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xp_logsWhile waiting for something to happen, Amanda and Marie-Ange catch up on two entirely different lives.
There was one perk in all of the madness of being sixteen in a twenty-something body and the job that terrified her and the wardrobe that was absolutely immodest and the boyfriend who was convinced he wasn't, and the older, weary, quite frankly terrifying Remy who was supposedly her boss now. The man at the package store hadn't even blinked or carded her when Marie-Ange had stopped by to purchase a bottle of wine. So she'd bought three, and then flush with the "I have this credit card that works quite well and I can spend money on things" had looked up the pub that they'd plastered menus from on every refrigerator she'd seen - the one in the apartment she supposedly shared with Amanda, the one in the office, and even the miniature one in the office that had a piece of paper duct-taped to it that said "CAMMIE ONLY" and poison control stickers all over it, and gotten food. British food wasn't quite the same as finding food from home, but at least they would call crisps crisps and chips chips and not try to get all of the words wrong.
She was just unpacking the bags of food when she heard the door.
Amanda had also been out shopping. More importantly, she'd been out shopping for clothes that didn't look like they belonged to an accountant from Milton Keynes. With a credit card of her 'own', she'd found the alternative district in New York and was now dressed far more comfortably, for her - ragged jeans over red and black plaid leggings, new Doc Martens boots, several layers of band t-shirts with a flannel shirt over the top and a new leather jacket. She'd gotten her nose and ears re-pierced too, and in a plastic shopping bag was the last part of her 'reconstruction' - a pair of scissors and a box of black hair dye.
"Wotcher, Red," she said, noticing her 'friend' was already back in the apartment. Then her finely-tuned food location sense tuned in and she sniffed, a grin appearing. "Food, brilliant. 'S that fish an' chips I smell?"
"Oui. Yes. You were always eating before, the bottomless pit of Brighton, so I got enough for, ah, four." Marie-Ange continued to unpack the bags, setting the containers out neatly. "Also some meat pies, since the pub thought we were regulars, and was confused when I did not order them. This is very strange, we have a regular pub." She looked over Amanda's change and fashion and snorted a little laugh. "Very colourful. Better than all of that black and white in your closet."
"Bottomless Pit of Brighton, huh? Sounds 'bout right." Rather than being offended, the witch grinned, especially when the wine bottles came out. "Good t' know there's some perks t' this whole bein' old thing, at least. Booze we don't have t' pinch and credit cards we don't have t' rip off." She held up her own plastic bag. "An' you can say that again 'bout the stuff in that closet. 'M not quite done with the makeover - I don't care if this is how 'm s'posed t' look, the blonde's goin'. Too many bad memories."
Marie-Ange winced. It was just, Amanda's hair now looked healthy and pretty and someone had obviously convinced the witch that cutting it at home with blunt scissors or a box knife was doing nothing for her, and now she wanted to cover it all up. But Amanda was stubborn, and Marie-Ange wasn't going to argue with her. Her Amanda would've laughed in her face, and this Amanda might try to cast a spell, or hit her. No sense in starting an argument she couldn't win. "Matte black, yes?"
"Of course." Amanda fished in the bag and tossed the box of hair dye at the other girl. "I'll even trust you t' dye it for me. Since you bought dinner an' all." She sat herself down without ceremony and started stuffing her face on whatever she could reach.
"Oh, thank you, your Majesty." Marie-Ange said dryly. "I would love to spend ninety minutes with your wet hair and stinky hair dye." She laughed, and picked up the box from where it had bounced off her hands and landed on the floor. "But better than your roots showing, I suppose." She snatched the scissors out of the bag while Amanda was busy with chips in her mouth and fried fish straight out of the take-away container. "But I am cutting it. If you cut it, it will look like you took a lawnmower to your head."
Amanda's mouth was too full to immediately retort, although she had to admit, Red had more gumption to her than she'd initially thought. Maybe the Amanda that was this girl's friend hadn't been completely brain damaged after all. "What's wrong with that?" she managed to say, once she'd swallowed half of the food in her mouth. "'S punk, right? Not some wanky high fashion thing."
Marie-Ange had reached over and pinched a chip from the container Amanda was scarfing food from, and ate it before she answered. "Two good reasons, I think. First, it is very bad for your hair, and your hair will be damaged enough from the dye. Second, what if this is temporary, and we really are these people who have credit cards and jobs and ridiculous outfits in their closets?" And tattoos. Marie-Ange had shrieked in the bathroom when she found the one on her arm. "I think if adult you comes back and does not have her own hair, it will not go well for me."
"Bollocks to adult me. The more I find out 'bout her, the more she seems like a complete waste of space." Amanda gestured around the apartment. "I mean, look at this place. You saw the suits in the closet and all these fuckin' books everywhere... talk about borin'!"
"Perhaps we traded lives." Marie-Ange shrugged her sweater off her shoulders. Underneath, a silk shell top, and on her arm, a tattoo. "You traded all of the piercings and hair dye for suits and books, and I have the tattoos and stiletto heels." She pulled the sweater back up, and pulled it closed. "Perhaps I may be able to fend off adult you after all, as long as you do not set any more doors on fire."
"Still, borin' or not, 's better than the streets. Regular food, a place t' kip, money t' spend..." Amanda looked at the other girl. "What am I like? The me you know? Yer not terribly shocked by all this, so it must be close t' your version."
Marie-Ange nodded. "Much like you are now, maybe a little..." she pinched her fingers together. "a little less so... ah, what is the word, punk? You went to school with me, that may tell you what was different, but you did not always like it. You call our art teacher a plonker." She giggled, and reached for another chip. "But he is a plonker." She'd been entirely enchanted with the word, it sounded obscene but seemed polite enough. "You turned Jake into a frog once."
Amanda's eyebrows shot up at that. "I did? But that's imposs..." She caught herself, replacing the veneer of 'don't give a fuck'. "I mean, of course I did. This Jake probably deserved it." She reached for one of the wine bottles and the corkscrew and started working on opening it. "What 'bout you, Red? What's yer story?"
"My parents sent me away to school. I think they are not so used to the idea of having a daughter who can make things with her mind." Marie-Ange said, with a shrug. Her parents were... well, she called them once a week but the calls were short these days. Or perhaps not quite 'these days', as she had no idea if her adult self even spoke to her parents anymore. "Jake is funny though, and I think the frog was an accident. He can change his shape, so I think you said that is why the spell worked. He is... well, he is stuck as a woman right now, but he is really a man." She thought that entirely odd, herself. "I am not sure what else there is to say?"
"Considerin' everythin'? Nah, there's not much left t' say." Amanda nodded at one of the other bottles of wine. "Drinkin' now, that seems like a much better idea, yeah?"
"That depends. Do you want your hair dyed before or after the drinking?" Marie-Ange indicated the box of dye with a thumb, and then considered the wine, and the matte black hair dye. "No, wait, I take that back. I am not dying your hair until I have something to drink." It was just such a shame to cover Amanda's pretty hair with all that dye, even if the other girl wanted it black. And at least if they were drinking, she could "lose" the scissors. Possibly lose them right out the window.
There was one perk in all of the madness of being sixteen in a twenty-something body and the job that terrified her and the wardrobe that was absolutely immodest and the boyfriend who was convinced he wasn't, and the older, weary, quite frankly terrifying Remy who was supposedly her boss now. The man at the package store hadn't even blinked or carded her when Marie-Ange had stopped by to purchase a bottle of wine. So she'd bought three, and then flush with the "I have this credit card that works quite well and I can spend money on things" had looked up the pub that they'd plastered menus from on every refrigerator she'd seen - the one in the apartment she supposedly shared with Amanda, the one in the office, and even the miniature one in the office that had a piece of paper duct-taped to it that said "CAMMIE ONLY" and poison control stickers all over it, and gotten food. British food wasn't quite the same as finding food from home, but at least they would call crisps crisps and chips chips and not try to get all of the words wrong.
She was just unpacking the bags of food when she heard the door.
Amanda had also been out shopping. More importantly, she'd been out shopping for clothes that didn't look like they belonged to an accountant from Milton Keynes. With a credit card of her 'own', she'd found the alternative district in New York and was now dressed far more comfortably, for her - ragged jeans over red and black plaid leggings, new Doc Martens boots, several layers of band t-shirts with a flannel shirt over the top and a new leather jacket. She'd gotten her nose and ears re-pierced too, and in a plastic shopping bag was the last part of her 'reconstruction' - a pair of scissors and a box of black hair dye.
"Wotcher, Red," she said, noticing her 'friend' was already back in the apartment. Then her finely-tuned food location sense tuned in and she sniffed, a grin appearing. "Food, brilliant. 'S that fish an' chips I smell?"
"Oui. Yes. You were always eating before, the bottomless pit of Brighton, so I got enough for, ah, four." Marie-Ange continued to unpack the bags, setting the containers out neatly. "Also some meat pies, since the pub thought we were regulars, and was confused when I did not order them. This is very strange, we have a regular pub." She looked over Amanda's change and fashion and snorted a little laugh. "Very colourful. Better than all of that black and white in your closet."
"Bottomless Pit of Brighton, huh? Sounds 'bout right." Rather than being offended, the witch grinned, especially when the wine bottles came out. "Good t' know there's some perks t' this whole bein' old thing, at least. Booze we don't have t' pinch and credit cards we don't have t' rip off." She held up her own plastic bag. "An' you can say that again 'bout the stuff in that closet. 'M not quite done with the makeover - I don't care if this is how 'm s'posed t' look, the blonde's goin'. Too many bad memories."
Marie-Ange winced. It was just, Amanda's hair now looked healthy and pretty and someone had obviously convinced the witch that cutting it at home with blunt scissors or a box knife was doing nothing for her, and now she wanted to cover it all up. But Amanda was stubborn, and Marie-Ange wasn't going to argue with her. Her Amanda would've laughed in her face, and this Amanda might try to cast a spell, or hit her. No sense in starting an argument she couldn't win. "Matte black, yes?"
"Of course." Amanda fished in the bag and tossed the box of hair dye at the other girl. "I'll even trust you t' dye it for me. Since you bought dinner an' all." She sat herself down without ceremony and started stuffing her face on whatever she could reach.
"Oh, thank you, your Majesty." Marie-Ange said dryly. "I would love to spend ninety minutes with your wet hair and stinky hair dye." She laughed, and picked up the box from where it had bounced off her hands and landed on the floor. "But better than your roots showing, I suppose." She snatched the scissors out of the bag while Amanda was busy with chips in her mouth and fried fish straight out of the take-away container. "But I am cutting it. If you cut it, it will look like you took a lawnmower to your head."
Amanda's mouth was too full to immediately retort, although she had to admit, Red had more gumption to her than she'd initially thought. Maybe the Amanda that was this girl's friend hadn't been completely brain damaged after all. "What's wrong with that?" she managed to say, once she'd swallowed half of the food in her mouth. "'S punk, right? Not some wanky high fashion thing."
Marie-Ange had reached over and pinched a chip from the container Amanda was scarfing food from, and ate it before she answered. "Two good reasons, I think. First, it is very bad for your hair, and your hair will be damaged enough from the dye. Second, what if this is temporary, and we really are these people who have credit cards and jobs and ridiculous outfits in their closets?" And tattoos. Marie-Ange had shrieked in the bathroom when she found the one on her arm. "I think if adult you comes back and does not have her own hair, it will not go well for me."
"Bollocks to adult me. The more I find out 'bout her, the more she seems like a complete waste of space." Amanda gestured around the apartment. "I mean, look at this place. You saw the suits in the closet and all these fuckin' books everywhere... talk about borin'!"
"Perhaps we traded lives." Marie-Ange shrugged her sweater off her shoulders. Underneath, a silk shell top, and on her arm, a tattoo. "You traded all of the piercings and hair dye for suits and books, and I have the tattoos and stiletto heels." She pulled the sweater back up, and pulled it closed. "Perhaps I may be able to fend off adult you after all, as long as you do not set any more doors on fire."
"Still, borin' or not, 's better than the streets. Regular food, a place t' kip, money t' spend..." Amanda looked at the other girl. "What am I like? The me you know? Yer not terribly shocked by all this, so it must be close t' your version."
Marie-Ange nodded. "Much like you are now, maybe a little..." she pinched her fingers together. "a little less so... ah, what is the word, punk? You went to school with me, that may tell you what was different, but you did not always like it. You call our art teacher a plonker." She giggled, and reached for another chip. "But he is a plonker." She'd been entirely enchanted with the word, it sounded obscene but seemed polite enough. "You turned Jake into a frog once."
Amanda's eyebrows shot up at that. "I did? But that's imposs..." She caught herself, replacing the veneer of 'don't give a fuck'. "I mean, of course I did. This Jake probably deserved it." She reached for one of the wine bottles and the corkscrew and started working on opening it. "What 'bout you, Red? What's yer story?"
"My parents sent me away to school. I think they are not so used to the idea of having a daughter who can make things with her mind." Marie-Ange said, with a shrug. Her parents were... well, she called them once a week but the calls were short these days. Or perhaps not quite 'these days', as she had no idea if her adult self even spoke to her parents anymore. "Jake is funny though, and I think the frog was an accident. He can change his shape, so I think you said that is why the spell worked. He is... well, he is stuck as a woman right now, but he is really a man." She thought that entirely odd, herself. "I am not sure what else there is to say?"
"Considerin' everythin'? Nah, there's not much left t' say." Amanda nodded at one of the other bottles of wine. "Drinkin' now, that seems like a much better idea, yeah?"
"That depends. Do you want your hair dyed before or after the drinking?" Marie-Ange indicated the box of dye with a thumb, and then considered the wine, and the matte black hair dye. "No, wait, I take that back. I am not dying your hair until I have something to drink." It was just such a shame to cover Amanda's pretty hair with all that dye, even if the other girl wanted it black. And at least if they were drinking, she could "lose" the scissors. Possibly lose them right out the window.
