#bedridden doppelgängers

[asukiess]

once I took your medication to know what it's like.

[distinctlywhumpthing]

In League — A Lucky Blunder, part II

Masterlist

Summary: (Continued from part I) Wyatt is certain the rest of the gang has been torturing interrogating the wrong boy so he intervenes (just not too quickly). Beta read by @alittlewhump!

CW: Late-19th century, explicit language, kidnapping/abduction, nudity implied (non-sexual), restraints, manhandling, torture/interrogation, taunting of prisoner, burns, knife, blood, loss of consciousness, multiple whumpers.

The similarities were absolutely striking. It was impossible to pinpoint the variations, with this boy in front of him, eclipsing any memory of the other. His mind was determined that they should be one and the same, that there wasn’t any need to count them separately. 

But there was something about this boy that was subtly, barely, yet undeniably different. The way expressions played across his face, perhaps. Muscles of his jaw tightening when Frankie prodded his chin to get him to look up. His eyes narrowing as he resisted, expecting the slap before it came. The way they filmed over with tears and his nostrils flared with the effort of keeping quiet as his head was raised for him in a pinching grip.

Facing his captors, the unfortunate doppelgänger grew red in the cheeks, flush inching down his neck and chest. There were fresh cigarette burns there and littering the undersides of his upper arms. He had his mouth set in a hard line at the moment but his face was a mess of tears and snot from whatever crying or begging he must have been doing earlier.

Wyatt took a measured step forward. “Has he confessed?” 

The boy’s eyes snapped up, gaze unrelenting as it burned into Wyatt with a bitter righteousness. This was definitely not the same boy.

“Not yet.” Alfred struck a match to light his cigarette and the boy flinched toward the wall. The poor thing overspent what slack he was hanging by and wound up losing his footing. He swung even closer to Alfred and the open flame before he caught the ground again, bare toes scuffing on the rough concrete. It was already blotched red from his prior struggling. 

Frankie and a few others laughed. “Keen for some more?” He grabbed the boy by the ankle, pulling his leg up so Alfred could hold the lit match to the inside of his knee. 

The boy yelped, trying in vain to kick free of Frankie’s bruising grasp. He panted through his nose, trying to bear the rest quietly, knuckles turning white as he clenched his fists in their restraints. When the flame neared Alfred’s fingertips, he dropped the match and the boy was likewise released. 

The display had earned more teasing laughs and he flushed even redder, chest heaving as he caught his breath. He looked as though he wanted to tear them all to shreds but his lashes were wet with tears he did a poor job of holding back.

“Claims we’re ‘mistaken’,” Frankie explained. He was one of the oldest, closer to thirty, but still clinging to a youthful immaturity you’d expect in someone a decade his junior. In keeping with that, he produced a knife and held the side of the blade just beneath the boy’s ribcage, flat against his stomach. “Isn’t that right?” 

He was underfed enough that Frankie could insert the knife clean up into his lung, a fact that the boy clearly appreciated from the way he’d visibly stopped breathing. “Please,” he whispered, tears now falling in earnest as he shook his head as much as he dared. “I swear it wasn’t me.” 

Jimmy, whose brother was still bedridden from the whole incident, jumped up, shouting, “Fuckin’ lying little prick!” and backhanded the boy across the face. 

He’d flinched with nowhere to go as soon as Jimmy had moved but Frankie hadn’t responded as quickly and in the exchange had managed to unintentionally draw blood. The boy wasn’t even reacting to the fresh cut though. His eyes were unfocused and his posture slack as he hung on his wrists.  

Wyatt took another step forward. “All right. That’s enough, surely. The lesson to be learned is ours, lads, one of diligence.” He looked around, made sure to read the others’ gazes as he continued, “we deserve what we got if our plans were waylaid by a spy that didn’t even infiltrate our ranks and merely sourced his intel on the streets.”

The room was silent for a beat, save for the thin, ragged breathing of the boy.

Only one or two of the men were new enough or plucky enough to have to lay eyes on Wyatt to read if he was serious or not. He didn’t exercise his veto power that often, after all. The rest knew better than to be told twice and were already ambling up the stairs, bottles swinging loosely from their hands. They’d make their way to the pub at the end of the corner, aptly named The Corner, and busy themselves with darts or otherwise. 

None of them were truly cruel, just easily swept up in the moment. 

Wyatt waited until the last pair of boots had cleared the parlour above before he moved closer. “You all right?” 

The boy only whined somewhere in the back of his throat and made a limp half-start at wincing away. In all likelihood, still seeing stars. Wyatt wrapped an arm under his shoulders and lifted him off the hook. The boy slumped against him, bearing none of his own weight. He’d be easy enough to carry, scrawny as he was. 

Wyatt looped the other boy’s arms around his own neck and was about to pick him up when the boy came to again. 

He panicked, backing away and dragging Wyatt along with surprising strength. His back soon hit the wall and he found himself caught between it and Wyatt. 

“Pleasepleaseplease—” He tried in vain to squirm away. Not understanding they were entangled, he pulled mindlessly at his bound wrists which only forced Wyatt nearer and pinned him further.

“I’ll not harm you—” Wyatt tried to catch the other boy’s gaze and, when that failed, made to take his chin in hand to still him. He narrowly avoided getting bitten. “For fuck’s sake, lad. I’m trying to help you.” 

Before the feral thing managed to get them both on the ground, Wyatt pulled him away from the wall with just a little more force than necessary, sending him tripping forward. 

The boy yelped as Wyatt caught him but swiftly bit down on the tail of the cry when he found himself cradled in Wyatt’s arms. He stayed still as a corpse and didn’t dare to meet Wyatt’s eyes, instead choosing the safety of silent deference. 

Upstairs, Wyatt sat the boy on his bed, ducking out from under his arms and sitting down beside him. He kept hold of his wrists, for a moment, but the boy remained subdued. All the fight left down in the cellar, it seemed. 

He pulled the boy’s hands to his knee and started working at the rope. “How about a lie-down?”

“N—” The boy bit his quivering bottom lip, eyes downcast. “Please, sir…”

Christ, could Frankie tie a knot. 

“Please—” He swallowed, his face reddening. “Be slow,” he whispered, letting one knee fall to the side. 

“To rest.” Wyatt lifted his freed hands for him to see. 

The boy inhaled sharply, eyes flicking up to Wyatt’s. He slowly began to pull his hands away, gaining conviction as Wyatt didn’t move to stop him, and then wrapped his arms around himself. It must have been tender but he gripped himself tightly, fingertips pressing into what flesh they could find. 

Wyatt reached for one of his shirts that hung over the footboard. “Here.”

“But I’m—” He looked down at himself. “Surely—”

“It’s all right, it’ll clean.” The cut on his belly was shallow after all and didn’t seem to be bleeding any longer. Wyatt held the shirt out again. The boy wavered for another moment before finally bowing his head. Wyatt slowly helped him thread his arms into the sleeves, mindful of his injuries. 

It was too large. Even with the topmost button fastened, the boy’s sharp collarbone was visible on either side but it was long enough for a nightshirt. He wrapped his arms around himself again, blinking up at Wyatt, expression something of a cross between apprehension and gratitude. 

“What’s your name?” 

“Sir—I—” His eyes darted around Wyatt’s face.

“It’s not a trick.” 

He reddened at his fear being called out so plainly. “August.” 

“August.” 

The boy chewed his lip, clearly mustering up courage to speak. 

“Go on then.” 

He shook his head. “I’m sorry—I—” 

“My name is Wyatt.” 

August only nodded. Wyatt wondered how long he’d err on the side of caution and keep calling him ���sir’. Probably for as long as he imagined he might wind up back in the cellar. 

“Rest now. We’ll talk in the morning and you can wash up when it's not so cold.” He moved to stand but one of the boy’s hands made a start toward him. Almost like he was going to catch Wyatt’s arm before he’d remembered himself. He tucked it back around his middle with a mumbled apology, glancing sideways at the door.  

“No one will hurt you again.” His words didn’t seem to carry much weight, despite being as good as law, so Wyatt tried another angle. “This is my room, I’ll not be leaving.” He tipped his head toward the desk. 

The boy nodded thoughtfully. He looked grateful for each piece of information given, accepting it carefully as he stashed it away. His wide eyes scanned the room once more, just as mindfully taking everything in, before they returned to his lap. He was hesitating to meet Wyatt’s gaze. 

“You can sleep by the fire if you’d rather,” Wyatt guessed. A bed to oneself was not a comfort familiar to everyone, especially those who were only there to warm them. 

Again, August acted as if waiting to be stopped as he slipped off the bed to tread across the room. The old floorboards, which normally creaked, hardly made a sound under his feet. Once he reached the carpet, his passage was completely inaudible. He faltered beside the armchair, well-nigh looking over his shoulder to Wyatt but stopping himself before he did. 

“Take the chair,” Wyatt said quickly before the wretched thing resolved to curling up on the floor. He followed with the bedcovers. 

August sank into the chair gingerly before pulling his gangly legs up along with him and wrapping his arms around them. Wyatt settled the covers around his shoulders. 

“Thank you. Thank you, sir.” The sincerity of his thanks was not in keeping with the mistrust in his eyes. 

Wyatt looked away. 

It was plain the boy wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon. Wyatt pulled his own chair away from his desk and sat across from August, who pretended to not be wholly unsettled by the arrangement.

Part III

@whumpy-writings @writer-reader-24 @deluxewhump @no-whump-on-main @maracujatangerine @whumptakesthecake  @painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @briars7 @gala1981 @redwingedwhump @whumpflash @peachy-panic @hold-him-down

[shadowfear-art]

Sooo, what exactly happened with the doppelgänger? I am dying of Curiosity

(Gonna be a bit wordy but here we go)

Well it starts with Ingo having dizzy spells during his travels, shrugs it off as being tired or needing to eat.

Him and Emmet obviously have times they have separate jobs so nothing had caught the fae's eye. Until he saw partial of Ingo's silhouette outside the station, granted he first thought he was mistaken but thats when Emmet would look back on as a clue.

Soon after Ingo became weaker and weaker, leaving him bedridden, which began to alarm Emmet.

Meanwhile Ingo's double has been busy trying to replace him even at one point fooling Emmet for a moment, however the fairy catches on quickly.

As time keeps passing the weaker Ingo became and thus upsetting Emmet more. Looking for answers he finds out who is this imposter and goes about tracking them down.

Eventually he traps his "brother" in the fog forest to have a little chat with him.

Ingo wakes up after feeling his own strength returning only to hear Emmet in the other room talking in a low drunk manner. Reciting the same words over and over.

"I'm sorry ... I couldn't resist... I'm so full... I'm sorry... "

Emmet is covered in the doppelgangers blood.

Ingo entering the room breaks Emmet from his twisted mantra, he was deeply disturbed.

At it's final moments the doppelganger never let up the act of being Ingo, even as the fae teared into them it continued to cry, scream, and beg as his brother would.

Causing Emmet to fear he had killed his real brother instead, unfortunately it didn't stop his now enraged hunger to continue.

However as soon as Emmet saw his real brother there were no doubts, just nothing could compare to the feeling of knowing the original.

A tearful embrace was expected.

[rejectclone]

New OC idea: another failed clone that’s Tomalgam in essence but separate from [R]. He could be called [C] for Censored because they couldn’t refer to both of them as “Redacted” without it getting confusing. Nice chance to explore how different personalities might react to extremely similar traumas, and to use the pieces of Tomalgam’s design that *didn’t* carry over to [R], or just give [R] someone to eventually relate to so you don’t have a “Ive been here this whole time” situation.

Fun Fact: I was considering to make a counter character to [R], but I scrapped the idea since I don’t want another counter character pair as I already have John and Mark as doppelgängers!

The original idea was that since when M[R] gets revealed to the public and it leads to the Evil Pharmaceutical Company being exposed for all of their illegal cloning crimes, M[R] finds out that not all of his ‘siblings’ from the same batch were killed after his accidental release (as a way for the company to hide it’s actions). He’s then brought in to basically comfort the surviving ones, but is dismayed to see almost all of them are essentially bedridden or literally brain-dead, and about less than 10 clones were as healthy and active as he is. One of them of course being what would’ve been his counterpart, [EXPUNGED]. As for his appearance I never really came up with something, but personality wise he’s akin to [R], but is MUCH more paranoid of others and seems to have a lot of deep seeded rage towards the scientists. Considering he was at the lab during the years [R] was outside, [E] remembers what ‘changed’ after that event and how the newer scientists that replaced Lawrence’s team were MUCH more colder and crueler to them, and that [E] is much more emotionally traumatized and spiteful towards others, as he assumes EVERYONE that’s naturally human will want to harm him in some sort of way. The dynamic between the two would eventually be M[R] trying to coax his ‘brother’ into being more willing to interact with ‘normal people’ and to show that the world isn’t that soulless, and [R] accidentally becoming a bit TOO overbearing in wanting [E] to be safe and happy, thus leading to a larger rift between the two.

[chiseler]

The Last Greatest Film Ever Made

These days, the reaction to a film overrides the work itself, which becomes a mere platform for individual audience members to broadcast sound bytes in symphony with popular opinion makers using a template checklist of current grievances. Quentin Tarantino’s latest (and last?) film was under fire for its subject matter (a mostly fictional retelling of the Manson murders) before it went into production, and has since taken several hits on multiple fronts from critics convinced that the director is concealing a fugitive agenda at odds with their prevailing group think imperatives. They are slinging wilted arrows at a master flame thrower.  

Once Upon a Time... in Hollywood not only defies any expectation of a Tarantino film, but defies gravity itself as a transcendent, multi-dimensional mind fuck that unravels in the opposite of ‘real time’ and re-directs consciousness itself. Tarantino’s slow burning comedy places a clear line of demarcation between people who derive genuine pleasure from art, and those who see it as a chance to 'call out' the artist for perceived crimes against a trending Twitter hashtag.  

They're outraged because Margot Robbie isn’t given pages of lines to ‘explain’ her character, but tasked instead with illuminating her from within. Up-and-coming screen Goddess Sharon Tate is mostly photographed from the neck up, demanding Robbie to act between the ears and replace dialogue with unadulterated sunshine. Tate is no ‘character’ but a once in a million year solar event.  

They are unanimously apoplectic that Bruce Lee isn't portrayed as a eunuch 'Oriental’ sage, but a drop dead sexy dancer, cynically playing up his ‘other’ mystique to a bunch of honkies.  It’s a risk, to be sure, but one that pays off as a clever plot device that gives lug nut stunt man Cliff Booth an entire backstory in a an unreliably narrated anecdote. Cliff’s decision to take down the diminutive star is the the catalyst event of his downward career spiral. Bruce Lee is later redeemed in Sharon’s memory as martial arts coach. We see him as a generous mentor, and all round good guy, far removed from the arrogant pontificator who gets body slammed into a Chevy by a second rate stuntman.  

They're pissed because Tarantino views women in fight scenes as adversaries who require the same strength to take down as their male counterparts. They ignore the fact that it’s a little girl who provides the intellectual impetus for Rick Dalton to give the only memorable screen performance of his life time. Nor do OUATIH’s social justice critics seem to notice Tarantino’s clearly marked line in the sand that prevents Cliff from accepting a blow job from an underaged hitchhiker on her way back to the Spahn ranch. Cliff’s refusal is grounded in ethics, even if he cites the unwanted risk of jail time as an excuse. If anything, Cliff is pained by the proposition. He is guided by the same unspoken principle when he makes a safety check on the ranch’s blind and bedridden owner, and later when he pulverizes a hippy with a monkey wrench. If Tarantino has a message to mankind, it’s “obliterate fascists completely” and “don’t fuck with women”.

Against all expectations, Tarantino doesn't offer up gratuitous Mansonette nudity, just a grubby mob of mean girl 'Sister Wives' cut from the same cloth as his #metoo detractors, and led by no other than Lena Dunham to add further insult to injurious identitarians.  

Once doomed to be perpetually remembered and eternally murdered, Tate's new life under Tarantino's direction is forever re-living the thrilling milestones of her own life, sidestepping fate and driving headlong into the Hollywood Hills. It’s hard to imagine a more principled premise than Tarantino’s take on the lurid legend of Helter Skelter and his rescue of Sharon Tate from the clutches of collective memory.  

The young actress is re-imagined in radiant spirit form; the briefly glanced apparition seen from ground level as Manson slithers by the house on Cielo Drive. That moment she steps out on to her own front porch to glimpse the departing caller, she is Eve in the garden of evil, momentarily aware of an unsettling presence in her midst. She gives the beady-eyed stranger a nervous little wave, the first and only indication that she is saying goodbye to the other-world idyll of her canyon home, and to life itself. Cliff's fate is similarly sealed when he makes an impromptu visit to the Spahn Ranch and incurs the wrath of its bloodthirsty inhabitants. Again, the camera is placed where a bottom crawler would lurk as Cliff shit kicks the Manson follower who has fucked with his car.  

Tarantino puts his mostly silent star behind the camera to capture eternity as a hologram playing out in amber. It's Sharon's own gaze capturing her giddiest moments as evidenced by her solo trip to the cinema to see, or rather 'experience' herself on film. Dead Sharon hovers over all the proceedings as her swooping camera eye looks down on LA. Her male doppelgänger, the more earth-bound Cliff Booth, shares the same view (and viewpoint) from the roof top next door to her where he is fixing a TV antennae.  

Still, there's evidence of an impending rupture that threatens the delicate membrane insulating Tate from her murderers as Mick Jagger sings "Baby, you're out of time" as she heads home towards the hills. The song is an ominous reminder of the gathering storm ahead. “My poor old fashioned baby. . . “ Tarantino's 'call out' critics seemed to have missed countless sign posts leading away from Cielo Drive to OUATIH's moral, other dimension center.

by Jennifer Matsui