multiversallogs | → sweet dreams are made of this.

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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.

Threaded | Flat

Sukkardi night, Ilde goes out alone and ends up that way around Shundi morning-- she hasn't been alone all night, not usually, but by the time she's winding down at Lost Society, the company she's been keeping at varying hours (and in various places; she spent a little while in the Vault earlier, but she hadn't gone to Gutters, not without Ivan) has drifted and she's contemplating whether she wants to find someone new or just call a cab back to Mafaton. Closer than Raven's Gate means cheaper than Raven's Gate, and Ilde's expense of choice is, as ever, her wardrobe.

It's getting close to 5AM, which means closing in a little more than an hour, so she orders something light in the mostly-empty restaurant and considers her options.

Ana Lewis was fond of shopping. She'd always been fond of it really, ever since she was a kid. Clothing shopping was one of the few times when she felt that she'd had her mother's attention. Oh, normally she didn't mind (Ana was such a Daddy's girl) but it was nice to have that time to herself. The shopping piece of being the Baroness De Cobray had been the easiest bit of character for Ana to get into, and it had carried with her over to Baedal.

She'd picked up an older gentleman to pick up the bill for her, and because of that had found herself at one of the more expensive stores. Oh, this wasn't quite what she was used to, but it was still better than what she'd come with from the Barge. Shifting her wrap a bit, Ana studied the fabric on display with an appraising eye.

She'd heard about this place, the Vault. It seems to take a strength of will(ful ignorance) to avoid hearing about it. And it's taken some resolve on the part of the young blonde woman to venture out on her own to experience the club for herself.

It's a curiosity, but she's careful not to look as though she thinks of it as such. And the last thing she wants is to look like a wide-eyed teenager amazed they got into their first nightclub on their cousin's ID. She's at least dressed for the surroundings (she thinks), and comfortable with her choice of yellow chiffon, with waist cincher and bustier in black. But it's the four inch heels on the patent leather knee-high boots that make the ensemble, if you ask her.

It's being here by herself that's the worst of it, she thinks. No wingman, as they say. Not that she needs one. There's hardly any situation she can't instantly remove herself from if she needs to. And she's hoping not to need to tonight, not when she's exploring a side of herself she hasn't often elected to in the past. A clear drink fizzes away in the glass in her hand, heedless of her anxiety, as she takes in the sights.

Where does one even begin?

Long ago, Cindy quit that little job she had at a local Baedal shoe store. It was just a cover and she's created other ways to make ends meet with a little extra to support her habits. One habit in particular has her standing in front of a boutique mirror, turning at the waist as she inspect how a green dress drapes along her body. It's slimming and snug, just how Cindy likes it, but the color and the giant bow leaves a little something to be desired.

It would help to have a little neutral advice, but the shopgirl looks younger than Cindy's newest pair of shoes and she wouldn't dare ask an amateur about fashion.

Martha had been out and about. One of the good things about being here was that she had the chance to actually be out and about. Coming from the Barge, she'd still had a lingering sense of claustrophobia which was one of the reasons why she took as much advantage of eating out as she could. Of course, it didn't help that while she was very slowly becoming better at cooking (and much better about burning things, even if they went too far in the other direction.)

Today she was out and about for lunch, and she was doing it all on her own. There was a book in her bag, but at the moment she was just sitting at the table doing a bit of people watching and waiting for the server to come round.

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.

Jim is half distracted as he walks along the sidewalk, studying the screen of his CiD. There are a few messages, nothing important; he sends one to McCoy to find out if he needs to stop for anything on the way home later, or if his CMO needs a hand at the temple.

He's been out all day, hunting for this, looking into that, chasing leads and rumors. He's hungry. He looks up from his CiD long enough to take a quick inventory of his surroundings: dress shop, salon, empty storefront, office, office--and a restaurant, on the other side of the street.

He crosses, tucking his device away in a pocket as he walks, and he reaches the door just as a woman does. He's an officer and a gentleman--and a charmer to boot--so he holds the door open, gesturing with his free hand, offering a warm but polite, not at all presumptuous smile.

"Please," he insists. "After you."

Irene probably first notices Helena when she's walking down the street. There's nothing particular noteworthy about her at first. She's just another lady in a sea of people, puttering about Baedal in the afternoon... but there's something about the way she moves. It's in the way she carries her head, the way she holds herself. Something about her posture screams danger, and it almost succeeds in making her seem powerful. Almost.

There's something unfinished about her. Maybe it's the anger (she walks like she's carrying a chip on her shoulder about the size of London, and her expression is set into a frown), maybe it's her youth, maybe it's something else completely. Either way, right now she's a diamond in the rough -- in need of a good polish and then some before she really shines.

Threaded | Flat

lost society; shundi morning (barely)

no subject

the vault; veerdi night

some boutique on newdi afternoon;

no subject

a bar; givdi

a club; veerdi night

some restaurant, newdi evening