Despite his silence, Sinclair was keeping a fairly close eye on Atlas and Delta. Tenebaum's rather emotional reaction to the former revolutionary had sparked old curiosities inside of him. He found that curiosity still came with a hefty dose of caution attached.

So he kept a distance and observed.

What he'd seen from their brief interactions gave him a different cause for unease.

He'd long since adjusted to the mindset of Delta being a real person. A person with too many little liabilities and character pitfalls. Most of which came in the form of basic human decency. Sinclair had never placed much stock into that particular market.

But Delta had warmed to the man so quickly. It was not quite the unquestioning devotion he handed to the little sisters but it was not far off either. He made sure to garner a small sense of amusement from knowing Atlas was essentially being treated like some overgrown brat.

Again Sinclair had to remind himself that while spite could be quite the motivator and entertainer – it was a bit of a distraction.

Thinking back on it, Atlas had been quite lucrative business partner as well as a risky one. The big players always were.

Fontaine, Ryan, Atlas, all of them at one another's throats and each threatening to sink him if the other overstepped. Sinclair had managed to dance between all with nary a scratch – that was until Lamb took it al out from under him.

He could escape unscathed after telling Ryan right to his face that he ought to have those kinks in his brain worked out but couldn't manage one philanthropic lunatic cult leader.

Admittedly, at the time of that passing comment to Ryan, he hadn't quite been himself. No love for the hoosie he had choked the life from, sure. But it was a rather tasteless act even to him. To kill a woman so smitten with him.

If he were an honest man – and he rarely was by the sake of his business – Sinclair might have admitted that his disdain from the act was rather self-serving and wholly divided. No one fancied the ugly feelings that occasionally took them by surprise as they twisted in their chest. Feelings like jealousy towards a woman whom had never once known her part in bringing his envy onto her.

Jasmine Jolene had never been the brightest spark, but she was beautiful, and Sinclair couldn't fault the blonde bomshell for attracting eyes that never quite landed on him in earnest.

Sinclair pulled his fingers through his hair again and willed away the old ghosts in his memories. Wishing that the dead might sink a little lower into hell and leave him be for a change.

Although some of the dead never quite got that far into the depths, he was watching Atlas as evidence of that. Keeping an eye on both the kid and Tenebaum became quite the juggling act, but he always knew when the doctor approached. Her footsteps never stuttering, each step a confident and purposeful stride. Her own ghosts didn't seem to nip at her heels as Sinclair's did his and she arguably had more to fear than he.

Steely woman he'd admit with reluctant admiration, still she gave him the creeps. Idly he thought back to the day he'd let her go from his employ and unknowingly passed her along to Fontaine's clutches. No one could fault him for that; it was bad business to keep around a broad that would stick a needle in a man's crown jewels without so much as a word of warning. For science, was an excuse that only went so far, and most men drew the line at their future children.

When those familiar footfalls came into his cart again Sinclair didn't acknowledge her. Sore eyes remaining fixed on his screens as he knew hers were. She craned over his shoulder and Sinclair bit his tongue, better not to waste energy trying to teach an old dog manners.

While he kept a close eye on Atlas and Delta's progress, Tenebaum kept one closer and it focused solely on Atlas. What she was looking for Sinclair couldn't say, and she hadn't deemed it lucrative to clue him in to what was going on in her head just yet. Even though he'd gone from subtly probing to flat out asking at times. She held her cards close to her chest and again he could find no way to fault her for that – he was much the same.

"They approach the booth?" She asked though she could absolutely see for herself that they were. "Why the distraction?"

"Chief found himself a pretty picture, fancied it I suppose. A man of great taste our Delta." Sinclair mused, an edge of mocking to his words.

Truthfully, he wondered himself what had possessed Delta to take that picture. Even if it was Atlas that bound it up for him, it was Delta who had wanted it.

Again, Sinclair thought, he'd long since come around to thinking of Delta as a real human. But for the first time he began to wonder which human he was. His stomach churned and he felt a little chill rush through his veins. After all there were many former humans out there that had passed through his hands and into Ryan's.

Apparently not a single ghost to his name was going to properly stay forcefully forgotten. Soon enough he'd have banshees on his tail if this kept up.

It was the thoughts of restless undead that caused Sinclair to flinch when Tenebaum spoke again. Voice as flat and business like as always. Though this time it came with a sharper edge. "Something is not right."

Sinclair cast a wary look in the German woman's direction. "Something not right in Rapture? Alert the press." Perhaps that was a little dry of him, but Sinclair thought it acceptable that his patience be stretched a touch thin after being stuck down here for so many years.

Still, the old bat had a point.

Over the radio Sinclair occasionally caught a voice. Then another and then another. But they saw only one shadow in that booth. To say it was disconcerting was an understatement. "It's not as though those splicers aren't the sort to hold merry conversations with no one besides their reflection." He ventured, supplying what was surely a sound solution. Only in Rapture was a lunatic raving back and forth to himself or herself a comforting explanation.

Regardless Tenebaum took up the radio to alert Delta to the perceived threat. "Herr Delta, something is not right. We can hear many voices outside the train car, but...but we see no one. Und the music grows louder...can you hear it?"

On the screen Delta halted, cocked his head to the side and listened. He must have heard it too because once he began to walk again he called Atlas a little closer to his side. This time Sinclair couldn't muster up the amusement he had before. His attention firmly held by the music that grew louder through their speakers.

"I know that diddy." He announced, the words slipping out without too much forethought and then begrudgingly he continued, feeling it would look foolish if he stopped with only that. "One of Tate's ol' favourites." He supplied with a faint frown.

Yeah, he remembered that one, it was the last he'd heard and the last time he'd visited Tate's parties.

Right before the whole thing had taken those few steps too far into the plasmid business. Tate had a particularly interesting brand of ADAM, a special concoction all her own. It had gotten on every nerve Fontaine had when she'd made it, having acquired the right to coin a particular ADAM product for her parties and then warped it into something else that Fontaine wasn't able to replicate. Sinclair distantly recalled how the pretty lady he'd attended with had snarled at Ava-Tate on Fontaine's behalf. Ryan, unsurprisingly, had supported miss Tate in this venture.

Sinclair never had stuck around splicers where he could help it, even in the early days. Naturally he'd dropped away from those parties when they began to become a different kind of messy. When the most common bodily fluid in one of Ava-Tate's parties was blood and not something a little less predictable, it was time to call it quits.

A pity, the parties really had been something before ADAM got involved.

The music grew louder, and Sinclair began to wonder why it was playing. Ava Tate's parties had been very abruptly brought to a halt a good long time ago.

It was eerie in a way. Rapture was an unpleasant place now days but hearing something so lively ringing out through the decaying halls carried with it a particular wrongness. The violent swing of the beat a memory of a time where the lights burned bright and up on stage an angel voiced bitch entertained and conjured up pleasant dreams for the men in attendance to last for week's worth of cold nights.

The music had no place in Rapture as it was now. Who was still playing it?

Sinclair watched and listened as Delta approached the booth, though he did his best to tune out the song that got louder with every step.

Then a voice, a familiar one, came ringing out in a nervous excited babble.

"Jeez-oh-man, I...I recognize you! You're Johnny Topside!"

Sinclair tensed.

"You're that explorer from the surface who found Rapture all on your own!" Sinclaire then froze. "Wow! Well listen, the name's Stanley. Just you come on over to the Triton Theater, Johnny." Sinclair then paled.

"The truth awaits you!"

Sinclair then looked to replace the truth with a truth.

Already his mind worked. After it had caught on that moment of numbing alarm, it began to buzz again. Hastily looking for solutions before the problem truly had a chance to arise.

With lies he weaved and truths he could twist. A need for survival rose in him again and the words began to fit into place quickly. A silver tongue and a salesman's moral integrity, he looked for the right mixture of truth and lie to sell whatever he needed to.

The kid couldn't know.

Jonny couldn't know.

But a weight formed in Sinclair's gut through all his rationalizing as he understood now why the kid had stopped to look at that painting.

Sinclair was at every ghost's mercy surely enough, but it seemed not all ghosts that came back were purely in memory and memento.

…

…

Atlas listened to the shaky, over-excited chatterings through the radio as his eyes watched the shadow through murky glass move about. Each movement a perfect match to the jittery nature of the voice talking at them.

Needless to say, the expression on his face one of displeasure. Thoroughly unimpressed with the fidgety fool on the other end. The name Stanley rang a bell but like many others he thought he ought to know the face and meaning behind it remained just a little out of his reach.

Granted, he wasn't trying particularly hard to conjured either of those things up for the moment. Far more focused on the other name he'd heard.

Tipping his head to the side Atlas eyed Delta and tried the new name Stanley had slapped onto him on for size. Now Jonny Topside was not a story that went missed or forgotten in Rapture so easily. Plenty of folk thought him a legend. Not hard to see why when Ryan had him whisked off so quickly.

But Atlas had seen him.

Tall young chap moseying on around Rapture without a care and with about as much brains on him as a teenager. Not to say he had no brains, but his naivety made him dangerously daft. More interested in sightseeing than hiding.

He knew the sort, heart of gold and not enough sense to know the rest of the world weren't so kind. Poor kid, didn't know what he'd gotten into until Ryan came down on him like a bat out of hell.

Atlas knew his type a little too well actually. Reminded him a bit of his Jack now he thought of it.

"Topside?" Atlas ventured slowly, in no mad rush to get to the theater though he knew they should have been. It felt important in a way and Atlas knew he must have been projecting to think the discovery of self was so blasted essential.

Delta couldn't answer with words, but Atlas expected some form of confirmation or denial all the same. He got the usual back and forth sway of the big daddies form. But he noticed with some uneasy that this time Delta's stance seemed almost…dazed. As though it were the weight of more than just the drill he was balancing.

Just on cue the radio at his hip came sparking into life.

"Johnny Topside?" Sinclair's amazed voice came through. "Hold the music, I remember that story...kid, that was you?"

It was exactly what Atlas had been about to ask, more or less. Except…something felt off.

If asked, Atlas couldn't have told a soul what it was that raised his heckles. Sinclair's question was an innocent one of curiosity and genuine astonishment – how often was it a near legend ended up on your metaphorical pay role when they were expected to be dead?

Well for Sinclair this had become something a streak in that department.

But something about it was wrong.

Even as Sinclair went on. Explaining the origin of the nickname, knowing the real name of the legend never that important as Atlas could attest, something rubbed him all wrong. He listened to the story he already knew told back to him. The man that found Rapture in a diving bell. The rumours of his simple, careless waltz through an airlock and the week spend seeing sights before his eventual capture and questioning.

He knew the story. He knew it as easily as if it had been taught to him from birth like a child's nursery rhythm.

And it was wrong.

Sinclair's words were wrong.

As if somewhere along the way the story had warped, changed its pace and shape. Not unlike how those same children's stories evolved over time. Passing from person to person until they were no longer recognizable as that original fairytale.

Something in this tale had been switched or untold and Atlas could only think it was the doing of the storyteller.

However, he couldn't place what had changed or why it'd been changed in the first place. More to the point he had absolutely no purpose to believe as such.

But just like Stanley's name – it felt like a memory just out of reach.

Unlike Stanley – this one felt significant.

It may have been because the man of legend was literally standing by his shoulder that it felt more vital to Atlas then.

Privately his gaze narrowed onto the radio, as though his scowling could reach through to Sinclair himself. To let him know Atlas found something wrong in his words, to promise he'd know why.

Unawares of his scrutinizer, Sinclair went on. "Our boy there's locked up good an tight in the projection booth. And he sounds like he's gone ten kindsa loopy." Not that this was such a surprise. Welcome to Rapture. Sinclair went on with a tone of slightly exasperation. "I…think you're just gonna have to play along to get the override key."

Delta moved. As though Sinclair's suggestion had given him cause for movement again and while unrightfully harsh anger rose in Atlas, so did a spike of that familiar nostalgia. He'd once spoken and given direction in the past and Jack had followed just as trustingly. More reluctant than his big daddy cohort, Atlas followed along.

In order to reach the theater, they had to pass through the atrium connecting large sections of the park. Atlas wasn't going to pause to take in any sights naturally, but as the doors to the connecting space opened up, revealing the derelict remains of the carousel he was given reason for pause.

The park had boasted one of the most ridiculous sights in all of Rapture, but it had been a beautiful glowing radiant golds and reds as it spun in its prime.

Now it sat in silence, rusted and in ruins. Atlas approached, having no other choice but to do so in order to pass by its mass and into the theater. He'd have given it a wide birth had Delta not strode right past it. If he avoided it too obviously it would seem strange behaviour on his part.

And it was strange.

He had no reason to be so averse to standing near the old amusement park ride. But the closer he got the more his skin began to prickle and in the back of his mind he swore he heard laughter. Light, feminine and wholly unwelcomed in his mind. If he looked to the corner of his eye Atlas swore he saw a light or two, as though the old carousel had a bit of life left in it and was waiting for someone to just give it a little nudge.

His skin was crawling. Every step he took towards it was another he wished to take back and he tensed as he walked past. In his mind he imagined hands reaching for him by no will of his own. Long stretching limbs that would wide around him and drag him down towards the carousel. Still laughing.

All those knocks to the head were making him delusional. There were no hands, no lights, no laughter. Just Rapture crumbling bit by bit around them.

Yet he didn't dare take a breath as he passed the carousel. He vaguely remembered someone telling him a long time ago that it was best to hold your breath when passing a grave least the ghosts try to pry their way in with the air you swallowed.

This was no grave, but it carried the same unease as though it were. He didn't believe in such nonsensical superstitions. Scoffed at those who did and occasionally amused himself with little trinkets designed to bring good luck, never once buying into them. Providence had no place with him.

Despite this, he might have started to believe in ghosts and Atlas's breath remained in his chest.

He knew without a doubt that something was wrong with him. There was nothing truly wrong with this construction and the reason it made him so uncomfortable had to be one born somewhere in his own head. Somewhere under all those blows he'd taken and amid his missing memories.

Knowing that made passing the carousel no less unsettling and he firmly stuck to Delta's heels until they'd passed its looming frame. Delta had not so much as taken a second glance, or if he had the helmet obscured the action.

Instead the quiet giant took Atlas past the carousel and into the theater. It was little better, having faired the brief spell underwater about as well as the rest of the park.

Passing into the theater itself was more of a visual joy than the grand entrance had ever been in its prime. The old neon and spotlights all busted and broke as the water life took over. Life that was infused with so much ADAM it glowed. Atlas looked over the orange plant life, noting it to be just the same luminous flora as the blood flowers he'd seen in Alex's little den. The lights bounced off the ruined beams that still managed to keep the entranceway firm and open and despite himself Atlas found the lights to be softer and more natural than the old fanfare had been.

As much as he loathed admitting it, technically speaking, ADAM was natural.

It was just that everything they sought to create with it for themselves was not. Nature was an irrepressible beast and humans, quite a presumptuous one.

Delta took the lead, slow but confident in his stride as he passed through the once greeting doors and into the shell of what had been the park's show ground.

Smaller than its competitor and spiritual rival, Fleet Hall, but packed with far more genuine flare than Cohen could have mustered in his pinky. He'd have cut off a thousand other's hands just to try and add to what he lacked. But the Fleet Hall had survived better than this. Atlas didn't have eyes in the loon's little shrine to pretentiousness, but he knew how firmly it had stood.

However, eight years had passed, and he wondered if it were still so bleedingly pristine. By Rapture's standards that was.

Fleet Hall was all sharp blues and whites under those rotting walls, but this place was nothing like that. It shone red even in its decay.

Atlas crept inside, gun clutched close to his side as he looked around. The walls remained illuminated with the scattered glowing coral and flowers, a few of the old lights seemed to be working as well and they were just as crimson in their hue.

And there was music.

Quiet and muffled, floating through the air from up ahead, a different tune to the one that had lead them to Stanley. Softer. A slow dance sort of music. Hadn't been in high demand of the theater back in its working days. More likely to run around a Cohen and Ava-Tate production that was either too outlandishly ludicrous – that is to say so far up their ass they couldn't hear themselves speak – or dedicated to stroking Ryan through another undeserved sound of self-grandeur.

They both heard the music and while Atlas was inclined to let sleeping dogs lie, Delta did not seem to share his survival instinct. "Delta." Atlas hissed the big daddy's name sharply. As if chiding a dog or wayward child that was wandering a little too close to some venomous creature. "Delta, get back here." He insisted, remaining slightly crouched as he tried to call the man back to him.

He'd been spoiled with Jack it seemed because Delta had no problems ignoring his demands.

To the metal suited man's credit, he did pause. Stopped to look back at Atlas and then towards the source of the music.

They didn't need to investigate that. The theater section of this establishment was the door opposite the one where the music was loudest. There was no need to go in there when Stanley called them to the other.

Yet Delta was curious. Perhaps he thought it better to clear the area, make sure it was safe to linger here as long as they could, or maybe he just like the tune – fuck if Atlas knew one way or the other.

With not nearly as much caution as Atlas would have advised – that is to say, enough to turn the other way – Delta approached the door. It still alarmed Atlas how gently the giant could move and interact with things. Gloved fingers carefully sliding past the door and inching it open enough to see inside without bringing too much attention onto himself.

For a moment he looked. No sound or reaction. The second trickled on into the next and then the next until Atlas's patience broke and he crept up behind Delta. What was so damn interesting in there? Atlas could easily see through the gap in the door Delta provided.

Inside the lounge, a small fancy joint that had once been used to hawk overpriced finger food and cheap wine to movie goers, the music was coming from an old duke box. The lounge was dark, almost all the light inside coming from the large open windows letting in Rapture's glowing cityscape.

All except for one solitary light that stayed on, shining a glowing circle onto the old floor.

There, two people danced.

Atlas paused, momentarily taken aback by such a simple thing. The two moved slowly back and forth, barely dancing at all, just a gentle sway that only vaguely followed the music's pace. It was surreal. Such a nonviolent sight in Rapture. Damn near one of affection.

But Atlas knew those tattered clothes. A familiar mask of twigs and the shine of an old meat hook dangling from the woman's side, just narrowly avoiding brushing her partner's leg.

"Splicers." Atlas whispered to Delta and stepped away.

He'd had been happy to leave well enough alone but now he'd seen them and knew the threat was there. He was no fan of spider splicers and even less fond of houdinis. His burned arm throbbed painfully. The other hand lifted his gun.

Catching the steely set of Atlas's shoulders and the grim expression, Delta guessed his intentions and before Atlas could take the first step forward the gentle giant stopped him.

It was little more than an arm held out in his path and a steadying look. Again, Atlas was unsure as to how such a blank mask could muster a look that so sternly said 'no'.

Indignant and genuinely at a loss, Atlas stare flicked between Delta and his hand twice over. Why the fuck not? His expression screamed right back before his tongue could get to it. But Delta only quietly closed the door again and began to walk away. An unspoken command that Atlas follow.

He did follow, but did not do so silently, having a few too many heated thoughts to keep each on strictly to himself. "Did ya fail to get a good look at that?" Atlas hissed, voice still lowered though he didn't do so consciously. As if now made aware of the couple so close put a firm volume lock on his voice. To be cautious.

Delta couldn't speak. He knew this, and yet when the large man stopped and turned back to him with little more than a quiet, typical droning groan, Atlas could have sworn he'd magically learnt the unfucking scripted secret language of big daddies.

To him at least, Delta's level gaze simply stated. 'They're dancing, leave them be. Do not be so heartless.'

Insult was likely not Delta's intent, but Atlas bristled as if it had been. "They're splicers!" He shot the reminder right back in a vehement snarl.

Did Delta forget what that meant? The absolute second they stopped that little swing in the lounge they'd have it out for blood. Theirs specifically. That was if the two didn't tear each other apart as an end to the dance. Splicers were barely human, just random acts of violence and craving to keep them going.

But Delta was steadfast, continuing to give Atlas that silent, lingering stare. Yet again, Atlas thought he understood. This time he didn't get angry. How could he when Delta so calmly looked down at his arms and without seeking permission grabbed one of them?

Atlas tensed and bit down a shout that would have no doubt given their position away, allowing Delta to raise his arm. Blessedly it was not the burnt limb, but it almost felt like Delta froze this one when one of those large, unrightfully gentle, thumbs brushed across his skin.

Following one of his scar's paths down to the dip in his wrist.

Atlas felt as though he'd taken a physical blow.

Staring down at the spot where the veiny scar and Delta's thumb met. Ice spreading up along his body from that point, chasing his scars up his arm to his neck. Leaving him chilled to his core.

'They're splicers!' His mind screamed back at him and Atlas recoiled. Jerking his arm back violently. He was only allowed to break free because Delta did not try to hold him there.

"Keep your bloody fucking hands to yourself." Atlas bit out in a venomous snarl.

Turning away from Delta and stalking off. In the other direction of the lounge. So much as thinking of the lounge now made him feel unwell, he'd ignore it. Instead focusing on the theater. He was foolish, not nearly as careful as he ought to have been as he forced the doors open with more violence than he needed to.

Ever aware of Delta's eyeless gaze and gradual footsteps following behind him.

He wasn't a splicer. Wasn't an addict. He wasn't like those things. He was a real fucking person and the splicers barely even cut it as corpses still walking around like they had some life left.

They weren't human anymore, he was.