The lumbering hulk that was Subject Delta was now reduced to a limp, ragged doll that lay broken on the cold, wet floors of Rapture. The halls of underwater city were all silent, save for the quiet whirrings of cameras far off and the sad, pained roar of a Daddy without his Sister. And there he was, bleeding, shot, burnt and blown to-and-from the deep pits of Hell. His rivet gun lay long since discarded, not a single rivet left. His blood-soaked rusted-through drill hung heavily on his right arm, blue sparks dancing across his left. There wasn't a drop of EVE in him, nor a single First Aid Kit left for him to heal himself with. And so, he resigned himself to his fate. To die, slowly and agonisingly as he bled out. Droplets of water pattered against the visor of his helmet. A low, tortured groan filled the air around him, emanating from his helmet. He couldn't feel his legs. Oh god, what had happened to them? Struggling, he tried to lift his helmet, pain rocketing throughout every single fibre of his being. He was forced to drop his helmet back to the unforgiving ground, cracking the tiles with a resounding crrrrrkkkkk! Above him, through the curved, transparent ceiling, a school of fish swam by then stopped directly above him, as if the examine the once mighty, but now fallen beast.

Inside the icy prison of his suit, beneath his helmet and inside his skull, his mind, his distressed, traumatised brain struggled to make sense of everything that had happened, only to find himself drawing a blank. Only then, did he think to look around him. He lay surrounded by the corpses of slain Splicers. Then, with a sickening feeling, Delta came to a gruesome realisation. The wet feeling he felt across his entire body wasn't because of the water that leaked into Rapture, that puddled and pooled wherever it could. Water isn't crimson red. There must have been hundreds of them, all dead. Some, with their faces completely bit off by the harsh steel of his drill, others with bullet holes riddling their bodies, some with charred bodies, some filled with buzzing bees who had found a new nest, some seemed to be blown apart, limbs tossed across the length of the room and some with a spear through their eye. Empty casings were scattered across the floor, intermingling with the debris and the dead and the warm lake of crimson.

And, lying on his chest, was the doll that Eleanor had made for him, the broken watch face staring back at him. Delta found irony in that. A broken man with a broken doll, in a broken body, in a broken city. Everything around him was broken. Everything. Even himself. Even dearest little Eleanor, a girl who grew without her precious Daddy. He tried once again to lift his head and this time, he managed to do so, ever so slightly so as that he could see the teasing sign for a Vita-Chamber. It was so close. All he would have to do, to fix himself, to feel whole again, was to die. For once, he prayed to see a Splicer. To see their hideous figures appear out of the dark halls of Rapture, to walk in their awkward gaits, with growing pustules and extreme deformities, with blood staining their once crisp clean bodies. He hoped to see one emerge from somewhere, anywhere and finish him by planting a bullet where his heart would be. He would even try to lift up the diving weight that hung from his helmet and point right where the bullet should be. But, no luck. The corridors remained empty and silent, not even a footstep. Even the groans and creaks that the buildings made under the immense pressure of the Ocean on their shoulders were gone. All that was left, were his heavy, drawn out-breaths, even then, he was sure he was just imagining them. Surely, he must be dead! Surely, he is just a spirit now, waiting to ascend as the body it once inhabited draws its very last breaths. Only a few more seconds and he feel himself being drawn from his body and he would see the world beneath him shrinking and shrinking until it finally disappears and he is surrounded by white, fluffy clouds as apposed to the harsh metal of the city. But he didn't feel anything. He didn't feel himself flying or lifting up or leaving his body. No, he just felt pain. He closed his eyes and waited. Waited for when the last droplets of his life bled out onto the floor to mingle with the shifting body of blood that he lay in.

Then, he heard something he didn't expect. Humming. Quiet, gentle humming. And the humming got louder. And louder until he could hear footsteps. And little splashes through his helmet. The footsteps were too light to be a Splicer, too gentle to be a Daddy, too loud to be a Big Sister for surely, if a Big Sister were to come for him, as the Reaper comes for so many others, she would at least be silent. The footsteps stopped right by his head and his eyes opened. The face of a small blonde Little Sister hung above his head, the hummed tune coming from her closed mouth. She looked at him curiously through her bright eyes and then at the doll upon his chest and then at the Delta etched into his hand and finally said, "Eleanor sends you a gift Daddy, she said that you might need it." In her hand she clutched a doll and in her other hand, she clutched the white metal box of a First Aid Kid, the label faded but still ever so slightly visible.

"She wanted to tell you that she was sorry that she couldn't help earlier, she said that she was busy with Mother." Went the soft, delicate voice, "Then she showed me how to use it. Let me help you Daddy, you look a little ill. Roll over Daddy." She said as she opened up the durable tin box. Delta said nothing, he made no noises and rolled to the side, just as instructed. Searing, burning, horrid pain erupted all across his back, arms and chest but he said nothing, staying quiet so as not to upset the Little Sister. He heard the Sister fiddling with the contents of the tin, metal gently clinking against metal. Then he felt a warm, soft hand against his back. She injected the contents into the tank on his back and made him roll back onto his back, gently guiding him back down. Delta felt himself repairing, muscles and guts knitting back together, bones regrowing, lodged bullets surfacing from inside his body, tendons rebuilding, new blood being transfused into him. Then, came the small hit of morphine and he was fit to get back up again. Groaning loudly, he forced himself into a sitting position and finally, standing up. He walked over to his discarded rivet gun and clipped it onto his back. Looking around, he could see nothing that would help him, nothing to scavenge or take. Then, he noticed the Sister hadn't scurried off into one of her vents yet. He looked directly at her, through his visor and into her eyes. She sensed it and took his large hand with both of hers, her fingers not able to encompass his massive hand yet and said, "This way Daddy! Eleanor's been waiting!"

And so, the Little Girl lead the hulking monster away, away into the caverns of the Garden of Persephone.