London, in the final summers before the catastrophes begin to rain down, is still much like Rome of old. Bustling, proud, confident. It draws in simply everyone, from all over the world. The Imperial Seat alone would bring the world there - but this is also London, one of the world centers for commerce and innovation.
Here one can see marvels - innovation and art, museums and theatre - in every potential variety. There is a heady feeling in the air of wonder, of change and wild dreams to suit any palate. Anything can happen in London, the air seems to whisper, whatever you might wish. Even your most secret desire could happen here, in a city that hides so many secrets in plain sight.
One venue that might draw attention is a football pitch that has signs around promising to show "Franky Cook - Daring Daredevil, Conqueror of the Air!" And it is bustling, the sensation of flight still being absolutely new to practically everyone all over the globe. For somewhere like far-off Japan, it might seem like magic itself - the first powered flight in Japan wouldn't occur until the winter of that year, in Tokyo.
Once inside, the crowd comes to a hush as a man approaches a podium and microphone, announcing the 'daring aviator' will soon arrive. And arrive soon they do - there is the strangest sound of an engine and then suddenly, a craft painted bright red, with streamers on the edges of its wings, flies in over the stands at low altitude. To future eyes, the Blériot XXVII - fresh from prototyping - might look stately, slow, and utterly lacking in any qualities whatsoever. But this is 1910, and that fifty horsepower engine may not have the throaty roar of a Merlin of later years, but right now it flies over the crowd at over a hundred and twenty kilometers an hour - so fast that the Union Jacks that flash on the rocking wings are only noticed by the crowd at the last moment. The roar might be deafening.
After one pass, and enough time for the crowd to subside, the aircraft returns, much more slowly and - surely it can't land there, surely nobody can manage that. And then, the engine cuts, and the crowd rises, breath held - and the plane settles to the ground with the slightest of bumps. A moment so quiet, so gentle, that it is as if watching the fall of a leaf.
The stadium erupts.
And then, soon, especially for the important guests - and foreign visitors - seated closest to the airplane, that the person who emerges is not the Franky Cook them might be expecting. As the flight helmet comes off, and the wrapping scarf is removed, some gasp at the face of a woman, one eye covered in an eye patch, who struts forward from the craft, hands folded behind her back.
She settles a cap on her head with an emblem of wings encircling a globe, striding for the microphone. She's there in a moment, and calls out to the crowd.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, my name is Franky Cook and I'm going to change your world forever."
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thewisechild) wrote2028-12-25 02:38 pm
epistolary.
prompts.
starters.
The Summer of 1910
Here one can see marvels - innovation and art, museums and theatre - in every potential variety. There is a heady feeling in the air of wonder, of change and wild dreams to suit any palate. Anything can happen in London, the air seems to whisper, whatever you might wish. Even your most secret desire could happen here, in a city that hides so many secrets in plain sight.
One venue that might draw attention is a football pitch that has signs around promising to show "Franky Cook - Daring Daredevil, Conqueror of the Air!" And it is bustling, the sensation of flight still being absolutely new to practically everyone all over the globe. For somewhere like far-off Japan, it might seem like magic itself - the first powered flight in Japan wouldn't occur until the winter of that year, in Tokyo.
Once inside, the crowd comes to a hush as a man approaches a podium and microphone, announcing the 'daring aviator' will soon arrive. And arrive soon they do - there is the strangest sound of an engine and then suddenly, a craft painted bright red, with streamers on the edges of its wings, flies in over the stands at low altitude. To future eyes, the Blériot XXVII - fresh from prototyping - might look stately, slow, and utterly lacking in any qualities whatsoever. But this is 1910, and that fifty horsepower engine may not have the throaty roar of a Merlin of later years, but right now it flies over the crowd at over a hundred and twenty kilometers an hour - so fast that the Union Jacks that flash on the rocking wings are only noticed by the crowd at the last moment. The roar might be deafening.
After one pass, and enough time for the crowd to subside, the aircraft returns, much more slowly and - surely it can't land there, surely nobody can manage that. And then, the engine cuts, and the crowd rises, breath held - and the plane settles to the ground with the slightest of bumps. A moment so quiet, so gentle, that it is as if watching the fall of a leaf.
The stadium erupts.
And then, soon, especially for the important guests - and foreign visitors - seated closest to the airplane, that the person who emerges is not the Franky Cook them might be expecting. As the flight helmet comes off, and the wrapping scarf is removed, some gasp at the face of a woman, one eye covered in an eye patch, who struts forward from the craft, hands folded behind her back.
She settles a cap on her head with an emblem of wings encircling a globe, striding for the microphone. She's there in a moment, and calls out to the crowd.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, my name is Franky Cook and I'm going to change your world forever."