Duality;Solaris Vol. 1

Chapter 4-1: Rooftop Rhapsody

*Fwoosh! BAM!*

An obstacle no more. A man, tattered with makeshift padding, pushes on through a locked door with the last of his might. The door of metal and plastic bursts open as it crashes into the brick wall encapsulating this exterior entry. Alas, the man does not stop charging forward.

"Ack— aggGGGGHHHH!"

"Really, mate?! WHO ARE Y—"

Charging with all his might, the partially padded man tackles a sharply dressed guy off this building's roof. Even with such force and run up, the padded man could barely budge the guy in the torn suit off— managing to ideally scrape against the building's walls all the way down.

"Ack!"

In knocking some air out of the suit's lungs, it is enough to give way to the tackle— yet, this is but a foolish victory for the assailant. As the suit's back faces the ground below, now wasn't the time to freak. While the building stood but a story off the ground, its' walls were made sturdy by the collective weight of the red bricks that made them. Little time could be wasted, a quick idea is all that could be spared. Even if the building is on the shortest side of things, a fall like this—from their compromised positioning—could prove to be fatal. Thusly, a move must be made— no matter how reckless it is to be.

    Falling down without a foreseeable way out, the assailant's heated tackle seemed ironclad— or so he thought. The sounds of ripping and tearing can be heard just behind him, the assailant knows the suit is making his play. But, what is it? The sound of Egyptian cotton tearing near hairs behind his own head, the suit had an ace up his sleeves. Whatever it—they—may have been, it is sharp and numerous. The suit grunts; the assailant braces for impact as he digs his face into the suit's toned stomach. Yet, there was no impact. Matter of fact, they are actually slowing down instead. This didn't make sense, it defied logic. How? The assailant wanted to think it out more, but a sound screeching louder and louder began to cloud his thoughts. Pebbles soon trickle down softly onto his head and between his padding. Before the assailant could question this absurdity anymore, a rough pain collides with his arm holding onto the suit as that man rips him away from off said toned stomach. Frozen in puzzlement, the assailant can only accept the circumstance and brace for impact.

*Krriuuk*

The elbow touches down first before the rest of padded assailant. While it would've been a pleasant surprise, the unnatural fall came with its own karma. If landing on his padded elbow wasn't enough, some of the loose brick peddles that had slipped in made such a protective measure nigh meaningless. Thanks to the toughness of the concrete ground, the additional assistance aided the pebbles enough; the assailant's elbow crumbled under the force. Writhing in pain on the ground, the assailant's elbow broken and his right arm now useless as the suit touches down mere inches away. Feet first, the suit seems to have reversed the situation on its head. Nevertheless, there's not a smirk of satisfaction, but a demonstration of grimace enveloping his entirety. Whereas the assailant's right arm is as flaccid as the worms beneath him, the suit appears to have an injury of his own. The assailant watches as barren streams of deep red trickle down the suit's left forearm. Caught midst the darkened shadow casting upon them from up above, the suit steadily struts out into the neon-lit strips glowing down into their dingy, secluded tussle.

    Stuck between two thick walls, the only ways out were forward into the suit or backward to the distant sounds of traffic and cheers. That being said, this is also the chance to see what sound the suit made to save his skin. The sharp objects being far more visible under the cold, neon reflections, continue protruding from the suit's forearm as they are cutting through his flesh. Counting three of equal, modest size, the gravel brown protrusions are fragmented closer to their tips. The damage of the suit's unspecified choice correlates into something the assailant can vaguely bank on. Be it pride or daftness, the assailant climbs back up to his feet as they stand defiantly still.

"Huff. Huff. Huff."

Both battered and haggard, they have nothing to share— nothing to say. So, as long as the other stands, their fight has yet to end.

    The suit dashes forward. Each tap of his Italian black shoes echo louder as they rapidly inch closer. Grimace switches to rage as he madly swings a right hook at his assailant. The padding helping when it can, the assailant swerves left enough to take the brunt off his wrecked right arm. Barely missing the assailant by a crumb's length, his padding upon his own forearm being not as fortunate as he. Slicing deep into the forearm padding gap as some of those protruding, curved spikes begin to show on the suit's right forearm as well. Unlike from the fall before, the assailant can witness the 'how' through the functional neon glows.

    The protrusions were from within the flesh. Coming through in a curvature, the sounds of ripping flesh are heard before the sight of them could be determined. Indicative of deeper cuts, yet impossible to discern the point of origin of them— is the 'how' tied to something more intrinsic? Although, something could be extracted by the injured assailant. If but a baffling observation, it is a start for him. Those spikes reminding him of the feel of the brick on the way down. It could explain the suit's defined bodily structure that—

*Pow!* "Ack"

The suit's right elbow connects. Too distracted by the spikes, the assailant missed the suit's collected recovery. The assailant takes a blow to the bandaged chin. Discombobulating? Yes. But, not as detrimental as the spikes would've been. The assailant stumbles backward. Coming in contact with the building's brick wall, he finds himself caught between the literal rock and a hard place.

    The suit grunts in pain as he sneers at the trapped assailant. His hand balled up tight into a solid fist, his movements ever slightly slowing under every weighty motion. The suit moves through the center of the alleyway towards the assailant-covered wall as he's bathed in the waves of bright neon creeping in through the towering buildings above. The view was bright, and the sight is clear; the source behind the grunts can be seen by the assailant. The hands, it is the suit's hands! Around the bottom of each finger to the skin surrounding the knuckles, bumps move and form. Shimmering like rippling water, the suit's flesh around the tips of his hands bubble as if something was forming underneath—as if another structure no longer laid dormant. Alas, this isn't the time to think. Without a means to escape—nor the health to overcome—there is only one thing for the assailant to do: adapt. Or die.