Ingo was [at wit’s end/whatever]

They saw odd happenings at the station on a daily basis-- got a glimpse of hundreds of peculiar interactions and thousands of unique faces. No one would bat an eye if he reported watching [w/e], but apparently this was simply too much to believe.

For the past several days, Ingo had seen a man wandering the station, or on a rotating [?] of platforms. He recognized a substantial number of patrons, but this man was not one of them; his eye had been drawn by the [unique] garb, and after he’d noticed it, he’d been unable to not notice it the next day, or the one after that.

That wasn’t the strange part; people boarded trains dressed in far, far weirder, to the point that they saw Hatenna Miku cosplayers on a weekly basis. The part that Ingo simply couldn’t look past was that it just wasn’t a matter of the man’s chosen wardrobe.

He looked like him.

Now, that wasn’t a concept entirely divorced from reality, as Ingo saw his own face turned back at him on an hourly basis, but that wasn’t his brother. It wasn’t… exactly him, either, but all of the major strokes were there; the creases below the eyes and mild hunch weren’t enough to throw the uncanny resemblance off.

The first time he’d noticed, he’d passed it off as a trick of the imagination-- poor lighting that made him fill in the blanks with the features he was most familiar with-- but the second instance had disproven his theory. He’d been able to see the stranger’s face with perfect clarity, well enough to read the emotion in the tilt of his eyes and angle of his downturned lips: anxiety, anticipation-- the wanting for something, but the inability to reach out and take it. Ingo had seen much the same in the days he’d bothered to practice in a mirror, trying to force his face into anything that the layperson wouldn’t see as stern disapproval.

When he’d seen the man next, it had been on departure from a shift on the Multi Line, and he’d been startled to face that [wanting] stare head-on-- fixed not on him, but his twin standing beside him. It was followed by a flickering of attention, the realization that he was being watched in return, and they’d spent an [odd/uncanny] few seconds trapped in a mutual [stare]. Ingo hadn’t realized his gait had faltered until Emmet looped back to take him by the arm, asking what was wrong. He’d torn his gaze away to nod in the man’s direction, but all his brother had done was look, raise a brow, and said, “Huh. Verrrrry weird cosplay.”

Ingo hadn’t pressed; when he’d followed up, the man was poised to leave, shoulders raised uncomfortably with his hands clutching at his arms as he turned away. He was embarrassed, and it was kinder to let the matter drop. When they’d finished their shift for the day, Emmet had wondered, aloud, what the cosplay was supposed to be-- last week there had been a [theme] Miku, so what was the idea behind that version of Ingo’s uniform?

There was a key point of miscommunication in that [?] which+ Ingo didn’t notice until well after the fact.

The next time he saw the man, it was without the ragged hat and coat; he wasn’t focused on anyone or anything in particular, just staring blankly out over the crowds. Under different circumstances, Ingo might have passed it off as waiting on an arrival or biding time until his train arrived, but he wasn’t paying any attention to the world around him. No repeated looks at clock or scanning of the [crowd], just the [dull] [stare] of a man lost deep within his thoughts.

He wondered if he should let this [chance] pass without comment, but he felt he had to say something.

Ingo approached from an angle, so as not to march in with reckless abandon the way his twin might. He stopped a respectful distance away: close enough to be heard over the din of the station, but not so close that he was invading the man’s personal space.

He cleared his throat politely to wake him from his [trance] and said, “I’m terribly sorry if we made you self conscious the last time we met. It wasn’t [appropriate] of me to stare, and I promise you Emmet’s commentary was born of curiosity, not criticism.”

The man seemed tense as he listened, and while he nodded, accepting the apology, none of that [tension] bled out of his posture. He seemed like he was about to say something, then turned his head to cough into his far shoulder.

“It’s no matter, I wasn’t offended.” He said. His voice was rough, and… strange, like he was speaking in a lower register than came naturally to him. Ingo made a note of it for later, but not an urgent one; if he was a cosplayer, he could be practicing his vocal range.

Even if it was true that he hadn’t been offended, he’d clearly been ashamed of his previous ensemble. Ingo hadn’t been paying a great amount of attention, but broad strokes were the same as what he’d worn before-- a thick pink tunic and dark, unremarkable pants and shoes-- with the only changes being the absence of his coat and hat. It was the first time he’d seen him without them, and it couldn’t have been coincidence that the [change] had come directly after their last interaction.

“While I admit that I only saw your work in passing, the attention to detail was quite impressive.” Ingo knew it wasn’t just cosplay-- short of visual effects make up, no amount of contouring or [?] could recreate someone else’s face so precisely-- but he didn’t know what it was. Maybe, if he got to know the man, he could solve this minor mystery. Their conversation had been a short one thus far, but already, he could strike a curious Zorua or Zoroark from the list of possibilities.

The man didn’t say anything for a moment, and, eventually, his eyes [?] down to the ground. “I… don’t know what to say.”

On its face, it made perfect sense-- the words and the gesture together should have indicated bashfulness, and while that was a [subsect/subset?] of [being uncomfortable] he was simply uncomfortable. His pale skin was unmarred by any blush, and he wasn’t peeking up to gauge Ingo’s response. He was staring at the floor, avoiding eye contact. No denial in regards to being a cosplayer, but no attempt to lean into the cover story he’d just been handed, either. Interesting.

“I don’t mean to keep you from your work.” He said, risking a single glance in Ingo’s direction. His brows twitched inward, [?], and then flattened. “Please continue with your business, I’ll vacate the premises shortly.”

“There’s no need to--” Ingo began, only to be cut off when a hand clamped down on his shoulder.

“I’m interrupting.” Emmet announced-- not a question, no hint of apology, just boldly asserting his presence. In the moment’s distraction, the man turned and briskly walked away, leaving Ingo with no [?] but to see what his brother needed from him. “[idk why Emmet’s interrupting]”

[Response to the problem/whatever]

He nodded, and then glanced in the direction the stranger had vanished into the crowd. “Your conversation seems to be over. We can [?] immediately.”

“Thank you, I’ve noticed.” Ingo said, pinching the bridge of his nose. As he turned to accompany him, though, something clicked, “You didn’t recognize him?”

Emmet shrugged shallowly. “No. You did?”

“Of course I-- did you not look at his face?” He asked, promptly switching from one unhelpful thought to a more productive one. While Ingo’s initial statement began with disbelief, the question he rerouted to was genuinely [?]; there was every possibility that Emmet simply hadn’t noticed, too focused on the man’s clothes or [interruption].

“Vaguely.” His brother said, dashing that theory. “I saw no reason to investigate further.”

“How?” The disbelief was back, more potent than before. Ingo himself had passed it off as a quirk of the human mind at first, so he was reluctant to judge, but seeing the man head-on had dispelled his uncertainty. He simply couldn’t believe that Emmet had looked into this particular mirror and not seen his reflection [shining?] back at him.

Emmet’s face twitched in irritation and he waved a hand out over the crowd, demonstrating that he found this particular individual indistinguishable from the masses.

“He looked precisely like us, Emmet; it was uncanny.” […]

At that, his twin’s eyes lit up with comprehension, lips twitching at what he took to be a joke. “Oh. It was the cosplayer. Did you ask what the premise was?”

It was tempting to ask if Emmet was yanking his chain, but the subtleties of his expression made it clear: he hadn’t noticed a thing. He truly didn’t recognize the man-- either as the person he’d seen in passing, or on the basis of their own resemblance.

Was Ingo’s perception flawed, then? While he’d never been diagnosed with prosopagnosia, he occasionally failed to recognize commuters or coworkers in different environments. He’d thought it was just a natural function of the human mind, filtering out information when it wasn’t immediately relevant, but perhaps they were indicative of a greater problem? He was tempted to look back, as though the empty spot could answer any of his questions, but he refrained. Instead, he turned, bumping Emmet with his shoulder to get them moving, and [went to address the interruption].

He might have convinced himself that it was a [flaw] in his [?] after all, had pure coincidence not run them straight into one another once again.

The man’s cap and coat were still absent, leaving his face as the most identifiable part of him, but his clothes seemed to be the same as well. There were odd creases in the shirt, as though it had shifted while hanging out to dry, and odd creases below his eyes, as well.