Entry tags:
((asgard application))
OOC Information;
Name; Gee
Personal Journal;![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sculpt
Contact; miscreates @ aim/plurk
Other Characters; n/a
IC Information;
Character Name; James Moriarty
Canon; BBC Sherlock (the bakerstreet wiki which covers all things Sherlock Holmes, including BBC Sherlock)
Canon Point; Post-The Reichenbach Fall
Age; Early to mid thirties.
House; Baldr
Power; Regeration
Personality;
Consulting criminal Jim Moriarty, crime’s crowning glory, is a master of his art. His influence sweeps the world, submerges and enslaves it, controls its criminals and therefore the safety of its citizens. He’s a chill in the air, a whisper on the tongue of anyone brave enough to say his name. Those people of the everyday needn’t fear it - they don't even know it, to them "Moriarty" is nothing more than a word, could be anything and anyone, isn't even worth blinking over. Only those who skulk and shuffle, the criminal and the greedy and the desperate and the perverse, those who've touched or been touched by his work, who've hired or seen hired, who've known the extents of his successes and the costs of his craft, hear the whispers that lap at the outskirts of his influence - only they are afraid to say the word out loud. And they should be. Moriarty is a master. A genius cut loose, unhindered by the chains of human decency (b o r i n g), “more than a man”. He's able to craft crime with precision and perfection: connect you with the people you need to meet, secure your results, give you the right advice, fix it for you. Your standing in the world doesn't matter, small fry or huge organisation. If you want something done badly enough, something you can't organise on your own, something below the law - if you want it and you know how to pitch it, if it's interesting and you're loud enough (in the right company, of course), he’ll find you. In those special cases where an enquiry sparks his interest, he'll let someone slip by the murmurs and mutterings, pass paper notes down through the class until they've got their crime neatly packaged and ready to go...
It's rare that a client speak to him directly, rarer still for them to see his face, but he'll be there and he'll mutter instruction and feed down direction and serve them their order through a network of nameless voices and invisible faces and anonymous emails. He will do his job exquisitely - but it's a dangerous gamble. Moriarty's attention does not grant a contract. I'll do you a deal, I'll spin you a crime doesn't make him a friend. To most, he is a name with a long, long list of accomplishments, from small to obscene, nobody sure anymore what's true and what's born off the back of the weight of a name nobody takes pleasure in speaking aloud. At best, to client past and present, he's a web, untraceable to its source and scattered with gunked up corpses not yet digested (give it a go, get a little closer, I dare you). The man himself is a shadow. And you cannot kill a shadow. It doesn't matter who you are, it doesn't matter who you work for, it doesn't matter what you can do to any man you get your hands on: you cannot get your hands on him, and you should quiver if you step out of line. General Shan did. Head of the Black Lotus organisation, a dangerous Chinese smuggling ring who he helped gain passage to London, her encounter with Sherlock opened up the possibility of Moriarty's discovery and potential interaction with the law earlier than he could be bothered with: so he had her shot to ensure her silence. Her grovelling didn't matter, her assurances of secrecy didn’t matter - and neither did her station in the world. James Moriarty is beyond fear - he has no cause for it professionally, he’s too good to fear retribution… but it helps that he’s banished it entirely. Fear wastes time. Fear gets in the way, and what’s the point of it anyway? What can you do while you’re scared? Nothing. It’s useless, entirely, so he doesn’t bother with it. Fear of people, fear of pain, fear of loss, fear of failure, fear of anything. He doesn’t have it anymore. It’s gone.
He's also pitiless. Human comfort, human life, it means next to nothing to him. Innocent or guilty, young or old, beggar or king: if it suits him for them to suffer, let them suffer. He's not bound by the structures or rules imposed upon society - he's outside of society. Empathy is irrelevant. Ethics and morals, irrelevant. He'll blow up an old blind woman and half her apartment building if she says too much, put the life of a little boy on a ten second countdown and in the hands of a struggling genius if it makes a fun round in his game. Don't stumble to Jim in search of compassion, you won’t find it.
Though he could, if required, act like he’s got it in spades. As is the somewhat unfortunate truth of his life, he's entirely surrounded by people who operate based on a vaguely shared construction of basic human behaviour that he doesn’t typically adhere to. Still, it makes for great entertainment: so he observes, watches all these ordinary people, logs what makes them tick, how they respond, the differences between them, and tucks it all away. Thanks to this, he's got an incredibly thorough understanding of people as a whole, which is great for two things: lying to them, and laughing at them. Often, he’s more interested in the latter than the former - his system of business is such that security comes in being adrift, apart and untraceable, unseen. The beauty of his business model is that people come to him, and it's through this that he's built up an underworld web that stretches out across the world: if people come to him for help, and the rest are wrapped around his little finger, criminals in orbit, what need does he have for lying to them? None. It’s easier to let them do the work, let them wander in and wander off, much less effort. Manipulation and deceit is, nonetheless, a skill he's very adept at when he needs to be, even to the extent of acting in the disguise of another person altogether - The most extreme example to date that of Richard Brook, an entire life created for a man who doesn't exist so that Jim could discredit and damn Sherlock with a credibility he wouldn't otherwise have had after appearing as himself in court. He played the part convincingly enough that Kitty Reilly honestly believed in the non-existence of James Moriarty, that he was a construct of Sherlock's deceitful whims.
Humanity, however, despite his impressive theatrics, isn't something he aligns himself with. For the most part, Jim's primary motivations are simple - he's in the field of fun. His life is spent leaping around, trying to find something he hasn't already chewed over and spat out, found wanting. Boredom is both a constant companion and a wretched enemy, the inevitable bane of his existence, and he tears at it with as great a ferocity as it tears at him (and it does tear at him - enough that the final problem is staying alive, the flatline repetitive drawl of it a permanent strain on Jim). And so: fun. The death of boredom. That's his driving force. Jim chases fun like a trained hound chases the fox, and generally with just as messy an end. His fun takes many forms, very few of them pleasant, even less of them legal, but they all link in and coil around the self he's built, the consulting criminal, untouchable and devilish and revered. His whims might cause him to craft a game putting lives on the line just to watch a delighted detective dance. They might inspire him to half-build crimes, let his clients hang and dangle and eventually drop for the benefit of his boredom held at bay (the entirety of the great game played with Sherlock Holmes had him point Sherlock's nose toward crimes with holes which wouldn't have been solved had he not done this - he isn't concerned about reputation or the well-being of clients; he's all about his own satisfaction.) His attentions flit from this to that like gnats in the air - his focus can be fiercely captured and dangerously intent, but if something else comes along that promises a longer game or a taste of thrill, he'll veer away without pause. A magpie seeking a shimmer. He's locked in a promised-death standoff with Sherlock and John, but when the call comes that he can topple governments with the secrets locked away on Irene's phone, the decision to drop it all and wander off to chase the chance of a burning world is infinitely more appealing and, consequently, that’s exactly what he does.
So Jim's frighteningly intelligent, yes. A great orchestrator of crime, tech-savvy by necessity, educated (and in favoured subjects, to extremes), people smart, wise in strategy. He knows how to use people to get things done, how to stage it to make the world believe the impossible: a computer code to unlock everything? Really? Yet the world believed, sent its hitmen and held its breath. He's a genius, a genius with a specialism in the dastardly.
But he isn't cerebral. He can be, when required, but as dangerous as his personality makes him, as much as he openly rejects any notion of humanity in the sense of benevolence, he's quite happy to dive into the joys of being human. Music (Thank you, Johann Sebastian Bach, Ah ah ah ah stayin' alive), literature (every fairytale needs a good old fashioned villain), the art of self-presentation (W e s t w o o d). He's a very physical creature. Sometimes his mentality is projected out onto his body so clearly it's like you're seeing directly into his head - and the next second he's still, blank, not a ripple. You can't read a thing. One second he's volatile, jagged shifts cracking face and voice into horrid smiles and keening notes, and then next he's eerily quiet, eerily low-pitched, eerily unresponsive. All of it, all of it is an expert use of physicalisation. It's what makes him so impossible, a dissonance that scatters the ability to take a solid impression, makes his actions uncertain and makes him a fright to encounter. Jim projects a cacophony of signals: false, real, white noise. He projects deranged. Sometimes the look on his face is completely incongruous with what he's saying, enough to set someone's teeth on edge; sometimes that expression's honest, sometimes it isn't at all; sometimes his face gives nothing away, his voice as flat as untouched water. Sometimes he's offering smiles and thanks, and seconds later blowing his own brains out through the back of his head.
There is no knowing James Moriarty. That's the most dangerous thing about him: forget, for a second, the crime empire. Forget the blood smeared all over his name but never over his own two hands. Forget how fucking frightening it is to look into two dead eyes in hopes of finding humanity: the real danger of him is that you cannot, ever, know him. His mind is miscellaneous ingredients in a cocktail shaker, irrevocably mixed. You can can chase that little rabbit through its whimsical warren all you like, can even think you've caught glimpse of the centre - but when the walls are moving all around you, caught on rotation, head like a rubix cube, there's no telling if the centre you've found is salvation or bear trap until you're stepping in and he's grinning at you from the other side.
James Moriarty isn’t a man at all. He’s a spider.
That much is true. And who really wants to be the one to stick their finger in to find out if there's poison in its bite?
Samples;
Network Sample;
Log Sample;
Name; Gee
Personal Journal;
sculptContact; miscreates @ aim/plurk
Other Characters; n/a
IC Information;
Character Name; James Moriarty
Canon; BBC Sherlock (the bakerstreet wiki which covers all things Sherlock Holmes, including BBC Sherlock)
Canon Point; Post-The Reichenbach Fall
Age; Early to mid thirties.
House; Baldr
Power; Regeration
Personality;
Consulting criminal Jim Moriarty, crime’s crowning glory, is a master of his art. His influence sweeps the world, submerges and enslaves it, controls its criminals and therefore the safety of its citizens. He’s a chill in the air, a whisper on the tongue of anyone brave enough to say his name. Those people of the everyday needn’t fear it - they don't even know it, to them "Moriarty" is nothing more than a word, could be anything and anyone, isn't even worth blinking over. Only those who skulk and shuffle, the criminal and the greedy and the desperate and the perverse, those who've touched or been touched by his work, who've hired or seen hired, who've known the extents of his successes and the costs of his craft, hear the whispers that lap at the outskirts of his influence - only they are afraid to say the word out loud. And they should be. Moriarty is a master. A genius cut loose, unhindered by the chains of human decency (b o r i n g), “more than a man”. He's able to craft crime with precision and perfection: connect you with the people you need to meet, secure your results, give you the right advice, fix it for you. Your standing in the world doesn't matter, small fry or huge organisation. If you want something done badly enough, something you can't organise on your own, something below the law - if you want it and you know how to pitch it, if it's interesting and you're loud enough (in the right company, of course), he’ll find you. In those special cases where an enquiry sparks his interest, he'll let someone slip by the murmurs and mutterings, pass paper notes down through the class until they've got their crime neatly packaged and ready to go...
It's rare that a client speak to him directly, rarer still for them to see his face, but he'll be there and he'll mutter instruction and feed down direction and serve them their order through a network of nameless voices and invisible faces and anonymous emails. He will do his job exquisitely - but it's a dangerous gamble. Moriarty's attention does not grant a contract. I'll do you a deal, I'll spin you a crime doesn't make him a friend. To most, he is a name with a long, long list of accomplishments, from small to obscene, nobody sure anymore what's true and what's born off the back of the weight of a name nobody takes pleasure in speaking aloud. At best, to client past and present, he's a web, untraceable to its source and scattered with gunked up corpses not yet digested (give it a go, get a little closer, I dare you). The man himself is a shadow. And you cannot kill a shadow. It doesn't matter who you are, it doesn't matter who you work for, it doesn't matter what you can do to any man you get your hands on: you cannot get your hands on him, and you should quiver if you step out of line. General Shan did. Head of the Black Lotus organisation, a dangerous Chinese smuggling ring who he helped gain passage to London, her encounter with Sherlock opened up the possibility of Moriarty's discovery and potential interaction with the law earlier than he could be bothered with: so he had her shot to ensure her silence. Her grovelling didn't matter, her assurances of secrecy didn’t matter - and neither did her station in the world. James Moriarty is beyond fear - he has no cause for it professionally, he’s too good to fear retribution… but it helps that he’s banished it entirely. Fear wastes time. Fear gets in the way, and what’s the point of it anyway? What can you do while you’re scared? Nothing. It’s useless, entirely, so he doesn’t bother with it. Fear of people, fear of pain, fear of loss, fear of failure, fear of anything. He doesn’t have it anymore. It’s gone.
He's also pitiless. Human comfort, human life, it means next to nothing to him. Innocent or guilty, young or old, beggar or king: if it suits him for them to suffer, let them suffer. He's not bound by the structures or rules imposed upon society - he's outside of society. Empathy is irrelevant. Ethics and morals, irrelevant. He'll blow up an old blind woman and half her apartment building if she says too much, put the life of a little boy on a ten second countdown and in the hands of a struggling genius if it makes a fun round in his game. Don't stumble to Jim in search of compassion, you won’t find it.
Though he could, if required, act like he’s got it in spades. As is the somewhat unfortunate truth of his life, he's entirely surrounded by people who operate based on a vaguely shared construction of basic human behaviour that he doesn’t typically adhere to. Still, it makes for great entertainment: so he observes, watches all these ordinary people, logs what makes them tick, how they respond, the differences between them, and tucks it all away. Thanks to this, he's got an incredibly thorough understanding of people as a whole, which is great for two things: lying to them, and laughing at them. Often, he’s more interested in the latter than the former - his system of business is such that security comes in being adrift, apart and untraceable, unseen. The beauty of his business model is that people come to him, and it's through this that he's built up an underworld web that stretches out across the world: if people come to him for help, and the rest are wrapped around his little finger, criminals in orbit, what need does he have for lying to them? None. It’s easier to let them do the work, let them wander in and wander off, much less effort. Manipulation and deceit is, nonetheless, a skill he's very adept at when he needs to be, even to the extent of acting in the disguise of another person altogether - The most extreme example to date that of Richard Brook, an entire life created for a man who doesn't exist so that Jim could discredit and damn Sherlock with a credibility he wouldn't otherwise have had after appearing as himself in court. He played the part convincingly enough that Kitty Reilly honestly believed in the non-existence of James Moriarty, that he was a construct of Sherlock's deceitful whims.
Humanity, however, despite his impressive theatrics, isn't something he aligns himself with. For the most part, Jim's primary motivations are simple - he's in the field of fun. His life is spent leaping around, trying to find something he hasn't already chewed over and spat out, found wanting. Boredom is both a constant companion and a wretched enemy, the inevitable bane of his existence, and he tears at it with as great a ferocity as it tears at him (and it does tear at him - enough that the final problem is staying alive, the flatline repetitive drawl of it a permanent strain on Jim). And so: fun. The death of boredom. That's his driving force. Jim chases fun like a trained hound chases the fox, and generally with just as messy an end. His fun takes many forms, very few of them pleasant, even less of them legal, but they all link in and coil around the self he's built, the consulting criminal, untouchable and devilish and revered. His whims might cause him to craft a game putting lives on the line just to watch a delighted detective dance. They might inspire him to half-build crimes, let his clients hang and dangle and eventually drop for the benefit of his boredom held at bay (the entirety of the great game played with Sherlock Holmes had him point Sherlock's nose toward crimes with holes which wouldn't have been solved had he not done this - he isn't concerned about reputation or the well-being of clients; he's all about his own satisfaction.) His attentions flit from this to that like gnats in the air - his focus can be fiercely captured and dangerously intent, but if something else comes along that promises a longer game or a taste of thrill, he'll veer away without pause. A magpie seeking a shimmer. He's locked in a promised-death standoff with Sherlock and John, but when the call comes that he can topple governments with the secrets locked away on Irene's phone, the decision to drop it all and wander off to chase the chance of a burning world is infinitely more appealing and, consequently, that’s exactly what he does.
So Jim's frighteningly intelligent, yes. A great orchestrator of crime, tech-savvy by necessity, educated (and in favoured subjects, to extremes), people smart, wise in strategy. He knows how to use people to get things done, how to stage it to make the world believe the impossible: a computer code to unlock everything? Really? Yet the world believed, sent its hitmen and held its breath. He's a genius, a genius with a specialism in the dastardly.
But he isn't cerebral. He can be, when required, but as dangerous as his personality makes him, as much as he openly rejects any notion of humanity in the sense of benevolence, he's quite happy to dive into the joys of being human. Music (Thank you, Johann Sebastian Bach, Ah ah ah ah stayin' alive), literature (every fairytale needs a good old fashioned villain), the art of self-presentation (W e s t w o o d). He's a very physical creature. Sometimes his mentality is projected out onto his body so clearly it's like you're seeing directly into his head - and the next second he's still, blank, not a ripple. You can't read a thing. One second he's volatile, jagged shifts cracking face and voice into horrid smiles and keening notes, and then next he's eerily quiet, eerily low-pitched, eerily unresponsive. All of it, all of it is an expert use of physicalisation. It's what makes him so impossible, a dissonance that scatters the ability to take a solid impression, makes his actions uncertain and makes him a fright to encounter. Jim projects a cacophony of signals: false, real, white noise. He projects deranged. Sometimes the look on his face is completely incongruous with what he's saying, enough to set someone's teeth on edge; sometimes that expression's honest, sometimes it isn't at all; sometimes his face gives nothing away, his voice as flat as untouched water. Sometimes he's offering smiles and thanks, and seconds later blowing his own brains out through the back of his head.
There is no knowing James Moriarty. That's the most dangerous thing about him: forget, for a second, the crime empire. Forget the blood smeared all over his name but never over his own two hands. Forget how fucking frightening it is to look into two dead eyes in hopes of finding humanity: the real danger of him is that you cannot, ever, know him. His mind is miscellaneous ingredients in a cocktail shaker, irrevocably mixed. You can can chase that little rabbit through its whimsical warren all you like, can even think you've caught glimpse of the centre - but when the walls are moving all around you, caught on rotation, head like a rubix cube, there's no telling if the centre you've found is salvation or bear trap until you're stepping in and he's grinning at you from the other side.
James Moriarty isn’t a man at all. He’s a spider.
That much is true. And who really wants to be the one to stick their finger in to find out if there's poison in its bite?
Samples;
Network Sample;
Log Sample;