( it isn't actually unusual for benevenuta - vanessza, as she introduced herself upon arrival, a hungarian expat in france who seems to take things sometimes too much in stride - to give somebody a politely blank look and inform them, apologetically, that she hasn't got a clue what they're talking about. it is further not at all unusual for this to result in intense frustration on the other person's part, either convinced that they're losing their minds or that she must know, she must be lying, and--
--well, it's usually that she's lying. she's become so very good at it that not lying, even when she wishes to, is difficult; something uncomfortable that doesn't come naturally to her. she parts with true information about herself like a queen bestowing favours, hoards it otherwise like the fiercest of dragons, and really dislikes the sudden, worrying idea that perhaps that most sacred of things (her mind, her memory-- more than four centuries of history, of choices and control) has been tampered with. because she doesn't know what they're talking about, and their certainty is chillingly familiar. she's stood here, shrugging helplessly in the face of such conviction before: it has never been genuine. so she doesn't know, but--
maybe she should.
maybe that's something she should be pursuing.
maybe, after work, it's time to start digging through to see who else does or does not remember the things someone seems to think she really ought to. ask a few discreet questions. widen her eyes a little, flex her fingers like she's nervous, press her hand to her chest and catch her breath in a clever mimicry of startlement-- the pursuit of truth might take her down paths she hadn't intended "vanessza" to so directly explore, but that's fine. she gives good "in over her head". )
Sorry, I-- someone gives me your name. ( her english is accented, but decisive if not always entirely correct. )
ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀʏ ɢʟɪᴛᴄʜ; ʀᴏʟᴇ ʀᴇᴠᴇʀsᴀʟ
--well, it's usually that she's lying. she's become so very good at it that not lying, even when she wishes to, is difficult; something uncomfortable that doesn't come naturally to her. she parts with true information about herself like a queen bestowing favours, hoards it otherwise like the fiercest of dragons, and really dislikes the sudden, worrying idea that perhaps that most sacred of things (her mind, her memory-- more than four centuries of history, of choices and control) has been tampered with. because she doesn't know what they're talking about, and their certainty is chillingly familiar. she's stood here, shrugging helplessly in the face of such conviction before: it has never been genuine. so she doesn't know, but--
maybe she should.
maybe that's something she should be pursuing.
maybe, after work, it's time to start digging through to see who else does or does not remember the things someone seems to think she really ought to. ask a few discreet questions. widen her eyes a little, flex her fingers like she's nervous, press her hand to her chest and catch her breath in a clever mimicry of startlement-- the pursuit of truth might take her down paths she hadn't intended "vanessza" to so directly explore, but that's fine. she gives good "in over her head". )
Sorry, I-- someone gives me your name. ( her english is accented, but decisive if not always entirely correct. )