-I'm not dead.-

She's bracing herself, she realizes, as she stands on the other side of that wooden door, staring at the golden placard which labels its ownership. Among her worries lay a plethora of horrors that she believes to be equally as likely and none more nerve racking than the idea of him not even being inside. At least if he lay inside dead of a gunshot wound or if he was hanging by a rope from his ceiling fan they'd know what had become of him. There being nothing however, would mean infinite possibilities. Not knowing is the worst of them all. With bated breath and shaking hands, she raps three times sternly upon the wood… waiting… biting her lower lip until it's on the verge of tearing open.

She hears the light thumping… bare footsteps on polished wood and it's the most wonderful sound she thinks she's heard in a long time.

...And even if the face that greets her from beyond is riddled with blood-shot eyes and messy, unshaven stubble, she can't help but lunge forward and wrap her arms about his shoulders. It comes as so much of an impulse that it startles the poor man. "Oh my god, you're okay! Thank god you're okay," she blurts. Augustus stammers shortly. He seems both confused and horrified, the ladder for reasons entirely unknown.

"Ruby, why… What are you on about, darlin'?"

Ruby backs away. Her disbelief is plain as day across her face. With an offended shove, she forces both herself and Augustus back into the apartment all with an accusatory tone bleeding from her tongue. "What do you mean 'what am I on about'? You've been gone for two days, no word to anyone or even a note and rumors are flying every which way! You had everyone worried sick! And, god, you look terrible." That last part is tacked on once Ruby gets a good look at her friend. He's wearing a grey pair of lazy pants and a white t-shirt that are wrinkled to all hell. His hair is out of control, face unshaven and eyes bloodshot worse than when he's piss-drunk. Sinclair doesn't take too kindly to the comment, going as far as losing the half-asleep glaze to give her a death-glare.

"I needed some time to myself." Something is off about his voice… It's strangled and raw.

"Then why didn't you say anything? For god's sake, August, people thought you -"

"Don't call me that," the older man snaps suddenly as he walks over to his couch. "Don't… call me that…" It's softer on the parrot. Ruby sighs with exasperation before following him over and taking a seat to his right. Augustus props his elbows on his knees and it's probably the absolute worst she's ever seen him… that's saying something.

"Augustus," she begins following a silence beyond suffocating. "Erin told me what happened… I'm so… so sorry." Unto her condolences, he offers her nothing, instead opting to light a cigarette and spit out long, slow lines of nicotine-laced toxin. It's strange seeing him do so without the holder but the man is all sorts beyond his usual decorum so she just adds the abnormality to the pile and steams ahead. "Why did you tell her before me? I'm not angry, I just... I'm curious. I asked you up front and you denied it."

"I didn't tell her." He hands her the cigarette and she doesn't turn down the invitation. "She caught us together. Hard to explain why I was getting frisky with one of Sullivan's men…" Augustus's voice is long since shredded by sobs and left entirely numb - humorless to a degree that insults the character of the man she'd long since come to know in spite of his attempt at his expected manner of speaking.

"You don't have to be charming right now, sweetie. You just feel how you need to feel." The hand she places on his shoulder is considered with a mixture of repulsion and comfort. He leans into the ladder, it seems, as he places his own hand atop of hers - twisting his eyes shut in an attempt to stop the tears from returning with a vengeance. Ruby has always known Sinclair to be a rock, a man unphased by Rapture in her entirety. Neither break-up nor bombing nor any Ryan-patented horror has ever elicited tears from the suave Panamanian but this has now proven to be Augustus's trench. That's what the people call it, the sex-worker remembers - having seen the stage of residency fairly often in her years in the alley. They say everyone in Rapture has a trench - a place in their stay where they are at their absolute lowest point, where they cease to be themselves on nearly every level. If she's honest with herself, she always thought Augustus Sinclair immune to the trench… Now…? Now, she remembers that he's human… and how much deeper his trench is getting.

"How did he find out?" Augustus considers her question - maybe entertaining the idea of silence - but he does eventually answer with a sigh.

"They originally suspected that Wayne and I vanishing together was me trying to get in good with security… To overthrow Ryan… So they took him from his house and interrogated him. Wayne told the truth."

"And what did you say?" she asks cautiously. He doesn't respond nor does he need to. That cringe… that exhibition of pure and potent regret says more than he could ever convey. He has another cigarette in-hand and lit before she can gather her thoughts. "Oh, Augustus…"

"It wouldn't have made a difference," he blurts - slim, white stick not yet reaching his lips which quiver with a new wave of re-discovered emotional turmoil. "Wayne was already gone by the time Sullivan showed up at my door! It didn't fucking matter what the explaination was! What I had to say!" When Augustus stands, he intentionally kicks an empty bottle into the far wall, shattering it. "Now he wants me to make a statement… Come out as… Whatever the hell I am or a conspirator!"

"You're bisexual, first of all." She's trying to lighten the mood because god knows he needs it but he doesn't appreciate the joke judging by the glare coming from over his shoulder. "Second, how is that a hard choice? I think Wayne made the right decision."

"Wayne died for his decision."

"No, Wayne died because Sullivan is a monster and likes to give Ryan heads so that his own won't be the next on the chopping block. Baby, life down here is hell. Rapture isn't any picture of heaven and I think we should take every chance we can to make the best of it. I think the best thing you can do is live honestly."

"Live honestly? If I admit to what Wayne and I did, I will lose everything I've worked to build down here. No one wants to work with a fruit! You hear the things they say about Cohen, for god's sake! If he wasn't in good with Ryan, he'd be on the drop. Ryan despises me. His good word won't save me from people's prejudices."

"Forget your business, Augustus!" Ruby throws up her hands. "Rapture is going down the tubes as it is. You might lose it to terrorism any day now anyway with how things are developing so you might as well find happiness where you can while it's still possible. Neither me nor Erin will let you go homeless, either, so put that out of your mind." Sinclair swings around, hands clasped and index fingers pressed irritably to his lips.

"Ruby. I have come too far in this god-forsaken city to give it all up for the sake of emotional fulfillment. I refuse to forfeit all the effort I put into building a good name down here."

"What good is that name going to do you, Augustus? You act like it'll be carried on by someone but you hate kids and even if you didn't and managed to have one down here they'd probably die in this pit like the rest of us! Besides, who cares what a society of intolerant jackasses thinks? If you love someone - really, really love someone -"

"Leave." She reels back like she's been struck. He doesn't even wait for her to ask for clarification. "I have been feelin' like shit for days and here you are at my door, goin' back to naggin' me over the same ol' shit, tellin' me to out myself because you think it's what's best for me. I don't need this right now. Please go." It feels like an insult… one born from pain and irrationality. Looking back, maybe it was never her place to inject her opinion but she really does have his best interests in mind… She loves him. Maybe that's why she complies, then. Maybe it's seeing him on the verge of tears and in absolute ruin that gets her to her feet and on her way back to the drop with nary a passing glance.

When she sees him next, it's like nothing ever happened. He's clean and as chipper as he'd been before - the Sinclair that all of Rapture knew for his smile and silver tongue. Cohen would be a fool for not considering such talent for his stage. Maybe she'll put in a word.

…

"I told you what would happen." The warning is cold and beyond unreasonable if Stanley has anything to say about it - especially considering that, within the near pitch darkness, there sits the very instrument Poole thinks will ensure their future success. It hadn't been an easy feat, either.

"You wanna know where they are, this is how we figure it out. I jumped through hoops to get him here!" the thin man almost pleads. In the din, he motions to a figure restrained to a metal chair. The space around them is burdened by grime atop shipping containers left to rot for years. The older of the two crosses over to their guest but says nothing, instead looking to Poole with an air of expectancy. Of course. Poole sets himself at the other's side and looks upon the unfortunate face of their prisoner - a visage marred by it's age, sunken features and dramatically-hooked nose. "How are ya' feelin', Doc? Better, I hope. We just have a few questions is all."

From where his eyes have been fixed on the floor, the elderly surgeon eyes Poole with a kind of scrutiny only afforded faces of a familiar shape. "You always have questions, you rat." It seems his age hasn't hurt his memory.

"Call it a curse of the curious. Now, first item on our list: I just need a little confirmation so we know what we're dealin' with. Who are the two "Metal Men" people 'round town are fawnin' over?"

Silence.

"Come now, Doctor Fabron. This'll be a whole heap easier and two heaps less painful if you just cooperate."

There's a glint in the old man's eyes… a spark of rebellion, perhaps? "Just a pair of Alpha Series brought up from the depths with their little ones."

"We know that, Doctor. Trust me. We know. What I want is names."

"You and I both know that Big Daddies stop having names the second they are converted. Nothing but symbols stamped on reports and folders that none of them would respond to." Poole rears back and the pad of his palm collides violently with Fabron's left temple. The shock sends his frail head snapping away like it was made of a material no stronger than paper. By the time he turns to face Stanley again, the point of impact is already morphing in color.

"You and I…" Poole leans on the backrest of the chair, nose inches from the swooping form of his prisoner's. "...Both know that these aren't just some run-o-the-mill Big Daddies. If they were, they would have never made it to the mainland. Names. Now." The thin man snaps his fingers to emphasize his point.

"One of them," Fabron swallows a mixture of spit and some fluid that tastes vaguely like blood pooling in his tongue. "...Doesn't have a name. It's just… Just 'Delta.' No one even knew his name before."

"Yeah yeah. Subject Delta. We know him. The other one?"

"Augustus Sinclair. He was converted by Sophia lamb in an attempt to stop Delta from escaping Rapture."

Pool spins around with arms stretched wide. The expression on his face is a smug "I told you so" to his enigmatically-quiet proprietor. "A journalist's intuition," he boasts. To that, the other snorts and jerks his chin upwards - a silent "proceed." Stanley turns back with a beam. "Alright, doc, question two: Why'd they call on you?" The Frenchman's eyes dart across the room. To the untrained, it might seem as though he's weighing his options, looking for a means of escape or combat but that isn't what his interrogator spies. Poole repeats his first assault with a little less force, drawing out a strangled grunt. "No, no, no. You're not gonna make up stories with me, pal. I spent my whole life writin' stories. I can pick a lie from the lips of the best card-sharks in the business. Tell you what…" The journalist stands and walks off somewhere behind the doctor. For a short time, all the old man can discern of his surroundings is a pair of blazing brown irises glaring him down from the abyss beyond, not even possessing the boldness to step into a shaft of moonlight via the windows high above. When Stanley returns, he holds a device in his hands that just lightly glints with the sheen of metal. Fabron doesn't have to squint long. A pair of bolt-cutters are eagerly presented with a playful snap of their blades. "...Each time you feed me a story or refuse to answer, I'm takin' somethin' off. Now, tick-tock, Doc. Why'd they call on you?"

He can't think. Outside of the building, the wind howls like the mournful songs of banshees and tall waves throw themselves upon the solid, smooth walkways of port. He can't help but absorb it, drown all else out as his brain is trained to do. So long has he spent listening for water, associating it with danger that he almost doesn't curl in his fingers when he sees the bolt cutters priming against the flesh of his index. "They're hurt!" He blurts, knowing nothing else that might spare him a few more minutes of physical unity. It works. Thank God it works. Stanley pulls back just slightly with an expectant expression. "S-Subject Delta a-a-and Sinclair. They're hurt. Tenenbaum wanted me to… to assess their condition to see if it's feasible to remove the suits in their current state."

Poole's eyes narrow. "Hurt in what way?"

"W-well… Sinclair has some broken bones, but it… it was Delta that she was worried about. His time in Rapture has left him with a long list of issues and his escape brought the worst of them. Broken… ribs, horrible lacerations and he's very malnourished - barely alive last I saw him. I-In that state, the removal of the suits would have been too much for Delta and risky for Sinclair. Both could go into shock."

"Delta sure looked fine the last time I saw him," Stanley comments with an impatient tap of the handle.

"Th-That was before nearly a week sailing on a shipping freighter to the mainland. According to the others, he… he refused to eat, barely drank. It only takes a few days without food to kill a normal person. I suspect the residue of plasmids and tonics was the only thing that allowed him to trudge on but… also the thing that caused him to starve himself in the first place… A-adam withdrawal, you see. Delta has had a long history with Adam. Being without it alone could have killed him."

"Mmm… And what of little Ellie Lamb, then? I don't hear people say much about her…" He's twisting the handles of the cutters absentmindedly… or maybe as a threat. One could never know when Stanley Poole is involved. Fabron clears his throat. The momentary silence doubles his confidence.

"She's fine, watched the children for the most part. When she wasn't doing that, she was by her practically dying protector. The girl regards him as her own father."

"Heh… Crazy little shit. Mommy issues, Daddy issues, isolation. She's just as batshit crazy as her mom. Besides the point, though. The real question we're dyin' to find the answer to is this: Where'd they go?"

"W-what?" Poole lays the closed blades of the cutters atop Fabron's knee.

"Where did they go? People are saying they just up and vanished. I don't think Tenenbaum would keep one of her surgeons out of the know."

"I… I genuinely don't know. I just know that they got on a plane and left from an airstrip outside of the city. She said she'd call on me and give me the location then." Stanley stares in silence for a long time… then lifts up the blades, wrenches them open and stabs one of them through the leather of Fabron's shoes. Against the wriggling and horrible, blood-curdling screams, Poole doesn't stop pressing down until he feels the steel cutters break through bone, through flesh and collide with the concrete floor below. He doesn't even flinch… Not even when the clear sound of ripping, grinding human skin and muscle echoes in the pitch.

"I think," he breathes as soon as Farbron's screams are ebbed into voiceless wheezing, "You're tellin' me a story, doc. We didn't come into this blind, you know. Not long after they vanished,you sold your apartment in Manhattan - such a nice place to just up and leave after ten years with no past indication that you'd be leavin'. Also really suspicious that you'd happen to have this sudden urge to wander right after Tenenbaum and her little band o' misfits came to town, don't ya' agree?" Before the Frenchman can reply, a hand comes to rest upon the thin man's shoulders, one bare and riddled with scars across the knuckle that range from deep to simple little nicks. Poole holds no resistance to it. He yanks up the cutters and allows his employer to take his place.

Their features become adjacent at a distance that makes it impossible to discern anything save for his eye-color. How such a warm color could appear so cold is beyond any stretch of human reason. When he speaks, his voice is like sliding gravel and as deep as the bed of a muddy lake. "Listen," he breathes softly,"You shouldn't have to give your life for these people. They are, by no means, a secret worth protecting so spare yourself the agony and tell us where they went. We won't harm the children."

"If you are willing to hurt me to find out, then it is worth protecting." A cold palm encompasses Fabron's bruised face and squeezes just enough to create an uncomfortable pressure.

"And what is it you're willing to suffer for, Doctor? People who have done horrible things… inhumane, monstrous things… And from what? We aren't going to kill them. Our goal is to quench our curiosity, not to lower ourselves to their level… But, if that's what you desire, Mister Fabron, then perhaps you seek to suffer for your sins… To protect them because you see your own transgressions as equal and think of this as a way to atone - protecting people who don't deserve it as a show of altruism, 'higher than thou' or something along those lines." It only takes a backwards-reaching hand for Poole to relinquish his instrument of anguish, an item brought before the older man and set softly against the toe of Fabron's uninjured foot. "In that case… This is going to be a long night."

…

Streaks on the porcelain... Shades of sepia leave trails down the curve of a sink bowl and into an oxidized drain. Which of them are grime and which are rehydrated blood he can only imagine. They all pour down together from his soaked, raven hair - a matted mess long left to fester atop his skull until now… The shampoo stings. As he looks up from the rinsing, the face he sees is still alien and sickly, though much less so than before. He doesn't focus on the considerably pale visage for long, however. Past his features, Sinclair sees his companion standing just beyond the doorway. Standing is a simple task for Delta now, though still one of very few.

One of the children, a girl in a pink dress, bounds up to him and playfully tugs his very heavy hand. Be it a small loss of balance or an attempt at humoring her, Delta takes a step a tad too large. Augustus cringes before it even happens. The second his foot hits the hardwood, a high-pitched whine rises into Sinclair's ears accompanied by a migraine worse than having a brain-freeze while dehydrated. Both men grip their skulls in agony and step backwards until they are almost touching. Only then does the pain slowly subside. It's a shared impulse that turns them both to look at each other where Delta grins apologetically. The sorry is left unspoken in both forms.

"It's alright, Big Hoss," Sinclair assures, smoothing back his damp hair and grinning just a tad bit wider. "I'm sure we'll be pullin' on each other's tails plenty." And wider still becomes Delta's beam, much less out of embarrassment. There's affection in it… wrongfully placed, but there. It isn't as pure as it once was, though. Never before has Delta's expression been so… confusing… Sinclair doesn't wish to think about it. Instead, the Panamanian grabs an old towel from a basket sitting next to the sink and dries his hair before raking it back as best he can with his cumbersome fingers. Only then does he follow his larger companion into the hall.

The safehouse that Tenenbaum located for them is, in the most realistic terms imaginable, a wreck. Last minute repairs were attempted before their arrival but it's far from ideal. The hallway before the two is hardwood with faded paint that might have, at one time, been blue. Down this hall, there are many doors - four bedrooms and a single bathroom. At the end of the hall is yet another door and this one leads to a connecting corridor between this and the next modular structure. This is a design which Sinclair is oddly familiar with. His grandparents used the method themselves, in-fact. They'd buy a singular modular building as a base and then add onto it by connecting other modules as they came to require more space, a cheap method for initially building a home but one that came to cost more and more as time went on seeing as the insulation was terrible and the modules weren't designed with long-term sheltering in-mind.

Right across from the bathroom is a small archway that leads into a simple den - one holding only a pair of couches and a coffee table. Just out of the way of that, to the right, is the only bedroom on this side of the den. This one has been allocated to Delta and his "new charge" specifically. Similarly to the other bedrooms, this one is sparse - containing only a pair of mattresses laid out on the floor with some pillows, blankets and a steamer trunk for what few valuables the two men have. Quiet chattering emanates from the other rooms within the building and bounce around some from beyond the added corridor. To these voices, the two men have been asked to be mostly deaf. They were to not allow the children to come into any harm, of course, but their care is meant to be handled by more able-bodied individuals. When neither of them can stand for longer than a few minutes at a time, it's a reasonable request.

Delta enters the bedroom on tired feet and is soon to be followed by Augustus, however the older of the two finds the sleeve of his suit snagged by something obstructed by the wide collar. When he turns fully to get a look, he finds the tired but ever-wide eyes of young Eleanor. Once certain that she has his attention, she releases her grasp and presents herself in a way far too proper considering the circumstances. "Mister Sinclair," She swallows as though about to ask for something astronomical, "Remember when I mentioned how you might be a good model of how to behave in normal society? For my father?"

"Mmm… Did you say that? I can't imagine anyone would see me as a good model for anything." He's teasing. The humor seems to pass right by Eleanor's head, however, as she only responds with a sigh and the crossing over her arms.

"Well, I did… and I believe that… since the two of you are going to have a lot of time together during the healing process, maybe you can take the opportunity to teach him about how to handle the real world." In reality, Sinclair does remember this conversation - vaguely - though he never anticipated that it would lead to anything. The prospect itself is daunting, teaching a man like Delta how to adjust to a world beyond tubes, splicers and the ever present threat of being swallowed by the ocean. It is unlearning the only life he's ever known… Unlearning a forced fight response, keeping his head on a swivel, sleeping in little intervals, eating like he won't find food again for days.

"Honey, I- Well… I'm not sure I'm the man for the job here."

"You know better than anyone how to handle people, Sinclair." Her voice lowers to barely a whisper. "He doesn't have the benefit of keeping his head down and avoiding attention. No matter what we do for him, he is always going to stick out. That means he has to learn how to handle the attention and none of us are more accustomed to social interaction than you. You were a businessman, after all… And a lawyer." There's reason here and he hates to admit it. Out of their entire band, he is the only one that hasn't made himself into a private person, instead opting for a more public, approachable persona…

"I… I guess... Fine. Alright. Alright. I'll try my best, but on one condition." He holds up his right index finger demonstratively, an action that has the young girl's eyes blown wide with curious anticipation. She's obviously expecting something far more important than what he has in mind… "Stop calling me Mister Sinclair." The speed at which her expression plummets into annoyance elicits a chuckle from the Panamanian. "Go to bed, sweet pea." He doesn't wait for a response, instead just ducking into the room where Delta is waiting at the "safe distance" no more than ten feet from the doorway. "Sorry to keep you up, chief. Just havin' a chat with your daughter. For the sake of transparency, I'll come right out and tell you that she wants me to help you adapt to surface life." 'Ironic of you to claim transparency,' he thinks on impulse, hoping that the thought doesn't cross over. The lack of reaction from Delta assures him that it, in fact, hasn't.

There is an air of curiosity, though, something more pure than other expressions as of late and something that spurs the older man onward in spite of his low energy. "Her main concern is… well… You see, Del, you're a big fella - even without the suit - and you also have a lotta scars and when people 'round here see a big man with a lotta scars, they tend to assume the worst - that you're a thug. They think people like you earned their stripes by gettin' into scrapes and doin' unsavory work. Now, you and I both know that you aren't some nasty character, but people can't see into your head so you have to put their minds at ease. Or… At least try to." Sinclair sets himself in front of his companion with a feigned thoughtful expression. "The best way, I think, for you to do that is just… smile." Augustus presses the tips of his fingers into the corners of his lips to show what he means. "Whenever you greet or lock eyes with someone on the street, just give 'em a light little smile and it'll work wonders. You do have quite the agreeable grin, after all."

Delta scoffs at the compliment, face gaining a tint of pink which Sinclair can't help but grin at in spite of his continued internal struggle with impulsive mental notions. "Just like that. The kinda smile you get when you get all bashful. That's perfect." To that, Delta only snorts, crossing the rest of the room to his mattress upon which he waits. The way in which Delta glances just over the elevated collar indicates some level of anticipation and of a breed that makes his companion's chest tight. In spite of that, however, the older man still sets himself down in the spot he'd been sleeping in for two days now, back to the other and mind worryingly blank until a single question passes along their lifeline.

'Are you okay?' Sinclair's become much better at reading these little abstract intrusions, so much so that he can almost make-out conversations between them in a fashion most would refer to as "normal" if any interaction had between two minds alone could ever be considered such. In reference to the question itself, Augustus can't help but feel a tinge of annoyance.

'You sure ask that a lot…' he returns.

'I worry.'

'How cute.' Delta grins more earnest than the day is long… It's closer to his usual softness, something comforting among the alarm Augustus's brain is raising over the sudden loss of familiarity. It's a stresser than Delta is, no doubt, entirely aware of. 'I'm right as rain, sugar.'

'Liar. Liar. Liar,' Something chants. It isn't Delta... Far too forceful.

'Is there anything you want to talk about?' Prodding… Digging around in a pit of coals to find anything that might've survived the inferno... Unlike him as it is, Sinclair humors the advance, though in a different form because the back of his head starts to send tendrils of lava all across his nervous system.

"You seem like you've got somethin' on your mind… Besides me, of course," the Panamanian teases aloud. More smiles… a little chuckle… It both soothes and strikes a match in Sinclair's already conflicted state of being, making his hands dig into the thin sheets. Is it panic? Annoyance? A visceral refusal to accept Delta's kind concern, perhaps?

'You don't deserve it. You don't deserve any of this. It would've been more humane to let him die... ' that same voice hisses at him from a recess so dark that even dipping a finger in the shadow would leave it coated in tar. Talons reach out from the black… grip his chest and squeeze until breathing seems nearly impossible and his heart has to work overtime. It's in his ears, too… Huffing breaths, sprinting heart, voices laced with... Is he panicking? Why is he panicking? It's just a question! He smiled! It's okay! But he doesn't feel okay. He feels like he's dying. 'Too much of a coward to pull the trigger. The world would be so much better if you had.' It's right. Why is it right? It's saying things he could never say to himself but things he's known as gospel.

He's going to throw up or pass out or something. He doesn't know. Maybe everything at once…

There's a new pressure… His mind is so zoned inwardly that when something changes externally he notices at a delay. How long it takes him to realize could be a few seconds, maybe a few minutes, but even that is far too lengthy to realize that Delta has moved to Sinclair's bed and is sitting close to his left… gripping his hand like he could float away. When did he move? How'd he do it so fast? Had it been fast at all, actually? God only knows how long he's been out of reality…

"Del, I... " He runs a shaking palm over his cheek. He can't brush this off. "...I'm not okay…" Three words is all it takes... Delta's hands move to Augustus's shoulders, gripping them firmly with wandering thumbs that stroke soft circles over the planes of armored fabric. He can barely feel the pressure through the waterproof mesh but the reality of it being there helps… doesn't erase the panic, but… helps… makes that angry little voice much, much quieter.

'You hurt him so much and yet here he is, comforting you. All he does is worry about your problems, even when he was on his fucking deathbed, even though you're one of the bastards that got him here. You should be a corpse at the bottom of a fucking trench under miles and miles of rubble.'

But screaming can only get so quiet.