@ahquellavoce (pre-femverse AU)
Narvin has, she considers, something to celebrate.
For a brief moment this afternoon, CIA detectors in the Vortex had blared out in an angry symphony of klaxons that nearly gave Timenius, Junior Agent Third Grade in charge of Vortex Monitoring, a dual hearts attack. The wheels had spun into motionâmessages were passed up the institutional totem poleâthe Coordinator herself was summoned. And so Narvin was present, just in time, to watch via specially filtered Vortex imaging as a terrifying network of cracks spiderwebbed its way across the fabric of the timestream. She, and every senior Agent under her command, had been frantically running through mental lists of emergency measures, when suddenlyâŠ
Nothing. The Vortex itself reacted, rebounded, like a stretched watchspring snapping back to its natural position. The universe, beautiful, hardy masterpiece that it was, had healed itself without their interference. And for almost the first time Narvin could recall in her career, the crisis had been over before it had even begun. As of this evening, the Vortex is whole and sound, and most of Gallifrey is unaware there was ever anything to fear at all.
Yes, she deserves a celebration, Narvin thinks. After all, only imagine the trouble that could have been caused today. Even if those cracks hadnât spread or grown, even had they remained as they were, she would have faced an enormous increase in workload. Her life would for the foreseeable have been devoted to attempting to repair the fractures and to deal, in the meanwhile, with any detritus that happened to float through. Narvin wouldnât have known what such a thing as free time⊠no, a poor choice of phrase⊠as leisure looked like, not for years. And so she thinks itâs only right that she embrace the maintenance of the status quo (ah, the beauties of conservatism), and acknowledge the narrow escape with a little treat.
Itâs only distraction that nudges her coordinates off. She had planned to attend a performance by Maxine Tribexia, the legendary eighty-third century piano virtuoso. But her timing is slightly askewânot by more than a few years, but sufficient, of course, to miss the particular performance she had aimed for. Â
And then againâperhaps she hasnât simply miscalculated. Perhaps her TARDIS has pulled her here. Narvin is given a bit of a start when she glances down at her console readout. She had expected to see a wide array of local species data about her landing spot, and so far her predictions are accurate. But what she had not expected was to find listed, at the top of the screen, biodata for a Time Lord other than herself. The message is tagged with an alert to indicate that this visitor matches no CIA records of authorized flightsâand that his artron signature matches that of no known renegade, either.
Well well well. A previously law-abiding citizen, sneaking off on illegal pleasure jaunts, perhaps? Just so long as sheâs here, Narvin may as well look into the matter. Mixing business with pleasure is a heady cocktail, in her experience.
She leaves her TARDIS safely parked; straightens her gown (a minor concession to the conventions of the era, though its black-and-white design and high collar make it little more nor less than a stylized version of her usual robes) and her gloves; checks her pockets for opera glasses, communicator and spare staser; and heads out onto the asteroid.
The Fveri Concert Hall. One of the marvels of the universe, and an indulgence which Narvin saves for very special occasions. She will scrimp for a month to forgive herself the indulgence of the ticketâmonstrous expenseâbut will buy it, all the same. This has not been her first visit, nor will it be her last. She breathes deep of the specially enriched oxygen atmosphere, and allows herself a tiny smile in remembrance of past pleasures.
She has been here many times before. But this is the first time, apparently, when she will hear it used for singing. The display holos outside the ticketing area advertise a name that makes Narvinâs eyebrows raise slightly in recognition, arguably the single most famous artist ever to make this place his home. Narvinâs interest may lie in orchestral rather than vocal performance, but everyone has heard of Signore Vitale Birragni. And this is, apparently, the maestroâs very first performance here, ever, of the tens of thousands he will give from this stage.
Sold out, naturally. But Fveri is a cosmopolitan place. They know the meaning of the phrase âCoordinator of the CIAâ and the sort of trouble it can bring in its wake, and on this occasion they take it upon themselves to avoid that fate. Even in a packed house there are always one or two boxes left open for these sorts of high-profile last-minute visitors. Narvin allows for the kind of string-pulling that magically scrounges a seat from nowhere, but draws the line at accepting it gratis, insisting upon paying the full and utterly exorbitant fee. If she catches a Gallifreyan miscreant in the audience, perhaps she can write it all off as a professional expense.
By the time the arrangements are sorted, the performance is nearly beginning. Narvin allows herself, not without a sigh, to be stripped of her staser by the security guardsâa precaution which she had been expecting, however little she might like it. Then she is left hurrying to catch the little transport capsule that will carry her up to her box. In the smaller of the concert hallâs auditoriums, mere stairs are allowed to suffice, and even in this largest the cheaper seats are accessible primarily by foot. But the boxes, several stories up and patronized by a Different Sort of customer, provide customers with more efficient methods of arrival.Â
Narvin is inclined to frown at that particular brand of classism under normal circumstances, but today she is merely grateful for the savings of time. The capsule glides up gracefully on its wire, allowing a view of the enormous crowd below through its glass sides. It swiftly deposits Narvin just outside her box. She slides past the velvet curtain and into her seat just as the lights are going dim.
Narvin misses the singerâs arrival on the stage, too busy fumbling her opera glasses from her pocket. But she has them up to her eyes by the time he reaches the center of the massive stage. He is not a large man to fill such a space, more wiry than broadâeven his chest, the tool of his trade, is not as expansive as Narvin would have guessed before tonight. But he moves with a confidence that amounts almost to a swagger, and as a frequent practitioner of the art of the smirk, Narvin is frankly impressed by the degree of smugness concentrated in the corner of his mouth where it tugs its way toward the ceiling.Â
Too confident by half, she decides, and resigns herself to an evening of disappointment. All the adulation has obviously gone to the manâs head, even at this relatively early stage of his career. That degree of self-satisfaction in an artist, in Narvinâs experience, is inevitably accompanied by laziness. Even if this Signore Birragni is capable of producing a truly impressive performance, and that is a dubious enough prospect in itself, she doesnât believe heâll bother. She sets the glasses down in her lap just as he is opening his mouth.
And twenty-nine nanospans later, she has them back up to her eyes, because surely that sound cannot be emanating from a humanoid throat. Â
Narvin catches her breath. It is a somewhat difficult endeavor. And yet the man on stage seems to be managing it just fine, even as he sustains a note so unimaginably high and soaring that it ought to have broken before ever it left his throatâand it just keeps going, floating, weightless yet hopelessly present, and enormous, enough to fill the whole vast concert hall. Through her opera glasses, Narvinâs eyes scan fretfully over his face, searching for any sign of falsehood, desperately attempting to plant a boot back in reality. If she can only prove to herself that it is as unreal as it sounds, as it feels⊠and yet real it is. She is lost without a foothold in the overpowering wave of music being channeled through that one throat and yet emerging tens of thousands of times greater, multiplied at every turn until it permeates, pervades, perfuses every object it touches.
Narvin sits back in her chair, and attempts to close her mouth, which has grown unaccountably dry.
She does not know how long the performance lasts. And for a Time Lady, that says more than enough. She does not stand with the rest of the audience as they applaud, but only because sheâs not at all certain her legs are fully functional at present.
There is a lull. The curtain closes, but she is dimly aware of the announcement that there will be other performers after intermission. Narvin stays where she is, and closes her eyes, and attempts at once to regain her control, and yet to allow herself, in this small and relatively safe moment, to feel every emotion that this man and his music have invited, inspired, compelled her to experience.
She sighs softly. And in that little sound, she very nearly misses the soft susurrus of the curtain sliding back. But her training catches up in spite of her, and after a momentâs delay, she recognizes the significance of the sound. She opens her eyes and turns to see a man slipping into the previously unoccupied seat beside her. And then her eyes widen as she realizes his identity.
"Signore," she says, and in her shock it is more than a little like a gasp.
