sermocinare (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sermocinare) wrote2009-09-10 04:48 pm
sermocinare) wrote2009-09-10 04:48 pm
Entry tags:
Gearing up for NaNoWriMo
Since chatting with a friend some time ago, I've had this world, and this character, running around in my head. Yeah, my plotbunnies tend to be monsterous *g*.
The setting is an alternate history steampunk version of Germany in the 40s. There's been no stock market crash, no financial crisis, and no nazis, either. Well, all right, there are nazis, but they're just one party of many. Germany's still a Republic, and like it was in the roaring 20s, it's a hotbed of culture, science and also a bit of decadence. All right, in this timeline, more than a bit of decadence. A glittering, shiny, never-ending party with a dark underbelly of crime, blackmail and corruption. With airships and Tesla coils.
The main character is Diana "Dee" Hohenheim (FMA fans may snicker now), a genderconfused-to-transsexual professional rich kid in his 20s with a brilliant mind, a firey temper, an interest in science and engineering and way too much interest in other people's business.
It's looking like this will be the setting for my NaNoWriMo novel this year. And even if not, it should be good for some interesting storylines.
So, without much further ado, here's the first slice of Dee and his world:
The moviegoers spilled out of the brightness of the cinema and into the softly lit streets, the buzz of their voices echoed by the thrumming drone of engines from above. Dee lifted his head, eyes following the line of the vessel aprroaching Templehof Airfield, drawn to the shimmering lights like an oversized, lazy moth to a flame.
"Wasn't that just amazing?" Irene hooked her arm through his, pulling his attention back to the ground, back to her radiant smile: "Lang is simply a genius."
"He is," Dee conceded, pushing strands of blonde hair out of his forehead before plopping on his top hat. "Though really, you have to give some of the credit to his cameraman. The way he played with the angles and closeups, it just made the whole thing so much more atmospheric, didn't it?"
"Almost too atmospheric." Irene giggled, and grabbed a closer hold of his arm while they made their way out of the crowd and across the street, heading for the next U-Bahn station. "It was creepy."
Dee shrugged: "I guess so."
"You guess so?" A quick punch hit his shoulder: "You don't fool me, darling. I could feel you jump in your seat when Hammersmith opened that door with the body behind it."
"Ow!" Dee laughed, rubbing his shoulder, trying for a pout and failing: "All right, that bit was scary."
They made their way to the station, Irene's heels clicking a staccato down the stairs, the noise of the motorcars lost behind them.
"When's the next one due?"
Pulling his watch out of the pocket of his vest, Dee clicked it open and frowned: "I think we just missed one. Fifteen, maybe twenty?"
"Ah, well," his companion shrugged, then leaned over to plant a quick kiss on his cheek: "All the more time to spend with you."
He was just leaning in to kiss her when the corner of his eye caught some movement on the stairs. Black boots, dark pants, brown shirts. Four of them.
"Aw, shit," he grumbled, voice low, eyes narrowing on the group of men, "here comes the retard brigade."
"Huh?" Irene gave him a confused look, then turned halfway around. Her body tensed: "Guess we should've taken the motorcar after all."
"Ah, no worries." Dee gave her a reassuring smile and squeezed her hand, "I'm sure they're not looking for trouble."
She gave him a dark look out of the corner of her eyes: "To be honest, it's not just them I'm worried about."
Only five minutes later, she was proven right.
"Excuse me, I think I didn't hear you all right. What did you just say?" Dee's smile was friendly, almost congenial even, but the set of his shoulders, the clench of his right fist, his entire body language was singing a different tune.
"Dee." There was a distinct note of warning in her voice, and she put her hand on his arm as if to hold him back, all of it barely registering through the flare of his temper.
The man whose stupid little remarks had started all of this sneered: "You heard me all right. Perverted whores. If it were up to me and my compatriots here," he glanced back at his friends, all of whom were nodding, equally disdainful sneers on their faces, "you lot would be eliminated."
"For what?" Dee gave a short, humorless laugh, looking at the man as if he were a particularly unpleasant example of a sewer rat. "For offending your pityful excuse for manliness? Or," a mischievious glint lit his blue eyes, "for daring to look better in a suit than you?"
"No," the man snarled, taking a step foreward, fists at his sides, "for being a perverted little bitch."
Not one to be easily intimidated, Dee also stepped foreward, his face now inches from the man's: "You want to start a fight with me? Do you even know who I am, you witless punk?"
"No," the brownshirt grinned, "and I don't care, either."
"Well, maybe you should." Dee drew himself up to his full height, somehow managing to stare down his nose at the guy even though he was a good three inches smaller: "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Diana Hohenheim. My friends call me Dee, which means that you lot," he let a haughty gaze sweep over the rest of the assembled thugs, "can call me Mr. Hohenheim. Or, if you insist, Ms." He allowed himself a short smirk, then went on, his calm, confident voice ringing through the deserted tunnel: "That's right, Hohenheim. As in Hohenheim Enterprises. That should ring a bell even with you undereducated lot. Now," he dropped his voice a bit, lips once again curving into a smile that was anything but friendly, "I may not look like much, but I'm the sole heir of a company that employs about five times more people than your little fascist fraternity has members. I also happen to be the apple of my dear father's eye. So if I were you, I'd think twice about picking a fight with this drag king."
Dee allowed himself a small moment of satisfaction on seeing three of the men back off. The guy in front of him, though, seemed to be awfully thick even for a brownshirt thug. He raised his fists, snarling: "I don't care who you are, you cunt, I'm going to..."
Click. It was always amazing, Dee thought, how such a small sound could cut through even the loudest noise. Smiling mildly, he stabbed the barrel of the Walther in the direction of the man's belly: "Oh, and I guess I forgot to tell you that I also carry a gun. There's just too many assholes out on the street, and a girl needs to protect herself, now, doesn't she?"
The thug gasped, gaped, and then turned heel and fled, running up the stairs after his companions.
As soon as they were gone, Dee put the gun back in its holster at the small of his back. Then, he let himself slump against the wall of the station, not caring about the moisture and grime that always collected there. He reached for a cigarette, clamping it between his lips, then got out his lighter. Fumbling, he flipped open the top and tried to work the mechanism, but after three failed tries, he flung the damn thing to the ground: "Shit. Shit! Goddamn fucking shit!".
His shoulders started shaking uncontrollably, and he felt his knees give way, let himself slide to the ground, rubbing his gloved hands over his face. "Shit." This time, it was little more than a whimper.
He felt Irene's arms wrap themselves around him, pulling his head to her shoulder, stroking and kissing his hair gently: "It's all right. It's all right, love. It's going to be all right."
The setting is an alternate history steampunk version of Germany in the 40s. There's been no stock market crash, no financial crisis, and no nazis, either. Well, all right, there are nazis, but they're just one party of many. Germany's still a Republic, and like it was in the roaring 20s, it's a hotbed of culture, science and also a bit of decadence. All right, in this timeline, more than a bit of decadence. A glittering, shiny, never-ending party with a dark underbelly of crime, blackmail and corruption. With airships and Tesla coils.
The main character is Diana "Dee" Hohenheim (FMA fans may snicker now), a genderconfused-to-transsexual professional rich kid in his 20s with a brilliant mind, a firey temper, an interest in science and engineering and way too much interest in other people's business.
It's looking like this will be the setting for my NaNoWriMo novel this year. And even if not, it should be good for some interesting storylines.
So, without much further ado, here's the first slice of Dee and his world:
The moviegoers spilled out of the brightness of the cinema and into the softly lit streets, the buzz of their voices echoed by the thrumming drone of engines from above. Dee lifted his head, eyes following the line of the vessel aprroaching Templehof Airfield, drawn to the shimmering lights like an oversized, lazy moth to a flame.
"Wasn't that just amazing?" Irene hooked her arm through his, pulling his attention back to the ground, back to her radiant smile: "Lang is simply a genius."
"He is," Dee conceded, pushing strands of blonde hair out of his forehead before plopping on his top hat. "Though really, you have to give some of the credit to his cameraman. The way he played with the angles and closeups, it just made the whole thing so much more atmospheric, didn't it?"
"Almost too atmospheric." Irene giggled, and grabbed a closer hold of his arm while they made their way out of the crowd and across the street, heading for the next U-Bahn station. "It was creepy."
Dee shrugged: "I guess so."
"You guess so?" A quick punch hit his shoulder: "You don't fool me, darling. I could feel you jump in your seat when Hammersmith opened that door with the body behind it."
"Ow!" Dee laughed, rubbing his shoulder, trying for a pout and failing: "All right, that bit was scary."
They made their way to the station, Irene's heels clicking a staccato down the stairs, the noise of the motorcars lost behind them.
"When's the next one due?"
Pulling his watch out of the pocket of his vest, Dee clicked it open and frowned: "I think we just missed one. Fifteen, maybe twenty?"
"Ah, well," his companion shrugged, then leaned over to plant a quick kiss on his cheek: "All the more time to spend with you."
He was just leaning in to kiss her when the corner of his eye caught some movement on the stairs. Black boots, dark pants, brown shirts. Four of them.
"Aw, shit," he grumbled, voice low, eyes narrowing on the group of men, "here comes the retard brigade."
"Huh?" Irene gave him a confused look, then turned halfway around. Her body tensed: "Guess we should've taken the motorcar after all."
"Ah, no worries." Dee gave her a reassuring smile and squeezed her hand, "I'm sure they're not looking for trouble."
She gave him a dark look out of the corner of her eyes: "To be honest, it's not just them I'm worried about."
Only five minutes later, she was proven right.
"Excuse me, I think I didn't hear you all right. What did you just say?" Dee's smile was friendly, almost congenial even, but the set of his shoulders, the clench of his right fist, his entire body language was singing a different tune.
"Dee." There was a distinct note of warning in her voice, and she put her hand on his arm as if to hold him back, all of it barely registering through the flare of his temper.
The man whose stupid little remarks had started all of this sneered: "You heard me all right. Perverted whores. If it were up to me and my compatriots here," he glanced back at his friends, all of whom were nodding, equally disdainful sneers on their faces, "you lot would be eliminated."
"For what?" Dee gave a short, humorless laugh, looking at the man as if he were a particularly unpleasant example of a sewer rat. "For offending your pityful excuse for manliness? Or," a mischievious glint lit his blue eyes, "for daring to look better in a suit than you?"
"No," the man snarled, taking a step foreward, fists at his sides, "for being a perverted little bitch."
Not one to be easily intimidated, Dee also stepped foreward, his face now inches from the man's: "You want to start a fight with me? Do you even know who I am, you witless punk?"
"No," the brownshirt grinned, "and I don't care, either."
"Well, maybe you should." Dee drew himself up to his full height, somehow managing to stare down his nose at the guy even though he was a good three inches smaller: "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Diana Hohenheim. My friends call me Dee, which means that you lot," he let a haughty gaze sweep over the rest of the assembled thugs, "can call me Mr. Hohenheim. Or, if you insist, Ms." He allowed himself a short smirk, then went on, his calm, confident voice ringing through the deserted tunnel: "That's right, Hohenheim. As in Hohenheim Enterprises. That should ring a bell even with you undereducated lot. Now," he dropped his voice a bit, lips once again curving into a smile that was anything but friendly, "I may not look like much, but I'm the sole heir of a company that employs about five times more people than your little fascist fraternity has members. I also happen to be the apple of my dear father's eye. So if I were you, I'd think twice about picking a fight with this drag king."
Dee allowed himself a small moment of satisfaction on seeing three of the men back off. The guy in front of him, though, seemed to be awfully thick even for a brownshirt thug. He raised his fists, snarling: "I don't care who you are, you cunt, I'm going to..."
Click. It was always amazing, Dee thought, how such a small sound could cut through even the loudest noise. Smiling mildly, he stabbed the barrel of the Walther in the direction of the man's belly: "Oh, and I guess I forgot to tell you that I also carry a gun. There's just too many assholes out on the street, and a girl needs to protect herself, now, doesn't she?"
The thug gasped, gaped, and then turned heel and fled, running up the stairs after his companions.
As soon as they were gone, Dee put the gun back in its holster at the small of his back. Then, he let himself slump against the wall of the station, not caring about the moisture and grime that always collected there. He reached for a cigarette, clamping it between his lips, then got out his lighter. Fumbling, he flipped open the top and tried to work the mechanism, but after three failed tries, he flung the damn thing to the ground: "Shit. Shit! Goddamn fucking shit!".
His shoulders started shaking uncontrollably, and he felt his knees give way, let himself slide to the ground, rubbing his gloved hands over his face. "Shit." This time, it was little more than a whimper.
He felt Irene's arms wrap themselves around him, pulling his head to her shoulder, stroking and kissing his hair gently: "It's all right. It's all right, love. It's going to be all right."