I own nothing.


Interchangeable Parts

Helena is made of opposites and complementary components. She is daring and discretion, science and creativity. She is a genius, and she is a little bit insane. You prefer not to think too much on the past, but you know that she still possesses that darkness, and sometimes you wonder exactly how far beneath the surface it lurks. You want to trust her, and be trusted in return, but equivocality is also a part of Helena. Deliberate at first, she was all subversion and charm, but you think that that lies in the past now. After Yellowstone, she has always told you the truth, but there is still so much that she doesn't say – that she doesn't know how to say – and that is what worries you.

She is devotion. If her madness and obsession weren't a sign of devotion to her Christina, then you don't know what is. Losing her daughter had sent her spiraling downward, heedless of any damage she caused, but reckless isn't really a term you would use to describe her. Helena is audacity and determination, but she is also cunning and calculation. Perhaps recklessness was something novel to experiment with, but quickly deemed inadequate and tossed aside to be forgotten over the century in bronze. Regardless, abandon is a gear than no longer fits into any of the mechanisms that make up H.G. Wells.

Flexibility is a far more suitable word. From airplanes and automobiles to the sometimes strange and often indecent fashions of modern clothing, Helena has let nothing faze her. Were it not for the odd anachronistic turn of phrase, and a certain reluctance to rely on computers, you think you would hardly notice that she is a woman out of time. From the start, she has always adapted seamlessly to anything that the modern world sees fit to throw at her.

With the exception, of course, of everything that compelled her to thrust the Minoan Trident into the earth at Yellowstone.

But – your heart insists – her apocalyptic tendencies do lie in the past, and you really want to believe that. Actually, you think you do believe it, but you are still unsure how much you can trust your own judgment when it comes to her, since it once led you so far astray. You were right about one thing though: she did want you to talk her down. Perhaps you understand her better than you thought, and maybe you're right about that spark of resilience that you see glinting in her eyes. You like to think that you had a hand in forging that particular component.

(Helena would say that you're right.)

She is healing. Slowly. You wish that you could just reach inside of her and pluck out all that pain and grief and darkness clinging to Christina's memory, but they are stuck too fast, integrated too deep into the framework, and you know that Helena must be the one to dislodge them. There isn't much you can do as she works to redesign herself, but that doesn't really matter though, because you will do all that you can.


The metaphors in this were inspired by the lyrics of "The Clockyard" by Abney Park.