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8. spam
Mira sidles up to you. She's friendly, but not excessively so, not suspiciously so. She seems like a wallflower finally trying to ease out of her shell, or some similar mixed metaphor. In the cafeteria, it's 'Hey, do you mind if I sit with you?' and a small smile. In the hallways it's falling into step, one shoulder tilted awkward and shy. 'Hi. You're so-and-so, right?' In the library she asks what you're reading; on the deck she mentions the stars are beautiful. It's mild and banal, which isn't the point. The point is getting close enough to deftly tap a sticky note on your back. Don't worry, it only says your name.
[OOC: Mira is trying to do this for everyone, so David knows where people are! She also wished to remember, meaning her own past. Instead she's going to get other people's memories - critical, trivial, or things they had forgotten. Feel free to toss her one!]
[OOC: Mira is trying to do this for everyone, so David knows where people are! She also wished to remember, meaning her own past. Instead she's going to get other people's memories - critical, trivial, or things they had forgotten. Feel free to toss her one!]
no subject
'Ello, sweetheart. I think I'm probably Iris. I'm not entirely sure, at the moment.
[She grew up in a desert. Indoors, everything is tall and grey and faceless; outside, dusty scrub and the skeletons of ancient plants for a longer distance than the girl can walk; she knows, because she's tried. There are no locks and no walls, but it's as sure a prison as any oubliette.
The only escape to be found is inwards, to the bright soft forests in her mind. She tells herself stories as she kicks her dusty feet on the desiccated garden wall, full of coiled, muscular dragons and hot-eyed golden bears and jewelled birds whose songs are coded magic spells. Every time the girl opens a door in the grey house, she holds her breath in case this time the forest will be on the other side. It never is.]
no subject
You are. Iris, I mean, that's right.
Here.
[She gives Iris her post-it openly, so she can wear it like a nametag. The adhesive, not strictly period-accurate, clings to all manner of fabrics without waning or damaging them, thanks to nanovelcro. She blinks rapidly when she gets the memory, reels, holds herself still and sucks in a breath. It takes her more seconds than she'd like to admit to realize it isn't one of her own.]
no subject
[She reaches, curious about everything as indiscriminately as a hungry dog, to touch both the sticky note and Mira's hand.]
We're definitely friends, I can see that. That's all I've got for now, though - they tell me it'll wear off, so I'm not getting me knickers in a twist about it.
[It's true; once she learned the effect would be temporary Iris relaxed into it, enjoying the sensation of rediscovery.]
You move beautifully. 'Ave I ever told you that before, lovey? Do you dance, at all? 'Cause you'd be brilliant. It's a wish I made, according to that other girl.
[She can't access her own memories, so while she feels Mira startle, she can't see the cause, and she reaches again for the girl's hands.]
What was that, my love? Did you 'ave a wish too or am I sparking static?
no subject
[It's easier to talk actions, empiricism, than it is for Mira to lay claim to whatever they are to each other. She laughs, a little brokenly, gulps, nods.]
I wished to remember things.
no subject
[She reaches, a little diffidently - ready to abort the gesture at any sign of withdrawal - to stroke Mira's face, her hair.]
What did you remember, sweetheart? Not what you expected, right?
no subject
A desert. And beautiful dreams.
I think it's yours.