In hindsight, if Memo were to manage to remember all of the details leading up to this, he probably would have seen it coming. Or at least some of it. There were kind of a lot of things going on.





Step One: a message waiting on his phone voice mail when he got home from volunteer first aid demonstrating. A message from his HR manager at work. A message informing him that his job abandonment that day crossed the line set at his last performance review meeting, and as such he was terminated with cause, effective immediately.



He... had been... fired?



Step Two: a paper waiting on the outside of his apartment door when he got home from running that night. A paper from his landlord. A paper informing him that his lack of employment, paired with poor payment history, voided the terms of his lease, and as such he was to evict the premises within 48 hours.



Totally sucked, but his mom would take him in -



Step Three.



Another message waiting on his phone voice mail. His mother had a new job in another city and had to move immediately. Today immediately. She'd been in such a rush to get everything packed and into a rented vehicle that she hadn't sent the message until she was already on the road. She was very sorry, but it was a very good opportunity in a far more affordable town.

Memo slowly sank to the floor, barely feeling the wall against his back. He'd made it inside, somehow, numb as if he were a moment away from death again. A slow death, with blood spreading wide around his limbs.

He couldn't say how long he crouched there, curled around a miserable white knotted ring gleaming between his collarbones. Little spikes coiled towards its centre, spiny thorns digging into his flesh and soul. He'd never had so much torn away at once. Never.



Eventually, he faded into exhausted sleep, and though it didn't last long he did feel better when he woke. But he hadn't forgotten. He didn't forget everything. Some things had claws in such a range of places and thoughts that they were hard to shake by will or accident.

It took two tries to get back to his feet, stiff and weary, and then he dully tottered to the kitchen to make tea. On the way, he intentionally touched the spray of flecks by his left eyebrow. A headache flashed before the drunkenness of that memory overrode it, and before long he was belting out White Rabbit and I'm Blue at the top of his lungs while he posted quick pictures of his stuff online.

Please sell, please sell, please sell-

Before long, he had replies and people knocking at his door. He'd stuck some of his everpresent sticky notes on things he couldn't bear to part with (and could carry. he was capable of being productive and practical). There was one such sticky note on his pile of sticky notes. And his camera. And his keyboard. He'd figure out a way to carry it to.... wherever.

In a lull between people interested in emergency-move-out-sale-prices, he poked around on his phone. Where to go when you have nowhere to live.

Big long list of support groups and shelters from across the country. Way too big to be useful.

Where to go in NYC when you have nowhere to live.

Same size, apparently, just more specific??? Still way too big. Plus some of these were human-specific shelters. That might not be a safe option, even for an immortal.

Where to go in NYC when you have nowhere to live and are a mutant

"Sanctuary."

His 48 hours were up, according to the landlord and "moving support" bruisers at his door. Memo took one last run through his very nearly bare now-former apartment under their impatient eyes and not-particularly-quiet comments about how mutants made the worst possible tenants. Nothing else he remembered needing, nothing else he could carry. His bed was sold, and his chairs, and his table and lamps. Most of his instruments were gone too, sold for way less than whatever he'd originally shelled out for them. His keyboard was in its travelling case in the hallway, with his two clothing-stuffed backpacks. He'd used some of the cash from all the stuff he sold to run out and get them, and then sold all the clothes that wouldn't fit into them. Well, most of them. Some were left over, and he guessed he'd have to leave those behind.

Along with the remains of his dishes and utensils - he had two mugs crammed in with his clothes, but the rest would be too heavy - and the viny plant in the window. Hadn't that been his roommate's anyway? And some cool decorations no one had wanted to buy, not even for free with some other stuff.

He left his work boots and just wore his toe shoes. He didn't need any more weight. His phone said he had a hefty walk ahead of him, and he was used to taking the bus when he took his keyboard to music things. Plus he didn't usually carry all of his remaining belongings on his back.

August Summers, more known as Memo, gave his door key to his ex-landlord and started walking.