WORK for me... or DIE with Atlas

Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead

May it be our finest year.

Photo by @vampirouette

Jack was ready for this to be over. It was time to do what he had come to do. He could sort out his mixed feelings of Andrew Ryan and of Rapture and of himself later, when he wasn’t itching with the need to complete this task. Once he was back on the surface, then he could contemplate and regret what he was about to do.

There was something sharp and pricking in Ryan’s words, like a little burr that caught at Jack’s mind and refused to be dislodged. But it wasn’t in the words, exactly– that was the wrong way to put it. It wasn’t anything Ryan had said (or maybe it was, Jack couldn’t tell) but was instead just something that seemed to have come with the fact that Jack was finally ready to go through with this murder. It was a little prickle in the back of his thoughts that seemed to remind him that he might not really want this, that if he had really wanted to kill Ryan he would have done so already.

He was fairly certain he understood, now, all that he had seen in that room. He was fairly certain that he had understood it all as soon as he had gotten there. He didn’t want to think about it, but he didn’t need to think about it to understand.

“You can stop me, just–” His tongue felt sticky, as though all the cruel words he had wanted to say before about Ryan and his paradise had dried up in his mouth. “Why won’t you stop me?”

Ryan didn’t answer for a moment, he just rolled his fingers along the handle of the golf club. The leather handle stuck to his palm, and there was something unreal about the sensation. Possibly the knowledge that this was the world and, unless he was dearly mistaken, he was about to leave it. The weight of the club it.. grounded him, in some ways. This was real. 

“Why should I stop you,” he asked slowly, his eyes darting up to meet Jack’s. It was a more difficult motion than he expected, looking him in the face. He’d known--- well, he’d known a lot, for a while now, but it was one thing to see a face on the security feed, and another thing entirely to look him in the eye. 

“I’ve made my choice, and you’ve made yours.” Havent you? He didn’t say. His look was hard, as if daring Jack to contradict him. To acknowledge that he had no power here. 

He had been ready for so long, ready to kill Jack. And now that the boy was in front of him, he wasn’t even sure he was ready to die. For the first time, he felt the icy touch of fear. He should just say the words, make Jack do it, and get it over with. A muscle twitched near his eye. 

“I’m sure you have good reason to kill me, don’t you, Jack?” It was a question. He wanted Jack to think about it, to try to unpack this before-- damn, he was going to do it, wasn’t he? If the boy couldn’t resist his master then-- well, he was weak, and this wasn’t a world either of them deserved to live in. If he could understand that the command was coming-- from his father-- maybe-- maybe there was a chance. Ryan’s mind was strong, he could only hope Jack had inherited that, at least.

“The hor d’oeuvres.” She smiled as she smoothed out any wrinkles in her dress while she sat. “Gives me lots of ideas for dinners and such.”

While going on a run seemed to be more worth her time, she couldn’t help but enjoy cooking. Years stuck with those monsters, forced to eat their gruel then clean it up. Ellie found doing things herself to be so rewarding and liberating.

All this time she could do it, there was just never a chance to.

“And yourself? Anything interesting happen lately?” She wondered, unlike him, genuinely.

“The food,” he repeated, surprised. Most women he knew would have mentioned the dresses, or the music. The company, if they were.. trying. But this one shared his attention to detail, it seemed. He wasn’t overly familiar with her job title, but he had to assume it had something to do with her business. His eyes grazed over her, not admiring so much as calculating. 

“Interesting,” he scoffed, again echoing her. “It depends on what you mean by interesting. Ro--” he caught himself. Everything he said here bore the chance of being repeated later. “Certain parties have been making progress.. slower than I would like. I’ll deal with it, but I would prefer we conduct ourselves like businessmen, not--” again, something he’d prefer wasn’t repeated. 

Jack frowned, brow furrowing faintly. He didn’t think Ryan’s death would change things, not really. Jack didn’t know what to think about Atlas, anymore, but he had well-founded doubts that the man would live up to the reputation of that idealized hero whose image was plastered over all those posters. Rapture didn’t have a savior, or a liberator, or a leader– all it had was its own ruin.

Still.

It wasn’t as though Jack had much of a choice either way.

“You could have changed things, maybe. You could still try–” If things were different. But perhaps it was better to just end this all now.

“Ah, the assassin now moves to tell me how to save myself.” His voice was tired, pure grit and gravel from so many months of isolation and cigarettes. “Do you play chess against yourself, I wonder, or is your resolve weakening? Everyone always was amazed to find that I was only a man.” There was bitterness in his words, liberally coating every consonant as it was spat through his lips. He had once been untouchable, a god. Now he was a different sort of legend-- a monster. 

When he was dead, he would be neither. He would be forgotten, entombed in the paradise he had built. 

“Can you blame me for feeling disillusioned?” he asked softly. “I don’t blame you.. Jack.” The last word was quiet, so quiet as to go unnoticed unless-- unless there was a part of the boy that knew. 

“Then you won’t mind my company. I’m not one for dancing.” She said, taking a seat at the other side of the table. “Certainly is a nice party though. Ms. Hale thought I’d like this better than working a late shift.”

Ellie thought herself lucky to have a friend like Mallory. Not only did she invite her to outings, but she made sure she had the appropriate attire for them. She might work hard and have money to her name but she had no clue why a velvet dress was better than a cotton one.

“She was right.” She added, leaning back into her seat.

It had been an invitation, of course. He wouldn’t have mentioned that he was alone unless he wanted her to join him, but it was nevertheless interesting how quickly she had responded to it. How easily. “How very kind of her,” he murmured through the cigarette, the paper sticking to his lips. A glance over at her, appraising. 

“So I’m to understand you’ve had an enjoyable evening thus far?” He loathed playing the host, particularly at events that he was not presiding over, but certain smalltalk was unavoidable. “What have you found particularly pleasant?” It was said in a dry tone, one that couldn’t see what one might find pleasant, aside from the decadence of it all. 

Hi Dad. Bye Dad.

(ft. @roberthouse as Andrew Ryan and @vampirouette as his genetic freak kid)

Ayn Rand

╚ Bioshock aesthetics → Andrew Ryan, the bloody king of Rapture.

                   Andrew Ryan offers you nothing but ashes.