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[Something is wrong.

No, everything is wrong. She has memorized the letter, and she's tried interrogating that faceless woman, to no avail. She can't access any of her information circuits, and she can't detect any hint of outside interference with her inner sensory functions. There isn't a possibility of hallucinations, either, only leaving one truth: this isn't the Ritz hotel, or London, or even England. This is an entirely new country, an entirely different world. And judging from the letter, she won't be permitted to return until her task is complete: "To bring life to the world"...

Ridiculous. A doll of steel, functioning only by the artificial chemicals in her veins and the grinding of gears, can't lend vibrancy to a city, any more than she can color the unchanging gray skies. A worthless sky, and a worthless city befitting it. Faceless people, people lacking identities and selves―they make up a worthless population. She has no interest in them.

She will have ample opportunities to gather information, at least. But she isn't going to reveal her face so quickly, not when anyone could be watching.]

I am looking for a certain individual. Black hair. Blue eyes. He wears all black clothing, and is distinguishable by a patch over his right eye. If anyone knows of this man, I am to be informed of his location immediately.

[The next part is added as an afterthought, a few moments later:]

Additionally, if there are any ports available which can accept recharge cables, it would be most convenient.

-S. Moran

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[A man's name for a woman may be misleading, and she might even look a little like a man, she is very much herself. She is the only Sebastian Moran in all of London.]

I am Colonel Sebastian Moran. James Moriarty is my master.

These are facts of my life. It is not for you to decide whether they are false or not. Nor can you decide whether they are even mine.

[Another unseen scowl. Moriarty is not his master. His employer, yes--oh, and perhaps he does own him in a way, but master is not the appropriate word.]

Tell me about your unrivaled aim, Col.

Oh, Afghanistan was ruthless, wasn't it?

[He's testing her now, trying to figure out what's the same and what's different. Gender hasn't even crossed his mind. Sebastian is such a masculine name.]

[...This is childish. It's pointless to try and argue with him. She knows the truth. But what she doesn't know is why, why someone would want to impersonate her.]

Yes. My aim is unrivalled. I am skilled in combat with guns, as well as knives. I excel at shooting from exceptionally long distances.

I never fought in Afghanistan. I was deployed to India.

[She wants to see this mysterious correspondent. Squabbling over facts, and who is who, will get nowhere quickly.]

Switch to visual.

I'm not skilled with knives. Leaves us even. [He may need to work on that, though.

The text is meant to be something to give him time to work out how to switch to visual. He feels absurdly slow with all this technology, but he's been doing a pretty good job of hiding it. A few moments later, the lightly scarred face a middle aged man in Victorian clothing appears.]

Here I am then, chum. Why don't you show your face as well?

Very well.

[And a few moments later, he would see a relatively youthful, if not fairly androgynous woman standing there, dressed in scarlet uniform. She's taking in these features of the man from across the feed, and it's clear that if he is trying to imitate her, he's doing a wretched job. No resemblance whatsoever.

Her voice is low and pleasant enough, but every word she speaks is in utter monotone.]

I've shown my face. You should be satisfied with this.

[He holds the screen to his eyes, observing the person on the other end of the feed, mentally comparing their features. Younger, more delicate features, not at all scarred like a man who fought in a war should be, and still wearing a uniform. Hasn't this man retired yet?

Wait--man, right? Sebastian squints, and pales. Not a man. Absolutely ridiculous. Not that he has an issue with women--he's just never wanted to be one. Honestly, he's so shocked that all he can get out is the obvious.]

You're a woman.

Yes. Is there something unusual with my being a woman?

[Moran doesn't understand why he has such an extreme reaction; the man looks like he's just seen something dreadful. But her gender is certainly no cause for alarm, not to someone who is merely trying to masquerade as her, although his reasons for doing so are still shrouded in mystery.]

[Certainly, Sebastian has met women who are so dangerous and skilled with weapons that they could rival even him. But the time period he's from still has him in the old fashioned mindset.

It just doesn't seem...fair, really. Hell, if anything, Moriarty's phsyical appearance is actually an improvement from the dusty Professor that Sebastian is familiar with.

The poor old sausage. Probably sitting back in London right now buried up to his elbows in his wasp experiments. Doesn't even realize that in some other place in time, he's actually made more accomplishments even younger and with more hair on his head.

And Sebastian Moran is a woman. Brilliant.]

Perhaps you've overlooked it somehow, "Colonel"--and if you have, I'm sorely disappointed in your eyesight--but I am not a woman.

I'm aware of that. You are male, and I am female. Our differences are many. I cannot discern any rational reason as to why you continue to insist that you are me.

[If he were someone who has simply heard of her reputation, and then met with her in person, his shock would make sense. But he's clearly done some research on her, enough so that he's apparently tricked this frustratingly archaic indentification system into thinking he is her.]

You ought to cease this childish front.

[Research? Ohoho, don't make him laugh. If he wanted research, he'd make more of an attempt to get past the first page of Professor Moriarty's book--and you can count on one hand the amount of people who can do that.]

Are you certain that I'm the one who's insisting, chum? Come now. A woman has a colonel? Much less a woman serving for the Queen's forces at all? It's laughable.

[Moran is not an argumentative sort; she doesn't bother to answer his mockery with anger, only a weary look of exasperation. Even if his words are entirely nonsensical, even if he insults her, it doesn't distract from the question of why. Is he truly that deeply delusioned?]

Yes. No. I was not considered to be Sebastian Moran, the female soldier during my time in the military. I was, and continue to be, seen as only James Moriarty's weapon. I fought in his place.

What is your relation to your "James Moriarty"?

Well, now we finally have a similarity on our hands. Someone pass around the bottle now. [On that subject, he could do with a stiff drink. He's handling all of this quite well, but it really is insane. No wonder this woman thinks he's pretending. He wouldn't have believed it if it hadn't been explained to him by Moriarty in the most Moriartian way possible.]

Call me a weapon, if you will. I fought in no one's place, but I certainly killed more than my share. The Professor needed a good shot and I needed employment. A perfect marriage, wouldn't you agree?

[Even she has never described her partnership with M as a "marriage", but this man has a very dry humor about him, she can tell that much. Is he mocking her...?]

No. I would not call it a good marriage. Your faithfulness should not depend on monetary incentives. I wouldn't forgive anyone who would abandon their loyalties because of money.

[It's been a two year partnership thus far. He has to call it something. It's more than employment now, but he wouldn't dare call it a friendship. That would be admitting to caring about the old Professor.]

Well, it's lucky for Professor Moriarty that monetary incentives aren't the reason why I stick around, isn't it? [Oh, but he has been paid handsomely. Hasn't been short of funds since he took the job. For a man who returned from war with nothing but his guns to his name, it's been fantastic. Still, he isn't lying. The pay is just an extra.] I enjoy my work.

[He enjoys it? Moran has never considered her—or "their"—line of work to be enjoyable. She always performed her role out of duty, not personal satisfaction. Too much enjoyment leads only to sloppiness.]

...You refer to him as "Professor."

[M is far from a patient and sociable man; it's impossible to picture him in an environment where he would willingly interact with students bothering him with redundant questions.]

Edited 2012-03-22 05:48 (UTC)

[Well, it's not as if he's going to find a good hunt in London any other way. He'd much prefer going after larger, more dangerous game, but he'll take what he can get.]

He was introduced to me as Professor just as I was introduced to him as Colonel. He no longer tutors, and I'm no longer in the army. He's earned it as a lifelong title. The old man has earned a little pat on the back for not losing his mind after all those years of hammer mathematics into his pupils' thick skulls.

[She prefers to listen rather than offer information herself, and finds this "alternate" of her to have something almost similar to what she has with her master. Though she and her Moriarty are closer than an arrangement of employment, there is something akin to...fondness?, pride? in his tone.]

How long have you been working beneath him?

[He's noticed, but the only rule he's give himself is not to reveal too much. And he hasn't. Not that he could when he's speaking to someone who's essentially lived a very similar life. He has to scowl at the beneath him term, however. Although Sebastian is clearly no match for Moriarty's mind, Moriarty is no match for Sebastian's shot. He's considered them to be equals for some time, although he wouldn't actually dare to mention that to the Professor.]

I've been working with [Emphasis on the with] Professor Moriarty for two years now. What year are you on, then?

[...Only two? Well, considering the circumstances are different, perhaps that's normal. Still, she's not keen on someone so similar to her, turning out to not be nearly as devoted. It reflects badly on her, in turn.]

I have been with him for...at least, twenty years. I no longer accurately remember how long, but twenty is most likely.

Well, then. It seems to me that we've both signed away our souls. [A grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. It's a splash of humor to color what's actually the truth. Even if he wanted to escape Moriarty, death is the only way that's likely to happen.] How interesting. I wasn't aware that Moriarty had twenty more years in him.

Yes. [It's a fitting phrase. After all, she has already devoted everything of hers to M.

"Twenty more years", though... Meaning that the Moriarty he knows is probably older by a great deal. Nevertheless, despite the age differences or separate experiences, there is no one who can best her superior.

It's an irrefutable fact.]

My master is different from the man you speak of. Their ages are most likely different as well.

[At least they've finally come to an agreement on something. Sebastian finds all these differences absolutely fascinating, if not annoying. He respects and admires his aging, stooped professor, but he can't help but wonder how different things could be if their Moriartys were swapped.]

Am I to understand that, along with his age, your master is neither gaunt nor cigarette-stained, nor does he give himself away too easily by the manner in which he moves his head from side to side? [Like a cobra. Moriarty does it often and it's ridiculously annoying now that Sebastian's noticed it.]

Yes. He is not a very young man, but he cannot be considered elderly. Neither does he make idle movements without a specific intent in mind. He does smoke cigars frequently, however.

[She imagines that if M started moving in the way that he describes, it would only end up irritating him, or making his head ache. He was often so still that he seemed to be a man of stone, rather than flesh and blood. Another difference between the two.

From how he describes his Moriarty...old, a disregard for health, and with trademark movements, he sounds like someone very difficult to tolerate, let alone work with.]

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