Today’s Fiction Friday is inspired by the WordPress Daily Prompt–
Craft a scene in which you meet an opposite version of yourself — or a story in a bizarre, backwards world.
My immediate first thought was that I was glad that I’d never quite gotten up the cojones to dye my hair in high school, because blonde hair made me look like a radiation patient fresh from a vacation on Jersey Shore. My immediate second thought was that my previous thought had been a shitty, shallow first thought, and that I should be more concerned with the more pressing, reality bending implications of the situation. Like, what the fuck was happening, and who was this spruced-up tart claiming to be my alter ego?
“Am I on acid?” I asked myself, or, to be more specific, Myself Two: Back in Blonde. “Did somebody slip acid into my coffee this morning? What is this? Why is this here? It’s getting mud on my carpet.”
I gestured to the slick, grey, hovercraft looking thing that was currently taking up most of my floor. The Blonde was sitting side-saddle on it, idly flicking cigarette ash onto the shattered remains of my antique-door-turned-coffee-table DIY project that I’d been a hot-glue-gun squirt away from finishing. She sighed, as if my obnoxious questions were ruining her day. It’s not like her tracks on my living room floor would cost her the remains of her security deposit. Bitch.
“I told you, this is my dimensional slider,” the Blonde said, ashing her cig on the side door. “I’m you, from a different dimension in space. I’m traveling through to visit me in the next dimension over and I need a fuel charge, so I figured I’d drop in to say hi. I’ll be out of your hair in another 5 minutes and you can get back to doing whatever this is.”
She gestured at the broken table in obvious disdain.
“Okay,” I said through my teeth, “So why are you visiting me – us – me? You?” I stumbled for the appropriate pronoun, but my alter-self rolled her eyes at me.
“Cassandra-5. Cassandra-5 needs my help subduing a terrorist sect.” she explained, with the air of a school teacher trying to correct a five-year-old who keeps fucking up her multiplication tables.
“And why does Cassandra-5- wait, Cassandra-5 is involved in what, exactly?” I stuttered.
“Cassandra-5 is the President of the Colonies in her dimension.”
“Really?” I asked in spite of myself. “What do you do?”
“I’m Casandra-3. One S. I’m the leading CIA operative for the United States of Canada.” Casandra-3 looked down at her fuel gauge as if she was very bored with our conversation and was looking for an out.
“The United States of- wait, do I have a number?”
“You’re Cassandra-37. The last Cassandra.” The way she said last made it feel like she’d said lowest. I contemplated making an obscene gesture at Myself, but decided against it.
“I thought you were going one dimension over from mine?”
“They’re not in order,” she sneered.
“Oh. Well, what is the terrorist sect doing, exactly?” I asked.
“Look, it’s all very complicated, and I’m having a bit of a long day,” she responded.
“Well, do you need any help with anything? I could, like, come?” I asked, immediately feeling stupid for having asked.
Casandra-3 looked at me like I was somewhat dimmer then she’d expected.
“I think I’ve got this covered. Agent and all. Very routine.”
“Right, right,” I nodded sagely.
An awkward moment passed.
“What does your ship refuel on, anyways?” I asked.
“It coverts quasi-mellatonic-crystalline-semi-structures into sub-atomic-hybridized-freson. From the air. For the vibrations. The sensors can suck plasmatones right out of the quarks.”
“Mhmmm.” I’d understood one or more of those words.
Casandra-3 checked her fuel gauge, stubbed out her cigarette, and swung her legs back into the what’s-it-called.
“Well, it’s been great, 37,” she said, “Good luck with the landlord.”
“Uh, good luck saving the 5th dimension, I guess,” I said. “Tell President Me I say hello.”
She waved as the air around her just sort-of went sideways, her orangey-blonde hair wafting gently in a trans-dimensional breeze, and then she disappeared, and I was left with nothing but the mud tracks in my beige carpet and my poor ex-table.
“Welp,” I said, to no one in particular, calmly resolving, then and there, to go back to bed for the rest of the day.