The call wasn't a pleasant one. The man on the other end was irate, to say the least. It isn't by any fault of hers or of her employer, though, as many call in intending to hire a lawyer but then devolving into a tirade about one thing or another which might've led to them approaching the practice. As she hangs up the phone, she only momentarily dwells on the jaggedly-spun tale of a cheating wife and a missing box of savings once stashed in a wall somewhere for something else draws her eye and not for the first time this afternoon - or even all week.

Her boss has been, put simply, busy. He's been rushing about, putting things in order, closing debts, contacting long-time clients and transferring the practice to a new owner. "It's temporary," he'd said a month prior when all the fuss began in earnest but no one is holding him to that. It isn't that he's one to lie, really, but more that his behavior spoke otherwise. She had tried to ask him once. She was thrown some sloppy, unfocused mumble about a business opportunity and that was that. She isn't worried about him. No, she's worried about her career.

Presently, he's in his office and barely visible through a little dent in his blinds. He's quickly scribbling something down on a notebook with a fine pen. Once finished, he places the book - and the pen - in a briefcase to be locked up and put aside. She isn't the only one sneaking a glance through the portal. The other clerk just across the way is sharing her sense of curiosity and they lock eyes just before the form beyond the window shifts and strides to his office door. He's among them without much preamble and still very distracted.

Augustus Sinclair, even when his mind seems elsewhere, still looks as presentable as ever. She's sure she'd never see him otherwise. His thick, black hair is neatly combed and slicked delicately against his scalp, his facial hair is finely shaved into a barely-noticeable shadow and his suit is pressed and straightened against his lean figure. He's a handsome man, to be sure. He draws the eye - even without his signature debonair grin that she's sure could melt the guard of even the most ruthless warmonger. She's taken back just a pinch when said smile is aimed at her and he's set the briefcase down just on the edge of her workspace.

"Helen, madam, I need to ask a favor of you - one of a more personal nature."

Helen recognizes his tone, it's a soothing plea for sympathy - not quite begging but certainly trying to stress some importance. She puts aside her work - admittedly untouched - and eyes him oddly.

"What do you need?" Mister Sinclair pushes the case slightly.

"So, I'm going away for a while - not forever, just for a little while - and I feel I can trust you with this. I need you to hold onto this case for me. It's just got some documents that I need to keep here while I'm away. I don't care where you put it, it just needs to be safe so I can get it back from you once I return."

The other clerk, Serina, peers around Sinclair's form to cock a brow at her which she spares a brief - but equally as confused - glance. "This… Doesn't have anything illegal in it, right?"

"No, of course not. I wouldn't thrust that on you, ma'am. It's just some personal documents. Could you do this for me?" Helen gapes for a moment before shrugging.

"I suppose so, sir. How long are you going to be gone?"

He waves a dismissive hand as he lets go of the handle. His tone is flippant as though speaking of an upcoming holiday. "No more than a year at the very most. I'll leave plenty to make sure you and Missus Regan are taken care of. Now, I gotta catch a boat. Apologies for the short notice, ladies. I hope to get back to you soon." He's waving over his shoulder and out the door before either of them can formulate a coherent response. Serina sighs.

"Helen, my dear, I have the awful notion that we are never going to see that man again." She looks to the older woman with shock.

"What makes you say that?"

"Oh, I saw it in my first husband. When a man gets like that, he's gotten himself lost. He's chasing something sweet and a man like Augustus doesn't come back from that goose chase." Helen taps her nails against the aged leather of the case left so carefully in her charge. She hopes beyond hope that Serina is wrong.

…

The call came early that morning. She almost missed it through her exhaustion keeping her so heavily chained to her bed, but Helen caught the machine just in time to rush out two greetings that might've been a tad too loud. There was but a beat of silence before a tired, raspy voice returned the sentiment with an attempt of sweetness. Even with it's beaten tone, the voice was so familiar that she imagined his face the moment she heard it. Her recognition left her stuttering. "M-mister Sinclair?" she gaped, catching herself midway through and lowering the tone of her voice. On the other end, she could almost feel his smile.

"Helen... It's been a good minute, hasn't it?"

Now she finds herself twisting and turning through the crowd of a dock, workers stomping from ships and warehouses to different ships and different warehouses. There is the occasional bar or market stall along the walk, but they aren't anything she's familiar with nor anything she'd fit dressed as sharply as she is. Perhaps she's overdressed for this, she thinks. She's meeting an old employer outside a pub, after all - not even in the pub or with an offer for drinks. Perhaps it is the image she still keeps of him in the back of her mind - a lean, charming businessman in a crisp suit and with expertly kept hair - that motivates her.

Helen skirts around a man hoisting a rattling box before finally finding the pub she'd been directed to. It's closed. The windows are dusty, the wooden door is eaten and void of the paint it might have once had and it looks like life hasn't really seen the place in about five years. She walks to the door and glances about, a case held at her pelvis by both hands. She scans the more scarce group meandering about this section of the walk, however she doesn't see the face she remembers so vividly.

Part of her - a very foolish but loud part - wonders if she'd dreamed the call that morning. Had she been so tired that she heard the voice of her long-gone employer in a sort of waking-dream? Yes, him coming back after all this time now seems unlikely when given any thought. He'd vanished without a trace and that year went by as did the one after that and the one after that. Serina spread the rumor for a while that he'd been lost at sea, not even believing it herself. They laughed at that for only a year… Then they worried... Then they moved on. Augustus Sinclair and his little law firm became just a little paragraph in their novels, but she held onto that case… She held onto it through her career and even through her marriage. She kept it in the back of the attic and told her husband it was heirlooms whenever asked. Something inside her begged her to keep it.

Now something's telling her she's an idiot. Maybe it's right. Maybe she should turn and chuck this damned case into the harbor and finally be rid of a life-long-

"Helen?"

It sends a chill up her spine… Like hearing a ghost.

She turns and expects to see perhaps an older version of the young man in her head, the man who smiled and asked her to keep the little leather package all those years ago - perhaps a little wrinkled and maybe a little grey but still as charming and well put together as he'd always been. She couldn't imagine him any other way...

Now she can.

Helen cannot comprehend how it's possible, but the man she sees before her is both certainly Augustus Sinclair and looks nothing like the man she remembers. Hollow cheeks and sunken eyes look at her with a weakly-attempted smile. His skin is pale, his hair is a messy mop and raked with grey along the sides and a bit through the poorly-brushed top. His facial hair is scratchy and unshaven and his crisp, clean suit is replaced by a bulky, brass abomination that she cannot wrap her head around. She's at a total loss… there's no other way to say it.

"Goodness, don't you look as lovely as ever… Wouldn't hurt my feelin's if you didn't say the same. I know I look like a wreck." He leans against the side of the building, obviously keeping pressure off of one of his legs. Helen finally finds her words in a meek, strangled choke.

"Augustus... What did you do…?" She doesn't mean for it to sound so accusatory. He doesn't seem to mind.

"Made one titan of a mistake, my dear... But it looks to be that trustin' you with that case wasn't another one. I didn't think you'd have kept it after so long, but I am so glad you did. I'm in a bit of a bind without it."

"I… Augustus, where did you go? Where have you been? You said you'd be gone a year at most, and now… My God, you look like… like you were just spit back into the world by some ungodly beast!"

"I'm aware I look terrible. You don't have to rub salt in the wound."

"I'm serious!"

Sinclair laughs. It's weak… Painfully so. "I know, doll… I know. Things didn't go quite right… I'm not sure if you'd believe my story."

"Mister Sinclair, you could shoot me a tale about a fire-breathing dragon and it'd be better than having no explanation at all after all this time."

The older man laughs again, shoots her a bittersweet grin that almost resembles something she might have recalled once upon a time and says "You're not far from the truth... " He sighs. "But, I think you'd be safer not knowin', at least for now. Maybe if you keep in touch, I'll enthrall you with it all one day."

"You won't tell me anything?" To say she's disappointed is an understatement of astronomical proportions - even more so when she spies the clear, apologetic smile he gives in return.

"I'm sorry. I don't know if all of this is gonna come back and bite me again. I don't want you to end up in the line of fire. I'm not aimin' to uproot you after all this time."

"It can possibly be that bad... "

"Darlin', look at me. It is." The smile drops and is replaced by a downtrodden, beaten plea. It's a silent, tired plea - one from a man at the end of his rope, getting too tired to hang on. It made her believe him. Silently, Helen steps forward and reaches out with one hand on the handle of the aged, dusty case. The heavy, thickly-gloved hand opposite to her takes it as best it can and she slips her fingers away without protest. Helen folds her hands at her stomach and offers her own weak smile.

"I got married," She says. He smiles a little more warmly.

"To that old boy you were smitten with, I hope."

"The same one. Our daughter's turning two in a few months." She can see something in his eyes. As cruel as it might seem, she thinks she likes them better than the ones she remembers. The eyes from years ago could hide all manner of secrets, but these… They bare all. They are books torn open and left to scatter to the wind. That something she sees is hurt and joy stuck in a fond, parting embrace. Maybe those eyes are even a little moist, a little warm, a little bright and a little sullen.

"Congratulations," he says through a minor crack in his tone, still smiling.

"Thank you." The smile drifts away to one less genuine, much more masking. He shuffles back a step into the shadow of the abandoned structure.

"I hope now, maybe…" he looks at the case, "...You can finally forget me." It hurts. She feels a sinking in her gut like someone is pulling her stomach out through a hole in her back. It's all so much… His face, his eyes, his voice… It can't be real. He grins one last time and, with a nod, turns and hobbles his way back into the din beyond the pub. Helen waits until she's sure he's long gone before turning and walking back down the docks the way she'd come.

Then it comes to mind. She ponders the thought and then lets it settle when she decides it's the truth.

Augustus Sinclair did die at sea.

…

He becomes lost in himself for a while. He sits on the hotel bed, listens to the children dig through drawers and draw on pamphlets with the pens provided to the room and doesn't register a thing. For the first time in weeks, not even Delta's labored breaths seem to bother him. He feels like he isn't even in his own body- like he's sitting on the other bed watching his shell stare off into space. No one bothers him. They let him sit. They let him stare at himself. It's dark out by the time Sinclair finally comes to and Eleanor has taken half the children to the second room with her and leaves half asleep between the two beds in the first. Augustus hadn't even noticed that a couple of them were resting at his back.

When he does notice, he gets up and hobbles to the window. The curtains are open and his mind almost expects to see fish wriggle past when he leans into the pane. Instead, he sees smoke rising from rooftops, cars gliding past on four wheels, people strolling along sidewalks heading downtown. Surreal doesn't even begin to cover it. It's like he's gone from one dream and into the next.

"You need to rest." Her voice startles him a tad. He doesn't jump, necessarily, but does lightly gasp. She speaks soothingly. He guesses his behavior emits a sense of fragility requiring such caution.

"I wasted a day," He replies in barely a whisper. "I need to make some progress before shutting down tonight. Any leads on the Porter Fella?"

"I underlined some things in the phone book for you to try. It's late, though. No one would pick up until morning. There isn't anything you can do right now." Sinclair hops a turn, able to better use his broken leg to balance than before. His eyes gaze past Eleanor on instinct and spy Delta resting with his back against one of the beds. His helm is dipped down to suggest sleep, an observation aided by the steep - though ragged - rise and fall of his chest. She sees it. Of course she sees it. "You can't help him without your strength." And she's right. Augustus resigns himself to hobble over to the other sleeping protector, waving off aid from the young woman when her hands reach for him. He slides down onto the carpeted floor beside Delta.

"Head on back, doll. Can't leave the little ones alone for too long. I'll watch him tonight." Even the pet name doesn't mask the sternness in his tone. She whispers a good-night before walking out. What he does next is on total impulse, one he doesn't even try to force down. He taps Delta's porthole continuously until the larger man stirs. He imagines that, under the armor, his face is asking 'Why?' He wastes no time in answering. "You need to take that off." He isn't asking. He isn't being gentle. It's forceful, though not exactly a command - much like a parent telling their spawn that they need to eat their greens. Delta cocks his head and Sinclair persists. "I know you're scared, big hoss, but we can't keep dancing around this like you need a damned occasion. It's dead weight, something we don't need to lug around."

In response, Delta stares, the view behind the porthole obscured by some internal rim-lighting that produces a glare on the artificially-fogged glass. It was an attempt to hide the human traits of the brutes; however, Delta appeared to be using it for an entirely different purpose. Any other time, Sinclair might've cut his losses and tried again later. Not tonight. "I mean it, Delta. You don't have the energy to keep dancin'." He stares back with little emotion, only a clear expectation. It's more evident that Delta is entirely at a loss. He can't argue, he can't explain the intricacies of his objection with only hand motions - All he can do is stare. They both just… Stare.

On the other end, the larger man isn't sure how he feels. He's not angry. He's not scared. He just… doesn't want to take it off in spite of Augustus's rather sound logic. Delta is getting weaker, the helmet does weigh a considerable amount and is extra baggage that he can fairly easily divorce himself from. Outside of Rapture, it doesn't even hold a function. In the end, Delta doesn't know why he's so averse to removing it. If Sinclair knew that much, he's sure the man would double his efforts. Of course, that's assuming that that isn't what he's already doing. This is certainly a forceful change from every other attempt. No sweet words, no honeyed reassurance. He disturbed Delta's sleep, as well. It's when the thought comes to the younger man that perhaps Sinclair is the one with an issue at the moment. That day's almost catatonic episode was evidence enough.

On a whim, Delta settles a hand on Augustus's shoulder and squeezes, just hard enough to be felt through the thick fiber. It's like hitting a switch. The hardness of the opposing expression practically melts leaving the other struggling to sustain it. His brows twitch in tandem with rapid blinks before a cringe overtakes Sinclair's features. He stands, almost falls over from lack of balance, and rushes to the bathroom. It happens so fast that Delta's head spins.

…

The bathroom was a bad idea - the worst idea. The floors are a gaudy, colorful tile muted by the buzzing, yellowish overhead lights and the vanity set framing the mirror. It reminds him of the deluxe and it terrifies him. Why does it terrify him? There aren't any windows, the ceiling has a brown splotch of water damage... It's all so much, too much. He feels his airways constricting. Sinclair tries to brace his hands against the countertop like it'll ground him but it does nothing. His heart is in his ears. Then it comes like a freight train… like when some kids sent him a watered-down molotov over the numo…. Dread.

Like the world is ending.

Like he's going to die any second now.

Like the world is imploding and all he can do is sit and watch. His eardrums are throbbing, lungs screaming. He can't stop the tears. He doesn't even realize that he's crying until he sees his own face in the mirror. There aren't even any sobs, just a nonstop, open stream. His entire body is consumed by an angry, constant quaking. He can even feel a blackness creeping into the corners of his vision, tunneling, zoning in on just himself in the mirror. It's the first time he's allowed himself to look at his own face. It's the face of a stranger… A disgusting, sinful, stranger undeserving of being a survivor. In his place, he can name so many who should be there. Grace Holloway, Gilbert Alexander, even Stanley Poole might deserve it more than him. Some are still alive… So far below the sea… Trapped in a giant system of inescapable tubes… Where he should have died. The dread continues to drag itself outwards from his chest, into his lungs and then his stomach which starts to ache and churn violently to a point where he clutches his abdomen. He almost retches into the sink.

The groan that escapes his throat is involuntary - not loud, but certainly there - a bleat, more like… The rush of sound opens his airways just a little, enough for him to take deeper breaths. He follows one up with another and another. Gradually, his heart starts to settle though following the lungs. His stomach isn't far behind. But the dread… It doesn't leave. Even after he fakes a smile as he leaves the bathroom and heads to bed on the other side of the room, it's still there… Making his hands shake... Making his mind breed thoughts he'd only once prior entertained.

…

How many days has it been? He refuses to score ticks into the wall for the sake of his sanity as he'd rather forget than be reminded of the unintended longevity of his solitude. Even Tenenbaum has been silent as of late, something that concerns him to a degree he's not quite ready to admit. For now, all he can do is watch the screen. Some cameras around the sector have been destroyed or blinded by substances he can only imagine, but a decent amount are still in working order and paint a picture of devastation that leaves him wondering how Rapture hasn't already flooded and killed them all.

His eyes hurt. The single red light in the room isn't helping. Neither are his glasses.

For the fifth time in the past ten minutes, Sinclair rubs his eyes with the thumb and index finger of his right hand. Someone's running a seam-ripper through the middle of his life. He wonders when the Splicers will return to bang against his door... They've been fairly consistent about their daily rounds to the train station, thinking he had plasmids stored with him. In truth, he did - just one. It's a single dose of lightning and he's unsure if he could ever muster the strength to inject it - partially for fear of losing some of his already waning sanity and partially for fear of how badly it'd hurt. First time splices always hurt.

Today, the Splicers haven't come. In response, Augustus hasn't much to offer. He isn't relieved... Just wondering if they'll wake him up later or finally get the door open while he sleeps, ending his admittedly lengthy streak surviving in the ruins of Andrew Ryan's utopia. He can't fend off the splicers... Not anymore. He is slow, starving, dehydrated, old... Perfect prey for just about any creature wanting some flesh. What they choose to do with his body, he doesn't much care anymore. He'll be dead and won't have to watch as he's slit open from hip to hip or crushed under a metal boot. He'll be sure he's dead. His right index finger taps idly on the grip of a pistol set off on the lip of the console where he'd tracked the flooding until quite recently. The lights have all gone out and he has only the cameras on the one screen to flip through as "entertainment." It's all the same. All he can see is the death of all hope there ever was of seeing the sun again. His finger stops on the grip and gives the gun a little, lazy spin. He does it a few times before catching the weapon and inspecting it. It's in poor condition, something he'd expect from one he'd taken off of a dead resident on his way to the station weeks ago. It had served him well for a while, picking off the few splicers in the area when he first arrived so he could gather supplies. Now, the degenerates have moved in with full force and the measly four bullets he had left would just be wasted lead. One of them was reserved anyway.

Maybe the other three could help some other poor soul who'd eventually stumble upon this awful hovel. He weighs his options. Sinclair has half a jar of clean water... no food, no medicine and a gun with four bullets. Outside, there are splicers everywhere, a train that wasn't moving anytime soon, horrible flooding everywhere and no clear way for him to leave the city without needing the fire power of an entire army. The cherry on top is his loss of all communication with any other sane human being. For Augustus, it's clear, cut and dry. Hope in the impossible is what got him here and he isn't one to be fooled twice. He'll take the egg on his face for coming to Rapture in the first place, but he'll shoot himself before he starves to death or gets taken in the night by a bunch of drugged-up lunatics he himself helped manufacture. Again, cut and dry.

Sinclair loads a bullet into the chamber.

…

A knife cut the kind silence of early morning somewhat jaggedly as he enjoyed his coffee. The sun was barely above the skyline when the phone rang which befuddled him. Yes, he got calls early once a full moon or so, but never this much so. A part of him guesses either a misdirected dial or - most unlikely - something is wrong upstate. He picks up and greets as cheerily as he can manage on only three sips of caffeinated liquid. "Charles Porter speaking, how may I help you?" He waited for the person on the other end to apologize and hang up, but the girl that answered didn't seem keen on that.

"Charles Milton Porter?" Her accent is clearly English and dusted with the barest hint of sleep.

"Yes, that's me. Who is this?"

"Before I answer that, I have a question." She waits like she wants his permission.

"Okay... ? Go ahead."

"Does the name 'Rapture' mean anything to you?" His heart drops. Only for the barest hint of a second does he try to rationalize that the girl on the other end is a very dedicated evangelical aiming to save his soul on this budding day, but he knows that that, what most would consider the logical answer, is outlandish. His voice lowers.

"Who is calling?"

"Someone who desperately needs to get into contact with Brigid Tenenbaum."

"You're from Rapture."

"We've made it to the mainland. We're in New York in a hotel on the bay. Can you get her to us? I don't mean to sound dramatic, but it's life or death." He pauses and looks around his kitchen as though someone might be listening, even in his single-person household.

"What's the address?"

…

"She didn't give a name?" Brigid walks fast for a woman in heels, even authoritatively. She's dressed in an old blouse and skirt topped with the messiest ponytail Charles has ever seen. Simply put, she looks very much like herself which bodes well with him, especially considering that he hasn't seen her in months.

"No. She sounded English, though. European for sure. Said she needed you and an expert on Big Daddies but she didn't elaborate. Kept things real brief."

"Smart. Eleanor Lamb for sure."

"Lamb? Like that fanatic?"

Tenenbaum waves a hand and shakes her head in tandem. "Her mother. Eleanor is not like her. Eleanor is grown little sister, free of the effects. It's a long story." They carry luggage with them through the terminal, impatiently waiting at checkpoints for checking until they can finally walk out to the pick-up area for their taxi.

"I'm going to hazard a wild guess and say she has someone like me with her."

"That is my hope. His name is Subject Delta, he is an ancient model, by Rapture standards. Same as you were. He was Eleanor's protector when she was just a little one."

"An actual protector. Can't say I've ever had a civil conversation with one. This should be an educational experience."

"One way to put it." He opens the cab door for her and then slides in on the other side. The ride to the bay is silent, in spite of the driver's insistence of polite banter. It's probably for the best and seems to suit Tenenbaum over the alternative. For someone who had once been considered one of Rapture's elite, she isn't much of a socialite.

They arrive at the hotel far too late for Brigid's liking. She has a sense of urgency about her entire demeanor that is rarely absent where Rapture is concerned. It gets her into the lobby and searching a small crowd with the vigor of a first-time splicer with much less positive enthusiasm. It's a strangely graceful mix of that and a business persona. She doesn't have to search long. A girl in a very "Rapture-Esque" bodysuit is sitting in a recliner just outside of the buzzing lounge. Her eyes go from lost in thought to bright like spotlights when she spies Brigid in the crowd. She almost leaps from the chair and rushes to Tenenbaum with an embrace that the older woman allows in a brief, scarce moment of affection.

"Where is he, Child?"

"In one of our rooms. Come on." The girl - Eleanor, as it appears - takes Brigid's hand and leads her towards the stairs with Charles on their heels. The older woman takes that moment of transit as a chance to introduce him passingly by simply motioning towards him and stating his name. It gains him a nod from his new acquaintance, but the topic is swiftly changed to one of someone's "condition." He's not exactly well versed on what's going on, but his prognosis from earshot is that it's terminal.

They go up a couple floors and walk to the end of the hall to a set of rooms. She knocks quickly on the door of the first before pushing into the second which is already unlocked. Inside, Children are scattered about… Tattered dresses and messy heads of free-flowing hair play on beds or sit in circles around a brute-ish form whose back is leaned against one of the two beds. The children's bodies aren't dirty - they have obviously bathed - but they clearly lack any new clothes for one reason or another. In fact, how did they even manage to get into a hotel?

The form on the floor with them is a Big Daddy, Alpha series. He's slumped a little and has awful posture but is very much alive. His helmet turns to greet Brigid. The woman is quick to start talking quietly with the suited behemoth, keeping Charles very much out of the loop with a spinning head. Every single part of this endeavor so far has been swifter than the thrust of a sword. Eleanor has the decency to approach him now, though. Credit where it's due.

"Thank you," she says with a slightly shaky voice trying to be warm. "I was worried it would take too long…. And I might lose him."

"Never thought little sisters would keep up the bond after growing up."

"We're a special case. We'll have time to catch you up soon enough."

"I'm very curious."

Another voice from behind the two joins the mix through the sound of a closing door. To Charles, it's an uncanny kind of familiar that he can't quite place. "Dangerous thing, that." The owner rounds the two of them by taking Eleanor's shoulders and moving her aside gently. To Porter's shock, he is also in a protector suit - minus the helmet. He leans heavily to one side and relies on the walls of the room some to maneuver. "Good to see you again, doc." It's that greeting that pulls Tenenbaum from her examination. Her head darts about with the barest hint of a smile that drops like a sack of bricks as soon as she sees him.

"Sinclair... What happened?" She motions to him with a single hand and he tries a chuckle and warm grin.

"Doesn't suit me, huh?" There's no response and he continues. "Sophia Lamb. Tried to help Delta find Eleanor and some of her flock managed to snatch me up. Put me in this suit and forced a messed-up version of hypnotize down my throat," he huffs. "Told this big idiot to kill me, I wasn't worth it, but I guess he had other ideas." He motions to Delta who seems to be watching him with invested attention - all the while, Charles is silently toiling over the name. It, too - like the voice - is familiar and it almost makes Charles sick with frustration.

"So you would be their financier. I was wondering how they managed this."

"It's the least I could do… All things considered... " The last part is spoken in an unexpectedly withdrawn tone. "Though, I'm afraid it won't keep us long. I put plenty away for an emergency, but it was meant to sustain me for a good while. This many mouths to feed and house? Won't last us but… I dunno, maybe a month? Two if we're careful."

"Do not fret," Tenenbaum reassures, patting Delta's shoulder as she moves to fiddle with a latch on his helmet. "Everything will be taken care of. First, however, we must help the two of you."

It's like turning on a light.

"Sinclair... Augustus Sinclair…?" Porter's tone is accusatory, laced with a kind of venom he didn't know he still had. The man turns and cocks a brow, voice allowing an appropriate air of caution.

"Yes."

Charles squints over his glasses and points a stiff finger at the older man. His lips curl up just enough to show the barest hint of his canines as he speaks. "You…. You were the one with the prison! The one who put me in jail!" Tenenbaum stops on the third latch and all of the eyes in the room fall on Porter. He brushes past Eleanor so he can be eye-to-eye with Augustus. The next he speaks, his voice is lower, a growl. "From what I heard, you put a lot of people in jail... And then sold them to the highest bidder. You sold me to Fontaine."

He expects denial. Cowardice... Something fitting of the slightly frightened face that stares back at Porter from over the wide collar of the protector suit. "Yes. I did." That isn't what he gets. Somehow, he's partially impressed and partially more inclined to punch the man in the face, maybe intentionally go for the teeth as some form of comeuppance - even if Sinclair seems to have been through the wringer already. Anything that he'd been through until this point wasn't enough. It would never be enough. He shows restraint, though. Just enough to get a few words out.

"You have anything to say for that?" Tenenbaum is grabbing his sweater and trying to pull him away. He brushes her aside and keeps her back with one arm as he stares Augustus down. The startled widening of Sinclair's eyes is replaced with an icy, barren glare. His lips go tight. He swallows and breathes deeply before answering in a flat tone.

"No."

Charles feels the stitching rip as he lunches and plants his right knuckles into Sinclair's temple against Tenenbaum's grasp. Just as suddenly, two sets of hands are on his forearms and dragging him back, getting him to the other side of the room before Sinclair slumps against the adjacent wall with a hiss and clutching, metal-clad fingers. There's a bass-y moan as the Alpha on the floor is suddenly up and rushing to Sinclair's side. Porter almost spits.

"That man probably did this to you!" he snaps. "He did it to me! And probably to nearly every single protector that ever "lived" in Rapture and he can't even muster up the effort to fake an apology!"

The older man brushes off Delta's hand, glaring back with a look so pointed that it almost makes Charles shrink. "And what good would that do, huh? Would "sorry" make everything go away? Would it get Delta out of this suit or make it so Rapture never happened? I refuse to insult everyone in this room."

"You deserve to be stuck in that suit." There's a twitch. The glare softens and Sinclair blinks rapidly before letting out a short, defeated snort.

"Yeah."

Just like that, the tension just… sinks. It doesn't melt, it sinks... Drops from burning to freezing, stinging cold. Silence stretches for long minutes as Augustus moves his hand and allows Delta to help him find his balance again - the larger Alpha having a strangely gentle hand with his older companion, taking him by the shoulders and holding on until he's sure the other won't topple over again. The tenderness allows Sinclair to avert his eyes towards the helm and force a twitch that one might consider a very brief smile.

"Charles," Tenenbaum begins slowly. "Sinclair helped me in Rapture. He helped Delta save all these little ones. Put this conflict aside. For now, he is an ally." Porter yanks away from both her and Eleanor, ducking out of the room without any more words. In his wake, there only stretches more silence.