#passenger power

[kitty-gray]

Wait a minute.

I don't think Ty ever learned to drive. Does this. Does this mean Kit would have to teach him on the road.

[compacflt]

in regard to the icemav convo about american made cars: I think it would be funny if after mav gets his regular license, ice buys him a truck that they can use for transporting stuff to the hangar and when he gifts it to mav all the man can do is laugh bc stamped across the ass is MAVERICK. It’s a 2023 ford maverick (in area 51 bc I’m partial to that color)

and mav likes it, but he doesn’t love driving it bc it’s so big (and he just likes being a passenger princess too much), so ice drives it mostly which inspires a whole lot of jokes about ice liking having maverick’s name stamped on his ass. bradley gags from the other room every time.

if it matters to u, i agree with this hc 150% on rhetoric grounds. thank god for your mind.

however i would like to raise the issue that recent american pickup trucks have become non-useful, overexpensive, and suburban-coded in a way i think ice and mav would reject. the ford maverick was built with the intention of dropping kindergarteners off at school, not of actually doing hard labor. see below infographic for what I mean.

It’s a fucking travesty. Trucks are so ugly and useless now. the maverick is not immune to this. (maverick below)

what good is having a fucking truck if it can’t even hold two REGULAR ASS BIKES in the bed. & when the bed is empty the chassis is unbalanced in a way that leads to more accidents etc. (tbf that was true in the 70s/80s too but im feeling more hateful towards modern trucks rn). In short—the modern American pickup truck is no longer useful, it’s a way to virtue signal to other Americans that you *think * you know what hard labor is, even when you’re driving around in a glorified odyssey with a teeny tiny bed that can barely hold a couple bags of mulch for the back garden

ice & mav don’t even have any little kids anymore, i think they’d consider a backseat useless & a waste of space

SO i would like to offer you a Compromise, which is that ice & mav buy either (or both) a 1974 ford maverick AND/OR a 1990 ford maverick

for the Funny Name & coolness factor (& the “making Bradley vom cause of how cute his parents are” factor), and then soup up, like, a 1984 Chevy C10 for actual towing/hauling purposes.

[superkitten-poison]

rip velvette you would have loved tiktok’s rehashes of gender essentialism as silly trends and memes

[communist-ojou-sama]

My most climate Stalin take is that I still maintain that anything less than reducing private automobile use by at least 90% in 20 years is utterly unserious nonsense. You may claim that that will completely throw lives into disarray but again, peoples lives Not being thrown into disarray is out of the question now. Long term viability should take total priority over short-term comfort in planning these things

[mariocki]

Voyage of the Damned (1976)

"Will we ever come back?"

"It's only a temporary madness. Of course we come back."

[emberwritesinsight]

Touga and Kozue have maybe the most amicable relationship of any two characters with Parallels(TM) in Utena, and the entire cast (particularly Miki) is incredibly lucky that they only acted as partners in crime once.

[nartothelar]

Wait was that guy just some random dude having a convo??? He got fucking BANNED from the subway system for having his own convo?? God forbid you have an argument on the battle subway next thing u know you can’t get to work bc they don’t like you

they admitted to doing something in the comic; I assure you, they know very well that they deserved the ban

[alfredosauce50]

Passengers

[America x reader] 02

Wordcount: 4, 278

Rating: M for mature themes

Disclaimer: This is a crossover with the film Passengers (2016). I do not own the plot.

The reader is referred to as she/her.

Alfred ambled through the grand concourse with his head hanging like a scolded dog. And his lips, pursed in a deep frown. With all his focus on his feet, he managed to walk right past the ship’s bar, which was miraculously open in his time of need. And he would’ve kept walking if it weren’t for the human figure in the corner of his vision--wait a second.

He stopped abruptly, feet skidding against the floor, then paced back a few steps. His eyes went wide to take in what he saw, or what he thought he saw, and sure enough, there was a bartender polishing a glass!

“Oh, man!” Alfred gasped, running to him with glee. The other smiled curtly, welcoming their guest into their kingdom. A classy jazz bar. “It’s so good to see another face! I thought I was the only one awake.”

“Who wants to sleep on a beautiful day like this?”

He had short, choppy blonde hair, a roundish face, and bright green eyes. If his accent didn’t give it away, those features certainly did. There was always something about the British he could pinpoint off the bat. Either way, he felt strangely at ease, taken by the charm of the staff and the establishment alike.

Bottles of all the liquor you could possibly want were stacked neatly on shelves, and behind them was a glowing panel of white marble. The rest of the interior was space gray with gold accents, and one wall was dedicated entirely to a mural of a spaceship.

“No, I mean we’re in trouble,” He slowed down as he got to the counter. “We’re not supposed to be here.”

“Well, I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“Huh?”

“Our little secret.” The bartender put down the glass he’d been polishing ceaselessly for the past minute. Then, he placed both hands on the counter invitingly, beaming at the man. “What can I get for you?”

“What?”

“You look like a whiskey man.”

“Uh, okay?” He finally gave in to their relentless hospitality, but the decision never had him backtracking so fast. His only other companion, a stranger, moved to another side of the bar without taking a single step, or more accurately put, whirred, almost like he was attached to the ground. Alfred ran forward and slammed his hands on the counter with next to no grace, then peered over it. Just as he suspected, a metal rod was going up the guy’s ass. And so, he slid onto one of the barstools with the most disappointed glower. “Oh. You’re a robot.”

“Android, technically.” They corrected, filling a glass with brownish-orange liquid. “Arthur’s the name.”

“Alfred,” He took the cup, raising it briefly as a gesture of thanks. Giving that a longer sip than he would have, he leaned back and thought for a bit. The spaced-out look in his eyes never left as he popped the question, which captured the bane of his existence. “How much do you know about this ship?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur blinked inquisitively, glancing up, then down at him again. “I know some things.”

“What do I do if my hibernation pod malfunctions?”

“Oh, hibernation pods are fail-safe,” The man smiled assuringly. “They never malfunction.”

“Well, I woke up early.” Alfred countered.

“Can’t happen,” He picked up another glass and polished it, just as he did the second he got here.

“How long until we get to Homestead II?”

“About 90 years or so.”

“And when are all the passengers supposed to wake up?” Alfred smiled tightly, feigning curiosity.

“Not till the last four months.”

“How is it that I’m sitting here with you, with ninety years to go?” He spoke slowly like he would with a child. There, he watched the other’s reality, lines and lines of delicate code, shatter like glass. Arthur stared at him blankly, expression frozen with perpetual friendliness. Then, he glitched once, his face jolting a fraction of an inch before carrying on like normal.

“Ah. It’s not possible for you to be here.”

“Well, I am.” He grumbled, slamming his cup down.

The next morning, Alfred awoke to the Homestead radio. As he lay in a fetal position, that perky Atlantic accent filled his ear. Was it going to be like this every day from now on? He threw his pillow over his head and held it there, groaning as--“it’s a beautiful day here on the Avalon. So wake up, sunshine!”

He hit the cafeteria, watching the ceiling light up at his arrival, panel by panel. A white room stretched on ceaselessly before him, and it looked more sterile than a hospital. Not exactly the homey vibe he was going after, but food was food. He approached one of the unmanned vendors, hexagonal dispensers designed to serve six at a time, and scanned his ID.

“Please make a selection.”

He pressed the first widget, an icon with a mug.

“Sorry. The Mocha Cappuccino Extreme is reserved for gold-class passengers.” It spoke, prompting him to press it again. “Sorry. The Mocha Cappuccino Extreme is reserved for gold-class passengers.”

“I want the Mocha Cappuccino Extreme. Bill my room please,” Alfred spoke firmly.

“Food can be purchased in the ship’s…”

He pressed another widget.

“Sorry. The French Roast…”

Then another.

“Sorry. The Pumpkin Spice…”

And another and another until he went down the list.

“Sorry. The Vanilla Chai… Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.” His face scrunched up in irritation as he began punching each widget, all giving the same response until he got to the very last option. “Large Coffee.”

“Cream, sugar—” He said loudly.

“Please enjoy your coffee.”

A cup of black coffee was dispensed before him.

“Oh, really?” Alfred scoffed.

He sorted through a shelf of manuals, and sure enough, he came across one for hibernation pods. Taking that with him, he made a quick journey to the storage facility to retrieve some tools. Now, all he had to do was fix his sleeper and be well on his way ninety years in the future like he was supposed to.

Dropping his heavy duffel of knick-knacks in front of his pod, he got on his knees to open up the disk slot. He connected the wiring for a quick spark and fizz, causing the machine to power up again. The screen lit up, showing his diagnostics, and so did the inside of the pod. A huge smile broke out across his face as he rose to his feet, hopped inside, and lay down.

The glass hatch closed around him.

He closed his eyes and shifted to get comfortable, happy as a lark. Only he didn’t fall asleep, let alone get close to cryosleep. Alfred opened his eyes, stone-faced. This wasn’t going to work, was it?

Now, to get out of this thing.

He pushed the hatch in different places, but it didn’t budge in any of them. Panic shot through him as he came to the realization he had trapped himself in what was slowly turning into a hotbox. He didn’t hesitate to start banging frantically on the glass with his fist, even kneeing it in multiple places to set himself free.

Once the hatch opened, he shot up, hyperventilating.

Alfred tried the command ring, next. Dropping his bag of tools in front of the heavy, metal door, he began his work. He’d hack at it with a sledgehammer, and when that didn’t work, he’d try cutting through it. Holding a welding mask over his face, he turned on an industrial laser cutter and let it do its thing.

Sparks flew, but he barely made a scratch.

He lowered his mask, revealing his sunken eyes and unshaven face. After weeks of unleashing hell on the door, it stood firm, a badge of his failures and reminder that he was never getting off this ship alive. Only that begged the question, what would he do if he did manage to break through this tonne of steel?

Wake up someone else to help him?

He would be a fish out of water, having jumped so desperately to get out of a pond with no thought of what to do once he got to land. Yet, he persisted, fearing the worse if he ever decided to give up.

More errors popped up on the ship’s diagnostics.

Just after he left the elevator to the grand concourse, the whole thing went haywire. The doors slammed together, opening, closing, opening, and closing. Even the lights started to flash on and off. He stared back at it, gravely unsettled, watching it spazz out.

“G-Ground concourse. Going down. P-Please make.”

Looks like he wasn’t the only thing breaking down.

“I’m screwed, Arthur,” Alfred uttered hoarsely at the man, eyes red and irritated. With nowhere to be and nothing to do, he found himself in the bar again, as did all. “Completely and ridiculously screwed.”

“Come on, now.” Arthur chided, polishing the inside of a glass. “Every cloud has its silver lining.”

Alfred tilted his head as if to go, fair enough.

“Guess I am gonna die of old age on this ship.”

“Oh, we all die,” The other said as-a-matter-of-factly. “Even androids end up on the scrap heap.”

He scoffed through his nose, swallowing another gulp of his whiskey. Like he’d understand how that felt. A few moments of comfortable silence droned on between the bartender and their patron, one of which, kept scrubbing around the outside of a cup.

“I’m your only customer. Why are you always polishing a glass?” He asked, brows furrowed.

“Trick of the trade. Makes people nervous when the bartender just stands there.” Arthur explained.

“So lay some bartender wisdom on me,” He placed his drink on the counter. “I’m lost in space, here.”

The android came over in an instant, his movement letting out a soft mechanical whir. He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, piecing together his next few sentences as carefully as he could for the troubled man. And this was the best he could come up with.

“You’re not where you want to be. You feel like you’re supposed to be… Somewhere else,” He spoke.

Alfred raised his brows and snorted--yeah, no shit. But his amused expression quickly fell away for a serious one. He had to humor the guy, at least.

“You said it.” He nodded with a squint.

“Say you could snap your fingers and be wherever you wanted to be. I bet you’d still feel this way,” Arthur continued, getting him to lower his gaze in thought. “Not in the right place. Point is, you can’t get so hung up on where you’d rather be, that you forget how to make the most of where you are!”

“What are you telling me?”

“Take a break from worrying about what you can’t control,” The other glanced up from the things in his hands. Then, with the most subtle, yet, suggestive smile, he added this in a whisper. “Live a little.”

“Live a little,” Alfred whispered, spacing out as the words repeated in his head like a tape. The next thing he knew, he was breaking into the most luxurious accommodation the ship had to offer. He wedged a crowbar between a double door and pried it open.

He gritted his teeth and strained for a good few seconds before it slid apart. What was inside didn’t impress him at first, a room shrouded in darkness, but he was blown away when he stepped inside. What slowly lit up before him was a palatial suite fully furnished with modern homeware and decor.

“Welcome to the Vienna Suite.”

“Oh, yeah!” He laughed breathily. Alfred walked in with his head tilted back to take it all in--the highest ceilings he’d ever seen, and white stairs that folded one after the other like a fan. It led to a mezzanine, the designated sleeping space with a double bed. Adjacent to that was a panoramic screen displaying an image of an American forest, shrouded in a mist.

He ran upstairs to check it out, going past these golden, hexagonal honeycomb lights on the wall.

“What?” He exclaimed in amazement.

Flopping onto the mattress, he rolled onto his back with the biggest grin. This ship had been holding out on him, a lowly second-class passenger, but he was about to enjoy every spoil until he got sick of them.

He just never imagined how sick.

He dribbled a basketball across the floor, jumped up, and tossed it into the hoop. A horn sounded, and an electric blue wave of pixels went around the walls. While he celebrated his point with a fist pump, neon pink silhouettes of cheerleaders danced around him, throwing up their pom poms and chanting his name.

Alfred stopped by the restaurants next.

“Make that double jumbo shrimp--triple.”

“あいがとう ございます,” The robot waiter took the menu and left to the kitchen, leaving him to his own devices. He picked up a pair of chopsticks and nicked at the holographic koi fish that swam above his table. He watched them scatter, much to his amusement.

“Dance off,” He grimaced, folding his arms at the 3D game character across him.

They busted a move, and Alfred copied them with the most concentrated look, lips puckered in an ‘O’. He swung his arms and spun on the spot, only for him to lose all his points. The character made a face and shook their head, giving him a thumbs-down.

“I did exactly what you just did!” He exasperated.

His short stubble turned into an unkempt beard.

“Uno más margerita, por favor.” Alfred requested in a funny voice, finger up. How he was still conscious after that many drinks was beyond him, but it had to be the huge enchilada that buffered the alcohol.

“You have had many, señor.” The robot waiter said.

“Oh, Hector, por favor, otra vez!”

“Sí, señor.”

He leaned over and followed it with his gaze.

“Gracias,” He called in his normal voice.

Alfred was back on the basketball court. His hair had grown around his ears, the dry, sandy blonde frizz making him look nothing short of homeless. After he managed to toss the ball into the hoop one more time, he didn’t react to the avid cheers around him. He kept a poker face, exhausted by the repetitive lifestyle of indulgence he’d been cycling through.

When the ball rolled back, he picked it up, turned around, then dropkicked it into the distance.

In the end, there was still a finite number of things to do even on the Avalon, and nowhere near enough to burn a lifetime here. Alfred was losing his mind to boredom, and, eventually, despair. He’d feed the ship’s vacuum bots breakfast, tossing them soggy cereal bits. He’d order ridiculous amounts of takeout, then sleep in a nest of takeaway boxes. He’d walk the hallways buck naked with his crumpled shirt in hand.

With nothing to do, and nobody to talk to, he was trapped forever in a state of limbo. His existence was all but internalized. The only reality he’d ever know was his mind, and this steel ship, a thousand meters long--the former of which, had finally come apart. Because no matter how hard he tried to stray from his fate, he always found himself in the pod room.

As he wandered down the aisles, watching each and every passenger sleep with a peace he’d never know, his heart festered with sadness, envy, and, eventually, poisonous anger for what his life had become, or failed to. He tossed an empty vodka bottle as far as he could, letting out a guttural yell. And to think he came here with more excitement than anybody had for the Avalon. A ship of dreams, now all but dead.

He opened a door attached to the pod room.

“Welcome, Alfred.”

He arrived in another room with metal flooring and walls. There were these clunky, navy space suits standing in the center, for what he assumed to be the spacewalking attraction he heard about. But that wasn’t what piqued his interest. He approached one of the suits and pressed his head to the chest, and for just a few seconds, he’d pretend it was a person.

“Please turn your attention to the screens displaying safety tips. These spacesuits are designed to withstand the harsh environment of space. The carbon fiber and polyamide construction means your suit is both flexible and durable. The suit will…”

He even held onto the gloves, the closest he’d get to holding someone else’s hands again.

“Remember, your space suit is your lifeline.”

He clicked a big green button on the control panel, getting one of the suits to spin to him. Giving that a thoughtful gaze, he walked over and took it off the mannequin. After putting on the suit, he entered the airlock, a silvery chute that led to the great outdoors.

“Slide the handle on the right to release the air pressure,” The voice spoke, turning his head to said handle. He slid the protective casing down, feeling a sucking on his feet. “your magnetic boots are now engaged. Press the red button to open the airlock door.” And press it he did, watching the chute open.

The air around him got sucked out as he stood firm. Out there was the vast sea of space. A pool of stars, cosmic dust, and distant planets he’d never know. Interstellar travel had been common for decades now, the universe outside the solar system made accessible to the human race, but he still gazed up at the stars with the same wonder as people did back in sixty-nine. When they first put man on the moon, one tiny step for man, one giant leap for mankind. Fuck. He’d never get tired of repeating that quote, accent and all--just like he’d never let himself get indifferent to space. The endless beauty and horror of it, the trifling insignificance he posed to the universe.

These truths lay bare in front of him as he floated in his suit, surrounded by a star-speckled abyss in all directions. He was overwhelmed by the power of it, so much so that he started crying. He always had been, he just never imagined it would be like this.

Terrifying, lonely, and at the mercy of Mother Nature.

He returned to the ship, looking like Hell.

What he experienced gave him a lot to think about. The bigger picture, the ultimatum. He really was going to spend the rest of his life here, or whatever was left of it. He froze, having a thought occur to him he never would’ve entertained outside of these circumstances. He didn’t have to suffer for another twenty, thirty years. He could end it all, right here.

In the airlock, where he could get sucked out into space. The vacuum would hurl him out so far out, he’d never dream of returning. But that wasn’t as fast as he wanted it to be. Without his space suit, it would be instant. His lungs would collapse, he would swell up, then freeze to death--whichever came first.

And he was about to find out.

He stood in the airlock in nothing but his shirt and boxers. Then, he slid the safety handle, exposing the red button. As he reached for it, his eyes went as wide as he could get them. And his heart, racing out of his chest. His fingers barely grazed the top before he pulled away, having returned to his senses.

Then, he made a run for it, horrified by what he was about to do himself. And he kept running even in the pod room, desperate to get as far away from that thought as possible. In his delirium, he missed the vodka bottle rolling on the ground and slid on it.

Alfred fell on his back with a heavy thump.

He didn’t get up right away, but lay there, groaning from the pain. Once it subsided, he was met with another kind of pain, one that would last forever. After a year of being alone, he nearly took his life.

But the next second saw an upheaval to that.

When he got up, he saw a woman sleeping in her pod just across from him. He never would’ve given her the light of day a year ago, or at least, not in the right context. Like at a bar, two drinks in. Any man in their sound mind would’ve approached her then. She was young and attractive, just like a lot of the passengers here. One could only imagine what a man in their unsound mind would do, lost and alone for the rest of his days.

“(F/N),” He muttered, reading the name tag.

“Searching passenger profiles,” The computer said. Alfred leaned forward in his chair to scan the list for your name. Sure enough, there was only one of you. The lesser-known daughter of a Pulitzer-prize winning author, but eager to take on their mantle.

You appeared on the screen, awake and perky.

“My dad used to say, if you live an ordinary life, all you’ll have are ordinary stories. So, here I am.”

Alfred brought his cereal from the cafeteria.

“Good morning.” He pulled a chair next to you. Taking a seat beside your head, he turned on his tablet to watch your interview. He was finally having a meal with someone, even if that someone didn’t know that. And it was nicer than he remembered.

“We’re starting over in every way,” You shook your head at the weight of that statement. “I’ll have to figure out where to live, how to live, who my friends will be--it’s like the first day of school, if the school bus took a hundred and twenty years to get there.”

He laughed some, his throat hoarse from his daily rendezvous with his robot bartender. Regardless of where you were headed, you were still down to Earth, and your excitement for the unknown was refreshing.

It reminded him of how he used to be.

“Everything’s gonna be different to how we do things on Earth. But we’re still the same.”

Alfred purchased your book.

“We’d want to make something for ourselves, only we actually get to do it under blue skies.”

He opened the first page and started reading.

“This should be interesting,” He murmured, popping a grape in his mouth. Thus begun his little flirtation, his connection to another human being without ever having to talk to them. If only this could remain as such, a flirtation, but the deeper he plunged, the harder it would be to swim to the surface.

“Do you ever read something and feel like it’s written just for you?” Alfred asked, never tearing his gaze away from his tablet. This was the second book of yours he’d powered through, and the last.

You were new to the game but immensely talented, just the kind of customer the Homestead company wanted. But as a person? He could imagine himself being close to you. Whether that was a delusion fabricated out of loneliness, or a genuine feeling, that distinction didn’t matter anymore.

“I don’t do a lot of reading,” Arthur pondered.

“She’s good.”

“Who’s that?”

“(F/N).” He hummed.

“Ah. The sleeping girl.”

Alfred slid off his stool to pace around a bit. He blew his cheeks out as he came to this conclusion, as hard as it was for him to accept. And he relayed that well without saying a word, glowering at his friend.

“You know, I’m not saying the universe is evil, but it sure has a nasty sense of humor.” He muttered.

“How is that?” Arthur asked.

“You get to fly to another planet, but you’ll die along the way,” His eyes burned as he verbalized his sobering realities, his second one, even more so. “And you find this amazing girl right in front of you, but she’s completely out of reach.”

Even at nighttime, he found himself watching you. He liked the idea of having a conversation with you, just as he’d been pretending to these past several weeks. He liked the idea of you. Fantasizing was the closest he’d ever get to those desires, so he may as well knock himself out doing it--or was it?

When he put his cup down, his gaze went to the hibernation manual beside. And God forbid what ideas it gave him. His smile faded into an unsettled look, disturbed by the contents of his own mind.

He slammed the manual on the bar counter.

“Say you were trapped on a desert island, and you had the power to wish somebody there with you,” Alfred spoke restlessly like he’d lose his nerve the second he hesitated. “Then you wouldn’t be alone anymore. But you’d be stranding the person on the island. How do you… Would you make that wish?”

Arthur narrowed his eyes.

“I don’t know. I’ve never been on an island.”

“Okay, yeah, well, er, forget the island,” He relented.

“Ah.” The android nodded.

“Let’s say you… Figured out how to do something…” He began cautiously one second, only to lose his composure in the next. “That would make your life a million times better, but you knew it was wrong, and there’s no taking it back. How do you do the math?”

“Alfred, these are not robot questions,” The other warned, getting the man to exhale deeply.

He’d been reasoning with himself the whole time, trying to find some sort of justification for what couldn’t be justified. That became all the apparent when his stare grew haunted as he admitted what had been on his mind since it first occurred to him.

“I know how to wake (F/N) up.”

Next chapter: The sleeping girl

Tag list: @twilightlover2007, @my2phetaliaheadcanons, @chickenpecks, @sunnysssol

[snailspng]

i think you'd love the youtube video Fear of Cold by Jacob Geller. maybe some pngs based off it, too? it's a real good watch. wishing you well. thanks for hosting the best blog on here.

Thank you! Posted some cold/hypothermia PNGs for you (I hope they're not too creepy) <3

I did like the video, thanks for the suggestion. I took a night train from the northern part of Sweden a few weeks ago when the temperature was around -40° celsius (the coldest it's been here in 20 years). It was actually pretty scary.

[ceasarslegion]

Would love to tell this job to go fuck itself in favour of being a park ranger but unfortunately every national park that has given me an offer is somewhere where the cost of living is so egregious that the salary doesn't even begin to cover it. Maybe I should try for park warden instead

[alexxx-malev]

Russia. Svir River. Upper Svir Hydroelectric Station, lock Свирь. Верхнесвирская ГЭС, шлюз

[henryrussell63]

I still can’t believe you ditched me for your other boyfriend. Missing you already

[libelelle]

BWUH?

[livingincolorsagain]

woohoo

[borealing]

love it when they turn down the lights on long haul flights it really puts into perspective that the stewards are babysitting u and desperate for adult nap time

[bitebitesnap]

New people to Gear Station believe that Ingo is constantly angry or aggressive and that Emmet is the friendlier of the two.

Regulars know that it's Emmet who's the rude one while Ingo is polite.

But true regulars know not to disclose that information and leave the tourists to figure it out for themselves.

Makes for a very comical mixing pot of 'Which Version of the Twins is Correct'