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Francis Mosses is dead.
You know it by the hollowness in those tired eyes. An unfamiliar tenseness, a pinkish tone on the white uniform. Too wrong to be right. Too right to just be another doppel.
Francis is dead, and you're staring at his corpse, his skin-
His murderer.
"Papers, please."
It blinks and hands you the papers. They're his documents to be sure, not some paperlike membrane with veiny letters that other doppels bring. Perfect information, perfectly normal. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he was just so tired that he walked up and forgot again. You wonder if it ate his brain, if it knows that he'd often forget on Thursdays because of his longer route from taking over for a colleague.
You lips quirk up slightly when you raise your head. "All good to go."
The doppel does the same, and it looks so much like him.
"Perfect," it says, sounding just like him too, the bastard.
Its eagerness shows. It lays a hand on the door handle before there's a buzz, and the door doesn't budge.
You laugh sheepishly. You avert your gaze when he glances at you, like a shy schoolgirl.
"Sorry um, before you go, I-I have a surprise for you, as thanks for last week. It won't fit through the slot though. . .you'll come into the office, won't you?"
Your eyes flicker back to the window. The thing in his skin stares. You think of Francis, his deadpan jokes, how it felt like a victory when you got him to smile. You feel warmth bloom in your cheeks. You just have to not cry, and the picture is perfect.
The doppel blinks again, then grins. It's too wide, too bright, too blinding. You wonder if those milk-white teeth were stained red when they tore into Francis's flesh.
"Of course," it says.
You smile sweetly, and buzz it in.
The residents are good people. You make sure you lock the door to the building after, dutiful doorman that you are.
It takes twenty-five steps to get to the office door from the entrance. Likely closer to twenty, with Francis' height. By the seventh, you've taken what you need from your purse and desk drawer.
You're posed when it comes in, hands behind your back, smiling with excitement and restraint, careful to only let a glimmer of teeth show.
"I'm here," it says, smiling like he did.
"I'm here," he said, after knocking like a gentleman.
You stared at him. A smile broke out on your face. "I didn't think you were serious."
"I am very serious in matters of milk." He strode over and handed you a cool glass bottle. "A fresh bottle of strawberry milk, as promised."
You turned it around in your hands. "How did you even get this stuff? I thought the only farm that made it got shut down-"
"I have my ways." He knew how to keep his smiles to himself, to make yours wider. When yours did, his stoicism melted. "How is it?"
You looked at the seal. If you tilted it a certain way, you could see the fingerprints on the glass. The sticker wasn't quite the same. He'd asked you where to get things like this printed about two weeks ago, didn't he?
You broke the thin seal and took a sip. Not enough sugar, not quite the right mix. But you wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, especially not when it was a milkman who'd gotten you your first homemade birthday gift in years.
You beamed at him. "Perfect."
"Perfect," you say, in memory, in dedication. It can't be a promise, but you'll try your best. "Well, come closer! I can't exactly leave my desk, you know."
It does. It doesn't stop until it's two paces away from you, when Francis would have stayed at least twice that far for propriety.
You glance at the window, like a dutiful doorman, as if to make sure this was a secret, then turn back. "Close your eyes."
It does. Maybe it can watch you regardless, has eyes that don't look like eyes, or eyes so small they can hide in the pores of his flesh. That won't matter though.
You surge your arm forward, and the bullet finds its mark.
It lets out an inhuman shriek as lead fragments bury themselves into its flesh. You punch the emergency button in a second then stab the doppel in the next. Metal comes scraping down upon the window and the door.
The head, stretched far from its body as it reached for an exit, twists towards you. You find yourself glad that it looks as monstrous as it is. If it looked like Francis, that would make this harder.
You aim for it again. When it dodges, you do too, slashing wildly at the place where you were, where its head now is. Another scream. A resident might be calling the D.D.D. now, with how loud it is.
"You think you're so clever?" it sneers, red eyes bulging. "You think you can stop me? Even if-"
"I know." Your voice was surprisingly calm, even for yourself. "I've heard the spiel. Your kind will take over, you'll kill us all. Even here, I probably can't stop you. I'll get tired, or you'll get the upper hand. Then you'll kill me. But until then. . ."
"You'd make a pretty good doorman yourself."
"I drove over a crate of milk just the other day because I forgot to set the gear right. We'd all be dead if I was behind that desk."
"Pity, I'd give half my pay for some decent conversation."
Francis shook his head and looked at you, fond.
"No, only a madman would take this job. "
You smile. "I'm going to make it hurt."
The doppel's eyes darken at your insolence, ghostly pinpricks of light all that remain in its hollow sockets. Strips of it unfurl in tendrils of meat and teeth, claws and viscera shining in the emergency light's glow. You hear metal clatter on the ground as it expels your lead.
You pump it with more and slash the tendrils that come near, even as you find bloody stripes scored across your flesh.
You find yourself approaching amidst the onslaught. It's still human, in a way. You imagine it must take time to rearrange itself, to shift vital organs that make its kind killable by D.D.D. agents.
You lunge at it, wrapping a hand around its throat as you shift your weight, sending it to the ground. You lift its head by its squirming hair and slam it down. You do it again. Again. Again. The blood that pools is too dark. The noise it makes is too soft. You think it must have eaten his skull, and you laugh.
The emergency light bathes everything in pulses of red. You grin as it freezes beneath you. Their kind always sounds like the proud sort. It must hate this, being pinned down by a human like you. You hold the gun to its throat and a knife to its chest.
What tendrils remain retract, wrapping and melding into its arms.
A hand, frail and human beneath the blood, reaches up to cup your face, familiar yet foreign because Francis was a gentleman and shy always-
"He liked you," it whispers in his voice with his soft smile, looking up at you with his eyes. "You loved him, didn't you? I can do that for you. I can hold you the way he wanted to, the way you want him to. He wanted to kiss you, one day. Will you let me-"
Serpent-soft whispers sharpen to a hiss as you press the knife in. Dark blood pools out. Even so, its eyes are wide and black beneath you. Not Francis's eyes beneath you, but hollow pits and their ghosts. You wonder what you must look like above it.
"You like playing with us humans, don't you?" You nudge the knife deeper. "I've had to deal with you dopplegangers day after day after day. Your pride, your tricks, your threats-"
It tries to growl. Somethings shifts beneath you, and you draw the knife out to plunge it deeper. Your clothes must be ruined now. Its blood must be a bit acidic, because your flesh tingles.
"You know, my life wasn't worth much. Why else would I take this fucking job? Your kind killed my family, my friends. I couldn't trust anyone, but I thought I could trust him- the meal you're wearing. I guess I couldn't trust him after all. Not enough to stand against monsters like you."
It makes a sound like a dog's whimper. The noise doesn't tug at your heart at all. Does it have his heart, or did it eat it?
You pull the trigger.
There's a burst of meat and fluid and metal, but it still writhes beneath you. It's unfair that it can withstand that. The place smells like ink and the butcher's. Everything from the jaw above looks like a whirling flower of flesh. The head forms again, its tendrils wrap around your fingers on its throat.
You deem the hand lost, and stab it where you can with the knife. It twists and shifts. Gurgling noises sound from its neck and other new orifices, but it lives. It's alive and he's not.
It's not fair.
You shoot it again and it reforms. You stab and slash and it groans but it reaches up with its flesh.
It's not fair.
You shoot and you stab. Your body stings. Your eyes sting as hot tears well up. You hope it burns where they fall on the roiling mass of raw flesh beneath you, as the pulsing red light is replaced by bloody, tooth-thorned tendrils that wrap around you. The gun in your hand is out of bullets, and the knife slips away somewhere in the struggle.
Meat tugs at your wrist. Perhaps it will quarter you before it eats you, pull your limbs apart to digest in pieces. You hope you're so bitter it gets indigestion.
You shut your eyes. You're so tired.
. . .something throbs beneath your palm.
You open your eyes. Beneath your blood-slicked hand, something pulses. You want to withdraw in disgust, but a cable of flesh keeps your hand there, pressed against the organ. You remember dissections and grainy photographs, alien anatomy in sketchy diagrams
It's not much of a victory as it should be, making the monster hurt so much it wants to die. Killing it won't bring him back. It won't bring back anyone else either.
You squeeze it anyway, out of duty.
The whole mass shudders- perhaps it will kill you as it dies, snap up in a deathly trap and rend you to ribb-
. . .beyond the beating of your heart and the doppel's, through the metal and glass-
You turn your head.
"Open the door! "
You pry yourself from the carcass, but the doppelganger clings, sticky sinews tangled about your limbs. It makes a cavernous cry. You summon all the strength you have left to reach for the blade on the ground and saw yourself free. As the last fiber snaps, you rush for your desk. You slam the emergency button-
Light floods the room. Beyond the bloody glass stands a man in white.
He smiles. Francis Mosses smiles at you, his hand pressed against the glass to meet yours. You can feel his warmth seep through.
Then his expression turns.
You're pulled away as flesh overtakes your vision.
All you can see and feel and breathe is warm, wet meat. You try to claw at it, but the gouges elicit nothing but a soft, reverberating hum. You taste something awful as raw muscle snakes its way into your mouth. When you try to bite down, your jaw is pried open. You can feel a something flicker over your teeth. More twist past your ears, your eyes, you nose. Tendrils lace through your fingers as your wrists are immobilized, and they twist into thicker flesh, skin, digits. You see light again, before the monster's shadow falls over you.
You're pinned against a blanket of warm flesh. The thing wearing Francis's face looks down at you, grinning from ear to ear with tar-black eyes. It's not trying very hard anymore, with its face like that, with its white mock-clothing melting into patches of red.
"You found a reason to live," it notes, tilting its head. "If I kill it, will you try to kill me again?"
Something cold seeps into your heart.
"There's that look!"
Its voice is too chipper, too wrong. Its head snakes down, flesh stretching, and you feel its horrible face bury itself in your neck. Too many teeth scrape the flesh. Too many tongues lap the blood. Your neck feels numb. You try to kick, but your legs are enveloped in tendrils and teeth.
You hear a buzz, then another.
When you look up, it's grown a hand to hit the buttons. The door is closed. You don't glimpse any movement beyond the window.
"I don't like to share," it mumbles from somewhere. You think you feel a mouth near your hand voice the words. "Not food, or-"
Its laugh is a terrible, cacophonous thing. Too many voices from too many mouths in a discordant chorus, "I must have followed too closely, duped something I shouldn't have."
It smiles down at you with another head, another neck, another torso, sprouting, forming, arms reaching out-
"I think I like you."
Something pulls you upright. Too many arms and hands and limbs on its torso twist into two, each one cradling a side of your head.
"Will you let me-"
You spit.
It stares at you. The saliva on its cheek sinks into a mouth before smoothing back into skin. It looks at you with dark eyes and a flushed face-
Then dips its head. You can feel its smile cutting into you as it kisses you, or tries to. It only laughs when you bite it hard enough to leak a disgustingly pungent ooze into your mouth. Dozens of fingers tangle into your blood-matted hair. It distorts to hold you close, to press itself against you. You feel its heart beating in its fascimile of a chest. If you could just crush it-
The office door slams open.
Francis.
He's covered in blood himself. You hadn't noticed through the smears on the window. He's holding a broken, bloodied bottle, and a whole one that he throws-
It shatters against his doppleganger, flesh steaming and bubbling. You pull your hand free from the screaming flesh before any of it can spill onto you.
Drops of acid eat through the carpet.
You crawl away and stagger to your feet. You hear glass shatter. It glitters amidst the mass of teeth as a steady hand pulls you up. You're dragged to a corner and shoved behind a familiar figure.
"Francis. . .?"
"Sorry. They jumped me and got a piece."
You can see blood soaking through the bandages on his neck and arms. Your attention is drawn to the doppelganger when it twists into your friend, only tar-eyed.
It drops lumps of calloused, acid-eaten flesh to the ground. "I should have eaten you when I had the chance."
Francis brandishes the broken bottle. "Leave. Now."
"Or what?" It grins. "The D.D.D. aren't coming. If they were, they would have come ages ago."
He says nothing, only standing firm before you. The monster catches your gaze.
"How about a deal, Francis? Give me the doorman, and I'll let you live."
"What? "
"Don't worry, I won't kill your friend. Not for a while, anyway. . .I take the doorman, and I leave the building. How about it? Life for a life-"
"Or I kill you right here."
"Ooh, can you really, Mr. Milkman? You're looking pretty shaky over there."
It's right. He's sweating, pale. If he was attacked and got stitches, they must have torn open. He's losing blood.
Francis glances back at you. He looks sorry as he smiles.
"Run."
Before you can protest, he charges into his doppelganger. They tear into each other, blood spilling. The bottle falls and gets crushed, sending more shards onto the bloody floor. It's carnage.
Instead of the door, you aim for the gun. You load it with two bullets, and use one to shoot out the security window.
The noise makes the fighting figures freeze. The both turn to where you stand by the desk, where you hold the gun to your temple.
"One of you leave, or I'll shoot."
You're gambling on something you don't know. It might not want you dead now but it may not care enough. You hope whatever it copied of Francis cares enough.
The men rise. The doppel's mimicked the milkman exactly.
"Put that down," says the one on the left. "Please."
"You're being reckless," says the one on the right. "Think about this."
"I think. . . as long as one of you leave, I win. If I shut Francis here with me, I can close the shutter and call the D.D.D. If Francis leaves, he can call the D.D.D. and I'll keep the doppelganger here."
"You'll die if I leave," says the right.
"If you stay," snaps the left, before turning to you "I'm not leaving you here."
"If I call them now," you say. "The doppelganger could just kill us both out of spite since it would die anyway. This is. . .this is the best I can come up with. Sorry. So, out. With one of you."
"I'm not leaving you with that!"
"This is insane."
"Five," you say solemnly.
"Hey-"
"Four."
"Please, stop."
"Three."
"Leave!"
"Not without-"
"Two."
They both looked at you incredulously. You took a deep breath.
"O-"
Flesh wraps around the muzzle, aims it at the ground, and fires. You feel something like lips upon your hand, then the rest of the doppelganger streams out through broken glass of the security window and reforms into a smiling, dark-eyed stranger.
"Well played, doorman."
You promptly hit the emergency button and call the D.D.D. Afterwards, you slump to the floor, leaning against the desk.
Francis hurries over and pries the gun from your hand. "You. . . are an idiot, and a madman."
You smile. "Comes with the job."
He glowers at you and flicks your forehead.
"Ow," you say obediently, though the pain wasn't anything compared to the smarting scratches on your limbs.
Francis sits down beside you, and slings one human arm and its five fingers over your shoulder. "Never do that again."
"I wasn't really going to shoot myself in the head."
"Mhm."
"I was going to shoot my thigh, and threaten that I'd bleed out."
"Mhm."
"Have you turned into a cow?"
"Mhm." He leans his head against yours. His hair tickles your neck. "I'm glad you're alive."
You blink. You think of that thing masquerading as him. How you tried to kill it. "I'm glad too. That I can trust you."
"Trust me?"
"To not die to those things."
He huffs. "I'll die doing overtime, remember?"
"Right," you smile.
Five other fingers wind around your hand close to him. "Did it hurt you?"
"Scrapes. Scratches. My fault anyway. I let it in."
"Why?"
". . .I thought it killed you. I wanted to get back at it."
He squeezes your hand. "We don't have to follow each other into the grave."
"You should have left first then."
"That's different."
"How?"
"Different," he replies, stubborn.
You roll your eyes. The siren is sounding more and more like a lullaby. Agents will check in after seeing the broken glass, surely. . .
"Hey."
"Yeah?"
"May I kiss you?"
Your eyes flutter open. His pale cheeks seem tinted pink, even with the red emergency light taken into account.
"It's alright if you don't want to. That thing had my face when it-"
Your lips crash into his and he tenses before melting into it. It's warm and sweet and safe and you think your own face is pink when you pull away.
You beam, panting just a bit. "I think I can die happy now."
"Don't say that," he says, but he pulls you into his hold and tucks your head under his chin. You lean into him, smiling.
You almost hate the D.D.D. agents when they finally arrive, and you have to pull yourself away from him and his warmth.