For mischiefandice, at long last!
Mar. 17th, 2014 09:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moriarty_was_realIn his evil lair du jour, Jim Moriarty is wearing blue jeans and an old white T-shirt, comfortably settled at one of his workstations. Situated at a ninety degree angle from the intended position on an ordinary office swivel chair, the backs of his knees resting on one of the flimsy arm rests and his bare feet are propped on the adjoining dull gray desk surface, ankles crossed. With his mid-back leaning against the other arm rest, he had one elbow planted on the desk surface behind him. For certain kinds of work he preferred to have flat space available on three out of four sides. It reminded him, pleasantly, of a theatrical stage with himself as the star and sole on-stage performer, deftly manipulating the carefully chosen array of props around him, supported by a vast hidden stage crew and some occasional cameo voice acting for variety.
The main computer monitor behind him displays an amorphous blob of colour, shifting sluggishly in time to the orchestral music playing in the attached headphones. Moriarty's eyes are closed and he waves one hand lazily in the air, not mimicking a conductor's motions or playing any of the instruments, maybe he's just running his fingers through the air to feel the slight resistance of it.
Then, all at once, the music stops and the screensaver vanishes to display a simple line of text:
Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, botox.
Moriarty's eyes snap open and a gleeful smirk forms on his face. A few quick keystrokes and a ringtone chirps in one ear and the conversation he's having with his hostage in the other. "You're off the hook, dearie! Bye now, and give my best to the nice detectives!" A few seconds go by, and he tsks in an almost sympathetic way when he presses the Enter key.
The phone transmits only a soft ticking noise before the line goes dead in the explosion that turns the old biddy into charred paste. Moriarty hums idly and reaches for his keyboard, shutting down the entire system before tugging his headphones off and shifting into a normal seated position in his chair, then he spins lazily around to face the stranger that had somehow wandered into his modest London flat... who had just spelled the doom of at least ten bodyguards in the process of achieving that feat.
"And you are... ?"
The main computer monitor behind him displays an amorphous blob of colour, shifting sluggishly in time to the orchestral music playing in the attached headphones. Moriarty's eyes are closed and he waves one hand lazily in the air, not mimicking a conductor's motions or playing any of the instruments, maybe he's just running his fingers through the air to feel the slight resistance of it.
Then, all at once, the music stops and the screensaver vanishes to display a simple line of text:
Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, botox.
Moriarty's eyes snap open and a gleeful smirk forms on his face. A few quick keystrokes and a ringtone chirps in one ear and the conversation he's having with his hostage in the other. "You're off the hook, dearie! Bye now, and give my best to the nice detectives!" A few seconds go by, and he tsks in an almost sympathetic way when he presses the Enter key.
The phone transmits only a soft ticking noise before the line goes dead in the explosion that turns the old biddy into charred paste. Moriarty hums idly and reaches for his keyboard, shutting down the entire system before tugging his headphones off and shifting into a normal seated position in his chair, then he spins lazily around to face the stranger that had somehow wandered into his modest London flat... who had just spelled the doom of at least ten bodyguards in the process of achieving that feat.
"And you are... ?"
there you go :3
Date: 2014-03-23 11:35 pm (UTC)He knows this dimension for having visited it quite a long time ago. It is similar enough from the one he comes from, though it does present a number of important differences. There is no trace of other realms in this dimension, no Asgard, no Jotunheim, the almighty Gods reduced to mythological characters. What it does have, though, is what Loki calls the great Constant of all Universes.
Chaos.
There seems to be no want of it as Loki travels this Earth, delighted, fanning a little mayhem here, spurring a little mischief there. This world seems alight with chaos and yet, no point burns brighter than this vast City Loki soon finds himself in. London, they call it, and it is most different from the little village he remembers.
Finding the source of the chaos that spreads from London is not too difficult as he looks for the centre of the web, like looking for what causes so many ripples on the surface of a still pond. His name is James Moriarty. He looks small, Loki thinks as he slips into his apartments, small and harmless as all mortals do, a fragile vessel of tender flesh and brittle bone for such a deliciously wicked mind.
Loki grins when Moriarty turns around, showing entirely too many teeth to be anything close to friendly. He moves closer slowly, a shark in deep waters, casually deadly. “You may consider me a... patron saint of sorts,” he replies, his voice low and mocking. The words only make him smile wider in a way that makes him look rather sinister. “Well, maybe not quite a saint but I do admire your work.”
He side-steps the carpet in the middle of the room in a way that looks too elegant for someone wearing a heavy armour made of leather and metal. There is something mechanical and explosive beneath that carpet, and Loki won't fall for such an obvious trap. He tilts his head to the side and watches Moriarty with ancient, eerily gleeful eyes. “I have a personal interest in mischief-making, as it is, and I should like to support yours.”
no subject
Date: 2014-03-24 04:48 am (UTC)The human sighs in exasperation. "Can't you see I'm in the middle of something? This little project has been YEARS in the making. I don't need some trickster god showing up at the very last minute, cocking everything up and stealing the show! ... Go bother some primitive culture and inspire a creation myth, or something."
no subject
Date: 2014-03-26 09:07 pm (UTC)He smirks at the mention of creation myths, stepping closer still, sending shadows sprawling on the walls. A strange hum seems to come from him, a ripple in the fabric of reality. “I have done that, already. It was amusing for while, shaping reality and beliefs to fit your stories...”
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Date: 2014-03-27 06:52 pm (UTC)"Alright, I'll bite." He drapes an elbow over the back of his chair, allowing for casual ease in his pose along with the ability to lean back comfortably to keep proper conversational eye contact as the angle between their faces gets steeper.
"Are you Anansi? Coyote? Loki, perhaps? There's a rather long list of famous trickster gods. Are you in the top ten? Or maybe you don't warrant a place on the list at all?"
no subject
Date: 2014-03-30 12:36 am (UTC)“Do you truly need to ask?” he inquires, his voice low and playful. “Can't you deduce me?” He steeples his fingers against his mouth in a mocking parody of Sherlock Holmes. “How disappointing.”