MAY 25, 1959 — 11:36 PM

"Watch your step, boyo. Wouldn't do to lose your way down here."

It was more easily said than done. Jack had heard some speak of this place, the slums beneath the tracks, but he'd never known what to imagine when they did. Now that he could see it for himself, he was no longer certain that anything he could have imagined would have been anything close to the truth.

He wasn't so sure that Atlas's warning to hide his face had been necessary after all, as no one they passed seemed interested in looking at either one of them. They huddled together or hurried past on the street, their faces twisted with ADAM and varying looks of grief. A body lay in the street; Jack couldn't be certain whether it was a corpse or simply spliced beyond recognition. He looked upwards to see Express cars suspended in midair, rusted from disuse. Above them was the ocean held back behind arches of steel and glass, just as it was in other parts of the city, but here it somehow seemed far grimmer, far closer, far more of a reminder that at any moment every last soul in this part of Rapture could be swallowed up and forgotten in the sea.

"Good girls gather, gather, gather... Hurry up, Mr. B!"

The voice was faint, sounding from some distance away, but its source was clear, made ever clearer by the loud, low, inhuman groaning that soon followed after it. Jack froze, save to look in its direction. A little girl, her dress in tatters and eyes aglow, merrily made her way down the street while a hulking, heavily-armored tin daddy followed close behind.

"Something the matter, Mr. Ryan?"

He heard Atlas speak, but failed to comprehend. The small gatherer clutched a giant needle as tightly and lovingly as if it were her favorite teddy bear. Perhaps that was all it was in her eyes. Theirs was not a mind into which Jack could find any insight, though he had often supposed he should. What more were they, after all, than creatures of science, twisted away from whatever life they might have had to best suit the necessity and glory of Rapture?

"Jack."

He nearly jumped when he felt Atlas's hand on his shoulder, but the solid weight of it was enough to bring him back to full awareness. He quickly shook his head. "Sorry, I just... I'm just not used to seeing them."

"Don't worry about it," said Atlas, and he glanced in the direction of the gatherer and her guardian without removing his hand. "Makes sense, after all. I can't imagine there bein' a great many bodies for them to harvest in your neck of the woods."

Jack shivered. He wasn't sure if it was due to the truth of what Atlas had just said, or rather the sensation that still lingered from dwelling upon them any longer than he should have.

"Come on, best not to pay the little ghouls any mind." Atlas's grip tightened as he moved to steer Jack in the other direction. "Don't want to be around when those splicers start makin' a scene."

Jack offered no resistance, letting himself be steered away just as he could detect shapes moving in the corners of his eyes, the shapes of people in the shadows beginning to stir. He didn't want to think about what was to come.

"Not far now..."

A low-roofed, pill-shaped building with steel siding and wide glass windows sat dead center in the grimy square ahead, and a flashing neon sign heralded its presence: the Fishbowl Diner. The bright lights reflected easily in the dark, seawater-slick streets, shimmering in waves with each step they took. Jack couldn't help but wonder just how much more of the sea could creep in before somebody did something about it; he wondered if that somebody would have to be himself.

It was in that moment that his earlier inkling of an idea now bloomed into realization. He knew now why Atlas had taken him here. He only wondered what Atlas thought he could accomplish that couldn't be done by approaching his father instead.

A lot, probably. He wasn't sure how to feel about that, but the idea both thrilled him and sat sickly in his gut.

Atlas was headed for the diner, and he held the door open for Jack to pass by before entering himself. The interior was dimly lit, and the only other person present was a woman polishing the counter.

"Sorry, boys, but we're closing up for the night—"

When she looked up to see the both of them, her eyes widened. Jack felt a stab of panic, for he knew that the look on her face was one of sudden recognition.

"Atlas!"

But, to his surprise, he wasn't the one she had recognized. Still, he tucked his face further into his coat and scarf just in case.

The woman abandoned her work at the counter to approach them, hands wringing. To Jack's slight relief, she remained focused entirely on Atlas. "What did you bring this time?"

"I didn't bring anything," Atlas answered, with a firm but gentle tone. "This isn't that kind of visit, love. I'm in need of some privacy."

"Of course—" Without any question or argument, she hurried past them to flip the sign on the door from open to closed, then locked it. "Just let yourself out through the back when you're done," she called back to them as she gathered her things, and then she was gone.

Just Atlas. But this man wasn't really just anything, was he? Jack had given him his trust so easily, which now seemed starkly illogical against his new realization that he really didn't know anything about him.

Atlas palmed a matchbook from the counter, settled into one of the booths against the far wall, and beckoned for Jack to follow. The table was stained and the seats were torn, but Jack sat across from him without hesitation.

"As you might have guessed from all that, I'm a man of some influence in these parts." He paused as he pulled another cigarette out of his pocket, then struck one of the matches to light up. The match head's acrid scent cut through the brine- and oil-thick air like a warm knife through butter. "And other parts, too—anywhere that the people are tired of being used and trodden upon by people like your father."

He couldn't help an instinctive bristle upon hearing his father spoken of in such a way. But with the bristle came a flare of confusion and, perhaps more pressingly, curiosity.

"What do you mean?"

Atlas cocked an eyebrow at him. "Did you even get a look at this place, boyo? People weren't ever meant to live below the train tracks like this, and now there are men like Augustus Sinclair makin' them pay him for the privilege—and Andrew Ryan does what? He lets it happen, of course. Why, he doesn't do just that; he bloody well encourages it."

Jack bristled again, this time at the thought of his father being drawn into this. "What is he supposed to do? People shouldn't have to live like this, I agree with you there, but my father's got nothing to do with it. If he were to try telling Sinclair how to do his business, why...that would go against every principle he has. That would go against the founding principles of Rapture itself."

"Ah, yes—our founding principles." Atlas leaned back in his seat, taking a long drag off his cigarette. "The Great Chain is guided by our hands, aye? But what happens when one man's got a stronger grip on it than anyone else? Will the rest of us be left to hang? Every man should raise himself up and make his own worth, but what happens when none of us are even given the chance?" He leaned back in his seat, flicking ash to the floor before he continued. "People are dying for those principles, Jack. Rapture is dying for them. Ryan can stick to 'em all he likes, but all he'll end up doing is drive his city right into the ground—even more than it already is."

More than it already is. It hadn't occurred to Jack that Rapture was in as poor sorts as Atlas seemed to imply. He'd only been around for a year or so, true, but all that he had seen in that year had indicated nothing but growth and success...hadn't it?

However, I fear that the Rapture you know may only be a small part of what it has grown to be . . .

Maybe Atlas was right. Maybe he was more right about things than Jack wanted to believe.

He shook his head, struggling to remember his father's lessons. "If— If people really wanted... Everybody in Rapture has the same opportunity as anyone else. It's what they do with that opportunity that matters."

"And what if people can't do a damn thing with their so-called opportunity? Assuming that opportunity really is there at all."

He grasped at his memories, only to feel them slip through his fingers like rivulets of water escaping through the cracks of his cupped hands. So many times had he gone over his father's philosophies, so many times had he practiced saying them aloud, but in the face of true resistance, he felt like little more than a child mimicking words without truly comprehending them.

"It's there—it's always been there." Jack swallowed hard. "The opportunity's always been there, since the very first moment they decided to come here. Rapture is their opportunity."

Atlas stared him down, taking another drag off his cigarette without once looking away.

"So what kind of an opportunity was Rapture for you, Jack?"

He froze. His cover story had been put to the test before, but never under quite so much duress as this.

"I... I came down here at my father's invitation." Usually that was enough to put any questions to rest. "He wanted to pass on his legacy to me."

"And that's it? You dropped everything, cut every tie you had on the surface to move to the bottom of the bloody ocean because...why? At the request of a father who'd never been around for you, never so much as acknowledged your existence to the public eye before then?"

Jack felt the cool edge of the table digging into his palm before he realized he had begun to grip it. There was a growing sense of dread in the pit of his stomach, one he had a feeling he could not avoid.

"Why wouldn't I? Rapture was..." He looked away, finding it oddly easier to focus on the napkin dispenser than continuing eye contact even a moment longer. "The way he made it sound, it was a paradise of free will. He had built this great city all on his own, and he wanted me to be a part of it. I would have been a fool to turn him down."

"Is that right..." Jack couldn't see the look on Atlas's face, but he heard him make a clucking noise with his tongue. "Is it, Jack? Is that what you really believed?"

"Of course it is."

"If that's what you insist, then I'm afraid I'll have to disagree."

Jack looked at Atlas again, feeling his dread sharpen into something like fear.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I don't believe that is what you believed—not ever."

His heart squeezed. "I don't..."

"Do you believe anything else your father ever said—I mean really, truly believe it with your heart and soul?" Atlas paused to lean in close and lower his voice before he continued: "Or do you only believe it because Andrew Ryan built you that way?"

There was a ringing in his head, a high tinny whine above the pounding in his ears. Jack wondered if this was what true panic felt like.

"I don't know what you mean." The words came slowly to him, tumbling from his mouth like heavy weights, but Jack forced them out anyway. He had to maintain his cover above all else; he had to at least try.

"I think you do. At least a little, but I'm willing to bet a lot."

Jacks knuckles were white against the table's edge.

"I don't understand what you're talking about."

Atlas gave a short sigh, then leaned back in his seat again.

"My boys and I, you see, we paid a little visit to Fontaine Futuristics—I guess you'd know it as Ryan Industries now—anyway, it was just a couple of weeks ago that we were there. You might have heard about it." He flicked more ash to the floor, keeping his gaze fixed on Jack again. "Not that we came looking for that sort of thing, but while I was sorting through our souvenirs, I happened to find something very, ah, very interesting...and very pertinent to you, boyo."

This was panic. This was fear. But Jack felt no power to do anything but sit as he was, as though rooted to the spot.

"Who saw it?"

"No one but me, if that puts your mind at ease any." It didn't. "The rest of my men have no interest in secret documents and the like; they were just in it for the ADAM. But me, well... I don't mind a bit of reading, myself."

Jack had thought he knew why Atlas had brought him here, but now he wondered if he hadn't been entirely off the mark. No, he didn't just wonder it—he was certain of it.

"What do you want?"

"I want you to hear me out when I speak to you, boyo. I want you to understand where I'm coming from, if only a little. But most importantly of all..." His voice lowered again. "I want you to know that while I may not believe in your father, not anymore, I do believe in you. I believe that you can be far more than what your father made you to be; I believe that you have the power to become Rapture's salvation."

The words echoed in Jack's mind, shook him to his very core. He might not have had any way of knowing if they were sincere, but there was an earnestness in Atlas's face and tone that he could not disregard.

"Rapture doesn't need salvation."

"If your father carries on the way he has much longer, it certainly will."

Atlas stubbed his cigarette out, then folded his hands together on the table.

"Listen to me, boyo. If things keep on the way they have, sooner or later there'll be a war coming. The people of this city aren't of a mind to have their suffering ignored. Now, I've been doing what I can to ease their pain, to let them know that there is somebody who cares, somebody who does hear their voice, but if nothing changes, before long they'll be crying for blood...and I won't have the power to stop them. Hell, when that time comes, I may not want to stop them."

War. Jack felt no greater confusion than he did at the idea of war coming to Rapture. The city had been built to escape such a thing, he remembered, but could it survive one that sparked from within its walls?

The thought made him feel ill.

"If that time comes, what will you do then? Will you keep on doing whatever your father wills of you, consequences be damned, or will you take action to save this city—to save us all?"

His head swam.

"I don't—"

Atlas held up a hand to cut him off, and Jack complied. "I don't need your answer now, Jack. I didn't come here expecting to change your mind right away. I only wanted to let you know where things stand."

Jack didn't know what to make of that. He didn't know what to make of any of this.

"And, besides that, I wanted you to know that, should you have need of it, you'll most certainly have a friend in me—a friend who believes you can be a man worthy of your own lot in life, beyond whatever mold Ryan intended for you."

A friend. The idea had always been something of a foreign curiosity in Jack's mind, given how much he had always needed to distance himself from others, how little room he was given to compromise his cover for the sake of close relations. Even the people who knew what he really was, Ryan and the scientists—they were no friends to him. But now there was Atlas, a man who not only knew what he was but claimed to believe he could be more than that, who didn't seem willing to use that fact against him...

"How can I trust you?" Jack said quietly, unable to keep a quake from his voice.

"You can trust me because I went to you before anyone else, after finding out what I did." That alone was somewhat convincing, but— "If you don't believe me there, then there's the fact that I've been more honest with you tonight than perhaps your father ever was."

Jack's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that there are things you may not yet know about yourself, Jack—things in those documents that your father would have every reason to keep from you."

He could feel his heart squeeze again. What sort of things could he possibly be talking about?

"Like what?"

Atlas shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't share the details with you, boyo, not tonight. Not until I can trust that you're willing to commit to yourself and not your father—that you're willing to commit to Rapture's future instead of Ryan's tyranny."

Jack was still seated, but he felt like he was reeling. He didn't know what to do. He knew, rationally at least, that there was no concrete proof that Atlas hadn't been bluffing this entire time...but at the same time, how could he be sure that he wasn't telling the truth? His father was a man of many secrets, and Jack had always known this; how could he know how many of those secrets pertained to himself? How could he know Atlas truly didn't have them in his possession?

"I..." He swallowed heavily, and he finally released his grip on the table with trembling hands. "I'll have to think about it."

Atlas nodded. "Of course. Like I said, I didn't come expecting an answer tonight... But there is one thing I do want to give you, to show you that I mean to keep my word."

He reached into his coat pocket, withdrew a beaten leather case—not particularly large, but not small enough that Jack wasn't left wondering how he had managed to keep it in his pockets this whole time—and slid it across the table. Jack took it with some trepidation, and at an encouraging nod from Atlas, carefully tugged down the zipper keeping it shut to peer inside. A soft red glow emanated from within.

"ADAM?"

"It's a plasmid, rather," said Atlas with a slight, almost playful smirk. "You said you weren't an Incinerate man, didn't you? Maybe Electro Bolt will be more your size."

Jack's eyes widened at the sight of it. His father's words echoed in his mind: he had no need to splice himself into something other than what he was already born to be...

But Atlas had already told him he could be more than that. Somebody believed he could be more than that, and that carried more weight than anything else Jack had heard in his entire life.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it, boyo. Just be sure to give this all some consideration, would you kindly?"