[There isn't regret in immediately saying what came to mind, this time. It's true, and Atlas should know he thinks he he has the right to be a little bit miffed about it. He meets his gaze for a moment, tired and a little dejected, before he puts his camera away in some bag that he's always had, don't question it.
Then, more casually, as he pulls a pack of cigarettes:] I'd... like that to change, when we have time.
Now that's not entirely fair. [Yes it is, but still, he told Jack so many nice things about his fake family. As far as anyone else is concerned, Atlas is as real as he stands here, and Fontaine really is dead; even his followers who know the truth don't actually care. But he supposes Jack is a bit too soft to fit easily into that mold.
Nice camera bag that has always been there. Atlas' gaze flicks down.] Lettin' me borrow a smoke'd be a good start.
[Give him a cigarette, he's losing his mind here.] Think you can light 'er up without burnin' the whole place down, kid?
[Jack isn't exactly lacking them - his bag is stuffed with things he really doesn't need - so he pulls two from the pack and places it back in this pit of wonders. Camera, needles, ammo, god knows what else.]
I think I've done this enough times. [Take this, he's going to do that snap trip... Except his fingers are too slippery to snap them. He tries around three times, then just gives up and lights his thumb without it. Shut up. Don't look at him.]
[This is... so sad. Truly this is tragic. Atlas takes a cigarette and just watches Jack struggle, raising an eyebrow. He's about to just take out a normal lighter when the kid finally lights his thumb without trying to be showy; very cute. He leans in with the cigarette held to his lips to light it, taking a long drag as he turns away again.
Yep, that's a cigarette.]
Y'know, I thought the ADAM would make it taste at least a little different. Guess not.
[It sure is a cigarette... Jack watched every move he made like it's still a marvel Atlas exists, but otherwise, this is normal. He lights his own and shakes his hand to put out the fire, exhaling smoke as he considers his response.]
You don't want it to taste like ADAM. That sounds like something that'd come out of Fontaine's store. [Ha... ha. Speaking it though, he does have some left over... Hm.] I... still have some, if you... need it.
Atlas does not shoot Jack in the head immediately; ten points to Atlas.]
I dunno how you keep your wits about you when the rest of those fools' heads split open like overripe melons, pumpin' all that ADAM into yourself. [Like, alright, don't comment or give him significant looks about how he suggested this was the best idea, he didn't influence every single plasmid injection in recent memory...
Still, a cigarette is a cigarette. ADAM is a cash cow, but it's too much of a risky game. He takes another drag, for drama.] A man knows where he stands with a cigarette. ADAM, now—that stuff's done all this to Rapture, so I think I'll give it a pass.
[He doesn't get point for not murdering him?? No points to Atlas. He's getting a significant look anyway, but no comment on the fact his great ideas almost killed him god knows how many times. He's lost count.]
I guess I'm just used to my head being split open. It still hurts, but now I know it's coming. [He tries to crack a smile, but it looks as uncomfortable as it feels to force it. He's still bitter. But if he really broaches just how much he doesn't actually have his wits, that his head is still spinning, then that'll probably break this little thing they have going... Whatever it is. He enjoys not having to worry about getting shot, and he really enjoys Atlas' smile.]
Real kick from a mule, like you said. But I'll keep it safe. [Hm, what a smooth subject transition from him keeping this addictive substance... not this, but:] Do you... have a place here?
[Aw, that's... that's something, his attempt to smile. Atlas gives him a look for it, wry, almost amused; the kid's got more moxie than he gave him (real, actual, not fake) credit for. Even if he's just making awkward faces and making snide remarks.
That counts for something in the psycho revolution club.
He has about six places, but give him a moment to take another drag and pick the one that's the least damning—] Sure. After your old lady's last rites, we'll go for a stroll.
[He's spent so much time just looking at Atlas, who he doesn't know how he hasn't spliced if he looks this nice, that he nearly forgot why they were standing around here. Right. He takes a drag of his own cigarette, averting his gaze to the ground.]
... I don't really know what you're supposed to say for these things. [Concept? Nice. Execution? Uhhhhh, well,] She... just wanted to make her own way. I don't think she'd even like me.
[Oh, that's nice... he doesn't try to smile again, but he does look slightly less sad than seconds ago. How easy it is to make him a little happier, with his low standards.]
You can call me Jack. [Yeah, he's getting in deep now. Oh well.] I won't be long.
[Yeah, thanks for not trying to kill him in like three different ways. He appreciates that he's still alive most of the time.
Jack does take a little longer than he expected, because the whole ordeal is much harder than he expected. He went back and forth with himself, trying to decide whether or not it was a good idea to bury his fake family with her, and then the audio diary with that. It was a horrible thing, to put together that he was what she spoke of with so much regret. But it was almost equally horrible that he doesn't have any other way to hear her voice.
Atlas' voice is nice enough to get him by, he concludes. He plays the diary back once, twice, three times, but it's nowhere near as comforting as the one that's kept him alive all this time. If he needs to forget Andrew Ryan, he also needs to forget Jasmine Jolene. He'll be just fine. Atlas will have his back if he stumbles through Rapture without them.]
Atlas? [The door to Arcadia shuts behind him as he delicately places some flowers into his bag. He didn't bother leaving them on the grave.] It's done.
[Atlas finishes his cigarette while he waits, tosses it in a puddle of grime and watches it fizzle out and his lip curls back in a less-than-pleasant smile as he thinks, why, it's just like Andrew Ryan. A used-up piece of garbage, lying in his own filth. Poetic, if one stops to think about it - and Atlas has thought about it.
He needs to work on his next move, he knows, but while Jack is following him like a sad puppy he can't get to work as busily as he'd like. So while he waits he makes another radio call to some of his people, trying to take stock of what they have left (and who, manpower is alarmingly down after everything) and what to do with it. He should start with finding that concoction Ryan used and putting down the rest of the splicers... And someone has to break open an apartment and get him a suitable "place" he can take the kid to.
It's housekeeping, more or less; by the time Jack comes out - with flowers, of all things, the boy picked flowers - Atlas is done and loitering there with the distinct impression that he isn't waiting for Jack, but since they're both still here, he'll keep going with it.]
There, d'you feel better? [Don't answer that. Atlas reaches out to clasp a hand on Jack's shoulder, comfortingly, but really so he doesn't wander off to pick more flowers.] Lettin' go's the right thing to do in a world like ours, Jack. It's best to cut your losses and move on with what you still have kickin' around.
[Twist: he means that one. That's genuine advice.] Now, let's get you someplace to sit down, alright? You look right dead on your feet, kid.
[Jack will see when they get there that it's an apartment in Olympus Heights, a place that is totally insignificant and holds no secret potions; it's not Frank Fontaine's apartment, since that would be too on the nose, but it's an apartment no longer in use by whoever used to live there for... one reason or another... In truth, Atlas hasn't been living here, but his men put in the hasty work to make the abandoned rooms look like somebody has. The bottles of booze are a nice touch, if, uh, not very flattering. Home sweet home...]
[That's a lot of genuineness at once, and Jack doesn't really know what to do with it. If he were in a less despondent state, he might have had a reaction that better reflects the way it warms his heart. He might put into words that Rapture is cold and bleak and if he could, if he didn't mind, would Atlas please keep his hand on his shoulder for just a while longer?
Instead he hums in acknowledgement, falling into silence as they make their way to the apartments. He was paranoid nearly the entire trip, looking over his shoulder every other minute and clenching his fist to keep himself from activating a plasmid. He's still paranoid when they enter, but thankfully, the sight of a couch is enough to let the lightning at his fingers die out.]
I suspected it'd as messy as everything else. [He's going to collapse on that. There's no reason for him not to believe this is Atlas' apartment, and if there is... he doesn't care right now.] I hope you didn't drink everything...
[Strange, that they've both been into the bowels of Rapture and where Jack sees bleak and cold, Atlas sees an opportunity. Must be some kind of upbringing thing.
He watches Jack collapse on the couch, then sighs as he puts his hands on his hips and surveys the bottles of booze that are just... everywhere... he nudges one lying at his feet, making it spin. Okay, so that's empty-]
I can't honestly say I remember, boyo. [there's just so much junk in here, god!!] If you find a bottle that's not seen better days, it's all yours.
[He'll go... put his gun down on the coffee table, he supposes. There's probably a chair; he'll sit there. Does Jack... require his presence, or can he go do work... give him a sign.]
[Jack doesn't really know what he requires... give him a minute... He shifts around until he successfully pulls a half empty bottle from behind the couch cushions, shoots Atlas a slightly judgmental look, then starts drinking from it as he lies back down. After a long swig:]
Will you... [He starts, trailing off to just look at him for a moment. It's stupid, it's beyond stupid, but he hasn't slept unless he's been knocked out and he's still paranoid a Big Daddy's going to burst down the door. Oh well.] ... Will you stay until I'm asleep?
[Hey, don't give him that look. Atlas can only shrug as he sits back in his chair rather than defend himself. Someone out there worked very hard to make him look like a drunk Irish stereotype, so that's... well that's a few things on a few levels, never mind it.]
You're not scared of the dark after all this time, are you? [Just come right out and say it, thanks Atlas...] Sure, I can do that. We've got all the time in the world now, you and I.
[Mostly himself, but it doesn't hurt to be inclusive. Maybe he'll have a nice rest himself, why not... He holds his hand out for the bottle; give him that before you fall asleep and spill it everywhere, you child.] Give that here.
You're the only thing that makes things safe around here. [Speaking of just coming out and saying it... Jack knows that even if that is the case, the safety that Atlas provides isn't sound. But once again, he ignores it. Alarm bells have been ringing about everything in Rapture, and they ring a little less loudly when he's talking to him.
He also ignores Atlas' request for another drink, before he finally hands it over. Fuck you? He deserves this?] Besides me. But the help is nice.
Get a load of this attitude. [Hilarious, this baby boy and his sass. He's going to keep his hand here until he gets that bottle, so thanks for making it weird and awkward.]
You've been a right fine partner in all this, I won't deny that. Now get some sleep, you'll feel better.
[And Jack, though abysmally slow as he is, eventually sleeps. He hasn't gotten shut-eye in God knows how long, and so he's out for awhile, leaving Atlas a day of peace to do whatever it is that he feels like doing now that Rapture is his for the taking. What those things might be, terrible and no better than his father's plans, should be what creeps into Jack's dreams and make him wake up with a start. But it isn't anything Atlas might do that does that—it's the thought of Atlas not being safe that jolts him awake.
He sits up with wide eyes, scarcely taking a minute to catch his breath before he's moving from the couch and reaching for his wrench. It was just a nightmare, but what if he actually heard the wail of a Big Daddy just outside the door, he has to check, he's starting for the door—] Atlas?
[Atlas has work to do. He said he'd stay until Jack falls asleep and he does, oddly enough, drinking and thinking of his next steps. People need to be moved, Ryan's offices need to be ransacked, someone has to go clear out whatever's left in Suchong's lab that's programmed to shoot Frank Fontaine on sight... There's just so much to do.
But he stays there for the time it takes Jack to fall asleep, all the same. But he doesn't loiter, taking his leave to start mobilizing as soon as his half-whisper of Jack's name doesn't make him stir and get up. Just checking - at least he's not hissing "boyo" at him in the dark.
Atlas is energized for the next day, while Jack it out cold. He doesn't check on him and doesn't let anyone else check on him, either; the boy can sleep, he's earned it. Sooner or later he'll have to stand in front of a crowd of Atlas' people and nod while Atlas speaks for him about heroism and taking back Rapture, but not yet. Things have to be more stable in this god-forsaken city, first. Someone has to find where Tenenbaum's holed herself up with the rest of those Little Sisters, actually— this is what he's focused on when Jack finally gets up. Atlas isn't in the apartment, but the door to the one next door is ajar and voices, Atlas' among them, are coming from inside.
He's got a kitchen table turned into a strategy table already, covered in papers and cigarette stubs and a plan of Rapture with a few places circled where that woman might be. The few other people in the room look up when they hear noise outside, and Atlas hastily tells them not to fucking move and moves to pop his head out into the hall, gun in hand.
[The fact Atlas is among his own people dispels the irrational fear that there is something obvious out to get them, but in the end, it does nothing for Jack's nerves. He didn't really spend a lot of time dwelling on the future, but he also didn't expect to be diving headfirst into his little gang... There's nothing to really go off of here, since his last experience with many Supposedly Normal People was Peach Wilkins trying to tear him apart for ADAM. Atlas has great friends.
So he starts for the room slowly, keeping the wrench close to his chest rather than lowered. His voice is low when he reaches Atlas, and as soon as he sees the people behind him, he instinctly steps closer.]
What— [what does that mean, nevermind he doesn't care,] What are you doing in here?
[Atlas has plenty of great friends, actually. The people he'll sit down and actually plan this shit with, the real core group—well, they're all scumbags, but almost none of them are as clinically insane as Peach Wilkins. For what it's worth. Atlas tries his best to keep them placated with booze and other drugs so they don't shoot up with ADAM and lose their minds, but thugs with burning fists are so useful.
It's these thugs who are sitting around the room behind Atlas, and who look up from their work when Jack comes into view. A few of them perk up in interest, but most of them only fix him with a critical stare and then go back to what they were doing. Atlas glances over his shoulder, considering whether or not it's the right time to throw Jack into the center of things, as it were...
The center of things with other sane people, really. The kid can swing a wrench, but can he talk to anyone who isn't Atlas? He isn't sure, so he takes half a step closer to Jack in turn, maybe blocking Jack's view of the room beyond a little more. Maybe he's blocking their view of Jack; maybe both! Very fun!]
Workin' hard to make Rapture the greatest city on earth, o'course. Feelin' better? Get all that stuff about seein' ghosts outta your system?
[It's not really working, this whole block with his body thing, but Jack appreciates the moment for a hot second. Then Atlas had to ask that last question, and his stomach turned over. Of course, he must sound crazy, but they're there and he wouldn't lie to him.
He could tell him that, and add on the fact he really trust any of these people. God knows he still feels like a Big Daddy is going to burst through a wall, and the "normal" crowd will turn out to have spliced, but. Jack simply stands there, clutching his wrench, staring at Atlas' face for a few more seconds.]
Yeah. [He sighs with apparently relief. If he's honest, Atlas will spend time with the crowd without him, and his paranoia will just get ten times worse. This is fine.] I'm not some kind of basket case, right? Got my head on straight now, since that Ryan business is done.
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[There isn't regret in immediately saying what came to mind, this time. It's true, and Atlas should know he thinks he he has the right to be a little bit miffed about it. He meets his gaze for a moment, tired and a little dejected, before he puts his camera away in some bag that he's always had, don't question it.
Then, more casually, as he pulls a pack of cigarettes:] I'd... like that to change, when we have time.
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Nice camera bag that has always been there. Atlas' gaze flicks down.] Lettin' me borrow a smoke'd be a good start.
[Give him a cigarette, he's losing his mind here.] Think you can light 'er up without burnin' the whole place down, kid?
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I think I've done this enough times. [Take this, he's going to do that snap trip... Except his fingers are too slippery to snap them. He tries around three times, then just gives up and lights his thumb without it. Shut up. Don't look at him.]
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Yep, that's a cigarette.]
Y'know, I thought the ADAM would make it taste at least a little different. Guess not.
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You don't want it to taste like ADAM. That sounds like something that'd come out of Fontaine's store. [Ha... ha. Speaking it though, he does have some left over... Hm.] I... still have some, if you... need it.
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Atlas does not shoot Jack in the head immediately; ten points to Atlas.]
I dunno how you keep your wits about you when the rest of those fools' heads split open like overripe melons, pumpin' all that ADAM into yourself. [Like, alright, don't comment or give him significant looks about how he suggested this was the best idea, he didn't influence every single plasmid injection in recent memory...
Still, a cigarette is a cigarette. ADAM is a cash cow, but it's too much of a risky game. He takes another drag, for drama.] A man knows where he stands with a cigarette. ADAM, now—that stuff's done all this to Rapture, so I think I'll give it a pass.
[to his bank account]
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I guess I'm just used to my head being split open. It still hurts, but now I know it's coming. [He tries to crack a smile, but it looks as uncomfortable as it feels to force it. He's still bitter. But if he really broaches just how much he doesn't actually have his wits, that his head is still spinning, then that'll probably break this little thing they have going... Whatever it is. He enjoys not having to worry about getting shot, and he really enjoys Atlas' smile.]
Real kick from a mule, like you said. But I'll keep it safe. [Hm, what a smooth subject transition from him keeping this addictive substance... not this, but:] Do you... have a place here?
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That counts for something in the psycho revolution club.
He has about six places, but give him a moment to take another drag and pick the one that's the least damning—] Sure. After your old lady's last rites, we'll go for a stroll.
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... I don't really know what you're supposed to say for these things. [Concept? Nice. Execution? Uhhhhh, well,] She... just wanted to make her own way. I don't think she'd even like me.
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Well, I like you, boyo. [Atlas, he's your pal!!] So let's get this done and take this show on the road, huh? I'll get outta your hair for a minute.
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You can call me Jack. [Yeah, he's getting in deep now. Oh well.] I won't be long.
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Jack it is. I'll be waitin', when you've had enough.
[You know, as usual? Except that he doesn't need to anymore, so that part is different.]
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Jack does take a little longer than he expected, because the whole ordeal is much harder than he expected. He went back and forth with himself, trying to decide whether or not it was a good idea to bury his fake family with her, and then the audio diary with that. It was a horrible thing, to put together that he was what she spoke of with so much regret. But it was almost equally horrible that he doesn't have any other way to hear her voice.
Atlas' voice is nice enough to get him by, he concludes. He plays the diary back once, twice, three times, but it's nowhere near as comforting as the one that's kept him alive all this time. If he needs to forget Andrew Ryan, he also needs to forget Jasmine Jolene. He'll be just fine. Atlas will have his back if he stumbles through Rapture without them.]
Atlas? [The door to Arcadia shuts behind him as he delicately places some flowers into his bag. He didn't bother leaving them on the grave.] It's done.
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He needs to work on his next move, he knows, but while Jack is following him like a sad puppy he can't get to work as busily as he'd like. So while he waits he makes another radio call to some of his people, trying to take stock of what they have left (and who, manpower is alarmingly down after everything) and what to do with it. He should start with finding that concoction Ryan used and putting down the rest of the splicers... And someone has to break open an apartment and get him a suitable "place" he can take the kid to.
It's housekeeping, more or less; by the time Jack comes out - with flowers, of all things, the boy picked flowers - Atlas is done and loitering there with the distinct impression that he isn't waiting for Jack, but since they're both still here, he'll keep going with it.]
There, d'you feel better? [Don't answer that. Atlas reaches out to clasp a hand on Jack's shoulder, comfortingly, but really so he doesn't wander off to pick more flowers.] Lettin' go's the right thing to do in a world like ours, Jack. It's best to cut your losses and move on with what you still have kickin' around.
[Twist: he means that one. That's genuine advice.] Now, let's get you someplace to sit down, alright? You look right dead on your feet, kid.
[Jack will see when they get there that it's an apartment in Olympus Heights, a place that is totally insignificant and holds no secret potions; it's not Frank Fontaine's apartment, since that would be too on the nose, but it's an apartment no longer in use by whoever used to live there for... one reason or another... In truth, Atlas hasn't been living here, but his men put in the hasty work to make the abandoned rooms look like somebody has. The bottles of booze are a nice touch, if, uh, not very flattering. Home sweet home...]
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Instead he hums in acknowledgement, falling into silence as they make their way to the apartments. He was paranoid nearly the entire trip, looking over his shoulder every other minute and clenching his fist to keep himself from activating a plasmid. He's still paranoid when they enter, but thankfully, the sight of a couch is enough to let the lightning at his fingers die out.]
I suspected it'd as messy as everything else. [He's going to collapse on that. There's no reason for him not to believe this is Atlas' apartment, and if there is... he doesn't care right now.] I hope you didn't drink everything...
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He watches Jack collapse on the couch, then sighs as he puts his hands on his hips and surveys the bottles of booze that are just... everywhere... he nudges one lying at his feet, making it spin. Okay, so that's empty-]
I can't honestly say I remember, boyo. [there's just so much junk in here, god!!] If you find a bottle that's not seen better days, it's all yours.
[He'll go... put his gun down on the coffee table, he supposes. There's probably a chair; he'll sit there. Does Jack... require his presence, or can he go do work... give him a sign.]
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Will you... [He starts, trailing off to just look at him for a moment. It's stupid, it's beyond stupid, but he hasn't slept unless he's been knocked out and he's still paranoid a Big Daddy's going to burst down the door. Oh well.] ... Will you stay until I'm asleep?
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You're not scared of the dark after all this time, are you? [Just come right out and say it, thanks Atlas...] Sure, I can do that. We've got all the time in the world now, you and I.
[Mostly himself, but it doesn't hurt to be inclusive. Maybe he'll have a nice rest himself, why not... He holds his hand out for the bottle; give him that before you fall asleep and spill it everywhere, you child.] Give that here.
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He also ignores Atlas' request for another drink, before he finally hands it over. Fuck you? He deserves this?] Besides me. But the help is nice.
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You've been a right fine partner in all this, I won't deny that. Now get some sleep, you'll feel better.
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He sits up with wide eyes, scarcely taking a minute to catch his breath before he's moving from the couch and reaching for his wrench. It was just a nightmare, but what if he actually heard the wail of a Big Daddy just outside the door, he has to check, he's starting for the door—] Atlas?
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But he stays there for the time it takes Jack to fall asleep, all the same. But he doesn't loiter, taking his leave to start mobilizing as soon as his half-whisper of Jack's name doesn't make him stir and get up. Just checking - at least he's not hissing "boyo" at him in the dark.
Atlas is energized for the next day, while Jack it out cold. He doesn't check on him and doesn't let anyone else check on him, either; the boy can sleep, he's earned it. Sooner or later he'll have to stand in front of a crowd of Atlas' people and nod while Atlas speaks for him about heroism and taking back Rapture, but not yet. Things have to be more stable in this god-forsaken city, first. Someone has to find where Tenenbaum's holed herself up with the rest of those Little Sisters, actually— this is what he's focused on when Jack finally gets up. Atlas isn't in the apartment, but the door to the one next door is ajar and voices, Atlas' among them, are coming from inside.
He's got a kitchen table turned into a strategy table already, covered in papers and cigarette stubs and a plan of Rapture with a few places circled where that woman might be. The few other people in the room look up when they hear noise outside, and Atlas hastily tells them not to fucking move and moves to pop his head out into the hall, gun in hand.
Oh, it's just the boy. He sighs.]
Top o' the mornin', boyo. Over here.
[real irish people don't even say this]
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So he starts for the room slowly, keeping the wrench close to his chest rather than lowered. His voice is low when he reaches Atlas, and as soon as he sees the people behind him, he instinctly steps closer.]
What— [what does that mean, nevermind he doesn't care,] What are you doing in here?
it's him
It's these thugs who are sitting around the room behind Atlas, and who look up from their work when Jack comes into view. A few of them perk up in interest, but most of them only fix him with a critical stare and then go back to what they were doing. Atlas glances over his shoulder, considering whether or not it's the right time to throw Jack into the center of things, as it were...
The center of things with other sane people, really. The kid can swing a wrench, but can he talk to anyone who isn't Atlas? He isn't sure, so he takes half a step closer to Jack in turn, maybe blocking Jack's view of the room beyond a little more. Maybe he's blocking their view of Jack; maybe both! Very fun!]
Workin' hard to make Rapture the greatest city on earth, o'course. Feelin' better? Get all that stuff about seein' ghosts outta your system?
he's done it
He could tell him that, and add on the fact he really trust any of these people. God knows he still feels like a Big Daddy is going to burst through a wall, and the "normal" crowd will turn out to have spliced, but. Jack simply stands there, clutching his wrench, staring at Atlas' face for a few more seconds.]
Yeah. [He sighs with apparently relief. If he's honest, Atlas will spend time with the crowd without him, and his paranoia will just get ten times worse. This is fine.] I'm not some kind of basket case, right? Got my head on straight now, since that Ryan business is done.
he's the one from the dreams i have
he's here and he's real
me again