-Author's Note-

Guys, I read up as much as I could about Bioshock, but I promise I am STILL about to fuck up some lore. Be gentle on me.

"There are loved ones in the glory; whose dead forms you often miss... " She's quiet, gentle, subtle in movement as she mumbles an old hymn to a circle of tired youth. They are enthralled by her voice and mesmerized by the slight flow of her hands which she conducts herself with absentmindedly. He, too, finds himself trapped by the serenity his charge conveys and casts about a dimming room infected by sleep. "When you close your earthly story, will you join them in their bliss?" He counts them, one by one. Heads land on pillows and arms reach around to cocoon their bodies in woolen linen. By then, the lullaby had become practice - not the same one every night, but one of similar tone. The act had ingrained into his subconscious as well, bringing his body to respond in yawns and droopy eye-lids when she began each evening.

"Will the circle be unbroken? By and by, by and by? Is a better home awaiting in the sky, in the sky?" She never finishes the song - perhaps getting half-way through before all the children are off. To him, it's like never hearing the end of a story… Like starting a book and then moving onto another before witnessing the conclusion. Maddening, he thinks. He has so many songs stuck in his head that he cannot continue for lack of knowing how to do so. This starts to breed two feelings in Delta - bliss and dread. The bliss comes first, as described, but the dread forms when he counts the last head on the pillow and realizes that Eleanor would stop and he'd never know the song's final stanza. "In the joyous days of childhood, oft they told of wondrous love. Pointed to the dying savior. Now they dwell with him above."

They are always religious songs, he realizes. Are they all his daughter knows? Knowing what he does of Lamb's child-rearing philosophy, he doesn't doubt that for a moment. Lamb's obsession with faith confused him some, however. She seemed to tote herself as a higher power, controlling a flock and making her daughter out to be a savior of sorts. It didn't seem as though she followed a sect but rather drew inspiration from the text to weave a power fantasy where she was both mother Mary and God sending her only child out as a sacrifice "for the greater good." Part of him feels that such personal idolization is forbidden by said text, but he isn't sure why he thinks so. He can't recall ever reading the bible. It doesn't matter.

"Will the circle be unbroken? By and by, by and by? Is a better home awaiting in the sky, in the sky?" And there's the part that strikes him in this song. Each time she repeats the verse, he stops and thinks on things a tad too macabre. Maybe it's his constant reminders that his own mortality is staring him dead in the face, how he can barely lift his own hands anymore, how getting to his feet is becoming a two-person job, how he wakes up later and later into the day while going to sleep at around the same hour. He refuses to dwell on it for long. On the topic of what he believes it will be like, he can't comment - doesn't want to. He isn't sure he believes in anything beyond the waking world he's currently in. Would it ever be possible for the human brain to be entirely certain? Was there ever such a thing as certain? Doubt is ever present...

He realizes quite late that Eleanor has stopped singing and glances up with some effort. She stepped over the circle and sat against one of the beds, watching him from the looks of it. She jumps a little when she sees him move. Her expression speaks a question her tongue is too scared to voice. He answers with a quivering thumbs-up. She isn't at all reassured. He regrets that he can't give her a more earnest effort, though he knows she doesn't blame him… and he knows she's afraid. For lack of anything further to do, Delta allows his body to slump and wait to black out. He didn't dream. It was just a short interval of nothing before awaking the next day and he can't say he remembers ever dreaming. That doesn't mean he doesn't dream, of course, just that he doesn't recall his dreams. Sinclair woke him up once on the freighter, stating he'd been kicking in his rest and had slammed a metal heel into the poor older man's calf - his bad one, to boot. Guilt proper ate at him for that one the entire week.

Speaking of Sinclair, he's leaned against the inner sill of the window, staring blankly at the outside world with the dim glow of a street light giving his pale complexion a touch of life. Delta hasn't liked him as of late - not that Sinclair has done wrong in their time on the surface but more that he is worrying the protector with his coldness. His verbiage has even suffered, reducing itself to something bland and humorless. Had it been Porter's arrival? Or perhaps his exchange with that woman on the bay... When it started exactly, Delta can't recall. No matter the reason, Augustus isn't himself and it has ushered in a shocking drop to their morale.

Augustus's figure is fuzzy. Delta knows it's him based solely on the color. He'll add that to the list of complaints - not that he could complain, of course, just that it was nice to pretend he could have that conversation. Eleanor is clearer, being closer, though is still a tad blurred in places. It is the small details that eludes his focus. As a matter of fact, it's starting to hurt his eyes. He opts to close them, returning to his previous task of trying to sleep. It doesn't take him long.

Eleanor relaxes when she sees his body go limp - or as limp as the suit allows. He reminds her of a doll in ways... Sat up against the bed with hands laid knuckle-down on the carpet and legs stretched out before his great, bowed head… Like the dolls the children made of their protectors. Actual toys of the Big Daddies existed, but little sisters weren't allowed them. Real toys had to be found or surrogates had to be made. Giving them playthings was a taboo, found to be a distraction similar to treating them like actual children. Glancing about the room at the sleeping lot she's gathered - all in one room tonight so Tenenbaum and Porter could rest unimpeded - she's glad she managed to save so many and so young. They all have chances of a real childhood with new dresses, real toys and loving families - all things she never knew she wanted until losing Delta the first time. Dwelling on it helps take her mind of more dire matters… Just for a moment.

"When did you sleep last?" She asks across the room. Augustus doesn't seem to enjoy being addressed, but at least answers.

"Twenty-four hours, probably. I'll be fine for another day, Sweetheart. Don't fret." His usual sultry nature is now deadpan - an attempt at his usual charm now an insult to it.

"We don't need to sleep in shifts. We're safe, Sinclair. Please get some rest. I'm sorry, but you look awful."

"I'm aware." He's being short, too.

"Why've you been sulking so much?" She stands and crosses to where he's exiled himself, earning a twitch in his brow that's perhaps him fighting off a scowl. She wouldn't be surprised. He shakes his head and wills his very droopy eyes to appear more awake but fails miserably. "You haven't been yourself. Everyone can see it. Father's been watching you like a hawk and I think it's worrying him."

"Just tired, honey. This whole thing's been a lot. We all can't be happy all the time, even without pressure from our current predicament. You can tell your daddy I'm sorry."

"Or you can tell him yourself."

"He doesn't look to be in a talkin' mood at the moment."

"You know what I mean. Besides, he likes talking to you."

"And how do you know that?"

Eleanor smiles warmly with a soft laugh. "How do you not? Whenever you talk, he turns all his attention towards you, never just listens while doing other things. Besides, you're closer to his age. It's good for him to interact with you so he can learn how someone like him should act in normal society." Sinclair grunts, showing the tiniest hint of a smile, though a pitiful one.

"I don't think your daddy should be takin' tips from me in that regard."

It then hits Eleanor. "Don't mind what Mister Porter Said, Sinclair. He's not the jury on this."

"He's right, though."

"Don't talk like that."

"Why not? It's facts, honey. I've done… terrible things... No, terrible doesn't begin to cover it. I'm... " His chest swells and face scrunches into a conflicted scowl. His Adam's apple bobs as though he's trying to swallow something especially bitter. He can't seem to finish the sentence, opting to slump defeated against the sil with only a sigh - his eyes are the signet of guilty men. Eleanor reaches out to him, hesitant at first but willing herself to complete the motion until her hand is rested lightly on the man's slumped shoulder.

"Who we were and… who we are… Don't have to be the same person…" If the words mean anything to Augustus he doesn't show it. "It's what we choose to do now that matters, Sinclair…" There remains only stillness from the man and Eleanor resigns. She crosses back to where Delta sleeps to find rest for herself, watching the man across the room up until the dark haze engulfs her and drags her out of reality. All the while she aches, not just in sympathy for Augustus for her father's worsening condition. The world around her is almost suffocating in its dread.

Sinclair watches the two of them in return just on the edge of his vision. The girl's words are both hopeful and sting like a nest of wasps. Perhaps to a petty thief the sentiment would be profound but a minor felon Augustus is not. There is a completely different court for men like him, he feels. Then, of course, there is the matter of Delta, a saint of tolerance and forgiveness, it appears - a heart of gold entrapped in a prison of cold, unmoving steel built by men. Like. Him. Hell should not be merciful. 'He shouldn't even like me, not in the slightest,' he can't help but lament, going back over his memories of his interactions with the Alpha and realizing the truth in Eleanor's own observations. The big daddy did appear to have a vested interest in Sinclair's input. Hell, Sinclair enjoys his company in turn. Thinking it makes him feel sick... A different kind of sick. He looks back at Delta, turning fully to take in his slumped, dying body.

"Why couldn't I have just been a means to an end with you?"

…

Watching the brute-ish form through the window became nerve-racking, especially ever since the idea festered in his head. 'Look a man in the eye,' he reminds himself. 'Without that extra layer of glass.' One layer he can't help, but one he can divorce form the situation with but a pull of a handle. It both makes sense and makes none at all, though he feels compelled to erase that barrier and speak to the creature just once, even through a false air of trust. Additionally, he wonders quite aggressively what communing with a protector might be like. 'Just walk it,' he tells himself as though speaking to a nervous teenage boy trying to confront his belle. 'If you make it out alive, you can at least say you spoke to one.' It's enough to force his hand down on the latch.

The helm jerks a bit in surprise, form tensing and preparing for a fight but his muscles relax when he spies Sinclair waltzing through the doorway. Then, it becomes just curiocity seeming to keep the Big Daddy's porthole fixated on the smaller man. Augustus strides up until he is almost shoulder to shoulder with Subject Delta and smiles lopsidedly at the great, yellow pane of glass alloy. He fights to keep his hands out of his packets for fear that the thing will assume he has a weapon. Of course, he DOES, but he wouldn't want the Alpha to think he's planning to use it on it.

"Hope I'm not intruding, chief. Just thought I should come and see ya'. Think I'd be rude, otherwise." In response - surprisingly as Sinclair hadn't expected any reply - Subject Delta shakes its head, a full upper body affair to make sure the action is seen. The smaller man tries to hide his disbelief with another grin. "Glad you don't mind the company. Hope you don't mind my lookin', either. I hope you understand. You are a marvel, chief. I haven't seen any of your kind this close." It shakes its head again. Part of Sinclair is glad that it isn't as one-sided as he had anticipated. The other part is reeling back from how weirdly freaky actually having any back and forth with this thing feels.

"And you are quite the piece, I'd say. You work hard. I can admire that. Watching you deal with the degenerates around here is quite the show. Strong as an ox, stubborn as a mule… Now only if you were half as witty. Then you'd be a catch." He laughs, mostly at his own absurdity. He tosses a sympathetic expression at the big daddy's tilted head. "Oh, don't mind all that. I'm just chatty. Haven't had real company myself in quite a while. Tenenbaum stuck to the radio. It's different having someone in the room with ya', let alone a "charming" slab like yourself." In places where a nod or headshake can't fit as an answer, the creature opts for silence and a statue-esque stare which doesn't do much to help Augustus's nerves. He chooses to fill the silence himself so long as the Alpha shows no signs of annoyance. In that event, he decides he'll just excuse himself back to the rear car.

For a while, he just talks about nothing specific, commenting on some of the creature's weapons, the occasional deep-sea fish or rattling off a related anecdote, all the while watching for those little nods and head-shakes. To its credit, Subject Delta tries to engage as much as possible. It starts to give him an almost… sinking feeling.

"You know," he begins in a more hushed tone after a small stretch of silence - granted it's the longest silence they've had since he entered the car, but still... "Sometimes… I forget that there's… a man under there... That you aren't just that suit." Again, he laughs. He tries to blow it off as just a little comment and nothing more… Delta doesn't. In reply, the Alpha sticks out its right hand, a little forcefully. The action causes Sinclair to jump but he settles when the hand just sits in the air between them, palm up and fingers extended as though asking Augustus to take them. He looks up at Delta and takes notice when the big daddy flexes its bicep. The muscle bulges out even from beyond the mesh in a way that has Augustus swallowing hard.

Delta twitches its fingers to draw the smaller man's attention. When Sinclair readjusts his focus, he notices five small apertures upon Delta's fingertips that unlock and twist open, revealing the barest hint of something pale and smooth just below. Once more, the larger creature twitches its fingers… almost in a prompt.

Hesitantly, the Panamanian lifts his right hand, fingers splayed, and moves it towards the larger grasper. Inch by inch of thin air has Sinclair a tad concerned until his own finger-tips dip into the holes and graze over the almost white surface. It's soft, warm… Alive. It's skin, he realizes at a delay and he mentally hits himself for not knowing that to begin with. What did he expect? He leaves the ghost of a touch there for a moment before gradually withdrawing, watching as Delta drops its own hand back to its side.

Augustus smiles to himself. There is something intimate in the idea, he thinks… Of a big daddy allowing such a personal form of contact - and an idea that has Sinclair's chest twisting only a little.

…

He's stuck to the window again. He's distancing himself from everyone else and part of Delta is hurt thinking of all the possible reasons why. As much as it tugs at his brain, the larger man can't afford the exhaustive effort to focus on it right now as two people are very much in his personal space and one of them is priming to undo the latches of his helm. It's a spritely man of an older age which Tenenbaum has dug up from the woodworks. He's almost bizarrely thin though presents the facial features of someone who once held a strong silhouette. His ginger hair is streaked with grey and thinning about the forehead which he's made more prominent by slicking the hair back and revealing his stark widow's peak. His eyes are rimmed with heavy bags which are tinted with an almost purple hue against the paleness of his flesh. The eyes themselves are bright and wide - much like an angler fish, he thinks. Finally, his nose is the most stark feature, placed square between both bowl eyes and hooked like a turtle's beak.

He is, by no exaggeration, an unattractive fellow but makes up for this fact with vibrant charm, a breed unlike Sinclair's usual wit. Where Augustus is suave and sultry, the Frenchman - Fabron by name - is light and cheery with an innocent sense of humor. It is certainly out of place with someone Tenenbaum says worked on the protector program. Maybe it's a front… Or maybe his time apart from Rapture has done him well. All Delta can do is hope for the best. Right now, the man is turning valve after valve with little resistance in an attempt to remove the protector's helmet. As much as Delta wants to stop this endeavor, he knows it's a necessity. 'It has to happen eventually,' he thinks wryly. The last valve is released with a puff of compressed air before bony fingers slip under the edge and snag the latch. All the while, Delta watches Sinclair from the corner of his vision - watches him tense with each hiss and metallic groan like he's expecting to be struck.

He feels the rush of fresh air and it almost makes him sick. The moment the hem is lifted past eye-level, panic sinks in earnestly - more so when he sees a twitch of surprise slip past Tenenbaum's detached facade. The drop of the helmet rattles the carpet-coated floorboards. From his peripheral, Delta can see the other flinch. Fabron's own reaction is fairly sedated, looking far too focused to spare the brain power. He takes his thumb and forefinger to Delta's chin as means to turn his heavy head back and forth, his hooked nose not far from Delta's own, less dramatic one.

"Not quite what I was expecting," he hums as he sits back. "His color isn't great... There's bruising around his eyes and the oxy-tube ports at his neck here. See?" He runs a bony index over a spot on the left side of Delta's neck in demonstration for Brigid who holds her face in thought with a nod. "He obviously has some deficiencies, probably from a poor diet which poses issues for any operation. Just from a glance, I can tell he is specifically iron deficient... " Delta starts to drown it out. He doesn't much care for the medical jargon seeing as whatever may come of it is mostly out of his control. He stares at the wall behind Tenenbaum, maybe at a speck of something old mixed with the paint. Maybe it's wine… From a happy couple like the ones he'd seen at that new years party all those years ago... Dancing and laughing while throwing caution to the wind. One miss-placed twirl sends droplets fluttering onto anything in range - perhaps a passing waitor or another tipsy pair similarly lost in the incongruous festivities. It certainly isn't the only party he's ever witnessed but it's the one that sticks. Trauma is a funny thing.

If he survives this, could they throw a party? A small one? He's certain he wouldn't mind some light music, maybe a clumsy spin or two if enough of his faculties are salvaged. He doesn't see himself as much of a drinker, having tasted an array of liquor when he hadn't any other option to quench his thirst and he remembers not enjoying them much. Some were bitter, others horribly sour. One kind even burned as it seeped down his gullet. It surprised him upon first ingestion as the liquid was a honey brown. Further ventures into that territory were far more cautious.

Something cold presses against his temple and draws him out of his imagination. It's Tenenbaum's own hand, moving in to inspect something on his face; however, she doesn't address him - she merely moves his head to the side. Fabron Sighs. "Hmm... " The man struggles a tad to get to his feet and crosses the woolen expanse. "Might I have a look at you, Mister Sinclair?" The frenchman doesn't wait for an answer. He takes Augustus uncomfortably by the chin and moves his head about similarly to what had been done to Delta. The smaller "protector's" eyes give off the impression that he's inclined to bite the firm hand squeezing his unshaven cheeks. "Better color than Subject Delta but still pale for your lineage. Bruising but not too extensive… Comparatively, anyway."

The Panamanian firmly grabs Fabron's wrist and removes it from his face. "You shouldn't be worried about me right now. I could live the rest of my life in this suit if I had to."

"I am here to attend to the both of you and would like to know what I'm working with… Besides... " He pulls his hand free of the other's grip. "...I'm afraid Subject Delta wouldn't survive the procedure regardless." The quiet yet sharp intake Delta hears to his left just about breaks his heart. He's not sure if he can bare to look at Eleanor... Augustus had to have heard it because his brow perks at it and he gives Fabron a spiteful glare.

"Thanks for lettin' her down easy, chief." Unlike when he addresses Delta with that term, that 'chief' was spat with a subtle hint of malice which the Frenchman obviously catches.

"I'm sorry, Mister Sinclair, but I refuse to beat around the bush. His condition is dire and without a pairbond he's not going to make it. It's how Alphas were designed, a flaw of emerging technology."

"So that is it…?" Tenenbaum breathes, having moved over to Eleanor in an attempt to comfort the girl in her own, detached way. Finally turning his attention to his daughter, the protector sees the horrid glistening around her eyes.

"Well… Maybe not." Everyone in the room jerks about to look at the old man, a new light in his already solar eyes. "I have a story to tell that you all might be interested in." He walks to a spot between the group of three and Sinclair and begins to walk back and forth. Sinclair doesn't look directly at him and opts to merely keep the man in his peripheral. Delta wonders if it's because of him… "You see, some time after the first few Alphas were released into Rapture, not long before their retirement, one of them caught our attention. We called him Epsilon. This alpha was nothing extraordinary, but we heard reports that he was seen traveling with two little sisters. Once found, he put together what was happening. One of the little sisters was his own, but one was a child who had lost her protector and was being allowed to follow the pair and play with the first little sister. He didn't really pay her much attention, but allowing another around his charge was still unusual. We kept an eye on the trio for weeks until, sadly, the protector lost his charge via an accident with a collapsed flow pipe. Seeing an opportunity, three scientists on the program brought the Alpha and the second little sister in and attempted the bonding process. It failed."

"What is the point of this story?" Brigid hisses in annoyance, one arm around Eleanor.

"The point, my dearest Tenenbaum, is this: During the bonding process, scans were taken of pairs' brains. Before the child was rejected, there was a little spark... " He indicates a small size with his thumb and index finger. "A slight indication that the bond might actually take before it failed. It was written off as a malfunction, but I think otherwise. I think that it IS possible to re-bond an Alpha if the right conditions are met."

Eleanor almost leaps up, looking to Fabron with an intense new hope igniting her very being. "So, I could reconnect with father?" To that, the Frenchman cringes.

"I'm afraid, my dear, that one of the conditions is that it cannot be with the same vector that the Alpha lost its connection with. This was something we tested with intensely. The Alphas developed a defense mechanism we did not intend where any broken connections lead to the previous vector being considered a failed one and thus lock its signature out of the Alpha's mind. Weak links, or something along those lines. Mister Alexander had a good analogy for it, I just can't quite remember it. A master of the english language, that man - let me tell you -"

"What are the other conditions?" Sinclair interjects. He's still not looking entirely in their direction and sounds increasingly annoyed in spite of his best efforts. The Frenchman gapes his mouth in remembering his train of thought.

"Right! Right. Secondly, I believe that that spark, the one from the alpha and the second child, came about because the Alpha had inadvertently built a relationship with the second little sister. By allowing her to play with his own little one, he grew used to her and eventually came to care for her in some small way but the connection could not be concluded due to the Alpha's grief. It is known that one of the biggest flaws in the earliest big daddies were their emotional connection to their charges so his sadness over losing his child made him unable to accept another in time. I believe, if the coma and eventual sleeping death weren't factors, we could've established new bonds. With that, the other condition for this theory is that the chosen vector must have a pre-established bond to Delta, one that his brain has a positive, caring association with - like a parent and child. If he is already emotionally invested in the new vector, his brain might be more inclined to link. The stronger the bond, the better."

Fabron intertwines his fingers demonstratively. Everyone in the room stares at him, most unsure of what to say. It's Eleanor who speaks first with a meek tone. "Then… If it can't be me… who?"

The elder man shrugs and indicates towards the wall of the room. "There is a room full of young ones just over there." The outcry is violent. Angry barks and a few low growls drown out the ringing of the quiet room and leave Fabron shielding his face with his large, boney hands. "Well pardon me! It was merely a suggestion." That response elicited more anger, though a much more sedated sort.

"I did not fight to save so many children just to revert them back to that nightmare condition! There has to be another way," Tenenbaum almost hisses.

"That is the only theory I have, my dear. I apologize. Do we really have the time to argue this? Look at him, Brigid! He's not going to last much longer. I'm shocked he lasted more than a few days, let alone a week."

Delta shuts it out again… the second or third time, perhaps. He's starting to see the line between reality and his thoughts blur with the concept of his own demise and the potency of his exhaustion which bleeds into every mesh-guarded bone. He knew his stance on death… on how he felt about his own. What he hasn't considered is the aftermath. How many of the people in this room would mourn him? Really, truly mourn him... One, maybe two. He's too tired to be concerned… to keep his eyes open…

"What about me?" Delta jolts awake and looks to see Sinclair pointedly-eyeing Fabron in questioning. The other three stare back at him, Bridig and the Frenchman both mid-sentence, mouths agape.

"What?" they both cough in near unison.

"What. About. Me?" Augustus repeats more forcefully.

"You? That couldn't…" The Frenchman pauses, finger pointed and mouth open in an 'ah-ha!' "...Actually… You know what? If we're going off of theory, why not try it?" He throws his hands up in exasperation. "You don't want to use the little ones again, why not try an older man and one in horrible shape, if I recall-"

Sinclair puts up a hand to silence him, brow furrowed. "Just… Could it work?"

"Could it work? This entire solution is theoretical! Almost anything could work in theory!"

"Good. Then try it."

Tenenbaum stands up and takes Sinclair by his shoulders. She stares him directly in the eyes and Delta wishes he could see the look she's giving him because whatever it is drags Sinclair's own expression into one of caution."Augustus… In addition to this type of bond never being tested between a protector and an adult, If we try this… And the incident Fabron speaks of happened to really just be a glitch in the machine, you could die along with Delta. We'd lose both of you after he tried so hard to get you out of Rapture." The older man pulls back, the caution replaced by something between determination and indignation.

"He wasn't trying to get me out of Rapture. He was there to save Eleanor and she's perfectly safe. He didn't have to save me and he shouldn't have, but here I am. So, If there were any rhyme or reason to the universe, this is why. If not, call it me practicing my autonomy. I'm alive because of him and I'm gonna pay it forward. I have always paid my debts. Always."

Just outside of Delta's vision, they seem to have a silent conversation, one with eyes and nothing more. Sinclair's never move from Tenenbaum's face, though they roam about her many features. The woman takes a step back and slides her hands from the older man's forearms with an almost inaudible sigh. "Okay… we will try it."

"We will?" Fabron bawks. '

She doesn't even turn to face him… her voice is ghostly. "Yes. We will."

…

He anticipated her finding a way to get him alone. He remembers the look on her face so vividly it might as well have been carved into his skull. Sinclair had excused himself to the back patio of the hotel long after the area was supposed to be closed. He thinks it's some combination of carelessness and caution in relation to his appearance. If the mirror was any indication, he looked like the walking dead. At any rate, Tenenbaum waltzes out into the breeze, lit-cigarette in hand - the smoke from which is being blown into his face by the rather unfavorable breeze.

"How are you feeling?" She asks, most-likely as an in rather than her showing actual care. He knows he shouldn't answer as it'll subject him to an earful.

"Sick, ugly, worried… Not scared, if that's what you were wonderin'."

"I didn't expect you to be." She sits down across from him. "This will delay the suit removal by a few weeks at best… Depends on Delta's recovery rate. And yours, of course, though his condition is of more concern at the moment."

"Hm."

"Sinclair… This will not relieve you of your sins." And there it is. He hasn't the energy to put up with an interrogation and so he stands and goes to head back to the room. Tenenbaum says nothing… does nothing. She simply sits in a rusty, metal chair and watches the smoke drift on through waves and waves of gentle air with each deep breath.