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The artificial light of the Zocalo signs flicker above him, illuminating his teacup in a faint red glow. Morden takes another sip—-the taste is too subtle, and the temperature isn’t quite right, but it will have to do.
His perception of the station is unstable. He doesn’t particularly like coming here - the company is quite annoying, and Ambassador Mollari grates against him at times. Londo remains the key to their favorable ending—their precious maneuvered catalyst, propelling the universe forward for his associates—but he isn’t necessarily pleasant. There isn’t much here for him, but there isn’t much on Z’ha’dum, either, in a more literal sense; the planet isn’t catered to the younger races.
Morden stands. He’s hungry—he’s always hungry in some interpretation of the word. The food here can be very good if you know where to look, so the station has at least one positive attribute. His associates are cloaked elsewhere, discussing his earlier meeting with Ambassador Mollari, and someone at a nearby table is eating a very appealing croissant.
He walks up to the cafe’s cashier, orders with a smile, and tips once more. Morden does enjoy interacting with others—small transactions here and there facilitate the idea that he is simply just another person passing through the station, someone with neutral intentions. It helps him blend in.
He almost drops his plate when he sees it. Very few things can surprise him these days, but the man is nearly a duplicate of him, a perfect recreation of his own appearance except for the fact that Morden would’ve chosen a shirt with any other color than buttercup yellow. Has he been drugged? The cashier is taking his order, so he can’t be hallucinating this. Can he? Morden catches the glisten of a communications link attached to the man’s right hand.
He’s never had any siblings. He knows this for a fact; his mothers and their strong emphasis on memory and sentiment had lead Priscilla to film the whole birth, which still makes him shudder a bit. He hasn’t thought about his family in several years. He forced himself not to after their personal transport malfunctioned, and these days, he’s simply been too busy to care. Whatever. He’s not about to start thinking about it now; that would be useless. This man can’t be his relative, and he thinks the language is warranted: What the fuck?
It has to be a coincidence. There was an Earth saying centuries ago that there are about seven dopplegangers of any given person on the planet. It probably isn’t true, but the man stands in front of Morden anyway, so now he has to question everything.
He was only somewhat aware of it before now, but damn. He’s actually quite attractive, isn’t he? He really is. He really, really is.
Morden approaches the man with a widened smile, trying his best to feign innocent curiosity. “Well, hello,” he says. “Do I know you?”
