This was all over Doctor Who fan twitter today. Three initial thoughts:
As pointed out in many of the aforementioned tweets, it was Doctor Who fans and their creativity that kept the fandom alive when the show was off air. If not for those fans there might never have been a revived series at all. What a kick in the teeth to them.
I gather this particular FAQ has been around for a while and only went viral today, but uh, I don’t think the showrunners want/the show itself can handle any more bad publicity right now, even the tiniest bit?
This is a The Good Place fanfiction I’ve been working on for about a year now. I started thinking about it after the finale aired last year, and it went from there.
It features very few of the characters from the actual show, has a far less comedic tone and perhaps only counts as a fanfiction in the loosest sense really…but it is my sort-of answer to the one question the show never tackled, “What happens to children and babies in the afterlife?”
Tony Stark and Nebula sat in the cockpit of the Guardians’ ship hours after The Snap. They were both stunned, unable to communicate even though they sat in the same room.
Nebula was the most affected by the events that transpired. She had lost her sister to Thanos just because she was willing to save her life in that interrogation chamber. Now half the universe was annihilated.
“Are we going to leave this planet or what?” Tony Stark asked, startling Nebula.
“Yea,” she responded. “I’ll help with the controls. I know you people from Earth aren’t familiar with Ravager ships.”
Stark looked at her. “I think I can figure it out. You could say I’m a…mechanic.”
“And I am a machine.”
Stark smirked. “Suit yourself,” he said, indicating the yokes and buttons before him.
She rose from her chair, reached him, then began clicking those same buttons. She gripped…
So the question of time again: how long can a kingdom remain a kingdom if it is king-less? A long time.
Decades, centuries. Boundaries and demarcations of ownership may ebb and flow with the natural tides of victory and defeat, interest and disinterest, growth and regression, but the unified body of Kingdom remains.
Boromir one time said, So long as everyone agrees that it ought to. He had been fifteen and was promptly rebuked by Mithrandir.
And Mithrandir was right, the idea of a future hope keeps Gondor trudging onward in a bizarre fusion of movement and stasis. There is no time for this.
Boromir has met the heir of Isildur. What a thing. Marvels upon marvels. He wishes to vomit into a finely sculpted bush. He puts this down to the food not agreeing with him.
His father never spoke of the heirs of Isildur because there was no reason to speak of the heirs of Isildur. If they remained, they were no more and no less than the rest of us who are descended from the Dunedain therefore why should we give special credence to them? Special licence to those who shy away from duty and hide in the north.
This heir of Isildur, whom the Elves and Mithrandir put special import upon, has a sword. It is broken. It is to be reforged before they set out. Boromir doesn’t say, I have more swords broken in the line of duty than fingers on a hand.
What is a sword?
Faramir would put meaning to it but Boromir can’t haul himself over that ledge just yet. He thinks, Oh yes, fine, the man has a sword and the man is tall with a commanding air, when he decides to put one. I know men like him. Indeed, I can be such a man when I want to. But I don’t go around dredging up the past so sand roils in surf making everything unclear.