He saw his doppelgänger’s eyes flicker and scowled in response. What was going through this man’s head? Probably, he thought, whatever had been going through his head during those first few days. It hadn’t been so long ago, really – less than two weeks, though it felt like an eternity. He’d stepped off the train, and from the moment his feet touched the grass, his life had devolved into a waking nightmare. He’d been stabbed, beaten, chased across town; he’d been starving, barely sleeping at night, barely getting done what needed to be done before the sun went down, and staying out past midnight just to do a little more, to ensure he’d live through the next day. He’d fought, and he’d killed, and he’d torn out more organs than he cared to remember, all in the name of saving as many people as he could, and they’d still lost thousands. He’d died, and died again, just to be spat back into the world, as if Mother Boddho herself was saying that he wasn’t done yet, and couldn’t rest. Not until the debt was settled, and Isidor was at peace. Isidor…
He knew what was coming a moment before the blow hit, and it still didn’t give him time to dodge. Artemy took it full on the jaw and went down, cursing and spitting blood. Oh, right, he was a monster, champion of the Ring of Suok, Gorkhon’s own Ripper. Was that what it felt like to be on the receiving end of one of his punches? Now he knew why people had been afraid of him.
“What?! No! No, no– not me! I would never have– I’m you! Fuck, shit–” He sprang up and threw a fist in turn, just to give himself some room. “I know, you’re upset! Nobody knows better than I do! But I am not the one you’re looking for! I can show you who did it– blyat, just calm down! I believe you, I believe you!”
The amount of time it takes this other Burakh to get up and throw his fist gives Artemiy enough time to dodge back and avoid it, but he won’t count on that luck again. He throws up his arms in front of his face in a defensive block. His stance is clumsy and inaccurate; despite his height and his build, despite his gruff demeanor and his mean attitude, despite everything about him, he simply wasn’t built for fighting. His good fortune in fights has always been and will always be driven by his stature.
When he catches his breath enough to process what his clone (or his twin? this town has always been good for twins) said, he lowers his arms and clenches his jaw tight. “...You believe me?” It’s the first time anyone’s said that since he got here. Even his old friends, the ones that know he didn’t kill his father, never phrased it as believing him... just believing that he didn’t do it. He swallows hard. Another moment of pause.
“Fine.” His expression doesn’t soften, but his shoulders relax enough to not graze against his earlobes. It’s a start. “If you know so much, then who the hell are you? Because you’re not – I mean, you are me, I can tell that much – but you sure as hell aren’t the me that’s supposed to be here.” He’ll decide whether he can believe this impostor’s claim that he knows who killed his father later. Figuring out what’s going on is a little more urgent.
