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alias: Jessica
age in ##: 35
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Jamie Moriarty

Tomorrowland

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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>

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<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>

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<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]
Mar 26 2017, 01:36 PM
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<div class="jmbox">
<div class="jmlyr1">I'm drawn to things</div>
<div class="jmlyr2">I don't understand </div>
<div style="background-color: #aa4d4d; padding: 2px; margin-bottom: 2px;"></div>
<div class="jmmain">
<div class="jmpb"> The rattle of beds on wheels was what she heard first. It was enough to rouse her from sleep, and Jamie opened her eyes - only to immediately squint in the sharp glare. She worked with darkness, shade, with shadows draped over corners and light in the briefest of places. But here, as in any hospital, there remained nothing but white hot exposure. Slowly other sounds filtered into her consciousness. The bubble and burble of talk; voices over tannoys, nurses calling to each other in the code of their profession. Jamie had learnt it once. Patient has blood clot in left lung…patient not to be fed for twenty four hours… <br><br>

The hospital, despite being in a town that seemed to be bordering on the miraculous for a number of reasons, was exactly the same as any other. It seemed typically American, if anything - whether that was a critique or a compliment depended on your point of view. She had tried to ask questions about where she was, because she was sure she had never seen it on a map before, but the nurses had been a steady wall of opposition ever since she’d opened her eyes. Her questions, however slyly asked, were put to bed as much as she was. There were apparently countless explanations to what she had seen and innumerable people who wanted to tell her so. They were almost tripping over themselves to put her mind at rest - only to ultimately do the opposite. <br><br>

Only lies had detail.<br><br>

But as her condition stabilised and she could think clearly once again she had quickly come to a conclusion: the only place she’d be going if she carried on was the psychiatric ward. So she’d agreed with them. Yes - of course it had to be the dosage; she’d been very scared and very much in pain; it was natural for the brain to start panicking about where she was and how she was sure something odd had happened on that flight. A lot of nodding and smiling and they left her alone, and Jamie was left to muse. However much her body was in pain, her mind was still ticking away the hours. She wasn’t giving up; she was merely reconfiguring. It was time to find a new strategy. <br><br>

It looked like they were staying right now in Storybrooke. But Sherlock could could change his mind. As far as she knew Storybrooke still upheld the law. And although she was ill right now - too ill to travel - she wasn’t going to stay like that forever. It was the curse of having access to some of the best medical care in the northern hemisphere, she thought wryly. <br><br>

Either way she would be feeling better soon. That would take her away from both a site of intellectual value and also her first bid at freedom. The world was corrupt and it would always be so; she could be a free woman in Britain as easily as she could become a free woman here. But she was loath to leave this place until she knew why and how and what, and she didn’t fancy having to wait a few months at her Majesty’s Pleasure before that point. Besides, what if she couldn’t get into the town again? Storybrooke was protected and it would probably remain that way….<br><br>

The next mealtime she’d asked the nurse whether it was possible to go for a walk and find some plain clothes. <br><br>

She was lucky - if you could call being in a plane crash and going to hospital lucky. The hospital was ideal; it was in many ways a perfect sample of the population. If everyone was sick, something was wrong. If no one was sick, something else was also wrong. And what they were sick with would be indicative of what exactly was going on here in Storybrooke. Jamie had had the privilege of conducting no less than five murders in hospital situations and she liked to think she would spot an anomaly when she saw one. Hospitals were data, pure and simple: a discrepancy in the data was all she needed to wedge open the cracks in the story she had been told and prise open the truth. <br><br>

But she wasn’t well, and progress was, admittedly, slow in every respect. Her ribs still hurt. Nowhere near as much as they did before, of course, but just enough to still be tender in places. Jamie could walk well enough but there was a tension in her chest and she still had to move a little gingerly, not with the long strides she was used to. It made travelling around the hospital harder and more exhausting than she had thought possible. She was having to stop for little breaks by anonymous stairwells and down long nameless corridors. And for what? Her foray had not prompted anything more scary than occasionally having to lie about where she was going to an inquisitive nurse. There was nothing out of the ordinary. <br><br>

But it was pure mathematics: there were always more people dead than alive in hospitals. And if she couldn’t find anything strange in the people who were living she would look at who wasn’t. She was lucky - the little trips around the hospital were building up her stamina. Jamie followed the signs and was soon opening the door to the morgue, shivering a little at the temperatures. It was all steel down here, cold and distant. She thought quickly, walking over to what looked like a counter full of notes as her eyes crisscrossed over the data. <br><br>

If there was going to be anything wrong with the town, it was going to be somewhere here, hidden in the spiral of numbers and medical code in front of her. <br><br>

</div>

</div>
<div style="background-color: #aa4d4d; padding: 2px; margin-top: 2px;"></div>
<div class="jmbb">ADD.: Temperance Brennan | WORDS: 968 | NOTES: SORRY FOR BEING RAMBLY! MAQUETTE</div>
</div>
<div class="tcred"><a href="http://shine.b1.jcink.com/index.php?showuser=1892" target="_blank">♛ Ames</a></div></center>[/dohtml]
Mar 13 2017, 09:27 AM
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<div class="jmbox">
<div class="jmlyr1">I have reserves of creativity</div>
<div class="jmlyr2">I have not even begun to tap </div>
<div style="background-color: #aa4d4d; padding: 2px; margin-bottom: 2px;"></div>
<div class="jmmain">
<div class="jmpb"> The air had gone stale half an hour ago. <br><br>

The dull whine of the machinery was not in any way obscured by the tasteful camouflage of the upholstery - as surprisingly comfortable as it was, cushioning the curve of her spine. To her immediate right was the dim lights of the cabin; to her left was a thick window, full of stark sunlight and a floor of clouds stretching out in all directions. Jamie had put the visor down across the glass, giving her the shallow respite of shadow to see by. The hum of aeroplane engines rumbled on each and every side of her, hemming her into an enclosure of sound.<br><br>

It wasn’t the only enclosure she found herself in. The piercing light might not be shining her eyes anymore, but they were still glittering on her…bracelets. Barely a twitch and Jamie couild hear the clinking of them, the tiny metallic chime as the chain between them jangled in her lap. And very restrictive ones they were too, the cuffs closely circling her wrists and the delicate web of veins that lay beneath even more so than before. A smile curled on her lip. Someone’s been paying attention. <br><br>

Then again, he always was. <br><br>

She leant back in her chair, her blonde hair pooling over the antimacassar. It wasn’t embroidered with any airline sigil nor the one they were meant to be flying with. Everything about the cabin was blank - there was barely a logo in sight. Jamie doubted the other members of the city in the sky were even aware of their presence. They were beyond anonymous, guided by a pilot who had been security checked eight times and drug tested the other two; they would soar the skies namelessly, would land namelessly and would take off namelessly, bound for England; soon enough she’d be writing to Sherlock with an international post stamp. <br><br>

At least she was leaving this insipid country behind. The vulgarities of America were too loud, too bold, for her select tastes. The very soil screamed in the heat of the day. So did its people under her lieutenants, of course. The web had worked here just as it had in the UK and she had even let some of her adjutants make the journey across the Atlantic too, Gaskar being one of them. But that had been a…miscalculation. He always was ambitious. And they would continue to be, for as long as she was behind bars. Every day that went by her empire was slipping from her fingers, and Kayden had almost been a casualty of that. It couldn’t go on. But she would be a free woman soon enough, and then - then - the madness would stop. <br><br>

Or so she told herself. <br><br>

America may not have been to her tastes, but it had suited Sherlock. Moriarty let her gaze slide from the window to the man across the aisle. He was looking better every day, the substances loosening their grip on him every hour he refused to succumb. But it wasn’t just the drugs. It was the mascot, who wasn’t a mascot at all. Joan. Pity she would have to study her from afar now. A most interesting curiosity, of mental architecture even she failed to anticipate….her eyes closed, the thrum of engines lulling her to sleep. <br><br>

Jamie heard the creak first, a deep groan of alloys and metals and structural supports. She burst awake. The entire cylinder of the plane was twisting and turning in the air and suddenly all the lights went out, plunging the cabin into darkness. The pilot was shouting and she was shouting too, shouting for Sherlock as the cargo in the hold tumbled and slowly, millimetre by millimetre, the nose of the plane began to tip downwards…<br><br>

She was awake again, only engulfed in a haze of pain. The crackle of open flames, the death rattle of metal as it keeled over in the dirt, the distant sound of birdsong - it was all through the dull ache of pain. Jamie winced, squinting through half closed eyes at trees overhead. She went to move but cried out suddenly, gasping - only that made the pain even worse, her chest feeling almost aflame with pain. She squeezed her eyes shut again but her hand reached out, groping blindly. ”Sher - “ God, that hurt. She mustered up the courage and tried again. ”Sherlock?”

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<div class="jmbb">ADD.: Sherlock Holmes | WORDS: 736 | NOTES: </div>
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<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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