C-3PO to Han Solo in Empire: Sir, I don’t know where your ship learned to communicate, but it has the most peculiar dialect.
this isn’t gone into at all but I like the idea that the Falcon, bashed together from illegal aftermarket parts, familiar with all corners of the galaxy but with no real home, speaks her own patois that works reasonably well everywhere rather than learning several formal machine languages (I imagine there are relatively few of those compared to the range of lifeforms’ languages, but still)
3PO is fluent in over six million forms of communication, so he’s surely familiar with various pidgins, creoles, and so on, but if the Falcon’s sort of created one for herself then obviously translating it will be a more involved job
protocol droids probably have algorithms for parsing pidgins and creoles by identifying the parent languages and predicting how the language will behave based on the parents’ vocabulary/grammar and the general processes of creole formation
I like the idea of the Falcon getting impatient with 3PO because he keeps asking her to repeat herself and she’s like who the hell are you and why can’t you understand plain talk when you hear it
revisiting this thought: imagine Rey, who has met about a thousand different droids and computers and learned to speak whatever language they speak
she starts talking to the Falcon’s computer because something is broken, again, and it takes her all of five minutes to pick up the peculiar dialect because it’s similar to one common among smugglers’ ships she’s repaired, though it has a few idiosyncracies that are new to her (in part because it’s honestly just older than most things she’s run into)
soon enough instead of plugging in a droid to find out what’s wrong she’s just yelling at the Falcon from upside down in a compartment full of sparks and the Falcon is insulting her repair skills and insinuating some really unpleasant things about her parentage and Rey’s like JUST TELL ME WHERE THE SHORT IS ALREADY YOU CAN TRASH-TALK ME WHEN YOUR CIRCUITRY’S NOT SETTING ME ON FIRE
I was thinking about Tolkien and accents today, and I really like this idea that even within the Fellowship, you’ve got this happy cacophony of different accents. Boromir speaking Sindarin with a distinctly Gondorian lilt, his Westron a functional thing cobbled-together from the slang of his men and what he learned in order to speak with traders, messengers, foreigners.
Aragorn, so widely-traveled, being an excellent mimic—he can speak Dalish like a man of Laketown or a Haradrim like trader from South Gondor, but in moments of sincerity or seriousness, he slips into the tones of Rivendell, with all the careful articulation of someone who was scoffed at for every slip into the harsher pronunciation of Arnor.
Legolas who speaks Sindarin as his mother-tongue cool and green and fine, but whose Westron is harshly-accented, borrowed from fishermen and dwarves.
Gimli who speaks Khuzdul with that particular Longbeard cadence, which not even growing up in the Iron Hills as part of the Erebor diaspora could shake from him. Exile from Erebor forced many of the dwarves to become, if not fluent, then at least conversant in the languages of Men, in order to trade and travel on soil not their own—Gimli is no exception. (It amuses him to no end to speak to Aragorn in Dalish, and have Legolas puff up, offended not to be part of the conversation.)
Merry and Frodo and Pippin and Sam speaking Westron like the country bumpkins they are, all rounded vowels and drawls, but happy to learn all the languages that fly about them, laughing with their fellows when they mangle even the simplest of Sindarin words.
All of them sitting around the fire, telling stories, laughing at Gandalf when he can’t remember the Westron word for the Sindarin word for the Quendian word for the Valarin, who protests that he is an old man and has known too many tongues, so stop laughing, Peregrin Took, you are spraying crumbs everywhere.
Ok so we all know that the answer to “Where did Captain America learn to
steal a car?” is “Nazi Germany” but I think the more pressing question
here is when the fuck did this complete maniac get a driver’s licenseBecause ok, Mighty Mouse 1.0 is too poor to own a car, too short to
reach the pedals, has vision problems, and is a goddamn New Yorker in the motherfucking 1930s, why on earth would he ever have learned to drive?So this little bastard can’t even tell the gas from the brakes, he gets
all beefified, he goes on tour with the USO. Unless one of the showgirls
coached him through stalling out a car all over some Hollywood back
lot, he still can’t drive. He goes to Europe. At some point, some genius
looks at him and thinks “this strapping specimen of American hunkhood
obviously knows his way around a vehicle, let’s give him a motorcycle,”
and Steve “no parachute” Rogers is like “how hard could this be?” and
promptly wraps himself around approximately eight trees at the same time.So then he’s kickin’ ass, fightin’ Hydra, and it’s just months of Bucky being like
“give me the goddamn keys, Steven,” and Dum Dum and Morita endlessly
encouraging his fucking insane Fury Road bullshit, like the Howling Commandos just use “grenade” as code for “Rogers” when they’re reporting
why yet another truck has been destroyed beyond recognition. Yes, sir, another grenade, I agree, sir, it’s very odd that we keep losing vehicles in the same way, that’s the third this month aloneSo then he’s in the future and SHIELD is sorting his shit out, and
they’re not going to force Captain goddamn America to wait in line at
the DMV, they’re all in complete awe in him and they’ve seen the old
reels of him on his bike, so when they issue him his driver’s license without any type of road test
they go ahead and give him a motorcycle license tooand steve is like …neat.
Ok so then Bucky is back, shit is settled down, everyone’s heading
somewhere and Steve gets in the driver’s seat and Buck’s like WHOA WHOA
WHOA are you people out of your goddamn minds?! Why is Steve driving, is
this some kind of mission, are we heading into a combat zone, is the
plan for the vehicle to get blown up?? GIVE ME THE GODDAMN KEYS STEVENAnd Sam is all “what are you talking about, Steve’s a great driver, I saw him jump his bike over a car once”
And Buck is all “yes but have you seen him use a turn signal?”
And Steve’s like, “Listen, we never needed to ‘signal’ our ‘turns’ in Nazi Germany.”
And after that Bucky always drives.
Fin.
ianto jones is an artist. all his diaries are more of sketchbooks. lengthy description of cases interwine with sketches of aliens, maps and doodles of the team. gwen loves to model for him and there is more than one painting that he has done of her (and rhys) that now hang on the couple’s walls. when he is bored, he uses calligraphy for short notes and to label things. and of course he likes to draw jack like one of his french girls
Imagine for a moment the reason Sherlock told Mike Stamford that he was looking for a roommate at the beginning of ASiP. Sherlock had already moved in to 221b and certainly didn’t need help paying the rent. We know what kind of man Mike is from context clues in the show as well as on the blog. He doesn’t have many friends, he teaches now, and Sherlock calls him out on the blog for trying to “act cool” when he clearly isn’t. Mike recognized John immediately when seeing him in ASiP. Mike knows about Harry and John scoffs at him when he says she could help. This shows Mike may even know a bit about the family dynamic. Mike even knew John had left and gone to war. That’s a lot of information for Mike to know if John were just some random classmate of his. Either they were pretty decent friends (“That’s not the John Watson i know”) or Mike likes to gossip about old acquaintances and relive the glory days (“Bright young things like we used to be, God i hate them”). I favor the latter. Either way, I’m certain in the years Sherlock has known him before ASiP, Mike has rambled on and on about the great friends he had in uni and the ridiculous adventures they went on. Sherlock would mostly tune that boring stuff out, but would listen intently to the way Mike described all his fun, smart doctor friends. He may have even heard about that one “ladies man” who was bored with being a doctor and went to war instead. I bet Sherlock told Stamford that he was looking for a flatmate just to see who he’d bring around, since Mike knows so many doctors and interesting men. I think this was his way of setting himself up with men. Sherlock would know right away if there were any chance at a relationship/friendship within the first 2 seconds of meeting a person so the false pretense of looking for a flatmate would work perfectly. Since cases are like dates to Sherlock, bringing John out on one immediately and having him say “I’m supposed to be helping you pay the rent” and “This is more fun” shows the “flatmate” part wasn’t important at all to Sherlock. Probably never was. He just wanted to see which of Mike’s cool friends he’d introduce him to. And what luck! He finally met that hot army doctor after hearing about him all these years.
the most implausible thing about superhero movies is that these guys make their own suits, like seriously those toxic chemicals did NOT give you the ability to sew stretch knits, do you even own a serger
I feel like there’s this little secret place in the middle of some seedy New York business neighborhood, back room, doesn’t even have a sign on the door, but within three days of using their powers in public or starting a pattern of vigilanteism, every budding superhero or supervillain gets discreetly handed a scrap of paper with that address written on it.
Inside there’s this little tea table with three chairs, woodstove, minifridge, work table, sewing machines, bolts and bolts of stretch fabrics and maybe some kevlar, and two middle-aged women with matching wedding rings and sketchbooks.
And they invite you to sit down, and give you tea and cookies, and start making sketches of what you want your costume to look like, and you get measured, and told to come back in a week, and there’s your costume, waiting for you.
The first one is free. They tell you the price of subsequent ones, and it’s based on what you can afford. You have no idea how they found out about your financial situation. You try it on, and it fits perfectly, and you have no idea how they managed that without measuring you a whole lot more thoroughly than they did.
They ask you to pose for a picture with them. For their album, they say. The camera is old, big, the sort film camera artists hunt down at antique stores and pay thousands for, and they come pose on either side of you and one of them clicks the camera remotely by way of one of those squeeze-things on a cable that you’ve seen depicted from olden times. That one (the tall one, you think, though she isn’t really, thin and reminiscent of a Greek marble statue) pulls the glass plate from the camera and scurries off to the basement, while the other one (shorter, round, all smiles, her shiny black hair pulled up into a bun) brings out a photo album to show you their work.
Inside it is … everyone. Superheroes. Supervillains. Household names and people you don’t recognize. She flips through pages at random, telling you little bits about the guy in the purple spangly costume, the lady in red and black, the mysterious cloaked figure whose mask reveals one eye. As she pages back, the costumes start looking really convincingly retro, and her descriptions start having references to the Space Race, the Depression, the Great War.
The other lady comes up, holding your picture. You’re sort of surprised to find it’s in color, and then you realize all the others were, too, even the earliest ones. There you are, and you look like a superhero. You look down at yourself, and feel like a superhero. You stand up straighter, and the costume suddenly fits a tiny bit better, and they both smile proudly.
*
The next time you come in, it’s because the person who’s probably going to be your nemesis has shredded your costume. You bring the agreed-upon price, and you bake cupcakes to share with them. There’s a third woman there, and you don’t recognize her, but the way she moves is familiar somehow, and the air seems to sparkle around her, on the edge of frost or the edge of flame. She’s carrying a wrapped brown paper package in her arms, and she smiles at you and moves to depart. You offer her a cupcake for the road.
The two seamstresses go into transports of delight over the cupcakes. You drink tea, and eat cookies and a piece of a pie someone brought around yesterday. They examine your costume and suggest a layer of kevlar around the shoulders and torso, since you’re facing off with someone who uses claws.
They ask you how the costume has worked, contemplate small design changes, make sketches. They tell you a story about their second wedding that has you falling off the chair in tears, laughing so hard your stomach hurts. They were married in 1906, they say, twice. They took turns being the man. They joke about how two one-ring ceremonies make one two-ring ceremony, and figure that they each had one wedding because it only counted when they were the bride.
They point you at three pictures on the wall. A short round man with an impressive beard grins next to a taller, white-gowned goddess; a thin man in top hat and tails looks adoringly down at a round and beaming bride; two women, in their wedding dresses, clasp each other close and smile dazzlingly at the camera. The other two pictures show the sanctuaries of different churches; this one was clearly taken in this room.
There’s a card next to what’s left of the pie. Elaborate silver curlicues on white, and it originally said “Happy 10th Anniversary,” only someone has taken a Sharpie and shoehorned in an extra 1, so it says “Happy 110th.” The tall one follows your gaze, tells you, morning wedding and evening wedding, same day. She picks up the card and sets it upright; you can see the name signed inside: Magneto.
You notice that scattered on their paperwork desk are many more envelopes and cards, and are glad you decided to bring the cupcakes.
*
When you pick up your costume the next time, it’s wrapped up in paper and string. You don’t need to try it on; there’s no way it won’t be perfect. You drink tea, eat candies like your grandmother used to make when you were small, talk about your nights out superheroing and your nemesis and your calculus homework and how today’s economy compares with the later years of the Depression.
When you leave, you meet a man in the alleyway. He’s big, and he radiates danger, but his eyes shift from you to the package in your arms, and he nods slightly and moves past you. You’re not the slightest bit surprised when he goes into the same door you came out of.
*
The next time you visit, there’s nothing wrong with your costume but you think it might be wise to have a spare. And also, you want to thank them for the kevlar. You bring artisan sodas, the kind you buy in glass bottles, and they give you stir fry, cooked on the wood-burning stove in a wok that looks a century old.
There’s no way they could possibly know that your day job cut your hours, but they give you a discount that suits you perfectly. Halfway through dinner, a cinderblock of a man comes in the door, and the shorter lady brings up an antique-looking bottle of liquor to pour into his tea. You catch a whiff and it makes your eyes water. The tall one sees your face, and grins, and says, Prohibition.
You’re not sure whether the liquor is that old, or whether they’ve got a still down in the basement with their photography darkroom. Either seems completely plausible. The four of you have a rousing conversation about the merits of various beverages over dinner, and then you leave him to do business with the seamstresses.
*
It’s almost a year later, and you’re on your fifth costume, when you see the gangly teenager chase off a trio of would-be purse-snatchers with a grace of movement that can only be called superhuman.
You take pen and paper from one of your multitude of convenient hidden pockets, and scribble down an address. With your own power and the advantage of practice, it’s easy to catch up with her, and the work of an instant to slip the paper into her hand.
*
A week or so later, you’re drinking tea and comparing Supreme Court Justices past and present when she comes into the shop, and her brow furrows a bit, like she remembers you but can’t figure out from where. The ladies welcome her, and you push the tray of cookies towards her and head out the door.
In the alleyway you meet that same giant menacing man you’ve seen once before. He’s got a bouquet of flowers in one hand, the banner saying Happy Anniversary, and a brown paper bag in the other.
You nod to him, and he offers you a cupcake.
i imagine ianto’s apartment to be like chaotically neat, you feel? like, he’s not there often, and he doesn’t have that many possessions in the first place, but what he does have is placed strategically in such odd places, that it wouldn’t make sense to anybody but him.
like, whenever tosh comes over for movie night she’s always sitting on top of whatever book ianto’s reading in his tidbits of spare time (voltaire, usually), and no matter how many times it happens, she just doesn’t learn.
and gwen has constantly tried to re-organize the small abode, but ianto has learned to keep a close eyes on her, and swat away whatever her wandering hands may be working on (she’s taken to shoving his mugs in the cupboard, much to ianto’s dismay).
owen isn’t over much, but when he is, he exaggerates the state of the apartment, lunging through the neatly folded piles of blankets on the floor as though they were made of lava. it bothers ianto to no end, and if owen’s coffee tastes a little salty the next day- well, ianto has absolutely no idea why.
jack loves ianto’s apartment. he’s been living at the hub for years, and isn’t used to how regular people actually live. and when they finally upgrade from casual office hookups to a Real Relationship™ (or as real as the two of them can get at least) he finds the quirkiness off ianto’s apartment to be rather a lot like ianto himself; a quiet storm.
(he just wishes he’d stop tripping over things. it messes with his ‘cool.’)
