Notes: I'm having a very hard time figuring out where I'm going with 'Entropy'. I've been trying to write it for many months, and it hasn't gotten anywhere good. Actually, I've been trying to write anything for months and it hasn't gone well. But this - well, I was listening to the song 'Aristocrat' by 'New Politics' and for some reason, even though the song has very little to do with what this story became, it eventually melded into this idea. I have no idea why, but I'm happy it did, because I think this is going to be really fun. Role-reversals are always a blast, and I don't think I've seen any with this premise for Rogan before, but feel free to correct me if I'm wrong.
For the sake of this story, there is a couple things I will divulge beforehand that isn't obvious from the chapter: Rory's mother is still Lorelai; her father is Mitchum Huntzberger, however. We'll find out how that happened later on. For Logan, his mother is still Shira, but his father is Christopher Hayden. They still both look the same as their canon counterparts. Also, Rory and Logan have switched ages-in this story, Rory is two years older than Logan, not the other way around.
Also, this is a role-reversal, yes, but it's not as simple as them simply switching personalities. It's not a switch of personalities-it's a switch of life situations. It's my take on what could've happened to these characters if their lives had been swapped and how their personalities would change and stay the same. So, let's have some fun, shall we? ;)
I hope you enjoy. :)
Disclaimer: 'Gilmore Girls', its characters, plot lines and premise belong to Amy Sherman-Palladino, Warner Brothers and their affiliates. I do not own anything detailed in this story, and I make no monetary profit by these writings. All rights reserved to respective parties.
Vertigo
(One – Rory)
November 15th, 2003
The harsh, acidic burn of vodka in the back of her throat was still annoyingly prevalent an hour after she'd taken two shots in the back of Rosemary's limo. Rory had never been much of a drinker, so her system wasn't what you could call 'acclimated', but recently she'd taken a strong liking to the numbing feeling it spread down from tingles in her scalp to the wiggling of her toes. She was –
"Rory!"
— She was definitely feeling the burden of…
"Rory!"
She whipped her head up so quickly she had to blink back a few times to focus the picture in front of her. "For god's sake, Juliet, what?"
Her blonde companion did not seem to notice Rory's frustration, fidgeting in the mirror with the hem of her already very short dress. It wasn't the ditzy blonde who answered Rory however, as the reprimanding voice reverberated from right beside her, the exasperated redhead rubbing her temples with her fingertips. "This is the most important party of the year, Ror—could you at least pretend you're interested?"
Rory smirked, a throaty—(fake, flimsy, practiced)—laugh bubbling inside her chest, "I am interested, Rose. I'm not missing a front row seat to watch the welt that'll spread on Darren Belby's face after he gets smacked by Juilet's forty pound cosmetic bag if he tries to feel her up again."
"You're a lost cause, Huntzberger," Rose teased mercilessly; "But we already knew that, didn't we? It was confirmed in the sixth grade that Ms. Ice-Queen only gets pleasure at someone else's misfortune."
It didn't matter how many times Rory could hear comments like that, she still had to make a concentrated effort not to flinch.
"Hello, have you forgotten about me?" Juliet called in irritation from her spot surrounded by a three-fold mirror; "Comments on the dress, please?"
"It looks fantastic, Jules; you're gonna knock 'em dead," Rose assured her friend with a sly smile.
Rory just rolled her eyes, taking in the dress with an appraising eye; "Belby isn't going to have to try too hard to feel you up, Jules – there's so little material all he'll have to do is accidentally brush your thigh."
Somewhere in the back of her mind Rory heard Rose's resigned sigh and Juliet's scoff of indignation, but she just tuned them out. She was so tired of this same endless routine—she'd say something bitchy, Rose would call her out on it, and Juliet would be mad for all of five minutes until something flashy caught her eye.
Rory hated just about everything in her prison cell of a life—from the hoards of preppy, posh twats clamoring at the bit to get the attention of the Huntzberger heiress to the meaningless, passionless conversations she was forced to engage in on a daily basis to the expectations placed on her to be exactly what people thought a spoiled heiress to a multi-million dollar media conglomerate should be. And she lived up to the hype – she got a sick pleasure in it, really. She'd had so much pent up anger brewing deep in the caverns of her mind for the past thirteen years that she—unfairly, she knew—took it out on everyone in her immediate surroundings.
Well, she used to get a sick pleasure in rising to everyone's horrible expectations of her. It was all an act, sure, but she usually enjoyed it. Perhaps it was the idea of 'acting' that held her feeble, fragile existence together in the first place; if she convinced herself she was living someone else's life, she wouldn't ever have to put a microscope to her own. Or maybe it was just a meticulously crafted mission to ruin her father's reputation. She suspected it was both.
Lately, she'd been yearning for something real. It had been a very long time since she'd wanted anything of substance. She chose to live in this fictional reality of a persona she'd created ever since—well, ever since thirteen years ago when she'd lost her best friend. But this… her… her rude comments and obnoxious demeanor was driving herself up a wall lately, it was no wonder everyone hated her.
Juliet wasn't taking Rory's sarcasm with grace this time around, though. "Why do you have to be such a bitch today of all days, anyway? Can't you have a little fucking respect for what I'm going through?"
Rory coughed, her throat constricting painfully as she stared, flabbergasted, at Juliet's indignant frown. 'Today of all days?' Her façade seemed to fade into abstraction entirely as pricks of genuine tears formed in her eyes—"I… what?"
How could these two have any idea what today was?
"Oh my god," Juliet hissed, wrenching a scarf off a nearby hanger and waving it angrily in front of her face, "You've got no idea what the hell I'm talking about. Classic Rory Huntzberger—selfish, insensitive bitch. Sometimes—just once in a blue moon—I see something decent in you, but then you go and do something like this and I have to remind myself I'm just hallucinating."
At Rory's dumbstruck expression, Rose chimed in, "Ror, today is the one year anniversary of Juliet's break-up with Paul."
It was… what?! Oh god, they were fucking serious. Rory's fists clenched, the tears in her eyes hardened to ice and she grabbed the shopping bags at her feet. "If you two are just going to wallow about a pathetic heartbreak, I'm leaving. I don't need that kind of irrelevant bullshit to bring me down." Not today.
She stalked out of the dressing room, her vision swimming with stinging tears in her eyes, her heart torn between sobs of despair and wicked rage, and Juliet's screech of anger trailed behind her ominously—"You're going to end up alone if you keep treating people like this, Huntzberger. Guys may be enticed by the witch in the beginning, but eventually they learn to run like hell."
Rory flung the meaningless sack of clothes onto the sofa and poured herself a generous quantity of some amber liquid from her father's liquor collection, not that she cared what it was. It could've been laced with arsenic for all she cared at the moment.
She could sense his presence before he even spoke. He had a commanding hold on the earth's gravitational pull, as though he could spike temperatures in the ozone or raise sea levels with a simple swish of his hand. "You're drinking now, Lorelai?"
Rolling her eyes, she sat on the sofa, facing away from him, a blaring headache forming behind her eyes; "How many times have I told you that I don't answer to that, Dad?"
Mitchum pulled his brows into a hard, severe line. "It's your goddamn name, why the hell not?"
"Because it's not my name!" She barked back, her voice an octave higher, a little bit of vulnerability and desperation seeping into her tone. Taking a slow, deep breath, knowing she'd regret this, she whispered, "It's hers."
"Your mother and I—"
"My mother and you nothing!" She shouted, rising to her feet, heat rising in her cheeks and her legs buckling beneath her. "Don't you dare say a fucking thing about her, Dad. You didn't know her—you never did, you never cared to find out a thing about her." A choke formed in the back of her throat and she snarled to cover it up, hating showing this much weakness to her father. "My mother was more than just your shiny trophy wife you could unpack at society parties; god, so much more. She was a hundred times the person you'll ever be."
"Goddammit, child, listen to me when I speak! Your mother and I—"
She shook her head vehemently, refusing to listen, "My mother named me Lorelai. You had nothing to do with it—where were you when I was born, anyway? London, Paris, Tokyo? The Cayman Islands? Is it true you had a mistress there? I always wondered, people always gossiped, but since you're such a racist, prejudiced asshole I figured you wouldn't screw anything that didn't speak English."
His jaw ticked, and she nearly smirked in victory. "Your mother is gone—has been for a long time. Let it go, Lorelai. You're an adult, not a child who needs a mother to tuck her into bed at night."
"I'm well aware of how long my mother has been gone, thank you," she dismissed, her voice icy and dangerous. "Thirteen years today. I don't need you to tell me that."
His eyes widened slightly, but then a menacing laugh soon followed. "For god's sake, that's why you're drinking and being such a whiny, pathetic little bitch today—because it's the anniversary of your mother's death? Grow the fuck up, Lorelai. Only children care about things like that."
It wasn't the fact that he dismissed her feelings as childish that stabbed her like a sharp blade in the gut—it was the fact that he didn't know. He wasn't even aware that his wife had died on this day thirteen years ago.
Dismissing her emotion as though it had never happened, he continued, cold and callous, "As I was saying—your mother and I named you Lorelai. You will answer to the proper title, just like you regard others by their proper title."
Unwilling to cry in front of her father, she summoned all of her courage to will her usual wall of defense, leaned back with a sinister smile on her face, and replied, sickly sweet and wickedly sardonic, "Fine Mitchum, you were the one who summoned me here. What can I do for you?"
He poured himself a drink of his own—filled to the brim, and he downed half of it in one swallow—and sat down on the couch opposite her. "We have to discuss your academic performance—"
"My grades are never anything but perfect and you know it."
"—at the paper."
She paused, remaining stoic and silent at this declaration.
Producing a newspaper from the table next to him, he threw it down between them angrily. "Do you know what this is?"
She grinned, a cocky, condescending smirk on her lips. "I don't frequent the newsroom often, but I do know what a newspaper is, Dad."
"Don't be cute, Lorelai," he admonished, "It's a front page article written by someone who isn't you. And you want to know what else?" He picked it up and threw it in her lap, "It's damn good. This Renée Holloway—who the fuck is this nobody? I've never heard her surname in my life, and she's stealing the front page away from my daughter? The Huntzberger Heiress? Do you know how that looks, Lorelai; do you know what kind of message that sends?"
Rory sighed over-dramatically, "That I have a life and more important things to do with my time than falling asleep at a newsdesk?"
He ignored her snark completely. "I want you to talk to this Renée Holloway—get her story, figure out her weakness and exploit them. I know you can do that. You're an amazing writer, Lorelai, that's why you're the heiress and not Honor. Your sister can't write for shit, and don't you dare make me regret bestowing you with this responsibility. It's time to get some motherfucking motivation and show this Holloway bitch who's really running the show."
Rory almost choked on thin air—"You want me to what?!"
He spoke slowly, as if speaking to a toddler; "Find her. Throw your name around to threaten her. Take her next front page article and do better. Simple enough for you?"
Nearly bubbling over in laughter at the irony, she just nodded, "Crystal, Daddy Dearest."
Standing up suddenly, Mitchum collected himself, straightened his tie, and picked up his briefcase, "I have a meeting in Boston. Don't take what I said lightly, Lorelai—I swear to god I'll come down to Yale and crush that Holloway girl myself if it comes to it."
Oh, dear god—the chaos that would cause. She had maintained this secret for so long, she wasn't about to let it all go to waste.
"I'll take care of it."
The direct, sharp conviction of her tone must've shocked Mitchum, because he noticeably stilled his movements and smiled. "This has been productive after all, then."
She smiled, all saccharine sarcasm, her head cocked in amusement; "Has it?"
"Don't ruin it, Lorelai," he reprimanded sharply, and before she could blink, he was out the door.
As soon as he was gone, she pressed the cold chill of her glass to her forehead and closed her eyes. He was going to come barraging into the Yale newsroom and find Renée Holloway himself? Jesus Christ, this was a disaster. She had not worked this hard to fold at the hands of her father's domineering intrusions. She flipped open her cell phone, dialing a familiar number and waiting only a single ring before the person answered.
"Ror? Hun, I've been caught in meetings all day or I would've called sooner—how are you holding up?"
She didn't bother swallowing the choke of emotion in her voice this time, tears sliding down her face—she had nothing to hide with her sister. "He doesn't remember, Honor. Our own fucking bastard of a father doesn't remember the anniversary of Mom's death."
It was still late afternoon when she got back to her dorm, but the emotional upheaval of the day made her want to crawl in bed and stay there until news hit in a few years of her father's inevitably impending heart attack. Instead, she was greeted by the ferocious windstorm of energy also known as her best friend Paris. A crafty smile on her lips, she teased, "Hey, what if I wanted to make a log cabin out of popsicle sticks? Way to hog all the supplies for yourself, Geller."
Paris raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Very funny, Huntzberger. Everyone's a fucking comedian today. Do you remember the last time I tried to get you to do crafts with me?"
"Was that the time I accidentally glued the soles of Doyle's shoes together?" Rory asked rhetorically, knowing full well it was.
Paris snorted in derision, "Right—'accidentally'. It's a wonder he does all the shit he does for you."
"Speaking of, I'm on my way to a story right now. I just wanted to come back first and change."
"Oh?" Paris asked in curiosity. "What's the subject?"
"A guy named Logan Hayden—some freshman tech-genius who developed an online magazine that's apparently supposed to become a lot of competition for the Daily News."
Paris stared, mouth agape. "Doyle gave you the 'Syntax' expose?"
"Jealous?" Rory prodded, a sly smile on her lips.
"Extremely," Paris responded, as blunt as ever. "Do you think he'll sign it?"
"They all sign it," Rory waved off the concern with nonchalance, "They're all so curious as to what Rory Huntzberger is doing as a middleman that they'd sign away their first born child if I asked them to."
"Where were you all day, anyway?" Paris asked suddenly.
Rory's lips pulled into a tight line, a heavy dose of scorn and malice in her expression. "Out shopping with Rose and Juliet."
Paris' expression wasn't much better. "You're kidding—those two are gonna end up as washed up, coked up reality TV stars, you know that, right? They have the combined IQ of a grapefruit. Why do you hang out with bitches like that?"
Her expression dark, Rory grimaced. "You know the answer to that."
"Oh, right," Paris rolled her eyes, a heavy sigh escaping her lips, "Because that's your image. You're mad at the entire world, so you let everyone believe you're some airhead ditz without a shred of intelligence, dignity or kindness in your entire body. For god knows what reason…"
"I have my reasons," Rory bit back harshly.
"Fine," Paris relented, "I believe you. Really, I do. But one day you're going to meet someone who's worth breaking that ridiculous image for—someone who won't need a confidentiality agreement to realize who you really are—and what do you planning on doing then?"
Rory laughed, genuine and sincere, deep from the depths of her soul—a rarity for her, really. "That almost sounded dopey and romantic, Paris. Who are you and what have you done with Paris Geller?"
"Yeah, well… despite public knowledge, you're dopey and romantic." She paused a beat, a sardonic smile on her pale lips—"Besides, Doyle assigned me a piece on reviewing Yale's top ten favorite chick flicks. I guess the poison is seeping into my brain faster than expected."
"You ate one of his coveted cucumber squares without permission again, didn't you?"
Paris shook her head in amusement. "It's scary how you just know things like that."
"Alright," Rory grabbed her purse and keys off the coffee table and mock saluted, "I'll be back with a story, Bernie."
"I'm serious, Ror. One day you're going to meet a guy you want to be yourself with."
"Doubtful," Rory dismissed—"Take that betting attitude to play the ponies, Paris, 'cause my love life—or lack thereof—is not something you want to be invested in. The stock valuations are not looking good."
Before Paris could respond, Rory walked out the door, shouting back with a sarcastic laugh, "Save me one of Doyle's cucumber squares for later, 'kay?"
Logan had read a lot of Renée Holloway's articles, and the girl had a hell of a lot of talent. He may have been the chief executive of the code and script part of the website, but he wrote a few pieces every once in a while, and there was nothing he appreciated more than a dedicated, hard-working journalist, and this girl was it. Needless to say, he was quite excited to meet her.
So when he wrenched the door open, enthused and excited, only to be met with the smirking face of Rory Huntzberger, his heart dropped. Oh yeah, he knew this bitch. The Ice-Queen herself, as they called her. He knew girls like her—she skated by on strings of sheer nepotism, threats and wads of cash. Worse, though, people like him and Renée Holloway had to work—had to put sweat and tears into everything they manifested—to get a little recognition. This bitch had gained the rights to the biggest media empire in the country simply because she was born.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" He spat, holding back none of the venom he felt for this spoiled society brat.
"Well, I have to say, that's the kindest greeting I've ever received from a complete stranger—how sweet of you, Logan," she quipped easily.
His dark eyes were a clear indication that he was not amused. "I don't know what sick game you're playing Huntzberger, but get out of my hallway. I'm expecting company that's actually worth the paper she writes on—not that you've ever written anything in your life, let alone something of significance."
"Ouch, that stings, Hayden—care to kiss it better?" Her smirk was all coy, sly seduction—(fake, fake, so fake she was surprised it didn't rip a gaping hole in her chest).
His voice was a vicious snarl—"Fuck no, and do I really have to repeat myself?"
"And here I heard you were quite the ladies man," she admonished playfully. "Was I misinformed?"
A small curve of a half-smirk appeared on his lips as he quipped back, "Yes, ladies—as in women with an ounce of substance in their bodies. As in, not you."
"Such cruel words," she tsked, "Alright, junior—relax. Renée Holloway doesn't meet any potential interviewee without a confidentiality agreement swearing to uphold her identity as privileged information. Don't go all Bonaduce on my ass, I'm simply the middleman."
Logan was understandably dumbstruck. Why would Renée Holloway allow someone like Rory Huntzberger to be her middleman, and why the hell the need for a confidentiality agreement?
"Is this a joke?"
Rory smiled ominously. "I assure you it's not. Ms. Holloway takes all this very seriously. Do you want to see the documentation?" Without waiting for an answer, she produced a page from a file in her shoulder bag and held it out for him. He grabbed it without giving her a shred of eye-contact and inspected every inch of it.
"This is notarized," he said after five long minutes of Rory tapping her heel impatiently.
"It took you five minutes to deduce that?"
He glared fiercely. "This is real, it's not some fucked up sorority girl prank."
"Gee, you sure catch on quick," she drawled, dry sarcasm dripping off her every word.
He glanced around the hallway nervously, "Get inside."
"Ooh, changed your tune already?" She raised a suggestive eyebrow.
"Fuck you, Huntzberger." He shut the door behind her, trying to analyze this in his head and coming up completely blank. "Why are you involved in this, anyway?"
Rory smiled mysteriously. "Let's just say Renée and I are old friends."
He snorted; "I doubt that."
"Are you going to sign it or not? I have better things to be doing," Rory glared, this time truly irked, as the personal digs were getting old.
"Oh, really? What?" He prodded scathingly. "Shopping in over-priced designer stores with your insipid friends? Making world domination plans with Daddy Dearest?"
She winced visibly, his insight into her mundane, repetitive life unsettling.
"Just sign the fucking thing and I'll be out of your way."
This time, a genuine smile passed his face. "Gladly."
He hurriedly signed the document, passed it back to her and raised his eyebrows expectantly. "So, where is she?"
"You're looking at her," Rory said with no hesitation.
Logan's vocal chords seemed to be twisted around his tongue. "Excuse me?"
Rory sighed, having enough of this charade. She took the signed document, stuffed it back in its file and pulled out a pen and her most prized and secret possession—her book. This book contained stories, truths and secrets that could easily obliterate the very shaky ground she walked on. It never left her side, and even Honor and Paris had never read it. In some ways, it was her closest confidante.
"Renée Holloway is a penname—in layman's terms, I'm Renée Holloway."
"I know what a goddamn penname is, Huntzberger!" Logan bit back, confounded and irritated—two of his least favorite emotions. This didn't make any sense—Rory Huntzberger had written those articles? The society rich bitch Ice-Queen who didn't give a flying fuck about journalism or her family's empire?
"You—you wrote the insider spotlight on Seymour Hersh? The piece about the Hindu-Muslim Gujarat violence in India? Nuclear Arms in North Korea? The op-ed about UNICEF?" He looked downright bewildered now. "UNICEF? Wouldn't that actually indicate you gave a shit about someone other than yourself?"
Her smile was dwindling now—this charade of nonchalance was getting hard to maintain when someone was maiming her character into shreds like this. But why? Hundreds—thousands—of people had ripped her integrity to shreds before, why did it matter now? What was it about this angry kid with the deep, expressive chestnut eyes and the easy half-smirk that made her feel so ashamed of the way she acted sometimes?
Her voice was calm, quiet, resigned. "Y'know, for someone who's calling me out on being a snobby rich kid, you sure are being pretty judgmental to someone you don't even know."
"Can you blame me?" He asked incredulously.
"Alright, here's what we're going to do." She was going to be as direct and to the point as possible, leaving no room for contention. "We're both journalists, no?" He didn't seem to know whether she wanted an answer to this, but he nodded slowly, hesitantly—as if he didn't believe what he was hearing just yet. "You're going to forget what you know about me, we're going to start over, and I'm going to write an unbiased article about your magazine, doing you a favor and forgetting every negative barb you've thrown my way since I stepped in the door. Got it?"
His eyes were still ablaze with hate, but he nodded with a grim expression. She wasn't sure if she liked the fact that she was intimidating him—it just meant she had inherited something else from her brute of a father.
"So…" An easy, genuine smile crossed her lips, so starkly different from the sly smiles and smirks and seductions of before and she reached out her hand, "I'm Renée Holloway. You are?"
He looked down at her hand as if it was infected. "Logan Hayden," he replied, not touching her hand. She seemed to let it go. He didn't know if he was relieved or suspicious.
"Alright, Logan—" she took out her pad and pen, sat in his armchair without permission, her posture all straight, hard lines and gestured to his computer, "What, in your opinion, is the building block of your magazine—the writing it markets or the coding that holds it together?"
Notes: So, Logan really hates Rory. Well, to be fair, Rory hated Logan to begin with, too. ;) We'll find out a lot more about Logan's life, his adventures and his disdain for rich people in the next chapter. In subsequent chapters, we'll also find out more about Rory and the inner workings of her very confused mind, her public charade of a personality and why she writes under a penname. I hope you're as excited as I am.
Thanks for reading, and please leave a review if you enjoyed, have comments, suggestions, or constructive criticism. :)