What You Ve Got


isis2_icon.gif weasel_icon.gif

Scene Title What You've Got
Synopsis Sparring. Oh the things you learn.
Date May 5, 2019

Park Slope

What was once Prospect Park in Park Slope now simply is. Wilderness. Along the water’s edge, the train of Cherry Blossoms once carefully manicured, bow under their own weight, forming a natural tunnel. Light filtering through is twisted into a flirty rosé hue.

Crimson hair refracting pinkish light lends to a hellish, celestial halo, but the woman seems wholly unaware. She’s too preoccupied… Bent at the knees and turned to the side to make her slender body even lesser a target, on hand is a readied fist and the other a prepared claw. Stretchy black leggings and a fitted, gray beater revealing various ink and taught muscles suggest some manner of workout attire, but the combat boots don’t fit this hypothesis. Isis, or Joanne, as she is better known at this point is coiled tense - poised to pounce

“Are you sure wanna do this?” Her voice is an edgy whisper - all uncertainty and precariousness. While bodily she seems prepared like a sharp, bladed edge, the effect has not reached her eyes. Instead, there is only apprehension as her vibrant, hazel eyes turn over the tiny figure opposite her.

Another slender figure is poised barely ten feet away, her stance similar but modified — she’s shorter, so her center of gravity requires a bit less of a crouch. She really doesn’t look like much more than a small child, playing at being tougher than she looks. Clara has always been tiny, but that’s never done much to stop her — it’s probably part of why she goes by Weasel, most of the time.

The girl rolls her eyes at Isis’ question. “Yes, I’m sure,” is her insistent reply, tinged with hints of exasperation — this is a recurring theme with her, people underestimate her frequently. It’s probably why she ended up having to spray that guy who approached her.

She briefly bounces on her toes, shaking any tensions out, before her stance widens, hands raising into defensive fists. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Brows raise expectantly.

No”, Joanne blurts out in all the fashion necessary to relay a very clear DUH! Clara had already had to spend a fair amount of time discussing their mutual history with Brian and the preparedness he had always instilled in them both. “But, we have to stay on our toes, right? It’s what Brian would suggest if he were ‘round. Can’t get lax. Especially not-…” The redhead shakes her head though, letting her words trail away.

“Come on. I can’t hit a kid first. Let’s see what you got.” She inclines her chin in a sharp, bring-it way.

Clara makes a rather big show of rolling her eyes at Isis — she really does hate it when people underestimate her, even when it’s clear that they’re just trying to be nice to her. Sure, Isis didn’t know her growing up — didn’t see the fact that she sometimes eschewed her gun training frequently in favor of hand-to-hand training, unless Lance was around to make it less noisy. But far too many people underestimate, overlook, or outright dismiss her thanks to her small stature.

“I’m not a kid,” she insists — she’s at least twenty, that has to put her in the ‘young adult’ category by now.

Then, suddenly, the girl is moving. She’s fast, clearing the distance between her and her sparring opponent in almost an instant. One fist flies in the general direction of her opponent’s face with a rather strong haymaker — while one of her feet swings around in attempt to combine the punch with a clothesline sweep to knock the other woman’s feet out from under her.

“Right. Sorry, I jus-” Joanne’s hazel eyes grow wide as the tiny figure launches forward like a well aimed .22 - small, but effective. She doesn’t have time to blurt it out, but her expression reads a clear level of ‘Oh Shit’ when she realizes her mistake. Once upon a time, and perhaps still commonly enough today, she was the one being underestimated. So, it’s a little bit karmic that she’s forced to take her lumps straight out of the gate as penance for this serious faux pa.

Clara’s boney, little fist connects with Isis’s bare, colorfully tattooed shoulder as she tucks her face down and raises her bent arm as a shield.The punch is the lesser of two evil, as she sees it, a sacrifice she makes to turns her body quickly round to face Clara’s sweeping kick and block with with shin as opposed to being swept to her back. “Ouch! G’damnit, Weaz!” She snaps, misplacing anger at her own wounded ego upon the small, younger woman. The usual, vivacious glint in her eyes is replace with something equally vibrant, if perhaps a bit more sinister. She brings her unguarding arm under and up - aiming for Clara’s gut with a punch meant to driver her back more than anything else.

Isis’s fists connects, but not with the force she might like — Weasel jumps back slightly, slapping the back of her hand as she does so, so the blow is dulled. “Not my fault you thought my size makes me less capable,” she replies with a small grin — she skitters back a pace, only to dart back in for a quick slap to the stomach.

This proves to be a diversion, though, because regardless of whether the slap hits, she suddenly drops to the ground and spins with one leg out, attempting again to sweep Isis’s feet out from under her. It appears her main goal is to get Isis on the ground right now.

At this point a diversion might not even be warranted! Isis is stuck in some bermuda triangle of ‘don’t hit kids’, ‘that bitch just slapped my belly fat’, and ‘deja vu’. Once upon a time she would have favored that exact move - relying on superior leg strength as opposed to her admittedly weak arm musculature. “What the fu-?!” She doesn’t get to finish cussing, her profanity drifting off into a yelp as flurry of her own garnet locks obscures her vision and DOWN she goes!

Isis’s body tenses instinctually, preparing to brace for impact. She hits the grass-carpeted earth with a heavy thud. The pain that shoots up her spine and resonates in the back of her head sets a sneer on her pale lips and moves her to action quicker than anything else thus far. Pain. She’d almost forgotten what real, physical pain was like. It’s fuel.

The redhead going by Joanne suddenly rolls in towards the prone girl beside her and simply reaches out, a firm grip seeking to grab her arm and pull - not physically, not on the girl’s arm, but on her psyche. Isis lets loose just enough on her ability, a wild beast given a rare inch of freedom on its chain leash, so as to try and draw Clara’s consciousness into a disorientating and painful flutter. Her free hand digging in the ground, Isis grits her teeth, equally affected but a great deal more familiar and tolerant of the disconcerting and nauseating effects.

Woah. That wasn’t expected. The smaller girl doesn’t pull away fast enough to avoid having her arm grabbed, and then Isis unleashes her ability on her. She slams one hand against the ground, eyes losing focus. “What the fuck…that — that’s cheating,” she hisses.

She flinches, and then, more by instinct than anything else, her hand flies out toward Isis’s jaw in an actual punch — she was pulling those previously. Her main goal is to get away from her. Ohhh, Isis better make up for this or she might get a good spray down from Pepe.

Cheating!! Joanne screws up her face in a squinting grimace and begins to retort, “Is it thou-?”, when Weasel’s knuckles catch her jaw with a snap. Jo’s head cracks back, her cheek stained by grass and dirt, and stars spark and pop in front of her vision. She is as thrown off mentally by the punch as she is physically and so… The leash slips. The ability bolts free at the opportunity and sends Isis’s consciousness lurching. The effect is like a cold, clawed gauntlet burrowing through one’s middle and scooping out all the important bits, throwing them haphazardly into another vessel.

All it takes is the recognition of throbbing jaw to be replaced with throbbing knuckles for Isis to recognize the slip is complete. She keeps her eyes clenched shut and groans irritably. “It’s not cheating,” she mumbles, but winces when she hears Weasel’s voice in place of her own usual, even-toned alto.

The first thing she notices when the punch connects is that, suddenly, she can’t feel the ever-present Pepe Le Pew nearby; the second is the throbbing in her jaw. What the fuck, did Isis catch her with an ability-disrupting punch, too? She scoots back a bit, hand reaching up to rub at her jaw. “What the—” is all she manages to get out, before suddenly, her…Isis’s eyes? Shoot open wide.

That’s her voice, talking to her, and Isis’s voice is coming out of her mouth. She lifts her hands with wide eyes, staring at the unfamiliar appendages. She feels…not right. Everything is different. “Oh what the fuck did you do?!”

Isis puppeteers Clara’s borrowed hands up to her head. She braces the heels of her palms to either temple and groans. “Oh, jstaaahp whining.” Weasel’s eyes snap open before the commandeered body is rolled sharply to the right and finds her feet. Covered in dirts and bit of grass, Isis-in-Clara manages to look down on the redhead body still ground-bound and gobsmacked.

“You wanted to spar. The idea of which, if you ask me, is to better prepare you for what’s out there. So…” Isis-in-Clara throws her little arms wide with exuberant sarcasm. “Tah-dah!” She lowers her arms, panting slightly, and lets the bitter crook of her smile subside slightly. “No, really - you just caught me way the fuck off guard. The silver lining? Now you get to feel my pain.” She snorts and takes to massaging the knuckles on Clara’s primary hand, the ones that had cracked on her propre jawline only moments before.

“Now, get up - you're getting my clothes all dirty.”

For most people, five inches really isn’t all that much. A pair of really tall heels will get you that extra height easily. But for someone who never wears heels, five inches is a lot. Possibly why, when getting to her feet, Clara-in-Isis stumbles just a little, then straightens up with raised brows and wide eyes.

“Holy shit you’re tall,” she remarks, still looking at her — Isis’s? — hands. “And holy shit I have a hell of a right hook,” she adds, reaching up to rub at that throbbing jaw. “I don’t like this,” she adds, turning to frown at…herself? That is weird, seeing herself standing there, even though it’s not her.

Isis-in-Clara smirks. Those tiny, diminutive features take to Jo’s way of devilishness quiet well. “First off, you’re the first person in ages to call me tall.” Then Clara’s little body starts to bob and bounce and weave right before her eyes. “I dunno,” the body-swapper says on Clara’s lips and vocals, a mischievous quality turning feigned innocence into something taunting. “This one’s kinda spry,” Isis carries on about Clara’s body. “I could get used to it.” There’s something impish that’s coiled up in Isis’s mood today and Clara’s enduring the worst of it now as penance for that sharp right hook.

“Normally I’m in a rush to get back.” Normally she doesn’t dare joke about keeping an alternate flesh suit, but there’s something nostalgic about this one to only encourage her naughty attitude today. With that said, she suddenly turns and runs. Not far, mind, just enough to run up the face of a nearby, bowing tree and grab hold of a low branch, scurrying up onto the outstretched limb with a childish yip of amusement. “WoohoOooO!”

Sshhrrt. There’s the sound of grating bark and now Clara’s body is hanging up-side-down, hair waving about, with her knees hooked over the tree branch. Isis waves excitedly and innocently at her regular body. “HellloOooOo.”

“Be careful!” Clara hisses as she’s suddenly watching her body climb up a tree. She glowers at…herself? “If you break anything, I swear to god I’m going to run away and…I dunno, whore it up or something.” She probably would never do something like that, but still.

“Can you hear Pepe?” It’s a question of genuine curiosity — the skunk was lurking nearby, happily digging up grubs while his ‘mom’ participated in the sparring match. “He was over there somewhere,” she adds, gesturing vaguely. All the while, she’s quietly exploring — mostly, she gropes herself. “Your boobs are nicer.”

“Oh, chillax. I got thi-WOAH!” Isis-in-Carla wobbles, but quickly reaches up to the branch to steady herself with one hand on the supporting, bent limb of the overgrown, blossoming tree. “See, totally graceful.” Snerk. She goes about ignoring the whore-ing threat mosty, stopping only to say, “I hate that word - whore.”

With that, the renting consciousness turns Clara’s dark gaze to the surrounding overgrowth, inverted thought it appears given her currently hung state. “Nope.” Isis-in-tiny-borrowed-body chirps with the barest of interest. “But, I’ll be honest - I’m not trying. Telepathy, even if it is with a skunk, is not my thing. I spend a damn good amount of time trying to keep my thoughts to myself, in my own damn self - thank you muchly.” She shrugs and then braces her other hand to the branch. A quick shift of Clara’s easy, slight weight pinwheels her forward and she drops the short distance from the bowed limb to the ground with a little thud.

She dusts of her hands and turns in time to see her proper body… groping itself. “Hey now! Hands off the merchandise! I had to-…” Isis-in-Clara clams up and pauses, a thoughtful twitch of the nose given as that particular habit follows with her consciousness into the borrowed bod. “… wait a long time for those,” she finishes, but ultimately gives a softer chuckle.

Isis considers her own body for this tiny frame and pops one dark brows into an arc. “What would you do - as me - for a day?”

Clara-in-Isis winces at the wobble, shaking her head. “I don’t like it either, but it’s the first threat that popped into my mind.” After a moment, she turns her own attention to this new body that feels so weird to her. She reaches a hand up, touching a branch that she normally would have to jump for. Being tall is something she could get used to — though not enough to wear heels.

“Normally you can just kinda feel it, but he could’ve gone off on a grub hunt.” She shrugs. “And it’s not like talking to a person. They don’t have words.” More exploration — she reaches up to fiddle with a strand of hair, marveling at the color and length. She has long-ish hair, but not this long. And not this fiery, either.

The question draws her gaze up to the cherry blossoms, much thinner brows knitting together. “If I stayed like this for a day?” She purses her lips. “I…don’t know. I’ve always been pretty happy being me.” She idly fiddles with the hair more. It’s very clear that Isis takes better care of her hair than Weasel does. “Maybe, like, party and flirt with people or something? Let you deal with the hangover.” She laughs. “But in reality, I don’t know at all. Let’s not do that, and if I think of anything, we could try again.”

The test drive and careful examination of IsisBod 3.0 proves pretty smooth - excluding a sore jaw. She’s reasonably healthy and fit. All the real hardships of Isis’s person are stowed in the overhead compartments and come along for the flight with the rest of her consciousness into Clara’s tinier, nimble body.

“Mm. Grumb,” comes Clara’s voice by way of Isis’s playfulness. Isis-in-Clara leans back and looks at her proper body some more. “Party and flirt. Is that what this whole thing is giving off?” She makes a vague, sweeping gesture towards the redhead body in full. “Because, if so, we are going to have to talk to Dirk about his direction.” She tsks and them casually leans back against the tree with an easy sort of smile fitting nicely so on the borrowed face.

“No, I agree - let’s not do that. That being said, though, I’ve been in a lot of peopl- … wait.” isis-in-Clara frowns thoughtfully. “That doesn’t sound the way-… I mean-…” Huff. “You know what I mean. What I’m saying is, out of all the bodies I’ve tried on - I think this one’s the best.” She pushes off the tree and offers a handshake. “You just keep on being you, because it’s pretty friggin’ great in here.” She offers an encouraging smile and a little nod.

“I don’t know. I’ve always just been my weird self, is all, and I don’t really know what other people who aren’t me do. Like, I know, but it’s just never been something that interests me,” she shrugs the narrow shoulders. “Your body’s nice, though. You take good care of it.” She pats her hips. “Better curves than mine.” She can’t say she doesn’t like Isis’s figure for its differences. But it’s not her.

The slip of the tongue prompts Clara-in-Isis to laugh, shaking her head. “Thank you,” is her response to the compliment. “I like being me, and I agree.” With a nod of agreement, she reaches out to take her — Isis’s hand. Way too weird for her tastes.

Isis-in-Clara gives a little rearing of her offered hand, holding up just one moment more. “Just remember - nowadays, nothing and nobody is ever what they seem.” She holds Clara’s gaze a moment, looking up into what are properly her own hazel eyes, before letting a smile come up to the borrowed features and the hand fall back into the waiting palm.

The reversal is a smoother transition, like slipping into a pool of tepid water and finding gravity and buoyancy conflicting halfway therein, only to sink when one sought to rise but still managing to find light and air on the other side.

Isis, or Jo, blinks away the fluttering after effects, quickly anchored back to the reality of her own flesh and the sore jaw that comes with it. She wince and gently raises a pale hand to touch on the already discoloring area. “Oooff. And my own personal lesson of the day - never underestimate the little guy.” She grins at Clara.

Home again. Or at least, that’s how it feels, slipping back into her own body. She clenches her hands a few times, peering down at them with a sense of fondness — you really don’t know what you’ve got until you don’t have it, even if for a little while. She also reaches out with her ability — that’s nice to have back, too. Pepe’s nearby, digging for grubs like she thought.

“That’s a good lesson for anyone to learn — though I’m glad most people have yet to learn it. Makes life easier.” She grins widely at her friend. “Let’s go get some pizza while I’m still in town!”

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