[center][url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S7GgwtzTCGQ][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/019e7ed7-0c29-75d9-9676-351ceb3eda70.webp[/img][/url][/center]

[color=00FFAE][sub]The Rich Part of Town[/sub] [right][sub]Lucie Giroux's Penthouse Apartment.[/sub][/right][/color][hr]

[center]Last night the property manager of the apartment complex noted for its overly expensive rent and its scenic views of urban decay being painted over and gentrified received no fewer than a dozen phone calls about a noise complaint on the roof. The calls had no follow up, of course, because that would have required rocking the boat and when the boat, or in this case the penthouse on the very top floor, was captained by a Gray, the smart play was always to give a wide berth. Of course, Lucie Giroux, the Gray in question, wouldn't have harmed a fly let alone a property manager or an angry neighbor because she was too busy harming herself. Or her selves were harming her. 

Lucie woke with a sudden snort, a desperate and violent gasp of air like the first breath after a coma. Her head was pounding, thumping, a subwoofer in her skull with the bass turned beyond eleven. The unfortunate part was that this was as quiet as it got for Lucie; at least when her head was pumping it meant she wasn't hearing them. The first couple months had been the worst. An entire lifetime ago now, back in France, swearing that the face looking back at her in the mirror wasn't her own, turning her head to the side so suddenly it almost gave her whiplash...how was a kid supposed to handle the fact that the monster in her closet wore her own face? Now, though, the sheer memory of it makes her eyes roll. A Gray acting like their life was so difficult the day she discovered she was different? If she heard someone say that to her face, she'd hand them enough wood to build a bridge over their river of tears. Yes, it was frightening for a young Lucie at the time and it sucked having to wake up every morning and immediately needing an aspirin, but the benefits were outweighing the negatives and one of the benefits was staring directly into her face. 

Lucie raised a hand to her forehead, not to silence the pounding drums of her headache, but to wipe the drowsiness from her eyes and to allow herself to take stock of the situation. She wasn't in her bed but this was her penthouse. She could tell from the fact that outside the floor-to-ceiling window that offered no privacy beyond flimsy curtains and the fact that she was on the thirty second floor in the only room on this level, there was a billboard with her own face. Lucie had paid for it herself, of course, otherwise it would've long been replaced by some bullshit realtor or divorce lawyer advertisement and not a promotional picture of Lucie Quatre to hype up the release of a single that had been released for nine months already. Practically an oldie at this point. Lucie wasn't blessed with super vision but even a person with cataracts would've been able to see that some up and coming wannabe artist spray painted a penis right by the mouth. It didn't bother Lucie anymore than the various comments on her social media posts made by people who really wanted people to know how much they thought Lucie Quatre's music sucked. 

Depending on the day of the week, she'd agree with them.

If this wasn't her bed, why had she awoken here, in her living room, not even on the couch but on the...where? She turned her head away from the window to look towards her couch and it was only in this normally simple gesture did she realize that she was laying on her stomach on top of a coffee table, and that to even turn her head to the couch would require the kind of full body motion that was Herculean in its difficulty for someone who had slept on a coffee table. Still, she had to try, and as she shifted and slowly turned, the all too familiar clinking sound of glass bottles being introduced to gravity entered her ears. Did she drink last night? That didn't seem like her. Lucie imbibed every now and then, usually at social gatherings or at a club where a four figure bottle of booze tasted worse than the shit the regular crowd drank, but rarely did she find herself drinking at home. Not from a bottle, anyway. She was French, god dammit, she always used a glass.

Rather than turning her head as was initially planned, Lucie lifted it and half of her upper body in a backwards arch. If her legs were together it could almost pass for yoga. The lifting pose accomplished two very important goals. It served as an impromptu stretch to work out that awful morning stiffness, and it allowed her to pull her legs forward and prop herself into a seated position. The bottles that had been knocked off the table hadn't shattered, but they had spilled a few lingering drops onto the rug which Lucie was happy to ignore for the moment. Again she brought a hand to her face, this time to rub her eyes and to press the heel of her palm against her forehead. After a heavy sigh of an exhale, Lucie planted both feet on the floor and stood. In her current state, Lucie staggered sideways, stumbled, caught herself, and before she met the floor she turned and flopped onto the couch with all the finesse of someone who had never walked before. The couch was better than the coffee table. Here the world wasn't spinning. All she needed was a moment to close her eyes and think. The memories would come. They always did, even if they weren't hers. But what was [i]hers[/i] was a rather nebulous concept. This penthouse was hers. But it wasn't. She didn't remember drinking last night, but she did. She must have. There was a party, or something similar, but why? Who was there? She was. Was she? 

The sound of a flushing toilet drew Lucie's attention away from the mental anguish that was solving last night's puzzle. With some difficulty, Lucie turned her head to the side and looked at her own reflection. 

Exiting the bathroom with a toothbrush dangling from her mouth and wearing a black t-shirt that was long enough to make one wonder if she was wearing anything underneath was Lucie Giroux. Couch Lucie closed her eyes, inhaled, and opened her eyes again, sighing when the Other Lucie was still there, scratching the top of her orange hair. That wasn't right. Orange hair? Lucie turned her head towards the coffee table and looked into one of the glass panes. The face that looked back was her own, from the eyes to the lips to the pink hair. As she was glancing in the table, the couch cushion next to her shifted, dipped, as Orange Lucie had joined her, bare feet resting on the edge of the coffee table. [color=orange]"She's gonna be pissed, you know."[/color] Her own voice speaking to her. The same hint of an accent, the soft husky voice that somehow made every whispered or low word sound like silk down the back of the neck, the voice that had launched a career. 

[color=pink]"What?"[/color] Lucie asked herself, her voice hoarse, scratchy, dry. She needed water. And why did she suddenly taste mint in the back registers of her throat? Mint and...honey...? She silently smacked her lips, opening and closing them, moving her jaw left to right, and the taste still lingered. 

[color=orange]"What do you mean, what? How much did you drink?"[/color] 

[color=pink]"I didn't! I-"[/color] Why was she being so defensive? The accusation didn't sit right with her but...she had woken up on a coffee table with bottles around her. It didn't take a detective to piece together this crime scene. [color=pink]"Why would she be pissed?"[/color]

[color=9966cc]"It smells like a distillery in here."[/color] From the right side of the penthouse, coming out of the main bedroom wearing black rimmed glasses and just a pair of boyshorts, was Lucie Giroux. This one had purple hair, skewing towards the lavender end. Neither Orange or Pink Lucie were bothered by Purple's state of undress, but it was Orange who noticed that there was still a lump in the bed, obscured under the covers. Purple Lucie looked at Pink, her blue eyes filled with judgment and disgust in equal measure. [color=9966cc]"Really, For? You know she's gonna be pissed."[/color] 

[color=orange]"At least one of us had a good night."[/color] Orange snickered, a look of pride in her eyes as she threw both of her arms on the back of the couch. [color=orange]"We've still got it."[/color]

[color=9966cc]"We nothing, that,"[/color] Lucie pointed into the bedroom she stepped out of, now making her way to an armchair next to the couch. [color=9966cc]"That was all me."[/color] 

[color=pink]"Does anyone else taste mint?"[/color]

[color=orange]"She's close."[/color]

[color=9966cc]"She's gonna be pissed. About the rug."[/color]

[color=orange]"And the stranger."[/color]

[color=9966cc]"You think so? She might give me a high five for that one."[/color]

[color=pink]"Who is she anyway?"[/color]

[color=9966cc]"A fan. From an app. I think she's in finance."[/color]

[color=pink]"That's not who I-"[/color]

[color=00FFAE]"Oh good, you're all awake."[/color] A fourth voice cut through the conversation, silencing the other three as each of them turned their head towards the front door, which just so happened to be an elevator door that was now closing as the former occupant entered her penthouse. Lucie Giroux had clearly gotten a headstart on the morning, going by the track shorts, sneakers, and grey top and the fact that her dark brown hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail. There was sweat on her forehead and in her hands was a cup of green mint tea, half finished, the straw having small bite marks near the top. [color=00FFAE]"What's wrong with her?"[/color] Lucie looked towards herself, specifically Lucie For, the one with pink hair, who had a hand on her forehead yet again. 

[color=pink]"I don't know. I think I drank too much."[/color]

[color=00FFAE]"You did. That's why I got the tea. Helps with headaches."[/color] 

[color=orange]"We thought you'd be mad."[/color] 

[color=00FFAE]"I'm furious. I told you not to go overboard."[/color]

[color=9966cc]"Yeah, For, she told you not to go overboard."[/color]

[color=orange]"Says the one whoring it up with groupies."[/color]

[color=9966cc]"We're the same person, idiot, you're calling yourself a whore."[/color]

[color=orange]"I'm just saying, we've got lush and lust. Hell of a combination."[/color]

[color=00FFAE]"You passed out in the bathroom, Too, you have no leg to stand on."[/color] Lucie spoke and once again the other voices went silent. If looks could speak, though, the conversation would still be on going. Lucie knew the party was a bad idea, and it wasn't even a party for anything. She was just bored and needed something to occupy her time and attention and when the voices in her head suggested a party, who was she to deny them? But Lucie hadn't participated in the party. She wasn't even in the penthouse when it happened. She saw a show, had an angry phone conversation with a production studio who desperately wanted her to be on a Gray themed reality dating show catered towards heterosexual couples; she almost threw her phone against a wall when one of the producers said "I know [i]you're[/i] gay, Lucie, but are [i]all[/i] of you?", and checked into a hotel for a night once she could feel the alcohol in her system. And if Lucie could feel it, then it was no surprise that when she came back home before the sun came up to grab her running clothes that For had been on the coffee table, Too had been hugging the toilet bowl, and Trois was sleeping off a would be ménage à. 

Knowing the hangover would be something, at least Lucie knew to make the arrangements while the rest of her selves woke up. Lucie had thrown herself a party and she hadn't even been there. And yet, she had been. She remembered the liquor on her breath. Remembered the tongue and the touch of the hookup. Bits and pieces of a night that she wasn't even around for. [color=00FFAE]"You have to tone it down. I'm not trying to be the first one to give a concert in rehab."[/color]

[color=orange]"But think of how iconic that would be."[/color]

[color=9966cc]"I bet there's amazing acoustics in a rehab hospital."[/color]

[color=00FFAE]"Okay, you're all on time out."[/color]

[color=orange]"You're no fun."[/color]

[color=9966cc]"We're the same person, idiot."[/color]

[color=pink]"Deja vu."[/color]

[color=00FFAE]"Yeah..."[/color] Lucie closed her eyes. She didn't have to, but it was easier to handle when she didn't have to watch herself disappear. It was like air being returned to the lungs. One breath. One gasp. One inhale. And when she opened her eyes, she exhaled that breath and there was only herself standing in the penthouse living room, surrounded by bottles and half-eaten takeout boxes. She could still hear herself. Her selves. Somewhere in the back of her mind they existed. Part of her. Fully her. But different. But not her. Similar. She had the memories of the previous night now; she knew the name of the woman she both did and didn't have a one night stand with. She knew how much she drank. But she didn't drink. She now felt the pain of a hangover even with the prepared 'cure' still in her hands. Lucie collapsed onto her couch, wincing as her forehead once again met her hand. Deja vu for something she was doing for the first time today. [color=00FFAE]"...you get used to it."[/color][/center]