it's honestly amazing how love never dies, in its most recent iteration with the US tour, did so much to improve upon the original london production
the sets look beautiful, the music still goes hard, the lyrics were reworked, and they had an extremely talented cast with great chemistry
and despite it all, it still managed to be one of the worst things i've ever seen. absolutely nothing can save that dumpster fire, and i think that's beautiful
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December 9th
Small, beautiful events, he’d said, arm heavy and reassuring around her shoulders despite the dangers. Sunsets, flowers, a well prepared meal. Things that took time - the flower to grow, to bloom. The sun to set. The meal to be cooked. Lifestoppingly terrible moments, and she’d put her own arms around her friend, refusing to look away from the viewscreen. Bare seconds for her to be whisked away, a last view of Adric smiling at the Doctor, turning away. Not even a minute watching the freighter flickering in and out of time as it barrelled towards earth. Far less than that for the bloom of light, and Adric was gone.
Nyssa hadn’t cried. Tegan had shaken apart in her arms in the console room, true sobs that left her makeup running down her face, and wet patches on Nyssa’s lovely jacket, but all Nyssa had done was prop her chin on her shoulder, a small hand running up and down the back of that awful jumpsuit, while she stood in total silence, as cold as one of those silver cybermen. When she finally looked up, face burning, wiping at her nose with her sleeve, Nyssa’s face was blank again, all that emotion she had shown when pleading with the Doctor gone, locked away in logical boxes. Acceptance. Resignation.
And the Doctor- the Doctor was fussing away at his bloody console, pressing buttons and it was pointless, he was dead, why was nobody else upset? She suddenly couldn’t deal with them around her, these aliens, nothing on the surface, no tears. Cold. She turned away from them, recoiled from the hand Nyssa put out towards her. The jumpsuit she wore stank, sweat and oil mixed with the perfume of the woman who had worn it before her (and she couldn't remember, was she still alive? Or had the Cybermen killed her too?)
She hurt all over, lip still sluggishly bleeding where she’d bit it waiting for the Doctor decide whether she was going to be executed or merely used as a chess piece, bands of bruises around her arms where the silver fingers had tightened, knocks on her shins and hips where she’d crashed into things. Adrenaline crash leaving the back of her head aching and her hands shaky. Footsore. Heartsore. In someone else’s clothing, and someone else’s home.
She wanted, more desperately than anything, a bath. Her own clothing. Things she could control in a way she hadn’t been able to help Adric. She knew Nyssa was still watching her curiously, but she didn’t feel up to it, to explaining how humans felt grief without ending up screaming at the Doctor to do something useful, at the universe as a whole. At people who were no longer able to hear her scream. She slipped away from that sterile white console room, short and abrupt moments in which the terrible things happened. Somewhere she could draw her own armour back on, shed the clothes that, to her, stank of nothing now but death.
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