#answerdrabble

[weelittlepatrick-blog]

Little Brother Creation: pt 4

(pt 3)

It took much less time to acclimate the boys to the Big Daddies than it had to make them do anything else. The creature was introduced in the hall. Then again in their own room. And again. And again. And eventually only in photographs or cartoons. The result, it seemed, remained the same.

After Icarus had shook hands with the knight all the boys had rushed forward. Eager to meet their new ally. It was an absent, forgotten note in the file on the Little Brother's. The did not call the Big Daddy a protector. It was an ally. They did not call it Mr. Bubbles. It was Mr. Knight. Little changes in vocabulary that no one thought anything of. Perhaps, someone should have.

But at the time it was simple. Icarus, the leader of his miniature army of Male Gatherer's, had proved the Big Daddy's posed no threat. And from then on, even when he was absent or asleep a Big Daddy could be introduced and the other boys would flock to it. Sometimes it erupted into vicious fighting between them- who got to be with the Knight this time. Whose turn it was or who wasn't a good enough boy to deserve a knight. Sometimes the Big Daddy stopped the fighting. Usually, it was Icarus. Icarus or his little right hand man whose name started with an R but that no one could recall for certain. As a hard fast rule, the scientists were finding, the only thing that started, or stopped, a Little Brother, was Icarus.

It was rather a matter of pride for him. Icarus liked having an army. The heavy feeling in his chest and stomach forgotten more and more as the fog came over his eyes. The room they were in slowly changing. The cold steal walls a bright platinum broken by rich blue drapery. Their beds- once cots- slowly becoming covered in velvet- like they were all princes. The blood they spilled from one another when they fought so viciously, the blood that stained the floor, all leaves. Red leaves like one made piles out of and jumped into. Fall leaves like they let Arcadia produce now and again. The violence didn't diminish. On the contrary. The boys would have to be programmed to not play in the leaves.

Icarus was the last to succumb all the way. Yelling at his men to stop what they were doing with the leaves he could still see was sticky and red and horrible. Yelling for them to stop talking like dumb Little Sisters. There were no toys. The world wasn't blue and platinum. It wasn't. It wasn't.

Until he woke up one day and it was. And he couldn’t recall when it hadn't been. And he knew none of his men by name. And he only knew himself as Icarus. The one name all ten boys could recall- Icarus.

The scientists watched from behind the double mirror. No longer did that little blond brat glare at them. No longer was he an issue to be concerned with.

"A job well done Fred." The short round one said.

"A job done at the very least Oscar." The tall wiry one replied, pushing his wire glasses back into place on his nose.

"They will be exactly what the program needed. Gatherers who can protect themselves if the Protector is too far away."

"You gave them bats." The metal bats were ringing off the steel walls. The boys laughing with delight at the music they made. The last act of Atlas' son had been to stop the boys from fighting one another. They wrestled still. But the broken bones had stopped at last. Miniature idiots every single one. Particularly that Son of the People.

"They can't just bite a grown man an escape can they?"

"I suppose not Oscar. Though I think we will find those bats to be a bothersome expense later."

Icarus loved his bat. It was a training sword really. Because he was going to grow up to be a knight. Just like the Knights that came to see them. They had real swords too! Long pointed things. But those weren't for fighting monsters. You stabbed angels with that one. If you stabbed an angel with the stabby sword than the angel would fill you up with power. And if you were full of power you could share it with the Knight. The Knight needed the little boys. They gave the Knight power. And it was fun.

The boys, all as a group at first then fewer and fewer at a time were sent to train. They had a long hallway where angels were waiting surrounded by leaves. And there were things that attacked the Knights. And sometimes Demons attacked with their loud machines. But the Knight protected the boys. And if a Demon got too close, the boys protected themselves. That was what the training sword was for. It got rid of Demons.

Icarus was sent on his own. With his own Knight. And he came back to the room, the leaves still stuck to him. The power in his belly. A smile on his lips.

Someone had given the boys all the same squire uniform. Shorts and shoes and shirts and socks that said they were knights in training. Icarus wasn't sure he liked the uniform. But he was a Good Boy. And a Good squire. So he wore it just the same.

Not one of the boys recalled any longer the world they had come from. Sea outside glass. Steal and concrete and neon. Families. Friends. The boys who had been here before but didn't make it. They remembered only the blue velvet curtains. And the platinum floors. And Mr. Knight. And Icarus. Even if they forgot the others and forgot themselves they always remembered Icarus. He was as much a part of this new world as anything. For while Icarus saw himself the same as the boys they saw him differently. They saw, maybe not a knight, but a savior just the same. A cleric perhaps. A paladin. A being of power that shone like the sun and saved them. They didn't know from what. Couldn't recall. But they knew him and he was more than they were. He was to be trusted. More than even a Knight could be trusted. Icarus brought sunlight to the platinum and blue world. And he would never fall

At last the experiment was over. The Little Brothers approved for use in the gathering of ADAM. Fred and Oscar, the scientists and kidnappers, opened the steel doors one last time. Watched as all the little things ran off. Off to their vents- same as the Little Sisters. Off to be gross creepy little monsters born from science. Made useful through science.

The last boy to leave was the blond one. The one that had been such a thorn in their side. He didn't seem to notice them at all. Not until Oscar waved. A mocking little back and forth of his hand. It caught the yellow eyed creatures attention.

Icarus didn't know those men. Boring men. Not Angels. Not Demons. Certainly not a Knight. Just men. But he knew...

An inkling of memory. Of before touched the edge of his mind. There was a hat. A hat that was too big on his head but matched the one that someone important had. A greyish blue hat. It had been taken from him. He'd been taken from whomever that important someone was. He wanted his hat. Why didn't he have it?

After a long time of staring, Oscar finally having put his arm down, the men exchanging confused looks, the child spoke. His voice rang wrong. Echoed and sang in a way normal children's voices never should. "I want my hat."

The men exchanged another, more fearful look. The boys didn't remember anything. This one. This Icarus. Shouldn't know he'd ever had a hat. Had they released them too soon? Or was it worse than that?  A long time ago this boy said he'd live. And he did. A long time ago he said he'd save as many boys as he could. And he did. A long time ago he swore that he'd get his vengeance for being kidnapped and experimented on. He hadn't yet done that...

"I. Want. My. Hat." He enunciated, stepping forward toward the adults, metal bat bouncing on the floor. The ringing of that metal instrument making the ringing of his voice so much more menacing.

"You don't have a--"

"I want my hat!" The bat swung without warning. Hit Fred, the tall wiry man, square in the shins. It was not a gentle hit. It was not a light bat. Made to bash the skulls of Splicers who might attack the boy. Swung by an arm with no concept of pain. The shins shattered, toppling the man instantly. Oscar went running. They might still survive this if they just threw the damn hat at the Little Brother. Who cared if he matched the rest?

The bat swung again and again. Fred's screams quickly dying to a gurgle. Than nothing. Just the wet sound of metal hitting flesh. Until that too stopped. A soft giggle bouncing off the walls. Icarus liked the leaves. They were so pretty. They weren't fun to play in, though he couldn't say why. But they weren't. Only fun to make. To watch fall. To watch stick to things.

He stepped over the pile of leaves, following where the other man had gone. Oscar had found it. Thank god. The second the yellow eyes lit up the room he tossed the boy the hat. Waiting. Wanting him to just go. Uncertain if speaking would set the vicious thing off. Icarus saw the hat. He picked it up. Put it on his head. He liked his hat. It made him important. He liked being important. There were other boys, he thought, who could use a hat. But not like his. His was best.

He turned to leave, another touch of memory. The man who was not a pile of leaves. He had stolen the hat too. He had done... other things. He was a Demon. Demon disguised as a man.

Icarus turned back, the smile on his face nothing short of terrifying. Oscar felt his blood run cold. "You're a Demon. I'm gonna protect all'a th' boys. 'Cause I ain't never gonna let a Demon jump out without tastin' my sword." The boy walked forward, bat swinging loosely in his grip. His accent should have been gone too. Had been gone. It was an absent note Oscar mentally made. That the boy had, like all the Gatherer's, lost his personality. The things that made him an individual. He'd lost the accent and his preferences and his vigorous sense of right and wrong and his charm. And it was coming back. Had come back. The accent. The need to protect others. If Oscar was honest with himself as the child approached he'd admit that little Patrick McCullen had always kept his charm. The boys still trusted him most. He was an anomaly. An anomaly that made other anomalies. He'd come back, in part, from the conditioning.

Oscar screamed louder than the other scientist had. But it lasted so much shorter. He wasn't a big man. Icarus hit the Demon on the head with his sword. Leaves poured out. And there was no more screaming. He hit the Demon a few more times to be certain. Demons had leaves inside. That’s how you knew they were evil. Real men weren't full of leaves.

The child brushed leaves from his face as he started walking out. He would kill all the Demons in the whole of every place. Him and Mr. Knight who was training him. Icarus had a hat that made him important. He was so important he'd show all of the Demons for what they were. Demons. And there would be no one left to stop Little Sisters or Little Brothers from getting all the power from the Angels.

"Mr. Knight? I wanna go find Angels!" He scrambled into a vent. The Little Brother Gatherer Program had begun....

[weelittlepatrick-blog]

"You're no' my son an' I never loved ya." [from Actual-Atlas]

The smile, eternally fixed on the boys face when his father was around, slipped slightly. That couldn’t be true. He brushed the strawberry blond hair from his eyes, staring up at his father. Waiting for the punch line. Waiting for the man to break and say he was sorry. That he didn’t mean it.

“Th-that ain’t true.” Patrick stumbled over the words, reaching out for Atlas with a shaking hand. “Da’? What... what’d ya say that for? Da’?” Tears sprang into his eyes, fighting the shuttering of his chest as he continued to try to get the answer he wanted. “Da’ tell me ya didn’t mean it. Da’ ya love me. I’m your son! I’m Patrick! Da’!!!”

[weelittlepatrick-blog]

Little Brother Creation: pt 2

(pt 1)

"Ya gotta pull yourselves together." Pat said in earnest. Softly, with the upturned brows of a boy so very concerned for someone else. "Is this how ya wanna be remembered? Huh? Cryin' an' whinin' 'stead'a doin' somethin' about it?" The boys all shook their heads. They were boys of Rapture, pride was practically a requirement. "Then quit it yeah?"

A boy, brunet, with big black eyes, opened his mouth to speak but Patrick put up a hand to stop him. The way he'd seen his father do. And it worked just like it did for Atlas. "I know it hurts. An' I know it don't feel right. But we can't fix it by cryin'."

"How do we fix it smarty pants?" Another asked. Jones, the blond's mind supplied. That one said his name was Jones. Roger had asked him.

"I ain't sure. But--" That one word stopped the uproar before it could start. "I know two grow ups that do. An' it's they're fault we're in here at all. It's their fault we ain't home with our parents. That we got this thin' in our sides. An' if anyone can undo it, it's them."

"Why would they help us after they DID this to us?" Yet another boy asked. Older. Maybe even as old as six. Curly hair. Details Pat noted absently. Little things that he'd use later know the identity of every single one of his men. Like his father knew every one of his.

"We make 'em. It ain't gonna be helpin' us. They're gonna fix it or we're gonna MAKE 'em. But we ain't gonna be able t' do anythin' if you are all still cryin' all th' time. So, are ya Men'a Rapture, or are ya lab rat's t' be stuck wit' needles 'till ya die?"

A small roar broke out. Started by Roger and picked up by all of the other boys. They would not take this laying down. No more crying. No more whining. The scientists would fix what they'd done, or the children would MAKE them. The oldest, tallest boy beamed. Proud of himself and, illogically, proud of his men. They listened to him. Easily. He could make them do anything. Maybe not yet. He knew that this one speech wouldn't be enough. But he had them listening. All he needed now was to be charming and determined. And he had both of those traits in spades.

As the cheer died down twenty pairs of eyes turned, staring in the direction that Icarus was smirking. Right into the mirror. He had an army. And none of them would be dying without putting up one hell of a fight.

"You know," The short man said, looking in through the two way glass at the subjects. Already it was clear that 5 were rejecting the slug. They'd be dead before the week was out. "They've named him."

"Him?" The tall one questioned. He didn't like that boy. The one they had been ordered to take. The son of Atlas. He was too much like his father. He was an outlier in an otherwise clear cut experiment.

"The defiant one." The short man said, pudgy face slipping into a twisted smile.

"Have they? And what did a room of doomed boys name their leader?"

"Icarus."

"The man who flew on wax wings?"

"The same."

The tall one crossed his arms, a thin smile forming on his thin lips. "Flew too close to the sun and fell to his death. Idiot boys don't know what they are dooming him to."

"Idiot boys think he can lead a rebellion and save all their lives."

"They'll stop following him by the end of the week."

The end of the week came, and the boy had not stopped following their appointed leader. In fact, it seemed clear that they would follow him to their own deaths if that's what it took. Of the five boy that had been the sickest; pale and weak, the stitches on their sides’ inflamed and bulging, one of them had improved greatly. His color returning, though the stitches remained red and warm and protruding. The other four, getting steadily weaker.

The children were trying to rally. Trying to figure out a plan. In one week alone they had attempted to obscure the scientists' vision, started trying to pull up tiles to get out, build a tower to get to an air vent, tried to run out as the adults walked in, and now they were starting a total fast. They were refusing to eat anything at all. Which wouldn't matter much at all to the scientists. Except that little brat going by Icarus. They could see his skin paling already, not in a sickly fashion. But in the way which forced them to paint Little Sister's faces to make them less horrific. Which was a first. A first and a very important change. One that they could not allow to starve itself to death.

The two scientists walked in, the short round one with his hands in the air playfully. The tall skinny one kicking away the boys who tried to sneak out. Glaring at them with the scrutiny only an impartial scientist could achieve. "Alright, alright, we're willing to negotiate." The short one said, smiling. Always smiling like this was a children's game. Patrick did not consider it a game. Nor did the other boys.

"There ain't much t' negotiate. We wanna go home an' we want ya t' undo what ya did."

"Well, that's not going to happen." The tall one said, earning himself a glare from the young boy. Roger elbowed Pat, frowning around his thumb. They had to get something out of this. Anything. And they both knew it. If they didn't Icarus would lose the respect of his men.

"Alright. How 'bout jus' them?" He pointed to the four boys on the cots still. They were sick. Even the children knew that. They were too pale. They were hot to the touch. They kept gagging as if their bodies were trying to expel something. "Ya can take care'a them."

"Oh? And just why would we do that?"

"Cause ya want us t' die of what ya did t' us. Not bein' hungry. An' we ain't gonna eat a crumb 'till we get what we want."

There was a heavy moment. Fred, the tall one, knew that they couldn't undo what they had done. The boys were going to die. If you removed the slug, the host died too. If the host rejected the slug, the host died. He did not know, however, how Oscar would play young Icarus. The nuisance.

"We'll take those four. Fix them up. Send them home. You all stop this escaping nonsense. Deal?"

"No." The boy said sternly. "We eat. We ain't stoppin' nothin' else."

"Then they stay."

"An' we starve. I don't care. No one does. Do ya?"

The boys answered in agreement to their fearless leader. The only boy brave enough to stand up to the grownups. Or stupid enough. Regardless the cries were loud and all in agreement. They would die by choice before they would allow anything more to happen without their fighting it every inch of the way.

"See? Ya came t' us t' negotiate cause we ain't eatin'. I told ya th' deal. Ya take them outta here, we eat again. Nothin' more an' nothin' less."

Oscar's smile curled in a way that left Patrick more than a little suspicious. But he said deal and offered a hand to shake. Patrick took the hand, knowing he'd somehow messed up. There was more to this than he understood. The four sick boys were taken away. To go home? That was the deal Roger had assured him. Pat wasn't so sure. He was older than the rest of them. He knew more about grown up things. Like how important the wording of a contract was. He had the boys taken out of the room. He hadn't had them sent home....

Patrick glared endlessly at the mirror. Knowing that on the other side someone probably was watching him. Taking notes. He knew with absolute conviction, the absolute endless conviction that only children can fully muster, that the deal he’d made was nothing more than a trap. He knew the boys were gone. Those four. But he knew too that they did not go home. They were simply removed from the experiment. And for what? So that the rest would eat like good little children.

The blond hated it. Hated himself for falling into that trap. Hated so much. Mostly, he hated the scientists who were doing this to them. 

He wanted to kill the grownups. He knew better than to think that way. But it didn’t stop his anger. Just as his anger didn’t stop the thing in his side from shifting now and again. He didn’t hate that thing so much anymore. That was not the problem. That wasn’t the enemy. The grownups were.

“I’m gonna get revenge ya know.” He called out, the boys looking to him, watching. Their leader was talking but not to them. To the scientsts. “I’m gonna get out an’ when I do I’m gonna find a way t’ get revenge for ya kidnappin’ all a us. For experimentin’ on us like we’re nothing. Ya think you’re safe behind that mirror but ya ain’t. I’m gonna get out. An’ you’ll be sorry. More sorry’n if my Da’ had been able t’ find me.” 

Atlas was a good man. The best man. He would have let these grownups live. Patrick was not his father. The pressure he felt to save his men. The hatred he felt at having been bested. That was his own. He was only barely over 8 and death did not mean to him what it should yet. But he had murder in his young eyes even if he couldn’t identify it.

"That Icarus is only getting more annoying."

"It'll fade."

"You said that three weeks ago. Look at them. Those brats have rallied with him even more."

"Of course they have. You can see why his father has such a following no?"

"His father isn't in our experiment."

"Oh don't be sour. This seems to be working fine. Better than fine. Soon we'll have to go talk to the Nazi about conditioning."

Fred crossed his arms. Three more boys had died since the first four had been put down. Two more were clearly on the way out. If the projections were correct, they either would once again have a total failure in five weeks, or they would end up with eight Male Gatherers. But he didn't like it. The experiment was working, yes. But this was also meant to be a control. Where they did nothing different and proved they got the same result. Yet Icarus had paled to almost grey, his little right hand Roger was close behind, and the one who had been sick and improved now had yellow rings in his green eyes. Nothing had changed. So why was everything different?

"I don't like it. They are getting violent."

"What did you expect? It's a room of little boys trapped together and egged on by an older boy."

"I expected control.”

"Science in Rapture rarely has control."

"I don’t like it."

"Then leave. I'll keep your paycheck Fred."

"Not on your life Oscar."

Icarus sat on his cot, watching the other boys. Watching his men. So many were dying. And so fast. One moment they were here, the next, gone forever. They were all of them now aware of what had been put in them. Of what they were becoming. All of them were growing very pale. Many were starting to have yellow in their eyes. They looked to him for help, for something to hold onto. And all he could do was keep saying they would get out. They were different than Little Sisters. They still had minds. Their voices were echoing wrong though. Sometimes a boy would talk and the sound would hum oddly and everyone would look at him, silently, waiting for him to say something that didn't make sense. To talk about angels or ADAM. None of them ever did. It was little comfort for the little boys.

Today was different. A couple were sparing, as had quickly become the favorite game. A few others trying to come up with a plot to share with their leader. Many were lying in bed, withering away. Rodger came to sit next to him. The boy still sucked his thumb, a sickly yellow glow coming from his eyes and casting dark shadows on the planes of his round face. Patrick felt bad. Worse than bad though he lacked the word to describe it. This was his fault. That they were becoming this. That they were still trapped. That eventually they would all die. It was his fault, but a boy of Rapture was never taught guilt, and so he had no word to express the emotion.

Roger looked at him. Perhaps the only boy to so do without immediate expectation in his eyes. Just a quiet watching. He was probably a very good student once. Pat never had been.

"I've never heard of a Little Brother." The younger boy said softly. What everyone else was thinking, but trying to not acknowledge.

"Me neit--"

A speaker came on, cutting Icarus off and pulling all of the little boys’ eyes up to the center of the room where a circle of televisions faced down at them. A man's face came onto it. He wasn't one of the scientists. In fact, he looked a lot like the posters of Atlas smashed together with Mr. Ryan. Patrick could see both men in the face. His father's eyes and Mr. Ryan's mouth. His father's hair but Mr. Ryan’s mustache. So no matter who the boys preferred, they could see it in this stranger. When he spoke it was in a clear voice. Not like a teacher. There was no reprimand at all, no orders no expectations. Like a mother but in a man's body and with a man's voice. Kind and understanding. Trust worthy.

"Hello boys." Some of the boys answered back though it was obvious the man couldn't hear them. Pat felt his body relax. He didn’t like it. It was like being just a little out of control. He didn’t want to relax, but he was. "I think it's time for Good Boys to go to their beds." The man said the capitols of the words. Again Pat didn’t like it. There was something strange about it. About all of it. But his eyes were growing heavy as subliminal messages flashed at near-dangerous levels from behind the kind face. A small nap. "Good Boys listen when they are told to do something." But Patrick hated being told what to do. "Everyone go to bed. Be Good Boys and go to bed." Rodger slipped from pat's cot and the little blond felt himself falling backwards. A very small nap....

(pt 3)

[weelittlepatrick-blog]

Little Brother Creation: pt 1

(Ok. The first time I posted it was unwieldy. So I’m gonna break it up a bit. It’s just a drabble fic thing about the creation of the Little Brothers of which Patrick is one.)

The first thing Patrick became aware of was the sense of floating. He couldn't seem to open his eyes. Or move his body. And for a seemingly endless stretch of what might have been time he didn't even care. Floating was nice.

The next thing the young boy knew, he was very much solid again, and very much wishing he was still floating.

A shrill scream echoed in the vastness of the sterile room. It was not the only scream. Not in the least. It joined the others in a cacophony of anguish and terror. How the adults were able to speak so calmly on the other side of the window may have been due to the walls having soundproofing. That or they lacked even the slightest hint of empathy.

The taller one sighed, his arms crossed in front of him. Wiry frame matching his wire-rimmed glasses. Dark eyes watching with unapologetic apathy as the room full of boys screamed.

"I'm not entirely sure keeping them awake is necessary."

The shorter, rounder man hummed under his breath. Some song he'd listened to far more than healthy back on the surface. The smile on his plump lips belonging in a more pleasant place than this.

"The comatose subjects all failed. The Krout over with the Sisters Program thinks it has to do with the slug bonding to its host. Pain and a need to ensure survival."

"It sounds like crack-pot Nazi science to me."

"Never heard you complain about the Nazi methods before."

The thin man smirked softly. "No. I suppose not.

Boys were never ever supposed to cry. That's what they'd been told. Especially not boys like them. The future of Rapture on their shoulders. Future tycoons of industry and art who would continue to pull the Great Chain ever onward.

It was much easier said than done.

Patrick glanced around, his blue-green eyes not free of tears. He noted, almost absently, that he was the oldest. The only other boy even close was still far too short to be very much older than 6 while he sat there at a bit over 8.They knew why little girls were taken away. Even children were not that stupid. Well, the girls were. Stupid enough to get kidnapped. Boys though. They were different.

"Will ya quit that noise? I'm tryin' t' think."

The younger boys- some were really barely out of dippers probably- one sucking his thumb even as tears streamed down his face and he poked the fresh sutures on his side- all looked at Patrick. There was something in him, as there was something in his father, which demanded the attention of a room. A sense that they were trustworthy and powerful in ways they certainly were not.

After a heavy moment of silence chaos erupted again. Screaming and crying and begging all poured from the mouths of those young children while Patrick sat and frowned. His side was on fire. Like the time he'd touched his mother's iron. Only worse times a billion and six. He wanted to cry too. And scream. He felt like there was something inside him. Something that he wanted to throw up. Something that he wanted no part of and which wanted nothing to do with him. But more than anything else in the whole wide world, the boy wanted his Da'.

However, Patrick Oliver McCullen was a Son of Rapture. He knew better than to beg. To cry out and plead for something he'd not created himself? Never. Patrick McCullen was not, would not, and had never been, a Parasite. The other boys could fall into that trap if they wanted. Not him.

When adults finally walked into the room, looking down at the scattered mass of sniveling children with all the emotion of a wall, Patrick understood. It hit him suddenly but with absolute certainty. They were just as stupid as the girls who got kidnapped. The only difference was that people talked about and saw Little Sisters. No one had ever seen a Little Brother before. And he knew that it was not a good thing. Science in Rapture moved fast and it moved first through rumors and secrets. If there were no rumors and no secrets there had yet to be anything close to a success.

Absently the blond poked the sutures on his side while the grownups tried to calm the other boys with yelling and with threats. That wasn't how you dealt with an unruly mob. Pat knew. He'd watched his Da' do it. Watched him calm a small army of men with his voice. And watched the man rally that same group into a frenzy vicious enough to attack Mr. Ryan's men. He knew that yelling got people madder. And speaking softly made them trust you.

Whoever these scientists were they were idiots.

"You're gonna be in big trouble when my Da' finds me." He said simply. Loud enough to be heard but with the calm conviction of someone who had no reason at all to doubt his statement.

The two men looked at one another, the thinner stepping toward him finally. Pat, being that he was very nearly a grown up, only shuffled backward a little bit. And only because he was in a little pain and only kinda scared a little. The tall man leaned over, his black eyes boring into Patrick's bright ones.

"Your father won't ever find you. No one will. You're all alone here. And most of you will die before those sutures even begin to heal."

Pat poked his side, pouting and doing his best not to cry. A child of Rapture wouldn't cry. The Son of the People wouldn't cry. Patrick Oliver McCullen was both of those things. So he didn't cry until the grownups had eventually left and the lights went out with a definitive clunk. The bottom of the ocean had never been so dark before. And since it was too dark to see anything anyway, Pat figured it was ok to cry.

The next day brought with it the bright sterile lights of a hospital. Unapologetic and unkind. The lights clunked on without warning, the boys all jumping awake with a start. Most had found themselves sharing beds. Not that there weren't enough. There was exactly one bed for each boy. But fear had the boys, especially the youngest boys, huddling to one another as if to a living teddy bear. False safety in comfort. More than that, the beds could hardly be called such. Cot was a better word and in the back of his mind Patrick heard a small voice say, 'gurney'.

The scientists came in same as the day before. The blond boy frowned as he noted the way they walked, and stood and looked around. All as if they owned every child they saw. As if they were less than children even. Lab rats. Less than that maybe. Not even really alive. Corpses to be cut open and poked around in. He'd seen those looks, those walks and stances before. It's how Mr. Ryan's men looked at all the people in Apollo. Or in The Drop. It's how the artists looked at him when he wandered in Fort Frolic. More hateful than that he simply didn't belong. It was as if he didn't deserve to exist.

The thinner, taller man looked down his nose, under his glasses at them. The other boys flinched. They probably had never been hurt before by a grown up. Sometimes, when Pat mentioned that he'd been hit by adults before, people gave his Da' a look. He wasn't sure why. His Da’ was the very best man in the world and wouldn’t hurt anyone who didn’t really deserve it. He meant that when he was not at all in the middle of a brawl because he in no way disobeyed his mother and father by trying to join a revolution he was too young to fully understand, the grownups didn't care how big you were nor how young. Ryan's men would beat anyone who claimed to be a follower of Atlas. And Patrick proudly puffed his chest out when he said he was the biggest supporter of Atlas ever always. It usually got him punched in said chest.

And these men. They would hurt all of the other boys. For the best and worst reason that Pat in all his infinite wisdom could imagine; science.

They were here, all of them, because someone was doing science. They wanted to know more or do more. And a means to that end would always be experiments on other people. The boy had just assumed it was always people who were being paid for it.

"What're ya tryin' t' do anyhow?" He asked while the fatter man prodded his side and made non-committal sounds.

The man grinned and ruffled Patrick's hair. "Aren't you cute? Isn't he cute Fred?"

"Very." Not that the wiry 'Fred' sounded very convinced of it. Patrick frowned his best frown; a pout.

"I mean it. I'm smart an' I wanna know what th' experiment is."

The grownups glanced at one another. Fred spoke in a monotone of disinterest. "I doubt it would affect anything. It's up to you Oscar."

Oscar ruffled Pat's hair again, earning him a slap in the general direction of his face. Pat missed the mark though it was close. Oscar laughed softly and stood back up, going to the next boy in the row of beds. "We're seeing which of you dies first." He answered the Irish boy at last. "There hasn't been a success yet and we are going to figure out why."

"I ain't gonna die." Patrick said simply, scrunching his nose at a much younger boy who crawled onto his bed, thumb still in his mouth. "I already decided I ain't."

"That has yet to be seen."

The scientists left them to their own devices a lot. They had taken notes. They took measurements of the sutures, of the boys’ weight and the clearness of their eyes. Other than that, they did little with the children. It bothered Patrick. It wasn't right. That’s not how science worked. Which meant there was a lot they weren't aware of. He hated not being aware. Constantly in the way, the boy had always wanted to know everything. It was his only fault. Insatiable curiosity. Of course, those were his words. Pride, many listed as a fault, a tendency to mouth off, and a habit of disobedience or outright refusal to acknowledge rules. The list went on. Not to mention the charm of his father.

Regardless,  the blond boy sat at the foot of the cot, defiantly staring at a mirror he was more than certain was a window. Daring the scientists to kill him. Waiting. The thing in his side stopped being so gross and he mostly forgot about it save when the sutures caused him pain or whatever it was shifted. Other boys weren't so lucky. Constantly they whined about the thing. No one knew what it was. Whatever had been put in them while they screamed in agony. There was no telling what it was, but the boys cried that it hurt, or that it was moving and it was bad. Patrick sat silently, glaring.

The boy who kept his thumb in his mouth sat next to him, looking between the older boy and the mirror before settling beside him fully. The younger boy, thumb still in his mouth, did his best to glare as well. Pat raised an annoyed eyebrow. "What're ya doin'?"

"I dunno." The child admitted, turning his big green eyes toward Patrick. "But you're doing it. And you're the oldest. And you said you were going to live even though the grownups said we'd all die. So I'm going to do what you're doing. And I'm not gonna die."

Pat blinked dumbly, the thumb-sucker going back to his glaring at the likely two-way mirror. Is this what it's like, the child wondered, to be his Da'? To have people listen to him and do as he did just because he was doing it? He took a deep breath and went back to his own glare, arms crossed over his chest. "I think that's where th' scientists watch us from."

"We should throw something at it. Something sticky. Grownups hate that."

The blond’s glare broke as he turned to smile at the other boy. "I'm Patrick."

"Roger. You should go by Icarus."

"How come?"

"Cause if you wanted you could save us. And Icarus is the only name I know that sounds like Atlas. And Atlas is gonna save the whole city."

Icarus. Patrick wasn't sure what it was, if it even was a name at all. But Roger thought of him like his Da', and his Da' was the best man in the whole world. So, Roger was good. But saving the other boys? He looked around, blue-green eyes scanning the faces. Still so scared. Still crying. Some of them were already starting to look ill. Like they might die right now. So many were still crying even after three days. Saving them. It was a weight he'd never expected on his young shoulders. Was this the cost of being great? This pressure? This sudden responsibility made his breath catch. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be great. But he did want to be like his Da’… "Alright." He muttered, looking straight at the mirror. Determination building quickly as he spoke to Roger. "Icarus. An' I'll save as many of ya as I can.”

(pt 2)

[weelittlepatrick-blog]

Little Brother Creation: pt 3

(pt 2)

It had been... time. The time was getting funny. The boys no longer were sure how much time passed. Some of them were starting to forget things. Not Icarus. He was older though. He had to remember. They looked up to him. Expected him to recall the things they forgot. Like their names.

Roger looked up at him, thumb in his mouth, yellow eyes glowing. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. Icarus knew. Something was wrong. Something was happening. He was pretty sure it was the man on the TV. The one with the nice voice. The one who told them to do things. They did what he told them. They were calmer then they had been before. The boys were fighting one another less. They were fighting the scientists less. They were succumbing to the sickness inside them more. Less fighting meant more dying. Icarus would not have it.

The boys were eating quietly. The way they'd been told to. Soup. It's all they ate anymore. Soup. Warm soup. Not hot. Warm.

"Icarus?" Roger asked softly, finally removing his thumb to eat as well. He was a Good Boy. He'd eat too. The older boy shook his head. Staring at the soup. The red, red soup. He hated it. He hated everything. He hated this place. He wanted to go home. The bad feeling that had stared in his chest and stomach had never left. The one that he had no name for. The writhing thing that said this was all his fault. The boys who died left blood on his young hands. Blood. This soup looked like blood. Warm soup. Warm like blood in a body. Little Brothers. Little Sisters who drank blood from dead bodies. Soup like blood. He hated it all. All of it.

Before he could register the thought or the action the young blond's bowl was flying across the room, smashing into pieces against the mirror where he knew- just knew- the adults were watching. Soup- or was it blood- dripped down the reflective surface, painting his pale face in red.

Everyone stopped. Staring. Waiting for something. Anything. The subliminal messages though. Good Boys do as they are told. They were told. But Icarus was their leader. Icarus was better. Good Boys do as they are told.

"Icarus... Good Boys--"

The older boy cut the other off with a look. An angry look. A murderous look. "I don't care one bit 'bout bein' a good nothin'. I wanna go home. An' I promised t' get all of ya out. An' sittin' here quiet like ain't gettin' us no place. They would have ya become Little Sister's. Drinkin' blood an' stabbin' corpses. I ain't gonna do it. I ain't ever."

He glared at the mirror, watching the blood- the soup maybe- drip down over his once blue eyes. Knowing that the scientists had heard every word. They could try to stop him. Just like Mr. Ryan tried to stop his Da'. It wouldn't change a thing. He was not going to stop trying to escape. They couldn't make him. He would resist every second of every day and he'd drag his men along kicking and screaming if he had to.

It had been hard, to get his men back from the other side. To get them from the clutches of the man on the screen. He wasn't even sure he understood how he had done it himself. But he had. And little by little, he pulled them away. Each time the man came on, speaking in that sweet voice. That calming and perfect voice, Icarus would stand on his bed and start a speech. It didn't work well at first. They ignored him entirely. But Rodger tried. Rodger believed in him. Rodger had picked the name Icarus and Rodger would not let him stop. Rodger with his yellow eyes and that damn thumb stuck in his mouth.

Rodger started keeping his eyes fixed on the blond. When the oldest boy would stand and demand to be heard. As he spoke of the outside. Of being Men of Rapture and not Little Girls. Little Sisters were stupid girls who were snatched up. They were MEN. They had PRIDE. They had brains and brawn and they could do this. They were better than this. But they had to start by resisting that stupid man on that stupid screen.

Little at a time, eyes would flick away from the screen. Little by little the orders would be disobeyed, or considered at the very least. Little by little Icarus was getting his army back. Little by very little. By the time he even thought he had them at all, they were down to twelve. Twelve boys. There had been so many more at first. He couldn't remember them all. Couldn't recall the number. But there had been more of them. And them not being here was his fault. They were... gone.

The boy rubbed his temples, trying to clear the fog around his head. Speeches or not, resisting or not, he was being exposed to the same mental conditioning as all the rest. He was there in the thick of it with every other boy. Icarus shook his head, blond hair flopping back and forth before he pushed it from his yellow eyes. They all had yellow eyes now. All pale. All their voices hummed oddly and none of them even noticed the change. Couldn't recall what their voices had been.

Violence. That was the only thing that kept the fog away at all. Kept the world from going blue and silver. They spared all the time, even when the voice on the screen was talking. They wrestled and fought and yelled and beat one another. It was remarkably fun actually. And they were finding that they healed fast. Faster than they ever had before. Fast enough that they didn't care if they drew blood or cracked one another’s teeth. Didn't mind when they burst lips or broke skin. By the next round they were well again. So what did it matter?

They were better than stupid girls who let themselves be kidnapped and brainwashed. They could do whatever they wanted. They were invincible. And it wouldn't be long until Icarus got them out and all of Rapture knew how invincible they were.

Oscar and Fred looked in on the boys, neither smiling. This was getting very close to being a very dangerous situation. It was one thing to have the boys be violent in the way young boys might ever be. To spar once in a while. To yell. To try to rebel. But what they were doing now was something new. Something dangerous. They were drawing blood regularly- the floor of the containment room splattered in crimson and rusty red where they had beaten one another mercilessly. It was a matter of time until they moved on to breaking bones and as fast as they healed a broken arm would likely have to be re-broken to be set correctly.

The only benefit seemed to be that the brats were still slowly dying off. Twelve was down to ten in a matter of a week. Problem was those remaining boys gave no indication of ever stopping now.

"Fred?"

"Yes Oscar?" The wiry man replied, glaring through the glass at the damnable blond who created this chaos.

"What does one do with little boys who refuse to behave?"

"Beat them?"

The round man shook his head, a smile curling his lips at last. "You wait for their father to get home.”

Icarus should have known something was wrong. When the door opened all on its own. When no one came in to critically look at them. To be honest, the scientists were coming in less and less. The boys were dangerous. Last time the grownups had entered three of the boys had turned from fighting one another and attacked him. Small fists and teeth and feet in a violent assault. The man had left with mostly bruising. But that wasn't the point. The point was that they were so very violent. Dangerous. Lucky only that they were all under the age of six. All but Icarus who stood at the foot of his bed and smirked. A dark expression made darker by the glowing of his eyes. Casting the lines of his expression into sharp contrast.

He should have known something was wrong. But he didn't. The door opened. No one entered. The boys, his men, all stopped what they were doing. All nine of them looking to him for direction. The blond had stepped forward. Leaned out of the door. Saw nothing.

Were they free? Did they win? "Come on. Quiet like."

A gaggle of boys followed him. From the room they'd been kept in and down a hall. Icarus knew this hall. Not for any particular reason. But in an absent way. He'd walked a lot of halls of a lot of laboratories- always in a sneaky way. This hall was any of those halls. All of those halls. The same white and steal walls he was used to seeing now draped here and there in rich blue drapery. The lights shining on the floor made it almost look silver. Platinum. Bright and new and grandiose. But only in places. They'd been careful. He'd kept the fog away. He'd tried so hard to keep the fog away. His men. These boys. They needed him. For some reason.

As they came to a door a sound echoed down the hall. All of Rapture knew that sound. The rumbling of the floor and the echoing of the hall and the chill up the spine. A Big Daddy was coming.

Panic set in almost instantly. The boys all bum rushing the door only to find it locked. It had been a trap. Icarus should have known. The boy who sucked his thumb. The one whose name started with R. He should have known. Should have warned Icarus. The oldest boy should have guessed that the scientists were trying to find a way to kill them. Should have. Should have. Should---

But then the Big Daddy was in view. A tall thing made of steal and silver. A knight in shining armor come to help them vanquish dragons and demons and monsters. And it did not attack them. It looked at them. It rumbled it's sound at them. And the boys looked at it. They whimpered back. But neither party made a move.

"Ic'rus... go see what it wants." One of the boys urged. A red head. The color absurdly bright against his grey forehead.

The blond, of course, had no choice. He was the leader. Which meant he had to do it. Though, he did punch the boy hard in the nose for talking. They were in a standoff. Didn't anyone know anything?

"Hush up. I'm goin'."

He swallowed hard and stepped past his men. Walked on bare feet to the Big Daddy. The might Big Daddy who looked unlike any Big Daddy he'd ever seen. They were supposed to be diving suits. This one was armor. But it sounded like a Big Daddy.

The 8 year old looked up at the creature. The Armor looked down at the child- confused as this one was not in a dress- not a princess. Pat pouted. The creature offered a hand. The little boy had seen how Little Sisters acted. Climbing up the beasts they walked with. But this was a knight. You didn't climb on knights. He blinked big yellow eyes at the thing before putting his hand in the massive one and shaking it decisively. They were men. And men shook hands. The scientists were dumb. They didn't know that the boys had a knight on their side.

(pt 4)

[weelittlepatrick-blog]

I want the K ((huehueheuhe))

36: Kiss with explosions in the background

@wuunderkinds

Patrick was very good at one thing. Well... he was very good at a lot of things. But there was one in particular that he was specially bad at. And it was timing. He’d never really gotten the timing of some things right. Like... when to tell his parents he wanted to go to the city to be a state alchemist. Apparently that shouldn't happen at the breakfast table the day his father was leaving for work and his mother had to go take care of his grandmother. Who would have known?

Similarly, it seemed that the middle of a firefight might not be the ideal time to blurt out that he liked Becca more than anyone else and he thought she was the best alchemist in the world and she was also the prettiest. 

But the words were out now. With the young woman staring him down as if he were totally insane. It probably didn’t help that he’d not in fact ever become a state anything. It took too much math to be an alchemist. The numbers were dumb. 

“You WHAT?” She cried as she dragged him toward cover. Arcadia already over there, waving them over desperately.

“I love ya. An’ that means I ain’t a civilian.”

“That is not how that works.” The dark haired girl was muttering it under her breath. Not that Pat didn't hear. Just that she wasn’t yelling it to be heard.

The blond was increasingly certain that she had no idea just how much he meant those words. He DID love her. Probably. He certainly liked her more than a friend. 

The teen dug his heels into the ground, bringing them to a stop. The metal hand around his wrist tightened. Rebecca very well might throw him over her shoulder soon. This was his chance though. This split second of her not yet sure what to do with him.

Patrick used his free hand to grab the back of her neck, dragging her to his level. She was too tall really. He didn't care though. The boy pressed his lips to hers. His first kiss. A not very good one. Something blew up nearby, knocking both over. Breaking the moment. Giving Rebecca all the time she needed to finish throwing the idiot boy to her sister to watch over before turning on a heel and going about what she did- being totally awesome.

“I kissed Becca.” Pat bragged to Arcadia softly. 

“You know that people are trying to kill us... don’t you Patrick?” The boy shrugged. Timing was hard. But he’d gotten his kiss.

[weelittlepatrick-blog]

Rebecca and Arcadia never considered you as anything to them and they never will. They only think you're a loud obnoxious brat and it's because of you that they're always almost killed.

Patrick opened his mouth to object. Hands balling into fists. He was not! Rebecca and Arcadia liked him! They had to! They had….

The boys mouth closed without a sound coming out, his shoulder slumping. Loud. Obnoxious. And how many times had he gotten them into trouble? And what for? Because he didn’t listen. Because he had more pride than sense. He liked them so much though. It… it wasn’t fair that they…

“I… I don’t believe ya.” Pat sounded unsure of that. The statement almost a question in its tone. “Rebecca ‘r Arcadia would have told me themselves. They… wouldn’t let jus’ anyone tell me… They’re too nice for that…”

[weelittlepatrick-blog]

You won't ever be able to lead the other Little Brothers, and the Demons will win.

The boy’s golden eyes narrowed dangerously. The light that poured from them a sliver of yellow that shot the lines of his disdain into sharp contrast. He would protect all the Little Brothers. Forever. Because he was a knight in training. He had a sword that made Demons show what they really were. No one could tell him otherwise.

“I don’t like you.” The Little Brother’s voice rang and echoed. The accent that had no right to be there not helping the inhuman nature of it. “I think... ya might jus’ be a Demon in disguise.”

The metal bat- the practice sword- swung in a small arch, bouncing off the ground with a clang. “I’m gonna get rid a all th’ things like you....”

[weelittlepatrick-blog]

📚

“If I but the chance of seeing a man for once, I would set on him all the same” ~The Wolf and the Man from Grimm’s Complete Fairy Tales

Patrick swung the bat back and forth. Babbling on and on endlessly. He’d seen a splicer the other day. One of the few people in the city who had used too much ADAM. He’d asked his mother what they were. If someone spliced up so much they looked like that were they still human? His mother had replied simply, ‘it’s still a man’. 

“An’ what I think is. If I get th’ chance t’ see a man, I’ll jus’ hit him. I ain’t gonna let no one attack th’ Little Sisters. ‘Cause they’er th’ buildn’ blocks’a th’ city. What with drinkin’ ADAM an’ all that.” 

The child stopped swinging his bat, walking back and forth on a bench. Looked at the person he’d been talking to. “What d’ ya think?”

[weelittlepatrick-blog]

keep sneaking around the way you do and you might end up whacked on accident! can't say i'd be too sad to see you go though...

Patrick wasn’t entirely certain what ‘whacked’ meant. He was pretty sure it probably meant ‘hit really hard’ but if that was the case where was he going? Regardless. This person was just trying to scare him. A lot of people did. ‘If you don’t stop sneaking--’ blah blah blah...

The boy shrugged before putting his hands on his hips. The spitting image of his father on those posters. “If I didn’t sneak someone’d shoot me. I gotta sneak or I ain’t gonna learn nothin’.”

[weelittlepatrick-blog]

Nobody loves you kid! You're all ALONE!!!

Patrick stuck his tongue out. In a very mature way ‘cause he’s very nearly a grown up of course. 

“Shows what you know. ‘Cause my Da’ loves me more’n anythin’ in th’ world.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. Nodding as if to signify that he was giving the other permission to leave in shame.

[weelittlepatrick-blog]

I want the K- roseydecay

10: neck kiss

@roseydecay

Atlas eyed the woman from the corner of his eye. They’d always been on shaky ground with one another. She wanted to trust him, he thought, but there was the whole ‘being a good person’ thing that seemed to be an issue now and again. Apparently taking Rapture from the bastard Andrew Ryan by any means necessary was not universally approved of. Certainly not by the spliced freak with the flowers for one of her eyes.

As far as he could tell? Ume might be close to outliving her usefulness. Those flowers were a distraction. More than that, they were delicate. They were attached to her. They were probably slowly eating her from the inside. As more of his men were more badly spliced she had to be more careful in case one mistook the vivid red for ADAM. Not to mention she was conspicuous. Hard not to notice a horror show like that.

The man would have to get rid of her soon. Very soon. For now however, he ran a hand through his dyed black hair. The blond was starting to show again. Shame that. 

He’d redye it after he got rid of his flower-problem. Blue-green eyes skimmed her up and down for a long moment. While she was here though… waste not want not.

Atlas didn’t bother saying a word. What was there to say? He was going to do whatever he wanted anyway. And it was so much easier to talk his way into it AFTER he’d started. 

The man looped his hands around her waist, starting to kiss Ume’s neck. The back of his mind wondered what would happen if he bit one of those stupid fucking roses. He refrained. Keeping to kisses along her neck instead, pulling her closer and closer against him as he did so. 

[weelittlepatrick-blog]

I want the K (if you get a silly kiss or something i want it for child pat!! )

19: Forceful Kiss

Patrick stared out at the city. From a distance it was easy to pretend that all was well. But the truth was Ryan was a bastard. He was letting his own city go to shit rather than admit for a second he was wrong. The blond had taken over for his father. Become Atlas. Because that’s what the city needed. Trouble was it meant that most thought him married to his mother. 

Not Minnie though. She knew better. She’d known him as Patrick. Before he’d died his hair black. Before the revolution had become a full blown war.

The man turned from the window, looking at her. She was pretty. Always had been. When he was just Patrick he’d never said anything. Now that he was Atlas he couldn’t. Not in front of people. Not where they might hear and accuse him of cheating on his mom. And wasn’t that just the sickest thing he’d ever thought about?

Silently Pat... Atlas, walked over to her. Without a word he lifted her chin so that she had to look at him. Maybe he was lonely. Just wanted to be known as himself. As Patrick Oliver O’Hara instead of Atlas. Maybe he was looking for something soft in the middle of the battle field his life had become. The man wasn’t sure. 

Regardless of why he pressed his lips to hers. One hand still holding her chin, the other moving quickly to the back of her neck. For balance? To keep her from moving away? Just so that his hand had something to do, the tremor of immobility starting up in him once more? It didn’t matter. When one kiss ended he started another. All without a word of explanation or permission asked. 

[weelittlepatrick-blog]

Stop being so ... childish. You truly believe a mere parasite like your father can 'fix' Rapture? Can keep it afloat the same way Andrew Ryan has? The great chain shall only break and fall deeper into the ocean.

Patrick stared for a long time. His father wasn’t a parasite. Parasites made people sick. And stole things. His father never did that. His father made him feel better when he was sick. That was the opposite of a parasite. But he couldn't deny that this was far from the first time he’d heard Atlas referred to as a parasite......

No. 

The child’s jaw clenched in rage, his fists curling at his sides.

“My Da’s th’ furthest thin’ from a Parasite! Mr. Ryan’s th’ one who’s gone an’ ruined Rapture! Mr. Ryan ain’t ever kept any a th’ promises he made t’ people! A verbal contract is still a contract an’ while not as bindin’ as a written document ya still gotta abide by it! Th’ Great Chain ain’t gonna break for nothin’! It’s invincible! No human can stop it an’ no human can break it! My Da’s gonna fix Rapture an’ make sure that Th’ Great Chain pulls Rapture t’ th’ greatness our city deserves! Mr. Ryan might a built Rapture but that don’t mean he’s allowed t’ run it! We’re free men an’ my Da’s th’ only one tryin’ t’ keep it that way!”

He might not understand everything when it came to the politics and the social ideals of his city. He might only be parroting what he had learned in school and in the Public Broadcasts to some extent. Growing up in the city made it easy to indoctrinate him. The child’s own hero worship of his father, however, made it impossible to see any other side. With Atlas on a pedestal there would be no way to convince him of anything but the mans perfection. Atlas couldn't be anything but a savior to Patrick.

[weelittlepatrick-blog]

❛ is this yours ? ❜

Patrick looked at the hat in the man’s hand for all of half a second before his hands both flew up to his head. Running over unkempt blond locks as blue-green eyes grew wide with shock. The boy snatched the hat and shoved it on. His hat was, by far, his most prized possession. His father had given it to him. He’d almost lost it and not even known.

He pouted (frowned in a very grown up way if you asked the child. At 11 years old he was after all very nearly a grown up) and nodded. “Yeah. It’s mine. Thanks minster. Where’d ya find it? How'd ya know it was mine? It’s a really important hat ya know. It don’t look like much but ya can’t always trust what things look like t’ know how important they are.”

[weelittlepatrick-blog]

(adult) what is your happiest childhood memory?

Patrick thought a moment, spinning in the chair. Honestly, if it weren’t for his stature one might mistake him for a child still. His mother still accused him of it. Said that the Fay still had her sweet little boy and this Changeling they’d left would never grow up.

Abruptly he stopped, a foot on the table and a bright grin on his lips. Light danced behind his blue green eyes. He knew it. The very best memory of his childhood. At least for the moment. Surly a better one would come later.

“So, Da’s got this friend right? An’ he’s Mum’s friend too even if she denies it. Anyway, so one day he asks me, he says, ‘hey Pat, what’d’ya think’s at th’ top’a that ol’ bell tower?’. An’ I told him a bell. An’ Murphy, that was his name, Uncle Murphy laughs an’ says no. He says that there’s a ghost up in th’ tower. An’ I don’t believe him, I really don’t. But what boy ain’t gonna go lookin’ for ghosts? So me an’ Uncle Murphy go up int’ th’ old bell tower’a th’ church, an’ what he didn’ tell me was he told Da’ t’ meet him at th’ bottom. So we get t’ th’ top an’ it’s jus’ a dumb ol’ bell after all. An’ he suddenly remembers he’s gotta go do somethin’. An’ goes down t’ meet Da’. An’ I’m like... 8. I start talkin’ t’ myself, an’ t’ th’ bell an’ whatever.”

Patrick starts laughing. He hasn’t said a joke. Nothing is funny. But he knows what happened next. He remembers when Murphy came up and grabbed him by the hand and ran out of the church as fast as he could drag the boy. And he remembers how his father had spent a week solid trying to convince his mother that there was a ghost in the old church. A little kid who was up in the bell tower. How you could hear a voice echoing down when no one was there. Apparently his unofficial uncle had dragged him away so fast because his father was coming up a different set of stairs and he didn’t want Pat to be seen. Murphy had used the boy to play a prank on an old friend and being part of that moment still made Pat laugh.

“It was... I ain’t gonna lie. If I could still get my Da’ t’ believe a prank like that... Uncle Murphy was th’ best.”