Chapter Text
If he were to be honest, he is not quite sure how he got here.
Sure, yes, he knows what events slowly led him to the fish net, like old weathered hands that had done so a thousand times before, leading the fish close to shore and towards the net where they grew too tired to swim past those fate-fingers…
But if you were to ask him, he would outright tell you he didn't know.
He didn't know when body language became so easy to read, when the foreign snappy sounds started making sense like second nature, when he could put on a mask and different identity like peeling off and on an old coat.
He didn't know why he had ended up there in the first place, transported away like a couple of drugs by a mule heading to their deathbed in a snug claustrophobic jail. Things are a bit fuzzy then, confusing, as though he didn't exist before that very moment…
As though the moment the flames overtook that underground trafficking site, he was reborn. A phoenix… or perhaps just its ashes.
Don Santiago was a man to be feared. Lord of all kinds of F's one could want under their belt: Fortune, fame and fear. Everyone listened to his word, followed the wave of his grubby hands like dogs.
Himself included.
The man must have seen something in him then as he came crawling out of the rubble, bodies of young men and women alike rushing towards freedom while the others lay beneath, already buried in their graves. Something about his eyes, Don Santiago said, burned brighter and hotter, held fiery flames of hell.
“Tell you what, [????]. You look like the sort of [????] who [?????]...”
“Think of [?????], money, [?????]. You could have millions if you work for me”
“I'll strike you a deal… Either stay here and become their [?????] bitch or be my dog”
Santiago is a clever man, it doesn't take a genius to know that. Only clever men survive so high where their heads stick out from the crowd, only clever men hold a fortune in their hands and don't let it all slip. He was a man to be admired and respected by many in the dirtiest parts of the cleanest cities, he knew business and he knew people.
“If you understand bark”
What Don Santiago didn't know, however, was Stanley Pines.
“ARF!”
When the opportunity arose, the man didn't even know what came. Don Santiago was found dead, brutally killed as per the request, and the man had another F under his belt: Forgotten.
To be honest, he isn't sure when slipping in and out of character became so easy. Maybe it always had been, he doesn't know.
[???????] [?????] doesn't know a lot of things. He feels as though that's a norm to him.
Crazy to think that even now, as he sits here in front a briefcase full of dreams for the price of one bullet, he doesn't know. [???????] doesn't know what to do with the piles of money in front of him, he thinks somewhere out there there's a boy that drools at the sight of millions but he isn't sure.
He isn't sure of a lot of things, he's come to find out. He doesn't know why he isn't surprised.
“Hmm…” he pauses to ponder, the smoke of his cigarette curling around him like a mask, a cloud on a presumably dark day.
The water below the bridge runs lazily, wide and faraway, he can't really make out his reflection in the small waves.
“How troublesome” he sighs, watching the smoke escape from his lips, taking him back. Back to the day [???????] was born from the flames and rubble, birthed with bitterness already tainting his veins from the moment he opened his eyes. The world was in flames for [???????] [?????] and he was furious.
Getting rid of those marks those rats left on him had been troubling, no matter how much he scratched and peeled away at his skin, the feeling of livestock remained.
Not to mention the scars that replaced it.
“Mr Mystery hm…” he turned his back to the bridge, replacing his view with the sky as he leaned back on the rails and arched his back backwards. The popping of bones did nothing to erase the tension and long term pain that rested upon his shoulders.
On his back, he could almost feel the weight of it, like the burn of those numbers burned on him that lay beneath the scarred tissue. He hadn't had a clue there had been such a shape left behind from all the idle scratching but it was almost hilarious considering it represented how he felt.
Mr Mystery scratched at the evidence like a dog trying to pull off its collar… and in exchange a scar in the shape of a question mark remained.
“Ah… I don't know” he sighed in annoyance, tossing the butt of his cigarette to the waters below.
For some reason he feels as though he should join it. He doesn't know why he doesn't.
The world felt wide, spacious, for Stanford Pines. Perhaps so much so it would have been almost intimidating was he not so curious and, honestly, full of spite to prove everyone and everything wrong.
Backsupsmore wasn't the sort of college that looked down on you but only so due to everyone being on the same boat. The same, falling apart pathetic boat.
Well, Stanford would not just stand by and watch said metaphorical boat sink. He will build his own raft, make everyone watch himself float away safely and allow the others to join his awesome raft-world-changing-boat once he felt their remorse enough.
Hm… perhaps this sort of thought process was not healthy.
“Are you paying attention?” His roommate sighed, Stanford thinks he sees a bit of his breakfast stuck on the man's mustache and can't school the disgust away. He should really shave that.
“Sorry, please go on” Stanford sighs, eating his toast and forcing his eyes away from the mustache lest he won't pay attention to the conversation.
“I was asking if you heard the news” his friend sighed in the way only a person who had to repeat themselves yet again ever could “you've been having your head in the clouds so I just want you to be a bit more careful”
“Mhm”
“Stanford, please pay attention”
Fiddleford McGucket was a genius quite like Stanford, he understood Stanford like St- no one ever could. It was all great right until his friend became more of a mother hen than a friend.
“I'm serious, Stanford! Thinking it happens to others but not to me is what gets most killed” Fiddleford weakly slapped the table, the piece of bread finally fell from the mustache with the motion.
“Wh- I'm sorry but what are you talking about?”
Fiddleford blinked at him and so Stanford blinked back feeling as though he missed an important detail of the conversation.
“You didn't see the news, did you?” F groans “I tell you, watch or read the news- don't just- but no! Don't listen to me- you never” he mutters to which Stanford allows patiently, waiting for actual information.
“People have been turning up dead left and right, Stanford!” Fiddleford threw his hands up and the look of surprise must give himself away because the next thing his friend is tugging at the ends of his own hair “How are you not aware of this?!”
That's how Stanford ends up reading the paper, trying to find more information on the subject. What leads someone to end another's life? Was Stanford even remotely interested in psychology, perhaps he would look into it…
As it turns out, all the victims are a collection of some sort of contract killers, underground criminals or rich suspicious folk. Was this antihero behaviour? No matter, it seems Stanford is not a target and his friend was worried about nothing.
Ignoring Fiddleford's useless warnings, Stanford continued with his everyday life and things stayed as peaceful as a college student's life could be. Nothing really changed and when things quietened down again, Stanford made sure to smile smugly at his friend as much as he could.
If he were to be honest, he is not quite sure how he got here.
Maybe it was those fate-fingers again, guiding him to the net, to the sand to scratch at his scales where he would get stuck, tired and suffocate…
Or maybe these were a different pair of hands, freeing him into the open ocean.
The bustling of the town was quite bright in the way poor towns rats like to hide in are, the kind that actually likes to keep pests out instead of giving in to the grand scale of a city and shrug its shoulders with a “eh, what can you do”.
It had been an accident, in a way. Mr Mystery had simply been out on a walk after a long night, the sunrise still lazily making its way up into the sky and the birds still waking from the peaceful sight, when he spotted him.
Nose deep in a book, muttering to himself in a way that forced him closer. He remembered thinking to himself “what kind of idiot walks with their face in a book?”, imagining all of the ways someone could sneak up to them and finish their life there and there.
He remembers imagining himself doing the same thing, reading, maybe something less nerdy than whatever the clearly-a-nerd was reading, maybe something with adventure and…the open sea. His hands would be around the book, mind taken somewhere else when suddenly hands would come from behind and cover his mouth- No, he wouldn't exactly scream and if the attacker knew they'd… aim for his neck maybe.
Mr Mystery would be reading his book, a pair of arms suddenly sneaking around his neck and squeezing, cutting his oxygen and forcing him out of the wonderful open seas into the shitty stench of the town. He imagined Rico, pulling him away into some dark alley to burn a new symbol onto his skin somewhere his hands could never reach and having his way with him before selling him as broken goods. He imagined Don Santiago, still alive despite the disfigured face and giving him a similar treatment where he was always beaten like a dog an inch away from death, repeatedly.
No, you'd never catch him doing such a thing, but maybe that's why this nerd caught his attention. Envy.
It's that feeling that curls up in his insides like thorny weeds, strangling vines that hurt but he can't seem to get rid of. It's the feeling that lurks and tears its ugly heads when he walks past a kid holding their father's hand, a mother crying for her child, friends laughing leisurely and, apparently, people reading carelessly.
Some part of himself thinks about all the ways he could have easily killed that boy. The knife in his boot would do the trick, no need for his gun, heck- maybe even just his hands. Mystery thinks he could easily snap them, not because he is strong and stupid but because he knows how to.
At that moment, he got closer and the boy barely batted an eye. There's disgust as he thinks of how he actually wanted to hurt this innocent person in the same way a difficult child would break someone's project out of jealousy or fear.
Then, he saw his face. His own face.
The book lowered and Mr Mystery was walking past himself. Strong jaw framed by strong sideburns, dark curls and eyes that were sharp but just down turned enough from the lack of sleep any students may have.
Something in his chest tugged like a magnet towards this man in the same way he thinks cells join and mutate.
Mr Mystery does nothing, he simply lowers his head and fixes his hood over his face, walking past a mirror image of himself in a better world.
So, yes. In a way he knows how he ended up here, surrounded by any and all pieces of information he could find on Stanford Pines. If you walked past yourself you would do the same.
Mr Mystery would call him a clone was that not offensive to the man who actually had his life together and was aiming much higher than that.
With a collection of photographs and information, Mr Mystery could tell you just how they weren't clones.
For starters, there's the eyes. Stanford Pines are sharper and may have heavy bags but they don't have such heavy dark circles like his own. He wears glasses as well and seems to be a quicker reader than him.
Their faces mostly look the same apart from buttering on the other's face and the fact that Stanford Pines focuses on grooming his whole jaw except his awful sideburns while Mystery takes care to at least not let his sideburns get to such an awful state- shaving his stubble can come later.
There's the fact of the hair as well, Stanford Pines likes to wear it short and trimmed nicely, his hair has a messy fluff to it from being healthy and washed. Mr Mystery can't say they're the same there, his own hair has grown longer from his lack of care, a drastic change from his previous buzzcut, and it's washed properly only when he's not on a mission.
Clothing styles are also very different but there's no surprise there. Stanford Pines is clean cut, smart clothing and Mystery wears whatever works, whatever fits in, whatever hides him best. Dark clothing, a hoodie and his trusty cap are his go to on days he doesn't want to think much, maybe no mask over his jaw if he feels daring.
Their height… he doesn't want to talk about it. He should look into investing into more combat boots though. Not that has to do with anything.
Oh yeah, there's also the fact of their hands… His own are calloused and dirty, scarred and ugly, there is dirt under his nails with dried blood from who knows who and Stanford… Stanford has six fingers. Not much to note there.
Overall, Mystery would tell you he has no idea how he got here, holding a copy of something that felt a whole lot like holding the world in the palm of his hand with the world's biggest headache.
In his hand was a photograph of two almost identical boys, smiling wide like there's no lurking frowning man with crossed lurking in the shadows. He studies the photograph, unable to count the fingers so he eyes the bare torsos. The one with glasses looks a bit shy to the camera and attention and the chubbier one doesn't exactly have anything of notice, he just looks boisterous in the way young boys are and…hm…
Squinting, he leans his face closer to the photograph, taking in the small spot on the hip of said boy. It's just a beauty spot, nothing out of the ordinary really, but when Mr Mystery lifts his shirt to look at his hip, he finds one in the same exact place.
“It can't be…” he pulls back, allowing his shirt to fall as he drops the copy of the photograph on the table with the others. His heart hammers and his ears ring…
“I'm a triplet”