It wasn’t easy to tell if someone was new or not. Mason assumed that for the most part, the people who were sat at tables chatting as if this were a university cafeteria instead of a glorified prison camp were old-timers. People who had bought into this bullshit. This guy who was wearing his face - and fuck that was weird - seemed like he was out of place anyway.
He knew he was staring, but then so was the other guy. Mason felt himself bristle a little. He didn’t like being stared at on the best of days, but when someone was staring at him with his own eyes that was even worse.
“What,” he asked, dry humour just on the edge of cutting, “never seen a guy who looks almost identical to you before?”
He huffed out a breath and stabbed his fork into one of the shitty pieces of bacon that he’d been given.
“It’s very funny, mate,” he continued, “but drop the illusion. It’s not right to walk around with another bloke’s face.”