Steady Ground | ✔

17 | And now we're in nose jail

"What is this? Dude, I'm going to lose my shit."

Atlas woke up to shouts and a cold splatter of wet goo on his face. No, that wasn't really true. He had been awake for what felt like hours.

An occasional doze would drift him away. The world he hadn't bothered opening his eyes for would grow distant, like his body wasn't really lying on soft tissues that formed to his shape like memory foam, like he couldn't hear the nearby sound of sleeping people, like he couldn't hear the metronomic patter of rusty iron paws across a hide drum, like he couldn't smell something faintly salty and sour in the air.

"You're supposed to be the calm one."

He rolled over, suppressing a groan. He was completely drained. His chest dully ached when he rubbed crust from his eyes.

"That doesn't matter! What is this? It's disgusting!"

Another droplet of something wet landed on his forehead. He smeared it off with the back of his hand. "Shut up," he grumbled, finally sitting up. It was like the blood decided then to drain from his head. His vision went black and he could feel something cold rush through his skin all the way down to his finger tips. Pain bloomed further into his ribs and he winced. He pressed stiff fingers to his chest, rubbing the ache softly, and finally got his eyes opened.

His mind paused when he saw his arms. Dark bruises peeked out from his rolled sleeves, and when he pulled them back, he saw them spiral up to his shoulders. Those were from the chains, his brain told him. But he was tired. So he just stared at them.

It seemed no one had heard him, as Dizzee and Grayson continued to bicker about something.

"Hey, Atlas!"

The snapping of fingers shortly after had him startled, once more rubbing his face. "What?"

"You going to tell us what this is now that you finally get up?"

"What?" He finally looked up now.

Atlas wasn't surprised in the least when he looked up and saw himself in some kind of cell with porous flesh beneath him and black jail bars that looked oddly like a strand of hair beneath a microscope.

In front and behind him the flesh sloped upward into a half-cylinder that served as the ceiling. A dark tunnel led further down to the left where he heard the thump of metal paw steps, and when he craned his head to the right, he could see the face's lower landscape stretching out in front of him, ridged like a valley in the Appalachian mountains. They were illuminated by the gentle gray light of the movie film sky.

He was trapped inside another body part.

Wonderful.

He sighed. Did that mean the stuff Dizzee had accidentally flicked into his face was some strange magical snot?

Atlas didn't even have the energy to grimace at the thought. "Just don't question it," he responded. The words only made his chest ache more as he spoke them.

Was Chaos' world not healing them anymore? Once more he pressed his fingers to his ribs only to feel the deep ache persist. Actually, he felt rather hungry then, too. His stomach felt hollow, like he hadn't eaten all day. Which was close enough to the truth.

"Don't question it? Really? Come on, look at where we are! There's nothing to do but question it!"

He laid back down with a wince, hand still pressed to his chest.

A long silence panned out then. He closed his eyes, hoping that meant the topic was dropped. Spoiler, it wasn't.

"You okay?"