this actually made me mad that i can't rate something negative stars it just kept going and going

i wish i could rate it 0 stars. the premise is so interesting, if only the writing was. i could see this being good under another writer and director, but as-is the only thing that made it anything marginally close to worth it was the fact that the gun sfx made me cackle

the worst thing i have ever watched 9/10 i want some of what russell t davies is smoking

love the idea of aquatic themed aliens and a lot of the stuff with 8 on the jellyfish planet is really cute. unfortunately the episode is tanked when the main villain is introduced – she is fat and transfem and these two things are disrespected and made fun of constantly, including by the eighth doctor himself. really disgusting – not sure i can ever completely forgive briggs for this one.

matt fitton continually excels at giving us intriguing ideas and unique story structures that ultimately feel hollow asf. the framework is great but it's not in service of anything with substance. i'm. i'm really tired of his writing y'all.

also after 4 great episodes followed by 11 episodes of getting to do jack s**t, molly gets unceremoniously recasted and killed off... the squandered potential here is emblematic of dark eyes as a whole. it's not even that it leads to nothing, it's just that it doesn't lead to anything i can bring myself to care about. i know BF can do better than this – there's so many seeds of interesting things here!

here's hoping doom coalition etc delivers on the promise dark eyes as a whole gave then squandered: that of interesting storytelling.

story was pretty cute, was gonna give it 7, then i realized it was maybe a bit too close to a simplified version of the long game, but still enjoyable and the prose had some fun lines so i thought maybe i'll score it 6, then the ending came around and i settled on 5. what is it with 13 and killing people, going "oof that sucks", and moving on?

Even being the massive Faction Paradox fan that I am, I'd be remiss not to admit that it can be a bit much at times. The dense worldbuilding, the symbolism, the intricately-designed plotlines, the deep-cut references – it can be hard to keep up as a reader, much as I try my best for the sake of understanding and enjoying these books to their full potential. Especially when you get into books like Against Nature, mired in dense cultural and historical context and spread across multiple storylines that blur the lines between the real and the mythological... it can be quite the headache. A very worthwhile headache, mind you, but a headache nevertheless.

As it turns out, the author of Against Nature felt much the same way. Hence, Golden Age.

As the development of Against Nature dragged on through publication limbo and production hell of various flavors, author Lawrence Burton started to feel bogged down by the writing process. Looking to find something to offset the tedium, Burton decided to pen a book with a completely different modus operandi to that of the meticulously planned Against Nature, yet written parallel to it. Where Against Nature's plot was rigorous and overdesigned, Golden Age's was largely improvised, new elements being thrown in wherever Burton felt they were needed. Where Against Nature tied itself up in the lore of both Faction Paradox and Aztec mythology, needing a decent amount of context to fully appreciate, Golden Age served as a largely independent work. And where Against Nature took itself deeply seriously, Golden Age's main priority was just to have fun.

The resulting novel is – what else? – a book that wears its writing philosophy on its sleeve. Individuals from 15th-century Mexico, Texas of the near future, an alien planet known as Ganda Mnemma, and so on collide on a journey to explore a mysterious cave system where time doesn't work right and realms from all over the universe are connected – and over time it's revealed just how little of a right to exist in this universe the caves really have. It's a chaotic, unpredictable journey through a variety of alien worlds, featuring fish people, gnomes, and whatever a "Space Plum" is. (Spoiler: it's the spindly guy on the cover.) To call Golden Age a "romp" almost feels like underselling it, mostly because any given monosyllabic word doesn't seem eloquent enough to describe the joyful, wide-eyed exploratory energy contained within these pages.

And it somehow all fits together, thematically and plot-wise. The book's universe and its storyline are both sprawling yet cohesive – Burton manages the impressive feat of constantly introducing new elements while ensuring that none of them feel like they've come out of nowhere. It's just about as madcap as a novel can get while retaining this level of coherency, which is commendable in and of itself. When any given element started tiring me out, the book moved on to something new and interesting, without ever really blindsiding me with all its twists and turns. It's a rollercoaster from start to finish, which is a sentiment meant in the best way possible.

The book's biggest weakness in focusing on introducing new elements and keeping the plot moving forward is that its characters are rather bland, serving mostly as vessels through which the story and worldbuilding can be expressed. The cast is pretty big, and yet very few of them do much to stand out – for most I could only name one character trait, and for some I could barely name any. The cast is relatively likeable, but mostly because there's not much there to dislike. The characters that worked for me most were probably the Aztecs, Icnopilli and Teuhmatl, but even that was more for how their world was reflected through them; it was a good time seeing the duo work out what was going on around them through their own cultural and scientific understanding of the universe.

On the other hand, the fact that the worldbuilding carries the characters speaks to the strength of that worldbuilding. This is a quality notably shared by Against Nature, where cultures real and fictional feel equally fleshed-out, and like there's a real attempt to make each world feel just as alive as every other regardless of how fantastical any one of them is. The worlds of the various Earthbound cast members feel just as lived-in as the alien realms they visit, realms which feel more alien and more engaging than those of other scifi series I might be able to name. That's simply thanks to Burton's lack of interest in making these realms' denizens at all human-like, and the amount of consideration given to how civilizations would vary based on the resident species' physiology and culture. Very few settings feel lacking here.

The one major exception to the pattern of uninteresting characters and fleshed-out settings is the supporting character of the Raumclown and the reality he inhabits – oh, yes, this guy warrants his own paragraph. The Raumclown is a traveler in space and time who's been reduced to a parody of himself, enshittifying all of his surroundings. Nonsense follows him, and he follows in nonsense's stead, turning everything into pointless, substanceless adventures. And through it all, he's reasonably aware of the existential nature of his situation. It's a character idea with potential, but doesn't really go anywhere other than serving as an obvious satire of Doctor Who and, more broadly, franchises bogged down in their own continuity. It's interesting as a reaction to Against Nature and to Faction Paradox as a whole, but the depth of the commentary does not warrant the sheer amount of pages and snarky comments spent on it. Golden Age at large is making its best effort not to be as aimless as its writing philosophy would suggest, and the Raumclown's sections are those where it does succumb to pointlessness. He doesn't even get an interesting ending. I guess Burton succeeded in making me feel as tired as the characters do when in the Raumclown's presence, but that's not necessarily a good thing.

Still, in the release announcement for Golden Age, Burton made it very clear that the intention was never to make the thing a crowdpleaser. He wrote whatever came into his head, made sure it was interesting to him in particular, and gave as little of a s**t as possible about the opinions of potential readers. By and large this attitude serves the book very well, giving it an airy and adventurous atmosphere; and at the points where it doesn't, it's hard to blame a publication whose entire purpose is self-indulgence for being self-indulgent. In that respect, I'm largely just surprised and impressed that I enjoyed it as much as I did. By the time I was making my way through the final chapter, I felt a combination of fascination and joy at the way the main characters' stories ended – and given the smile on my face as I finished the last couple pages, I think it's safe to call this one a success.

very stylized comic of the first couple minutes of Colony in Space. i'd die to see more of this, the artistic license taken here is wonderful. super dynamic and gorgeous art. if it was even a couple pages longer it might very well get a 10/10 from me

My favorite part of Lawrence Miles's Dead Romance is Chris Cwej. A well-meaning figure driven to diabolical acts by his sheer puppy-like trust in his Superiors, he's deeply tragic and compelling – yet every other Doctor Who book featuring him takes place before he was brainwashed by said Superiors, thus lacking the aspect of him that drew my interest in the first place. Evidently I wasn't alone in feeling this way, judging by the fact that small publisher Arcbeatle Press has taken it upon themselves to give the man a series all his own! Starting in 2019 with the anthology Down the Middle, the Cwej book series follows a post-brainwashing Cwej. It continued in 2024 with the release of a novella named Requiem, intended to serve as a "zeroth entry" to the series: a brand new jumping-on point.

...unfortunately, despite efforts to the contrary, this jumping-on point isn't really a story about Chris Cwej at all.

Let me clarify. Requiem (by James Hornby) is adapted from a fanmade Doctor Who audio drama written in the 80s by Andy Lane, the man who would go on to create the character of Chris Cwej. Said audio drama featured the Doctor and fanmade companion Truman, whereas this novella's protagonists are Cwej and his Superior patron, Tyron. Despite this, the author has made an effort to preserve as much of the original dialogue as possible, simply reassigning lines to various characters.

It's a deeply strange experience; the drastic difference in medium would theoretically suggest that the script would need to be drastically altered as well, but instead, the decision was made to keep it as close to the original as possible. The script is very evidently that of an audio drama, and much of the prose feels extraneous and incongruous as a result – to say nothing of the fact that Cwej himself is given lines that were never written with him in mind, and ends up sounding a lot firmer and more self-righteous than he ever was back in Dead Romance. Distractingly Doctor-like, in fact. It's... a messy cut-and-paste.

Naturally, the most successful segments are the original scenes, which serve to add Cwej: The Series–specific context to the novella's events and the characters' choices. These match much better with the series context: Hornby crafts some brilliant prose from Tyron's perspective, going in-depth on what the universe looks like from the viewpoint of a cosmic power. Those scenes are probably the book's strongest sequences, although credit where credit's due to the occasional internal monologue by Chris Cwej himself, helping to flesh out his character-specific perspective on the book's events. All of these are meant to help integrate the story into its new context, but they can only do so much when they're so visibly shoehorned in. Beyond those occasional moments, the characters of Tyron and especially Cwej himself feel egregiously underbaked, especially for a book intended to introduce us to the latter character.

As for the actual story of the book: it's okay. There's a lot of buildup – and quite effective buildup at that – for what turns out to be not much payoff. The ultimate explanation for what's going on is a bit sudden and hard-to-believe, and the plot's problems basically get resolved off-screen. In addition, a key player in the book – Gregori Glasst – is only introduced right before the novella's climax, which gives us very little time to get attached before his noble and tragic self-sacrifice at the end. I have a feeling it'd play better in audio drama form, where things are a lot more snappy, but I read it across a couple weeks, and after all the running around the characters did, I felt let down by the solutions presented to the plot's various conflicts.

For what it's worth, there's a few solid emotional beats in there, particularly in the form of tragedy. There's some effective body horror – made wonderfully painful to read by the prose descriptions – and some heart-wrenching backstory behind it... all of which becomes relevant for a little while, before being abandoned right before Glasst gets involved, when it would be most interesting to explore. Similarly, Glasst's self-sacrifice at the end would have landed so much better if he'd taken up more of the story, or if he'd seen firsthand more of the chaos he'd caused. And the story comes close to making a point about human–machine collaboration, but never really does anything with the threads it sets up, almost feeling actively self-contradicting at points. All the pieces are there for a substantial story, but it's evident that with some restructuring they could have hit that much harder than they do.

And that's the thing about Requiem. It was a confusing project to start with – adapting an audio drama about the Doctor and co. into a novella about Chris Cwej – but could have worked given the confidence to restructure and rewrite it into a more original piece. Instead, the author's decision to keep it as true to the source as possible means that the main emotion it elicits is that of feeling thrown. On many levels, the novella feels incongruous, like it's trying to tell a perfectly fine story that was simply never meant to be told this way.

Adaptation is never about surface-level fidelity; it's about knowing what needs to be changed to make something work in a new context. If only Requiem subscribed to that same ethos, we could have had a truly solid work on our hands. As it is, it's one of the more disarming pieces of prose I've encountered on my journey through the Faction Paradox–adjacent corner of the Whoniverse – but I know the people at Arcbeatle Press are passionate writers with nothing but love for the stories they weave. No matter how I felt about this introductory addendum to Cwej: The Series, I'm very much looking forward to getting started with the series proper.

...So, uh. What a book to coincidentally finish reading right on US Election Day, huh? It took me a while to get around to actually reviewing this one, and I'm sure you can work out why.

If you can't, though, that's all the more reason to start with a recap. Andrew Hickey's first contribution to the Faction Paradox novel series takes readers on a journey through a tumultuous US election cycle, Richard Burton's travels through the Arabian desert in the 19th century, a tale of dubious provenance labeled the "Thousand and Second Night", and more. Each element is presented to us through in-universe documents, from journal entries to book translations to a Shift hijacking the memetic connections in the reader's mind to overwrite the text of the book and speak to them directly – oh, and it all ends with the malevolent sentient timeship Lolita becoming President of the United States!

To get the elephant in the room out of the way: yes, this book hit different as an American reading it in 2024 than the Brit writing it in 2015 probably intended. Hickey has US elections down pat in some ways, with the party dynamics feeling particularly acutely represented – and yet Lolita's plan to become President feels unnecessarily subtle and complex now that we have the modern perspective of, well, everything about Trumpism. In general, though, despite some outdated details I was surprised at how accurate the politics felt.

The civilians we spend time with, meanwhile, are more exaggerated; Dave Larsen is a redneck orbiting conspiracy theory circles, who ultimately becomes the rope in a game of tug-of-war between two alien powers, while Rachel Edwards is a left-wing British journalist sent to follow the a candidate on the campaign trail. Neither of them are particularly likeable, with Rachel being a bit too snarky and self-assured, and Dave being a bit too dull and stubborn, but both of them feel vibrant and present their own stories interestingly enough despite occasional (intentionally) groan-worthy moments. When it comes to groan-worthy, Richard Burton's segments in 19th-century Arabia stole the show, feeling pretty meaningless and dragged-out. For what it's worth, though, they did pick up near the end – and besides, getting to know Burton granted some nice perspective to the Thousand and Second Night segments. In short, none of the characters were all that likeable, but Burton aside, they were enjoyable, and that kept the book flowing smoothly.

The readability is helped by the format, which flips between passages of different in-universe texts every couple of pages, ensuring dynamicity even as the plot itself is quite a slow burn. Feel free to make a quip about Gen Z attention spans, and you won't be wrong, but even beyond that I'm a sucker for the epistolary format. Having every bit of the book be composed of news articles, journal entries, transcripts of video recordings, and so on helped my immersion immensely. As the reader familiarizes themself with so many different documents across so many times and places, it's wonderfully easy to feel invested in the book's world.

Honestly, this book is pretty darn digestible in general. It's a surprising thing to say about a Faction book, let alone one with as many moving parts as Head of State has – Lolita's plan jumps across eras and locations, and the plot is presented in a very fractured and nonlinear way. Still, the core plot is simple, and the pace slow, so readers are given ample time to consider all the gears and work out how they interlock before it all properly comes together (or do I mean falls apart?) in the crushing climax. Sure, I was doubtful of the slow pace at first, but it won me over as I gradually realized the story structure the book was aiming for. The whole book is rising action, then your stomach drops right at the end.

My biggest concern with the book is that it might not land as well if the reader hadn't listened to some of the Faction Paradox audios and acquainted themself with Lolita. They'll probably get the general picture, but not quite why she's so dangerous, or what she plans to do; when every Faction book is presented as relatively standalone, it feels like a bit of a weak point not to demonstrate why the reader should be so scared of your main villain. Hell, I've listened to the audios, and I still would've appreciated more elaboration on her goals here to really drive the stakes home. Still, by the end you at least get a vague idea, and whew that final speech hits like a brick. Especially, yes, in November of 2024.

Head of State is a solid book. I don't think it's up there with some of the series greats, but it's memorable for its format and its clean simplicity if nothing else. It's genuinely impressive how Hickey can implement a plotline just as complex as some of the other Faction books while making it feel like such light reading – deftly navigating and explaining complex lore elements, jumping from time period to time period, and never throwing readers off in the process. Its levity might stop it from rising to the heights of, say, Warring States or The Brakespeare Voyage, but it'll stick in my mind as an engaging and clever read all the same. Certainly that ending won't leave me anytime soon...