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Britta turns from the mirror only to find herself staring into a living reflection.
Every detail about the woman who stands in front of her is exactly the same as the reflection she’s just turned from. Her eyes. Her nose. Her mouth. Even the clothes she wears, her favourite jeans and favourite Radiohead T-shirt underneath her favourite leather jacket.
Except the hair. It still tumbles in uncontrollable blonde locks around her face and shoulders, but where Britta’s hair is pure blonde, there is a single wash-away streak of blue falling down the left side of her reflection's face.
Britta’s eyes widen when she sees this.
“Holy shit,” she says, “what the fuck went wrong for you?”
“Tell me about it,” her reflection replies, immediately before the punch.
*
“So, you’re like my evil twin or something?” Britta asks once she’s come around and realized that, holy crap, her evil twin totally remembers all the knots she (they) learnt during her (their) time in the Girl Scouts that no one must ever know about and she’s totally not getting out of this chair. Her jaw aches.
Shit. Of all the cheesy plot meta-references Abed had to get right for once, she totally wasn’t banking on the evil-parallel-universe one.
Evil Britta snorts dismissively.
“You are so lame,” she says primly. “How judgmental is that? Just because I’m a different version of you, I’m evil? Black and white, much? If anything, I’m morally ambiguous.”
Self-righteous bitch, Britta thinks, and yes, she is aware of the irony and the hypocrisy, thank you.
“But yes,” Evil (fine, Morally Ambiguous) Britta replies, lighting a cigarette, “you’re sort of there. I’m you. A different you. From another universe.”
Britta stares at her for a full half-minute. The confusion in her mind is almost enough to distract her from the sweet, sweet cigarette smoke.
“Look,” Morally Ambiguous Britta snaps, throwing her hands up in exasperation and sending a tuft of cigarette smoke straight into Britta’s face (and okay, maybe she is evil, because just because Britta hasn’t smoked in three years doesn’t mean this isn’t torture, there has to be a UN motion or something against this kind of thing. And if there isn’t, she’s totally gonna set up an online petition to get one passed). “I don’t get it either. I’m another version of you, Abed did something in the Dreamathingywhateverium, here I am. Just deal with it.”
“What do you want, anyway?” Britta asks, deciding to just throw up her hands (metaphorically speaking in her case since, you know, tied to the chair and all) and go along with it. Frankly, given the insanity Greendale is capable of throwing up, evil twins from alternate universes doesn’t seem like such a stretch anymore.
(She swears that a distant voice in her mind is flatly-yet-somehow-triumphantly saying Cool. Coolcoolcool.)
“To take back what is rightfully mine.” Morally Ambiguous Britta declares dramatically. Okay, Britta is totally certain she learnt that from some version of Abed. “To reclaim what I lost. By any means necessary.”
“And this involves tying me to a chair? What, you crossed dimensions just to steal my stuff? Couldn’t you just buy another coffee maker?”
There’s suddenly a look in her twin’s eyes that make’s Britta pause. It’s no longer hammy and melodramatic, like she’s playing at being a sci-fi movie bad guy. It’s a look so terribly sad and lost.
Something happened to this version of her. Something which kicked all the hope of her with steel-toed boots.
“You have no idea,” Morally Ambiguous Britta replies coldly, “what you’re talking about. You have no idea what’s going on. Abed’s been here. He’s told me about this place. You have no idea how lucky you are. What you have here. All of you. So we’re gonna take it from you.”
Britta blinks. “Yeah, okay, I’m totally lost. ‘Abed’s been here before’? ‘We’re gonna take it from you’? What are you talking about?”
Morally Ambiguous Britta smiles a smile with no humor in it whatsoever.
“Center slice of a square cheese pizza,” she says flatly.
Britta feels a chill creep all over her. Not just the usual chill, the chill she always has to repress whenever she’s struck by the memory of that day (there’s a memory of a dinosaur costume she has to gently swallow to prevent herself from literally vomiting up), but the memory of the day one of her best friends sat right in front of her in a room covered in orange squares wearing a silly felt beard coldly throwing the worst thing that ever happened to her back in her face like it was nothing.
You’re average, Britta Perry.
She still hasn’t quite forgiven Abed for that.
Morally Ambiguous Britta nods, and takes a drag from the cigarette. “So, you do remember.”
But perhaps it isn’t Abed she needs to forgive after all.
Britta shakes her head. “No, no, but ... no. That was, like, a psychotic episode or something -- ”
Morally Ambiguous Britta throws her hands up again. “Jesus, listen to yourself. Like you actually know what you’re talking about. Guess you actually kept going with that stupid psych degree, huh?”
“I do know what I’m talking about!”
“Uh, well, you thought an inter-dimensional invasion was just Abed having a spaz attack, so, nuh, clearly you don’t. Jesus, so glad I dropped that now, meeting you. You make me sound like a fucking idiot.”
“Bitch.”
“Now you’re getting it.”
"You suck."
"Right back at ya."
“Jesus, what the fuck happened to me, anyway?
That haunted look again. “You really want to know?”
No. “Duh-doy, yeah.”
So Morally Ambiguous Britta tells her everything.
Everything.
*
There’s a long silence between them afterwards.
“Pierce, huh?” Britta eventually responds.
This time, Morally Ambiguous Britta’s smile is tinged with bitterness. “Who’da thunk, huh?”
“And so, you’re all gonna just ...” Kill us. “Replace us?”
“That’s the plan.”
There’s another pause.
“That’s a fucking stupid plan, you know.”
Morally Ambiguous Britta scowls. “What?”
“Seriously? Crossing timelines to take over our lives? From what it sounds like, you guys are seriously messed up in all the ways. You think Jeff's arm's magically gonna grow back? You think Troy's gonna get his voice back? You really think no one’s gonna notice anything weird about you guys? You guys seriously haven’t thought this through.” And, Britta doesn’t say (because even she’s not dumb enough to look a gift horse like this in the mouth), you’re honestly just keeping me alive instead of killing me straight away?
“Screw you.”
Another cold silence.
Except, this time, Britta’s pretty sure she’s touched a nerve.
*
It’s when Morally Ambiguous Britta takes a phone call from Abed -- her Abed -- that Britta hits on the plan. She’s got her back turned, and Britta is thinking, on top of everything, about how really, really weird it is to be looking at your own ass from this perspective when she gets the idea.
A seriously weird and unusual and kind of fucked up and kinky and even sort of narcissistic idea, the kind of narcissism that even Jeff Winger would think was kind of taking it too far as narcissism goes, but an idea nonetheless.
Besides which, she actually does have a pretty nice ass. Vain? Maybe. True? God damn, yeah.
“How long are we supposed to be waiting?” Britta asks, as Morally Ambiguous Britta hangs up and sits back down in Britta’s favourite chair.
“Until Abed gets here,” Morally Ambiguous Britta replies curtly. “My Abed, I mean. There’s some kind of hold-up. Maybe a couple of hours.”
“So ... what are we gonna do in the meantime?”
“What do you mean?
“Well, unless you want to just sit here glaring at each other until Abed shows up and you kill me, what are we going to do? Watch something on TV? Listen to something?” Britta tries to look seductive. It’s actually really hard when you’ve been tied to an office chair. “Or something else?” She asks innocently.
It takes Morally Ambiguous Britta a few seconds to catch up. When she does, her eyebrows shoot right up. “Wow.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Seriously. Wow.”
“You cannot be that shocked about this.”
“You are seriously fucked up.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
“Isn’t that what you’re suggesting?”
“Ha. Ha. Ha.”
“No, seriously. Let’s take stock of this. You are seriously trying to seduce yourself. That’s all kinds of fucked up.”
“Oh, like you haven’t been thinking about it. You’re supposed to be the evil one.”
“I’m e-- morally ambiguous. Not perverted. Seriously, you actually want to fuck me? That’s making narcissism into an art-form.”
“Oh, screw you.”
“Even Jeff Winger would think that was going too far.”
“Ah hah!” Britta yells triumphantly.
“What?”
“That’s exactly what I thought!”
“What?”
“That ‘even Jeff Winger would think that was going too far’.”
“So?”
“So, it proves we think the same. So, it proves that you think the same thoughts I think. So, it proves that you’ve been thinking about having sex with me just like I’ve been thinking about having sex with you.”
Morally Ambiguous Britta’s mouth opens and closes a few times. Score one, psych major! It’s kind of an icky score, granted, but still.
“Fine,” Morally Ambiguous Britta yells, exasperated. “Okay, fine. Yes. I thought about it, okay. I got a look at your -- my ass after I knocked you out and I was just thinking how weird it was to ... okay, fine. Whatever. But, you know, just because I thought about it doesn’t mean I want to do it.”
“Actually, according to Freud ...”
“Shut up. Anyway, unlike you, I’m not a fucking idiot.”
“What?”
“Come on! You’re totally just trying to seduce me so that you think I’ll make a mistake and you can escape. I think the same as you, you think the same as me, remember. Not gonna work.” Morally Ambiguous Britta leans back and smiles smugly. Britta really hates that smug smile -- and yes, once again, aware of the irony and hypocrisy, thank you.
But okay. Yes, they think the same. But Morally Ambiguous Britta totally let slip something that totally gives Britta the advantage.
Guess you actually kept going with that stupid psych degree, huh?
So glad I dropped that, now.
Implying that Britta has the advantage of razor-sharp and keenly honed psychological insight into this situation.
(Well ... Swiss Army Knife-sharp, maybe. Or steak-knife sharp. Better than butter-knife sharp, anyway.)
“Fine,” Britta says suddenly.
“What?” Morally Ambiguous Britta replies, thrown.
“You win. Fine. We don’t have to. Just a suggestion. Pretty shitty one, actually.”
“Yeah, it was,” Morally Ambiguous Britta nods, but she sounds a bit uncertain. Obviously her non-psych major mind is struggling to comprehend the awesomeness of reverse psychology.
“So let’s just drop it, then.”
“Yeah.” Morally Ambiguous Britta sounds uncomfortable.
Britta lets the uncomfortable pause last just long enough before throwing out, “I mean, it’s not like this is a once in a lifetime opportunity or anything.”
“What?”
“I mean, haven’t we always wondered what it would be like? What our own hands were like? What our own tongue was like? What we were ... like? But still; I'm sure you don't care about that at all.”
“No,” Morally Ambiguous Britta replies, unconvincingly. “Yes. I mean ... you’re fucking weird, you know that?”
Britta just smiles. There’s another long pause, most of which Morally Ambiguous Britta spends being very, very fidgety.
“Okay,” Morally Ambiguous Britta finally snaps. She jumps out of the seat, leans down over Britta. “I’m not untying you.”
“Fine.”
“I don’t even care about this.”
“Whatever.”
“This is just, like, your last request or something. Because you’re a freak and we’re gonna kill -- replace -- you.”
“Suits me.”
“Okay,” Morally Ambiguous Britta nods, not looking the least like she’s convinced herself. She reaches down, and starts unbuttoning Britta’s pants.
“Just think of it like masturbation,” Britta says helpfully.
*
Turns out, the impossible feel of your own fingers and your own tongue against your own vulva actually feels really fucking good.
*
“Jesus,” Morally Ambiguous Britta pants hoarsely as Britta cries out with orgasm, “fucking Jesus. I taste amazing. I bet that felt fucking incredible.”
Britta can’t quite speak yet, just nods limply. She doesn’t even take her morally ambiguous self to task for using the name of the figurehead of a patriarchal misogynistic institution in her excitement.
Morally Ambiguous Britta, however, looks really really torn. “I ... that was ... intense.”
“You have no idea,” Britta manages to croak.
“Could ...” and suddenly Morally Ambiguous Britta looks really, really vulnerable. “Could you, maybe ...”
Britta smiles weakly. “Can’t,” she murmurs, lifting her hands against the chair’s armrests. “Tied.”
Morally Ambiguous Britta hesitates for a second. But just for a second.
“Fuck.”
Then, she’s untying the knots holding Britta to the chair frantically. Once Britta’s released, Morally Ambiguous Britta fumbles with the buttons of her pants before roughly shoving them around her ankles. Britta can tell at a glance just how wet, how turned on she is.
“Now me.” Morally Ambiguous Britta says. Her voice somehow sounds demanding and pleading at the same time. “Do me.”
Britta’s plan was actually to make a spring for it it as soon as she was untied, but turns out Morally Ambiguous Britta -- she’s -- better at giving head than she anticipated; she’s not sure her legs will take her as far as the door before she collapses. She needs to get Morally Ambiguous Britta weak.
Besides which, Morally Ambiguous Britta has earned a little something in return, at least. Damn. That was actually kind of incredible.
“Fine,” Britta smiles sweetly. She stands up, and pushes Morally Ambiguous Britta back into her favourite chair, her legs spread.
Then, Britta kneels down and gets to work.
*
Morally Ambiguous Britta is just coming down from what Britta must modestly describe as a mind-blowing orgasm when Britta makes her move. She springs for the door, only to realize that she somehow forgot to pull her pants back up before she went down on Morally Ambiguous Britta -- a realization that dawns heavily on her when she trips over her own feet and and collapses into a heap on the floor.
“Hey!”
It doesn’t take Morally Ambiguous Britta long to figure out what’s happening, but she’s still drowsy with orgasm -- yep, Britta’s definitely got it when it comes to giving head -- and by the time she’s stumbled to her feet Britta’s up and has got her pants back on. Morally Ambiguous Britta takes a few steps forward, only to come to the same realization Britta did about her pants when she stumbles over herself -- into Britta.
The two (one? two?) women struggle for a moment, but Morally Ambiguous Britta still hasn’t cleared her head fully yet. Britta manages to break free from her grasp, and pushes her back.
“Jesus,” Britta snarls, “You really Britta’d this situation up, didn’t you?”
"'Britta'd'?!" Morally Ambiguous Britta echoes, looking confused and hurt. “Wait -- do people use my name to mean --”
Before Morally Ambiguous Britta can finish, before she has any idea what’s going on, Britta swings. Her punch lands square on Morally Ambiguous Britta’s jaw, right in the same place Morally Ambiguous Britta hit her. Her twin goes down like a sack of potatoes.
Balance of power shifted. Double deleted. Britta -- Good Britta -- for the win.
Feeling a twinge of guilt, Britta quickly checks her pulse, before grabbing the rope and tying her double’s hands and legs together (Girl Scout knots, I am totally over my regret over learning you). She pauses for a moment. If the movie sessions she’s spent with Abed, Troy and Annie have taught her anything, this would be the perfect moment for some kind of witty post-fight rejoinder.
“Who’s the fucking idiot now?” Britta declares confidently.
Okay ... could be better.
Her double’s pants are still around her ankles, and before she leaves Britta finds herself checking out Morally Ambiguous Britta’s ass again before she catches herself and flees the apartment.
Man, this has been a weird evening.