The first actually isn't one of mine, but comes from a published book. However, I read it just after reading the Workshop post, and it seemed to be a little masterclass in how to give characters distinctive voices, so I figured it was worth sharing.

This extract come from Starfighters of Adumar, book 9 in the 'X-wing series', written by Aaron Allston.
* * *

Wedge said, “This is Red Leader. Understood. We launch at arrival plus five seconds. Red Flight, are you good to go?”

“Red Two, ready.” That was Tycho, as economical of words as he was of motion.

“Red Three, four lit and ready to burn.” Janson’s inimitable voice and enthusiasm were evident even across the standard X-wing comm distortion.

“Red Four, nothing’s gone wrong yet.” There was almost a hopeful note to Hobbie’s dour tone.
* * *

It's not perfect - sometimes Tycho simply has a lot to say, and Janson tends to get more serious and brief when they're in combat, but you can usually take a good guess at who is speaking, without having to rely on their names/callsigns. And you can pretty much always tell whenever Hobbie is speaking.

The next one is just a random piece of mine. I've had the Captain's first words in my head for quite some time now, as an intro / establishing character moment, and just built the scene around that. I don't have a story for this character yet, but when I do, some variation of this scene will probably play out pretty early on.
* * *

The corporate headquarters of Zanex rarely hosted such unrefined guests, but when the need arose one of the smaller and less well furnished meeting rooms was used.

Five corporate employees, their suits perfectly tailored and spotlessly clean, sat opposite the two men in rough spacers’ clothes. Five was far more than would be needed for the negotiation, in fact, the senior policy maker had the authority to handle the matter himself. But he could hardly be expected to talk with people of such low status. The suited men to his immediate left and right were mid-level executives; it was they that would take care of the actual communication. The final two were junior executives, present merely to observe the proceedings.

At a gesture from the policymaker, the man on his right began speaking. “Welcome, Captain Ivaken, Master Jacus, to our prosperous business. It is our hope that together, we can work…”

Jacus wished that he could share a look with his captain, to see if he had started to tune out the man’s obsequious speech, but to do so risked insulting their prospective client. Instead, he waited patiently, nodding occasionally at the man’s words to give the impression of attentiveness.

The voice faded into the background, droning on for long enough that Jacus’ thoughts drifted further than he’d intended. With a start, he suddenly realised that the room was silent, and that expectant faces were watching him from across the table. Either the Captain wanted him to take the lead, or he’d been bored enough to lose concentration altogether.

Jacus stepped forward, till he was level with the Captain in his seat. “Thank you for the welcome, and for the opportunity of doing business with you.”

The central suit whispered something into the ear of the speaker, and Jacus inwardly braced himself for the next monologue.

“Forgive me for asking but, while we have dealt with Drenai before, and you come highly recommended by him, your ship and crew are an unknown quantity for us. How do we know that we can trust you?”

Sweet merciful gods, he’s actually being brief. “A perfectly reasonable concern. Please allow us to offer you some reassurances-”

The sound of snapping fingers, reverberating in the small room thanks to its lack of soft furnishings, cut him off exactly where he expected it to. He stepped back, resuming his place just behind and to the right of his Captain.

“My loyalty is a commodity like any other – it’s available to the highest bidder. If you’re not the highest bidder in these parts, then you probably don’t want to be doing business with me. And I certainly don’t want to be doing business with you.”

“You mean that you’d break our agreement if someone offered you more money?”

“Of course not.” The tone of the words carried an unspoken ‘don’t be an idiot’. “If one of your rivals were to try and buy me out while I was carrying your cargo, I would immediately contact you, so that you’d have the opportunity to put in a counteroffer.”

“And how do we know that you won’t say you have received such an offer from one of our rivals, even if no such offer were actually made, in order to drive your price up?”

“You get what you pay for, and I’m very good at what I do. My price structure reflects that. I think you’ll find that they’re high enough already.”

This time there was a whole whispered discussion, rather than just simple instructions being passed down.

“And what would your price be for this job?”

“Five hundred thousand.”

“What!? We could buy our own ship for that!” The executive’s calm demeanour had been shattered, and his face flushed with embarrassment. The harsh whispers directed at him carried a hint of reprimand.

“Yeah, you could buy a ship. But not my ship. And Zanex can count several ships on its roster, all of which cost more, and none of which are suitable. If they were, you wouldn’t have asked us here.”

There was silence for a while, as the suits digested the fact that their guests were not the simple-minded space-juicers they’d expected them to be.

The quiet was finally broken by the second executive. “The price that you have quoted still seems high for a simple transit of cargo, even for transport through potentially hostile territory. Perhaps we could see a cost breakdown? How did you come up with that figure?”

“You think the galactic banks issue insurance to people in my line of work? If my ship gets damaged doing your job, I gotta pay for that outta my own pocket, twice. Once for the repair costs, and once for the time it wastes where I can’t work. My fee includes shipping and handling, fuel costs, the bribes I’ll have to pay, plus a risk factor to cover any damages.”

“It sounds as if at least some of your fee is based on variables that you can’t properly determine at this time. What if we were to negotiate a lower initial fee, but with higher charges for any actual damage sustained in your endeavours on our behalf?”

His words were met with silence from both parties, and the young executive began to wonder if he’d made a mistake. Maybe the smuggler was insulted by the talk of a lower price, maybe his own superior was offended that he’d offered a deal with consulting with him…

“Finally there’s a businessman among you!” Ivaken pointed a finger at the suddenly relived exec. “You, I can make a deal with.” His finger shifted to point at the former speaker. “Get him outta here.”

* * *

My final piece features a couple of PPC Agents, including DIA Officer Shacklemore, whose first and only other appearance was in PoorCynic's previous Workshop.

* * *

Officer Theodore Shacklemore calmly finished writing up the latest transcription, then looked at the DMS Agent across the table from him. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that that last remark was close to an act of insubordination.”

Skeet leaned forward, his wrists settling on the table with a metallic jangle. “Technically speaking, wouldn't I have to be your subordinate in order to act insubordinate? Last time I checked, that’s not how they run this place.”

“As you well know, Assassin, insubordination refers to any act of disobedience or rebellion. And given your current status, disobedience is hardly going to be helpful to you.”

“Hey, I have a name, Shacklemore, and I know you know it – it’s in my file, along with rest of my details. I don’t call you ‘Officer’.”

“Have you considered doing so? It would be a show of respect. You gain nothing from this defiant act-”

“I have no intention of performing an act of defiance. An act of violence, on the other hand…”

“Would gain you even less.”

“Yeah? Well we’ll see if you feel the same way after I bounce your head off this table.”

“A task that will not be aided by your restraints.”

“What, these old things?” Skeet held his manacled wrists up. “A holdout blaster, a decent knife… hell, I could get out of these with a toothpick!”

“That sounds like quite a feat. I’d be very interested in seeing you do that.”

“Oh, errr… I-I don’t actually have a… toothpick on me… at the moment.”

Shacklemore made another note on the tablet in front of him, then reached up into his breast pocket and pulled out a pack of toothpicks. He selected one, and proceeded to work it into the gap between his incisor and canine, then put it down on the table. He then selected a fresh one and offered it across the table.

Skeet leaned back from the proffered pick, slouching in his chair and running his hands through his hair as if to straighten his ponytail, a movement that was slightly hampered by the cuffs. By the time he brought his hands back into view again, he’d somehow acquired a vibroknife.

The weapon made short work of the steel restraints.

“You were searched for weapons before being brought here.”

“Yes. Yes I was.”
* * *
So I've tried to do something a little different to normal here and focus exclusively on the dialogue, only including the other narration when it was absolutely necessary to show what was happening in the scene. If I do end up using this scene in the actual storyline, I'll probably 'fill in the blanks' a little, actually give some descriptions and a few more speech tags, etc. For now, I'm just wondering how well I did characterising these guys just through their words.

I believe some context is needed before people read it however...
This is based upon a game I play called Spiral Knights, it's my first time trying to write anything from that universe as well. And yeah, Storme Hawk will be becoming an Agent soon. More stuff about Spiral Knights can be found on the Wiki, although just for quick reference, Soldiers are fairly low ranked Spiral Knights, Storme Hawk is a Defender, a reasonably high ranked Spiral Knight but he's only recently been inducted to that rank, Vanguards are the highest rank possible and is only available after completing every ranked mission in the game.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1J3v4I3w0Z5iCUYDTE-Vy3O1KojM3z79UbCG-DfkzBaM/edit?usp=sharing

Okay, I definitely wrote something much longer than you were looking for, compared to the other stories so far. I also flagrantly disregarded your advice of not using a foreign language I'm unfamiliar with, but after a family of tourists from New Caledonia came through my zoo a couple of weeks ago, it struck me as strange that the PPC doesn't have more New Caledonian characters, so . . . yeah. Fixed that a bit.

http://doctorlit.dreamwidth.org/3452.html

So, yeah. If anyone finds a mistake in my French, feel free to yell at me for it. Any other mistakes, too, as this is unbeta'd (fun fact: rough draft was written during a single day shift at the stingray touch tank). Sorry about that, but I have no time to do much of anything any more!

I know you said to use dialects sparingly, but I had a scene that absolutely needed to be written, and it just happens to involve several distinct dialects. It may be too much, but it is important.

So, I give you the first meeting of "Da Society For Da Equal Treatment'A Trolls, But Not Dose Trolls, Ya Know Da Trolls I Mean" or DSFDETATBNDTYKDTIM for short.

Trolling For The Cause

-Phobos

Rina kicked her feet up on the console, being careful to keep her clunky boots away from any buttons. She yawned and raked her fingers through her short hair.
"You know," her partner, Randa, said from the floor, "When you asked me to join the PPC, I didn't think it would be so... boring."
Rina made a face. "Just give it some time, okay? Why don't you go play Solitaire or something?"
"I don't know how to play Solitaire."
"What about War? That always takes forever; I'd be willing to play..."
Randa shrugged and rolled over so she was lying on her back. "I can't believe they didn't give us any beds," she muttered.
"They?"
"The freaky talking plants."
Rina stifled a snort. "Well, you can't really blame them, can you? It's not like the S.O. needs a bed." She paused. "Although, considering the majority of agents use beds, you'd think we'd get at least cots or something." She looked around their RC, but the only things to see were the Generic Material of the walls and floor and the weapons rack.
Rina yawned again, vaguely thinking about taking a nap. Of course, the Universal Laws of Narrative Irony decided to manifest.
[BEEEEEP]
"Ack!" Rina sat bolt upright and swung her feet off the console. "Hey, Randa! We've got our first mission!"
"Really? Awesome! What is it?" Randa peered at the screen, not noticing her partner's mouth fall open. Randa somehow managed to groan and giggle at the same time. "Seriously? This one hatched from a dragon egg?"
"Bwah?" Rina could only gape at the readout.
Randa glanced at Rina, a frown creasing her forehead. "What's wrong?"
"They're screwing with me. It's the only explanation," Rina muttered, rubbing her eyes and double-checking that she hadn't been seeing things. She glared at the ceiling. "This isn't funny!" She yelled.
"Rina, you're not making any sense," Randa said irritably. "What is going on?"
Rina gestured at the screen. "I- I- I wrote this! When I was ten!" she said miserably. "Jade Leanna Dragonheart, hatched from a Hungarian Horntail's egg, has a dragon tail and wings and is immune to fire. She can breathe it, too." She groaned and sank back in the chair, wondering how difficult it would be to smash the console.
A burst of laughter made her look up. "Stop laughing!" she snapped.
"Sorry," Randa said, gasping for air. "Just- you wrote- dragon tail-!" Randa was positively howling with laughter at that point.
Rina snarled several choice expletives as she stood and stomped to the weapons rack. Randa's laughter was cut off when Rina thrust an axe into her arms. "We're going to kill this abomination as soon as possible, and we will make it painful. Torture's unfortunately out of the question, so we'll have to be... creative." She slung a quiver over her shoulder and grabbed a recurve bow. "And stop laughing!"
Randa bit the inside of her mouth, her shoulder shaking with silent guffaws as Rina opened a portal and stormed through.

(Unfortunately, yes, I did in fact write this Sue. Thank god I only ever wrote one chapter, but it was a doozy. Ugh.)

Knock, knock.

“Come in!” called Androia, putting down her book and looking for something to use for a bookmark..

“Expletive not translated,” muttered a deep voice from the direction of the door. Androia let the book go and turned to gaze at the stocky male human in the open doorway. The human gazed back with wide eyes.

“I beg your pardon,” said Androia, “I could not hear you clearly. What did you say?”

“Uhm, wrong language,” explained the human, distorting his face into an awkward grin.“I meant to say good morning, or whatever time it may be in this corner of Headquarters.” As far as Androia could determine through all the facial hair, the movement of his lips did not match the sound of his words, but she was used to this; very view agents spoke her native language.

“Good morning, sir,” answerded Androia with a little frown, “it is short after breakfast time for me, and incidentally this is also the announced arrival time for my new partner. So, may I assume – no, you are not possibly a field agent?”

“Well, this sodden plant gave me a potted cactus flash patch and told me to go to this arr zee,” growled the man, “so what would you think? Having second thoughts about my age? It’s the grey beard, right?”.

“Come in then, and forgive me if I were unpolite. I should not have jumped to conclusions. I do not know whether you are what I assume you are, and this colour my not have any significance.”

Surprisingly, Androia could watch the man’s face colour change to match the natural colour of her skin, just before he turned to close the door. “Expletive girl, expletive, human enough,” he murmured. “You didn’t need to step on the other toe. Okay, I’ll calm down, it’s forgiven, you couldn’t know.” When he turned back to face Androia, his skin had paled and the awkward grin was on his face again. “May we start this all over again?” he offered.

“Welcome to response centre one thousand nine hundred fifty three,” replied Androia, not eager to push one of his berserk buttons again. “My name is Androia Avatar. I am a nigth elf from World of Warcraft. Is it usual to shake hands in your culture?”

The human stepped forward to grip Androia’s outstretched hand, and then held it a bit firmer and longer than would have been appropriate. “I’m glad to meet you,” he sang out, “and I’m sure we will be a good team.”

“This is still to be seen,” responded the night elf. “What, did you say, is your name?” Her mysterious new partner let go off her hand and shrank back.

“Uh, there’s a little problem with this,” he stated. “If you don’t mind, I would like to be anonymous.”

“Anonymous? That would be ridiculous,” retorted Androia.

“No, not ridiculous, the name would be Anonymous.”

“I refuse to work with an anonymous partner!”

“Ah, well then, if you insist on misspelling my name,” the male gave in, “you may call me Hieronymus. That’s what the Marquis registered anyway.”

“Agent Hieronymus,” declared Androia, “we need to come to an agreement immediately. If we will be partners, we need to be honest to each other. You have already lied to me at least once.”

“When did I lie to you?”

“There is no wrong language for a Universal Translator. You clearly did not say good morning when you entered this room. I will not insist on a translation, nor will I ask why you want to hide your real name. But you have to explain what you meant when you said you were human enough. When we are in a badfic together, I need to know your abilities and limits.”

Androia had to take breath, and Hieronymus used this pause to interject “I didn’t ask what your abilities and limits are.”

“You may look me up in the World of Warcraft Wiki; I am a level ten druid, specializing in Healing. Now, what are you?”

“Okay, I will tell, but it’s a long story.”

“Then you should start soon.”

“Well, the essence is that I lived in the PPC archives for some time, until one of DoSAT’s Hollywood Hackers tracked me down and they got me out. They say I’m a digital clone of my original self, and I cannot go home to world one, because there is another me at OFUA, and when Miss Kitty sends her students home at the end of the year, there will be two of us.”

“That is a bad fate,” empathized Androia, “but how did you get into the archives?”

“They also threatened me that I might not be able to survive in a world were narrative laws don’t precede scientific laws,” continued Hieronymus, ignoring the question as well as the implications that mentioning his enrolment at the Official Fanfiction University of Azeroth had given away. “Oh, and the DIA tried to neuralize me before they realized that they cannot send me home, so I actually don’t remember my real name.”

“This is – “ started Androia, but she never ended the sentence, because this was the moment the console went BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.

________________________________________________________________________

Author’s notes:
The provisional claim of RC 1953 is pending Permission.

Agent Hieronymus would speak English, but swear in German, if there were no Universal Translators. I imagine that Androia hears everything he says in her native language, so she wouldn’t know the difference.

In a scene written from Hieronymus’ POV, he would obviously know which language he is using. But trying to speak English and only swear in German would make no sense when he knows that everything is translated for the audience’s convenience, and it would probably break the fourth wall, because the only conceivable reason to do so anyway would be Hieronymus’ attempt to keep his story K-rated for the readers. But then he is wall-breaking anyway?

So here is a question: Are Universal Translators smart enough to know that, when a person says some words in a language that is not their working language, this should not be translated? Which, in accord with the general mischief of PPC-technology, means that, if Hieronymus swears too much, the UT would no longer realize that Hieronymus native language is not his working language, and would start to translate?

“<a href="http://ppc.wikia.com/wiki/UniversalTranslator">Of course, they sort of take the fun out of swearing in foreign languages (though some Translators appear to be governed by the Laws of Narrative Comedy in this regard).” Yes, works for me.

I like dialogue. Of all the elements of storytelling, it's always come the most naturally for me. I can just about hear my characters' voices when I'm writing them, and it's fun sounding out particular word choices.

I've got a piece of prequel that I think fits the bill. It was already written, but I've tidied it up a little. The rest of the story will be even more dialogue-heavy, once all the necessary descriptions are in place, but I'm not going to be able to write it in time to post here. So, here's the beginning.

---

Late 2003

The young twenty-something standing at the counter of the nurses' station was tall—quite a bit taller than Head Nurse Suzine. She had to tilt her head back to look him in the face. It made his thin, slanting eyebrows seem even more arched than they already were, and in her professional opinion, they were approaching Elven Eyebrow o' Doom levels.

"I'm sorry," she said, "but we just don't take agents. It's the Department of Fictional Psychology for a reason, you know. Why don't you try Medical?"

"Because that's not what I need," said the young man. He had a clipped way of speaking, as though each word were a cut-out from a different magazine. The fingers of his left hand drummed an erratic sequence into his thigh. "My body is fine. They don't want to see me. They have more important things to do."

Suzine was not a fan of the disdain with which he spoke the last sentence. "Look, if you think you can stand there and insult our line of work while you insist we make an exception for you, you've got—"

"Hey, what's up?"

Suzine turned around to see who had entered the station. "Oh, it's you, Robinson." The intern, a brown-haired, green-eyed woman a little older than the young man, was a pain in Suzine's neck. "What do you need? Make it quick."

"Nurse Dewstan sent me to tell you they were able to release Mulder, but we've got a Spike and Angel situation over in 204 and Legolas is back again." She sounded bored, and immediately broke eye contact with Suzine to peer at the young man. "Who's this?"

That was her problem: she never knew when to mind her own business. "Just an agent who thinks he's somehow more deserving of our time than everyone else in the multiverse. It's not your concern, Robinson. Tell Nathon—"

"But maybe I can help," said the insufferable woman. "Come on—you don't trust me with the canons, so let me handle this kid. What does he want?"

"I'm right here, you know." The young man folded his arms.

"He declined to say," Suzine said archly.

"I don't want to talk to anyone who's not going to help me," said the young man.

"Suzine, it isn't as though you'd be taking me away from anything important," said Robinson. "They don't need me."

Suzine breathed heavily through her nose, counting to five. Then she threw up her hands. "Fine! Robinson, you can see him in your office. Just stay out of my way, both of you."

"Great!" She beamed and practically skipped out the side door to the station. She tried to take the young man's hand, but he jerked it away. "Well, this way, then," she said, spirits somewhat dampened.

"I want a complete workup, Robinson," Suzine called, leaning out the front window. "No shirking, no funny business!"

"No problem!" Entirely too flippant for Suzine's liking, the girl waved over her shoulder as she led the young man away to C-14.

---

~Neshomeh