multiversallogs | → sweet dreams are made of this.

Entry tags:

→ 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.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

"Well, you never know what'll be the next big thing." Ana grins a it, and she just watches Irene before she touches her glasses for a moment. Irene is interesting and Ana doesn't need any of her toys to tell her that.

"What theory do you subscribe too about being here?" Ana's a bit inclined to believe in the gods theory herself. At least a little. After all, she'd come here from being dead and put into purgatory; someone needed to have that sort of power.

Oh, Cindy likes this one. Saucy little minx. It's been a long while since somebody truly went toe to toe with her and didn't bore her in two point five seconds. But she isn't giving up or giving in with a please.

"Just because you didn't hear the question marks doesn't mean it wasn't a request." But it was truly an order; far be it from Cindy to tell the woman she is right. No, it's better to just stand here and smirk.

"Less and less so, but they do still crop up the further out in space we explore." He shrugs. "I guess there's always the possibility, when cultures meet each other for the first time, that there will be misunderstandings and misinterpretations. We try to avoid that, as much as we can."

His smile widens too, and he offers this information not to correct her, or show her up in any way, but more as a means of understanding each other. "It's been a while since there were really astronauts." He's guessing at a time difference between their worlds, based on her frame of reference.

"Where I'm from most people go off-world at some point in their lives. I tend to stay out there for long stretches, since I'm in Starfleet. It's an exploratory and peacekeeping force, with emphasis on scientific investigation and expanding our knowledge of what's out there."

Irene closes her eyes for a moment, enjoying how Odessa melts slightly, and yet- even better- keeps an element of challenge in her voice and in her words...

"Mind your manners," she reprimands, her voice low and deep, almost rumbling- she doesn't have to sound angry. In fact, she finds that that lessens the effect. She just sounds like she expects to be obeyed.

She likes how they've managed to create a bubble of privacy in the middle of the pressing crowds, but they're going to have to move at some point. She wants a private room.

"Come with me," she says simply, leaning back a little to look Odessa in the eye, raising her eyebrows. It's not quite phrased like a command or a suggestion. Instead, she says it as if she's offering a solution to a tough problem.

She hasn't mentioned a price yet, she reminds herself. And she needs to work out what Odessa wants. She needs to establish and safeword and seek out limits.

She can't get carried away, no matter how much fun that might be in the short term- it never really pays off.

"I think I said I know orders when I hear them," she repeats, casting a quick, sharp smile at Cindy. She's enjoying herself enormously, of course. She loves a challenge. "Though usually I prefer giving them."

She strokes the fabric of the dress, flattening it against her stomach, raising her eyebrows. "What do you think, dear? It's dreadful, isn't it- the thin line between minimal and plain."

"Too bad you didn't give this one this time." Her back is still turned to Irene expectantly. Sooner or later, somebody will have to give. It might end up being the frustrated shopgirl when she throws them both out.

With a slight turn of her head, Cindy gives the dress a glance. It is rather plain. Black is for funerals or spy missions. "I don't do either."

That she can't decide between instant compliance or her instinctual need to rebel against everything, even in small ways, bothers her some. She knows she needs to commit to one role if this is going to work. But then she questions why she needs this to work. The only solution is to follow Irene, or to walk away now.

But walking away from Irene Adler was an option taken off the table a while ago.

And so she nods, "Certainly, Miss Adler." As though they're on their way to some conference room to discuss last quarter's numbers and what they mean for the future. In some ways, that's not far off.

"Hm. Sometimes you've got to let things speak for themselves, I think."

Yeah, but Irene, when you want to do that you wear high heels and nothing else.

There are dresses that scream I don't have to try and dresses which scream I don't want to try and Irene decides that the one she's currently holding up against herself is the latter. She gives the mirror one more narrow-eyed stare and whirls away from it, replacing the dress on the rack and picking up another, also black, but rather more daring. (Read: sparkly). "Lovely as those shoulderblades are, dear, aren't you getting cold?"

She's happy to be corrected in this case, viewing it as a chance to learn a little more. (And entertain herself). The interest on her face is genuine- well, naturally. If she weren't interested, in this case she probably wouldn't pretend. She knows the value of feigning fascination when it might further her own causes, but right now there really wouldn't be a point.

"I see," she says thoughtfully- and then, because she can't go for too long without pushing and prodding people to see how they react, adds with a kind of sharp smile, "and are you good at your job?"

It's not a terribly normal question, but the smile suggests she knows that. Anyway, she's not a terribly normal person.

"Nope," Cindy quickly shoots back, turning back towards the mirror. "I was thinking of creating a new fad in a world where rude people don't listen to your requests." Clearly this isn't Cindy backing down, just turn the standoff in a new direction. Eh, she's not feeling this dress anyway, so once again, she strips down but this time, she snatches the dress from Irene's grip.

How does she like them apples?

"Yes," he says, without missing a beat or even shifting his expression. It's a bit of a boast, sure, but it's also the truth. Modesty's never really been his strong suit--

No, scratch that, modesty is never even a suit that hung in any closet of his in his life.

"I'm captain of the Federation's flagship, the Enterprise," he adds, by way of explanation. He's sure it's enough; look at him. Twenty-five--and it shows, his youth, and yet the Federation's entrusted him with their pride and joy. "I was promoted to command about six months ago."

But Irene's already been dragged into it. By now, in fact, there's not a chance in hell she'll drop it.

She smiles over the rim of her glass, eyes glinting- got you.

"That's alright," she says, sounding a little disappointed but still friendly- even fond, like she's playing the older sister. She catches how Steph's eyes dart towards the exits, and knows she's unnerved her, which implies she has something to be unnerved about... "Well, good luck with it."

"Get you," she says, smile widening. The sharp response he gives is promising; people who know what they're good at tend to interest and entertain her more than people who play down their abilities.

She leans back, gives him a considering look, and suggests, "You must miss it." It doesn't sound like she expects to be contradicted- of course it doesn't, it never does.

Steph catches that look, and for a brief moment she thinks I'm fucked, before mentally kicking herself. She's Batgirl. There's nothing Irene can do right now, she has no idea who Steph really is, and it won't be easy to find out unless she's on their cohort (which reduces the chances she's in the militia, so it's a win either way).

Her smile is suddenly easy, and she finishes her drink in one go, but without any hurry, "Thanks, and thanks for all your help."

She slips off the stool and neatens her dress, before offering another warm smile, "It was nice to meet you, Irene."

Irene barely misses a beat, her eyebrows raising.

"That's so kind of you," she drawls, as if she's just handed the dress to Cindy to hold onto for a moment- and then she reaches behind herself, pulling down a zip of her own and, with a graceful stretch, letting her dress pool at her feet.

When in doubt (not that she is ever in doubt, what an absurd idea, but hypothetically)- take your clothes off.

Today- probably fortunately- Irene is actually wearing underwear. Comprehensive underwear, in fact, covering all sorts of sins with plenty of black lace. Really, she deserves some kind of award. The shop girl doesn't seem to appreciate this, and is in fact growing steadily more and more reminiscent of a (very stylish) deer in the headlights.

"So difficult to undress with your hands full, isn't it?" Irene holds out a hand for the return of the dress, smiling brightly. "You're a sweetheart. Even if I do think you've been terribly underexposed to people with spine."

"Delightful to meet you, Sarah," Irene says, eyes narrowed as she smiles- her expression should be feline, really, and in fact she's going for that, but it's not quite soft or pretty enough. Reptilian might be a better word.

"But wait. Just ten seconds."

Another test. How does she react? What is she thinking?

As she muses, Irene slips a hand into her bag and comes up with a pen. "Give me your hand," she suggests, twirling the pen between her fingers, a smirk tugging on her lips. "Or something to write on."

It's a sure bet that the shopgirl never expected this to happen to her. Sure, maybe she knew she would have to deal with angry customers expecting discounts out of nowhere and perhaps for her to kiss their undeserving asses, but women with not a hint of shame undressing where all and sundry can see? Never. She really doesn't get paid enough for this.

On the other hand, Cindy isn't getting paid for this but she is enjoying it anyway. With a little shake of her head and an amused eyebrow raise, she pulls on the dress she's stolen from Irene's grasp. Good thing this time there's no zipper feature. "It really is. The world is just filled with problems that few people notice." With a turn at the waist to check out how her ass looks in this get up, Cindy nods with approval and slaps Irene five, as if that was what she was asking. "I do believe I have enough spine for all."

Steph cocks her head to the side a little, her expression curious and the smile still on her face. She'll wait, because walking away would be rude and she doesn't have excuse to want to get out right now. She's still a little rattled by the whole exchange, but she just has to focus on the fact it'll be over soon; she only has to play this game for a little longer.

When the pen appears, Steph inwardly relaxes and manages a small laugh before offering her hand, "I need to get in the habit of carrying a notebook." She could, theoretically, offer her CiD to input a number, if this is going where she thinks it is. But that would be dangerous.

His reaction is another one of those moments where who he was and who he's becoming meet in the middle; he's professional and polished enough to say, "Thank you," to drop his gaze modestly and accept her compliment with grace. But the color rises a few degrees in his cheeks, and his smile is a hint too bright, a hint too pleased--he's still a young man, still tickled by praise from an attractive woman.

He looks up again at her declaration, meeting her gaze. He reads her certainty that she won't be contradicted as deep insight, as understanding, and it makes his professional self slip just a little in favor of his youth, his heart.

"I do miss it," he confesses. "I'd finally found my place. Where I was meant to be, where I belonged. I thought I'd get more time than I did."

Irene draws a conclusion then, and it is as follows: he's sort of sweet, isn't he?

She likes watching the battle of youth vs something more dignified, doubtless the air of command and early success, though he doesn't sound smug about his career- slightly boastful, yes, but in a way that suggests he's proud of himself and wants other people to feel the same way, rather than an attempt to rub people's noses in his own ability.

What he says hits something of a chord, making her think of the success she'd enjoyed before Sherlock bloody Holmes- but at the same time, when has she ever been able to settle?

If Sherlock Holmes hadn't caused her to abandon ship and jump country and start again elsewhere, something or someone else would have done the same thing very quickly. It's not hard to make Irene run for freedom- which is the worst thing about Baedal. Being trapped. That's what she misses; not a place to belong, but a place to reinvent herself.

"People go home," she points out, her tone surprisingly gentle nonetheless. He's adopted her as a confidante, so she may as well play along. "But I won't patronise you- that's no guarantee." She lifts her eyebrows slightly, and asks, "Are you making do?"

Somewhere in the reasonably light tone of her voice is concern. It's hard to say whether that's genuine or not. On the one hand, Irene's primary interest is herself, and largely she's carrying on this conversation for the sake of idle entertainment. On the other, she has a marvelous ability to connect with just about anyone should she care to make the effort.

"You do," Irene agrees, "if you want any success with your investigations."

A joke which is not actually a joke.

She scrawls a number on the back of Steph's hand, aware that she's giving over a vital part of the puzzle she's created for the other woman- but so what? She's not Militia, not as far as Irene can see. And she'd rather Steph not mistake her for Militia either, not when she wants to know what she's up to. And yes, she's handing over information- but a part of her is eager to see just what Steph can do with it.

"Give me a call if you change your mind."

"So that's where I've been going wrong," she answers as if it is a joke. It amuses her though, in it's own way, because it reminds her of the diaries she used to keep when she was working as Spoiler and Robin.

Steph isn't sure what to make of recieving the number, and se's a little surprised when she notices they're on the same cohort, but she tries not to show it. Still, her eyebrows may go up a little before she looks back up at Irene and smiles.

"I might," at the very least, she'll be trawling through all of Irene's conversations on the network, "Thanks again, I hope you have a nice night."

With a small wave, Steph carefully winds her way through the crowd and leaves the bar. Once outside, she starts walking at a casual pace, heading in the exact opposite direction she needs to go; just in case.

Irene is entirely right about Jim.

There's definitely pride there, but it's look what I did, not look who I am; a subtle difference for him to show, let alone for another to pick up on. He's proud to be a captain, to command the Federation's finest ship, because he genuinely understands, respects, and loves what it means. He can carry that kind of authority and responsibility even if he looks like he barely started shaving because despite his youth and the occasional missteps that entails, deep down inside, he's a Starfleet officer, born and then trained.

...And it's true. It's not a word he'd use himself, likely he doesn't even realize he possesses the right qualities, but Jim is also a sweet kid. A good-hearted young man, almost too honest and forthright for his own good, at times.

"People do go home," he agrees, smiling. "They even, unfortunately--and not to put a damper on your suggestion--come back. That happened to someone close to me." There is the barest pause before he adds, "My friend and colleague, who also ended up here. The Chief Medical Officer from my ship and my good friend."

It's funny, sometimes, how the tiniest things give so much away. Most people might not find the order of words, the information offered first, the tiny hesitation before more explanation is added at all significant. But some people are incredibly perceptive, some people just know how to read another person, and Irene is likely sharp enough to catch that, while everything he said is true, genuine, honest, it's also just possible that someone close to me is a very honest wish, too, and my friend, my colleague and so on are justifications for both why he feels that way and, perhaps, also why it's just a wish.

"But even him coming back," Jim carries on, because they're confidants now, he's comfortable with this, "tells me it's possible. That he left at all means we might one day leave for good."

His smile shifts slightly into the sort one wears when one feels like maybe they're talking too much, inadvertently dominating the conversation when they'd like to know more. "And I am doing all right, thank you for asking. I work as a consultant at Hellsing, and I teach self-defense lessons here and there. And I spend a lot of time learning about this city, as much as I can."

Jim settles back in his seat, regarding her across the table. "Now tell me about you, Irene. What do you do here? How long have you been here?" The and are you also all right goes unspoken but is probably plain from the way he studies her face.

Don smiles. Genuine or not: it doesn't matter. It's a way of marking time.

"That sound," he says, shaping his words delicately as you might blow smoke rings, "is the one thing everyone in this city fears." His posture shifts, shoulders turning toward her, hand falling away from his glass. He leans forward, his gaze probing and at the same time receptive, inviting.

"You have it—somewhere in the back of your mind, the moment where it's them on one side of the door and you on the other." He looks at her—transparently appraising, and yet there's something disarming in that transparency—then sits back, shrugs. Smiles again, an almost helpless quirk of the lips. "What if I told you you didn't have to worry about the other side of the door?"

And now she can add a few things to her mental file on him.

Firstly; he is a Good Person. Secondly; he's affiliated with Hellsing. Thirdly; he wants to impress her, which, when taken in context with the above facts, could be very useful indeed. Fourthly; his 'friend and colleague'? Really.

She listens intently, because everyone likes to be listened to, and sometimes if you listen hard enough people feel prompted to fill in the gaps because they don't want to show themselves up as lacking. Sometimes they make the mistake of being honest. But she isn't reticent when it comes to information about herself, either- well, she's as human as anyone. Who doesn't like to talk about themselves?

Anyway, people like to feel like she trusts them.

"I..." She trails off in a way that suggests knowing amusement rather than shame or hesitancy, a grin on her face. It's friendly rather than predatory, as if she's decided to consider him an equal and a co-conspirator. "Misbehave. I make my way in the world, no matter where or what that world might be."

This is a script, a tag line, or a mantra; I misbehave. I make my way in the world. She almost sounds like she's advertising herself. How many times has she used that line, she wonders? She says it to all the men who think they want to know about her, because in her experience they don't ever really want the truth. They just want to feel let in on the secret. Best to give them a bit of catchy mystery and remain an attractive enigma.

After all, the real Irene Adler- if such a woman exists beneath all the disguises and self-portraits- is frightening.

"Luckily for me, my particular skills are transferable. Do you know the Vault?" She almost wants to ask if he's old enough, but that's a little too mean. Anyway, he's clearly intelligent beyond his years, even if the urge to treat him like a puppy is rising in her- best not to underestimate anyone, not after the Sherlock debacle.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 6 of 7

→ sweet dreams are made of this.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject