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Last time was just a dream.
Or at least, she'd assumed it was a dream.
So this time must be a dream, as well.
That's as close as Christine gets to actual logic.

Therefore, when she delicately steps through the door, in a completely different, but equally extravagent dress, to find herself in the bar, she doesn't faint, but only gasps and places her hand on her exposed bosom ever so gently.

Okay, she may faint soon. There's dead people in this bar, after all.

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"Christine!" Christine says, still smiling charmingly. "What's yours?"

*Meg stares some more.

And faints.*

Christine lets out a high pitched gasp of concern for the dancer, and drops gracefully to her knees by the side of Meg's head.

It might be worth pointing out that Christine's dress is much better designed for dropping gracefully to knees than tutus are for fainting.

Zip. In an instant there's Max, ~~who is somehow talking to his sister and best friend at the same time~~ rather usefully catching the fainting Meg before he even realizes what he's doing or why.

"Hey. Girl." Blink. "What did you do to her?" he asks the soprano accusingly. No one is ever innocent.

Christine ~~deploys her collapsible bodice~~ looks hurt and confused. her eyes widen into two very very blue pools of distress.

"I told her my name, and she fainted!" she exclaims. "Is she going to be OK?"

*Meg's eyes blink open.*

Sacre Dieu c'est comme Christine et moi a eu un salaud enfant d'amour et apres a fait partir trois quarts de la tete -

[Holy God it's like Christine and me had a bastard lovechild and afterwards made three quarters of her head go away -]

"I certainly hope so --" Max starts to answer Christine, then peeks nervously down at Meg.

"Er. Ma'am?" That's Christine, of course. "Did you understand that? I can't speak French. Or else, I think it was French. Are you okay, miss?" The second 'miss' being Meg.

"What's French?!" Christine exclaims. She looks confused and hurt and the right shoulder of her dress has somehow fallen down, leaving the rest of the dress to prove that not even gravity can defy the laws of modest.

It's entirely possible she may faint soon.

I'm, I'm okay -

*Meg struggles to her feet.*

Merci beaucoup for catching me and all, desolee, I just had a bit of a shock -

"It's ... it's no problem, really. I don't believe I even realized what I was doing until I'd done it," Max says, after noticing that he's used 'realize' in every sentence so far and therefore used 'notice' above as an alternative.

"Can I help you?" He's also trying not to gape at Christine's ... dress. Really.

"Oh, I'm so glad you're OK!" Christine exclaims, using Max's arm as a support as she rises gently to her feet. No struggling for her. Somehow the dress is back on both shoulders. Don't ask.

"Thank you very much for helping her!" She says to Max.

[OOC: Slowtimed...]

*Meg is by now firmly on her own two feet. No support required for this ballerina.

Anymore, anyways.*

It's just - sorry, Christine, you really really remind me of someone I know from home. Really.

You're not being stalked by a Phantom, by any chance, are you?

At this last remark, Max blinks. "... Stalked by a Phantom? I realize this scenario was pretty weird already, but it just keeps getting crazier, doesn't it."

At least Isabel gets him cherry Cokes. That'll keep him going. And sane. A little.

Christine's hand, which is still on Max's arm, tightens its grip in horror.

"Stalked! Oh no!! That would be awful! We had a Ghost though!! A horrible Ghost killing people in the Opera house!!"

She becomes a little unsteady, and sways elegantly.

That's sort of the same thing I meant, *Meg says ruefully, and, recognizing the signs, pulls out smelling salts from her copious Bag O' Stuff and waves them around under Christine's nose.

Well, they're useful things for a ballerina to have around!*

Sorry, Monsieur, *she explains, for Max's benefit, just as if she hadn't fainted herself two seconds ago,* she's had a rough time of it at home.

*As if she'd known Christine for ages - and, well, doesn't she, really?*

Max jumps just as Christine's nails dig into his wrist -- just a little, but enough to startle him.

"Has she? Do you know each other well?"

Christine relaxes her grip gently as she gracefully inhales the vapours. She doesn't let go, though. Somehow both shoulders on her dress have slipped down.

"Thank you!" she declares, to both Meg and Max, whose arm apparently played as big a role in keeping her awake as Meg's smelling salts.

"Oh, but we work in the Opera House!" she says, turning to Meg for support. She expects the ballerina will provide her name soon.

*Meg stows the smelling salts away and obliges. She is used to reading Vacant Looks.*

I'm Meg, *she offers.* Giry. And yeah - I'm a ballerina.

*She is half-expecting Christine to shriek and announce that that is the name of her oh-so-helpful friend back home.*

"Max Evans," the alien contributes. "I'm ... a high school student." Such an interesting occupation, that.

"If you've met Isabel Evans, we're twins. And Michael Guerin's my best friend."

Christine doesn't oblige Meg. Why would she be friends with a ballerina?

"Meg! Thank you!" she does exclaim, as if the name had merely escaped her. "It's good to meet you, Max!"

*Meg perks up immensely at that.*

Oh, of course I know Isabel! I'm maid of honor at her -

*She belatedly realizes that Max might not yet know about this particular tidbit of gossip, and breaks off, looking rather sheepish.*

"... wedding," Max finishes a bit helpfully for Meg. "She told me earlier. I nearly spit Coke on her face, which wasn't helping the image of how much we'd missed each other." Earlier today, or yesterday, or however you'd like Millitime to work.

He's still smiling, though. "It took some warming up to, but I'm all right with it. For now. I still haven't met him."

No turning the conversation away from Christine, now. The right shoulder of her dress has worked its way up again. The left still hangs on her arm.

"Oh! Your sister's getting married! That's lovely!!" she declares to max, her pretty eyes sparkling.

I know Warren well, too, *Meg adds,* and he's -

*She hesitates over 'a nice guy', and decides tactfully on,* a good friend with some very good qualities.

"Trustworthy and good to Isabel ... that's all that matters to me. She's probably told everyone how overprotective I am," Max replies with a grin.

Turning to Christine again, he nods. Still not staring at the ... dress. Or else just trying really hard not to. The sparkliness of her expression is distracting enough. "Certainly lovely for her, and I'm hoping it plays out well. Izzy's not usually as careful as she should be."