He wonders how it sounds when a shark breathes. When a great white takes water into its gills, what noise does it make? He sees them idling past portholes and grand, bay windows and observes the movements their streamlined bodies make. He notes how their mouths gape as though gasping and slits in their neck flex in tandem. Through the glass, however, he cannot hear the sound it makes. He also doesn't wish to enter the water with a shark just for curiosity's sake. He just wonders. Can the Rosies hear it when they find themselves fixing leaks outside of the city walls? Is it deep and bassy? He imagines so, fancies the idea… but he doesn't know. Would he ever know? He decides not and takes to his imagination. He sees a bulky, grand Great White in there. He sees it opening its mouth in its gasping motion and taking in the sea. The sound is deep. It rumbles like a growl but with a background of intake. Yes, that sound is fitting for a shark.

It occurs over and over- a rumbling intake and a vibrating release. The time between is a tense pull… At least it feels like a pull. That's how his mind describes it. He imagines a rubber band being stretched and then returned to its normal shape. That's how it feels. It suddenly comes to him that the sound is real… far too real. It's tangible and coming from somewhere he cannot see. Blurry, vague constructs of a world he wants in distant memory begin to fade like sand castles in the tide. The piles they form at his feet slide down into the abyss like the floor is made of netting. With that, he is left in the darkness… the void. Not for long, but long enough. He's sleeping… or was. He finds himself in waking and soon opening his eyes.

The shapes around him now are far more real and focused when he opens his eyes. He's in the pod, of course, and finds about him the sleeping forms of small children. Odette is still clung to him. Her head is resting on his left arm just as it had been prior to him falling asleep. More prominent, however, is the continued sound of that deep, raspy rumble… the shark's breaths. Augustus's eyes wander and they do not need to travel far before finding Delta's body. His on his side to accommodate for the tank on his back, but the heavy rise in his body with each growl is seen as though amplified for observation. Had it been that way before?

As Sinclair moves to adjust himself, Odette moves as well. She sleeps light, it seems, as she moves off of the man and scoots herself upright. She then moves over and lays her head just barely onto one of the blankets on which the others sleep. She's far too quiet for a child, he can't help but think. However, that is the least of his concerns. Again, Augustus tries to adjust himself, sit himself upright in preparation to move. Again, he is stopped. His left leg burns with all hell's fury and trying to bend it proves how terribly swollen it has become. It's broken. There's no doubt in his mind. Still, it's the least of his concerns.

Augustus turns himself around and scoots towards the Alpha by digging his right heel into the floor. It's slow going, of course, both in part due to his bad leg and the children scattered about, but he manages to make his way to the larger man and places a firm hand upon his shoulder. It's more than firm, actually. He makes a point of digging in with his finger-tips to ensure his touch is felt. Delta's helm turns to aim its porthole at the other, indicating that he is, in fact, awake which expels all hope that the heavy breathing was just born from sleep. "Heh… Hey, kid. Sleep alright?" He sets himself back against his rear in an attempt to seem less concerned. He gets a single nod in return. "Good. Good… I did, too… In… In case you were wonderin'." Another nod. Beyond that, Sinclair is at a loss. He smiles nervously and wrings his knuckles in the silence while trying not to look at the other man. He realizes, though, that this might appear more awkward than what he'd previously been concerned with and turns to Delta with a wide smile. This earns him a clap on the shoulder, heavy and seemingly tired.

"How ya' feelin', big hoss?" The same hand that rests on Augustus's shoulder slowly balls into a fist before extending the thumb lazily. "Promise?" He flicks the thumb up and down. Augustus laughs and pats the hand. "Good. You keep bein' tough, you hear me? We need ya', kid." He averts his eyes after a quick smile, looking out the fogged windows to the peachy sky beyond. He makes out Eleanor's figure just outside the door. She's sitting against the railing with a slight hunch. "She stayed up all night," he breathes. Painfully - and perhaps unintentionally - Delta pushes down against Sinclair's shoulder to steady himself on his own two feet. When he walks towards the door, his gait is sluggish. His hands hang loosely with simple sways. Watching Delta struggle and attempt to hide his weakness digs the pit in Augustus's stomach deeper and deeper. Each step buckles his knees, each pull on the door causes his fingers to slip... When he finally gets the hatch open, Augustus notes the audible hiss from the larger man. An action that would've taken an able-bodied man under a minute takes Delta nearly three. Over one-hundred and twenty long seconds...

In spite of his own fragility, Sinclair hoists himself onto one leg - noting the new strength - and manages to hop his way partially across the pod floor before Delta forces a surge of energy to meet him the rest of the way with steadying hands. The burst of urgency from the other causes Augustus to cringe. "Hey, now. None of that, kid. I can manage. You need to conserve your strength." In spite of the scolding, the larger man wraps an arm about the other's waist and leads him to the now-open pod door. From beyond, just waking shafts of sunlight barely reach above the crystal horizon. They bound softly over breakers, only minutely beginning to show hints of orange and dusty-pink. As the two clamber out onto the grating, Eleanor's figure shifts and she tiredly turns to meet them with a painfully forced smile. "Mornin', doll," Augustus greets as it seems the girl is too tired to even form words. In response, she broadens her smile and slouches more against the railing. "Why don't you go and get some winks, honey. Delta and I can keep an eye out for a little while." There aren't any complaints from the girl. She limply hands Sinclair the flare gun and wobbles her way into the pod.

For the time being, inches of steel seal Delta and Sinclair into all the privacy the open ocean allows. The older man is set down where Eleanor had once sat and Delta takes to a spot close to Sinclair's left. In spite of his partner's inability to speak, Sinclair feels a horrible tension - dread - like he expects the other to prod him. Similarly, Augustus has a litany of his own questions. They only build that feeling seeing as the other is unable to answer, at least in a satisfying manner. The older man thumbs the butt of the gun, being sure to keep his fingers far enough away from the trigger to prevent accidents. He should say something, though… right? In his own experience, silence bred only negativity. Death, contempt, second thoughts - all silent.

"Boy, I can't wait 'till we get off this tub. You and I get out of these suits and there's a whole world I get to show ya'." Sinclair wipes his open palm across the sky. "We're goin' on a trip, you and I. Eleanor, too. New York, Boston, Charleston - Anywhere you wanna go, I'm gonna make it happen. Cross my heart." The same hand comes to rest gently against his collar as Sinclair looks to Delta with a broad, pearly smile. In Rapture's hayday, this smile had gotten him quite a few luxuries, be it a lucrative opportunity or an immensely enjoyable night with whomever tickled his fancy. He isn't sure what his goal is with Delta. Still, the Big Daddy grunts, visor locked attentively onto Augustus.

"You ever try fresh peach cobbler?" Delta shakes his head as best he can, a movement requiring his shoulders to follow through to be visible. "I knew a place in Boston that made the best - topped it with Vanilla ice-cream and caramel. Heh, I could go on, but thinkin' about food's gonna get us both a lot more torture." He laughs. Delta grunts. It's a lighter sound, this grunt. It's like a single snort in response to a bad joke. Sinclair decides that this is Delta's way of laughing, or faking such for Augustus's sake. Either way, he likes it. "Well, jolly trips and peach cobbler can wait, anyway. First thing we gotta do is find where those little girls belong. Most of 'em were taken from the surface. They gotta still have family somewhere out here. Mamas and Daddies cryin', wonderin' where their little girls went to... " The visor casts its gaze across the scape of rippling water. It's almost wistful - serene. One could catch it on a postcard with the Big-Daddy swapped with a pretty pin-up doll. Sinclair thinks about it. Sure, a lovely little blond number in a two-piece sounded like something to behold, but Delta was nice in an artistic sense. Maybe it's even an image Sander Cohen would swoon over with his queer sense of style.

"It's magnificently-industrial!" He imagines the eccentric "matremind" crying with a flourish of hand motions. He's heard similar musings in passing from time to time, seeing as Sinclair himself had dallied with Ryan's crowd on occasion, though never thought his relationship with Cohen - or Ryan, for that matter - was of more consequence than mere business necessity. In fact, he believes most of that group despised him vehemently. They never said so or made it overtly obvious, but Ryan was never good at hiding his stronger emotions.

His mind drifts some at the recollection of Adrew Ryan - specifically to an image of the "Great Man" sat across a desk and glaring pointedly back at him...

The room was posh and clean, a far cry from a lot of Rapture in those days, something Sinclair expected. Even if the rest of the city was crumbling to bits, Ryan kept the initial vision alive and well everywhere he frequented. Behind Ryan was a bay window that overlooked glimmering lights and schools of deep-sea fish. Simply remembering it gives Augustus a rush of anxiety. "I know it may seem an unusual request," began Ryan, drawing out the word "request" as though meaning to completely silently substitute the word with something far more firm. "...However, the need for such a place has become far too clear. It is the only way to ensure our continued operation."

"I hear you loud and clear, sir, and I wholeheartedly agree," Augustus had returned with another trademark grin and leisurely lilt, rolling a lit cigar in his right hand.

"So you'll do it?"

"Why, of course, Mister Ryan - that is if my conditions are met. I still have to make a living. I'm sure you, of all people, understand. This project will certainly prove costly." Andrew Ryan gave Augustus one of his particular stares - the same he gave Fontaine. It was a mixture of respect and disdain as though going through these motions had become a chore.

"Yes, yes. Of course. I'll spare no expense."

Sinclair blinks and finds the horrible mahogany floors entirely gone. There is no Andrew Ryan sitting in front of him, there is no cigar between his index and thumb and there most certainly is no massive pane of glass alloy glaring down at him, reminding him of his confinement. Rapture is gone, at least to him. If only everything else could disappear so easily. He puts his right hand out before him and surveys the spanse of fused cloth, metal and flesh. Upon a placard about his knuckles there is carved a partial-circle symbol that flared at the open ends. Omega - Lamb had declared it so confidently in the short time after his awakening. "Our champion. Fitting for you to end the mess you helped create. You serve a greater purpose, now." The hand slumps down back onto the railing to hang loosely by the wrist. She was right about one thing, as much as it hurts him to admit it - even silently.

What would have become of him had he not bent to Ryan's summons? Augustus risks falling back into his imagination. He sees a retirement in Panama near where he was raised, lain back in the sweltering heat. He has plenty of whiskey, cigarettes and funds to keep himself comfy in an empty house by the beach. Maybe he takes up writing. He's always wanted to try at least putting out one book, but whether or not it would be a novel or one of those ridiculous self-help business start-up scams he was unsure. Could he get away with writing about Rapture? Now that is an idea. Sinclair opens his eyes and looks up at the pretentious "art-piece" that was Ryan's lighthouse, his beacon to a new world. Even in the near blinding sunlight, the muscular, winged figure holding an orb is clearly visible.

Maybe he should write about Rapture… Write about the failures, the hypocrisy… All the warts. Rapture was a pretty face covered in warts - almost like a Splicer, in a sense. Oh, isn't that poetic, he thinks. The very "parasites" of Rapture - one of Ryan's greatest banes - represents her so brilliantly. How he'd love to expose every little destructive misstep she ever took on her path to hell.

A heavy metallic clank drags Sinclair from his thoughts. Delta's hand repeats the rhythmic rattle on the railing before the older man and then points across the waves to a shape on the boundary. Augustus clears the daydream from his eyes in time to see the great silhouette of a vessel and feel Delta slip the flare gun from his loose grasp. As quickly as he can, the Big Daddy raises the barrel high and fires. In the light, the glimmer is minimal - barely a spec… Taking deep breaths is all the older man can do to halt the dread from boiling over in his stomach. The last vessel ignored them, even with a glaringly-obvious signal.

Then the horn... It's a low, knowing bellow clear over whipping wind and growing breakers. It's a siren's song. It's a medicine for his ill nerves. It's hope. "They see us. That has to be it, kid. They see us!" If not for his broken leg, Sinclair would've jumped up in jubilation. Delta clasps his shoulder with a grunt and reassuring squeeze. The older man gently runs both hands over his face. "Oooohh… We just gotta get to the mainland and we can figure the rest out." His voice is laden with a long, breathy drawl - a cousin to a sigh. As expected, Eleanor is out and about in a flash. She must have heard the horn.

"Was it that ship? Has it seen us?" She leans over the railing and points.

"Looks like it. Shouldn't take 'em longer than a half-hour to get longboats our way." He leans over with a grin. "Excited?"

"I feel like I'm going to throw up."

"Ha! You and me both, honey."

...

Never once prior had Augustus been a spectacle. Of course, he's always been handsome in the face, if he has anything to say about it, but aside from that he'd never been above a smile or passing glance. Now, however, he finds himself the intrigue of many a sailor alongside poor Delta. People in rapture always stared at big daddies, but they also knew to keep their distance. These men aren't privy to his "nature," and thus have no reservations about approaching and gawking like school children at a show-pony. When asked, Eleanor spouted some drivel about deep-sea diving and being aboard a trans-atlantic liner when the vessel had complications- very clearly practiced. In the event, they took the children onto their "experimental deep-sea craft" and waited for rescue.

"We've been stranded for days," she'd told the captain upon their boarding. "We haven't seen any life-boats, any survivors. We were on our way to New York. A lot of the children claim to have family there." They were swiftly given living arrangements below deck where Eleanor had taken the girls to get them settled and now Augustus and Delta are standing on deck, keeping the curious busy while she gets everything straightened out with the girls. "Going over the cover story, do doubt," the older man thinks. He certainly isn't bored between each prodding bombardment. At this particular moment, a young irish deckhand is staring wide-eyed at the suits themselves, giving specific attention to Delta's helm.

"An' ye can breathe through that? All the way down there? At the bottom?"

"Yessiree. Wonder a' science, ain't it? All we gotta do is take a diving bell down, adjust to the pressure and we're good to walk right atop the ocean floor."

"Oi? Wot's down there?"

"Ohhh, just a lotta sand… Rocks…. I've seen a sunken ship or two. Hell, even a plane."

"E'en under that big ol' lighthouse? Why's that there?"

"Ehh, heard it was a memorial for a shipwreck. Built by some fellas over in Europe. Haven't dived there specifically. We were just crossing through." Augustus leans over the rail and looks sideways at the boy with his best poker-face.

"Thas…. Not wot I heard."

"Yeah? What'd you hear, son?"

"I heard... Well, I heard they was buildin' somethin' down there. Lots'a talk from fishermen who say they been turned around by men wit' guns. Others 'bout missin' ships that cross through here an' never get seen again. Now you say you was on a boat passin' through an it went an' got itself lost... I think I's believin' it."

"Heh," Sinclair scoffs and turns with a lazy smile. He raises his brow at the young man as though he'd said something completely laughable. Perhaps, to those out of the loop, it was… To normal people it was. "Now, it takes a fisherman to believe a fisherman's tale, doesn't it? Don't be so willin' to latch onto those tall tales. Each of 'em are just lookin' for somethin' new to spit about over drinks at a ratty bar on the boardwalk. I heard this, I saw that. It's just bored old men, chief. Ships go missin' all over the ocean and it's all because of one thing: nature is - and always will be - more powerful than anythin' man can build. I've spent more time under these waters than any man on this ship and I respect them. I know what they can do. I've seen the aftermath. I've seen glorious ships twisted like rope and thrown into the dirt miles below the surface; I've seen the bodies of their crew trapped behind portholes, staring out with frozen eyes at the black abyss… And that's scarier than anything some salty, drunken fool can dream up." It's fronting entirely. He read it in a book once- some fictional mess about an old shipbuilder thinking about what it's like to die trapped within the vessels he builds. There's enough conviction in it, though, that the boy backs off some, wide-eyes going wider with a new wonder.

"Why do ya do it... " It comes a good while into the stunned silence.

"Someone has to. Someone has to go down and get a look, see if there's anythin' worth salvagin' when those things go down… see if anyone can be identified."

"Ye see a lot of… bodies?" His tone is almost sick, now. Shaking. His face is blanched.

"Absolutely. The ocean does abhorrent things to a corpse, believe you me." Before the poor boy can wretch at the thought a man calls him from the wheelhouse. He vanishes behind walls of steel and Sinclair steals a breath. "Ooh…. God help the young ones." He leans his head back over the edge of the bow. "Speakin' of which, I think we should go check on… "our" brood." That word almost chokes him to speak. Absolutely should no child ever be considered his. No living thing aside from a house plant or a very independent animal, either. He cared for horses back in Panima until he was old enough to strike out and he certainly didn't enjoy the experience. Neither did he being the eldest of six.

All that aside, Delta puts arm around Sinclair's waist, trying to balance the older man and keep his own tired form upright. Together, their footfall creates a lopsided cocoughany of unrhythmic clatter. His own is unconcerning, a simple broken bone at the worst, but Delta...

…

Below deck, many of the sailors have given up their beds for the girls. They moved themselves into the lounge for the rest of the voyage, but do come in to see the children. They speak to them in calm, hushed tones… the voices of fathers… of older brothers… of grandfathers... The girls run about the mess hall, a room much larger than the pod and more suitable for tag and pretend. It's touching, almost. Eleanor is certainly at ease, especially with more capable hands to help her handle the young ones, though her eyes are still trained on each sailor like a hawk. Said eyes relax considerably when Augustus and Delta make themselves known.

"Father... " She walks, almost skips, to the Alpha and takes him by the forearms. "Father, you need to rest. Please. They have a room for you. You and Sinclair."

"Well, that's mighty fine of them considering that I'd be perfectly comfortable sleepin' on the floor rather than in a bed I stole from someone."

"We've been through a lot… Just one night in a safe, comfortable bed… The both of you. Please. It would make me feel better to have both of you rested… And the strongest you can be." Sinclair hobbles between the two of them. He gives the girl a warm smile and squeezes Delta's left forearm.

"Don't you worry, sugar. I'll make sure your daddy gets plenty of shut-eye. A few hours at the very least and not a second less than two." She nods. It's nervous, relieved and sick all at once. She's running on fumes. Sputtering. Struggling. "And I think you should try to get some, too. All of you should as soon as possible." He sighs. "And stop worrying so much, honey. Take a breath. You're not underwater anymore." He whispers the last part and she laughs a dry, breathy laugh.

"Right. It's over here."

The room is cozier than Sinclair imagined. The floor was lined with a navy carpet, the beds are soft and white, there is a desk in the corner made of a light, lively wood and there was a matching wooden molding. He feels an urge to march back to the deck and reaffirm that he's on a cargo freighter. Delta sets Sinclair on the floor against one of the beds and tosses himself just across, but an arm's reach for the lumbering tin-man. Augustus notes the sag in his features... It's worse. It's only been a day. Is it even a good idea to let him sleep?

"If we let him, he might not wake up. If we don't, he could shut down from exhaustion." The older man decides that Delta deserves the more comfortable option and resigns himself to watching the big-daddy slowly droop and droop until a familiar, deep intake resonates from the helmet. Delta's barrel chest swells and shivers with each and every one and, as long as that almost painful sound fills the cabin, Sinclair feels he can rest- Maybe not sleep, but...

It's not a great white - not this time. It's bigger, but gentler. Through the transparent alloy, he eyes gloss over smooth, blue, speckled skin. Little white spots pattern its slow, graceful form. It's mouth is wide, too... Wide and gasping. It's gills flare with each breath and he can hear it loud and clear. He feels not an imposing nature from the small eyes of this beast, if it is even a beast at all. Surely, that look is curiosity. It sits in place of the great white's coldness or the tiger shark's aggression. It watches him, too. It's reflected on the polished, mahogany floors and even the marble figures of chiseled men to Sinclair's back.

It cannot- nor does it - sit still. Instead, it paces. It swims the length of the window and then sweeps in a dance of a turn to cross back over it. It almost seems as enthralled by the man behind the glass as said man is with it. It isn't hunger, he knows. This species hasn't the faculties to devour larger flesh, even if its mouth is wide enough to swallow a man whole. Sinclair places a cigar between his teeth and sucks in a lung-full of fumes before obstructing his view of the creature for only a moment. It seems mesmerized by the cloud and even chases it as it wafts up into the vent and then the beast swims back down to resume its "patrol."

"Those are my favorite." Augustus turns back and smiles at the brunet lain across the sunchair, cigarette in her own, plump lips.

"Are they, now?"

She nods. "I always thought their skin looked like the night sky in that Van-Gogh painting." He can sort-of see it.

"I suppose so."

"Not a fan of Van-Gogh, Augustus?" Her tone is teasing and he tries not to let the smidge of offense bleed through.

"Not a fan of artists, honey. Everythin's gotta have some cosmic meaning with them. You just sit and listen to Cohen for one dinner and you'd see. Last time I humored that fruit cake, he sat and fawned over the sounds whales made and how he wanted to capture their "sorrowful love-songs" for a play. God help us all if we have to sit through whale calls for entertainment." She laughs. It is dry and void of real humor, almost... pitying.

"Dear, you are in no position to call anyone a fruit cake."

"And what ever do you mean?"

"Oh, don't be coy, love. You can't possibly believe that you're entirely unobtrusive. There's a point where a rumor persist so loyally someone would be a fool not to suspect its merit."

"So you believe all long-standin' rumors like Fontaine being a communist spy or, God forbid, Ryan having upwards of twenty illigitimate children?"

She sits up and smears her cigarette into the brass ashtray. "Not at all. Not what I meant. All I'm suggesting is that, when whispers become so consistent in substance, one has to recognize the possibility that they might be true. In this case, I believe they are."

"Darlin'," He finally turns fully from the creature beyond the pane. "You of all people should know how ridiculous that particular rumor is. You and many of your friends, as a matter of fact." A dismissive wave of his hand and he's back to observing the shark's waltz.

"You're the one being silly here. You know how it works. You know how you work."

He doesn't dignify it with a response. Only fools believe rumor for gospel and he wasn't keen on calling her a fool, at least not to her face. Rather, he just listens. He listens to his own body as it sucks in another cloud of smoke and spits it back out.

Deep breaths.