Work Text:
John speaks over nine languages with fluency. Supplemented by onboard dictionaries piping live translations into an earpiece and a HUD displaying phonetic pronunciations of appropriate responses, there’s very little he can’t cope with, linguistically.
But there’s been a–well, a something–off the Northeastern Coast of Canada, and John’s thoroughly uncertain what it is. Or whether he’s actually being spoken to in English.
“Uh. All right, once more. SIr. Your emergency?” John pauses and winces guiltily. “You…you do have an emergency?”
“Lard, b’ye! Deef’s a cod, y’are! Who knit ya, son, I been tellin’ ye, the arse fell outta her! Clean off, b’y! Fierce deadly, caps’d clear over! Coaker’s drainin’ off in th’bay. She’ll blaze clear up in a tick here, son, me nerves is rubbed right raw. Best y’send one ye boys out here d’rectly. Jaysus, me son.”
“…right.” Once John talked a Portuguese flight attendant through assisting a Norwegian woman through labour in the middle of a transatlantic flight, and had better luck than he was having now. “Can you give it to me just one more time? Sir, I’m very sorry, but you’re talking too fast.”
“B’y! Y’listen too slow! I’m some vexed with ya. Be off with ye!”
Well. John’s worked out the coordinates,anyway, patched them through to Gordon and Virgil, enroute in TB2. He’s more than happy for this to be someone else’s problem now. “Okay. Uh, they’re on their way. Good luck.”