Shrapnel burrowing its way underneath his suit, crushing water smashing into him, blinded by billions of white bubbles, Delta was in a sea of chaos. Giant, heavy arms splayed in front of him, he sought purchase against the surface of the rescue boat, sliding backwards as his clumsy fingers scrabbled for a hold, and at last, his hand closed on the railing, dangling off the side as he rocketed up and up.
The force was akin to the feeling of having his arm torn off of him, and with a pained roar, his other hand flew up and caught hold. Ragged, pained breathing filled his ears, shivering with every breath as he hoisted himself up and over, landing prone with a muffled clang.
Battered, but still alive, he continued to edge his way towards the center of the craft, vision violently blurring and slipping into dark oblivion. Each movement was agony, but an animal rage numbed the pain, only pushing him forward. His instinct was to survive no matter the consequences, and the consequences were damning.
Hands pressed against the glass, the silent predator watched as the creature who called him father reached up and grabbed her mother by the leg. With a forceful yank, the one named Eleanor drowned her own mother without remorse, leaving the corpse to drift in the flooded vehicle. Spotting him, she swam up close to the glass, pressing her own hand upon it. Almost longingly, she looked out and up to him. He stared down at her, no emotion stirred from the display of cruelty, no guilt stemming from the knowledge her actions were solely influenced by the observation of his merciless aggression.
Whatever went through Eleanor's mind, Delta would never know - for what is a monster but a creature without empathy? But if he could look into her mind - if he could perhaps examine his legacy, he would see his own reflection in her: a skewed being shed of morals. Unlike the beast that had spawned her, Eleanor was with a greater capacity for power. Lamb had given her the tools, and Delta, the drive to become great. In her was a murderer whose mind was stained before she even killed her first victim. Many of her sisters were quick to follow, and with her mother as her latest trophy, there was nothing holding her back. Delta had bred the death of the world, and world's end was looking up to him, seeking approval.
And though he was the one who molded her into the creature that stood before him, killed the sisters that she had been once so closely connected to, there was no regard in his eyes. No acknowledgment, just a silent stare through the roar of the water around them. She must have screamed, fingers curling against the glass as it cracked, but he was deaf to her in more ways than one.
They struck the surface, the sheer force throwing him to the ground where he was unable to get up. Drained of any remaining strength, he laid facing the tremendous, stormy clouds above them. Eleanor was there with them, standing over his prone form. It was a strange reversal: the child having shown unconditional love, and now denied of the approval she so desperately sought, towered above him. She pried off her helmet, throwing it callously to the ground before affixing her attention to her father.
Her skin was pale, white almost in the dim light, but there was no mistaking the numbness in her dull eyes. An unreadable emotion upon her face, she knelt down to him, poising the needle above his chest. What she was about to do, as father had taught her, was perfectly natural.
She told herself that, but the truth was that everything was so abnormal, so perverse about their lives that the word held the opposite meaning. What was natural about a daughter committing patricide? The answer, the truth buried deep within the sea of amorality: it was not.
Weak and as close to death as he was, Delta still resisted. His leaden hand reached up to shove the needle away; Eleanor took his hand, the hand of a murderer and a beast, and forced it back down. With a fast, precise movement, the needle sank into his chest. He gasped, feeling all that remained draining into the glowing vial.
Eleanor watched him disappear.
And then Father, the Rapture dream was over.
Her hands… she gripped them once as if testing their resolve. These hands, she thought, had plunged into the stomachs of Little Sisters, reached past the pained spasms of the girls' bodies, and ripped out the slug without repentance. She could still remembered on how the little creature squirmed so vigorously in her hands, fighting for its life before she crushed it easily and absorbed its essence. Their ADAM flowed freely in her body, filling her with unparalleled strength. A murderer she may be, but in the end what does it matter, ethics? Nicety was a means of deference to a superior or peer, and no one was stronger than she. It served to tie her down, force others to their knees as they succumbed to the poison of the altruism her mother had so obsessively worshipped. And where was dear Mother? Dead, just like her little Family.
You taught me that innocence is a chrysalis, a phase designed to end.
No more was she Lamb's daughter. Her name was Eleanor, and as for the family name, let Mother carry it with her to the grave; it was meaningless to her anyway. Her eyes went to the meters on her arm. The thin needles spun erratically, proof of the strength she had claimed. Father's memories were the only thing she would carry with her from her days as a lost Lamb. He had not loved her as a father would to his daughter, but she had loved him, and that was enough. Never did it occur to her that the elder Lamb never meant to harm her daughter, and that Lamb was trying to shape her daughter to becoming something great. Her attempts were only half-realized. Eleanor reveled in the potent strength of Delta's ADAM.
Only when we are free from it, do we know ourselves.
The dream of reaching the surface had been fulfilled. Her limbs were now freed from the shackles that once held her down, and the world was at her fingertips. She could survive any battle, solve any equation, and win over anyone with her guile and charm; and all of these abilities were now dedicated solely to her own personal pleasure. Lamb had failed to take into account what would happen if her daughter had become a monster, and the animal strode confidently to the railing to stare into the depths of the stormy seas as if waiting for a new purpose to reach her. In mere moments, a frozen face appeared, attached to the still body of a splicer. Several more floated the surface as evidence of the gallons of blood spilt. She had been at the root of it, and the idea that it was her fault so many had died and perished, was lost to her. She was an orphan; one of woe's many children, but she was bothered little and was more transfixed on the idea of visiting a beach. She wondered what sand would feel like.
You showed me that my survival, my joy, are all that matter.
Would the rain stop by the time she had reached her destination, she wondered? That was something beyond her ability of control. She decided she did not like that and picked up her helmet, fitting it back in its place before securing it. She didn't know which way was closest to the shoreline, but she had heard of a place called America mentioned many times in Rapture; more so than the war-torn continent of Europe. Surely the beaches would be warmer westward than eastward? Whatever the case, it did not matter. She slipped into the ice-cold water, barely even feeling the frigid temperature as she glided just below the surface. Below, the faint lights of Rapture could barely just be seen. She did not give it so much as a glance.
I indulge, nothing else exists.
Eleanor wanted the world, but the world was not ready for her.