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These so-called doppelgangers have no confirmed origin point as of now. Last Thursday, anonymous students at Inglemore High School in Kenmore, Washington claimed to have seen an identical copy of one of their teachers. They recounted that, upon approach, he displayed no recognition of his pupils, and instead exhibited a “weird, [atypical] look, like he was staring into space” and “wouldn’t respond” to the students. When pressed for further information, these individuals refused to—
The bus hisses to a stop, shuddering and sighing into place, and Tommy’s head snaps up from his phone when the girl in the seat across from him gathers her belongings and stands. Kenmore, he thinks as he slings his bag over his shoulder, glancing down at his phone. That’s close to here.
When he slides out of his seat and shuffles his way down the aisle, following the rest of his peers out of the bus at their stop, the whole vehicle sways and creaks. Tommy purses his lips, grabbing onto the handle as he descends the steep steps to the outside world. “Thanks,” he tosses over his shoulder to the bus driver, which is, promptly, ignored— a daily exchange, if one could call it that.
He steps down onto the cracking sidewalk and ignores the kid crying half a block down the street and the car with its windows cracked blasting rap music that sends vibrations through the ground under his feet. It’s not that cold, but it’s enough to make him pull his jacket a little tighter around himself, enough to make him walk a little faster and duck to the side when cars drive through puddles on the edge of the street. Some of them swerve to avoid the big ones— those are the cool people.
Tubbo says he’s stupid for not having a bigger coat— which, fair enough, but big coats, the quality ones, are expensive. He’d rather not put that kind of strain on Wilbur’s budget. Rent and bills and taxes and subscriptions (and school lunch fees and new shoes and groceries) all build up, and it’s not easy to allot enough money to every category each week.
Supposedly, Phil used to help out before he kicked the bucket. Wilbur always jokes about how his old ass could never figure out how to use Venmo. Most of what he remembers of his father are encouraging smiles and movie nights, though— eight-year-old Tommy wouldn’t have known anything about bills to pay nor overdue rent checks.
Sixteen-year-old Tommy sidesteps a puddle, glancing to the side when a Ford beeps from three lanes over at the tiny Toyota in front of it. The smell of burning rubber floats his way from a few streets over, and a timid breeze rushes past his head. It would be really nice to have his earbuds for his commute to and from school, but they finally went kaputz last week, and he’s been living in pain ever since, because Wilbur won’t let him borrow his.
Some woman with her eyes glued to her phone screen bumps into his shoulder, and Tommy rolls his eyes. People get all pissy at kids for using their phones while walking, but at least Tommy knows how to be aware of his surroundings while he does it. Wilbur always gives him shit, says he’ll walk into the street one day and get hit. Tommy disagrees, insisting that he’s a master at the craft.
In fact, he’ll prove it now— he slides his phone out of his pocket and works his bottom lip with his teeth, brow creasing as he thumbs through his contacts. Honestly, he doesn’t really talk to that many people. Would it hurt to shoot the group chat a message about the doppelganger thing?
Tommy returns to the article, glancing up when he comes to a crosswalk and pausing to wait for the light to turn red. He scrolls down the website, but there doesn’t seem to be much more on the subject— just a few interviews with people. There’s a barber from Milwaukee who said he cut the same person’s hair twice in one day, and then a thirty-something-year-old mother who claimed to have seen a carbon copy of her baby— that’s so stupid. All babies look the same, anyway.
The light turns red. Tommy picks up the pace, glancing up from his screen to hurry across the street. This can’t be a real threat, he decides. This has to be satire. Does NBC News do satire? Whatever— the Kenmore thing was just a coincidence. He dismisses the group chat entirely.
It doesn’t take him long to make it all the way home, finally, climbing up the rickety wooden staircase that leads him up to their very own Apartment 305. Wilbur asked about on-campus dorms for his college, but ultimately Tommy couldn’t live there— of course— so they’ve got this shitty, falling-apart flat instead. Tommy’s always the loose thread hanging off the end of the shirt, anyway, always the obstacle in those sorts of situations.
It’s fine. He sticks his key in the knob of the door, jiggling it to get it to work right, and blows his hair out of his eyes as he steps into the entryway. If Wilbur didn’t want him, he’d have left him on the street and fucked off to live at Bellevue Community College without him.
“Tommy?”
Speak of the devil. “Hey,” Tommy replies, kicking his shoes off, “I’m home,” and Wilbur pops his head around the corner to stare at him. There’s white shit in his hair, and dusted along his arms and torso; Tommy can only assume he’s bought a boxed cake mix. As soon as the smell of vanilla hits, it’s confirmed.
Wilbur has a thing for baking sometimes, but honestly, it only really comes out once a month, if even that. On occasion, he’s convinced he’s the new master chef. Usually, though, ordering takeout is much easier. At least he’s started early today.
“Hello!” his brother greets brightly, nodding back to the counter. “Come help me mix this. My arms are tired.”
“Right,” Tommy snorts, dropping his backpack off his shoulder and leaving it by the door with his Converse. Normally, Wilbur lets him fuck around alone in his room for a few hours between school and dinner, but he has his moments. The easiest thing to do is humor him. “What even is this?” he asks, pursing his lips as he pads around the corner in mismatched socks.
“Cake,” Wilbur answers happily. “Yellow cake. It’ll be good, just like you like it— if you help me.” The apartment is, unsurprisingly, chilly throughout (heating has never been anything spectacular), and the counter is a mess, covered in flour and a suspiciously unnamed clear liquid.
Tommy turns slowly to Wilbur, shooting him the dryest look he can muster. “Tell me there’s not alcohol in the cake,” he groans, and Wilbur gasps, pressing a hand to his chest.
“You rat— that’s oil! I don’t drink!”
“Liar,” Tommy shoots back, grabbing the spoon from out of the bowl. The mix clings to the silverware, and Tommy grimaces. “Thick batter.”
“Wow, I never would’ve guessed,” says Wilbur in that stupid, sing-song tone of his, and Tommy scoffs lightly.
“Fuck off. You need a new hobby.” Tommy picks the bowl up and swivels around, holding it to his chest and leaning on the counter. Wilbur’s phone wails out a tune from the corner, and Tommy’s eyebrows crease together. “What the hell is this?”
He thought it was the Beach Boys, but this— “She got them apple bottom jeans,” Wilbur sings along soulfully, adding a quick, “modern art.” Tommy blinks as the song keeps going. The oven ticks with heat behind him, preheated to 325, and something is playing on the TV in the living room— probably a commercial. Who can afford the ad-free versions of streaming services these days?
Right. A man that sounds suspiciously similar to the Beach Boys’ lead singer cries something about Reeboks from Wilbur’s iPhone, and he’s drawn back to the matter at hand. “What the fuck do you listen to when I’m not around?” he demands, gesturing to his brother’s phone.
“Apple bottom jeans,” Wilbur says innocently, and Tommy squints.
“Are you drunk?”
Wilbur reaches over to whack him in the arm, rolling his arms, and Tommy hopes he hasn’t gone too far. “Keep mixing, mixer boy,” his brother says as the song fades out, reaching up for two glasses. “I bought your juice. I’m gonna drink it all for myself if you don’t behave.”
“Ah,” says Tommy solemnly, working even more furiously in circles at the chunky batter. “Fine, dickhead, I guess that settles things.” This is serious. His brother wouldn’t dare drink all the Tropicana strawberry lemonade, even in the most dire of situations— they rarely buy it. That’s a low blow, even for Wilbur. Speaking of low: Low, low, shawty got, shawty got low—
“It’s on repeat?!”
—
Tommy’s fork scrapes across his plate as he shovels bites of freezer-meal pasta into his mouth, eyeing the cake cooling on the counter just a few feet away. Sure, packaged cheddar broccoli noodles are fine, but the yellow cake has a mouth-watering scent and it seems to bathe the whole flat in a warmth that the room never carries.
“We did good, I think,” Wilbur says when he catches Tommy looking. “That’s the best one we’ve made in a while.”
“You’ve made,” Tommy replies, swallowing and going in for a drink of water. It’s true; Wilbur was the one who did most of the work. He always is. Tommy is semi-banned from using the oven (on mostly anything that isn’t frozen pizza or chicken) and permanently banned from handling eggs (long story), so Wilbur assembled the ingredients and put it in the oven. The lack of a hand mixer is the only thing that gives Tommy a job to help with: mixer boy is his formal title in the kitchen.
Wilbur waves him off with a hand. “Bah,” he says, eyes twinkling, “you helped,” and something in the way his mouth curves up, the way his eyes tilt down, the dimple in his cheek and the glint on the rim of his glasses—
Something reminds him of the article, and Tommy is sufficiently distracted. “Sure, whatever— you wanna hear about this shit I found on NBC?”
“Oh, man,” Wilbur laughs tiredly, waving Tommy over, so the blond scoots his chair around the corner of the table to sit next to Wilbur (there’s not much distance to go). “You know I love to make fun of tabloids, Tommy. My one true weakness. What’s it about?”
“Apparently—” Tommy swipes the rest of his apps closed and thumbs through his history in search of the website he was on a few hours ago, on the bus— “these kids in Kenmore saw a doppaganger of their teacher. Like, an exact clone.”
“Doppel,” Wilbur corrects, “doppelganger,” and leans closer when Tommy finally gets the article up, forgetting his food for a second to read it. He mumbles parts of it out loud as he digests, and Tommy scrolls (Wilbur reads like the fucking Flash) until, finally, they near the end, and Wilbur straightens up, reaching for his water.
“So?” Tommy asks, visions swirling in his head, and Wilbur’s fingers twitch.
His brother lowers his glass, emitting an exhale once he gulps down the water. “Bullshit, all of it,” he replies gleefully, inclining his head. “Surely you don’t really believe all that crap, man?”
Tommy rolls his eyes. “Of course not. It’s about—” he glances down, skimming the paragraphs again and trying to find some way to better paraphrase. “Well, they go on and on about these guys and don’t even say what traits they have in common. I mean, come on,” Tommy says, gesturing with his fork and then stuffing more food into his mouth. “How’re we supposed to know when it’s one of the little alien fuckers?”
Wilbur laughs. “Has anyone ever shown you a real alien movie?” he teases, and Tommy grumbles, flipping him off. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Absolute child.”
“It is not my problem that you literally act like you’re a thousand years old,” Tommy groans, and Wilbur grins smugly.
“They don’t teach you about War of the Worlds in school, eh? Oh, mmph,” says Wilbur around a mouthful of food, interrupting himself and holding his hand in front of his mouth as he chews, “that reminds me, I meant to ask you when you first got home but then forgot before I could.”
Oh, this can’t be good. Tommy drags his feet across the creaky wood flooring under his wobbling chair and sinks into the old, half-rotting wood, holding his head in his hand. Today’s been a slow day— more Netflix than anything— so he’s not surprised that something’s going wrong right at the end. It was bound to happen. “Yeah?” he finally replies, sitting up straighter and raising an eyebrow and trying (and failing) not to jump to conclusions.
But he’s right (he always is): “I checked your grades the other day,” Wilbur says, finally swallowing the pasta he was working on and meeting Tommy’s gaze.
Crestfallen, the blond glances away quickly, face heating as he stares into his plate. “Check your own grades,” he mumbles, scooping more cheesy pasta into his mouth to avoid snapping back with something he’ll regret. It’s not that he doesn’t like Wilbur looking out for him; it’s just that, over the past few months, Wilbur’s been on a sort of kick that Tommy can’t fathom. Don’t turn out like me, he warns upon every little mistake. Don’t be like me, Tommy. You’re so much more than me. You can do so much better. I know you can.
He’s pretty sure it’s supposed to be motivational, and sure, it’s half-nice, but the problem in and of itself: Tommy would kill to be like Wilbur. Tommy would kill to be as kind, as talented, as intelligent, as friendly. It doesn’t matter if Wilbur’s in community college and work and can’t always be home— if Wilbur struggles with alcohol from time to time— if they go without electric for a month and Tommy has to charge his phone at Tubbo’s sometimes because Wilbur can’t work enough hours—
Wilbur’s still the wittiest person Tommy’s ever known. He’s still the most musically talented, the most loving, most caring man in Tommy’s life. Wilbur still has dozens and dozens of friends, seeping between the cracks of Bellevue and popping their faces out of storefronts to say hi. Wilbur still performs every first Saturday of the month at the coffeehouse two streets over and swears up and down that they’d get a dog if the landlord wasn’t a bitch and takes care of Tommy if he’s sick (even if Wilbur’s got it, too).
And Tommy is… Tommy. Tommy’s stuck in his own little universe with his two (almost three) friends and his CDDCCDFC report card and his wretched, crooked frog-ass voice that can’t hold a tune to save his own life. Tommy’s bitter inside and out, can’t pull his own head out of his ass long enough to look around him, can’t just turn off the swear words when there are little kids around, can’t sit still through a movie or a lecture or a class and can’t find any new friends in the corners that actually like him.
A sigh is pulled from his chest, and with a shiver, he returns to the dinner table, cheesy pasta hanging off of his fork and waiting to make it to his mouth. Something is off about tonight, he thinks. It’s gross. He feels gross. “So,” he says quietly, feet scuffing against the fake linoleum wood, and waits for Wilbur to knock his tower down. “What about them.”
Wilbur purses his lips, rubbing his forehead with a hand. “An F in chemistry, Tommy,” he sighs, and Tommy’s feet stop scuffing, and he sets his fork down against his plate, the appetite draining away fast from his body. Wilbur stares at him with loving disappointment, so bitter and clashing against a face that is so normally encouraging, and under his gaze, Tommy shrinks to the size of an ant. “Did you ever talk to the teacher about your missing assignments?”
Tommy thinks back to the glaring red Missing labels scattered across the assignments in his honors chemistry Google classroom, staring at him and taunting him and daring him to make a move. School is a game of chess— except it’s played in a giant, shaking room, the ceiling crumbling all around him, and his opponent is not one person but eight teachers, and the pieces lash out if he gets too close.
And on top of it all, Tommy doesn’t know the rules to chess.
“No,” he says, sinking down into his seat. Eventually, his spine curves, and he leans over and places his forehead against the cool cherrywood, each breath a sigh that sucks the life out of him. This is the millionth conversation about grades that they’ve had, and each one ends in a fight or that spacey feeling Tommy gets when he can’t figure out how to place one foot in front of the other.
“And what about literature, Tommy, hm? You’ve got an overdue essay?”
“Overdue essay,” Tommy echoes weakly, “yep,” and the world spins in circles around him, and the pawn moves to a6 while the bishop remains completely still, and the rook thoroughly examines the knight from across the board, and the king and queen stay safely hidden behind a row of pristinely arranged pawns.
Wilbur’s speaking, but it’s going in one ear and out the other. It’s about responsibility, and it’s about maturity, and it’s about accountability, and those are the parts of chess that he can’t even begin to understand. Those are the intricacies, the strategies of the game that he’ll never be able to even consider using before he learns the rules— and even that’s a long shot away.
Wilbur mentions money, and mentions scholarships, and mentions college, and jobs, and resumes, and applications, and they blur together in Tommy’s brain enough for him to lift his head off the table and silence Wilbur with the sharpest stare he can muster, shoving himself back from the table so the silverware rattles at the same time.
“Can’t you see me?” he asks, examining Wilbur’s face— his split features, wide eyes and parted lips in shock, as Tommy interrupts. “You’ve been looking at me for sixteen years, and you still can’t see me.” He grits his teeth, seething with a rage that he is almost certain does not have any place in chess.
“Tommy,” Wilbur falters, “I know this must be hard for you, but I need you to listen to—”
Tommy stands abruptly, chair skidding back even further and tapping the wall. Half of his food is still sitting on his plate, and he’s barely touched his Tropicana strawberry lemonade, but Tommy’s done eating, and done sitting around, and done with Wilbur’s lectures. “Go on,” he says, “preach to me, then, Wil. Tell me what I’m doing wrong over and over again. Tell me how to be better than you.” And the apartment is silent aside from the low hum of the heater that doesn’t work.
It’s cold again. The cake does nothing to help anymore. Wilbur does not speak. “Right. You always say you know what’s best for me— but you— you don’t even know what’s best for yourself, Wil. If you can’t be better than you, how are you supposed to teach me to be better than you?” His chest rattles with preliminary regret, but Tommy doesn’t stop; it all pours out in a hurricane of a word vomit. “My grades are my grades. If I fail a semester, I fucking fail a semester. Right? I’ll just— I don’t know— take summer school. I don’t understand your fucking obsession with me being better than you, man.”
His older brother is slumped in defeat at the table, rubbing his face in dismay. “It was never my intention to push added stress onto you, Tommy,” he finally says, quietly. He does not say that he wants Tommy to be better than him. He does not say he knows Tommy has more potential than him. In fact, he looks far away; he looks like he’s struggling to catch up with what Tommy’s laying on the table. “I’m trying to help you,” his brother says, and Tommy’s face morphs into a scowl.
“Well you’re not. You’re not helping.” Tommy almost feels mean for being so sharp, but it’s been too long to keep sitting in silence and taking it. Chess is stupid. Knights and rooks and bishops and everything in between are stupid. He’s tired of being in play. He just wants to be knocked out already. “I’m not some doll you can use to live out your fucking fantasies as a successful entrepreneur, Wilbur,” he spits. “I’m not you, and I’m not your glorified, almighty protégé. It didn’t just fuck you over when Dad died, alright? I— god, you— it’s like you don’t get how selfish you’re being!” Tommy slams a hand down on the table, and the silverware jumps again, rattling across the wood and glinting under the dim, flickering overhead light.
Wilbur has accepted defeat. As soon as the conversation started, Wilbur accepted defeat, and nothing changes that now. His head is bowed, and he stares at Tommy like a kicked puppy, each breath seeming to pain him more than the last. “I’m sorry, Tommy,” he offers, even after Tommy walked all over him. “I’m glad you told me, if it counts for anything. I’m glad you communicated.” Finally. It feels good to have Wilbur retreat instead of fighting back. It feels good to have him listen. It feels odd to have him secede instead of standing himself to match Tommy’s energy.
So he puts the cherry on top. “Yeah. You should be sorry.” That’s his final stand, his finishing touches; after that, he storms past Wilbur and to his room. When he’s already made it halfway across their tiny living room, his brother calls for him.
“Tommy— you didn’t want any cake?” A pause, and he hears his brother swallow. “To finish your dinner?”
It stabs him right in the chest. Fuck you. When Tommy reaches his bedroom, he flings the door open and then slams it shut as a message: eat it all yourself, why don’t you.
Finally, he collapses onto his bed, lungs heaving with a surplus of emotion he doesn’t want to deal with. It swarms him anyway, leaking out the soft rise and fall of his chest and the fetal position he curls into when he knows the world is aching right along with him.
There was no saving that conversation. He shouldn’t have sworn at Wilbur, shouldn’t have cursed him out, shouldn’t have acted so brashly. It’s a tough thing for Tommy, to be pissed off at Wilbur. He holds other grudges for weeks and months, and he can stay mad at the same person for hours when given the chance, but Wilbur is… different. Not to mention Wilbur’s the one who makes the money, buys him things, cooks him dinners, and everything in between. Maybe he should be more grateful.
Tommy’s been trying to get a job. It’s hard. He doesn’t want one, but life doesn’t hand everyone piles of pretty pennies on a silver platter. They just weren’t the lucky ones.
Wilbur shuffles around in the kitchen, and Tommy hears the microwave open and close from where he’s lying face down in his bed. It doesn’t start running, though. Wilbur probably put Tommy’s food there in case he decides to come back for it (he won’t). Dishes clink together, and the fridge is opened and closed, and then that’s it. The TV runs all the while in the background, a Disney-esque laugh track playing in the background. Fitting. It is funny, the hole he has dug for himself.
He almost wants to get up and apologize, but half of him still has steam pouring from his ears, and the other half is melting into his bed with shame. Wilbur didn’t deserve to be yelled at. Tommy doesn’t deserve to be scrutinized once a week. He was bound to crack under pressure, right? Or is he too easily shaken? Is he too quick to anger?
Whatever. If he runs back out now, he’ll look like an idiot, and he’ll look like he’s taking it all back— which he’s not. A surge of hot anger courses through his veins: he doesn’t deserve to be picked apart and set on a pedestal and forced to be something better than Wilbur ever was all of the time.
He was right in that regard, but the hurt, confused look on Wilbur’s face through it all was the worst part about it. Wilbur isn’t usually one to sit back and allow Tommy to rant. Wilbur is strongly outspoken, and he’s always made it clear that just because he’s his brother and not his dad doesn’t mean he can be walked over.
But at the same time, he seemed to know he was wrong. The mix of pity and guilt on Wilbur’s face said it all: he knew what he did, and he knew why Tommy chewed him out for it, and he knew that he made mistakes.
The minutes begin to pass. Tommy sits up, composing himself and then curling up in the corner of his too-small twin mattress to play Tetris. He’d consider calling Tubbo to take a crack at Minecraft if the entire flat wasn’t deadly silent and thick with tension. Tonight’s not the night.
He beats his old high score after a long while of grueling Tetris and then wastes his hours on YouTube for another hour or two, protected by his mounds of blankets. Finally, though, at half past ten, he swipes over to Google’s trending news tabs. It’s not that he wants to depress himself even more after an argument with his older brother— he’d hate to stick himself even further down the misery pit— but something draws him to it, the ghost of a hand wrapping around his own and dragging it across to scroll through the top stories.
There are news stories about humanitarian crises in third world countries, stories about football games, an article about a crazy strong rescue dog—
And then he sees it, that word he’s been subconsciously searching for this entire time. Doppelganger. Tommy taps the link instantly, shifting to sink more comfortably into his sheets as he scans the page hungrily for any information. Wilbur said it was bullshit, but Tommy views it sort of like… ghosts, or aliens, or gods. It could be real, but there isn’t any convincing proof either way yet. His eyes draw in the headline, the pictures, the beginning of the article:
United States Riddled With Clone-Like “Beings”
As early as one week ago, witnesses began to come forth claiming to have seen exact clones of their close friends and family. This phenomenon already seems to have spread to many major cities in the United States and their suburbs in between, such as New York City, Chicago, Seattle, San Francisco, Baltimore, and more. Information about these subjects is hard to find, but after a woman was attacked and injured in a Costco by one of these clones–
Tommy’s eyes widen. A woman was attacked? Quickly, his eyes flit to the top of the page to figure out when it was posted— and the timestamp is from less than an hour ago. It’s recent, which means that people all over must be talking about it.
That’s when he begins his search. First, he spreads to other news websites, searching with keywords clone and doppelganger (and even aliens, just to be safe). Hundreds of articles pop up, each from sometime this evening. While he was fighting with Wilbur and winning at Tetris and watching video game playthroughs, the world has been hard at work trying to knock on his brain and tell him— there are more. There are more clones, and they are real.
Twitter, TikTok, Reddit, Instagram, Snapchat— his next course of action is to surf social media apps in desperate search of people just as invested (worried?) as him. It takes a few minutes, but then he finds them— stories on Snapchat and Instagram, threads on Twitter, posts under a subreddit just called “r/news,” and freshly trending TikTok videos with #clone and #apocalypse tags.
It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad, right? There’s no way it’s that bad. It’s not real. It’s a prank, maybe, or a government-orchestrated training system. Surely it isn’t real. But the website said Seattle, and his heart is rattling in his chest, his stomach a little too quivery and his limbs a bit too heavy. It’s not real, he tells himself, closing his eyes, but when he embraces the dark behind his eyelids, eyes stare back at him.
Tommy’s eyes shoot open, and he bites down on his tongue and then closes everything he has open except for YouTube. Don’t think about it. It’s not real. It’ll make it worse thinking about it, and there’s no way something like that could ever happen, anyway. It’s probably a hoax— he won’t be surprised if it dies down before the week is up. He curls further against his bed frame and tries to calm his racing pulse, sending a quick text to the group chat with a link just to make sure— have u guys heard about this stuff?— and then pulls up YouTube, shaking his head to clear it.
His ears pop the next time he swallows, and then he makes out Wilbur’s footsteps in the carpet, heading for his bedroom. It’s the only noise in the house. The door opens and closes, and Wilbur’s bed creaks sadly. Tommy tries to ignore it, staring hard at his screen, but a knock against his wall pulls him directly from his fantasies. Two, actually— two knocks. That’s part of the system.
Since Wilbur and Tommy moved to Bellevue, in an apartment where the bedrooms share a wall, they’ve developed a system of communication, either for when they’re too lazy to yell through the wall or too unsure whether the other would get mad at them for it. One knock means shut the hell up, you’re too loud, and three knocks means are you okay, to which the other (usually Tommy) responds one for yes and two for no.
But an initial two knocks on the wall— that means do you want to come in here?
It would be easy to get up, drag his blanket with him, and curl up on the end of Wilbur’s bed or in his stupid little desk chair. It would be easy to go in and apologize and drag his feet against the ground and tell Wilbur that he’s still nervous about the clones, even if it’s all fake bullshit that the world made up for the exact purpose of scaring him. It would be easy to move, easy to say sorry, easy to confess—
But at the same time, it’s a mountain that he can’t climb, not right now.
Tommy rolls over, clicks on a video about restoring an old Nintendo console, and never knocks back.
—
It is dead silent.
When Tommy props himself up on his elbows and pulls his head off of his pillow, sheets kicked off of his torso and tangled around his legs, it is pitch black in his bedroom. It’s incredibly disorienting to wake up in the middle of the night, especially with a feeling like the one Tommy has in his gut right now— a tap of his phone screen tells him that it’s half past two in the morning, and something doesn’t feel right.
He didn’t fall asleep with the lights off, which means Wilbur must have gotten up and turned them off for him. Tommy pauses, trying to let his eyes adjust to the low light and pulling himself up to sit. He rubs at his face, yawning and stretching, before the thoughts start to tumble through his head.
The clones. The doppelgangers. He shivers, staring at his bedroom door. Even though he’s given himself plenty of time, it doesn’t seem like things are getting any better. The dark is dark— nothing is changing. Pursing his lips, Tommy swallows and crosses his arms over his chest, stomach rolling with anxiety.
There’s no way, he decides, that he’s going to get back to sleep. Repeatedly, his gaze is drawn to his bedroom door, for fear that something will come through that he was never meant to see. Antsy, he reaches forward and pulls his blankets over his legs, trying to determine whether or not he feels nauseous.
He should check his messages. Tubbo and Ranboo have surely replied by now. Even so, flipping his phone over and unlocking it results in nothing. His notification center is empty. He swipes over to his messages, opening the group chat.
Not delivered, says the text, with a little red exclamation point. Tommy frowns. They still have wifi. He could have sworn his text was sent earlier. Maybe he just wasn’t paying enough attention. He thumbs out another message, something about waking up, and hits send. This time, it’s the same thing, but faster: not delivered, says the screen, and Tommy swallows.
It’s not like this has never happened before. It just sucks that it’s right now, when he’s alone.
Whatever. Tommy kicks his blankets off and pauses, eyes wide. Something’s making noise. He stops, straining to listen, and realizes that the television is on in the living room. A stiff, informative voice is murmuring something from the screen, and Tommy can hear it seeping under the cracks of his door, though he can’t make out quite what they’re saying. It sounds like the news. Wilbur hates the news; Tommy wonders why he’d put it on before he went to bed.
He doesn’t like it. It’s cold, and he feels bare. It’s a few seconds before he slides off his bed, sock feet meeting the carpet as he stands. Normally he’d be pissed and uncomfortable at falling asleep with his socks on, because no normal person does that, but it’s chilly. The heating is still shitty. He’ll leave them on for now.
Tommy moves forward, clutching his phone, and stops to think, standing in the middle of his pitch black room. He should… do something. Get a drink, take a piss, read more news articles. No, maybe not the third— maybe a bad idea. He feels a little on edge already, in the dark and without working service. He doesn’t like the idea of freaking himself out even more with articles that will convince him of his own impending doom.
But he won’t be able to fall asleep with reruns of news anchors dancing around the apartment, so Tommy makes his decision: he’ll come out, grab a drink, and turn the TV off before he goes back to bed. He hesitates, but convinces himself it’s a foolproof plan. As one last form of protection, Tommy drags his blanket off his bed, wrapping it around his shoulders as he steps forward and flicks his light switch on.
Nothing happens.
Blinking, Tommy wraps one hand in the fabric of his blanket and uses the other to flick the switch, down and up and down again. He waits for a few seconds, feeling nausea stewing in his gut, and then carefully pushes the light switch back up. Still, his room remains the same as it is, bathed in moonlight.
He brushes it off— Wilbur hasn’t paid the electricity bill— and then the news anchor says something again, and Tommy’s eyes are drawn to where his bedroom door sits, eyes wide as he clocks what exactly is so wrong about the situation.
The TV is on. If there’s no electricity, the TV can’t be on.
Oh my god, you fucking pussy. Tommy shakes his arms out, brow furrowing. His bulb is just out. Wilbur buys cheap fucking lightbulbs, and they burn out faster than the devil. Tommy’s freaking himself out for no reason. His light’s out. The power’s just fine, everything’s fine, Wilbur didn’t lie about being caught up with the bills, and the TV— he’ll go turn it off in a second.
In fact, Tommy’s so convinced everything’s fine that he wraps a hand around his doorknob, clenches his jaw, and pulls his bedroom door wide open.
Cold air hits him first— really cold air, which makes Tommy doubt Wilbur’s dependability again, because surely, the heating is better than this, at least. Tommy shivers, pulling his blanket further around his shoulders like a little kid, and stares absently into the rest of his apartment, which seems darker than usual. Then he shakes it off, frustrated with himself; it’s just as dark as it always is. There’s no reason to get all antsy about it.
It feels like there’s a weight pushing on his body, begging him not to leave his room, but Tommy’s having none of it. He takes one step out into the open, eyes drawn to the light reflecting on the wall from the television before they sweep to the opposite side, locking on the pixels that make up a woman with a microphone.
Intrigued, Tommy lets his curiosity pull him the rest of the way into the living room. His throat is parched, so he lets the blanket slide off his shoulders and onto the couch so he can duck into the kitchen, though he turns to keep his eyes trained on the television as he goes. Tommy grabs a cup from the cabinet overhead, tuning in to what the lady in the suit is saying to the camera.
“...have been mass reports of dangerous human-like entities, described by some victims as reminiscent of uncanny valley, that roam the streets. Police and officials alike have deemed these beings as Alternates. It is possible for them to impersonate the appearance and body language of humans down to a T. Some Alternates will appear human, but will have unnatural proportions or—” She cuts off, and the camera cuts in and out, static rippling through the screen, which sends a jolt running down Tommy’s spine.
All the while, his heart pounds in his chest. The woman sounds rushed. Reporters are clear and calculated and clean-cut, and this woman sounds… perhaps frantic would describe it best. The red live icon flickers in the top corner of the screen, and Tommy’s eyes widen; this isn’t a rerun. This is happening now. He didn’t even know reports were made this late.
Before Tommy can think too much about it, she’s back in full view, and he flicks the sink on to fill his cup as he listens, ignoring a slight tremor that infiltrates his next breath. “Anyone living in or around highly populated cities is strongly advised to lock all doors and windows, keep curtains shut, and avoid opening the door for any reason or purpose until more information is available. Avoid unnecessary trips out of your home. Avoid interactions with unfamiliar faces, and be certain that family members and friends are feeling healthy and acting like themselves. Under no circumstances should you interact with an Alternate. If you notice discrepancies in loved ones’ behaviors, it is imperative that you—”
Water spills over the edge of his cup and all over his hand, and Tommy jumps, whirling around to see that he’s neglected to pay proper attention to what he’s doing. He pulls it quickly from under the tap, droplets running down his arm, and reaches forward to shut the water off. A shaky inhale, and he’s just fine. Wilbur said it was fake. Wilbur said it wasn’t real.
But if this were a prank, a widespread hoax, would it really be on the news?
Tommy lifts his water to his mouth, moving to the side for the towel that hangs on the handle of the oven. He pulls it off and wipes his arm down, and he’s fine, and everything is okay, and he’s just going to turn the TV off and go back to sleep—
Static crackles, and then someone outside honks in the street, and Tommy drops the cup of water, startling and inhaling sharply. It clatters against the floor, and he freezes. Water is pooling across the linoleum, and the reporter still issues sharp directions from the screen, but that’s not the issue. That’s not the problem.
His eyes are glued to the open kitchen window in front of him, sending swirling gusts of cold air into the kitchen and floating throughout the apartment.
It’s freezing. The window is open. The window shouldn’t be open. It’s cold outside, there’s no reason for the window to be open, it shouldn’t be open, she said lock the doors and windows and something could have gotten inside and everything is going wrong and Tommy’s hands shake as he reaches forward to slam the window shut, shove it closed and turn the handle so that it’s locked, safely locked, and then it’s fine.
The window is shut. He’s safe.
Heaving breaths, Tommy glances down at the mess at his feet, the giant puddle in his kitchen, and closes his eyes, trying to gather himself. It’s fine. He’s fine. Wilbur’s in his room, sleeping peacefully, and if Tommy gets any louder, he’s surely going to wake his brother up. After the fight they had earlier, that would be a shitty idea. He still loves his brother.
Tommy swallows, crouching slowly to mop up the water with a towel. The silence in the apartment makes his ears ring. Water soaks through the fabric of the towel, and Tommy folds it over itself so he doesn’t have to get his skin wet again, though now it’s seeping through his socks, too.
Tommy pauses. Silence makes his ears ring. Just a second ago, the television was on. He draws in a short breath, wide eyes glued to the tiles on the kitchen floor in front of him. With his back turned to the living room, he is vulnerable. Without a corner to hide in, he is vulnerable. His blanket is still draped over the edge of the couch where he left it. He is alone. Just a second ago the television was on.
Just a second ago it was on. One second. Just one.
Tommy’s hand shakes. Both of them do.
He’s cold. His feet are cold. Shivering, he steels himself, pressing his hands to his thighs. This is stupid. He’s all worked up over something stupid, and worthless, and meaningless, and he’s fine, and Wilbur is fucking sleeping so he has to be quiet. Wilbur is… Tommy pulls the towel to his chest, heart pounding. Wilbur is asleep. Tommy lifts himself off the floor, the mess only half cleaned, the damp towel gripped with white knuckles. Wilbur’s sleeping. Wilbur is sleeping and if he doesn’t want to wake him up—
Tommy whirls around, wide eyes locking onto the television, and Wilbur’s face stares back at him from the screen.
A scream tears from his throat, and Tommy feels the breath leave him, stumbling back. He hits the counter and slides down, gasping sharply, and Wilbur’s eyes follow him the entire time. Wilbur’s face is the reporter’s face, grim and dark and serious until it smiles, he smiles, Wilbur smiles. Tommy claps a hand over his mouth, and he cannot breathe.
His eyes are stuck to Wilbur’s, the queen on the board with the black and white checkered board. He is the lone, scrawny bishop, and Wilbur watches him with such wide, welcoming, loving eyes. Wilbur’s eyes are brown. He loves brown. Brown like autumn leaves and the earthy brown of dirt in the cracks between the sidewalk. He loves brown.
Tommy blinks, and his brother is gone.
“Holy shit,” he whispers, half to be sure his voice still works and half to be sure his ears still work. The words tremble violently on their way out, just the two of them hanging in the stagnant air. Tommy brings a hand to his chest, and it is heaving, up and down and up and down, until he can breathe again. Until it’s fine.
He must be sick.
Tommy scrambles for the towel, shifting to his hands and knees and fervently soaking up all the water on the floor. The reporter lady on the television drones on, now calmer, about calling the police about strange noises, and Tommy lets out a breath of relief, phantom aches rolling through his limbs.
He’s ill. He can feel it, the heat in his flushed face and the nausea in his stomach. He can’t believe he got so sick that he’s seeing things. He can’t believe he’s so sick that he hallucinated and scared himself shitless. Tommy stops, jaw agape for a moment— he’s never hallucinated in his life!
Maybe he should get Wilbur. Maybe he should wake Wilbur up, ask for medicine. Ask for anything. Just a hug and a smile would do. A smile to make sure Tommy still knows what it proper looks like.
For a moment, he entertains the tempting thought as he stands, spine prickling, with his wet towel. He moves to wring it out in the sink and thinks, considers, comes to a firm conclusion. No, no, no. Wilbur’s asleep. Wilbur is sleeping. Wilbur is not awake. He can’t wake Wilbur. He shouldn’t. Wilbur is sleeping. He wouldn’t like to be awoken.
Tommy stops. The towel drips into the sink.
The apartment is silent.
Something whispers, “Tommy,” and the world descends into madness.
Tommy drops the towel into the sink, turning tail and sprinting into the living room, manic. His feet pound against the floor, but he doesn’t care if he wakes anyone else in the building up, he doesn’t care if he wakes his neighbors up, as long as it’s not Wilbur, as long as Wilbur’s not up, because brown eyes stare from the screen again and his lips move and Tommy can’t breathe. Tommy can’t breathe. He’s forgotten how.
Wilbur watches him sprint across the living room with a smile too wide for his face and Tommy ducks behind the couch and retches, silently. His body convulses, the edges of his chest pressing to his ribs in emptiness, and Tommy mourns the lack of nutrients in his body, hit with hunger from the dinner he didn’t finish. He coughs up nothing but saliva and bile into the carpet, and he breathes, and “Tommy!”
He yelps. That’s it. That’s enough. Tommy leaps up and vaults over the couch and refuses to make eye contact until he is making eye contact and he’s frozen, where he was running for the remote that is just beyond his reach but now he is frozen, and they’re having a staring contest, and Wilbur smiles so so widely, loving him.
And Tommy loves Wilbur back. And Wilbur’s head is the reporter’s head, and his eyes are not too big for his face, and his smile does not stretch too far, and his face isn’t bleeding, melting, his gums aren’t visible, Tommy can’t see the distortion and the tears that pool in his eyes, can’t hear the crescendo of the static in his ears, can’t feel whatever he has picked up—
Silence. The apartment is silent.
Tommy’s quaking hand is wrapped around the remote, outstretched arm pointing directly at the television. His index finger presses so hard into the power button that his skin is turning white.
All at once, he releases, the remote slipping from his grasp and thudding gently against the carpet. Tommy stands, mouth open, shaking breaths heaving out of his body, and the TV is off now. And he’s safe. And he…
Looks towards Wilbur’s bedroom door, cracked open slightly. Just barely ajar. Wilbur sleeps with his door open for “air flow,” or so he says; Tommy doesn’t know how he can stand it. It’s always been like that, though. Wilbur sleeps with his door open. The apartment never gets good air conditioning, or heating, and… Wilbur complains about it constantly, and sleeps with his door open. So it’s normal.
Shrouded in darkness, Tommy pulls the blanket off the edge of the couch, wrapping it around his shoulders and swallowing the lump in his throat. He’s okay. He’s alright. He’s had water, and everything is locked, and he’s okay. His eyes stick to the void past Wilbur’s door, the abyss, the dark chasm that is his brother’s room, and he remembers to close his mouth, wiping spit from his face.
You’ll catch flies, Wilbur’s voice says so loudly in his head that Tommy jumps, and something moves past Wilbur’s bedroom door, so quickly and so dimly he’s not sure it even happened, and he squints, and he can’t see it, and he can’t make it out, and he looks to the kitchen, and the window is open.
The window is open.
The window is open.
Tommy sprints around the corner to the bathroom and slams the door behind him.
A wail leaves him, and Tommy fumbles with the handle, yanking at his blanket, which is now caught in the door from when it swung shut. Entire body trembling, Tommy yanks it so hard it rips and comes away in his hands, a sob wracking his shoulders as he locks the door frantically. Stumbling back, he collides with something and wails again, and he whirls around, and it’s… just the edge of the tub.
It’s just the tub, he’s okay. He’s fine. No, he’s not safe, but right now, he’s okay, he’s alright, he looks to the mirror to cheer himself up because he knows he looks stupid and right there is Wilbur it’s Wilbur Wilbur’s face stares back at him eyes too wide mouth too long his teeth are so bright and Wilbur’s a drinker Wilbur’s teeth are yellow but in the mirror, the mirror doesn’t lie, the mirror says he’s Wilbur and Wilbur is him and a hand presses against the glass and it opens its mouth and Tommy shrieks at the top of his lungs, spasming, his fist connecting with glass that crunches under his blow.
The mirror shatters, jagged and deafening. Blood beads in stripes across his knuckles, and Tommy cuts his own shrill scream off with a gasp, and Wilbur’s gone. All that is left of the mirror are fragments of his face. He can see one of his eyes in three, four, five different pieces of the mirror. Blue eye. It isn’t brown.
Horrified, Tommy glances down, tears streaking down his face, at the bloody mess his right hand has become. It hurts to flex it, but he does it anyway, pulling his blanket tighter around his shoulders. It stings like a bitch to wrap his hand in fabric, blood slowly soaking into the material, but he does it anyway, gritting his teeth and suppressing a sob. He is not safe in this apartment. He is not safe in this bathroom, but there is no window, no way of escape, and he can’t go back out there, oh, no, he can’t. He can’t do it.
Tommy begins to pace, blood trickling down to the floor in harmless little droplets, and he shakes all over, feeling the nausea come back in his stomach. He shakes all over, leaning against the wall. He is the bishop and this is his fate. This is the chess board, and he is the bishop in the corner, and the rook and the knight and the pawn are closing in. The queen stares him down from across the board with her cheshire smile and all Tommy can do is watch as she approaches, held back from any productive movement by the army surrounding him. He is the lone, gangly, scrawny bishop, and the queen moves rapidly towards him.
Tommy wants so badly to close his eyes, to go back to sleep, to wake up from this nightmare of an evening and find out that everything’s okay in the real world and Wilbur was right, and it’s all fake fearmongering bullshit, and he’s fine. And there are no faces in television screens or mirrors or…
His hand gravitates to his pocket. Quivering, he hovers, trying to force himself to carry through, but he can’t. He can’t do this. Wilbur is supposed to be sleeping, in his room, just past the bathroom, on the right side of the hallway, he’s sleeping. Oh, he’s sleeping away, blissfully unaware of Tommy’s plight. Of Tommy’s hand in his pocket. Of the blood in his pocket.
He pulls his phone out slowly, carefully, already aware of what he’s going to find when he looks, nausea building in his stomach and bile surfacing in his throat. He has to. He has to look down.
Tommy swallows. Tommy looks.
And then everything is happening all at once. His brother’s eyes roll back into his head on his phone screen, the smile still stuck above everything else. His lips move, and Tommy forgets to breathe, struggling to make out what he’s saying as his face falls apart, melting like wax—
“Tommy!” someone screams, banging on the door, and Tommy screams back, wordless, loud and long and tapering off with two desperate sobs.
“No, no, no, no,” he wails, scrambling back, “no, get away, please, please,” and his phone stares at him, smiling and laughing as the banging on the door increases in volume and speed, and frantically, Tommy wheels backwards, one hand wrapping in the shower curtain. Finally, he knows true fear. He is losing. He is petrified. He is not safe.
Screen Wilbur laughs, and the door handle jiggles violently, and Tommy’s body convulses when he jumps this time. His arm swings, against his will, and the phone leaves his hand and bounces against the door, landing face up on the ground below, and Tommy screeches, shaking his head, and the world spins, and he wheels backwards, and he steps on his blanket, and the glass digs into his skin, and he trips, and the world spins, and he goes down, and the world spins, and he’s in the tub, and he can’t breathe, and he’s hyperventilating, and the blood is on the walls and it’s filling up the tub and he’s clawing at his face his eyes they’re blue not brown they’re blue not brown the banging won’t stop Wilbur flickers on his phone it lies face up on the ground the static grows louder he’s in the tub the world is spinning and spinning and all he sees is his brother’s loving blinding white smile.
Wilbur Soot finally bursts into the room, a horrified look on his face, and Tommy squeezes his eyes shut tightly, and throws his arms over his vulnerable, trembling body, and shrieks over and over again and again so hard he can’t hear anything else, rubbing his throat completely raw.
“Oh, Tommy, Tommy, hey, buddy, hey, hey,” it soothes, and a hand is on his shoulder, and he flinches, violently— but it does not leave, not until he’s being gathered up, pulled out of the tub. Tommy can barely do anything but comply so he doesn’t get hurt, eyes still screwed shut as he scrabbles against the edge of the tub and back onto the tiled floor. “Oh, Tommy. Tommy, you’re okay. It’s okay. You’re okay.”
His brother presses a hand into his back, and then Tommy’s forehead is pressed into a shoulder, and he’s a heap on the floor. He’s a sobbing heap on the floor, tears rolling rapidly down his cheeks and blood smeared across his skin and his clothes, and he opens his eyes, and the ripped piece of his blanket is on the floor, and his cracked phone is in sleep mode on the floor, and the apartment behind them is full of nothing but dark abyss. And he’s okay. And things are okay. And he’s just sick, but in the abyss, he swears he sees something move—
With a terrified heave, Tommy scrambles back, pulling away from Wilbur so he doesn’t have to look past him into the dark, and there is his brother’s face, sad and worried and wildly confused. “Tommy? Are you with me? Are you okay?” he questions instantly, and Tommy wants to say no, please help me, please, but Wilbur is supposed to be asleep, in his bed, Wilbur is supposed to be sleeping.
Terrified, Tommy inspects his brother’s face. There is no stretching smile. There is no wild glint in his eyes. It’s just Wilbur. It’s all Wilbur. It’s his brother, on his knees on the bathroom floor, with his arms still wrapped halfway around Tommy. It’s just Wilbur. He really is okay.
The blond heaves another breath, and opens and closes his mouth. After seconds of desperate attempts, all he gets out is a weak, whimpery, “I’m sick.” Thankfully, it’s all it takes for Wilbur to pull his head against his chest again. It’s all it takes. Tommy breathes, open-mouthed, with his face pressed into Wilbur’s night shirt, which smells like dryer sheets and cigarette smoke.
“Poor thing,” Wilbur mumbles, stroking his hair, “you don’t feel good?” and all Tommy can do is whine, wetting Wilbur’s shirt with tears. All Tommy can do is let out quick gasps, trying to get himself together, while Wilbur holds him still. “Are you bleeding, Tommy? Are you okay?”
“Mhm,” Tommy replies, high-pitched and choked and squeaking, and he sobs into Wilbur’s shirt, gripping the material, and Wilbur’s hands grip back. “I’m sorry.” His brother is here. It’s okay. He’s sick. He’s sick, and he’s going to get better, and he’ll never have to think about anything ever again.
“It’s okay. I’ll help you, buddy. It’ll be okay.” Wilbur’s hands grip back, and his brother is here, and it’s okay, and he’s sick.
WIlbur’s hands grip back, and it’s okay.
Wilbur’s hands grip back.
Tommy does not move. Tommy does not breathe. His brother is here to help him.
Very, very slowly, Tommy opens his eyes. Very, very slowly, Tommy opens his mouth. He lifts one finger, curled in the fabric of Wilbur’s shirt, and he inhales. And then, faintly, hardly more than the beating of a bird’s wings, comes his fragile whisper.
“Wilby,” Tommy whispers, throat closing. When he lifts his head, Wilbur is smiling down at him, eyes bleeding down his face, mouth pulled up to his ears, and his too-big hands on the ends of his too-big arms squeeze his shoulders too tightly, and his neck, much too long for his body, is twisted into grotesque, bony loops.
“Tommy,” it whispers back, delighted, in the same voice from the living room.
Tommy kicks he screams he runs he scrambles to his feet until he’s out of the bathroom and skidding across the living room floor and the creature the thing pounds after him and Tommy shrieks and he sprints he sprints he sprints he sprints he can’t see and he stumbles over the remote and then he’s gone.
The door flies open and the entire apartment shakes and footfalls come heavy into the ground behind him but Tommy staggers out into the open on shaky baby deer legs and it’s pouring rain. It’s pouring. The thing that stole his brother’s face is after him, and it’s pouring, and Tommy will die if he does not move now.
He can barely see through the sheets coming down from the sky. He rushes out anyway, skipping steps and nearly falling to his death over the edge of the railing. Shrieking, he presses himself against the wall for a split second to regain balance and then thunders onward. He can’t see in the pouring rain, but Tommy sprints and sprints and his lungs burn and his foot slides on the slick wood and he tumbles to the ground, he knocks his head against the landing, fuck, shit, fuck, fuck, “Fuck, FUCK!” he screams, terrified as he makes it to his feet and feels something whiff against the back of his shirt.
Tommy rolls and keeps going, jumping down more stairs than he probably should and rolling his ankle at the bottom and sniveling in pain, just like the headache, the spinning world, but he doesn’t stop, because the entire landing rattles, and something is smiling behind him, lumbering after him with arms too big for its body and a smile far too big for his face.
It makes no noise other than its footsteps and the gentle, sickly croon for “Tommy.” He can’t look back to see how close it is.
“Help!” Tommy screams over the smattering of rain against concrete when he reaches the ground and sprints into the parking lot, a jolt flying up his bad leg each time he takes another stride. A siren wails in the distance, and Tommy shrieks again, over and over, until his lungs scream for a break. “Help me, please, please, god— someone help me!” he begs, some of the words slurred together as he pants for breath. Nobody replies.
It smiles, and he can feel it call his name. He can feel the Alternate grab at his shirt again. It’s so close, it’s so close, and help is so far, but across the street, there’s a convenience store open all hours, and he can get in there and slam the door shut or at least see someone else’s face before he dies, so he lunges across the parking lot, vaulting over a car and hopping to the next.
He wishes desperately that he had time to mourn the brother whose safety Tommy can’t be sure of, the real brother with soft eyes and yellow teeth and a kind heart, but there is nothing in his head anymore but panic. There is nothing left aside from the directions to run, run, run. In terrified misery, Tommy leaps to the slick roof of the next car.
He slips, foot off the edge, and the Alternate’s hand wraps around his foot, and Tommy scrambles and then loses his grip, face smashing into the roof of the car under him. He is the bishop and the queen has put him in check, his king cowering in the corner. He is the bishop, and his body trembles, and the queen digs into his skin, pulling violently on his limbs, because it has won the match. “Tommy, buddy, it’s okay,” it howls, in Wilbur’s warbling voice, the queen’s voice, and Tommy shrieks, piercing, the sound of a losing game.
He yanks his foot back to himself, shoe sliding off, but he doesn’t care. Rainwater mixes with the blood on his face from his knuckles, and his ankle begs to cripple him, but Tommy pushes himself over the edge of the other car, and the downpour plasters his hair to his face, and he gets back to his feet and ducks and runs between cars, and glass shatters and crunches behind him, and somebody’s car alarm goes off, and Tommy runs.
He runs. He runs to the end of the parking lot, and he runs across the spotty, dead patches of grass, and he stumbles, and he runs past the sidewalk, and he can see the man in the convenience store changing a sign in the window just a few yards away, and he keeps running, he’s so close, he’s almost there.
And he runs into the street, starving and desperate for safety, and there is the deafening honk of a horn, and brakes squeal, and the car skids, and the road is wet, and it doesn’t stop.
And he turns, stumbling, losing his balance, and sees headlights as something makes contact with the back of his shirt again, for the last time.
Relief floods his body. Blinding white floods his vision. Water floods past his ankles, soaking his socks.
Queen takes bishop.
—
Washington Teen First To Die At The Hands Of Alternates