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[freakinblur]

Answering Machine meme


☎ Post a comment with your character. This comment functions as their answering machine or voice mail. Include an IC message if you want.

☎ Other characters will reply to these comments to leave your character messages.

☎ Be creative, have characters leave messages when they're drunk/high/bored/being chased by a rabid T-rex, whatever.

☎ Your character can then call these people back and demand an explanation!

Comments

[zordaar]

[Sherlock returns her call quickly, and rather than go through the hello-hi routine, starts off with—]

But you don't give up, so this isn't plan B to get my attention. What do you want?

['Hi'.]

[womanwhobeatyou]

[The smirk in her voice is obvious.]

Death of an American tourist in front of the Arc de Triomphe. Murder or accident?

[zordaar]

[And so is Sherlock's eye roll. There's the dull thud—familiar to most people who've spent more than five minutes around her—of genius hitting sofa.]

Murder. Couldn't have sent that in one of your wistful texts?

[womanwhobeatyou]

You wouldn't have answered the text.

[A frown, but one she tries to keep out of her voice. Sherlock's only confirming what she knows, but Irene had been hoping she'd just being paranoid.]

One of Moriarty's?

[zordaar]

Hard to tell when I'm stuck overseas and working with nothing but the media angle. La gendarmerie hate me after—[ahem]—most of 2000. They're ignoring me, it's just pathetically melodramatic.

[That's a lot of words to say 'no', which she usually articulates just fine: the answer, then, is 'yes', but she's feeling cagey.]

Are you in Paris?

[womanwhobeatyou]

[There's a moment of nothing but background noise: the sound of something heavy hitting something soft (a piece of luggage against a bed), a skittering clatter (high heels kicked off and hitting a wood floor and a chair leg).]

And here I thought you enjoyed a challenge.

[Not answering the question. Which... well the answer is obvious, isn't it?]

[zordaar]

Yes. Challenges, not nuisances.

[She's flying to Paris tomorrow—but she can't tell Irene that, it would sound—well, it wouldn't sound right, is all. Anyway, every second she's still in Britain is a second she's losing on the investigation.]

I gather you're supposed to be halfway decent at your job? I've got a fetish for detailed descriptions of murder victims' actions in the two hours prior to their deaths. Satisfy me.

[womanwhobeatyou]

[Well, she's leaving Paris on the next train to Antwerp. Not that she'd stay in Paris if she knew.]

No, you have a fetish for being right. Not at all the same thing.

[zordaar]

So you won't take me on.

Funny, I thought you liked me.

[womanwhobeatyou]

I don't engage clients under false pretenses.

[There's a knock on her door, and the muffled sound of speech, obvious Parisian French, one voice Irene's, the other male, asking if madam would like assistance. A few more seconds and the conversation dies, and Irene returns her attention to the phone.]

I thought you liked showing off.

[zordaar]

[She snaps a little, giving up on the banter—it's had a nervy, slightly manic edge to it all along, anyway.]

I need data, for God's sake. I'm not a magician.

[Another thud—this one boot against coffee table leg. She's clearly frustrated.]

So what makes you so terrified for your own safety? I can't imagine you're fretting about anonymous Parisians. What time did you arrive? Exact time, I mean.

[womanwhobeatyou]

I'm not terrified. [She snaps. Defensive much, Irene? There's another flurry of activity, of slamming drawers and zippers being pulled shut.]

Luftansa 2236 into Paris from Munich, six days ago. The victim was on my flight. Dark hair, blue eyes, similar build. From New Jersey.

[zordaar]

Finally!

[That's much too loud, really, to cry into a mobile, but Sherlock's doesn't care—she's audibly on her feet, rhythmic footsteps in the background as she paces. She stops abruptly; it emphasises the undercurrent of tense urgency in her words.]

Don't run. Don't leave Paris.

[womanwhobeatyou]

[She winces at the shout, nearly dropping the mobile. Understandable, really, with the way her nerves are on edge. The fact that she'd called Sherlock at all attested to just how on edge she is.

There's a thud of the suitcase hitting the floor, then a moment of silence.]

I'm trying to stay ahead of the killers, Ms. Holmes. "Don't run" rather negates the idea, don't you think?

[zordaar]

—yes?

[She starts off sounding baffled, though after a groaning sigh, her words pick up speed and end up a little frenzied.]

If that made sense, then yes. Yes, it would. But she was on your flight. Moriarty knew your location, probably knows where you are right now, but you're fine. Obviously update me should you be snipered through the window or poisoned by the room service, a scream should tip me off and I'll adjust my plans accordingly, but right now, it's not likely to happen. Why? Because she'll have something special lined up for you. All this is is scare tactics. When she decides it's time to kill you, running isn't going to stop her.

So stay where you are. Stay in Paris. It's only logical.

[womanwhobeatyou]

[Her lips thin, and she sounds distinctly irritable as well as tense, now.]

And what makes you so certain that's the case rather than her network knew I was on that flight but wasn't certain what I look like now and was going off outdated intelligence?

[She'd prefer if that were the case.]

[zordaar]

Because you haven't gone under the knife, and Moriarty doesn't employ idiots. Of course, if they did get it wrong, they're probably all dead or dying and you've got nothing to worry about until she can respin her web after her temper tantrum.

[Alright, the last bit's reaching slightly, but she says it convincingly. If Irene's not in Paris when she gets there, she knows singling out Moriarty's operatives is going to be much more difficult. There's a certain camouflage inherent in her networks; they're near impossible to spot when they aren't moving, and even then, you've got to know where to look.

In fairness to her, she hasn't actually realised she's asking Irene to be bait—or at least, she's not grasping the full implications of it. She does think running's not going to work. She also thinks it's not going to be conducive to getting answers. A beat, and she tries—]

Based on recent patterns, I'm obviously not trying to get you killed.

[Which is how Sherlock Holmes asks you to trust her.]

[womanwhobeatyou]

I didn't realize you were keeping close enough tabs on me to know whether or not I've had plastic surgery, Sherlock.

[She sounds more like herself, at that, though her mind is still going a mile a minute, trying to figure how to change her plans to remain undetected while staying in Paris.

Which is why she doesn't recognize just yet that Sherlock's trying to use her as bait. When she does she'll be three different kinds of pissed but for the moment she's too busy trying to make sure she stays alive.]

'Not trying' doesn't preclude it from happening accidentally. I'm going to ground.

[zordaar]

It would take too long, and it wouldn't buy you enough time to justify it. I don't keep tabs.

[That's absent, muttered—she's doing something else, and what it is becomes obvious when the sound of typing starts up in the background.]

Well. That's sensible. Don't check out of the hotel but find somewhere else to actually stay, as discreetly as possible. Can you call in any favours?

[womanwhobeatyou]

[On the other hand, her own activities have gone silent. There isn't any sounds of rolling luggage, of shuffling about the hotel room. Instead, Irene steps back out onto the hotel room balcony, thinking as she looks over the Champs-Élysées.

She does, however, roll her eyes at the question.]

It'd defeat the purpose of hiding if I told you how or where I plan to do it, now wouldn't it?

[zordaar]

[Worth a try—Sherlock wrinkles her nose and doesn't bother saying it. She's got the phone between her cheek and shoulder as she uses both hands to type, craning her neck to keep it in place. She's trying to find who exactly was on that flight.]

It was a yes or no question.

[womanwhobeatyou]

[The faint sounds of honking, of cabs and other street traffic, drift up from the street. She still sounds distinctly annoyed, but calmer, more business-like. For better or worse, she's formulating a plan, though that does mean straight answers will be even harder to get out of her.]

With you, it's never just a yes or no question.

[That's a compliment. Almost.]

[zordaar]

No? [There's a stirring of interest in that, then a pause, and she shuts it down:] Sorry to disappoint.

[As if making this call at all doesn't convey enough interest—she hates talking over the phone—of course, many things she hates have their charm sometimes—but still.

The texts are better, she thinks—she can do with them what she pleases, there's no attack of information overhead in the background, her mind doesn't race on ahead of her trying to draw conclusions about things she doesn't need to know, like how well Irene knows the area, how well she speaks the language, how long she's spent in and around France in her life. Silence is easier.]

[womanwhobeatyou]

I get an apology now? My, you are out of sorts.

[Said with a laugh. Irene notices another tourist, standing out on his own balcony two rooms down. Boring businessman, troubled marriage, trying to hide his penchant for male escorts from his wife.

Her voice turns conversational, affectionate, even. For the benefit of the man instead of for the woman on the phone, leaving behind the small clues that she was staying in the hotel, in Paris, rather than running or going to ground.]

I'll see you tomorrow then, love? The train in from Antwerp?

sorry for how late this is >_>

[zordaar]

[On the other end of the phone, Sherlock blinks in confusion, the sound of typing stopped for a second, under a second, before the obvious solution presents itself and she rolls her eyes irritably—more annoyed at herself than Irene. Though it transfers easily.]

You're hanging around on the balcony?

—oh. [And that's the sound of Sherlock Holmes having (highly illegally) gotten her hands on a certain flight roster. Her fingers still, a smile spreading over her face.] Perfect.

Send a text next time, won't you? I really do prefer them.