"Would you rather me be dead?"

Atlas could feel an unwarranted anger surge up into his throat. Maybe anger wasn't the right word. He wanted Chaos to freeze time again, so he could scream at him; that was for sure. But that wasn't possible. He was forced to stand there, and look at the pain on his mother's face.

He tightened his jaw, and all he could even think to possibly do was wrap his arms as tightly around his mother-like figure and squeeze her close to him.

Her body felt as real as it looked. There was heat, the touch of fabric on his hands. Whatever he was hugging was real and human and it just made him hold her tighter, because screw it he didn't rather her be dead, even if she was fake.

It felt like a chance to make up for not hugging her the day she died.

For that, he couldn't say he was exactly angry, because if anything, Chaos helped him right then.

Atlas felt his mother touch his shoulder, and he let her go. "I wouldn't rather you be dead," he said. "Why would you even think that?"

I'd rather you be alive. But staying there wouldn't make that true. Nothing in this world was true, even if it was real.

Maybe that was a better way to think about it. It was all real, not fake, but it wasn't true.

No, that didn't make any sense, still.

"Then don't fill out that photobook," his mother said. "Stay here. I know you noticed how this world healed you. You'll never feel hungry. You have friends here, and me—"

Atlas retreated a couple steps. He'd never stay in a world that made endless fun of his mind. "How about we go back to the table. I'll stay for a drink before I go."

~

Atlas was surprised that worked. She reluctantly stopped, walking behind him with her head out to the side like she was pouting. She'd start going at him, soon, if he didn't distract her. If she really was like his mother, anyway. She already seemed to have fluttered in and out of character, like Chaos didn't know how to interpret her from the memories he had at his disposal.

It made saying no to his mother like that so much easier, he realized. His mother never pleaded. That was never her thing.

Despite the undercurrent of anger—maybe he could call it dismay—that still balled up in his throat, he almost thought it was funny that his own wild-card mother's personality could baffle an ethereal being. Dismay sounded right. It was like being punched for the first time. More shock than pain, more betrayal than anger. How could anything ever do such cruel things to someone?

Atlas took his spot back at the table, where the perilously full glass of wine sat.

August nudged him. "What was that about?"

He once more feigned a sip of his wine. The sweet taste touched his lips and made him almost want to drink more, but he didn't want to know what it would do to him in this world. He placed it back on the table. "Do you still want to help me fill the photobook?" Atlas asked, his voice not quite a whisper.

"Hah! I never wanted to help you, but you'd be long dead if I didn't!"

It seemed he was back to his normal self, now that Chaos was gone. He eyed his photobook, which his mother was once again hiding from view, leaning onto the table on her elbows.

"You're not wrong!" He somehow managed to also feign a smile. "Can you help me again?"

His friend shrugged. "Anything to get away from these two."

"Thanks."

Atlas looked at his glass as the grandfather resumed talking to his mother. He tuned their words out easily.

Why would Chaos make one of his memories with him, and the other against? Why give him an ally here? What was he trying to learn from Atlas that he couldn't have already known?

There were so many questions he could be asking, but he knew not a single one of the apparitions here would answer them. They were only pretending to be in his favor. He'd have to be careful, with how easily Chaos could change their focus, like he did with August earlier.

He abided by his promise for only a short time. He waited for his mother to get up to get more wine for the table before he reached over and grabbed his photobook. Quickly, he opened it. Just like August had warned, all of his memories were gone, except for one. A new one, it seemed. And as expected, it was of his mother.

"What do you have there?" The grandfather lifted his head as if he had to peer across the table at it.

"Just a photobook I found," Atlas said. He looked over at August. "Let's go?"

"Before she comes back!" he finished, sliding his chair backward.

Even though he felt completely wrong, he somehow managed to have a small smile on his face as they bolted for the door like they were middle schoolers again.

"Where do you think you're going?" the grandfather shouted after them.

Atlas heard the scrape of a chair on hardwood flooring as the man stood up. But he didn't look behind him. They opened the door and stepped once more out into the darkness of the Eye.

"How do I find memories?" Atlas asked.

Once more they were running down the yard, passed statues that gave them temporary sight into the distance. Once the statue was too far behind them, they were cast into darkness once more until they hit another's aura.

"You don't. Move around enough, and they'll find you!"

"God that's not convenient at all."

"Nope," August said.

They slowed once they were far enough away from the mansion. Sand turned back into grass. The scent of oil faded away, and they were left with nothing but their small, perhaps eight feet wide ring of light.

Atlas opened the photobook. All he knew was that it grew warm when a new memory was close. He had no way to plan his escape out of there.

It was like the photobook read his thoughts. Heat started radiating from the cover into his hands.

He dropped the book. If his heart hadn't been going from their run, then it was now. Was the grandfather going to send Cerberus out to get them yet again?

Even though he had no feeling or injury left, it didn't mean he wanted to get another sprain and bashed in the face.

"Something's going to happen," he said, as if August didn't already know.

The photobook flipped to the third memory page, and ink burned onto its surface, slow and spirally, like he were watching an old Japanese calligrapher.

His mother's old Volkswagen showed up first, its rear end crushed in and the back windshield shattered. Little Atlas was in the back of the scene in swim shorts and a teddy bear in his hand while his father talked to the paramedics.

They never got to go to the beach that day. His mother had hurt her neck, and he remembered spending the rest of the evening in the emergency room.

Atlas picked the photobook back up once the smoke cleared away.

He certainly didn't have the bear anymore, but he still remembered the woman who gave it to him. She was a stocky, dark skinned firewoman who sat beside him on the curb while his parents took care of the legal work involved. She had a nice smile, and didn't seem phased by what happened. Looking back, he remembered being an absolute snot that day, crying during the trip to the hospital because he still wanted to go to the beach.

Were they about to get hit by a car?

The thought jarred him out of his memory, and he looked up into the spotlight. August peered at him in curiosity. "So?"

So far, nothing had entered into their little bubble of light. Still, he found himself tensing up.

"What do you think?"

He tilted the photobook toward August, who leaned in a little closer. And then all he gave was a very helpful shrug. "I don't know. What happened with the last ones?"

"Something came true? Well, except for my first memory. That one seemed random."

"I wonder if we'll get hit by a car."

"That's what I thought!"

They stood there for only a few moments longer before they started walking again.

"If we leave the Eye, does the memory become irrelevant?"

"Dude, you keep asking me all these questions like I'll answer them."

"Only because you seem like you know the answers!"

August huffed. "Even if I did, I can't say them, duh. Why would Chaos let me do that?"

Atlas hated that was the case, but gave up. How was he supposed to figure anything out? He was good at asking questions, and usually good at finding data for the answers, too, hence his job title analyst, but this was beyond him.

But his friend would give him some answers. It seemed that even his character program, or whatever Atlas could call it, was still his naturally defiant self to an extent. And Atlas knew him long enough to see when he was hiding something important, right?

Of course, it had been years, but still. Perhaps if he watched close enough he could get some guidance, if not answers.

Even though he had no idea where he was going, he closed the photobook and kept going in the same direction they had been, eyes on his feet as he watched the terrain.

Could he be analytical here? The Eye, above "ground?" looked a lot like Lake Powhatan now that he took the time to think about it. He and his mother would hike there once a spring to try and enjoy its clay-colored waters before the summer crowd came through. Not often to know all the trails around it, but often enough to know that it really wasn't that large as lakes go.

If the Eye was the same size, then it wouldn't be that hard to find the edge. And at the edge, could he find an exit?

This was why he needed Arrone there. Arrone would have come up with those clues before August ever found them.

He felt a little pain thinking about his manager. He hadn't thought about him in a while.

But, at least now he had a half-way-worth-while goal: find the edge of the Eye.

~

"Do you have a plan now or something?"

Atlas nodded. "I'm trying to."

He and August still walked side by side. The terrain hadn't changed much. Small pockets of grass peeked up here and there, there was darkness beyond where the eye could see and Altas still felt like he was walking in circles.

The biggest issue for him was that he had no way to tell if he were. They hadn't passed yet another landmark. Just endless grass and sand splotches. The last statue he saw was long behind them now. Without landmarks, the Eye seemed endlessly long, and already he was starting to doubt there was an edge to it.

A short silence passed before August said, "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Tell me."

"No."

Atlas ignored his friend's flat stare and kept walking forward. Why bother telling him? He wanted to, of course, but he'd rather see his friend's reaction once they got there. If there was even a thing.

"You don't have a plan, do you?"

"I'm just trying to get away from that memory," he lied. "Something bad always happens when one shows up."

"Was I showing up a bad thing?"

"Depends."

"What does that mean?"

Atlas couldn't help but laugh at that. "You busted my shin and think you're still a good guy?"

"Like that matters!"

He shook his head, a small smile on his face. Was this all he could do? Chat and make fun while they wandered blind?

An Uber would be nice. Pay a few bucks and make it to the edge of the eye in minutes. Knowing this world, it'd be his grandmother at the wheel. She'd probably be thirteen years old and talking at them through the rearview mirror. He'd see glimpses of an 80s hairdo and the car threatening to veer off a random cliff whenever he was brave enough to look up.

Maybe it wouldn't be nice.

He sighed. His feet were beginning to ache from the long trek through darkness. At least he'd feel rested as soon as they stopped for a while.

Atlas and August continued forward for what felt like two hours before they finally found something noteworthy.

What he noticed first was the difference in the air. Humidity began to clog his throat with every breath. The darkness around them started to float upwards through their light aura in little black bubbles. They'd pass right through Atlas' hands if he tried to touch them.

And then August got really, really quiet. Their idle conversation dropped hard, and the silence spread out around them like the rings from a skipping stone.

This was it, wasn't it?

The edge of the Eye.