"I don't know how you survived that plane crash, but I've never been one to question providence; I'm Atlas, and I aim to keep you alive."
Fontaine had never been one for being terrified, hell, he was usually the one who did the ‘terrifying’. But he supposed it was a given to be mortified when someone far larger than yourself pinned you to your own desk. He inhaled slowly, refusing to tremble even as the man pressed tighter to his body. The conman had an incredible urge to bite the Irishman- Oh, and then what happened next took the cake.
The fucker used his own voice against him.
He took in a deep, wavering breath and let his head fall back against the desk, icy eyes sliding firmly shut. Oh, how wonderfully glorious. It was from hysteria that he began to laugh, baring his perfectly white teeth in a snarl. “Real fuckin’ cute, really. Alright, so- Y’really playin’ this game? What, you know me from when I went by Gorland? Y’some government spook? Did I stiff you some cash?”
He fell silent, brow quirking as he met the man’s gaze. He was far too close for his liking, a range that he would have preferred to have a lover instead of someone looking to tear out his throat. He groaned dejectedly and shoved back against the angry Irishman, “Amazin’ how you’re suddenly dead set on murderin’ me again after I proved I was who I say I am.”
Another harsh shove and the conman was wriggling free, slipping out from between Atlas and the desk and running towards the door without the items he came for. If he lived another day and all it costed was a few measly tapes, the man was overjoyed to abandon them. “See y’later, bucko!”
He was all shoves this guy. All bark and no bite; writhing legs and weak, breakable arms. Already hit him once and didn’t dare do it again – that was smart of him, else Atlas would have to think about snapping those long, pretty fingers of his. That left him with nothing, no proper way of defending himself other than through the use of his own poorly constructed threats or pathetic little struggles. The more he spoke, the hotter the Irishman’s blood seemed to boil. Fact upon useless fact about his own life parroted back to him as if the words had come from his own lips. The similarities and the sheer accuracy of the man’s frequent trips into ancient history were unsettling, no doubt, but Atlas refused to see that the creature beneath him was anything other than a highly skilled (he had to give him that, at least) morally bankrupt actor who could no better separate fantasy from reality than he could, refusing to drop character or in fact truly believed that he was Fontaine now. Atlas couldn’t except that the person he’d pinned down was, in actuality, a dated reflection of his, living and breathing and cursing just the same as he always had. Things like that didn’t happen. What did come up every once in a while were dirty little thieves.
What did he want? Was this some elaborate form of blackmail?
He wasn’t given a great deal of time to think it through in detail, as the man beneath him kicked and wormed his way out of his hold, back on his feet and speeding towards the door. Calling him ‘bucko’, of all things. Making him wince. At least he was smart enough to put a reasonable distance between them both at the first chance he could get.
“I’d stop right there if I was you,” he continued, refusing to drop the accent. Seems the runt hadn’t quite got the full picture yet; wasn’t aware of just who he was dealing with here. Frank Fontaine would accept no imitations – period. That was precisely why he had a gun pointed at the filthy rat’s back. “Ain’t you forgettin’ somethin’, bucko? Wasn’t there somethin’ grand you busted your way in here to get? Hate t’see ya go to all this trouble just to come out empty handed.”
HAHAJSNAMD/?? THANK YOU THAT IS THE BEST COMMENT I COULD EVER HOPE FOR, SERIOUSLY
If I’m not making someone pee in fear I’m not doing my job right
THANK YOU FOR SENDING THIS ONE NICE MESSAGE AMIDST A TORRENT OF ABUSE YOU’RE SO SWEET THANK YOU I’M GOING TO BLOCK EVERYONE BUT YOU
Well, there was a turn up for the books. Truly, Silas had not expected that particular outcome. Not that he was complaining. While Atlas might not be his usual type, he would had to admit to being more than a little bit curious as to where, exactly, this might lead. So far, it was looking pretty good. At the back of his mind, there was a nagging voice, telling him that this was a very bad idea, but he was very good at ignoring that voice. He’d been doing it for most of his life.
"They do say actions speak louder than words," he murmured, gaze flitting downwards to watch the other man’s fingers work. All things considered, this was probably the lesser of two evils. Far preferable to take a more friendly route than have a gun pointed at his face. “If this is what ya really want to do, then who am I to stop you?” In a show of surrender, Silas held his hands up, palms open and facing Atlas. Whatever the man wanted, it must be something pretty big, if he was willing to go to all this trouble. Lowering one hand and extending a finger, he runs the tip down the patch of newly revealed chest.
"Mh, very nice.”
Atlas knocked his hand aside with a grunt, gradually inching out of the reach of his fingertips.
“Ain’t done yet, love,” he recovered with a sultry purr, quickly popping the rest of the buttons that kept his threadbare shirt from falling apart. Shrugged it from his shoulders and let it fall gracelessly to the ground. Like a little more dirt on the old thing would actually matter in the grand scheme of things.
He brushed a speck of imaginary dust from his bared shoulder, plump lips parting around the softest of sighs. So he was really going to do this. Sure beat the hell out of the regular method of getting what he wanted from people, which consisted of a few violent threats here and there, a small amount of strangling and a sizeable blood pool spreading across the floor. A nice change of pace, if he did say so himself. This man was a lucky one, truly. Not a lot of other men would be getting this kind of specialist, hands on treatment.
The only question remaining was (that even he didn’t properly know the answer to) … how far was he actually willing to go for this? For a measly set of keys to Cohen’s personal freak show?
Step one had already been dealt with. A little late to back out now if he wanted to.
“That better?” He had to ask, moving on from that spot of doubt, mouth shaping itself into the sleek, languid form of an enticing smile.
How long had it been since he’d set his penultimate plans in motion? Only a few days, in reality, but that was still a surprisingly lengthy period of time. He’d always known the parasite was not the most intelligent man, regarding all of his flaws and the like, but Atlas was smart. There was no chance that he had not realized by now that the one betraying him was Lucian.
It had all started when he devised that the more likely of the two to get him out of Rapture was the king, not the parasite.
That had led him to Ryan’s doorstep, informing him of Atlas’ secretive plan to kill him with someone who was making good time in making it through Rapture to his location. After putting Ryan and his cohorts on high alert, he had spent a rather large amount of time cautiously destroying the security cameras that Atlas used, before vehemently slaughtering his Splicers.
Gloved digits interlaced themselves atop his crossed legs, his mask sitting on the mattress beside him as his ebony gaze remained ever-focused on the wall.
‘… Any time now.’
It was time to end this.
The entirety of the morning had been spent dressing down the men. A waste of fucking time if you asked Atlas, when that time could have been better spent on combing the city for ammunition and enough leftover plasmids to outfit a small army, but he had to know who did it. Someone had gone to Ryan with the most valuable shred of information that he possessed, of which the integrity of the entire uprising depended upon, traded it away just like that. Sure hoped whatever the bastard got in exchange for such a brazen act of treachery made the short amount of time he had left leading up to his imminent death worth the trouble.
His throat had very nearly dried out completely by the time the name of the culprit had surfaced, and that was through his own actions that his betrayal had been made clear. Caught on camera seconds before the screen had blacked out. Couldn’t be mistaken for anyone else, no – no one else in the whole of the city had the same chiselled features and small, cruel little mouth that only he possessed. To think, all the shit he’d pulled for him, all the extra effort he’d went to in order to keep the little wretch happy, all for nought.
Atlas was going to wring his scrawny neck until every tiny, fragile bone cracked beneath his fingers.
And with a final hard boot put to the wood of the door that held him back from fulfilling that desire, causing it to snap from it’s very hinges and land with a mighty thud on the ground, he was most certainly going to get his wish.