Vishaal
“Who is John Galt?” someone hooted from among the seated crowd.
Atlas shrugged.
“Cheeky,” he said, nodding his head and smiling to himself as the joke dawned on him. “Very well—sets the tone for this evening then,” he continued, scanning the audience from up the stage, “just waiting for a few more familiar faces to appear in the crowd and by that, I mean—my mother. There’s not much in this or the other worlds you could force me to care about.”
Any chuckles and applause from the earlier joke had died down by now and the people in attendance at the city theatre were now whispering with their neighbours about the big reveal they’d been promised. As he leaned forward to put the mic on its stand, light bounced off Atlas’—or Atlas A’s, the name he much preferred—freshly shaved head. He’d been dying to get himself a skull tattoo and seemed like he’d finally made space for it.
“Especially you, Sir, in the front row, with the—” Atlas paused to take a swig from the water bottle, and as light flashed on the reticent man he was pointing to, Atlas’ voice trailed off. It was his father, reluctantly holding up the tie he was wearing—the very tie that Atlas had symbolically cut in half a couple years ago. Rolling up his sleeves and loosening a few buttons of his black shirt to reveal the tattoos that filled the entirety of his tall, lean frame, Atlas wondered if it was possible to hurt his old man anymore. Perhaps a dozen or two piercings might be the last nail in the coffin, he thought, and chuckled.
“Alright, shoot—or bark, whatever it is you guys do best,” Atlas scoffed at the well-dressed gentry that seemed to be getting restless.
“We hear you’re being outcast—is it about the kickbacks your father paid to get you the logistics deal?” a man stood up and fired the question indignantly.
“Oooh—right into the meaty stuff; I love it. What else you got?” replied Atlas, rubbing his palms together.
“No way a twice dropout like you could steal the deals from my firm. I hear you were kicked out of colleges because you were doing an illegal project and—”
“Alright, shut up old scoundrel. I got more dirt on you than whatever half-cooked nonsense you’ve poached off the streets. Sit down. Now, who else wants to take a jab?”
“Rumour has it you brokered a secret deal with the authorities?” asked a lady, gently, “that’s why you called us all here, right? I see the Press is in attendance.”
“With all due respect, Ma’am, stop smoking what they emit at the rumour mills.” Atlas sighed. “You guys disappoint me. That’s the best you got, seriously?”
A man had got up to say something when Atlas shushed him to attend to more important affairs. Atlas’ eyes gleamed, there was a sudden boyish charm to his face, and a genuine smile had taken over his earlier frowns and scoffs and laughter.
“Hey, you made it. What’s in the box? For me? Is that a new recipe?” he spoke softly, with his hand on his heart. You could almost hear it beating.
His mother, who’d just walked in, smiled back and said something inaudibly as she took the seat next to Atlas’ father. Walking closely behind her, with concern and resignation on their faces, were his two younger brothers who sat on either side of the parents.
“Sorry you guys had to witness that,” Atlas continued with a stern voice, “I understand most of you are uncomfortable and unfamiliar with human affection; ironically, so.”
“Why the name change to Atlas? And why come back into the public eye after all these years. Yeah, you were bright and promising and famous all over the town when you were young and we all looked to you with hope, but you’re a have-been now; a never-was rather,” said the man who Atlas had shushed previously, though he immediately bit his tongue, worrying he’d said too much.
Atlas perched both his hands on his head and tapped his bare skull with his fingers—the umpteen thick, metallic rings on them producing music. He closed his eyes and began to beatbox and rap, “That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet; that which we call Atlas by any other name would be as salty and prickly and caustic—”
“Shut up! Shut up! Just—” Atlas’ father shrieked. Trembling in his seat and saddened by his own outburst, Atlas’ father began to whimper. “Shut up, please,” he mumbled as his wife and sons tried to soothe him, rubbing his arms. “Stop acting like you’re some misunderstood rockstar. Have you ever tried to just sit with yourself and ask what and who your rebellion is against? What people are saying is all true! I—I was the one who set up your logistics business behind the scenes and I got you your customers. Yes, you did flunk out of your colleges, and got yourself a stupid affidavit against my wishes to change your name. And no one knows what you want from us, why you called us here, so just get on with business. Not that you care to remember, it’s your old man’s sixtieth and we’re headed to the diners after this, so please, I beseech you, Mr Shakespeare—”
“Oof! Easy, tiger. Whoa!” remarked Atlas, unbothered by his father’s outburst.
“Don’t you dare! It is because of this insolent, immature attitude that you are where you are in life. And you still don’t get it,” Atlas’s father shot back.
“Life! What a joke!” said Atlas, and began to tap dance even as his father carried on the duel he’d started. The Press frantically made notes and took pictures, for this was something they knew people would talk about for a long time.
“Everyone doubted you. Everyone, including your mother, who now meets you behind my back, because she’s so guilt-ridden, and fears she’ll lose you again. I—I was the one who stuck by you. I was the one who believed that your behaviour, your eccentricities were just a phase—”
Atlas stopped dancing briefly to take a fleeting look at his mother, who’d been looking at him expectantly. He smiled at her as if to say, “Don’t worry, I understand.”
Atlas resumed his tap dancing and addressed his father again, “Well, you should’ve believed in me more—”
“And let you get away with what you were doing?” Atlas’ father cried, throwing his hands in the air. “One year of mechanical engineering to learn materials science and mechatronix you could use for your ghastly project. One year at the law college to learn how to use legal loopholes. You think I wouldn’t figure out what you were set out to do?”
“And so have you figured out what I’m really sourcing with the logistics business?” Atlas retorted and did a jump kick.
Atlas’s father seethed in anger, worrying about what his son may still have been up to and that he himself may have indirectly aided it.
“Relax, old man, it’s a legit business. Just using it for the cash,” Atlas promptly quelled his father’s fears, and ended his dance routine with a twirl.
“They were so right—they were all so right. Some people are born a certain way and cannot shake it off all their lives.”
“And sometimes, beyond,” said Atlas, with a wink. “Alright, we need a volunteer here—where’s the guy who made the cocky Ayn Rand joke? Yes, come on up, mister. Let’s see some magic.”
The said man rushed to the stage triumphantly and as Atlas made the former check his pulse, the man gaped in horror. A smile plastered on his face, Atlas roared, “Magic over—now get the hell out of my face, will ya? Security!” Two bouncers rushed and dragged the man away promptly and left him outside the theatre, locking the doors behind him.
“Well, time for the reveal—I’m a man of my words, after all,” Atlas continued, with a smirk, “it would be hard to wrap your little heads around it, so. Yeah, you got some bits and pieces right. I was working on a beautiful, brilliant project that would create powerful humanoid robots from the dead. One that would’ve obviated the need to risk human lives for all sorts of dangerous operations. Military, deep space, deep-ocean, underground mining, fire-fighting, rescue operations—you name it! But no! They won’t let me, and most of all, the one man who should’ve backed me, didn’t.”
“That’s it? That’s my sinister crime?” Atlas’ father screamed in disbelief, “Have you thought of what would’ve happened if your Undead project would’ve landed in the wrong hands? All this while, I hoped you’d come to your senses one day and say you’re sorry. That you made a mistake and knew you were making a mistake even going in, and only your immaturity and ego were keeping you from admitting that this was all a charade you’d let go on for too long. And all you wanted was someone to hold your hand and bring you back home, even if forcefully, just like when you had to be dragged home from game parlours when you were little. That you’d finally end this game of hide and seek and we’d hug and cry and live together once again like a happy family. Instead, all I do is stay up nights wondering where I went wrong with you. Son, there’s still time—come back, I say. Start over. You can have your share back. I’ve already tried to give it to you so many—”
“Whoa! This old man here belongs in a theatre, what say, everyone? Come on, clap your hands and chant with me, ‘OLDIE. DADDY. OLDIE. DA’—oh, you guys bore me. To death,” Atlas grinned and mocked the crowd that had fallen silent and had their jaws on the floor. He then turned around sharply to inspect something in his eye.
Just when Atlas’s father thought he’d seen a glimmer of hope; that a mask had slipped, that a tear had rolled out and he’d caught his son wiping it off his face and softening his stance, that he’d seen the human in him buried deep, Atlas had fooled him yet again. Some people can only inflict pain—they’re overflowing with it so much, and for no rhyme or reason, and yet, that’s all they can gift other people, too.
“Alright! So, yeah. I am the Undead,” Atlas roared amid murmurs and muffled screams from the crowd, “When no one took this budding scientist seriously, I had to become the man who’d have to shoulder all the burden, and so I made myself the project, the lab rat, the outcome. And after two years of writhing in pain and constantly injecting myself with the magic serum—here I am, in front of you. And to the unbelievers, go ask that man we threw out of the theatre. I got no heartbeat, no pulse, and most importantly, I’m not under the siege of my emotions. I don’t eat—sorry mother, we cook and eat together,” Atlas’ voice cracked a bit as he looked at his inconsolable mother, “but I don’t digest or retain anything and you’ll see with your eyes soon. I don’t rest, I don’t sleep, I never tire. Imagine the good deeds we could do with an army of such robots at our disposal; but no, everyone’s got to look for a loophole. If there isn’t one, they’ll find one, they’ll make one. Nothing—I repeat—nothing in this world is without a loophole. It’s on us and our intentions whether we want to exploit loopholes, or create enough safety, precautions and antidotes to make something fool proof. Anyway, I’m outta here. Yes, I cut a deal with the authorities—they’ve given me a small island far away in the ocean if I give up the project. So, yeah, I’m gonna live, or should I say I’m gonna die, naah, I’m gonna thrive there. I called you all to tell you that I’m not a has-been, a never-was, a one-hit wonder, a big blunder, a write-off, a nuisance, an inconvenience, whatever the heck floats you guys’ washed up stinky boats.”
As the crowd began to get up stealthily and look for the exits, Atlas had one last show prepared for them.
“I’m ATLAS A—A for Awake; and henceforth, ATLAS I—ATLAS INVINCIBLE. And ATLAS. INVINCIBLE. HAS REDEEMED. HIMSELF. IN DEATH,” Atlas thundered for his mic-drop moment, then slammed the mic into the wooden floor, poking a big hole in it. As multi-coloured firecrackers began to go off in the background, Atlas lifted his arms and looked towards the ceiling with his eyes closed. Wary of the smoke, people began to run hither and thither, even as his brothers egged on the parents to leave but they stayed glued to their seats. His father hung his head and his mother quietly sobbed, carefully observing the water that had begun to pool beneath Atlas’ feet.
Vishaal writes short stories and poems, mostly about memories. Some of his work has appeared or is forthcoming in ARTS By The People, Five on the Fifth, Ghudsavar, Kitaab, Hakara, The Hooghly Review, Bare Bones Publishing, Panorama, The Perch Journal, The Kelp Journal, Vermilion, Open Minds Quarterly, Antonym Mag, Good Printed Things and Metonym Journal. One of his poems was recently nominated for the Best of the Net 2026 Anthology.
