(Untitled)
Stepping out of a body’s usual modus operandi is a strange, and, in many ways, unsettling proposition. Though it can often be a rewarding proposition, it leads to strange feelings in the pit of one’s stomach often accompied by the feeling that one’s gotten in way over their head.
( In which our heroes discover that modern conveniences are anything but )
( In which our heroes discover that modern conveniences are anything but )
Stepping out of the way of a pack of tourists, she leans against a room divider, shivering against the cold of the glass. "Not Termina, but it's a term from the merfolk who live 'round and about the islands." And living in a large port town, the languages intermingle all the more quickly.
Going over the particulars again, it does bear noting, "And it's a native term here as well, it seems." Which says something to the make-up on the English language and its habit of roughing up other language and taking their lunch money and syntax.
Canting her head to the side, she looks over, passing curious. It might well be time for an explanation of the interest.
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"It's a Landian word, as well," he rubs his beard. He's gone from surprise to squinty contemplation in less than ten seconds, good show! "Das Gifting dieser Person mit farrots ist verboten." Good Christ, the combination of his baritone and the guttural language is awfully imposing/threatening in an offhanded, odd way. "I've not heard the language in years."
There are two tourists happening by at this very moment sporting cameras that peer over, look at each other, then giggle. Germans, perhaps!
"I'd no idea it was multiversal." Though now it occurs to him that, yeah, the language he knew as "Mittelander" was what she spoke, as well, so... hrm.
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Casting a glance over at the gigglers she grins and turns her attention back to him, shrugging. "It's strange business, the various commonalities." The implied inverse as well; she's run into more than a little trouble, falling into familiar patterns of behavior and finding they only hold for so long.
With a roll of her shoulder, she's off the glass, looking about for one of the vaunted and talked of screens that tell of flight arrivals, and perchance the current time. Her hand seeks one of his in preparation for what may be something of a mad dash, should her suspicions prove true.
"If you've a yen for the tongue, Nikki's somewhat close to fluent," at his aunt's insistence and one can only imagine the slang he slips in, but it serves well enough.
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And lo, this once again commences the day's quota of Basch-dragging. He has to sling his bag further over his shoulder lest it drop off, and take an extra step to avoid turning his ankle, but he's getting better at it.
This last gets something between an interested 'huh' and a contemplative 'hm'; he certainly would have to remember it. How strange, how small the universe of all things, ended up being.
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This is all cast aside as she dashes pelmel through the concourse. At least she's getting better at giving indication that running will be occurring in the time that is most close to now. The moving walkways receive an interested glance as they rush by. Certainly useful enough, but it's an uncertain thing with regaining one's footing and gait at the end of such things. And a sprained ankle is the last thing that needs to be happening.
Checking the notes she jotted on her hand, she scans the signs above for some indication of the appropriate gate, which seems to be off to the, "Left," and somewhere near the end of this wing.
Brilliant.
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He does let his own eyes wander to the huge electric signs and endless lines of people. He makes a pretty entertaining "hurk" noise when that left creeps up out of nowhere -- hopefully she knows where she's going.
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Fortunately, both gate and counter come into view at the end of this, bringing the rush to an end. "For a five hundred yard stretch, I counted seven coffee stands." By her tone of voice, this is something of a feat.
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"Aye," he says, trying to catch the slight beat of breath that's escaped, "many..." nodnod, "many kiosks..."
There the courtesy desk stands, and when the two hand over their tickets, the velvet rope is drawn back a final time by a small, bored-looking blonde girl with enlongated, pointed ears; she appears, by her side-ponytail and dangly hot-pink cross earrings, to be trying to bring back the 1980's, though this bit of fashion is regrettably lost on the both of them, probably. "Uh huh, have a nice flight..." in a flat tone is better than nothing.
...my, this is an awfully small walkway. Basch lets Miki in front of him, looking about at the low ceiling and flat, hard carpet with some species of guarded wonder.
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The seats are located with minimal trouble, though finding space in the overhead proves to be something of an impossible task. Under the seat seems to be the best bet. Slumping into the seat by the window, Miki fiddles with the end of the seat belt, eyeing the emergency instructions.
"You know, I don't think I've ever sat in the same place for longer than an hour at any one go."
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"Think you'll survive?"
Hay look, women! In... army uniforms. ¿Que?
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Rummaging through her bag eventually leads to the discovery of a sweater, of which she promptly wriggles into. This air-conditioning stuff will take some getting used to.
One of the uniformed ladies stops by, a practiced smile on her lips, "We'll be heading down the runway in the next five minutes, so if you would, please buckle your safety restraints and pay attention to the emergency procedure demonstration."
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He looks at the two halves with some breed of distant suspicion. He'd seen belts of this type, but there was no release...
"Hrm."
The game is afoot! Level 1 Engineer, go.
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Watching Basch make a go of figuring out how one gets out of the thing takes up her attention until to of the uniformed women, now accompanied by a similarly dressed man, come to the fore of the section, and cheerfully explain how to utilise an oxygen mask in the case of depressurisation. This, is fascinating business, as it seems that all of the information is largely given via pantomime. It's like shitty street theatre!
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Start > Run > C:/victory.wav
And while there can be a profound argument made to the redundancy of that turn of phrase, Basch simply tilts his head and watches, one eyebrow clearly raised. When the line dissipates, back to fiddling with the seatbelt he goes. He's learned how to tighten it, look.
"Safety through interpretive dance," he says, "now I've seen everything. Do you need help with your buckle?"
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"Not in the least. It is very safe, right where it is." She nods once, prodding at the light buttons. Hers puts out something of a sickly glow, while the one over Basch appears to be healthy. They're both clicked off as the captain announces their imminent departure, and the stewardesses and stewards take their seats.
"Maybe there'll be a follow-up act to explain local customs, later on." One can only hope.
Seems as though it's time to get the show on the road, as it were; the engines rev, and the plane begins to makes its way down the runwat.
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Vroom! He's starting to look quite unimpressed, as it's a very unfair thing that there's no front window to watch out of (and it seems like they're about to crash into something) when the landing gear and wings lift from the ground.
His face is suddenly a very plain expression of "ok HOW did that just happen". Everything's on an angle! WTF!
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