Thanks for the follow! I will make a starter for you two when I can, but I’ll likely be away during Eve and Christmas. I’m also a busy dude in general, so if I end up taking a long time for either of you, it’s nothing personal. If either of you want to a make a starter for me, that’s cool, too. Just let me know if you’re doing that so I don’t think of a starter for you when you’re making one for me!
Happy Holidays and a Happy New Year’s to all of you guys!]
Sullivan had warned him more then once about the intelligence of this idea, or rather the lack of it. But he was confident that he would be fine, the weight of a pistol tucked into his waistband underneath his blazer and if all else failed he could send the splicers after the other man.
It was his pride leading him here, Andrew was well aware of that, but it did not stop him from doing so. The pistol was his concession to his Head of Security. Well that, and his men stationed about him should this go south. Still, he preferred his fights verbal to physical and he was interested to see what this— Atlas had to say to his face. The man was brave when he was hiding behind his rabble, but what sort of face would he show without them?
(If he noticed the hypocrisy of his thought he ignored it.)
Despite not knowing how this will turn out, there is a feeling of triumph at the unease in Atlas and his men. Even if there was a nagging sense of familiarity that he brushed off because of those damn posters that sprung up as fast as he could have them torn down.
"That’s a rather hostile welcome" he said almost pleasantly, setting down the empty shot glass he’d been inspecting. Andrew was in no mood to try what passed for alcohol down here, or stupid enough to impair his judgement by consuming some. "And after I took time out of my busy schedule" he added, pulling his silver cigarette case out of his pocket, setting one between his lips. However he pulled out of a book of matches rather then the use of a plasmid, shaking the match out with a quick jerk of his wrist after the cigarette was lit.
Just looking at that face and Atlas thinks he knows the malicious intent of Andrew Ryan: he wants to get the better of him, overstep him in front of all his people, lower their morale and weaken them from the root. Andrew Ryan with his rich suit looking at all of them, maybe seeing something dirty and thief-like in every man, woman and child. Something tacky and low.
No, he shouldn’t take out his gun and shoot Ryan here. It’ll be a warzone. Little kids—babies—are here. A man in the back lunges forward with a feral look but everyone shoves him back.
This must be a game to him.
The music resumed to its leisurely pace, but the repetition served as an appropriate stutter in a tensing atmosphere. Everyone was listening, and he knew it.
Answering the question easily, Booker offered a straight, “no.” He lowered his glass then, throat stinging with the pleasant burn of alcohol. “I’ve been here long enough, but before you, things have been quiet. Nothing worth knowing about. Then word of an Atlas starts spreading—” His words grow faint, frantic shouts beginning to bubble behind them. Something was brewing… “—and suddenly the whole place is up in a buzz. I’m not new to Rapture, no, but you’re new to me.” Suddenly, a man came rushing in, bloody and horribly beaten. Booker raised a brow in mild interest. “And how I see it, that’s all that matters.”
People start chattering among themselves, louder than usual. Atlas ignores it at first.
“I’ve been here long enough, but before you, things have been quiet. Nothing worth knowing about.”
They talk louder. He hears a distant gargle. People turn their heads. He turns his head.
“Then word of Atlas starts spreading and suddenly the whole place is up in a buzz. I’m not new to Rapture, no, but you’re new to me.”
A crash in the front doors and a man walks left foot first, then right and right again with a stagger. He’s bloody and choking on short air and spit.
“And how I see it, that’s all that matters.”
toquestionistosurrender started following you
Andrew Ryan. Atlas stands ready for whatever may come but has a gut feeling there’s more to this than what he sees. Ryan wouldn’t be here alone. He’s crazy, maybe, insane, but not stupid. There must be an army nearby ready to gun down every man of the revolt where he stands, ready to widow all of their wives and orphan all of their children. They didn’t know Ryan would be here. They’re unprepared.
"Why it’s the Devil himself… Ya got some nerve for comin’ down here, I give ya that," he breathes with an edge of a threat. The men behind him tighten up ready for a signal to attack. "But ya shouldn’t be stickin’ your nose where it got no business bein’."
He didn’t belong, and Booker was aware of that immediately. A stranger in their territory, those shifty eyes and steady glares served as all the proof he ever needed. But Booker wasn’t one to budge too easily, pressured, taunted or otherwise.
Raising his head higher, Mr. DeWitt and the ever famous Godsend of the average man locked eyes. Booker was steady as a bow. “People are always out to do something for themselves, but sometimes it takes a certain man to get things moving. It’s nothing new. Be as humble as you like—guys like you, Mr. Calhoun, well, you’re no average John Doe.” His grip remained on his glass. “Booker DeWitt. Consider me well caught up in Rapture’s current standings. Well enough.” His badge was kept hidden from public eye.
Nearby, the record plays, scratches and repeats would I feel this way? Would I feel this way? Would I feel this way? The bartender walks up to it and adjusts the needle. The song starts all over again. Atlas has long since learned to see through the clouds of smoke and doesn’t miss Booker’s eyes. ”The way I see it, everyone’s a prisoner in this… bloody utopia, as he calls it. A prison if I ever saw one,” he gripes lowly between them.
Atlas knows the regulars in this bar and he spotted something in the way Booker said that. Consider me. CONSIDER ME well caught up in Rapture’s current standings. He’s either looking for something or is a foreigner. ”Well caught up?” Atlas points out. “Close enough, but close don’t get you nowhere in Rapture. Are ya new here, Mr. DeWitt?”
Who is Atlas? He’s been quite a big deal—talk of the town and all—and no one, absolutely no one, could ignore it. The hero of the working class man, Atlas has become a hero for Rapture’s abandoned and restless. It smelled of revolution… Yet, even then, Investigator Booker didn’t care. He took care of himself and his own world, and what trouble Atlas riled up in another was none of his concern. Until now.
"So, you’re Atlas," Booker said from his seat at the bar, hands cupped around a glass of strong whiskey. The room was smokey and ambient in its noise save for the drunken chatter and sweet tunes of If I Didn’t Care. Raising his drink to his lips, he adds almost indirectly, ”the one changing tides around here.”
In the Fighting McDonaghs, Atlas watches as the patrons shell out their bottom dollars on their last drinks, too poor and too drunk to care. The music playing from the record skips when one falls over.
"So, you’re Atlas." A stranger’s voice.
At the corner of his eye, he catches a look at who it was: a man in a trench coat, maybe with a six-gun behind it, and a right hand that might be conditioned to draw and inclined to shoot. Some supporters of the revolt are watching and seem ready for a firefight. Atlas settles his drink on the counter and they ease up. He figures there’s no danger here.
"That may be so, but you don’t know the half’a it. The people here, they’re the ones you should be talkin’ to," he says almost without thought. Modest. A true leader.
Some people who overheard smile, but one raises his head with a cautious brow. ”Who’s askin’?”