"People aren't making it easy," the younger man says as he runs both hands roughly down his face. "Someone said they saw them downtown at a homeless shelter. Someone else said they were at a hotel on the back bay. Obviously a bunch of 'em are just spreading rumors for the hell of it and it's hard to tell the difference." Those very same whiskey-colored eyes glare at him over the dim glow of a lit cigarette. They are warm only in color, casting a steely, frigid glower across the way at his more animated "companion." When it comes to his disdain, the gentleman doesn't even try to hide it, which the other can respect in earnest. Far too long has the younger witnessed the social balancing act performed in Ryan's utopia.

"I'm paying you to figure out the difference, Miser Poole."

Stanley Poole, a man of rat-like presentation, puffs on his own cigarette and wrestles with the urge to snap back indignantly. Instead, Stanley removes the spent stick and tosses it into a puddle at their feet. "Right. I'll check the rumors, maybe scope out the back bay. I have to wonder what their plan is, though. That would definitely help."

"Surely you have some ideas?" The larger shifts, getting up from his leaning position on the brick wall behind which they have both secluded themselves. Indeed, Poole does have some ideas but there is little evidence in any direction. Any of said ideas could be probable in equal measure.

"Yeah. I do. Care to hear them?"

"Couldn't hurt."

"Right. Well, They both have to be in Alpha suits. Subject Delta is an Alpha for sure and the word around the block is that the other one - who I'm certain is Sinclair - didn't have a helmet. Only Alpha series Big Daddies can remove their helmets. The rest have their organs grafted into the suits - the suits ARE their bodies, essentially. Theoretically, Alpha's can be removed from their suits if they find someone who knows how to do it. I'm bettin' that our two gents would very much like to have those suits off seein' as they can't do much with 'em on."

"So, they'll likely contact any survivors that made it to the surface or anyone that has been in contact themselves…" Those burning eyes widen just marginally with realization. "Tenenbaum."

"Bingo." Poole creates a faux gun with his thumb and forefinger. "Your golden goose. The second rumor is that they have a lot of kids with 'em - former little sisters. I can't see any person wantin' to keep that many little shits around so they'll probably try to find somewhere for 'em to go. Families, orphanages, that sort of thing. Ol' Johnny fancies himself a saint, so he wouldn't just abandon any of 'em. They all gotta be in the age range of five to eight. Around ten, they phase 'em out."

"Both could be the case easily."

"Easily. Almost certainly. There bein' kids with 'em lines up too well for it to just be a weird embellishment. I heard somethin' new recently, too… There was someone else with 'em - a teenage girl. The guy at the pub didn't elaborate too much on her, but the only person I could see it being is Eleanor Lamb, daughter of that religious fanatic I told you about - Sophia. She was Subject Delta's little sister when she was tiny. Guess she never forgot about the big idiot who was brainwashed into babysittin' her because she made a big stink over it and threw all of her mom's plans out the window just to see him again. Ol' Johnny's whole thing was gettin' her out, so it has to be her."

"Is she a problem?"

"That's just it, pal… I don't know. She was a thorn in my side as a kid and I can't imagine she's any less of one as a teenager.

The older man takes a deep breath and practically chews the butt of his cigarette. "You tell me that this Big Daddy, Subject Delta, is inconsequential but it seems to me that he's a common thread that you keep unwinding every time you give me a progress report."

"It doesn't mean nothin'. He's easily influenced, is all. Get him to care a little bit about someone and he'll do whatever the hell they want him to. He's just the muscle to other people's plans. Muscle don't mean nothin' without a brain."

"You told me that he has a brain."

"I said he's smarter than other Big Daddies, but when other Big Daddies only have two thoughts, that's not a high bar to set."

"But he won't be a problem?"

"Never said he wouldn't be. He's not useful to us from what you've told me but he could be a problem - will be a problem." To that, the brown-eyed man lets out one last huff of pungent smoke and spits the butt across the walk, into the water. He's clearly irritated with the rise of his shoulders and new, jerky tinge to his previously sedated mannerisms. "There's one surefire way to put him down, though." With that, the other's attention is entirely recaptured, though his anger remains intact. "Alphas had one big flaw - If they lost their connection to their little sister, they'd fall into a coma and die. As far as I'm aware, Delta is still connected to little Lamb, so if we take care of her, he's in the grave with her."

"So you expect me to find a way to get to a girl that this beast is protecting so that I can kill her and have him tumble after? We need to get him out of the way, but to get him out of the way we have to kill someone that he'd need to be out of the way to kill."

"We just need to distract him. They don't know we're after 'em. They won't be expecting any attacks. We give some idiot-for-hire a gun and he could walk right up and put one between her eyes. Then we capture Sinclair, he can tell us what we need to know and we'll be set for life."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. The next time we meet, you better know exactly where they are - otherwise we'll have to renegotiate our arrangement." Just as abruptly as the time before, the older man struts off down the walk and leaves Stanley with far more left unsaid than he would've liked. Still, it's better than working with Lamb. Poole takes off himself once the other is out of sight and begins to work his way towards the next business on his list - a physical list, as a matter of fact, that he keeps on a notepad in his lapel which states that his target is a less opulent establishment called The Americana Inn. It's a taxi ride away for sure - walking almost five miles and avoiding leaving a trail be damned. Who gives a damn if some minimum-wage, wanna-be chauffeur sees his face? They see hundreds per day and forget every single one.

The one who takes him to the Inn is a respectable enough gentleman - from the Boston-Jersey area if his accent is any indication. He keeps the talk to a minimum and his eyes on the road until the time to pay comes about. The building in question is smaller and made of standard brick - perhaps only a few stories high and comparably short to other, more preferable locations. 'That lines up,' Poole thinks under his scrutinizing glare. 'With all those kids, they couldn't possibly afford to stay in a big hotel for more than a day.' Inside isn't much better in terms of decor. The main reception area can't hold more than ten people comfortably and has this horribly faded red carpet that shows every foot-print and scrape in vivid detail.

At the counter is an older woman of plump proportions who greets him cheerily though she is very obviously ready to fall over and sleep wherever the hell she lands. "Welcome to the Americana Inn."

With as much of his own charm as he can conjure up from the depths of his uncaring mind, Stanley leans upon the desk and wears the most innocently-concerned mask he can possibly scrounge up. "Evenin', ma'am. I hope you can help me 'cause I'm losin' hope here. You see, I just flew in from Florida and I was supposed to be travelin' with my brother and a friend 'a his, but there was a mix-up with our flight and they overbooked. I told them to go on ahead and I'd be on the next flight, but it seems they weren't at the hotel we planned to meet at. I'm thinkin' they were confused and went to a different hotel - which I totally understand seein' the mess we've already waded through - but I can't seem to find which one that is. You haven't happened to see two fella's in strange clothes around, have you? You'd remember my brother. He's a handsome fella and talks like he's trying to cover the fact that he's from a farm in Georgia. Real suave-like."

The lady cocks her head. It seems she's working on a delay tonight. "What sort of strange clothes do you mean, sir?"

Poole laughs. "Oh, I promise you would have never seen anything like it. He and his buddy are deep-sea divers, you see, and we had to leave for this trip as soon as they got off the boat. They're in these bulky, canvas and brass diving suits. They said they'd change after they checked into the hotel." That very concept seems beyond perplexing to her, souring any hope Stanley has in this location. Still, he humors her as she tries to think back at all the faces she's possibly seen over the past few days - not that a sight such as a big daddy could slip any surface-dweller's mind.

"I don't believe we've had such a guest, but I can check the ledger in-case they came in while someone else was at the desk. What name would it be under?"

"That would be much appreciated. It's, uh, Augustus Sinclair." Because who else could properly make a reservation? She flips through a large book, going back what looks like many weeks before shaking her head and giving an apologetic grimace.

"We have a Stella Sinclair, but no one else by that name. I'm sorry, sir."

"No worries, ma'am. They have to be in this area. There aren't too many more places. I'm sure someone has seen his crazy self. He's hard to miss." They exchange a few more pleasantries and Stanley exits into the early morning which has barely put a damper on the actual life of this section of noisy society. Poole's mood, however, is very damp. It's a perpetually fruitless endeavor, he starts to dread, making tracks all across the city and getting absolutely nowhere substantial but the alternative to finding Augustus Sinclair - or at least someone affiliated with him who is preferably Tenenbaum - is something he'd rather not explore. In direct opposition to Tenenbaum, Sinclair had never been a hard man to reach. No, he never traveled anywhere alone but the man didn't seem to fear assassination in spite of his prominant place at Rapture's most exclusive table: The wealthy.

As a matter of fact, even though he often claimed to despise Rapture's high society, Sinclair was an extremely social animal who found it difficult not to discreetly work his way into people's conversations with such efficiency that one wouldn't be a fool for thinking the man was addicted to human interaction. Maybe he was simply networking, but Stanley's hope is that his "dearest brother" is keeping up with old habits and someone has had a notable enough interaction with the panamanian to share.

Poole goes down the list and spins his yarn at two more hotels on this side of the city, getting the same apologetic responses each and every time, the same as all the others he's attempted. All the while, a headache starts to pound the inside of his head like a gong. By the time he reaches the next place, the sun is coming out and people are getting up and leaving for work or the next location in their travels. It's the same song and dance - fake a smile, tell the long-winded, bullshit tale but opposed to every other time, Stanley doesn't even get to finish the last sentence before he's interrupted by the young girl at the counter.

"Is that what those suits were? Everyone thought it was too rude to ask…" Poole fights off an ear-to-ear grin.

"They're here?" he asks hopefully.

"They were. Really early yesterday they checked out and loaded into a delivery truck of all things."

"Were they with anyone?"

"Yeah, a bunch of little girls, a colored man and a kinda ratty-looking woman with a funny accent. Seems like they were in a hurry. Your brother's friend, though… the other one in the suit? We never learned his name or anything - never even saw his face, but we're all a little worried about him."

Though he's more than angry about the group giving him the slip, Poole's interest is piqued by that last part. He leans onto the desk with a raised brow. "Why? Was somethin' wrong with him?"

"Well, when they left, he could barely stand up on his own. Three people had to help walk him to the truck." Now that is quite interesting indeed… A weak Big Daddy. What could have caused it? Injury? Illness? Did someone do their job for them? For the time being, that doesn't matter. What does is that Delta is out of sorts and Stanley has an opportunity.

…

The "soup" he's handed almost every afternoon always has the same, bitter taste and unpleasantly-pungent smell. One of the doctors said it was pumped full of vitamins and other medication that would help ease the effects of the surgery, even if the worst that Sinclair has yet experienced is headaches. In spite of its detestable attributes, both men suck down their liquid meals like neither has eaten in months. Watching Delta try to eat anything liquid from a bowl is especially entertaining due to the right side of his mouth always twitching as though someone is running an electric current through it.

In this time where they are both bedridden, Augustus has taken the initiative to memorize Delta's little quirks - that being one of them - which has helped kindle an odd sort of appreciation the younger man be it amusement at the way he bares his teeth when he yawns or getting a fond flutter in his ribs when Delta laughs his almost silent little laugh. He does it when he catches Augustus watching him practically spill a good few spoonfuls of broth down his neck and all of it with a tiny, embarrassed smirk. He laughs back. He always laughs back. He can't stop it. It's like every sound or expression is contagious.

In those fleeting moments, he feels like he's being cut… like someone waits in the shadows for him to experience any tinge of joy just to come out and remind him of everything wrong in his world. 'Look at his scars,' those voices say. 'You did that. You hurt him.' It is with all of his soul that Augustus prays Delta cannot hear them, too. Out of every instant and unstoppable thought, please let these ones be the ones that slip in one ear and out the other… The way Delta's smile drops half of an inch every single time says otherwise. When it comes to that, though, Sinclair had asked Tenenbaum a myriad of questions as soon as he could.

It wasn't long after he'd first woken up. He woke before Delta the second time and found Birgid ambling in to check on them with as grave a face as ever - one would think the operation went wrong somehow. She herself asked the expected things - questions blown off as Sinclair intended to get right to the meat.

"He's… supposed to be able to talk to me up here, right…?" He taps his head demonstratively. In response, Tenenbaum nods. "Am… I supposed to hear him?"

"No. He can hear your thoughts in your voice, but you do not get the same. At least, that is what the little ones have said it is like. Do you hear him?"

"No, it's… I don't really hear anything but I know he's talking to me. For example, I can think of questions I want to ask and suddenly I just… know the answers. It's just there, no voice or anything but I know it's him somehow."

Bigid's expression is bare but her eyes are thoughtful, looking down at her lap as though trying to think of the best way to explain it. "Sinclair, do you know what a Babirusa is?"

Confused, the man answers honestly and with a hint of apprehension. "Uhh… No."

"Could you tell me what sound it makes?"

"No."

"This is the same principle. Delta has never heard his own voice - or does not remember hearing it. Yes, he could try to imagine what it sounds like, but the sound in his head would be inconsistent without concrete reference, so he speaks to you in this way so that you may be comfortable and not constantly hear unfamiliar voices in your head."

That was three days ago, now, and he has gotten quite used to the other's strange form of communication. Delta himself is already so much stronger, as well. Energetic, even. Augustus wishes he had the emotional wherewithal to celebrate it… Thankfully, Eleanor has enough for an entire party. To say the girl is happy is a gross understatement as her smile has only dropped in sleep which she does at her "father's" side in what has to be a terribly uncomfortable old office chair. In those moments, Sinclair catches the rare stray rays of happiness that bounce off of Delta's mind and into his - an instance of strange duality as Delta seems to be able to control what parts of his mental processes leak over to Augustus whereas Augustus can't seem to stop anything from bleeding into poor Delta's mind. The amount of times already that the younger man has jerked his head over with a humorous expression due to reading something that the other had accidentally sent his way is staggering.

When asked on how to put up the mental dam, Delta merely shrugged and "said" something to the effect of "I can't explain it. I just learned to do it somehow." As irritating as that answer is, it makes perfect sense. In matters of the mind, a lot of things are abstract and beyond human understanding but Sinclair imagines that it is like building an immunity to something through use like being able to handle more alcohol before getting drunk due to regular intake. The younger man chuckled at that analogy but relented that it was the best theory he'd heard for it and he'd subscribe to the idea until someone of greater authority told him otherwise. That is gratifying, at least.

After the two of them finish their less than satisfying lunch, Delta lays back to nap. The two of them spend much of their days doing that. It's what the doctors recommend, but it's maddening to the older man. So much so that he's still wide awake into the late-night beams of moonlight that shine in through a very small window towards the ceiling of the room. Either days have gotten shorter or he's simply lost track of time. Either way, Tenenbaum finds him sitting up and staring at the wall across from his bed and sighs. That wrenches Sinclair from his thoughts.

"Evenin', Doctor," is all he can think to say in the strange weightless state of mind.

"It is almost morning, actually," she replies and crosses her arms. "You need much sleep, Sinclair. Your bond with Delta is still fragile and we want the both of you as rested as possible before we move you."

"That happening soon?"

"Arrangements have finally been made, yes. As of moments ago. I was going to wait until morning to tell the both of you, but we are taking a plane to Massechusettes tomorrow afternoon. There's a safehouse there where we can keep the two of you and the little ones until we find them homes. As for the two of you, though, this is merely to find you a safer place to recover. You both still have a very long road."

Sinclair scoffs quietly. "Believe me, I know."

"I want to talk to you about something, however, Sinclair. Something you have been avoiding." Once again, she manages to catch him unaware. He knows what she'll ask about as she's been trying to get it out of him for quite some time but never managed to secure privacy. Now, though, with Delta asleep and everyone else separated into different rooms all over the rented space, they have all the solitude they could ask for at current. "What happened in your dream?" Yes. That.

"You know, when people avoid talking about something, it's because they don't want to."

"And why do you not want to speak of it, Sinclair?"

"Well, if you really must know, I saw a lot of personal things that should be none of your business - no offense."

Her voice lowers, turning into a very rare and gentle version of itself free of most of her usual grit. To most people, it would almost be soothing but Sinclair knows Tenenbaum and all her methods. Sometimes, she could be an even better manipulator than Lamb. "It helps to talk about it."

"Helps to- What?"

"Trauma. You have been through a lot - we both have - and I believe it would help very much to discuss how we feel. I know from experience that bottling things for too long can become disastrous, but with you the effects would extend beyond just you. Think of it as part of Delta's treatment. This was all for him, after all."

"I'm fine." It seems to be reflex when Brigid leans forward and slaps the side of his head sternly, much like a mother would to an indignant child - all the embarrassment of being on the receiving end included. Before he can retort with all the offense of a grown man being popped like a ten-year-old, she silences him with a hiss.

"Do not lie to me, Sinclair. You were unwell even before the operation and you continue to be troubled. I am not one of your clients, so easily fooled by a smile and empty assurance."

"Well, how do you expect me to feel bein' forced into this?" He slaps both hands on his chest, putting on a show. He's always putting on a show and he doesn't want to do this. Not now, possibly not ever. As if it's any of her business anyway, like he's already made clear. Even so, she continues with the same stoic expression and soft, flat tone - much to his exasperation.

"You know exactly what I mean, Augustus." Using his first name. More and more games. He feels his anger start to bubble over. "You need to talk to talk to someone."

"I don't need to. It's my own problem and I don't need to go spillin' to random people about the nasty shit that keeps me up at night. I'll manage."

"You will drag Delta down with you in your emotional breakdown. Sinclair, you did this for him and yet when you are faced with confronting your problems for his sake, you refuse. Which is it that you want: to help Delta or try to punish yourself because you seem to think that will make all of your guilt go away."

If he could see his own expression, he knows it would be curled into an almost animalistic snarl...

"I did this because Delta saved my life and I thought he deserved to live. More than me at lea-" He stops himself, but knows it's too late. That bullet is through his foot and into the linoleum. The cringe he makes is more or less to stop himself from seeing Tenenbaum's expression, most surely expectant with the slightest glint of smugness in her steely glare.

"Tell me about the dream, Augustus."

"Bite me."

"If that will make you talk to me, then I will do it. Be careful." That isn't a joke. Or… If it is, it's said so coldly that one can't tell the difference. "Why do you resist so much? I will not hurt you for what you tell me, Sinclair. I know what you have done, what things weigh on your shoulders."

"No you don't… You know a lot, but not everything…"

"Then tell me. I experimented on children. You cannot be worse than me."

"That's not… It's a lot of things and not all of them are severe like that. I told you that it's personal and I'd rather not talk about it. Please, just… Just leave me be… For god's sake, just leave me be."

She's quiet for a moment… pondering… maybe chewing the inside of her cheek a little. Before she speaks next, she sighs a relenting sort of sound - annoyed but accepting for the time being. "He saw it all, you know. He continues to. There are no secrets with him, Augustus. There will not be for a long time. The things that weigh on you? They might trouble him as well; trouble him because he does not understand." He spares her a tired glance. "What you have chosen to do is walk a tightrope with him. That walk was easy for Eleanor for he could simply carry her on his shoulders. He cannot do that with you. You are so heavy because walking with you means walking with a ton of bricks that he will happily take the brunt of. If he does that, you will both fall… And it will not be graceful." Tenenbaum turns to the door. "If you cannot be honest with me, be honest with him. Help him understand." She's gone in an irritable shuffle, leaving the older man alone with his thoughts once more - thoughts he ponders as he turns back to that same wall, glaring at the chips in the paint with an entirely new train racing tirelessly along those tracks in his head.

...

"...Was a good kid..."

"Was." That word always gets him when he thinks back to that night. In truth, the incident at Cohen's show had, in fact, been innocent - or at least the most innocent meeting they had had in a long time. It didn't end quite that way... The recording came in the next morning, every bit as stinging as that one little word. "Was." What did Sullivan mean when he said that? Yes, it is implied that they got rid of Wayne in one way or another, but... Could they get away with just... murder? Is that even something Ryan's enforcers would do? To Sinclair's knowledge, Wayne wasn't a prisoner at Persephone... Unless. He shakes the thought from his head with a heavy knot forming in his throat... even it was a possibility. He ponders it all while the recording plays softly on his desk... Wayne's voice speaks in a way to foreign, so formal... A fashion which he never needed to use around Augustus because the older man enjoyed his usual idiosyncrasies - drastically more southern than Sinclair could ever dream of being in the absolute best way possible.

On the fourth playing, his lips start to quiver.

He remembers hearing Wayne sing for the first time. It was the second night they'd spent together and instead of sleeping afterwords, Wayne claimed all the energy in the world. He threw on his trousers and white t-shirt while inviting Augustus to do the same. When they were both mostly presentable, the larger man took him by the hand, wrapping the other around Augustus's waist in an action that would have earned him a string of scolds had Wayne not begun what might have been one of the most winsome renditions of "Be My Love." To that, the older man pulls a hand free to cover his face which is split by the biggest ear-to-ear smile he thinks has ever graced his lips. Wayne smiles, too. Smiles with his gentle, completely enraptured eyes. It's ridiculous, cornier than Iowa and yet his heart aches with each careful step they take between one another. Soon, the hand slips back into the larger man's, face softened and trying to appear tired but entertained. It's a facade. He thinks it's a good one, but they both know. Wayne always knew... The first person to ever see right through him.

On the fifth, his eyes start to moisten.

He remembers the first time they kissed... really kissed. Kisses in bed were par fo the course, but... this was different. He told himself otherwise, but it was. It had been some time after Wayne started staying the entire night on his days off. They both awoke the next morning and Sinclair jokingly offered him eggs. Of course, he did end up making them, but the dig at domesticity was appreciated between the two of them thanks to their constant insistence that they'd despise married life. Oh, how they loathed those "housewife" novels - waking up to a hot breakfast and smiles like everything was right with the world. One joke lead to another and as Sinclair slipped Wayne a plate, the larger man teasingly took him by the chin and planted a peck on his lips... then another... then it wasn't a joke anymore. He'd thought the butterflies in his gut had been dead for years, but if any kiss could bring life to the dead, it was Wayne's.

On the sixth, he's covering his mouth to stop the strangled breaths he's letting out from becoming anything more.

The "I love you." Sinclair always believed Wayne saying it was just him having fun. He'd say it, Sinclair would tell him to shut up and Wayne would laugh. He never said it back... Never... He couldn't. He always told himself that he couldn't lie to the man he shared his bed with more than any other human being he'd ever met, but... He realizes it so late... too late... That was the lie. He got goosebumps when Wayne sung, felt his heart skip a beat when he smiled, fought off the urge to melt into every kiss... refused to return every "I love you" even if the response came like an unbeatable impulse. Wayne is right... was right... He'd been living honestly. Augustus hadn't. That's when that word really hits him...

...There, on the seventh listening of that damned recording...

"Was."

On the seventh, his head is pressed into his folded arms upon the desk while his shoulders shiver.