Violet Montague (mlle_montague) wrote in sin_ooc,
Violet Montague
mlle_montague
sin_ooc

application

Hey cats and kittens, I'm submitting an application for an OC I've created.

Introducing... Violet Montague.

Main LJ Username: jennthestrange

Character LJ Username: mlle_montague

AIM/MSN/Email Contact: onedirtycop OR weetziejenn (AIM), meddlesome@gmail.com

Character Name: Violet Montague

Age: 26

Position: Pulitzer-winning journalist... but not exactly the ethical kind. Works the police beat in the paper on a regular basis and in her stories can make certain facts appear or go away. She's in with some of the more corrupt cops -- namely Rafferty, Liebowitz, etc. Her Italian heritage also gets her into the good graces of Magliozzi and the mob. She also uses her gift of words in occasional news features/special reports to either defame or dignify a person, according to what her employer at the time wants. She doesn't align herself with any one group and can be bought by anybody if the price is right. Crafty and sexy, she gets out of any serious backlash (well, most of the time) that might befall her for not being loyal to a single organization. Deals coke on the side (and also uses), and used to moonlight as an exotic dancer while in journalism school.

Appearance: Stands 5'3" in bare feet, slender build (about 115#), black hair and chocolate brown eyes. Father was French, mother was Italian (she speaks both languages as well as English fluently). Has a French accent, that having been her native language (grew up along the French Riviera). Very elegant and innocent exterior, but has a dark personality, is a quick thinker, highly intelligent and sharp-tongued.


Writing Sample:

She lights up a hand-rolled cigarette, complete with black rolling papers and a crisp white filter, and gracefully exits the taxi. A crush of people is swarming around the entrance to the upscale nightclub, pushing and shoving so they can get a glimpse of the two bullet-riddled corpses lying in a pool of crimson just inside the door.

She can't help but smirk at the scene before her. "Americans," she thinks, "the nosiest motherfuckers on the planet." She doesn't mind much, though, otherwise she would be out of a job.

She doesn't hesitate to shoulder herself into the mass of bodies, flashing what looks like a police badge but is in fact a press ID: Violet Montague, the Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist of Basin City. People scowl at her and let her pass, throwing her jealous looks; women are envious of her beauty and intelligence and independence; men desire her and go home to create fantasies in their heads and their hands while they stand in the shower.

Violet Montague finally emerges from the crowd and sidles up without a sound to the detectives examining the scene. She withdraws a pencil and notepad from her purse, scribbling down initial observations of the situation. Two people -- from the looks of it, a young couple intending to take in an evening of classy entertainment: dancing to live jazz, enjoying caviar and chardonnay, a green room with Cuban cigars and a VIP section for lovers' liaisons. The man is dressed in a now blood-splattered starched white tuxedo and the woman a slinky silver evening gown with white pearls and diamonds glittering around her neck. A smile curls at the corner of Violet Montague's rouged lips and she pokes the arm of the detective nearest her with her eraser.

He turns his head and the harassed look on his face immediately resolves into an expression of pleasant surprise. "Press conference time already, is it Miss Montague?" Detective Lieutenant Jack Rafferty says, grinning wolfishly. His eyes rake up and down her body but she stares unwaveringly up into his face.

She cocks her head to the side and rests the eraser-end of her pencil in the corner of her mouth, looking coquettish but maintaining her air of professionalism. "Detective, can you tell me what happened?" she asks quickly, voice smooth as silk and seductively lilting from her French accent. She raises one eyebrow and puts pencil to paper, waiting for Rafferty's reply.

He gives her a short sketch of the events leading up to the shooting, giving her the names and a purposefully vague description of the suspect. Then he leans in and whispers in her ear as he slips a wad of $100 bills in between her breasts -- nobody notices that slick move -- "I know that you know it was one of our guys who did it, it really made him feel raw when she," he motions to the woman on the ground, "left him to get engaged to this tool, but I hope you can find it in your heart," he taps a finger against her chest, dangerously close to her bustline, "to omit that fact..." He trails off and steps away from her slightly, lighting a cigarette.

She takes a drag of her cigarette, looking thoughtful, and winks at him. The thickness of the cash she feels in between her breasts meets her approval, and the next day an article runs in the city paper, recounting the tragic death of a newly-engaged couple uptown late last night at the hands of an unidentified suspect that police are actively pursuing.

Her editor congratulates her when he receives the first copy of the morning edition. "Another front page article, Montague! Our circulation is going to keep on the up and up with you on board!" The man hasn't got a clue. But Violet just smiles sweetly and thanks him for his compliments.

That afternoon she uses the money Rafferty slipped to her to buy a new diamond watch. She can't help but muse, "Whoever said money doesn't talk has never visited Basin City." She exits the jewelry store, and lights another cigarette.
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