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alias: Jessica
age in ##: 35
story: Elementary
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Last Seen: Aug 15 2017, 12:58 PM
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Jamie Moriarty

Tomorrowland

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Aug 15 2017, 12:58 PM
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<div class="jmbox">
<div class="jmlyr1">she rules </div>
<div class="jmlyr2"> with a rod of iron</div>
<div style="background-color: #aa4d4d; padding: 2px; margin-bottom: 2px;"></div>
<div class="jmmain">
<div class="jmpb"> "It's very easy," she told the man in front of her. <br><br>

Jamie rested an arm on the side of the booth, looking out to the rest of the dingy Rabbit Hole. She gestured to the table. Three cards lay in front of her and she reached out to straighten one, before sitting back and smiling a dazzlingly white array of teeth at the man. Her voice was like velvet. "It's very easy to play," she continued. "Are you sure you don't want to have a go? It doesn't take very long..." <br><br>

One thing Jamie had noticed was that she was drastically running out of money. <br><br>

Well, technically speaking, she did have money. She had enough to buy and run an art gallery, buy a penthouse outright and continue to fund a web of criminals, spies, murderers, arsonists and thieves worldwide while still having enough to bribe the people she needed to bribe. Not that Jamie did any of those things, obviously. But the problem was that all of that money was sitting in a bank. Sitting in a bank outside of Storybrooke. Sitting in a bank outside of Storybrooke in London. Sitting in a bank outside of Storybrooke in London in her own realm. <br><br>

She took a sip of her drink, watching for the man's decision. <br><br>

Unfortunately, it was no use to her here. In the space of one ill-fated plane flight from one prison to another Jamie had lost her daughter, her money, her home, her money, any chance of being free and, to add insult to injury, her money. She didn't hoard the stuff per se - no no no, she wasn't in any way shallow. Jamie Moriarty? Shallow? But the fact remained that it was her opening to everything. That had been hard-stolen, hard-murdered and hard-earned cash, and without it she was right down at the bottom of the pecking order, stripped of all her criminal honours. Without money how was she going to finance herself - her lifestyle? It wasn't a disaster. It was a catastrophe. In many ways she'd gone from one kind of imprisonment to another - she couldn't even leave Storybrooke. <br><br>

Sherlock would kill her if he knew what she was doing now. Well, perhaps not kill. And he didn't have to know. As long as she kept to grungy little bars like this and bandaged up her pride he'd be blissfully oblivious to her and her antics. Besides, it wasn't actually hurting anyone, was it? She was beginning to see why that would bother Sherlock, why hurting others was....wrong, apparently, by his standards. But it was an emergency. She was allowed to look out for herself, wasn't she? Was that breaking the law? She considered. Yeah, in many cases. <br><br>

Most of the people in here were too drunk to care anyway, if the noise was an indicator. She'd chosen this booth deliberately, in the corner, looking out towards anywhere else...and close to the fire exit. She'd only do it for a few nights - make sure she didn't attract anyone's attention, or anyone who wasn't going to be willingly giving her money anyway. Maybe then she could actually do something with herself. She had run a criminal empire! How the mighty fell. This wasn't her usual line of scams but Jamie, despite all of her proclivities - as she called them, as one would call a hobby of stamp-collecting a proclivity - was practical at heart. Whatever worked, she thought to herself as she stretched her smile that little bit tighter. Whatever worked. Whatever got her what she needed. <br><br>

The man was saying something. She leant forward, hoping that the man was too drunk to see that her hair was unwashed. "Oh? The name? The name of the game?" She smiled. "It's called Find the Lady." <br><br>

</div>

</div>
<div style="background-color: #aa4d4d; padding: 2px; margin-top: 2px;"></div>
<div class="jmbb">ADD.: Felix | WORDS: 634 | NOTES: Trompe l'oeil</div>
</div>
<div class="tcred"><a href="http://shine.b1.jcink.com/index.php?showuser=1892" target="_blank">♛ Ames</a></div></center>[/dohtml]
Jul 17 2017, 02:05 PM
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<div class="jmbox">
<div class="jmlyr1">for your own good</div>
<div class="jmlyr2">let me win</div>
<div style="background-color: #aa4d4d; padding: 2px; margin-bottom: 2px;"></div>
<div class="jmmain">
<div class="jmpb"> Going down to the morgue had been, like most of Jamie's decisions, the worst and best thing she had done during her stint in hospital. <br><br>

On one hand, she now knew about the zombies, about some of the strange things going on in town - and the nature of the crash that had brought her here, too. Her discovery down in the morgue had been the key to understanding the mechanics about where she was and how she had gotten here. Through the newspapers (which were surprisingly candid about how everyone got here), she had worked out the rest. It appeared she had 'jumped realms' with Sherlock, from what she could pick up; she had moved between dimensions, between the cracks from one reality to another. It explained why Storybrooke wasn't on the map, why there had been the odd turbulence just before the plane had shattered. The puzzle pieces were clicking into place. <br><br>

How this was possible she was unsure; although mathematics and space had once been her reading material of choice she was not as well versed in it as she once was. But what mattered was that it was more than she'd had to work with before, and it gave her an answer to the questions that she had been so desperately seeking. She had a lot to think about, a lot to muse over, while she was healing. <br><br>

And it was a good thing she did, as on the other hand she was suddenly under tighter supervision than, surely, she ever had been at the CIA blacksite. To talk to that Doctor Brennan had been a mistake - and to lie to her, too. Jamie had her water, her food, her drugs to heal and a panic alarm if she needed it; that hadn't changed. But there had been a shift in her treatment - subtle, but still there; an adjustment that made life there that bit less hospitable. She had been moved from an open ward to a small room off the corridor, and the nurses had no longer stayed to talk to her. They gave her what she needed and left, without looking her in the eye, and she had gone hours without seeing anyone. Was it her imagination, or had the door clicked with the finality of a lock on the other side? <br><br>

This woman had become a handler, a keeper, a jailer. All because Jamie had miscalculated her intelligence. Attempts to remedy the situation, to make herself look addled, suffering from some vague mental illness and yet harmless did little to sway Doctor Brennan. And all that time, trapped in that pathetic little room, Moriarty's wrath had positively bloomed. <br><br>

She was angry at herself more than anyone else, yet there was only one person who would be paying the price for her treatment. She had left the hospital when she was discharged and had spent her time exploring the town, getting to know her wider constraints. But Jamie's mind had gone back time and time again to the doctor who had done her best to limit her freedom, who now knew the threat she posed - or thought she did. When she returned to the hospital, she would be under no doubt. <br><br>

This woman couldn't be another Joan. She couldn't be. Joan was...unique. Special, in Jamie's eyes - anointed, beyond the rest in a way that none other could compare. So much like Sherlock but so different. So human. And in the same way as Joan Watson this woman had also proven hard to judge, had made Jamie trip up. But this woman wasn't Joan. She was something else, an unknown entity. Untested, and therefore dangerous. And that made her someone to be wary of under the hospital's roof. But Jamie wasn't in hospital now, and was regained to full strength. It was time to tip the balance. <br><br>

Jamie had waited until the hospital had dipped into the dark chasm of the night shift, as the day visitors left, nurses arrived and left their stations and the lights were dimmed. This sterile, white world shifted in the twilight, as the gears changed in the medical machine. Getting in had been easy enough; she had spent the majority of the day in a spare cupboard, waiting until the perfect time to emerge. Now she walked down its now familiar halls to the morgue, dressed in a simple pale blouse and jeans and well enough to manage on her own without drugs nor support. <br><br>

And there she was. Jamie was poised in the shadows. <br><br>

"Doctor."<br><br>

</div>

</div>
<div style="background-color: #aa4d4d; padding: 2px; margin-top: 2px;"></div>
<div class="jmbb">ADD.: Temperance Brennan | WORDS: 761 | NOTES: CHIAROSCURO</div>
</div>
<div class="tcred"><a href="http://shine.b1.jcink.com/index.php?showuser=1892" target="_blank">♛ Ames</a></div></center>[/dohtml]
Jun 9 2017, 03:16 PM
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<div class="jmbox">
<div class="jmlyr1">makes the world quite dull, no?</div>
<div class="jmlyr2"> LOOKING AT A MAN, AND KNOWING ALL HIS SECRETS.</div>
<div style="background-color: #aa4d4d; padding: 2px; margin-bottom: 2px;"></div>
<div class="jmmain">
<div class="jmpb"> Another morning. Another day in this strange town. <br><br>

Jamie was doing well. She hadn't managed to get arrested yet and was...coping. She had found accommodation at least. A job was not exactly forthcoming, but she was working on that. As much as her pride hated to have to find a job in the first place like an ordinary person she stifled it, at least for the moment. It was necessary. She wasn't going to run back to Sherlock at the first sign of trouble. <br><br>

In her competitive mind she thought of it as a game. That game of who could hold out the most between them, who could go the longest in this new town before approaching the other, before breaking and running back to the only person they really knew here. It was to her a war of attrition: who would withstand it, who seemed the least unaffected by the other's presence here in town. Whether or not Sherlock thought the same way was immaterial. She just assumed he came to the same conclusion she did. <br><br>

But, nonetheless, it was a game she was losing. <br><br>

Sherlock always managed to infect her thoughts in some way or another in the most surprising ways. She herself found her ordered and disciplined mind all over the place whenever she thought of him. Most people barely skimmed across Jamie's mind, brushing across her thoughts before once again being reallocated to that mental crevasse where everyone unimportant went. She never forgot them, of course, in case they suddenly became important in some way, but even so they were rarely of such a status for long. They would crop up in her life, as a resource or an obstacle; if they were a resource they were drained of everything that made them useful, if they were an obstacle they were removed from play. Sherlock, however, remained a permanent fixture, and the more she learnt about this town the more she wondered what he made of it, whether he was thinking anything along the same lines as her. She couldn't help wondering what he knew...<br><br>

..And how he was feeling. The stirrings of empathy were still fledgling in Jamie's mind, the concept of caring for someone beyond herself still profoundly alien and foreign, yet she found herself caring all the same. Was he alright? Did he have a roof over his head? As much as he could follow her without her spies and on the ground with no resources she found it harder to follow him, to understand how he was getting on. It was becoming, quite frankly, irritating. She couldn't deny her own...attachment to him. But it was becoming distracting - he was becoming distracting. She was trying to set up a life for herself and yet her feelings for him were getting in the way every time.<br><br>

Oh, sod it, she decided one morning. She'd go and find him, even if it did mean losing that game. So Miss Moriarty took a walk around town, hoping to see him. It was an indirect way of finding him but it was the best she could do, unused to field work. Storybrooke was familiar to her now, or the central parts were at least, but she still couldn't find him. People had seen him, that Jamie could work out, but she couldn't for the life of her find out where he was staying. Not at Granny's, not at the inn she was staying in. So where? <br><br>

If Jamie had been the emotional sort she would have been concerned. But instead she cast her net further and further afield. The woods, right up to the town line; she checked everywhere. She was scraping the bottom of the barrel, she thought, looking here. The docks, really? One building in particular looked fairly run down - nothing to look at. The kind of building that needed a good arson. She almost dismissed it, turning her gaze back to the far prettier and pleasing to the eye buildings further into town - except for the sign. <br><br>

Idiots need not enter. <br><br>

A smile slinked across her face. Found him. <br><br>

But her smile faded as she walked into the building. Jamie was cautious, lingering by the door. Thinking about talking to Sherlock was one thing. Actually approaching him was another. "Sherlock?" Was he even in? At least she'd found where he was living - no one would put a sign up like that. It was the kind of whimsical little thing that Sherlock would do. She hesitated before knocking. "Sherlock, it's me," she called in, wrapping her jacket around her tightly at the sharp breeze coming in from the docks and the sea. "Jamie."<br><br>

</div>

</div>
<div style="background-color: #aa4d4d; padding: 2px; margin-top: 2px;"></div>
<div class="jmbb">ADD.: Sherlock Holmes | WORDS: 782 | NOTES: </div>
</div>
<div class="tcred"><a href="http://shine.b1.jcink.com/index.php?showuser=1892" target="_blank">♛ Ames</a></div></center>[/dohtml]
Apr 23 2017, 02:05 PM
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<div class="jmbox">
<div class="jmlyr1">are you surprised to learn</div>
<div class="jmlyr2">YOU'VE BEEN ON MY MIND?</div>
<div style="background-color: #aa4d4d; padding: 2px; margin-bottom: 2px;"></div>
<div class="jmmain">
<div class="jmpb"> Dear Miss Summers...<br><br>

The midday sun sent bars of light down through the diner's windows, crisscrossing the checkered floor. Jamie crossed her legs, leaning back into the material of her booth. Around her waitresses went back and forth but every time one hovered by her table she cast them away with a smile and a raised hand, before her eyes slowly realigned back to the middle horizon in front of her as if she had never been disturbed. It was, she thought as she glanced around, a pity there were no higher end places in town - somewhere more conducive to conversation. <br><br>

There is much in this town I consider anomalous. The nature of Storybrooke cannot be denied. <br><br>

But Jamie was prepared to make do. This diner was nowhere near the standard of the restaurants she frequented in New York and, indeed, elsewhere, but she would not go out further into Storybrooke if she did not have to. She had her health to think of..and the nature of her prey this hour. Subterfuge would point to trickery. As, of course, did a note left in plain sight, neatly packaged in an envelope. She had carefully written the woman's name in fine script, signed with a flourish. The spider could only hope it had been seen - and read. <br><br>

I, however, have heard of your expertise in the field of the unexplained and the inconceivable. You appear to have select experience. I will be at the diner at noon. Consider me a client, one whose reward for your services will prove handsome if an arrangement can be negotiated. <br><br>

It was not usual for her to wait on people. People waited for her, not the other way around. The blonde resisted the urge to tap her nails on the table, to fidget in her seat and to eye the blank space in front of her. Miss Summers would be here or she would not; she was, for the purposes of this, Schrödinger's cat in its most perfect form. Until then she could only wait, and order a cup of Earl Grey as the seconds continued to tick by. <br><br>

I shall remain in expectant anticipation...Jamie Moriarty. <br><br>

</div>

</div>
<div style="background-color: #aa4d4d; padding: 2px; margin-top: 2px;"></div>
<div class="jmbb">ADD.: Buffy Summers | WORDS: - | NOTES: SO SO SORRY FOR THE WAIT! </div>
</div>
<div class="tcred"><a href="http://shine.b1.jcink.com/index.php?showuser=1892" target="_blank">♛ Ames</a></div></center>[/dohtml]
Mar 31 2017, 02:48 PM
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<div class="jmbox">
<div class="jmlyr1">The woman is a riddle</div>
<div class="jmlyr2"> WRAPPED IN A MYSTERY INSIDE AN ENIGMA </div>
<div style="background-color: #aa4d4d; padding: 2px; margin-bottom: 2px;"></div>
<div class="jmmain">
<div class="jmpb"> The paint swirled on the palette. Reds spiralled into blues that spiralled into greens under Jamie’s careful watch as she twirled the brush, colours already thickly entwining themselves in the coarse camelhair. She took a quick swab at another daub across the palette and introduced another colour to the mix, twisting the brush until it was the exact shade she wanted. And then she returned to the canvas, the cloth bending under the bristles as she leant in close, her eyes crisscrossing the surface in measured observation. <br><br>

Art was not as abstract as people thought. Most people believed art to be intangible but yet it was clearly not so. Poetry was technical, music was mathematical and painting was a number of juxtapositions. Light, objects - it was geometry with colour, familiar shapes taking unfamiliar forms. That didn’t take away its worth; if anything it highlighted it as being of both technical beauty as well as aesthetic. For that it was only enhanced, and not stripped of, its natural value. But it was true that all art was, in the end, an equation. And the equation of this canvas in particular was simple: what she did not understood she painted. And this town was one of the few things she did not yet understand. <br><br>

She understood the basics of course, as the brush skimmed across the canvas in tiny strokes. Jamie was a master of empirical reasoning and she would not ignore what her eyes saw nor what she herself had experienced. As soon as she had left hospital she had started to take in what was going on around her - mostly by using the art supplies from the luggage she could recover from the crash. Picking her way through the smoky remains of the aircraft was not how she had wanted to spend her afternoon but spent it so she had, in order to retrieve the art supplies that had survived. <br><br>

And once more she was painting, putting down a permanent record of everything she saw and heard about this town. In this way she had observed enough to come to the conclusion that this was unlike everything she knew. But that was hardly a conclusion. That was not understanding, fell short of comprehension, and that was a different matter altogether. Storybrooke was full of a new kind of science and appeared to have beings in it that defied any sort of previous logic or sense - they were almost bordering on the fantastic. <br><br>

Jamie stood back, examining the portrait in its entirety. On canvas branches creaked in the wind, leaves rustling against one another in the breeze; the mansion that she had selected as a figurepoint lay in the middle, pride of place in impressionistic beauty. And, in the very paint, was opportunity. Opportunity for what the town stood for and what it had nestled inside it, if she could only grasp at it…. <br><br>

</div>

</div>
<div style="background-color: #aa4d4d; padding: 2px; margin-top: 2px;"></div>
<div class="jmbb">ADD.: - | WORDS: 487 | NOTES: Open! Imprimatura</div>
</div>
<div class="tcred"><a href="http://shine.b1.jcink.com/index.php?showuser=1892" target="_blank">♛ Ames</a></div></center>[/dohtml]
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