The Broken Paths

Atlas was drowning.

Not in water, nor in darkness, but in something far worse—his own mind.

A thick void surrounded him, stretching infinitely in all directions. Silence reigned. Not the peaceful kind, but the kind that suffocated, that pressed against his skin like an unbearable weight.

He blinked, and suddenly, he was sitting at a lavish dining table, dressed in ridiculous noble attire. A golden goblet rested in his hand, filled to the brim with the finest wine money could buy. Before him sat a feast so extravagant it could feed an army. Atlas leaned back in his chair, sighing dramatically.

"Ah, finally" he drawled, swirling his drink lazily.

"A reward for all my hard work. All those sleepless nights, all the suffering—it was worth it. Now, if only Meyu were here to feed me grapes."

"You're stalling."

Atlas froze mid-sip. His golden eyes looking across the table and saw a figure.

A figure sat across from him. Featureless, except for a mask with a painted smile.

Atlas groaned, setting his goblet down. "Oh, great. And here I thought I'd finally get a vacation. But nooo, I have to deal with whatever existential or internal crisis this is."

The masked figure tilted its head, the eerie grin never wavering. "Still hiding behind humour, I see. Still pretending."

The illusion of the grand feast shattered. The golden goblet in Atlas's hand rotted into a rusted tin cup. The table before him crumbled to ash, and the lavish hall melted into shadows.

Atlas was left standing in nothingness, face to face with Masked Atlas.

"Hey! That was rude" Atlas muttered, crossing his arms.

"I was about to eat."

"Were you?" Masked Atlas mused. "Or were you just delaying the inevitable?"

Atlas scoffed. "If you're here to monologue about my sins or whatever, can we at least make this quick? I've got places to be."

Masked Atlas chuckled, a sound like splintering glass. "No. You don't."

The world lurched.

Suddenly, Atlas wasn't standing anymore. He was on the ground, a child once more—cold, hungry, dying.

His body trembled violently. The bitter sting of winter gnawed at his tiny frame, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The once-warm home he had known—gone. His family—gone. All that was left was the aching void in his stomach and the weight of loneliness pressing down on his tiny frame.

A shadow loomed over him.

The masked figure towered above, its grin seeming to stretch wider. "Do you remember, Atlas? The cold that sank into your bones, the hunger that gnawed at you like a rabid beast? The way people passed by without a second glance, as if you were already dead?"

Atlas curled up, his tiny fingers gripping the tattered remains of his clothes, trying to shield himself from the memory. But the cold wasn't just in his mind—it was real. He could feel it creeping back into his limbs, just like before.

"You cried that day" Masked Atlas whispered, crouching beside him.

"You begged. But no one came. No one ever does."

Atlas squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn't stop the onslaught. The world around him shifted again, dragging him through a whirlpool of memories.

The nights spent scavenging for scraps like a starving rat.

The jeers and kicks from those who thought a homeless child was entertainment.

The pain. The despair. The overwhelming certainty that he would die alone.

"That's who you really are" Masked Atlas said, voice soft, almost comforting.

"Not the trickster. Not the businessman. Not the strategist. Just a boy no one wanted. A boy who should've died on that street."

Atlas trembled, his breathing shallow.

No. No, that's not—

"That's not it? Really?" Masked Atlas scoffed, its grin stretching wider, impossibly wide. "

You think this is where your suffering started? That the hunger and cold were the worst of it? Oh, Atlas… let me remind you."

The world lurched violently again. Changing the scene effortlessly, reconstructing the scene brick by brick. 

Atlas's surroundings shifted, and suddenly, he was somewhere else.

The streets of Prussia stretched before him, bustling with life. The air smelled of fresh bread, the distant laughter of children rang in the alleys, and the warmth of a setting sun bathed everything in gold. Atlas blinked, confused, and then—

He saw them.

His father, tall and strong, his booming voice full of warmth as he lifted him into the air. His mother, radiant and gentle, shaking her head fondly as she scolded him for climbing onto the kitchen counters again. His older siblings, playful and teasing, their bickering nothing but love in disguise.

Atlas was five again. Whole. Happy. Safe.

He ran into his mother's embrace, feeling her warmth, the steady rise and fall of her breath. "Mama!" he laughed.

His father ruffled his hair, chuckling. "Look at you, my little troublemaker!"

Atlas wanted to stay here. Wanted to hold on. But deep down, he knew—

This memory has an ending. The sun darkened. The laughter stopped.

A piercing scream split the air.

The front door crashed open, and armed men in noble attire stormed inside. His father barely had time to react before a blade tore through his chest. Blood splattered across the walls, the warmth of home turning into horror in an instant.

His mother screamed as hands ripped her away, her nails clawing at the floor, desperate to hold onto her children. "RUN!" she shrieked.

"ATLAS, RUN!"

Atlas tried. He tried so hard.

But they were faster.

They dragged him back, forced him to watch as his mother and siblings were hauled away, their cries vanishing into the night. His father's lifeless eyes stared at nothing, his strong hands—once so protective—now limp and cold.

"No…" Atlas whimpered, his small hands shaking. "No, no, no—"

Masked Atlas's voice echoed around him. "There it is. The truth. Your happy life was stolen. Your family was taken. And you? You were left to rot."

Atlas fell to his knees, his vision blurred with unshed tears. The weight of his past crashed down on him.

A slow clap echoed through the empty streets.

"And there it is! The grand reveal" Masked Atlas mocked, his voice dripping with theatrical delight. "Took you long enough to remember. You know, for someone who prides himself on intelligence, you sure are slow."

Atlas didn't respond. He couldn't. His throat felt tight, his chest heaving from the raw flood of emotions crashing into him.

"What's wrong? Cat got your tongue?" Masked Atlas crouched before him, tapping the side of his head.

"Oh, right! You locked this away, didn't you? Sealed it up tight and threw it into the deepest, darkest part of your mind. Thought if you buried it deep enough, it wouldn't hurt anymore?" The masked Atlas let out a laugh, shaking his head. "

Tsk, tsk, tsk. And who do you think carried that burden for you all these years? Who do you think lived through the pain while you played pretend? Me."

Atlas shuddered, gripping the fabric of his ragged clothes. His five-year-old self, frozen in time, helpless against the cruel weight of fate.

"And now, look where we are."

Masked Atlas gestured around them. The street was empty. His home was in flames. His family—gone.

Then, something changed. A figure emerged through the smoke and ash. A woman. Logically this was impossible and it couldn't have been real. A mix of distortion and reality in his memories, as if to forget pieces and only attached what he wanted.

Atlas's breath hitched. She was coming toward him. Her movements slow, deliberate. She knelt down beside him, reaching out a hand. There was something familiar—achingly familiar—about the way she moved, the warmth in her presence. But—

Her face was blurred.

Atlas struggled to see her clearly, but no matter how hard he tried, the details of her features remained out of reach, like a dream slipping through his fingers.

"Oh, that's rich" Masked Atlas cackled. "Even now, you can't see her face? How tragic. Is it guilt? Regret? Or maybe…"

His voice dropped into a cruel whisper. "Maybe you just don't deserve to remember her."

Atlas gritted his teeth, fists clenched, his nails digging into his palms.

Who was she? Why did it feel like she mattered?

Masked Atlas sighed dramatically, standing up. "Honestly, this is painful to watch. But don't worry, I'll help you out!"

He leaned in, voice dropping into a taunting whisper. "She picked you up, didn't she? Took pity on the pathetic little street rat. But guess what? That didn't fix anything, did it? No, because in the end… you're still broken."

Atlas shook, his mind fracturing further, but something—something about that blurred woman—kept him from sinking completely. He clenched his fists, his heart pounding against the chains that bound him. He couldn't see her face, couldn't grasp her name, but he knew—she had saved him.

"Why did you forget?" Masked Atlas sighed, shaking his head like a disappointed teacher.

"Come on, you don't just misplace something like this. You locked it away. Buried it. Left me to deal with the mess while you pranced around playing businessman."

The world twisted again, and suddenly, the memory shifted.

Atlas was no longer on the cold streets. Instead, he was inside a small, modest home, sitting near a fireplace. The warmth wrapped around him like a protective embrace. A soft blanket covered his small frame, and the scent of freshly baked bread filled the air.

The woman sat beside him, humming gently as she brushed his hair. Her face remained blurred, frustratingly out of reach, but her touch was gentle, soothing. Motherly.

Across from him, a young girl giggled, playfully nudging him. She looked about his age, maybe a little older. Her face, too, was lost in the haze of his fractured memory, but her laughter was light, carefree—genuine.

Atlas's small hands reached out, trying to hold onto the moment, trying to keep this warmth from slipping away.

"Oh-ho!" Masked Atlas leaned back dramatically, clasping his hands.

"Would you look at that? A picture-perfect moment! Too bad you don't even remember their faces. Wonder what that says about you."

Atlas flinched. "I… I didn't forget. I—"

"Didn't you?" Masked Atlas cut him off, grinning.

"If they were so important, why can't you even remember what they looked like? Seems like a classic case of selective memory to me." He wagged a finger mockingly.

"I mean, come on, you remembered all the suffering just fine. But the kindness? The people who actually gave a damn? Nah. Too painful, so you erased them."

He wagged a finger mockingly. "Classic Atlas move."

Masked Atlas leaned in closer, lowering his voice into a dramatic whisper. "But you see, I remember them. Since I am you, I kept it all. Every moment, every warmth, every touch. And yet, you? You can't even recall their faces."

Atlas's breath hitched, his hands curling into fists. The firelight flickered in the small home, the warmth wrapping around his younger self like a gentle embrace. The woman's soft humming filled the space, and the girl beside him giggled, nudging him playfully again. This wasn't just some fleeting memory—this was years.

Masked Atlas tilted his head. "You lived with them for ten whole years. From the moment she picked you up on that frozen street to the day you turned fifteen. You were safe, weren't you? Cared for. Happy. And yet, somehow, you locked all of this away."

The world flickered. The warmth of the fire began to dim. Something was coming.

Masked Atlas sighed dramatically, stretching his arms. "But I also realize, right now, you can't take this for jack shit. So, let's move on, shall we? Let's see how it all came crashing down—again."

The warmth of the memory flickered. Then, it shattered.

The small home that had become Atlas's sanctuary erupted into flames.

Screams tore through the air. The woman—the one who had taken him in—was desperately trying to hold the door shut as men in dark uniforms battered it down. The girl, the one who had always been at his side, was crying, clutching his arm, refusing to let go.

"Atlas, don't move!" she pleaded. "Stay here!"

But he was frozen.

The door gave way with a sickening crack. Shadows flooded in, men in dark uniforms flooded the room. Atlas saw their blades. The flash of torchlight against cruel faces. The insignia stitched onto their coats—the crest of the same nobles who had destroyed his first home.

"No… No, not again!" Atlas's voice broke, his younger self stumbling back as he watched the nightmare unfold.

The woman, his saviour, was struck down first. The blade pierced her abdomen, her gasp one of shock more than pain. Blood spilled onto the wooden floor, staining the home that had once smelled of bread and laughter. She reached for him with her shaky hands, dying with each breath.

"Atlas… run—"

A second blade silenced her.

The girl screamed. Atlas screamed.

The soldiers grabbed the girl next, prying her away from him. She kicked, fought, bit, but she was too small, too weak. "Let go of me! LET GO!" she shrieked.

Atlas lunged forward, his instincts screaming at him to fight, to do something—

A boot to his stomach sent him crashing into the floor. The wind left his lungs, his vision blurring. He saw her reaching for him, her fingers stretching toward his—

And then she was gone.

They dragged her away.

Atlas, barely conscious, watched her silhouette disappear into the smoke and fire.

"NO!" 

His younger self choked, clawing at the floor, trying to get up. But his body wouldn't move.

He was alone again. And then—

The memory froze.