memcrium-blog

[memcrium-blog]

     “ huh -- point made. ”      she’s putting her sandwich making materials back into her bag, one hand keeping a good grip on her pb&j ( less of a firm grip on the erratic beat of her heart -- whether its acceleration is from the excitement of a more high-stakes job or the simplicity of human nervousness gemma isn’t sure ). she gets to her feet, dusting off her jeans with a couple well-placed swipes across the back of her thighs, a sly tilted smile shot at her partner-in-crime.      “ recon is much more fun up close and personal with the target. ”

     gemma falls a couple steps behind, kneeling on the sidewalk to retie a converse, sandwich held precariously between her teeth.      “urld bwillin untus-- ”      she mumbles around the bread before standing and clearing her mouth of any obtrusions.      “old building enthusiasts?”      she repeats.      “historians? students working on this super-duper important school project that we would just love inside info about to blow our classmates out of the water? ”

“Stakeouts are great if you just need to know what’s going on inside. There isn’t much use if we’re trying to find serial numbers and blueprints, right?” Saoirse asked. She didn’t know if Mac had done this before, but she certainly hadn’t pulled off anything this big, ever. The largest place she’d ever robbed was a Walmart in Dublin, and that was petty theft at best. 

She opened her car door, glancing back towards Gemma to see if she was following her. “So, any idea what we should tell them? Looking to open a joint bank account? Lost your wallet?” Just suggestions, really, but they probably needed a better cover than that. 

[memcrium-blog]

     twenty years is not a long time to live, no not at all, but twenty years is still an adequate span of time to figure some things out about yourself -- that you work best with chaos and noise around you, that you can’t let people get to you, that you aren’t only attracted to the opposite sex, that there’s so much to know and even with the never-forgetting thing you wonder if you’ll ever begin to understand the universe around you. gemma may not understand the world around her, or even how exactly the synapses of her brain are so much reliable than others, but she knows she needs coffee to continue her research of failed heists of the bank of london and so she finds herself overpaying for an iced coffee.

   the beverage is almost upended as another steps into her path ( luckily it doesn’t, only laps against the luckily well-secured lid ).      “ is it? ”     gemma says cheerily, a brow quirked up as she takes a sip of her drink. eugh, she misses tim hortons.      “ we were wondering where you ran off to. ”

Matilda was working out of a coffee shop, had been at it long enough that she missed the sunset. The darkness had slipped in unnoticed by her, and when she did look away from her laptop screen she had to blink a few times. She should probably either buy another drink or leave, she considered, before settling on the latter. 

Slipping her computer into her bag, she stood up and all but ran over the person standing behind her. She looked up to apologize, and let out a little, “Oh!” before she could stop herself. “Well this is certainly surreal,” she recovered quickly. She’d forgotten that all the people she knew from the theater lived in the same city as she did, and sometimes even left the Van Allen.

[memcrium-blog]

     her normal isn’t really that much different than most people’s normal in her opinion ( her classmates would have disagreed if they had known instead of calling her nerd and know-it-all and unhelpful bitch, but people have always been JEALOUS of what’s better between them and others -- everything from the mundane skill of sewing to the IMMPOSSIBLE ). she’s faced with the reality of power, and she’s acutely reminded of how low she rides on the amazing scale in this heist club of theirs. it’s not that she’s jealous really   -- as cool as it would be to wield electricity or disappear --   every extraordinary thing comes with its cross to bear, and it took her way too long how to figure out how to hold hers.

     ( they don’t call her know-it-all behind her back either -- and that’s something ).

     but he looks so HOPEFUL as they stand in the world that he’s created from nothing but his imagination and an old closet or whatever, and gemma can’t but feel like she’s about to let him down big time.      “ uh. yeah -- ‘course. ”      her american accent becomes a little more prominent with the few words, leaking through her british one, carefully cultivated from never-forgotten bits of conversation and scraps of slang.      “ though there’s nothing to show, really. i mean i don’t really do anything though. it’s more just a brain thing -- a never, ever forgetting brain thing. ”      she shrugs and looks at the stars again.

At this point, Dexter supposes, he’s lost all logical metric on whether or not something he does is impressive. Sometimes, when he manages to stretch his own limits, that’s impressive to him, but not always. Mostly, his own limitations frustrate him.

And he can see the mistakes in this current illusion.

Still. Compliments are always nice!

“Not long,” he replies, beaming. “It’s something I’ve done a lot before. New stuff would take longer. “And I mean, if I could memorize space, I’d probably do nothing else but this, so it’s probably good that I can’t.”

Dexter glances at her, and wonders – is asking what can you do rude? Is there some sort of etiquette about this? He doesn’t know, and kind of doesn’t care, because here they are standing in fake-space on a fake-asteroid and Dexter just really loves seeing what other people can do. His own ability is normal to him now. Other people’s? Endlessly cool. “So, um. Am I allowed to ask what you can do?” He looked painfully, earnestly hopeful. 

[memcrium-blog]

     “ looks it. ”      she agrees, a slim hand shading her eyes as she takes in the distant structure.      “ but don’t let it INTIMIDATE you. ”      from the outside, this seems to be a FOOL’S errand. but looks can be deceiving -- immense brick meant to deter the likes of them from burrowing into its insides where treasure lay. but from what they know, gemma isn’t so sure that the outside is just a study facade holding in the flimsy rot within. this is the real deal: tough from the inside out. robbing the bank of london? definitely seems IMPOSSIBLE, but then again, they’re impossible too; the twelve that make up their misfit society with lofty goals and scientifically astounding abilities. perhaps it only takes an impossible thing to solve an impossible puzzle.

     her hand drops and situates itself on the strap of her messenger bag, fidgeting with the inch-wide canvas, gaze switching from the impossible structure to one of her fellow impossible humans.      “ you’d guess right. ”      gemma gives a cheery wink at the male before her hands are moving again digging in her bag for something or another.      “ recklessness runs in my blood, you could say --- and things are a lot less thrilling if you’ve done them before. ”      yeah, yeah, practice makes perfect -- she knows; but repetition also nurtures boredom and MONOTONY. and if there’s anything she hates, it’s monotony. what’s the point of doing something if you already know the outcome?      “ but i won’t hold your boringness against you -- some people love living in their comfort zones. ”      she laughs at that, a hand retreating from her bag with a pack of gum clutch between fingers.      “ want some? ”

Glass, especially glass as cheap as this, does very little as a sound barrier. He wonders briefly if he should alert the couple discussing divorce of this fact, but he hears Gemma’s mutterings before he sees her, and figures that one would be chalked up as a bad idea. Right, he thought, watching as both she and the singular look she was giving him approached the door, this is important - focus. But it’s difficult to do such a thing when half a shop are muttering about your, apparently poor, dating future, and he can’t help but lean around her to frown at the patrons wishing him a bit too much luck than necessary. “Hey now,” He replied to her as he did, unperturbed by the altitude of her eyebrow,  “I’m saving all my inconspicuous up for when we get there.”

After finishing a quick staring competition with the divorce-man, he turned and shot Gemma a lazy smile, nodding slightly towards the visible slither of the bank, or, The Back of London, as he could only think of it. “Looks pretty immense, man.” he murmured, and then, as an afterthought, “It’s a shame they don’t offer practice runs at this kind of thing, you know?.” His voice was earnest, a firm believer in practice making perfect. He got better at at talking, at pickpocketing, at dealing with his thing because of practice. Though, as his eyes drifted back onto his companion, he wondered if that was just a matter of opinion. “I guess that kind of thing probably gets pretty boring for you though, huh?. Weird.”

[memcrium-blog]

I generally eat healthy and feel great after a good sweat. But I think the most beautiful thing is being happy – it really shows when someone is genuinely happy – so I do try to practice everything in moderation and listen to what my body wants.

[memcrium-blog]

    it’s not really anything she’s not done before -- the whole scouting out the place before she crashes in after hours uninvited. in fact now  -- as her gaze is leveled at nothing in particular, iced black tea between her hands --    her mind SPEEDS through all her past experiences with this sort of thing: this PRETEND to be a dumb girl and extract information thing. it’s COMFORTING, but less than it should be. because no matter how much gemma tells herself that this is just like all the scenarios left in the dips and wrinkles of her brain, she knows REALITY is far from the lies she tries to convince herself of. somehow, she thinks the sentence for robbing the bank of london is a little more grievous than snatching some fashionable boots from harrods.

    the noise startles her from her daydreaming. before eyes focus on the glass she thinks perhaps a bird has flown into the window, but no, it’s only kai drawing unneeded ATTENTION to himself. she snatches her bag from where is rests on the floor, slinging it over her shoulder and pushing towards the door in the same moment.      “ sorry, so sorry. ”      she tells the staring patrons, an EXASPERATED tone not too difficult to fake and a rueful smile on her face as she lies.      “ my friend’s just in an extremely big hurry. big date and all, you know? ”      one, two, and she’s through the door.      “ INCONSPICUOUS much? ”      she asks kai, a brow rising in what might be a judgmental arc ( but it’s mostly in jest -- she knows what his ability is, and while she finds the scents of cafes comforting...well ).

{Penguins at Work; Kai and @memcrium}

Even from a few blocks away he could make out the top of the bank, its grand roof protruding above the immediate area’s skyline. It certainly looked like it would hold some serious cash, hell, looked like it was boasting the fact. It dawned on Kai that nobody had been kidding when they’d emphasised the whole ‘high security’ aspect in their plans: this was some serious shit.

Which is why, Kai told himself as he ambled down the street, the slight nerves in his stomach were totally justified. Good even: they made him more alert. (Or at least that’s what he’d tell Gemma if she noticed - their plans weren’t exact, but he doubted nerves were part of them.) He was heading towards the Pret they’d agreed to meet at, it being the perfect distance from their target. It only crossed Kai’s mind as he arrived that maybe a cafe hadn’t the best place to meet, as entering would mean facing a serious smell. So, instead, he simply banged on the window-front glass a few times and smiled at all the alarmed faces that looked up. If she was there, she would see him.

[memcrium-blog]

     “ what? i was hungry and in a hurry to leave. plus if i’ve learned anything from crime shows, it’s that stakeouts can be long and boring. ”      gemma will defend her peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to the death -- don’t even try to take them away from her.      “ though...not much of a stakeout if we go in, huh? ”      she takes a bite of the sandwich, one hand screwing the lid back onto the jelly jar.      “ but lead the way -- gotta see if this baby’s really as bad as they say, right? ”      from the outside she’ll admit that the bank does cut an impressive figure ( and reading up on what they know -- well this is certainly no child’s play, not set of fake diamonds lifted from a department store display ). this is REAL.

“Is that a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?” Saoirse asked incredulously, momentarily taking her binoculars away from her eyes to look at her. She’d always wanted to buy a pair of these. “I wouldn’t say the extra security is a good thing, but it makes things more interesting,” she continued. She watched as a tall, muscular-looking security guard spoke into his walkie-talkie. 

“So, wanna go inside?” she asked, grinning. What the hell? Might as well see what they were up against. 

[memcrium-blog]

     “ well ---- i gotta say: the bank of london is a lot more high security than your run of the mill department store. ”      gemma’s busy making herself a sandwich -- peanut butter jelly, if anyone cares. gaze flickers briefly away from her meal to the other because she continues.      “ this is going to be so fun. ”

[memcrium-blog]

     the swooping discontent with clashing realities in her stomach dissipates as rock materializes into form beneath her feet – it’s with a little regret that gemma lets the feeling go; she didn’t mind it all that much. still, the WONDER ( tainted with the faintest tinge of ENVY ) is still there as she watches and stares into what feels like the heart of the universe but isn’t anything more than an old prop closet or decaying dressing room. it’s AMAZING really, and compares so little to what she’s capable of. this guy can manipulate reality and she can recite julius caesar word for word ( and that isn’t even that incredible – actors do that on a daily basis ).

     “ annoyingly. ”      gemma echoes quietly, keeping to herself the tiny fact that she could if she wanted to ( she hasn’t, by the way ).      “ it’s still rather impressive. ”      she adds honestly instead, turning slowly to examine the scene. yes, it’s not completely accurate, but hardly anyone would know -- even her. space is a pretty big thing to try to memorize.      “ better than any planetarium – that’s for sure. how long did it take you to do this? ”

Dexter knows, for most people, the double-layer of sensation was a little uncomfortable – especially now, like this, where the eyes would say they should be floating or falling, but the feet were firmly anchored on the ground. He’d long gotten used to it, but he had to keep reminding himself that not everybody was.

So he sits up, and with a thought, he flickers into being the appearance of a platform under her feet.

An asteroid, actually. It is space. After a moment, he adds a long tail of ice and dust, carefully weaving in the appearance of many, many little individual particles. It’s more difficult to do than solid objects, takes a bit more time and thought. Worth it, though.

“Bit of both?” he grins, a little ruefully, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve got a near-perfect visual memory. Kinda have to, I guess.” Otherwise all of his illusions would be half-formed and blurry in places with forgotten details. “But I can’t memorize all the stars in the night sky. Annoyingly.”

[memcrium-blog]

     the morphing of her name into it’s more common cousin is hardly enough for her to hold one of her famously long grudges. she’s long outgrown its mispronunciations – grown so accustomed that she might as well respond to ‘ jenna. ’ she has also long learned that not everyone is fortunate ( unfortunate? ) enough to have a mind like an INFINITELY expanding library, carefully cataloged and organized. she should not begrudge them for being ordinary in that sense. and so pink lips flicker into a sweet smile, only the most slightly strained around the edges – just because gemma’s used to something, doesn’t mean she has to like it.

     but adrian seems HONEST too   -- ah, the irony of an honest thief --   if the guarded expression he wears is anything to judge by. the strain in her smile has as much to do with her existence itself as the annoying habit people have.

     “ adrian. ”      she says simply  – part greeting, part PETTINESS that yes she knows his name --   perching herself on the back of one of the old theater seats, sneakered feet settling on the ratty velvet cushion of the next row. eyes are drawn to the notebook her has in hand. her own artistic ability rests rather low on the spectrum – apparently perfect visual memory does very little for that talent. when she sets pen to paper things come out in neat angles and largely geometric: ORDERLY like the thoughts in her brain.      “ drawing anything interesting? ”

He can’t remember her name, really. There was a “G” or a “J” somewhere in it, but in all his searching and the flood of memories that came with travel, it was easy to lose the tiny details (which apparently included names). He could remember her ability, however. It was hard to forget (ironically). 

While memories buzzed through his brain like lost hummingbirds, hers stacked up in orderly files. At least– that’s how he imagined it. He’d wondered, maybe hoped, that they could relate in that area, simply on the fact that their minds were both cluttered with memories. The thought of someone else relating to him is a pleasant one, but seems distant in the moment: he may have all of his thoughts on the subject floating around, but putting them into words is a whole different idea. 

He follows her gaze and pushes himself to his feet, walking over to retrieve the escaped pencil with gentle fingers, as if he’ll break it just by touching it. It is the last one he can find, after all. “Thank you… Jenna? No– Gemma! I’m sorry.” He cringes slightly, watching her with a hesitant expression– he’s not a fan of disappointing people. Especially strangers who are meant to become trusted. 

[memcrium-blog]

That thing is still in there. And we can’t just sit here and let it get them, too. We can’t. You still wanna try it out? I wanna finish what we started. I want to kill it.

[memcrium-blog]

    “ oh! ”      it’s with a small inhale of surprise that head snaps around at the sound of another’s voice, gaze taking in the figure that had certainly not been there only moments before when she’d strolled on by ( and gemma would remember ).      “ i didn’t --- see you there. ”      she takes a few steps forward to close the gap between them, fingers toying together at her waist as shoulders rise in a shrug.      “ forgetting can be such a tragedy sometimes. so much history is lost that way. ” she almost laughs at the irony in her words. almost.      “ i just can’t believe i never ventured into this place before now -- usually i have an uncanny ability to find abandoned buildings. ”

Sure sitting in the Theater pretending to be a chair, wasn’t quite as productive as Clara should have been but this place sometimes felt like the only real place in the world. There was no disguises masking ugly realities. Every stain, dust mark and sticky piece of wood had witnessed the extraordinary at some point in their long inanimate life. She understood it, the life of the random old things that scattered themselves across the theater, connecting them all to times that none of them would ever know. She simply let herself go, felt the tingly prickles as she let herself become a girl again. “Odd isn’t it? So much must have happened here…I feel like we’ll never really know about her.” 

[memcrium-blog]

( ADRIAN )

The night always had a way of casting a surreal glow over anything and everything it touched. It was peaceful, if a bit unsettling, and the Van Allen was one of the places it seemed to affect the most. The place wasn’t well lit, and though it had been well travelled in the past few months, it still smelled of dust and in some places, mildew. London wasn’t easy on its older buildings. 

Though Adrian wasn’t overly social in nature, he’d found more recently that he hated the feeling of being alone. Sometimes he could bear the lonely walls pressing in on him, but tonight he found himself back at the theatre in the comfort of its creaky wooden walls, his sketchbook in his lap and a pencil in his– well, it used to be in his hand. Now it was nowhere to be found. He sat up, looking around him to see if it had rolled into a crack in the wood of the stage, or perhaps under his leg.

Instead he found a shadow, split into many by the scattered lights overhead. He followed it to its source, eyes turning up and squinting through the light. “Oh. Have you seen my pencil?”

     she hears things and she remembers them -- she never has a choice about forgetting. public school taught her that; you had to keep your ears peeled and your head down ( knowledge went a long way, gossip went even further ). and gemma hears things here too, stores them away until they’re useful and can be pieced together like the many fragments of a puzzle. she only knows little, but she knows the dark-haired male is one of the first -- one of the founders ( refounders? ) of this organization. she doesn’t recall any mention of what adrian can do, what makes him part of this circle. perhaps it’s something to do with art -- the future drawn out in thick black lines over the blank expanse of a notebook page or something like that. wrong.

     her step is quiet as she treads carefully to the back to where he sits -- a result of a gymnast’s bodily awareness and a thief’s adaption. one, two, three. there’s a feeling in the dim light casting too many shadows that one must tread quietly here. but the van allen also feels familiar at this time, when the dark diffuses in more heavily through cracking walls and shifting floorboards -- familiar in a way that corresponds not with her life here in london, but life back across the pond with its old grain silos and rusting metal staircases. abandoned things have a way of looking even more dead in only the light of the stars and moon -- but perhaps they are breathing a bit more hope back into the van allen.

     he’s searching for something when her sneakers pass the row two down from where he sits, her brown eyes studying the figure.     “ your -- ”      pencil. the word turns into an image, silver, sleek, mechanical, and sitting in the debris by the stage.      “ yeah -- it’s down there. ”      she points towards decaying curtains and the silent stage.      “ must’ve rolled down or something. ”

[memcrium-blog]

( DEXTER ):

Some liked hanging out in the main room of the theater; surrounded by rows of chairs and the stage ahead. While Dexter liked the main area well enough, he liked the hidden nooks and crannies better: the back rooms that had once been used as changing rooms, the empty wardrobes, and the huge prop storage closets. The latter was where he’d wound up today, hiding out from the cold streets in the warmth of the old building.

And maybe he should have given some warning on the door. Caution: Illusion In Progress. Because he heard the door open, and then heard a startled noise from someone who felt like they’d just stepped into what would seem, to their eyes, a black void, no walls or ceilings or floor, just endless space and tiny pinpricks of lights for stars, bright planets lurking in the distance and colorful nebula hanging suspended.

“Sorry,” Dexter said, not particularly sounding sorry, too busy laying on his back on the floor, staring upward. “The, um. The floor’s still there, I promise. You just can’t see it. I can stop you from seeing the illusion, if you want.” He paused. “But why would you, space is awesome.”

     she’s doing what she does best ( besides blurt out random facts about things no one really cares about anymore until the become relevant again ): exploring and memorizing the layout of defunct places no one seems to care in the turmoil of the present. it’s strange, really, that she hadn’t found this place before, given her excursions and attraction to such edifices. perhaps it has to do with its location in the heart of london, maybe it’s something else -- a tingly feeling that wards people off until they’ve been welcomed into the fold.

     whatever the reason, she’s here now, and she needs to learn every inch. 

     there’s no tingly feeling to warn her when she wrenches open the old door, surprisingly quiet on it’s old hinges.      “ ah! ”      it’s not a dignified sound, but what exactly does one expect when a door that should lead to a closest or a hall instead seems to tunnel into the nothingness of the galaxy? ( it’s not possible -- says the logical part of her, but the eyes are easily tricked even in the face of logic ).      “ an...illusion. ”      she repeats dumbly, taking a slow step forward ( the floor is indeed still there as the other promised ). an illusionist    --a real illusionist, not the street magic sort that make doves disappear and pull money from strangers’ ears--   why not?      “ so...is this is a mimic of the actual thing, or did you just -- make it up? ”

[memcrium-blog]

     “ so ---- did you guys invest in like a fridge or food of any sort? discounts at any local eateries, because i’m not saying i’m famished. but i’m famished. ”      gemma rounds off her comment with a quirk of smile and shrug of the shoulders. she’s also just a little bored, and she’s deemed those ratty curtains crumbling and fraying at the edges and decorated with moth holes unfit for climbing.

@crookedshaw

[memcrium-blog]

     it reminds her of lost things, the van allen, reminds her in the same way the old grain silos spoke through rusting stairwells and decaying rubber of an era long lost. she gets the feeling that the sentiment isn’t that wrong --- that’s what they are isn’t it? a collection of lost things finding a purpose again? a handful of loose change hoping to amount to a dollar? fingers poke at the fraying curtains. had they been in better condition, they would have proved to be amusing to climb all the way to arching rafters where colonies of mold grow.      “ van allen. van allen. van allen. ”      the words roll from her tongue in a quiet murmur as gemma muses to herself. she knows so little on the subject, a thing that becomes only rarer as time passes.      “ so little do i know about you. ”

@claraxxlarson

[memcrium-blog]