Eyes Like Whiskey Chapter 14: Awake, a bioshock fanfic

Roses love sunshine, violets love dew… Angels in heaven know I love you.

Know I love you, dear… know I love you... Angels in heaven know I love you.

A distant lullaby he thinks he heard down an empty corridor or a dwindling banquet hall rattles off over and over within his uncharacteristically tranquil mind. Perhaps it's in part due to the rhythmic fanning of the tree-limbs above caught in a late-night wind-storm. The howling is forceful but Delta fancies this more aggressive caress of nature as it's one of the few things that he can really sense beyond the constrictive alloy engulfing his greater form. Honestly, it makes him want to know what a violet looks like. Roses - real or synthetic - were as common as water in Rapture and came in more colors than plasmids - impressive and elegant in their own right, but just… too familiar to the Alpha.

Speaking of the unfamiliar, Delta realizes that the wooded spanse beyond their little hideout has become an object of his fascination. In the daylight, it's a clear picture with almost tailored lines of unbroken sight between rows of pine, oak and spruce. Absent of it, it's like a portal. Between each tree for as far as his eyes can see is a wall of pitch that the wind sings through. In spite of the great unknown in this new form - or maybe because of it - the forest is even more compelling.

This is all compacted when Sinclair's condition is taken into account. The man hasn't much in the way of mobility, especially on his bad leg which "stings like a shaken box of bees" whenever too much weight is applied. Still, their capacity for distance becomes greater each day. Maybe he can just... Take a quick look - stand among the trees while remaining in-view of the main module. What harm could it do…?

That's all the convincing "Ol' Johnny Topside" needs to push off of the porch step and descend onto the night-veiled grass. The treeline entrance is only about fifteen steps from the house but once he's before it, the portal allegory becomes far more like an apt comparison. There's a weight to the darkness here... A thick, palpable air apart from the wind. Just one step inside is like slipping into a new world, one that even changes how his ears perceive sound. The wind still howls, but it's a little muted. The trees must be insulating some of the noise. There are a lot of them. Delta stands among the thick trunks. He marvels at the grand canopy above that rolls on the wind like breakers upon the ocean - little spaces between the green umbrellas that expose the jeweled sky. It's those spaces that he can't help but fixate on. Compared to the constant whipping over the branches, the stars remain stationary. More portals.

It isn't hard for Delta to imagine he's found his own mythical little world at this intersection, though he chooses to fight such juvenile ideas. He's had just about enough of Sinclair calling him "kid" even if the source of his irritation is a bit difficult to put into "words" - not that he wants to. Either way, the larger Alpha delves just a little deeper into the realm, staring up at the new, open shapes that reveal more and more of the night sky. Some openings kind of look like animals in a crude, almost abstract sort of way. A dog… A bird... A bull's head maybe… Passing just a little further, the man becomes somewhat perplexed. Clear as day and nowhere near as abstract as the rest, he thinks he sees the fuzzy outline of a...

Clack

Three metallic taps echo out somewhere ahead of him in the pitch. Delta would've jumped right out of his suit were he able. Now he wishes he'd taken his helmet because the head lamp would certainly help penetrate the din. Istead, however, the alpha is forced to try and decipher which exact direction the sound came from and head towards it, something he does with far too much ease, he realizes. Either way, the man moves onward through scant gaps between grand trunks, chasing echoes as the sound repeats.

Clack

It's getting louder. That's a good sign… or a bad one. He doesn't even know what he's shuffling towards but it's in strange ways compelling. Farther and farther inward he travels until the warm light of the module is but a dim blip in a slit between the brush. Even the cracks in the canopy are becoming smaller, nearly nonexistent and casting practically no additional illumination down on Delta. At this point, it is merely the sound and the direction of the wind that guides him.

Clack

On the fifth or sixth occurrence, Delta realizes something: the clacks correspond with the wind becoming periodically more intense and there's a new sound now audible from this closer proximity - impact with wood… Something metal hitting wood. It's not a tree, either. It sounds hollow. It isn't long after Delta chases this train of thought that he finds himself staring down a… wall? Yes, a wall. It's wooden planks peering out from a small clearing beyond the nearest bunch of trees. Upon wriggling his way into said clearing, the Alpha finds that the wall in question belongs to a rather small and terribly neglected barn.

Clack

It's coming from inside. Of course it is, he thinks wryly while glaring down the gaping maw that might have once been a doorway. It's lopsided due to the opposing wall on the left being almost entirely collapsed but this lack of structural integrity doesn't allow much more light into the pitch-black void just within. Somehow, the darkness inside the barn is even more saturated than that of the forest all around it. It's surreal.

Now, there are a lot of reasons for Delta to feel invincible. Maybe it's programmed into him. It would make sense that the protectors of Rapture's most valuable resource to be unafraid of harm or any of the other boogie-men that plague the night. It could also be the fact that he recently came back from the brink of death full force and hasn't yet come down off that particular high. Whichever it is that has the Alpha so emboldened, he has no qualms with passing the veil of darkness and submerging himself in an emptiness the likes of which he's nearly forgotten. With only a little time to adjust, the interior of the space becomes much more navigable.

Clack

And, with that, the source of the metallic annoyance becomes entirely clear. It's a shovel. Old and rusted, it hangs on a nail at the back of the collapsing structure and is blown about when the force of the wind outside invades through the nearly-collapsed wall. Aside from that, the rest of the space is mostly empty. Old stalls that might have once been home to cows or horses sit in shambles. Grass peeks in from between what floorboards remain and shine just lightly in the minor amounts of illumination that snake their way in. The barn, surprisingly, doesn't moan much as he'd expected from the outside but that's not anything he cares enough to dwell on. What he finds most interesting in this entire experience is something he can't quite describe - the... footprint of life, maybe. The idea that something alive and functioning used to be in this barn and now that life is gone and this barn is a ghost of what it might have been. 'It's like a shipwreck on land,' he thinks. He hadn't seen many of those in Rapture, shockingly, but the ones he did see fascinated him to no end considering their ties to a world above he thought he'd never get to witness.

It's only then that Delta finally realizes his distance from the module. So caught up in his exploration, he'd totally neglected his charge, likely given him a horrible headache and made him worried sick upon realizing the cause. That in mind, he swiftly swings around to march back out into the forest.

Instead, he finds himself glaring down a pane of glass alloy between him and an abyss. For a solid ten seconds, not a single thought crosses his mind. It's blank. Empty. Hard-rebooting because whatever the hell just happened is so incredibly bizarre that trying to comprehend it without doing so would probably give him an aneurysm. Because he was awake… Wasn't he? He had been. He remembers eating dinner with everyone, walking out onto the porch for some fresh air, venturing into the woods and now... Rapture. Did he fall asleep on the step? He sure hopes so because him passing out in the middle of the woods in an old barn is not the preferable alternative. When did it happen, though? He's never fallen asleep so fast that he can't even remember doing it.

Footsteps on hardwood pull him out of the haze. When he turns, he finds a pristine facsimile of the submerged city he'd once known. Delta couldn't remember Rapture's hayday and the fact that he's currently staring it in the face is enough to tell him that this is one of Sinclair's memories. The footsteps that had alerted him have come from a pair of well-dressed women with arms hooked together. The one on the right spots him as they pass and whispers something to her companion that makes her look his way as well. It's not a fearful look - that which he's used to - but one of interest… intrigue… maybe something else judging by the little flutter in their admittedly-inconsistent eyes. Sinclair's memory for sure.

Delta looks down and finds a well-built body confined in a white work-shirt and old denim jeans. It certainly is not what he'd imagine his companion wearing but perhaps this is a younger version. It has to be. But… wasn't Sinclair always a big-wig down here? Always presented himself to be a fine-bred gentleman? He never gave off the blue-collar vibe which this outfit does in spades. 'No one can keep up that circus twenty-four-seven,' Delta rationalizes before turning and walking down the hall in the same direction as his two ogglers. No matter where he's fallen asleep, he'll likely be in this for the long haul so he might as well explore. '...Especially if I get to see some of this Rapture. Jesus, it's actually nice.' Maybe "nice" is an understatement. It's downright warm, welcoming, god damned comfortable if it were ever possible. Warm lights, warm wood, warm wallpaper. Maybe it's a little gaudy, but it's leagues above what the city would become.

The hallway leads into a transit station for the Atlantic Express. With all of it's fittings in perfect working order, it's an enchanting sight - vast domes of vibrant blue accented by schools of multicolored creatures cast down upon the fire-like cozyness in a way much like the stars in the tree-canopy did. On the actual platform is a small group of commuters who wait quietly and civilly for the car. As he makes his way to them, nearly all of them turn his way. Their faces exist in the same morphing fashion that they always did in these dreams, but he can still tell that this interest, this attention is uncharacteristic of someone simply seeing a local business owner - no matter how influential they are. Yes, Sinclair is a handsome man - likely even more so in his youth - but not to the point of being a spectacle. Maybe. It's a thought that makes his face start to redden. Has… Has he ever admitted that? That he finds Augustus attractive? It can't be an unusual thing to think… though, now certainly isn't the time for it. Actually, why not? He's dreaming and doesn't have anywhere else to be nor does he think he can wake himself up. If any time was a good time to ruminate on his thoughts it would be that spent inside a lucid dream. So, no, he's never admitted that, though the idea that such a thing has to be "admitted" like a confession of murder comes off as rediculous.

Considering the amount of time he's actually spent on board an Atlantic Express car, Delta decides against boarding and instead heads back into the hallway. As he expects, the room he enters is not the room he left. It's par for the course at this point and he wonders if Augustus has the same problem in his own dreams. This room is an atrium for a hotel… or apartment building. No, no, he recognizes this! Not in this good of shape, but he knows this building! It's the Sinclair Deluxe - Augustus's hotel… or low-end housing. Sinclair himself called it a hotel, but it seemed like people actually lived there so maybe it's a blurry line of semantics. Either way, it's nowhere near as nice as the express station, but it's a far - and very pleasant - cry from what Delta himself remembers. Just as he positions himself to look up through the skylight, a hand's pressure manifests on his arm. He turns to look at the person who's trying to get his attention and... he does a double take. On the second glance, the larger man jumps, yanking his arm away from... A person? An invisible person? No, not invisible. See-through but it has a blurred outline and no features aside from that. It reminds him of a chalk silhouette on the pavement. It grabs for him again and Delta steps back out of its reach. This causes the alpha to collide with something, a marble pillar upon inspection and another indication that the room he's in has shifted.

Now, he's in a ballroom. It's dim, clear, clean and illuminated by candlelight along the walls where private booths sit.

"What is your name?" The voice takes him entirely by surprise. It's clear as day, smooth like silk but laced with an unspoken threat. To his left, Delta finds a suited figure. His hands are in his pockets creating a casual stance but the shifting visage does nothing to hide the clear displeasure he has to Delta in this very moment. "You can't blame me for being cautious. This city is my legacy. Down here, we're free from government, from God, from war. And now a man from a world consumed by all of those things shows up at my door and refuses to even give us something to call him." He's good at veiling the venom, better than most, but that much malice, that much hatred... it can't be charmed away...

Not even by Andrew Ryan.

That's who this is. It can't be anyone else. Even without a memory to put to the name, Delta knows. Everyone who has ever even heard of Rapture knows Andrew Ryan. His face is on portraits in flooded shopping centers and elementary schools. His recorded voice plays in food courts and in dance halls. His name is slapped on liquor stores and amusement parks. As much as people like Sophia Lamb might have protested, Andrew Ryan was Rapture and he's standing right in front of him, casually threatening him. Something becomes apparent through his words, though...

Sinclair, too, had his name slapped onto a number of things in the city such as a Hotel, a brand of liquor and even his own plasmid development lab. That means... Ryan isn't talking to Sinclair... Delta isn't in Sinclair's place... He isn't seeing one of Sinclair's memories. What that means makes… no sense at all.

"And you can blame me for it?" comes a bassy, defiant voice in reply. It feels familiar... But it shouldn't. His memory of it should have been eaten away by drugs and scalpels over a decade ago... The sensation of two hands pressing into his shoulder blades yanks him around only to find the translucent figure again. This time, it backs away from him, holding its hands up in what appears to be a placating gesture. Delta stares at the creature, watches as it stares back and then attempts to step forward again.

"Are you an insect, sir?" Delta turns to look back at Ryan. "I said, are you an insect? Do you work your way into places you are not wanted? Are you a fly on the wall, listening and watching and waiting for an opportunity to take, to feed?" It almost sounds insane... Paranoid beyond reason as the figure advances on him through calculated steps. Ryan's hands never once leave his coat pockets. "I hope for your sake that you aren't, sir, because Rapture is a spider's web, the home of an apex predator. We do not release insects when they've come in and had their fill, oh no. There is no exit from this city and trying to find one is just wiggling. The fly might not know it, but wiggling while trapped in a spider's web only expedites the process."

"And what process would I be expediting down here?" Delta himself does not form words… but the words come from him. They come from his position.

"The process with which we dispose of that which we do not need."

"Do you see me as a threat, Mister Ryan?"

"Should I?"

"That entirely depends on you, Mister Ryan. Are you threatening me?"

"Yes. I am." He's direct. He's a man who has nothing to fear. It's a perk of thinking you own the place. Again two hands place themselves on his back and force him to face their owner. When Delta whips around this time, however, the hands remain. They glide over his shifting form until coming to rest on his forearms. The grip is gentle but firm. It's a reassuring hold.

"Then I guess I'm a threat." The word echoes as Delta turns once more to face Ryan. He does not see the shifting visage of "The Great Man" behind him, however. Instead, he sees forest. He sees the trunks of trees lightly illuminated by warm, electric light. Turning to the source of the light, Delta sees Augustus.

The two of them are mere feet from the house before the entrance to the woods and Delta's companion looks at him with concern. Augustus squeezes the larger man's arms testingly. "Del?" he says it like he's already tried multiple times.

'I'm here.'

"Here… As opposed to…?" He's being cautious, like he doesn't believe it quite yet.

'I think I fell asleep.'

"When I came outside to get you, you were walkin' in circles right here."

'Sleepwalking? Does it work like that?'

"Hell if I know, honeydew. I've never sleepwalked."

Delta looks back at the woods and cocks his head. Did he even go in there?

"You seem real bothered, though... You okay, big hoss?"

'Yeah. I was just dreaming.'

"Anything I should know about?"

'Just… The usual.'

Sinclair laughs and lets his hands slip off of the larger man. "Forgive me if this is prodding, but haven't we established that 'the usual' is usually problematic?" Delta returns with a "chuckle."

'Probably… but can I get a turn being hard-headed and choose not to talk about it?' It's a joke, of course - Delta trying to lighten a mood that will surely be soured as soon as the actual information comes out.

"Not a chance in hell, big fella. We can't be having any of that 'do as I say not as I do' attitude. That's how backsliding happens. That said, I take it that this is something we need to talk about?" The larger man nods slowly which draws a sigh from his companion. It isn't annoyed, though. Just tired, maybe a little exaggerated. Maybe it shouldn't be, though... Could it actually have just been sleepwalking? Why does Delta vividly remember... Any of it? Why did he see…? "Base to Delta," Sinclair sings, lightly tapping the larger man's face. "No more dreaming while standing up. It freaks me out."

'I can't make any guarantees.'

"You could lie to make me feel better." The two of them are almost to the door when Delta stops. He shoots a thought Sinclair's way that causes the older man to halt as well but with an amused grin.

'Since when is Honeydew an acceptable nickname?'

...

The grime along the fringes of the mirror make it hard to see, but a scar runs clean across his bare torso. The flesh is split on each side of a canyon of pink, laced with what looks to be the vein-like webs of long-healed burns. Very clearly, the opposing weapon was heated. He remembers it vividly - a long, jagged strip of metal coated in isopropyl alcohol kept alight by a blow-torch affixed to the hilt. Many a Frankenstein's weapon was born in Rapture's decline... Aside from that of an emotional sort, the old wound still stings from time to time - maybe a phantom pain or maybe something more if it would ever matter.

All of a sudden, a raging dryness claws its way across his throat and digs into his flesh like a parasite. The sting forces a strangled wheeze to escape him, but the rest of the reaction is sedated swiftly in spite of the iron-taste now plaguing his mouth. Like always, he swallows it, forces it down with all the will he can muster before smoothing his shirt back over his torso. The sensation of the fabric against the ghostly tenderness is surreal - somewhat there and equal parts not. He refuses to dwell on it. Instead, he turns and pushes out into the room beyond, a gossamer affair he deemed a much needed splurge, especially when the local pickings are far from spacious, private or comfortable. Honestly, maybe he's just tired of sleeping in the backseat of a car. The bedding, the decor, even the scent are floral. It certainly isn't his preference - such domestic things rarely are - but he won't complain in the face of soft pillows and controlled temperatures.

Upon the bedding, which is woven with golden roses, there is spread an array of items from documents to photos. Maybe once it had been a sizable manilla folder, but such organization is lost to him now. They are all things he's combed through what must be hundreds of times over and yet he continues to return, even when new information arises that should peak his interest far more. Specifically, the item that receives the majority of his attention was an older scrap - something jotted down in Poole's signature quick and stern hand: a set of testimonies. They are descriptions of their targets, words his fingers have traced time and time again... And not because he needed any reminders.

'Tired, yet charming… Looked to be a mess, but talked like he was worth a million bucks... A smile that could put a death-row inmate at ease... '

Descriptors he would have used, once upon a time... Maybe he did somewhere along the faded lines side-by-side with far less desirable adjectives. 'And he would have worn them like a badge of honor,' he thinks, forcing away the beginnings of a smile from his lips. "Rose-colored-glasses," he mumbles wryly. His thumb traces a note scribbled in the margins of the page: 'Sinclair?' Who else could it be? Hardly the first man from Rapture in possession an iota of charisma, of course, but... He just knows. In his chest, he knows that it's him… and that's terrifying… and infuriating... and soul-crushing if there were anything left to fucking crush.

In a bid to free himself from the undertow, he swiftly swipes all the documents into a haphazard pile at the bed's foot. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of the golden hands of his clock which almost seems to be screaming at him. He has somewhere to be. Forcing away the urge to glance back at his new nest of chaos, he slips from the room and out onto an open walkway overlooking the street beyond. It's bathed in yellow lamplight which pollutes away the paler sort of the stars to an extent yet creates a far more inviting trail on each side of the main road. Rare figures make themselves briefly known before vanishing into the din and he aims to make himself one of them.

Truth be told, some aspects of Rapture are to be missed. Maybe it's a learned form of comfort that has much in common with Stockholm syndrome but he can't help but feel a tad anxious when spying the wide-open far beyond the reach of the light. There is nothing there… just nature… No city lights rising to meet his gaze, no bioluminescent life peering out… Wide… open… darkness… though it isn't any less daunting in the daylight. Is he being silly? It feels that way. So long in himself, it isn't long before he's reached his destination - a park off the beaten path but still kept alive by yellowing lamps around a fountain long dried. He keeps a rather large buffer between himself and the admittedly dim illumination, instead secluding himself behind a maintenance shed that still gives him a decent view of the plaza. From there, he doesn't have to wait long. A pale man with dark hair and a scraggly beard nervously emerges from the dark surrounding the nearby sidewalk who is soon joined by a very familiar colored man - an emissary… Unfortunate.

"Where's Brigid?" asks the first man, honestly surprised. The older man - Charles Milton Porter by Poole's identification - reacts little, neither in tone nor motion.

"She thinks it smarter to keep away from town."

"Right. Right…Well, I got the money and we managed to find a nice little place just outside of the neighboring town to the north." He slips a strip of lined paper to Porter. "We have a window of three days. It's the best I can do. I know it's short notice, but…"

"We'll make it work. Thank you." It's brief, professional. There's no need to linger, as he's sure everyone involved knows, but it's all he requires. The two men part ways with not a word more - porter vanishing into the night and the other slipping along the brick trail. He traces the outer basin of the fountain and then stops on a patch of yellow grass. He has to be less than three yards away. Brown eyes meet dim green. His own eyes are unwavering and indicate no sign of surprise.

The other man's bleed with knowing and intense shame.