★ it makes you burn to learn i'm with another man | sobbing on emily ;;

[11ady]

[In the months following the fallout from the holodeck fiasco, Une's been a bit of recluse. She's hardly ever seen outside HQ and her contact with the network is always kept to text. Faceless. It's easier to hide from the world in the midst of all that's happened. She's been betrayed by those she considered allies, thrown into simulated realities and toyed with. To enslave her mind like that was beyond criminal.

But she doesn't have the luxury of prolonged sabbatical. It's October. The holiday gala will be soon. A fire and ice ball to improve PR. Her engagement party...

For the first time in a long time, she slips into a dress.

Not blue; it reminds her too much of His Excellency's stare.

Not purple; it reminds her too much of her lost one-eyed king.

Not green; it reminds her too much of the uniform she wears while facing the challenge of duty.

No, she wears black. The color of mourning. It's a tight fit, hugging her curves in all the right places, cutting far enough above the knee to bare some thigh. The straps are thin and the neckline dips to show off some cleavage.

For the first time in a long time, she wants to be seen.

Clutching her purse, she walks down the street of the commercial district with no particular destination in mind.]

Comments

[thieving]

( If this was the fallout, then the holodeck event was the nuclear bomb that caused the ruination that surrounded not only Jim's life, but his mind. He was on the wrong side of the explosion, there was no safety, there was no bunker, his hand was not what was on the button - being caught unawares like that had struck both a hefty blow against the thief's ego as well as derailed his beautifully laid plans for some time. Recovering from a vast set of "memories" that were not his took time, and contemplation. In an effort to sort himself out, he'd retreated. It wasn't a graceful exit, it was a gasping, dying crawl from the limelight, from the watching, judging eyes. Things that ought not to have reached him were.

Jim Moriarty considered himself untouchable -- no one ever gets to me and no one ever will -- had that been his challenge to fate itself? Moran was nowhere aboard the ship, his right hand and, perhaps, the only person he had some semblance of faith in after all moran had proven useful countless times and had a 100% success rate. All he had was those he consorted with, those he struck deals and shallow partnerships with. Then this had occurred, and left him feeling far too vulnerable. Jim was disgusted with himself due to his lack of control. Though it was a chip implanted in him, fooling his logical mind into believing himself a common, emotional human being, that caused his lack of control, he still held himself accountable.

One day, he'll have his revenge. There is no place in society for a criminal who cannot remain in control.

For now, he realized dwelling in this shell-shocked state of mind was not beneficial to his agenda. There were things to do, so Jim put on his dancing shoes, and forced himself into the world once more. The news of the gala had reached him some weeks before, and he decided that, if anything, it would be the perfect place to get his ship-legs back. When it came around, for that matter. Socializing, while not his forte, was necessary when one needed to remain in control. He'd missed so much while secluded, and he would permit himself no more time to hide away.

Out. Into the world, into the commercial district, into the fray -- taking the long way around. Full-tilt, with a wavering smile and confusion wrought in his mind - there's still so much to sort out, so much fucking baggage he thought would never touch him. Jim Moriarty considers himself untouchable, but in July, that self-image was shattered. He's still putting it back together, and it's easier so long as he keeps his distance from her.

But there she is. )

[11ady]

[In a movie, this would be the part where the music swells, when the happy couple runs into each other's arms with tears in their eyes. But instead, there's just the sound of footsteps pounding pavement around them as other people walk by. She's the perfect image of stillness despite the wind blowing a loose tendril of her long brown hair against her cheek. Her jaw clenches in an effort to keep it from dropping at the sight of him. She can still see it all so clearly.

Mrs. E. Hall
11 Brewer St.
▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇

Dear Mrs. Hall,

Our London Agents have forwarded us the following report in regard to Pvt. John Hall who was killed in action on ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇.

Pvt. E. Elric, No. 6009, 6th Battalion, on the ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇ stated - "I saw him killed by a German bomb-

And that's as far as her recollection of the note extends.

Her knees had given out from under her and she lay kneeling on the floor, clutching it to her chest, praying to God to give him back. Every time she looked at the letter, the words would only be more vibrant. No matter how much her tears stained the paper, the message was still the same. She sobbed until she could cry no more then had taken to the bed for days on end, refusing to eat. Catatonic. Broken.

Had he been in pain? Had it been quick? Dear Lord, why not me instead?

The memories were so vibrant and yet...

None of them were real. It was the neural interface's doing, manipulating her emotions. But why, oh why, did she find herself murmuring his name in her sleep, awakening in a cold sweat with her face wet from tears she'd wept in her slumber? For the first time in ages, his name leaves her lips in the waking world as their eyes meet from across the street.]

John.

[thieving]

( It's terrible. Everything's twisted up, and Jim can't even lay claim to the reason. He's always pleased as punch when it's his fault, when he's the one who orchestrated the trap that catches the little rats and gives them a bit of a maze to run through. Being a rat in a maze of falsified memories and living an entire life - "remembering" that he lived this life - it was proving very difficult for him to come to grips with.

The mere sight of her disgusts him as much as the sight of himself does. It's a torrid of apathy and confusion he despises himself for feeling. It's a weakness, and Jim Moriarty doesn't need weaknesses. It's the only way he comes out on top. But, she's right there before him, and the part of him that is still recovering, still thinks he's someone else lurches uncomfortably against his ribcage.

Logically, he knows he has no such ties to her. Logically, he knows he lacks the emotional facilities to feel such things. Only a shallow mimicry, a reflection of emotions. Lies. Yet, whatever had happened to him in the simulation warped the chemistry of his brain. He feels something, and doesn't know whether or not he can handle this terrible thing that grows and grows and nearly takes him over, before he takes a look at the lady.

Her name is Une, but he knows her by another name, in another life. It was World War I, and he was a soldier. She was his wife. So, when she calls him by That Name, he reacts instantly. Jim despises himself for it: the way he twitches towards her, still possessed of this man who should have died when the bomb tore his legs from his body and left him to suffer in agony, sobbing a name in the muck of the trenches as he faded. And that name was: )

Elle.

[11ady]

[It's as if her legs have taken on a life of their own, carrying her towards him. She wants to run, letting her hair whip behind her before flinging her arms around him. She wants to hold him and never let him go, to weep against his shoulder, to whisper "Welcome home."

She does none of these things.

These are the desires of a woman long dead, someone she'd taken from a history book and asked a programmer to flesh out for the simulation. Little did she know that she would be stepping into Elle Hall's shoes. The poor girl supposedly had a lover after John but never married again. She died alone and destitute. The nurse at her bedside said Elle passed on to the next world with a smile on her face.

I'm going to see John again.

Une had nothing but pity for the other woman when she had read it. After all, she didn't understand. But now...

Standing before Jim Moriarty, she takes a deep breath and extends her hand to shake, doing her best to push the residual memories of Elle to the back of her mind.]

It's been a while, Mr. Moriarty. I almost feel like a second introduction is in order.

[She even manages to crack a smile, a small quirk of her crimson lips for his benefit, something to set him at ease.]

[thieving]

( The part of him that is still trying to be John would have taken her into his arms had she come to him. But the overbearing part of him that is still Jim - has always been Jim is determined to eradicate every last trace of this simulated life. He was someone who had been real. Someone who had mattered to another, an entirely alien feeling to the criminal consultant, who claimed to be untouchable. Forcibly, he removed himself from thinking of that life as "John Hall" - the man was a statistic.

Numbers made him feel more like himself. If he could crunch them, he'd be himself.

Elle. Elle. Elle. Why won't you let me see Elle? John whispers inside of Jim. And the Irishman scowls a little, savagely retaking control of himself: You're dead. Stay so, Private Hall. I will not be your ghost. )

Long enough, Lady Une, to recover from the strangest illness. No worries, though, I've purged it from my system.

( Mercilessly, he cants his head and smirks at her in return. This time, he does not take her hand in return, his own remain in his pockets as he gives her peace offering a bit of a glance - returns his eyes to hers. They're the eyes of a shark. Black, cold, with something dark looking out.

Something inside of Jim has always been dead and rotting, go figure it'd take on a name in the end. )

[11ady]

[Purged. Like some sort of poison. There's a fleeting pang of pain in her eyes but it passes. Brown stares into black. A dead leaf falling into a cold lake. Ripples emanate as it floats on the surface.

And when you get back, we could start a family, you know? Someone else you can teach how to swim.

She gulps down the lump in her throat, keeping her smile on even if as it starts to hurt. Her hand drops to her side, hanging limp.]

It was quite the epidemic, yes. We've done our best to compensate for the damage of my misjudgment.

[thieving]

( We'll make it, Elle. I promise you.

Not very good with your promises, are you? Jim is spiteful, and closes his eyes after Une drops her hand. There's a vague smirk about his mouth even still, he doesn't seem to take notice of her emotional state. After all, hurting others has always been something he's good at, and he feels a little more like himself when he takes in her muted pain. )

I hope nobody holds it against you or the Preventers. Everyone makes mistakes, and no-one was hurt in the end. It was only a bit of an adventure. The Thor could use a bit more of that.

[11ady]

It's built better rapport with the locals. After all, they meant no harm by it. They were merely curious about how refugees live.

[Curiosity taken too far. They were treated little better than toys, battered around some demented dollhouse, made to think thoughts that weren't their own. Being one who's had a crisis of identity in the past, this little jaunt did nothing to help her sanity.]

Those directly affected are another matter entirely.

[Her purse is clutched just a bit tighter in lieu of a clenched fist. The memories seemed to hold more power when John-- no, Jim. He's Jim.

Is there any chance you won't have to go?]

also since this is the only place i can playercest lmfao

[selfportrait]

[A text sends Jim's phone humming a disco tune. Staying Alive, huh?]

You really should just take my advice. Infatuation isn't sexy on you.

[Always watching, Jim. Seeing you with your wings clipped is a delightful novelty. Getting almost as bad as "the virgin," dear.]