In Need of Assistance? (TF2)

Sixty-Eight: Two-Faced

        "Thank you, Ma'am," I sigh.

"Mm-hmm, have a nice day," she drones, stamping the inside of a book with today's date. The library has no more open positions. This is fantastic. The grocer wasn't hiring, either. So much for staying in town. Maybe I should take up Neuro and Pilot's offer to come to Metalworks. Salvador would probably like that very much, and I would get to spend more time with him. It's an enticing offer now that I got turned down from the more obvious jobs I know I could handle.

I walk out onto the street and pick up a newspaper on my way out. The ad listings are the same, more or less. The weather is pleasantly cool with a breeze to tame the sun's intensity. Curls are blown into my face, and I wish I brought a scrunchie or a hair tie to keep it down. It makes crossing the street harder than it should be because all I see is hair when I look out of the corners of my eyes. Not that there's much thru traffic to present an imminent danger. Small town is too large, try village. Everyone knows everyone and business comes from travelers and work commuters here in Las Lunos. There's a roadhouse here as well as a diner, so maybe I should try there next, even if they don't have an ad posted.

Right next to the meat shop is said diner. There's no sign in the window, but there's no harm in asking.

The clientele is older folks and very few people my age. An older woman with red hair stands by the register and uncrosses her arms when I approach. "What can I do for ya?"

The nametag on her shirt reads 'Tabitha.' "I was actually wondering if there are any jobs I could take?"

She smiles apologetically. "Sorry, lovely, no can do."

"That's alright," I dismiss. I should still check out that other place by my apartment. I walk further down the block, in the opposite direction of the bus station.

Nestled between the grocery store and the fire department lies an inn with a bar that they call a roadhouse. This is definitely catering more toward vagrants and vagabonds. Most of the excitement in the area goes on in there, so they must get a lot of characters around here. Everyone parks on the sides of the streets because there are so few people who own a car. On the front wooden door to the roadhouse, there's a paper on the door: WE ARE NOT HIRING.

So much for that. The roadhouse doors open, faint voices and music from a jukebox being heard until the door closes. Someone bumps into me from the side. "Oh, sorry!"

A woman. I turn to face her. "No, it's oka--" We stare at each other. We look exactly alike. And when she spoke just then, I heard my voice. Dressed in a melon-pink dress shirt and rust orange skirt with stilettos stands... Me. Oh my god, she's me. A replica. Horror envelops me. She's-- She's me. Same hair texture, same style. The bags under her eyes, the various moles on her face, the hyper-pigmentation from acne scars as a teen. Her body looks like me before I started gaining weight, but she's me.

She has a boy in her arms, no older than a year old. He babbles with his fingers in his mouth, and he bears a striking resemblance to Salvador when he was a toddler. I take a step back from her. "Who the hell are you?"

She turns panicky upon making the same realization, clutching her child closer. "I'm late, for a meeting," she spews before going down to the parking lot. That woman isn't just my twin, she could be me.

"No, wait!"

"I really have to go. I'm sorry," she yells. I step to follow her, but a hand grabs my arm as the door to the inn slams shut. I turn, Medic holding onto my arm. He's wearing all blue, and there's something off about his demeanor. His grip tightens.