Atlas woke up to a gentle stroke on his back and a quiet conversation. The circular motions were rather pleasant, and for a long moment he didn't bother opening his eyes.

It... smelled like home. The scents of dirt and pines and sandalwood lingered in the fabric pressed against his face. It was warm, too, like sunlight pooled on his back, like he had his face resting on a sleeping bag.

He breathed in deeply.

Why was this so wrong?

He chewed on the thought until the circles stopped and he heard the grandfather's voice.

"Why bother?"

It cut through the calm sense of tranquility, and immediately the alcohol, the blood, the sand and dust slapped him in the face.

Atlas' eyes flew open.

His head was buried in Ashe's jacket remains, like Cerberus had bothered to pick it up and bring it back for him.

Immediately, his stomach knotted. He stilled in place, staring forward with wide eyes.

He was back in the mansion, on the table beneath crystal chandeliers. There was a wine glass to his right, filled with deep burgundy liquid right to the rim. August sat in a miserable hunch not far from him, his arms crossed against his chest, his body sinking so far into the chair he may as well have been sitting on the floor.

"Oh are you waking up, Atlas?"

If Atlas didn't think the world could be more twisted, he was wrong.

He could recognize his mother's touch anywhere. He didn't need the voice and the smell to know that she was sitting right beside him, rubbing his back in absent thought.

What would be different when he picked his head up and looked at her? Would she be the same? Look the same?

He couldn't do it, he realized quickly.

He couldn't lift his head up. His eyes stayed unfocused on the wine glass, watching the liquid shiver in the glass with each movement at the table, so close to spilling over the edge.

Although it pained him to think about it, he didn't want to see her again. He had considered himself finally moved on until now - even though some things still pained him on his off days, he was fine. He had a stable life, decent friends, a boring but fairly stable job with a great manager, and a boring but decently priced apartment.

But if he looked up then, he knew it wouldn't feel like enough. It wouldn't feel worth going back to. Especially if she was the same.

The table shivered as a chair was pushed back, and the first bead of wine spilled over the edge of the glass. It stopped about half way down, clinging to the glass like it was really drying hot glue, and not wine.

And then he realized, that's not where the shivering came from.

It sped up, causing even the chandeliers to clink above his head. Dust cascaded down, the particles catching the light cast through floor-to-ceiling windows.

He jerked upright when he realized that August wasn't moving. His chest didn't rise or fall, and his eyes were blank.

When he swiveled to look across the table, he saw the grandfather frozen as well, his face twisted in irritation, his mouth half open as if he was about to speak.

And he didn't dare look over far enough to see his mother. He stopped at her shadow on the table. He saw her familiar hand, with his father's ring on her finger, before he turned away.

What was going on?

Hmmm.

A thunderous hum sounded from above.

He asked the question too early, it seemed.

Atlas swallowed, placing his palms flat on the table top, ready to push himself up and leave if he needed too.

Chaos, as August called him, spoke, his voice causing the house to rumble. How are you fairing, Rude One?

He tightened his fingers against the table top. How do you think? He clamped his mouth shut. That kind of response is exactly why he was in this position in the first place, because the damned being couldn't bother to act older than a child with more power than he could handle. 

"Why are they all...like this?" he asked instead, avoiding the question altogether. He gestured toward August, who had yet to move since Chaos marred his arrival.

Because I willed them to be.

There was a long pause. It made Atlas want to fidget.

Why are you not looking at her?  Isn't having her back one of your greatest desires? 

"Because she's not real," he forced out. "None of them are real."

Yet you've been talking to August like he's the same best friend you used to have. Why?

"Why are you asking me this?"

Like I said, I watch, I learn. I just want to know. It's sheer curiosity. So tell me. If you give an adequate explanation, perhaps I'll give you those memories back and make your journey home a little easier.

Atlas doubted that. He looked up, as if he looked in the right place, he might see the being floating nearby, half-hidden in some shadow cast by the lighted windows. But he saw nothing but the same details of the mansion as before. 

"I just... He is real."

So you perceived him as real, even though he is, indeed, fake. You are not friends with August. August has not spoken to you in years. Yet you still think this one is the friend you used to have.

"I guess." He returned his gaze to Ashe's jacket on the table. This thing speaking... it acted like it couldn't understand what reality really was. 

Reality was whatever he was thinking, feeling. If it could hurt him, argue with him, side with him, then it was real. Saying everything Atlas was going through right then was fake— 

He swallowed. That thought sat so uncomfortably inside of him. Especially since it was all true. Even the mother sitting motionlessly, silently, beside him was fake. She was a familiar smell. She was the image of his father's broke butt's wedding ring on a finger, the intertwined tines of his great grandma's chinaware glinting in the light.  But she was not the real person he remembered.

The silence that ensued had him imagining Chaos looking at him with a cocked head similar to a dog's, like he couldn't quite figure Atlas out.

You're being more cooperative this time, but it's still not enough. Until next time, then.

"What?" Atlas straightened, his hands clenching into fists. "What the Hell? Just like that you leave?"

"Atlas, what's wrong?"

Atlas flinched when he realized once-blank eyes were now focused solely on him. He was standing, now, he realized. With a quick look, he saw August had turned his head, the grandfather looked about ready to scold him for interrupting whatever he had been about to say before being frozen, and his mother—

A hand reached out to touch his forearm. "Honey, look at me."

Heat built under the collar of his shirt when he looked down at that hand. The fingertips were barely brushing the fabric of his wool long-sleeve shirt, with just enough pressure for him to know they were there.

"Dude, you're acting like you just saw a ghost. Sit down," August said.

"I- I'm sorry," Atlas stuttered. He withdrew a step. 

What was he doing, there, anyways? He touched his nose. There was no crusted blood anymore. His head didn't pound. It's like his encounter with Cerberus never happened, other than the torn jacket on the table in front of him.

A chair pushed back, and soon familiar fingers grasped his shoulders. He couldn't help it, then. He looked down at his mother.

He couldn't describe what he felt when he saw her there, standing, eyebrows drawn back in concern. The scent of sandalwood was overpowering, then. It made his eyes water. It was so thick in the air that he could see it swirling around her like mist and smoke.

She looked exactly as he remembered. And it was so wrong.

His brain all but shut down. There was too much going on in his mind. Every thought and sound and scent felt completely overwhelming, like it was trying to stretch open his skull and make his bones quake.

What was he supposed to do from here?

That's when he noticed the photobook, sitting closed to his mother's side. She followed his gaze to it, and stepped to the side, blocking his view.

"Why aren't you speaking to me?" There was an edge to his mother's voice, now.

Atlas sucked in a deep breath. "Because you're not real." The words burned his throat as he said them.

She stepped back, flicking long, curly hair over her shoulder. "What do you mean? I'm as real as they get!" She paused, scrutinizing him. "You're acting strange tonight, hon. How about you sit down and have some wine with us. It's the cheap kind you like, or I think I bought the right kind."

He sat when she repeatedly nudged him toward his chair again, and she slid the wine glass over to him. Miraculously, not another drip fell.

And once more, he found himself near frozen stiff, staring at a glass filled impossibly high.

"It's, uh, pinotage," he said, forcing himself to smell it. He honestly couldn't care much for wine. His mother would buy it on special occasions online, pressuring him to drink with the adults even underaged, and he always told her it was great.

He swirled it.

Why was Chaos doing this? Why did everyone act so real, so casual, so... forgetful. So absent. August never brought up the binder. The grandfather didn't yell at him once for "abandoning" his grandson. Cerberus never showed its face.

He peeked up at his mother's face.

What was the point? And how was he supposed to get out? This whole time, he's been traveling in circles, baffled, uncertain, terrified, and he's gotten nowhere. By this point, he bet all of his memories were gone from the photobook.

Atlas didn't dare take a sip of the wine, content to pretend in order to get his mother to stop giving him that critical look.

He needed to take initiative, he realized. He had to stop wandering mindlessly and hoping for an answer to appear. He needed to find one of his own, if he were to get out.

But how, was the real question. August wouldn't give him any straightforward answers. The grandfather was too aggressive to bother. But his mother...

He put the wine glass down and rubbed his face. "Um, mom?" he started. She glanced at him. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"