#and in the former case it would at best slowly descend to the same level of abject shittiness as them

[isopodhours]

that "microsoft in talks to acquire discord" post is over 2 years old

oh whoops lol

[440mxs-wife]

Arthur’s Angels Chapter 1: Meet the Angels

Pairings: Dean x Jayna Brandon (OFC), Sam x Maggie Parker (OFC). Other Characters: Gabriel, Arthur Ketch

Warnings: show-level violence

Word Count: 4900+

Authors Note: This started out as a birthday gift of sorts to my good friend, @MissyIsSassy1. Jayna is her character, so anything about her is Missy, while Maggie is my character, and anything about her is me. Don’t look at me, I just write stuff.

Summary: Jayna and Maggie are employed by the mysterious Arthur Ketch to hunt the supernatural. They have never met Mr. Ketch in person, and receive their assignments via speakerphone briefings. Still, they do their job, and they’re damn good at it. See what happens when their path crosses with the Winchesters.....

Author’s Note 2: I’m not sure how many parts this will have, I guess as many as people are willing to read. If you want to be tagged in this series or have any requests, please let me know. Thank you for reading, enjoy!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Okay, weapons check?" Jayna said to her partner, Maggie. The two of them were on assignment, going up against a nest of vampires. No way that either of them wanted to be caught in a fight without adequate weapons support.

"Machete, freshly sharpened," Maggie said, patting her thigh holster. "Also have my .380, with a full clip of the ceramic rounds filled with dead man's blood," she confirmed. "You?" she asked.

Jayna gestured towards her back holster where she kept her always-sharpened machete. She tucked her 9mm pistol, also with the ceramic rounds, in the back waistband of her jeans. "So, how many did Gabriel say would be in this nest, anyway?" Jayna asked.

Maggie looked at the ramshackle house before them. "No more than ten, if I remember correctly. I figure we get in a few good swings and take out the first four or five vamps, which makes the rest of our job a bit more manageable," she explained.

Jayna shrugged. "Sounds like a plan to me," she replied as they approached the front door of the run-down shack.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Jayna Brandon and Maggie Parker were experts, recruited by the reclusive billionaire, Arthur Ketch, to hunt the supernatural. Each woman had her own reasons for becoming involved in hunting. Whether their motivation was a deep sense of duty or a desire to continue the family legacy, regardless, they trained relentlessly. For that reason alone, they were considered to be two of the best female hunters in the world.

Rumors had circulated that Mr. Ketch once had ties to the former British Men of Letters, a secret organization from the 1950's. Their purpose was to investigate and hunt the supernatural, like vampires, werewolves and shapeshifters.

About three years ago, the weapons locker was raided and cleared out, then the organization was mysteriously disbanded. All of their technically superior weaponry was said to now be under the control of an unknown entity. Some even suggested that Mr. Ketch himself may have been the one to take possession of this futuristic firepower.

Working alongside Jayna and Maggie was Gabriel. He mostly worked behind the scenes, researching cases and providing tech support and even transportation if necessary. Sometimes he went out in the field, if the case involved posing as a couple to complete the mission. Gabriel could be a bit mischievous at times, but he was always there for Jayna and Maggie when they needed him.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Jayna slowly and carefully eased the front door open. She didn't want any squeaks or whines from the aging hinges to ruin the element of surprise. As they approached the living room area, a vamp was entering the room from Jayna's left. She swung her machete and sliced the head clean off the body, both hitting the floor with a thump. Another one came in from Maggie's right, but she was ready. Her machete sliced through the vamp's neck like a hot knife through butter.

After they cleared the top floor of all five vampires, that only left the remaining five, most likely in the basement. The ladies knew they had to be careful, because there may also be potential victims to rescue. Jayna signaled to Maggie that the door in front of her led to the basement. Maggie nodded and drew open the door, which fortunately opened without a creak.

The women slowly descended the stairs, pausing every so often to make sure nothing had disturbed the vampires. They appeared to be sleeping in some sort of sling or hammock, with the ends secured around an exposed beam in the ceiling.

Jayna counted and signaled to Maggie that there were only four more to clear out the nest. Maggie nodded and motioned that she was going to go check for victims. Jayna nodded her assent as she continued to survey their environment, always keeping an eye out for an exit.

Maggie found six victims, only three of whom were still alive. She disconnected the IV that was drawing the blood out of the first two and tied a piece of her shirt over it like a bandage. The couple looked like they were high school sweethearts, a quarterback and his cheerleader. Must have been in the wrong place at the wrong time, is all. They didn't look like they'd lost too much blood, so she told them to go and wait for her and Jayna under the stairs.

Something seemed to be a little off with the third captive, though. Maggie looked her over for injuries, but didn't find any. She started walking towards the stairs, thinking the other captive would follow her. Maggie caught the horrified look in the eyes of the cheerleader as she gestured to the last captive. Maggie turned around in time to see the last victim charging at her, knocking her over. She had been turned, and she had decided that Maggie was to be her first kill.

Jayna ran over and knocked the girl to the ground, only to have her quickly get back up. Jayna gripped her machete with both hands and made a clean slice, taking off her head. Maggie breathed a sigh of relief. "Thanks, Jay," she whispered.

"Anytime," Jayna said, then turned her attention to the remaining cluster of vamps, who were starting to stir in their bunks. "Uh-oh, looks like that was just the wake-up call," Jayna quipped. "Time to take care of business," she remarked.

Two vamps went after Maggie, while the other two went after Jayna. They each took the first one out easily, but the last two were starting to get the upper hand. The one attacking Jayna had her pinned to the ground and kept trying to take a bite at her neck.

The impact of hitting the floor caused her machete to drop from her hand. Jayna brought her leg up and shoved the vamp away from her, then drew her pistol. She shot a couple of ceramic rounds into its upper chest, and the vamp went down, paralyzed for the moment. Jayna completed the kill as she cleaved its head from the body.

Maggie's vamp seemed a lot more determined, most likely the leader of his nest. He had her pinned to the wall to where she couldn't raise her arms to swing the blade. "Do you think you two hunters can just waltz in here, kill my family and take what's mine?!?" he thundered. His forearm was pressed up against Maggie's neck. He pressed hard, holding her against the wall and threatening her air supply.

Just before Maggie nearly blacked out from lack of oxygen, she heard Jayna shout to get the vamp's attention. He turned his head towards Jayna, which was his last and fatal mistake. Her machete quickly and cleanly separated his head from his body and the fight was over.

"Thanks again, Jay. Really saved my ass this time," Maggie huffed, still trying to catch her breath.

"You can save my ass next time," Jayna chuckled. "Let's get these survivors topside and out of this house. You okay to lead us out of here?" she asked.

Maggie nodded, then paused as she heard footsteps approaching their position. Maggie pointed upward, and motioned to Jayna and the couple to keep quiet. When the intruders hit the last step, Jayna and Maggie stepped out of the shadows, weapons drawn, and yelled "Freeze!"

The newcomers also had weapons that they trained on Jayna and Maggie, at least until they saw the collection of headless bodies on the floor. The man closest to Jayna had piercing green eyes, spiky hair and slightly bowed legs. He re-engaged the safety on his weapon, but still felt the need to keep it pointed in Jayna's direction.

"One question. Who are you and what the hell are you doing on our hunt?" he demanded.

"Your hunt? Excuse me, but this is our case, bud," Jayna retorted. "We should be asking 'who are you and what the hell are you doing on our hunt'," she sassed.

"Name's Dean Winchester, sweetheart," he smirked. Gesturing to the tall, shaggy haired man to his right, "And this one here is my brother, Sam Winchester," he explained.

Jayna and Maggie looked at each other and realized that the newcomers were not a threat. They reengaged the safety on their weapons and tucked them in the back waistband of their jeans. Sam and Dean, having decided that Jayna and Maggie weren't a threat either, did the same.

"Well, boys, now that we've made our introductions, we must be going. Got to get the survivors some medical attention, so they can go back home to their families," Maggie said. She started to climb the stairs and motioned for the survivors to come out of hiding and follow her to the car.

Jayna turned to leave as well, but before she did, she caught Dean's eye. "You guys will clean up, right? Been a slice," she said as she winked and gave him a mock salute. She followed Maggie up the stairs, grinning to herself all the way.

Sam and Dean both looked at each other. "What the hell just happened?" Dean thundered. "How did we get stuck with the clean-up?" he growled.

Shaking his head, Sam chuckled. "Come on, Dean. Let's get to work," he grinned.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Jayna and Maggie dropped off the survivors at a local hospital to receive medical attention, then provided Gabriel with their final report. Gabe was impressed that the girls had finished the job in record time and managed to save two civilians. He said they had earned some time off, so they decided to find a diner to get something to eat.

On the way to the diner, they talked about meeting the infamous Winchesters.

"So what did you think of them?" Maggie asked.

"Well, Dean is certainly the one in charge," Jayna observed. "Talks a lot, and if I'm being honest...." she trailed off.

"Yeah?" Maggie prompted, dying to hear how Jayna was going to finish her thought.

"It's not so much his words, Mags. I swear, though, his voice is just the right frequency to set off my internal tuning fork. And I mean in the best way," she remarked as they busted out laughing. "What about you?" she asked.

"I dunno. Sam seemed content to let Dean run the show, but I think that only means one thing. The man is a tiger that isn't going to want to be caged forever by his big brother. And when he gets loose, whoo boy! Someone's in for a wild night," Maggie finished.

When Jayna pulled into the parking lot, they couldn't help but notice the gorgeous, black 1967 Chevy Impala parked outside.

"Is that--" Maggie started.

"Couldn't be. Then again--" Jayna mused. "Let's just go in, we don't have to sit with them if they're in there," she replied.

Maggie shrugged and held the door open for Jayna, then followed her into the diner. They scanned the area for the Winchesters, knowing it had to be their car outside. Jayna spotted Sam and Dean sitting in a corner booth off to her right. She elbowed Maggie to get her attention and directed it towards where the Winchesters were sitting, bringing a smile to Maggie's face.

The girls looked at each other as if to ask, "Should we join them or ignore them?". One look between them had them thinking back to the conversation they had in the car. They nearly broke out into laughter again at the memory, but managed to hold it together.

Jayna and Maggie sauntered over to the boys' table, each swaying their hips a little in case Sam and Dean were watching. Maggie reached them first and cleared her throat a little to get their attention.

"Excuse us, gents, but are these seats taken?" Maggie asked, locking eyes with Sam.

Before his brother could answer, Sam jumped in and said, "No, not at all, please join us," he grinned. He scooted over to make room, while Dean rolled his eyes but made room for Jayna to slide in.

"You ladies hungry? Here, take a look, if you'd like to choose something," Dean remarked, handing over his menu.

The waitress came back to their table and noticed that two more guests had joined the table. Jayna and Maggie ordered their drinks, then everyone gave their food order. Dean ordered his classic bacon cheeseburger with fries, Sam requested a salad. Jayna went for the pot roast dinner, while Maggie ordered a Reuben sandwich with chips.

Jayna fidgeted with her napkin before speaking. "So, I think maybe we might have gotten off on the wrong foot with you guys," she started. "Comes from years of having to work twice as hard as female hunters to prove ourselves in a male-dominated profession," she explained.

"Nah, don't worry about it," Dean replied. "I'm rather impressed, just the two of you taking out a nest of ten vamps. That's not easy, even for a couple of guys like us," Dean said. "I just hope we didn't come across as macho jerks."

"Nope, nothing to fear there, Dean. And thanks for cleaning up, by the way," Jayna added. "I can tell, though, that you're used to being the one in charge, the leader. Hope it's not too intimidating that I'm a bit like that as well," Jayna said as she locked eyes with Dean.

Dean slowly shook his head. "Just so you know, though," he added, leaning towards Jayna's ear. "I like a woman who knows what she wants and goes after it," he added huskily as he ran his index finger along her jawline.

Jayna internally shivered, not only at the closeness of his lips to her ear, but at that damn sexy voice of his. She felt her cheeks grow warm at the thought of his plump lips. She wondered if she'd ever find out if they were as soft as they appeared to be. Jayna looked over at Maggie, who was too deep in conversation with Sam to notice any distress her friend may be under.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Across the table....

"So, what kinds of things are you into, Sam? You know, what do you like to do when you're not hunting?" Maggie asked a little nervously.

"Mostly, I do the research for the two of us. Dean's the 'action guy', I'm the 'book nerd'," Sam replied. "I'm a big fan of sci-fi, especially Star Wars and I've read all of the 'Harry Potter' books. Also, I have what some people would call a weird obsession with reading about serial killers," he chuckled. "What about you?" he inquired.

"Well, first of all, nothing wrong with being into books. I, too, have read all of the 'Harry Potter' books, but I like a good spy thriller once in awhile. I don't mind Star Wars, but I'm more into Star Trek. It's kind of a requirement, since I'm from Iowa," she grinned. "My weird thing has to do with how easily I can learn a foreign language. Mostly reading, not necessarily speaking them, though," she finished.

Sam's hazel eyes locked on to Maggie's as he spoke. "Star Trek, hmm? I can just hear the kind of heated sci-fi debates we'd get into. And I can't stop wondering about the sexy things you might say in another language. 'Specially when you get all riled up," he gently teased.

Sam reached over and tucked a wayward lock of hair behind Maggie's ear and grinned when he heard the slight hitch in her breathing. Fortunately for Maggie, the waitress arrived with their meals, saving her from doing anything embarrassing about her growing attraction to Sam.

After dinner was finished, the four went out to their respective cars, but neither driver seemed to be in a hurry to leave. Conversations were had about what to do with the rest of the evening, and whether that would include any members of the opposite sex.

Dean broke the stalemate by inviting Jayna and Maggie back to their room for a drink and possibly a movie. He mentioned the name of the motel, which prompted the girls to invite Sam and Dean back to their room instead. When Jayna explained that their employer was able to provide a bit nicer and separate accommodations, the boys instantly agreed.

Jayna and Maggie followed the boys back to their motel so they could grab a change of clothes for the night. While they waited, Maggie took the opportunity to voice her doubts to Jayna.

"Are you sure we should be doing this, Jay? I mean, inviting them back to our hotel? We hardly know anything about them, other than what we've heard from other hunters," Maggie pointed out.

"That's the point, Mags," Jayna answered. "We spend time with them, get to know them better. Besides, I saw you and Sam 'sparking' over in your corner of the booth," she teased.

Maggie scoffed. "Yeah? Well, I saw plenty of 'sparks' going between you and Dean on your side of the booth, Jay," she retorted.

Jayna shrugged. "If you're waiting for me to deny everything, you're going to have a long wait, dearie. It's that voice of his, like it has a tractor beam and it's pulling me in! Not that I'm complaining, mind you," she laughed.

Maggie joined in on the laughter. "I think I was right about Sam, too. You know, about him being a tiger and to be careful if he ever gets unleashed from his cage," she remarked. "He mentioned how fun it would be to debate me on sci-fi topics. And, about riling me up so I say naughty things in other languages," Maggie giggled.

At that moment, Sam and Dean emerged from their motel room, each carrying a bag. They turned to look at Jayna and Maggie in their car, smiled, waved then got into the Impala. Around 15 minutes later, they had arrived at the RedStar Hotel, where the girls were staying.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sam and Dean exited the Impala and examined their surroundings. This hotel was much nicer than anything they'd ever stayed in, except when on the werewolf case with Mick Davies. "Well, ladies, I have to say, these are some fancy digs," Dean remarked. "Not your usual hunters' accommodations," he added.

"Courtesy of our employer, whose name shall remain anonymous," Jayna quipped. "This is just the lobby. Shall we head up to my room first, then decide how best to spend the rest of the evening?" she asked.

Maggie and the boys nodded their assent as they made their way over to the bank of elevators. "Room 516 is mine, 519 is Maggie's room," Jayna explained. She pulled her key card out of her pocket and opened the door.

The room was equipped with a king sized bed, a recliner in the corner, a 55-inch flat screen TV and a desk where Jayna's laptop rested. "Come on in everyone," Jayna said as she threw her car keys on the desk. From her bag, she produced a bottle of whiskey and proceeded to pour two fingers for everyone.

When everyone had a drink in hand, Maggie raised hers a little. "I propose a toast: to a successful hunt and to new friends," she declared. Everyone repeated the toast and clinked their glasses together. Maggie made eye contact with Sam when their glasses connected, trying to determine what kind of mood he was in. She also wanted to see when may be a good time for them to make a break for her room to be alone.

Someone produced a deck of cards and from that, several rounds of Truth or Dare Go-Fish were played. The whiskey continued to flow, and as a consequence, the participants got a little sillier with each round. After about the seventh round, Jayna looked at Maggie. From all their years hunting together, Maggie knew from the look on Jayna's face that it was time for her and Sam to go.

"Hey, Sam, I heard there's a Star Wars marathon on TV. I know these two are probably not interested, so how about we head over to my room so we won't bother them?" Maggie suggested.

A knowing smirk crossed Sam's face. "Fine by me, as long as you don't mind that I quote the dialogue as the movie plays," he grinned.

"So much the better, I'll even play along," Maggie replied. She held out her hand, which Sam took in his and intertwined their fingers.

"Have fun, kids," Dean called after them. Upon hearing the door latch engage, a hungry look settled in Dean's eyes. He walked over to the table where Jayna was putting the deck of cards back in the box.

Dean approached Jayna while her back was to him. He reached for her hand to make her turn around and face him. He reached up with his right hand to cup her face. "So," he remarked softly, his thumb caressing her cheek.

"So," Jayna whispered. She placed her palms on his chest and slid them upwards until her hands were clasped behind his neck.

As her fingertips grazed the hairs at the base of his neck, Dean dove in and captured Jayna's lips with his own. His free hand roamed up and down Jayna's back, causing a small moan to escape from her mouth. When the need to breathe became too great, the kiss was broken, leaving Dean and Jayna panting.

"Whoa," Dean whispered. "That was amazing," he remarked.

"Agreed. I've been wanting to do that since the diner," Jayna gushed. "How's about we try that again?" she suggested.

"As you wish, sweetheart," Dean replied as his mouth slammed back to Jayna's with a need that he knew only she could satisfy. "So beautiful," Dean murmured against her lips.

Jayna brought her hands down so that they were inside his flannel shirt. Within seconds, she was pushing his outer shirt off of his shoulders and was reaching for the hem of his T-shirt. Dean gently pried it from her fingertips and eased it up and over his head. The sight of his bare chest caused a hitch in her breathing, which did not escape Dean's notice.

Dean toyed with the hem of Jayna's T-shirt, causing her to look down at his hands. He hooked one finger under her chin and tilted it upwards to meet her eyes. "Are you sure, sweetheart?" he asked softly.

Jayna nodded. "I'm sure, Dean," she answered. That was all the permission Dean needed to relieve Jayna of her shirt, leaving her in a lacy pink bra. A look of admiration crossed Dean's Greek god-like features and Jayna had never felt more treasured.

One by one, pieces of clothing disappeared until there was nothing left between them. Dean and Jayna found themselves under the blankets of the expansive king-sized bed. They took turns giving and receiving pleasure in the form of hot kisses and exploratory touches. As the two of them moved together, layer upon layer of passion was built. Each one higher than the last, until they both found their release.

As Dean and Jayna's heart rates slowly returned to normal, Jayna scooted towards Dean. He snaked his right arm around her to hold her close to his side. She rested her head on his shoulder and her right hand flat on his chest. "Mmm, Dean that was incredible," she murmured, her eyelids feeling heavy.

Dean leaned over and pressed his lips to Jayna's forehead. "It really was, sweetheart. Incredible," he mumbled against her skin. He felt his own eyelids fighting to stay open as well. "Sweet dreams, baby girl," Dean whispered before completely giving in to his need for sleep.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The next morning, the couples met in the hotel's dining facility for the breakfast buffet. Jayna noticed that Maggie and Sam looked pretty cozy going through the line. Always finding a reason to touch each other, or for one to grab the other's hand. Hmm, her night must have gone as well as mine did, Jayna thought with a smile. We should have lots to talk about on the drive back to HQ, she silently added.

"Morning, beautiful," Dean rumbled huskily in Jayna's ear. His stubbled cheek tickled her ear, causing her to giggle, which also brought a smile to Dean's face.

"Morning, handsome," she replied as soon as she had regained her composure.

Back at the table, everyone exchanged phone numbers. If either team needed help or wanted to talk to someone, they now had a way of contacting each other.

All too soon, it was time for the hunter teams to go their separate ways. Dean and Jayna were standing by her car, exchanging good-bye hugs and slow, luxurious kisses.

Over by the Impala, Maggie and Sam were saying their good-byes. "I had a wonderful time with you, Sam. You're smart, caring and a bit of a romantic if I may say. But you also have a very sexy wild side to you that I love just as much," Maggie remarked.

"And you, ma chérie, are sweet, kind and maybe a bit too sassy for your own good," Sam grinned. He tapped the end of Maggie's nose as she pouted. "But I would love to see you again sometime, ma belle fleur," he said softly.

A shy smile returned to Maggie's face. "I would like that as well, mon chéri," Maggie replied. She slid her hands up the length of Sam's chest and rested them on his shoulders. Without much encouragement needed, she pulled him down until their lips met in a fiery, passionate kiss.

When they broke apart, Sam brushed the back of his knuckles gently against her cheek. "See you soon, darlin'," he said softly.

"Bye, Sam. Call if you need anything, or want to talk," Maggie responded.

"I will," he promised as Maggie walked away to where Jayna was waiting. Maggie wished Dean a safe trip home as he passed her on the way to his car. She heard the Impala roar to life and just like that, Sam and Dean were gone.

Before Maggie opened the passenger door of the car, Jayna asked, "So, how did it go with you and Sam last night?"

Maggie paused before looking Jayna directly in the eye. "Rawr," she said, then both women burst into laughter.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Back at headquarters, Gabriel expressed how happy he was to see them. Although he didn't press for details, he could tell that both women had had an enjoyable past 24 hours. "Briefing in 15 minutes, ladies!" Gabriel called out.

They didn't have time to do much of anything before the meeting, except freshen up their hair and splash some water on their faces. Unpacking, laundry and a shower would have to wait until after the meeting.

About ten minutes later, Jayna and Maggie entered the conference room and took their usual places. A conference call-style phone with a large speaker was in the middle of the table. The meeting started precisely at 11:00 am, with a call from their employer, Arthur Ketch.

"Good morning, Angels. I understand the vampire hunt went as planned, even saved two of the victims," Ketch remarked.

"Yes, sir," Jayna and Maggie responded in unison.

"Well done. Your next assignment will be for the recovery of a cursed object. The setting is a high-society party to which only couples have been invited. This will therefore be an undercover assignment," Ketch explained.

Jayna and Maggie looked at each other in silent communication. Winchesters? they asked each other. Jayna pointed out that while Gabriel usually fills in on these "undercover couple" assignments, that leaves Maggie without a partner.

"Sir, we need both myself and Maggie for this mission. We met a pair of hunters on our last case that would be perfect for this assignment. That would enable us full use of the team, and Gabriel could still act in a support capacity," Jayna finished.

Silence reigned on the other end of the line while the idea was considered. "How easy would it be to contact this 'pair of hunters' you met?" Ketch asked.

"We exchanged contact information before we left them, sir. Only a matter of picking up the phone and calling them," Maggie answered.

"Very well, make contact and inform Gabriel of their decision. I have confidence in you, Angels," Ketch concluded before the call disconnected.

"I never get to do anything fun," Gabriel grumbled. "Always a bridesmaid, never a bride."

"Aw, come on, Gabriel. You know we wouldn't be anywhere without you," Jayna teased, tapping the end of Gabe's nose.

"You bet your sweet asses you wouldn't," he grumbled. "Go on, make your 'booty call' so I can let Arthur know whether this is a go or no-go situation," he muttered.

"It's not a 'booty call', Gabe," Jayna retorted as she scrolled through her contacts, then pressed the one she wanted.

"Hey, Dean? It's Jayna. Got a question for you: Can you and Sam get your hands on a couple of tuxedos? We have a little undercover mission, and it would really help us out if you could join Maggie and me," she finished.

A broad smile spread across her face. "Fabulous. I'll email you the details. And Dean? Can't wait to see you again. Over and out," Jayna concluded softly then disconnected the call. "Hey, Maggie? How would you like to see Sam again?" she called out as she walked down the hall to her room. She giggled as she heard a shriek of happiness from Maggie's room.

Tags: @swiftlymoniquesblog @miss-nerd95 @janicho88 @akshi8278 @magssteenkamp @lyarr24 @distefano123 @hobby27 @deanwanddamons @jawritter @jensengirl83 @deangirl93 @ellewritesfix05 @idreamofplaid @like-a-bag-of-potatoes @winchesterprincessbride @wayward-mikaelson @yourelivingwrong @gabrielslittleangel @jessica-noel94

[deerlyloved]

Talvak Lore

Below cut: A long bit of lore about my original alien species, the Talvak

They descended on our troops in an instant, there was no warning, no signs, and my men were screaming, shots firing all around me. We had heard tales of them, the ravagers in the Zarriah System. Silent and deadly, like the mist that surrounded so many of the lands on Yukk. I didn’t believe them, told my men it was superstition, whatever took over this star system wasn’t going to wait around in the mist and wait for us to show up.

God, why didn’t I listen? There’s been talks of them for decades, maybe even centuries. The Talvak, a war species that did nothing be plunder, pillage, invade.

They were so familiar, yet so distant from what I knew, claws like beast, tails like one too, bony crests painted for war as they tore through my battalion like paper. May the stars forgive me for leading those poor men into that slaughter.

-The translated message from Commander Izbe of HMS Nobel, now presumed dead.

The Talvaki people are an interesting case of nature vs nurture. Their very brains are leveled against them from birth, an overwhelming prey drive influencing them to seek out prey for food mixes with the brain consistently and easily triggering what we understand to be the amygdala. This means a Talvak will, from birth, be wired to hunt for survival, as well as consistently be enraged by small things. The final metaphorical nail in the metaphorical coffin for the Talvaki is simple: they are all born with similarly malformed brains that influence the initial triggering of the amygdala, as well as give them increasingly common intrusive thoughts.

With no way to effectively cope due to how their society was set up, the species as a whole became known as a war species as they began to enact violence on planets all across their star system, and now they are quite possibly one of the most notorious war species in the galaxy.

We stood no chance against them, I see that now. Even though they present as an army, it’s a trick, they present as an army to make you think they need one. In a blink of an eye, they took our unsuspecting fleet for all they had, half of them were destroyed before my commands were even put to motion ... Their leader took to my ship, and she walked through without a care, disposed of my people without a blink of her eyes. She stood high, a bony crest hiding her face, six unblinking eyes that I swear glowed a fiery orange … Tall and covered in a vaguely colored fur under the lights, and the truly eye drawing thing, even among the claws on all four hands and feet. A large, curled tail that stayed behind her, tipped with a long stinger that seemed to twitch the longer the silence stayed. What did the venom do?

-Excerpts from Commander Ki’s report on the Gold Rush System Incident

Soon, the reign of the Talvaki slowed to a halt as they carved out their own kingdom in the universe, occupying three star systems with the ever looming threat of expanding to more. Through the passage of time, with no where else to expand to without encroaching on Citadel territory, the Talvaki became known as a legend, a species on the far reaches of the universe who could destroy civilization if they saw fit… Who were forced into content with their area by the Citadel’s presence.

After decades, the horrors committed by the Talvaki were spread, and braver adventurers began to explore the area despite warnings, governments seeking to overthrow the Talvaki and claim the resource rich planets for themselves, and officials looking to negotiate for the lands.

None ever returned, and rumor states that they were either indoctrinated into Talvaki belief, or outright killed.

The Citadel stepped in after years of this, putting an outright ban on anyone, diplomat, mercenary, or scrapper alike, on entering the star systems under Talvaki rule. They set up a large patrol route around the areas and set to doing what the Citadel does best… Negotiate.

While the interactions between the Talvaki and the Citadel are largely unknown, it’s rumored that their leader at the time, a large and intimidating creature named Nkae (Nee-kay), was considered odd among his people, understood to be soft. Perhaps this supposed softness was what convinced him to allow the Citadel to tread in their territory.

What is known fully is that nearly a year later, the Citadel announced its latest accomplishment: they convinced the Talvaki to join the Citadel Reformation Program.

We are pleased to announce that Jaa’la Ke has reported that the Talvaki people are willing to join the Citadel Reformation Program, and we consider it a great victory for the Citadel and everyone united under it as well. Hopefully, others will join the program after seeing this, not just war species, but those who simply need a chance to be redeemed.

- A quote taken from Rix, the voice of the main branch of Citadel

As we know (or might not know), the Citadel Reformation Program, lovingly acronymed the CRP, is a program in which the Citadel ‘reforms’ former war species, quarantining them at their own consent to allow them to better interact with the world. Many leaders of former war species understand that it would lead to the end of their kind to continue on the path of destruction, and as such they volunteer.

The Talvaki have been in reformation for roughly two decades now, and just like all others in the CRP, there has been no updates or word on their progress. A species either opts out of the CRP, where they are declared an official threat to the Citadel and all under its banner, or they emerge decades to centuries later, relatively… reformed.

A reformed war species known as Humans are the most notable example of this, a species of small and relatively weak when compared to others. When the Citadel first extended its hand to the Humans home of Earth A27, it was not hard to see what they were. A planet in shambles, lands that had been sparring for centuries, never ending fights and constant toiling brought down on those deemed unworthy by a distinct class of people. Planets based on class systems rarely work, though some surprise is like in the case of the Scacles homeplanet of Imsst, and Citadel officials began studying Earth A27 closely.

The class system it ran itself off of, the wars, the begrudging violence, and nonstop toil all mixed together to quickly classify the soon to be known Earthlings as a war species. Though they fought for peace, a curiosity to all, there was no doubt that they needed to be in the CRP now. Now, after spending decades in the CRP, Humans are well known contributors to the Citadel, offering it’s aid to all they can.

So can we expect the same of the Talvaki people? Can a species known for violent acts, for invading, pillaging, and destroying anyone they find ever truly become reformed, even when their very brains fight against the peace trying to be imposed upon them?

Well, like stated before, the Talvak are an amazing example of nature vs nurture.

Their young are incredibly dangerous, more ravenous than even a fully grown Talvak as they have not yet learned moderation. Born with fully formed, incredibly sharp teeth, potent venom in their stinger-tipped tails, and claws used to rend flesh in defense of their very lives, baby Talvak (otherwise referred to as Talvaa) are not something to be taken lightly… Or without a set of armor.

But despite their ravenous nature and lack of moderation in their hunting, a Talvaa was gifted to human diplomats during one of the initial meetings to join the CRP. Though the identity of the man gifted the Talvaa was kept secret, the name of the Talvaa was reported to be Niani, and the Talvaki people made it clear that the reason they were handing over such a creature was for the betterment in the Citadel’s understanding of them.

And Niani certainly helped to better understanding of the Talvak. Through various, non-invasive testing on Niani, the biology of the Talvak was understood more and more, and soon enough Niani was considered a healthy child. She was reported to take to the teachings of moderation, compassion, and a gentle nature, though she did so slowly. Eventually, she was just like your average child, and the supposed inherent nature of her species was forgotten.

Nature vs nurture, while the Talvak have thoughts and urges that would make them biologically predisposed to being more easily violent, the introduction of proper coping, healthy bonds, and a support system can help them.

No one is truly born evil. We Humans have words for everything that the Talvaki go through, and we understand that just because they were born angry doesn’t mean they’re bad. With help from the Citadel, I have no doubt the Talvaki will become just like us one day. They just need someone to explain why they feel this way and how to deal with it, just like us.

-Quote from the unnamed scientist that adopted Niani

But what took the Citadel so long to understand the Talvak? The question was on the minds of all, and soon it came to be understood why so much time had to pass before answers were reached on exactly what brought the Talvak to so much victory over the centuries of their reign…

Legends of how the Talvaki blended into their environment, of how they overthrew nations with no one the wiser until the ships landed and it was announced to the people, all thought to be just that, legends. Tall tales fabricated to make the Talvak seem a bigger threat than what they were, somehow more capable of unnatural things than others. It may not all be as big of a legend as first assumed, however.

They took the chief first, but we didn’t know about it for a while. They destroyed us from the inside out, and when the first ships landed we thought we’d be protected. By Kah, we weren’t, we weren’t.

-Quote from Xers Quq’s interview on how the Talvak took over xir home planet.

The Talvaki people have a unique and interesting part of their biology that has been the main contributing factor to a theory on why their brains form the way they do. Rapid evolution from DNA structured to be nothing short of easily manipulated and highly malleable, the Talvak can adapt to the environments within days. For other species, including animals and plants on most (if not all) planets, adaptation is a form of evolution that occurs over hundreds of generations with even the quickest being within 50 to 100 generations, and yet the Talvak can adapt to an entirely different, completely unique set of environmental factors within days of first encountering it.

This adaptation is remarkable as is, a completely astounding part of their biology, but what brings us to understand how they expanded so far, controlled so much, is that the Talvak are capable of the unthinkable, something that can only be considered shape-shifting. 

Changing their very biological structure on a whim seems preposterous, something whimsical rather than at all based in reality, and yet here we are, with evidence in front of us. 

To the Talvaki people, the process of changing one’s skin is called lahia talh, or becoming another. The process varies in time, though the quicker it is rushed, the bigger the chance of what is referred to as kanii, or fading away.

Kanii is the process in which a Talvak loses themself turing lahia talh, where their mind cannot take the strain of changing their entire form and begins to corrode, leaving the Talvak in a near animalistic state.

Lahia talh isn’t greatly researched, at least not in a way publically released yet, but from what was told to us to explain the legends we can understand that it is painful and dangerous. Only the strongest of Talvaki are allowed to attempt, and even then there should be a few expected casualties. Even so, lahia talh isn’t a complete overhaul of their very being, each Talvak that goes through the process retains their memories, thoughts, feelings, and personality-- they even retain the color of their blood and unique biology structure. 

Overall the lahia talh is nothing more than an aesthetic change, as when testing the DNA of a Vahl-- the word for a Talvak that underwent lahia talh, meaning hidden-- it is instantly obvious that they are not of whatever species they are imitating. Everything remains the same, the color of their blood and the composition of it, their unique ability to adapt to their surroundings, their so called hot-headedness.

A Vahl is recognized as different because they are, which is why only trained, strong Talvak are allowed to attempt lahia talh. You must survive the process and remain yourself, but just as well you imitate who you are becoming very, very well.

It was fascinating, watching the lahia talh. Bones broke and mended, stretched and tore before stitching back together, so intricately done despite the inherent brutality of watching someone’s entire body shrink twice its original size. The Talvak undergoing lahia talh was obviously in pain, though they bore the weight of it all with surprising grace. Suddenly, as quickly as it started, it was over, and there stood a creature the likes of--of me. Me! Not me exactly, of course, but of my species, different markings and golden skin.

-Quote from Jaa’la Ke on what they learned of lahia talh

So there it is. Shapeshifters, creatures able to adapt quicker than anyone ever has, a species built to fight, and wired from birth to kill. The legends around them sound just a little less dramatic when you understand all the Talvak are capable of, doesn’t it?

But this all only brings more questions, doesn’t it? How does a species like this not die off early on if they’re all at each other's throats, violent and angry? How do they not take over the universe? Why did the Citadel deter them?

These questions are unanswered for now, sadly, left to be nothing but debate and moral theory among everyone else until the fateful day that the Talvaki are released from their quarantine in the CRP and thrown into the world as new beings… Hopefully they will have recorded their history for others to learn from, else they may stay what they have always been.

Tall tales.

[strangledeggs]

Strange Nostalgia For The Future – or: Death By A Thousand Taylor Swifts – or: This Is Pop?

Holy shit, when did this article get to be over 8 pages? Sorry everyone, Tumblr isn’t letting me do a cut, so this is just going to clog your feed for a while.

This began as a long-form review of Dua Lipa’s album “Future Nostalgia” with comparisons to the styles of a variety of other pop artists, but has since turned into something much broader and more nebulous. Call it my (incredibly subjective) attempt at defining a current “state of pop music” as it stands in the year 2020.

I’ll admit, I have a bias here, so I’ll lay that on the table: I didn’t particularly care for Dua Lipa prior to the release of “Future Nostalgia”. Actually, if I’m being completely honest, she didn’t really register on my radar until the album’s release, and so I didn’t hear any of her earlier songs until I spent a few minutes on Youtube scrambling to remember who she was and why this release was supposed to be such a big deal. I came up relatively empty-handed, with “New Rules” having more interesting production than anything in the way of a vocal hook and “Be The One” sounding blandly forgettable.

But music journalists were spinning this narrative that “Future Nostalgia” was Dua Lipa’s big moment, her “disco” album, her album full of “bangers” (yes, I know, that’s an archaism at this point, but what am I going to do, call them “vibes”?). We’ve seen hype like this before (at least I have), so we should always take some time when an album arrives with this much fanfare to ask that crucial question: is it justified? Does it live up to expectations?

I’m going to answer that question, but before I do, I want to take a step back and place that music journalism narrative within a broader music journalism meta-narrative that has been slowly gaining traction over the last decade. About 7 years ago (so around 2013), I wrote a guest article for the (what I assume is now defunct) blog Hitsville UK on another meta-narrative called “rockism”, by which older listeners and journalists tended to use to justify their dismissal modern pop music through the glorification of (and comparison to) the canon of rock music. This was not a unique article – many music journalists were writing about this same phenomenon that year; it will likely mark some sort of watershed moment in music journalism. Frequently contrasted with the meta-narrative of “rockism” (not so much in my own article, but definitely in others’) was a countering meta-narrative named as “poptimism”. It’s basically what it sounds like: an optimism that current pop music could be just as good as music of the past, or even better. This was, of course, already known in a lot of mainstream music journalism circles, but it did cause a bit of a stir in independent music journalism, especially since it seemed awfully hard to deny; then-recent examples of indie stars like The Weeknd and Frank Ocean* aspiring to make genuinely great pop music seemed like they were making a pretty good case for the poptimist outlook. Plus, as a new generation of music journalists raised on hip-hop began to cover the genre more seriously, it soon became clear that, given the crossover-laden history of rap, they would have to take pop music seriously too.

Needless to say, poptimism gained a lot of traction as a new paradigm, until it became the default outlook of music journalism by the middle of the decade. It has, as far as I can see, yet to relinquish its grip, and that’s not such a bad thing; arguably, a lot more women, queer people and people of colour have had their music taken more seriously since the shift. Before we get back to “Future Nostalgia”, however, there’s one more piece of this puzzle I want to put in place: coinciding with those early years of poptimism, pop itself hit a bit of a turning point in the year 2014. This was, of course, the release of Taylor Swift’s album “1989”.

What was so special about “1989”? It’s still a bit hard to answer that completely coherently, but it clearly changed the pop music landscape in meaningful ways. For one, it demonstrated that the overcoding of global pop music made at the hands of big-name producers was not just an approach reserved for the “born pop star” figures of Britney Spears or Christina Aguilera. Taylor Swift, formerly a country singer with pop leanings, now went headlong into Max Martin-penned chart-topping smashes, and just like that, she had become deterritorialized. It was a huge success, and, interestingly, one of the first albums that got a lot of independent music journalists (and me) to take her seriously despite being her most overtly commercially-driven. I think this speaks to the power of poptimism in 2014 from two angles: for the journalists, the lesson seemed to be that if someone is already doing something near-enough to mainstream pop and then breaks through with a mass-appeal hit, why not see this as a kind of fulfillment of artistic intent? And for Swift, if you’re already doing something near-enough to what’s playing on pop radio, why not go all the way with it and sacrifice your country “credibility” for the ability to have hits beyond the genre-specific? “1989” marked a turning point at which pop music, formerly seen as something people “sell out” to make, became something you “sell into”, erasing a specific, localized identity that could be exposed as a construction anyway and replacing it with the ambition to conquer the ears of the masses.

I should clarify here, however: there are two possible conclusions one can draw from poptimism. The one I just documented, that pop music as a global/commercial phenomenon can be great and should taken seriously by music journalism, is the more frequently-taken interpretation, but it’s not my preferred one. I would rather the alternative view, which is that most music that people have tended to hear the last several decades, whether marked by the seal of “pop” or not, has been pop music. Rock is a form of pop. So is country, so is hip-hop, so is jazz, folk, metal, etc. We can distinguish between, say, the commercial radio pop – which I’ll from this point on designate as “Pop” with a capital “P” – and the pop tradition, but everything descends from pop tradition in the end, and Pop is just one more subgenre among many, albeit by definition the most popular at its given moment. Seeing that this is pretty indisputably true (and if you don’t believe me, you a) haven’t been reading my blog for long enough and b) have some serious research to do), we might as well take Pop as seriously as any other form of pop and subject it to the same criticisms, while simultaneously adjusting our criticisms of other pop subgenres in relation to our new appreciation of Pop. Who created the texture of this Pop song? Does this metal song have a hook? Is the phrasing in this hip-hop song conducive to its overall rhythmic feel? And so on, and so on.

I prefer this approach because it doesn’t necessarily assume a supremacy of one genre so much as level the playing field to allow for a more robust and less prejudiced criticism. It also doesn’t let listeners off the hook, as many (non-critics/journalists, most likely), given the opportunity raised by the previously-detailed interpretation of poptimism, would lazily slip back into listening to Top 40 radio without attempting to seek things beyond the charts; this alternative interpretation challenges us to try and hear the similarities between Led Zeppelin, Rihanna, Young Thug and The Clash while recognizing what each do uniquely. Unfortunately, it seems like the former interpretation has won out, at least for most audiences, and we now have a listener-base that, instead of keeping their ears peeled for next-big-thing indie groups like Arcade Fire as they might have circa 2008-2012, is content to wait for an already-famous star to drop the next “1989” crossover smash**.

This brings us back to “Future Nostalgia”, the latest in a line of Pop albums that seem primed to vy for that coveted position. There is, however, a bit of a gulf between “1989” and “Future Nostalgia”, and it’s not just because the moment of “1989” and poptimism has already happened. It’s also not because Dua Lipa isn’t “crossing over” from any outsider genre like Swift did with her move away from country – if anything, Dua Lipa is doubling down on her Pop ambitions here by putting them up-front and trying to make this album as blockbuster-signalling as possible. The biggest gulf is the musical one: compared to “1989” (and, I should add, a slew of other blockbuster Pop albums from the last decade, which I’ll get to discussing soon enough), “Future Nostalgia”’s songs are oddly lackluster.

Let’s start with the good, though. On my first listen to the album, I wasn’t completely baffled that critics were hearing something momentous in it. There are absolutely (again, sorry) bangers on this. Ironically, the two that stood out to me immediately were two that I later learned weren’t even released as singles, which might speak to the marketing team’s inability to judge the quality of the music they were handling here. “Cool”, easily the best thing on “Future Nostalgia”, rides a sort of bouncy warping of the riff from Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time” as Dua Lipa gushes about how she just can’t control herself in front of her lover; it’s sweet, both lyrically and musically. “Love Again” (no relation to the Run The Jewels song) is perhaps the album’s most explicitly “disco” song with swelling strings and everything, and expresses a similar sentiment to “Cool”, though perhaps from a more reluctant angle: “God damn,” Dua Lipa sighs in the chorus, sounding simultaneously annoyed and amused, “you got me in love again”.

The songwriting on “Cool” and “Love Again” also happens to be some of the most basic on “Future Nostalgia”; the beat loops, albeit with some nice flourishes and rhythmic quirks, and Dua Lipa cycles through a few simple melodies, the catchiest always winding up in the chorus. “Love Again” is practically a blues song with its AAAB-repeat phrasing. I highlight the virtues of this simplicity because it throws much of the rest of the album into a stark contrast and exposes its greatest weakness: many of the other songs on “Future Nostalgia” feel fussed-over and patched together out of pieces that don’t always fit, as if the several writers*** involved in these songs weren’t in the same room when the track was finally put together. The album seems to be a case study in throwing everything at the wall and not bothering to consider whether it will stick. And yet it seems to have a small army of critics defending it, even going so far as to call it the pop (or at least Pop) “album of the year” – which has me wondering exactly what all the hype is about.

“1989” has something that a lot of other blockbuster Pop albums since its release do not: a personal touch. Taylor Swift worked hard prior to that album at building her brand as a confessional singer-songwriter, and even with the big-name productions and radio-primed hits, she maintains that image: one of her biggest “1989” hits, “Blank Space”, explicitly addresses her (supposed) romantic history and relationship to the media. Elsewhere, she does some fantasizing about classic movie archetypes and the impulse to drop everything and run away from it all, strongly reminiscent of her past work. It’s not as easy as it might sound to pull off this kind of thing, and I think Swift deserves credit not just for the excellent musicality of the songs she put her voice to, but the consistency of the strong personality she built across her career (with misstep “Reputation” sticking out as the glaring crack in the portrait).

So I won’t compare “Future Nostalgia” to “1989” beyond the initial poptimism narrative it bolsters. No, “Future Nostalgia” isn’t particularly personal – its mode seems to be more in line with what Robyn was already doing a few years before Swift, anticipating a poptimism that would effectively result in her deification over the course of the 2010s. Similar to Robyn in her “Body Talk” series, Dua Lipa seems to approach “Future Nostalgia” with a kind of assumed confidence as a dancefloor queen – more celebratory than confessional.

The celebration, however, proves to be pre-emptive; “Future Nostalgia” lacks two crucial things that “Body Talk” had in spades. The first is a general willingness to experiment. Robyn’s albums were packed with silly throwaways, but some of them stuck, and the best are featured on the collected version of the album, from the Snoop Dogg collaboration “You Should Know Better” to the cybernetic-pop-anticipating “Fembots” to the sassy “Don’t Fucking Tell Me What To Do”. The title track of Dua Lipa’s album demonstrates a little bit of adventurousness, but it unfortunately flops, arriving in the form of awkward half-rapped verses that aren’t fun enough to leave a lasting impression. The only other potential outliers are the aforementioned “Cool” (which just happens to sound less disco than the rest but is otherwise a fairly standard, if well-written, pop song) and the album’s absolute nadirs, “Good In Bed” and the closing ballad “Boys Will Be Boys” (we’ll get to that in a bit). Otherwise, the album carries its aesthetic pretty consistently between tracks, giving little impression of any desire to experiment.

The second missing element is the consistency of the songs themselves. When Robyn’s songwriters toss her, say, a pseudo-dancehall song, they commit to it, making sure there are no weird melodic/harmonic/rhythmic hiccups and that the pieces fit together. And unfortunately, the majority of “Future Nostalgia”’s songs are full of exactly those kinds of hiccups and disjointed structural assemblages that leave me scratching my head. A lot of it’s subtle to the point that I can almost understand other critics missing these details, but I pick up on this stuff fast, and once I hear it, I can’t unhear it.

A lot of it’s in the phrasing; too often, Dua Lipa will go for a quick succession of staccato notes in a chorus when a simpler, slower phrase, or maybe just silence would have worked better (see “Break My Heart”, or the post-chorus of “Future Nostalgia”, in which she sings the 100% non-credible line “I know you ain’t used to a female alpha” – side note, has she even listened to top 40 radio in the last decade?). “Physical” is almost fun until you realize that the phrasing, melody and harmonic structure of the chorus would fit perfectly into any godawful Nickelback song.

Actually, “almost fun” is one of the phrases that I feel best describes so many songs on this album. Too many of the tracks set up something great only to follow through with some baffling songwriting choices. The second track in, “Don’t Start Now”, disrupts an excellently-phrased verse and infectious bassline with a chorus awkwardly parachuted in from what sounds like a 90s house song. The more in-character post-chorus that follows can’t help the song recover once you realize that it’s nowhere near as endearing as the original verse melody. That half-assed rapping makes a re-appearance in the bridge of “Levitating”, which is otherwise perfectly acceptable. If not for that moment, “Levitating” would come close to being the third pick of my favourite songs here, although you can’t fool me, Dua Lipa: I know that chorus is just a sped-up re-hash of the Jacksons’ “Blame It On The Boogie”. “Pretty Please” is also fine, funky and subtle, displaying some restraint on part of the songwriters and producers for once – though there’s also nothing about it that jumps out and grabs me. Besides the two standouts, is that the best I can hope for on this album, a song where nothing goes horribly wrong? At any rate, it’s better than the bland, shameless Lily Allen rip “Good In Bed”, which also features an utterly confounding “pop” sound effect in the chorus replacing one of the mind-numbingly repeated words.

There are some exceptions with regard to singers that can make use of this kind of disjointedness. Ariana Grande’s “Sweetener” walks a thin line, but it often pays off. See, Grande is a singer’s singer, at least by Pop standards; she’s known for crooning, for belting, for singing her lungs out. But she also wants to be a Pop icon to young people right now, and that means staying up-to-date in her production and songwriting. The trouble is, one of the most popular genres with the kids these days happens to be trap, which doesn’t exactly lend itself to Grande’s showboating vocals, favouring short, choppy phrasings and half-mumbled half-singing mixed almost low enough to blend with the music. So she compromises: some of the songs on “Sweetener”, such as the title track, have verses and choruses that feel as though they’re pulling in opposite directions, with Grande getting an opportunity to flaunt the long high notes in a percussionless section before dropping into those staccato bursts that suit the heavy 808s of trap. Despite it being more drum’n’bass/R&B throwback than trap, a similar dynamic is at play in Grande’s biggest hit from that album, “No Tears Left To Cry”. Unlike Dua Lipa’s lurching song structures, Grande’s feel intentional and thematic; the songs aren’t always bulletproof, but I feel like I learn something about her by hearing the tension of styles she’s struggling to stretch herself between. All I feel like I learn about Dua Lipa from the messiness of her songs is that either her, her songwriting team, or both are very confused about what goes into an effective pop song.

Of course, Ariana Grande is also operating in a slightly different mode than Dua Lipa in the first place: whereas Dua Lipa is engaging Pop radio in the recent tradition of satisfying formulaic hits like those of “1989”, Grande has one foot (or maybe even one and a half?) in the parallel tradition of R&B. While the two traditions frequently mix and crossover on the radio, they represent very different approaches to music whose distinction might provide some insight into why some of what Dua Lipa is trying to do isn’t working.

To put it simply, the basic unit of what we’ll call traditional pop is the song, and the performer of the song is meant to convey the essence of that song as a relatively unwavering whole – the performer is effectively the conduit for the song, which reaches the listener through the medium of the performer. The singer has some room to “interpret”, but once a given interpretation is found to be effective in its “hook” potential, it’s typically kept as part of the formalized song, written in stone, more or less.

R&B, true to its roots in “rhythm and blues” and, before that, jazz, essentially reverses this. Songs are present in R&B and not necessarily unimportant, but they typically become conduits for the performer’s own expressiveness. In this setting, the performer’s “interpretation” is actually the most important ingredient, as the performer’s style is effectively the product, the listener’s focus. This places greater emphasis on experimentation with phrasing, melody and other aspects of a song, as well as the potential differences between multiple recordings and performances of that song.

These two paradigms have consequential implications for singers of songs operating in a given mode. A traditional pop singer, for example, is going to be more likely to defer to the song as-written in their performance of it for a recording. An R&B singer, by contrast, is more likely to improvise, often delving into explorations of how to make their voice a more expressive instrument – in many cases, actually, it can be a matter of making their voice more like an instrument, full stop. The notes aren’t sung to express words so much as they are sung to express pure sound. Vocals can vary wildly in rhythm, giving off phrasings that might normally be considered unnatural, but, if placed artfully enough, can re-shape our expectations of pop music in the first place. These aren’t ironclad rules, by the way – the genres cross over frequently and the lines are often ambiguous. But I think defining the differences here can at least help us understand the split in the approaches of, say, Taylor Swift vs. Janet Jackson.

Arguably, the biggest R&B star in the world at the time of writing this remains Beyonce, and with fairly good reason: her powerful voice brings a lot to what are often already well-written songs. Take note here: something like “Formation” (which I have previously written about in my article on hip-hop’s inheritance of the post-punk legacy) or even “Drunk In Love” probably wouldn’t fly in the realm of Pop. Tracks like these are mainly embellished not necessarily with flashy songwriting or production flourishes (although they can have those too), but with Beyonce’s vocal interpretations of them, sometimes approaching something more like rapping than singing****. Note also: vocalizations in this context are given a certain freedom, a license to be weird within a certain range of acceptability. Need I remind you of “surfboard, surfboard, / Grainin’ on that wood”?

My point here is that R&B singers are playing by different rules than Dua Lipa. This isn’t just me arbitrarily deciding that what she’s doing isn’t “R&B enough” – you can here it in her approach. My criticism of her awkward phrasing is based largely on the fact that it doesn’t sound like she’s doing it to “experiment” with the songs she’s given. She repeats these phrases exactly the same way each time, as in the chorus of “Break My Heart”, just so you know it’s intentional. If she is, in fact, improvising, the songs aren’t very suited to it and her attempts are mostly unsuccessful; they become hooks that highlight their own weaknesses rather than bold forays into new rhythmic territory.

The most interesting part of “Future Nostalgia” is, by far, the backing music. Even when Dua Lipa’s singing and hooks fail, the production shines through (even here, though, there’s a caveat with regard to the last two tracks). Consider the sublimely gauzy vocal(?) loop at the beginning of “Levitating”; the sweeping disco violins of “Love Again”; the finger-popping funk bassline of “Don’t Start Now”; even the Justice-lite bass synths in the chorus of the otherwise by-the-numbers “Hallucinate”. “Physical”’s best aspect is, in fact, a small countermelody running in the background of the obnoxiously bland chorus.

This is where I can most understand what got music critics hyped up on this album in the first place: superficially, at least, it sounds pretty damn good. But I suspect the willingness to overlook its other obvious faults stems from a tendency among “poptimistic” critics to treat singers as interchangeable in a system they perceive to be dominated more by “sounds” than by music proper. In fact, the singer is a real make-or-break point in much of modern pop music (Pop or otherwise), likely due to the focal point they occupy; a great singer can occasionally salvage a terrible song, while a bad (or even just mediocre) singer can easily bring down the most well-constructed powerhouse hit.

A case against valuing “Future Nostalgia” solely on the basis of its production: the last Pop album I remember listening to where the production outshined the songwriting was Billie Eilish’s “WHEN WE ALL FALL ASLEEP WHERE DO WE GO?” Eilish’s songs aren’t bad, and are frequently even good – but I was surprised at how conventional, or even “traditional”, most of them were. “Bad Guy” and “All The Good Girls Go To Hell” are basically jazz songs. “Xanny” and “Wish You Were Gay” (the most lyrically immature, it must be acknowledged) are pretty standard singer-songwriter fare. Others tend to play to a type: either sleepy ballads (“When The Party’s Over”) or, the most interesting songs on the album, the hip-hop influenced minimalist pieces (“Bury A Friend”, “You Should See Me In A Crown”).

But of course almost all of these songs are transformed in part by some rather astonishing production. No one who’s heard “Bad Guy”’s synth-squiggle chorus would mistake it for jazz, and the chorus of “Xanny” squirms in a shroud of distorted bass that pull back when you least expect it – hardly typical sonic territory for most singer-songwriters. Even the already-powerful “Bury A Friend” hits harder than it might have without the surging crunches it’s afforded in the production.

My point, however, is not that the production is what makes this album – it doesn’t, at least not entirely. The production is roughly half of what’s interesting here. The other half is comprised by two things: the fact that most of the songs are fairly strong already (though I think Eilish could lose a few of the ballads and come out better from it), and the fact that Billie Eilish also happens to have a very distinct vocal style. Actually, that last part alone is probably the selling point for most people: Eilish’s eerie half-whispered delivery plays more of a role in constructing her album’s overall dark mood than the production. It has its limitations, and I wonder what her future will bring in terms of her ability to move beyond the role she’s effectively typecast herself in, but it has something on Dua Lipa: it has personality.

So vocal style is important, but that’s not all: as I mentioned, Eilish’s songs are also consistently  stronger than Dua Lipa’s, even when both are at their lyrical worst. Sure, “Wish You Were Gay”’s self-absorbed whining about unrequited love and sexuality sounds exactly like what you’d expect to come from a undeveloped teenage singer. But the lyrics are the only thing wrong with that song; take those away, and the melodies and instrumentation sound pretty damn great. The same cannot be said for the overblown dollar-store balladry of Dua Lipa’s execrable “Boys Will Be Boys”, which, despite projecting an ostensibly more “progressive” outlook than “Wish You Were Gay”, falls flat on its face anyway. And I’ll take an Eilish ballad over “Good In Bed”, which sports an obnoxiously repetitive chorus – static, plastic, it sounds like a strained smile looks, desperately trying to convince you that this is fun, right?

“But wait,” you might say, “pop music is supposed to be fun! And isn’t that what most of ‘Future Nostalgia’ aspires to? Shouldn’t we forgive Dua Lipa for some of her mediocre songwriting if her goal in making us dance is at least a defensible one?”

And the answer is no, because Pop is already full of music more fun than this. The way I see it, there are several ways in which one could make music more fun than “Future Nostalgia” (better songwriting being one I’ve already discussed to death here), but I’ll wager that a fairly reliable method is that frequently employed by Lady Gaga: do something musically outlandish and downright weird.

“Bad Romance” is the obvious lodestar here, but Gaga’s career is full of the absurd: just take pretty much any song off of “Born This Way”. Even the “normal” songs like “Yoü and I” (at least pre-“Joanne”) come across as weird by virtue of being placed next to something like “Electric Chapel”. And all this is done in the service not only of raising eyebrows, but in the name of fun. Even some of Gaga’s weaker efforts like “Venus” (or many others on “Artpop”) have a winking slyness to them that lets you laugh along with her. It rarely feels like she’s “serious” when she’s singing about love, sex, or dancing all night, but she gets you dancing anyway.

“Future Nostalgia”, by contrast, has few attempts at any kind of weirdness, and those it does have fall flat. I’ve already mentioned the cringe-y pseudo-rapping, but the spoken-sung pre-chorus of “Physical” is just as embarrassing, bringing the song’s momentum (its second-greatest virtue) to a screeching halt with an awkward phrase that feels totally unnecessary. And then there’s that sound effect on “Good In Bed”. These moments detract from the album because they feel half-assed, like Dua Lipa never bothered to commit to the bit she tacked on. And aside from this, “Future Nostalgia” remains pretty conventional Pop – she’s not exactly reinventing disco here, just emulating it for a new generation with mixed results. If only she could pull a “Heartbeat” or “Love Hangover” out of her bag, but the album is so radio-oriented that the songs rarely reach the 4-minute mark even when they find a groove worth hanging on to. It’s as if she mistook the law M.I.A. ironically lays down at the end of her biggest hit for sage advice: “Remember: no funny business!”

There is one more aspect of the poptimism that helped propel this album in the eyes of critics I have yet to discuss: the paradigm’s coinciding with the recent wave (is it the fourth? I’ve lost count) of popular feminism. This was significant for Taylor Swift at the moment of “1989” because it allowed for interpretations of songs such as “Blank Space” to reach beyond a simple commentary on her stardom and discomfort with media coverage, branching out into a more expansive reading of the song as representative of the ways in which women in general are demonized for their past relationships. Feminism, as a cultural framing device, was crucial in shaping listener perceptions not just of “Blank Space”, but of many other songs on the album. It also helped to launch a whole wave of emerging and returning Pop artists’ albums and singles that traded in similar (vaguely) politically-charged lyrics.***** In the years that followed, a veritable opening of the floodgates would happen with regard to public feminist consciousness-raising, culminating in specific incidents such as the #metoo movement.

For the record, I think this was largely good. I’m under no illusion that “1989” is in any way a politically radical album, but I think the return of pop feminism has generally had a net positive influence in getting pop artists of all kinds of re-think their music’s relationship to gender politics. That being said, there are two things I resent about its lasting impact. The first is the kind of forced extrapolation of songs that bring up gender in any way into “feminist” anthems when they’re largely about relations that have little to do with the matter. One case in point might be Dua Lipa’s pre-”Future Nostalgia” hit “New Rules”; inexplicably, I often see fans trying to make the song’s lyrics out to be some kind of political diatribe about the cruelty of men to women or something like that, when in fact it sounds more like a typical “bad relationship” song, the kind that have been on the charts for decades by now.

But the other thing I’ve come to dread from pop-feminist Pop is the inevitable half-assed “message songs” that seem designed to cash in on using feminism as a signifier that an otherwise apolitical artist is still hip and knows what’s up. Whether through “New Rules” fan encouragement or her own hubris, Dua Lipa has regrettably chosen to end “Future Nostalgia” with such a song: “Boys Will Be Boys” (no relation to the significantly better-written song of the same name by Stella Donnelly). I don’t really want to write a lot about this song because part of the problem with it is that it’s bad in a lot of boring ways, but I do think it’s significant that it was singled out by several other critics (even those who liked the album) as the album’s worst song by miles. I’m hoping this shows a change in perspective here, as critics get harsher about flops like this one, and hopefully the eventual end result from this pushback is that Pop stars will stop trying to convince us they’re “real feminists” with empty songs like “Boys Will Be Boys” that are tacked on to the end of their “bangers” album as a kind of placating afterthought.

So a number of critics have indeed placed too much stock in this album: contrary to the feeling you may have gotten from my relentless criticisms here, “Future Nostalgia” isn’t necessarily bad, but I wouldn’t call it “good” either. It sits in a mid-tier of Pop albums over-enthusiastically pushed out during this era of high poptimism. It’s not the next “1989”, or “Lemonade”, or “Body Talk”, or “WHEN WE ALL ETC.” It’s just a mediocre album with a few great songs that were somehow never released as singles.

Is the inflation of “Future Nostalgia”’s reputation a sign of poptimism’s imminent bust? Are we entering a period of critical groupthink and gradual decay? These questions are too big to answer here, or perhaps at all for now (likely we’ll know the answer for sure in another decade). But I want to end this on a positive note by singling out a singer I haven’t mentioned yet as perhaps the greatest Pop artist of the last 20 years: in all these comparisons, I never got around to bringing up Rihanna.

On one hand, much of the poptimist revolution in criticism has involved taking the studio albums of Pop artists as seriously as their counterparts in other genres. On the other, Pop has never really stopped being a singles genre, and few have demonstrated this better than Rihanna. This is not to deny that she’s released some totally listenable, or even great, albums in her own right: “Talk That Talk” and especially “ANTI” stand as excellent records that came along relatively late in her career. But, well, raise your hand if you’ve actually listened to, say, “Good Girl Gone Bad”. Now raise your hand if you know “Shut Up And Drive”, “Don’t Stop The Music”, “Disturbia”, and, of course, “Umbrella”. See what I mean?

Perhaps I could blame “1989” again in part for this shift in focus from Pop singles to Pop albums. It’s pretty remarkable, after all, that the album is as consistent as it is, and I think that might have caught a lot of critics who were expecting otherwise off-guard. I think another problem, however, resides in the dominant mindset among critics in the first place, the idea that albums are the more valuable art form, the standard by which greatness is measured. Even I find myself incapable of breaking free of that format of evaluation – I’m much less likely to seek out more of an artist’s stuff based on a few great singles of theirs compared to if I hear an entire album from them that I like.

This might be slightly unfair of us critics, but there are workarounds to help correct this bias. One of those workarounds is the compilation. If an artist can make an album’s worth of great songs, but they happen to be spread across a number of their otherwise-mediocre albums, they can still win favour by collecting all (or most) of those gems in the same place, a “greatest hits” collection being the most common******. This seems like a pretty reasonable way of enjoying singles-oriented artists for those of us who are still stuck on the old album format.

But compilations have also never been as popular to review among critics as studio albums (I don’t know, maybe many feel like it’s cheating to collect the best stuff in one place?) and, as stated, it seems like poptimism’s paradigm shift has only reified the bias towards albums by putting more weight on Pop artists’ studio albums than before. Further, as compilations have started to die out (since anyone in the streaming age can assemble their own “greatest hits” playlist that will have all their own personal favourites on it), recent Pop artists often aren’t even given the chance to be evaluated at their best in a compilation format. I wonder if this is also a contributing factor in the hype surrounding “Future Nostalgia”; though it would probably be better remembered for its singles which could be collected on a later “Best Of Dua Lipa”, the fact that such a collection is unlikely to materialize pushes critics towards trying to sell listeners (and themselves) on this being Dua Lipa’s “definitive statement” and reason to take her seriously as an artist simply because it’s the most consistent thing she’s released so far.

Regardless, Rihanna is a model artist in terms of being a singles-oriented Pop singer deserving of a great compilation. If someone were to put it together, I’m fairly certain it could rival Madonna’s “The Immaculate Collection”, the former (basically archetypal) gold standard for a Pop artist’s greatest hits. Imagine hearing “Umbrella”, “Work”, and “We Found Love” all in the same place, uninterrupted by the inevitable string of lesser artists’ hits you’d inevitably hear if that place was the radio or some poorly algorithmically-generated playlist. My concern is that with the death of the compilation and shift in the expectation for the Pop artist’s studio albums to be their defining moments, such an album will only ever exist in an unofficial capacity. Which is fine, I guess – if you hate pop canon. But I don’t, so I patiently await the return of a collective memory for singles that extends beyond the radio and the playlist.

*Interesting to see how these examples have aged.

**Don’t get me wrong, I like “1989”! But its potentially negative influence will be detailed further as I continue.

***This isn’t a criticism of songwriting teams in general – certainly great songs have come out of the modern collaborative approach to pop songwriting, and I’ll get to those soon.

****And of course there’s a whole other conversation to be had about the ways in which hip-hop and R&B, formerly more separate genres, have been in the process of merging for the last two decades as performers in each have realized how much their interpretive approaches have in common.

*****It should be noted that this trend started several years earlier in “underground” and “indie” scenes and only just made its way into the Pop mainstream around 2014, but that’s a discussion for another article.

******Actually, even if an artist has only one great song, multi-artist compilations can step in to help. But since I’m focusing mainly on the respective cults of personality of specific Pop artists here, I won’t get into those. I should also add that Pop is by no means the only genre in which this happens: there are definitely so-called “classic rock” artists who I wouldn’t bother listening to outside of a compilation of their best stuff (Queen, for example).

[crosbysierra95]

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[thisdaynews]

Failed State: Presidency, ACF attack Obasanjo as Ohanaeze, Afenifere defend ex-president.

New Post has been published on https://thebiafrastar.com/failed-state-presidency-acf-attack-obasanjo-as-ohanaeze-afenifere-defend-ex-president/

Failed State: Presidency, ACF attack Obasanjo as Ohanaeze, Afenifere defend ex-president.

The Presidency on Sunday berated former President Olusegun Obasanjo over his Thursday’s comment on the state of the nation, describing him as the country’s ‘divider-in-chief.’

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The Senior Special Assistant to the President on Media and Publicity, Garba Shehu, said this in a statement titled “Obasanjo is Nigeria’s divider-in-chief.”

But socio-political groups in the country differed on the Presidency’s attack on Obasanjo.

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While the pan-northern socio-political group, the Arewa Consultative Forum, advised Obasanjo to stop presenting himself as a saint, the Ohanaeze Ndigbo said the former President’s administration was more credible than the regime of the President, Major General Muhammadu Buhari (retd.).

On its part, the pan-Yoruba socio-political group, Afenifere, said Obasanjo was more pan-Nigerian than Buhari, whom it accused of dividing Nigeria along religious and ethnic lines.

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Obasanjo had on Thursday said Nigeria was slowly becoming a failed state and a basket case that urgently needed to be pulled from the brink of collapse.

Speaking while delivering a speech titled, “Moving Nigeria away from tipping over” at a consultative dialogue in Abuja, the former President said he had never seen Nigeria so divided, adding that many of the problems plaguing the country were due to the recent mismanagement of Nigeria’s diversity.

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But Shehu said with his comment which he described as unfair attacks on the President and his regime, Obasanjo had descended from the lofty heights of a commander-chief.

He stated, “In his most recent statement, former President Olusegun Obasanjo attempts to divide the nation while President Muhammadu Buhari continues to promote nation building and the unity of Nigeria.

“The difference is clear. From the lofty heights of Commander-in-Chief, General Obasanjo has descended to the lowly level of divider-in-chief (to adapt the coinage of Time).”

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The presidential aide said as some commentators were already suggesting, Obasanjo should, in accordance with his mantra as a statesman, get involved with problem-solving instead of helping the “mushrooming of a poisonous atmosphere of ethnic and religious nationalism.”

He said the former President must have disappointed many of his local and foreign admirers by showering commendations on a few extremist groups which had vowed to shun the invitation to the National Assembly to participate in the process of constitutional amendment.

Shehu added that Obasanjo must have left his admirers confused in announcing the support for the boycott of a democratic process of changing the constitution, at the same time calling for dialogue and engagement.

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The statement added, “The fact that the process he ushered in under his administration with the dubious intention of amendments that sought tenure elongation failed–as did two other attempts by the successor administrations of the same political party– does not in any way justify his dismissal of the exercise by the 9th Assembly as another waste of time and resources.

“To the credit of the All Progressives Congress-led 8th Assembly, the process of constitution amendment was carried through, paving the way for, among other benefits, the financial independence of local government councils, state Houses of Assembly and the country’s judiciary. These changes have already been signed into law by the President as mandated by the constitution.

“The recent decisions by the administration as they relate to subsidy withdrawal, helping to plug some of the most horrendous notorious holes and release of scarce resources for the more pressing needs of the people have also not escaped the ire of the former President.

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“It’s a known fact that the withdrawal of subsidies had been on the wish list of the Obasanjo-led Peoples Democratic Party. They failed in achieving these measures because, one there was a shared greed. They plundered the treasury as much as anyone could in the name of either subsidy or waiver with reckless impunity.

“Two, is to say it takes courage and rare statesmanship on the part of a leader to do as President Buhari to shun populism and seek the best interest of the people and the state, providing the kind of reform and development that Nigeria urgently needs.”

Shehu boasted that Buhari had run a regime focused on infrastructural development.

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He said with his achievements and the more to come, it was not surprising that Buhari would be an object of envy from politicians who he said failed to deliver.

He added, “It (Buhari’s) is a pro-business administration that has used diplomacy to unlock bilateral trade and investments.

“He leads a government that has liberalised the investment climate and market access by achieving reforms that have placed the country in the list of the world’s top reforming economies.

“Nigeria, which other nations had mocked and ridiculed for so many things that were wrong is today progressing at a pace reflecting its size and potential.

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“With so much to show and many more coming, it is little surprise that President Buhari would be the object of envy and harsh unfair challenges by politicians who failed to deliver, but continue to nurse ambitions of delighting the audience long after their curtain has been drawn.”

Shehu also faulted the views of some analysts on Buhari’s recent advice to West African leaders to avoid tenure elongation.

He said contrary to the assertions by the few analysts, Buhari’s recent speech in which he advised West African Presidents against tenure elongation beyond constitutional limits had been consistent with his long-held views on the need to adhere to the rule of law.

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Also, the Minister of Information, Alhaji Lai Mohammed, in a statement on Sunday by his Special Assistant on Media, Segun Adeyemi, faulted Obasanjo.

The minister said the country would have been overrun by Boko Haram insurgents and bandits if the President had not rallied for regional and international support.

He said Buhari came into office at a time that “a swathe of the country’s territory” was under occupation by terrorists and “many Nigerian towns and cities, including the capital city of Abuja, were playgrounds for insurgents.”

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He said it was a moment that “the nation’s wealth had been looted dry, with little or nothing to show for the nation’s huge earnings, especially in the area of infrastructure.”

The minister therefore described as “a cruel irony that those who frittered away a great opportunity to put Nigeria on a sound socio-economic footing, at a time of financial buoyancy, and those who planted the seed of the insecurity in some parts of the country today, are the same ones pointing an accusing finger at a reformist government.

“Nigeria today faces a lot of challenges. But whatever situation the country has found itself in, things would have been much worse but for the deft management of resources, unprecedented fight against corruption, determined battle against insurgency and banditry as well as the abiding courage of Mr. President in piloting the ship of state.

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“Nigeria today is not a failed state, but a nation that is courageously tackling its challenges and building a solid infrastructure that will serve as the basis for socio-economic development.”

Divider-in-chief: Presidency must be referring to Buhari, says Afenifere

But the spokesman of Afenifere, Yinka Odumakin, in an interview with The PUNCH, said Shehu must be referring to Buhari when he called Obasanjo a divider-in-chief

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Odumakin stated, “They must be referencing their boss. You can say anything about Obasanjo but you can’t accuse him of dividing Nigerians the way this government has been setting herdsmen against farmers, north against south or Muslims against Christians.”

On its part, the apex Igbo socio-cultural organisation, Ohanaeze Ndigbo, said Buhari’s regime does not have ears to hear the voice of wisdom.

The National Publicity Secretary of Ohanaeze, Prince Uche Achi-Okpaga, in an interview with The PUNCH, said Obasanjo as a former head of state and ex-President knows where shoes pinch.

While condemning the Presidency’s attack on Nigerians whenever they voiced their concerns about the survival of this country, he asked, “What has this government offered Nigerians? This government is a government that took over in 2015 with deception.”

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Everything about Buhari is pro-North – Ohanaeze

On the divider-in-chief, he said, “The administration of Obasanjo and the present one are incomparable.

“There was security in Nigeria during Obasanjo’s administration but this government condones insecurity. His (Buhari) kinsmen are encouraged to terrorise the rest of Nigerians why unarmed Nigerians are hounded by security agents.

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“Was it not Obasanjo that brought technocrats irrespective of where they came from? Is Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala from Yorubaland? She is Igbo. He brought Mrs Oby Ezekwesili. He brought Professor Chukwuma Soludo. These are Igbo. He knew that they could deliver and he went for them. Was it not Okonjo-Iweala that got debt relief for Nigeria? Was it not Ezekwesili that introduced due process? During Soludo (time at the CBN) you could put your money in the bank and go home to sleep, before then it wasn’t so.

“Obasanjo brought the best brain irrespective of where they were coming from. Didn’t he have his kinsmen from Yorubaland who would have done the same thing? But he appointed Nuhu Ribadu as the EFCC chairman. Is he from Yorubaland? He is a northerner. Nasir Ahmad El-Fufai was the Minister of the Federal Capital Territory. He is a northerner. He is not from Yorubaland. You can’t compare. Obasanjo is a Nigerian but they are not.

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“Look at Buhari’s ministerial appointments, the choice positions were allotted to his kinsmen. Military and para-military agencies are headed by the North. Everything in Buhari’s regime government is pro-North.”

PDP hails Obasanjo

Also, the PDP National Chairman, Uche Secondus, hailed Obasanjo and some Nigerian elders for standing up to save the country at its worst time in history.

Secondus, in a statement signed by his Media Adviser, Ike Abonyi, quoted the PDP national chairman as saying “The situation in the country calls for patriotic men and women to stand up to be counted.”

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He also berated the Presidency and others playing to the gallery instead of embracing words of wisdom from patriotic elders chose to attack “what is real and overwhelming to all.”

The National Publicity Secretary of the ACF, Emmanuel Yawe told The PUNCH that it was high time the former President accorded respect to those who succeeded him in office.

The group listed Obsanjo’s sins to include the invasion of Odi and Zaki Biam communities as well as his purported third term attempt at the presidency.

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The ACF’s spokesman said, “Obasanjo enjoys going about, presenting himself as a saint, but he is not the saint he pretends to be. His actions and utterances are motivated by self-interest masquerading as national interest.”

Obasanjo, PDP, Atiku can’t tell Nigerians way forward – APC

Also, the APC said neither the PDP nor Obasanjo and even former Vice President Atiku Abubakar could point a way forward for Nigerian because they failed to do so when they had the chance.

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The APC asked Obasanjo to tell Nigerians why they had yet to get steady power supply despite claims by his administration that it spent $16bn on the power sector.

These was contained in a statement titled, ‘Political actors that midwifed national rot cannot chart way forward – APC,” signed by its Deputy National Publicity Secretary, Yekini Nabena, in Abuja, on Sunday.

Obasanjo is mischievous – Ogbeh

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On his part, the ACF Chairman, Audu Ogbeh, in an interview with one of our correspondents called for caution. He said there was an unwritten code of conduct expected of people who had had the privilege of occupying the highest office in the country.

He said “My worry about Obasanjo is his mischief. You don’t denigrate the office of the President or the occupant of that office.”

[raywritesthings]

Lost in Translation 9/?

My Writing Fandom: Doctor Who Characters: Donna Noble, Tenth Doctor Pairing: Doctor/Donna Summary: In a universe where people are born with the name of the person destined for them displayed on their skin, intergalactic soulmates can be rather difficult to navigate. AO3 link

It was fortunate he’d already been sitting, a voice in some tiny corner of his mind said. The rest of his brilliant brain had decided to collectively go on strike and only repeat the same sentence over and over again: that was his name.

Right there on Donna Noble’s back. Her entire life, to say nothing of the whole time they’d been traveling together. A name — his name — to match the name — her name — on his own.

Donna, his Donna, was really...his Donna?

How could he have missed this? How could he have been so thick? This whole time every instinct had been practically screaming that there was no one else for him, and yet he’d forcibly convinced himself it just wasn’t the case. He’d been bending the known facts of the workings of soulmate marks in order to accommodate his strange situation when really the answer turned out to be nothing more than a simple, single lie. Well, two lies, his and Donna’s.

And perhaps that was where the pitfall had occurred. Donna was almost brutally honest about everything else; what reason would he have had to suspect she hadn’t been truthful about this?

Of course, now her keen interest in learning alien languages made a whole lot more sense. She’d been trying to translate Circular Gallifreyan on her own. If she’d only come to him about things earlier he could have saved her the trouble of searching for books; his native tongue was deader than Latin.

And then Wilf! Asking about circles — well, of course he would. He’d have seen his granddaughter’s mark. The Doctor had been startled by the question at the time, but then the Sontarans and the ATMOS gas, and cloned Martha had distracted him. He’d forgotten all about it till now.

But then, if Donna really had been searching for the answer to her soulmate mark this whole time, what did that mean? Was she hoping to find the person whose name she had — which was him, but she had no way of knowing that. How was she going to react when he told her?

“Doctor?”

The Doctor blinked. Donna had turned back around and was watching him with closely. Right, he was meant to say something.

He stood and tugged on his ear as he attempted, “Er, well it’s- it’s…”

Now, of all times, he chose to be tongue-tied? But what would she say? She already knew about his mark, she’d told him. Was she dreading, was she hoping for a match?

The Doctor drew in a breath — but then distantly, the TARDIS’ cloister bell sounded.

His head turned sharply in the direction he’d parked them. “What?”

“What was that?” Donna asked at the same time.

“The TARDIS. Something’s wrong.”

“What, here? Listen, I try not to be too hard on her, but she’s a little late on this one,” said Donna, gesturing to the Time Beetle.

“No, not here, Donna. Something’s wrong everywhere. The whole universe.” He turned and made for the exit of the tent. Soulmate marks could wait. “We need to find out what’s happening.”

“Oh, my God,” said Donna, and the Doctor skidded to a halt. “I can’t believe I forgot. There was this woman talking about that. She called it the darkness. Wanted me to warn you.” Her eyes were on the ground. “I’m so stupid.”

“No, you’re not,” the Doctor replied automatically, then asked, “What woman?”

“I don’t know, she wouldn’t give her name. She was blonde. Said she knew you.”

The Doctor frowned. A blonde woman who’d known him and had a warning for Donna? That could have only been if she’d understood Donna was from a parallel world and would be going back, but who could that be?

“What was the warning?”

“Two words. They didn’t really make any sense.” Donna looked back up at him. “But, I think she said ‘Bad Wolf’.”

For the second time today, he felt himself freeze.

“Doctor? What does it mean?”

How? How could this be happening? And why now?

“The end of the universe.”

When he burst out into the market, Donna right on his heels, he discovered the old message written on every surface. The Doctor could feel his fear rising. He reached back and found Donna’s hand, then sprinted them back to the TARDIS.

Donna looked around in confusion and concern at the red lighting that currently filled the ship, then followed him up to where he was already flipping switches and pressing buttons to put them in flight.

“Where are we going?”

“Need to check on the Earth.”

“Is that where it’s all gonna happen?”

“No idea,” he answered truthfully. “But it’s usually a safe bet.”

“And who was that woman?”

The Doctor looked up at her. “It was Rose.”

They landed, and he raced out of the doors into a perfectly normal, quiet suburb. Donna stopped right beside him looking just as perplexed.

“It's fine. Everything's fine. Nothing's wrong, all fine.” There was a milkman across the street, so they ran over. “Excuse me. What day is it?”

“Saturday.”

“Saturday,” The Doctor echoed. His eyes darted about trying to find something, anything odd or out of place. But there was nothing. “Good. Good, I like Saturdays.” “So, I just met Rose Tyler?” Donna checked.

“Yeah.”

“But she's locked away in a parallel world.” “Exactly,” said the Doctor. “If she can cross from her parallel world to your parallel world, then that means the walls of the universe are breaking down, which puts everything in danger. Everything. But how?”

The milkman was staring at the pair of them like they were spouting nonsense, which he supposed they were. The Doctor and Donna returned to the TARDIS.

He checked the readings on the ship. Everything was fine. Oxygen levels, nitrogen, all stable.

“So, Rose is coming back.”

“Yeah.” The Doctor darted a glance at Donna. She seemed to be processing that information. Truthfully, he still was, too.

He’d resigned himself to the idea he would never see his former companion again. Not before giving Martha rather the wrong impression about the nature of his relationship with Rose. He hadn’t been willing to open up quite enough to correct her, which was his fault.

The Doctor also remembered what Rose had been hoping for at Bad Wolf Bay. Surely however long it had been in the parallel world, she had found whoever’s name she did have. He would wish for nothing less for her.

In the case that she hadn’t though, things could perhaps become a little unclear. He didn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea again, anyway, least of all Donna.

The Doctor turned from the controls to face her. “Donna, about what you asked me earlier—”

There was a bang! and the whole ship rattled. They both grabbed at the console to remain upright.

“What the hell was that?” Donna shouted.

“Don’t know. It came from outside.”

They descended the ramp together, and he pulled open the doors. Only it wasn’t that same suburb that met their eyes.

“But we're in space,” Donna observed. “How did that happen? What did you do?”

He ran back up to the scanner. “We haven't moved. We're fixed. It can't have— no.” He hurried back to Donna’s side, staring out at the occasional rock that sailed by through empty space. “The Tardis is still in the same place, but the Earth has gone. The entire planet. It's gone.”

Donna for once had no ready reply. She seemed too stunned to even move. The Doctor knew that kind of sudden loss. He’d never wanted anyone else to experience it. Slowly, he shut the doors and guided Donna back up to the console.

“Come on.” He tried to lead her to the jump seat, but Donna shrugged him off.

“But if the Earth's been moved, they've lost the Sun,” she reasoned. “What about my mum? And grandad?” Donna looked to him, eyes wide and watery. “They're dead, aren't they? Are they dead?”

“I don't know, Donna,” he answered quietly. “I just don't know. I'm sorry, I don't know.” “That's my family. My whole world.” Her voice was shaking, and he wanted more than anything to offer her comfort. To pull her back into his arms so she wouldn’t feel so alone. Comfort wouldn’t bring her family back, though. No, Donna needed him working.

He ran diagnostics on the TARDIS. “There's no readings. Nothing. Not a trace. Not even a whisper. Oh, that is fearsome technology.”

“So what do we do?”

This was the entire Earth. A planet he cared for a great deal, and, perhaps even more importantly, Donna’s home. This wasn’t the time to run around trying to be clever. They needed help.

“Donna, I'm taking you to the Shadow Proclamation,” the Doctor decided. “Hold tight.”

He began the takeoff process. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Donna wipe at her eyes and take up her usual position.

“So go on then, what is the Shadow Proclamation anyway?”

He smiled briefly to see her rallying. “Posh name for police. Outer space police. Here we go.”

They landed with a thud and were met outside with a few Judoon, who soon enough led them into the main hall of the Architect.

“Hello, I’m the Doctor. Species, Time Lord,” he rattled off before she could ask. They were rather in a hurry.

“Time Lords are the stuff of legend,” she pronounced. “They belong in the myths and whispers of the Higher Species. You cannot possibly exist.”

Then she showed them just how big the problem was, about twenty-four times as big. They viewed via hologram the various planets that had been taken in the same instant as the Earth. Big and small, inhabited and not, from all across the universe. The Architect, nor he, could make any connection between them.

That was until Donna spoke. “What about Pyrovillia?”

The Architect regarded her with a frown. “Who is the female?”

Now how did he answer that one? Donna Noble, resident of the missing Earth? His best friend, Donna Noble? His soulmate? That would certainly make a splash, and not necessarily with the Architect.

Fortunately, Donna spoke for herself. “Donna. I'm a human being. Maybe not the stuff of legend but every bit as important as Time Lords, thank you.”

The Doctor couldn’t stop a smirk overtaking his features. He loved watching her at her most confident. If only Donna could see herself like this, the way he did.

“Way back, when we were in Pompeii, Lucius said Pyrovillia had gone missing.” And Donna didn’t stop there, either, going on to remind him of the lost Adipose breeding planet.

“That's it! Donna, brilliant. Planets are being taken out of time as well as space.” He added both of them, then studied what they had. “Something missing. Where else, where else, where else? Where else lost, lost, lost, lost. Oh! The Lost Moon of Poosh.”

With everything that had happened on Midnight, he’d almost forgotten. Immediately after he plugged Poosh in, the spheres above their heads moved positions.

“What did you do?” The Architect demanded.

“Nothing. The planets rearranged themselves into the optimum pattern.”

It was an engine, for what he was unable to devise without knowing who had done it. There was a nagging feeling in his gut that he pointedly ignored. It couldn’t be them.

They discussed possibilities for tracking or triangulation. After several minutes, it was clear once again he and the Architect were getting nowhere. The Doctor went in search of Donna and found her on the steps.

“Donna, come on, think. Earth. There must've been some sort of warning. Was anything happening back in your day, like electrical storms, freak weather, patterns in the sky?”

The only thing she could tell him was something about disappearing bees.

The Doctor turned away, trying not to let his disappointment show. He knew it was unfair of him to expect Donna to have the answer, not when her family and planet was missing, but she’d just always known the exact right thing to say before. Some small little detail he would never notice that always lead him straight to the solution — of course!

He looked back at her, his determination and awe returning full measure. “The bees are disappearing!” Oh, he could kiss her!

The Doctor rushed to one of the screens instead and began typing as he and Donna took turns explaining the epiphany to the Architect — though Donna seemed to get a bit tripped up when he brought in Melissa Majorica.

“Are you saying bees are aliens?”

“Of course not,” he told her, then refocused back on his typing. “Not all of them.” While he was sure Donna had something to say to that, he carried on. “But if the migrant bees felt something coming, some sort of danger, and escaped? Tandocca.”

“The Tandocca Scale,” surmised the Architect.

“Tandocca Scale is the series of wavelengths used as a carrier signals by migrant bees,” he explained to Donna. “Infinitely small. No wonder we didn't see it. It's like looking for a speck of cinnamon in the Sahara, but look, there it is. The Tandocca trail. The transmat that moved the planets was using the same wavelength, we can follow the path—”

“—and find the Earth? Well, stop talking and do it!” Donna was already running for the hallway they’d parked in.

“I am!” He hurried after her and got the trail up on the TARDIS screens. Faint, but still there.

They probably guaranteed themselves arrest warrants by disregarding the Architect’s order to lead her troops into battle, but they were on their way — until suddenly, they weren’t.

“It's stopped.” He stared at the no longer pulsing time rotor and the scanner that displayed their current location.

“What do you mean? Is that good or bad? Where are we?”

“The Medusa Cascade. I came here when I was just a kid, ninety years old. It was the centre of a rift in time and space.” He showed her on the scanner. The nebula was still vast and colorful as it had been back then. But empty. They’d been too late following the trail.

“So, where are the twenty seven planets?” Donna wanted to know.

“Nowhere. The Tandocca Trail stops dead. End of the line.” “So what do we do?” When he said nothing, Donna looked back at him. “Doctor, what do we do?”

The Doctor backed right into one of the coral struts, his arms hanging limp at his sides.

She shook her head. “Now don't do this to me. No, don't. Don't do this to me. Not now.” Donna took two steps towards him. “Tell me, what are we going do? You never give up. Please.”

She was begging him, and there was nothing he could do. He was out of tricks, and he hadn’t found Donna’s home or family. He’d failed her.

Donna went round to the other side of the console. He was sure she didn’t want him to see her break down.

And it wasn’t for him to see, was it? Not when he was the one so thoroughly letting her down. Of the pair of them, Donna had always been far better at this.

Perhaps it was for the best he hadn’t gotten the chance to translate the name on her back for her. Some soulmate he was turning out to be. Couldn’t even get her family or her planet back. He was sitting on what should have been some of the happiest news in her life, and he couldn’t tell her.

It was completely silent in the TARDIS for the first time since Donna had boarded. That more than anything felt wrong. Before either of them could bring themselves to speak again, a familiar ringing interrupted. And it wasn’t coming from Donna this time.

“Phone!”

“Doctor, phone!” Donna exclaimed in nearly the same instant.

He sprang forward and snatched the mobile up from the console. “Martha?”

Instead of Martha’s voice, he was met with a steady beeping tone.

“It’s a signal.”

“Can we follow it?”

The Doctor withdrew his stethoscope and jammed it into his ears, then rounded the console and leaned in towards Donna with a grin. “Oh, just watch me.”

She smiled right back at him. Oh, yes! They were back.

He pulled a lever, and the TARDIS began to shake more than usual. “We’re traveling through time,” the Doctor realized. “One second in the future. The phone call’s pulling us through!”

On the scanner, the planets began to pop into view seemingly from nowhere. They nearly crashed right into the side of Clom, and Donna clutched at him as they both screamed. The TARDIS managed to right herself at the last second, and they sat above and amongst the twenty-seven missing planets. At some point, his arms had ended up off the controls and around Donna, who met his eyes briefly before they simultaneously stepped back from each other. Right, they’d arrived, which was really only half the battle.

And if things were about to go a bit sideways, this really was his last chance for a while, wasn’t it?

“Donna, about what you asked earlier—”

He stopped himself this time, for the scanner screen had begun to flicker with static. Oh, what now?

“Hold on, hold on. Some sort of Subwave Network.”

The screen resolved, splitting into four squares with them in one and a number of familiar faces in the others.

“Where the hell have you been!” Exclaimed Jack Harkness, though the relieved smile that spanned his face lasted only a moment before he stated, “Doctor, it’s the Daleks.”

Oh, he’d really been hoping that gut feeling was going to be wrong.

What appeared to be the immortal man’s Torchwood team were commenting, but he was far more interested in what  Sarah had to say.

“They’re taking people onto their spaceship.”

“It’s not just Dalek Caan,” added Martha. Francine was at her side. The only person he couldn’t figure out was the teenager with Sarah Jane.

“Sarah Jane, who’s that boy?”

“And who’s he?” Donna asked, reaching forward to point at Jack’s square.

“Captain Jack,” he answered, then held up his own finger in warning. “Don’t. Just don’t.” He knew her curiosity was mostly innocent, but he’d barely been able to tolerate the captain working his charms on Martha; he certainly wouldn’t be able to sit and watch it happen with Donna.

Though there was an unsettling thought. Donna tended to especially appreciate a certain physique, and he was no Captain Jack. Had he been merely misreading her friendly affection for him? Every time he thought to tell her he seemed to think of a million reasons why it was a terrible idea. This was torture.

The Doctor decided he didn’t much like thinking about that, and resolved to think about something else. The Daleks were probably a good choice.

Before they could even begin to discuss strategy with the others, the screen began to fizzle again. Someone else was trying to get through. Rose, perhaps? She’d traveled to Donna’s parallel world and sent the warning out in the first place.

But a far more chilling visage met their eyes when the scanner came back into focus: Davros.

“Welcome to my new Empire. Doctor, it is only fitting that you should bear witness to the resurrection and the triumph of Davros, lord and creator of the Dalek race.”

He was frozen with both disbelief and terror. How? How could he possibly be alive?

“Doctor?” Donna could hardly understand what was happening, yet she wasn’t asking for clarification. She was watching him with concern.

“Have you nothing to say?” Taunted Davros.

“Doctor, it’s alright,” Donna continued softly. She laid a hand on his arm. “We’re on the TARDIS. We’re safe.”

Oh, he wished they were. But it was enough to break him from his horrified daze.

Davros explained how Dalek Caan, the one who’d got away in Manhattan, had temporal shifted back into the Time War itself and rescued him. How he had then extrapolated new Daleks from his own cells. An entire Dalek fleet at the height of its strength. That’s what they were up against.

“I have my children, Doctor. What do you have now?”

Out of Davros’ sightline, he gripped Donna’s hand tightly in his. “After all this time, everything we saw, everything we lost, I have only one thing to say to you.”

He paused for a moment. Davros looked expectant.

“Bye!”

The Doctor threw a lever, cutting off the transmission and sending them flying towards the Earth’s surface.

“You okay?” Donna checked. “Daleks. Not exactly an average day.”

“We’ve got bigger things to worry about than whether I’m okay.”

“Really?” Donna had walked around the console right into his path. She pressed the button he needed for him. “In my experience, when you’re not in a right state that’s when things tend to go wrong.”

“I thought things just always went wrong.”

She didn’t even smirk at the remark. Instead, Donna took hold of his hands, her eyes searching his with a compassion that seared straight through to his hearts. “Just promise me you’re not gonna send me and all the others off somewhere while you go all Time War, Spaceman."

He didn’t bother pretending the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. She knew him too well for that. "You’re not alone this time.” He closed his eyes for the briefest moment. Hearing those words from her, she could have no idea just how much they meant to him. For the first time, they sounded true.

“Donna, if the Library taught me anything, it was that sending you away is the worst possible idea. I’ll be right enough, long as you’re with me.”

She squeezed his hands and gave a nod, her silent pledge to do just that. It was the perfect moment to explain his newfound knowledge of just why she was so right for him, but he had to return his focus to flying the ship. There was far more than the two of them at stake.

They landed and stepped out to find a vacant street filled with abandoned cars, debris, and rubble. “It’s like a ghost town,” Donna said, looking around at the destruction with wide eyes.

The Doctor wasn’t as concerned. Humanity could rebuild; they always did. But they had to stop whatever was coming next in order to let them.

“Sarah Jane said they were taking the people. What for?” He spun around to face her. “Think, Donna. When you met Rose in that parallel world, what did she say? The darkness, what does that mean?”

“I don’t know, she didn’t really elaborate.” He could tell Donna was trying to concentrate on those memories, even though they likely slipping further and further away from her every second. “She just said we were meant to be together. Work together, I mean. To stop the stars going out,” Donna added.

“Meant to?” He repeated. “You and I?” Had Rose guessed at the truth? Had she been trying to tell Donna?

Donna wasn’t meeting his eyes. “I think she meant I needed to get back, so you’d know. Anyway, doesn’t really matter.” The strangest sort of smile twisted her lips; it was somehow happy and sad at the same time. She gave a little nod over his shoulder. “Forget what I know, you can just ask her yourself.”

He stared at her, uncomprehending, until slowly his head turned to follow her gaze. Near the other end of the street stood Rose Tyler.

It was surreal. She looked near exactly the same — well, besides the ludicrously sized gun hanging at her side — and one of those wide grins spread across her face as he met her eyes. The walls between universes weren’t supposed to be this weak, yet he couldn’t find it within himself to be upset to see her.

Rose tossed the gun aside and began running towards them. The Doctor only just started to do the same when, out of the corner of his eye—

“Rose, look out!”

The patrolling Dalek turned at his shout, eyestalk fixing on him. “Exterminate!”

He was only hit in the shoulder, but the pain ripped through him well enough. He crumpled to the ground as something exploded.

“Doctor!” Donna cried. The Doctor heard her running to him. He should have told her. Soon as he’d known it was the Daleks, he should’ve taken her aside and told her. What a fool he was, assuming they’d all make it out in the end, that there’d be time later.

Someone was pulling his head into their lap. It was Rose. “I’ve got you. Look, it’s me, Doctor. Don’t die,” she began to repeat, tearing up. “Oh, my God, don’t die.”

“Get him into the TARDIS, quick,” said Jack. Where had Jack come from? “Move.” He had one of those same ginormous guns, too. Had they coordinated? The Doctor’s head dropped back. He couldn’t lift it on his own anymore.

It was a three-person effort to get him up and back into his own ship. Donna was asking Jack about medicine. He felt himself smile or at least attempt to; that was Donna, always wanting to find a way, always wanting to try.

They set him down on the grating, and Rose was there, holding him and begging him not to change again. It wasn’t as though he wanted to, not in the middle of a Dalek invasion and when he hadn’t gotten the chance to tell Donna, to even begin to explain.

It just wasn’t fair, and he didn’t care that it made him sound more like a petulant child than a Time Lord nine-hundred and counting. He’d only just realized the full extent of their connection, and now he was expected to die?

The Doctor reached out to where he could see her on the edge of his vision, but Rose caught his hand.

“Doctor? Doctor, what do you need?”

“Donna,” he groaned, about all he could manage through the pain.

Rose’s eyes widened, then she turned her head sharply to look at Donna, who appeared just as startled.

“Need to...tell her,” he tried.

“What is it, Doctor? Anything you need to say, you can tell me,” Rose offered.

He grimaced. This was certainly one thing he hoped for Rose never to know, if only to spare her feelings.

“Donna,” he said again.

There was some shifting about around him. Rose stayed at his side and pulled him further into her lap to make room. Donna did her best to get in close on his other side, then took his other hand. “I’m right here, Spaceman.”

“It’s me,” he choked out.

“I know it’s you, silly.” She was trying to smile for him. She hadn’t understood. The Doctor could nearly feel tears of frustration coming on, or was that the pain?

“No, it’s me, Donna,” he stressed, trying to convey his meaning without words, as they so often managed to do.

But never about this. They’d been looking right past each other the whole time when it came to soulmate marks. He felt a laugh bubble up which morphed into a pained grunt. Rose sniffed loudly. This was not at all how he’d wanted it to go.

“It’s okay,” Donna tried to soothe. “Jack says it’ll be fine in a minute.”

She was scared. Of course she was scared; she had no way of knowing just what was about to happen because he’d never prepared her. Any minute now he was going to change completely and appear a stranger to her eyes, and he hoped Donna would understand, but he couldn’t bear the idea of her being frightened of him or crying that he’d left her the way Rose had done. He’d carried Donna’s name with him through all his regenerations, but would she understand that?

The hand she held began to glow, and he withdrew it as she stared. “It’s starting.”

“Here we go.” Jack stepped forward and helped both Donna and Rose up and away from him. “Good luck, Doctor.”

Away from him now, Donna seemed to allow some of her confusion and worry show. “Will someone please tell me what is going on?”

“When he's dying, his er, his body, it repairs itself,” Rose attempted to explain. “It changes. But you can't!” She cried to him.

Rose’s panic was not at all helping Donna’s panic. Would she accept the new him?

The Doctor didn’t want to find that out today.

And as he stood, his eyes caught on something sitting innocently by the console. His hand. The hand in the jar. A perfect biological receptacle for his regeneration energy.

Oh, that was brilliant.

With an effort, as the fires of regeneration energy burst from him, he extended his arms towards the jar. He could feel himself healing, but instead of the change that would normally take over his whole body, the excess energy drained from him into the spare hand. As the flames extinguished, he found himself standing in the same place, whole and unchanged.

Across from him, Donna, Jack, and Rose stood huddled together, staring at him in shock.

“Now then, where were we?” He couldn’t help teasing. Then he bent to examine the hand. Yes, it had gone exactly as he’d hoped.

“You see? Used the regeneration energy to heal myself, but soon as I was done, I didn't need to change. I didn't want to. Why would I? Look at me.”

He gave them all a rakish grin, which disappointingly didn’t even get an eye roll from Donna. She was still a bit too stunned, it seemed.

“So, to stop the energy going all the way, I siphoned off the rest into a handy bio-matching receptacle, namely my hand. My hand there. My handy spare hand. What do you think?”

It was Rose who stepped forward. “You’re still you?”

Well, semantics would argue that he was always him, but he supposed he caught her meaning. “I’m still me.”

He got a hug for that. Imagine, almost two years ago she hadn’t even wanted this him around! Humans were so adaptable.

Jack was smiling as he stood next to Donna, and the Doctor quickly disentangled himself before the captain could get any ideas, placing himself right at Donna’s side.

“Happy to still see me?”

“I don’t even get what I was supposed to see,” she answered, then prodded at him with a finger. “You’re explaining later, Spaceman.”

“Spaceman?” Jack echoed with a bemused smile.

The Doctor ignored him. “Right. I’ll add it to the list.”

“What list?” Asked Donna.

“The list of things we need to talk about.”

She met his gaze and held it. “Right.”

“Doctor,” Rose began, but before she could say anything more everything went dead. The lights, the scanner, the very engine of the TARDIS, all of it was gone. Oh, he really was out of practice.

“They've got us. Power's gone. Some kind of chronon loop.”

They were headed for what Jack said was called the Crucible. He needed to figure out the Daleks’ plan before they got there if they had any hope now. Rose only had the same things to report. Stars going out, dimensions collapsing.

Then Donna spoke up. “In that parallel world, you said something about me.”

“The dimension cannon could measure timelines, and it's — it's weird, Donna,” said Rose, “but they all seemed to converge on you.”

“But why me? I mean, what have I ever done? I'm a temp from Chiswick.”

“You’re more than that,” he said barely before she’d finished. Donna’s cheeks flushed a pale pink, but she didn’t try to disagree. Jack looked back and forth between them, contemplating something.

There was a thud as they were placed down, and he could only assume they’d arrived. The Dalek voices confirmed that a moment later.

“Doctor, you will step forth or die.”

He looked around at them all. “We’ll have to go out. Because if we don’t, they’ll get in.”

Rose and Jack both protested. They just didn’t understand, this wasn’t like the old times. He couldn’t save them from this.

There was no chance of escaping. Rose’s dimension canon wasn’t charged, and Jack’s vortex manipulator had been drained along with the TARDIS.

“Right then, all of us together.”

Jack and Rose both looked grim, but, “Donna?” He asked.

She’d had remained awfully quiet through this. When he looked at her closely, she seemed lost in thought.

The Doctor walked right up to her. “Donna?”

She blinked and focused on him. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry. There’s nothing else we can do.”

He was sorry for so much more. Sorry he’d wasted so much time, and now they’d run out. Sorry he’d never get to tell her. Sorry she deserved so much more than this.

“No, I know,” she assured him quietly. Of course she’d back him up and never blame him.

He did his best to put on a brave face for her. “It’s been good, though, hasn’t it?” The Doctor looked around at them again. “All of us. All of it. Everything we did. You were brilliant,” he told Rose. She smiled. Then he looked to Jack. “And you were brilliant.” Jack nodded back at him. Finally, he faced back to Donna again. “And you, you were so brilliant, Donna Noble.”

“So were you,” she replied softly. He nearly lost his composure right there.

“Blimey,” the Doctor breathed, turning away again. He squared his shoulders and marched through the door.

Out on the Crucible, the Daleks immediately began to gloat. “Daleks reign supreme. All hail the Daleks!”

They were nearly as bad as the Sontarans carrying on like that. If things weren’t so dire, he might have said as much to Donna just to hear her laugh.

But when he looked back, only Jack and Rose had joined him outside the TARDIS. What was Donna doing?

“Donna? You’re no safer in there,” he called, striding up to the door.

Just as he reached it, it snapped shut.

“What?” The Doctor tried the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. It had been locked.

“Doctor?” Donna’s voice sounded like she was just on the other side of the door. “What have you done?”

“It wasn’t me. I didn’t do anything.”

The door was rattling under his touch. Clearly Donna was trying what he just had to similar effect. “Oi! Oi, I’m not staying behind!”

He had to get her out of there. His key wouldn’t even turn in the lock when he tried it. The Doctor whirled around to glare at the red Dalek that appeared in charge. “What did you do?”

“This is not of Dalek origin.”

“Doctor!” Donna called again.

They had to be lying. “Stop it! She's my friend. Now open the door and let her out.”

“This is Time Lord treachery.”

“Me? The door just closed on its own,” he told them.

“Nevertheless, the TARDIS is a weapon, and it will be destroyed.”

There was the sound of something opening, but when the Doctor looked back round it was to watch as his ship fell through a hole in the floor.

“What are you doing? Bring it back!” He wasn’t sure what he was, stunned, panicking, angry? “What have you done? Where's it going?”

“The Crucible has a heart of Z-neutrino energy. The TARDIS will be deposited into the core.”

He’d settled on something now: fear. “You can't. You've taken the defences down. It'll be torn apart!”

“But Donna’s still in there!” Shouted Rose.

“Let her go!” Jack demanded.

Neither Rose nor Jack’s protests made any difference.

"The female and the TARDIS will perish together. Observe. The last child of Gallifrey is powerless.”

An image from some surveillance system was projected for them to see the TARDIS beginning to sink into the molten core. And Donna with it. It felt as though someone had seized both of his hearts in an icy grip and wouldn’t let go.

He had no power over the Daleks. But there was one thing he could do. Hopeless as it seemed, he had to try.

“Please.” The Doctor stepped forward. “I’m begging you. I’ll do anything. Put me in her place! You can do anything to me, I don’t care! Just get her out of there!”

He might as well have not spoken, for all the reaction he received. “You are connected to the TARDIS. Now feel it die.”

The surveillance screen blinked out as the TARDIS disappeared into the core. He didn’t feel his ship die. He didn’t feel anything.

It was the Library all over again, only worse, because he’d watched it happen this time and been just as utterly useless as before. How could he have let it happen? She was — Donna was dead, and he’d just stood there.

The red Dalek said something. He didn’t hear it. Then Jack was dead on the floor. Why wasn’t it him?

He didn’t realize he’d been swaying on his feet until Rose braced him with a hand on his arm. “Doctor. Doctor, please, snap out of it. They’ve killed Jack!”

“That’s alright,” he mumbled, eyes already straying back to the trapdoor that had taken Donna away. Why hadn’t he walked out with her together, like they always did? He should’ve taken her hand. Already he was keenly aware of the loss of it in his.

A couple of Daleks wheeling up behind them and Rose’s tugging had him realizing they were meant to be moving. He didn’t know where, and he frankly wasn’t concerned.

They were finally marched into a room where Davros was waiting and placed in separate containment fields. “It is time we talked, Doctor.”

“I have nothing to say.” What, really, there was more they expected from him? They always killed everyone else quickly, why did it have to be some big production with him?

Davros tried addressing Rose instead. “And to think you crossed entire universes, striding parallel to parallel to find him again. Just as Dalek Caan foretold.”

The mutated Dalek on its pedestal seemed to react to his name being said. “This I have foreseen, in the wild and the wind. The Doctor will be here as witness, at the end of everything. The Doctor and his precious Children of Time. And one of them will die.” His eyes narrowed, and he stepped right up to the edge of the containment field. “Was it you, Caan? Did you kill Donna? Why did the TARDIS door close? Tell me!”

“Oh, that's it,” Davros enthused. “The anger, the fire, the rage of a Time Lord who butchered millions. There he is.”

The Doctor glared but fell silent. He refused to play this game.

“Why so shy? Show your companion. Show her your true self. Dalek Caan has promised me that, too.” “I have seen. At the time of ending, the Doctor's soul will be revealed.”

He took a step back. “My soul?”

“Yes, Doctor. We will discover it together. Our final journey. Because the ending approaches. The testing begins.”

“Testing of what?” Rose demanded when he failed to.

Davros did his own gruesome approximation of a smile. “The Reality bomb.”

He explained the physics of it to them and even displayed the Daleks’ test on a small group of humans via another projected screen. Rose was clearly horrified. The Doctor was resigned.

What more could he do? Beg? Begging hadn’t saved Donna. Begging wouldn’t stop Davros. The Daleks would only see it as more weakness to wipe out of the universe.

Just as Davros was crowing over his victory, another projection screen lit up and a familiar voice was heard. “This message is for the Dalek Crucible. Repeat. Can you hear me?”

Martha. The Doctor stepped right back up against the containment field. “Put me through!”

She appeared next, sitting in a dark room with no windows. “Doctor! I’m sorry, I had to. I’ve got the Osterhagen Key,” she told Davros. “Leave this planet and its people alone, or I’ll use it.”

“Osterhagen what?” He repeated. “What’s an Osterhagen Key?”

Martha explained about the twenty-five nuclear warheads that had somehow been placed beneath the Earth’s crust without him noticing. In UNIT’s typical twisted logic, by detonating them and blowing up the entire Earth, the Daleks would not have all the necessary planets for their Reality bomb engine, thus stopping them from destroying everything else in the universe. When would these humans stop with the sacrifice plays?

Rose seemed to approve of the plan, if her smirk was anything to go by. “She’s good.”

“Who’s that?” Martha asked.

“My name’s Rose. Rose Tyler.”

Martha’s eyes widened. “Oh, my God.” Then she looked about the rest of the room. “Where’s Donna?”

The Doctor sucked in a sharp breath. Rose glanced at him, then answered, “They killed her.”

If anything, Martha looked more frightened now as her eyes locked on him than when she’d been bluffing Davros. He hoped she’d been bluffing, anyway. “Oh, God.”

“Second transmission, internal,” a Dalek announced, and another screen popped up containing a number of familiar faces. Jack, Sarah Jane, Mickey, and Jackie, who had all collectively decided to cook up a scheme that involved blowing up the entire Crucible, including themselves.

“Enough!” The red Dalek on a screen of his own commanded. “Engage defence zero five!”

A transmat brought them all to the Vault to be contained along with him and Rose. The surrounding Daleks forced them into surrender. Davros was now practically overjoyed by his standards.

“Behold your children of time transformed into murderers. I made the Daleks, Doctor. You made this. And the prophecy unfolds.”

“The Doctor’s soul is revealed,” declared Dalek Caan. “See him. See the heart of him!”

Everyone else looked down, casting brief, shame-filled glances at him. Davros opened his mouth no doubt intent on beginning yet another long-winded monologue, but then...the Doctor began to laugh.

The others were openly staring at him, a mix of confusion and fear on their faces. Davros’ triumphant grin fell from his lips, and Caan twitched restlessly. They all just didn’t get it, did they?

The Doctor managed to calm himself enough eventually. “That was your big surprise? The thing you were going to ‘reveal’ to us all?” He asked, taking the trouble to form air quotes along with it. “Just what exactly about that was news to anyone here?”

“The Doctor’s soul—” Dalek Caan began feebly.

“You’re wrong, Caan,” the Doctor cut him off. “You can’t reveal my soul, cause I don’t have it anymore. Not all of it. You sent it to die in the core of the Crucible.”

“What?” He heard Mickey ask.

“They dropped the TARDIS—” Jack started to explain.

The Doctor looked over at him. “No, Jack. Not the TARDIS.”

The Captain met his eyes, his mouth falling open. “You mean, she was…?”

“What?” Asked Rose, looking between them both. “Doctor, she was what?”

“What is this? What is the meaning of this?” Davros demanded.

“Donna Noble,” he stated for the benefit of everyone. “She’s the meaning of it. The meaning of everything, from my point of view. My soulmate,” the Doctor finally spoke the words aloud, only he was staring down Davros and surrounded by Daleks and a number of his closest friends while they waited for all of Reality to end. About the last way he’d wanted it to go. “And you killed her.”

“Oh my,” Sarah Jane gasped.

“What, you really do soulmates?” Jackie asked, sounding incredulous.

“Time Lords were said to have eliminated such sentiment,” Davros said.

“Well, I never was a very good Time Lord. Don’t like to admit that usually, but right now I don’t care. That bit about making my friends murderers, that might have hurt on a normal day.” Any trace of frivolity left him. “But this isn’t a normal day.”

“Doctor,” said Martha. He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t afford to look to any of the others; he didn’t want them thinking they could have done anything to stop him after.

“You’ve already taken away the single best part of my universe. Do you think I can be bothered to care about anything else you do to me?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “But the things I will do to you, Davros.”

The Doctor thought he saw his enemy’s chair wheel back just a single inch. Good.

“See, you didn’t really do a very good job searching us. That’s like not capturing us at all. Because I’ve still got this.” He withdrew the sonic from his jacket. “You know what I can do with it? I can disable my containment field. The resulting feedback will cause a backlash, of course,” he acknowledged. “It might kill me, it might not. I’m a little unclear on whether I’ve got that fifteen hour grace period or not, but at the moment, as I said, I really don’t care.”

The Doctor pointed the sonic straight above him and placed his thumb on the switch.

“You wanted to see my rage, Davros?”

His former companions were shouting now. It was no use; the only person who might have been able to stop him had been dead thirty-one minutes and six seconds, and he’d held himself back from going too far for long enough.

But then, over everything else, came the most impossible sound: the TARDIS.

The Doctor turned to watch the blue box, his ship, come phasing into view. His arm bent at the elbow, then slowly lowered. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Donna?”

[rockdadca]

Review: Iron Maiden at Budweiser Stage (Night 2)

Band: Iron Maiden Venue: Budweiser Stage Date: August 10, 2019

When Maiden comes to town, their presence is known. Donning terrifying black Iron Maiden shirts, "metalheads" of all ages flood the streets of Toronto as they embark on their obligatory pilgrimage to the gig. Once there, adult "metalheads" pound back pints of "Trooper," a beer commissioned by the band.

The shirts, the dark imagery and song names like "The Number of the Beast" give every mother a reason to assume we are attending a dark satanic ritual. The reality is...an Iron Maiden show is like going to see a horror play. Think Macbeth or the Phantom of the Opera. That all said, Eddie, their otherworldly mascot, is quite terrifying.  

This past weekend, Iron Maiden brought their Legacy of the Beast tour to Toronto's Budweiser Stage for two sold-out nights.

The Legacy of the Beast is Maiden's most ambitious and theatrical production to date. Since this was by far one of the most memorable shows I've ever attended, I feel it deserves a rather self-indulging, in-depth look.

As I was thinking of how to unpack the setlist, I realized it could be organized into five thematic acts: war, religion, mythology, horror and philosophy.

This time around, lead singer Bruce Dickinson explained they were "not going to play any new songs." Instead, they chose to — for the first time — celebrate their existing catalogue. The news was bittersweet, as Maiden fans tend to embrace new material with their fists up high.

Let's dive in...

Act I: War

8:50 PM. The lights dim in the amphitheatre and a taped version of "Transilvania" slowly fades in. Fans rush to their seats but know they have time, as UFO's 1974 "Doctor Doctor" has signalled the start of the show for the last ten years.

Knowing the show is about to start, we make ourselves comfortable in our usual nook. Its location I can't disclose for obvious reasons, but I can tell you we stood much closer to the stage than we were supposed to. Our rock & roll way to stick it to the man.

Two soldiers stand guard as Winston Churchill's famous WWII rally cry plays in the background. When Churchill says the line "We shall never surrender!" the lights go out, and the soldiers pull the covers off the stage. Within seconds, the barren stage transforms into the sodden trenches of the Battle of Britain and the band rushes on stage playing the explosive "Aces High."

If that wasn't enough, a life-size WWII fighter plane descended from the rafters as singer Bruce Dickinson ran on stage donning a full fighter pilot outfit.

The next few songs followed the same theme. "Where Eagles Dare" and "2 Minutes to Midnight" both sing of the second world war.

"This next song is called The Clansman. That's with a "C" for any Americans who may be here tonight!" Dickinson explained, now wearing a red Brittish Army uniform.

"The Clansman" is a song about the early Scottish clans' struggle as they fought for freedom from their oppressors.

"The Trooper" marked the end of Act I. A song about the 1854 Battle of Balaclava, during the Crimean War. This song is incredibly cinematic. The drumbeat resembles the galloping of the horses as they charged towards the Russian army.

At this point, a larger than life Eddie made an appearance, challenging Dickinson to a  sword duel in front of a giant illustration of a grim battle. Dickinson — a former professional fencer —inevitably defeated the evil enemy, setting off pyrotechnics off Eddie's face.  

Act 2: Religion

Any Maiden fan will know that drummer Nicko McBrain is Christian, and while not Christian themselves, the rest of the band has always been fascinated by Christianity. Be it Biblical stories or the tumultuous history of the church.

For the second act, the stage became an English gothic church — complete with stained glass windows featuring Eddie and wooden candle-lit chandeliers.

The songs during this part of the set included "Revelations," "For the Greater Good of God," and  the chilling sing-along "Wicker Man."

Act 2 culminated with the eerie "Sign of The Cross," Maiden's longest and most progressive song. This song demonstrates how Maiden gets away with three lead guitarists who are best mates. Besides their signature harmonies, each brings a unique playing style that together makes Maiden...Maiden.

Act 3: Mythology

I am not sure if you've noticed, but we are nine songs in, and there has been no song to be missed for a quick piss. And this may be a spoiler, but Iron Maiden made sure you got your money's worth and then some with every chosen song.

After two long themed acts, the stage once against transformed. This time into a Greek temple.

Maiden blared a much heavier and faster version of  "The Flight of Icarus.". Fans were ecstatic. The song about the epic Greek mythology story had not made a live appearance since 1986.

As with the cover of the vinyl single, Dickinson used [real] flame throwers to melt the wax off Icarus' wings. Icarus then ignited sparks and fell into oblivion.

Act 4: Fear

On what I would guess was the fifth or sixth outfit change, Dickinson entered the scene of a dark world wearing a long black coat and top hat. On his hand, he held a lantern as he sang "Fear of the Dark".  Because both Dickinson and bassist Steve Harris suffer from a certain level of Nyctophobia, the song is played with authentic first-hand conviction.

The scenery quickly went from dark and spooky to downright terrifying when a colossal devil overcame the stage for the band's most infamous song (amongst mothers): The Number of the Beast.

For an outsider, I can understand how hearing a choir of 16,000 chanting "Six! Six Six! The Number of the Beast could be terrifying. Thankfully the song is about a nightmare, with heavy influences from the book of Revelation and a Robert Burns poem.

Being at an Iron Maiden concert while this song is playing is hard put into words. In one hand, you have thousands of people screaming the words with their "irons" up high having a blast. Then there is the band, who always, always dons a grin as they run around in circles, teasing each other and laughing.

Casual fans would have been ok to end there, but there were more surprises.

In keeping with tradition, the melodic anthem "Iron Maiden" closed the set.

Encore: Philosophy

The eternal battle between good and evil, questions of what constitutes morality and the meaning of life are at the core of Iron Maiden's music and lyrics.

The epic "The Evil That Men Do" opened the encore before quickly transitioning into the highly celebrated "Hallowed Be Thy Name."

The performance of "Hallowed Be Thy Name" defied the archetype of the encore. This was no victory lap; Iron Maiden had more stories to tell in full.

For this song, Dickinson dressed like a prisoner in rags. With shackled hands, he cried for mercy from inside a cell at the top of the stage. As the song progressed, the prisoner makes his way to the gallows, where a noose awaited.

The vivid scene of the final moments of this prisoner, made "Hallowed Be Thy Name" the most dramatic performance of the show.

11:00 was a few minutes away, so the next song was inevitably going to be the last. The band closed the show with the classic "Run to The Hills."

"Scream for me Toronto!," Dickinson commanded. And the crowd obliged one last time.

Unlike many of their peers from the first wave of heavy metal, Maiden still looks and sounds fresh. Every member treats the show like an Olympic marathon, sprinting, jumping, and in the case of Bruce Dickinson even lunging. Their athleticism may explain their energy and good health, but it's their passion that continues to attract new fans.

Lead guitarists Dave Murray, Adrian Smith, and Janick Gers look like best friends running around in a playground with their favourite toys. Steve Harris and Nicko displayed the same level of excitement and gratitude. None of them ever missed a single note.

I connected with a long-time Maiden fan and asked how their live performances today compare to their early years. Unsurprisingly, they said the shows just keep on getting better.

Iron Maiden tours are a commercial Behemoth. On average, a show will gross about $1.25M in revenue. But it’s clear that even considering how lucrative touring can be, these guys aren't in it for the money. After all, they haven’t stopped making music or touring since 1975. Music is what they love, and they won't stop until they are called to meet their maker.

Against the wishes of all mothers, I am off to spin The Number of the Beast on vinyl!

Setlist

Aces High

Where Eagles Dare

2 Minutes to Midnight

The Clansman

The Trooper

Revelations

For the Greater Good of God

The Wicker Man

Sign of the Cross

Flight of Icarus

Fear of the Dark

The Number of the Beast

Iron Maiden

The Evil That Men Do

Hallowed Be Thy Name

Run to the Hills

Listen to my Legacy of the Beast playlist here!

Photo Credits:

Flight of Icarus / Beast: https://www.instagram.com/jossmonzon/

[electricbluebutterflies]

fairytales got nothing on us, babe

Ice Mechanic canon-divergent AU. PG13-ish (implied smut & implied character death). Also on AO3. Inspired by this gifset by @likcoln.

The widowed queen paces the throne room alone, one two three four five six twirl, constantly moving to keep from falling. She’s worn the same flowing red dress for over a week, the color of blood and mourning a beautiful contrast against her warm brown skin since the day of her husband’s pyre. In another week, according to tradition and her most trusted advisor, she will officially ascend to the throne in her own right. Until then, she’s got plenty of thoughts to drown in.

Raven kom Azgeda may have been born an outsider, but she’s given over a decade of her life to the clan she now calls her own. She’s earned her place on her own terms, not just as a treaty queen. She’s not ready to face this on her own, but she’s got no real choice in the matter.

Over a decade with her love before he was taken from her. More time than most of the people she knows got. Nowhere near enough.

“I’ll do it,” Raven says. She’s twenty, headstrong, and plays by no rules but her own. Her presence at council meetings is still new, her position only temporary until a proper replacement can be selected for Sinclair’s old place, and-

“You don’t have to,” Abby counters. “You’re valuable here, Raven. They don’t expect quite that much of a sacrifice.”

“Good, because that’s not how I see it.” Raven’s got about half of a plan now, and building fast. “I’m giving myself as a token of faith. Does that sound enough like political bullshit to be acceptable?”

No one really has anything to say after that. What Raven wants, Raven gets. And if what Raven genuinely wants is a political marriage and a separation from everything she’s known up to this point, no one’s brave or stupid enough to question her on it. Her life, her choices, her loss. Just like always.

The one problem with Raven’s brilliant plan - there’s always a problem somewhere, but rarely on this scale - is she assumes she’ll be paired to someone on about her level. She’s proved wrong three days later, when the Azgedan delegation descends on Arkadia and the terms of the situation are fully laid out.

Instead of being pawned off on some lesser diplomat as she’d assumed would be the case, Raven is to become a queen. Freaking awesome.

After a longwinded explanation by several people whom Raven highly doubts have any idea what they just signed up for, she’s left alone with her soon-to-be-husband to get acquainted. This, Raven can deal with. She’s not so sure of Roan as a person, but her eyes work fine and the man is objectively gorgeous. Hey, at least she’s gonna get regular sex out of this. She could do so much worse.

“You’re not what I expected,” Roan says as the door shuts on the sterile Arkadian conference room.

“You wanted prettier?”

“I’m not sure at what point you checked out during the conversation about arrangements and logistics, but... your people speak very highly of you, Lady Raven. They say you are quite skilled with your hands. And yet you want to leave them. Why?”

“Big world out there,” Raven shrugs. “Maybe I just wanna see more of it.”

In classic diplomatic-bullshit fashion, there are two wedding ceremonies. The first, held in Arkadia the day before the delegation departs with Raven in tow, is the most stressful hour of her life. No, more like six hours - her friends and acquaintances decide she needs a proper sendoff, and there’s a party afterwards. Alcohol flows as quickly as words, and by the time she finally gets away from everyone, she’s exhausted like she hasn’t consciously been in years.

She leans her back against a metal wall, glad to be alone, and then suddenly she isn’t anymore. Roan’s beauty is softer in firelight, and Raven doubts she’ll have any trouble getting used to seeing it constantly.

“You won’t be able to run like this next time,” he murmurs, moving to stand next to her but not even reaching for her hand. “They’ll be too curious about you. It might last days.”

“And if they’re disappointed?”

“They won’t be.” There’s a certain confidence in Roan’s voice, suspiciously like an actual feeling. “I’ve seen some of your work, Raven, and you’ve already saved the world once. If anything, my people will love you.”

“And what do you think of me?”

“I think you’re beautiful and more than anyone’s ever seen.”

Raven reaches out and entwines her fingers with him. “Great, you’re a badass and a romantic.”

“Just saying what I see. Problem?”

“Nope.”

And sure enough, wedding ceremony number two is stressful. Not just because of the cultural disconnect or the language barrier, although those suck too, but because approximately five seconds after Raven officially becomes a queen, the weight of everything she’s done recently crashes upon her and oh. hell. no.

“I need air,” she whispers to Roan. He’s growing on her as a person - he was a perfect gentleman on the several-day trip up here, he’s got latent caretaker instincts that she just might fall in love with someday, and most importantly, she trusts him enough to ask him for a way out.

“Can you get through a few more minutes here?” he murmurs, clearly worried and not hiding it anywhere near as well as he thinks.

“Probably. Why?”

“If we depart after a few more formalities, everyone will just think we were especially excited to... consummate the marriage.”

And make that one more thing Raven can’t handle right now. “If you have any expectations on that front, I will kill you. Are we clear?”

“Completely. The only thing I ask is that, for the sake of preventing rumors, it’s best if we sleep in the same room tonight. But there’s a lovely chair in your room - you haven’t seen that, I don’t think, I’m not sure - and I will be fine and-”

Despite her current mental state, Raven laughs. “You’re nervous around me. I like that.”

After that, well... after that, Raven’s life calms down a bit.

Sure, she’s constantly being exposed to new things and some of the cultural quirks are just weird, but as an outsider, she’s more than allowed to think that and even say so on occasion. As the treaty queen, as most people call her, she gets a previously unknown amount of freedom. And oh how she intends to use it. She asks questions about infrastructure and is eventually introduced to an eclectic group of people who, under her vague guidance, have the potential to bring the city back to its former glory.

The ridiculous amount of walking sucks, but she deals.

And really, it’s not like this marriage thing is all that bad either. She’s not expected to deal with Roan all that much, just play arm candy at the right times. But over time, she starts to actually like him. If nothing else, she figures, she needs a friend in this zoo and her options kinda suck to begin with and everyone else is vaguely scared of her. Roan, on the other hand...

Well...

“Do you actually like me?” Raven asks one afternoon about six months into her marriage. She’s taken to pestering her husband when she knows he’s busy reading reports or something equally boring, and the little chats that result are the highlight of her week (though she’ll never actually admit that to anyone). She likes being treated as an equal, not some goddess who fell from the sky like she’s pretty sure half of Azgeda thinks she is - most of ‘em still don’t like Skaikru as a whole, but they’ve collectively decided Queen Raven is an exception and she’s thankful for it but goddamn sometimes it’s overwhelming and-

“Why do you ask?” Roan replies after several heartbeats too long.

“Because I can’t fucking tell, and... I just wanna know, okay? Is that enough of a reason?”

Fluidly, in that graceful catlike way of his that should not be anywhere near as hot as she thinks it is, he closes the space between them and gently kisses her. From what little Raven’s been able to figure out, Roan’s not keen on physical affection, and that plus his ridiculous concept of boundaries with her means she’s lucky if they even hold hands as a public display. But this... this is want, pure and simple, and she’s here for it.

Before he can give some kind of justification, she loops her arms around his neck and pulls him down for a much more desperate liplock.

“What was that?” he murmurs when they break apart just enough to breathe.

“Finally found the right moment,” Raven laughs.

Years pass. Lives are formed. Love blossoms. Raven thrives.

She will always be defined as the treaty queen, simply because it was the first title her people gave her, but she gains their trust and loyalty. Under her guidance and careful planning, windmill generators bring the city a little closer to the glory it might have had before the bombs fell. A scientist in a culture used to valuing warriors, Raven occasionally has to fight to be heard and obeyed, but as time passes, it becomes easier.

Easier still is her domestic life, a warm blanket of a thing that wraps around her and makes her feel safe. Slowly, she falls in love with Roan. He falls much faster, but grants her space to decide her feelings on her own terms. He worships the ground she walks on but expects nothing in return, and it’s the sweetest thing she’s ever known.

A little less than a year into their arrangement, Raven slips into her partner’s bedroom late at night. The door between their separate spaces has merely collected dust until now, but she’s feeling lonely and wants more than their occasional stolen kisses. She wants everything, all at once, desperate and-

Before her husband has the chance to fully process the intruder, she speaks. “Just me. That okay?”

“What do you need?” he asks, almost playful.

“Too much space in my bed,” Raven laughs. “Mind if I curl up here instead?”

Roan makes space for her and helps her find a comfortable position beside him. “What else do you want, darling?”

“Everything.”

He shifts to cover her and kiss her, and she knows in her heart that she will never again feel lonely as long as she has this.

But all love stories end somewhere. This one, ten and a half years after it began, on a hunting trip on which the king is shot by mistake by a close friend with bad eyesight and worse aim. It’s an accidental death in the purest sense, but still a tragedy.

Upon hearing that her lover is no more, that he died before anything could be done, the queen sheds her ice blue gown in favor of the deep red mourning dress that has sat at the back of her wardrobe since shortly after she took her current title. She knew this day would come, and she is thankful the circumstances are so benign, but that does not lessen the pain.

In another week, Queen Raven will officially be given all power over her people. Until then, she mourns.

[mindthump]

Riding a Time Capsule to Apartment 8G http://ift.tt/2AJrQeZ

Below the indicator box, where a modern elevator just has blank space, is the black-handled mechanism that drives the elevator. It’s called a control switch. In Mr. Rivera’s elevator, the switchworks are hidden within a weathered-bronze Frisbee-shaped cover bearing the logo of Haughton Elevators. (Haughton’s competitors included Gurney, Watson, Otis and A.B. See. Only Otis still exists.)

As Mr. Rivera throws the handle to the left, a swiveling contact bar inside the cover opens one circuit and closes another. This sends two electrical messages to a control panel in the basement: to power up the motor, and make it spin forward. The motor pulls the cables that lift the car.

Riding in an old manual elevator makes you realize how boringly quiet today’s elevators are. An old elevator makes a sort of music: the reassuring low hum of the motor, the gentle creaks of turning wheels, the click as each floor goes by, the jingle of the gate closing, like parting a bead curtain or sifting a pile of coins. The only jarring note in Mr. Rivera’s elevator is the call buzzer. It sounds like the wrong answer on a game show.

One of Mr. Rivera’s colleagues, Peter Gari, said he could identify certain residents by the buzz — long or short, or a double hit. “Some people buzz and then a couple of minutes later they buzz again. You get to the floor and they tell you, ‘I’m running late.’ Not my problem, wake up earlier.”

Over the decades, 47 Plaza Street has made concessions to modernity. The elevator signals are now routed through a computer in the basement. And since about 1993, the elevators have been what is called “self-leveling.” Mr. Rivera demonstrated what this means. “I get to 11, 11½…” He let go of the handle and the car glided to a halt at the 12th floor. “It stops by itself. How beautiful!”

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230 West 39th Street renovated its elevators cosmetically but left the ancient manual control system intact.

When Otis developed the self-leveling elevator in 1917, it was a big deal. James Montgomery Flagg made a film the next year called “The Good Sport” in which the hero invents a self-leveling elevator and receives a $100,000 check. “Your invention is a boon to humanity!” says the owner of the Social Uplift Elevator Co. “Ladies and gentlemen — No more ‘Watch your step’ — This is the first elevator that ever stopped even with the floor.”

The technology spread slowly. Very slowly, in some cases: There are still many elevators in the city that are not self-leveling and must be landed precisely, kind of like a plane.

“I was terrible when I first started,” said Mike Merille, who has operated an elevator at 890 Broadway, home of the American Ballet Theater and the Ballet Tech dance school, since 2001. “But it’s muscle memory by now. I don’t even look.”

In the 1930s, a series of strikes and strike threats by elevator operators led bosses to respond with threats of their own. “Building owners fear that any substantial increases in wages for service employees will force them to install labor-saving devices, which will result in a large displacement of labor,” The Times reported in 1935. Elevator operators in those days worked up to 72 hours a week for as little as 30 cents an hour, equivalent to about $5.60 an hour today. (Now they make around $24 an hour.)

Push-button elevators had actually been around since the 1890s, but were not practical for larger buildings. They were slow. Initially they could make only one stop per trip. Later, they could make multiple stops, but only in the order the buttons were pressed.

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Brian Naidoo pilots the elevator at 518 West 26th Street, a former factory filled with galleries.

It took until 1950 for Otis to perfect a push-button system smart enough to handle the traffic and shifting demands for service over the course of the day in a multi-elevator building. The company’s Autotronic system, Otis boasted in advertisements, “minimizes the human element” and “gives tenants a sprightly feeling of independence.”

The elevator man’s fate was sealed.

Almost.

Sixty-five years later, the human element still has its fans. At 47 Plaza Street West, on that same morning in early November, Mr. Rivera opened his elevator door and Bob Rubin got on.

“How you doing, Ramon?” he asked.

“I’ve had my ups and downs,” Mr. Rivera replied.

“I’ve never heard that one before,” Mr. Rubin said.

In the kitchen of the apartment he has lived in for 41 years, Mr. Rubin, a construction lawyer, expounded on his love for the elevators.

“What intrigues me about them is a kind of elegant simplicity,” he said. He fetched a stovetop espresso maker known as a moka pot. “This thing,” he said, “makes a better cup of coffee than that one,” and he pointed to the Keurig on the counter.

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Clockwise from top left: The annunciator at 33 West 67th Street. The switch handle at 35 Pierrepont Street in Brooklyn. A Gurney elevator switch in Brooklyn. The inner gate in an elevator at 41 Fifth Avenue in Manhattan.

Mr. Rubin does not lock his apartment door. He has found the elevator men to be paragons of trustworthiness. “They know everything that’s going on in the building, but none of them has ever been a gossip to the best of my knowledge,” he said. “There is just an exceptional level of discretion.”

Discretion is sometimes called for, said Mr. Gari, Mr. Rivera’s counterpart at the north elevator that day.

“Sheeee, woohoo!” said Mr. Gari. “Boy, through the years, oh, yeah.”

“At my old job” — he used to work an elevator on Park Avenue — “sometimes people would ask, ‘Is my spouse home? And when did they get in?’ Home or not home, I’d say yes or no. But as far as when, I’d say, ‘I don’t remember, you can ask them.’”

Visitors must be carefully screened. “One time we had a process server show a gun to me and Ramon,” Mr. Gari said. “He asks, ‘Is so-and-so home?’ He showed me a badge. I called up on the intercom, no one answered, I told him, ‘They’re not there.’ He wanted me to take him up there. I said no. He said, ‘I’m the law, you’re obstructing justice,’ and he shows this gun. Ramon is like, what are you going to do, shoot me?”

Not everyone is charmed by the old elevators. “I’d lean toward push-a-button, convenience, quickness,” said Brian Kramer, a member of the co-op board at the Kenilworth on Central Park West, which has had some difficult conversations in recent years about upgrading the elevators. When there is only one doorman on duty, he has to somehow keep an eye on the door while running the elevator. “It’s tricky,” Mr. Kramer said.

Two doors down from Mr. Rivera’s building, at 39 Plaza Street West, a resident who would not let her name be published for fear of reprisals from the co-op board voiced exasperation. “If you want to go down to the laundry, it’s six trips, and someone has to take you up and down,” she said. “And the elevator regularly breaks down. It’s beautiful but it’s past its usefulness. It needs constant maintenance.”

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Vladimir Gerasimovski says the 113-year-old elevator he operates at 33 West 67th Street in Manhattan runs “better than the new ones.”

Many old manual elevators are maintained by McGlynn Hays and Co., a 117-year-old concern that claims to be one of only two service companies in the city that has its own machine shop, on West 47th Street. Sooner or later, every moving part on an elevator needs an overhaul, said the company’s president, Gerard Carlucci.

“There’s relay failure, the pins wear out, the housing, the contacts wear out, the carbons wear out, the car switch — same thing,” he said. “The traveling cables, they get brittle over years. The door locks, door contacts — everything wears out. They’re opened a million times. The machines have made five million trips if you think about it. What do we make now that runs for a hundred years?”

At Mr. Rivera’s building, Mr. Mehl, the manager, said he did not foresee the elevators getting replaced anytime soon. This cheers Mr. Rivera, who has not lost enthusiasm for his job at an age when most men are retired or dead. “I love it,” he said, “because I go up and down. I don’t go only down. I’ve been doing it for 35 years. Oh, yes. That’s why I’m still here.”

Mr. Rivera switches elevators halfway through his shift. After lunch, the mail comes and he brings it down the basement to sort it. He is continually interrupted — every time someone buzzes, he has to run back upstairs. This time of year, the process can take hours. “Garbage, garbage, this is all garbage,” Mr. Rivera murmured as he filled cubbyholes with holiday catalogs.

At 3 p.m., the afternoon elevator man, Felix Mina, came on to spell Mr. Rivera and finish the mail. After Mr. Rivera changed out of his uniform, Mr. Mina brought him back up. “Until tomorrow,” he said. “Bye, Ramon.” Mr. Mina closed the elevator door. From within came the sound of the scissor gate creaking and then clicking into place, and the car descending.

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