I’ll Do It Later...

So uh

The whole ghost sickness hospital thing

But Spectra is liminal

Liminal to the degree that Valerie is Liminal. But backwards

Which is how she was able to do all that without just killing people dead

Her aura, for lack of a better-less waffley term, is a stabilizing agent here

It’s exactly like how

The fact that Amity is Danny’s haunt causes liminality down the line

With normal people it’s “just” less dangerous radiation, barring the odd unfortunate exception

But with a liminal around that has a core built for knowing the difference between real-world bits and ectoplasm, and all the importance of their composition there

There’s just an ecto signature / aura or whatever wrapping around these peoples bodily functions, like my body now, I’ll make sure you don’t die from your cells exploding on contact, idiot

The first and second episodes, while not the earliest thing I’ve placed chronologically, do a really good job of introducing the shows main themes and characters, while establishing a bit of a pattern, immediately.

The whole thing with season one is covering a smaller scale story. The stakes are meant to be muddled. Danny becomes more secure in his position as protector of Amity Park, but he’s simultaneously maturing, something that is mainly seen through how he interacts with his friends. The trio is meant to functionally trauma bond over the course of this first season, hardships and shared secrets, leading to a halfway codependency; they become less friends of convenience and more friends of necessity. A bit of an it’s too late to bail so we should probably try harder to like each other situation.

Clockwork, as he most often went by, was very particular about some things.

For example, he’d once decided he’d wanted a child.

Not two children, one.

The issue of the matter is, fae have children in pairs: twins.

The Ancient of Hope, they called her. Daughter of Ancients, they sang. World cleaver, they praised.

For she was made by all the Ancients of that time. She was made from their best parts, all gifted and a gift for all.

She would be called Pandora.

She saw the evils of the world, the dangers that would spread to weaker places, and she trapped them. She saw the way the veil between worlds, thinned in places, and she passed between worlds freely doing her duty.

She was a protector, a warrior, a guardian.

And she found herself settling in an fascinating space, a place of cults and magic, one of the thinnest spots the human realm had at the time. Nafplio, Hellens. It would be called Greece.

She learned their customs, and their language, and continued to every time she returned. And with each new appearance came new tales.

Her name had not yet been Pandora; so they had given her a hundred epithets, a hundred tales, and she would not have been able to tell you which were hers.

She came with her box, and she travelled far and wide, and she trapped every too-harsh thing in the world away. And every time she returned, she’d rest, and learn, and see.

She’d live. She’d love. But she was not always loved in turn.

Greece was not kind to women then.

They saw the warrior and thought her monstrous. They saw her lure their own into a realm of death, a temptress of Greek fire. They heard her stories and saw her box and thought, ‘she must have been made to punish us.’

They heard her admirers whisper of hope. ‘She must be evil’, they thought. A wild thing conjured to let loose evils upon them. ‘But humanity will alway have hope.’ They told themselves, slandering her name, and using her as a tool for their bigotry.

Ancients had followings once.

Massive, sprawling networks ever in their service. They cared little for things in the long run, but that is not to say they didn’t acknowledge their followers power, their devotion, their borderline obsession.

Some watched over their believers, sometime to keep them from harm, sometimes just to know them. Some picked favorites and kept them close, even in death. Some granted desires at a whim, showering gifts upon those they deemed worthy. Some spoke to their believers, in person, or through that offered connection.

But Ancients had duties. They had realms and domains that could keep them blind to the worlds for a time that would only seem reasonable to something so long-lived.

And in that time, devotion would fade. Proof would die, and believers along with it. Their followings would splinter, their stories would grow warped, until not even their name was consistent.

They would cease to be known.

And while this did not effect them so massively, it was a shame.

It was a loss.

Now that you know of orders lost, I need you to think of a boy.

I need you to think of Danny Fenton, of Phantom, of a child who had people close to deities as role models, a strange sense of humor, and just enough spare time on his hands.

Think of a boy that would correct the broken versions of Pandora’s myth, of a boy that would hear of Father Time and rave about a clock tower of the most intricate build, a boy who would set down grudges and tell of dreams more wild than even Amity’s waking world.

And remember, this was Amity Park. This was a place mundanely haunted, a place known for it’s mystique. So, people heard, and they considered it. A few even believed it.

Cults already existed in Amity Park. It was not hard for more to form when it was Phantom egging on their conspiracy.

And the Ancients heard, and they might have ignored. But, that child was theirs as far ghosts cared, and he had given them believers.

So, much in the way a parent might stick a hideous crayon drawing up on their fridge, Pandora and Clockwork reached out to their new followings.

And like a curious sibling, Nocturne was just entertained enough to humor Danny.

Pandora gave protection for every offering delivered, talked into the minds of her zealots, and appeared to them as she pleased.

Clockwork chose prophets, gave prophecies and future sight without any comprehensible reason.

Nocturne spirited away resting minds, hiding them away in a deeper sleep, with more powerful, happier dreams.