Every voice he's ever heard is speaking to him all at once. He can't tell what they're saying… Gibberish… Mumbling. He tries to cover his ears but he can't get his hands to move, like they're chained to his sides. He sits paralized in a void of noise. He can't even add his own to the ruckus as his throat constricts every time he goes to force a sound. It's like he's underwater… no air, no light in the abyss.

Then he stops being able to breathe.

A pressure on his chest forces all the air from his lungs in bursts, forcing him to try and grasp his hands for any semblance of self-control. Then he takes a breath. It's deep, shaking and forced in too quickly, making him cough. At the same moment, he's finally able to move his arms and make the voices go away - though through what force he isn't aware. His vision is the last to return to him. He's lying on the floor of a massive structure, ceilings easily stories high and space almost impossibly dark if not for a tint of blue light coming from somewhere to Sinclair's left. He hears water… lightly lapping against something… A fountain, maybe?

Sinclair braces his hands on the floor as he goes to pick himself up but freezes once again. The floor is tile… and he knows that because he can actually feel it. He feels it on his fingertips, his palms, his forearms revealed from beyond a rolled-up pair of sleeves on a white dress shirt. He shoots upright so quickly that he's shocked that he isn't dizzy, but even more so that he's not bound in his bulky mesh and alloy prison. He's wearing a casual button-up and black suit pants over a well-worn pair of dress shoes. The outfit isn't neat, though… It's torn in places, stained in others, wrinkled beyond comprehension. It's a mess, just less of one than he was used to. It's the least of his worries.

Beyond his body he finds a pane of glass that looks out on an all too familiar cityscape, circled with schools of deep sea fish... His heart sinks.

No… No, he can't be in Rapture. It's a dream! It has to be, but… it feels so real. He can discern the texture of the wood floor, the temperature of the air tumbling from the vents overhead. Behind him, he finds bathyspheres resting in their births and he can even feel droplets of water as the little ripples lap against the unloading dock. It's too real. The back of his skull is on fire, so much so that he grasps at it on impulse with an irked hiss. In combination, each misery has his senses fit to explode - send his brains sprawling across the polished ground.

"Stop!" He cries out in desperation. "Stop! Stop! Stop! Please! Wake up!" He begs to whatever outside force can hear him and pull him out of this hellhole of agony and terror. His previous panic attack seems all too willing to return in sweeping waves. He feels like he's going to vomit, even gags, but nothing comes out - just burning. He pulls his knees to his chest and twists his fingers into his hair, his entire body shaking.

Slam.

It's a dull sort of sound, distant but still distinct. Much of the volume is bounced from wall to wall through a door left broken and ajar on the wall to Augustus's right - beyond which he can just barely discern the shape of rubble and evident smears of a dark liquid… as though the crumbling structures have crushed someone. Fingers detangle from notably-healthier hair than he remembers and press upon the floor as leverage to help him stand… like he expects challenge in the action. There is no struggle. Where he braces for the dull, burning ache in his leg to give him pause, Sinclair experiences nothing - not even a twitch, a stumble or a sting. The only word for how he feels - at least in a purely physical sense - is normal.

Slam.

This one sounds closer and pulls the Panamanian from his confused wonder. He turns to look at the left side for a means of escape and finds another large, metal door. Going off of experience, Augustus crosses to the left side of the room and tries the door. To his relief, it opens onto a long hallway with windows running its entire length and no living creatures in sight.

Slam.

It's right across the bay, now, and Sinclair doesn't hesitate again. He's through the door and almost sprinting down the hallway, searching with eyes on a swivel for somewhere to lock himself up and scream until this awful nightmare is over. It is a nightmare, right? He knows he should be certain, but… He finds what looks to be a storage closet and slips in, shutting and locking the door behind him.

Slam.

It's far too close for comfort, almost like a bloodhound locked on his scent and bellowing down the halls in a call for his masters to follow. The thought of five inches of steel not nearly being enough seems ridiculous but he still turns to look about the room for more items to press against the threshold - a chair, a cabinet, something preferably heavy and metal. There's nothing of the sort in this room, though. There's a console… a moldy old mattress… a single red light that washes the space in a horrible, claustrophobic glow. He knows this room. He's more familiar with it than a prisoner with his own cell serving a life sentence.

This can't be happening. He can't be here. Caution to the wind and entirely in spite of the sound that had driven him here moments before, Sinclair forces himself out the door and back into what he thinks is the hallway from before. He skids to a stop when he finds that that is, in fact, not the case. To his left is the entrance of a tunnel, iced-over and blocking the path for an Atlantic Express engine left long dormant. To his right is the conductor's booth, windows glazed over with dust atop smears of what is undoubtedly blood. He refuses to state that obvious and opts instead to stop and take as deep of a breath as he can manage - admittedly much harder than he expects.

"Okay, Augustus… Okay." He runs his hands over his cheeks. "You went into surgery, you were put under. You're dreamin'. That's obvious." He assesses his surroundings once again, partially to make sure that nothing has shifted since he last laid eyes on it, but overall to try and get his bearings. It's now that he notices some aspects of this dream are much sharper than others. Certain, less important details of the space are fuzzy and in a state of incremental and constant transformation, be it a shift in color or an almost invisible morph of shape. Even the clearer objects are subject to this effect, though at a much less noticeable degree. Overall, this version of Rapture is in a state of limbo between convincing and distractingly-artificial. He feels both sick and relieved.

'That's what Eleanor was sayin', then,' the older man thinks, dipping his hands into his pockets. 'How'd she know I'd have this dream? Do Little Sisters have weird dreams?' It's likely, especially considering her vague warning, or what he can remember of it. Many of the pre-unconscious interactions are taking far longer than they seemingly should to reorient themselves in his confusion-addled brain. Curiously, Sinclair walks across the room to the adjacent door which sweeps upward to reveal lavished office space under the aqua luminescence of the city's neon through thick panes of glass-alloy. The Panamanian allows himself a cautious step onward and into the now uncharacteristic poshness of this city space.

He, once again, recognizes it. This is Ryan's office. Many unpleasant yet lucrative interactions have happened in this room and they all leave an awful taste in his mouth, one he hasn't had previously where successful ventures are concerned. These days were ripe with new experiences… for better or for worse.

"What's it like…? Lookin' Ryan dead in the face and hagglin' with him…?" The voice comes from everywhere at once and echoes as though being spoken through a microphone in an empty theater. Its source is nowhere he can discern. He knows the voice, though… Of course he knows that voice - soft, kind…

...loving...

"They play him up… Rich and powerful as he may be, 'The Great Man' is just that: a man. Makes sense, of course. It's not Ryan the people fear as plenty of gents, you included, could take him on in a scrap. It's his influence that has 'em all fussin' and kissin' up... "

That one's his own… Younger and lighter, but still himself as sure as the sun is hot. Augustus rounds the desk and eyes the twisting, morphing face of a woman in a picture frame. Who it's supposed to be, he isn't sure. The hair switches from a blond bob to a curly head of raven and everything in between.

"I'm kinda tired of the sneakin', if I'm honest... Do you ever wanna go out and eat dinner like a normal -" The pause makes him cringe. "...August, what are we…?"

"Friends' was my asercion."

"Friends. We're friends?"

He presses his hands into his ears, nails digging into the flesh of his scalp in a desperate attempt to drown out the noise… but it's everywhere. "That's how I understood it. You read it differently, honey?"

"A bit, yes! I don't think friends get as intimate as you and I."

"Certain kinds…"

"Certain kinds. Like the 'friendships' you form in the alley…?"

"Sweetheart, we can't be... that... The thing you want us to be... "

"Why not?" Those two words echo like thunder through a canyon. There comes no reply… Only silence after the reverberation - deafening… Augustus can't handle this ordeal anymore. He almost runs across the dark, wooden space and rips open the door. He doesn't even bother looking before he enters the next section of this illusion, causing him to almost trip over a terribly placed section of ceiling that has fallen and crashed nearly through the floor below - from which he is only able to prevent planting his face into the hardwood via a start and awkward shuffle.

This room is a dance hall, which one specifically has escaped his snafued mind. It's familiar, though. On the opposite end from Sinclair sits a pair of statues of humans. They are set back-to-back as perfect reflections of one another, arms reaching backwards and bodies leaned forwards on their toes. Beyond them is a giant, transparent pane. Large walls of glass in Rapture were always a subject of unease - though only to everyone except for Andrew Ryan himself who, Augustus suspects, liked to tote around the fact that his beloved creation was, indeed, underwater.

Similar to many of the other rooms Sinclair has seen thus far, this room is without electricity and is simply lit by the neon outside that illuminates through the aforementioned pane towards which Sinclair attempts to walk. No sooner than he takes a single step, a slim - almost boney - figure flies in from a balcony to the older man's far left and drags the protracted tip of a weaponized needle over the clear surface. Cracks web out like the branches of a lightning bolt and there isn't anything the man can do before the glass shatters and unleashes a cataclysmic flood unto the unsuspecting. The water is like a freight train. It slams him into the floor with enough force to crush bone before sweeping him up and throwing him into a spin so swift and violent that darkness claws its way out from the corners of his vision in an attempt to drag him under.

In the few minutes of the panicked tailspin, the pain sets in with vigor. It's like someone has taken a sledgehammer to his chest - beaten him senselessly over and over. In spite of the suffocating hands of the abyss, Augustus releases all of the air in his lungs in a strangled, muffled cry. The voices are clear, though… even here…

"I know you… That symbol on your hand marks you a dead man… Ten years, Subject Delta... since I watched you put a gun to your head and pull the trigger…"

Delta.

He's not sure if he thinks the name or says it, but upon its utterance - verbal or not - the water just… vanishes. It's like it was never there and Sinclair is dropped unceremoniously onto a new, tile floor. The pain from the wave is gone, but replaced by a new sting in his back. The older man manages to put it aside long enough to sit himself upright and take in whatever fresh brand of suffering this dream wishes to inflict… but...

Behind him, he finds bathyspheres resting in their births and he can even feel droplets of water as the little ripples lap against the unloading dock… Beyond his body he finds a pane of glass that looks out on an all too familiar cityscape, circled with schools of deep sea fish...His head is spinning… or he's spinning. He doesn't know anymore and can't muster the cognitive strength to ponder it. He just wants out.

Slam.

It's the same volume as the first time. It comes from the same direction and is just as panic-inducing as each time before. He still doesn't know what it is, either. Why is he back here?

Slam.

It's like a fire ax on tin… Or when he'd call the horses into the stable by hitting an empty feeding trough with a lead pipe back in his youth.

Slam. Slam. SLAM.

It's three in quick succession that break the rhythm followed by a deafening clatter. At a delay, Sinclair realizes what has happened - too much of one for him to properly formulate a new escape plan before the door to his right is wrenched farther open by a pair of large, brass-colored hands. The aperture-tipped fingers clutch the lip and continue to drag it upwards into its slit while holding Augustus in bated breath. The older man stares in abject horror as the creature ducks under the new breach. It is a big daddy, but that is all he is certain of. Which model now stands before him, breathing like a fire-breathing beast through a filtered helm, Sinclair cannot even begin to discern as the form of the monster morphs even more obviously than everything else within the nightmare.

No two details on its body originate with the same model at the same time. One moment, the helm is a Rosie but by the time Sinclair's eyes return to it via a flick it's a bouncer. No matter what this twisting, hazy amalgamate might actually be, the aggression is clear in its stance. Upon seeing Sinclair practically sprawled out on the tile floor, it bellows and starts at him - a raging bull. Worn dress-shoes scramble to find purchase on slick flooring, nearly anchoring him until a panicked roll slips him just shy of the creature's swinging, heavy fist. The hand smashes into the stairs of one of the loading bays with the force of a cannon and with only a little less destruction than one. A shard of rubble nicks Sinclair's cheek. It stings.

The little jolt of pain is all the Panamanian needs to finally find his footing and bolt without preamble back towards the left hallway… at least he would have had the searing, burning pain in his leg not returned with a vengeance. Sinclair stumbles and slams down on his chest, losing all the air in his lungs. "W-what? What!" he can't help but bark as he flips over and grabs the offending appendage. Even the slight pressure of his grip sends a wave of electrical fire through his system. 'I was fine a minute ago!' In his confusion, he fails to catch sight of the amalgamate until the back of its hand is smashed hard into his right temple. Whatever agony has overtaken his leg, the agony of that strike is ten times worse - sends him sprawling onto his back and sliding across the floor a good ten feet.

It's real, the pain is real - like the texture of the floor, the temperature of the air. What's real anymore? Is this hell? Did he die on the table and this is where God chose to send him as the best way to punish him? This creature would be his personal demon, then. It bares down on him again, faster than any big daddy should ever be, and goes to slam a boot upon his exposed chest which Sinclair barely slips away from. In retaliation, the beast swings its arms widely and manages to catch Sinclair's right brow. In spite of the minimal contact, it still sends shockwaves over him and tosses him onto his left side with a grunt.

Weighing intensity rather than options, Augustus forces himself upright. He hisses against the ache and tries to hobble to the right side where the creature had come from. It was faster than him. This time it's a fist that collides with his flesh. It hits his spine with gun-like force and snaps his entire body into an agonizing arch. When he hits the floor this time, the world is beyond hazy. Through the bruises, the fire, the stabbing and shocking, his brain cannot muster the power to focus on anything else. Sinclair had no other senses - just touch.

The floor quakes with each hulking step - more and more as the thing draws closer. He swears he heard it moaning… maybe it was the rusting bathyspheres? Or maybe a support beam stressing under the lack of maintenance. It was so inhuman that any of these answers could've been just as likely as him just hallucinating it altogether. One thing he did know, though, was that each step was just as loud as the sounds he'd first heard upon waking mere feet away.

Slam. Slam. Slam.

Silence.

Sinclair isn't sure how long he sits and waits but the impact he's been bracing for never arrives. Maybe it's minutes… possibly an hour. Whichever it was, it takes far too long for all of his senses to return and, when they do, he trudges through the intense sting to roll onto his back - to face the creature. Upon seeing it still there, he initially jumps, overtaken by a sinking, shaking panic… but that all simmers down when the beast fails to move. In fact, save for the constant shifting of its features, the thing is like a statue... He doesn't dare move, either. And that's how they sit for an indeterminate amount of time - staring. It's like the whole world is frozen in that exact moment. The form of the creature fills the entirety of his vision… its off-balance, stepping forward on its right foot with the left just inches above the floor.

In a scene that has Sinclair doing a double take and still struggling to process it, another hand reaches up from the beast's right shoulder. Brass-tipped fingers dig into the mesh of the morphing suit and all at once the visage becomes brittle... Like it's dissolving. In only a moment, dreamlike as it is, the beast has vanished in a weirdly serine flutter of ashen bits that stop existing as soon as they reach the floor… What stands in its place is the most vivid, most stable and detailed image he's seen in the entire experience...

Standing calmly, strong and proud… is Delta. He's fully suited - helm and all - but Sinclair knows it's him… He doesn't know why he knows… but he does. It's then that he feels compelled, almost forced, to affirm to his seemingly mythical companion that he was okay… And he was… For some strange, unfathomable reason the pain is entirely gone… He's floored… Absolutely floored.

"Del?" he manages to squeak through his bewilderment. Again, he knows it's him, he just can't wrap his head around it quite yet. The younger man walks with all the ease of an able-bodied buck and leans down with an offered hand. It takes far too long for Sinclair to take it, but when he does he's hoisted as though it were an ox on the other end. Once again, the insatiable urge to reassure the other rises like a flood. "I'm… Well… I suppose I'm alright. Not hurting, at least."

Delta nods and Sinclair has the feeling he's satisfied. All this time, the alpha hasn't released the other's hand and seemingly refuses to, even when Augustus tries to tug it away. Before he goes to voice the question, though, a thought crosses his mind just as clear and compelling as the last: 'I shouldn't do that.'

Why?

'Trust him.' Of course he trusts Delta, but what purpose does holding his arm in a death grip serve? It's at that moment that Augustus realizes just how still and silent the room is. The shifting has all stopped mid-sequence. Turning towards the window, even the fish are hauntingly still...

"Is this a dream?" As opposed to hell, of course.

Delta nods.

"Are you real?" He's not exactly sure how much truth would come from asking a figment of his imagination if it was real if that's really what this version of Delta was, but he asks anyway. Again, the other nods along with squeezing the smaller man's forearm to better emphasize his answer. Right... He'd say the same thing even if he wasn't real, though... Probably. Since the Panamanian prefers this friendlier company, he cares not for the legitimacy of it - at least for now.

"Well, I, uh...I don't know about you but I gotta say I prefer the ones where I'm being chased by a big, tar-skinned demon through the woods." He laughs. He has to. He thinks if he does anything except joke at this point he'll absolutely lose what few strands of sanity he has left. At least the quip causes Delta to wheeze. "If… It's a dream… Then, do we have to be in Rapture? I mean, I hear people can have a certain kind of dream where they can control what's happening. Is this one of those?"

Sinclair's brain seems to answer that for him. It's not a voice, not a word, but a thought - abstract but understandable all at once while still being silent. It's both… This dream is both and neither at the same time - some parts malleable while others unmoveable. How does he know that?

He doesn't. He's being told.

"Delta… Are you... ?" He points to his temple, unable to completely convey it. What is that even called? The answer comes in just the same way as the first few - with a nod. "Does that mean it worked?" He can't help the tinge of hope that seeps into his words. That hope is partially dashed when Delta's response is an exaggerated shrug. That made sense, though. The younger man has only ever been bonded to one little sister so he doesn't know what a failed bonding experience is like. They could be entirely the same all the way through just for one of them to wake up alone… or for neither of them to awaken… ever again.

Augustus is pulled from his thoughts - literally - when Delta starts to lead him out the right side door. The Panamanian digs his heels in - or tries to. The effort to do so alone is enough to give the other man pause. The unspoken question manifests with but a glance between the two. "Why can't we just wait it out in here?" Delta cocks his head.

I need to trust him. Sinclair does trust Delta - he does! It's the location, not the company that breeds his hesitance. The larger man insists, though. He tugs a little less forcefully, more coaxing than anything, and Sinclair forces himself to swallow his doubts. He follows like a lost puppy on a leash as the larger man takes him across the horribly-damaged threshold into a room that looks entirely different than what he'd seen through the crack minutes earlier. It's par for the course at this point.

As are the disembodied voices.

This room is… Well, it looks to be flooded which is the perplexing thing. Sinclair is void of a suit but breathes beneath the wash and gravity-defying furnishings. It's the room he'd almost drowned in not long ago. Delta leads him onward, up onto the stage up to the shattered window.

"In that suit, even the ocean cannot harm you… This is good… But Rapture is the death of many great men…" Tenenbaum has an almost melancholy tone to her voice here...

They cross the boundary out into what Augustus expects to be the ocean floor. Then he blinks and finds that both he and Delta are somewhere entirely different. All it took was a blink, for god's sake! He isn't sure he can take much more of this confusion! The other's grip on his arm is all that's keeping him from lying down on the floor of what is now a pristine bar and shutting his brain off. It's a bar from the alley, he realizes. He used to frequent the place before Persephone was constructed - a good place to "meet" people. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind did Delta jerk his head around to stare back. It startled the older man a little.

"What?" The stare lasted another few seconds and then alpha turned back to the room. Did he hear something? Maybe he was looking past him rather than at him. It's hard to tell with that damned helmet. Speaking of which... "Why are you wearing your helmet? What've you got to hide from me anymore, chief?" The larger stops once more. His turnaround is far less aggressive than the first instance. Delta reaches up and places a hand flat against the side of the helm which brittles similarly to how the amalgamated big daddy had and, in the same fashion, it fell away in a gradual gust of ash.

Behind it is the same scarred, bent and discolored face from that morning. It's clarity only helps further convince him that the man before him is, in fact, the real Delta. As recognizable a face as the younger man has, Sinclair doesn't think he'd be able to remember it this vividly… And it's then that a searing pain shoots up from the back of his neck and branches out across the entirety of his skull. With the other hand grasped firmly in Delta's, Sinclair grips his forehead with the other, emitting a strangled hiss. He can feel Delta's hands shift to his shoulders, their encompassing nature feeling almost like a concerned embrace - welcome in ways he can't describe but there through consequences that leave him unable to reciprocate or even tell the other man what's wrong.

Sinclair can only manage to crack open his eyes just in time to see something slithering along the walls over Delta's left shoulder. The widening of his eyes must've alerted the big daddy because he spins around to see tendrils of what looks like tar-covered human tissue constricting about anything and everything they come across in their snake-like journey towards the two men. Judging by the younger man's clear confusion, Augustus wagers that this is - unlike the rest of the experience which the man had been entirely calm towards - something completely out of left field. The suited man naturally puts himself between his companion and the invading force which spreads to the floor and nearly all of the surrounding space before it's lapping at their toes mere seconds later.

Out of impulse, the Panamanian avoids the tar-covered floor as best he can but the clear space between the two men vanishes under the unrelenting onslaught which springs upwards and coils around his ankles. The two of them aren't even given a second to panic before Delta's grip is wrenched away and Augustus is practically swallowed by the abyss now coating the once hardwood floors with but a yelp that is cut clean apart. Delta's own panic is conveyed through a strangled sound Sinclair never hears finished.

His scream bounces around him in an empty, lightless void. "Delta!" he all but screeches in throat-shredding horror. "Delta!" The only reply is his own voice shouting back at him. He is entirely alone in the blackness… falling seemingly infinitely. This is too much time to realize what's happening, to take in the sensation of freefall and emotional whiplash. He swears he can still feel the ghost of Delta's grip upon his shoulders, it was that sudden. Then the walls reach out. They grap at him with the same tendrils that sucked him down and they yank him backwards. In a blink - only a blink - the nothing has become something. He's tied to a chair in an uncharacteristically clean portion of Rapture… No… Not entirely Rapture… He knows this room.

A figure manifests from the darkness, illuminated by the window to his right. Her facial details aren't entirely consistent, shifting as many things do in this strange realm, but she is still recognizable… Her blond hair curled so neatly.

"Do you know what you have put into motion, Mister Sinclair?" her voice is more vivid than it has any right to me… and all too sickly-sweet. "I was trying to fix the mess that Andrew Ryan and men like you created - give these people hope for a better tomorrow, rebuild Rapture as a true Utopia. Instead, you and your pet aim to drown us all." Augustus doesn't respond. He's too entirely transfixed on the minute morphing of Lamb's expression. She answers as though he had.

"You are suffering, Augustus. You and Delta both. You are products of a dying era and you had a choice: relinquish your death grip on the old ways or meet your inevitable fate. Well, Sinclair… The inevitable is here. I will give you one last chance to help the family. Please… Tell me the codes."

Again, he doesn't answer her specifically. "This is… a memory…" he breathes. Lamb leans back, her distorting lips going tight against the sigh she lets out.

"Let it be known that you chose this path, Augustus. It was your decisions that put you here before me and what caused the coming events. What I do, I do for the greater good." Sophia fades away, followed not long after by the room. The chair stays as well, but the bindings slowly drop away, allowing the older man to bring his hands to eye-level. They aren't bare anymore... A familiar covering bulks them up in a waterproof mesh accented by bits of copper-colored metal. He looks up just in time to see the helm placed over his shoulders and facened into place by invisible hands. From beyond the yellow-tinted visor, all he can see is Lamb's stern, cold glare.

"You have one mission, Subject Omega... Stop Subject Delta and bring my daughter back to me. This is your purpose… your contribution to the greater good of Rapture. Delta must be put down." When she says those final words, there's a bite to them… malice, maybe… a little bit of contempt. He certainly understands, looking at the situation from her point of view - backed into a corner, beaten at almost every turn… Capturing him gave her a trump card.

Sinclair stumbles forward out of the chair and finds his hands now braced against a control console. He looks up and finds a viewing window - the warden's office. The older man leans forward and sees a morphing figure crossing the blocks. He doesn't need to wonder… to take guesses or try to focus on it… He knows who it is. His voice rings out around him, but it isn't his current self that speaks the aching, struggling words.

"...Wish I had time to make amends... I…" He never finished that sentence… not the way he was supposed to. All he can see now is that yellow visor… staring up at him from the cells below - increasingly bright and forcing him to imagine what pitying or angry expression lay beyond.

Then the screaming starts.

The scene before him is as still as stone and around him all he can hear is agony… rage... delirium. Some of the awful sounds are accompanied by the clear thrum of electricity, others by the roar of fire but all of them filled with undeniable and inescapable pain. The sounds soon become less and less human, deepening and growing more akin to the bellow of a monster that hides under children's beds… all the while, there's an awe in the background… people marveling as though they were viewing one of Cohen's interpretive dance showcases.

The Panamanian clenches his eyes shut. He begs any obedient part of his brain to vanquish his senses and he thinks it so when the sound stops only to open his eyes and find himself bound by the black tendrils to a theater chair in the front row… His head is forced against the rest so that he may look up at the stage which is encased in glass. Upon it is a man… his body changes like all the others but certain aspects remain constant… His body, which is chained down on its knees, is strong and lean… His ginger hair hangs over his down-turned forehead.

From the right side, a man in a clean, crisp suit struts up to the battered and restrained being and holds up a syringe. The faceless crowd all around Augustus chatters with a sickening wonder, even more so when the presenter grabs the man's head, forces it to the side and aims the needle into the crook of his neck. The older man can't close his eyes, he can't look away. All he can do is cringe when he sees the spike plunged into the pale, bruised flesh and the immediate reaction causes his head to shoot upwards. Muscles tense all over the man's body as the electricity runs its course.

The presenter steps off. As soon as he's away from the line of fire, the restraints are released and the practically buzzing man shoots up like a bat out of hell. Sparks burst from every finger, every inch of bare skin… And those eyes… those sea-green eyes… stare. They stare right. At. Him. As Clear and as vivid as sunlight...

...As poor old "Johnny Topside" screams until he's almost gargling the blood from his shredded vocal cords…

Sinclair strains against his ties. "Delta!" He bellows, trying to be heard over the horrid sound. "For God's sake, Delta!" Tears as hot and stinging as lava pour down his face. The man's muscles spasm as he fires off a stream of electricity at the glass. It fans out and bathes the crowd in white, flashing light… elicits a start and then disgusting applause. All his skin is red and blistering, his eyes hazing with pin-pricked pupils, his muscles practically having mini seizures.

"Son… I built this place… And I did rent you out to those plasmid trials at Fontaine…"

His voice is entirely gone… He just… watches now… Watches as "Johnny Topside" staggers backwards… falls... lands like a rock on the stage… The sound he makes when he hits the wood is hollow… It's like a corpse.

"Do not pretend you value mercy, Subject Delta… Keeping him alive does not make you right… The things that man has done, not just to you but to hundreds of innocent people… He is so heartless and cruel that he entertains your delusion… Prolongs your suffering. He does not deserve your mercy…"

"I'm sorry... " The tethers loosen a little.

"I'm sorry, Delta… I'm sorry…" A little more, now. His voice is bloated like he's speaking with a throat full of syrup. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry…" The scene does not fade away… The body lies on the stage, breathing heavily and emitting little, garbled groans... The crowd chatters like it's the least important thing in the world. "I'm sorry." As the tendrils drop, so do his hands. They hand loosely at his sides and his head drops like dead weight. He can't even keep his eyes open.

The crowd dies down, his tears eventually stop flowing, the cold and quiet envelops him with boney fingers… but the breathing stays… becomes louder when a pair of strong, gloved hands grab his upper arms and pull him close, wrap him in an embrace that makes him sick instead of comforted. "I'm sorry."

Then he opens his eyes.