Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was so good, having new life fluttering through his halls. It had been far too long since his Fort Frolic had been graced with a true artistic presence, barring his own of course. He had once thought that such talent existed among his disciples, but oh, they had each proven themselves to be unworthy in their time. This new blood, however…

Ah, it was little wonder that brute Atlas was so attached to him.

He watched as his little moth flitted through the Plaza, with electricity singing through his veins as splicers leapt upon him from above. His gaze followed each attack, the oh so athletic movement of the lean, muscled frame. He found himself leaning forward ever so slightly. Such a shame he wouldn’t be sticking around. It might be nice to have such a fresh, able body at his disposal, both for artistic use as well as more… crude indulgences. But it seemed that he had a much clearer purpose already laid out before him. One which would end in blood. And wouldn’t that be exciting as well? Perhaps more so considering whose blood the boy would be spilling.

He was distracted from a rather tense confrontation between his moth and one of the lumbering oafs that plodded through his halls by the crackle of the radio on his desk.

“Cohen- Cohen, goddamnit, answer your radio, you old fruit! I know you’re there, damn it-!”

It was with a very put-upon sigh that Sander left off watching the explosions and whistles of bullets in the air – oh dear, that grenade had been very close, hopefully it hadn’t singed any hairs – and fetched the radio.

“Atlas, I’m terribly busy at the moment, I’m afraid you’re going to have to try back later. You don’t have to worry, your little moth is still safe and sound, for now.”

“Cohen, goddamn you, put me through to Jack, the boy needs to get to Hephaestus.”

“He will, he will. I’ll give the blooming little artist back to you in due time, even though you’re far too much a brute to truly appreciate this… talent of his.” The little shutterbug, he thought, almost fondly. With the metal beast slain and the ragamuffin sent on her way, he was off once more, with a few new scrapes and yet another dose from a gleaming Eve hypo, but otherwise no worse for wear.

Oh, he was heading for Eve’s Garden. It seemed Rodriguez would be the next addition to his Quadtych, courtesy of his little moth.

“Look, I don’t care what you get up to down there in your little freak show you’ve turned Frolic into, but I need-“

“Atlas, Atlas. So demanding. Patience, his work’s halfway done now, and then you may do what you wish with my fluttering little moth. But first he must help me finish my masterpiece.”

“Killing that bastard Ryan is a lot more important than whatever art project you’ve got him fetching together for you-!”

Mm, Rodriguez, always so very forceful. Quite a mouth on him. Then, each of them had always had such a mouth…

…Ahh, but he was getting distracted. He could hardly enjoy such pleasures with any of them anymore when each of them wielded too many teeth for his liking. An unfortunate occurrence… It was too bad his little moth might not stay long enough to see if there was a mouth on him as well.

“-important things to do than doing your dirty work, my family’s dead and it’s Ryan’s hands with the blood on ‘em!”

Cohen clucked and briefly forced Atlas into silence while he purred into the little moth’s ear over his fluttering. “You flutter all around the Fort, taking life as you go. You're not a moth, you're an angel. I've never painted an angel ... maybe I should.”

With the little moth now carrying one more picture – and only one to go, oh, he could feel the end coming, so quickly now…

“Cohen? Cohen, damn it, quit ignoring me!”

“Yes, yes, God, but you are a dull one. Can’t see anything beyond your petty little grudges. By rights I should keep the little moth here with me forever. He brings such life and death together in these lonely halls. There’s been so few with such a talent to be found down here since everything began to crumble. Duh da duh da duh, the days are so bland, with all the talent squeezed from the morons, but this little moth is a breath of fresh air, brought right into my hands by none other than you.”

“I’ll come rip your painted fuckin’ halls apart-“

“Oh, cease your mindless threats, they don’t scare me. The moth would be stifled if I contained him here. I don’t need him chained to an open flame until he burns. I’m content to let him work, this once, to bring my life’s work to completion. And then he will be yours again, to misuse as you will.”

More of the addled little ceiling-crawlers dogged his moth’s steps, but they were dispatched as efficiently as usual, with electricity and gunshots, from that rugged looking shotgun this time. A faint shiver ran through him as he continued to watch. Such strong hands to wield such a weapon. What a pleasure they would be, to feel them on skin rather than all that metal…

“I advise that you take full advantage of the moth once he’s yours again, Atlas.” He tapped a finger lightly on the arm of his chair. “Lest I be tempted to do the job for you. It would be such a waist to let so much vigor go unappreciated.”

“Don’t you lay a hand on ‘im, Cohen, or I swear-“

“You’ll what? Come ‘rip my painted halls apart’? And risk the little moth in the crossfire? Oh no, you won’t do a thing. You’ll merely sit and watch, as I do now. Perhaps I’ll allow you to listen, so you may know the sounds he would make. Oh yes, they promise to be exquisite…” Ahh, he was getting distracted again, by delicious threats that he so desired to carry out, yet he had little doubt that his moth was anxious to be on his way and would have no time for such indulges. He sighed. A pity. Truly, such a pity.

Atlas was raging again, the boor, until he finally had to silence the radio again to watch as his little moth continued his fluttering about, pausing before the opening doors of Sinclair’s Spirits now… Aaaahh. Would the little moth investigate? Some of his most prized little pets, waiting ever so patiently inside?

“You know,” he finally began again, when it seemed Atlas had ceased his threatening and posturing, “It’s odd, what things creep down to me here in my halls. Your family, I believe you mentioned. How ironic life can be, isn’t it, that I have heard their names somewhere before?”

The crackle of radio silence before the other man responded was particularly satisfying. “Look, I dunno what you’re goin’ on about now, but-“

“I merely mean to say, such a tragedy, to hear Ryan had stolen them from you. But their names, so very… poignant. So very perfect and ironic, no? Moira and Patrick, no- Patrick and Moira.” He was silent, oh so silent now! He felt a flash of childish glee from the sound of only white noise from the other end. “Did you really think your life story wouldn’t seep to the ears of everyone before the end? And did you really think I wouldn’t recognize a masterpiece of my own making?”

More silence. Oh, it was dangerous, a dangerous silence. He loved it.

“You needn’t worry, I won’t be the one to tell the little moth the awful news. That could get… messy.” Sander hummed, watching with delight as his moth finally made it to the record store. Time for the grand finale. “You’ll have your little moth back soon. The end approaches more and more quickly all the time, now. Patience, lying snake, he’ll succumb to your poison whispers soon enough once more. But perhaps not without experiencing a bite from me first.”

He silenced the radio when it seemed Atlas would not be deigning to give him any further response. It was no matter. Soon, so soon, his Quadtych would be complete, and he would allow his moth to flutter freely away.

As to whether or not the moth might carry his bite when he went to Atlas’ side once more…

Well. They would just have to see. Such a waste, after all…

Such a waste.