Duality;Solaris Vol. 1

Chapter 3-2: Camaraderie of Coworkers

"What? I don't— the hell was that?"

Unsure of what he had just dreamed, yet completely confident in it having a purpose— if only he could remember it all. Breathing hard as his sweat begins to dissipate, the splashes of festivities and neon stroke colors of wonder and seduction, like flicks from a brush, into the dark room. Noises of celebration, and attention, soon follow; voices of next door neighbors can be heard through his thinly veiled apartment walls. Reality is beginning to take it's reigns once again. Regardless though, a single thought—a visage—remains lodged into his memory.

"... Who was she?"

    Nevertheless, this isolation did not last. Voices bicker from outside an apartment door, friendly as they may ultimately sound— that isn't a guarantee for John. With the noisiness from outside to the apartment building erupting in it's own rowdiness, John plugs his ears with his fingers— hoping to retread whatever thing he had just imagined when he was asleep. Still somewhat tired and feeling a crick or two from the way the couch comforted him, John drowsily undresses from his office attire before making his way to a far comfier bed a room away. In one fell swoop, off with the tie— the shoes and the pants, too. As he picks himself off the couch, a sound of crumbling stone faintly trickles down his huge kitchen window across from him. If only for but a second, John's shunned curiosity was piqued— and his anxiety flared. He turns his head to the window on his right, staring at it through his sleep-encrusted eyes, waiting for an answer to his piqued, or flared, wonder. He squints as the waiting becomes palpable.

*Bang!Bang!Bang!*

Loud banging explodes from his door. Intensity of a thousand raging bulls shock through John's groggy system. He recoils, sending him flying back into the backrest of the couch he was just sitting in. The banging shocking enough alone, the poor man and the couch both topple over onto the wooden floor behind them.

    Muffled voices can be heard from beyond the door. Clear enough to know that they're there, but not enough to make out what is being said. A flabbergasted John peeks his head out from behind the toppled couch unsure of what to make of this. Today had been strange enough as it had been, enough to drown out anything else the day was meant to be used for. Was this another in a string of strange things possibly awaiting to happen, or is it to be something he forget in the process of all this?

"Ah, crap!"

John rises to his feet in trepidation. Moving slowly as he may, the beast behind the door was not a patient predator. A shout of aggression rumbles just beyond the door as the few more bangs of it are to follow. A rush runs through John's spine. With steps loud enough for the neighbors to hear, he dashes towards his door— before looking down. Everything took his mind off of it, but he was in only a damp, wrinkly button-up and his striped boxers.

    Dashing back to the tossed about clothes he had just worn, he messily tries to get himself together— or at least presentable for a short chat. Slipping his socks on first and then switching out his dirty shirt for something a little less so close by, the knocks don't stop coming in the meantime. Making quick work of picking back up the couch into place, he cleans up the coffee table as he tosses the shattered Walkman into his messenger bag before slinging them onto said couch. The knocks come quick and loud, the 'guests' must be reaching their fevered peak; with little extra to spare, the briefcase is simply pushed off onto the nice violet carpet on his way to the now wrinkled pants. Back and forth, John grabs his pants and attempts to slide them on as he waddles his way closer to the noisy door. In on the right and caught on the left, John haphazardly puts on his pants.

*Crash!*

Tripping on his own agency—and pants—John slams the ground rather hard.

"Pfftt!"