Doppelgänger

The shock of seeing the man’s face wears off quickly, and fear rushes in to fill the space it leaves behind.

The stranger is unconscious, rain-soaked, gripping a machete streaked dark with blood. Chrissy freezes. His heart feels like it’s going to explode. He pulls off his glasses. The lenses are wet, smeared into useless blurs. He tries his phone again. He swipes. Nothing. He presses the side buttons. Still nothing. The screen stays black.

Fuck.

Lightning illuminates the alley and thunder cracks soon after. It startles Chrissy and makes him stumble back.

He doesn’t have a car. He can’t call 911. He thinks about going to the neighbors, but quickly shuts that thought down. How would he explain finding an unconscious man in an alley, and not knowing who this person is, despite looking exactly like him?

He knows he can’t just leave this stranger out in the rain, but this guy must be at least twice Chrissy’s weight. He looks around for something he can use. There’d be tons of shopping carts in Skid Row in Downtown LA, but apparently not here. He wonders how long he has till he becomes homeless and is forced to live in Skid Row.

Chrissy flinches. Focus, you dumb bitch.

The broken wooden pallet could work. But it’s easier said than done.

Dragging the man to his apartment nearly breaks him. He thanks every god and goddess he doesn’t believe in for the broken wooden pallet by the dumpster. It’s the most exercise he’s had since he moved to the tiny apartment, far away from Gar’s Gym, with no money to join another place. He bought a set of used dumbbells and weights and has been making do with those.

By the time he gets the stranger inside, his limbs are shaking and his lungs burn. But it’s not over.

The pallet blocks the narrow hallway, soaked and splintering. Chrissy carries it back outside, rain plastering his hair to his face. His tight white shorts cling to his skin, almost transparent.

He sees the machete lying in the alley, dropped sometime when he was dragging the stranger inside. It’s so out of place that even with his blurry glasses, he can see it clearly.

The sight turns his stomach. What if the man wakes up and uses it on him?

The thought barely forms before something worse replaces it: someone else finding it. Like those two men who assaulted him. Someone else could get hurt.

Chrissy grips the handle and holds the machete upside down, sharp edge toward himself, the way he used to carry knives back when he worked at Femboy Hooters. Its weight makes him feel sick. He looks around. The alley is deserted. He stands in the rain for a few moments, letting the water wash the blood away.

Inside, he kicks off his wet shoes and sets the machete in the kitchen sink, as far from himself as possible.

The man is still unconscious on the floor, breathing shallow but steady. Chrissy kneels by the man’s feet, untying his boots and pulling them off. He doesn’t want mud and rain trailing through his apartment.

He puts a towel next to the unconscious man and rolls him on it. He grabs the ends of the towel and drags the man to the bedroom.

Before laying the stranger on his bed, he covers the mattress with the PlayPad and takes off the man’s wet clothes. There are several cuts, but they look superficial, at least to Chrissy’s untrained eyes. Chrissy dashes to the bathroom to get the first-aid kit.

The man remains limp and unconscious. Chrissy’s phone’s still dead. He tries to turn on his laptop, but it’s also dead. He curses, unable to look up “what is internal bleeding” or “how to properly bandage a gash.”

He rummages through the first-aid kit. He got it years ago at the CPR class at Gar’s Gym. Antiseptic numbing sprays don’t expire, do they? What about gauze? He wants to cry again. Why can’t he remember any of this? What was the point of taking the class if his brain was going to dump all of it the second he actually needed it?

Josh is right. He is useless.

The muted pitter-patter sound of the rain fills the room. The stranger’s chest rises and falls. He’s still unconscious, still breathing, and still bleeding.

Chrissy takes a deep breath. He wipes his tears and rainwater with the back of his hand. Focus, you stupid slut. Focus, for fuck’s sake. Self-loathe all you want later.

He sprays the cuts with antiseptic and wraps them as best he can with gauze. The stranger doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even groan. Chrissy has to check several times to make sure he’s still alive.

When he’s done dressing the wounds, Chrissy rolls the man onto the mattress and covers him with his blanket.

The ordeal has taken so much out of Chrissy that for a while, he just sits against the wall. He has a naked, wounded stranger lying unconscious on his mattress.

His own head hurts. It must’ve been from the assault. What if he has a concussion? He reaches out to his laptop, about to look up “concussion symptoms” before he remembers that it’s also dead.

His chest tightens. How is he going to get a new phone and a laptop? He doesn’t even know if he can afford groceries, especially now that his OnlyDolls has been suspended.

He glances at the man. His face is identical to Chrissy’s, but his hair is black. It’s been decades since Chrissy had black hair. Pink seems to suit him better.

“Fuck.” His own clothes are soaked. He must’ve been dripping all over his apartment. He takes them off and tiptoes to the bathroom, grabbing the stranger’s wet clothes along the way.

In the bathroom, Chrissy dumps his and the man’s clothes in the tub.

The box cutter lies by the sink, an inanimate witness to his suicide attempt less than an hour ago. He blinks, trying to get the memory out of his mind. He has another problem to take care of.

He dries himself with a towel and puts on a dry pair of short shorts. He checks himself in the mirror. His lower lip is no longer bleeding from when one of the muggers punched him in the mouth. No bumps on his head. He sighs in relief. It could’ve been worse.

He hangs the stranger’s wet clothes over the shower curtain rod. The t-shirt feels synthetic. Polyspandex, most definitely moisture-wicking. It should dry fast. The socks and underwear are most likely cotton-blend. But the cargo pants feel heavy with water. Chrissy wrings the man’s clothes over the tub, squeezing out as much water as possible. He grabs his hair dryer and runs it on the pants and the socks.

But as soon as this task moves to autopilot, his mind wanders again. Who is this person? He can’t be the Terminator. They usually go through portals nude.

Chrissy scoffs and scolds himself. Terminators don’t exist, stupid. Or at least not yet?

The loud hum of the hair dryer fills the silence and lulls him into his thoughts.

He closes his eyes. He feels like crying again. It’s been a crazy day. First the OnlyDolls account (and the fifteen bucks attached in the last message). Then Josh’s takedown video (and the comments). Then the attempted mugging and assault. And let’s not get into details of when he almost, almost ended it all.

And now this. And it’s not even afternoon yet.

Or is it? He can’t tell. His phone and laptop are dead. Fred always has his blue Swatch. Maybe he should get a watch?

But with what money? He doesn’t even know if he has enough to cover rent.

He turns the hair dryer off. It’s futile. There’s a washer-dryer at Matt’s place and now he’s drying a stranger’s pants with a hairdryer.

His heart almost leaps out of his chest. The stranger’s standing by the bathroom door with Chrissy’s PlayPad wrapped around his waist. The noise of the hairdryer must’ve woken him up.

“Holy shit,” he says. “Your… face.”

Chrissy tumbles back and almost falls into the bathtub, but the stranger grabs Chrissy’s wrist in a reflex.

“Hey, steady.” The man holds Chrissy’s waist, letting him regain his footing.

Chrissy sets himself down at the edge of the tub. “Th… Thank you.”

“I’m Chris. Chris Redfield.” The man kneels in front of Chrissy.

“I’m… That can’t be. This is… You’re me…” Chrissy reaches out but pulls his hand back. But the stranger stays still, and Chrissy reaches out again. He sweeps his fingers through the stranger’s jet-black hair. He traces the lines on his face and lips.

Chris smiles faintly. “What’s your name?”

“I’m… Sorry. Christopher Fields. Chrissy.”

“If I’m not in pain, I’ll probably say I’m dead. Or in a coma. Did you do this?” Chris gestures at his bandaged arm.

Chrissy nods. “I don’t know if it was the correct way or not to bandage a wound.

“It’s a bit overkill, but much appreciated.”

“I’m sorry… I got… carried away. Do you want ibuprofen or something?”

“I’ll live,” Chris says. “Where am I?”

“My apartment.”

“Where? In Kijuju? Was there anyone else? Sheva?” Chris grabs Chrissy’s hands.

“Shay… who? And no… This is Pico-Union.”

“What? As in… Los Angeles? But that can’t be…” Chrissy abruptly stands up and stumbles back.

“Hey, careful,” Chrissy grabs Chris’s forearm, consciously avoiding his wounds. Are his injuries more serious than Chrissy thinks? “You okay?”

He flinches and takes a step back when he sees Chris lift his hand towards him. The memory of the assault earlier is still fresh in his head.

“Hey, it’s alright,” Chris says. “I just…” He touches Chrissy’s cheek.

Chrissy feels electricity coursing through his veins. He’s suddenly hyperaware of Chris’s body. He’s built like Matt. Or maybe Wade. There’s warmth emanating from Chris. It feels safe. Familiar. Instinct takes over and Chrissy kisses Chris’s lips.

“Oh, fuck,” Chrissy says. “I’m sorry, I…”

Chris chuckles. “Well, that’s… something I don’t get to do every day.”

“I didn’t mean…”

But Chris grabs Chrissy’s head and kisses him back.

Chrissy closes his eyes, savouring the kiss.

When he opens his eyes, he sees another figure standing in the bathroom.

“Motherfucker. Chris, you got here like what, an hour ago and you’re already making out with my girl?”

Chrissy’s throat tightens. It… It can’t be. “Leon? Oh my god, Leon? Is that… Is that really you?”

“Leon?” Chris says. “Claire’s Leon Kennedy? Holy shit!”

Chrissy rushes into Leon’s arms. A torrent of memories floods his brain. There are so many things he wants to tell Leon. So many years between them. And the emptiness. The vast emptiness.

“Where… where have you been?” Chrissy says. “You went missing and now you’re… here. And you know Chris?”

Leon twirls Chrissy’s hair in his fingers. “I like your new hair.” He sighs. “This is… Definitely not sanctioned. Babe, meet Christopher Redfield. One of the BSAA founders, top of his game, bar none. Well, except maybe for his sister.”

“BSAA?”

“Bioterrorism Security Assessment Alliance,” Chris says. “Leon, you know what happened?”

“What was the last thing you remembered before this?”

Chris takes a deep breath. “I… We were in Kijuju. There was a horde of Majinis. Sheva and I… We’d been fighting for hours. There was a bright light and… She was gone. I’d lost my gear when the Majinis tore my harness away and I was only fighting with my machete. Then there was another bright light…”

“That was us,” Leon says. “The only way to save you and Sheva was to open a portal. She’s in our bunker. But yours got… Complicated. Something happened and it dropped you in this world close to Chrissy because you two share the same biosignature.”

Chris scoffs. “You telling me our government has this kind of tech? Behind BSAA’s back?”

“You were one of the first successful extractions. Sheva stabilized cleanly. Yours… didn’t.”

“So, you’re saying the tech isn’t stable?” Chris says. “And you guys took a chance to transport us?”

“All’s matter is both of you are alive,” Leon says. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Chris shakes his head. “This is… Beyond my pay grade.”

“This isn’t real,” Chris says. “It can’t be real. The mugger must’ve punched him too hard. Then the phone also fell on his head. Yeah, that’s gotta be it. He’s having a concussion, and now he’s dreaming of a plot from some movie he watched. Right?

Leon sighs and looks at Chrissy. “Baby, my government in the other universe… they found a way to open portals. Funny story, well, not funny ‘haha,’ but apparently it’s easier to move people to other worlds, not to a different space in the same world.”

Chrissy stares at Leon. “You’re right. That’s… not funny.”

“At all,” Chris says.

Chrissy giggles when he catches Chris smiling and winking at him. For the first time that day, laughing feels good.

“Fucking hell. Don’t you two start agreeing with each other. Two Chrises is gonna be the death of me.” Leon chuckles. “Anyway, the Leon Kennedy in your earth, Leonard Kenneth Edison, died when he was five. We used your universe to test the portal because it’s the safest. That’s how you and I first met. Shouldn’t mix business with pleasure.”

“Safe? From what?” Chrissy says.

“Bioterrorists,” Leon says. “Monsters. This is one of the worlds that’s not infected. Not yet.”

Chrissy wants to laugh. Monsters? Literal or figurative? Either way, that’s absurd. There’s no such thing as, you know, real monsters. But he remembers Chris’s large knife. And all the blood.

Chris clears his throat. “The term is ‘Bio-Organic Weapon.’ B.O.W.s. Most of them were human once. Speaking of, how soon can I go back?”

Back? To monsters? Chrissy shakes his head. Is this guy for real? Does he have some kind of a death wish?

“Half an hour. The portal slicer needs to recharge significantly longer for inter-universe jumps.”

“This can’t be real.” Chrissy looks at Leon. “No. No, no, no. This is a dream.”

Leon bends down and kisses Chrissy’s lips. “That real enough?”

In his mind, memories of him and Leon bloom like a trail of irises springing from Hyacinthus’s spilt blood.

“I missed you.” Chrissy holds Leon’s waist like a vice grip and burrows his head into Leon’s chest.

“I missed you too, baby,” Leon says.

Chris clears his throat. “I still can’t believe we now have tech for jumping through worlds.”

Leon chuckles. “What? You want me to kiss you too?”

“No, but… I am starting to feel like a fifth wheel over here.” Chris moves closer to Chrissy. “You say we have thirty minutes before I can go back?”

Chrissy looks at Chris, then back at Leon. Both men have mischief in their eyes.