dumbshow | can't believe this is happening

[His sweater was white when he boarded that plane. He remembers - or he thought he remembered - that his mother presented it to him the day before, folded and warm from the dryer. She pinched his cheek and told him how much she was going to miss him, but it was a comfortable goodbye. His father clasped him on the shoulder the day of, looked him in the eye and told him he was going to do great things. He felt pride swell in his chest unlike anything he'd ever known.

His sweater is all sorts of different shades of red, torn beyond what he can fix. It was his own blood, at first, before he'd gotten a hang of shooting splicers. Then it was theirs. Wading through the waters of cracking Rapture walls washed some of it away, but there was always another instance that stained it again, like when he doesn't wipe his hand after brushing the wall his real mother died in or now... now.

He's still holding the base of the club he beat Andrew Ryan with. The key has been placed below the grand model of the city, and he thought, in his kind daze, that this was one of this great things he was meant to do. But now, coming down, he only feels shame and anger twisting itself into a knot that he's probably going to need years to unravel. Longer than he's lived - how long has he lived? His mind is swimming with questions, but they're being asked of a blank canvas.

No one misses Jack Ryan. No one's waiting for him to come home. The only one alive now that truly knows him, somehow, is over the radio, and though the fact he's been using that damn phrase... he hopes there's something redeemable in that. Otherwise, he might as well just drown. So, before Atlas can speak, he raises his voice. Just above a mumble, defeated:]

Atlas? That is your name, right, Atlas?

Edited (i can words, shut up) 2018-01-03 08:21 (UTC)

[The ace in the hole. That's all the boy is for, even before he's born; when he's nothing but an idea and a twinkle in Frank Fontaine's eye, all the boy is good for is being the ace in the hole. The failsafe, the just-in-case when his efforts as Atlas don't quite reach the desired end. He makes a call. The boy gets on a plane.

Everything else is just debris.

Now the city belongs to Atlas, to Frank Fontaine—come out on top, in one last fuck you to the bloodied heap that is Andrew Ryan lying on the floor. From his secure location Atlas feels a satisfaction that reaches down into his very bones, the satisfaction of a job well done. Rapture is his to cradle in his hands like a newborn child and mold into precisely what he wants it to be.

He's getting good at that, lately. Lost in thought at the precise moment he's accomplished his goal, the moment the sum of the parts is finally revealed, he doesn't realize Jack is speaking through the radio he holds white-knuckled at his side for a moment.

The boy—well, he might as well see what he wants, before he makes an over-hasty decision. He clears his throat before raising the radio up to laugh into it, a sputtering, surprised noise that rings out with the genuine pride in Jack that he's lauded him with on his journey here. Like Atlas is so shaken from what's just happened that all he can do for a moment is laugh—] You've done it, boyo! Now that's what I call a job well done. Saved the city, you have, and just in the nick of time.

[what do you mean "that is your name, right," he suddenly can't hear]

[It isn't abnormal for Atlas not to respond to what he's said, so that's fine. He expects it. Jack rarely spoke up, because his shitty guide was just going to keep rattling off exposition and ignoring him anyway. Maybe there was, at most, a few mumbles under his breath about how all of this is bullshit. Maybe there was a one-liner here and there that he thought was funny, but really wasn't because there's no way he got a real sense of humor. "Looks like that splicer got spliced up," or "Welcome to the circus of fuck yous." Terrible. Just terrible.

He can't have a real sense of humor, he thinks, because he doesn't get why Atlas is laughing. He doesn't know if it's really a comfort that he is, as much as he desperately wants it to be. He can't bring himself to play along, so he'll just try and think his way through this. If he's careful, maybe this won't take a wrong turn.

How much capacity does he have to deal with new information, hm- very little. He'll start small.] Is that really a good thing, Atlas? Would-- [No, he can't bring himself to say that. He feels like he might puke if it rolls off his own tongue.] Would you at least... tell me if you actually want to see the sun again?

[Is that really a good thing, Jack asks, and Atlas nearly doubles over laughing for real. He's already busy, moving around his safe haven to pick up this and that - a gun, another gun, a knife just in case - one-handed, as this radio conversation is still happening. He doesn't intend to actually talk to the boy, but what could it hurt?

It's not as if he has to keep him. With the press of a button he can be rid of Jack Ryan forever, even easier than getting rid of his damnable, stinking father—so maybe there isn't any harm in humoring the boy, for now. He hums, like he's thinking about it.]

You wanna get out of here? Sure, I can make that happen. [The metallic click of a gun being cocked in the background while he speaks is probably not a gun being cocked, don't worry about it.] As for me? I plan on it, my friend. Just me and the finest things Rapture has to offer.

[.....ngh,] And you, 'course, if you're comin' along. What do you say?

[Jack's cocked enough guns in what... the past ten hours? that he knows exactly what that sounds like, but your blood can't run cold when you've been rendered frigid countless times. He's beyond being unsettled, in a stagnant state where he can just listen - and he does listen. He does catch that.

He realizes he was just tacked onto the end of that plan, like shoving a piece into the puzzle that doesn't quite fit. But if he's going to fit anywhere, it isn't this office. Maybe he can find somewhere to rest if he goes along with the man, even if it isn't who he thought he knew. He's so so tired...]

Yeah. [He drops the club, looking anywhere but the body when he turns around.] Yeah, Atlas - I just want to go... I just want to get out here.

[Atlas murmurs something to himself, only half-listening to Jack again. He doesn't need the boy anymore at all, the city is his, Frank Fontaine can come back from the dead at any time he wants now—but something occurs to him as he shuffles some papers around, picks up those that will serve as evidence and looks for a lighter. Maybe Frank Fontaine doesn't have to come back from the dead; Atlas is more well-liked, a working man, the people's man... He might have better luck staying Atlas for a while yet.

And he might have even better luck if Atlas delivers unto the people the man who finally got rid of Andrew Ryan, with his generous guidance and aid. It's hokey, but so is most of the shit that happens in Rapture, at the end of the day. He doesn't need Jack Ryan, but he could keep him around to see how it goes.

Maybe. He affects a softer tone, more sympathetic to Jack's sudden confusion and how stressful beating his own father to death must have been. You know, that kind of tone.] Alright. Alright, don't you worry about a thing. You leave everything to ol' Atlas, y'hear? You've done more than enough for Rapture.

[And for his bank account! Very nice boy. He pauses, looking around the room; he'll never come back here again, so—] Why don't you and me meet somewhere? Things'll be calm for a while yet, what with— well, things'll be quieter.

[Leave everything to Atlas. He repeats this under his breath once, then twice, then just Atlas' name like if he says it enough times he can go back to when he believed in it. Like if he says it enough, he'll be able to forget the crumpled mess that was father as as he makes his way past it,. There's an open vent ahead, one of those Little Sisters is beckoning to him from inside it - he's too distracted to notice, and she's too frightened to step out and fetch him.

Atlas will meet him, Atlas will take care of it, Atlas isn't making some elaborate show like when an empty submarine blew. He's done enough for Rapture, he's done great things... He knows they're hollow wishes, but he'll address them later. After his moment of incoherent mumbling, he's remembered Atlas asked a question.]

The trees. I want to see the trees.

[He's still on the radio while he mutters Atlas' name like some kind of fucked up prayer. Atlas listens, and Atlas thinks: he hasn't said the words since asking Jack to put the genetic key in the machine, and yet the hold he apparently still has over him is considerable. It would be easy to cut this off sooner rather than later - plenty of things in Rapture can do away with Jack before he can reach the park, even if he's done remarkably well so far.

But. It's so rare that he finds himself holding the chain that controls someone so... efficient.]

Trees ain't gonna... Nah, now what am I sayin' to Rapture's new hero? Okay, whatever you want, boyo. [That's not the fucking surface, but fine.] I'll come and getcha, and we'll go from there.

[He'll make his way to the park, and don't pay attention to how comparatively clean and unbothered by Splicers he is by the time he gets there. Where did he come from? Don't wonder.]

[It's fine - Jack's wondering is confined to whether or not he'll actually get to see Atlas. He half expects him to be a shadowy figure behind some glass, sending him off somewhere yet again, just like everyone else has been since... recent events. He desperately tries not to think of how it could turn out the same way. Would he beat Atlas too, if he asked out of nowhere? He doesn't want to. He didn't want to. He's glad Atlas seems to have very sincere plans on living, even if it's less sincere when it comes to Jack's involvement.

He enters the park with a tight grip on his shotgun, but he comes to lower it as he realizes it is indeed quiet. And when he sees Atlas - Atlas, who is real, who isn't overtly intending to kill him the second he lays on him - he drops it entirely. He's so relieved. He's been so alone.]

You're here.

[Atlas is actually out and about, this time. There's no reason for him to run or whatever else, now that he has plenty of time to do whatever he wants with Rapture. No one besides the two of them know what happened to Andrew Ryan, anyway—sure, people will have noticed the city almost sank itself, but worse things happen to Rapture all the time! It's fine. He's standing around in this underwater park and hating it, a little, since it still stands testament to Andrew Ryan selling air.

That's not even a good con. Atlas is armed, sure, but there's no gun in his hands when Jack shows up, covered in blood and who knows what else and gripping that shotgun like it's the last thing he has in this world. And then he drops it, so what does that make it now? What does that make Atlas?

He looks at him for a split second, brow furrowed, before a grin spreads over his face. Time to see how this goes.]

Don't tell me you were doubtin' me after all this time? [For real, don't.] A man can't just take off without seein' his partner in the flesh, can he? C'mere, son, let me have a look at you.

[He half turns to pick something up off an old crate he's leaning against, a shift that reveals one of the guns he picked up before - but his hand passes over it to pick up an energy bar, which he tosses at Jack, helpfully. Eat up, boyo.]

[It could make Atlas a knife in his back, but Jack would much rather he be something that shields him from one right now. A necessary evil, all things considered, but necessary - he can't carry on like this alone. He does freeze for a moment when the gun comes into view, his fingers twitching towards where he left the his own, but he can't help that. It's second nature to draw his own when he sees one in someone else's hands.

Thankfully, he looks up quickly enough to catch the bar, not lingering on how easy it would be to shoot him right now. He didn't realize he was starving until he was ripping the wrapping open, already taking his first bite when he stops within a few feet of Atlas. He stares at him as he swallows, like he's waiting for his to dissipate like the rest of the apparitions he's encountered here.

He doesn't. Since he's real, Jack has to say something, something not... weak. Establish himself, his importance. But he still can't bring himself to laugh or even smile, so it winds up still sounding pathetic.] You aren't "taking off" without your partner, right?

[Here's something annoying: the kid is fucking huge. Suchong allowed this? What the fuck? Atlas doesn't have to look up at him exactly, when he comes closer, but he has to direct his gaze a little higher and that is... so... irritating.

He folds his arms over his chest and looks at him, frowning. He deserves that suspicion, honestly. Shut up, though.]

I can take you to the surface, don't you worry about that. But first, boyo, you gotta do me another favor. [....well,] Two, actually; first thing's first, let's get you outta this foul-smellin' getup and into something that makes you look rightly heroic.

[Guess what thing 2 is, it's public speaking.]

[He dreaded doing another favor. He chews the last of his bar slowly to avoid answering, mulling over while he just keeps... looking at Atlas? He doesn't know if he's stopped since he got here. He should, probably.

Finally, cautiously:] As long as we don't get separated again, partner. [A beat.] ... I don't think any of your clothes are going to fit me, boyo.

[try THAT on for size... how's that feel!!]

[What is he saying... Atlas looks back at him, almost uncertain - actually interacting with Jack is difficult without dropping the phrase every ten minutes or just making idle commentary about his, uh, ventures. Frank Fontaine has no patience for attitude or jokes, he would have knocked Jack down and kicked him in the head by now under ordinary circumstances—but Atlas is so much more understanding.

So he laughs, friendly, like he'd even reach out and clap Jack on the shoulder if he weren't covered in grime. For real shut up though.]

This is a revolution, my friend. We've got supply caches hidden all over the place. Now just take a few deep breaths of this brand name air and we'll get out of this miserable place and go find one.

[While Atlas is having some thoughts about being a decent person, Jack's wondering where to put his wrapper. He takes a deep breath almost immediately after Atlas suggested it, but doesn't think twice about it, standing there for a moment longer before he walks past him. There's a trash can somewhere, surely... Walk with him while he finds it.]

It's not name brand anymore. Anyone will be able to come here - go anywhere. Rapture has a chance now.

[He walks through the apparition of a couple. A man is explaining why he was cheating on his lover, and they're simply standing in silence. He can relate.]

People can actually fall in love. They can see their little girls.

[Why would he walk with this big lump... He picks up his gun first, then he turns to follow. Jack can say all the pretty things he likes about Rapture having a chance, but Rapture is still a cash cow as far as Atlas is concerned. It would be best if it didn't sink, though, sure. Point.]

Rapture's no place for little girls, boyo. [Hypocrisy takes physical form and punches Atlas in the dick— if only.] Not yet, anyway. But the people have plans, or so I'm told.

[Not that it matters... necessarily. It would be prudent for Rapture to be... solid, if not better.]

[Jack doesn’t know what Rapture is to him. It’s been a nightmare, for sure, but now that it’s come to light that this where he was “born”... He has to look at it in another light. He doesn’t have anything else, and he spent more time shooting people that he did at marveling at the feat it is to be under the ocean. Sorry, Atlas, he’s goong to be slow as fuck.

He doesn’t want to stay here, but he doesn’t want it all to collapse. He stops under one of the trees, just observing what his father tried to destroy with neither a smile or frown.]

Can you... get your people to put my mother to rest?

[Atlas doesn't stick close - no offense, but there is an odor, and he doesn't want to be in arm's length if Jack abruptly loses it from all that ADAM he's been shooting up. He leans against a different nearby tree, arms folded again, gun still in hand. Patience, he reminds himself. Patience. The long con has taken thing long - what's another fifteen minutes?]

Can they bury her, do you mean? Have yourself a funeral? Sure, boyo, there's no harm in puttin' the ol' girl to rest somewhere proper. She was a fine woman. [Personally, she was very helpful to Atlas!] I'll see to it, while you get yourself cleaned up. Supplies're up ahead, under the roots of that big oak by the wall. Might have to push some dirt around to find the crate.

[He'll go make a radio call while Jack puts on something clean. Burning the lady's corpse would be a better way to take care of that evidence, but he knows the boy won't go for it. A burial in Rapture - that is something else.]

[The way Atlas keeps talking about his mother like he talks about everything else - too much, like it's business - is unsettling, but Jack knew he'd be dealing with that when he made his way here. He tunes him out when he knows it'll be done, wandering off to find that crate. After getting even dirtier to get clean clothes, he hauls it up and strips here, in this park, behind nothing. That's fine.

The shirt is nice, but it's not his sweater. He stands there, staring at the disgusting piece of clothing like he can rewind time to when he thought it was still comfortable. When his mother wasn't someone who sold him and had the audacity to make him feel terrible about her death.

Without looking up from it, he raises his voice:] I don't know about a funeral. I just... I don't want her to linger around like the rest of them.

[Well, Atlas is going to wait over here and fiddle with his gun once he's done with his important call. Sooner or later some people will show up with the body; that's what Jack wants, and Atlas is in the business of keeping Jack happy as long as "happy" goes hand-in-hand with "pliable."

Anyway, the shirt is a huge improvement. He will tolerate being ten feet from Jack now.]

What do you mean, like the rest of 'em? Nobody's down here but us and those Splicers, and a few good men left to move supplies.

[Atlas has... heard a rumor or two, but what the fuck?]

[Jack stands over the hole that's probably going to serve as a grave pretty soon, but he's relieved Atlas will at least stand near him now. It's nice having someone... there, even if that someone is an enigma.

Then, slowly, it registers he doesn't get it. He's pretty sure being a modified baby didn't give him some weird ghost sight, so... Surely he is joking...]

The... the figures. [He gestures towards an empty bench, like somehow this will help his case.] They come and go, but... they're still here... I heard couples, doing... things... and... and my mother.

[Atlas looks at the bench. Atlas does not see shit on this bench, which is yet another pat on the back for himself, choosing never to shoot up with some gunk from inside children.]

You been hittin' the nose candy, boyo? Didn't think the snow fell in Rapture, at least not where you'd get your hands on it.

[Fun prank: ask him if he's been doing lines of coke while getting dressed.]

[Jack just kind of stares at him for a moment like he’s the one that’s done a line of coke if he thinks he knows what that means, then he just looks back at the ground as he grabs a belt.]

Snow can’t fall in the ocean. [He says, a bit matter-of-factly.] You’re just blind, I guess. Stared at a screen too long.

[Look, Fontaine gets high, Atlas is probably more respectable than that. It's very nuanced. Accept his drug slang. The face he makes when Jack says snow can't fall in the ocean is actually sincere surprise - then he laughs again, and this time he claps Jack on the shoulder like they're both in on this joke.

God. Can't snow in the ocean. Jesus.]

Well, I made some calls, so you just wait a little while and your old lady'll get proper taken care of.

[Maybe Atlas will go get fucking high in the meantime and laugh about this moment again, who knows where the day will take him.]

[He winces when Atlas just decides to put a hand on him, both from the fact his entire body is probably sore from you know, Rapture, and the fact he just didn't expect it to be so friendly. Sure, his family made harmless contact with him, but they're definitely fake and he's spent a day feeling like death whenever he encounters anyone. Don't ever go crazy and splice, Atlas, please thanks.]

... Thank you. [But like, that reminds him, can you feel him getting more bitter by the second.] While they're at it with cleaning... Leave "Papa" Suchong where he is.

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