Simon and Johnny who, after a particularly horrendous mission, a harder deployment than usual, decide that maybe they'll have a little fun at a bar in town. The doe-eyed girl who shies away from Johnny's unabashed flirting, leaning back and stammering that she has a boyfriend and points to the meanest looking guy in the bar, which happens to be Simon, hoping to deter Johnny. She doesn't notice the amused glance the two share, the pair deciding that maybe tonight will be a little more than just fun, especially when Simon wraps an arm around her and tugs her into his side, playing the part; a small dark part of him enjoying how she relaxes, thinking the danger that is Johnny is now averted. She doesn't know she's walked, stumbled really, into a much larger danger
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thinking about a muzzled Johnny, you weren't sure why the guy who seemed to have control over the situation you were thrust into (at least more control than you) was wearing a muzzle, but the other much scarier and masked man didn't seem concerned. in fact, he seemed to ignore it all together. the mask and the muzzle didn't seem to stop either of them from talking and whispering the filthiest things to you. "it's for your benefit, lovie, gets a little too bitey with soft sweet things," the masked one gruffed one night when your eyes lingered on the muzzle a little too long
been playing a lot of That's Not My Neighbor and it got me brainrotting on the idea of what if you were a doorman for a military compound during a doppelganger outbreak, and the residents were the 141/co. so here's a blurb
TW: body horror, mentions of murder, explicit threats of bodily harm
The sound of the door locking shut with a loud clank resounded through the tight entry hallway. It felt like every sound always echoed if not thundered through the tiny office and small box sized hallway that was bracketed by the door leading outside the compound and the door leading into the compound, the reinforced steel and shatterproof glass felt as constricting as they did protective.
Laswell's warning to me when I accepted this job, passed the initial tests, the initial psych eval and physical tests, kept running through my mind: "The compound is a safe and secure environment, and the first level of protection hinges on your job. Do your job and do it well. The safety of everyone in the compound hangs in the balance if you don't."
Of course, the unspoken part, I also understood. This was a military compound, housing some of the world's most trained and deadly soldiers. People who were more than capable of, and in the past had, disposing of doppelgangers. When your life revolved around tactical warfare and covert operations and living and breathing danger, even the true capacity of unknown danger that the doppelgangers encompassed couldn't phase you. If I did fail, let one through, inside the first layer of secure walls, there were more failsafes, more deadly soldiers, who could handle it; but that didn't mean there wouldn't be casualties. And as the least trained and arguably least deadly (even in a world where I passed the minimum requirements to work on base, physicality and weapons training included), I would be the first casualty.
None of that was going through my head the first time I saw one of them, really saw one of them, in that tiny entryway, with the only barrier between us being the shatterproof glass and reinforced steel frame. It was easier, when the paperwork was clearly forged, the slam of the protective metal shutter and the blaring alarm, they didn't sound so horrifying, jarring, yes, but not horrifying. I could disconnect from the idea that something unspeakable, something I definitely didn't want to know about or the specifics of, was happening behind the metal shutter with the cleaning crew and the doppelgangers I was calling them for. It didn't feel real.
"Y' think yer safe, inside tha' tiny box, they don't care 'bout you, they prolly don't even know yer name, they wouldn't come if ye screamed while my claws sank into yer soft skin, ripped the screams right outta yer pretty throat, so open the door," it hissed, voice dripping with malice and barbed vitriol. It wore Mactavish's face, but it was all wrong, gone was the rugged handsomeness the Scot usually bore. Gone was the chiseled jaw and stormy blue eyes, in his place was something unnatural, something dangerous. Face slightly bloated and too bulky, it had too many eyes, wide and bloodshot and glaring icily at me through the window.
