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myfandomprompts · 2 years ago

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𝐆𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐑𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐭 | 𝐓𝐨𝐦 𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐭 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 (𝟓)

Summary: It's time for Tom to go home, but crossing France is no easy task. You are back on the road again but you're not alone. Previous part - Masterlist

Tags: fluff, mention of death, death scenery

A/N: Thank you @babyblue711 for betareading. It's been fun to write for him again.

French spoken -> italics

There was something infuriating about crossing France at such a pace.

In fact, as soon as Tom and Giulia had gotten out of the American Hospital, there had been a lot of hiding and waiting for hours while the Germans settled in Paris like they were at home. When they finally reached the outwards of Paris, dark had fallen again and over the next few days they barely had been able to sleep.

Now, Tom and Giulia were walking across a field, the morning fog sticking to the wheat around them and the warm sun of June already peeking behind the woods they were headed towards. Tom’s hands were cold, so he put them in his pockets where the two cigarette packets rested safely, his fingers grazing them like they were a source of comfort.

“Where are we?”

Giulia didn’t turn around, trotting in front of him with purpose. “Nearing Etampes, we’ve still got a few kilometres to go.”

Tom felt silly for his question, for he had no idea what that meant for them. All he knew was that they would go as south as possible and get transportation once beyond the Demarcation Line, where France was said to be “free”, and that would be the most difficult task according to his guide.

He liked her. She was not really talkative but he didn’t care much, rather satisfied to remain with his own thoughts as they crossed the countryside. It was obvious she was smart from what he could tell, handy, and he was kind of grateful that she was here, leading him and risking her life to help him escape.

She also had figured him out quite quickly, to his greatest discontent. “We would go faster if you’d stop looking over your shoulder all of the time,” she stated as she crossed the hem of the woods they had finally reached.

Tom scowled, fastening his pace to catch up with her. “Maybe you should stop gawking at me and focus on our itinerary, eh? Wouldn't want us to get lost.”

“We won’t be lost as long as you stay close, and don’t flatter yourself,” she scoffed. “It’s like you're expecting something or someone to catch up with us. Trust me, the Germans are already ahead, or too busy north."

Tom found no witty response to retort as he looked at the green of the trees around him. Maybe he was not walking as fast as she was because he was indeed reluctant to gain speed, and maybe he was looking over his shoulder because he expected someone to appear behind him. Just… late to the party, maybe.

He closed his fingers around the packets more tightly as he jumped over a tree trunk.

Several hours later, when the sun was at its zenith, they had left the series of dry fields and forests and had emerged on a green path, where queues of people walked at a slow pace right before them.

Both him and Giulia came to a stop, observing as passed people of all ages and sizes, entire families, sometimes with bags, sometimes bereft of it, sometimes lucky enough to have an animal or a bike to carry it. He watched as a frail and exhausted-looking woman gave water to the infant in her arms, dusty and crying from fatigue as the heat weighed on them. Next to them, a half-burned car was abandoned on the side of the road, slowing down the advancement of the scattered mass. Tom could hear the roar of working automobiles somewhere further down the road and the neigh of horses.

“What… are they doing?” he asked, lips parted as he watched a child crunch a piece of bread between his teeth like it was stone.

“Fleeing,” Giulia answered, “Or going home. One of the two options. Come on.”

They jumped over the ditch that separated them from the road and began merging with the travellers, joining the queue of Belgians and French people that had fled the bombing of their home for months, and were now at a loss about what to do and where to go, Germans at every corner of the road.

You looked at your watch with impatience, seeing the sun filter through the thick curtain of the train window with Henriette seated across from you, anxiously looking around.

You felt the train slow down, and soon the sign of Chartes train station appeared as the wagon came to a full stop. You and Henriette didn’t move, watching as some people stood up to retrieve their bags and get off the train one after the other until a railwayman entered your wagon shouting.

“Terminus messieurs dames, veuillez descendre s’il vous plaît, le train n’ira pas plus loin!”

You exchanged a panicked glance with your friend, feeling the other remaining passengers stand up around you with murmured questions.

“What is happening? Why is the train stopping here? It’s too soon!”

You gave your friend a sharp shake of your head before grabbing your bag from above your head and making your way to exit the train, Henriette hot on your heels. The platform was crowded, so much so that you felt compelled to take the nurses’ hand in order not to lose her. People were coming in and out of the train station, some complaining and some looking around with anguish. You made your way to the billboard where hours of travel were displayed with difficulty, having to use your shoulders with force to do so.

“Excuse me, what is happening?” you approach a man that was already examining the sign with narrowed eyes.

“I’m afraid that there are no trains left in this station going south. Bridges blown up and orders from… above,” he trailed, a disgusted look on his face. “They don’t want people fleeing any more. Made them all stop until they got the system right.”

You felt dread fill you before thanking him and exiting the train station, watching helplessly as groups of people began unpacking food and looking around for cars to rent, rooms to lodge in, or officers to yell at. The rest only walked away to an adjacent street.

“Y/N, what do we do? We are a long way from Poitiers, and we have no transport.”

You tightened your grasp around your bag, looking at the people disappearing at a corner.

“Like everybody else. We walk.”

The walk was tiresome, but it was nothing compared to the many travellers you crossed paths with, those from the Exode who had been on the roads for weeks, months even, and had lost everything, all of this trying to escape a fight that caught up with them in the end.

But generosity was as current as grief in this time of need and you found lodging in a little shop prepared for refugees when night came, its shelves empty from the lack of resupply due to the German advancement. You couldn't say that it was comfortable but at least you could lie down, a luxury some did not have when they came down south, and you and Henriette exhaled in relief when you finally put down your bags and rested.

Food was what came to lack most rapidly, and when you took the road again in the morning under a hot bright sun, your water was running out as well, and several hours later, you were happy to find in the next village a pretty little square with a water pump available. Only, many more had that idea, and the queue to reach the precious liquid was long, so you were left to wait and listen to what was said around you.

“83, she was…slaughtered on the spot. Such a shame…”

You turn to look at the man talking, a tall middle-aged man wearing a hat protecting him from the sun, a thick flask hanging around his shoulder by a leather strap. He was recounting the story of what happened in a nearby village a week ago to a group of travellers, and you approached to listen as well.

“What happened?” asked a woman with a quiet voice.

“Refused to let them occupy her house, that’s all. She lost her husband in the Great War, couldn’t stomach a Boche, kept her head high she did… They dragged her out of her home and shot her. Bloody animals…” he trailed off as everybody looked down, you and Henriette mirroring them. “For me, she was the first resistant, didn’t wait for de Gaulle’s call to start acting.”

The queue moved a little bit more before you and you took a few trembling steps forwards, clutching your bag between your arms. You thought about your brother, somewhere is the north, either dead, made prisoners or lost. You thought about your parents who had travelled far away from the fight that had probably reached them by now, and you hoped they were safe. You thought about Tom, who had survived worse days and you muttered a little prayer between your lips to thank that he was still alive.

All around you it was all tales of how the Germans had cut through the countryside at lightning speed and didn’t even bother killing civilians in the process, dispersing them as much as they could. Each story had you hang on every word that one stranger or another said as you patiently waited your turn to quench your thirst.

Tom looked around, his height enabling him to see above the sea of heads around him, waiting for the same thing they did, and let out a sigh before lowering himself down to level Giulia’s ear.

“You lot have a knack for being slow, I reckon,” he said without making any effort to whisper, and his travelling partner immediately gave him a dark look.

Tom sneered, rolling his shoulders as he raised himself up again while she went back to ignoring him, hands firmly holding the bag on her back and waiting patiently for their turn.

But Tom was not as patient, and most of all, he was bored. He had just finished his first packet of cigarettes, and he found nothing else to do than to look around.

He had to admit, the place was beautiful. Trees bordering the courtyard, the fountain in its middle, the yellow walls of the building around them reflecting the pavements under their feet that shone with the sunlight. But, however pretty it was, all screamed panic around him, something unnatural as families waited for their turn to fill up their bottles with water, asking around for things he could not understand and he wished that Giulia would talk more. Teasing her was the sole thing that amused him lately, but she was reluctant to speak English when they were in public.

So he was left with looking over his shoulder and taking in the scenery, fingers playing inside with the content of his pockets and humming to himself. His smile dropped when he spotted a familiar head of hair and profile standing near a wall next to a man with an impressive moustache.

He narrowed his eyes and pressed the box in his hands harder as he felt his heart leap in his chest. Was this real, or was he just too thirsty to see clearly? The woman was all he saw now, her hair flowing carelessly in the wind and a heavy bag hanging at her side, eyes raised at the man before her and nodding comprehensively.

“Tom!” he heard Giulia hiss under her breath behind him when his feet led him out of the waiting line and straight to the group near the wall. When he approached and heard your voice, he suddenly felt like he was not on the run any more, but back at home.

“Oui, passed the fence and the bridge, and then Germans at every corner. They’re starting to organise themselves, the noose is tightening,” spoke the moustache man.

“What about Poitiers? Is it beyond the line?”

Tom let the man answer you with what sounded like gibberish to him and came to stand right behind you, a bright smile on his face when he smelled the scent of your hair mixed with days of travelling.

“Can’t seem to shake me off, eh?”

You freeze before you turn around, slowly at first and when your eyes examine him your lips parts in mid surprise, making Tom smile more broadly as he sees your eyes soften at the sight of him.

“M. Bennett,” he hears someone say and he notices for the first time the brown-haired woman standing next to you.

“Nurse,” he greets back with a grin as you close your mouth and look between him and Henriette.

Giulia choses this moment to appear right next to Tom’s shoulder, silently observing your little group with suspicious brows and when you turn your head towards her Tom grins wider.

“That’s my guide. She’s not as bad as you, I’d say. Not that it would be really difficult,” he jokes in the direction of the nurse, unable to hide his happiness while you still look speechless.

The nurse gives him an annoyed scowl before turning towards Giulia who wore the same expression, unamused by Tom’s unconcealed glee.

“So it’s you, the woman that started it all. I’m Henriette, it’s nice to meet you.”

“Giulia,” his companion says back while they shake hands before turning to you, still silent.

You seem to awaken at that moment. “Oh, I’m Y/N. Nice to meet you. Thank you for everything you’re doing,” you warmly shake her hand, and there is that flick of your eyes on him that he doesn’t miss. “How come you’re here? It’s a… happy coincidence.”

Tom, grateful that you switched to his language while Giulia winces at that choice, answers. “Just walked, not as fast as you did apparently. Were you really this eager to see me off? Could’ve come with me when I asked you, the journey would’ve been more fun.”

His smile is so bright that you can’t help but smile in turn, and he doesn’t look away from it even when Giulia pulls him away by the arm.

“Tom, I was serious when I said not to talk too loudly,” she whispers harshly as she beckons you and Henriette to follow them aside from the crowd. “We never know who can be listening.”

“She is right,” says Henriette wisely as she comes standing next to her. “I’ve heard there are already spies going around, and on top of that people feel abandoned by the military. Better not to test them.”

Tom groans in frustration and puts his hands back in his pockets, biting his tongue.

“I’m glad you made it,” you smile at him after a beat, and he finds his own again quickly while you stare at each other.

There is this shared happiness in the fact that you found each other again after that heartbreaking goodbye at the hospital, when you both thought you would never cross paths again. But now you’re diving into each other’s soul as if nothing had happened, heart content to gaze upon the other and ascertain that you’re both safe and sound.

His heart feels lighter and he reaches into his pocket to draw out one of the packets you’ve given him in what feels like weeks. “Want one? I’m warning you, they taste like shit.”

You smile before taking one.

The story of how you came to leave Paris is quickly told as well as the tale of your short journey south and when your flasks are filled with water to the brim, you all decide to travel together. Giulia knows where she is going, and it reassures both you and Henriette not to travel on your own any more. The plan is to stick together until you crossed the Demarcation Line and reached the Zone Libre. After that, you'll have to part ways again, and you find yourself less and less eager to arrive at your destination.

You had left Tom with such a heavy heart back in Paris that seeing him appear behind you, so radiant with his blue eyes so bright under the sunlight that you could not believe your luck. Maybe a greater design granted you this extra time with him to make up for your mistakes, the ones you had tried to apologise for in your unsent letters, writing it over and over again before throwing each of them away. Maybe you could use this time to “do things properly”, as he had put it. Yes, you would do that, and parting with him again would be easier.

But as you take to the road again, your mind is suddenly drawn elsewhere when you witness the remnants of the exodus and the consequences of war unfold brutally before your eyes. Bodies of dead horses, swollen by the heat and flies swarming around them sometimes appear upon your path as you walk further south, among other dreadful traces of what happened on these roads. The smell of carcasses you are forced to walk by mixed with the strong scent of fuel from cars you cross paths with repulses you, and you tell yourself that you will get used to it as you keep walking. Once or twice, you’re certain that you can discern improvised graves dug on the side of the road, some objects carefully laid upon the mound of dirt and a cross made of twigs planted above it.

All people killed by the enemy, by exhaustion, or by the war that was said to be over.

But nothing feels like it is, and when you look behind your shoulder to glance at Tom, fleeing the country he came to save, you find him already looking at you, and he gives you a small smile as Giulia walks beside him. You return it softly before looking back ahead of you, watching Henriette at your side lower her gaze when you pass a car with bullet holes in it. Tom will be fine, you tell yourself, and England will too.

An hour passes, and you finally have the chance to slow your pace and level with Tom that gladly lets you walk by his side, Henriette and Giulia busy speaking French ahead.

“So, how does it feel to be a dead man walking?” you ask, glancing at his shoulder where you know his wound is hidden under his shirt.

He smirks. “Surprisingly lively. Got my legs hurting like hell and ain’t no way the dead feel that way. But it’s not that bad, considerin’,” he remarks, lips curving upward and a glint in his eyes. “What about you? Happy to be crossing half the country with a Brit on the run? Not what you had in mind, I reckon.”

“It could be worse,” you shrug, “I could be crossing half the country with a sailor with no ship. A good thing you can swim, though, since there might be no more bridges to cross the river when we get there.”

“Who says I can swim?” he asks, raising a quizzical eyebrow he wants teasing.

You tilt your head to the side in false offence. “You’re lying…”

“Yeah, I am,” he grins wider and you chuckle in turn, a warm feeling in your chest. “Me dad taught Lois and me when we were little. Never got over the fact that she swam faster than I did.”

He smiles at the memory before his gaze turns forward and his eyes become hooded. At that moment, you know his mind had drifted back at home, lost in memories of his family and when you see his smile gradually disappear you feel compelled to say something.

“I’m sure they’re alright,” you begin, making your shoulder brush his arm with a nudge. “You’ll see them soon. You could even be an uncle by now!”

Tom smiles anew, the glint in his eyes returned. “Right, fancy that, me, an uncle. Got to live up to the name now.”

You bite your lip, the picture of Tom holding a small baby in his arms and looking down at its curious little face flashing in your mind. The sight melts your heart, to be able to imagine a future where Tom has the happiness he deserves, away from the fight and among his loved ones.

You realise that you’ll never have time to witness that, that you won’t be there.

You won’t be a part of it.

“Maybe you’ll be able to teach them how to swim when they grow up. You and Douglas.”

“Yeah, I don’t know,” he kicks a rock away with his foot. “It’ll got Harry and all that posh education maybe. Won’t need me very much.”

“I think the baby will be lucky to have you Tom,” you say, nodding your head firmly, feeling the doubt radiating from him and reaching through your skin. “Anybody would.”

His eyes snap back at you and stay there, and you can feel the burn of it on the side of your face. When you meet them they are soft, unsaid words floating through the silence that settles between you as you stare at each other, the affection tangible and heavy.

The silence is broken by a loud noise, a roar that seems to approach quickly and you raise your eyes at the sky like everybody else around you to search for the source of it. It becomes louder by the second, filling the air and you hear someone yell somewhere ahead before the sound of the engine becomes clear to you.

“Pas des nôtres !” Not ours! Someone shouts again and suddenly people are moving, scattering everywhere they can to find cover, rolling beneath their carts or jumping down the ditches at the side of the road beneath the trees that border it, out of view.

You surge into action, feeling Tom’s hand on your back and Henriette’s pull at your arm before you jump down in a ditch, back pressed against the dirt with the others, eyes directed at the sky in the hope to see the deadly machine that emits that deafening sound. Despite the leaves above you, you feel blinded by the light of the blue sky, the heat of June crushing you and you have no choice but to lower your gaze, blinking as icy panic fills your body, freezing you into place.

When you open your eyes again, it’s Tom they see, crouching next to you instead of lying down, as ready to run, eyes tensed in focus as they rake the sky for something to see. His chest heaves with every breath he takes, his hands tighten into fists, the anguish radiating off his skin as you can see on his face the dreadful memories he is reliving as clearly as words on a page. Memories of chasers coming down on a beach and the sharp pain of his shoulder among the screeching sound of sirens.

You don’t think, you reach for his hand on the grass, resting your palm over his fist and there is that slight flinching of his shoulders before his gaze snaps down where your hands meet. He stares at it, eyes softening before raising his eyes at you, and you smile, like it’s only the two of you in this place, like nothing else exists.

He opens his fingers and lets you take his palm, gently squeezing as you wait for the sound to come over you, passing far too close above and then it’s gone, fading away as quickly as it came.

Nobody moves at first, waiting for the noise to die in the distance and you exhale, watching as people start coming out of their hiding in shock silence.

A thumb caresses the side of your hand and you feel yourself being pulled upward out of the ditch.

A/N:

The ID in order to cross the line (auswei) was established in the course of July 1940. Late June/August, when Tom travels, the Germans were ensuring the correct functioning of the demarcation line, and setting official crossing points. Late June the Germans were still advancing before being called back after the signature of the franco-italian armistice by direct order, and roughly form the demarcation line.

Between the 20th and 26th of June, families are returning home, encouraged by the new government as Tom and Giulia go to the new Free Zone to cross the Spanish border.

The story of the 80 years old woman who got shot is a true one. She died a few hours before the armistice was announced.

Trad: "Terminus, ladies and gentlemen, would you please get off the train, it won't go any further!"

Bold means I could not tag you:

@chainsawsangel @mischiefmanaged71 @depressedperson88 @enchantingcupcakecollectionfan @yentroucnagol @tssf-imagines @omgkatherine01 @nightdiamond8663 @r0segard3n @lauraneedstochill @lauftivy @unleashthelion

Part 6

#tom bennett #tom bennet x reader #wof #world on fire #tom bennet imagine #smut #tom bennett fanfiction #ewan mitchell #angst #fluff #world on fire 1x03 #gone with regret #usermyfandomprompts

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mariacallous · 9 months ago

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The title card that opens 1979’s original Mad Max places the action in a very near future, looming just “a few years from now.” George Miller’s cult action-thriller captured the edginess of a world teetering on the brink. The film depicts a not-quite-postapocalyptic Australia, where gangs of high-octane galoots rove the roadways on motorbikes and souped-up muscle cars, attempting to outrun the last of the lead-footed policemen: Mel Gibson’s Max Rockatanksy. Revisiting the film is exceptionally rewarding—and not just because of the grit, oddball humor, and verve of Miller’s directing. It reflects something of the ambient tensions of a world of potentially perilous fuel shortages, which threatened the whole petrol-and-plastic framework of our modern world.

Miller recalls this era with no particular fondness. He remembers, in the mid-’70s, all of the gas stations in Melbourne shutting down. Save for one. The mood was sour. The tension was thick. “It only took 10 days,” Miller says, “in this very peaceful, benign city for the first gunshot to be fired. Someone got ahead of a long queue, that went on city blocks, to get fuel. If that could happen in just 10 days, what would happen in 100 days?”

Across five films, including the new Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga, Miller’s franchise tracks this decline. In the original picture, the world is still fairly intact. There are diners and hospitals and happy families. People even dress more or less normally. It can feel a bit like our world: one which is collapsing but hasn’t yet totally buckled. By the time of 1982’s Mad Max 2 (released in the US as The Road Warrior), any vestiges of civilization have been blown away by an accelerated period of resource warring, nuclear conflict, and ecocide. Humanity survives in clans and roving bands, dressed in feathers and dusty leathers.

By 1985’s Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome, civilization relies on bartering for commerce, harvesting pig shit for methane, and conflict resolution by way of gladiatorial combat. In the smash hit 2015 long-gap sequel, Mad Max: Fury Road (which recast Rockatanksy, putting Tom Hardy in the lead), things were almost cartoonishly bad: Fertile women were ferried across vast wastelands in tanker trucks, access to fresh water was hoarded by tyrannical dictators in skeleton half-masks, and all of humanity seemed to exist in a state of berserk, whooping madness. If that first film was warning—against the fetish for speed and power, against excessively extracting precious riches from a planet that could scarcely afford to give them up—the newer pictures feel not so much prescient as present: sado-comic visions of our own maddening, resource-starved world.

The Mad Max films are driven by a guiding incoherence. They offer a critique of car culture, resource scarcity, and the very things that may well have our world motoring toward its own demise, no matter how many EVs we buy. Denizens of the desolate wastelands exalt automobiles, motorbikes, engines, and especially gasoline as fetish objects. But at the same time, the films’ pleasures are guilty of this same exaltation. The thrills derive from high-octane racing, dangerous automobile maneuvers, body-mangling crashes, and the whole vroom-vroom of it all. They’re like war movies that ask us to thrill at the violence and daring of combat, while all the while muttering, “This is actually really awful, you know.” There is no effort to reconceive a world doomed by its pathological obsession with machines chugging on crude oil. Rather, the apocalyptic backdrop only furnishes fantasies of further decline.

Perhaps it’s a mistake to take films with characters called “Pig Killer,” “Rictus Erectus,” and “Pissboy” too seriously. But the Mad Max pictures underscore a deeper absurdity that undergirds the genre of postapocalyptic, ostensibly environmentalist (or at least environmentally sympathetic) entertainments that are often referred to as eco-fictions, or cli-fi, for “climate fiction.” “The climate crisis and grotesque climate inequalities are things that we are really struggling to process,” says Hunter Vaughan, an environmental media scholar at Cambridge University. “These films are touching on our collective inability to adapt to this crisis.”

Vaughan is the author of Hollywood’s Dirtiest Secret: The Hidden Environmental Cost of the Movies. His text analyzes the environmental impact of the film industry, from early Hollywood to the present. Understanding the industry as inherently (and devastatingly) resource-reliant, he has come to view the very idea of “environmentalist movies” as a bit of an absurdity. “Films like Mad Max and Avatar,” he explains, “are just doing what Hollywood has always done, which is rely on choreographed violence and the enticement of spectacle. But they get to offset that to some degree by coming across as having some sort of environmentalist message.”

The whole notion of “cli-fi” as a genre suggests something a bit ominous: that the well-meaning parables of early climate fiction have now become subservient to the demands of the genre. Take Denis Villeneuve’s Dune pictures. While perfectly competent as pricey pieces of blockbuster cinema, they barely engage with the novel’s ecological concerns. Author Frank Herbert was originally inspired by the historical ability of certain indigenous civilizations to live in harmony in even the harshest environments—a noble idea that, in the Hollywood version, takes a backseat to woolly ideas around interstellar jihad and the sheer pageantry of the proceedings. Likewise, Mad Max's original warning siren has waned a bit, as the films developed their own generic language. The collapsing world is now just a canvas across which (wildly entertaining) action scenes unfold.

However absurd it may seem to scholars, Miller seems to come by his environmentalist sympathies honestly. Even outside of the Mad Max movies, many of his pictures touch resonant themes about global warming (Happy Feet), vegetarianism (Babe and its sequel), and the essential destructiveness of the modern world (Three Thousand Years of Longing). These realities have directly impacted his films. Fury Road’s production was long delayed, in part, because the Australian desert where Miller planned to film was suddenly swamped—a direct result of unpredictable climate patterns. “I see it myself,” the director says of climate change. “It’s all around us. I’ve seen both the hard statistics, and just in my own experience. So it can’t help but seep into the story.”

Furiosa is unique among the Mad Max films in that it offers an alternative to the arid, violent, boiling wastelands that dominate the franchise’s topography. The origin story of Charlize Theron’s fierce road warrior from Fury Road, the film opens in “the Green Place”: an Edenic garden governed by a tribe of warrior-women, which stands out as a lush oasis in the desert. For Miller, Furiosa offered an opportunity to one-up himself. Fury Road proved he could make a hit Mad Max movie without Mel Gibson. Now, he hopes to show he can make another without Max (though he does appear, very briefly). “If you just do the same thing again and again, there’s hardly any point,” he says. “There’s an inherent cynicism to it.”

Snatched from safety, Furiosa (played by Ayla Browne as a child and Anya Taylor-Joy as an adult) is raised among a motorcycle death cult, led by the madman-prophet Dementus (Chris Hemsworth, sporting an impressive prosthetic schnoz). In time, she’s traded away to Immortan Joe, Fury Road’s big bad, and learns to survive and thrive among his clan of face-painted, aerosol-huffing cultists. Building out the world of Fury Road, Furiosa traces the fragile trade dynamics between three strongman leaders, each hoarding a key resource: fresh water, fuel, and bullets. As Furiosa navigates these violent trade routes, she hatches her own plan to avenge herself on Dementus and burn rubber back to the Green Place.

In actually bothering to imagine what some alternative to the wasteland might look like, Furiosa moves past the typically narrow horizons of most cli-fi. Nicole Seymour, who teaches environmental literature at California State University, Fullerton, notes that most environmentalist narratives stop short of actually conceiving of what a new, better world might look like. “I think that would require you to do more implicating, and more work,” she says, “which no one wants to do.” She notes that most utopian environmentalist literature tends to buck the mainstream, foregrounding more diverse characters. “Do they want to make a movie about a Puerto Rican transgender person who time-travels?” she asks. “I would watch that!”

There’s a shopworn quote attributed to the late critic and theorist Mark Fisher, about how “it's easier to imagine the end of the world than the end of capitalism.” Certainly, in the Mad Max movies, the basic systems that led to our destruction—resource hoarding, the primacy of tribal violence, the fetish for power and speed—remain intact. The sinister logic imparted to the audience is that, well, ecocide is inevitable, and so there’s little left to do than revel, laughing mad, in the explosive spectacle of our own destruction. To which an admirer of these films (like this writer) may sensibly, or cynically, respond: OK, sure … but what a spectacle.

For his part, Miller maintains that there’s a deep humanism at the core of these films, buried beneath the scrap heaps of twisted metal. “I’ve been to places where there is a lot of trauma and poverty,” he says. “I’m always impressed by the ability for survival. This is about our survival.”

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autumnalwalker · 1 year ago

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Find the word tag

Thank you for the tag @druidx.

I've got a bunch of these word find tags in my queue, and I'm finally getting back around to them. Will be posting several over the next few days.

My words to find were effort, entry, ear, error, & expression.

Passing the (optional) tag to @authoralexharvey, @alainastrauss, @ceph-the-ghost-writer, @talesofsorrowandofruin, @theprissythumbelina, @squarebracket-trick, and the usual open tag to anyone else who wants it.

Your words to find shall be please, space, surprise, melancholy, & unassuming.

Effort: Empty Names - 10 - Cleanup

“Please, let me help you. You’re safe here,” she says as she takes his hand. Or at least, she thinks that’s what she says. She never actually got to practice speaking the language with anyone else before now.

There’s a moment of horrendous silence as Dis!ma*s’s feet touch the ground. He makes one slow blink with horizontally closing eyelids and then doubles over. Laughing. He says something but it's fast enough and interrupted by gasps of laughter that Lacuna can’t follow.

“I’m sorry?” she says on reflex before remembering the language barrier. “I mean, I apologize.” The latter sentence sends Dis!ma*s into a renewed fit of what Lacuna really hopes is amusement as the rainwater shakes off of him.

“Your pronunciation is so garbage it was half gibberish and half propositioning him,” Bridgewood says from the other side of the carriage. He’s not literally laughing at her, but he may as well be with the face he’s making. “And then you -”

“Okay, okay, I think I get it!” Lacuna’s voice cracks as her face grows hot with embarrassment and frustration. She tries to remember gestures that she’d read up on for some culturally appropriate sign of contrition but draws a blank.

Recovering, Dis!ma*s stands up straight and speaks again, slow and loud this time. “I apologize,” he starts and Lacuna immediately sees where she went wrong with the pronunciation but has no idea how to make her mouth form the right phoneme. “You surprised me. It has been a difficult day. Thank you for trying.”

Or at least, the parts Lacuna can parse are something along those lines.

“He says getting hit on at the end of the worst couple days of his life was too absurd to deal with, but A for effort on the welcoming attempt,” Bridgewood offers by way of translation.

Entry: Empty Names - 3 - Dance Partners

The girl was surprised at how steady her hands were as she punched in the keyless entry code for the pickup. She was the most scared she’d ever been in her life and yet there was something else. Relief at having gotten away? Excitement? Thrill? A feeling of power after having stared death in the eye then punched it in the face? She smirked as she opened the door and climbed inside. That last one had a nice ring to it.

Fish out the keys, start the engine, buckle her seatbelt, change the radio to something less sad, and she was off. Or so she thought until she felt a bump backing out of the parking spot. The girl looked in the rearview mirror and saw her pursuer once more, now holding onto the back of the truck. She changed gears and pressed the gas, speeding forward and bouncing over the parking blocks between the spaces.

Ear: Empty Names - 20 - Changeling Child

It surprises Ashan just how light Lacuna is when she falls forward into his arms. He is barely even eye level with her shoulder on the rare occasions she stands up straight, but he realizes now just how much she is skin and bones beneath the loose-fitting clothing she always seems to favor.

“Don’t tell Eris,” Lacuna breathes into his ear before passing out.

Error: Empty Names - 16 - Mall Rats

Echo Plaza, a place that becomes more aptly named with each passing year.

A mere three decades ago this place would have been teaming wall to wall with shoppers from Backstage and beyond. Wide-eyed newbies who mistakenly thought it would be a good place to ease themselves into things. Paratech hobbyists looking for the newest offworld imports to reverse engineer. Teenage witch covens staking out corners of spellbookstores and food courts. Offworld travelers taking advantage of their multi-day anchor world hub layover to go sightseeing. Fairies playing tricks from the cover of palm fronds and aerial shrubbery. Naiads presiding over the grand fountains and granting small blessings in exchange for the coins thrown in. The list went on.

Back then, when the ideal of the shopping mall as cultural centers of commerce and socialization occupying a prominent place in the collective consciousness brought Echo Plaza into being and sustained it and its occupants with an effervescent zest for life, vendors would kill for a storefront on the young pocket dimension’s main concourse. Quite literally, as Sullivan knows from personal experience and paychecks. In those days just being here would make everything feel exciting and wondrous. In these window displays the kitsch became cool and the mildly uncommon became alluringly exotic.

Now there are more marble statues than people. The grand fountains are all long dry. Food court menu screens proclaim cryptic messages over blue error backgrounds. Shadowy suggestions of mannequins linger in gutted boutiques at the edge of a flickering neon haze.

The golden age of the shopping mall has passed, and even the subcultural revival of the concept is inextricably intertwined with emptiness and signal decay. None but the most stubborn of holdouts are willing to invest property in a pocket dimension on its last legs before dissolution. Only the most dedicated seekers of aesthetic and pursuers of the niche bother to put up with the permeating air of nostalgia and melancholy.

Expression: Empty Names - 19 - Shire

It’s actually two someones walking up the sidewalk toward the unassuming safehouse, and they’re not any of the local residents that Sullivan now knows by sight after the length of his unsleeping stakeout. The woman in front is of a middling height, similar to Sullivan’s own. Auburn hair loose down to the shoulders, purple-framed glasses, beige knit sweater, red scarf, blue jeans. Checking an old model flip phone as if verifying the address. Some niggling familiarity about her appearance that Sullivan can’t quite place.

The second woman, walking stiff-backed one pace behind and a shoulder-width to the left, towers head-and-shoulders over her companion - no, her superior, unless Sullivan misses his mark. Silver hair pinned back in an elaborate bun, expressionless face, amber brooch pinned to a white cravat, dress of maroon so dark it’s almost black with so much frills and lace that it leaps out of the realm of antique and into the territory of gothic.

Sullivan blinks through his filters and the taller woman’s face takes on a porcelain sheen and the ball-jointed segmentation of her hands becomes apparent. Another blink and the next filter reveals the leash of metaphysical strands linking the two women heart-to-heart. A witch and her arcane doll? Sullivan didn’t think they had those in this world cluster. No, far more likely to be a superficial similarity born of convergent evolution. More likely an unorthodox familiar bond with a construct. Either way, he suspects that once the mage is dealt with (witch, wizard, or otherwise is hard to say without seeing her in action) then that should cut the puppet strings on the doll and make for easy pickings.

#Dis!ma*s is sort of an alien and the symbols in his name are for chirps and clicks that English doesn't have characters for.#writers on tumblr #writeblr #tag game #writing tag games #find the word tag #word find tag #manuscript search tag #empty names #my writing

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solivar · 4 months ago

Text

Ghost Stories On Route 66

Chapter Four

The UMN annex was four hoverbus transfers and one short stretch on the rapid pedestrian transit speedwalk which, this time at least, did not result in any form of grievous bodily harm, not even a bit of unscheduled nipple-surfing across the raked-stone-and-succulent-beds lawn at his point of exit. Given that his last trip out to the annex had resulted a) missing the exit, b) attempting to return to the exit by the expedient method of hopping over the lane separator, and c) being sent to the hospital via ambulance because having one foot going one direction and one foot going the other direction and each moving at roughly twice the average human walking speed was a recipe for tragedy, he considered this at least an unqualified success. In his own defence, the last time he traveled out to the annex was also his first, carrying Zenyatta’s forgotten lunch since he was the one who didn’t have any scheduled classes or studio time or anything resembling work that day, and had not expected what he found upon arrival. In the world of his childhood, buildings called “annexes” were either ancient, crumbling cinderblock-and-sheet-metal edifices that would probably exist until an earthquake strong enough to topple them came along or else post-Crisis modular prefabs of recycled and poorly insulated plastics meant to be replaced by more permanent construction but which never seemed to rate high enough on anyone’s priority queue to quite get there.

This annex, by way of cruel and distracting contrast, was a Pueblo Deco Revival architectural masterwork purpose designed and built as a showcase piece for the style, as well as to house the off-campus professional enrichment classrooms and offices for the chosen few among the faculty. His research, conducted while he was spending six weeks with his left leg in a full immobilization brace, suggested that being assigned space there was generally the result of a member of the faculty either dying or moving on and the survivors engaging in the sort of academic heft/staff seniority knife fights only spoken of in shellshocked whispers by TAs and adjuncts who’d had the misfortune of witnessing them first hand. That Tekhartha Zenyatta, known by all for his thoroughgoing gentleness and fundamentally mild nature, occupied a prime chunk of that real estate suggested that his publish-or-perish game was thoroughly on point or he knew where a substantial number of bodies were buried and probably both. His office was a second-floor corner, not quite as desirable as some spaces, significantly more desirable than others, gifted with more than adequate storage and sitting space as well as enormous windows in two of the four walls and a view of the city and the mountains beyond that could genuinely be described as a vista.

Zenyatta was sitting at his desk, silhouetted against said vista, when Hanzo arrived, having missed him in the classroom by a double handful of minutes, and knocked on the frame of the open door. He looked up and never was the praying mantis resemblance more acute than when the westering sun caught the shaved curve of his skull and the highlights in his hazel eyes as he blinked a slow and vaguely astonished blink at the apparition that appeared before him. Hanzo held up a thermos. “I have soup.”

Zenyatta smiled and his eyes glinted with unconcealed humor. “And this time emergency services were not involved in the delivery. Come in, my friend.”

Hanzo stepped inside and closed the door behind him. By the time he turned around, Zenyatta had retrieved two bowls from the depths of his desk and shut down the holoscreens of its internal workstation. Hanzo sat, and poured, the soup still warm enough to steam, and a for a moment the sat together in companionable silence and drank.

“Ah.” Zenyatta finally said. “Grandmother Sumiko’s miso soup recipe. Never tell your brother this, but I am of the opinion that no one in the household makes it better than you.”

“You flatter me.” Hanzo replied, but couldn’t help the smile that grew across his face. “And I would never break my brother’s heart that way, I assure you.”

A warm chuckle. “I hope you do not mind me saying it, but you also have the look about you of a man who wishes to unburden himself without having to spend the next two hours talking his excitable, wildly overprotective little brother out of shipping him back to Japan tied up in a crate marked live cargo, do not taunt .”

“You...are not even a little bit wrong about that,” Hanzo admitted, and set his bowl down. “I -- “

He opened his mouth to speak, and for a long, long, horrifyingly long moment, absolutely nothing came out. Zenyatta’s pale silver brows, always startling against his dark skin, rose questioningly as he finished drinking his soup and set the bowl aside. Hanzo closed his mouth, breathed deeply, exhaled, breathed deeply again, and found words absolutely failing to emerge from his word-making hole despite the ardent desire burning beneath is breastbone to expel the tale of every weird-ass thing that had happened to him over the last four days, unpleasant, pleasant, and enjoyment-neutral. His throat worked fruitlessly with the effort to produce them, his brain chased itself in fully coherent narrative circles, but the only thing to emerge from his throat was a thin, wheezy whine not entirely unlike the pitiful utterance of a woodwind whose reed was so hopelessly saturated with saliva it was utterly incapable of effective vibration. With a wordless moan of despair, he collapsed against Zenyatta’s desk and buried his head in his arms.

“I have the sense,” Zenyatta said, gently, “that this is not something you have done very often. Or perhaps at all. Ever.”

Hanzo found he could not raise his head from his arms and so he lifted a hand in a complex gesture he hoped Zenyatta would interpret as agreement.

“Would it, perhaps, be easier for you if I asked questions?” Again, oh so very gentle.

“...Maybe?” From the depths of his defensive stronghold, Hanzo managed to force out a response.

“Very well.” Zenyatta’s tone became, if anything, even more serene. “I understand that you intended to visit Shiprock. Was it all that you expected it to be?”

“...Yes.” He very much wished, at that moment, to wax rhapsodic at length, to utter self-condemnatory words for never having visited sooner, despite having the time to do so more than once over the years, to describe how it was impossible to fully appreciate the place in all its stark beauty without standing in the cool of its shadow, and settled for croaking into the crook of his arm, “I’ll show you the pictures when we get home.”

“Hanzo, my friend, are you comfortable with this? We can stop if -- “

“No,” Hanzo muttered, lifting his head enough to catch a glimpse of Zenyatta looking down at him, naked concern on his face. “No -- I wish to continue. Please.”

“As you wish.” Zenyatta leaned slightly closer, his hands folding together atop his desk in a fashion Hanzo was inclined to call mudra-ish. “I also understand that you intended to visit the Omnic graveyard in that area, as well. May I ask why? The two goals seem entirely divergent from one another.”

“Part of my Visual Thesis.” Hanzo admitted to the surface of Zenyatta’s desk. “A...comparison and contrast between natural forms of desolation -- the desert, particularly now that winter is approaching -- and the wreckage left behind by the collapse of modern civilization, the towns abandoned during the Crisis and never reoccupied, the scars left behind by hubris and war. I thought the graveyard, and the town closest to it, which was also called Shiprock, would make a striking example.”

“I tend to agree.” A little smile touched the corners of Zenyatta’s mouth. “I would very much enjoy seeing those photographs, I think, and to visit the your thesis exhibition next spring.”

“Iwillmakecertainmyadvisorhasyouonthelist.” He could feel all the blood evacuating his extremities and heading directly to his face and so he positioned his otherwise useless hands to hide it as much as possible. “The whole experience left me feeling...melancholy. There was -- there is -- an intrinsic sadness to the whole thing, even now, thinking of how much death and destruction could have been avoided, how much more could have been done in the aftermath, the appalling waste of it all.”

And now was the weird part. Where the emphatically Not Normal stuff began. He could feel the urge to beg Zenyatta’s forgiveness for wasting his time welling up in his throat and the even stronger urge to stand up and flee even if it meant risking death or dismemberment on a snow-slicked speedwalk taking up residence in his legs, pleading with him to retreat from what was certain to be a scene of pure humiliation. You should really spare your brother’s boyfriend the necessity of calling the hospital and having you admitted for psychiatric evaluation -- that’s the sort of thing that can put a strain on even the best relationships, a little voice that seemed to partake of rationality murmured in the back of his mind, seduction spiked with reproach because, really, what kind of asshole would do that to Zenyatta? He absolutely did not have to be forced to make that sort of judgment call and --

“And then where did you go?” Zenyatta’s voice, warm and smooth as oil, poured through the cracks in his internal monologue and caused how now-slippery thoughts to skid away like an unsteady but enthusiastic two year old on a particularly lubricious skating rink.

“Cerrillos,” Hanzo blurted out, before the voice of rationality could reassert itself. “Well -- eventually. This is where things become...strange. Very, very strange. I would humbly ask that you listen first and then, if you think me thoroughly irrational afterwards, we can discuss...options?”

Zenyatta’s hands lifted away from the table and took on a second, even more mudraish posture just below his chin. “Agreed. Though I should also tell you that, having lived and worked here for a number of years my standards for strange are quite liberal.”

“My car’s GPS began malfunctioning even before I left the vicinity of the graveyard -- I believe I was technically still within Shiprock town limits.” He retrieved the second thermos and jiggled it gently; Zenyatta brought out two tea bowls this time, and he poured for them both. A few sips and he was fortified to continue. “It refused to hold the route I indicated. I had to reset it several times and it misdirected me all over the hills until I reached what used to be Route 14, where it showed me a course back to Santa Fe from the south. The car itself was sputtering for miles and it finally died completely just after I made that turn.”

“I have heard of this sort of thing before from both students and colleagues.” Zenyatta informed him, meditatively. “Global positioning devices frankly refusing to function properly in certain regions south of the city, that is. The theories I have heard in relation to why this may be tend to extremes to say the least.”

“Oh?” Hanzo asked, somewhat more warily than he liked.

A certain mischievous sparkle came into Zenyatta’s eyes. “The most reasonable suggest some form of localized, persistent geomagnetic disturbance in the Earth’s atmosphere, though how such a thing could both exist and completely defy conventional forms of detection is a debate all by itself. Some of the others...well. Roswell is only two hundred miles away, and well within the observed radius of GPS disturbances.”

“Roswell?” Hanzo asked, blankly this time.

The mischievous sparkle was now a mischievous gleam . “Aliens, my friend. Visitors from another world. One of my students is involved in the production of a journal of amateur UFOlogy and swears with a great deal of passionate conviction that the United States government has been covering up the existence of extraterrestrial life since a vehicle not of this world crashed in Roswell in the late 1940s.”

“I...believe I read about that at some point.” Hanzo leaned back in his chair. “A crashed weather balloon?”

“A crashed nuclear test observation balloon that spawned thousands of conspiracy theories, some of them more plausible than others.” He shook his head slightly. “But I agreed to listen first. Please...continue.”

“Yes. Uhm.” And now came the Really Incredibly Strange Parts and before his rational mind could start whispering helpful advice, he pushed himself all the way up into a normal sitting position, gripped the armrests of his chair and said, “I think there were coyotes. Actual real, living coyotes. At least one. When the car died, it was almost dark -- the road I was on barely existed on the GPS and from what I could see it wasn’t traveled regularly at all. My cell had no reception, not even the emergency contact signal. I knew that waiting wasn’t really an option, so I gathered my things and began walking north along Route 14. I saw their eyes from a distance at the edge of my light and for at least a few hours, I was convinced I was going to be eaten.”

A smile curled Zenyatta’s mouth, but he mercifully said nothing.

“I reached Cerrillos -- I want to say near midnight? I lost track of time while I was walking. It was cold, I was exhausted, and at first I didn’t realize I was looking at real lights, an occupied building. The ranger’s...station, I should probably say, but it was more like just a house? I think he’s lived there a long time, is what I’m saying. He took me in and I sort of passed out on his couch and the next morning he gave me breakfast and can I just say that if you and he got into a gently soothing smile contest, I am legitimately unsure who would win? He’s just so -- “ Hanzo’s hands, he realized with dawning horror, had released their grip on the armrests through no conscious direction of his own and started talking for themselves; he hastily stuffed them under his thighs. “ Anyway , the next day he took me to my car to see if anything could be done for it and there was...something...more than one something...not a coyote...lurking around it. Nearby. We heard them first -- they howled, like a pack of animals communicating with one another.” He found he could recall that hideous, unearthly sound with horripilating intensity, a shudder running the length of his body as he did so, and Zenyatta’s sympathetic listening face took on a hint of genuine alarm. “Jesse -- that’s the ranger’s name, Jesse McCree -- told me to get back into our vehicle and as we were driving away there was something else , something louder and closer and I --”

The sensation that gripped him now was less a shudder than a convulsion as, for an instant, he nearly remembered what he saw -- the outline, the contour, the texture, the stomach-churning awareness that none of those things were born of any sane world, or even the one they both now occupied, and he deeply regretted everything he’d eaten thus far that day. He clamped his jaw and his eyes shut and swallowed hard and, as he did so, a pair of warm hands cradled his face. At a vast distance, he heard Zenyatta saying his name. With an almost superhuman effort, he forced his eyes to open and ground out, “I saw it. Something unnatural. It saw me, too, and it tried -- “

“It tried to devour your soul.” Zenyatta finished it for him.

“How -- ?” Hanzo croaked, not quite certain how many possible permutations of that question he actually meant, but he knew it was more than one.

“Did I know?” The kindly smile had a slightly sad tinge to it. “I sensed the change in you when you returned home last night, but I wasn’t certain how or when to approach you about it. Your spirit has always been wounded, for as long as I have known you, but this is...more. Not so deep nor so old but more immediately serious. Your soul was severed from your flesh?”

“Yes,” Hanzo croaked again, his stomach still seriously considering rebellion and his mind now beginning to get in on the uncivilized revolution action. “ How -- ?”

“The ranger saved you? He must have, he was the only one close enough to do so. How...unusual.” Zenyatta’s eyes gleamed again, almost with a light of their own, golden welling up from beneath gray and green. “And he protects you still. I can see his aegis wrapped around you like a cloak of crimson and gold, holding you while you heal, hiding you from...the thing that saw you.”

“Really?” It came out sounding horribly, pathetically needy and he tried to cringe away, but Zenyatta refused to relinquish his hold.

“Yes.” The smile that curved his lips held more than a trace of impishness; Hanzo found that bizarrely comforting. “I would like to meet this ranger of yours. Other professional craftworkers are so hard to find outside the specialized academic sphere, and those assholes would never dirty their hands with actually rescuing someone.”

“I’d like to see him again too,” It was nothing more or less than utter honesty and it fell out of his mouth before he could stop it.

“Excellent. We shall have to make a day of it.” Gently. “Can you stand? Walk?”

Hanzo tested his legs and found his knees wobbly but not so much he wouldn’t risk getting out of the chair. “I think?”

“Good, because I am not certain I could carry you.” Zenyatta leaned back, resting on the edge of his desk. “I realize this has been several sorts of shock to you, my friend. I will do what I can to help ameliorate that, and assist in your recovery however I am able.”

“He gave me a medicine. A kind of tea? It’s supposed to help.” Hanzo took a deep breath, forced his racing thoughts to slow, and then to organize themselves into at least one coherent utterance. “Professional craftworkers?”

“A term of relatively modern provenance, I must admit.” Zenyatta reached out and grasped his hand gently. “I understand that you were, in essence, studying to be part of our kindred order once.”

Hanzo swallowed with some difficulty, his own grip involuntarily tightening. “ Oh. ”

“Yes.” He glanced out the western window at the sunset beginning to blossom in scarlet glory over the city. “We should go home -- it’s my night to cook, after all. If it is not objectionable to you, I would like to examine the medicine you were given?”

“Of course.” Hanzo replied, numbly, feeling as he did so the ache of that older wound again, for the first time in ages. “Genji. Did he...did he tell you what…”

“No.” Zenyatta’s smile softened into something close to sorrow again. “Only that you left your path for reasons of your own. We may discuss that also, if you wish.”

“No.” It came out more curtly than he wished and he squeezed Zenyatta’s hand in apology. “No -- I...do not wish to...visit that again. Not right now.” Never , whispered that silent ache, and he pushed himself slowly to his feet. “I...would like to be home before dark, if we could.”

“Of course.”

The best part about Zenyatta cooking was that Zenyatta actually cooked . Rather than engaging in a forty-odd-minute long debate among five individuals with wildly divergent tastes that would end in an obscenely expensive take-out order, he very simply ignored the divergent tastes and made something that everyone would invariably sit down to eat and subsequently enjoy. Hanzo himself hadn’t quite mastered that art but considered himself learning at the knee of the master every time he was asked to assist and thus he had no objection to being handed a knife and a cutting board almost as soon as they arrived home. He sat and cut carrots into rounds while Zenyatta retrieved the containers of marinating chicken (for the meat-eaters) and marinating tofu (for the non-meat-eaters) from the refrigerator and set them out to reach room temperature; he chopped garlic and minced fresh ginger while Zenyatta toasted a few handfuls of shelled peanuts and set them aside to cool; he diced onion while Zenyatta heated the oil in both their large skillets and added aromatic spices that perfumed the air. The tension bled from him as they worked, Zenyatta adding half the onion to each pan, and he rose to do what dishes he could as basmati rice and water went into the cooker. Moment by moment the soothing rituals of the kitchen worked their magic on him and he found the words flowing out.

“There was something else -- something I didn’t tell you at the office. Once when I was at the ranger’s house and when I returned home last night, I...traveled outside my body.” Saying it aloud had the effect of solidifying the reality of it in his own mind and silencing the almost-continuous mutters of reason in the back of his skull that were advocating voluntarily committing himself. “Well. All right. I know I did it at the ranger’s house. Last night might have been an extraordinarily vivid and detailed dream, but I doubt it sincerely.”

Zenyatta carefully added the chicken and its marinade to one of the pans and gave it a few quick stirs. “That does not entirely surprise me. Your soul’s attachment to its flesh is attenuated at the moment, likely moreso when you sleep.”

“The ranger suggested as much -- the medicine is supposed to help with that, I think. It made me so tired when I took it last night I barely made it up the stairs.” He accepted the container Zenyatta handed to him and made it clean. “I...may have witnessed a conversation I probably should not have heard.”

“Oh?” Zenyatta glanced at him, sidelong, and repeated his process with the second container, tone and manner perfectly neutral.

“When I was...sleepwalking...last night. Possibly this morning. Maybe both? Anyway, ” Hanzo scrubbed savagely at the second container for a moment, “I went back to his house -- I am not entirely certain why -- but I felt as though I woke there, on the couch. His parents were waiting for him, but they did not seem to be aware of my presence, and when he returned home he was not aware of it, either. They discussed a number of topics that were somewhat outside my realm of experience -- things I would appreciate your assistance in researching, if you would be amenable to doing so?”

“Of course. I have always been of the opinion that ignorance is not an outstandingly effective shield.” The very faintest hint of a smile as he added rice and carrots and ginger and peanuts to a third pan. “Particularly when dealing with the naturally curious artistic types. Would you mind setting the table and summoning the others? We’ll be ready to eat in a few minutes.”

Everyone in the house had their favorite plate, glass, set of silverware, and chair, no single piece of it matching any other piece, reflective of the fact that they all brought at least a handful of household goods when they moved in together. The blender/food processor belonged to Hana -- she used it to produce gallons of fruity homemade energy smoothies containing approximately four times the amount of caffeine permitted in commercially salable beverages which she fed to the rest of the game design faculty and students on a fairly regular basis, particularly in the vicinity of midterms and finals. In fact, her entire friendship with Genji came about as a result of his raging addiction to the Random Mystery Fruit variety of the same and his invitation to move in with them in order to shorten the supply chain. Lucio brought the living room sound system, which replaced the fairly dinky speakers that came with their holotank and turned the entire room into a nearly hallucinatory sensory experience when it was running full-tilt, a circumstance usually reserved for family game nights and movie marathon weekends when the nearest neighbors were away, because otherwise someone would be forced to continue the ongoing battle of the passive-aggressive complaints to their landlord, who had absolutely no fucks to give so long as they paid the rent on time and didn’t actually violate any local sound-related ordinances. From childhood on, Genji had owned every game system known to man and some that were entirely experimental products of the family’s active immersion entertainment products division -- he’d bought them all again, once he’d come to the United States, and still received regular care packages from AIE of tech and games that needed thorough testing. Zenyatta had actually brought the majority of the common-use furniture, including the kitchen table and chairs and the living room set, all of which had a rather distinct character of their own, and that character was probably the offspring of an aromatherapist, a medical cannabis dispensary, and a polyamorous hippie commune.

Hanzo supplied the pots and pans, because man in general and he in specific couldn’t live on delivery alone.

The sounds drifting down the stairs told him the rest of the household was, indeed, home and also that merely calling up to them was unlikely to jar them from their pursuits. Instead, he found his tablet, queued up the standard dinner summons, and deployed it. Within seconds, the dulcet tones precision sound-engineered to resemble a composite of literally all their mothers echoed through the house. “ Make yourselves presentable, you heathens, there’s food on the table!”

Then he went back into the kitchen to help Zenyatta transfer dinner from the stove to the table and set out everyone’s favorite drinks.

“I still don’t think our mother would use the word ‘heathens,’” Genji informed him, accepting the glass of lemonade Hanzo handed to him.

“No, but she certainly would have demanded that we make ourselves presentable.” Hanzo replied, pouring his way around the table to his own seat.

“Heathens is the least thing my mother would call this group.” Lucio leaned against the kitchen doorframe, looking for all the world as though it were the only thing holding him up. “But I’m pretty sure she’d mean it as a compliment.”

“What happened to you?” Hanzo asked, appalled, before his better judgment or self-preservation instincts could successfully intervene.

“I’m pretty sure your story’s more interesting than mine when it comes to that.” Lucio grinned, tired but puckish, and came to the table. “Sorry I missed you when you got back home yesterday, Hanzo -- I’ve been pulling double duty on this group project that’s due in a couple weeks. The classmate I was supposed to partner with went home to visit her folks in Amarillo last month and then dropped off the face of the Earth. Didn’t come back, didn’t withdraw, didn’t answer calls or email or anything. The prof only just gave us leave to reallocate her part of the project last week.”

“Oh, man, that sucks. Wait. Wasn’t your partner Cora Hernandez?” Hana materialized in her chair between one moment and the next. “Don’t tell anyone I told you this but...a member of my project team does her work study in the campus security office and her parents have been calling almost non-stop. Texas State PD, too. Apparently she never actually made it back home -- they found her car somewhere south of here, way south, like way into the coyotes-and-batshit-survivalists territory. No offense to your new boyfriend, Hanzo.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” Hanzo replied, reflexively, even as all the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. “And he’s also not a batshit survivalist so your apology is doubly unnecessary. Do you know where, exactly, her car was found?”

“I wanna say, like, near Alamogordo? South. ” Hana shook her head. “I feel bad for her family, no matter what.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Why?”

“Morbid curiosity,” Hanzo replied and took his seat, thoughts racing.

Alamogordo was significantly further south, he knew that much, well inside the territory that had been depopulated by evacuation and violence during the Omnic Crisis and never fully rehabilitated for any number of reasons, most of them pragmatically economic in nature. He wished that he dared pull out his tablet at the table and start consulting maps but that would have led to any number of awkward questions that he really did not want to answer at that moment, not with Genji already giving him the iridescently brilliant suspicious side-eye and Zenyatta regarding him with only barely disguised concern. He smiled comfortingly at them both, fooled neither, and attended to dinner and the lighter conversation that followed as best he could, with his mind running in a rapidly expanding series of concentric circles that kept coming back to someone else from my school VANISHED COMPLETELY INTO THE DESERT in the last month and is this the sort of thing I should tell Jesse about or am I actually such a complete asshole that I would use the disappearance of an innocent woman as an excuse to call my crush? INQUIRING MINDS WANT TO KNOW.

It was, according to the household chores schedule, his night to do dishes but, since he helped make dinner, Zenyatta waved him off and instead snared Genji in seductive toils of help-me-and-we-can-make-out-against-the-counter, from which they all fled in various degrees of trauma. Well, okay, he was traumatized, because no amount of walking on Genji engaged in libidinous acts with a succession of attractive partners while they were both still teenagers had successfully immunized him against the horror of seeing his baby brother suck face with anyone, ever. On the other hand, Zenyatta’s heroic sacrifice allowed him the time to book it upstairs, get in his room, lock the door, brace his desk chair under the doorknob, and begin Researching before Genji could unload any degree of Distracting Brotherly Concern in his direction.

Cora Hernandez was, in fact, officially missing -- her family was offering a substantial reward for information on her whereabouts, the state police and highway patrol in New Mexico were actively searching for leads and requesting the assistance of the public. The pictures provided displayed a lovely young woman with a perfectly heart-shaped face, enormous dark eyes, and a sweet smile, who wore her long, straight black hair in a braid or a ponytail. She was an undergraduate student at the University of Art and Design, a fact that jolted him sharply, and the last time anyone saw her was the afternoon of September 11th when she said goodbye to her roommate and set out for home to attend her mother’s birthday celebration that weekend. Her car was found October 3rd in the parking lot of the Lincoln National Forest Visitor Center by a ranger occupying one of the park’s still-manned structures and who reported the discovery to the state police.

So -- almost, in fact, to Alamogordo, one of the modern ghost towns, ghost cities in this case, left behind by the Omnic Crisis, evacuated and never formally reincorporated afterwards as the course of economic redevelopment trended steadily away. People still lived there, of course, individuals and families that trickled back after the war was over despite the formal aprobrium of governments state, local, and Federal, a refusal to restore basic services, and a rather dim view of the returnees’ stubborn refusal just to accept a generous buyout offer for their property and go elsewhere. The returnees were fortunate inasmuch as most of what they’d left behind was still there when they went back for it -- much of Albuquerque had been reduced to rubble and the ruins were a regularly patrolled no-go zone -- and what they couldn’t grow, manufacture, scavenge, or cobble together for themselves, they could trade for with the residents of the Mescalero Apache Reservation just to the north and El Paso to the south. It had been more than thirty years and both the state and Federal governments tended in the direction of ignoring those largely self-sufficient little communities unless a crime was committed that led directly toward them, at which point the authorities would land on the tight-knit family enclaves or scattered individual homesteads with both feet, roust everyone out, and occasionally level everything to the ground. Otherwise, they were permitted to exist largely unmolested thanks very much to a carefully cultivated reputation as batshit survivalists who shot first and asked questions later.

The residents of the unincorporated freehold of Alamogordo had, therefore, made a significant show of assisting in the search for Cora Hernandez once her car was found, as had the Mescalero Apache Tribal Council, though thus far no trace of her had turned up. Her purse, containing her credit cards and student identification, was still in the car, clearly visible on the passenger seat. The car itself had been towed back to Santa Fe and impounded, but a forensic examination had revealed no signs of a struggle or any other sort of foul play, the only prints on the steering wheel, interior, and exterior surfaces being hers. It took six articles on the topic to uncover the fact that the vehicle’s electrical system was dead when it was found, primary and secondary antigrav batteries drained dry, navigation system fried crispy. Much more obvious: that the local residents interviewed had their doubts that she would be found at all, much less alive, with all the requisite “it’s wild territory” and “the weather at this time of year works against us” and, at least to his admittedly biased ear, a certain amount of subliminal “she was probably eaten by a monster from beyond reality, I feel so badly for her mother right now.” Okay, he was probably imagining that but...she had driven a full two hundred miles in a direction, if not precisely opposite her destination, close enough to opposite for the decimal places not to matter. He knew that feeling disturbingly well.

The fact that the car was found by a ranger in all likelihood meant Jesse already knew more about the situation than he, as an uninvolved civilian, could ever possibly uncover and he came to peace with the notion that he was exactly the sort of asshole who’d use this situation as an excuse to call his crush.

Instead of calling, or writing because writing would entail looking at his email which would naturally devolve into responding to email because his goddamned sense of responsibility demanded it, he opened up GeoMaps, his phone’s internal GPS functions, and began the process of tracing his own route as best he could. For a moment, after he interfaced the two and watched the route construct itself according to the GPS’ cache, he thought the data must have been corrupted somehow -- nothing about the contorted cat’s cradle of the return trip made sense. He did not recall making even half the turns his phone insisted he made, switchbacking across barely marked roads in the hills and desert above Route 40 and the Albuquerque Exclusion Zone as though his vehicle were iron filings being dragged back and forth between two magnets before finally coming to a halt just south of Cerrillos, where it finally broke down. On impulse, he manually added a second set of variables: Santa Fe to Alamogordo and asked the program to calculate the most direct route. It was, pragmatically speaking, almost a straight line, one that bypassed Cerrillos to the east, provided that Cora Hernandez had lost her way immediately upon leaving the city -- which was not necessarily the case. The courses as logically plotted did not intersect but he saved the map, anyway, for reference purposes at the very least, and shut down the program.

He was slightly startled to see that it was after ten -- no one had come knocking after dinner chores were done and he had lost track of time completely, he’d forgotten that he was going to show Zenyatta the pictures from his trip, and now he felt like a total ass hat as well as an ass hole. And he had also managed to not pay a single bit of attention to any aspect of his real life that would have an immediate impact on his future, a fact underscored by the number of urgent!red!exclamation!points! in his mailbox once he finally glanced at it. Admittedly, most of them were from one person -- his thesis advisor -- and given Dr. Saddind-Maas had the tendency to send eight emails where two would do and considered everything equally urgent, the odds were pretty good that they were mostly sympathy. Except for the one about making certain he cancelled his studio space reservation if he wasn’t going to use it (he was, he had to, being sent back to his ordinary life for his own protection wouldn’t matter much if he never did anything normal again) and reminding him of their scheduled meeting on Friday. He found his alarm clock in the waste basket -- he had a vague memory of doing it violence and was pleased to discover that it hadn’t been mortally wounded when he pulled it out of the wall. He reset the time and the alarm and, just to be safe, he set a secondary alarm on his phone and set it on his dresser, out of easy reach in the event of another strange night that ended in throwing things.

Hana was asleep on the living room couch with a controller still in hand when he went downstairs which meant, among other things, that she was probably out of energy drink ingredients and he made a note on his tablet to ask her what she needed. He also tucked a throw blanket around her that smelled rather noticeably of patchouli and lavender, put the controller back on the charging dock, turned off the holotank, and made sure the front door was locked and the security system armed. Someone had already refilled the teakettle and so he simply turned on the heat beneath it, dug the little tea-for-one set he’d gotten on a whim and never really used out of the cabinet, and fetched the medicine box, now with a yellow post-it sticky attached.

A whole teaspoon may be slightly too much for your weight. Try one half and if you have another out of body experience tonight, let me know. We may need to consult the herbalist for alternative dosing or blends. - Z.

Hanzo paused, closed his eyes, reminded himself firmly that tomorrow was going to be a completely fucking normal day , measured a half-teaspoon of the tea, set the egg timer for three minutes, and allowed it to steep for exactly that long. One spoonful of honey. Stirred. Drank. Swore at himself because he’d gotten out the tea-for-one thing so he could take it upstairs and drink it there, a fact he had totally forgotten between one minute and the next. Piled all the tea things in the sink to wash in the morning. The somnolent tug of the medicine seemed less intense than it had, which only made sense, and he made it back to his room before his limbs started to feel even the slightest trace of heaviness, and made it into his pyjamas before his head got into the act. Sleep closed its arms around him almost before his head touched the pillow.

The alarm went off at 5:45 am and, this time, Hanzo reached over and thumbed it off, sat up, stretched, turned on his bedside lamp, and screamed.

The silence afterward was fragile and broken by a shout from the floor below. “ Hanzo! ”

Through the ringing in his ears, he heard footsteps -- more than one set of footsteps -- on the stairs, and someone knocking on his door. “Hanzo? Are you okay?”

Lucio, who shared the third floor with him, of course got there first. He wanted to say something, but the words were caught in his throat, and before he could force them out, the door flew open and Genji, Zenyatta, and Lucio all poured inside, Hana bringing up the rear with one of Lucio’s hockey sticks in hand.

“ Aniki, ” Genji crawled onto the bed next to him, back plastered against the wall, and grabbed his shoulder. “Are you -- “

“Oh, holy -- what is that? ” Lucio sounded nearly as appalled as Hanzo felt; Genji turned and looked and his grip tightened nearly to the point of pain.

Hanzo’s room was longer than it was wide, having once been something closer to a storage space than a living one, and he had structed it accordingly. His desk sat just beneath the single window at the far end, with the large standing cabinet he used to store his art supplies and the hanging folders for his assorted portfolios next to it. His bedside table and bed were set hard against the north wall and he usually ended up sleeping with his back against it for reasons he could not quite explain even to himself. Under ordinary circumstances, the inexpensive Swedish prefab chest of drawers that served to store his clothing in lieu of an actual closet sat directly opposite, with a lane between them. At the moment, it was pushed flush with his desk, the supplies closet sat both askew on its base and open, and the open space of previously eggshell white wall between was covered with what happened when sensitive artistic types lost their fucking minds and started finger painting the contents of their damaged psyches all over the real estate. Clearly, obviously fingerpainting because the paint in question was lodged under his nails, dried all over his skin to the elbow, the sheets, the blankets, and his mind was absolutely refusing to focus for longer than a second or two on what he’d drawn, the hideous contorted mass of it stretched across all of the wall and part of the ceiling, and he absolutely could not imagine how he’d managed some of that texture work with undiluted tube watercolors. Or maybe he had diluted them somehow, though he didn’t want to think too deeply on the mechanics of that, either, and Genji was whispering fiercely in his ear in Japanese, Zenyatta was talking quietly with Hana and Lucio, and, from downstairs, the doorbell rang.

“Someone should get that,” Hanzo whispered, and let his head fall back against the wall behind him.

“...I’ll get it.” Hana, unlike the rest of them, was in actual clothes and at least nominally armed; she descended the stairs sounding very much as though she expected to have to use that hockey stick for activities man never intended.

“Hanzo, please.” Genji’s voice was tight with fear. “ What happened? ”

“I don’t know?” Hanzo replied, helplessly. His eyes felt as though they’d been popped out of his skull, rolled in a combination of gravel and tiny slivers of glass, then shoved back in without any particular care for proper orientation; his arms and shoulders and upper back ached as though he’d been exercising unceasingly for hours; he felt, between the ears, more completely and utterly rested than he’d felt in days but the last thing he remembered was falling face-first into his pillow, curling into his mattress. “I...did this, I must have done this but I don’t -- I can’t remember -- I -- “

“I am not certain this is an improvement over involuntary astral projection.” Zenyatta muttered, casting a glance at the wall, a little shudder traveling all the way down his long body; Hanzo found his unease weirdly, perversely comforting.

“ What? ” Lucio and Genji asked, more or less simultaneously.

Hanzo glanced a question at Zenyatta, who shook his head slightly. “It’s...Okay. The trip out to the desert was really, really -- I didn’t want to tell you right away because I knew you’d freak out -- “

“I fucking knew you didn’t just break down.” Genji growled at him. “For fuck’s sake, Hanzo, there is literally nothing you can’t tell me. ”

Hanzo took a deep, calming breath and released it. “The car actually did break down. I was also...attacked...sort of...by something that looked...a little like that. ” He nodded in the direction of the wall. “It yanked my soul out of my body and was probably trying to eat it. The ranger saved me and put my soul back where it should be and sent me home with some kind of protection around me and medicine to help me recover but I traveled out of my body the night before last and now….” He gestured at the wall again. “ Yeah .”

The complex series of expressions that crossed Genji’s face at this recitation was a terrible wonder to behold. “Explain to me, using small words and diagrams, why the fuck you shouldn’t be on a plane back to Japan right now?”

“Because I would rather die than go back and you, my loving brother, know that?” Hanzo replied sweetly.

“That’s actually a pretty good reason, Gen.” Lucio pointed out with what Hanzo considered fairly admirable calm, given the circumstances.

“You’re taking this well,” Hanzo remarked, ignoring his brother’s sputtered objections to both their statements.

“Man, I’ve been playing the music scene in this city for years. ” Lucio shook his head. “You hear some stuff. Get far enough beyond the city limits and you see some stuff. Weird-ass stuff. Also, Zen and Gen and I have kinda had some mutual hallucinatory experiences together and -- “

“Annnnnnnnnnd all right we will solve this problem right here and leave the family out of it . ” Genji gesticulated in an extremely undignified manner and Hanzo found himself swallowing a slightly hysterical laugh and swallowing slightly more when his brother turned back to him, eyes unnaturally bright. “ You almost died. ”

Hanzo closed his eyes. “I’m -- “

“If you say ‘I’m fine,’ you’re going to force me to point at that wall. As a matter of fact, let’s -- “

Hanzo’s phone rang, the sound distinctly muffled by its position face-down underneath the clothes chest. All four of them went for it simultaneously; Zenyatta won, by virtue of having the longest arms, and handed it to him.

The call was from Hana. “...Hello?”

“Uhm.” Hana sounded either deeply traumatized or deeply amused and possibly both. “Your rental car’s back.” Her voice dropped. “I maaaaaaaaaaay have mentioned that something weird’s going on and the, uh, mechanic down here asked to talk to you. I’m turning on video chat -- “

Hanzo pulled the phone away from his ear, Genji and Lucio both gathering close as he did so, the images on the screen a jumble as she handed the phone to someone else. In the wan light of morning, Hanzo received the impression of an almost comically long face, a maniacally cheerful grin, and hair that gave the impression of being just slightly on fire. “Good mornin’, Mr. Shimada. You are -- “ the image blurred again and the newcomer came up with a piece of lined paper, much crumpled. “Hanzo Shimada, right?”

“I am.” Hanzo replied, feeling the world tilting ever so slightly sideways.

“Oh, good. Good. I got the keys to your car down here -- everything oughta be in order, right down to the new car smell, rental agency won’t be able to tell the difference, on my honor.” He practically twinkled with good cheer so infectious it pulled an involuntary smile onto Hanzo’s face. “Now, the chippie -- “

“ Hey!” Hana snapped, somewhere off camera.

“Sorry, chippie, but I didn’t catch your name.” He sounded legitimately contrite. “ Anyway , yer friend told me something’s pear-shaped upstairs. Can I take a look at it?”

“You -- you’re -- “ Hanzo took a deep, calming breath, forced his thoughts to settle, and asked, “You’re a...craftworker?”

“Of a kind. C’mon, lemme see. If nothing else I can tell you if -- “

Before Hanzo could think better of it, he flipped the camera view around and aimed it at the wall.

“--YEAH, OKAY, THAT’S -- YES, THANK YOU. WARN A MAN NEXT TIME, WOULDJA?”

He flipped the camera around again. “My apologies.”

The newcomer was blinking as though he were trying to banish a particularly unpleasant afterimage. “S’all right but --trust me when I tell ya that’s not summat you wanna mess with on your own, okay? In fact, you should probably all get outta there and, uh, maybe burn it down?”

“It’s a rental.” Hanzo replied, reflexively, and felt his world tilt a few more degrees.

“Then call Jess and let him burn it down, I’m pretty sure he could get it smoothed over all official and governmental and such. Oh. And I’m s’posed to tell you that you’re not to worry about a bill or anything, because it’s covered.” That long face rearranged itself into an actually worried look. “But, seriously, call Jess as soon as you can and get outta there in the meantime. For your own safety, mate, trust me.”

“I will do that. Thank you, Mister…?”

“Fawkes. Jamie Fawkes. The chippie -- OW -- your friend down here has my card. For all your mechanical needs.” He ended the call before Hanzo could say anything else.

“Jess?” Genji asked, evenly.

“The ranger.” Hanzo replied, wishing he had it in him to push the world back into alignment by sheer force of will. “His name is Jesse. Jesse McCree.”

“Craftworker?” Lucio asked, perplexed.

“That explanation is far longer.” Zenyatta interjected. “And considerably more complicated. In any case...I suggest we take Mr. Fawkes’ advice and -- “

“Burn down the house?” Hana asked from the door, hockey stick still slung over her shoulder. “I really need to know how you met that guy. Those guys. There were two. A big guy and an even bigger guy. Explanations for a lot of things are totally in order here, is what I’m saying.”

“-- I was about to suggest that we all get dressed and go for breakfast.” Zenyatta continued peacefully. “And contact the ranger.”

Hanzo allowed his head to thud back against the wall again. “And to think I expected today to be normal. ”

#gsor66 #repost #oh look it's spooky season #written before the cowboy's name change

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lululawrence · 6 months ago

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Hi— can you tell me what queue means? I saw your comment “cue the queue” and I see lots of people saying phrases with queue in it but I don’t understand.

hiiiiii!! okay so when i think of a queue i firstly think of a line. that's how the british use it, and that's basically what i think of when i think of it. you're waiting for your turn to be able to check out or talk to the service desk, and you're standing in line, otherwise known as a queue.

that's basically where the concept of a queue comes from when you think of digital things like when you're listening to music on spotify and don't want to get out of your playlist but want to add a song that isn't on the playlist into the play cycle, you can add that song to the queue or in netflix when you're adding movies that you want to have in a separate little area for you to remember to watch later, you add them to the queue as well. it's maybe not an actual physical line, but more like the list of what is coming up or what you'd like to have waiting for you.

the queue on tumblr is the same kind of thing. a lot of us utilize the queue feature because they are posts that you like and enjoy and want to reblog, but doesn't necessarily need to be reblogged right away (does anything really actually need to be reblogged right away? very few things do. anyway...). there are a lot of reasons people might use the queue feature. i know some people are only able to get on tumblr for an hour or two every day but want their blog to remain active even when they aren't there, so they fill their queue and have it post during the hours they know they can't be online, and others might have their own reasons to use a queue, but for me, i usually use it for a few different reasons.

the first is because i don't want to completely spam people with like 200 posts in 20 or 30 minutes and then just be completely gone for the rest of the day or even more than that. i still spam people when i'm online lololol but not nearly as bad as it would be if i wasn't constantly adding posts to my queue to post later lol

another reason is that i can't be on regularly, so i do like my blog staying active even if i'm not online. it feels like less pressure for me to be on and keeping up with everything for some reason, even though there's literally no pressure? i dunno. i like feeling present even if i'm not able to actually be there if that makes sense.

another reason though, and one i'm becoming more and more passionate about as time goes on and the culture of fandom continues to shift, is that i get frustrated with the speed with which things seem to come and go, content wise. if i am not able to be online during a louis show or harry or niall or whatever or in the immediate hours that follow, i feel like there's little to no chance of me seeing any content from that show unless i actually go to update accounts and seek out that content myself and i don't... do well with remembering what the update accounts are since i don't really follow them closely lmao i like coming across the content on my dash because people are still basking in it hours, days, weeks, YEARS later. so when the content starts coming out for the shows and i'm able to be online, i only actually reblog maybe half of what i'm seeing and i try to queue the rest so that they will still come up later. try to slow down the content a little bit and help it still be seen beyond those first few hours, show there's still a desire to have that content out there even if the gifs aren't posted immediately or whatever.

TAKE YOUR TIME MAKING THE CONTENT FOR WHATEVER SHOW OR VIDEO OR WHATEVER YOU CHOOSE TO MAKE. I PROMISE I WANT IT AND IF I SEE IT I WILL REBLOG WHENEVER IT GOES UP. or i'll queue it. if you see me liking a post of yours and it isn't immediately reblogged, it's okay. it WILL BE. i've liked it to show myself later it's okay, i have either previously reblogged it or i have queued it so i know i will have it on my blog in an attempt to not have too many repeats. lol which still happens cause my memory is horrible. but yeah.

so anyway. that's what a queue is. and a lot of us use silly tags for our queue that is usually a play on words or sounds or whatever. mine is cue the queue because i like homophones (words that are spelled differently but said the same way) and so i use that. but yeah, unfortunately the tag is only added if i'm on desktop, it doesn't automatically add when i'm on mobile which is annoying and therefore only maybe 1/3 of the time do the posts that are posting from my queue have that tag, but it's okay. i do try. (those of us that tag for our queues use a tag so that people can see the blog is active but they can know that while the posts are there, we aren't actually online. that way people don't think we're like purposefully ignoring them or something if they reach out and we don't immediately respond)

and there you have it! i hope this is thorough enough in what a queue is, why it exists, and what the tags might mean so everything you keep seeing people mentioning or talking about makes sense for you :D

#asks #Anonymous #i get a lot of questions about what a queue is #i should maybe tag these responses so i can easily link them to the times i've blathered on about it before #rather than creating a new one every time #somethign to consider perhaps #about queue #hahaha another fun pun hehe

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harrison-abbott · 5 months ago

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Fluorescent Suspicion

You were walking along the high street, to the shoe shop at the far end. This was one of the longest streets in the UK and there were maybe three thousand other people with you, walking in different ways. You passed tourists, who always walked at a slower pace. And men in plush suits with stern faces; and disgruntled mothers with their noisy bairns; you passed the corporate shops on the side of you, with huge pictures of models advertising jewellery; and you passed the fast food chain with its gory world-famous logo. Right next to the fast food joint was a Job Centre. And in between them was a man sitting on a strip of cardboard, and you thought it must be even more awful these days, because most people didn’t use cash anymore. You moved on and you came to that famous monument that always appeared on postcards celebrating the city, with its masonry all blackened from the industrial age. You took a turn off the main street, and a bus hurtled past your body at ferocious speed: was only two yards away, and it sure would’ve killed you had you been a couple of yards to the right. There was a chain coffeeshop nearby with adults sitting outside, and a competing bar beyond that with folks getting drunk, all in the muggy summer heat. You heard the laughs and screams of the public and you didn’t know the stories, what the chat was. You passed a music record store that was somehow still surviving in the year 2024. Pigeons dabbled about on the lane with their pretty turquoise necks that twitched about. You passed a busker who was trying valiantly and he must’ve been in his early twenties and he wore a cap and you admired his trying. Finally, you reached the shoe shop. It was actually a fashion job, for discount clothes. When you walked in you passed a security guard. And he followed you with his fluorescent suspicion as you headed along the aisle. This had happened to you a few times before: security guards following you, and you wondered why you gave off a criminal vibe. You had money and you were only here to buy shoes. Just a cheap pair of trainers was all you were after. You picked a pair of trainers off the shelf that must’ve been made somewhere 5000 miles away, by some poor bastard who was being fucked over by globalisation. And you felt bad to be where you were from instead, and contributing to inequality. When you waited in the queue, the security guard from earlier was still eyeballing you. You made sure to get your receipt from the girl at the counter. And you walked past the security guard with the receipt in your hand, and you went up the escalator, and back outside again, and it was actually hotter in the street than it’d been in the store. With that stuffy tired late summer air.

#writeblr #creative writing #writers on tumblr #tumblr writers #prose #spilled ink #stories #short fiction #fiction #short story

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marvul-imagines · 2 years ago

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Chapter One

Everything was black. Asia barely remembered closing her eyes. And then suddenly, it wasn't. She let out a gasp, air flooding her lungs, eyes rapidly taking in her surroundings. Her notably different surroundings. Her eyes started darting about, taking in everything. The room was dark and there was a spotlight on one item ; a giant, sleet and red Monolith, not unlike the one which swallowed up Jemma only two years ago. Her heart started to beat quicker in her chest and she turned to look for Leo, to reach for his hand, and she met only empty air. "Where's Leo?" She asked, the words coming out hoarse, as if she had been coughing. "Where's Leo?" She repeated when no one replied, unsure if anyone had heard her.

But before anyone could answer, the grey rock slipped into liquid, rushing towards them. She tried to turn and run, to liquify herself and disappear into the air, but it was too late. The liquid rock coated her and everything, once again was black.

And then it wasn't.

Everything around her was slowed, like moving in molasses. She lifted up her hand, which was an effort in itself, to look at her fingers. They appeared to have small, crystalline structures forming around them and grey lines streaming off of her hand as she waved her hand back and forth in front of her. What the hell was going on? She turned slowly trying to get a visual on her surroundings, trying to pick up any queues on where the hell that outer space rock had sent her. Before she could make a full turn, she was moving at full speed once again. Like her feet landed on the ground as if she had been on the downturn of a jump the entire time.

She was standing in a dark room, grey walls and floor, dimly lit by a few floor lights. So she was somewhere with intelligent life. Because wherever the hell she was, at very least, it was inside. She brushed off her pants that seemed to have a weird, grey residue on them and looked around. Her eyes lit up when they landed on one thing familiar: "Daisy!"

The brunette looked up, wide eyed, and met her gaze. "Asia, thank fuck!" She said, running to her friend and wrapping her in a hug. "Where are we? What is going on here?" The unspoken question of why the hell is this always happening to us? floating in the air between them.

"I think...we're in space," Asia said slowly, gesturing behind her friend. There was a small window, just tiny enough to look out of, that showed out beyond the room they were in. Out into an inky black like none Asia had ever seen before. And it was pinged dots of light every now and then, milky and silver and beautiful. Stars. The things her father had spent her childhood teaching her so much about. A place she never thought she would see in real life, but here she was. This was Shield after all. It seemed more and more that nothing was outside the realm of possibility.

"And, Leo isn't here," Asia whispered quietly as Daisy's eyes flicked to meet hers. "He wasn't in the room with the Monolith. When it swallowed us. So we're separated...again." There was a deep, aching sorrow in her tone. It seemed that no matter where she went, no matter what she did, the universe seemed to find a way to keep them from each other. Once, long ago, Leo had mentioned as if it felt like they were cursed, and in moments like this...it felt like he was right.

"We'll find him, Asia," Daisy said quietly, taking her friend's hand and giving it a quick squeeze. "But first, let's find the others who are stuck here." She glanced around the room for a moment, before nodding towards a door. "Also, while we're looking...is it just me, or did that Monolith look different than the last one?"

"It did," Asia agreed. "It had those weird red cuts in it, three of them. And while we're in outer space, we're...definitely not on a planet. So they clearly don't all go to the same place. Which is interesting, and terrifying all at once. If there's another one out there, how many more are there, and where do they all go? And why weren't we all displaced into the same room?" She reached forward and opened the door for her friend.

Neither of them would have any time to answer the questions, for once the door was open they heard the shouting and gunshots. The two looked at each other, eyes widening, and without another thought or word they took off running. Down the hall and around the corner, closer and closer to the sound of gunshots and familiar voices. When they rounded another corner in the dimly lit, metal halls, they saw something terrifying. An...alien? of some sort. Grey and scaled, yet catlike in it's leaps and bounds. If it weren't for the odd lizard appearance, Asia could have seen it as a leopard. And beyond the running beast was their team, or at least those of them who had made the trip.

Without a second thought, the two Inhumans thrust out their hands. Asia froze the thing to the ground, and Daisy quaked it to bits, some body matter splattering against the sheet-grey walls. Their friends looked up, wide eyed, before relieved smiles crossed the faces of Coulson, Jemma, Mack, and Yoyo.

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"What if we're still in the Framework?" Yoyo asked, and the small group broke into a frenzy as panic coated Asia like sweat. They couldn't be. They couldn't. But that would make more sense as to why Leo wasn't here either. But they had killed Aida, Framework or not, so she couldn't have come back for him. She used this thought to rationalize the question for herself. It wasn't possible.

"We should focus on finding May," she spoke up, desperately trying to change the subject to something more barrable. "She was in the room with us when the Monolith sucked us all in, so she has to be here somewhere. We need to get to her before one of those aliens gets to her first."

"Monroe is right," Coulson said nodding. "We need to find May and get somewhere safe so we can figure out what the hell is going on here and where exactly here is. We should split up."

"Hell no, you did not just say we should split up," Mack said, crossing his arms over his chest. "We have to stick together. We don't even know what we're up against here. There were those people and now aliens too."

"It does cover the most ground," Daisy pointed out logistically. "If we want to find May, we need to be seeing as much as we can, and quickly." Asia nodded towards her friend, acknowledging her point. May was a badass, that was never in question. But aliens like that weren't exactly something you could go toe to toe with.

"Yea, yea, sure," Mack scoffed. "Clearly, none of you have watched enough movies. That's what the group always says before they get picked off, one by one. Which is exactly what will happen to us if we go through with this." He looked warily down the hall, as if he were expecting another creature to appear from thin air. For all they knew, they had the ability to do that.

Asia turned to Coulson before all of this got even further out of hand. "It's your call, Sir," she said calmly and evenly. He was, after all, without anyone even having to speak a word on it, back to being Director of Shield. If there even was a Shield to direct when they got back home.

So that was how they ended up all walking down the dimly lit halls together, V formation, with Asia and Daisy in the lead, hands already outstretched in preparation. Every sound caused the group to freeze, checking their surroundings, making sure no one and nothing was sneaking up on them in this foreign hallway. Foreign hallway in space with aliens. The thought still felt odd in all of their heads. So far, it had just been the settling of whatever this place was. It had to be a spaceship of some sort...right? Asia could wrap her head around no other way that the space outside the window would be so incredibly close.

When they reached a corner, Yoyo would dash down and scan the area, making sure that they weren't walking into a trap. After a while, they finally came across something. A flare, red, shining and fading in the hallway outside of a single door. With a nod, Mack kicked the door down and they all pushed in. The room was empty, except for several dead bodies and a trail of blood on the floor.

"Look," Daisy said, nodding towards a computer labeled 'Water acclimation.' She quickly moved towards it, tapping the English keyboard to life, the words in front of them also reading in the familiar language. "It looks like they're tracking debris fields, something they call 'frozen oceans,'" she said, a bit of a furrow in her brow.

"They're collecting water from ice in space," Jemma said suddenly as she looked over Daisy's shoulder. "There's people here. A colony," she turned to face Coulson, eyes wide.

"That means unless everyone on here came through the Monolith...we're close enough to Earth for anyone on this ship to travel here," Asia said quietly, staring down at the screen in front of them. They would know about a colony of humans in space, wouldn't they? Why were all these people up here to begin with?

"Just as importantly, it means if these individuals are collecting ice, then they have some sort of space shuttle," Jemma explained. "And if that's the case, then it would only be logical to assume they also have a laser based transmission system. If we can find that ship and fly above the debris fields..." She turned and looked at Asia, wondering if the brunette was catching on to what she was saying.

And she did. The brunette's eyes lit up. "Then we can send a message to Leo on Earth and let him know where we are." and that we're safe, she thought to herself. He would want to know they were okay, that they were all okay. And then, she wondered, not for the first time, why he wasn't brought with them to begin with.

"Sounds like the start of a great plan," Daisy said, continuing to click at the keys until suddenly a large, red box popped up before them. Human access denied. It read, followed by another line of text in a different language beneath it. Her brow furrowed and she turned to her team. "Coulson, Asia...either of you recognize this from one of those languages you seem to collect like trading cards?"

Both agents took a look and shook their heads. "That's...I don't think that's a human language," Asia said quietly, biting her lower lip. She recognized a lot of text, forms of text, and this didn't look remotely to resemble anything that humans had spoken or written over the last several hundred years.

"I think Monroe is right," Coulson nodded. "And I don't think people are the ones running this ship after all." As he spoke, there was a loud thudding on the door behind them, causing the entire team to spin around.

The door was thrust open and in walked three, heavily armed, Kree soldiers. One held up a large, blue, glowing gun which let a pulse echo throughout the room, knocking the group to the ground. Asia felt the impact as her body slumped downwards, her eyes starting to roll back into her head, black fading around her eyes like curtains closing on a stage.

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"Good morning, darling," a smooth, Scottish voice tickled at her ears as she stretched out her arms, waking up between cool sheets and a warm comforter, both crisp and white. The voice was like honey in her ears, warm and comforting. She rolled and opened her eyes to see Leo Fitz, standing beside her in a warm bedroom with light streaming in through the windows. He was leaning over her, one hand reaching to tuck a strand of hair back from her face.

"How long did I sleep?" She asked, voice still thick with tiredness. "I had the weirdest dream. There was another Monolith and I went to space. It was weird. You were gone from me again." She blinked, the image of him growing fuzzy before her. She sat up, blinking rapidly. "Leo?" She asked in a worried voice, as his face blipped in and out like a glitch on a screen.

"It's time to wake up, love. Your team needs you," he said, his voice cutting in and out as he spoke to her. She leaned towards him, reaching out, fingers stretching as far as they could as she called out his name again.

Then she opened her eyes, waking up for real this time, sheets replaced by smooth metal as she took in the prison cell that surrounded her.

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thessalian · 1 year ago

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Thess vs Computers in General

Computers. I love them, but sometimes I also hate them. Well, let's be fair, it's not the computers that I hate; they only allow me to access things, really, so it's the things that they access that I love or hate, and I can love them unconditionally because they allow me to access the good stuff and the bad stuff isn't their fault.

(Yes, I anthropomorphise my computers. We all do, I think. It's why we give them names. My current one is Gilmore, because my current one is powerful and glorious - and also has a colour-shifting LED in there so it's basically a Pride flag with a CPU.)

Anyway. Annoyances with the work systems continue, because ... well, they listened to about the whole thing where the software wasn't marking finished dictations as finished - sort of. What they did was try to make it so that it would attach our names to bits of dictation so they'd be able to look at a bit of dictation and know a typist had been at it even if it still got listed as Transcription Pending. Except ... well, despite the fact that we all log on to our own separate instances of this software and so it should be able to be an automatic thing to have our name stapled to them ... well, it should be automatic to have it listed as Finished when we click "Finished" and it's not doing that either. So what we have now is, every time we click a bit of dictation to type, a little window pops up and obliges us to put our initials into it before we can proceed to the typing. And because of the limitations of our frankly bullshit IT infrastructure, there's just enough pause between the clicking on the bit of dictation and the window popping open that, if you're on "speed-typing autopilot" (which I am basically all the time), you can kind of forget and leave the remote desktop window for the main desktop window where you're supposed to type the report. And then you press Play on the footpedal and nothing happens and then you remember and it's like, "Oh, fuck". IT Guy says he's going to try to automate the initials thing, but I'm not holding my breath. We're apparently not even going to be using this iteration of the software for that long anyway, so why they're making these changes is beyond me.

Also I still can't drag and drop a chunk of typing into my personal queue. This makes it harder to manage my workload effectively, and also not only makes it easier for Temp to pick out all the nice little short easy typing she craves, but also makes it easier to hide that she's doing it, because I have no way of checking up on her. I know she's doing it; I just couldn't prove it if I was asked to. So ... yeah, this is great for her and sucks for me. Story of my life where work is concerned, to be fair.

There was a break at 3pm-ish. Well. I say 'break', but that was the most tense part of my day, I think. Because that was when the autograph slots for the Critical Role cast's upcoming visit to London's MCM Comic Con went on sale. Now, after one year of missing it because I didn't know I had to book in advance (though I met a lovely woman who is now one of my D&D players, so it worked out okay), and another year of missing it because global pandemic, I was going to up and fucking die if I had to miss it again. And that was even with seeing the prices on the tickets.

Side note: I can talk about this now - there was an issue when I saw how expensive the tickets were going to be. Like, we're talking £63 per autograph. That's nearly doubled from the last time, if memory serves me. Now, my mother had agreed to having the autographs and the ticket to the expo itself be my combination Christmas / birthday gift for the 2023/2024 holiday season (my birthday's in February so that's kind of how I look at it) but £63 x 8 is £504 and the ticket itself brings the entire thing up to an even £600 and that was just ... way, way too much to ask. Yes, even for both gift-giving events. So I emailed my mother going, "This is what it is going to cost and I will totally understand if it is too much; can we please discuss something reasonable?" And she emailed me back with a "Yikes" and an offer of paying for just over half of them. Thankfully I had some money squirreled away for a new graphics card. I hadn't been saving for very long, so there was only just about enough to cover it if I pitched in some of this month's fun money, but y'know what? A new graphics card can wait. I have been waiting years for this, and I may never get this chance again.

Anyway, so I made sure everything was set up - debit card out and at the ready, MCM page open to let me refresh for the "Book Tickets Here" button as quickly as possible, etc etc, and a couple of minutes before 3pm, I moved from my little WFH office set-up to my home set-up (I have a long desk; the side near the window is my rig and dual monitors; the other side is my dinky work laptop propped on a bunch of RPG sourcebooks) and started navigating. Now, the first thing that happened was unbelievably slow loading as everyone swamped the page at once.

The next thing that happened was the whole server crashed on their end. Some of you might have heard the frustrated Quebecois swearing.

Thankfully that did not last long and things were running a lot smoother after that. And, after a bit of poking around my bank app validating the purchase (to be fair, that's a big spend for me) ... confirmation page and confirmation email went *ping* at me.

...So ... this is actually happening.

After all these years, THIS IS FINALLY HAPPENING!

It's going to hurt. It's going to hurt like hell. But it's going to be so worth it. And the best part? I'll have help! Mum can't go because she's visiting North America on that specific weekend, more's the pity, but she'd only have been coming on the Friday anyway. However, one of my D&D players - the one I met at MCM Comic Con the last time the Critical Role cast came to town - is coming as well, and I have offered her my sofa for the long weekend and I'll have company and someone with me in case of anything worse than the ow. You know, the bullshit like vertigo, balance problems, all that kind of thing. And someone to figuratively speaking slap me upside the head if I start going, "Eh, maybe I don't need an accessibility lanyard..."

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to find some way of dealing with adrenaline afterburn. Because I was honestly expecting more to go wrong and it didn't but my body was in fight-or-flight mode for days and I am still vibrating. Also I probably need to start actively thinking about Scent of a Warden-ing Bell's Hells...

(Also I think I am going to raid the blackberry bushes that grow around the local cemetery and make blackberry tea out of them. And give some to Taliesin because a) actual Dead People Tea and b) how much more goth do you get than "blackberries from a literal cemetery"?)

#Thess has a day job #mcm expo

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parksaversnews · 1 day ago

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Celebrate Space Mountain's 50th Anniversary at Walt Disney World Through Sound

Space Mountain, one of Disney's most iconic attractions, is not just a thrilling roller coaster but an auditory masterpiece. Its soundscape, carefully crafted to enhance the immersive experience, is a crucial part of what makes this ride unforgettable! In here, we’ll explore the history and evolution of Space Mountain’s music across its various iterations, from Disneyland to Walt Disney World and beyond. Whether you're a die-hard Disney fan or just someone who loves the magic of themed entertainment, this deep dive into the Space Mountain soundscape will leave you ready to blast off into the cosmos! https://youtu.be/d62ll-f-tC8?si=LNySQefUjs9n5Yoc

The Origins of Space Mountain and Its Soundtrack

When Space Mountain first opened at Disneyland in 1977, it was a groundbreaking attraction. Designed as an indoor roller coaster with a futuristic space theme, it quickly became a fan favorite. However, the ride initially operated without an onboard soundtrack. It wasn’t until 1996 that music was added to Disneyland's Space Mountain, transforming the experience into an audio-visual spectacle. The addition of music was spearheaded by composer Michael Giacchino, who created a score that perfectly synchronized with the ride's twists and turns. Giacchino’s work was revolutionary; he used sensors along the track to trigger specific musical cues, ensuring that the soundtrack matched the ride's pacing regardless of variations in speed. This innovation set a new standard for theme park attractions.

Disneyland’s Space Mountain

The current soundtrack for Disneyland’s Space Mountain is an exhilarating orchestral piece composed by Giacchino. It begins with a suspenseful buildup as riders ascend the first lift hill, accompanied by ambient space sounds and subtle melodies. As the rocket plunges into darkness, the music crescendos into a thrilling symphony that mirrors every twist, turn, and drop of the coaster. During seasonal overlays like Hyperspace Mountain, inspired by Star Wars, the soundtrack shifts to incorporate iconic themes from John Williams’ legendary scores. This overlay immerses riders in an intergalactic battle, complete with sound effects like laser blasts and TIE fighter screeches.

Walt Disney World’s Space Mountain

Interestingly, Walt Disney World's Space Mountain in Florida has taken a different approach to its soundscape. Unlike its Disneyland counterpart, it does not feature onboard music during regular operation. Instead, it relies on atmospheric background music in its queue areas and exit tunnels. The queue area features ambient tracks that evoke the vastness of space, setting the mood for adventure. The Star Tunnel music is particularly beloved by fans for its ethereal tones and sense of wonder. While onboard audio is absent during the ride itself, seasonal events like Mickey’s Very Merry Christmas Party introduce temporary soundtracks to enhance the festive atmosphere.

Space Mountain Tokyo and Paris

Space Mountain attractions around the world each have unique soundscapes tailored to their themes. Tokyo Disneyland’s version originally mirrored Disneyland’s but underwent significant changes in 2006. Today, it features a more modern soundtrack that aligns with its futuristic aesthetic. Right now the ride is undergoing major changes and will be closed for the next couple of years. Be sure to check back here for all future updates! Meanwhile, Disneyland Paris offers perhaps the most dramatic variation with Star Wars Hyperspace Mountain. This version combines Giacchino’s compositions with Star Wars themes to create an adrenaline-pumping experience that feels like piloting an X-Wing fighter through space battles.

Rockin’ Space Mountain and Ghost Galaxy

Disneyland has experimented with temporary overlays that introduce new soundscapes to Space Mountain. One notable example is Rockin’ Space Mountain, which debuted in 2007 as part of Disney’s Year of a Million Dreams celebration. This overlay featured an energetic rock soundtrack by the Red Hot Chili Peppers, including remixed versions of Higher Ground. The music was synchronized with colorful projections and strobe lights for a high-energy experience unlike any other! Another popular overlay was Ghost Galaxy, introduced during Halloween seasons from 2009 to 2019. This version replaced Giacchino’s orchestral score with eerie music and haunting sound effects. The result was a spine-chilling journey through a galaxy haunted by spectral apparitions!

The Role of Music in Immersion

The soundscape of Space Mountain does more than entertain—it immerses riders in its narrative. From the moment guests enter the queue, they are enveloped in an auditory environment that builds anticipation. Whether it’s the ambient hum of spacecraft or the climactic orchestral swells during high-speed drops, every note is designed to enhance storytelling! Michael Giacchino once described his approach as composing for a movie that people ride through. This philosophy underscores how integral music is to creating emotional connections between guests and attractions!

A Galactic Symphony That Endures

Space Mountain’s soundscape is more than just background noise—it’s an essential part of what makes this attraction timeless. From Michael Giacchino’s groundbreaking compositions at Disneyland to the atmospheric queues at Walt Disney World and innovative overlays like Hyperspace Mountain and Rockin’ Space Mountain, each iteration offers something unique while staying true to its interstellar theme! For fans of Disney Parks or anyone who appreciates immersive storytelling through music, Space Mountain remains a shining example of how sound can elevate an experience from thrilling to unforgettable. So next time you board your rocket ship and hear those first few notes swell around you, remember: you’re not just riding a roller coaster—you’re embarking on a symphonic journey through space! Read the full article

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annabelledarcie · 13 days ago

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Voice-Activated AI: A New Era of Intelligent Customer Service

In today’s fast-paced digital landscape, customers have high expectations when it comes to service quality and accessibility. The rise of AI and voice-activated technology has reshaped the way businesses engage with their customers. From personalized interactions to round-the-clock availability, voice-activated AI is ushering in a new era of intelligent customer service.

Voice-activated AI refers to systems that leverage speech recognition and natural language processing (NLP) to understand and respond to customer inquiries through voice commands. With the growing use of smart speakers, virtual assistants, and AI-driven chatbots, voice-activated AI is redefining customer interactions, providing quicker, more efficient solutions, and enhancing customer satisfaction. In this blog, we will explore how voice-activated AI is revolutionizing customer service and why it’s becoming a game-changer for businesses across industries.

What is Voice-Activated AI?

Voice-activated AI is a technology that allows users to interact with devices, software, or systems through voice commands. By utilizing speech recognition, AI systems can interpret spoken language and respond in real-time, providing an interactive and conversational experience.

The voice-activated systems powering this technology are often integrated with AI algorithms like machine learning (ML) and NLP. These systems can analyze not only the literal meaning of words but also the context and sentiment behind them, enabling more natural and engaging conversations. Examples of popular voice-activated AI systems include Amazon Alexa, Google Assistant, Siri, and chatbots used by businesses in customer support.

For businesses, voice-activated AI presents a unique opportunity to provide highly personalized, efficient, and scalable customer service solutions that go beyond traditional text-based communication.

Key Benefits of Voice-Activated AI for Customer Service

1. Enhanced Customer Experience

Voice-activated AI brings a significant improvement to the customer experience by offering instant responses to inquiries. One of the key advantages is the ability to interact naturally with customers in a conversational manner. This form of interaction eliminates the need for long wait times, as customers can speak directly to the system rather than navigating through long phone menus or waiting in queue for a human agent.

By utilizing voice commands, customers can effortlessly access information, resolve issues, place orders, or check the status of their requests—all through a simple voice interaction. The convenience and speed offered by voice-activated AI enhance the customer’s overall experience and increase satisfaction, as they no longer have to waste time on repetitive tasks or lengthy processes.

2. 24/7 Availability

Another significant benefit of voice-activated AI is its ability to provide around-the-clock support. Traditional customer service agents can only work in shifts, but voice-activated AI never needs a break, making it an ideal solution for businesses that operate across different time zones or require constant availability.

With voice-activated AI, customers can receive help at any time of day, even outside of regular business hours. This capability not only boosts customer satisfaction but also ensures that businesses can meet the needs of their customers at all times, driving engagement and loyalty.

3. Efficiency and Quick Resolution of Issues

Voice-activated AI dramatically reduces the time customers spend searching for answers to their questions. Whether customers are inquiring about product details, troubleshooting a technical issue, or seeking assistance with billing inquiries, the AI system can process and respond to requests almost instantly.

Since voice-activated AI systems are designed to handle common queries, businesses can free up human agents to focus on more complex or unique customer issues. This leads to quicker resolution times for customers, greater operational efficiency, and improved customer retention.

For example, if a customer calls about a technical problem, voice-activated AI can walk them through a series of troubleshooting steps based on the customer’s input, instantly providing a solution. If the issue is beyond the AI’s capabilities, it can escalate the conversation to a human representative, ensuring that the customer is always taken care of.

4. Cost Savings and Resource Optimization

Adopting voice-activated AI for customer service can help businesses reduce operational costs. By automating routine inquiries, businesses can minimize the need for large customer support teams and direct agents to handle more complex problems. This helps reduce staffing costs, while also allowing businesses to scale their support systems without the need to hire additional staff.

Additionally, voice-activated AI helps businesses manage high volumes of customer interactions efficiently. During peak periods, such as product launches or promotional events, voice bots can handle large numbers of inquiries without compromising quality. As a result, businesses can ensure a smooth customer service experience during times of high demand, without overburdening their human agents.

5. Personalization and Context-Aware Interactions

One of the most compelling aspects of voice-activated AI is its ability to offer personalized interactions. AI systems can analyze customer data, including previous interactions, preferences, and behavior, to tailor responses based on the customer’s unique needs. This level of personalization allows businesses to deliver a more customized experience, which can improve customer satisfaction and foster brand loyalty.

For example, a customer who frequently orders from a particular product category can be greeted by a voice-activated AI system that recommends similar products or offers personalized discounts. This not only enhances the experience but also increases opportunities for cross-selling and upselling.

Additionally, voice-activated AI systems are capable of context-aware interactions. This means they can retain context from previous conversations, enabling a continuous dialogue. If a customer calls about an issue they raised earlier, the AI can remember the context of the conversation and provide more relevant information without the customer needing to repeat themselves.

6. Multilingual Support

For businesses with a global customer base, voice-activated AI can offer multilingual support, making it easier to cater to customers across different regions. With AI systems capable of understanding and speaking multiple languages, businesses can engage with a wider audience without the need to hire staff fluent in every language.

Voice-activated AI can automatically detect the language of the customer and respond in the preferred language, helping break down language barriers and ensuring effective communication. This is particularly valuable for businesses looking to expand internationally or serve customers from diverse backgrounds.

7. Seamless Integration with Other Systems

Voice-activated AI can easily integrate with existing business systems such as CRM platforms, order management systems, payment gateways, and helpdesk software. This integration allows AI systems to access up-to-date customer data, manage transactions, track customer inquiries, and provide relevant answers in real-time.

For example, an AI voice bot can pull up a customer’s previous orders from a CRM system, offering personalized recommendations or providing status updates on a pending order. This integration not only enhances the efficiency of customer service but also ensures a more cohesive and streamlined customer experience.

Real-World Applications of Voice-Activated AI in Customer Service

1. Retail and E-Commerce

Retailers and e-commerce companies are increasingly adopting voice-activated AI to enhance their customer support. Voice assistants can handle inquiries about product availability, shipping details, returns, and promotions, ensuring customers receive immediate responses.

For example, Amazon Alexa enables customers to inquire about their orders, check the status of deliveries, or even make purchases using voice commands, providing a convenient and efficient shopping experience.

2. Telecommunications

Telecommunications companies are using voice-activated AI to manage a range of customer interactions, such as billing inquiries, technical support, and account management. Customers can ask about their account balances, request changes to their service plan, or troubleshoot technical issues, all without speaking to a human agent.

For instance, AT&T’s AI voice assistant can help customers make payments, check usage, and resolve common issues related to their services, significantly improving the customer experience.

3. Healthcare

Voice-activated AI is being leveraged in the healthcare industry to assist patients with appointment scheduling, health inquiries, and prescription refills. AI-driven voice systems can provide patients with important information, such as medication reminders, upcoming appointments, or general health guidance, improving efficiency and reducing administrative burdens.

4. Banking and Financial Services

Banks and financial institutions are integrating voice-activated AI for account inquiries, fraud detection, loan information, and transaction assistance. For example, Bank of America’s Erica is a virtual assistant that allows customers to inquire about their account balances, track spending, and even transfer funds—all via voice commands.

The Future of Voice-Activated AI in Customer Service

The role of voice-activated AI in customer service is set to expand further as technology continues to advance. As AI becomes more sophisticated, it will be able to handle increasingly complex tasks, offering even more personalized and context-aware interactions. In the future, voice-activated AI will likely evolve to provide richer, more nuanced conversations that closely resemble human interactions, creating a seamless customer experience.

Moreover, as businesses continue to adopt AI solutions, they will be able to collect and analyze more data, allowing them to refine their AI systems and better understand customer preferences and pain points. This continuous learning process will lead to more efficient, responsive, and intelligent voice-activated AI solutions, ultimately transforming the way businesses engage with their customers.

Conclusion

Voice-activated AI is fundamentally transforming the customer service landscape, offering businesses an opportunity to streamline operations, improve efficiency, and enhance customer experiences. With its ability to provide 24/7 availability, handle a wide range of customer interactions, and offer personalized, context-aware solutions, voice-activated AI is ushering in a new era of intelligent customer service.

By leveraging voice-activated AI, businesses can deliver faster, more efficient, and personalized customer support, leading to higher customer satisfaction, increased loyalty, and reduced operational costs. As AI technology continues to advance, the potential for voice-activated systems in customer service will only continue to grow, shaping the future of customer engagement across industries.

#Voice-activated AI

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