I AM COMING FOR THEM ALL.
1. A girl with her fingers turned small, turned hard, turned rabid— fingers of a child, fingers of a beast. A girl with her tongue turned to mercury, to lead, to smoke and mirrors. Watch her blood curdle. Watch her wilt.
2. A woman with her teeth turned to knives, spine turned to cinders, laugh turned to madness (to screams). A woman who takes the things she loves— parents, recently deceased; figureheads of her oppression and her dominance and her love— and suffocates them. Watch her teeth grind. Watch her turn to dust.
3. A bag of bones. Make a wish.
1. They say the stars are already dead— an infinite cemetery sprawling overhead: a galaxy of tombstones, a prison of bones. The sky is a violent thing. A war ground. A battlefield. Let the blood rain down. Let it turn you red. Let it consume you.
2. You: a light a million miles from home, a memory of something dead and gone. You want to be soft (gentle, like starlight; calming, like moonlight), but you are the sun going nova: ripping, tearing, annihilating. You leave burns, you leave blood. You want to be gentle—
Synonyms: blood between your teeth, skin turned black beneath your eye, knuckles ripped clean, edges like knives— someday, someone will bleed to death on you.
So, you say, Let them bleed.
3. The universe did not raise you to be gentle. She raised you to burn out— slowly. She raised you to take everything with you when you went (brutally: like an unbecoming, like a rewriting, like a disappearing).
4. You are one star of a constellation: the Kuàng Three.
1. He is a God.
(How do you define the eternal? The insufferable? The unbecoming? There is no definition for the beginning: the explosion that spiraled the world into existence, the snap of nothing into everything. There is no definition for creation, there is only this and the emptiness before and after. There are only Gods trapped in the conscience of men— there is nothing satisfying about flesh and bone and rot. The world is built by mortal Gods.)
2. There is no word for daughter in the language of Gods: there is creation, there is manifestation. There is his gift to the world: a daughter wrapped in his wickedness— it takes and it takes and it takes, peeling skin from bone and bone from sinew and sinew from whatever lies beneath. The barest parts of mortals. He creates a mockery out of a girl, he creates a soldier out of bags of bones: there is nothing like bewitching that which bewitches. There is nothing like using itself against it. Watch it writhe. Watch it wither. Watch it come back (heartless, thoughtless— a monster with a destruction button).
3. He looks at you, runs a hand across your jawline, it comes away wet with blood (you are a sharp thing, you), 你不聪明吗? Does he not call you clever? Sharp? The tack in a field of daisies. You are wrapped around his smile, his sharp teeth: he forms you in his image, births you into the world like the edge of the universe into existence. The only daughter, wit like a knife. The only daughter, tongue like a razor. The only daughter, the cat stalking the mouse.
4. You are a black hole of love and gentleness and precious things; they disappear into your mouth, they taste like dirt and poison. (You spit them out into the gravel, watch them bleed out in the dirt.) He bites his cuticles till they bleed, 我们可以打破什么?
5. Bones must be broken to heal; girls must be broken to rule.
1. Magic is might. No-Majs are plight.
See also: proselytize (a girl must be broken to make a ruler: rip her mind open, take it all out and rearrange it into every shape— there's a girl, now there's a woman, now there's destruction, now there's a devotee crying for blood in the streets), pureblood (your father with his smile and his teeth, forming that word on wine-stained lips), No-Maj (blast it across your world with your fingertips: it tastes like something dirty beneath your tongue, something good for the darkness in you).
2. You are unleashed: one monster (a thundering, raging, terrifying thing). The world quakes beneath your feet, the world is brandishing fear like a knife and it runs you through till it gets to the other side (there's no blood, because what's fear to a monster?).
3. You are unleashed: feeding on the power you're given, feeding on your father's wishes.
4. You are unleashed: you know nothing but a woman with her body twisted into a snarling jowl, you know nothing but a light body and dark eyes and the quickening of feet. You are unleashed into the only thing you've ever known: violence. It tastes like blood. It tastes like union. It tastes like one body trapped forever.
5. Devote yourself to violence, to bloodshed, to the cancer of war in the veins of North America— you are building a better world (tell yourself that— it's a lie; you're building a world you'd want to live in: empty, dark, and deadly).
6. Gonzales and Stubbe are not your saviors; you've had enough of Gods.
6a. But your first God tells you, serve.
6b. You will serve.
6c. And then, someday, you will rule.
1. Choice: wand or knife. Wand or hands.
2. You're a witch. You should be above your hands as weapons, as knives, as the final blow. You should be above torture and distortion, but you are also monster: instinct fueled beast, snapping teeth and strained jaw.
3. He begs: face stained with fear like something that could be washed away with a rag. He curls into himself, he trembles. You shove him into concrete, drag his face through mud and water. He screams. You breathe. He begs. You step back, knife glinting with blood and decay.
4. You learn this: wizards are sometimes weak. When you have all that power, you forget the little things: muscle and sinew and pain. You forget what it feels like to heal and hurt and fight.
5. He dies screaming.
1. It's an art form, this. It should be painted—written—sculptured and placed in a museum, celebrated by the world over. It should be renowned as perfection— this way of unbecoming others, piece by piece and moment by moment; ripping and tearing and unfolding until there is nothing left but the flitter of air and a mouth with a silent plea— it's only muscle memory.
2. You were created in the hearth of violence: molded into sharp edges and short temper and stone heart. You: perfectly created to cut off the head of beasts. Lead, hold, break. It's a symbiotic thing. It's an easy way of living: lure, torture, defile, start again.
3. When you were a child, a mother cat once had kittens beneath the bramble and a rotted woodshed. When you were a child, you held them with as much gentleness as you could muster, pressing your ear to their chests and listening to the rise and fall of their lungs, of their heart. When you were a child— well, accidents do happen. When you were a child, its body went cold in your hands and there were tears on your face and a heat in your stomach— sometimes, we become in the unbecoming; sometimes you can be ashamed of the warmth from pain, but you will embrace this delusion: it died in your arms (someone will say you did it on purpose— you did not, but that doesn't change what you've become).
4. You've become nothing, but you've seen many empty rulers.
1. They say monsters cannot love. They say monsters do not have a need for affection. The Gods try to beat it out of you; but they only took the gentleness. You can love with brutality. You can love with this broken part of you, it still beats.
2. It's almost like a narcissism. It's almost like loving yourself.
1. A girl with her fingers bitten raw to the sinew— blood on the floor. A girl with her hands turned into weapons, beating the ones she loves with the parts of herself that don't know how. Watch her break. Watch her splinter.
2. A woman with knives for fingers and fire for eyes, the air in her lungs turning to poison and madness (nothing can kill her). A woman who takes that madness to the river and drowns it— the softer parts of herself. Watch her come back harder. Watch her come back unbreakable.
3. A throne of cinders. Make a wish.
summaryMeet Clara— she was raised by her father to be the perfect soldier: a perfect mind, a perfect hand, a perfect ruler. She has a mind like a chessboard; a body like a museum; a weakness for her own blood. She was weaned on knives— It'll make her mouth tough, her body concrete and stone. If there was a childhood, it was drowned in blood and her father's brutal form of love. (Love? No, training.) She grew up in a lavish Chinese home. She was the only daughter: a cunning mind, full of sharp corners and abraded edges. It was enough to cut anyone. Her father would smile, say: How do you make a girl suffer? You learn how to break her. And she's good at breaking: it's easy to pick a woman into a carcass. So, she grows into a leader, into an establishment of pain, into a star pupil and a wicked thing.
Gonzales approaches her and she immediately joins the Death Squad, under her father's assuming praise. America teaches her this: gambling dens full of heavy smoke and perfume are a good way to relax the muscles, to rub the weary lines from clenched skin, to watch a woman's life fall into enemy hands (without the use of a wand, a knife, a smattering of blood). Gambling and winning is a lot like murder: watch the losers run, watch them scurry. Loyalty is for soldiers; she is only a mimicry, a replica, a wind-up illusion. She will not lay quietly at the bottom of her father's open palm: she is a becoming, there is no room for two rulers in the same throne.
platonicShe has never had much interest for the friendship of others: such devotion, such trust, such a blind foolishness to follow. She trusts only a select few others besides herself and they all work as a unit. For her, friendships are no less than acquaintances and profit— the cunning play of chess, the moving of parts, the eccentric disdain for the word friend. While she tends to enjoy the company of the Death Squad more than any others, she is known for her frequent involvement in gambling and card games and in darker things.
You won't be her friend, but you're more than welcome to deal with her knock-off brand of friendship: it's not so bad, once you get used to it.
antagonisticThe majority of her relationships tend to fall into the enemies category— it's a perfectly symbiotic way for her to survive (hating and maiming and destroying and plotting the demise of others). She was raised on violence, raised on a sense of mistrust, raised on her mind working like a chessboard with no room for broken rules. (She reads the rules and then she manipulates them: she's never broken the law, not really.) Her temper is short. Her memory is excruciatingly long. She is a poster child for grudges and payback.
She was taught to despise No-Maj and No-Maj Born. She turns her nose up at werewolves or any sort of magical creature. She is a wizard elitist to a fault.