"Hnng!", the suit groans in pain, "What? You talk, now?!" Having turned his head as much as he can from within the brick wall. The suit's expression is far from pleased— much less so when covered in blood and red dust. Suspiciously though, a hint of another emotion could be surmised between it all. Not to be lost midst the action, the assailant picked up on this, too.
Staring down at the trapped suit, the assailant's darting eyes come to a stop. Stopping dead on the sole pupil that the assailant can meet with, the suit's left eye peers back through the stinging bloody haze that coats it. The assailant stands emotionless at the sight before him—injured as he may be—before limping to the suit's blindside. The tapping of red pebbles echo closer with each and every step. He cannot see what the assailant is about to do. Thus, he cannot accurately counter with his schtick in time. The steps slow to a solemn stop.
"What about the 'Demon of the Snow'?", the assailant monotonously asks. A minute may pass of slience, but it is far from a pleasant minute— to be sure. There's no time left for half-measured plays. A gust of air evaporates away from the suit. The assailant is about to throw his punch. But, to where? It doesn't matter anymore.
The punch is thrown, but it does not connect. "Aaggghh!", the assailant screams in agony. The suit's right leg had moved. Providing a low kick of sorts, the suit moved fast. Possibly even instinctively, the suit stomped as to where he thought the assailant's injured foot would be. Due to the pebbles tapping and the angle most likely needed for his uninjured arm, the suit stomped— in assumption— in the dark. While effective as it may have been, it's noticeable to him that only the top quarter of his shoe made contact with the assailant's fractured ankle. It isn't enough to down the man for good, but it is sufficient in buying himself a precious few minutes more.
In a bit of frantic rage, the suit 'solidifies' his knee as he rams it into the brick wall. He hits and hits as close as he can to his closest trapped hand. Letting out hushed peeps of pain with every smash. It's enough. His left hand his free. As the suit repeats this process on his other stuck body parts, the crippled assailant—using the same brick wall—shakily returns to his standing position. Albeit, limited by the needed crutch the wall provides, the assailant attempts the less travelled option one last time. "Are they that important to you that all this is worth your secrecy? You look nothing like the things I've heard of those two. The string of mangled bodies they've left behind doesn't affect you at all??", the assailant poorly begging for the suit to see his reason. And, yet, the suit shares the same mixed expression with the assailant once more.
The brick crumbling, the suit has finally broken free from his masonry chains as he turns to his persistent perpetrator. The man, tattered in torn fabric and blood from both, darkens his assailant in the image of his own shadow. While neither necessarily that much taller than the other, the immediate stone-like bulk underneath—and cutting through—the suit towers over his weakened, vulnerable assailant. The intimidating, adrenaline-blinded rage of the suit demonstrates how tiny the assailant must be in comparison, especially in his current state. Nevertheless, the assailant stands resolute in his decisions, in his actions. For, regardless of what comes next, the next move truly will be their last.
The suit launches his bulky, spiked punch down at his assailant. The forearm spikes sliding, crashing into the remaining brick wall the assailant leans on all the down. The bulk, while increasing the destructive power, incurs the same issue his legs had from the moment the suit landed on solid ground: slowed movement speed. As the fist picks up speed, the forearm spikes planted inside the wall take it away. The perfect reprieve. As the fist comes down, the slowed speed gives enough time for the assailant to move. Pushing off the wall, the assailant hops away from the fist's trajectory— and into his perfect shot. Taking his healthier hand, the assailant swings out a twisting punch at the suit's throat. Under the assumption that the suit cannot risk hardening around his airways, this is his best shot. Shooting his shot, the assailant's punch connects. Except, the punch connects with the suit's other hand.
YOU ARE READING
Duality;Solaris Vol. 1
General FictionIt's seven past five, and it's been just like any other Thursday. Amongst the busy roads and well traveled sidewalks, the office workers make their mass exodus from the 'dungeons that haunt their dreams'- and onto these packed city streets. While...
