Disclaimer: I do not own Now You See Me. Not even a little bit.

Most people only have one soulmark — maybe two at the most if they're a weird outlier, or if they've got a mix of platonic and romantic marks.

Merritt McKinney has three, which as ridiculous as it is only gets worse when you consider that the last one he'd gotten — Jack Wilder — had burned itself into his shoulder when he was already halfway through his twenties.

Two of his marks are male, one is female, and it's really not something he's ever given much thought to, because he doesn't put much stock into soulmates.

He flirts, hooks up, even dates sometimes, after all, he's got roughly ten more years before his first soulmate is even legal, but it always falls apart and maybe his apathy's gotten worse than he thought, because never can find it in him to care too terribly much.

Instead, he focuses on his shows, and then he's famous and it's easy to tell himself he's forgotten about the three names etched into his skin.

But then his brother leaves and he's taken everything with him and Merritt McKinney has nothing left in the world except for his soulmarks and the skills he's spent years perfecting, and he doesn't care anymore if conning people is morally wrong, it keeps takeout on the table and a shitty apartment over his head.

So he tells himself he doesn't care that he'll probably never meet them, and that even if he does, they probably won't want him. It doesn't matter.

Because trying to convince himself that he doesn't care is the only way he can stay sane some days.

He only goes to the address on that damn card because he hopes that it'll be some sort of paid gig and maybe he can keep his power on for the rest of the week. But instead there's a bickering redhead who he immediately knows is a heart-on-your-sleeve sort of girl, and a mop haired young man who he - frustratingly - can't get an actual read on through the wall of arrogant bravado.

Henley Reeves is written along his collarbone in elegant script. The second of his marks to appear, her mark is the only female one he has. When he spots it on her coffee cup, and his breath catches in his throat in spite of himself. Old habits have him flirting and antagonizing her companion before he's even aware he's doing it, but something in him aches when the man introduces himself as J. Daniel Atlas.

That name is written meticulously down his forearm, almost as neat as a computer font, and it hits him for the first time how much older he is than them, they're so young. And clearly already involved, or at least were. He wonders what happened.

Next walks in another young man, practically still a teenager, a kid really, who calls himself Jack Wilder.

For a moment, they all stand there mutely in the hallway, not saying a word as it occurs to them all what's just happened.

The moment passes as fast as it came, and they move on a second later, like nothing ever happened, like they don't all know that their marks match up, and that's fine with him, really.

The blueprints are a show, they realize, after Jack's picked the lock to get them in, a grand plan with a part for each of them. If they obey the instructions ( though they read as orders and they all know it ) they stand a pretty decent chance at changing the world in a pretty big way.

He agrees to play his part — the Hermit — because he has nothing else to lose, and he wouldn't mind returning to the limelight.

He doesn't let himself think of what will come after.

A week into their time as a team, though so far it's been mostly nothing but senseless bickering, he spots his name curled around Daniel's upper arm in his own sloppy script, driving home the fact that they're supposed to be important to each other.

There's more important things to be done, orders from some mysterious backer to be followed, and Merritt doesn't let himself forget that.

The fact that Atlas has made it perfectly clear he has no interest in any of them helps, and everybody seems to be following his lead. He understands why, of course. As much of an asshole as he may be, there's a draw to him that Merritt can't deny.

Daniel doesn't like Merritt. He's immature and unprofessional and never stops trying to 'crack' him — trying to get into his head by reading his body.

He can admit that he's tried half a dozen times to convince the older man to quit, sure he could alter the plans to compensate.

Once, he thinks he's almost succeeded. What'd started off as passive aggressive disagreement over a certain schematic escalates quickly without Henley or Jack there to intervene. Merritt tries to 'read' Daniel again, following him through the small apartment until he whirls to face him, fists balled at his side and body bowed up with rage — before he realizes what will piss Merritt off even more, and and abruptly refuses to give even the slightest muscle twitch for the mentalist to work off of.

Frustrated, he storms out of the apartment, and Daniel watches him go, a tendril of not-quite guilt coiling in the back of his mind.

He's never going to see Merritt McKinney again, and that's just fine.

Twenty minutes later though, he returns, case of beers in hand, grinning as nonchalantly as if nothing had happened. He offers one to Daniel, who realizes it's as close to a truce offer that he's going to get, and takes it.

Merritt is erratic, uncontrollable, and unpredictable, all of which make Daniel wonder how his name could ever be imprinted on his skin.

He used to wonder if his birth name, not the one he'd chosen when he ran away left home, would be on the bodies of these people whose names were on his, and in rare moments now, when he looks up from his planning and his eyes catch Jack and Henley teasing each other, or Merritt flirting extravagantly with both of them, a small part of him is pleased that they have the name he'd chosen. He of course pushes this feeling away the moment he comes close to having to think about it.

Henley hates it when he does that, pushes away his emotions.

They'd connected immediately when she'd shown up to audition to be his assistant, though he refused to actually acknowledge that the marks had anything to do with it. And he kept refusing, until it pushed her away and she walked out.

His name wraps around her right ankle. Merritt McKinney arcs over the top of her left breast, and Jack Wilder encircles her wrist. They're the same names on Daniel, in the same handwriting, but in uniquely different places, contouring to his body differently, and he doesn't let himself wonder if that's some sort of symbolism.

When he looks at Henley now, he feels something deep and heavy, and he tells himself he has no idea what it is.

Jack has never really paid attention to all the names on his body.

He's not a romantic, and he's always had far more pressing matters to deal with than something as trivial as soulmates, mostly keeping a roof over his head, making sure there's food in his stomach, and not ending up dead in an alley.

But then one day he's sixteen and walking down the street and there's a performer doing tricks on the corner and he can't help but be entranced. He's always enjoyed magic, always loved the show, but this guy, he makes it look as easy as breathing.

At the end of the show, the young man gives a large bow and says his name is J. Daniel Atlas — the name that's been pulled taut over the curve of his hip all his life, but he's gone before Jack can get close enough to talk to him.

He picks up a 99 cent deck of cards on his way home and tries to repeat one of Atlas' tricks. The first time he pulls it off, something in him clicks and he grins the way he hasn't been able to do in years and he knows what he wants to do with the rest of his life.

He follows from a distance, tracking his career and attending all the shows he can afford, learning through watching, some guesswork, and an obscene amount of practice. And maybe he falls a little in love with the idea of J. Daniel Atlas in the process.

Then he gets a card that foretells death and new beginnings, and it leads him to a hallway, standing in front of his idol and a man whose name encircles his navel while a woman whose handwriting rests just above his heart smirks at his awestruck expression.

He's really not sure what he's supposed to do with this revelation any more than he knows who's set up this entire magic-trick-slash-heist. So he does what they do and ignores it. They can figure it out later.

They're going to do it, commit a crime, several of them in fact - all because somebody they don't even know has given them the plans and told them to. And somehow that's all further compounded by the fact that Henley's sitting in a room with the three people who's names are scrawled across her body, who she's going to spend the next year of her life working side by side with.

She imagines that this is why they're supposed to be soulmates. She can't even think of a situation that all four of them could have met outside of this. Not that any of them are actively addressing it of course - although that's just same old same old in Danny's case.

She watches their faces as they discuss how exactly they're going to make all of this work.

Danny's is unreadable, as stoic and sheltered as it'd always been, and it doesn't surprise her a even a little bit.

Merritt looks more curious than anything, though she's pretty sure she sees a speck of nervousness in his grey eyes, which is a little bit adorable and it makes her smile in spite of herself.

Jack, for all he's trying to hide it, looks two parts lost and unsure and eight parts determined to pretend that he's neither of those things.

This, Henley thinks, will be interesting.