Briarwood, California, Friday Early Afternoon Fandom Time
Faced with the prospect of another semester not going to college and not much to do between now and the time he had to start planning next summer's soccer camp, Conner had decided to take advantage of the weather and the holiday to go road tripping. (Like he was going anywhere near the mall.) It was better than staying at home, anyway, with Eric and his parents there; Eric was laid up with a sprained ankle and Conner wasn't about to play nursemaid to a guy who looked just like him and had a penchant for whacking him in the head. (He refused to believe this time-honored childhood practice had a thing to do with other aspects of his personality, despite what Kira and Ethan liked to infer.)
Somewhere down the coast, a couple of hours out of Reefside but with a long way yet to get to Angel Grove, much less San Angeles (and he could still hear Doctor O wondering when they'd changed the name from Los to San), he pulled off the highway in the city of Briarwood and found his way down to the main street. He'd been thinking about walking around the park a little bit to stretch his legs, but that idea was quickly derailed by the sight of a music store across the street. Even if it was called the Rockporium. What kind of name was that?
He didn't notice the motorcycle that pulled up to the curb as he crossed the street toward the music store -- he did, however, notice its owner when he bumped into the guy with the kind of solid thunk that comes when six-foot-something jock guy collides with six-foot-something biker guy. And the thwack of leather jacket against . . . identical leather jacket.
"Hey," said his collide-ee.
"Whoa," Conner said at the same time.
They backed up a step or two each and sized each other up, the air tense in the silence the way it gets when two pretty boys meet and think two of them shouldn't exist in the same place.
Two blinks. Then three, and the stereophonic effect of two breaths being sucked in sharply at once.
Also in stereo: "That's my shirt!"
Conner and the other guy glared at each other accusatorily, because the fact of the matter was, it was exactly the same shirt, with the same weird design, in the same shade of red. If either of them cared to think about it much, it looked like they were exactly the same size, too. Not that either of them was thinking about that, what with all the glaring.
The second realization hit. "And my jacket!"
Then a weird chiming noise rang out, and the guy pulled a black and gold phone out of his pocket; Conner, if he'd had brain cells to spare from the glaring, would have realized he'd seen a phone like that before.
"I gotta go," the guy said, and took off toward the park on the other side of the street, leaving Conner where he stood to get nearly trampled by four other kids who came stampeding out of the shop toward the park as well.
You'd think Conner would have made the connection. If he hadn't been getting nearly trampled, he might even have recognized one of the other shop employees. Or the fact that they all had the same phone that he'd totally seen before. Or the certain color scheme to their clothing.
But instead, as he stood there gaping, all that really stuck with him was:
"Did they all just disappear into a tree?"
[OOC: Who, me? Make fun of PR's skinflint wardrobe budget? Naaaaah. Open for calls if you like. I have been waiting for two weeks to post this.]
Somewhere down the coast, a couple of hours out of Reefside but with a long way yet to get to Angel Grove, much less San Angeles (and he could still hear Doctor O wondering when they'd changed the name from Los to San), he pulled off the highway in the city of Briarwood and found his way down to the main street. He'd been thinking about walking around the park a little bit to stretch his legs, but that idea was quickly derailed by the sight of a music store across the street. Even if it was called the Rockporium. What kind of name was that?
He didn't notice the motorcycle that pulled up to the curb as he crossed the street toward the music store -- he did, however, notice its owner when he bumped into the guy with the kind of solid thunk that comes when six-foot-something jock guy collides with six-foot-something biker guy. And the thwack of leather jacket against . . . identical leather jacket.
"Hey," said his collide-ee.
"Whoa," Conner said at the same time.
They backed up a step or two each and sized each other up, the air tense in the silence the way it gets when two pretty boys meet and think two of them shouldn't exist in the same place.
Two blinks. Then three, and the stereophonic effect of two breaths being sucked in sharply at once.
Also in stereo: "That's my shirt!"
Conner and the other guy glared at each other accusatorily, because the fact of the matter was, it was exactly the same shirt, with the same weird design, in the same shade of red. If either of them cared to think about it much, it looked like they were exactly the same size, too. Not that either of them was thinking about that, what with all the glaring.
The second realization hit. "And my jacket!"
Then a weird chiming noise rang out, and the guy pulled a black and gold phone out of his pocket; Conner, if he'd had brain cells to spare from the glaring, would have realized he'd seen a phone like that before.
"I gotta go," the guy said, and took off toward the park on the other side of the street, leaving Conner where he stood to get nearly trampled by four other kids who came stampeding out of the shop toward the park as well.
You'd think Conner would have made the connection. If he hadn't been getting nearly trampled, he might even have recognized one of the other shop employees. Or the fact that they all had the same phone that he'd totally seen before. Or the certain color scheme to their clothing.
But instead, as he stood there gaping, all that really stuck with him was:
"Did they all just disappear into a tree?"
[OOC: Who, me? Make fun of PR's skinflint wardrobe budget? Naaaaah. Open for calls if you like. I have been waiting for two weeks to post this.]