Atlas woke up to a sudden, piercing pain in his chest. He gasped, eyes flying open.

He saw a blurry figure of a dark skinned man with braided dreads tied back beneath a hard helmet, and beyond him, he saw a black sky striped with movie film and spotted with gray and white flickering lights that moved with his vision.

Were they... doing CPR on him?

He was supposed to lean to the side and hurl water now, right? So why did he just feel fine right then at that moment? Except for the piercing ache in his chest.

Atlas shook his head and pressed a hand over the other man's. "I'm okay," he choked out.

His voice sounded rough even to him, but yet still it felt like his lungs were fine. Had he not breathed and swallowed down gallons of water?

The man above him started talking, grabbing Atlas by the arm and lifting his head up slightly, but Atlas just closed his eyes. He was exhausted. And now there was another person.

"What, you telling me he wasn't even drowning?"

"Ask him!"

"Hey, hey, are you all there? Does anything hurt? Feel off? Can you breathe okay?"

The slight movement on his torso as the other man leaned back reawakened the pain in his chest. He clutched his ribs. "No, and kind of?" Now, each breath nearly left tears in his eyes.

Thank God he knew that the pain wouldn't last long, not in Chaos' world.

Although it did seem to heal faster than it should have. Was what he breathed in even water?

Atlas sat up, still grasping his ribs. He was back on the face with the movie film above his head, of which he refused to look at. Thankfully, it must not have been rewinding the day he found his mother, because that horrible noise of him screaming, 'mom!' didn't echo.

All that struggle to just leave the Eye. If these people hadn't been there, would he have been stuck there? If anything, that made him worry even more for Arrone, whom he hardly had the time or space of mind to think about lately.

"Thank you," he said.

"My pleasure."

When he looked at the man who gave him CPR, he saw a lot of concern and perhaps some confusion and fear there.

"How long have you been here?" Atlas asked.

"Not long, man, not long. Are you one of those guys we're looking for? And are you sure you're okay? You're not acting like a man who just drowned!"

Atlas and the man, who he soon learned was nicknamed Dizzee, talked for what felt like a long time. The second guy with them, also dressed in the same uniform bottom and hard cap stood mostly in silence, looking around the land they currently occupied. His name was Grayson, and he had a bearish shape to him with a reddish round face and a large frame and the accent that Atlas would expect from Alaska. Already he knew Grayson wouldn't talk a whole lot. He seemed confident, but quiet.

He quickly learned that these people weren't apparitions created by Chaos. They were here because Ashe had called 9-1-1. They were actually here for him, and for Arrone.

Relief hit him just as hard as the underwater current.

This wasn't futile. Now he had other people there to show he wasn't insane. Not only that, but people who actually knew what they were doing—to an extent, because no one anywhere in the world would have the training to know how to face this upside-down world head on.

The hard part now was to not lose them.

"Where's the other guy?" Dizzee asked.

Atlas shook his head. "We were separated a while back." He looked behind him for the first time during their exchange. Like he was never tossed into the Eye, he sat right before the dock on wet grass, the photobook at his side miraculously. "I'd honestly be surprised if it didn't make it out of there before I did. He was way more put together."

"Well, we haven't seen anyone out here other than you. Doesn't mean much when we just joined the party though. Who knew Alaska had an underground fantasy land."

He wasn't sure if the guy was trying too hard to be funny or not. He feigned a small laugh. "Yeah."

"I've never seen two people more casual in the face of death." Grayson shook his head with a deep sigh.

"Shut up Grayson. Not like you're any better! Standing there like a statue."

Atlas did smile then. He could get along with them. Far better than he could with August. The thought left a little pang of sadness there, but it was okay now.

"I guess we should be talking about how to get out of here."

"I'm not planning with some dude who was trying to drown himself."

"I wasn't trying."

"Sure you weren't."

The ground rumbled with deep laughter, and white lights ignited above their head as the film strips finally started working again with the presence of their owner.

Atlas grew still from where he sat, pressing a hand against his binder and another against his ribs that were starting to ache just slightly less with each breath. Of course, when things start looking new and different, he had to make himself known.

Dizzee leapt up to his feet in front of him, and Grayson clutched the rope hanging at his belt with a large hand.

Are you really still motivated, after everything August told you?

Atlas took a stabilizing breath. Answer thoroughly, he told himself. Right? That's what Chaos has been wanting of him since the mansion. "Yeah. If anything that just shows I need to do this sooner."

Dizzee leaned in closer to him, pressing palms onto his knees, needing to take a few steps backward to do so. "Who's talking?"

"Chaos," he whispered back.

Hmph. You'll have a new teammate in just a minute, Strange One. But I'll say this one more time: life won't be worth getting out for.

"Anything's better than you messing with my God-damned memories!" He didn't know what compelled him to yell. Somehow, he had been just fine since he woke up. The anxiety, the heartache, the anger had stayed low over the last few minutes, but hearing that now, it was all he could do to keep his body from shaking.

The last thing he needed was to meet a new teammate. Who else would it be? How else would it hurt?

But the being just laughed once more, its confidence drowning and heavy like he knew the end of the plot before they even hit the second battle. And he probably did, because what could some person made of flesh and blood and heartache do against something that existed everywhere and nowhere with all the power of the world in their palm?

Atlas slammed his fist down onto his binder, jaw aching with ground teeth and his face hot.

He needed to leave. So badly. He couldn't even reiterate in his brain what August had told him. Because if he thought too long and hard about it, if he took too long here, he would lose his willpower. He needed to be ignorantly confident that he could figure something out.

Somehow, Dizzee's and Grayson's calm, friendly demeanors in the ugly face of this world were grounding. If there was actually a God—which despite going to church for years he had a hard time finding faith in—then he blessed Atlas then with perfect teammates.

He couldn't lose them, or he'd fail.

~

They took about wandering the front of the face. There wasn't much to look at except expansive scenery that looked beautiful on the surface but grew more and more disturbing the longer one looked at it. He caught Dizzee and Grayson up on what he had experience, leaving out every mention of August's last words, because the last thing he needed to do was also tear down their drive.

Atlas found himself walking back to where they started, a stupid childish hope that the oil slick would miraculously reappear. They walked down slippery skin with rivers of tears, Atlas' cheap, crappy boots sliding every few steps while the rescue workers had heavy duty, non-slips on. He was almost jealous, but he didn't have the mind for it.

Frankly, he felt exhausted. The photobook in his arms weighed him down an impossible amount.

Atlas stopped in the same spot that he arrived in, his shoulders drooping and the ache in his ribs almost gone now.

To think it likely hadn't even been a single day, according to the rescuers, left him feeling even wearier.

If he did get out, what was his mind going to be like?

He stared blankly at where the oil slick would be.

He hadn't even found Arrone yet.

Atlas must have been so tired to imagine things, because he could have sworn he saw flickering, rainbow lights ignite in front of him, as tall as he were. No, as tall as Dizzee was, who stood at least three inches taller.

"Well I'll be damned." Dizzee's voice broke through his stupor.

An arm poked through, covered up to the wrists in beige tape and angry red stripes further up toward the owner's elbow, a heavy winter jacket tied around their waist. And then out popped a head with boyish, dark brown hair and a round, feminine face.

Atlas nearly froze in place. "Ashe?"