The first thing Atlas did, ironically enough, was to snatch the radio up off the ground.

It was barely even a conscious decision. More like a learned reflex, the radio was his only means of communication and while he didn't fancy having Lamb's voice oozing out of it again – he kept it close to him in the vain hope that maybe it would become the small life line it had once been. For both he and the kid.

With his gun secured and the radio carefully latched to his side, Atlas got to moving. Thinking the breather he'd taken had run its course and was beginning to overstay its welcome in a city built to crush him.

Clambering out of the sphere, Atlas paused to take in the damage.

Part of the structure had caved violently in on one side and if he peered back into the pod like vessel he could see the evidence of that impact inside as well where its wall shifted in just a touch. That was the evidence of his efforts to dislodge their little straggler.

The evidence of said straggler was a little more unsettling. He'd heard it ripping at the outer shell of his vessel, but to actually see the claw like gouges across the metal surface was a very different experience. Atlas found himself staring, eyes roaming over the places the claws had found their mark and torn pieces of the sphere clean off, exposing more of it's metal insides.

The longer he looked the more obvious it became that this little beauty wasn't going anywhere again, it'd been a miracle it hadn't broken apart before making port within Rapture.

In short – this wasn't his ticket to the surface unless he wanted to float up there as a corpse.

Now as to where it had managed to make port that was a bit more difficult to place. Much of Rapture looked the same now days, ruin and decay the new norm to the once polished city. In a way Atlas nearly preferred it. It was a small vindictive little part of the revolutionary that looked around the carcass of Ryan's little oligarchy and sneered.

How shocking it must have been for them once real life came to slap them in the face. Perhaps if they hadn't had those silver spoons shoved in at both ends they'd have stood a better chance. Then again, it wasn't as though those from the slums fared the fall of Rapture any better. ADAM well and truly took that fight from their hands before it reached the likes of Cohen and Steinmann.

If Atlas met one more bleedin' artist…

With a heavy sigh Atlas stood back from the remains of the bathysphere, longing for a smoke as he eyed over the damage for a moment longer.

Well it had gotten him through that ordeal to the best of its ability and Atlas supposed that was the best he could ask for. As he looked over the sphere's battered, and now unusable form, some dull sense of loss registering in his chest.

It was ludicrous to feel as such, this thing wasn't his after all. Even if it had been, it was useless to him now.

He had no further need for it.

Turning away Atlas took a moment to take a guarded look around the section of Rapture he'd been landed with, seeking out any sort of tell as to where it was. What he found was more ruins and strangely enough, sea life. Atlas knew that barnacles and the like had started to grow here and there as water found its way into the city – but this was something else entirely.

His eyes followed the sea growth up until he was craning his neck to see how far it stretched. He found no end to it. In fact it only seemed to become more extensive the longer he looked, finding not only the small growths he was accustomed to spotting – but coral as well. This place was practically a surviving subaquatic ecosystem despite being fairly dry – as much as Rapture could be considered dry. "This place looks like it's been submerged…" Atlas muttered to himself, needing to organize his thoughts out loud because his own mind wasn't giving him much to work with, still rattling from the near death experience and Lamb's words.

He could think of a number of places that had been flooded within Rapture, but he could think of precious few that could then be drained again. In fact he could find only one possible example. Dionysus Park. How fitting he'd find himself in Lamb's playground after the woman had passed along some casual death threats. Now as to how this place had been drained was beyond Atlas. In order to drain it the water had to be rerouted somewhere, he was no expert but in Rapture he was fairly sure that meant flooding another area of the city.

Weren't they already drowning quick enough on their own?

Once he'd assigned a name to the sunken section of the city Atlas began to find more little key pieces of information that supported his initial guess. The scattered and broken down statues he saw pressed against walls and the pointlessly fancy construct over every door and metal gate fit with his hazy memories of the place that passed for an artist's haven.

Lord almighty he was going to meet another artist wasn't he?

As he crept deeper into the park Atlas tried to find something more useful than vague recollection of the way this place had lit up when it flew into full swing. The harsh flash of lights and laughter of frivolous guys and gals come to drown in their vices, that was his memory of this place.

Atlas wondered when he'd ventured into such a scene, tried to recall why he'd come to such a place. Not to look for company surely, he had no fondness for the rich and bored – nor was he in need of a warm body when Moria would have been waiting for him at home.

So why did he so vividly remember how it sounded when Tate took up the stage and put on a showman's fantasy?

She'd played the stage well – a con artist in her own right and along side his disdain there was a begrudging admiration that had no place in his mind. He was getting mixed up.

Distantly his head ached and yet again Atlas chose to push forward as opposed to stop and search for clarity in the past. Once he was safe and secure, he could go soul searching to his heart's content – but he had to get out alive first.

Something that became a little more difficult when up ahead he heard a commotion. Instinctively Atlas went low and stuck close to the walls, pistol slipping comfortingly into his hand as he looked around the corner – seeking out the source of the scuffling. What he found was a bright burst of red as a body when vanishing up into nothing.

Oh marvelous, Houdini splicers.

Just…perfect.

Of all the plasmids to come out of Rapture the teleportation ones had arguably been the worst. Even Ryan had tried to put a pin in them, stifling his great chain of commerce and implementing a true rule against the production of these plasmids, citing security reasons. If there was anything Ryan harped on more about than the importance of a free and vicious market – it was security.

The surface made a dream by the iron fist he kept them away from it with. Ryan was a typical tyrant no matter what he liked to think, going on about the reds and the stifling nature of even the capitalists – but he was easily worse than both put together and he just hadn't seen it until the chain wrapped around Rapture's throat and choked the life out of her.

He was the last to realise the city was sunk. Perhaps he never truly saw this decaying place for what it had become. Right until the end.

Because there had been an end, hadn't there?

Ultimately it was that whack job's comments that eventually brought some clarity to the situation. Eight years. Had it really been…?

"Doesn't matter." Atlas hissed at himself, forcing his legs to begin walking. Forcing himself to move forward because there was absolutely no point in remaining stationary or looking back. If Lamb wasn't lying by the skin of her teeth and it had been eight years then Atlas had to figure out what he'd missed in that time. Had to know where to go from there.

The houdini splicer was no longer here at least and Atlas didn't hear the telltale burst of sound that signaled their return from wherever they went between locations. Hopefully it had jumped and landed itself halfway through a wall.

It was hilarious in a morbid way to occasionally spot parts of these teleporting nutjobs sticking out of walls or the ground – hilarious if it were not for the unsettling nature of knowing they'd either been severed in two by their carelessness or crushed between the bricks their empty heads appeared between. The imagery was off-putting and ruined what was otherwise a humorous bit of entertainment.

Now as to what the splicer had been firing off at Atlas wasn't sure. He didn't see any other of the creeps lurking around but recalled having been taken off guard by the spider bitch on the ceiling. He tried not to think too deeply about how she'd been left behind by him in the end. Instead focusing his eyes up, seeking out anymore lunatics that might come dropping from the ceiling. For now it was clear, but he'd not let them get him by surprise like that again.

Cautious Atlas continued through the ruins, seeking out a more familiar path. He recognized the location but not the room he was in. In fact if he really looked around it seemed like a storage area rather than the flashy entertainment halls.

Just as he began to feel as though the place was safe – surprisingly so for Rapture – the sound of his radio kicking into life caused Atlas's pulse to jump sharply. He reached for the device and for a foolish moment thought perhaps he'd hear Jack's voice on the other side. But even if the kid had been there – he never was much of a talker. What came through the radio instead was not Lamb's self-assertive clipped tone, but instead yet another voice he recognized but had not expected to hear again.

"Th… place us… private playgro… o' one Ava-Marie Tate." The familiar voice came stuttering through the static as the radio struggled to pick up the correct frequency.

Atlas carefully looked over the little box of a thing, sturdy enough to survive his temper if he decided to toss it as he had on occasion. Most notably when he lost contact with the kid in Cohen's little madhouse.

Now he was gentler, coaxing the radio on the right path until the panama born man's voice came through clearly, only the slightest fuzz of static around the edges of his words remaining. "Ava was Rapture's mad queen o' the silver screen. Propaganda, picture shows, cartoons...even Andy Ryan went to that crazy canuck when his public image needed a little spit-shine."

That was undeniably Augustus Sinclair's charming drawl. Atlas had thought he died long before this – hadn't heard so much as a whisper about him since this section of Rapture had been shut off to them. But evidentially he had survived the isolation and now spoke to someone through the raido. Atlas knew he was not the intended audience, entering the conversation late and without the other party's knowledge.

"Woman had an antique carousel smuggled down here from her home town... just to tell the world that 'nobody says no to Ava." Atlas scowled at the thought but despite his distaste for those rich enough and obtuse enough to waste such time and money on displays of power – there was an undeniable curl of satisfaction in his gut knowing it had been snuck in right under Ryan's nose.

Atlas distantly thought of how it would be smuggled down, mind idly mapping out the process of getting something so ridiculous down unnoticed. He knew just the smuggler that could pull it off.

That thought ended there as Sinclair went on. "But the parties…" Sinclair's voice paused, replaced with a sharp whistle that could have been admiration just as soon as it was driven by mockery. "...stuff o' legend, kid. Ava's annual masked ball…Let's just say she made the guests sign a waiver." As August finished with a quiet chuckle that definitely came across as unabashed Atlas was hit with the distinct feeling of nostalgia tugging at his chest.

He recognized this. This explanation coming over the radio – Sinclair was guiding someone.

That nostalgia stung, he'd not expected that. To think back to when it had been his turn, talking Jack through hell as best he could. Atlas never thought something so simple, and so tainted with loss and remorse, could be a moment in time he missed. At least he knew where the kid was, knew that he wasn't entirely alone in the upward struggle to Ryan's lair – his revolution long since falling apart and his men picked off. Jack was the last long shot he had. Now he didn't know what had become of the boy and stood there listening with a small pang of resentment towards Sinclair who was currently pulling someone else through with a radio and some kindly placed words.

That little sense of resentment becoming all out loathing in the blink of an eye – a mood shift that felt too aggressive.

He and Sinclair had done business in the past and while the man had a silver tongue and not much in the way of morals – it had been a fairly productive and amicable relationship. So why now did he feel such a seething, all consuming hatred towards the man? Surely it wasn't bred purely from his jealousy.

Those thoughts were set on the back burner as Atlas listened a bit closer, catching Sinclair's voice again. Directions this time. "Well, chief — I'm glad you've arrived. We're up here in the train station, and it's locked down like all the others. And boy, it looks like this place was underwater for quite some time." A pause, slight hesitance this time. "However, ah...we heard music upstairs. Somebody's alive in here now...See if you can find out who. "

So much like how he guided Jack.

And Atlas followed the directions not meant for him.

Sinclair – wretched a bastard as he might be – was the first sane voice he'd heard in lord knows how long and whomever he was talking to must have shared in that sanity to some degree. Perhaps they could do business once again. He didn't mind dropping the amicable part if it got results.

Upstairs, the train station. He need only follow those directions and he'd find them.

But when had lady-luck ever decided to shine upon him?

Atlas had walked no more than fifty meters, rounding a corner and stepping gingerly over the corpse of one of those metal behemoths when up above there was a sudden and violent burst of that familiar red. The houdini splicer cracked back into being, body coiled tight in a fighting stance with fire already dancing in it's palm, screaming obscenities as it prepared to toss the shaped inferno.

Bracing for the impact Atlas realised only a second later that it was not he the attack was aimed for. The splicers back actually turned to him, as it twisted following another target and it was only then that Atlas took notice of how the ground shook just slightly.

He'd not identified the small tremor as a big daddy's gait simply because it was not heavy enough, not enough to match even that of a Rosie. He'd grown used to judging a safe distance and with footfalls that gentle he'd barely even noticed – gentle by a daddy's standards. But it was undeniably the same harsh boots that pounded against the ground making it clear that the target was not human at all.

Had the splicer found a little sister and deemed its protector fragile enough a target? The fucking lunatic was more out of its own head than most other splicers if it thought it could bring one of those metal giants down all on its lonesome. Atlas did not want to get tied up in this, a splicer and daddy's scuffle was none of his damn concern – better he left them to duke it out and see who came out on top.

He was a man who only took weighted bets and he put his money on the big guy for this one.

Another glance at the splicer's spine and Atlas saw it whirling to chase after the target's figure and used that as a means to choose his own path, the opposite direction. From up there on its platform of debris the splicer had a better vantage point but about all the sense to use it as a rabid mutt. All he needed to do was duck around, stick to the other side of the room and keep an eye out for the flash of a drill or launched trap.

But those footsteps were too light for a bouncer, even for a rosie. Briefly the unusual gait of the daddy that had chased him around in Alex's little madhouse flew into his mind. He was not a massive fan of unpredictable things. Atlas liked to know what the stakes were before taking chances – he liked well plotted schemes. Failsafes in place, escapes mapped out, everything he needed to be sure he was safe. An unknown threat could throw a wrench into all of that.

Of course, it seemed plenty was unknown to him at the moment. He didn't have the luxury of sitting down to puzzle it out.

Overhead the spliced up man shrieked some insignificant nonsense at its target and then with the sound of bullets being rapidly fired, the houdini splicer once again snapped out of existence. This plasmid in essence was one of those unpredictable things that Atlas could have done without.

There was only a split second of warning, the gathering of tiny red particles into a steady cloud before the splicer flung itself back into the world – directly in front of Atlas.

He reared back, hand snapping up with the pistol already trained on the bastard's head but it saw him as quickly as he saw it and when Atlas fired the splicer had already moved again. Unable to jump through space again with its plasmid as what passed as a 'cool down' time set in. Atlas hadn't studied houdini splicers up close – didn't fancy doing it now either, but he did store away the knowledge that it did in fact need time to recharge that plasmid. Small bits of information like that could save a life one of these days.

As the splicer jerked aside of what would have been a bullet for its head, its hand came roaring back to life and as the fire licked up its clenched fists Atlas could feel the heat of it pressing along his skin in the small space between them. He felt it touch on the upraised scars littering his body and found they became numb rivers across his flesh; the fire didn't seem to sting them quite so badly. Perhaps the nerves inside were dead. The startling contrast between skin and scar tissue gave Atlas a small shot of adrenaline that fueled directly into aiming again. He had to get this fucker's head off his shoulders before he was set alight.

The second clip unloaded and this time found a mark – just not the one he'd wished for. The bullet tore through the splicer's shoulder where he'd wished to put it through the damn thing's skull. The damage still may have saved his hide regardless as the fire in that hand – seemingly the splicers predominant arm – stuttered and flickered out. Either momentarily unsustainable under the pain that came with being shot or irreparably stolen by the internal damage the bullet caused as it ripped through skin and muscle.

Now if only the fucking thing would take a hint and die already. The splicer, determined as they always were, powered through its injury with little more than a feral snarl and scowl in Atlas's direction. The fire in its other hand glowing brighter as if to make up for the loss of its partner and Atlas tried to take a third shot – ever conscious of how precious little ammo he had to spare.

The time it took to adjust was too long and Atlas knew he'd been hit. It registered in his mind before the pain hit – the knowledge that he had been damage not a reality for the split second between the thought and feeling. It wasn't until the reek of burned skin hit him that the pain caught up with him and Atlas reeled back with a roar of pain, reaching futilely for his charred flesh, sure he could feel it bubbling under the fierceness of the fire that had burned him. The flesh of his fingers pressing into the burnt skin did nothing more than shoot more white hot surges of pain through his arm, there was no easy fix to that pain and foolishly his mind narrowed in on it, tunnel visioning until he was only able to look at his arm, staring at how the flesh glistened a smooth, raw red. The skin had been stripped away and left open to the sharp sting of the filthy Rapture air. But through even that stripped, burning skin – he could still see those vein like scars standing vibrant against his flesh. As though nothing could replace them, even with the flesh stripped from his arm – they persisted, as if they sank down to his very bones. A part of him now.

Above the pounding in his head and the all-consuming aching in his arm, Atlas could hear the splicer howling something. Crazy, pointless and likely some kind of victory. His mind screamed at him, tried to get him to pay attention – shrieked and clawed and pushed at the corners of his mind, trying to get him to stop focusing on the injury to keep himself alive. It wasn't enough and Atlas was taken off his feet, he wasn't sure if it was the splicer's hands that rendered him on the ground, dirty water soaking his already stained clothes, splashing against his fresh wound. The shot of momentary cold not enough to make up for the disgusting that rushed down his spine, knowing how disgusting the water was.

From where he'd hit the ground Atlas could just blearily make out the splicer's fucked mask, vaguely his lip curling in disgust at the thought of where those bunny masks had spawned from. He might have had ears ringing and the burn of bile in the back of his throat, but he knew well enough that the splicer was gloating.

Which was perhaps why when its chest caved outward with a sudden burst of gore, Atlas only sneered in return.

The splicer's body jerked, gaze flicking downward, some type of comprehension on it's distorted face before the drill lodged between his ribs began to spin. Things inside of the splicer's body cracked as bits of flesh tore straight from its body, landing a few centimeters away from Atlas's feet and colouring the water they landed in red. The body jerked, spasming with the last guttural scream the splicer managed – it was a fool for having taken it's eyes of the real enemy and now it was being shredded for that mistake.

Unfortunately as it died, body flung aside like some used up ragdoll without so much as a twitch after landing with a heavy thud against a far wall – it had left Atlas without a meat shield between him and the big daddy. The body discarded there was nothing to separate him from the monster and its drill himself. Suddenly the small swell of spite that had forced the sneer onto his lips turned cold and he imagined how easily his own ribs would cave in once the daddy turned that blind rage onto him.

But in the face of fear Atlas met it with anger, an easier emotion to manipulate and so as his vision cleared from the red haze of pain and he looked up at his would be killer – Atlas snarled at the faceless thing.

With his senses mostly returned, tainted only by the rapid thudding of his heart and the persisting ache of his arm, Atlas took stock of the beast for the split second he had left. He was right – it wasn't either of the two models he knew. Its form smaller, like it had pieces of both a rosie and bouncer's build. A drill, slim form, minimal bulk – for a big daddy at least. As he took it all in, knowing it didn't matter what it was if it intended to kill him all the same, he couldn't help but rearrange his thought process somewhat.

It wasn't that this was some amalgamation of the two usual beasts – they stemmed from this. This was an earlier model. It had to be. Atlas didn't quite how or why he was so certain of it – didn't really matter as it's drill was still spinning and it took a lumbering step towards him.

On instinct Atlas made to scramble back, attempting to find his feet but made the mistake of putting weight on his scorched arm. Pulling a rasping sound of pain through his teeth as he crumpled again, curling around the injury instinctively. He'd worked through worse he was sure, he'd been hurt plenty – he could push through this.

So why wasn't he?

He was Atlas. Atlas had spent his life fighting tooth and nail, a physical man. Imposing, no stranger to pain as he worked for everything he had. He was stronger than this. His character was stronger than this.

And yet he remained on the ground, shivering and likely going into shock as the burns he sustained became the only part of his body he could feel. Wide eyed he looked back at the beast at his heels.

In the tin man's metal gaze Atlas saw his own twisted expression reflected back at him. Teeth pulled back into a snarl that looked more like that of a dog pushed into a corner, snapping and howling in some last ditch effort to warn its would be killer off. All those scars and new found imperfections reflected back to him at the same time. He was going to die not knowing how he'd even managed to live again.

Not knowing what ever happened to Ryan, to Rapture, his end goal. To his kid.

Fine, if his body betrayed him and his life was at it's final moments, Atlas still had it in him to put that anger on in place of a fearful face and shout at the monster. "Well go on then! Have a fuckin' go at it!" He'd not die sniveling and cowering at the boots of a bigger man. He would not.

But then the big daddy stopped.

It stood there, simply staring at him. As much as a faceless creature could appear to stare. Those precious few seconds of pause told Atlas a few key things. First of all…the visor of this creature was not lit up in crimson hues. Nor could he see a brat clinging to its shoulders or skittering around at its feet. Had the splicer provoked it on some suicidal whim without even the possibility of a little sister to tempt it?

Then finally, as though to act as the final nail in the coffin as well as his saving grace. His radio came roaring back to life – in time with a static that seemed to stem from the big daddy's helmet itself.

Wha- "Now would you look at that." Sinclair's amused, disbelieving chortle came through both Atlas's radio and the beast's helmet. "Now this isn't something you see every day. Voice o' the people, in the flesh. Thought you'd been popping out daisies for years now."

This had not been what Atlas had in mind when he thought of reaching out to do business with Sinclair once again.