Battalion has a minion!

Shortwave Radio the Drone 800

"You're like a one man battalion," Atlas says to him. Says it like a compliment. Like something meaningful. Like it's not acid in Jack's mouth whenever he's reminded that he's butchering what used to be people.

"Splicers, boyo," Atlas says in comfort as he sobs and rocks himself like a child, "they're just splicers. Would'ya kindly get up?"

He never calls him Jack. No one calls him Jack, always parasite, boyo, little moth. Not a real person.
He wishes that someone would say his name, just once. The thought soon passes, just like everything else. He plunges a syringe into his arm and it makes him feel alive.

He doesn't know when a gun became such a familiar weight (or was it always?). Jack doesn't want to think too hard on it, because when he really thinks about himself he doesn't feel quite real. He remembers a farm, but not the smell of hay. His mother's voice is like static in his head. He doesn't even remember his last birthday.
Sometimes he thinks to ask Atlas.
Is it the ADAM? Am I going to end up like everyone else?
He never asks. He's not sure if he doesn't care or if he's being forced, forced, he's always forcing himself not to.

He wishes he knew why any of this happened. Atlas guides him but Jack never says a word back, even when the reply button blinks idly on his radio. He doesn't even remember talking.

He finally collapses after days on his feet, sprawled in the corner of somewhere damp and cold. The farmhouse is no longer a comfort, and he doesn't understand. He feels like all that's real is Rapture and-
"Boyo?"

Atlas.
Atlas sounds worried, and through the static he can hear the drums of fingers. Jack reaches, trembling, for the radio.

"Am I a real person?"

Atlas hesitates, and Jack feels his heart ache with the silence. "Real as I am."

"I-I want to go home."

It feels wrong to say, like he's meant to be down here in the dark, tied to the salty depths and the taste of his own blood. Some nameless man to be swallowed up by the city.

"You'll be home soon, Jack. Would you kindly calm down a moment?"

He has never had a name. His memories filter back in and reality comes rushing back.

"Thank you, Atlas."

"Take a rest, boyo. I'll look after you."
Atlas hums to him softly, Danny Boy, and he slips into dreamless sleep.

Credits:
Profile by Ziva
Writing by Siebren
Bioshock (2007), Atlas and Jack are property of Irrational Games and Ken Levine. I hold no claim to them.