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trash mod ([personal profile] trash_mod) wrote in [community profile] biotrash2014-03-19 04:11 pm


Stars, hide your fires;
Let not light see my black and deep desires

- bioshock trash crew proverb




Spoilery comments to this post will be deleted, and their authors vanished in the night to volunteer in our city's fine Protector Program.

Thank you for your attention. Have a nice day!

Welcome to the Bioshock kink meme.

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the proud can feel: part two

(Anonymous) 2014-03-29 10:13 pm (UTC)(link)
{{sorry for the wait!}}

“Uh, Boyo, if you don’t mind me mentionin’ – Arcadia is that way.”

Jack said nothing and continued steering them both through the Medical Pavilion. In his silence was his depriving sentence: they weren’t yet going to Arcadia. Apparently, the boy would rather be trapped in this hellhole for a wee bit longer while Atlas dealt with his burning scar. “We haven’t got time to be actin’ the maggot, boyo! Take me back to Arcadia, would you k-” He seized at a sudden fluctuation of his injury and felt impatience and fury like heavy chains clashing in his head.

“I will do whatever you want,” Jack stared at Atlas openly as they made their way over the precipice of Dandy Dental. “But let me do this for you first. If you don’t take the time to…” He trailed off, troubled. His features, however broad and statue-like, were strikingly human against their blood-stained and lightless backdrop. His sigh was like wind whispering through stone. “I don’t want you to lose yourself. This place has done a lot of damage. But I’ve learned that you can fight it…”

Jack did not continue. Atlas tried to keep himself from dwelling on Jack’s voice as he and Jack hauled his wounded body down the hallways.

He brought them to the wretchedly doctrinal Twilight Fields Funeral Homes. It boasted all the lewd lighting of a confession booth and was attentively perfumed with the scent of sour metal and the stewing, sorry wallies that had been whistled down the wind. It was all Atlas could do not to roll his eyes at their destination.

Jack slid him onto a cushion in the lobby then waded through the debris of the abandoned atrium and out of sight. Atlas waited, tensing, clutching his burning stomach.

When Jack returned, he was towing a large, open casket with a small child’s coffin inside. Atlas could only jeer internally at the thought of some stiff being thrown out of the last decency of a coffin. Rigor mortis had been the sorry clown’s last and indifferent caretaker, posing the arms and legs as if for a tacky laugh in a revelation of life’s big prank. It would rot alone on the hard floor, where it would spend the rest of its eternal sentence given to it by the misguided sentimentality of Jack. Atlas strangled his laughter into a convincing sob.

Inside the small coffin was a stuffed bear. The thing was a color that might have once been a domineering golden hue, like a naive imitation of the colossal and malicious bear figure Fontaine had erected sentinel in his apartment. Now, it had been stripped to a hideous and sickly naked-yellow.

Jack placed a hand on Atlas’s bare shoulder, igniting him from the deep thought he had apparently let himself reduce to as he had stared at the bear. “We can bring these to the Crematorium.” Jack suggested empathetically. The benevolence in Jack felt bizarre, unexpected, and unwelcome – Atlas coldly wondered if this was how he had acted while he had been asleep topside, mechanically performing the movements of each day like the mockery of a man that he was. He knew Jack had no true memories or experiences to contrive this ceremony of mourning from; Jack didn’t even have any fake memories of any kind of loss. There was only the exception of being awakened, of being brought to Rapture; one might consider that to be a loss if the whole ‘ignorance is bliss’ idiom wasn’t complete bunk only told by idiots to susceptible children.

Once again, Atlas found himself helplessly blinking away from those eyes. “Aye, lad.” He presented a melancholy sigh of recognition. He would continue entertaining the charade—there would be a reward in it for Atlas, whose divine pleasure it was to create deception and to witness his audience believe it lock, stock, and barrel.

They hauled the caskets to the Crematorium. The golden light of fire flickered just behind the grate of its prison, flashing in Jack’s eyes as he led Atlas down the hollow corridor.

Malodorous, pensive silence had been Atlas’s verdict for so long that he only noticed it once Jack broke through it. “Would you like to say something?” They stood beside each other, looking over the coffins placed on the tray that would relinquish them into the fire. A bleak smell emanated from the furnace.

Atlas reminded himself that the most arduous cons were the most rewarding.

“Not sure what I could possibly say to them… To make up for…”

Jack seemed thoughtful as he responded. “Say something about your memories with them. In this place… Isn’t that all that we have?”

Atlas had a question for Jack in response: Doesn’t that mean you have nothing, you contrived anathema? Jack managed some strange words for a monster so bereft. How desperate the primitive mind truly was to commit to such a baseless philosophy.

As divinely ironic as the sentiment was, Jack had put Atlas in an unenviable position. Conspiratorially, Atlas eased into bloated memories.

“I never told you much about me Moira, did I? Didn’t get the chance…”

“No. Tell me about her. You have a chance.”

“Where to start?” Atlas sighed bitterly. “She was a tough dolly, that Moira. The prettiest one, too. She loved to dance and dance… and she’d drink like there was no tomorrow and be none the worse for it.” He had these stories lined up.

His eyes were drawn to the smaller coffin. Inside, the stuffed bear lay inanimate and hollow. A tear in its stomach revealed the bereft, withered stuffing, which had rotted to dust long ago.

“And Patrick… He was just a nip. Be the livin’ Jesus, he was as curious as could be. Had to raise me hand to him more than a few times…” That’s what fathers do, he recalled. Then there was the inevitable reaction of a know-nothing brat, kneeling on the cold, vulnerable concrete of a stoop as he watched his father walk away for the last time, his gangling arm weak from struggling, his wrist rubbed raw from a grip he could not break, his palm still smarting from the lit end of a cigarette. Atlas burned with the untouched memory as his mind began to abhorrently crack, a screeching growing in his head like epileptic, rusted chains. “And he would whine like the cotton-mouthed, ignorant little shit that he was…” Jack’s brow furrowed, obviously confused. Atlas realized what had happened while he had been staring into the decay of the stuffed bear—he had been overwhelmed by a bitterly forbidden nostalgia and his voice had dropped into a slow Bronx undulation.

The fear in his burn tore and pecked at him. His head felt heavy and shackled. He searched spitefully for something to add. He remembered his Dublin accent, his voice reaching a strangled pitch.

“…Moira was a great mum. Cared for Patrick dearly. It offers just the smallest bit of comfort that they were allowed to stay together. Nothin’ could tear ‘em apart…” Atlas’s face relished the obscuring shadows between the flickering of the furnace. “Until Ryan.” He found comfort in the familiar tickle of revenge on his tongue.

The funeral seemed excuse enough for Jack to ignore Atlas’s break in character.

“She loved you.”

“What?” Atlas almost lost his fake accent again in his surprise.

“She loved you. She must have. She’d follow you anywhere…” Even here, he meant.

“Yes…” Atlas hesitated darkly. “That she would ‘ve…” He narrowed his eyes, thinking for only the briefest moment of the mother he never met. “If she hadn’t been taken away from me. She would have loved me like no one else has. But he…” He shut himself off, understanding that he wasn’t referring to Andrew Ryan, but the only figure he had ever deigned to remember from his past – the man who had brought him into this world and had just as quickly forgotten him. The pain in his stomach and the flashing of the fire must have been getting to him. He wiped his forehead carefully, chancing a sideways glance at Jack.

Jack was staring directly at him. Atlas’s eyes flickered down Jack’s front. His unknowing, innocent, naïve, available, man’s body. It was a lovely distraction from the two imaginary corpses in front of him, and a compulsion that Atlas had often reverted to when doubt hooked its manacles about him.

Jack seemed to think that Atlas was feeling weak. He reached for Atlas and wrapped his fingers gently around his arm. Atlas looked down at the contact. The chain on Jack’s wrist was broken by the light of the flame reflecting off his skin.

When he looked back up, Jack was staring into the fire. He was visibly lamenting over a loss. Atlas’s godlike crime was to put into this boy the art of feeling. He gave him the ability to relish emotion. It riddled Jack’s illuminated eyes with watery humanity. Atlas had presented Jack with something so real with which to attach himself, the myth of Atlas’s family, like a child believing in Santa Claus. He had never had anything but loneliness, and yet now he was allowed to feel the human experience of losing an ultimate ideal he never even had. Atlas could taste the surge of power like iron on his tongue just from the thought of it. He felt the thick human artery of controlled blood in his fist and up through an invigorating shaft in his center.

Atlas felt a renewed belligerence toward the stinking nostalgia that beat at his barred doors so profusely for the first time since he was a kid; what this experiment of a man was doing to him, so unwittingly, was proving to be one enormous, rifting contradiction. He was reinvigorated as he imagined the prospect of distraction: obligations that were often concerned with fabrications and sex. He grabbed Jack by the wrist and relished the feeling of the raised flesh of his chain and of his breakable skin. Jack faced him with a reticent question, his eyes now bled out of all fire, leaving only their wide, avian shape in resuscitating darkness; and Atlas accepted it all with a nod.

Jack understood. Together, the two men pushed the coffins into the blazing recompense of the furnace, shutting away the flickering light and leaving out the open darkness. The smell of burning plastic in what was left of that stuffed bear was almost instant. Its bitter remnants were dissolved, or at least reduced to wafts of faded ash.

“Now get us the hell out of here, boyo.”

This time, he wouldn’t have to use ‘would you kindly’.

Re: the proud can feel: part two

(Anonymous) 2014-03-30 05:08 am (UTC)(link)
i'm cry. this is so good

Re: the proud can feel: part two (author anon)

(Anonymous) 2014-03-30 07:37 am (UTC)(link)
I forgot to indicate this is also TBC!

Re: the proud can feel: part two (author anon)

(Anonymous) 2014-04-03 07:06 pm (UTC)(link)
*SCREAMS* Yay! :3 I'm so excited! I love your characterization, and your prose is magnificent!