JUNE 9, 1959 — 6:39 PM

When Jack came to, it was with the scent of smoke in his nostrils and the feeling of a grated floor pressing into his face.

His head pounded, and the pain from earlier didn't seem to have lessened at all in the time he'd been unconscious; his vision, though no longer dark and starry, was little more than a blurred orange haze. He could vaguely pick out some voices speaking somewhere above him, but the exact words were difficult to make out through the thick fog that still clouded his senses.

". . . alive, goddamnit, not bloody beaten to a pulp!"

Was that Atlas?

The concentration it took him to be sure of that conclusion only made the throbbing in Jack's head intensify. The pain made him groan as he began the unexpectedly laborious process of moving his limbs.

"You shoulda specified—look, see, he's fine, he's waking up!"

"And you're a lucky son of a bitch that he is. Go on, get out of here."

The grating cut into his palms as Jack struggled to push himself upright. The lighting in the room, wherever he was, stung his eyes and caused his headache to spike. He rubbed a hand over his face to try to alleviate some of the pain, even if only by a small amount, but no amount of pressure seemed to help.

"Are you all right there, boyo?"

It took Jack a moment to realize that a hand had been extended in his direction. He took it, though not without some trepidation, and Atlas helped pull him up to his feet.

Atlas. There was no question of it now.

"You have my apologies, Jack." Atlas cast his eyes downward as he shook his head. "Bloody idiots, the lot of them... Never thought they'd go that far just to bring you in."

Though his mind was still in a fog, Jack tried to back away—until his back came up against a rail, stopping him short. He twisted around, realized he and Atlas were suspended on a catwalk, then saw the massive machinery that pumped away mere feet from where they stood, rising through the center of the circular, red-tinged corridor like a particularly gruesome bouquet.

They were in Hephaestus. But they weren't just in Hephaestus; they were at Hephaestus's center of geothermal control, the very heart of Rapture and all the power that flowed throughout it.

The thought of what Atlas could be intending to do in such a place made Jack's head spin. It was very nearly enough to send him reeling over the railing.

"Easy, there." But Atlas's steady hand on his shoulder put a stop to that. "Come on, this is no place for us to talk."

Every instinct in Jack's body urged him to do something different: to run away, to confront Atlas, to ask him what the hell was going on, to throw him over the rail and put a stop to all this. Ultimately, however, he could do little more than nod and allow Atlas to lead him down the catwalk, with that firm hand on his shoulder all the while.

They passed others on the way down, some who merely nodded to Atlas as they passed, and others who looked too busy and too determined to manage even that. It seemed each one had been set to a task, though towards what purpose, Jack had no idea. It wasn't something he wanted to consider.

Eventually they reached a set of enclosed rooms—the workshops, as Jack vaguely recalled from what he had last seen of this place. He remembered there had been people busily at work when he was last here; by the scattered supplies and suspiciously dark stains that spattered the floor, he supposed people had still been at work until some short time ago.

Atlas led him as far back as he could manage, until they reached an emptied office. With a deep sigh, he turned to face Jack and leaned back against a desk, half sitting on its edge and half not.

"This is one hell of a mess for you to be gettin' mixed up in, lad."

Were he of any clearer mind, Jack might have had some kind of retort to that. As things were, however, he was still too shaken and still in far too much pain to do anything other than swallow his nerves and continue trying to gather himself.

Atlas folded his arms over his chest, then looked up to Jack with something that might have been remorse.

"I wouldn't blame you if you can't, but... Believe me when I say that I didn't mean for things to go this far."

Was that supposed to be some kind of joke?

Jack was vaguely aware that the look on his face must have betrayed some amount of the deep confusion Atlas's words had sparked in his mind. That being the case, he supposed he had nothing to lose by voicing it as well.

"I was there," he said quietly, shakily, unsure if his voice could rise even if he tried. "I was at Mercury Suites...when your bombs went off."

One of Atlas's eyebrows quirked upwards just the slightest amount. "Doing what, exactly?"

"Does it matter?" Jack clenched his hand into a quaking fist. "People died—so many people died—they died because of you, and you're telling me that you didn't mean for things to go this far?"

"Now, hold on." Atlas's brow furrowed. "Those people didn't die because of me, you understand? Their deaths weren't so meaningless as that. No, their deaths served the cause—a cause that's greater than you and I alone."

Jack had no idea what Atlas could have meant by that, and it frustrated him more than anything else.

"But that..." He pressed a hand to his head. "Atlas, I don't—I don't understand. Why did you even bother to meet with me that night? When you said that you believed in me, that I could be more than what my father meant for me..."

No matter how hard Jack pressed and pressed, his head still pounded. If Atlas had known what Tenenbaum had just revealed to him hours ago, what would he have said then? If Atlas had known he was never meant to be anything more than a weapon, would he still have said those things?

"If you really meant that, why did this have to happen?!"

"I meant what I said that night, Jack. I still do."

Atlas's voice was quiet now, quiet enough to match Jack's own, but with a steely strength that Jack couldn't quite manage himself.

"The cause transformed them, Jack, and it gave their deaths more meaning than they could have ever achieved in their lives alone." He held Jack's gaze with a fiery stare as his hands dropped to either side, gripping the desk beneath him. "When I met with you that night, it was as a man; when we talked that night, and when we talked in my quarters some days later, it was as men. But this cause has transformed us as well, boyo. It's made us both more than men, whether we like it or not: I, the savior of the people, and you, the symbol of the oppressive oligarchy."

Jack barely knew what he meant by the word oligarchy, but he could guess well enough, and that guess was more than well enough to put a new twist in his gut.

"I told you that these people will cry for blood, and I meant it. They're crying for it even now...and the blood they're crying for is yours."

Somehow, Jack had begun to shake his head without fully realizing it.

"No..."

"But listen to me, Jack." Atlas took a step towards him. "It doesn't have to be like this. I meant what I said, and I still mean it now, because you have more power than the rest of us—more power than me, and more power than your father."

He didn't understand. But somehow Atlas's proximity kept him from feeling any power to give voice to his confusion.

"You have the power to transform yourself even further, Jack, into more than what these people see in you—into more than what your father sees in you."

When Atlas put a hand at his shoulder again, Jack felt a glimmer of nerve, enough for him to speak again.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that you can become a man they'll want to look to and follow, rather than a man they'll want to tear down and destroy." He placed his other hand at Jack's other shoulder, and leaned in close. "As you stand now, Jack, you're Rapture's golden boy, a prince brought down to Rapture by the tyrant Ryan to rule the city in his stead. In the land of no gods or kings, the people simply won't stand for that. But if you were to act as their savior instead—if you, the prodigal son, were to bring them the head of Andrew Ryan... Why, that would make you a hero."

Jack wanted anything, anything but to look Atlas in the eye at that moment. But he could bring himself to do nothing else.

"I know what kind of man you can be, Jack. That's why I'd hate to see you cut down in spite of all your potential."

He didn't know if he could trust Atlas. He didn't know if he could believe in him. But if he couldn't believe in what Atlas was telling him, then what did he have left to believe in at all?

"Do you understand what I'm asking you to do?"

He did. He understood it clearly. But all he could do was nod in reply.

Atlas nodded as well, then stepped back and turned to reach for something on the desk.

"The way to Central Control is blocked by a bloody conga line of automated turrets, too many for the rest of us to get past... But I suspect Ryan will let you on through, once he sees for certain that his only son is alive and well."

When he turned back to face Jack again, it was to press a loaded gun into his hands.

"Now, be sure to take this with you...would you kindly?"

JUNE 2, 1959 — 7:42 PM

When Diane had heard the bounty for Jack Ryan issued some hours earlier, what few doubts she'd already had in Atlas's cause only multiplied in swarms.

She'd managed to force them down before then. When they were dealing with the prize they'd won from Olympus Heights, she'd forgotten every intent she ever had of questioning exactly what Atlas intended with Jack. When they'd taken Arcadia by force, there was no time to wonder what purpose the deaths of innocent bystanders and park strollers would serve them. But hearing the life of Jack Ryan set at the price of 500 ADAM was more than enough to bring her back to her senses, no matter how determined she'd once been to put all thought of him from her mind.

She hadn't waited any longer to ask him once Atlas was finished with his address. She wanted to know exactly what sort of business the two of them had with each other.

"Never you mind that," he'd told her with one of his disarming smiles. "He'll be just fine, if that's what worries you. Remember your duty; I'll call for you when I need you again."

Under other circumstances, those words might have been enough to assuage her. But she remembered the state she'd found Jack in that day, wandering in Apollo Square. She remembered what he'd told her: that Atlas had given him that plasmid, that Atlas had wanted to be his friend—that Atlas was responsible.

She couldn't believe that Atlas truly intended for Jack to come out of this just fine, no matter what he intended for the rest of the city. She didn't know what to believe, but she knew she couldn't believe that.

Regardless, Diane couldn't think of any reasonable protest at the time. So she did as he said and returned to her task: standing guard over their hostage, the captured Dr. Yi Suchong.

The rope that bound his limbs to the hard wooden chair was all that kept him upright at this point; a cloth sack covered his head, just as it did when Atlas had been questioning him. Diane hadn't understood the nature of his interrogation, all pheromones and trigger phrases and other things that made no sense within any context she could think of. She'd thought to ask Atlas when all was said and done, but something told her that the less she knew concerning the intricacies of his operations, the better—or, at least, that Atlas felt as such. So it was in the interest of her own safety that she held her tongue.

It was in the same interest that she refrained from asking Atlas exactly why they continued to hold this man even after he'd gotten what he wanted, why they didn't just turn him loose or execute him once and for all. But now, that didn't seem quite enough.

It didn't seem right to her. Of course, her time in Rapture had long ago distorted all sense of right and wrong in her mind, but what remained of it in her gut told her this wasn't right. It unsettled her at the sight of the fallen in Olympus Heights and Arcadia; it unsettled her at the thought of even one more brutality committed in the name of bringing Rapture to a brighter tomorrow.

More than anything, however, it unsettled her at the thought of Jack Ryan being reduced to just another of Atlas's casualties.

That in itself unsettled her, considering how deeply the man had wounded her himself. But it was a feeling she couldn't shake, no matter how hard she tried.

She stared at Dr. Suchong's slumped figure, listened to his labored breathing, then stared down at the gun in her hand.

Could she do this?

Atlas had left her alone with the man some time ago, to deal with some business in Hephaestus. It would be some time yet before he returned, perhaps time enough for her to sneak Dr. Suchong out from here. But could she bring herself to betray Atlas's trust like that? Could she bring herself to betray the cause like that?

Was the cause worth upholding if it meant the deaths of any more innocents—if it meant the death of Jack Ryan?

Her grip tightened on her gun when she made her decision. She wanted to see Rapture restored to glory just as much as anyone else; she wanted peaceful days to return, for everyone to have a chance at happiness, for things to be even better than they were before, more than anything else in the entire world. But she didn't want to see any more bloodshed to make it happen.

Diane tucked her gun into her belt, then carefully stepped her way to the chair to start undoing the knots that held the doctor in place.

"What... What are you doing?"

She hadn't expected him to still be conscious, but that wasn't something she couldn't take in stride. "Stay quiet," she said after shushing him. "I'm going to get you out of here."

"What— Atlas's bandits suddenly taking mercy on me?"

Not only was he conscious, but he was somehow still able to scoff. Diane frowned, but continued to tug at the knots.

"Just be quiet."

"Give one good reason to believe I am not being taken to my execution."

Her frown deepened into a scowl. "Atlas isn't here."

He coughed out a laugh. "Atlas? Oh, please. Atlas may be one tough son of a bitch, but he is not so frightening. Atlas is nothing compared to—"

His words were cut short when Diane pulled the sack from his head. His face was still a pulpy mess from the interrogation he'd endured, but he managed to squint against the sudden light.

"Come on," she said brusquely, and tried to pull him to his feet.

"Get your hands off me!" he snapped in reply, and swatted her hands away. "I can stand perfectly fine—"

But as soon as he attempted to shift his weight to his feet, he stumbled forward instead and fell to the ground. Feeling more exasperated by the second, but still determined to see this through, Diane quickly knelt beside him to try once again.

"Dr. Suchong, please—"

At that moment, the door hissed and slid open. Atlas stood in the threshold.

Diane didn't know if she'd ever felt this kind of panic before in her life. She snapped to look at Suchong, her mind already fumbling for some manner of explanation, only to see that—despite what he'd said just seconds ago—his eyes were wide with fear.

"You—"

An explosion fired off barely feet away from Diane's ear, and a warm spatter covered her face. By the time the ringing in her ears ceased to overwhelm all her other senses, Suchong lay slumped on the floor, with what remained of his face turned upwards in a glassy, permanently shocked stare.

If her adrenaline hadn't been running so high, her insides might have turned themselves out at the sight. Instead she was left frozen on the floor, shaking as shock and panic and fear flooded her system and overloaded her senses, leaving her barely able to turn her head up to look at Atlas again.

Atlas lowered his gun, heaved a heavy sigh, and looked down with an expression that spoke of nothing but disappointment.

"Diane."

She couldn't bring herself to respond. Atlas sighed again, tucked away his gun, knelt beside her, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket.

"Would you mind explaining to me just what you were thinking?"

He started to wipe the blood from her face as he spoke, and put his other hand at her shoulder with a gentle grip. The cloth felt moist against her skin.

"I..."

How could she? What could she possibly say that wouldn't result in her brains being blown out as well?

"Shh, shh." He dabbed at the corners of her eyes; she hadn't realized she'd been teary, but it wouldn't have surprised her at this point. She felt lightheaded and dizzy with fear. "I'm not angry. Just tell me what happened."

"I..." Diane reached for his wrist, though her grasp was much weaker than his; somehow, she couldn't muster any more strength to hold onto him. "I just wanted... I didn't want anyone else to die."

"Oh, Diane." His face melted into a more sympathetic look. "That's terribly noble of you, admirably so. But this is war. We've no hope of making our dreams a reality if we're not willing to make sacrifices to get there."

"But..." She tried to shake her head, but the action only made her dizzier. "But I don't want... I don't want Jack to have to die."

"Jack?" His brow furrowed. "Is that what this is about?"

She'd tipped her hand without meaning to. What was happening to her?

Atlas clucked his tongue. "I'm terribly sorry, my dear... But where Jackie boy is concerned, I'm afraid you don't have any say."

In an instant, his gentle hand became a vise grip at the back of her neck as he pressed the handkerchief over her nose and mouth. Diane tried to scream, but no sound would come from her throat; she tried to claw at his arm, to get herself away, but her limbs were already too weak. Her vision began to fade, and in her last panicked moments of consciousness, she fully realized it wasn't her fear that had made her so dizzy.