- It's a short in-between chapter today, guys. I know it's far from my usual length, but I promise things will be picking up from here on out.-

It's a story passed around in hushed voices at the back of a pier-side pub... Men both young and old, experienced and green as rye grass alike spout the details in what almost appears to be apprehension - as though this tale, unlike those of giant fish and spearing whales, had some merit to it, a kind that made these sailors quiet. Only the youngest of them gave anything of use, beer in hand.

"One of the ones in the suits… 'E was real smooth-like... Looked like absolute shit 'alf the time but talked like 'E was tryna sell me a car."

"What about the other one?" Someone across the table asks, a laugh trailing his words. He's obviously humoring the kid.

"Th' other one was the weird part, y'see. Din' talk at all! Din' even take off the helmet. Whole two weeks 'n he never said a single word. E' just lumber 'round the ship moanin' like an angry spirit." He tries to imitate the sounds, but his drunken state doesn't seem to quite convey his fuzzy memories. It's enough, though. To the right person, it paints a flawless picture. Said person stands from his table near the door and exits the pub. Beyond is the boardwalk along the wharf.

This man is rat-like in the face and thin to a similar degree. Merely by the way he carries himself, he comes across as the slippery type - too bold for his own good. In spite of his lack of muscle, he carries himself with a puffed chest and misplaced confidence through pocketed hands and a sly upturn of his slightly wrinkled lips. The man strolls across the walk towards the back bay. There, he finds an old dry dock bathed in nightlight and void of human life. He's almost at home among the rats who scurry about the railing but he avoids the water. Simply looking at the lapping waves sends a chill up his prominent spine.

"So…?" The man now approaching from his left chimes into the hushed whisper of a harbor's night, figure barely readable among the din but clearly swathed in a heavy coat.

"I was right on the money. Told you so. Got two big names roaming about up here. They arrived in New York a little while ago with a whole orphanage."

"And these big names are…?"

"Well, goin' off of what I saw in Rapture and what I heard here and there, I believe pretty confidently that one of these gents is Augustus Sinclair. He meets a lot of your criteria: Big wig back in Rapture's hay-day, played a big part in the civil war, was a primary investor, had his own research division." He pulls a cigarette from his pocket and takes the time to light it and suck in a lungful before proceeding. "The second one is vague and I can't say with much certainty, but I believe Subject Delta is with him. Strong silent type in a protector suit. A lot of them fit that profile, but Ol' Johnny Topside is my best guess."

"And what's so special about this protector?"

"Historically, he was the first big daddy to ever be bonded with a little sister. For our purposes, nothin'. He's the same as all the rest of them, I just bring him up because he's apparently here and was a big name back in the day, before he became a hunk 'a lumberin' asshole."

"And who was he before?"

"Some deep-sea diver who found the city by accident. Became a celebrity for it, but never told anyone his name or anythin' so people always suspected that Ryan got paranoid and had him locked up like a lot of other poor saps. Couldn't help us, though. The process of makin' big daddies cleans their craniums until they shine."

"Would getting him out of the way be an issue?"

The thin man pauses, his cigarette hanging between thumb and index finger. "Depends on how you define 'out of the way.' If you mean killin' him, pretty damn hard. That son of a bitch fought tooth and nail through basically an army to escape Rapture. I know first hand how fuckin' dangerous he is and, I mean no disrespect but you'd be wise not to underestimate Ol' Johnny, or any big daddy for that matter. They could rip your skull in two with their bare hands. Delta ain't no exception. In fact, he's smarter than a lot of other big daddies… Always seemed more aware. Someone's home."

The other glances around in thought before his eyes drift up and meet those of the other. They are remarkable eyes… Burning umber like the finest whiskey. "Find them. We'll figure it out from there."

The first flicks away his cigarette into the dry dock with a dip of his chin.

…

He opens his eyes. They see not the morphing visage of Rapture - not neon lights reflecting against polished hardwood and tile - but instead a ceiling of cold, dull concrete washed in the sterile glow of industrial lights. It's bright. It's stable. It's real… real like the rattling gasp which breaks the deafening silence to his left. It's on instinct that he jerks his head over and sees pale skin made nearly blinding in the white light... Delta's eyes are blown wide… Maybe his own appearance is almost identical.

Sinclair isn't prepared, could never be prepared, for when those sea-green gems lock with the dull, almost lifeless hazel of his own… for they are unreadable, just as he knew they'd be… and yet, he knows exactly what the other is thinking, what questions he's asking in their shared silence. They rush through his brain like bullets. How does he even begin to answer?

'Am I okay? Yes, I'm okay,' He thinks. It's a lie. 'I know... No, I'm not. But I'll manage for now… Yeah, I'm hungry, too.' And before he knows it, the two of them are having a conversation. It seems like it should be like talking to a brick wall, but it isn't. It's… different, but not lonely. He'd never thought such a thing would be possible, that maybe what had been happening in their dream was exclusive to that dreadful fantasy world. Apparently not. Three or four questions down the line, Augustus manages to actually wake up.

"Del, I... "

Say it. Say it in this world. Not in your head, or in a dream where it's worthless...

Intrusive thoughts urge that he doesn't need to say it… that Delta knows, that he heard it over and over, but…

"...I'm sorry…" He knows and Sinclair knows he knows, but he feels that this time… it means more. It means something. "Just… I needed to say it… for real." Delta nods knowingly. The Panamanian stops another thought just as it starts to work its way into his brain. "Don't say it. Don't ever say it." 'He's not saying it, he's thinking it.' "Don't be a smartass, either." One of those charming, twitching grins sends shockwaves through Sinclair's weakened body and the reaction to it only seems to make it grow wider. "Very cute. Now, stop." The larger man wheezes his little laugh and nuzzles into his pillow, soft smile remaining in his new relaxed posture as though Delta is… Sinclair can't believe it, but the man is actually teasing him.

"My god, the tin man doesn't just have a heart, he's got a sense of humor." The Panamanian sighs and practically melts into the bed, still watching the gentle expression staring back at him. "Are… you okay?" Delta nods. "And you called me a liar." This time, they both smile… They are hurt smiles that lightly twist into the beginnings of a cringe, but smiles nonetheless. God, Sinclair's face feels like it's on fire… among other body parts in a far less pleasant way. "I don't mean to ruin this lovely confab we have goin', Del, but… Damn, I am hurting like hell. The back of my head feels like -" His right hand wanders absentmindedly towards the spot of ire but finds itself mimicking a statue upon grazing its fingers across a gauze patch. Just the slightest ghost of pressure sends chilling tendrils of sharp pain through his barely-awake form. The area around the patch is shaved clean.

"Ah- I'm guessin' that's where…" Sinclair cringes and moves his hand back to his lap. "... They implanted the little signal thing."

Delta sits up with some effort and turns his head just enough for Sinclair to see a square-shaped scar at the base of his skull. It's barely visible against the already pale complexion of the rest of the younger man's flesh. 'They didn't even have to touch his,' Augustus thinks with a tinge of displeasure. In response, Delta scowls exaggeratedly. "Don't mind me, chief. I'm just bitter when I'm hurting…" He pauses, slowly allowing his smile to slip away.

"Will… will that dream happen again?"

Delta shakes his head. 'It shouldn't.'

"I hope not, 'cause I'm ready to pass right back out... Maybe you should rest some more, too."

'He'll try.'

It's as much of an assurance as he's ever going to get from a mute companion. With that, Augustus lets out but a single sigh and presses back into the soft - though slightly distance - vice of his pillow. From there, it takes him no time at all to be consumed by the void of sleep, leaving only Delta in the waking world. The younger man watches him as he dozes off, dropping his smile as soon as Sinclair's hazel eyes are no longer visible in the din.

There are gaps in his memory that he never wished to be filled… Incidents he's been told about but never needed to see… Incidents put in motion in part by the man now sleeping in the bed across from him, by the man he's been getting closer and closer to over the course of almost two months. All this time, he's told himself that he doesn't care about the past - now matters more than then... But… What say he now? Why in all those memories is it only Delta that bothers him - that weighs on Sinclair's conscience? Because there are no faces to put to the suffering of the rest?

There's something distinct and life-altering about witnessing trauma first hand as opposed to merely being told it existed and perhaps that is the answer, then… Sinclair doesn't know the other victims… He only cares about Delta's suffering because he's met Delta… Is that Selfish or just human nature? Would knowing the others he's harmed be too much for him to handle? Is this why he couldn't look at Delta's face? So many little voices in the young Alpha's head cry out with accusations of heartlessness, though those same voices know the opposite to be true. Augustus Sinclair is not heartless, not a monster - even if his actions are indeed monstrous.

Forgivable? Maybe days ago, he would have said 'yes' without hesitation. Now? Now he isn't so sure. Of course, Sinclair is sorry and being sorry is worth at least a nickel, though it's a nickel towards an ever-rising debt reaching in the thousands. That's the issue, he realizes. Augustus had it right in their hotel room what seems like years ago now - 'Sorry' doesn't fix anything. 'Sorry' placates, but it doesn't mend. It certainly hasn't helped the older man's guilt.

His guilt…

When Sinclair says 'sorry,' he means it. It isn't his way of finding an out or dismissing his sins. In this instance, 'sorry' isn't a hollow attempt at civility. It's an admission of guilt - letting the one and only victim that he can put a face to know that he does feel guilty. And that's the hopeful part, Delta guesses - that Sinclair does feel guilty which means he is not, in fact, heartless. Could he forgive Augustus, though? There is no quick 'yes' or 'no' when he asks himself that question - no black or white answers, just a massive area of grey - of 'maybe-s' and 'possibly-s'. Is that wrong? He ponders it as much as his exhausted brain can as it drifts off to sleep maybe an hour after his troubled companion.

Neither of them are okay.

…

He recognizes this voice, the one which speaks to him through the darkness, but not directly. He knows that it is of Augustus's memories and that it sounds as though it's reading from a script- speaking cordially like presenting a passionate declaration to a misty-eyed crowd… the contents, however, are personal - never meant for more than one set of ears… and yet here is… listening to them, unintentionally invading someone's privacy… Not that either of them had privacy anymore, though...

"To Augustus... I cannot begin to imagine what goes through your head. You are quite possibly the most complicated man in all of Rapture - more than Andrew Ryan, than Sander Cohen, than Sophia Lamb... "

It speaks with a thick, southern drawl, one considerably less sophisticated than Sinclair's, though equally as well-read it seems… Intelligence in a less refined form. Maybe that makes it more earnest.

"...I wanted to understand, however, as that complexity ensnared me from the moment I met you. You spoke in pretty-sounding circles like your voice was dancing with me…"

This man chose his words carefully. As for the content of them so far, Delta can entirely relate.

"... But something is wrong in that head of yours. You have your priorities twisted up and seem to be of the mind that people such as me, people who love you and your every little flaw, matter less than those who would drown you given the chance…"

He takes a breath full of tears, words catching in his throat. What he speaks next, it's on the verge of sobs and through clenched teeth - though he is invisible, Delta can hear it. He can hear it in every single word.

"...And I do love you, August. When I told you that, it wasn't because I had a little infatuation that would eventually fade like a high school crush... I just…"

He's off-script now, speaking from his mind and losing all of the decorum in exchange for something far more pure.

"I'm done. I love you, but I'm done. Last night was it for me. You are obviously confused and scared of things about yourself that are beyond your control. I wanna say that I'll be back when you can figure yourself out, but I know that that isn't true. I can't wait for you… because I know what I need. I know what I want. I am not going to sit around and wait because one day you might have some sort of epiphany."

In this pause, he hears many deep breaths and little sniffles - even a gulp of almost comical volume.

"It fucking hurt, you know? Seeing you flirt with women at parties and then having you say it's just for appearances, to keep Rapture off our backs. You didn't have to do it, though. You try so fucking hard to make everyone believe that you bat for the "right" team because god forbid people look at you the way they do Cohen. You go on and on about Cohen. Say such bitter things about him... But you know what? You don't hate him for the reasons you think you do. You can stamp and deny it 'til the sun falls down, but you know it's true… I'm rambling, though… Talking to a brick wall, maybe your trash can. I dunno."

Sadness fades to exhaustion.

"Anyway... Don't… Try to talk to me. Please. Not for a while, at least. It's better for both of us."

It's a recording, Delta realizes at a delay when he hears the machine click as though someone is tapping on the microphone.

"Good-bye, Augustus."

Then it stops. A few clicks, some warbling and the voice vanishes into the void from which it came.