Despite being given the good news of Ryan's demise, Atlas found himself hard pressed to feel much in the way positivity.
He expected a rush of visceral glee, some sort of fierce satisfaction knowing Ryan finally got what was coming to him. Instead the longer the thought had to sink in and make itself a reality in his mind, the less Atlas seemed to feel.
If he couldn't have a sense of violent delight then could he have at least felt some kind of closure?
Disconcerting was the best word to describe the numbness that gradually came creeping in. Perhaps it was natural to feel a bit of lost motivation after having achieved the one thing that seemed to keep him going, even without the memory of that victory.
A bit of lost motivation seemed perfectly reasonable, but this all consuming sense of purposelessness made him uneasy. Dead and gathering dust, yet Ryan still found a way to make him feel like he was the ghost that no longer had unfinished business to cling to. Fucking bastard.
The conversation with Tenebaum had been decidedly unpleasant although Atlas wasn't sure if he could claim any kind of relief when Sinclair took over the radio again.
Even as the two voices switched over, Atlas had allowed the radio to drop by his side as he passed Delta and took a seat on a piece of Rapture's many rumbling debris. If he took the time to actually focus on what he'd just made into a chair he'd have found it to be one of the park's formerly beautiful statues. He never cared much for respecting art in the first place. At least nothing that came out of Cohen's little museum of self-grandeur.
What had once been art was now a nice place to rest his tired arse.
As Delta listened, presumably anyway, to Sinclair's new set of orders that he placed more like suggestions, Atlas let himself again long for a cigarette as he looked out over the decaying park. He caught Sinclair saying he'd located a new train cart for them. Atlas thought it almost strange that he was so open about where he and the doctor were holed up but didn't give it more than a passing thought.
A new train cart but still that shadow in the security booth. That kept his attention and Atlas looked up towards a large set of barnacle-crusted doors. The door out of Cohen's Collection to the main hub of Dionysus Park and if his memory served that main hub was what would lead to the strain station and the security booth.
That all passed through his mind in a split second and then squarely landed on the final thought of – when is a shadow ever anything good in Rapture? With that thought he slipped his pistol back into his hand. Idle but ready should he need it and he usually did.
The motion was so subtle that Atlas believed no one would have noticed it even had there been any other sets of sane eyes around to watch. But a moment later Delta came lumbering up and despite himself Atlas still jumped. He wasn't used to having someone so large approach him in Rapture without the intentions of crushing him. It took some adjusting. Without breaking his stride, Delta leant down just a bit, still easily towering over Atlas, and again offered his hand. This time he was presenting a pack of bullets to Atlas.
He was just going to have to get used to the new reality of having a big daddy offering to give him bullets rather than shoot him full of them. It was quite the reality shift.
Again he uttered tentative thanks as he took the pack, giving it a quick shake to hear the bullets rattling inside. Easily ten or so knocking around in there. Just how many supplies did Delta have to be able to provide him with ammunition so carelessly.
Seemingly satisfied with his subpar thanks, Delta straightened back up with a firm tip of his helmet that Atlas did not immediately register as a nod. Then stillness. Atlas was waiting for something, some other shoe to drop and only realised after a dumb few seconds passed that Delta was waiting as well.
For him specifically.
"Right." Atlas muttered under his breath, standing back up off of the former artwork he'd been putting to shame. Still getting used to the idea of having someone around, someone on his side again. Hadn't had his boys with him for months now, or he supposed it had actually been years. He certainly didn't look eight years older, though he might have just felt it. Having Delta standing there, expecting him to get up and tag along was just another thing to add to the list of oddities he needed to wrap his head around.
But for now at least, it meant he had someone watching his back and that was a weight off his shoulders. Although he hesitated to fully commit to the idea and did not say he'd do the same for Delta.
Keeping his cards close to his chest and his words to himself, Atlas flicked the barrel of his gun open, replaced the bullets he'd lost to save his own hide and snapped it back shut with a smirk. Always felt better with a well-loaded gun within reach.
The smile was lost relatively quickly as his scorched arm kicked up a fuss. Knowing he'd have to get used to that ache, Atlas rolled his shoulder back, flexing each muscle he could isolate in his arm and then every finger. Letting the sting settle in as he grit his teeth and learned how to work his way through it.
However the small act of self-edification apparently had an adverse effect on Delta. The large metal clad man shifting a bit closer until his presence was pushing into invasive. "It's fine." Atlas snapped unprompted. Delta's slightly dipped head was question enough and even had the daddy had the voice for it, he wouldn't have needed to say anything to practically be screaming his concern.
To prove to Delta, or perhaps himself, Atlas took aim with his gun. Checking that his arm did not shake. It did. Atlas refused to acknowledge it. He could pull the trigger and all else would come with practice.
He didn't need the needle tucked into his bag.
"Lets just go and find your shadow, eh?" Atlas suggested finally, dropping the gun and tossing a glance back over his shoulder towards Delta. Finding the beast's stance to be a little unusual. Disconcerting even. Never did sit right with Atlas to see something so powerful hunched forward like it was something tiny underneath all that machinery.
The reminder of its newest chore seemed to jar Delta from that slump and the big daddy strode past Atlas this time. He held back, watching Delta meander on past with that heavy gait of his. Each step a heavy thud on Rapture's broken floor – but still lighter than the thunderous boom of a bouncer or rosie.
Delta here looked a lot like the mad beast that had chased him on Alex the lunatic's command. Atlas had to wonder if perhaps there were more parts of his memory missing than expected. He'd surely never seen a model like this before. But Delta clearly wasn't the only one for as bizarre as he was, so had Atlas's mind failed him somewhere else?
Rapture was changing. Monsters swimming around the city walls, big daddies he'd never seen before, long dead dictators and lost kids. The city was twisting into shapes he didn't recognize right before his eyes.
Those thoughts were dangerous ones and Atlas would rather not let them fester. There'd be time for self-reflection and questions later – much later. Preferably sometime when the sun was overhead and Rapture –no matter its shape - left far behind him.
Up ahead Delta paused, easy to hear when the behemoth stopped walking, and let out a low rumbling groan. Atlas didn't think before answering, "Yeah, yeah, on my way." He never even considered that wordless groan to mean anything other than 'keep up'. Keeping to his word Atlas fell into step behind Delta. Thinking that he could see the big daddy check on his position every now and then. That seemed reasonable, Delta had little reason to trust him but Atlas still thought it amusing that the machine monster thought him any kind of threat as he was now.
His pride could weep over that at a later date, for now he was rational. His condition was poor, his supplies hastily stolen and given, his baring on the current state of the world unhinged at best. Truly he wasn't any kind of threat to Delta.
It did not so much as pass his mind that maybe Delta was just keeping an eye out for him.
Cohen's Collection was, shockingly, not actually entirely Cohen. Atlas was not much of the sort for art – he wasn't entirely sure if that was an obvious part of his person or not, perhaps sitting on a few more pieces of art would really sell it – but even he knew the differences between art and….well Cohen's art.
Namely that not every piece made him want to roll his eyes till they bounced right out of his head. Cohen was so far up his own ass it was a miracle he had managed to even breathe without coughing up shit. Almost every piece of artwork he made reeked of his own self-importance and perceived grandeur.
"No wonder he and Ryan got along so swimmingly." Atlas remarked to his mute companion as they passed what must have been one of Cohen's works – had his face plastered over top of some model body. Typical. "A bit too deep in one another's pockets to actually be talking about pockets anymore, if you catch my meaning." Atlas leered, an unpleasant smirk on his face as he made the scathing comment but simultaneously tried not to think about his own meaning with every fiber of his being.
Delta's large body swayed slightly to the side as he continued walking, not sparing a glance for the work that had pulled such a comment from Atlas. If anything the giant seemed silently bemused and perhaps even a touch exasperated by the childish observations. Atlas did not wake up here to be judged by a walking toaster.
With an irritable huff Atlas marched past Delta, eager to be out of Cohen's little shrine to delusion only to find himself spotting a few other works that didn't stink of the looney fuck. Why Jack had not just bashed Cohen's brains out when given the chance was still beyond him. The change in scenery was but a small relief in a world gone to hell. But if he didn't have to see anymore of Cohen's ego stroking he'd be glad for it.
Cohen's self serving art works were gradually traded out for smaller names, ones Atlas couldn't recognize purely from lack of care to try and remember and lack of spite to force him to remember. Once upon a time this place had become a safe haven for artists that spoke out against Ryan, it had been Atlas's kind of place and yet he couldn't remember making much of a habit of visiting. Remembering hadn't been his forte in a while of course.
Despite the relief from Cohen, Atlas didn't stop to admire any. Art was a fairly unimportant sort of novelty when the ground you stood on was in the middle of sinking. He head straight to the doors that Delta had been making his way towards. Fully intending on getting to the station and then out of here. Not happy that he had to follow Sinclair's calls but more interested in getting out alive than making his displeasure known.
Except once he reached the doors, he did so alone.
Pausing Atlas realised the heavy footed steps behind him had come to a halt. Confused and suddenly on edge, Atlas's fingers tightened around his gun as he turned to seek out the cause for the delay.
Had he seen Delta hunched and prepared for a fight he wouldn't have been surprised. Hell, even if Delta hadn't been there at all, he'd have been less taken aback than turning to find the metal giant just…standing there. Silent and still with its gaze off Atlas and firmly fixated on the wall by it's side.
Cautiously Atlas stepped back away from the doors, eyes doing a quick sweep of the surrounding area, not a splicer in sight. Nothing seemed to be wrong, so why had Delta stopped?
Did big daddies have malfunctions like that? Did they freeze up like turrets or go on the fritz like the radios could? God have mercy…
"What's the hold up?" He asked, voice a little confrontational.
Delta's helmet shifted, turning slightly in his direction before returning to facing the wall. A response was good but not a comfort nor an answer. So slowly Atlas approached, trying to get a look at what was so bleedingly interesting about this wall.
Nothing. Well, nothing Atlas found any interest in beyond some dull sense of irritation. A painting. It was just a painting. "You stopped for this?" He asked, not expecting an answer. Why did he even bother speaking at this point?
Delta groaned back at him, a soft and low grumble that Atlas couldn't decipher as either dismissive of defensive. He didn't speak whale moans for christ's sake. Still Delta stared forlornly at the painting and despite himself Atlas looked as well. Trying to find what it was that had his big gun so enraptured.
The painting was beautiful he supposed. Recognized the craftsmanship and work that had gone into it. On a purely aesthetic level Atlas acknowledged it was stunning, much like one could recognize beauty in a person and not be leaping at the chance to clamber on under the sheets with them.
If there was anything about this painting that invoked emotion inside of Atlas, beside grinding frustration at the distraction of Delta, it was the subject matter.
A stunning open sky with a dying sun. The sun was bleeding out across the canvas, lighting up the painted sky with colours that just never could have been in reality. Too vibrant, too fantastical to be real life and simultaneously painted in a way that suggested it could be real. Some part of it managed to poke at Atlas's sense of homesickness. It made sense he supposed, painting the world up above in longing.
He could see why works like this one might get under Ryan's skin.
But like all things, Rapture had started to take this with it too. The paint was duller than it must have been upon completion. The only reason it had not completely ruined was the casing. Carefully pressed glass and frame keeping the painted underneath dry after the flooding. The outer wood of the frame had corroded to practically nothing, but it was little more than a cover for the metal case beneath. Someone had been very thorough with the preservation of this artwork and that may have been why it was one of the few still able to be call beautiful.
However, none of this excused Delta's pause.
"So what? That's the end game is it?" Atlas asked, voice just as clipped and callous as always. Made even more so by his biting anger. "To get yourself topside?"
Because wasn't that everyone's end game?
The words were followed by a moment of stillness and Atlas became acutely aware of how much sound Rapture made around them. The drip of leaking walls and groan of pipes as they began to give under the pressure, even the occasional crack as something within the city gave to that pressure. The whole place was decaying around them and making a show of it as it went. But Delta was still. Thinking.
Then finally Delta surprised him.
Those large gloved fingers very delicately traced along the image. Leaving the painted glow of the sun and down to the musty old frame it had been hung in. The frame seemed sturdy up until the moment Delta had taken hold of it with such firm hands.
It cracked when Delta applied pressure and Atlas jumped. A clumsy step back that had him bristling, ready to bite some angry remark should anyone have seen the fumble.
However Delta's eyeless gaze didn't move from the painting for so much as a second. Instead those powerful hands that had so easily crushed the wooden clad metal frame, the feat made no less threatening by the fact the insides of the frame were corroding, turned gentle again. Pushing away the remnants of the bottom of the frame, letting the chips and mangled metal fall away to the ground to become yet another addition to Rapture's growing mess.
The frame pulled away easily enough, leaving only a weaker, smaller wooden framework beneath. Three layers, Atlas was beginning to think this artist was not so much careful with their preservation as they were insane. Well, they had been in good company down here in Rapture at least.
Atlas had not reclaimed the step he'd mistakenly taken back, it didn't even occur to him until Delta's large shoulders pulled back slightly, looking back at him as best he could with the limited flexibility. Beckoning him forward with a little lift of his hands and the painting he now held carefully so as not to damage it as he had the outer frame. Cautiously Atlas crept forward, not sure what he was supposed to be getting from all this.
Looking down at the canvas in Delta's hands, Atlas found himself rather underwhelmed. The artist had marked his work with his name. Standard enough.
The painted name was as beautiful as it was illegible. Artists, bunch of lunatics, always putting aesthetic above practicality. Atlas didn't think he could have made heads or tails of this, barely seemed to be English with the way the letters curved and ran together with no clear shape. Fucking impossible to decipher – but pretty.
He'd been so bogged down in trying to make sense of what the warped letters were supposed to say, that for a moment Atlas failed to understand why they were looking at it to begin with.
Why would Delta show him some dead artist's old penname?
Perhaps Rapture had done more of a number on him than he'd realised, because it took Atlas longer than it should have to recognize Delta's behaviour for what it was. He wasn't looking at the painting because he longed for the sun or the open blue skies it had depicted in a vibrant albeit slightly fantastical style. No. He was looking at the painting because of the artist that made it.
This was sentiment; it was Delta feeling an emotion.
It was mourning.
Slowly Atlas's gaze slipped back up to Delta, as if now of all times the mask might give him something to go off of. As if suddenly there'd be expression and emotion printed across the murky glass. But as always there was nothing.
It put all the weight of trying to understand onto Atlas and hadn't he already had enough weight on his shoulders? Emotion had never been his forte, even before Rapture had pulled all softness from him he'd never been the best at it. In days gone by he'd have been able to push it off to someone else, brush off emotion with a careless smile and offer of a drink or just turn the other way.
There was nowhere to turn now and he had to meet Delta's emotions head on. That or risk pushing away the only person he had on his side.
"Friend of yours…?" He ventured finally. Voice caught between sympathy, uncertainty and some deeply life weary feeling. As though he were moments away from chiding Delta from caring at all in the first place. Everyone was dead. What point was there in stopping to stare at their remains?
Atlas did not let himself think about the submarine.
Delta had no means to answer properly and so slowly turned his head back, staring down at the painting and the delicately printed letters he glided his thumb over. Silent.
The quiet allowed Rapture to come leaking in again. The drip of water, the crumbling of collapsing art and the crack of straining glass.
The silence was too loud and so Atlas broke it.
"This ain't no place to mourn lost friends." The words remained harsh and Atlas knew he should have softened the words. But he was driven by anger. Hot and seething as it boiled under his skin, pushing him away from Delta and the painting of some lost person he mad known.
He managed to get no more that five steps away from the memento that must have meant something to the man Delta had once been before stopping. Hands clenched by his sides and teeth grit. They had no time for reminiscing, Sinclair would have barked just as much had he been speaking in that moment, they had no time for emotions to get in the way of survival.
Around him Atlas continued to drip, creak and crack. It felt oppressive, knowing the city was closing in around them and would soon swallow them whole. Rapture had taken almost everything already, now it came to snatch up what little was left as it sank. There was no time for friends or regrets or mourning.
And yet Atlas had still stopped.
The thought that the man Delta had once been had found the ghost of someone they knew hit a little too close to home for Atlas although he tried not to let it hit at all.
It was strange to think about it, but there was still that man in there wasn't there?
Atlas looked at Delta, peered back at him like he might somehow be able to see through all that metal and ADAM to find the man he'd once been inside. Some poor sod ripped apart and stitched back together to Ryan's liking to produce more ADAM. The whole cycle focused on the blasted stuff.
But Delta was a different sort of beast to the others wasn't he? There was still a thinking man in there. How much of that man was left Atlas couldn't say, but surely it was more than the soullessness of the others.
Despite himself, or perhaps purely to spite himself, Atlas's mind threw up the moments Delta had knelt before him. Hands out to break his fall or to offer medical assistance and supplies. Yeah. It was a thinking man in there and likely one still somehow kinder than he managed to be.
Scowling vicious holes into the damp floor under his filth crusted boots. Atlas cursed himself. Cursed himself, then Ryan, then Rapture, then himself again just for good measure before finally turning on Delta, as though he were the one that deserved to be cursed. "Bring the bleeding thing over here, will ya?" He demanded, making a sharp gesture with his hands for Delta to bring himself and the painting over.
Delta jolted, going from stock still to animated in record time. Like a child the massive man approached him, holding the mostly broken painting over to Atlas like he was afraid Atlas meant to scold him for something. His short tone might have given that impression, but it wasn't Delta that Atlas wanted to growl at. He waited, impatient, until Delta brought the painting over and tentatively held it out to him.
Taking it from Delta was easy, but the man was less passive when Atlas cracked the frame over his knee.
The sound Delta made was close to a shout, something angry and distressed as it came out of the big daddy suit in a loud bellow. The sound caused Atlas to properly jump that time, taking a good four steps back as Delta lifted his drill a few too many inches up, anymore and Atlas was sure it would start to spin.
His heart was racing, a cold sweat breaking out across his body. He never stopped being aware of how easily Delta could crush his skull should the desire arise. To the effect of not being skewered on that drill, Atlas hastily rouse his hand in a gesture of pacification. "Easy, big guy." He urged, voice becoming cautious and soft. Talking down a man with a gun. "Easy…just needed to get the framework out of the way." He assured.
When the drill did not immediately power up, Atlas continued. Slower this time. Letting Delta see each action. He was more careful this time, realising how costly his usual insensitive attitude could be when handling something Delta showed care for. Cautiously Atlas pulled away the remains of the frame, being sure not to tear the canvas underneath. Just as well it was soft and malleable or Atlas never would have even considered doing this.
Once the artwork was free of its constraints, Atlas held it up to Delta again, just to prove he'd done no more harm. "Not bad, eh?" He ventured, trying to gauge how angry the big daddy was. Impassive. Well it was better than furious.
Going on Atlas began to roll the material up. Taking the most care with the area that had the artist's name – or he assumed it was a name, hard to tell what the elegant squiggle was supposed to be. Then once it was tightly rolled and Atlas was satisfied he'd kept the smudging predominantly to the underside of the canvas, he dropped his bag to the floor and took a knee by it. Looking around inside while remaining highly aware of Delta's gaze on him.
What he wouldn't have given for an elastic band right then. Instead he had no choice but to use string. The string was barely long enough to even loop around the rolled up painting. It looked like it had been torn from the lining of the bag, some feeble, pathetic bit of string, but when wrapped around the painting twice and tied correctly, it held and it would have to do.
Satisfied and with no small amount of pride, Atlas presented the finished product to Delta. "Well?" Atlas demanded, a smirk plastered on his face. "Feel like a right dick for growling at me, yeah?" While he crowed on about his smug superiority, Atlas missed the wall Delta's broad shoulders sank. A sigh if ever a big daddy could.
The former revolutionary was mid boast when Delta reached out and ruffled his hair. The rough drag of coarse gloves through his hair shut Atlas up right fast, the Irishman sputtered and reached up to grab at Delta's hand, only realizing once he had what it was the beast was doing. Shocked into stillness Atlas blinked blindly down at the ground, one hand limply hanging onto Delta's wrist and the other still holding his good word.
Delta was unruffled by his response and only finished properly messing his hair up, only to make some halfhearted effort to smooth it back down right. Then Delta took the bound painting from Atlas, pausing to stare down at the fragile piece of parchment. He treated it carefully, held the artwork with the same care he would have afforded to Atlas or the girls.
They all had fragments of the past in their heads, but this was a physical fragment and apparently to Delta it meant a world more than Atlas could begin to guess.
After a second spent simply holding the painting, Delta then took Atlas's bag into hand. Immediately Atlas moved to protest, that was his! But he bit down the immediate angry response, knowing Delta's slow deliberate motions were not ones intended to snatch what little he had. Instead he watched as Delta found a spot he thought was safest inside of Atlas's bag and placed the painting.
Both knew it would likely not survive through rapture, its chances of survival even more dismal than their own – but still Delta took that chance and left it in Atlas's care.
The bag offered back, Delta turned away and began to walk towards the booth they'd initially set out for.
Atlas stood there a moment longer. The bag strap in his hand seemed a bit heavier than before, more so than it should have with only a scrap of paper added to its contents. Still he stayed there, staring down at the worn bag and wondered if it was worth having done what he did.
It wasn't going to make skin and blood of ghosts.
This time when Delta groaned back at him, Atlas didn't answer but turned to follow all the same. Keep up, Delta meant and Atlas followed with only a growl of irritation as he tried to fix the mess Delta had made of his hair. The call was somehow a mercy, a little lifeline for where his thoughts might have gone if left unchecked.
Suddenly doing chores for Sinclair didn't seem so bad.