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For mischiefandice, at long last!
Mar. 17th, 2014 09:59 pmIn 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... ?"
