning to Amity either periodically or permanently. By the same logic, humans could easily visit the town, never knowing they were actually in the Ghost Realm.

But one thing the Observants couldn’t truly do away with was that all ghosts had ghostly nature, it was unavoidable. Resulting in all of the Amity ‘humans’ being strange and intense to actual humans. The Amity people seemed to pass this off as the ‘charm of small-town people’ and ‘being so used to ghost attacks has made us too weird for the rest of the world to handle’. They never came off weird to each other, since ghost nature wasn’t strange to other ghosts. Also insuring that no one noticed any of Phantom’s ghostly behaviour. Sure that was also partly because the Observants had placed a glamour over their eyes, making them unable to make the visual connection between Phantom and Fenton and never noticing his transformations or power usage. Only those that Phantom himself deeply wished to know stood a chance of ever finding out, under normal rules of reality anyway. Of course, if Danny actually saw anyone seeing him transform then they would indeed see it, since logically they should. But overall, his secret was perfectly protected regardless of how obvious it generally was.

There had been some problems of course. Most notably because the town was very much Phantom’s lair, meaning he had a level of control over it that he simply would not have if Amity was still alive and not part of the Ghost Realm. But as expected, Phantom passed it off as one of the weird aspects of being a halfa. And since he knew he shouldn’t have much control over a human town, his body subconsciously suppressed altering the town or its inhabitants. Effectively reinforcing the illusion. Just one of the many aspects of Phantom that was just endlessly helpful.

There had been plenty of close calls, Pariah and Freakshow being the worst. But thankfully both had caused too much chaos for anyone to realise that some of the things that were happening, shouldn’t be. They knew that would be the case but they still worried, still fretted that their elaborate game, the story they had weaved for the young boy, would come apart at the seams. But these were also the most vital things he needed to experience. Needed to see acceptance from his family, needed to fight back against his own mind being controlled by outside forces, needed to earn the right to rule. So it had to happen and they had to watch, filled with trepidation all the while.

Eventually, they grew rather comfortable to leave the town and Phantom to his devices, feeling content and comfortable in the growing prince and his fairytale storybook lair. Where everyone and everything wore the mask of life, with only him being left untouched and true to what he really was.

ClockWork, meanwhile, waits for the day when Daniel’s power will inevitably surpass that of even the Observants as a collective whole. When their fabricated reality can’t touch him anymore. He’ll be strong enough to handle the blow by then and the truth is something he deserves. Now the Observants don’t know, of course not, they would try to stop it if they did. Since Daniel’s most likely future actively and explicitly involved him not finding out. But there were far more where he did find out and ClockWork had no issues manipulating and altering things here and there to ensure he would find out the truth. Just when he was ready.

Which is why ClockWork had let Daniel go back in time, to ‘fix’ Vlad’s ectoacne without any kind of real instructions. It had altered what the Observants could see of Daniel’s future and it secured his path. When they had found out how his future had changed, they had tried to force ClockWork’s hand. To not let Phantom go into the past, only for them the be shown that Daniel’s two friends would die subsequently. Which definitely could not be allowed to happen. Of course, ClockWork could have simply told Daniel to just observe not interfere. But there was no way ClockWork was going to let the Observants in on that information.

But for now, ClockWork will guide and teach Daniel. Prepare him for his future and provide the level of support and understanding only a near endlessly powerful Ancient ghost could provide. While Daniel went through the pages of his story, to rise at the end as not only a hero but a king of kings. Eventually shattering the illusions and stepping into reality in full, pulling Amity along with him. It’s ghosts granted their true forms and earned abilities, given their rightful place as the closest and direct subjects of the High King of Ghost.  

End.

[imaginejamesandsirius]

Hiya! I'm not sure if I'm doing this write but here's a prompt I was going to write but got too lazy: Sirius going into Slytherin, either because he can't talk the sorting hat out of it or he owes it to Regulus or something and then James goes into Slytherin too because of Sirius. It can be as long or short as you want, really you don't have too. Thank you so much! I love Imagine James And Sirius

((Note: Black-typical child abuse references))

The younger Potters’ house, a small stone built cottage, comfortable for three, or five at most, sitting snugly in Aberdeenshire countryside not so far from the Potter Manse, is filled to bursting with guests, all there to celebrate Harry’s thirteenth birthday. Most of them are packed into the living room, perched on the arms of chairs and sitting in small heaps on the floor, and many are laughing at a story Fred and George Weasley have just finished telling about their misadventures with a ghoul. It’s a new story for Harry, and he laughs until he ribs hurt.

His dads are both smiling at him fondly, James from in front of the fireplace, a glass of firewhisky in his hand and looking strikingly like Fleamont with the flames throwing shadows over his dark brown skin, and Sirius from the floor at his feet, head thrown back to look up at him, his grey eyes full of mirth. Harry likes seeing them like this, happy and without restraint, but it doesn’t stop the groan leaving his mouth when Hermione sees the affectionate glances they share and decides to ask;

“How did you meet, Mr. Potter?”

Neither seem sure who she’s asking, but that has never stopped either of them. It’s a tale Harry has heard so many times before, and James always starts it the way he does now.

“Well, Hermione, you see, everyone always thinks we met on the Hogwarts Express, like yourself and Ron and Harry, or at the moments after our Sortings, but it was not some meeting of eyes across a train carriage or a crowed Great Hall, and knowing we’d found our forever best friends. We met before that. My parents liked to take me to parties they thought would be beneficial to me, so I would know some my classmates, and it was at Regulus’s-”

Here he pauses to wink at his brother in law, like Hermione might not recognise him, despite the uncanny similarity he has to Sirius. Regulus rolls his eyes, having heard this even more times than Harry, and goes back to drinking his wine.

“Seventh birthday party, I think, eighth maybe, that I met Sirius. And yes, I did know I’d marry him someday.”

“But Mr. Potter-”

“Call him James, Hermione, otherwise it gets confusing.”

“Yes Mr. Potter – I mean Sirius. But weren’t you only nine or ten?”

“Absolutely,” James says with a grin, and continues his story.

He did not know the quiet boy with the mischievous glint in his pretty grey eyes would one day be his husband, but looking back, James could say he wanted it, even then.

The night was cold and dark, the stars twinkling high in the sky like crystals thrown wide, stuck there eternally. James looked at them and pulled his heavy woollen cloak closer as he and his parents made their way up to the imposing door to number 12 Grimmauld Place. He had no idea why Euphemia and Fleamont were making him go, why they were even going themselves; he’d heard them complain on more than one occasion that the Blacks were awful blood purists and racists to boot. Yet they’d insisted there would be many children here tonight that would be in James’s year at school, children he should get to know sooner rather than later, and so here they were, despite James’s protests.

The front door swung open just as Fleamont’s knuckles made to knock, the woman behind it wearing a fake smile nearly as obvious as her deep red lipstick. By her side was a small boy, dark and sullen looking, half hiding behind his long black hair and half behind his mother. James smiled at him, his lumos smile Euphemia called it, bright enough to lift a whole room. The boy shot him a dirty look, full of sneering disgust, and James could only hope this was the birthday boy and not the brother he’d may or may not be sharing a dormitory with in the near future.

“Good evening, Mr. Potter, Mrs. Potter. And this must be little James!” Mrs. Black welcomed them, her tone as false and bright as her smile. James’s parents smiled back, equally fake and James found himself wondering yet again why they’d come here.

Once inside, an old house elf, twisted and gnarled like an ancient tree, look their cloaks and immediately vanished with them, muttering something about foreign blood under his breath. Affronted, James looked to his parents, but they were still exchanging pleasantries with the Blacks and hadn’t noticed the rude little elf. As long as the older brother wasn’t as sullen as the younger – Regulus, he remembered suddenly – nor as subversive as the elf.

As his parents talked and talked, and Regulus hid further and further into his mother’s skirts, James took the time to look around the house. It wasn’t anything like the Manse, not with its enormous stair ways and wide halls, but looking up the staircase, James guessed it might be of a similar size overall, he couldn’t even see where the stairs ended, up and up, round and round. His eyes followed the banister, trying to find the end, and instead, near what James could only assume had to be the very top of the stairs, he found a face looking down at him, nearly identical to the ones in front of him, except for in place of derision, there was an emotion James knew far better; mischief.

The shark’s grin on his sharp, surprisingly pretty, face was unmistakable even from such distance as he lifted what looked like some kind of ball, heavy and wobbly like jelly over the banister. He caught sight of James, pointed towards the ball, and winked. He knew where this was going and flattened himself against the wall by the stairs, hitting his head on some knife edged plaque, displaying what he thought might be a house elf’s head. The boy on the stairs, who could only be Sirius, dropped the ball silently and hid down behind the banister as it fell, almost in slow motion, towards the dark green carpet.

Walburga Black let out a scream of rage like no other James had ever heard as the ball exploded upon impact with the ground, releasing a wave of foul smelling green slime that splattered Mrs. Black, the whole hallway, and many of her guests, drowning out the sound of his laughter. Any humour he might have felt, and he’d felt rather a lot of it, vanished with the sound, and the look of fury that twisted Walburga’s face, dark grey eyes immediately going to exactly where Sirius had been standing. Most of the guests were making horrified noises themselves, trying to wipe slime from their robes and hair and glasses; they all stopped at the sound of Mrs. Black screaming her elder son’s name.

“Walburga,” Mr. Black hissed, “Do not cause a scene.” He went back to making placating noises at his guests, saying how sorry he was, how much of accident it must have been, but all eyes were on Mrs. Black now as she positively flew up the stairs.

James had expected to dislike the Blacks, even to hate them, but he hadn’t expected the fear that gripped him as it did then the closer Walburga got to her elder son. He had never even spoken to the other boy, yet somehow he felt the need to protect him from his mother’s rage, a need he would find would never go away.

“Mum,” he said, almost a whisper, certainly desperate. Euphemia looked at him, covered from head to toe in dark green as she was, and there was irritation in her face, but also understanding. She shook her head.

The party ended not long after that, though Cygnus managed to clean everyone and everything with just a command to his house elf, supremely apologetic and offering everyone, including James a large glass of champagne to wash off the memory. The Potters might even have stayed had Walburga not come down the stairs moments later, looking completely unruffled bar the small stain of blood on her left sleeve.

James thought of Sirius often after that, though it was a long time before he saw him again. He thought of the mischievous grin, the pretty face, the almond shaped eyes now he couldn’t remember the colour of; were they brown, blue? Hazel, likes James? He couldn’t remember much, except that he wanted to see him again.

The McKinnon’s Christmas parties were legendary, or so Fleamont decided when he announced they would be attending the affair one afternoon in the early winter before James turned eleven. He’d been to plenty pureblood parties since the one for Regulus’s birthday and now, and yet he’d never once seen Sirius again, much to his disappointment. He’d heard his name plenty times though, in the whisperings of other children and parents. The party had left the Blacks veritable pariahs, what with the mess they’d made, and the overreaction of Walburga, but the wedding of Bellatrix Black and Rodolpus Lestrange had managed to lessen the effects somewhat, and James was finally getting his chance to see Sirius again. Euphemia and Fleamont both seemed a little perplexed by their son’s reaction to getting to see a boy he had never technically met, yet they said nothing.

The ballroom at the McKinnon’s town house was decorated all in gold and green, matching the dress Mrs. McKinnon wore when she led them into the room. There was so much to look at from the enormous tree with tiny green fairies fluttering about it to the small gaggle of children at the top end of the room, most familiar now from all the parties. Marlene was there looking pretty as ever in a glittery gold dress that matched her hair, but James’s eyes skittered over her and the other children there.

Grey. Sirius’s eyes were grey, James realised when his gaze landed on the other boy. He didn’t even realise he was walking towards him, grin on his face, until he was before the other boy, holding out his hand.

“I’m James Potter.”

Sirius raised his eyebrows, amusement clear in his eyes, but took James hand anyway and shook it once. “Sirius Black.”

“I know. I saw you at your brother’s party.”

Sirius grinned at the mention of the party. “That was good wasn’t it. I remember your face.”

“Your dad gave me champagne,” James told him.

Sirius rolled his eyes exaggeratedly but his grin stayed in place. “He does that. Wanna see if we can make the tree fairies start screaming?”

The boy Sirius had been talking to balked at that, his mouth opening and shutting like a goldfish stuck in a too-small bowl. “I-I-Well I don’t think you should-”

“Maybe if we spin them?” James asked, and led the way over to the tree, glancing over his shoulder to check Sirius was following.

They did manage to get the fairies to scream, and to turn all the green baubles red, and to make the tinsel slither around the guests throats like snakes. After the look of rage on Walburga’s face when a tinsel snake wrapped a touch too tight around her neck, the two boys ran as fast as their gangly legs would carry them out the ballroom, down a spiral set of stairs and out into the garden, cold biting at James’s cheeks as soon as he set foot outside. For a moment they stood still and silent in the dark garden until a burst of laughter bubbled from Sirius’s lips.

His laugh was deep and throaty, and James decided then it was the best sound he would ever hear. He couldn’t help they way he joined in until they were both gasping for breath, gripping onto each other’s shoulders.

“Did you see mum’s face?” Sirius asked between bursts of laughter. “She’s gonna be so angry.”

“Not as angry as the fairies!”

“Or indeed the McKinnons.” The sound of his father’s voice didn’t stop James’s laughter, yet suddenly Sirius was standing straight, no humour in his face, only defiance.

“Who’re you?” Sirius snapped, glaring at Fleamont.

“That’s my dad,” James said when he’d collected himself enough.

“Indeed.” Fleamont’s eyes met Sirius’s for a moment, as if Sirius was sizing him up. Fleamont didn’t even look properly angry, just annoyed.

“James, we’re leaving.” He waved off James’s protests and ushered his son out the door, abandoning Sirius in the garden.

Just as they were getting ready to apparate home from the front of the house, Sirius appeared and grabbed James’s sleeve.

“Mum won’t let me go to any more parties now. You’ll be at Hogwarts with me though, I’ll see you there?”

The boy looked worried almost as he examined James’s face. Merlin’s beard, he really was so pretty.

“Of course, Sirius,” James said. “We’re friends.”

From that night, James and Sirius began to write to each other, and though they didn’t see each other again until they met on the Hogwarts Express, they quickly became close friends. They planned pranks and wrote of the Quidditch stars they’d be, of how they’d rule the world.

When it came to their Sorting, there was no doubting they’d be in the same house. Sirius would go first, being a Black, and James would follow him anywhere, same as Sirius would have.

The house shouted, “Slytherin,” nearly as soon as it touched Sirius’s head, and James had no fear when he sat on the stool.

“Want to be in Slytherin, ey?” the hat said in his ear. “All for that boy? Gryffindor would suit you better.”

“I want to be with Sirius.” James thought.

The hat laughed, all unsettling but shouted “Slytherin!” all the same.

Sirius grinned and hugged him tight when he slipped into the seat beside him.

“Told you we’d be together,” James told him. He’d known since they’d first met, of course.

James grins as finishes his story, stopping only briefly to press a kiss to Sirius’s lips. Harry rolls his eyes at their affecting.

“So you should’ve been in Gryffindor then, Mr. Potter?” Hermione asks. Harry has never thought about that before, about how his dad could’ve been in his house. Or maybe if he had been, Harry wouldn’t exist at all.

“Never,” his dad says. “I was meant to be where Sirius was.”

[myvoicenottheoneyougiveme]

1 of 3 Sept 4

[not talking about the person I work with and see every day, just FYI, though this last round of rage is certainly disconcerting... no it’s the pull me aside and tell me everything you believe I want to hear on top of some things yesterday that have been lobbed my way which I didn’t put much thought to at the time. And in that tell me what I might want to hear, true or not, it was the added bit to the overall theme since the other day, putting a gun to someone’s head. An “or else”. It was out of character, and even if I don’t like the guy (and he’s given me plenty of reason) who would be displaced, going that extra distance for effect as a play like the timing of some of these "encouragements”, it’s like what are you trying to say right now? On the whole over a long period of time a pattern seems to have emerged, and this breach has tipped me to wonder about a lot else. This was all set against the backdrop of my sentiment concerning what’s happening to me. Here, let’s be super encouraging and simultaneously “incept” a reason for you to not set your sights on wanting to sign on here in this line of work. Whatever the case, cause there’s always some angle, always some game being played (just a few other dots since them came in to actually reframe that exchange) the following stream of consciousness has got nothing to do with choice of job or career or what might be miserable or not about this or that. The problem I have, has got nothing to do with any of it or with anyone in particular but rather the person creating “this” “storm” in the first place in the blank spaces between people directly out of sight. It’s the “game” I have a problem with. It’s how not what. It’s the antithesis of communication. I’d refer back to that video about toxic relationships where coercive/manipulative ways of interacting create confusion. Actually post 3 of 3 incoming.]

From the edge of consciousness something has clicked and I am now awake 2-3 hours earlier than normal without actual incident or old attempt to simply deprive of sleep for god knows why...

And where I was at a moment “encouraged”, I now read the situation decidedly differently.

It’s low. It’s all of it so very very low. But still I know better than to blame any one person. ...You scream “to arms” or “crisis” or simply allow a thing to run its own course and maintain that you’re only here to “help things go right” while pretending to be very hands off.

Where do the lies end and the truth begins? And even with any actual standing with any one person or group of persons being in such a state of decay, it’s still far better than every new stranger you read into “this”. You still pretended to give a damn about the truth or finding the truth when I first came to this state. Every new person or group of persons or... you know it wasn’t the absolute destruction to isolate and control or to have me for yourself or whatever the hell you want to call “this”.

I’m getting closer to the point here and how you’ve adeptly completely sidestepped the issue to make it about something else and get the whole world to follow suit to further and deepen the schisms and create further dependence on you to “intervene” for the lot of us.

“Spit it out”, I, me, or anyone would say to me at this moment, but I’m completely taken back by this. But now I can reframe the instance in light of many other weird coincidences involving this person, and not know what’s bullshit and what’s not. ...I just, I’m at a loss for words. Am I someone you have to tell grandiose lies to? For what reason? “For what reason” might suggest an answer to what’s just happened. It’s the string from which I’ve reverse engineered the entire thing now, even going back months.

...Speechless, and not knowing what goes out the window with it. Do I even bother addressing what you’ve just managed to do here in the null spaces between everyone?

It’s no matter of pride or ego (as the story probably reads) as much as false hope or anywhere near as much ...believing that despite everything and all this time ...it’s got nothing to do with a job or careers or ...anything. Just a rapport, a relationship of sorts, what might have been “friend”, feels to me like something built of rotten wood that isn’t anything I once believed it to be.

And I suppose, I still suppose ...though quite faintly, whatever rotten state of decay anything is anymore, it’s nothing compared to every new person indoctrinated without my own person as a frame of original reference. And you sit there “ready to take me back”, after the world has been mean to me just like you planned it. [insert image]

After you’ve done your absolute best to destroy and burn down and leave ruin, you stand there around the corner or over top of me with a satisfied smile on your face, the kind of glee of someone in absolute control over a life and who is salivating at finally getting everything exactly the way she wants it. And he’ll crawl back to you, and you’ll live happily ever after. After you’ve broken him, his soul, his spirit, like an animal to be tamed, to be owned, you will finally have the horse you always wanted for your fairy tale ending.

...I don’t even know where to begin because it’s so large and spans so much time now. I’ve been touching the edges of it, but this deflection, this latest suggestion, it’s an adept sidestep, an evasion of responsibility, and a pinning on me as the one with a problem and how unfairly --how wrong I am to hold anyone responsible for the part played in what’s happening.

We’ve been round this block before. If the message was “if you don’t like it here, you can always go somewhere else” I didn’t think much of it because we’ve already been round this block before.

Truth is, I’ve never demanded or expected anything from anyone except the simplest of common decency. The actual problem however obscured now has been sidestepped and we’ve made this all about something completely different. Oh, how you’ve managed my life for me. Gonna tell me what I want. ...getting off track here. ...Off track, too many threads over too long a time involving too many instances and people.

I’ve never demanded or expected anything except common decency. Let’s just leave telling me what I want or what I can have or should have in life and a career and whatever else aside, ...that may sound misleading, but fact is there are multiple layers to this from many different directions. I made a resolved decision, for myself, cause I’m a big boy now, you came back with “why are you gonna do that if you don’t really want it?” I responded with “because it’s my best option, and seeing also how you’ve barred every other path forward or every other space I’ve ever tried to exist in, my own skin and own personal space for fuck’s sake, I don’t have time for aspirations. This is about survival”. I went on to say, “and what’s more... you know I’d do just about anything if it freed me from your grip.”  The unanimous callback was in essence, “if you’re so miserable here and feel so trapped, why pin all of your hopes on a make or break of any kind here at this institution?” adeptly sidestepping the actual issue at large, as though there were absolutely nothing wrong with what’s been done to me in my life for 11 years.

Too many layers and angles, I should just state where I stand and not try to address any of the implications and seeming attempts to make the real problem about anything other than what it’s about.

My life, is not my own. It’s hers. I have been enveloped. My lived experience of it, it’s an iron maiden. It’s a person shaped chamber with inward facing spikes or knives or protrusions. I can’t put it any simpler than that. ...And if I may zero in on it, your queen, our queen has made it abundantly clear to me ad nausuem that it doesn’t matter where I go, she will get there before I do.

What is my aspiration in life? What drives every decision I make? Taking back the life stolen from me in every way shape or form by whatever shred or scrap of it that I can.

You can’t just make this about me like what’s happening to me isn’t actually happening to me, while shoving off and evading any responsibility in the outcomes I’m ever reaching for to that end, that aspiration.

It doesn’t matter if it’s here, another school, another job, another state, another videogame, another show, another computer, another house, another room, something without networking capability, life out in the middle of nowhere where at least I know it’s physically impossible to follow stalk me digitally... It doesn’t matter where, it doesn’t matter who, “THIS“ will remain the same. What’s being done to me will remain the same.

I already moved across the country for a lot of good reasons but a plus being leaving all of “this” behind. “This” bled out like ink, like a stain, like blood on paper, corrupting and contaminating slowly but surely as you played more of a saint to work your way in initially. A helper, healer, whatever the hell, your aggression has always been proportional to the amount of power you feel you have. Always. When you feel like you’ve got the knife in, you can never help showing the glee with which you would twist it despite what you need to maintain in the mirror before your audience. Your civility and goodwill goes about as far as you feel you have to. Tentative, you have to make sure not to let it show through at least initially. Secured, the act gives out for what you’re actually here to do... aggrandize yourself at my expense and to exert power over me.

It doesn’t matter where I go. This is the literal translation. I mean let’s just refer to that one content creator who went out of his way to say it. Oh, man, these Skoolies these bus conversions are so cool. And as I really started to sink my teeth into the possibility of freedom from my present living situation, the message next was in essence, “this isn’t going to solve your problems.” “You can’t get away from your problems.” “You won’t solve anything with this lifestyle.” The lifestyle in question here was what most do with a “home” of this variety and that’s travel while working from “home”. Telling me what I’m actually trying to do or trying to tell me what I want, and then coming back with what was in word and has been 100% in action over the course of “this” the message to me...

it doesn’t matter where I go.

Every action ever taken is to send the message to me, that you’re in control, and it doesn’t matter where I go. It doesn’t matter what I do. Give up

Every action, every orchestration. Surrender. Surrender to you.

I already moved across the country and found “this” waiting for me, already here, but not initially. It happened in the blank spaces and slowly over time. You like a worm, eroding--consuming--weaving yourself into the ether.

You can’t now say there are lots of other places and opportunities and paths in life.

Places and opportunities are one thing, that’s the external--the world. Paths in life is internal, between self and state of being. Not only are you out there salivating, ready to wrap yourself around whatever you can like a great snake, but you’re in here, in my personal space ready to punish and exert control over my very being.

Everything you’ve ever done, everything, everything, everything, everything... has been to this end. This person or that person or you oh, Queen, you don’t get to come back now and shove it off onto me like I’m being unreasonable to hang all my hopes like “this” were a final stand. ...Because it is.

It doesn’t matter where I go. If it’s here or it’s there or somewhere else. “This” will remain the same. And if I ever thought “this” was bad with anyone that had an initial chance to see some shred of me apart from the person you paint of me, every new person, every new relationship, every new friendship, the verdict has already been cast. You’ve accelerated. You have accelerated the ways and the means and the number of strangers to whom I am nothing but what you say I am. Every new semester and class of peers has illustrated this absolutely. Where at one time you feigned “science” and people were given the chance to come to their own conclusions, those interactions went too well for me and you didn’t get the result you wanted. Some even completely rejected the shit you were trying to sell because they could see for themselves that you were full of it. You don’t allow that possibility anymore. They come armed for bear shooting from the hip from the first second as you probably say something along the lines of what a devious and crafty and manipulative person I am. It’s right back to master manipulator secret agent spy that can pull the wool over anyone’s eyes as you totally project that onto me despite that being everything you ever do here.  You don’t allow the possibility anymore, for me to ever seem or appear to be anything but what you want me to be. There is a narrative and it’s indoctrinated and drilled into a person before ever even meeting me now. And you’ve done everything you can since to corrupt and destroy whatever other connections I had made here with any of the tentative others who were read in while you were still feigning objectivity and even handedness in your “investigation”.

It doesn’t matter where I go. It doesn’t matter if it’s here, or somewhere else, another job, another career, a different place, different people, different personal space, different computer, air-gapped computer, ...you can’t now say as some kind of evasion of responsibility that there are lots of other places and opportunities and paths in life and that if I don’t like this or that or what you’re doing to me that I can just go somewhere else.

No. I can’t. I can’t go anywhere.

And I can’t aspire. I’m not even allowed the personal space to exist, much less feel anything anymore that isn’t absolutely shutting down in the face of a never-ending assault from every direction at the same time as though the purpose were to ensure destruction, much less allow the room to breathe even in the slightest.

How much more so the gauntlet with every new “jury” (as you all are to her in effect) than in a place where there still exists (at least I believed and am believing it less all the time) a measure of good will and (at least in terms of employability) where I’ve made a good impression or earned a reputation that becomes me in a particular line of work.

This is my final stand because “this” situation, the one where I am enveloped and owned by the god-queen, remains the same regardless of location, regardless of my own presence in my own shoes and in my own skin, and regardless of relationship (friendship, work, life, romantic, or generally).

How many times should I just start over? How much of my life do I have to surrender? How much has to be destroyed before I’m shown abundantly that it doesn’t matter what I do or where I go or who I meet, that “this”--she--is already there waiting for me more aggressive and more destructive all the time?

This fight, this stand, is every stand. And it’s the last. I hold no expectations about possible advancements or whatever ruses are on the menu today. I’m simply going to make decisions for myself to better myself and to put myself on firmer or more solid ground financially so as to secure greater independence at least in one small but large aspect of my life. If that’s remaining at my current station or finding a new door open up over here or over there, understand that every decision I’ve made has had one motivating factor, and it’s been to the securing or reestablishing of the simplest of basic human needs...

...the peace and safety of a home, in whatever form that may take. A place where when I shut the door for the night, a psycho stalker has not already invited themselves in. If I can’t have the simplest of basic human rights in this regard, to not be abused in this way in at least one small shred or space in my life... absolutely nothing else matters. Absolutely nothing else matters. The homeostatic border between me and my attacker is punctured and rended and I don’t even have room enough to breathe much less thrive and lead a life.

What’s being done to me is cruel, and it’s criminal, and I will not spare you that reflection in the mirror I am holding up--the reality of my lived experience that I will not surrender ever again. 

This fight is the same fight as every fight in every place. My last stand is here. There are no more lines in the sand for me to surrender. To abandon one hostile environment for an even more hostile one in another place with people you’ve indoctrinated like you’ve never indoctrinated before... This is the cliff, this precipice, you will own me oh, Queen, have me for yourself, how you want me, the way you want me, having your way with me and everyone around me as you stir up and create drama about and around us, or I can just take a long walk off that short cliff. If I don’t like it there’s the door.

...duly noted

[devouthope-a]

RULES: repost, don’t reblog. just pick a muse of yours and fill it out.

tagged by: @fiorescenced​ thank you!! tagging: take it if you want to!

— basics

▸ IS YOUR MUSE TALL / SHORT / AVERAGE?

 ahiru’s a shortie! i have her listed as 4′ 8′’ on her bio, so yeah. baby birb is a small.

▸ ARE THEY OKAY WITH THEIR HEIGHT?  

ehhhhh... somewhat. she’s smaller as a bird, so i think she’s probably pretty okay as she is human. she does tend to note that being shorter is inconvenient, but since ahiru’s a very energetic person, it generally isn’t too inconvenient in her mind.

▸ WHAT’S THEIR HAIR LIKE?

messy! i’ve probably mentioned it in passing, but ahiru’s hair tends to be very tangled up and stuff, which is why it has to be kept up in a braid / bun; because it gets too out of control and frizzy if she doesn’t. it took her a while to learn how to take care of when she first was human, because she wasn’t used to having hair or how to use fingers to help take care of it. i image her hair is pretty thick too. she finds it to be a hassle to take care of, but she doesn’t ever really consider cutting it either! ( probably because shorter hair makes her look closer to tutu )

▸ DO THEY SPEND A LOT OF TIME ON THEIR HAIR / WITH THEIR GROOMING?

yes and no— most of it is out of necessity, it’ll only cause her more pain in the long run if she doesn’t, you know? but ahiru’s also pretty impatient, so it can be hard for her to recognize she needs to do so sometimes.

▸ DOES YOUR MUSE CARE ABOUT THEIR APPEARANCE?

kind of. she cares about it mostly in the sense of making sure she looks okay and could pass for normal, you know? her self esteem isn’t the highest either, so sometimes she doesn’t think it’s worth the effort— other days, it can be really important to make herself look ‘decent’ at least. 

▸ DOES YOUR MUSE CARE ABOUT WHAT OTHERS THINK ABOUT THEM?

again, yes and no. she does care to an extent— especially when it comes to the people close to her, she cares ( even if they have a higher opinion of her than she does herself! ) but, when it comes to her guts and doing what she thinks is right, she doesn’t care if people think of her badly as much, because she does think she’s doing the right thing.

— preferences

▸ INDOORS OR OUTDOORS?  

outdoors! it’s only natural for an animal to prefer outside, yes?

▸ RAIN OR SUNSHINE?  

both? ahiru likes the rain because it’s wet, but prefers the sunshine because it’s warm and more lively.

▸ FOREST OR BEACH?

forest... but only because honestly ahiru’s never been to a beach?? never will?? i don’t think she’d like the sand as much as she likes trees.

▸ PRECIOUS METALS OR GEMS?  

gems!! only because gems she associates with edel, while ahiru doesn’t really think much about metal.

▸ FLOWERS OR PERFUMES?

flowers!! perfumes are sometimes really strong and obv. not a very natural smell; while flowers tend to be more pleasant to her. also flowers are pretty.

▸ PERSONALITY OR APPEARANCE?  

both, in a sense. i think appearance tends to catch her at first, because appearances can tell you a lot about a person— and both appearances and personalities can be deceiving, so. i think generally, she comes around to personality more.

▸ BEING ALONE OR BEING IN A CROWD?  

crowds, generally!! ahiru can appreciate being alone, but she doesn’t really like it, so... being in a crowd usually puts her at ease more.

▸ ORDER OR ANARCHY?  

order? i don’t think she would care much for anarchy, so.... it’d probably depend on the context!

▸ PAINFUL TRUTHS OR WHITE LIES?  

oooh. painful truths. i think that, while she herself opts for white lies when necessary, she’d rather hear the truth than be lied to just to keep her safe / happy / etc. she might not agree with the truth, but she’d prefer it to finding out she was lied to later on. 

▸ SCIENCE OR MAGIC?  

magic! please, she lives a fairy tale life; magic is more captivating to her than anything 

▸ PEACE OR CONFLICT?  

peace, hands down. she HATES fighting, so any sort of conflict gets a strong no from her. she likes believing in more peaceful things.  

▸ NIGHT OR DAY?  

day! the daytime is warm and lively, while nighttime can be kind of scary ( in her opinon ).

▸ DUSK OR DAWN?  

dawn! while dusk is very pretty too, she appreciates the start of the morning when things are starting to wake up ( even if she, herself, is usually not awake that early )

▸ WARMTH OR COLD?  

warmth! she can’t really stand the cold too much, being what she is, so...

▸ MANY ACQUAINTANCES OR A FEW CLOSE FRIENDS?

i think a few close friends, probably. ahiru likes being friends with EVERYONE, and will refer to everyone as a friend— at the end of the day, she appreciates the ones she’s closest to the most.

▸ READING OR PLAYING A GAME?  

games, because i feel like ahiru would think that’s more ‘fun’! when it comes to books, she much prefers being told stories, rather than reading it herself— i think i’ve also touched on this lightly, but ahiru isn’t quite illiterate, but being a duck means she didn’t exactly need to be literate before, so it’s been with a lot of effort that she’s built any skills in that regard. 

— questionnaire

▸ WHAT ARE SOME OF YOUR MUSE’S BAD HABITS?  

uhhhh. her stubborness, for one. she likes to think she’s got the whole picture and really open minded and while it’s not to say that she isn’t.... she’s definitely not as much as she thinks she does. in terms of like, actual habitual stuff, she tends to pick at her skin a lot ( as a duck, she’ll do it with her beak! ), and she strikes me as the kind that might chew on her nails / lips

▸ HAS YOUR MUSE LOST ANYONE CLOSE TO THEM? HOW HAS IT AFFECTED THEM?

gggh. for the most part, no. well, as far as she can remember, anyways. the lack of parents,,, kind of effects her. if i ever remember to elaborate on it.

▸ WHAT ARE SOME FOND MEMORIES YOUR MUSE HAS?

i don’t know if there are particular memories that stand out to her, simply because she doesn’t remember anything from before the story; so by default, the entirety of her human experience is something she treasures and thinks of fondly.

▸ IS IT EASY FOR YOUR MUSE TO KILL?

not at all! death itself, i think, for someone as childish as ahiru, can be very jarring and hard to handle— i think she can handle it a bit easier if someone else is doing the killing, but generally, it kind of conflicts with her peaceful, no fighting kind of mindset.

▸ WHAT’S IT LIKE WHEN YOUR MUSE BREAKS DOWN?

complicated. despite being a very visibly emotional person, i don’t think she shows it very outwardly— at the beginning, at least. ahiru’s truthful about her emotions, but more negative things she tends to hide away, especially when she thinks it’ll bother people. so she’ll bottle up a break down at first, but depending on the kind of breakdown, it’ll be more visible as time goes own. generally, she’s more of a teary-crying kind of person than say, angry and trying to fight out the feelings. it’s also fairly apparent, because she tends to distance herself more, whereas usually she’s all over people.

▸ IS YOUR MUSE CAPABLE OF TRUSTING SOMEONE WITH THEIR LIFE?  

of course! granted, part of her general ‘think good of all people’ mindset and naivety contributes to this— but particularly with people she feels she’s close with, she could trust with her life, her secrets, you name it.

▸ WHAT’S YOUR MUSE LIKE WHEN THEY’RE IN LOVE?

whooo boy. given that ahiru can be very affectionate with just about anyone to begin with, it’s a lot harder to pick up when she’s in love! it’s all the little things, you know— be it a romantic or platonic kind of love, it’s all the little gestures, the reminders and the comfort that she tries to provide people with, that’s what you’ve got to look for. she’s certainly got her reservations about making such known— but she’s horrible at hiding it! you see the lovesick look on her face and you know it.

[auradonpix]

Ezra Mariposa

Possible FCs: PoC/Latino/mixed heritage/I don’t know yet.

Son of Absolem (Alice in Wonderland)

early twenties range/22?

Has magic in the area of natural immunity to toxins from his father, as well as being able to heal others of poisoning. With that comes the inability to become addicted to substances. Hallucinogenics are his drug of choice, along with cannabis. Views this as harmless since he can’t get addicted.

Is not a dealer but knows several on a friendly level, refuses from a moral standpoint to sell drugs. 

Volunteers for several local rehab/recovery centers to offer his magic to aid in detoxing people coming off drugs. Does so mostly out of respect for his father’s own addictions, and seeing how vicious addiction can be.

Using his power on others carries a price, he cannot simply make the toxins go away and has to absorb them himself. While normally that would have no effect on him for some reason the second-hand version does make him ill. Depending on how strong it is, he has built some tolerance, it can cause anything from a sickness to his stomach to an outright need to purge by throwing up the toxins. Which is fairly disgusting but a necessity; even if he can put it off at times with lesser amounts of the toxins he does have to purge, usually attempts to hold out until he’s alone to do so. 

The other side of his ability is capacity to infect people with those poisons. It’s one that he hasn’t ventured far into, but when he does so his fingertips turn dark and the poisons come to the surface through his pores as an oily, oddly colorful, faintly glowing liquid a bit like UV paint in appearance. While in a strong enough dose it might prove more harmful by the most part it causes hallucinations in others rather than physical harm, and the effects length of time depends on how much effort he puts into it.

Has developed the new power of control over ink, being able to make it move, shift around, and use it as a force to physically interact with other things. Favorite tricks with it are ‘writing’ by drawing his fingers across paper and letting the ink record his thoughts. 

At times when distracted/drugged his magic gets a bit out of focus and he’ll draw/play with ink in swirling patterns on whatever surface his hands happen to be at. 

His fingers are very often stained with ink, he could will it away but doesn’t bother to. 

His ability works on any surface, be it paper, skin or otherwise. He cannot create ink, however, and often carries pens and bottles around with him to use with his magic. 

Doesn’t believe in fairy tales and happily ever afters in spite of living in Wonderland his entire life. He does very much enjoy writing stories, and is very good at it, as a sort of release of tension but holds a very strong distance between the idea of stories for the sake of entertainment and the real world outside of them. 

Is a published writer in several small publication papers around the area, mostly fantasy stories, where he writes under his pen name  Cate Pelose (French term for caterpillar.)

When he writes he rarely uses a pen and just wills the words with ink, hates the idea of typing/using a computer to write so he has someone who takes his manuscripts and types them for him.

His father had a long-standing friendship with Alice, but of course when she moved on to other things the man grieved the loss of it. There is some speculation Alice might be Ezra’s mother and it was covered up, but it’s highly unlikely, far more likely that his mother was one of his father’s nightly affairs with someone he did drugs with in his younger years.

The speculation that he might be Alice’s son is a popular rumor around Wonderland but there is very little evidence. Even Ezra himself doubts it because he knows how fond his father was of her, but more in a fatherly way than attraction.

Ezra’s father raised him as a single parent the first four years of his life, then started a relationship with a woman he met at a local bookstore. She eventually married into the family and became his adopted mother; Ezra was endlessly fond of her and she taught him how to read and love the idea of writing. She was a very creative sort who was in love with the idea of magic and fantasy, and very affection towards him. 

The relationship fell apart though when the couple tried to have more children and were unable to so do, at that point his father fell back into the habit of drugs and she tried time and again to get him help but when he refused she left him. When she left Ezra lost most of his faith in happy endings, he was around ten at the time and assumed he would at least visit her but she cut off all ties with them.

After his marriage fell apart Ezra’s father fell worse into depression, began to depend more and more on drugs to help him through it. He did maintain his job as a high school literature teacher in Wonderland, but only barely. Was not really enough to maintain their lifestyle however and eventually Ezra lost his childhood home as well when the pair had to move and cut down on their living costs.

Shortly after relocating to a less expensive area of Wonderland Ezra began high school and took an after-school job at a local bookstore. It was something that sent his father into angry rages at points because of how much it reminded him of that failed marriage. 

Despite the hardships of bills and the like Ezra maintained a fairly optimistic life, made friends with his peers in school and carried on a rather normal teenage existence. He did at that point began to explore drugs though because it was just such a normal part of life around him. He was never exactly a wild child but did have his share of late nights and hangovers to mark off. But, being very intelligent by nature, his grades really didn’t suffer much and he graduated with little issue.

Ezra had a handful of off and on relationships in high school. Nothing overly serious, but mostly due to his own inability to put himself into the situation of getting too committed after seeing how easily that could fall apart. He still hangs on to that idea a bit now, not really invested in relationships as long term situations. 

Ezra was in his senior year of high school when his father began showing signs of mental illness and memory loss. By the end of the year he was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer disease. It was a rapid progression before doctors could get it under control and by graduation Ezra had decided to put off college for a while to take care of his father.

 The man’s condition has stabilized for the time being, but with the progression being so rapid he no longer can live at home. Ezra cared for him for two years before his father was moved into a full time care institution; most of Ezra’s money from writing short stories or anything extra from work goes into keeping up with his father’s medical bills.

Along with his decline Ezra’s father has developed Dementia and often returns back to memories of earlier points in life. Very often when Ezra goes to visit him weekly he spends most of his time sitting and listening while his father tells him stories about the past along with a blurry mix of drug hallucinations and stories; there really is no telling with him what was real and what wasn’t but Ezra has come to accept that and appreciate the fact that his father’s mind still is active enough to craft such rich tales. 

While there was a few years in his teens that Ezra was angry towards his father for their living situation that anger has faded with seeing the man decline to disease. He has a large amount of respect for him and a great deal of love, still speaks highly of him and tells his friends that his own creative spark came from his wise father. 

In the years of caring for his father Ezra became more involved in drugs and drinking himself to offset the stress, it was at that point that he came to fully realize his immunity to toxin overload, and his immunity to addiction. Since he saw little harm in it he still continues those vices, thinking them something that just helps him get through rough spots in life. 

Ezra does’t fully believe that magic is unnatural and it can be explained by science. In part this conviction comes from having so little faith in fairy tale notions. His desire to want magic to be explained by science is also a desperate want to cure his father - if he can find the right sort of person with the correct magic to undo disease then maybe he can see his father’s illness reversed and the man returned to who he used to be. 

Knowing that in time he would need more money than he can currently make, Ezra enrolled in college when he was twenty, deciding to study literature and literary history. His intentions are to get a degree that will allow him to work both writing professionally and possibly teaching as his father had. 

Ezra lives on campus, the apartment where he used to live with his father is gone because he couldn’t afford to keep it. Everything he owns is with him in his dorm or otherwise in storage. Since he has no other family to speak of when holidays come around he either stays on campus or stays with friends if he doesn’t have the option of remaining at the dorms. 

He works part time at the near-campus branch of the bookstore he’s had an ongoing job in since high school. He’s happy there, loves to read and it’s such a a familiar setting. Much of his school is covered by a scholarship he gained by testing in very high, so his paychecks go first to his father’s medical bills not covered by his retirement pension from the high school, then to necessities, and after that fueling Ezra’s vices. 

It was during his first year of college that Ezra discovered his ability to detoxify those around him when a friend of his OD’ed and nearly died. Ezra, in a panic, tried to help them and ended up clarifying their system, entirely reversing the effects of the drugs and saving their life. After that point he’s used his magic to stay watchful of his friends, even though he doesn’t mention the ability, not wanting them to take chances just because they think he can undo the risks; he holds a deep fear of that magic failing him and someone dying. ‘

Personality-wise Ezra very often comes off as mellow, sometimes to a fault. On the surface he seems like the type that nothing bothers and takes life as it comes. He’s friendly and comfortable with most people, and a bit lazy by nature. Under that surface he’s very insightful though, and mature, the type that often plays the adult in situations and looks after those around him. Ezra grew up a bit fast and while he does settle in well with his peers he’s often more introspective than many of them.

Ezra loves conversation, loves debates and introspective views; he will hold an involved conversation with most anyone and approach most any subject. He’s very intelligent but not pushy about it, enjoying very much hearing the viewpoints of those around him. Very often he finds himself speaking in metaphors of stray notions the way his father used to, his dreamy ideas often sneaking into conversations.

Ezra is a vegetarian, he believes in being a pacifist and no harm to others. It sometimes makes him seem like a pushover in that he won’t fight, but he will speak his mind, firmly, and let the words stand for him. When people push him he stands firm and if the other person is just unreasonable he just walks away rather than carrying a fight. 

One of the things that Ezra keeps as a hobby are butterflies, he has always found their ability to remark themselves from simply beginnings a good lesson or life. He doesn’t keep them, no, he reads about them and studies them that way; not being able to justify the idea of killing them just for his own enjoyment of having them. 

As much as he wants to cling to logic as a safe spot, Ezra is very prone to fits of fantasy. His mind wanders, especially if he’s high or drunk, and at those points his real desire to believe so many things he can’t allow himself to shows. He very much wants the world to show him magic and beauty, but has seen so much of the rough edges that he can’t have faith yet. 

Vaguely Pansexual by nature, it’s more the intellect of a person that attracts him. He is drawn to points of beauty in others that have little to do with their physical appearance; their outlook, their interests, their ability to stir him in a conversation; Ezra weighs attraction on the scale of how much a person can ignite that feeling of making the world light up around him. 

Along the same lines, however, when he does see something of interest in people and they show interest back he’s not uncomfortable with the idea of physical contact. Sex is an outlet, and while he does value it as more than just a chance encounter in many cases, he prefers to enjoy the company of others and not expect more than good sexual chemistry where he finds it. It’s still a bond, he still holds affection during, and after, for his partners, but doesn’t see sex as a basis solely for a relationship, or limited only to being something found in one.

[intimate-analysis-blog]

Jackie, a portrait in pieces.

This story has already been told a thousand times, including parts of it being televised, with live broadcast. There is nothing new in its events. We all know of its outcome - JFK was brutally killed with a bullet in the head. A US president was therefore murdered. We are tired of seeing the images of this fact. The Kennedy family has become an icon.

What is important in the narrative of this film, therefore, is not what, but how. We start the movie with the image of Jacqueline Kennedy, a recently widow, downcast, walking down the beach. Then she receives in her mansion a journalist who will do a report on her and her husband a week after the murder. This will be the thread of history. The ex-first lady's report to this journalist will serve to unite the fragments. We have seen this format before. Someone tells a story to someone else and from that on, we, viewers are taken to the characters, their conflicts, and the drama takes place. Most of the time, however, this happens in a linear way. In "Jackie," screenwriter Noah Oppenheim takes care of shattering the story into several fragments, such as a broken mirror, or a jigsaw puzzle whose pieces are putted together at random, with not a well-defined beginning, middle, or end. The end, incidentally, is before the beginning and appears again at the end, because what we see as climax is the image of JFK being shot and his wife, desperate, trying to collect the loose pieces of his brain. There is nothing we have not seen at other times on television in this particular scene, but nonetheless it impacts and thrills again. The desperation of the first lady moves. And throughout the entire film we see her still trying to collect those loose pieces of her story with John F. Kennedy, or rather the murder until the final burial. This is perhaps the shrewdest choice of the whole film, because instead of trying to tell a whole biography of the first lady, it focuses only on a brief moment of her life, but that was certainly eternal in her memories while she was alive.

The plot, therefore, comes and goes, as an emotional tangle driven by this downcast, angry and depressed first lady. However, she is still strong enough to realize the importance of this moment in history, and more important than what happened, is to know how to relate it in the most effective way possible so it’ll remain in the imaginary of people over the years. Jackie is thus concerned about the legacy she will leave, not straining for it, being able at any moment to intervene in how her husband's funeral and burial will take place, never avoiding the cameras. Even when she is still in her iconic pink dress stained with blood, she descends through the front door of the plane that drives her. She also intervenes in what tells the journalist, making it clear from the beginning that this interview will be edited by her, and she continually remembers it, telling him that, after saying something controversial, he will not be able to write about it, or when he insinuates to make it public that she smokes, she corrects him, with a drag, "I do not smoke".

Everything is controlled by this powerful woman, but at the same time she is constantly questioned by men who surround her. They do not consider her capable of making the best choices at that moment. Her voice is always intermediated by another man, whether the journalist, her brother-in-law, a priest, or even, why not the voice of the director of the film, Pablo Larraín, and the screenwriter himself. It is the story of a woman told by men. The issue of gender thus becomes important, being crucial at all times, but this power is never given to the first lady in its entirety. After all, she must play the role of a beautiful quiet woman, a housewife. This is not what we see in Natalie Portman's Jackie, who, although beautiful, does smoke, and yes screams when necessary to assert her voice, running after what she thinks is best for her, for her family, for the imaginary of her husband, and for the whole American Nation. So, not so quiet and housewife. But she constantly finds herself trapped in this image that she has to preserve, trapped in her bedroom, choosing the clothes she will wear, changing herself over and over, unable to decide on the dress, distressed, smoking, drinking and listening to "Camelot," this song that marked her widowhood and quoted by her later to the Life magazine's journalist, "Do not let it be forgot, that once there was a spot, for one brief shining moment, that was known as Camelot." Thus, her story would be like a fairy tale, but with a princess who tragically loses her prince. There is no happy ending in her story. But it is a fairy tale always highlighted by the historical fact, by the power historiographic narrative has and by its legendary aspect. Her protagonist has nothing to lose, as her most important thing in the world has already being lost. So the best she can do is to collect the shards of that broken picture, putting together the best pieces in an impressive emotional journey.

This emotion is duly highlighted by the strong performance of Natalie Portman who studied the minutiae of her character, her mannerisms, her accent. All of that impress by the similarity at the same time that causes a certain strangeness by the artificiality, since it is an accent built not by the actress, but by Jacqueline herself. Back in the day, there was a concern of high-society women to speak just like that, almost blending American English with British, and in Jackie's case in particular with that from Long Island. There is certainly a meticulous research work done by the actress, but that is precisely what may prove to be a defect, since over too much and too preoccupied on the surface of the character. It goes from the outside to the inside, instead of doing the opposite movement, and for this reason the performance may present a stereotyped tone in a way. Despite all this, one must recognize Natalie's effort that knows very well how to thrill the unskilled spectator. After all, she's a celebrity just like the first lady was and there are times when this separation from outside and inside is diluted, and the inner emotional life of the character proves stronger, likes when she has to tell her kids their dad is gone. Maybe Natalie Portman just makes the same mistake that Jacqueline Kennedy committed in her life – that of worrying way too much about appearances. To appear as the first lady would be more important than to be.

Another factor that stress this emotive aspect is the soundtrack composed by Mica Levi, newcomer but already known for her work in "Under the Skin." Unlike her previous work, full silence and minimalism, Mica here becomes grandiloquent, resorting to various musical nuances to build an emotion capable of impacting the viewer. However, once again, this will be her biggest fault. The greatness of her chords ends up suffocating the emotion way beyond, making it overflow into an exquisite and artistic melodrama. Subtlety and silence are missing to the film that, when not loaded with dialogues, is filled by this eloquent music. So, maybe this is not Mica's fault, but the director himself, Pablo Larraín, who did not know how to measure those moments. At the same time, it is doubtful whether the troubled mind of a widow would be quiet enough, as she is a woman who has just seen her husband being murdered and has to immediately recompose herself to make the right decisions on how to proceed. Was there room for silence and subtlety in Jackie’s real story? So let's say no and thus respect the choice of the director as accurate, even though that excess of sound does not stop suffocating at the same time that it enchants us with the lyricism of this well-constructed emotional daydream. by Daniel Martins

Jackie, um retrato em pedaços.

Essa história já foi contada milhares de vezes, inclusive partes dela chegou a ser televisionada, com direito à transmissão ao vivo. Não há nada de novo em seus acontecimentos. Todos sabemos de seus desdobramentos – JFK foi brutalmente morto com um tiro na cabeça. Um presidente dos EUA fora, portanto, assassinado. Cansamos de ver as imagens desse fato. A família Kennedy se transformou em um ícone.  

O que importante na narrativa desse filme, portanto, não é o que, mas como. Começamos o filme com a imagem de Jacqueline Kennedy recém viúva,  abatida, caminhando pela praia. Em seguida, ela recebe em sua mansão um jornalista que irá fazer uma reportagem sobre ela e seu marido após uma semana do assassinato. Esse será o fio condutor da história. O relato da ex-primeira dama a esse jornalista é que servirá para unir os fragmentos. Já vimos esse formato outras vezes. Alguém conta uma história para outra pessoa e, a partir disso, nós, espectadores somos levado aos personagens, seus conflitos, vemos a narrativa se transformar. Na maioria das vezes, entretanto, isso se dá de maneira linear. Em “Jackie”, o roteirista Noah Oppenheim se encarrega de despedaçar o relato em vários fragmentos, como um espelho partido, ou um quebra-cabeça cujas peças pouco a pouco são montadas, aleatoriamente, sem começo, meio ou fim bem delineados.  O fim, aliás, é anterior ao começo e aparece novamente no final, pois o que vemos como clímax é a imagem de JFK sendo baleado e sua esposa, desesperada, tentando recolher os pedaços soltos de seu cérebro. Não há nada que não vimos em outros momentos pela televisão nessa cena, mas mesmo assim ela chega a impactar e a emocionar novamente. O desespero da primeira dama comove. E ao longo de todo o filme a vemos ainda tentar recolher esses pedaços soltos de sua história com John F. Kennedy, ou mais bem o seu assassinato e até o seu enterro final. Está aí talvez a escolha mais sagaz de todo o filme, pois ao invés de buscar contar toda uma biografia da primeira dama, concentra-se apenas num breve momento de sua vida, mas que com certeza foi eterno em suas lembranças enquanto esteve viva.  

A trama, portanto, vai e vem, com em um emaranhado emocional conduzido por essa primeira dama, abatida, com raiva e deprimida. Porém, ela ainda é forte o suficiente para perceber a importância desse momento para a história, e que mais importante do que aquilo que aconteceu, é saber relatá-lo da maneira mais eficaz possível para que permaneça no imaginário do povo ao longo dos anos. Jackie está, assim, preocupada com o legado que vai deixar, não medindo esforços para isso, sendo capaz de a todo momento intervir em como se dará o funeral e o enterro de seu esposo, nunca evitando as câmeras. Mesmo quando ainda está com seu vestido rosa emblemático manchado de sangue, ela desce pela porta da frente do avião que a conduz. Ela também intervém naquilo que conta ao jornalista, deixando-lhe claro desde o inicio que aquela entrevista será editada por ela, e continuamente ela o lembra disso, dizendo-lhe que, ao acabar de dizer algo polemico, ele não poderá escrever sobre aquilo ou ainda que, quando ele insinua colocar que ela fumava, ela o corrigi, dando uma tragada, “eu não fumo”.

Tudo é controlado por essa mulher, poderosa, e a frente de seu tempo, mas que ao mesmo tempo é constantemente questionada pelos homens que a cercam, pois não a consideram capaz de fazer as melhores escolhas naquele momento. Sua voz, assim, é sempre intermediada por outro homem, seja o jornalista, seja o seu cunhado, um padre, ou até mesmo, porque não a voz do diretor do filme, Pablo Larraín e o seu roteirista. Trata-se da história de uma mulher contada por homens. A questão de gênero assim se faz importante, sendo crucial em todo o momento, mas esse poder jamais é entregue à primeira dama em sua totalidade. Afinal, caberia a ela o papel de mulher bela, recatada e do lar. Não é isso o que vemos totalmente na Jackie de Natalie Portman, que, apesar de bela, sim fuma, sim grita quando necessário para fazer valer a sua voz, correndo atrás daquilo que acha ser o melhor para ela, para a sua família, para o imaginário de seu marido, e para toda a nação estadunidense. Portanto, nem tão recatada e do lar assim. Mas sim constantemente ela se vê presa nos limites dessa imagem que tem que preservar, presa em seu quarto, escolhendo a roupa que vai usar, trocando-se várias e várias vezes, incapaz de se decidir pelo vestido, angustiada, fumando, bebendo e escutando “Camelot”, essa canção que marcou sua viuvez e citada por ela posteriormente ao jornalista da revista Life, "Don't let it be forgot, that once there was a spot, for one brief shining moment, that was known as Camelot" [Não deixe ser esquecido que era uma vez um lugar, por um breve iluminado momento, conhecido como Camelot]. Assim, sua história seria tal como um conto de fadas, porém com uma princesa que, de maneira trágica, perde o seu príncipe. Não há final feliz em sua história. Mas se trata de um conto de fadas em que sempre está marcado pelo fato histórico, pelo poder que a narrativa historiográfica possui e pelo seu caráter lendário. Sua protagonista não tem nada a perder, pois o mais importante ela já o perdeu. Então o melhor que pode fazer é recolher os cacos desse retrato quebrado, e juntar os melhores pedaços em um recorrido emocional impactante.

Essa emoção é devidamente marcada pela forte atuação de Natalie Portman que estudou as minúcias de sua personagem, seus trejeitos, sua maneira de falar. A sua fala chega a impressionar pela semelhança ao mesmo tempo em que causa certo estranhamento pela maneira artificial que é dita, já que se trata de um sotaque construído não pela atriz, mas sim pela própria Jacqueline. Em seu tempo, havia uma preocupação das mulheres da alta sociedade em falar dessa maneira, quase que misturando o inglês americano com o britânico e, no caso de Jackie em particular, com o de Long Island ainda. Há com certeza um trabalho minucioso de pesquisa feito pela atriz, mas que é justamente aquilo que talvez se revele como um defeito, já que excessivo e preocupado demasiado na superfície da personagem. Ela parte de fora para dentro, ao invés de fazer o movimento contrário e, por isso mesmo, a sua representação pode estar marcada por um tom de certo modo estereotipado. Apesar disso tudo, há que se reconhecer o esforço de Natalie que sabe muito bem emocionar o espectador não especializado. Afinal, ela é uma celebridade tal como a primeira-dama o foi e há momentos em que essa separação de fora e dentro se dilui, e a vida emocional interior da personagem se demonstra mais forte. Talvez Natalie Portman apenas cometa o mesmo erro que Jacqueline Kennedy cometeu em vida – a de se preocupar demais com as aparências. Parecer-se com a primeira dama seria mais importante do que a ser de fato.

Outro fator que marca o caráter emotivo diz respeito à trilha sonora composta por Mica Levi, compositora novata, mas já conhecida por seu trabalho em “Sob a pele (Under the Skin)”. Ao contrário do trabalho anterior, marcado pelo silencio e o minimalismo, Mica aqui se torna grandiloqüente, recorrendo-se a várias nuances musicais para construir uma emoção capaz de impactar o espectador. Entretanto, mais uma vez, essa será a sua grande falha. A grandeza de seus acordes acaba por sufocar a emoção além da conta, fazendo-a transbordar em um melodrama requintado e artístico. Falta sutileza e silencio ao filme que, quando não está carregado de diálogos, está preenchido por essa música eloqüente. Assim, talvez isso não seja uma falha de Mica, mas sim do próprio diretor, Pablo Larraín, quem não soube dosar esses momentos.  Ao mesmo tempo, fica a dúvida se não seria justamente assim a mente conturbada de uma viúva que acaba de ver seu marido ser assassinado e tem que, imediatamente, se recompor para tomar decisões corretas em como proceder. Haveria espaço para o silêncio e para a sutileza assim? Vamos dizer que não e, desse modo, respeitar a escolha do diretor como acertada, mas que não deixa de asfixiar ao mesmo tempo em que nos encanta com o lirismo desse devaneio emocional bem construído. por Daniel Martins