- Recite a poem.
- Read the first page to one of your favorite books.
- Read the little blurb on the back of your shampoo bottle.
- Do a tongue-twister.
- Say something in a different language.
- Share an anecdote.
Do the rains in Spain stay mainly on the plains?
- Summarize the last film/TV episode you watched.
- Let us hear your ringtone and text message sound.
- Tell a joke.
- What did you have to eat today?
- Talk about something that really scares you.
- Talk about something that makes you happy.
- What is your favorite word?
- What is your least favorite word?
- What turns you on?
- What turns you off?
- What sound or noise do you love?
- What sound or noise do you hate?
- What is your favorite curse word?
- What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
- What profession would you not like to do?
- If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
- If you’re brave enough, singing us a little song.
Fontaine winced slightly, all but shuddering under the other man’s weight. Funny how he was pinned to his own desk by a man who clearly assumed he was Frank Fontaine. His leg almost ached, trapped against his own body- It was a horrifying parody of every physical encounter the man had ever had. He couldn’t push back against him at the angle they were in, so instead, he fell limp against the desk, a defeated expression scrawled across his features-
Well, until the ace was mentioned. He went still, eyes snapping open, expression incredulous. The one thing that only Suchong and Tenenbaum knew besides himself, suddenly out in the open, waved under his nose. He choked on his own saliva for a good moment, then mustered the strength to shove the man off. “How the fuck do you know about him, eh? You one of Suchong’s new thugs? Tryin’ to chase me off? Sorry, beautiful, ain’t gonna work. He can try all he likes to sell the genetic freak to Ryan, but I’m gettin’ that activation code. Stiffin’ me ain’t wise, leprechaun. So take your scare tactics and scram.”
Another shove, another attempt at worming free. He was trapped, and he didn’t like it. He almost felt helpless, splayed over the desk like a broken doll. No doubt he would be killed, and then his entire plan would be scattered like dust on the wind. Made the kid for nothing, shelled out good cash to make a slave he couldn’t even control. The lunacy in that was insulting.
"Get off," He refused to believe there was a tone of panic edging his words, gripping Atlas’ throat between broad hands. "Get off or I will kill you.”
At least he knew when to give up – or at least that was the conclusion Atlas had come to right before the flattened man’s fingers circled his throat and threatened to crush his windpipe. Frantic as he sounded, he was doing a terrific job of choking the air from the Irishman’s lungs, forcing him to arch the bulk of his torso up and away from the one he’d slammed back against the wooden desk. He didn’t want to die, not at this early stage; not at all if he could help it. Definitely not at the hands of a filthy goddamn nobody who thought they could fuck with his identity, steal every single one of secrets and then what, sell them off to the highest bidder? Was that what he intended to do? If that was the case, there was no way in hell that Atlas could let him leave the office alive and in one piece. Cutting the liar up into teeny, tiny chunks for the passing sharks to swallow with ease sounded like the proper way to dispose of him.
He’d backed off but they were still attached, still growling at each other like a pair of vicious dogs with their hackles raised. Atlas loomed over him like he was about to swoop down and tear out his vocal chords with his teeth at any given moment, heels of his palms digging hard into the other man’s shoulders, this would-be ‘Fontaine’ that was so keen on keeping up the act till death. Who had paid him, he wondered, to make such a blatant mockery of him to his face and drag his old name into the muck like that? There had to be someone. These kinds of things didn’t happen without a reason.
“I ain’t leavin’ an’ neither are you,” he forced from between a set of bared teeth, relying on his gaze to keep him pinned more than his hands. “I’m no thug, I already told y’who I am – Atlas, remember? Wasn’t lyin’ to y’pet. An’ as for th’ace… well, let’s say I know more than enough about ‘im. I know how t’pull th’kid’s strings.”
He was used to the silence, the white noise ringing in his ears only to be interrupted now and then by the soft click of his shoes against the ground. It still made Jack uneasy, though, for as long as there was silence, there was always something creeping in the shadows waiting to break it with screeches and taunting screams. He was never fond of that part. There was very little to be fond of in Rapture. The sooner he reached the surface, the better.
But at the crackle and fizzle of the radio hanging from his hip, he remembered the obligation weighing on his shoulders to his friend, Atlas. One of the only sane people he’s met in his time under the sea—or rather, spoke to, since face-to-face interactions were a rarity minus the encounters with Big Daddies and Little Sisters.
Jack’s steps hastened naturally with the Irishman’s request; he couldn’t just say no, couldn’t just argue, and take a breather. That wasn’t right. He never felt the need to question it, anyways.
"Sorry," came forth in a rather vocal mumble, though sincerity laced itself with the apology. He was trying, and no doubt Atlas could see that. “I’ll try to move faster, but…” A faint, not defeated, huff. “I think I’m going in circles. All of this looks the same.”
“Not t’worry, lad,” he spoke quietly through the receiver for Jack’s ears only, waving the apology from the other end of the line. He was moving now and he would carry on doing so until Atlas kindly asked him to stop – nothing else mattered now. Though if what he was saying was true and the kid had truly managed to lose himself in one of Rapture’s many dank, gloomy alleyways, then Atlas was no doubt expected to step in and help the poor bastard find his bearings again. After all, wasn’t that what he did? Stepping in to help the weak, the needy and the lost when they required it most? Luckily for him, Jack so happened to fall into all three categories at once.
The Irishman sighed at his post, turning to the vaguely speckled monitor if that would help clarify things. Couldn’t pinpoint the boy’s location on any of the screens set up in front of him. That meant he had to rely on his judgement if they were to advance correctly from here on out.
“Why don’t y’tell me where y’are an’ I’ll see if I can help,” he said as he leaned forward, squinting past the colourless static to pick him out from the rubble and dead bodies that lay scattered all over the place like forgotten confetti. “I know this place like th’back’a me hand, boyo. You’re in safe hands. See any signs or anythin’ of th’like? Y’can’t be too far away from th’exit now.”
atlas again without the text because tbh i’m pretty sure i didn’t like the way the text looked
Even if he still was somewhat nervous, he knew they only had this specific chance and he shouldn’t waste it. Taking a deep breath, he prepared himself to speak, not sure if what he would say would be the best of all, especially as he was a tad nervous, but——- there was no way he could do nothing. The second he started recording,
”Well, what a surprise.”, he spoke, him glancing casually from his counterpart to the camera, “—- I ain’t exactly alone anymore. Y’re outnumbered, Ryan, ‘n’ there’s nothin’ y’ can do ‘bout it. Whatever actions y’ try t’ pull now are gonna be futile, ‘cause there’s no way it’s gonna match anythin’ we can do.” Gradually his confidence came back, it clearly showing in the way he sat. “An’ before y’ try t’ convince y’rself this is a trick, I can show y’ it ain’t.”
With a single move, he turned around, settling himself on top of the other’s lap— so he could face him without any sort of issues. “Anythin’, huh.”, he whispered under his breath before he softly wrapped his arms around his neck, only to pull him a little lower—- then allowed lips to meet, a small kiss intended to be given but it turning out to be something more passionate. He couldn’t much help it, when it came to showing any sort of affection he tended to get carried away, him holding tightly to the other’s being. Oh, how he loved this. He had an excuse for it too. “— does this suffice? Or—-” Quietly he spoke those words into his ear, only just having pulled away enough to be able to do so; it sorrowful he at all had to pull away.
A lingering moment of doubt toyed with him in the few seconds before the other man had begun to speak. Worried about what he’d do and ultimately how well he would do it, though he did have some idea about the former. Seeing through that particular kind of suggestiveness didn’t take any sort of fancy degrees in psychology to pull off, neither did the powerful signals he sent back in return. Turns out he was right to worry too, though not for the reason his mind had initially fixed upon. Hated to think of his counterpart in this way, but Atlas had feared he might not have been up for quite so bold a task, becoming a flushed mess when the time came to make a move and film the concrete evidence they needed. Boy, was he wrong. Could safely say he’d never been more glad to be wrong, either.
He’d frozen in place for a second or two after the shorter male sat himself neatly in his lap, but the feel of a hungry mouth attacking his own prompted him into latching onto whatever part of him his fingers felt like curling into, one hand sliding about his waist while the other gripped the crossed back of his suspenders and tugged. Wasn’t until he pulled away that he realised how deep he’d got into it; pausing for breath and to wet his crushed lips with a swipe of his tongue.
“M’not sure,” he made an attempt at a grin when he was capable of speaking once again. “Needs t’be more convincin’, pet.”
Jack wasn’t sure what prompted those words but smiled bitterly all the same, yellow gaze trailing up the length of the conman’s body before settling on his eyes. Such a pretty shade of blue they were, too pure for the likes of Frank Fontaine, but they were his all the same. Jack shifted his weight in the armchair, long legs uncrossing languidly as he leaned in to dare slip into the other man’s lap. He was sure the man’s no longer cared, they had done far worse than cuddle.
"Meaning that I’m? What? A bottle of fine champagne? You won’t even taste me?” Jack flashed a brilliant smirk, sharp teeth glittering in the soft light. “Or do you mean that you don’t want to use me all up and toss me out? This could mean many a thing.”
He chanced leaning in even closer and nipped at the man’s earlobe, and whispered a breathy, “Drink me in, Mister Fontaine, I’m all yours.”
Wasn’t unnatural for a man to find himself on the verge of going insane from sheer unrelenting boredom at the bottom of the ocean, or not quite as unnatural as someone might initially think. Atlas happened to be one of those men, having lost his army to the cleverly combined use of scientific trickery and good old fashioned backstabbing, leaving him ever since with a rather unfortunate shortage of intelligent company. Perhaps that was why he chose to talk the boy’s ear off now that he had made a solid connection with another human being after so many years, grabbing the chance with thick yet needy fingers, ignoring who it was he’d picked to annoy mercilessly with his inane, accented babbling.
It wasn’t as though the kid had piped up to complain. Seemed to be the quiet sort of lad, did Jack – as you would be if born and raised in a lab, pumped full of hormones and chemicals on a daily basis – which was all well and fine when he actually had him on camera. No visual meant no signs of life, usually, until something hit him and caused those lips to part around a pained grunt.
“Still kickin’ down there, lad?” He had to ask, sounding every bit like the flustered mother hen he feared he would. “Would you kindly get a move on? Hate t’push y’like this boyo, but we’re livin’ on borrowed time here; I got no choice.”