Like a Moth to the Flame

Like a Moth to the Flame

When the news had reached him of Ryan's fall, his heart chipped. Just a smidgeon. After all, the great and awe-inspiring man was already destined on a path to hell. It was only ironic that it was at the hands of his own Little Moth.

Then, he found the same Little Moth fluttering at his doorstep. The flipflap of his wings as faint as the stuttering heartbeat of an awed audience. Sander welcomed the moth in, invited him to watch the dancers and make himself comfy. He did just that. The Moth poked and prodded around his library, shuffled through his fridge, and gazed longingly at all of the pictures and portraits that donned his walls. Tokens from another life, one filled with lavish clothing, hundreds of cheering voices, and thousands of clapping hands.

Then the Little Moth left...just meandered out the door, leaving Sander behind...again, left alone to rot in this soggy bucket. And not a fucking person to appreciate his work.

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When news reached his ears of Atlas's fall, he smiled. The thought of Atlas and Ryan bickering in the underworld amuses him for the rest of the day...night. Hell, he didn't know which was which anymore. He hadn't seen the sun in ages...

Ten hours later a beautiful, glimmering sculpture composed of broken glass, bits of mesh wire, and other found objects plastered together and painted a variety of colors hung from the ceiling in the Fleet Hall. The broken bits of a man standing under it, his hand resting on his chin as he gazed thoughtfully up at his newest creation. He stood there for an hour admiring his work before trotting off, humming an old favorite tune. Beyond the shore~, just as before~.

Half of him had hoped that he'd be crushed by his own creation. It was a foolish hope. If anyone was going to crush him down here, it would be Poseidon, not Apollo, who'd do the honors.

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"Tsk. Tsk. Ryan. Hadn't that harlot ever told you to lay off those cream filled cakes?" Sander struggles with the dead weight slung over his shoulder. The cold dampness soaking into his coat and felt clammy against his skin. But in his mind, he felt warmth; the musty water going unnoticed and unheeded as he climbs the steps.

Today was his lucky day. Andrew Ryan himself, decided to drop by and pay him an overdue visit. It seemed so long ago since the smell of a cigar had permeated the air of his home. Well...it still hasn't happened, but Sander liked to remember. To reminiscence on better days prior to the upheaval of Ryan's "perfect" Utopia. Before those dreadful little girls skipped along the cobblestones just outside his doorstep, prior to Fontaine...long before when the walls of Rapture were new and glittering.

"Ah Sander Sander Sander, you old songbird. Losing yourself down memory lane once again, old chum~." He continues up the staircase. Violet light filters through the opening ahead, bathing everything in a cool overtone. The feint drum of piano keys falling pleasantly on his ears-

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-The phonograph lie tipped on its side, the record playing a nightmarish distorted piano medley. Discording notes in a continuous loop: over and over and over and over-

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-He gingerly lays Ryan down on the king sized bed and rushes to toss some pillows behind the man's head, propping him into a pseudo-sitting position. The statues gaze on silently as Sander stretches his hands out, gently brushing them over the open wounds and feathering over the glinting metal. Nimble fingers trace up the rod and wrap firmly around it and pull.

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The white plaster was cold to the touch. Sander slathered the substance gingerly over Ryan's face, applying it in layers.
"Ryan, Ryan, Ryan..." He muttered as he worked into angry gashes. A tired weight tugging on each syllable and drowning the mirth that once danced with the name.

He will make Andrew better, if only to make him presentable...as he's always been.

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"It. Is. Accomplished...</b>" Sander's voice cracks as he leans over the flawless plaster statue. Unlike his other pieces, Sander smoothed out all the imperfections that often accompanied the laying down of plaster. This was Andrew Ryan after all. He deserved nothing short of perfection. Forever immortalized. Forever here.

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A lone, weary shadow of a man stood on the crickity wooden panels of the Fleet Hall stage. Streaks of sullied makeup ran down his cheeks. The area around his eyes peculiarly red and puffy. The shadow of his creation casting down from the ceiling, eclipsing him. It wasn't a sun. Not yet.

Cohen glared at the pale imitation of Apollo's might, it wasn't anything but a large hunk of metal and meshed together glass. But he'll make it more. He wanted to see the sun...

The familiar sense of pain tickling his fingertips trails up the palms of his hands, searing the gloves he wore."And now...for a PERFORMANCE PIECE!" Sander flares, a sharp glint in his eyes as fire licks up his arms and blasts towards the massive sculpture. The piece didn't ignite immediately, but with enough...persuasion, the heated fires greedily licked up the surface and climbed the wires. It spread, fanning over the ceiling, consuming everything in its path.

And Sander Cohen stared with a sense of satisfaction as flakes of scorched metal collapsed around him. Apollo...Sander never believed he'd ever see the sun again. He was drawn to the brilliance,-

-Like a moth to the flame.