The way Andrew Ryan glares across the table at him would put the devil to shame. His lips seem to be permanently set in a thin, partially slanted line with his brows so furrowed that one wouldn't be a fool for thinking he hadn't any eyes under there. The wine in his hand is almost untouched, a stark opposition to Sinclair's which he continues to sip in entirely relaxed silence - his own lips are upturned just slightly. From beyond a lavish red curtain there travels the muffled clinks of silverware and china against a backdrop of pleasant conversation. Yes, the entire joint is positively bubbly save for the rotten corner of the hall where Ryan and Sinclair sit face-to-face.
"It's only a suggestion," Augustus finally adds with a sly smile upon finishing his admittedly-lackluster beverage. It's an awfully-weak and flowery brew. "Laws can be nasty business but sometimes they're necessary and not without workarounds for the smarter gents. Take it from an ol' barrister, freedom requires at least a little restraint. Don't we all deserve a right to life, liberty and everythin' in-between? Make murder punishable, at the very least."
Ryan clears his throat. "Rapture is young and, like a child, she looks to push her limits. I keep her course steady but I refuse to slap her hands and take away her freedom like a tactless nursemaid. She must learn from her mistakes and adjust without someone strapping a leash to her and forcing her along."
"Younguns need a guiding voice, though. That's all I'm sayin', Andrew. If a child stabs another with a pencil, don't we at least give 'em a talkin' to?"
"And not consider what the other child did to provoke it?"
"Sometimes there isn't any provocation."
"Then that child is subject to whatever comes of his actions - the consequences brought on at the hands of the other. Children are coddled too much, Sinclair. There are lessons we delay the teaching of for the sake of control. I will not be that nursemaid to Rapture. I am her creator and I insist on letting her learn these lessons in her own time. If one shall choose to strike his fellow man, then he will learn from this mistake when he, too, is struck."
Ryan's expression retains the annoyance, but his new set is far less scrunched and more stern. To the uninitiated, that would signify the start of a more civil discussion but Augustus knew better. That expression meant the end to all discussion. He lovingly refers to it as the "shut-up or else"-look. His hands are tied. The older man sighs and gives in with a very carefully-chosen response, mulling for but a moment over the verbiage. "Your intuition's gotten Rapture this far. If you believe this is how you'd best handle her…"
"It is." Ryan leans forward on folded hands. "Sinclair, I respect the name you've made for yourself in this city and I will honor any and all agreements we come to but, make no mistake, I take no pleasure in listening to your inane suggestions."
"Oh, but you have to listen, don't you? What kind of freedom would we have if I couldn't put in my own two cents every now and again? I mean nothin' by it, Mister Ryan. It's just the occasional thought that crosses my mind. Can't help it when those ideas stick in their little hooks."
"You're also free to keep them to yourself."
"Your own suggestion to the pot, I take it?"
"A very stern request."
"Noted."
Augustus smiles, his nonchalant demeanor never once wavering on the outside. He taps the rim of his glass and watches Ryan's stone visage imagine a gun against his head. Oh yes, how hated Sinclair knows he is. The Great Man pushes his own untouched glass aside with a final, exasperated sigh. "You are exhausting."
"I apologize. I've just put quite a bit of myself into Rapture, as you can imagine, and have a vested interest in her well-being. I don't mean to butt heads so often, I really don't."
"Right. Onto the real reason I asked you here... I require your services."
"I thought as much." Ryan puts up a hand in a tired but firm hush.
"I need someone, a threat, removed from the streets. I feel Persephone is a… good place for someone to disappear to."
"Who's the 'threat?'"
"The new public attraction: 'Johnny Topside' as they call him."
Augustus cocks his head, genuinely befuddled at that request. For the first time that entire evening, Sinclair's smile drops and is replaced by a rather confused line. "Pardon my askin' as I know it's unusual, but what'd the boy do? He doesn't seem dangerous."
" What hasn't he done is the real issue here, Sinclair. He showed up out of the blue from the surface, waltzed right into my city and refused to tell anyone anything about himself. We don't even know the man's real name. When people ask, he refuses. It's more than suspect. No one just stumbles upon Rapture. He came looking. He had the exact means to make it to the city and has only asked questions, never given any answers. Do you honestly think I'd believe some cooky story about diving for lost ships? No one cares enough about lost ships to go through great peril in the name of finding them. It's the ocean. They go missing all the time. He and whoever it is that he works for just needed an excuse to come snooping."
"I've heard crazier that were true, but who am I to say? You're the boss. He's a public figure, though. Popular. Getting him off the streets might raise a few eye-brows. People will wonder why he was arrested and if we don't tell them they'll wonder where he's gone."
"I don't care what you say. I want him gone. He jeopardizes the security of this city. You'll get paid whatever amount I think your efforts are worth." At that, Ryan stands, leaves a wad of cash on the table and slips from the hidden alcove, leaving Sinclair in stunned silence. The paranoia isn't new, but to have someone locked up on nothing but suspicion? Goodness, it is baffling. Still, he isn't going to argue. He can't. These paychecks keep him from the drop and his very unique services keep him from ending up behind the bars of his own prison. Ryan could easily "repossess" Persephone. Augustus knows he only has himself to blame in the regard. It's like he's tied his own hands.
…
His feet feel so heavy. He can't remember ever feeling particularly light but he can note the added difficulty walking carries as of late. The best way he can think to describe it is being on the verge of falling unconscious from lack of sleep nearly every waking moment. He considers this with particular venom as he struggles down the stairwell leading to the cabins with a deathgrip on the railing. He tries not to let his metal-clad feet fall with such volume as night overtakes the sleeping vessel; however, he fears it's out of his control. From beyond his helm, Delta is sure his clanks echo from end-to-end of the entire ship.
He doesn't abandon the effort, though, as he passes room after room on the way to his own. He can't necessarily tip-toe but he does try to shakey, uneven results. It's an awful feeling, he must admit, to move at all; however, he fears that a lack of activity will debilitate him in some way. He can't run laps, of course, but walking about in just a calm manner until he becomes just far too tired to continue keeps his vague paranoia at bay. Delta's fragile train of thought derails as the doorknob he reaches for is suddenly pulled from his grasp. Before him, yellow visor meets increasingly-tired hazel eyes and halts any comprehension for a good minute.
"Evenin', chief." The big-daddy isn't sure how, but Sinclair manages to look both horrible and charming at the same time in spite of messy hair, hollow cheeks and bagged eyes.. It's a hopeful prospect for someone of… Delta's persuasion… Or maybe Augustus is just blessed and the younger man is void of hope for lack of a personality by design. "Am I such deplorable company? You're gone when I wake up and come back when I'm asleep. I haven't seen hardly any of you all week." In normal fashion, Delta's emotions come in extremes and he aggressively shakes his head to indicate his panicked denial. To it, Sinclair laughs softly and reaches out to pat his chest. "I'm just teasin', big hoss. I know you can't be lugging me around on your strolls. I just couldn't sleep, is all." In that respect, they couldn't blame one another. The suits weren't built for comfort and Delta didn't even remove his helmet to rest. The last time he tried to, Augustus had gone pale as a ghost and was moments short of begging him to keep it on. For a short while after surfacing in the pod, the older man had lacked his usual subtlety and said time had been brief but... insightful.
"Care to come in?" Augustus slips to the side in a lopsided hop and ushers Delta in via a flourish of his heavy hands. Delta wants to laugh, he really does. His attempts usually lead to a dry burning in the back of his throat and nothing more but this time he manages to give a muted grunt - it's an incident that, Delta remarks, causes Sinclair's lips to twitch just a tad more upwards with something akin to pride. The room beyond is something of a mess. To accommodate the suits that both men are trapped in, the dressings on the beds have been pulled onto the floor space between in a larger cot. It still isn't spacious; however, it's better than trying to squeeze either of their cumbersome bodies onto a singular bed. Aside from that, there are stacks of books and newspapers on both the desk and on the floor near the cot. There's been an attempt at neatness but the cabin's cluttered nature endures.
"Been missin' the company, if I'm honest," Augustus yawns. He manages to lower himself onto his side of the cot with an ample amount of exertion. "Eleanor's been too occupied with the kiddies to visit and I don't blame the little ones for bein' shy." Delta offers a groan as it's all he can muster. His own inability to vocalize beyond primitive, guttural moaning is irksome to say the least - especially since he certainly doesn't lack the cognitive skill to form coherent sentences. The small sounds he can give, though, seem to satiate Sinclair's social needs at least. He does seem the type to enjoy steering conversations, anyway. "It's not much longer, they tell me. Tomorrow mornin', in fact. We'll be droppin' in New York and I can't help but notice we lack a plan. I suppose that's my own fault since I'm the only one here with topside experience, so hold me to that one."
They had talked about it. It isn't like Eleanor has been mute on the topic - in fact, the girl is very vocal on trying to figure their situation out - but Augustus is right. He has the experience and he's been notably absent when said issue is raised. "I really am sorry. This whole ordeal's had me out of sorts. I have a lead, though. Before she left you with me, Tenenbaum told me about a fella she helped escape… Said he was workin' out in Pennsylvania as a tech-wiz - Porter, I think it was. I'm not sure about the Doctor's whereabouts but she said they keep in touch so maybe he can find her for us and she'll help cure our condition." It's something and a very hopeful something indeed. From what Delta knew of Tenenbaum, she was close with the protector program and surely would be the ultimate knowledge on the subject for them to consult. If anyone can free the two of them from their mesh and metal prisons, it's her. To the idea, Delta nods.
"Sounds good, then? I should still have some accounts on the surface so we can grab my cash and put ourselves up in a hotel until we get in touch with the doctor. Nothin' luxurious seein' as we got over a dozen little girls in our brood but it'll be liveable. I can't imagine us checking-in somewhere with them, though. I hope Eleanor can back me up. She seems capable." He's prattling. It's a rare occurrence and a sure sign of the man's nerves being frayed. He's shaking like an active power coil, too. Delta cocks his head - an action he's sure to exadurate by following through with his shoulders - and reaches out a slow and gentle hand to grasp Sinclair's forearm. It gives the other pause.
Augustus looks to choke on his words for a second like the contact has caused his tongue to slip into a tight knot which he struggles to disengage. "I… I'm fine, chief. Just a tad stir crazy, I think. Never fancied myself for a sailor. I'll be right as rain as soon as we're in New York." From under his helm, Delta's scarred lips twitch into a smile, not from the content of anything the man had said but rather from the peculiar way in which he said it. The Big Daddy enjoys Augustus's idiosyncrasies, his calm and smooth way of conveying his thoughts. He could fall asleep to it if only he possessed the means to ask the man to babble on for a while and Sinclair could do it, too - Delta is sure.
He suddenly feels a returned pressure on his wrist. "Look, kid... I'm not gonna lie, you're gettin' real slow... But just hang on for a while longer. We'll get through this. You made it through Rapture and the rest is a cakewalk. You'll see… and... " Sinclair chokes again. There's conflict written all over his sickly features. "...And… Try to get some rest." He finishes in an unsatisfying manner, a way that suggests he'd intended to end that sentence differently. The younger man can't prod, though he wishes he could. Goodness, if he could… He'd give Augustuts hell - well-meaning hell. No more bottling and deflecting but instead some openness born from constant and playful badgering. It's what Eleanor did. She'd proven herself to be quite the little therapist for some of the younger crew for certainly SOME things had rubbed off from her mother.
Her mother.
Now Delta is given pause. His mind races through the mental dossier he'd build on Sophia Lamb - a bag of mixed emotions. She was both right and wrong like one side of a scale constantly outweighing the other. She had something Rapture needed but employed it too forcefully. He hadn't much experience with the matter, but Delta knows enough to recognize both the faults and triumphs of Doctor Lamb's ideology on at least a basic level. He was no genius but he wasn't a splicer.
However, no… It isn't that that troubles him. Reaching back into what feels like distant memory, Delta grasps the image of drowning Sophia glaring at him from beyond the alloy pane. The pod shoots skyward and she never once removes her gaze from him… not even when she forces away the rebreather Eleanor offers. The ascent is quick… but not quick enough... Not for Sophia... Eleanor took no grievance with releasing her body back into the ocean. Delta isn't sure what he expected. Perhaps a moment of silence for the woman who had given Eleanor so much of her time? A parting sentiment? Sophia got neither. She was removed from the vessel and Eleanor spoke no more on the matter. It almost leaves a lump in the Big Daddy's stomach. He hasn't any feelings for the woman, of course, but it still seems… off.
"Solvin' riddles in there?" Sinclair taps Delta's helm with an exhausted chuckle. It's warm. Pleasant in ways he can't exactly describe. "You do enjoy daydreamin' tonight. Maybe you should get to some real dreamin' and cut out the middle man." He'd be a liar if he says sleep isn't the most intoxicating idea... He hates needing it… Still, Delta settles himself onto his side of the cot and allows himself to fall back against the pillows with the heavy, hollow thud. His hands reach around behind the piles of fluff in as much of an embrace as he can manage through layers of metal and mesh. "Why, uh… Why don't you take the helmet off? Probably sleep better, huh?" It isn't the first time he's made the suggestion. Delta's hesitant, of course, considering how Augustus reacted on the pod and he hasn't removed the uppermost level of his armor since… Well, he's averse to the exposure.
"Come on, big hoss…" His face almost looks… sad... "I know… How I acted back… you know, I just… It's not fair a' me to put my feelin's before your personal comfort. I just... Had a lot on my mind and… Nevermind, just… You really should take it off. Get some fresh air on your skin and actually feel the pillows and blankets." Metal-tipped fingers tap the rims of the helm's latches… Then another set joins the first. Delta almost jumps when Sinclair's right hand reaches out and gently thumbs over one of the valves on Delta's collar. "How… do you work these, exactly?" He tries a devilish smile against his obvious sleep deprivation and grips the valve a little tighter. The younger man sees what he's doing.
'You know what,' he thinks with a deep sigh. 'I'll bite.' Delta maneuvers his hand in alongside Sinclair's, brushing his fingers aside just enough to grip the valve and begin to turn it. He twists it thrice inward and a little tube underneath the crank puffs a short burst of steam. Augustus follows Delta's lead and reaches over to do the same with the other crank to an identical result. The younger man watches him treat the device as though it were fragile… It certainly only but… he isn't going to object. The older man looks at the visor before moving his hand up to one of the second set of valves. He doesn't turn it immediately, instead watching the yellow porthole for any negative reaction. Said reaction didn't come - wasn't going to come… not yet, at any rate. He presses on in an attempt at turning the valve inward to no avail. He quickly reasons his way through it and turns it the other way and got the steam. Delta doesn't help anymore. He simply waits as the other man releases the final valve and sits back expectantly.
Delta presses on and reaches up to undo the final latch just below the lip of the helmet. It's like a tiny lever just upon the center of his pectorals. One final gust of warm, damp air sweeps from under the armor piece and ushers in an intoxicating wave of new, cold air towards the big daddy's face. It's industrial in scent but not at all unpleasant. It's new paint, nylon carpets and slept-in sheets... And something else a little more musky… Maybe himself? Sinclair? It's not bad, just… All he can think to call it is 'salty.' Maybe sweat… Delta's thumbs hook under the lip and only apply the barest of pressure before halting. His arms are shaking... He sees Sinclair's suddenly bright and curious eyes staring back at him, only seeing the helm and not once prior giving the younger man true eye-contact. It's anticipation of the most poignant flavor. He has to have an expectation and it's going to be one left unmet at the very least and completely destroyed at worst.
In spite of himself and his firm belief in ripping off bandages when needed, Delta grips hard to the release latches No, he isn't keen on this… on any of this... It's sickening for reasons beyond him; however, he feels he can compromise… maybe. One hand drops from a latch and extends with an upturned palm, shakey as can be. Sinclair looks lopsidedly at the gesture while presenting a sideways grin. Eventually, he does take it with his own slightly shaky hand to be guided up through the small crack under the helm. Mesh-imprisoned fingers make somewhat unpleasant contact with the sensitive skin beneath to Augustus's momentary surprise as he's been coaxed without much preamble. Delta guides the other's fingers across the right side of his face, over concave cheeks, an uneven jaw and then over part of a crooked, swollen nose-bridge. Sinclair attempts to focus, it seems, on the minimal details he can discern from beyond his thickly-clothed digits and yet gives only little indications by way of a raised brow here or a small lip twitch there.
The Big Daddy doesn't allow much more as he removes the other's hand and quickly reseals his armor. It's only when both of Delta's uncharacteristically-swift hands drop to his lap does Sinclair speak with a hand held awkwardly in the space where it had been left. "Ain't nothin' to be ashamed of, sport," he says with a distant voice. " Fair, you don't have to do anythin' you don't wanna but… You were spliced worse than a lot of folks down there and you came back from it... Stand up tall." There is a sentiment that means more than Sinclair could've ever known and it is perhaps because it sounds earnest - unbeknownst to the man who spoke it. In the time Delta has known the Panamanian, he's caught on to little, subtle tells that Augustus himself might not even know he has. They are mere changes in sentence complexity and tone - very small and expertly hidden as long as contact with the man is kept at a minimum. When Agustus means something, his verbiage is simpler. He needn't waste brain power to convince for he himself is already convinced and he conveys it clearly. It's when Sinclair chooses to brandish a sly smile and a thesaurus of southern idioms that one should scrutinize. Here, he is being plain. Yes, he wields a smile but it's gentle. It's only a slight upturn of his lip-corners.
Delta cocks his head, though. He sees a slight change in the air. It's a tinge of color to the other's left side which draws his attention to the window through the back wall. Burgeoning shafts of early light break through the blue tinge and give the cabin a warmer tone. In spite of his absolute exhaustion, the big daddy shuffles upright and hobbles to the opening. Far beyond, over miles of sea, the stars still reflect and the sky might still appear wrapped in a veil of night if not for the growing shade of blue gradually shifting the hue from navy to azure.
"I'm guessin' we should bring Eleanor in here and talk about a more… detailed plan of action," Sinclair breathes with a suddenly hesitant resonance.
…
The girls got a whole heap of good-byes. Gentle bodies gave warm embraces and hands gave thoughtful gifts in the way of well-loved books or toys sewn from pillow stuffing and washcloths. Among those kind few who gave so much to make the voyage tolerable for the lot of them, there were voices of anticipation - seeing wives and sons and daughters, tasting a real home-cooked meal, sleeping in a bed that didn't sway and walking on streets that didn't thrash about. He pegged a lot of them accurately. They were fathers and grandfathers - the older ones - and the youngers were keen on finding affections of any sort or going home to a young, childless belle. Sinclair remembered his own free-spirited adolescence and the "conquests" he undertook. He never had his own children, however - not that he knew of. Never married. He hadn't even any family to step off the boat to go and meet. Sure, he might've had some alive out in his birthlands, but they weren't anyone he'd try to seek out after spending years trapped with a whole asylum of drugged-up maniacs.
Even so, standing on deck with support from one of Delta's tree-trunk arms and seeing the monoliths of New York rise through the early fog was like coming home to a warm, loving hug. Eleanor was clung to the railing and leaning as far over as Delta would allow, him moaning if she pushed out a tad too far. Her eyes were like saucers. The children were kept from the sides and corralled into a circle of jumping, delighted squeals… Save for the little one that had first clung to Sinclair back on the pod - Odette. Her tiny, pale hands clung to a strip of fabric from her dress and twisted it as she swayed to and fro. Augustus watched her just... stand there, maybe move if someone else got too close. She was still so ailing in appearance when the other girls had already regained decent color. Eleanor had mentioned something about her hair being brittle as well and even having a fever one morning.
Her tiny green eyes glance up and settle upon the two men. It's like they're her key to escape and she jumps at the chance to pad over. She latches onto a loose rumple of mesh on Augustus's good leg. "H-hey, sweet pea," he coughs.
"Hi," comes her weak reply slightly muffled by her pressing her face into the suit.
"You, uh… Feelin' alright, honey?"
"Mm-hm."
Delicately, Sinclair dips a hand down and runs the metal-tipped fingers gently over the dome of Odette's head. Even through the gloves, he can discern the awful scratchiness of her dull locks. Through a muddled sigh, he says "Oh sweet heart... " He turns to the big daddy who is already glancing at the child with a deathgrip on Augustus's leg. "We can't find Tanenbaum soon enough, chief." As the ship makes its way into the port, Sinclair's mind races to go over everything Tanenbaum had told him before leaving with her own group of little sisters. There was a man named Porter in… Pennsylvania. He worked on computers… Might be able to look him up or ask around if he was well-known enough… Yes, he needed to unfreeze one of his accounts, get them into a hotel, find that "Porter" fella and get Tanenbaum to New York ASAP.
As he's walked down the ramp, he doesn't even notice the stares.
AN ~ I know this is a shorter chapter and really late, but as I started to write this, shit hit the fan and I had to square a lot of things away before getting back to my hobbies. I hope everyone is safe and doing well and maybe I can get back into writing now and help entertain a few people during the quarantine.