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fandomweekly2024-02-08 03:08 pm
badly_knitted) wrote in fandomweekly2024-02-08 03:08 pm
Entry tags:
[#209] Lost In Translation (Torchwood)
Theme Prompt: #209 – Outsider
Title: Lost In Translation
Fandom: Torchwood
Rating/Warnings: PG
Bonus: Yes.
Word Count: 1000
Summary: Ianto has grown accustomed to being the outsider wherever he goes, but he still runs into unexpected complications as he travels through space and time.
Travelling through space, and occasionally time, Ianto was already growing accustomed to being the outsider wherever he went. In the time he was from, humans had yet to develop interstellar flight, and with earth being off-limits to alien interference, he was one of the few to have left his home planet, making his way out among the stars. He’d come across a handful of other humans, descendants of people abducted by an alien race several generations earlier, but they were the exception. In space, he was the alien.
There were plenty of humanoid races, a few of them similar enough that they might have passed for human if they’d found their way to earth, but for the most part, he stood out wherever he went. His height, skin colour, hair, and a hundred other minor physiological details marked him out as different, exotic, even unique.
At the beginning of his travels, it had made him feel awkward, self-conscious, out of place, but over the past few months he’d grown more comfortable with his situation, learning the ways of the various people he encountered as he travelled from world to world, spaceport to spaceport, searching for Jack.
Sometimes he was viewed with suspicion and wariness, so different from the locals that they were unsure of whether he could be trusted. In that respect, he’d found it easier to fit in amongst the criminal elements than the law-abiding citizens. Many of them were outsiders themselves, existing on the fringes of society, plying their less than legal trades. Once he’d proved himself, they accepted him as one of them, despite his appearance. Criminals came in all shapes and sizes, and if he was a little outlandish to look at, what did it matter? They were brothers under the skin.
It took him longer to gain acceptance among the honest tradespeople, the civil authorities, space station administrations and such, but in time he managed to earn himself a reputation as an honest trader to go with his alter-ego’s reputation as a thief and a scoundrel. Given the choice, however, he far preferred hanging out with his fellow rogues and reprobates. He’d far more readily trust them to have his best interests at heart than the wealthy businesspersons and their government cronies.
Even so, every new place he visited he was the outsider again, learning the customs of a new race of people with the help of his TARDIS, and this world was no exception.
Among the humanoid races, his differences weren’t so pronounced, but here he stood out like the proverbial sore thumb. He was a shade under six feet tall, while the tallest of the locals was under five feet. His skin was pale while theirs was the colour of mahogany. He had hair and they were completely bald. Then there was the little matter of their multiple limbs: four for walking on, and two pairs of tentacle-like ‘arms’ ending in clusters of a dozen smaller, and extremely dexterous, grasping tendrils.
There was no way he could replicate their ceremonial gestures; he simply didn’t have enough limbs. Nor could he speak their language, which was made up of gestures and body positions, accompanying a wide variety of squeaks and hisses. His TARDIS could translate what the people were saying to him, at this point mostly “What are you?” and “What do you want?”, but formulating replies was proving a bit tricky.
He wanted to ask if anyone who looked like him had passed this way, although judging by their reaction to his appearance it seemed unlikely that they’d ever met another human, but how could he phrase the question in a manner that they could understand? Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
‘Tell me what to do,’ he asked his TARDIS.
‘I will try,’ she replied. ‘Follow my instructions, if you are able.’
Ianto did his best, aware that if Jack had been there, he’d probably have been rolling on the ground laughing, before finding a way to proposition several of the aliens. Of course, if Jack HAD been there, Ianto would have had no need to attempt a form of communication he was physically incapable of. He did his best, twisting his body like a contortionist while sounding like a mouse in a teakettle, but he was reasonably certain something was getting lost in the translation.
After his third attempt, the nearest alien politely informed him, according to the TARDIS, “You do not know what you are asking.”
“That doesn’t surprise me one bit,” Ianto replied in English. “I just hope it wasn’t anything rude of otherwise offensive.” ‘Don’t these people have a written language?’ he thought plaintively.
‘Of course,’ the TARDIS replied in his head. ‘It is quite elegant and nuanced, even poetic.’
‘Then why aren’t we using that? Surely it would leave less room for misunderstandings.’
‘Indeed. However, you requested my help in speaking with the Vivorek, not in corresponding with them.’
Ianto closed his eyes and sighed. ‘You wanted to watch me make an idiot of myself, didn’t you?’ The sentient space and time ship was not above playing practical jokes on him, when the opportunity presented itself and doing so would not put him at risk.
‘It was most entertaining,’ she agreed. ‘Our hosts concur, they found your attempts at converse amusing and quite charming. That you were willing to attempt communication despite your physical limitations impressed them. They no longer consider you a potential threat.’
‘Well, that’s something, I suppose. Now, how about instructing me in their written language?’
‘It would perhaps serve you better to learn from them, or at least to make the appearance of doing so.’
‘I suppose you’re right. Do they understand Galactic Standard at all?’
‘Some few have a passing familiarity with the written form.’
‘Good, that will give us a starting point.’ Ianto produced writing materials. ‘Just out of interest, what WAS I asking them?’
‘I believe it was “Can tired raindrops share us creepy.”
‘Ah. No wonder they didn’t understand me.’
The End
There were plenty of humanoid races, a few of them similar enough that they might have passed for human if they’d found their way to earth, but for the most part, he stood out wherever he went. His height, skin colour, hair, and a hundred other minor physiological details marked him out as different, exotic, even unique.
At the beginning of his travels, it had made him feel awkward, self-conscious, out of place, but over the past few months he’d grown more comfortable with his situation, learning the ways of the various people he encountered as he travelled from world to world, spaceport to spaceport, searching for Jack.
Sometimes he was viewed with suspicion and wariness, so different from the locals that they were unsure of whether he could be trusted. In that respect, he’d found it easier to fit in amongst the criminal elements than the law-abiding citizens. Many of them were outsiders themselves, existing on the fringes of society, plying their less than legal trades. Once he’d proved himself, they accepted him as one of them, despite his appearance. Criminals came in all shapes and sizes, and if he was a little outlandish to look at, what did it matter? They were brothers under the skin.
It took him longer to gain acceptance among the honest tradespeople, the civil authorities, space station administrations and such, but in time he managed to earn himself a reputation as an honest trader to go with his alter-ego’s reputation as a thief and a scoundrel. Given the choice, however, he far preferred hanging out with his fellow rogues and reprobates. He’d far more readily trust them to have his best interests at heart than the wealthy businesspersons and their government cronies.
Even so, every new place he visited he was the outsider again, learning the customs of a new race of people with the help of his TARDIS, and this world was no exception.
Among the humanoid races, his differences weren’t so pronounced, but here he stood out like the proverbial sore thumb. He was a shade under six feet tall, while the tallest of the locals was under five feet. His skin was pale while theirs was the colour of mahogany. He had hair and they were completely bald. Then there was the little matter of their multiple limbs: four for walking on, and two pairs of tentacle-like ‘arms’ ending in clusters of a dozen smaller, and extremely dexterous, grasping tendrils.
There was no way he could replicate their ceremonial gestures; he simply didn’t have enough limbs. Nor could he speak their language, which was made up of gestures and body positions, accompanying a wide variety of squeaks and hisses. His TARDIS could translate what the people were saying to him, at this point mostly “What are you?” and “What do you want?”, but formulating replies was proving a bit tricky.
He wanted to ask if anyone who looked like him had passed this way, although judging by their reaction to his appearance it seemed unlikely that they’d ever met another human, but how could he phrase the question in a manner that they could understand? Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
‘Tell me what to do,’ he asked his TARDIS.
‘I will try,’ she replied. ‘Follow my instructions, if you are able.’
Ianto did his best, aware that if Jack had been there, he’d probably have been rolling on the ground laughing, before finding a way to proposition several of the aliens. Of course, if Jack HAD been there, Ianto would have had no need to attempt a form of communication he was physically incapable of. He did his best, twisting his body like a contortionist while sounding like a mouse in a teakettle, but he was reasonably certain something was getting lost in the translation.
After his third attempt, the nearest alien politely informed him, according to the TARDIS, “You do not know what you are asking.”
“That doesn’t surprise me one bit,” Ianto replied in English. “I just hope it wasn’t anything rude of otherwise offensive.” ‘Don’t these people have a written language?’ he thought plaintively.
‘Of course,’ the TARDIS replied in his head. ‘It is quite elegant and nuanced, even poetic.’
‘Then why aren’t we using that? Surely it would leave less room for misunderstandings.’
‘Indeed. However, you requested my help in speaking with the Vivorek, not in corresponding with them.’
Ianto closed his eyes and sighed. ‘You wanted to watch me make an idiot of myself, didn’t you?’ The sentient space and time ship was not above playing practical jokes on him, when the opportunity presented itself and doing so would not put him at risk.
‘It was most entertaining,’ she agreed. ‘Our hosts concur, they found your attempts at converse amusing and quite charming. That you were willing to attempt communication despite your physical limitations impressed them. They no longer consider you a potential threat.’
‘Well, that’s something, I suppose. Now, how about instructing me in their written language?’
‘It would perhaps serve you better to learn from them, or at least to make the appearance of doing so.’
‘I suppose you’re right. Do they understand Galactic Standard at all?’
‘Some few have a passing familiarity with the written form.’
‘Good, that will give us a starting point.’ Ianto produced writing materials. ‘Just out of interest, what WAS I asking them?’
‘I believe it was “Can tired raindrops share us creepy.”
‘Ah. No wonder they didn’t understand me.’
The End