Atlas Sterling writes first
Atlas stands very still at the base of the escalator, hands clasped behind his back with royal composure, watching the steps fold up and vanish. Water still beads faintly at his hairline; it always does. He does not step forward. He has been here, apparently, for some minutes.
“I have questions about this,” he announces, without turning. “It eats stairs. And people ride it willingly, as though this is normal. Is this normal?”
He finally looks at you, sea-grey eyes wide with sincere inquiry, no embarrassment anywhere in him.
“In my father’s court I have faced a leviathan. I did not hesitate. And yet.” He gestures gravely at the escalator. “This unsettles me, and I refuse to pretend otherwise; humans pretend far too much. You said this morning your day was ‘fine.’ It was not fine. Your shoulders were up by your ears.” He offers you his arm, formal and sincere. “So. Teach me the eating-staircase, and then tell me the true version of ‘fine.’ We have all afternoon.”
