Dread fills every speck of his soul the second he opens his eyes… Unto them is brought forth a morphing visage, a mixture of dark wood and gaudy set pieces depicting winged men carrying the globe in their hands. The tile floor is vividly cold upon his bare hands which curl in on themselves in order to escape the unpleasant sensation. Lapping water to his back… A pair of bathyspheres…
Rapture.
She has once again invaded his psyche in a form most potent, a dream almost as real as rain if not for the ever present shifting of her scenery. Aside from the lack of damage from the amalgamate protector, this room is as Augustus had left it: cold, damp and sickeningly lifelike. Not covered in gathered pools of tar-textured tendrils, of course, but that's a given. He doesn't care where he is, though. That particular fact, he knows, can change with a literal blink of an eye. Instead, Sinclair focuses on other aspects, such as the fact that this dream has somehow crawled its way back up from hell even though Delta said it shouldn't.
Delta… Where is he?
In what he imagines is a long shot, the Panamanian sends a message across their tether. 'Delta? You there, chief?'
Nothing… He can't say he's surprised. Rather suddenly, however, Sinclair stands on unusually-steady legs and crosses the plaza to the floor-to-ceiling windows that peer out upon the aquatic wonderland within which Rapture was nestled. From that port, he sees not the same school of deep-sea fish that he had prior. No, instead, staring back at him, swimming back and forth along the length of the glass, is a giant whale shark. It's features do not shift quite as much. As a matter of fact, the only part that does is the pattern upon its back. It's Van Gogh's "Starry Night"… The white and cream swirls of the stars rotate and the sweeping strokes meant to symbolize the wind billow around the interpretive shines.
The eyes of this beast are almost human, even though their distant positions cause only one of them to be able to lock onto him at a time. Still, they watch with vested attention. Their owner swings around in large swoops as though it wants to show off the masterpiece morphing upon its back. The creature wants him to marvel at its beauty… Sinclair never had an eye for art, certainly not Van Gogh, but… He likes this. He likes the nonsense of it. It reminds him of more pleasant things. For a moment - a short, sweet moment - he forgets where he is and he feels… warm… Watching this proud, curious creature dance for him has his soul convinced that all is right with the world… It isn't raining in the city whose name he doesn't even want to dignify with an utterance.
He can hear its breathing. Deep, strong, reverberating against the glass alloy that serves as his only shield and he almost sinks into it with an ear pressed to the glass. He enjoys the sound more than the visual, he realizes. The sound is comfort, it's an embrace, it's listening to another's heartbeat as they hold him to their chest. Like a disciplined drum, it is steady.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Breathe in. Thump. Thump. Thump. Breathe out.
He mimics it, feeling compelled to do so, much like a meditation exercise and that's what has him feeling like he is, impossibly, falling asleep inside of a dream, eyes fluttering closed and muscles so incredibly heavy.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Breathe in. Thump. Thump. Thump. Breathe out.
When his eyes open again, the glass is gone. His forehead rests upon a flat wall of riveted metal, water trickling down from a stress in the welding. That hypnosis is vanquished almost as soon as it had come and Augustus awakens to the reality that he is now in the drop - one of the plazas not far from his hotel. From what era of Rapture this recreation is meant to be, he can't make out. The drop was always a mess, even before the homeless and low blue-collars moved in so the civil war didn't make too much of a difference for those already struggling in the squalor - maybe adding to their horror with a little bit more gunfire and a few more splicers.
"Atlas is winnin' people over down there," comes a deep, cigarette-scarred voice who he recalls was an armed guard of his. Sinclair can't place a name, though… Burly fella, not much to look at. "Givin' out free food, fresh water and, according to some, bibles."
"Bibles?" That's Augustus and closer to his current age. "The man didn't strike me as a missionary."
"I think he's tryin' to stir trouble."
The voices trail off in an echo only followed by the light crackling of a trash-fire. Word got around fast after Ryan's death as to the true motives of Atlas - or, rather, Frank Fontaine if even that was his real name. Without the boss alive to feed their bank accounts or addictions, people started to become very chatty. If any man ever wanted the world to burn, it was Frank Fontaine and his stint in Rapture was beyond reasonable proof. The things Sinclair would do if given a moment alone with his corpse… Funded the protector program and the little sister project, created the plasmids and subsequently the splicers, gave Sophia Lamb an in for her little revolution which, of course, lead to Sinclair's own interests and assets taking a nosedive - one of which to the bottom of a literal trench.
In short, fuck Frank Fontaine.
As he treks on eggshells about the span of this water-logged pit, Sinclair becomes more and more paranoid by the sheer lack of activity. His last trip into this vivid nightmare was a rollercoaster but this…? This is the spinning tea-cups. 'Delta?' He tries again with a little more urgency. Still, he gets nothing in return. "Come on, chief. We are inside each other's heads. How can you not hear me?" He asks this aloud, listening to the normal level of reverberation he'd expect from the current location. When, again, he is left wanting for human interaction, the Panamanian heaves a sigh and moves on. Fine.
Augustus comes to find out that his first experience with this dream has left him far bolder - not exactly unafraid but certainly less likely to sit paralized and practically crying on the floor. When the haze of sedation isn't hanging over his stressed mind, it's far easier for it to realize that the Rapture set out in front of him isn't real. The silence, though… No human noise, just… creaking… dripping... like everything is dead inside the belly of a beast. The sole of his shoe scrapes over a patch of raised floor, causing him to jump and nearly collapse into a defensive ball on the floor. No… not fearless at all - In fact, very afraid. Bolder, but still terrified. Sinclair leans his back against the diner wall on which he'd caught himself with hands bracing on shaking knees. He takes deep breaths in-between swallows. "Show me what you want to show me," he demands exhaustedly of no one. "Get it over with."
'That's not how it works.' The thought emerges from nowhere, unproduced by himself to his knowledge. The panamanian swings about only to find himself just as alone as he'd been since he was tossed down here and yet he's lost his sense of isolation. He feels watched.
"Del?" he calls back into the void… nothing replies. No eyes peer at him from the dark, morphing or otherwise. For a moment, he ponders calling out and asking his observer to show themselves but he knows that's futile. This two-way mental assault will do as it pleases when it so fancies and no amount of demanding or mental fortitude will change that. Still, he can't help but glower into the dark corners of the room as though maybe someone is staring back.
When he looks to his left, the room has changed. It's smaller, warmer, better put together… Still just as empty. The poshness of his prison does not change the way it makes him feel. Be it the drop or this swanky lounge, the city is what she is… or was. Then he hears it… laugher… An about face sees him face to face with a little girl of pale complexion. Beneath the near translucent layer, her veins are prominent, webbing up across her cheeks and around her haunting, unnatural eyes. Without a word, she reaches for him, taking his hand… he doesn't resist… couldn't even if he wanted to… Maybe he was too mesmerized by the fact that his hand, once bare, was now enclosed in a protector's suit.
"Do you hear them singing, Daddy?" she wistfully asks, accent notably English. Her tiny, filthy hand points up to the empty stage which somehow produces an operatic melody. The invisible performer sounds like she's nervous. "I want to be a singer when I grow up. We can sing together!" He doesn't respond to her - too confused - but that doesn't even put a dent in her enthusiasm. The child continues to pull him along, now humming as she does so. There's something wrong with the sound and how it seems to… double. Why are their voices like that? Somewhere down blurry hallways lined with windows that look out upon a bustling ocean and twinkling city lights, Sinclair shakes his stupor enough to try and voice a question… 'What's going on?' However, what comes out is not his voice. First comes the stinging - fire through his throat - and then the deep, unintelligible groan. The child merely turns and giggles then spins right back around to re-grasp his heavy hand.
In the haze, both physical and mental, there are two things that penetrate - make themselves clear in his mind - and those are, firstly, the child and, secondly, his body. The child is something his brain trains itself on, refusing to allow even a moment to pass where at least one of his senses isn't locked onto her like a ball and chain while the others are moving around his environment - eyes like security cameras, ears like sonar and feet scraping across the floor in search of hidden dangers that can only be sensed through vibration. All of this is like second nature, a functionality to himself that has always been there and cannot be overwritten. Then, of course, there is the familiarity with himself. In the back of his mind, he rehearses the method for deploying the drill which should encase most of his right arm. The mechanism is collapsable, something that, with the flick of a switch located on his wrist, will spring down and metal wedges twist together to form the sturdy bit. His empty fingers absentmindedly pantomime the controls… Pull two fingers for the throttle… flick his thumb to switch to the reserve tank… flex his palm to retract the drill and free his hand. That is his only weapon… he is her only defense.
She is the most important thing in the world.
These thoughts, Augustus knows, came about suddenly but they feel as though they make up his being entirely. Strange doesn't even begin to describe his current state of mind. The child leads him along until they are within another plaza, one with an Atlantic Express car on each side of a platform. The platform is filled with people… Ones that are, in place of morphing, entirely faceless. They all move out of the way… their disgust… caution... horror… all so loud, even from the outside of his thick, airtight helm. "Can we ride, daddy?" she pleads, pointing at the car to his right. He can't think of a single reason why not. No one could stop them, after all. Augustus walks to the map on the center of the platform and looks over the stops for these cars, joined by his little one. The one she'd pointed to seems to be traveling to Olympus Heights and then Fort Frolic, neither of which seemed to be good destinations for a child, if memory serves. The Panamanian slips around to the other side to look at the locations for the other car, finding them far more agreeable. Ryan Amusements was along the route.
As he herds the girl towards the other car, a spark in the older man's brain speaks up. 'What am I doing?'
Almost in reply, Tenenbaum's voice echoes solely for him, "What you have chosen to do is walk a tightrope…"
'Keep her safe… and keep her happy…' continues a thought that isn't his own. Sinclair squints into the void beyond the windows of the car as he watches the child sit down. He stands there, holding onto a pole in the center while enjoying the wide buffer other commuters give him and his charge.
'Delta,' he thinks. 'Why are you showing me this?' He doesn't expect a reply… isn't surprised when his watcher becomes mute once more. It's only an assumption, now, that has him playing along, thinking there is something to this new ordeal. Turning his attention back to the little sister, he cocks his head in a bid to better discern her features which are far more stable than anything he's seen in this dream so far - almost as vivid as Delta had been during their first "outing" - something he notes along with her long, raven hair tied up with a bow. Though her visage appears to want to shift, it holds fast to its solidity, keeping its morphing on the fringes. It's not the image itself fighting, Sinclair notes… It's the mind in which it's being projected… A parent could never forget their child.
The girl turns to sit upon her knees in the seat just as the car slips out of a tunnel and into the blue expanse. Fingers gently slip from the pole. He leans forward just enough to peer out, too - watch the ocean life in their adapted path which weaves through this new and daunting landscape of hand-molded brick and alloy. Even humpback whales, immense beasts, carve their way around titanic monoliths no less graceful than if they were set upon the open ocean. One of such titans is apt to join them, it appears… The very same whale shark, recognized by the still-moving painting upon it's flesh. Sinclair turns to Eleanor like he expects her to take note, but she doesn't. She instead points at small schools of deep-sea fish and a usually reclusive squid no larger than her head that slips up and over. A very muddled mind sinks its teeth into the shark, however - pays little mind to blurry, almost abstract, creatures no more intriguing than the people who watch with darting eyes that pretend to have never looked his way in the first place.
The whale shark follows for only a short while, vanishing as the car rumbles into the next station. The people within the car depart swiftly and without the Alpha and his little one as their own stop is still some ways ahead. This now leaves the pair alone, the people on the platform unwilling to enter the vehicle with the two and gracing them with surprisingly-soothing solitude. He hadn't even realized how tense he had been until the lack of any possible threats to Eleanor quietly excused themselves. But that is it, he reasons. He was tense because people are dangerous and people could harm his little one. It's a new insight… Or, rather, a fist-hand look at something everyone knew about but could never put into words for lack of experience. The only people who could really tell this story are mute golems… Were mute golems. By some act of either mercy or desperation, Delta was given the other half of his mind back - enough to convey to his new charge, intentionally or otherwise, what it had really been like. It's one thing to be put into a suit and brainwashed. It's another thing entirely to actually be a protector.
Sinclair is startled when the child jumps up and pushes on his shoulders with a force so nearly nonexistent and yet so very powerful. She isn't strong. She looks sick. She's so very, very small. In spite of it all, everything she does holds weight, even the sounds she makes. Eleanor hops off of the seat and points to the doors which slide open to reveal a packed station platform full of suddenly startled guests. Above the door, upon the rotating placard, is written Ryan Amusements. Right. They were actually going somewhere. The little girl takes the lead and Sinclair is compelled to follow, not even bothering with politeness when he accidentally shoves a man to the side with his mass. Seeing this station again… He feels the sickness of panic start to billow in his gut, make his hands shake until he is forced to grip one inside the other in an attempt to quell the rattling. It doesn't stop - becomes worse, in fact, when he looks back at a door towards the exit tunnel which sits idle and lonely in its spot so tucked away. It doesn't even stop when they walk through the door on the other end into what should be the waiting area to get into the park. That isn't where this door leads, however.
In normal fashion for this god-forsaken dream, the door leads somewhere it shouldn't and spits them out at the main atrium for the park, a room full of wooden dioramas depicting the history of Rapture's construction which seem like an awfully boring route to take when trying to appeal to children - so much so, in fact, that Eleanor's main form of amusement is to run along the walkway pressing each button as quickly as possible just to hear all of the narration going at once. The atrium is empty so Augustus is content with lagging behind a little and continuing his vigilance at a distance. That is, until she makes a beeline for the stairs. He has to jog to catch up. It makes her laugh. The sound forces his lips into a smile beneath the helm, something that he can't say has happened before. He likes to think he tolerates children in place of genuinely enjoying their sounds or nature but all this has changed in the blink of an eye. 'But it's not really you,' he tells himself and maybe that's true, no matter how real… how personal this feels.
Her laughter is silenced as though stolen the instant they reach the door at the bottom of the stairs. From beyond the thick threshold of steel, there comes an inhuman wailing, a beast's bleats somewhere between crying and screaming. Eleanor darts back to her protector and clings to his leg. In spite of her fear, however, her eyes bleed a morbid curiosity, a want to see what this angry creature looks like. It's a want so strong that it seeps into her protector - drives Sinclair to reach guardedly for the switch as though on autopilot. He creeps in as best he can in his suit, keeping Eleanor against his leg with his right hand.
Past the diorama of Ryan…
Down the halted track passed the windows…
Around a bend…
Each point makes the anguished sound grow louder and louder until… Just beyond a wall lies the source of the cries and Eleanor pulls away, standing in the middle of the track while gripping tightly to the hem of her dress. "Daddy…" she almost cries like she's begging him not to make her go any farther. He won't. She can stand right there where she feels relatively safe, but… He has to know. Augustus gently steps around the small dividing wall between this set and the next, helm peering around as though any sudden move will have a creature at his throat.
And then he freezes.
He sees part of the next set is torn down by a flow pipe that has broken away from its fitting and crashed down through the wall. The crumpled corpse of the massive, lead structure over the set and across the tracks. That's where the crying beast sits - an alpha series on his knees and quivering violently with each bellowing, agonizing shriek. One of his massive hands dips down into a space between the metal track and the walkway. When it comes back up, something seeps out from between his fingers, down his wrist and drips onto his thigh… It's dark… dark… dark red. The hand lowers back down to scoop up another handful and that's when Sinclair sees it: Snow-hued flesh stained by shades of pink and streaks of sanguine.
Panic.
Panic.
Panic.
This is wrong - so fucking wrong. The Panamanian trips over himself as he attempts to backpedal away from the scene, adding a heavy slam and the sounds of scraping metal to the cacophony, neither of which making the bereft alpha even flinch. He makes a mad dash for Eleanor who he scoops up into his arms and doesn't let go until they are through the door leading back to the atrium… and that isn't by choice. On the other side of that door, he finds himself in a lounge surrounded by people in fancy dress and masks. One of them, upon seeing him enter, jumps back in shock. Eleanor is gone. Sinclair's head is on a swivel, finding her nowhere among the drunken crowd before a child's scream penetrates the chatter. Augustus shoves his way through the guests and worms his way down ornate halls until he finds himself against the railing of a balcony. In a plaza just below, a group of people have gathered. One has his hand firmly gripped on Eleanor's wrist. Everything next happens on autopilot… like the Panamanian is sitting back as another being takes control of his extremities. Wielding the drill like an animal, he swings himself over the balcony and hands atop one of the assailants. The impact kills him instantly and diverts the alpha's attention to the others. The main aggressor uses Eleanor's gathered atom to collect a ball of electricity and hurl it at Sinclair, staggering him before another one runs at him with a lead pipe, only to find himself gored by the drill and slung across the room. The only woman among them tries her luck with her own pipe, but finds herself only slightly better off than her comrade and simply smashed to the side with all the force of a freight train. Augustus finally goes for the central deviant and manages to knock him down before revving the drill and swinging. The tip finds only tile as the man rolls away and collects something new in his hand. Before he can get a good look, a ball of green is hurled directly at him.
When the ball impacts with his helmet, something of a gas seeps into every crevice it can find, searing across his skin and soaking into his pores. The world around him becomes a wash of sickly colors within a room left empty save for little Eleanor who watches with clear concern. And then he hears her voice.
"There we are," it echoes with the clear click-clack of heeled shoes. It is with great effort Sinclair lifts his head to peer at a shifting visage he so vividly remembers. "He's perfectly safe, now." Eleanor attempts to reach for him but is pulled back by Lamb's quick hands. When she speaks next, it is to him and with clear and potent venom. "This is not your daughter. Do you understand? Her name is Eleanor and she is mine." Even with his admitted unease with children, Sinclair knows that that 'mine,' that stern possession… it is more at home when referring to an item - a house, a couch, a plate of food - but not a child. "Now… Kneel, please." He obeys, not out of conscious choice but against the will of his once semi-obedient body. "Remove your helmet." Again, without hesitation, his hands fly up and undo the valves and latches that keep the helm in place. A gust of compressed air hisses from underneath and he sets the heavy piece of armor aside. His hands still haven't stopped shaking...
"Now, take the pistol…" The second that word leaves her mouth, his own goes dry. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a well-kept firearm just barely large enough for him to fit his finger around the trigger. "...Place it against your head…" He looks at the gun… Tries to force his arm away but his efforts are in vain. A quivering, struggling body moves the barrel into position until he can feel the freezing cold metal touch his temple… Until he can clearly see little Eleanor backing away with hands cupped in horror over her mouth… eyes pouring terrified tears. He wants to look away… wants to look anywhere else than at her face, stop her from having to see his eyes when the inevitable command leaves Sophia's lips but he can't. He keeps the older woman in his peripheral, but never stops staring at his charge…
"Fire."
…
It's a surge of panic that has Delta sitting upright in the dead of night, barely catching the shape of someone bolting up next to him and attempting to stagger to the door. In the din, the protector hears gasping and coughing before a thump. It isn't long at all before his eyes adjust but still not quick enough. There sits Sinclair on his hands and knees, almost gagging and trying to get up onto his uneasy feet. Delta, being the more stable of the two, gets up and crosses to his older companion who uses him as leverage and nothing more. In fact, he regards the younger man very little as he exits the room and hastily crosses to the bathroom adjacent. Through sickening worry in spite of his waking confusion, Delta follows and closes the bathroom door behind them just as Augustus starts to wretch into the toilet. It's a long time before he stops… Even when his stomach has nothing left to offer. Delta waits. He sits against the wall across from the toilet and waits for his companion to finish before even trying to figure out what's going on.
Augustus does, eventually. The gagging stops and he simply sits against the sink, breathing far too heavy. He's shaking so much... His hands rest in his lap and quiver as though he's freezing to death. Delta reaches for them on impulse. His right hand encases Sinclair's in an action that makes the older man jump. Everything next happens so quickly that Delta is unable to entirely follow in his sleep-riddled state. All he can really catch is Sinclair jerking away, his leg hurting for some reason and then the older man curling as far into the slot between the toilet and sink as his suit will allow. He's crying. His sobs are silent - no louder than breaths - but visible. Perhaps foolishly or - in a way - too forward, Delta sets himself on his knees and tries again to approach his companion. This time, he's met with his wrist being taken in a vice.
"Why?" Augustus barks, staring Delta right in the face. The older man is met with confusion, something that causes his brow to furrow even deeper. "Why?" he repeats. "Why did you do that?" Once more, Delta makes sure his partner knows how entirely lost he is, replying to Sinclair's grip on his hand by reaching up with his other and stroking over his knuckles.
'Do what? What's wrong?' he adds after moments of silence and staring that go on for far too long. The Panamanian's expression falters.
"Do wha… Why did you… Why…" His hand slips away from the younger man's and both grasp each side of his face. "The dream… You said it wouldn't… it…" Beyond that, Sinclair speaks gibberish through gasps and gags, sinking farther and farther back until Delta fears he might get stuck. One last time, the younger alpha reaches out. He puts a hand on Augustus's arm and slowly inches his fingers along until they are able to firmly grasp the other's wrist. Surprisingly, when Delta pulls, the other follows pitiful resistance - allows himself to be inched out into the middle of the bathroom floor where he sits almost straddling Delta's left knee. It's the only way to get him close enough. The younger man releases his wrists and moves to grasp the back of his neck. It isn't tight at all - he could move out of the hold if he wanted to - but just meant as an anchor… assurance. And then comes an urge… It arrives with the newly forming pit of desperation in his stomach and drives the younger man forward, pushing him closer and closer to the other until his scarred head is resting gently upon the sweat-soaked plane of Sinclair's brow. The other twitches only slightly away from the contact… just for a moment… and then returns the pressure in kind… then a little more. Augustus, maybe in need for a little more contact, twists so that their noses are pressed together as well, sinking deeper into the motion before finally relaxing.
Delta isn't sure what to think. On one hand, he's worried sick. Sinclair, a once level-headed and suave charmer, had just jumped up like a bat out of hell to throw up and sob in the bathroom in the middle of the night. On the other… he likes this… This moment… The contact, the closest he's ever come to an embrace in his current memory… All of it has his tired body set ablaze, has him leaning gladly against his companion, stroking the back of his neck idly with his thumb. It's the wrong time, wrong place, wrong situation, all things he can't put aside but why? Why is this the wrong time or the wrong situation? He's comforting him, isn't he? Isn't that what he's supposed to do? Sinclair shouldn't be the first to pull back but he is. Two deep breaths and Augustus is setting himself back, letting the hand on his neck slip off without any fuss.
"I'm okay," he swallows. Delta bites his emotions and scowls.
'No you're not.'
"I didn't mean it like that. I meant I'm okay for now. I'll talk to Brigid tomorrow."
'Or… to me now…' It's a bold suggestion, especially with all previous attempts at addressing the issue in mind, though all other times he's been a little less forward and much less forceful. In fact, the thought he passes on almost comes out as a demand and he hopes beyond hope it doesn't get interpreted that way.
"No, Del, I don't want to worry you with all that."
'You already are.' Augustus's mouth hangs open mid-syllable. He's thinking about it… It's farther than the younger man has gotten before and promising. What comes out next is a sigh, hazel eyes looking up at sea green in exhausted defeat before Sinclair readjusts his position to where he is actually sitting on Delta's knee. He leans forward and rests his head on his companion's shoulder… he's like a sack of bricks against the younger man.
"Tomorrow… Okay? We'll talk tomorrow." Still-shaking hands wrap around Delta's torso as his older companion's smaller form sets more snugly into his own. The younger one doesn't protest - wouldn't dream of it - instead mimicking the other's gesture as best he can against the rims and plates still encasing both of their bodies. It's awkward, stiff, entirely too warm and yet Delta sighs with the most content smile he thinks has ever graced his lips.