Plug In Baby [Sherlock]

[Blind Mag]

The dress was not of this era, but she had not had the heart to part with the piece. It was a chain, a shackle, holding her to her world and no matter how hard she tried, she could not bring herself to destroy it. The notion of course was foolish, she had been the pet of Rotti Largo for so long, he had owned her, signed in blood, the mechanics in her eyes she had bought with her soul. The dress was Rotti's favorite, he loved her bathed in cloth so loose, dipping low in the front, nearly to her upper stomach and draping low against her back. The bottom fluttered to the floor, wrapping around her legs as the breeze moved the material. Her long ebony locks were pulled up, back, and away from her face, cascading in rambunctious curls to her lower back. Skin as pale as the moon would seemingly glow in the darkness, her eyes, constructed of mechanics swirled, the machinery clinking softly together as it adjusted to better suit her for the night.

Where she had come from, her name, her stage name had been a household commodity, everyone knew her, wanted to be her or be with her. Blind Mag... there was not a soul still in existence that did not breathe her name in awe. The most accomplished soprano in all of the world. The mechanical eyes, the paleness of her flesh... these only enhanced her beauty, she was highly desired by men and women alike. Of course Rotti Largo had made her an untouchable beauty, no one could get close enough without meeting a swift end. Here she was an outcast, an abnormality, a monster. Her false eyes made her different and in a world of old beliefs, different was no good token. Bruises littered her pale flesh, a few scrapes and bruises... she had learned fast to lay in shadows during the day and escape during the nights, she could not change her eyes, she was bound to them, just as she was to the dress.

Shackles had never touched her delicate wrists and yet, they had always lingered. She could feel their heady weight. A soft sigh escaped her parted lips, the loneliness, it seemed, would be a permanent etching upon her visage.

[Sherlock Holmes]

Sherlock was never busy these days. Whatever this godforsaken place was, it was growing less interesting by the day... then again, he had ventured not far and stayed mainly in the inn, in his room, with whatever books he could conjure up. He wished to be back in London, or at least to have his partner back, but it was apparent that neither of those things were going to happen anytime soon, and Sherlock would just have to live with that. The place was too medieval for much detective work, and no one particularly seemed to care that he was a consultant. His deductive skills had lately only served to annoy him as he picked everyone he saw apart, seeing into parts of their lives that only the intelligence of his mind would be able to see. He was a genius, and he knew it. But in a place like this, there seemed to be little use for genius.

Today, he'd simply grown so bored of his room that he could no longer be barred up in it, especially without John, and he had forced himself to get ready and leave. Sherlock had, of course, been meticulous in the way he'd left the room, with everything in a certain place. Whoever ran the inn better not mess it up... He did not think about this as he walked. And he did not know where he was going, but would, naturally, have no problem returning. Even without setting his mind to it, he was memorizing the way.

He looked up sometimes to see people he did not wish to make deductions about, and then looked back down as he walked, eventually ending up at what he recognized as training grounds. Well, this was new. He was not a physically strong person, relying always on his sharp mind to protect and satisfy him, but perhaps this would at least relieve his boredom for an hour or so. He needed--ah, yes! He needed a violin! That's what. He would have to find or make one... that was his newest priori--

He stopped cold, looking into the depths of eyes, the likes of which he'd never seen. Sherlock frowned. "Who are you?" he asked. This was an odd world. "Singer. You're a singer. And you have been victimized. But the eyes... That, I do not quite understand. Not all of it, at least."

[Blind Mag]

She had met a few scarce souls among the people of Aledon whom had wished to even speak with her. An outcast, an oddity, she had traded once shackles for newer ones. She had been kept in a gilded cage admired by all but touched by none and now she was the street rat, pining for someone, anyone to give her the time of day. Just a kind word, a soft spoken phrase, anything to assuage this unbearable lonliness. Being Rotti's puppet had weighed heavily on her soul, the guilt she bore from the evils that man had caused. he was a murderer, a monster, but he owned the world, he could do as he pleased.

She sighed, a breathy near toneless sound, gaze lifting to the moon high above. It was the same moon that she could remember gazing at from her penthouse, high above the filth ridden streets a dainty doll in the hands of a killer. The moon had so oft been her only company and despite this darkened world she smiled, it still brought her an unreasonable sense of comfort. Enraptured by the pale glow of the celestrial orb, she never noticed the fast approaching gentleman, when he spoke she was startled from her reverie quite suddenly and she blinked rapidly, body tensing, waiting for the blow that would never come.

Much like a curious bird, her head would incline to the side. A soft, almost inaudible whirling sound met the air as the mechanics in her eyes adjusted themselves, the sparks in her eyes making the painted blue pieces glow as they zeroed in on the figure before her. Despite the darkness that surrounded them she could see him perfectly and without flaw. For a moment she was silent, studying him as he scrutinized her. His eyes lingered upon her pseudo orbs, but she was fast growing accustomed to the stares.

"A soprano." Her voice was deep, alluring, gentle and soft without effort. "Victimized seems a harsh term but befitting I suppose. I am loathe to speak of my eyes, I should keep some air of mystery about me." She blinked, an easy smile tilting the corners of her mouth as she offered him her hand. "My name is Bli-" She cut herself off wincing just slightly. "Mag... just Mag."

[Sherlock Holmes]

Sherlock had been so caught up in his own boredom and pessimistic (albeit incredible) mind that he had not really payed a great deal of heed to where he wandered. He knew that when he needed to go back home, his wonderful memory would recall the way with no problem, so he did not worry. Rarely did he worry, actually. But here he was, and he should make the best of his time outside his room at the inn, and so Sherlock looked about and determined the best course of action. This woman seemed... well, actually she did seem interesting. Curious. Sherlock was glad to have run into her, then. Perhaps she would prove a good relief for his boredom.

He was not well-versed in the etiquette of society, as was quite obvious in the woman's reaction. No, Sherlock was made for analyzing, for solving, for sciences. He did not much care for formalities, anyhow, and even if he had caught on properly, he would not have used them. He offered her a 'smile,' something that looked more along the lines of a frown, but it was the best he had when he was not genuinely euphoric.

He nodded. "As should be found from your speaking tambre." He was musical, too. He played violin, and composed when he really needed to think on something. It was not just a talent. It was more than that... a skill? A... what was greater than talent? He could not procure the word in his mind. His analysis was, as usual, correct. "Fitting, of course. I don't analyze incorrectly, I know..." To the second part of her phrase, he answered nonchalantly, his antisocial tendencies showing well, "Keep it then. But mystery is my trade, and you would be loathe to try and keep it too long. I will find out, when I please." He offered a condescending face, eyebrows cocked in half-amusement. He was full of himself.

He looked up, hands behind his back, and around as he murmured, "Bli... bli... bli..." Suddenly, he turned back to her. "You're not blind, Miss Mag. You see me just fine, I believe... That may explain the eyes then." He laughed, his deep voice echoing in his throat, as he brought his hands to his pockets. "Oh, and one more thing--you have no master anymore."

[Blind Mag]

She watched, her perfect vision catching each and every twist and twitch of his facial muscles. It was intriguing to her, this mask of indifference, this facade he wore to guard himself. She supposed it was similar to the one she had worn performing. She had to portray utter beauty, blissful happiness. The perfect life. Rotti's deep voice echoed in the back of her head, always her silent phantom, her tormentor. She ignored it. He didn't belong to this world and hopefully he never would. Everything the man touched became tainted, she was no exception to the rule. She would tilt her head to the side, studying him silently as he verbally picked her apart.

The blunt words brought an almost imperceptible smile to her mouth, she was so accustomed to words of utter praise that she had grown quite numb to the world around her, even if the man before her wasn't a true gent it was nice to have a conversation not based on her fame or her beauty, if nothing else could be said about the man before her, he was honest. She wasn't an optimist by nature, in fact had she been left in her own world, she would have taken her own life. She had announced her retirement, intending to leave GeneCo, thus forfeiting her eyes. She intended to gauge them out herself in front of thousands of viewers and a live audience... the final lyrics of Chromaggia spilling from her larynx, as life would have it, she had been brought here.

"Do you have any musical talents? Or can you simply decipher a tenor from an alto for fun?" She would tease him gently, a smile curling the edges of her mouth. His cockiness was something she was accustomed too, she had been the pretty bird for the equivalent of a king. Arrogance and the like did nothing to phase her anymore. "Perhaps, but can a person be analyzed solely on subtle twitches and cues? I have always found the more intricate layers, the pieces that make a person tick to be far more interesting. Anyone can write a biography, not everyone can find the heart of a soul." Her words were soft and smooth, more intrigued to hear his response than condescending.

"Blind Mag was my stage name, chosen by my boss." The explanation was short and to the point, there truly wasn't a story behind the rather dull name, but a smile full of secrets would glide across her mouth at his quick assessment, because for the first time, he was wrong. "These eyes can do much more than see..." She had spoken the exact lyrics to her God-daughter, the memory was one of few fond ones she possessed.