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→ sweet dreams are made of this.

Who: Irene Adler and YOU YES YOU
What: Uh- work, shopping, drinking, seeing the sights, picking up chicks, going to dinner, anything you like.
Where: The Vault, various boutiques, restaurants, gay clubs, out on the street, anywhere at all. If you can think of somewhere to be, Irene is quite possibly there.
When: Here all week, baby.
Notes: Just pick where you're setting it and say when/where they are in the header. It needn't be somewhere mentioned here! If you think they could run into each other elsewhere, then go ahead- and if you think it ought to be an arranged meeting rather than a chance one, then that's probably fine too.
Warnings: Sex, drinking, kink, the Vault...and Irene.

Irene's life has changed since coming to Baedal.

Technically, superficially, her life has improved, which she doubts happens to many people once are magically transported against their will to a place where you oughtn't to look too closely at, say, shadows, because there's almost always something that's going to lurk there- but since when was back home safe, exactly?

Here, at least, she can work properly. She likes the Vault, even if she's used to being her own boss. It's enormous and extravagant, dirty and debauched and full of people she likes, whether they're her coworkers or her clients- it feels like a home away from home.

Her job, of course, doesn't stop and start with brandishing a whip. No, she'd get bored too easily that way. It's fun, but it's only what happens on the surface. What she does is single out people who interest her, who can give her something- whether that's money or influence or just fun. She knows how to spot public figures afraid of being noticed, tugging at their suits and sweating- she knows which people don't want her and which want her so much they have to pretend that she's the last thing on their minds. She knows whose CiD she wants to look through while they're distracted (panting, eyes closed, unconscious, sobbing, drugged, drunk- whatever, as long as they trust her and she trusts herself). She enjoys her time at the Vault, and watches a number of acts between working, but never forgets that she's there to do her job.

When she's free in the evenings she can go out, a strange feeling for someone who is so used to being on the run. There is, of course, Mycroft Holmes to contend with, but she really can't imagine him sampling the nightlife. She's careful not to become a regular anywhere just in case, though more often than not she's found in gay clubs. She doesn't often go home alone; in the mornings, she's polite and kind but ensures that the women in her bed aren't in her bed for too long, and doesn't make use of any CiD numbers they might leave.

And then there's money, fashion, food, exploration, a whole new world. Irene loves to travel, and it's not really travelling when you're running. Baedal changes daily and she's barely seen half of the city, or that's what it feels like. She dines out often, alone or with some of the connections (friends?) she's made, and she thanks her stars that her job pays well, because she has a whole new wardrobe to build up.

Irene Adler, therefore, is living again. And if she sometimes finds herself alone, with no distractions, and feels claustrophobic, knowing that she is in the middle of the city and there is no world outside of it, knowing that she can't hop on a plane with a faked passport and be someone else somewhere else, knowing that she is trapped-

-then that is a very minor detail.

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Irene chuckles, one hand on her hip and as she changes her grip on the crop to tap against her own calf idly- though it's not idle, not really. She's just carefully making sure it's unforgettable.

That sheepishness is nice, she thinks- as is the slight squaring up that follows. "Now you're getting the hang of it, dear. It is what you make of it." Her voice is lower, something thoughtful and a little challenging in her expression, smile still clinging to her lips; she's clearly testing the waters. In fact, she's testing Odessa herself, to see how she reacts. "And it depends on what sort of bonding you're looking for, of course."

"Fantastic," Irene said, pulling the chair out and practically pouring herself onto it, toeing her shoes off without a care in the world- well, why not, right?

"Waiting to order or waiting for your lunch to arrive?" she inquired, plucking a menu from the table but barely scanning it. "Oh- rude of me. I'm Irene."

"I know," Irene replied, sounding rather arch. The smile on her lips is equally genuine, and she keeps her eyes on Ana for a moment too long before glancing back at the mirror, smoothing the coat over her hips and then fixing her hair, pouting at her reflection. It's all a show. "I might just go for it."

"Waiting to order, actually. I've been here a while though," while Irene hadn't wanted to wait, Martha hadn't minded doing it. It had given her a bit of time to people watch, and that was one of her favorite things in Baedal.

The introduction was met with a broad smile, and Martha extended her hand across the table. "Nice to meet you, Irene. I'm Martha, Martha Snape-Jones." She hadn't made the connection about them speaking over the network; Martha tried to speak to most of the new arrivals.

Ana is rather good at putting on shows herself, so she sees the performance as what it is: a scene put on by a master thespian. Once again came that real smile, and Ana nodded. "I think you should. One can never have too much black here."

When Odessa chuckles, it's decidedly alto and a touch husky. She bites her lip and rolls her eyes at herself. "Oh, goodness. Me and my choice of words," as if she'd only just noticed it, and it hadn't at all been intentional. There's a sparkle to her eye that says otherwise, though she doesn't quite give up on the pretense.

Admitting with a bit of a theatrical sigh, if only to be heard over the noise, "I'm a tightly wound individual. I wasn't blessed enough to arrive here with my therapist," lovely woman, "so I'm researching different avenues of unwinding." It's about science and observation, obviously.

The kid who does this is sick. They don't meet his eyes when they tell him; he doesn't shrug and say, "find another kid." It's a small outfit.

He gathers the broadsides under his arm, turns up his collar and takes to the streets. The words were supposed to be the hard part. He slaps posters to walls, to poles, to the doors of abandoned buildings. The day crumbles away and at dusk he's left with more sheets than he'd like.

The kid who does this also has more than two arms.

Don finds a bar, slumps onto a stool. Drops the stack of broadsides in the seat next to his. He rubs his eyes and when his drink arrives reaches for it with fingers still numbed by the cold.

It's kind of sad that she has to hide her newly cut hair under a wig, but she really needs to not be recognized, so she just has to deal with it. Her 'hair' is curretly long, dark brown, and done up in one of those messy buns that take about an hour to perfect, with bangs that fall into her eyes a little. She's dressed for a club, in a dark blue, short dress with high heels and jewelry to match. Between the outfit and her make up, which is a little heavy handed but in a way that's been done on purpose, she looks older than normal.

Her mission tonight is following a lead, keeping track of who they talk to and where they go, to see if they reveal anything that might help her investigation. The problem is that they've clued onto her, and right now she really needs an excuse as to why she just followed them into the club. It's a coincidence that the closest person happens to be Irene; Steph doesn't recognize her.

Steph walks up to her and touches her lightly on the arm -- the sort of familiar gesture that a friend would make, and quietly asks, "Can you please pretend to know me?" Her expression is easy, deliberately not looking at the person she's following, and a small smile on her lips in contrast to the slight desperation in her voice. She's putting on an accent, a light Southern twang that sounds nothing like her normal Gothamite accent.

Irene's lips twist in a knowing smirk- I know precisely what you're doing -which suggests she'd like to grin but is holding it back. It's much more effective than an actual grin, somehow. It's also a lot less wholesome.

"'Researching'. What a term to use in a sex club." Another casual remark designed to make it clear that Irene knows what she's doing, and might just be the only one. "So. Curious. My favourite type of guest, but also the ones most likely to back out and never return." A wolfish smile. "Not that I expect that of you."

She doesn't; if she'd expected Odessa to startle and run, she wouldn't have carried on the conversation. She's not interested in people who aren't interested in her.

"You look tired," Irene says.

The bar is quieter than the places she's been frequenting lately, enjoying the noise and the rush- half because you can't party much when you're playing dead and avoiding governments and terrorist cells alike and half because the quieter a place is the easier it is to think about how very trapped you are.

She's perched on a bar stool, a glass of red wine in her hand- she gets briefly distracted, glancing at the reflections in the glass and tipping it idly to catch the light. "Missing cat?" The posters. She can't read what's on them; she's on the other side of him.

Irene turns to her with blank politeness until she hears precisely what it is that Steph wants, at which point her eyes widen and a smile appears on her face- the very picture of surprise and sudden realisation.

"Gods, I didn't recognise you with that new haircut!" she says in a pleased, carrying voice- after all, if she's meant to be this woman's friend, there's got to be some reason she didn't recognise her straight off the bat. "It suits you. How've you been, want a drink?"

Her tone is excitable and her smile a beam, even while her mind works; escaping from someone's unwanted attentions? Proving to an ex-lover that she wasn't here alone? Or something a bit more interesting?

"Oh, pleasure," Irene said, taking her hand. Right, now she remembers. She considered whether or not to tell her that they'd spoken over the network already, and decided to go for it. "We've spoken, I think. Over the network. I was asking questions- about where people went to think."

"One can never have too much black anywhere. Versatile, stylish, goes with everything, no worries about stains. Anyway, everyone needs a decent coat to cover up their sins with." Which is making her think of Sherlock, which is amusing her greatly.

She casts another slightly reckless grin at Ana. "Irene Adler. You?"

Steph's smile brightens, from the outside it just looks like she's pleased to be talking to a friend, but the relief is obvious from close up, "I've been great. I found this great little salon in Chimer, you should try them sometime." She does a little hair flick for extra effect, the tension in her shoulders lessening when the older woman she'd been tailing looks away and dissappears further into the club.

"I'm so sorry about that," she doesn't drop the accent, but her smile turns apologetic and her presence is a little more natural now that she's not being observed, "I owe you one."

Something between a grimace and a frown pulls at Odessa's scarred mouth for a moment when she's called on her clinical language. Calculated might be the better word. "Yes, I'd say I'm curious." Casually, she looks about the club, not quite as if she isn't interested in what Irene has to say (more accurately: what she has to offer), but as to give the impression that she doesn't want others to think she's quite so interested as she.

"Hypothetically, how much would it cost a girl to have her curiosity sated?"

Irene drops half of her act, glancing away from Steph to scan the crowd- but the club's too packed to be quite sure of who she's looking for. "I'm sure you do," she murmurs, still looking- and then catching her eye once more. There's a thoughtful expression on her face.

"No need to apologise, but you might pay me back in an explanation."

There's a moment of hesitation - she didn't come planned for this situation and she has no idea if Irene managed to see the woman - before she speaks, "I probably shouldn't... It's a family thing."

She's thought of a lie, but it'd seem too suspicious if she answered the question straight away. Her demeanor is a little awkward and unsure, but it's on purpose, trying to make herself seem like less of a threat.

Irene transfers her crop to her left hand and reaches out, taking Odessa's chin, thumb against her lower lip, very but very commanding. She turns her head to ensure she's not casting her eyes anywhere but at Irene herself.

"Depends," Irene murmurs- soft, reprimanding, in charge, "on whether that girl can remember to keep her eyes on me or not."

She has a price in mind, but she wants to see how Odessa reacts to this first. Again: curiosity. And it will help her know what she wants, of course.

"Harder," Ilde speculates, of not lying to yourself; everyone has their illusions, mostly less literal than some of hers tend to be, the little lies they tell themselves to make it easier to be themselves. The justifications and the willful ignorance and a hundred other things-- the illusion of honesty, even, which is one reason (of several) why she doesn't tend to ask questions when she wants to know something. The things people say rarely tell her what it is she's interested in.

"I think it's sort of lovely," she adds, after a moment, poking at the fish on her plate with her fork. Nearly a year ago, her reaction to witnessing a three-headed vulture woman swallow men whole was isn't she beautiful, so there's that.

Irene has four suspects in mind; she's no Sherlock Holmes, but she has to admit that his way of thinking can be very helpful, even if her own powers of observation aren't quite the same. One of them is the woman Steph was tailing.

"Who am I going to tell?" she inquires, putting on a new act- a harmless act. She sips her drink, eyebrows up, looking encouraging.

"It's my dad," There's sometng genuine in that, a lot of Steph's life problems have revolved around her dad pulling bullshit. She hesitates again, but this time it's on purpose, "I think he might be having..."

Her persona would trail off there, so it's what Steph does. Her hypothetical dad is having a hypothetical affair with the woman Steph was trailing. It was a story that seemed to be the most reasonable -- accounting for the age of the woman, why Steph was following her, and the fact she didn't want to be caught.

"It is," Irene replies immediately and with utter conviction, voice soft and genuine. "There's nothing more intimate."

Irene falls in love with people and then runs them ragged just to see how they work, to strip away all pretenses. Even when she's working it's emotional. People at their limits are the most beautiful people in the world.

Having attempted to murder Ivan in bed by accident once already - not an experience either of them are in a hurry to repeat - Ilde is warier of pushing her own boundaries again. Other people's, though, those are fascinating to watch and to poke at, to circle around and examine; it's not really her business, so she's quiet, but she's usually quiet, that's not unusual. It's not her business, but it's intriguing, and sometimes the idea that people aren't playthings seems so much less important than others.

('Whenever it would inconvenience her to remember', usually; she's catlike by nature and cats are selfish little bastards.)

"I like that about the Vault. The strangest things are beautiful."

Irene likes people a lot, but she doesn't really group herself with them- which makes most of them eventually inconsequential. Exciting, interesting, but not important, apart from the favoured few which she takes an entirely opposite and equally unhealthy view of by getting rather obsessed. And even then, she always puts herself first.

It's only sensible.

"You don't have to go to the Vault to see that," Irene opines, pushing a strand of dark hair across her forehead and behind her ear, smiling. "Strange things are beautiful, everywhere. You just have to look. But then I suppose only the Vault puts it up on a stage and celebrates it publicly."

"You get different sorts depending on where you go and what you're looking for, though," which is interesting in and of itself, but in regarding variety-- the Vault caters to a great many things that still fall under a relatively specific umbrella, and so she looks there for something different to what she's satisfied with elsewhere. "I'd see something else, at Gutters, or in the library, or on the street in Raven's Gate or on the street in Mafaton or in Mog Hill."

Everything has a place and all things in their right place-- no, that's not quite it, she decides a moment after she has the thought, that implies a level of necessary separation that she doesn't think is so. Incongruity and a challenge, that can be stunning, too, the unexpected boon.

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→ sweet dreams are made of this.

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a bar; givdi

a club; veerdi night

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