JUNE 3, 1959 — 7:57 PM

"You have no business being in such a place."

His father hadn't directly commanded him not to return to Pauper's Drop. Nevertheless, a sick feeling curled low in Jack's gut at the very thought of it.

In all likelihood, the thought wasn't even one Jack might have entertained under his own cognizance. But his father had always had quite the way of inspiring Jack to do just the opposite of what he ordered him to do, even if Jack never could muster the will or nerve to go through with it in the end.

"You have yet to show me you've earned it, Jack."

He would never come to earn his father's respect if he remained in this sort of state, would he? Unwilling to obey his father's command, yet unable to defy it.

The cloud of indecision that had cast itself over his thoughts seemed impossible to shake as the tram car clattered its way down the cobbled streets of Olympus Heights, down from the station to the Athena suites he called home. Streetlights between the lanes flickered to life as the lamps overhead began to dim, heralding the evening's approach. Shafts of soft blue light continued to stream in through the great glass panes on all sides, as though the rest of the city and all its shining towers took no notice of the hours that passed. The night was calm, though Jack was not.

It was getting to the point where he wasn't sure if he could remember what it was like to be calm, to have little care for whatever troubles or worries came his way. He wondered if he had ever truly known what that was like. But even if he hadn't, he still found himself missing the illusion of it.

The car slowly lumbered to a stop once it reached the Bistro Square; Jack would have to transfer before he was home free. He disembarked with the rest of the passengers, none of whom paid him even the slightest amount of attention. For once, he was grateful for it.

Among them was a woman whose clothes were more tattered, more faded than the rest. A dark shawl attempted and failed to hide the bulbous growths on her face and the jagged downward twist of her mouth. She hurried away from the crowd, shivering and drawing her arms about herself as if fighting off some imagined cold, and headed in the direction of the bulkhead to Apollo Square.

Apollo Square. A memory came to him them, something Atlas had told him before they had parted the other night: that he could always be found in the Square, whenever Jack was ready to make his decision.

As he stared down the path to the bulkhead, echoes of his father's words still ringing in his head, he felt ready. He felt readier for this, more determined for this than perhaps he had ever been in his life.

But first he needed to prepare himself, and for that, he would need to return home. He let his gaze linger upon the path, upon the spliced woman's retreating back, but soon enough he caught the tram that would take him there.

When Jack entered Apollo Square later that evening, it was in the same get-up he'd worn to disguise himself at the Atlantic Express depot—shabby coat, dull cap, carefully-wound scarf and all—though his pockets this time were considerably weightier. Part of that weight came from the pistol at his side, which he wasn't certain he could capably use but felt necessary all the same. He hadn't yet taken the plasmid Atlas had given him; his indecision still kept him wary of its effects. The pistol would have to serve as his self-defense instead.

He almost hadn't taken it, of course, being dubious of his father's warnings of the place. How dangerous could any part of Rapture be, after all? But once he made his way through the bulkhead and up the sloping streets to the Square itself—similar to those of Olympus Heights save the cracked cobblestones and rusted, disused tram rails—he saw that, for once, he had been right to heed him.

A stench like nothing else he had ever encountered, not even in the Drop, assailed his senses as soon as he stepped through the arched walkway and into the Square proper. Wooden scaffolding sat in the center of the space and towered high above him, adorned with swaying nooses hanging from its highest beams. Painted signs accompanied each one:

SMUGGLER!
TRAITOR!
PARASITE!

Jack felt a sick pang in his gut as he wondered if they had ever been put to use. He didn't want to think about it.

He pulled the scarf up past his mouth and nose in an attempt to block out the smell, to breathe in the scent of smoke and steel instead. For the most part, it worked, at least enough for him to press on. But before he could do that, he needed to know which way to go.

A huddled figure sat slumped against the base of the scaffold. Jack's first thought was another dead body, just as he'd seen in the Drop, but when he came closer, he realized it was the same woman he had seen earlier in the Bistro Square.

He knelt down close to her. "Excuse me..."

She snapped her head up to look at him, her ADAM-twisted features sharp and glaring. "What?"

Jack very nearly flinched at the woman's sudden severity. But he had to press on.

"I need to find the man who calls himself Atlas."

She huffed out a laugh. "Don't we all, kid."

"Do you know where he is?"

She gave him a sidelong look, as though attempting to see through his disguise. Jack used all his strength to keep his resolve from visibly wavering.

"Try the deep end of Hestia. If you can get that far, that is."

The ominousness of her words didn't fully register in Jack's mind. He was filtering through memories instead, flicking images of the maps he had been made to memorize behind his mind's eye until he found one that showed him how he could get to Hestia from this point.

"Thank you," he said with a short nod as he stood. The woman said nothing in reply.

He walked quickly down the path to where Hestia awaited him. The brightly-lit sign for a Rapture Metro station shone in the distance, and further down from it was another sign that had rusted and faded in its long months without maintenance, but its bold lettering was still legible: Fontaine's Home for the Poor. Crude barricades had been erected between its entrance and the Metro station, allowing only the narrowest path of entry. The shadows of indistinct shapes could be seen moving about behind them, briefly dashed by bright blue crackles of electricity, while their laughing voices carried in eerie echoes down the entire length of the glass-paned path.

Were Jack a man of lesser nerve, the sight of the barricades alone would be enough to turn him back. But he was determined not to leave this place until he had accomplished what he came here for.

He approached with caution, never once taking his hand off the pistol in his pocket.

"Hold it right there!"

He stopped, less out of fear and more out of keenness to avoid a fight. Two men came climbing over the barricade, limbs sprawling in a way that barely looked human. One wore a mask while the other's face was bandaged, but neither were sufficient to hide the telltale growths on their limbs and necks. There was no question that this place was guarded by splicers.

But Jack had come this far. He wasn't about to let that sway him from this spot.

"I'm here to see Atlas," he called to them both, willing strength in his tone.

"Atlas?" The masked splicer cocked his head. "Ain't no Atlas here."

"I think you're mistaken, chap," said the bandaged splicer with an accusatory point; in his hands were a pair of heavy fish hooks which Jack hadn't noticed in the dark, but now were clear as day. "Best turn yourself around before something unfortunate happens to ye."

Jack bristled. The threat did less to intimidate him and more to make him even more determined.

"I know he's here," he snapped at them. "He wanted me to come see him. Just let me through."

"Or what?" said the first splicer, suddenly advancing on him. He was just close enough for Jack to see the blue plasmid glow in his eyes through the holes of his mask. "You got something to make it worth our while?"

"I might," Jack said firmly, not backing down. He'd made sure of that.

"Wait a minute." The splicer stopped, but leaned closer to Jack as though peering at him. "You look familiar—fuck, you're Ryan's kid, aintcha?"

At that alone and nothing else, Jack felt his first pang of fear.

"You are!" The splicer barked out a laugh and, much to Jack's disturbed surprise, licked his chops. "Wonder what the hell your kind's doing lookin' for Atlas, huh?"

The other splicer was laughing too, and as he began to advance on Jack as well, tongues of flame jetted out from his fingertips and curled up the curved, wickedly sharp lengths of his fish hooks. "I'm wonderin' how much his old man would pay up to get him back."

It took no time at all for that pang of fear to ring fully into panic. Jack took a quick step back, hand tightening on the grip of his pistol—

"What the bloody hell is going on out here?"

After the split second it took him to recognize the voice, Jack felt his panic replaced by an immediate and immense wave of relief. Atlas emerged from the barricade and muscled his way between them.

"Just doing what you told us, boss."

"He's an intruder!"

"This man is not an intruder," Atlas said to them both, shouting without raising his voice, and put a firm hand on Jack's shoulder. "And you're not to hurt him or stand in his way any longer, you got that?"

One of the splicers swore, while the other mumbled half-intelligible apologies. But both retreated without a single backwards glance to spare.

Atlas muttered curses under his breath before he turned to Jack. "Sorry about that, boyo. Damn them, bloody splicers... I damn well told them to be expectin' you."

"It's all right," Jack said quietly, willing himself to release the grip of the pistol in his pocket. He was reluctant to admit it or let it show, but he couldn't help but still be shaken by the encounter. He wondered what would ever possess a man like Atlas to use unstable splicers as hired muscle.

"Come on. We'd best speak inside."

Atlas led Jack through the barricade and into the building beyond: Fontaine's Home, a claustrophobically-crowded tenement that towered to a dizzying height when Jack dared to look upwards. Jack had heard that this place, like most of Fontaine's other ventures, had been condemned some time after the man's death, but he wouldn't have guessed it by looking. People huddled together on the ground floor, some lying on ratty sofas and haphazardly-arranged cots, others going busily to and fro on the stairs and floors above them. It was up the stairs that Atlas led Jack further, winding around the entire width of the tenement's atrium.

The people on the stairs stood aside for them, giving nods and short words of greeting to Atlas as they passed by. Jack tugged his scarf up again, far from keen to be recognized again.

As they exited the stairs onto one of the higher floors, Jack caught a glimpse through an open door of a room packed with printing presses, littered with stacks of papers all bearing the same three words: WHO IS ATLAS? But Atlas continued to lead him on.

Finally they reached a room which Jack assumed to be Atlas's office: cramped and dimly-lit, with only one door and barely enough room for a desk and some chairs. Atlas closed the door behind him as Jack took a seat, then removed his flat cap with a sigh.

"I'm sure you're used to finer accommodations than this," said Atlas as he sat behind the desk, setting down his cap and running a hand through his thick, fair hair. "But it's the best I can manage in terms of privacy."

"It's fine," Jack said just as quietly as before. Part of him was still feeling shaken from earlier, but another part of him wondered if he wasn't feeling shaken by the gravity of what he was about to do.

"So..." Atlas leaned back, giving Jack an appraising look. "Since you came here after all, can I take that to mean you've made your decision?"

"I..." Jack swallowed. His heart hammered in his chest, and his tongue suddenly felt too thick to form words. But he could hardly back down now, could he?

Perhaps he would do better to let his actions speak instead.

He reached into the deep pockets of his coat, first to retrieve his pistol and carefully deposit it on the desk, then to retrieve the rest of it: rolls upon rolls of carefully-wrapped bills, hundreds' worth of Rapture dollars in total. He dumped the cash onto the desk and pushed the whole pile of it towards Atlas.

"Here," he said curtly. "I don't know if this will help, but—I want it to help. Whatever you need with it, I don't care. It would probably do a lot more good for you than it ever has for me."

Atlas's eyes were wide, brows raised, as he looked over the stack of cash. He reached for the roll nearest him to take a closer look, and let out a long whistle as he flipped through the bills.

"I'll say, boyo... We've greater need of food and supplies at the mo', but a few hundred Rapture dollars certainly never hurt."

"If that's what you need, I can get that for you too." Jack's hands were in fists at his knees as he strove to keep his tone level. The thought of his father finding out about any of this was nearly too much for him to bear in that moment. "Food and anything else, I don't care, I can—"

"Settle down, lad." Atlas's voice wasn't just calm, it was calming. Somewhat. "This will do just fine. It's a hell of a lot trickier for your type to smuggle in food and the like. There's no need for you to go riskin' your neck on our account."

The bite of his nails digging into his palms was enough to bring Jack down—somewhat. "I don't care about the risk, if it means that something might actually change for the better down here—if it means that I could actually affect something down here, goddamnit—"

"Settle down." His voice was firmer this time, but still calm. Atlas pushed the pile of cash aside so that it wasn't directly between the two of them, and then he pulled his chair up to lean in closer to Jack. "What's got you riled up like this?"

Until that moment, it hadn't occurred to Jack that his earlier disagreement with his father had put him so deeply out of sorts. He'd thought it was just the quality of living in this place, or the duress those splicers had put him under, but now he realized that the sensation of adrenaline pumping through his veins, the tightening of his chest and the thudding in his ears, was just the same as when he'd fought with him earlier that day. It was the same as when he'd fought with him just a few days ago, and—why, it was just the same as when he'd ever fought with him, wasn't it?

He wondered if this was what it truly felt like to defy his father's will. For all that he wanted to be his own man, this was nearly too much to take.

"Jack."

He startled back to alertness, remembering that Atlas had asked him a question.

"Sorry—" He quickly shook his head, trying to shake off his unease. "Sorry..." It didn't work. "Sorry, I just—there's a lot on my mind."

"You don't have to apologize, boyo." Atlas's tone was soft, and in his eyes was a look of concern.

It was a look Jack had only rarely received in his short life thus far, but he knew it when he saw it regardless. It was rare enough that any instance of it, even this one now, was enough to touch something deep inside him, something that always, always yearned for solace.

"But would you kindly tell me what's eatin' you?"

Atlas was a friend. He had said it himself, and Jack now believed it. He was the only man in this whole damn city who knew what he was, who could possibly have any understanding of what he was going through, whom he could also consider a friend. He was someone Jack could confide in; he was someone Jack could trust.

"It's my father," he said quietly, tentatively. "It's always been... For as long as I can remember, it's always been him."

Still, he could say no more than that. It felt as though something was binding him from speaking any further, from speaking any ill of the man who had brought him into being. It frustrated him; it frightened him.

"It's all right, Jack. You can tell me whatever you need."

And just like that, it felt as though his binds were lifted.

"I can't understand what he wants from me," he stammered out, still tentative, but now that the words were coming out there was no stopping them. "I can't understand why he would have me—why he would have me built and just... It's like nothing I do matters. It's like nothing I can do matters, goddamnit. He wants me to be a man and follow in his footsteps, but the second I dare to even think about even doing anything of my own, he suddenly decides I'm not good enough."

Atlas listened with a frown. "Sounds like you're learning what we've known all along," he said softly. "Andrew Ryan is a bloody hypocrite."

"He is." A jolt of adrenaline thrilled throughout Jack's body at the admission, but it only served to turn his stomach. "He is, damn it all—he talks all the time about how this place is the last bastion of free will, about the importance of choice and all that bullshit, but I can't even make my own choices unless it's what he wants. If I don't do exactly what he wants, then I... He says he'll have me..."

The thought made him dizzy. He quickly shook his head in an attempt to gather himself.

"He won't even let me see my mother, you know?" Jack stared down to see that his knuckles were white. "It doesn't even matter that I already know who she is, it doesn't matter that I don't want her to know who I am—what woman would want want to know her only child ended up like this, you know—no, it doesn't matter at all, because it's too much of a risk to him—"

"Hold on, lad." Atlas's brow was knit; he looked confused. "Your mother?"

Jack supposed there hadn't been any information on her in the documents Atlas had found. He supposed that this revelation wasn't one Atlas necessarily needed to know. But although he also supposed he should find this at least somewhat concerning, he found that he really, truly didn't care at all.

"My mother," he repeated. Those two words alone burned in his mind, leaving a deep, lingering ache. "My genetic... The woman they took me from, before I was born. I can't even see her." His voice shook. "I'm not even supposed to know who she is, as if—as if my father doesn't want me knowing I was born from the womb of a whore—"

"Easy, lad." Atlas cut in gently, holding up a hand to stop him from speaking any further. "You don't have to tell me that if it's too difficult for you. Besides, knowing what I already do, it might be safer for me if I don't learn much more."

Jack hadn't considered that. He nodded silently, humbled by Atlas's logic.

Atlas said nothing for some time after that, only look carefully at Jack in quiet contemplation. Then he made a soft, thoughtful noise and opened one of the drawers of his desk to reach inside.

"Here. I suppose after all that, you're more than deserving of this."

Jack's eyes widened as Atlas slid a thick, black-labeled folder across the desk to him. In all his turmoil, he had completely forgotten about the details that Atlas had promised him.

"Thank you..." He took it with a lightly trembling hand. "Thank you, Atlas."

"Don't mention it," said Atlas with a nod. "Just be sure to keep giving us what aid you can manage, would you kindly?"

"Of course." There was no question of it in Jack's mind.