solomon takes but a second to relish in the accomplishment before whatever pride he grew turns into confusion, which happens in three phases. first phase: the pink one mentions a past which they’ve shared. in the midst of action, solomon hadn’t identified anyone in particular, nor was he trying to, but reevaluating it all, there was only one option. flashes come through his mind like speeding bullets - the size, the stance, maybe even the voice, bullets carving away at statues in an empty park just a month before. last time he was by the thames, it was under death’s secret pretenses, and he had ended the night heaving for air, with his back to the grass and his face smashed into a bloody pulp. there was a spot under one of his left ribs that still ached. there were fresh thin scars on his cheeks. and there is the culprit, at last within reach, and bragging about it just like solomon would. “you-”, before the confusion can fully be replaced by fury, the rifle hits him.
second phase: there’s a ringing noise in his head, but this is temporary, always temporary, must be temporary. eyes are wide and unmasked, and solomon is kicked back down, now pinned by the target. he tries to roll away but to no avail, barely blocking any hits. this is certain, this is the one - no one else would know just where in his ribs and where in his head it would ache like this. this confusion is not just of the mind, as the lights int he distance seem to tremble far more than usual, and it truly yook a full breath out of him.
third phase: the ringing is gone, but not fast enough, and low hums of pain leave his lips. “london? the fuck are you, the prime minister?”, he’s almost out. he must, since the other has been moving so damn much in such a short amount of time. he’d normally count the seconds, but the confusion did now allow for it. all solomon knows is that it’s been too long since he’s landed on top of his target, and the initial adrenaline fueled response is not eternal. soon they too must be tired. soon they’ll fail. the dominion looks around, both to flee the blows, and to case in the environment. with all this noise, there’s no way he’d pick up on the sound of anyone coming near. the idea that one day he’ll turn to find a bullet coming towards his face haunts his dreams, and no amount of hypervigilance can fix that. shit. just like that, his gun is gone, disappearing into the dark waters after a single moment of distraction.
solomon grabs their wrist mid movement, pulling it towards him in swift action, head forcefully colliding against death’s soldier. with a rather drawn out grunt, he rushes up and to the side, pinning the other to the deck floors, one knee heavy on their chest, but moving vaguely, both to keep them down, and to feel around all the pink. no bullet vests under this, that’s for certain. also no hidden gun in an inside pocket. the information is filed away quickly as the confusion washes out and all that’s left is a dangerous man and a doubled need for justice. “ya should have finished the job last time.” one hand pulls a knife from the side of his holster, blade shining under the party lights, and aims it down hard. it sticks upright on the floor, narrowly missing emil’s neck, but they’d been moving far too wildly so a clean hit was barely expected. still, an unsatisfied sound leaves his throat. why must he find the shooter from the thames back on the river, where he should be pulled in a million directions? where his task includes rushing out of death’s soon to be wreckage? justice truly wasn’t fair.
smash. the force of solomon's skull against his own. as confusion slows time down, emil is brought back to time spent in kashvi's home. they don't think of the clothes stripped from their hangers and left in messy piles, or the animal blood that stained her hallway. they think of being trapped against a kitchen counter, using the only weapon left on hand: their skull against hers. he wonders for half a second if this is cosmic karma, their price for causing pain. but the more time emil spends in this world, the more they begin to wonder if that wonderful force their mothers claim keeps everything right in the world, is just a tale to stop your children from crying. if it was real, there would be no kashvi singhs, no solomon romeros.
with another slam, they're on their back again, sure to leave bruises to hate when their life is no longer at risk. emil has always been quick under pressure, one of the lucky ones, there has never been any hesitation. so when lights catch something shiny and pointed, emil fights solomon's grip harder, hoping eventually their height difference will give them the edge. the knife comes down, and emil jerks hard, but their breath still catches in their throat as it sinks into the floor a few inches from his skin. “take some of your own advice, old man.” that sore spot in solomon's ribs meets emil's curled fist again. one, two. their elbow swings up off the floor and into solomon's head. emil grins as their wrestling means he finally manages to bend his knee and bring his leg up enough to drive the heel of their boot into the others thigh. great day to not be wearing stilettos. still, this should more than a combat boot.
emil kicks himself free, pushing solomon down and away until he can land another kick to the others chest. they have but a few moments to get the upper hand as the force of their kick pushes solomon back. emil is more thankful than ever to have spent so many years walking in shoes like this. it'll never be their first choice, to fight an experienced killer in heeled boots, but emil gets to their feet nimbly all the same. “come on, honey. you wanna get your ass handed to you? again?” their laugh is drawn out, arms up defensively. come on, prick, hit me again.
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