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thespaceopera[All at once, every single speaker--consoles, panels, and entire forgotten batteries of communicators--break a silence that has existed for many years. Some kick sparks into the air as they spew minutes upon minutes of static. Storming through hollow hulls and echoing along miles of empty halls, the noise fluctuates in texture as if something is attempting to search for a clearer signal.
Finally, surfacing above the din is a man’s voice. There is something fatherly about the tone, but the words are strained.]
I... I think I missed your birthday, dear...
[The quality of the static continues to tune and evolve. It’s not really static, though. It takes time for the mess of noise to resolve into a comprehensible sound, but it’s becoming clear now: it’s an ocean of applause. There is a periodic ‘pop’ of sound marking each time that the track loops.
The man’s voice returns, more difficult to hear now, from a point further from the microphone.]
Hey. Easy, darlin’... don’t–
[He trails off as he's interrupted by another sound welling up from underneath the applause. The sound of sobs, hysterical and wailing, increase in volume to drown out the man’s voice, begin to rival the roar of the crowd, ring against the metallic panels of every wall, tilt toward screaming, until the feed abruptly cuts out. The signal is still open, however. The sound of dead air is cavernous in the wake of all that, waiting--as the Hosts always have--for a response.
This time, no one is there to answer it.]
Finally, surfacing above the din is a man’s voice. There is something fatherly about the tone, but the words are strained.]
I... I think I missed your birthday, dear...
[The quality of the static continues to tune and evolve. It’s not really static, though. It takes time for the mess of noise to resolve into a comprehensible sound, but it’s becoming clear now: it’s an ocean of applause. There is a periodic ‘pop’ of sound marking each time that the track loops.
The man’s voice returns, more difficult to hear now, from a point further from the microphone.]
Hey. Easy, darlin’... don’t–
[He trails off as he's interrupted by another sound welling up from underneath the applause. The sound of sobs, hysterical and wailing, increase in volume to drown out the man’s voice, begin to rival the roar of the crowd, ring against the metallic panels of every wall, tilt toward screaming, until the feed abruptly cuts out. The signal is still open, however. The sound of dead air is cavernous in the wake of all that, waiting--as the Hosts always have--for a response.
This time, no one is there to answer it.]
