A/N: I hope these chapters aren't too long. :/ I can trim them down or split them up if your eyes cross after this much type.

Anyhow, would you kindly read and review?

XXX

2. Welcome to Paradise

So. I'm not dreaming. But whether or not this is an actual nightmare. . . I haven't quite decided yet. I mean, after surviving a plane crash and being saved from drowning, twice, I'm just kind of glad to be alive. And I'm definitely glad that I'm not alone. Even if it means I'm stuck with a guy like Augustus Sinclair for who knows how long.

He's weird, but he seems to know his way around. You can't really ask for more than that when you've just plunged I-don't-know-how-many thousands of leagues into the unknown depths of the ocean in a bathysphere. And, now. . . Now, I'm gawking out of the said bathysphere's window at a beautiful, glowing metropolis sitting, as if it's the most normal thing in the world, on the sea floor.

Right. Not dreaming. Got to remember that.

"How come I've never even heard of Rapture before?" I finally manage to ask, ungluing myself from the icy pane.

Sinclair has pulled a Lucky Strike from his pocket and rolls it back and forth between his fingers. Like he's debating whether or not he should light it, in this small, enclosed area, where I would die from secondhand smoke in a matter of minutes.

"It was made a secret, kid." He stares hard at that cigarette and won't meet my eyes. "No one on the surface knows about Rapture. Andrew Ryan went through a whole lot of trouble to keep it that way, too."

"You're telling me." I grumble moodily. I turn away from him and refocus my attention on the window again. We're rapidly closing in on a center building, easily one of the tallest across the overwhelming span. It shines spookily in the bluish gloom. Neon signs advertise things like cheap booze and smokes. There are arrows pointing to places called Fleet Hall and Arcadia. . . . And then the Bathysphere begins to turn right, into a locking system of metal pipes.

With morbid, curious eyes, I read the words that light up the moment we pass under each metal arch, towards what I'm assuming is a docking center.

ALL GOOD THINGS

OF THIS EARTH

FLOW

INTO THE CITY-

But the "y" in 'City' doesn't turn on very well. It flickers and sends out a soft shower of blue sparks into the current.

"Rapture Transit Authority." I frown thoughtfully.

Well, that makes sense. I mean, to get from building to building here, I doubt the citizens use cars or bicycles. Bathyspheres seem like the obvious choice for transportation, and maybe they have a bus or train system located inside somewhere.

"This is so weird." I murmur, more to myself than to Sinclair, but I hear him snort behind me nevertheless.

"Kid, you don't even know the half of it yet."

That sounds. . .disturbingly ominous. I feel his stare digging into my back, but this time, I refuse to look at him.

The bathysphere begins to ascend, and gilded bronze walls slide down the window and out of sight again. There are even more advertisements on these walls. . . .but they're for products I can't even try to begin understanding. Plasmids? What the fuck is a plasmid?

I blink, eyes widening as the signs shift from a telekinesis "plasmid" to things called "Incinerate" and "Electro Bolt. . . ." The list goes on and on and on. Bewildered, fascinated, I can't help glancing back at Sinclair. Thousands of questions burn through my eyes.

But as he opens his mouth to maybe explain some method to this madness, an amused quirk to his top lip, I hear a muffled voice beyond the bathysphere. With a start, I whip around and almost fall over. We've ground to a swaying halt, and before us, shifting out of focus on the walkway, is a man shrouded in darkness.

"Please, no. . ." The man whimpers. "Don't hurt me. . ."

The lights outside flicker. On. Off. On. . . .and then off again. I swallow nervously and back away from the window. Something heavy and thick slides down my throat and coils uneasily in the pit of my stomach. The city's exterior looked so lovely, so captivating. I don't. . . I don't get it. What's happening? What's wrong with that man?

Do I even want to know. . ?

"Stand back." Sinclair whispers harshly. The sound seems magnified, somehow, in the silence, and I flinch at the intensity of the demand. His black eyes are narrowed, unblinking. He pushes me gently to the side as he takes a step forward, and I realize with a startled frown that he's taken a stance partially in front of me.

How, heroic? Whatever it is, I don't complain. I can barely manage an affirmative squeak in response as we both watch, with bated breaths and bristled shoulders, the man slowly back up, towards the bathysphere. His hands are trembling, raised in surrender as he falters . .

But then, as he nears the pale light issuing from the sphere, I see another somebody advancing on the defenseless man from the shadows. Hunched over and grotesquely stretched out, wrinkled skin, long and awkward limbs with bones poking out at all of the wrong angles. . . .and. . . .hooks? Hooks for hands?

"What the fuck?" I whisper hoarsely.

There's a flash of movement and the man stumbles with a gasp, begging, pleading, a hand over his stomach as splashes of dark crimson rain down upon the cement. I immediately cover my mouth. . . .horrified.

Panic burns my eyes. Frigid and solidifying terror knots up in my chest. Oh. Oh, holy full metal fucking jacket. Did that just. . ? Did I just see. . ? Fuck!

"Brace yourself, kid." Sinclair warns softly. I feel weight, warmth, and strength rush through me as he draws an arm around my shoulders.

What? Brace myself for what-?

I feel my legs about to collapse from underneath me as the creature delivers the killing blow, sinking its hooks into the man's chest. Ripping out guts and innards and strewing them across the floor with inhuman speed. Blood splatters the window of the bathysphere and I shudder, this time covering my face, and, unashamedly, burying myself against the front of Sinclair's shirt.

I can't stop shaking. I squeeze my eyes shut behind my hands, but, no, the gruesome image is needled onto the inside of my brain. Those agonizing screams still ring in my ears.

What the fuck is wrong with this place?

"Oh, shit. Oh, holy shit, shit, shit. . . ." I choke out, clutching on to Sinclair as if my very survival depends on it (hell, it probably does, now!). "What the fuck was that thing?"

Sinclair tightens his jaw and gently pries me off of him. I'd be bursting into humiliated flames if I wasn't scared out of mind at the moment, gazing at his darkening expression with tears stinging in my eyes. I should have known he wasn't kidding before. This is hell. Of course it is. It has to be.

"That was. . .a problem. A big fuckin' problem." Sinclair admits grimly. "I had no idea shit hit the fan this bad." He scrubs at his face, exhaling long and slow, then drops his arms to his sides.

"Okay. We need a plan."

The bathysphere door swings open. But I don't move. I. . .can't. Because there isn't anything in here that dismembers people. Why the hell would I want to leave this utter sanctuary now? That. . .that monster- it's still out there!

"Are you crazy?" I yelp. "A plan? A plan for what? Why do we have to go anywhere? It's probably waiting to spring on us the second we leave!"

Fine. I'm panicking. That's safe to say. I'm panicking, and, hell. I don't care. I'm alive and breathing I sure as fuck don't want to die now!

Sinclair stares at me. Hardly sympathetic, but his black eyes take on a certain degree of warmth. He knocks a fist into the metal wall and shakes his head. "That was a thuggish splicer. They ain't smart enough to ambush, especially when they know they're outnumbered. We should be alright."

"Um. " I blink, feeling some of my fear drain into confusion. . .and annoyance. I fold my arms over my jacket and frown back. "What? What the hell is a thuggish splicer?" Thankfully, my voice isn't as tremulous as my hands are, as I attempt to ball them into fists against my chest. . .to maybe regain even an ounce of control over this insanity. . .

"Okay. You've earned the truth, Chandler. I didn't want to keep you in the dark, honest, but. . ." He trails off, thinning his lips. Anger surges through his face before the shutters close, and I can't tell how he's feeling. "Looks like I've got no choice. I don't want you goin' in blind."

My heart lurches feebly into my windpipe. I don't think that this is going to be a happy story. . .

And, hey. I'm not wrong. Sinclair gives me the brief, censored version of a tale that I know, in its entirety, is worse than any nightmare. It starts with this woman called Tenenbaum. She discovered the existence of a slug. Yeah, a slug. Exciting, huh? Apparently you can only find this particular slug at the bottom of the ocean. Anyhow, there was a component inside of this slug that she called ADAM.

"Now, Tenenbaum was able to get the fundin' she needed to experiment with these slugs. She even managed to turn the liquefied ADAM into something useable." Sinclair explains, pushing a hand through his hair.

I take a seat on the single bench inside of the bathysphere and watch him, fixated on such tiny, shifting details in his expression. He raises an eyebrow at my devout attention. Of course, this makes me blush. But he only smirks, a little, and turns around to face me fully before he continues.

"Everyone wanted a taste of ADAM." He shrugs. "They got hooked on the stuff as soon as it hit the market. Levitating objects, setting things on fire. . .power at the tips of ya fingers. Who wouldn't want that? But, shit. ADAM is a drug like no other, I'll tell you that." He waves a hand towards the bathysphere door, the walkway, and the corpse laying in a pool of its own blood outside.

"People kept shootin' up until they just spliced themselves right out of the human race. Get it? Splicers? And judging from that one we had the misfortune of meetin,' they're kind of pissed about it."

His smirk is lopsided and full of sharp teeth. I can't even summon the energy to fake a grin back. Fuck it. I just turn around and yank on the bathysphere lever hard enough to hurt my arm.

Crazy. Everyone here is just fucking crazy.

But. . .nothing happens. The door stays open. Sinclair actually has the nerve to chuckle, and I feel like punching him in the face. This is anything but funny! Who the hell does he think he is?

"What the hell did you do?" I snap, spinning back on a heel and glaring into those glittering black eyes of his. "Take me back. Now. I'll wait in that fucking lighthouse while you conduct your business at the Funny Farm."

"Ah. I'm sorry, kid." He straightens out immediately. "I didn't do anything. Promise."

I scowl. But. . .then I think about it. When he laughed. . .the sound was forced. He wasn't being a jackass. There is no humor, no warmth in his gaze as he steps over the lip of the bathysphere, and points at something on top of the rounded chamber. "I'm bettin' the splicer cut those cables. We won't be going anywhere for awhile."

Oh. Well. I clear my throat, irritated. . .and beyond embarrassed. My face flushes a sweltering shade. I can practically feel my skin burning off. "Um. Fuck." I mumble stupidly. Then I shove my hands in my pockets and kick at an imaginary rock.

"I'm sorry," I mutter. "I didn't mean. . . . I'm just. . . ."

Positively terrified? On the verge of collapsing into violent sobs or having a full scale mental breakdown? My shoulders tremble as I bow my head, tears blurring the glinting floor of the bathysphere.

"Hey. Chandler. It's okay, kiddo." I hear Sinclair murmur.

No. No, it's not okay. How is any of this okay? I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood. The bathysphere creaks when he steps back inside, one foot over the edge, on foot on the walkway.

"I ain't going anywhere. You think I'd just leave ya?" He shakes his head with sigh. "I get that you're scared, and you'd be a damn fool not to be. But we ain't gonna last long down here at this rate." He brushes my arm, barely, fingers grazing the rip just near my elbow and touching my scratched skin.

It. . .burns. He drops his hand almost immediately afterwards, but I can still feel the ghost of his touch surging through my blood like electricity. The breath catches in my throat. I look up, eyes wide, and the tiniest hint of a smile clashes with the deep furrow in his brows.

"You're gonna have to trust me, Chandler." He says. There is an unmistakable note of exasperation in his low voice, and something. . .else. Something almost. . .fond.

I rub the back of my neck before, eventually, managing a nod. He's right. Who knows how long we'll be stuck in Rapture? I can't afford to lose it. I can't afford to lose. . .my only friend here.

"Okay." I tell him quietly. "I trust you."

It might be the worst mistake I've made yet. I still don't know who this man is. I don't know what he's involved in, or why he needed to get back to Rapture so badly. I don't really know much of anything.

. . .but when the words slip past my lips, I realize that they are the entire, simple truth. I don't know Sinclair. His emotional outbursts are concerning and those endless black eyes. . .unhinge me. But, he saved me. Twice. I trust him. I do.

His answering grin is broad and only a little crooked. It makes his eyes crinkle up and shine. "Good. Good." He nods. "We'll do alright together, you and me. I told ya I liked you before and I meant it. Now, let's get going. Maybe we can find something to eat around here. . ."

I shake my head, unwillingly grinning back as he offers out his hand. "You are the strangest man I've ever met."

He snorts. "Doll, you ain't see nothing yet." Then, he winks. Yeah. He honestly winks at me. I'm startled into silence and blushing from head to foot. He barks out a laugh.

"Sorry. Did that scare you?" He jokes.

I'm about to deny that fact, though my heart is suddenly lodged between my ribs, when something starts. . .crackling? I jump back and knock into Sinclair, icy adrenaline flooding my system as I prepare for instant death by splicer. . .

But it's only a service radio. Oh, man. I choke out a noise of relief as Sinclair, naturally, bursts into laughter. I punch him in the arm.

"Shut up! I was only testing my. . .ninja reflexes." I huff, flushing.

"Fine by me." He snorts. "At least they're working."

"Fuck you."

His eyes glint teasingly, but he keeps his mouth shut. Good. I turn back to the radio and try not to focus on his stare stabbing into the side of my skull.

". . . .you kindly. . . .pick up. . . .short-wave radio?" A faint voice hisses from the device, broken up by bursts of interference.

I blink at in shock.

"Interesting." Sinclair taps his index finger against his chin. "But unnecessary. Can't afford any distractions, Chandler. We should go."

. . .what? A frown kicks the remnants of my smirk straight off of my face. "They might need help, though. We can't just leave them to fend for themselves." Wow- even I'm surprised by the stubborn conviction in my voice.

But, it's true! If there are still people down here, regular, frightened people. . .why shouldn't we try and find them? How does that saying go- something about strength in numbers? That seems like a pretty good idea to me!

Sinclair arches an eyebrow. "Hey. You can answer it. Be my guest." He shrugs. "But I ain't taking responsibility for another life. You do this, I want no part in it."

I scowl at him. "Fine." Is that selfishness, or cowardice? I don't know. How can he be either, after everything he's done for me so far?

Shit. Why the hell do guys have to be so confusing?

Drawing in a breath, I unclip the radio from its holster and start fiddling with the dials. My mind is completely made up. I would want someone to help me if I were stuck down here alone. Definitely! I don't know what Sinclair's problem is.

"Uh, hello? Anybody home?" I wonder, as I turn up the volume.

"Hello?" The strained voice asks back. Male. The reception comes in crystal clear, thanks to my magic touch.

"Oh, thank God somebody can hear me." The man sounds exhausted, and utterly relieved. Not to mention the fact that he has a wicked accent. Unlike Sinclair's, this one I can recognize immediately as a definitive Irish brogue.

"I'm Atlas." He introduces. "Bloody hell, I don't know how you could have survived that plane crash."

"Yeah, that makes two of us, buddy." I agree. "I'm Molly."

Sinclair rolls his eyes and motions for me to follow him with a short, jerking nod. His shoulders are tense, reflecting a sudden, rolling fire in his eyes as he turns away. "Hurry up, kiddo. We've got to move."

What the hell is it, now? I frown, hoping. . .honestly hoping that I didn't do something to piss him off. Is he really that upset over the stupid radio? I scuff my shoes, having to split my focus when the speaker crackles again in my hand.

"Boy, I am certainly glad to meet you, Molly." Atlas sighs. "And your companion is right, I'm afraid. You really aren't safe anywhere in Rapture, but you should head for higher ground."

"Higher ground." I repeat blankly. "Um, okay." That doesn't really make any sense. Does it? Shouldn't we go lower, if anything? Hmm.

"And this is Sinclair, by the way." I avert my gaze instinctively when I step out of the bathysphere. The damp air is cool, almost drafty. I hold my breath and try not to look at that poor dead body splattered on the concrete.

"Good to meet you both." The Irishman replies.

Atlas has a strong, steady voice. Listening to it helps ease my nerves instead of fraying and splitting them into halves. Actually, he seems to have the exact opposite effect on me that Sinclair has. . . He's calming. Sinclair, more or less, tends to make me nervous.

I hold the radio close as I stumble along after Sinclair, into the subdued, watery light that filters in through floor-to-ceiling windows. The whole building we're in is massive. I can't help looking around with humbled, unworthy eyes at the sheer magnificence of the architecture.

Under any other circumstances. . . Yeah. It would have been even more amazing than I can describe. But it kind of kills the buzz when you think that such an extraordinary place might be your tomb. Ouch. Okay, no more angst.

. . .if I can help it.

"This way, Chandler." Sinclair brusquely instructs. He strides by the windows and doesn't even glance at them. Well, if he lived here, he's probably seen all of this countless times before. Maybe the feel of the place loses it grandeur after it's been overrun by horrible mutated monsters. . .

"Coming." I swallow meekly, watching a shark swim past the glass. "I'm coming. . . ."

"Relax." Atlas reassures me. "Rapture can be overwhelming to a newcomer, but I won't leave you twistin' in the wind."

First, Sinclair. Now, Atlas? I don't get it. Do men from Rapture have hero complexes, or do I just strike them as so completely incapable of defending myself that they have to do that? I mean, shit, I'm scared. And could I fight back against splicer if I had to? Probably not. But, still!

. . .well. That wasn't much of an argument. I guess it's just. . .weird. Don't get me wrong, I mean, I'm grateful and everything. . . But it's still weird. Sinclair might have a reason to help me out, but I can't even put a face to a name with this Atlas character.

"Thanks." I lightly settle on, my stomach fluttering strangely. "I appreciate that."

Sinclair scoffs. I consider tossing a rock at the back of his head, but think better of it and simply scowl.

"I wouldn't thank me quite yet," Atlas warns. His voice deepens into something. . .cold. Cold and empty and dark. The sound stirs up a haze from the corner of my mind. Something prickles along my neck, something. . .familiar. Something sad and long ago forgotten.

Shoot! That damn itch again! That feeling of holding water in your hands, having it slip through you fingers as you try and hold onto it for as long as you can. . .

But then it's gone. The memory. . .or whatever the hell it was, gone. I shake my head, unnerved by my own desperation. Do I really want to know? Do I really want to remember? What is there to remember? It's just too much. Right now, it's way too much to focus on when I have to worry about honest survival.

. . .though, I'll have to face it sooner rather than later. That much I do know.

"Hey, Molly? You're gonna have to draw that splicer out of hiding." Atlas tells me gravely. "Can you hear her? Listen."

I slowly walk past broken pieces of luggage. Scraps of trash. Stomped on picket signs that say things like RAPTURE IS DEAD and WE ARE NOT YOUR PROPERTY! It's pretty sad, actually. I try and hear what Atlas is talking about, but at the moment, I'm more concerned with finding Sinclair.

I don't know how it happened, but he must have gotten too far ahead of me. . . I can't see him anymore. And I might have Atlas on the radio, but, he's just that. On the radio. He isn't here with me in person, and I feel my throat tightening in panic because I might have lost Sinclair while I was too damn distracted by that Irish brogue.

"I don't hear anything." I whisper, glancing around wildly. "Sinclair!" Oh, what am I going to do? I can't. . . I can't do this. . !

I'm about to scream. I open my mouth with his name blistering on the tip of my tongue, only to have a hand clamp down over my lips and someone yank me deeper into the darkness. Sinclair glares at me, black eyes on fire as his fingers dig into my face. We're so close, I don't so much as hear his ragged breathing as I feel it, vibrating angrily inside of his chest.

"The fuck are you doing, makin' all that racket?" He hisses. "Don't you hear her? Dammit, Chandler! What did I say about being careful?" Slowly, he lowers his hand, and I gulp in a lungful of air fast enough to choke on it. My face flames. And not just because I feel like an idiot, either.

After a long, tense minute, with Sinclair's taught body shielding me from most of our crumbled surroundings, I realize do hear something above the roaring of blood in my ears.

I hear a woman. And she's. . . .singing to herself. My heart freezes. The whole thing, actually, has me shaking in terror. Her awful voice. The flickering lights. The pockets of hungry, menacing shadow, lurking round every corner. Sinclair takes my hand without a word and I stumble up a flight of wide stairs after him. The sudden motion has me nearly dropping the radio, my hands are so slick with sweat.

"Don't worry, sweetheart." Atlas murmurs. "Just a bit farther, now, and I'll have her."

Sinclair pulls me along and we crouch behind a fallen, decimated pillar of stone. He gives my hand a squeeze and nods at me, jaw tight. I swallow and nod back. Because, there's that Splicer again. She's standing in a circle of light just beyond our hiding place, hooks clanking threateningly along the floor as she looks around.

"What now?" I mutter. "Atlas, what are you planning?"

"We don't need him planning anything." Sinclair growls. "Look, some of these rocks are sharp. I'm betting we could-"

But a sharp, deafening whistle cuts him off. It sounds like a damn bomb dropping or something so, of course, the most logical thing Sinclair and I do is duck and cover over heads.

"Take that, ya damn splicer!" Atlas yells in triumph over the line.

Huh? I peek through my trembling fingers and. . . A flying turret gun. . . .robot. . . .thing, wails in from somewhere above us, and it fires a barrage of lightning at the creature. She screams, bleeding, trying to escape the pain. I hold my head and I can't even breathe. My ears are ringing so badly that they ache. I grab at them, praying for it to stop. Please, please, just. . .stop.

It must be after an eternity when it finally does. Dust and silence settle down over us in a fog. The Splicer was gunned down successfully. It's now a mangled, bloody pulp in the corner, next to the blocked remnants of a nearby doorway. I suck in a small, shaky breath, but even that hurts.

"Are you okay?" Sinclair and Atlas ask simultaneously.

One, sounding concerned, the other, staring at me with eyes black and worried. But the moment Sinclair hears the brogue from the radio, he bristles and stands up. Something is definitely going on with this. Something that I can't quite understand.

"Yeah. We're fine." I mumble. "I can't believe. . .that robot guy was you? You saved us?"

"Well, I thought you could use the assistance." Atlas hums with pride. "I aim to keep you alive, Molly. They're aren't many friendly souls left in Rapture these days, and I'd hate for something to happen to you." He sounds so emphatic, so sincere.

I blush automatically. "Wow. Um, thank you. Again."

"Or course, sweetheart."

The sound of the nickname slides down my throat and stays lit between my ribs like a bright, comforting light. It even brings an embarrassed smile to my face as I climb to my feet, after Sinclair. It takes a moment for me to gather myself, but I find some stability on the uneven ground and attempt to pick a path forward.

"Things are only going to get more difficult for you, now." Atlas sighs in apology. "You should try looking for a weapon. Would you kindly check around those stones? There must have been some tools left behind. . ."

Oh. Great. My stomach drops. I mean, it makes sense, of course. Find a weapon and defend yourself against the crazed addicts of Rapture. But. . .they were once people. People with families. I don't think. . . I don't know. Even if they tried to hurt me first, I don't know how I could ever do such a thing.

"Tin can. Quiet. When she wants your opinion, she'll ask for it." Sinclair finally lashes out. He's shifting some of the debris away from the doorway, arms and neck muscles tensing with annoyance.

"Ah. Augustus Sinclair." Atlas purrs. His accent rumbles like thunderclouds, and I feel another sharp jerk in my gut at the sound of such familiar, brutal anger. But his voice is oddly. . .calm. His fury is contained.

. . .and that's what makes me nervous. When he's upset, he doesn't yell. The world grows silent and trembles at the feet of this cruel and frigid rage. It's almost. . .beautiful. Which must mean I'm a bit fucked, if that's the first adjective I jump to use to describe the Irishman and his temper.

But it is. I don't understand it, but it is beautiful. I can almost remember. . .what? My hands clench and unclench around the radio in frustration. Whatever I'm missing slips just beyond my extended reach.

"The Conman of Rapture." Atlas continues coolly. "Of course. How. . .convenient, you surviving the plane crash as well. Tell me, boy-o, what does Lamb have in store for your lovely companion, hmm?"

Sinclair, effectively, freezes. He looks absolutely murderous as he whips around, reaching for the radio as if he wants nothing more than to rip it from my arms and smash it underfoot. But he has an incredible amount of control. I mean, I end up gawking at him like an idiot as he breathes out, forces himself to calm down, and slicks back a wayward strand of dark hair instead of charging.

"Lamb is dead, as you well know." He forces out through a straining jaw. "Dead clients hardly make for good business partners." Then, Sinclair looks at me. His gaze smolders and I'm caught in its midst. Trapped.

Still standing here at the edge of the concrete and unable to move, replaying their confusing, hateful exchange in my head with disbelief. Okay, so. They know each other. I get that part. But. . .

The Conman of Rapture? My brain sticks on the title like a broken record as my shock slowly melts in hesitance. Sinclair takes a step closer, falters, and for the first time since I've met him, he seems just as reluctant as I am about where to go, what to do.

"You're going to hear a lot of things about me down here, Chandler." He eventually sighs. "Some of them are true. Some of them are lies. I can't make you trust me, but don't you. . .don't you ever let someone else decide for you about what I am." He grabs my shoulder, holds on tight, and I feel like I'm falling through the sky.

"I risked my neck for you, kid." He whispers. "I'd do it again, too. But I won't do this. You've got to pick one. Ditch the tin can and come with me, or go. Now. Because I can't stand it." His eyes are wide, manic. . .imploring. I don't know what to do. I've bitten my tongue straight through and blood fills my mouth.

"Atlas is not a character you want to get mixed up with." Sinclair drops his hand and puts an extra foot of space between us. I feel. . .cold. Without him close.

"But I ain't telling you what to do. If you want to leave, I got no hard feelings." He promises firmly.

I drop my eyes from his and stare at my shoes, burning with shame. "That's. . .not fair." I can't help muttering. "Making me choose like this." It's childish to play that card, I know, but I feel. . .awful. What the hell am I supposed to do now? How can I choose?

I like Sinclair. I like Atlas. Sinclair saved my life. Atlas saved my life. But Atlas. . . I don't know. There's something about him, like there's something about this city. . . It just fits inside of me. Like, I'm the outside frame of a jigsaw puzzle, searching for the rest of my pieces to complete the final picture. Rapture itself is one of those pieces, definitely. And Atlas. . . There's something about him I just can't leave behind. Something lurking beneath that friendly brogue of his that. . .my subconscious recognizes. I think he's a piece, too. But I won't ever know if I get rid of him.

Sighing, I shake my head and force myself to lift my chin. I square my shoulders, stand up straight. Sinclair's brows furrow and he frowns, as if he already knows what I'm about to say.

"This is. . .complicated." I admit uncomfortably. "And I appreciate everything you've done for me. . . But I can't, Sinclair. I'm sorry. I can't do it." How can I explain to him something that I don't even understand myself?

I try and convey as much as I can. . .without saying it. How hard this is. How conflicted I am. I want both of them, but, I know that isn't fair, either. Sinclair stares at me steadily, unblinking. The shutters are closed and his face is completely expressionless.

"Suit yourself, Chandler." He finally shrugs. "I've got my own channel, if you change your mind." He turns away from the blocked door and moves to stride off into the darkness. "Atlas. . .he's leading you over a cliff. I know he is. Just. . .watch yourself, okay?"

"I don't believe you." I whisper miserably.

Sinclair shrugs again. "Like I said. Believe what you want. I'll be around." And with that, I watch him vanish from sight, feeling sick with guilt and worry. But knowing I had to make this choice, and confidently believing that I chose right.

I have to know what's going on, here. I do. This is what matters to me most right now. Atlas is key, somehow, in finding these answers. Sinclair. . .he'll be okay. He will be. I can't think any other way.

When the final echo of Sinclair's footsteps fade, swallowed up by the unsettling silence of the transit station, the service radio buzzes at my hip.

"You. . .stood up for me." Atlas comments. He sounds. . . .funny. Distant. Surprised, maybe.

"Yeah, I did." I rub the back of my prickling neck and kneel down in front of the pile of debris. "I still don't know you very well, but, you saved me and offered to help me out. I won't take that for granted. Besides, I'm pretty sure I owe you the benefit of the doubt after. . .everything."

"Ah." Atlas hums. "This blindly trustin' attitude of yours is what's gonna get you killed in Rapture, my dear. Good thing I'm the nicest guy you'll meet down here, 'cause you won't be able to afford anything else ." He says, a grin flitting through his voice.

Was that a joke? I shake my head and end up grinning all the same as I dig through the stone. "Okay. Great. Good to know what you think of me, buddy. It really helps."

He laughs brightly. The warm, nostalgic sound washes through me like sunshine. It's kind of funny. I mean, it's funny because I like hearing it.

"Of course, Molly. I also aim to please."

I snort under my breath, knuckles scraping against something sharp amidst the rock. "Oh, hey! I think I found something." After a rough few minutes, I'm able to extract a rusted red wrench from the heap. Bleeding fingers is a small price to pay for surviving.

"Well done. That'll work just fine." Atlas approves.

Right. Because, I'm going to have to use it. Against people. Even against things that used to be people. . . I fight back a shudder as I stand up on weak, unsteady ankles. How? How am I going to be able to do this? Squaring my jaw, I give the hefty piece of metal a few experimental swings. It's pretty good-sized. Capable of doing some serious damage to an unsuspecting splicer skull. . .

And that makes me feel, if possible, worse, as my stomach twists into knots. "Okay. Okay. I can do this." I mutter to myself. But my voice is hardly convincing.

Atlas clicks his tongue patiently over the line. "Chandler, if you plan on makin' it out of here alive, you've got to get over yourself. I hate to break it to ya, but that's just the way it is down here. Splicers aren't exactly the friendliest sort."

"Right." I breathe out. The paint flakes off of the wrench like dried blood. "Right. Of course."

. . .man. I am so screwed. But I wave a hand at the blinking security camera to try and let him know. . .that I can handle this. Or I can at least try to.

"Why don't you clear away some of that rubble?" Atlas suggests. "Bet you can get through that doorway somehow."

"Good idea." I agree and, with a heavy swing, I start pounding away at the stone. It's surprisingly fast and easy work. Rapture must have been falling into ruin for years, because the broken pillars are soft and crumbly with age.

I want to ask the Irishman about everything as I work. But I don't even know where to start! This is so overwhelming, and all I'm really able to concentrate on is his hazy familiar, voice. . .

"Hey, buddy. . ?" I begin, hesitating, and biting my lip as I wipe a trail of sweat from my forehead. This is probably going to be awkward. In fact, I'm sure this is going to be very awkward. What hasn't been so far?

"What's up, kiddo?"

"Um, well, have we ever. . .met before?" I wonder quietly. The last of the wreckage tumbles out of the way in a thick cloud of dust. I wince and shield my eyes, but the particles cling to my skin like magnets and swirl with violent sentience through the damp air.

Before me, a staircase stretches out into dappled shadow. The silence is. . .unnerving. Maddening. The wrench is suddenly feeling fifty pounds heavier and incredibly awkward in my left hand. My palm is so sweaty, I'm probably going to drop it at the first signs of combat.

The radio is quiet for a long moment. "Not to my recollection, Molly. Since you must be a new addition to our darling city, I doubt we have." Atlas eventually replies. Maybe he sounds evasive. Or maybe it's just me.

Whichever it is, his blank answer isn't good enough. But why would he need to lie about something like that? Am I just being paranoid?

"Fair enough." I shrug, though it's hard to shake the impression that he isn't telling me something. "Just curious. You seem. . .familiar. I don't know. A lot about this place seems familiar. . ."

And then, that's when I see the couch. Yes. A couch. And it's on fire. And it's hurtling down the stairs straight for where I'm standing. Wait. What the hell?

XXX

I'm sorry, Sinclair. =( But he'll be back! Thanks for reading, and I hope these revisions are better than the originals so far!