Jack's eyes fluttered open, feeling as if a raging bull had slammed its way through his skull. Lifting his pounding head, he groped around for the radio across the soaking wet floor of-

wherever he was. It wasn't Arcadia, that was for sure. The roof dripped into puddles of murky brine, the lights flickered and wavered against dark corners and the room was littered with torn furniture that smelt of stale cigarettes. Could be anywhere.

When his trembling fingers closed around the humming radio, he fumbled at its edges to find the reply button.

"A-Atlas?" Jack's voice shook like a leaf, speaking softly as he sat up against a set of pipes. His voice was wrecked, and his throat ached like a bruise.

"So you didn't go and get yourself killed by a splicer! That's good t'know."

"Look, boyo, I've been callin' you for donkey's yonks," the Irish lilt continued, "I think one of those Houdini splicers knocked you out like a light an' dragged you off."

Jack's eyes widened as he wracked his brain for his last memory, but drew up short. He'd revived the trees, and then...

And then.

"I- I don't know where I am."

"You're somewhere, Jackie boy. I'll have to check t'see exactly where."

The static-filled voice gave a sharp exhale.

"Sweet baby Jesus boyo, you're miles off course."

"Where?"

"You're in bloody Olympus Heights!"

Jack's skin crawled.

"Now I don't think I need to tell you this, but you're a long way off Arcadia."

"It-it's happened before..." It hurt Jack to talk, ached like fingernails scraped across raw flesh. Why did it hurt so much?

"Before?" Atlas sounded taken aback, "that when y'went all quiet on your way to Fontaine Fisheries?"

Jack nodded, then realised his mistake and mumbled an affirmative.

"This stinks o' Ryan's work," Atlas hissed, "seems like something the bastard would do."

The radio crackled into empty silence.

"Are you hurt?"

Jack hadn't really felt anything prior to Atlas asking that question, but the moment he did the aches became clear.

His wrists were rubbed raw and red, bruises leaving a black path up his chest and presumably his neck. Crusted and dried blood came loose from his scalp as he rubbed it.

"I'm fine."

"You're soundin' hoarse as anything, so I can tell you've been roughed up, Jack."

"I think someone's taken my supplies."

"Tell you what- I've got a stash of supplies up in the penthouse 'round here. Savin' 'em for a rainy day. From where you are, I reckon there's a workin' elevator just 'round the left corner. I'll just hafta find the passcode."

No EVE, with only his wrench. Jack would have more luck exploring the nearby area, then he wouldn't have to waste what Atlas had. Atlas was the only person he had down here, he didn't want to take too much from him. He could handle himself, he thought, even as he staggered across the frayed carpet. Hypos and health kits weren't too rare. Maybe he'd even find a loaded pistol.

"That seems a bit out of my way, I can probably go find something from around here-"

The Irishman gave an exasperated noise, "Calm down and trust me, would you kindly?"

Atlas was probably right, anyway. He'd offered Jack the supplies, and there would probably be no splicers up there. He could get to a bathysphere and get back to work. Maybe even sleep a moment, if it didn't waste too much time. He was so tired.

"The passcode's 5744. Get to it, boyo."

He got to it.


The end of Frank Fontaine's cigarette glowed as he stubbed it out on the chipped ashtray, reclining against one of the less damaged office chairs in his apartment. Using the pheromones he had on the splicers in Arcadia to get the kid over here had been one thing, but avoiding Ryan's eagle eyes had been another entirely. Fucking hell, it was hard enough as it was, the old coot just didn't know when to quit.

Compared to when he bagged the kid on his way to Fontaine's Fisheries, it was like comparing the pain of a papercut to a bullet in the chest.

Taking the kid's stuff and leaving it piled up in a box was just another measure he eagerly extended to the kid, who already trusted an Irish man on the radio more than he trusted his own heartbeat. It was just a matter of smoke and mirrors and Jack would be wrapped tight around his pinkie finger. He wouldn't even know the guns and hypos were his, with a few extra scratches and chips courtesy of a small pocket knife and a lining of soft dust. He even hid a couple of others on the way to the bathysphere, for good measure.

The faint whirr of the elevator startled Frank, who ran a hand through his messed black hair and stood, making his way towards the entry hall. He had to be everything the kid hoped he would be, he needed every measure of trust from the little idiot. The look of absolute earnestness on the brat's face whenever he spoke was so soft and pliable like hot chewing gum that there wasn't much work to do on that. If it wasn't too much trouble he'd likely keep the kid once he splattered Ryan across the windows.

The crunch of raked sand against the kid's feet was a heavy sound, the footsteps practically laced with fatigue like cyanide in a glass of cheap liquor. It brought a sly smirk to Fontaine's face that he soon smoothed out to a tired but compassionate smile. It wasn't even hard to be Atlas anymore. It fit him like a second skin.

The door creaked, and Jack entered the apartment.


Just getting to the elevator had been a challenge, several Leadheads and Baby Janes eager to start fights, shrieking loud at him and gibbering madly. Nothing out of the usual, and that thought would've scared him once. He wrinkled his nose at them, eyeing his left hand. Broken glass filled his veins whenever he even thought about using a plasmid, the pain dry and sharp. His whole arm ached, the feeling extending to his dry throat and bruised neck. The one-two punch was out of the question, so he just crushed their skills with his wrench as best he could. The splatters marred his already stained sweater and he gave a sharp exhale. These were the only clothes he had, he couldn't afford this. Still, he continued on.

All the better it would be when he got to the penthouse and collected some hypos, maybe even a first aid kit. Just enough to get by. A gun or two even, he could nick the rest off splicers if anything. They didn't seem to have the trouble in getting weapons.

He flicked the lock to the code for the elevator carelessly, almost sliding down the wall with tiredness. Not here, he thought, seeing almost double with his barely open eyes.

The elevator was claustrophobic, Jack's body feeling packed tight even in the reasonably sized elevator. Even with his reasonable physique it felt cramped and his breath quickened.

The plane crash had been in such a confined space, no escape available as it declined, and the screaming, the muffled yells of the passengers and the smell of acrid smoke, choking on his own fear-

He pulled at his dirty hair to stop any errant thoughts, silencing the gears of his mind.

The lift reached its destination with the whirrs and clicks of opening doors, showing an enormous courtyard of raked sand, a few footprints marring it.

He was in Rapture now, he had Atlas just a call away. The past didn't matter so much, it was gone. He was here now. He was fine.

The ceiling dripped and he flinched.

Walking across the sand, his feet dragging with fatigue, he found the lack of Splicers extraordinarily refreshing, the silence comforting rather than fear provoking. Apathy enveloped him as he pushed open the doors to reveal a large, open entrance hall. It felt spacious and intimidating, the huge stuffed polar bear looming over it all, baring its teeth. Jack gave the room a sweeping glance, checking for any splicers. He didn't want nasty suprises.

"It's nice t'finally meet you, boyo."

Jack's gaze snapped up to the stairwell, his eyes widening and his jaw dropping.

Atlas stood there, eyes a tired pale blue in a face that was lit up by his soft smile. He looked as if he'd been sleeping rough, black hair messed and sticking up in all the wrong places. His clothes were in no better condition than Jack's.

Still, he glowed like the sun. Bright and true. It took Jack's breath away.

"Not going to say anythin'?" Atlas grinned, the action lighting up his features as Jack realised he was staring and flicked his gaze away.

"It's good to meet you too," Jack mumbled, staring at the floor between them. He hadn't expected to meet Atlas until this was over, the disaster at the Smuggler's Hideout having been his only glimpse. He would've liked to shake the man's hand then, but now his mouth just felt like sawdust. He hadn't even imagined Atlas would just- just come to him for no reason. His chest ached.

Atlas was holding a beaten-up cardboard box under his arm, which rattled as he moved, glass meeting metal. He felt his empty veins give a throb in response.

"Christ, you're tremblin' worse than a newborn deer! Get up here, Jackie boy, I'll get y'sorted out."

The baritone was filled with concern, the irishman motioning for Jack to follow him with his free hand as he stepped back through the automatic door.

Atlas cared about him. He could hear it in the soft tone, see it in his face. The niggling thoughts of 'maybe he's just using you,' and 'why should you trust him so much?' fell into dead silence.

He eagerly made his way up the stairs after the irishman, almost tripping over his own feet.