the first of what'll hopefully be at least a few fics in an au where everything's the same but our title characters are both girls, phineas being called iphigenia and ferb still being called ferb. i know rule 63 / cisbend / etc is a little controversial in today's fandom, but it's right there in the tags that that's what this is, so. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ fun fact, i actually chose the name iphigenia first (it's got the same phi element as phineas) and then decided to write this fic with all this symbolism after the fact. enjoy, kiddos xo

She'd found the name online somewhere, your mom told you once, probably on one of those forums she and everybody else was obsessed with in the late nineties. And yet, despite loving it right away, she never did look up where it came from. Your older sister shares her name with a handful of female relatives on that side of the family; you share yours with Agamemnon's eldest daughter, the one he brought to Aulis under false pretenses and then killed as human sacrifice to start the Trojan War.

The irony has never hit harder, really.

"Oh, no, you don't!"

Just as your fingers meet the cool metal of the Baseball Launcher, the other Dr. Doofenshmirtz scoops it up, a horrible grin stretching across his face. "Now, the baseball is on the other foot!" he declares, then adds in a mumble, "Or, however that saying goes—I'm not... not really sure—"

In your current panic, you can't actually remember yourself. Which, infuriatingly, would be really funny if your heart weren't pounding like it's trying to break free from your chest.

The roof's metal plating squeaks under your sneakers, betraying your feeble attempt to escape. "Hey, hey, hey!" the evil Dr. D—well, eviler; apparently your dimension's Dr. D is evil, too, much as he seems as harmless as your dad—barks, swinging the Baseball Launcher around so that the ball's pointed squarely at you. True, the worst a baseball could do is give you some nasty bruises or maybe a concussion, but you're also stranded on a roof with evil robots on all sides, plus your only ally busy fighting his own (also evil) counterpart, so the threat manages to hold its weight. It feels like there's a fist around your throat.

It happens just like it does on T.V., in thrillers and action movies and nature documentaries: Dr. D starts slowly advancing, and you start slowly retreating, knowing full well there's nowhere you can go. "You know," he says, still smiling, sneering, really (and you think, I'll never be afraid of Buford again), "all that's going to happen from you guys coming up here is that I'm going to have a brand-new Platyborg!"

And that would be awful enough. Just the thought, even, of Agent P—of Perry—being taken from you and tortured, his mind broken until all he knows is obedience, his body carved up so metal bits can go where they're not supposed to go—that by itself is awful enough that your breath starts coming quick and shallow, like Baljeet's sometimes does, like Candace's sometimes does, except there's no one to take your hand or give you a paper bag and tell you, "Calm down. Everything's gonna be okay." Because not even you're optimistic enough to think that everything's going to be okay somehow. That there's a way out of this. That you might make it home in time for dinner.

"And maybe even a Girlborg," Dr. D adds, like he's mulling it over and wants your opinion, flashing you all his teeth.

For a scientist, it's surprisingly wolf-like.

So this is your Aulis, then.

Like most myths, there's a lot of different versions of the Iphigenia story. The initial premise is mostly the same across the board: Agamemnon makes Artemis angry somehow, she stops the wind so the Greeks' ships can't sail to Troy, they learn he has to sacrifice his daughter to make Artemis happy again, he lures Iphigenia to Aulis. What happens next depends on which version you read. In one, Iphigenia figures out what's going on and begs her dad to spare her. Then in another she doesn't know, and she steps onto the altar thinking she's getting married only to be stabbed from behind. There's one version where Artemis whisks her away at the last second and leaves a deer in her place, but there's no hope of that happening, you think: you believe in science, not magic. And then there's the version of the story where Iphigenia does figure out why she's there, and instead of freaking out and begging for her dad or someone to save her, she goes calmly and willingly to her death. She decides it's nobler that way—nobler to not fight the inevitable and die a death that might have meaning, even if she'll never get to see what that meaning is.

You wish you could be like that, but your lower lip's trembling and there are tears threatening to spill over your lashes, and you'd give all the summers in the universe to be back in your bed cuddling your pet platypus.

Of course, you've been fighting the inevitable, or at least the impossible, all summer long.

And seeing things through is kind of what you're best at.

"You know something, girly?" Dr. D says, aiming the Baseball Launcher right at your heart—yet, suddenly, he doesn't look so scary. Suddenly, he looks like—like a pharmacist. "You've been a thorn in my side all day long."

Funny. If he thinks you've been annoyingly persistent today, he obviously doesn't know what you've been up to since school got out.

He doesn't know about the rollercoaster.

He doesn't know about the time machine.

He doesn't know about your trips to space—trips in the plural—or about the time you shrunk down to microscopic size and explored the depths of your older sister, or reunited Love Händel, or had the best lazy day ever.

And, sure, you didn't do any of that on your own. You had Isabella and the Fireside Girls and Baljeet and Buford and even Candace for a lot of it, and you wouldn't be you if you didn't have Ferb. But time after time, you were the one with the idea, and you've never, ever lacked what it took to see your big ideas to the finish.

You are Iphigenia, but you are not Iphigenia. The fist around your throat loosens, breathing gets easier, and for some reason, the air around you smells like roast turkey and popcorn. You shut your eyes for a moment, but when you open them, no tears fall. You are Iphigenia, but you are not Iphigenia. Because, in every version of her story, Iphigenia of Greek mythology begged for mercy or was magicked away or went passively to be sacrificed, and none of that's really your style.

Someone whistles, sharp and loud, and you risk a glance in that direction and see Perry—still your Perry even on his hind legs and in his fedora. In one fluid motion, he whips around and uses his tail to send an object sailing in your direction, and you reach out and close your hand around it before you've even registered what it is. Smooth, sturdy, wooden. You tighten your fingers around the handle so hard your knuckles hurt.

"But that's all about to change," Dr. D tells you.

You grip the bat even harder. You are not Iphigenia at Aulis.

"Right—"

You're Iphigenia Flynn, and you do not give up.

"—now."

The other Dr. D pulls the trigger, and you line yourself up, plant your feet, and smack that ball right into the satellite dish over your heads.

Dr. D screams, but it's no use—his machine's in a million pieces, and with it taken out, the army of robots terrorizing the town start dropping out of the sky like flies. Perry's smiling with his heart in his eyes, and a moment later, Ferb flips over the ledge of the roof armed with dual plungers.

"Ferb!" you exclaim. The bat clatters to the ground as you run over and throw your arms around your stepsister without hesitation; being Ferb, she catches you immediately, swinging you in a little circle as you laugh breathlessly and kick your feet. "I just hit the best homerun ever!"

Maybe the other Iphigenia would've done the same, you think, if only the Greeks had had baseball.