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basicallyjaywalker · 5 months

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Wanna ramble about a moment/character in ninjago you think people need to talk about more?

I don't know who you are anon, but I'm glad you asked!

I am desperate for people to character-analyze Wu. I'm desperate for a lot of character analysis including Nya but since I got a lot of my Nya feelings out with some lovely folks the other night (edit: the other night was a month ago dw about it. this took a minute) I'm going with Wu this time

Master Wu to me is such an interesting case of a character who it is so easy to ignore the bits of the show that hint at his wider issues and traumas. He is a man defined heavily by his family and by his past. A lot of criticism he gets, I think, is due in part to that.

I've mentioned before that I've been rewatching S1 with a friend of mine and intermittently pausing to infodump on them about interesting character things I notice from that season. A lot of that has been Wu-focused because despite having seen RotS dozens of times throughout my life (watching it on CN, watching it on Netflix when only it and Legacy were around, rewatching it with friends) I have only just started noticing the seeds of character written in.

I might also just be reading too much into things, but hear me out

In S1 (and by extension, the pilots), Wu is characterized as your typical old wise teacher. In the first few minutes of EP1: Rise of the Snakes, he is chewing out the Ninja for playing video games instead of training. The line he uses? "Never put off until tomorrow what can be done today."

It's a line that gets repeated throughout the series. In fact, it gets repeated that very episode when the ninja go (pun not intended) to fight the Hypnobrai and a literal pre-teen. At first, it seems to just be a piece of wisdom. Some old proverb Wu's picked up over the years, possibly one he even coined himself. However, in EP7: Tick Tock, Wu tells the story of who, possibly, first told him this.

(Source: Tick Tock/Transcript | Ninjago Wiki | Fandom, highlight added.)

It was Garmadon. Now, I'm not gonna dwell too long on Garmadon, if you spend five minutes talking to me you'll learn he was the first character whose story I obsessed over and I want this essay to be about Wu, but I think he plays a role in Wu's overall story, as does Wu's family as a whole.

Prior to this, Wu and Garmadon's relationship has been more of a sibling rivalry taken to a good vs. evil extreme. We didn't know why Garmadon was evil and we didn't know about Wu and his relationship as kids. However, this scene establishes the backstory. They were, as Wu puts it, "the best of friends." That is, until Garmadon gets bit by the Devourer going to get the katana Wu lost.

Now, I know the Devourer bite was destined to happen because of the Overlord or some shit, but Wu doesn't. As far as he's concerned, Garmadon getting bit was a direct consequence of both his mistake and his cowardice. He lost the katana. He was too scared to get it. Garmadon went over instead. Garmadon got bit.

The scene goes on to show the FSM tending to Garmadon in the aftermath. Wu is watching from behind the door, likely told to stay back, but concerned. And in his POV, we get this intense moment, where Garmadon turns, looks directly at him (his eyes turning bright red for the first time), and says "It's all Wu's fault!"

(This clip should begin at the start of Wu eavesdropping. If it doesn't, skip to 0:58. I highly recommend also paying attention to Wu's body language during this scene.)

The camerawork does a great job of showing how this probably felt for Wu. It zooms in, Garmadon's voice echoes, and the background blurs. We see in the flashback that this is a moment Wu has etched into his memory. Not to mention, he was likely a very young child when this happened. LEGO characters' ages are weird, but Wu in this scene has the Big Eyes, which always seem to be used for characters under 12. We don't know exactly how much older Garmadon is to my knowledge, but he doesn't have the Big Eyes, so he's probably closer to 12 and a few years older than Wu for sure.

Imagine that. Being in elementary school and your older siblings gets hurt. They're acting strange. They're lashing out at your father. Then, they blame it all on you. They're hurt because of you. Wouldn't you internalize that?

I could go on about Wu's relationship with Garmadon, but again, I think I've spent enough time on it and I don't want to only focus on that. It's an important part, but there are others.

Let's talk about Wu's relationship with his dad.

Now, I have not yet read the Spinjitzu Brothers series. I cannot speak to any development of Wu and the FSM's relationship in there. I have, however, read The Book of Spinjitzu and blogged some of my thoughts on it here, including some of what it says about Wu.

For those who haven't read it, first, there is a Google Drive folder floating around with all of the canon spinoff books/graphic novels in it. Here's the link if you wanna read them!

The FSM is an... intriguing figure. I mean, in the series he's basically god? He made the entire world. That's already a very high bar to live up to. Then, in Book of Spinjitzu, there's a few specific parts that, when I read them, signaled that Wu internalized a specific message when he was young.

(Source: The Book of Spinjitzu, Page 3).

Wu does not want to disappoint his father. It is up to him (and Garmadon until he turns evil) to "uphold the legacy of Spinjitzu" and, by extension, his family. He says he was "very young" when this was explained to him. Considering he seems to already be training at an elementary age, "very young" means VERY young.

(Source: The Book of Spinjitzu, Page 16).

Here, we again see Wu being very aware that he has some large burden to carry. Something else interesting here is that the thought of the Green Ninja Prophecy is already weighing on him too. His considering if he might be the Green Ninja is of extra interest because of how the Green Ninja Prophecy and the--I wouldn't call it obsession, possibly fixation?--with who it is factors into his later actions, but we'll get to that later.

(Source: The Book of Spinjitzu, Page 19).

This one in particular gets me because it comes after Wu mentions Garmadon becoming more evil. It is a statement of power. Wu knows that the legacy of Spinjitzu now rests in his hands alone. He cannot let himself fall the way Garmadon did. He cannot disappoint his father. Whether or not the FSM intended it, Wu always knew the fate of the world rested, at least in part, upon his shoulder. He knew this from the time he was a young boy and it remains in his mind to this day.

Now, these quotes are indirect, but they all point to one clear idea: As a child, Wu internalized the idea that he alone is responsible for keeping Ninjago safe. He will play a pivotal role in its history.

There's not evidence in this book that the FSM's was a bad father, per se. However, just because one doesn't set out to harm their children, doesn't mean they won't. I often say Wu has an "Atlas complex," which I have no idea if it is an actual concept but use it to refer to this idea. Wu feels as though he is responsible for holding up the world, much like Atlas. He must keep the balance, he must solve the Green Ninja prophecy, he must make his father proud.

(Source: The Book of Spinjitzu, page 61).

I'm going to get further into what this means for Wu as a teacher to the current Ninja Team, but for now let's look at Wu's first foray into teaching.

Morro. Wu's Biggest Mistake.

That might seem like an overstatement, but it's not.

(Source: Ghost Story/Transcript | Ninjago Wiki | Fandom)

Okay he says regret, not mistake, but I was paraphrasing.

Let's turn back to his quote about his destiny. Wu writes, "Is my life's mission to be the Green Ninja? Or maybe it will be to find the Green Ninja and protect him (or her)??"

From a very young age, Wu was not only aware of the Green Ninja but prophecy but also thinking about his place in it. We see this again when he takes Morro in and trains him.

(Source: Ghost Story/Transcript | Ninjago Wiki | Fandom, highlight added)

A big thing Wu is criticized for here is making Morro believe he is meant to be more. That he is the Chosen One. And Morro, being a young homeless orphan just now given some semblance of power and protection, latches onto that. And I can see it, but when you take into account the above that he was trained from (likely) a younger age than Morro and given a similar level of responsibility, it becomes more understandable. Wu is just doing what he was taught. He doesn't believe that he is harming Morro until it is too late.

youtube

This is the entire story, but I'm specifically going to be discussing 1:36 onwards here. I also wanted to add that rewatching this scene made me lay down on the floor! What the fuck! But I digress.

There's a lot going on in this scene. For one, Wu washing his hands of Morro in some ways, but not others. He turns his back on Morro when he tells him that destiny has decided, but looks at him again when Morro storms out. He goes to save Morro from the Grundal, but decides that he cannot "teach those who would not listen." Most importantly, when Morro leaves to go find the Tomb of the FSM, Wu leaves the door open. He waits for Morro to return, but never goes after him. And Morro never comes back.

Wu gives Morro's fate a dismissive response at the end of his ghost story ("I am saddened he was banished to the Cursed Realm") but it's clear he still cares deeply about him in the finale of the season.

youtube

Wu's VA in this is phenomenal btw. That "Please Morro!" and "MORRO!" make my heart ache.

Morro believed Wu stopped caring, but he didn't. Even after all he's done, even after trying to destroy all of Ninjago--destroying what Wu had spent his life trying to protect--Wu tries to save him. He begs for Morro to come with him. Morro refuses, Wu watches him perish.

Someone else Wu is close to is gone. Wu again considers himself responsible. Everything is his fault.

And finally, we reach Wu today. A cautious, secretive man. He loves his students, this much is clear. Even as early as the pilots, he drops his wise teacher persona to joke around with them.

youtube

As with Morro, he trains them like his father did him. He even uses the same methods his father used when he trains them.

(Source: The Book of Spinjitzu, page 32)

youtube

While he is hard on the Ninja, wanting them to succeed and training them to help defend the Realm, he lets his guard down more than it seems he did with Morro. He also learned a valuable message from his experience with Morro when he hides the Green Ninja Prophecy from the Ninja, getting angry when they start to push themselves in the same way Morro did upon learning about it. It's clear he doesn't want a repeat.

Now, I can't speak for later seasons (I will eventually) but this fear of repeats, his students going down a dark path because they're tempted by power or greatness, losing someone else, likely drives Wu not telling them other important information. That is just a passing thought though.

Final notes:

I'm currently in the process of rewatching S7: Hands of Time. I actually got this ask right after finishing EP68: Scavengers, which opens with Wu having a nightmare. In it, he and Misako are walking outside of Yang's temple. While walking, Misako delivers this line in response to Wu reminiscing about the time they've spent together:

(Source: Scavengers/Transcript | Ninjago Wiki | Fandom)

This line, to me, is Wu's subconscious trying to tell him something he needs to hear. It's hinting at what might be his greatest flaw. Wu is haunted by his past, by his mistakes. He finds it difficult to tell others because of both his guilt and his desire to not put that worry upon them. In this very season, he makes the mistake of trying to face his past on his own, and he nearly dies for it.

In the same episode, you see Wu trying to make sure Lloyd doesn't make the same mistakes.

(Source: Prev)

Wu stresses the important of the team. It's as if he sees Lloyd blaming himself for what happened to Wu, sees him doing the same thing Wu has, and is trying to prevent him from doing the same thing. This is further emphasized when, after Wu falls asleep (well, fakes falling asleep), Lloyd says "Wu's mistake was going in alone. So was mine."

Master Wu is, like many characters in this show, someone who is more complex than meets the eye. He is not just a wise, old teacher. He is a man who, throughout his life, has made mistakes and carries the weight of each of them on his shoulders. He is a man who tasks himself with making up for those every day. He is a man who wants better for his students, his family.

Until the day he dies, he will guide and protect his students. And possibly? Even after death too.

#ninjago #lego ninjago #master wu #long post #anon tag #this made my day i looooooooooooooove character analysis #i know a lot of what i post about it may not encompass the full series but i just think that makes it more fun tbh #i'm working with what i have and later i may come back to this and add even more things #i'm also very passionate about wu analysis as a former wu hater because i think the fact that his character stuff is so buried #leads to a lot of the hate #Why didn't he tell the ninja things? well he told morro things and look how that turned out #he grew up believing the weight of the world was on his shoulders #in one way or another #i won't lie and say the man does not make mistakes #but like i mention in s7 when he does he is fucking haunted by them #he is not breaking the generational trauma but he is damn well making an attempt for someone who probably doesn't realize he has it #p.s i tried to add image desc to each ss to make it more accessible but if i messed it up please let me know!#i spent way too much time on this #somebody do a word count i'm curious but too tired to copy this all into docs #falls over #part 2 of this is just the dark island trilogy but i think i'm gonna wait to do that #this took so long and the words are now refusing to words #thank you for reading #i need to take a nap after writing this I feel physically spent #please enjoy another rook branded ramble disguised as a comprehensive essay #other essayists bring you professionalism and academic vibes #i scream into the void and put way too many links o7 #happy birthday ninjago!!!! i finished this in honor of you hopefully it is worthy

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tunastime · 3 months

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Inbound, Outbound

The first submas fic I ever wrote! LOL I decided I needed one final thing for april fools so you get this fic from. about a month and a half ago! I think a lot has changed since I wrote this and I'd love to come back to the reuniting :3 maybe making it longer or what have you. but for now. here you go!

Sometimes when you wait for things, they come back to you. Sometimes they don't. Emmet continues life as normal as he can until the point in which the thing he's been waiting for the most finally does come back. Today just happens to be that day. (6745 words)

Ingo comes back on a winter day that Emmet would’ve otherwise forgotten.

It’s a pervasive winter in Nimbasa this year, the sky a white-blue, grey where it touches the edges of the buildings high above his morning train into the city center. Today is just as slow as usual, fifteen stretching into thirty, stretching in to forty-five minutes as people crush their way into the train car number eleven, Emmet’s favorite car on the six-in-the-morning inbound to Nimbasa commercial district. This train doesn’t go direct to Gear Station—it’s about four blocks from the city center. Which means that the train car is filled with grey and black suits, small children, and people in coats too thin or too bright for the weather. It’s his favorite car because if he looks over the few heads currently standing in front of him, he can see a poster with Elesa on it, advertising the Nimbasa Gym in bright, yellow and black letters. He doesn’t mind the length of the ride, really, even with the extra twenty minutes of walking. It gives him enough time to think, whether that be better or worse.

Emmet sniffles, pushing the scarf further up his nose, trying to keep in the heat. He can feel his face starting to red with the cold, and the subpar heat of the train car isn’t doing much help. He likes this car—he likes the whole system, because it runs so efficiently even with the stops, but he would like it a bit more if it were properly heated. He once bore Elesa to sleep talking about the rail system near their apartment complex in the city suburbs and art district, and after that he kind of kept it to himself and the engineers on shift.

The train car is still cold, and his scarf slips down his nose again as he adjusts his grip on the handle above him. Scrunching his face, he burrows into the collar of his coat and shrinks his shoulders to make space, shutting his eyes. He moves with the train car, as he does every morning, and sighs into the fabric of his coat. He files the cold away in the back of his mind. The train ride becomes routine, which means it fades into the background of his life, where everything rests mutely.

He might be somewhat of a celebrity, but the 6am is too crowded and too tired to notice him, or Ingo, or Elesa, for that matter. Elesa could live in the city center—running a gym is a lucrative business, and her clothing line, her brand deal, the posters with her face on them, even here in this train, raked in enough money to more than sustain on. Instead, Elesa lives two streets down from him (them) in a large apartment and she holds the crook of his arm on the train to keep steady. She didn’t this morning, though, which means Emmet has a little more stability where he stands, and a little less company. Not being recognized this morning means that he slips effortlessly from the train as the doors slide open, spilling out with other shoppers and business folk. He ducks through the exit as someone holds it open, and the smile on their face lingers a bit too long when they catch his eye. He thinks the words I’m sorry for your loss might come and hit him across the face, but they only nod. Emmet moves through the crowd alone again.

He makes his way carefully up the steps and onto the sidewalks of inner-Nimbasa, stepping with purpose as he stares down at his shoes. There’s a fine layer of ice and slush on the ground, but no snow. Anything that did fall just added to the grey slush on the side of the sidewalk, crunching under his boots as he walked. The cold still bites at his face as he makes his way down the block and across the street. He can still feel his fingers, though, which is a good sign. A few more streets of cold and slushy snow and trying to block the wind with his coat and he would be in the relative warmth of Gear Station, all tan marble and smooth floors.

Winter. Of course the winter lingered. It was still winter when Emmet got off the train alone and it was still winter and cold and breezy and dark, now, as Emmet stood in his (their) office, watching the clock.

5:45pm. He realizes he hasn’t eaten all day as a hard pang stabs through his stomach. Emmet takes a breath. It’s easy to fall into routine when nothing else seems to fit. It’s what he tells himself. He finds a way to make the day go faster, maybe looking for something at the end that wasn’t just the next day. He never had this issue before, waiting for the day to pass only for it to bleed into the next, and the next, and the next, and for the weekend to stutter and pause that blissful continuing trend. Work, go home, sleep, repeat. It gave no time to think about anything else—especially not Ingo.

It took longer the first year. Everything constantly pressed hard on the wound still open. He still remembers when everything shut down around him. It wasn’t winter then. It was spring, where the air still twinged cool, but he wasn’t kicking snow off his shoes before he entered the engineer’s office and ducked down the hall and to his and Ingo’s space. It was an almost instant halt, like throwing the emergency break. Emmet’s whole life screeched and threw up smoke.

He remembers the first time someone questioned him that wasn’t the city police, staring up at him, mouth moving with words he didn’t understand. He stuttered, unable to form an answer to what do you think happened? How was he supposed to know? How was he supposed to put pieces together when he felt like he had been smashed into star fragments?

The subway shut down for three months straight. He could barely pick himself out of bed, and when he did, he couldn’t make it out of the door. He remembers lying in the dark for far too long, turning off his phone so no calls came through. The day bled into night and into the next day, with no routine, no operating procedure. Everything in his life revolved around Ingo—and now there was a distinctly Ingo shaped hole in his chest that he couldn’t fill. He remembers crawling his way out of the comforters and making it to the threshold of his bedroom door, sinking to the ground and staying there. It was only when Elesa made her way in that he moved, coaxed onto the couch to drink a glass of water. There were days where neither of them spoke. Elesa would set a duffel in the corner of Emmet’s room and a toothbrush in his bathroom and wordlessly, the space became hers too. Half asleep one night, she mumbled, very quietly, that it had been days since she’d had the energy to battle. The Nimbasa gym waitlist had grown to fifteen people. He said he was sorry. She laughed like she meant it. Tired. They were tired. Life moved on without them for a while. He held Elesa’s hand.

Every dark coat had been him, every set of stripes, every loud and hearty laugh. The space in their fridge, in their bathroom, on their couch, the spaces Elesa subconsciously left when she visited, all stayed like he might appear and fill them. At some point the spaces became memories, and the memories became a dull ache. The dull ache let him work, and the work became an ache instead. And then he started looking for answers. When he found none, he just kept looking.

He hangs up his white coat, noise from Gear Station trickling into the background. He puts his hat on the hook next to it.

He is Emmet. He feels okay today.

He combs his hair back with his fingers, stepping back to navigate around to his desk, shutting off the computer screen and moving through the familiar motions of packing away his day. Eelektross snuffs, sleeping curled around his chair, still nursing a singe from their last battle. The rest of his team are tucked away in pokeballs, neatly set into the bag still resting on the desk. He runs a hand over the scales on Eelektross’ head, listening to the snort turn into a purr, long and rumbly. At least someone’s enjoying themselves. He leans against his desk.

“Excellent job today, Eelektross,” he says. “Too good.”

Eelektross rumbles out an affirmative sound Emmet’s learned to recognize over the years. Tired and comfortable and thoroughly pleased. He’ll be sleeping under a huge eel weight tonight, most likely, which would be good for them both.

From the corner, Chandelure chirps. He glances up, watching her tilt lazily back and forth, flame flickering under the office’s lamplight. He raises his eyebrows, tilting his head at her.

“Ah—” he says. “I forgot, Chandelure. Is it time for the rounds, then?”

She chirps again, twirling in place. She nearly bumps the wall, moving out of the way as she remembers how much space she actually takes up. Emmet snorts, shaking his head. He rises from his leaning on the desk, shaking the feeling back into his right leg.

Gathering his coat and hat again, he pulls it over his shoulders, and opens the office door for Chandelure.

The two wander out into the filling-full train station. It’s busy now that so many are leaving work, Gear Station echoing with his footsteps and the tired laughter and voices of patrons filing in and out of the turnstiles. As he steps out, the noise is almost instant. Ah—he caught departing crowds at the wrong time, as the battle subway came to a close at the days end and people were busy reassigning themselves and marking their places for tomorrow. The energy in the station is bright and cheery. He lifts his hat, waving one hand, smiling with just his mouth. Chandelure spins, singing to herself. He offers a little bow as he departs, listening to cheers of his name until he manages to slip into the service stairs and away from the light and the noise.

He follows the familiar service corridor where it diverges from the central station, staring up into the rafters and eyes tracking across the windows high above him. Night trickles in, noise obscured by layers of stone and brick and marble. The stretch of granite towers above him, echoing the flicker of pride he feels swirling in his chest. Chandelure twirls ahead of him, leading him down to the closed lines as his eyes drag away from pidove in the rafters, cooing to themselves.

It’s important to walk the lines at night—mostly for the host of patrat and joltik and the occasional drilbur that liked to make the tunnels their home, but also to check that each car remained stationary, that light still flooded the dim tunnels, that someone wasn’t trapped. It wasn’t always his job—not with so many that staffed Gear Station, both above and below him. Maintenance often fell to him when it was needed, where he lingered in the office long after his scheduled shift end, when the last outbound train returned.

The stairs down are quieter and darker than the rush of energy and light and cold air above him in Gear Station.

Emmet starts his way toward the platform. Whatever he couldn’t find in the tunnels today, Eelektross would find later tomorrow morning, well before the first battle train. It was good he didn’t have to worry about the main tracks as often—not for checks and not for maintenance. He would mourn his sleep schedule much more than he already did if that were the case. Walking those initial tunnels would take him hours, knowing how far the service platform stretched.

Emmet doesn’t like this part of his job. It was always Ingo’s job. Everything seemed like it was Ingo’s job, now that it rested on his shoulders. When they’d first pitched the idea of the subway to the head of Gear Station at the time, it had been a risk Ingo automatically assumed. When he ran the night shift, safety checks were his duty, as much as they were Emmet’s in the morning. They’d assist with repair and management of the rest of the station as needed, falling into step alongside fellow engineers. There’s a small group in this tunnel now—voices echoing down the small corridor as he travels its length, a drilbur perched on their feet, warily inspecting a section of track. He supposed he considered himself lucky—any scheduled repairs to the Battle Subway could be completed shortly after the subway retired for the day, meaning he could be present if anything went wrong. This bit of maintenance was purely preventative—making sure nothing would be jostled loose by a rogue Earthquake.

Emmet ducks passed the group, nodding along as they toss bits of information his way, wishing him a good night.

Fetching the flashlight from his pocket, Emmet smacks it against his hand. The beam flickers to life, illuminating the tunnel in front of him far more than the stretch of yellow floodlights above his head. He sweeps the beam around the tunnel, listening for anything or anyone.

Emmet makes his way off the main platform and into the tunnel proper, along the service grate, eyes following the tracks. He stands at the edge of the platform for a moment, gazing into an empty car, light shining through. It reflects off the posters and signage inside, dull yellow where the lights inside don’t shine. He shivers. The air feels cold and charged, like a stray joltik had crawled up his neck and now rested in the collar of his coat. He turns the collar out, sweeping with one hand. No joltik. Rolling his shoulders back, Emmet steps back from the car and continues onward. A few feet ahead of him, Chandelure twirls idly, like she’s waiting for him to catch up. He waves the beam of the flashlight at her and she startles, chirring out, annoyed.

“You can check on your own if you don’t want to wait,” he tells her.

She warbles, waving her arms back and forth. He makes an affirmative noise.

“That’s what I thought.”

The large loop stretches further on to his left, where he can’t see, blocked by the stretch of railcar. He follows Chandelure through the space between the cars, ducking his head as they step onto the opposing platform, and continue their way back up. He pauses for a moment as they do, feeling his body go light as his head spins. He reaches out to the side wall, hand against the cold stone as he takes a long breath. Emmet blinks back spots for a moment, shaking his head gently. His stomach feels like its in knots, rolling over itself as he seems to settle from his moment of vertigo. No lunch will do that to you, he supposes.

Chandelure flickers. They’re almost done, which is good. It means he’ll be able to sit down for a second before he has to run to the train. They won’t need to check the two-team tunnel tonight—not only has Emmet not been able to run it, he checked it two weeks ago. He lingered a very long time in there, didn’t he? It had put a terrible ache in his chest enough to call Elesa to walk him home. Emmet frowns—Chandelure flickers again, dimming, brightening, dimming, brightening again. There’s that rush of dizziness again. He breathes out. He’s too far in his head, today, isn't he?

“Chandelure,” he says, in a way that almost reminds him of Ingo—a little out of breath from walking, but mostly just curious. “Is something wrong?”

She chimes, wobbling in place, eyes narrowing. It feels hesitant. Emmet shudders. After a beat, he reaches up, placing a hand on the near-glass surface of Chandelure’s body. She moves back toward him, chiming again.

“Right,” he says. “It’s different, right? Something’s changed.”

Another chirp.

Something tugs at his mind. Wasn’t there something he read about clairvoyance in pokemon? Future-telling, future-seeing, or whatever. But Chandelure’s behavior isn’t indicative of anything. That would just be odd. He can feel for just a moment the way his heart thumps a little faster against the line of his jaw. It couldn’t be that. It’s just what Elesa always said—he was looking for something that wasn’t there.

“Yyyyep-yep,” he says, mostly under his breath, voice thick. “But it should be fine, Chandelure. Let’s keep going, our track moves forward.”

She tilts back and forth, like a wave of a hand. Emmet snorts as they start forward.

“You know I’m always one for a battle,” he says plainly. She chirrs, moving around to his right side, putting herself between the train car and Emmet. He follows her movement only for a second as they walk up the tracks, eyes still fixed on the steps up to the station.

The city subway still rumbles through the ground and the walls around him, the noise soft and consistent as train cars move past. He pauses, listening in, shutting his eyes for a moment. It was late, now. He could feel a tired ache seeping into the creases of his elbows and right under his knees from standing all day. His head was starting to hurt, spinning as he stood completely still. He sighs roughly, squeezing his eyes tightly for just a moment. He’s lucky the pain didn’t extend to his feet—he would have to do quite the jog to catch the outbound train toward home, unless Elesa happened to be staying late again and could walk him back.

They start together toward the entrance as Emmet does his final scan of the furthest-out platform, satisfied nothing is out of place. The same cold air of the train tunnels permeates even here, despite the warm wash of yellow light across the walls and marble pillars. Emmet breathes in, the weight of the day settling on his shoulders as he stretches over his head, screwing up his face as his back pulls. He nearly complains—he feels much too old for this—but he can feel the sharp poke of Ingo’s voice in his mind—well, I’m two minutes older, so you can imagine how I feel—and it stops him pretty quickly. He’s not even thirty-five. What can he do but complain, right? Emmet fishes his keys from his pocket prematurely, ducking between the cars as he steps onto the loading platform.

Chandelure stops ahead of him. Her trill is quiet as Emmet reaches her side.

There is a man standing on the platform.

Emmet is very good at telling cosplayers from the real thing. You would think that would be some sort of a joke, but they really like to be authentic. Ingo and him never sold any merchandise of their coats or hats for fear of, well, that. This. Whatever this person was doing, standing on the closed platform in a ruined coat that looked like Ingo’s.

Emmet swallows. Looks like and not is, right? Looks like and not. Not. Certainly not. Not when he turns and catches his eye. The breath lodges itself in Emmet’s throat, burning hot. Certainly not. Because he is very good at telling illusions from real life, and there are no dark types in the tunnels that can use copycat, and copycat can’t extend the likeness of himself onto another person who looks. Like. Who looks like his brother. And isn’t. Emmet tries to breathe. The breath is sharp on his teeth. His hands are shaking when his vision blurs, and he smears tears across his face.

Ingo looks frightened for a moment. When he looks into Emmet’s eyes, the grey looks washed out. Emmet breathes out, feeling it catch as he sighs, biting the inside of his cheek to keep grounded. There’s. It’s like nothing moves behind his eyes. Not a faint light of understanding. Not a spark of clarity. Ingo places a foot behind him. The line of Emmet’s spine goes cold all at once.

He stands still as he watches a slow realization pass over his brother’s face like a red flush, some flicker in his expression, before he sees his chest seize and breath stutter. Ingo blinks hard and fast, like it might be helping something, eyes flicking over Ingo’s face. He reaches forward, as if he’s expecting to push through Emmet and into air instead, and not the solid body he stands there with. It’s like his body moves before he realizes what’s actually happening. Emmet watches his movements, still calculated in the same way as they’ve always been. Emmet drags in a breath, sniffling hard.

The lines of Ingo’s face pull. Emmet reaches out to him, copying. It’s what he’s always done—what they’ve always done. He steps forward, lurching to meet him.

The mirror image of himself, his brother, his Ingo, collides with him hard. Emmet feels him crumple into his arms as he drags him forward, arms locking around his ribcage. He squeezes Ingo tight to him. They buckle, Ingo leaning into him for support as his body is wracked with sobs. Emmet struggles to breathe as he sinks to his knees, smearing dirt and dark grime over his white pant-knees and boots.

Ingo’s hands fist in his coat as they fall. He squeezes Emmet in his arms, fighting for breath as he presses his face into his shoulder. Emmet laughs and it morphs into sobs. He turns his face into the tattered collar of Ingo’s coat and squeezes his eyes shut. Ingo. Ingo. Always Ingo. The bony joints of his elbows digging into his ribs as a kid, crushing him with his weight when he lost a pokemon battle, standing in his bedroom door at night when he had a nightmare. Cooking beside him, picking up his coffee, watching him tie Emmet’s tie around his own neck before passing it back to him. His brother Ingo, breathing too shallowly under his hands as he holds him, shaking with the effort of holding himself upright. He can feel the bones of his spine and shoulderblades, sharp and protruding even through several layers of fabric. His face looked so pale and thin. But Ingo holds him tightly, much tighter than he ever remembers, and it’s not just fear or relief or grief holding him to that strength, either. Emmet wheezes out, word unforming in his throat.

It’s not a nightmare. It feels real and warm and solid, like Ingo, like the platform under his knees, like the cold breeze on the back of his neck. Ingo may look different, far too gaunt for Emmet’s liking (and he supposes, now, that it may be like looking in a mirror, and he wonders how many bones Ingo can feel under his coat) but it’s him. No illusion or actor would crumble like this. It couldn’t be some sick joke—right?

He manages out words, and the first thing he chokes out through tears, voice warbling hard, is:

“Ingo—”

“Emmet,” Ingo grits out.

“I am Emmet—” Emmet says weakly. “You are Ingo. You are real.”

“I—” Ingo chokes. “I am. I’m real.”

Ingo certainly feels that way. The breath echoes in his lungs, damp and wobbly. Emmet can feel his heart slam against his ribcage. He feels so small in his arms but he shakes with the effort of keeping himself stable and with the effort of holding on. He can feel his shoulders move and the way his tears have started to soak through Emmet’s coat and shirt. He’s real.

Emmet laughs weakly, equally as wet.

“You are very strong,” he says softly, sniffling in, almost amused. “What happened to my brother?”

Ingo laughs. Emmet feels a new wave of tears bubble up in his chest and in his eyes. He presses his face into his shoulder a little more, like it were possible.

“Too much,” Ingo says, voice pitching. “Much too much.”

Emmet sighs into his shoulder, a sound he doesn’t think Ingo’s ever heard before. Ingo’s seen him cry a few times, especially when they were kids, but Ingo was always the more emotional of the two. This sound is such an odd mix of relief and grief and exhaustion pulled from his chest, like all the energy had trickled out of him.

Emmet holds tight to his brother in front of him, words not surfacing like they should. He only manages the weak sobs pressed into the collar of his coat. He screws his eyes shut again, clinging onto Ingo’s coat. The tile is cold and unyielding under his knees. Burning starts to prickle through his shins. Real feelings. Real sensations. Something to tether himself to. Ingo sniffles, coughing damply. He lets his body deflate a touch. Emmet’s chest twists and squeezes tight enough around his heart he feels it shove its way into his voice-box and beat there, pattering away.

“It’s you,” Emmet finally shudders out, voice breaking, sounding much more fragile than he wants to allow. Ingo burrows closer like it may do something. Emmet squeezes him. “Go-Go, please tell me this is real.”

“I promise,” Ingo manages. “I swear it.”

“You do?”

“You are Emmet,” he says slowly, sniffling. “I am your brother. I am real.”

“Good—” Emmet shudders. “Good.”

Ingo makes a pained noise, sighing out to his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. Emmet shakes his head, stilted from where he rests it.

“Don’t be sorry. Just—” he trails off. Just. Don’t leave again. Yeah.

Ingo nods slowly. After a moment he says:

“You are real,” in a half questioning tone. Emmet nods.

“I am. I am not a dream,” he says, huffing out a wet laugh. “You can pinch me.”

Ingo snorts.

“That’s not how that works,” He argues, own voice damp and amused. Emmet thumps his back between his shoulderblades.

“Go-Go,” he complains. Ingo wheezes. This feels so familiar it hurts.

“Sorry,” Ingo says, but the tone that leaks into his voice sounds like he’s very much not sorry. “I’m sorry.”

Emmet huffs again, soft and brittle.

“Ingo, I missed you,” he manages. “I missed you so much. So very much.”

“I know,” Ingo says softly, relaxing his hands, splaying them out over Emmet’s coat. “And yet you kept the subway running in my absence—” he huffs, amused. “Bravo.”

Emmet laughs once, just a small little sound, before it turns back into sobs, muffled against Ingo’s tattered coat. He leans his weight back as much as he can, trying to pull Ingo further into his arms, as if it were possible. Light cascades around them as Chandelure floats over, chiming softly to herself. Ingo pats Emmet’s back, running a little line over his shoulderblades as they sit together. He feels Ingo shift, as if he’s turned his head toward his Chandelure. Warmth blossoms in his chest.

Ingo mumbles out something Emmet almost hears.

“She took your absence very hard,” Emmet says, trying to add to a conversation he hadn’t heard.

Ingo sighs, short and soft. They’re less holding on and more leaning, now.

“Oh,” he says softly. It’s all he says before he turns his head back into his shoulder. Emmet pats his back. He feels like someone’s taken toothpicks to his nerves. Why does it hurt? Why does Ingo sound so lost?

He leans back from Ingo, but he doesn’t let go. His hands find his shoulders, pulling away enough to see him properly. Emmet’s eyes scan his face. They’re the same grey as he’s always known them, but so much more tired, now, deep lines and dark circles around the bottom. He’s frowning, just a little, eyes still red-rimmed from crying, tears still falling haphazardly. Ingo sniffles. His hair lies the same, despite being unkept, and he’s got a terrible facial hair situation going on, like he’d forgotten how to use a razor. When Emmet studies him, Ingo’s face goes soft. He opens his mouth like he wants to speak, but shuts it when Emmet frowns.

“Ingo,” Emmet says, frown deepening, eyebrows furrowing. He sniffles. He prods at the hollow of his cheek, looking perplexed. “You look horrible, like someone’s shaken twenty pounds off you.”

“Ah,” Ingo says, looking away.

“You may be much stronger than you were, but you look like you may fall over if I let you go.”

Ingo swallows. His expression morphs a few times, until he shuts his eyes, furrowing his eyebrows.

“I might.”

“Ah!” Emmet says, holding to his shoulders a bit tighter. Ingo smiles, just the sides of his mouth lifting. It feels right. “Don’t.”

Ingo snorts.

“I’ll try.”

Emmet nods, mouth a fine line. Ingo’s eyes flick over his face, this time. Emmet feels like pokemon under a magnifying glass being scrutinized. Ingo watches as Emmet blinks tears away, watches them track over his face, and watches as he reaches up to wipe them. Emmet shakes his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice softening at the end unexpectedly. He swallows down a wave of cold guilt. Ingo’s hands clasp around his biceps.

“Emmet—” he starts.

“It’s okay,” Emmet manages out, expression cracking. He sniffles in, pulling in a fast breath as he does. He hears it catch, feels the shudder than comes with it. “You—it’s you.”

“That’s right,” Ingo says meekly, loosening his grip. Emmet’s wobbly smile falters, just for a moment.

“That’s good,” Emmet sighs. He blinks a few times, sniffs again, wipes at his face. Ingo’s hands fall away from his arms and into his own lap.

The frown lingers on Ingo’s face long after he’s dropped his hands. Emmet rises to a slow, shaky stand. Stuffing his gloves in his pocket, he wipes at his face with the back of his hand, giving Ingo a watery smile. When Ingo looks up at him, Emmet feels something click into his chest, warm, full, and settling. He smiles wider, enough to feel his eyes start to squint shut, enough to watch Ingo copy him, and the smile looks so natural on his face. It’s good. This is good. This. Feels. Good. It feels good.

“I don’t think you should sit on the floor anymore, Ingo,” Emmet says. He extends his hand.

“I think I’m a bit too old for it,” Ingo tells him. Ingo takes it. He holds his warm hand, half palm and half wrist. Emotion tumbles in his chest, painfully tight, as he leads Ingo toward the tunnel entrance.

There’s something Ingo isn’t saying. Emmet knows it’s important. It’s not important enough to say now, that is, but he can feel it in the air of Ingo next to him as they duck into the empty station, back to the office, away from eyes that might say something before Emmet is ready to let the world know who showed up at his doorstep. It’s fine if Ingo doesn’t remember his pokemon, or the layout of Gear Station, or how he should feel, or where he’s been. He can’t ask him to. Not when there was a moment where Ingo couldn’t remember him, no matter how brief. He pushes fear deep into his chest and refuses to let it rise up.

He won’t let them diverge. He won’t let Ingo derail.

Whatever happens next, he’s not letting go of him.

The night comes easier than most.

It starts with Emmet sending a text—it’s last minute, which he despises, but he informs the head of the station that he isn’t feeling well and won’t be in at work for the next few days. He receives a spaced, but enthusiastic reply, and a reminder to use his sick time before he loses it. Probably better that he’s taking more days rather than less. Emmet feeds their pokemon, moving around the kitchen as he hears the shower running in the room across from his own. Busying himself with routine means he worries a little less about the question tugging at his mind, or the rush of anxiety and energy as he remembers everything, replaying it over and over again in his head. What if it isn’t Ingo that steps from the room? What if he looks completely different? What if—

Galvantula bumps his hand, nibbling at his sleeve. He’s still holding the bowl of food. He sets it on the floor as instructed, briefly pulled away from his thought.

Now, situated in the living room, a takeout bag rests on the coffee table, where Emmet is sitting next to the table, pulling out foil wrapped sandwiches and bags of chips and a too-shaken can of soda. He’s been watching Ingo’s face for a good part of the evening, seeing as lines come and go, how the sharp shape worsens when he frowns. Now, in a thick, high collared sweater and pajamas, grime scrubbed away with a hot shower, Ingo looks very small, and very alive, and very cold. Emmet pokes him with a socked foot as Ingo takes another ravenous bite of his egg and cheese sandwich. He has egg yolk all over his hands and down his chin.

“I am Emmet,” he says, an awed smile lingering on his face. “And I am certain you are going to choke if you eat that fast.”

Ingo blinks, still chewing. Maybe two sandwiches was the right move after all. Emmet hasn’t touched the one he bought for himself yet. He’s been too busy making sure Ingo drinks a glass of water. Ingo flushes, though, as he realizes he’s made an runny-egg mess of the plate balanced on his knee. He looks sheepishly away, searching for something to wipe his hands with. When he can’t find anything, he sets the sandwich down, and wanders back to the kitchen.

“It’s like you haven’t eaten in weeks,” Emmet remarks. His stomach flips a bit at the implication, wondering when the last time Ingo actually had a warm meal in his body. He realizes he doesn’t even know where he’s been. What could be wrong with him. What he’d seen. He seems dazed, a bit lost, a bit spacey. It had taken him a good thirty seconds to recognize Emmet on that platform—though, if Emmet’s honest with himself, and he often tries to be, he isn’t much better. He’d swallowed down confusion just as fast as he could, and that was only a moment before he’d thrown himself at his brother. Ingo’s shoulders are a tense line.

“I’ve eaten,” Ingo says.

“Good.”

When Ingo wanders back over, sitting in his same spot, Emmet pushes the glass of water toward him. Ingo nods, smiling a little as he picks it up and takes a long drink. After he’s finished and set the glass down, Emmet starts on his sandwich. Between his first bite of hashbrown and egg and the next, he says:

“Ingo,” followed by. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

The two go quiet, even with the sound of foil and sandwiches. Ingo swallows, staring into his patterned plate. Emmet watches his face as much as he did prior. He can tell when a pause is calculated for drama, for intrigue, for embellishment, but this one is full of Ingo’s mind scrambling. Emmet can’t see it in action, but he can certainly imagine a million Ingo’s running around in his brain space, trying to compose an answer for Emmet that would satisfy him. Ingo takes another bite in the meantime.

Emmet stares into bits of potato in the foil on his lap. They’re not very interesting.

“What happened?” he asks softly, not looking up at him. He hears Ingo sigh, and sees him put the plate down in his peripheral.

“I—” Ingo starts, and the stutter of his voice is indicative of something very clear to Emmet.

“Ingo,” he says, looking up suddenly. “Don’t.”

Ingo swallows. His throat bobs. Emmet doesn’t even have to finish his sentence.

“I’ve forgotten everything,” Ingo says, in a way that is so un-Ingo-like. “Almost everything. It’s just—there. Right out of reach. Right out of my reach.”

The television casts color across Ingo’s face, obscuring his expression. Emmet fights to keep his expression cool and neutral, despite the way his heart begs to jump into his throat and throw a party. He has a sandwich to eat, not a heart. Silly heart. Silly Emmet. He supposes now that’s why Ingo’s reaction to Chandelure was so stunted. Or the way he skirted away from the station like it may reach out and pinch him like a dwebble. He takes a bite of his sandwich, chewing slowly.

“I don’t know why,” Ingo continues, picking at the seeds on top of his bagel. “I don’t know how, either. And I don’t think I can stomach the where and what, yet. I feel sick when I think too hard. Dizzy and sick.”

Emmet swallows roughly.

“It’s okay,” he says. Ingo shakes his head, shutting his eyes. Emmet watches his face warp, faltering as he holds back whatever emotion’s just bubbled up in his chest. He screws his eyes shut, new tears dripping down his cheeks and off his chin. “Go, listen—”

Emmet reaches. He brushes Ingo’s hand, and Ingo jerks back on instinct, recoiling. He looks at Emmet, expression blank, nervous, then cracking all at once. Emmet’s own face falters as they meet eyes. Emmet holds his hand over Ingo’s, waiting, still crouching in front of him. He tries for a smile, even as Ingo goes blurry.

“I’m glad you remembered me,” he warbles out. “We can keep going from there. Our tracks move forward.”

“I don’t believe my car in this two car train is very safe, Em,” Ingo sniffles. He takes Emmet’s hand, though, and Emmet curls his fingers over his, both hands around his one hand. He squeezes ever so.

“We’re known for our safety checks, brother,” Emmet says gently. “It’s just our standard operating procedure.”

Ingo laughs softly. The sound is damp, but real. Trying to be something positive. It’s all he can ask of him.

“Understood,” Ingo says. He nods, setting his face, despite the way tears still cloud his eyes, and his mouth still wobbles as he sniffles in. “We shall depart then.”

“We will!” Emmet says, squeezing his hands again. He drops them, then, patting Ingo’s knees like he were beating on the table. Ingo huffs out a laugh, shooing him away.

It doesn’t hurt any less, knowing how much might be absent. But it soothes it a bit to watch Ingo smile.

Later, sitting on the couch together, Ingo rests against Emmet, sandwiches eaten, chips picked through, water drank. His face has regained a touch of color, hands no longer shaking with exertion. He breathes slowly and softly as Emmet flips through television mindlessly, looking for anything. To his left, Eelektross snores, head resting on his knee. He runs a hand absently along the scales at the top of his head, listening to the drone of purr and the chatter of late night television.

“Brother,” Emmet says softly. “Ingo.”

Ingo makes no sound. His breath stays even and slow. Emmet snorts. Right. He supposes it’s payback—he can’t remember the amount of times he’d fallen asleep during movie night with Elesa.

Elesa.

Emmet startles.

Reaching for his phone, he hastily manages a message to Elesa. Something like: Come over ASAP. Good news. Very good. About Ingo.

But his message reads in all lowercase like a run-on sentence, so he hopes in the morning Elesa will decipher it.

Emmet leans back, Ingo’s sleeping weight falling to Emmet’s side as he lies down on the couch cushions. His brother only partially adjusts in his sleep, better tucking into one side, head on his shoulder. Warm with sleep and food, Emmet lets his eyes unfocus. There’s too much static resting right under his skin to let him sleep.

This is good, though. A moment of reprieve for him, and desperately needed for Ingo. Maybe in the morning they’ll talk about getting rid of that ridiculous beard of his.

Emmet hums softly to himself. He listens to the drone of the television for a moment, blissfully tired. There’s a moment of quiet just long enough to feel sleep tug at him.

Someone pounds on his door.

Ah. Well.

Miscalculation on his part, then.

#submas #subway master emmet #subway master ingo #pokemon black and white #pokemon fic #pokemon black and white fic #submas fic #it's very. this is very special to me #i think it could be longer! and a little more detailed! and i think i wanna come back to it at some point and post it on ao3 #it's kind of like this. oh well i've seen other executions i like just as much as what i decided #and it makes me wanna weave more in #i think i could eventually but not today LMAO #maybe once i post my other fic i'll rewrite this as the second chapter. big eyes.#yesyes.. that's what i'll do < shut up tuna

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skiaskai · 11 months

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More Avari ✨

#The brainworms are feasting #I’m gonna ask a master post of what Ellie and I have come up with soon #But yeah there he is #Dragon boy #original character #my art

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twinge-of-cosmicangst · 7 days

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I think Mrs Flood might be Jenny and also the mother of Susan, because of Doctor’s comment of not having kids yet and Susan being a product of his future children, but he discounted Jenny because he thought she died before ever having kids.

#doctor who #I know this is dumb but I don’t think mrs flood is Susan because her vibes are too bitchy but for Jenny it could work more??#but surely Susan must come up because of all this talk about her and the whole comments of the Doctor not having gallifreyan children #must have been bought up for a reason #also the whole doctor not having kids before Jenny thing does not make sense because the doctor told Donna he had been a dad before #in the Jenny episode and he also told Rose in season 2 but that’s not my fault that rtd being inconsistent I his own eras #anyways extra points if the Master is Susan’s father in a twilight esk plot twist: if I can’t have you I’ll have your daughter #I’m so sleep deprived #also Ruby is Susan’s twin? Ruby was delivered to the 15th and Susan to the 1st why? for shits and giggles I guess #shit post #kinda

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seaweedstarshine · 2 months

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Hi! Long time no yap but I've been really bothered by this thing and I know you're just the person I can go to with this (even if we don't always end up agreeing at times).

I got into a tiff with someone in a comments section of a post that was about Amy (Which character do you think deserved to become a villain? or something similar). They brought up Amy's abuse of her boyfriend. I may have tried to defend Amy (key word is tried. I am officially rubbish at debating) but then I may have said something? Because they said that I (and apparently a lot of other fans) was excusing Amy's abuse because of her trauma. It got me stumped because isn't young Amy's treatment of Rory rooted in her trauma? Did I miss the memo where we separate trauma and abuse? Am I missing something?

That statement bothered me a lot because if there's one thing I never want to do it's defend an abuser. So here I am, humbly asking and hoping to clear the muddy waters.

Your really confused and disturbed moot, Tia 💌

TIA!!!!! Thanks for the ask 💌 , and I send you all the hugs.

Discussion of abuse, trauma, ableism, infidelity, and unhealthy relationship dynamics beneath the cut.

(First off… while I really appreciate your faith in my explaining skills <3 <3 <3 my passion for traumatized characters and mentally ill+neurodivergent rights doesn't make me especially qualified to fully clear muddy waters especially not knowing the full context, but I feel you, and what follows is my informed perspective!)

Speaking generally first, harm done in media is best examined by the impact on the audience, with a different lens than harm done to real people. While relatable experiences in media can be useful and validating and incredibly important, you can’t be “defending an abuser” when the abuse is fictional. It's actually normal for traumatized/ND/mentally ill people to project onto mentally ill villains, when villains are the only significant representation for those stigmatized symptoms in a media landscape that excludes and demonizes us simply for existing. RTD can't stop people who hallucinate from reclaiming the Master's Drums and projecting onto the Master, for example — 90% of the best Doctor Who psychosis fic by psychotic authors is about the Master, whether RTD likes it or not. It's not true crime.

(This is speaking generally. Amy Pond is very much not the Master.)

Abuse is a behavior, and there can be many reasons for it, but reasons based in trauma don’t make it not abuse (some forms of generational trauma can propagate abusive parenting styles, when the parent thinks abusive parenting is normal, or lives entirely vicariously through their child). This absolutely should not be taken to mean trauma correlates with abusive behavior; rather that abusive behaviors from traumatized people are more likely to present in specific ways.

Abuse is also a targeted behavior, based in control — not consistently displayed C-PTSD symptoms as seen in Season 5 Amy Pond through many aspects of her life. Mental health symptoms don't become abuse just because they hinder one partner from meeting the other partner's needs. Any life event can do that.

Without knowing the context of the arguments, this is the aspect of their relationship I've seen you talk about before (which I also feel strongly about), and what I assume is what you were debating? So, here I will talk specifically in regard to Season 5.

We all know Amy — she's never attached to Leadworth because she never wanted to leave Scotland, no steady therapist because none of them stick up for her, can't stick with one job yet her first choice is a job that simulates intimacy because her avoidant behavior (a known trauma response) isn't sustainable to her wellbeing. Rory knows her fears of commitment stem from her repeated abandonments, it’s why he’ll always wait for her, and it's why he blames the Doctor “You make it so they don't want to let you down.”, who apart from having caused a lot of her trauma, has actively taken advantage of her being the “Scottish girl in the English village” who's “still got that accent,” because he wants to feel important, so yeah, I think interpreting Amy's issues (and how Amy and Rory transverse them) as Amy abusing Rory indicates a fundamental misunderstanding of their relationship, as well as a misunderstanding of the (raggedy) Doctor’s role in Amy’s formative self-image (which of course she works through in Season 6, but I am sticking to Season 5).

Abuse is always based in control. That just doesn’t fit here. While Amy's detachment from her real life includes things like calling Rory her “kind of boyfriend” (which she is upfront about to his face; differing commitment levels isn't abuse, though it can be a relationship red flag for both parties IRL) — her Season 5 disregard of Rory’s feelings occurs only in response to the fairytale embodiment of her trauma. It's never a response to Rory; it's a response to the Doctor, who stole her childhood and led her by the hand to her death. She cheats on Rory with the Doctor in her bedroom full of Doctor toys, drawings, models, she made from childhood to early adulthood.

(And yes, like many repeatedly-traumatized people, Amy is prone to being sensitive and reactive. Take her ��Well, shut up then!” line in The Big Bang; but given Rory responds to this by hugging her, clearly he doesn’t take it as her actually dismissing him. He knows her better than that.)

And by no means do I meant to imply this is fair to young Rory, poor Rory, who's left struggling with the feeling that his role in her life is in competition with the role of her trauma (aka the Doctor). But not every unhealthy relationship dynamic is unhealthy because of abuse. Labelling Amy's treatment of Rory in Season 5 more accurately isn't the same as excusing her harmful choices — but making mistakes is part of being human, Amy's mistakes are certainly understandable, and she works through them out of love for Rory.

If there's one thing to say about Moffat women, it's that Moffat allows his female characters the same grace that the male characters *coughTENcough* have always had, to hurt and struggle and make realistic mistakes and overcome those mistakes and to heal without being demonized.

Amy isn't perfect, but she is a fully realized character, and her story gives us a resonant depiction of childhood trauma.

#abuse #rtd critical #anti rtd #im NOT really anti rtd but im tagging it that because some people block that tag and uhhhh this post strays into rtd critique #maybe he does regret how he wrote the master! we'll never know because rtd is very anti-admitting-his-own-mistakes #words by seaweed #anyways tia i am. SO relieved you’re not upset with me about our last disagreement?#i high key jumped to conclusions after the lack of reply to the last DM? so thank you for this ask it's great to hear from you #sorry you were in a debate about this! that sounds extremely awful.#anyway i'm gonna WAIT at least a week to tag Amy and Rory to avoid this showing up in the character tags right away haha #because I am KINDA scared the anti-media-literacy ppl will find this (I had to include the first part tho its important)#(lack of distinction between harm to audience *in fiction* and irl harm *to actual ppl* leads to problematic public apologies where-#-public figures apologize to fans they let down *instead* of the people they actually hurt. no it doesn't work like that)#(parasocial relationships are not more important than real victims agency or privacy)#editing to say..... yanno what? ive come to terms with not all the posts with the following tag been about the doctor #and I am planning to make a post at some point about the nd aspects of Amy+the Doctor's connection which this stuff IS relevant to soooooo #(eleventh) doctor is neurodivergent tag #editing again to add character tags:#Amy pond #Rory williams

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