Duality;Solaris Vol. 1

Chapter 4-6: Eye For An Eye

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Now having reconnected the unfortunate events of his day, a present Konstantine looks up to the sky. The view, while limited by the suffocating borders of building walls, is profound within this light-polluted night. The words begin to form themselves.

"You know, at first I thought you were after me for money. The nice suit, great fabrics; I wouldn't have blamed ya for thinking that. But, if I knew you were chasing me down for this heroism crap, I might've done things differently. I probably would've laid you out at the airport from the get-go." Talking more to himself than his assailant, the melancholic smile of hindsight seems to finally grace Konstantine's soul as his blood takes it's leave from his open wounds. While the rock-like formations across his body start to close up the capillaries closest to his injuries, they can't erase the damages incurred. As the hour comes to it's close, Konstantine begins to walk past his assailant and towards the alleyway's exit.

"Huh?" The assailant can't quite seem to understand Konstantine's ploy. This whole time of tit-for-tat, the suit's—Konstantine's—objective had been obvious to the assailant. This sleazy man's goal was nothing more than money, by any means necessary. Or, at least, he assumed. It made sense to the assailant. Based off what he assumed, the man with that snake tattoo—that ouroboros entrapping his arm—had the money to accomplish his goals. And, a broker of Konstantine's quality has information most would usually kill for. It comes with this kind of job. Yet, something didn't add up. "Who is the Ouroboros Man looking for?"

An accusation like this being something that would have gotten under Konstantine's skin before, slides off like water onto oil. The assailant's words aren't reaching Konstantine, their effects no longer holding any power over him. In an aggravated shout of his own, "Are you listening? What are you involved in? Who's place did you visit today? Answer me, Cormac Konstantine!", before clutching back at his bruised abdomen.

A full name being stated—his—surely comes as a shock, but it answered more than Konstantine could've ever assumed. This was a targeted assault— in the very least. Nevertheless, something was lost in translation. No, someone knew what to lose, and what to replace it with. "Was it that glimpse at the airport?", Konstantine solemnly continues from his last words, "Or, is it after I left that client's house a few hours ago?" He cheekily grinning through his blood covered face, knowing the answer the moment he said it. The wobbling worsens with every step closer to the hour's end. Konstantine leans against the brick wall closet to his side as a slight, strained chuckle comes bubbling through his bloody lips.

Flashes of that paranoid client—that lady in the hotel room—resurfaces into the forefront of his mind. That fear. That inability to 'live' when looking over one's shoulder. It began to make sense to Konstantine in this instance. The hold it had over her reverberates throughout his brain and down his nerves. Will this be what dictates his actions? Will he be enslaved by things outside of his control? No, that wasn't going to be him.

"It doesn't matter. Not if you're dead.", Konstantine drones, "Or, I. Or, anyone that keels over, really. I may not know who told you what, where, or who. But, I do know that I have no idea what in the world you have been talking about since you been harassing me."

The assailant sulks at the news. Albeit, unsure to believe a thing that comes from this sleazy guy's mouth. The point between the lines was crystal clear all the same, nothing about the 'Ouroboros Man' or 'Snow Demon' identities were coming out from him today. Thus, all this was for nothing. Just injuries with little other than questions leftover.

"Now, if you're pathetic vigilante self doesn't mind, I'm leaving. I was gonna go home, have a little family time, and the like. But, no! Now, I've got to go to the hospital cause of you. Do you know how much of a pain that'll be during a festival time like this? All cause you vigilante scum want to dish out what you think 'justice' is, and damn the rest that don't share the thought. Bah!", as Konstantine complains through his wobbly steps out of the alleyway. Hoping his assailant picked up on any of his words. True to his intent, this did stir something out of the assailant.

It stirred a fizzing rage from him. An attack upon his pride, a damper on his purpose. A purpose instilled by nurture and culture. Inciting virtually the response Konstantine wished to hurt. Blowing up in an immature outburst, "You and I both know you had other plans than seeing your family! What do you know about what is 'right'?", the assailant voices to his target that has since left him behind.

Now, finding himself laid up opposite of the damaged brick wall he helped deface, the assailant lies surrounded by pipe-residue puddles and forgotten dumpsters. The sparkle of neon signage remaining as the alley's sole light in the dark of a festive night, hope of any passersby coming to his rescue are slimmer with every fading minute. His vision blurs in and out and his body ignores his desires increasingly more. He cannot avoid what he didn't want to have happen. Not like this, anyway. Regardless, in this precarious situation, he must bite the bullet. While still being able to make minor movements, the assailant reaches under his outer thigh padding and retrieves his mobile phone. Flipping it open with said padding, he maneuvers it's options and texts out a message. As a series of beeps are spaced out between hesitant pauses, the assailant manages to get his message between his blurry vision.

Bzzzt!

And, with this confirmatory buzzing, the assailant passes out where he lies. His mind at as much peace as a compromised, injured man could be. The sent text appears in confirmation of making to it's destination. Reflecting from the puddles and neon, the text reads, '47.095310, -122.790874 to 'John' at 8:48pm'.