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You wake up in a pool of water.
It is warm and it makes you calm.
The scratch of metal jerks you up, your loose limbs hobble towards a gun on a bench.
Glass cracks and you shudder. The weight of tons and tons of water sit above you.
Where are you?
Where are you?
“You’re finally awake-” Irish brogue crackles through the radio on your hip. “Boyo, we’ve got to get a move on if you want to get us out of here. Would you kindly get up?”
You look at your wrist and marks from injections make you shake.
You aren't supposed to be here, you aren't- you left-
Jack shudders at the sound of the cracking of thunder.
He hasn't gotten used to storms, the pressure of the atmosphere, the wetness of the outside- it all reminds him too much of tons of water shifting on top of him.
Leta yawns next to him. She had been sick today and skipped her homeschooling with Tenenbaum, so instead Jack stuck by her side the whole day.
They have an elderly neighbor who likes to stay outside during the worst of weather, in his rocking chair, and admire the way the world blows.
Jack doesn't understand it, but Leta has become obsessed with the idea.
So, they sat on the front porch and watched the rain fall. Jack never made it obvious how much it disturbed it, or at least he hopes he hasn't.
Their wind chimes sway.
The fresh air calms him just a bit.
The radio makes a humming noise.
A song plays through it.
You sleep in dead grass and grab for the radio, your hand carefully moving to the air to avoid the turrets all around you, lights looking for a new target.
You grab the radio. You feel your thumb resting atop the speaker as the music plays out. You aren't sure your next move, turn it down? Turn it up? You don't even recognize the song. You know you've heard it though, that you are sure of.
You hear the sound of Houdini splicers somewhere far away as they burst into a red dust mist that makes you doubt your own eyes.
Just as you pick the radio, you feel it on your wrist. You don't know what it is. It's thin but strong and pulls on your entire body. You feel helpless.
As it begins to pull you and you can see the light of a turret catch you, you twist your body.
There he is. You see strings tied round his fingers, your eyes follow the strings until you realize those are the strings around your wrists.
You feel your leg jerk- and ankles.
Another jerk. And Neck.
Another.
There is no end to his strings, no end to his control.
Your body was never yours to begin with.
The light flickers from white to red and you hear the machine gun ready.
Jack sits on his bed.
The clock keeps ticking and it reminds him of an old grandfather clock his-
No. Not real. Something his own mind conjured up to make sense of the life supplanted into his brain.
That's what Tenenbaum says. Some put in there by her and Suchong, some his own mind made to fill in the gaps. They banked on that.
It drove him crazy, just a little.
The sun was beginning to set. Kansas was in fact beautiful, and it wasn't at all like the fake memories.
Sometimes it distresses him, makes the world feel off. Like he can't tell even if what he's seeing in the moment is real.
Other times, he's grateful. It's how he tells reality apart.
He scratches at where his tattoo is, the dry yet healing skin flaking off as his nails scrape.
He hears his girls giggling.
His girls. He wasn't sure what else to call them. Sisters and daughters felt wrong, but functionally…
He grew up around Little Sisters, his few human interactions outside of the scientists being with them. They had to socialize him a bit, at least. Little Sisters served another purpose then.
Daughters…
He sniffed. The sun is setting.
Tenenbaum had said she would be bringing dinner tonight. A deal from a local place in town.
It was a treat to eat out, considering the number of their family.
So, he wasn't surprised when he heard a knock on his door.
He knocked back, knuckles hitting his bedside table.
“Dinner is here.” Her accent soothed him. He liked accents- audio diaries allowing him to not only hear what they had to say, but where they came from. A world he never knew beyond what must have been implanted in his brain, at his fingertips.
Her's told a story, one he was very familiar with by this point.
(He asked once, to compare tattoos. Insensitive as it was, she didn't gawk.
She just put her left forearm next to his wrist.)
He nodded. After the recovery from his Big Daddy modifications, he spoke very little. Not that he ever had- from the beginning, a near mute. She said. Spoke only so often.
So now, very little went to nearly never. It was a special occasion to hear his voice. One of healed and unused voice chords, quiet and scratchy.
He had picked up a nasty smoking habit too, go figure.
But something itches the back of his throat. He nearly gags when it tumbles out.
“Did you know?”
She blinks.
“What is it you mean?”
He stutters. “Nothing. Nothing.”
“No, no,” She looks irritated. “Not nothing. Say it now, don't bring your melancholy to the little ones.”
He can't bring himself to say anything. He begins signing. F-O-N-T-A-I … He stops himself. A-T-L-A-S. W-Y-K.
“No.” She shakes her head. Her eyes soften for a moment.
She walks forward, her heels clacking on the wooden floor of his room.
He had chosen the smallest room in the house, only enough room for a twin and a small dresser. A small window sits above his dresser.
From where the door opens, the hallway to the rest of the house is clear- and it's clear to her that this was meant to be a storage closet. But after all Jack had been through, she gave him his pick.
And he had chosen a room meant for brooms and mops and a misplaced window.
She stops in front of his tiny window, staring at the evening.
“Warn me of your questions in advance. I will answer, but I do not appreciate being sprung upon.”
Jack nods.
A grotesque vision of a woman shambles up to you.
A gaping wound lies above her groin. You gag at the smell- ammonic fluid and rotting flesh.
Her face is familiar. You can't put your finger on it. You grab the wrench and begin readying for attack.
Her red dress sags down, showing her deathly pale skin. Her dying blonde hair shakes.
Just as you lift your weapon, you hear her meek voice.
“Mr. Ryan, please, no.”
A few days later, with the summer sun shining so brightly, Masha had requested ice cream. And as kids are wont to do, the others followed suit.
He was happy to see this- them acting like kids. Sally dives into the mud as Tenenbaum tsks from the front porch’s shade.
Jack laughs. Tenenbaum, despite the shade, keeps a sunhat and sunglasses on. One of the girls, Claire, calls to her and she shakes her head.
Ten little girls get to run around in the sun. Could they have even dreamed of this just a few years ago?
Leta sprays Sally with their hose.
Masha licks melting ice cream off her wrist. Another girl, Elune, licks her cheek and Masha shrieks.
Jack runs over and tries to diffuse the situation before he notices Poppy climbing a tree nearby.
“Poppy-”
“Daddy Jack!”
“Please get down?” She sticks her tongue out.
“Come up with me!”
“Poppet!” Tenenbaum’s yell stops everyone. “Get down. Is not safe.”
She looks down. Her lip wobbles. “Yes, Mama Tenenbaum.”
“Poppy?” Poppy looks up with teary eyes. She begins to climb down a few branches before jumping into his arms.
The other girls go back to their old tasks.
Jack sets Poppy down and gets on his knee, brushing the hair from her sweat soaked forehead. “Don't do that again, okay?” She nods and puts her head on his shoulder.
“Now, go play.” She sniffles and runs off. She seems ashamed and it makes Jack’s heart hurt. He notices little Mary waving her hand to Poppy.
He smiles, so glad that the girls cared so deeply for one another.
Three girls sit in the kiddie pool Jack had set up earlier that morning- Veronica, Maria, and Amelia.
He walks back to Elune and tells her not to lick Masha or anyone again before walking back to the front porch.
He sits on the steps, Brigid just behind him.
How? He signs. He pants for a moment, blowing sweaty hair off his face.
“You just have to be firm.”
Not gentle?
“Oh, I don't think it is mutually exclusive.” He laughs, tired.
She reaches out, to ruffle his hair like she does with the girls. She stops, a learned behavior from many flinching interactions on Jack’s side.
His body shutting down, the only touch he ever knew violence in all its forms. Warm and rough, cold and callous.
She backs away and he is none the wiser.
You are in love with the silhouette of a man.
What you have of him was given by radio signals.
You reach your hand to the glass of a tunnel. You hope he sees it, you hope he's putting his hand out too.
Glass begins cracking. The added pressure of a plane crash will do you in, just as the crash should have as well.
It shatters, shards cutting you to pieces.
You do not drown. Your body simply floats. You blink and grab for the radio.
A little girl grabs it.
Your chest tightens and you can't figure out why.
She swims away from you, to the sand. You follow her, so slow. You feel like you're in space. The silence is deafening, your limbs feel like jelly.
Suddenly, you realize you're back inside again. Ryan's office.
He lies dead in the corner and the little girl pokes at him.
You try to yell but nothing comes out. It's as if something is blocking your vocal chords.
A hand pats your back and you turn around.
He's here. You feel so relieved. He's everything you dreamed of and more. His unkempt appearance- ruffish- and his charming smile.
He speaks to you, so softly. He praises you. Good job, boyo.
“You like that Little Sister, boyo?” You nod. Like a sister. Like a daughter. We’re the same, but she's so little. So vulnerable. She needs protection. She needs care. She has dreams. I can help. I can help her.
He smiles. His skin has greyed from such a time without the sun. It seems to be greying by the moment. “Kill her.”
A tiny boy says something. “What?”
It's you.
“Kill that Little Sister, Jack.”
You violently shake your head. You start crying. No. No. No. Not again. You fall to your knees and beg.
“Harvest that Little Sister, would you kindly?”
Your movements are almost mechanical. It's a kindness how quick it is, as she is torn apart. As your hand dives in and extracts the ADAM from her tiny stomach.
When it's done, all you can do is cry.
Of your own volition, you look away. Of your own volition, you stand up and walk back to his quite literally open arms. Of your own volition, you drop to your knees in front of him and rest your tired head on his groin.
He lowers his arms and wraps his hands around your head. Caresses your hair and wipes the blood with his thumb.
“There ain't no Atlas, kid,” His voice is so soft you almost don't hear it. But you do, echoing in the back of your head, just like it has every day since he said it. “Never was.”
Generally, Jack wakes up when the sun shines through his window. It hits him square in the eyes, alerting him to the start of the day.
Today, he wakes up to Brigid shaking him awake in a pool of sweat.
As he comes to, he realizes his mouth is open like he's screaming.
It seems he was, his vocal chord shaking so weak and his throat so dry being the telltale signs.
“Get up! Get up!” Her nails dip into the thin fabric of his pajama shirt.
“Wh-what?”
“You were screaming. You were scaring…the girls.”
The girls? He signs. She has to squint to understand.
“Me. Who cares? I-” She sniffs. “What's wrong?”
“I…” He puts his hand on her shoulder. His wrist shows against her tattoo.
He starts trembling- he can't contain himself. He begins to weep.
Uncontrollably.
“I can't. I can't .” He cuts through the tears, just barely getting out. “I can't do it. I'm not.” He starts to flail his hand.
“Sign, schatz , or write. Please.” His shaky hands dive for the side table, opening the door and yanking out a pen and notepad.
He writes something down.
She looks at it for a moment. Tears swell in her eyes
“Oh, Jack,”
HOW CAN ANYTHING BE REAL
“I'm sorry.” She puts his head on her shoulder. He's large, it feels almost like putting a wild cat to her. But much more scared.
She lifts his head and puts their foreheads together.
“Once a day, write down something that you're grateful for. Something you believe is real because it's too vivid. Not like fuzzy memories of a farm. An exercise of the mind, of learning to love. With love comes trust.”
“Do the girls count?” His voice is raspy.
“Silly boy, of course they count.” She smiles. “I wish…I wish I knew anything about the mind. I was a hard scientist, dear, Suchong handled the more human aspects. Perhaps that helped- helped me distance myself. Until it didn't.”
She looks away. “I'm sorry. If you can ever forgive me.” Don’t. Please do. I’m sorry. I hated you. I’ll never make it up to you.
“Maybe one day.” He swallows. “But can you just hold me? For now?”
He doesn't lie to her.
It's far better than fake forgiveness. It's blunt, it's tactless. It’s Brigid, it’s Jack.
“Of course.”
They'll fall asleep together and the sun will come up with him in her arms.
In a week, Jack will have the same nightmare.
In a week, he'll slump onto the couch and shortly after Brigid will join him.
Three days later, three of the girls will wake up and join them.
Their family is not quite right, but it's real and it's happy.