Brigid Tennenbaum knows quite a lot about guilt. One could call it a close friend of hers if they wanted to be coy about it - a way of speaking which reminds her of Frank Fontaine in the early years before his far more cold, vindictive side came crawling out. Guilt is important, she thinks. It's important to different people for different reasons. For money-hungry preachers and gas-lighters, it's good to keep them in control and their pockets lined. For parents, it's a learning tool - something to help guide their young towards whatever path they feel is most virtuous, if that path is good or otherwise. For others more, it is a punishment. In their minds, guilt exists because something in the universe wants them to feel horrible about something they did… and they believe they deserve it. Perhaps they do...

Brigid scowls at that thought - the idea of needing to constantly be reminded that they are bad and need to feel miserable. She does so for many reasons, one of which is that she recognizes such in Sinclair. The doctor leans back on the sofa, cup of black coffee starting to cool between her tightly-gripped hands. In her lap sits a note-pad which is nearly filled with pages upon pages of messy, small print in various colors of ink. She never could keep track of any one pen... The windows have stopped producing light long ago. On these late nights, when the children sleep and the world around her demands no responsibility until the sunrise, Brigid thinks a lot - too much… The entirety of her concentration rests in two parts: the children and on Augustus Sinclair. It isn't outright concern for the man. That much is - and always has been - clear. From day one, he's been a rogue element to her, someone to lean on from time to time but not trust - never trust.

Setting the coffee aside, the woman takes her notebook in-hand and starts to read through the more recent pages for what has to be the thirtieth time. The entirety of it is more detailed than it needs to be but she's always seen value in being thorough, especially in situations like the one current. Upon the first page, the one already open, Brigid traces the first paragraph with a stern finger which contrasts against her smooth cursive just above. 'Vivid nightmares whilst missing one partner,' it reads. 'Seeing detailed scenes that present like memories but such memories do not exist,' Next to this sentence, Brigid has written a note in the margin using red. 'See "The Crush Dream" - two pages on.' Even without context, "The Crush Dream" sounds morbid. She flips to it in her book and rereads the description again, what Sinclair had seen and how Delta couldn't recall this memory that had appeared to be his. After that, she's jotted down some things on Augustus's and Delta's emotional states after the fact, though she's abbreviated their names to "A" and "D" respectively.

'D is adamant that he never witnessed this event. He shakes his head very sternly and A says he can feel his confidence on the matter. I believe him, though I am unsure as to what the implications of this are. This was also clearly not one of A's memories. His shock and subsequent emotional distress is enough to prove such.'

Tennenbaum returns to this event due to more recent developments - things she has also catalogued and toiled over with fervor. The notes on this are some pages away and she almost scoffs at the amount of information she takes on the two men alone. This notebook is solely for them. The children and Eleanor have separate ones and those aren't nearly as attended to.

'A claims he felt D getting too far away, noting a sharp sting growing in the back of his skull. He walked outside where he thought D had gone to sit and found him walking in circles at the treeline. He attempted to get D's attention multiple times. A says that D looked at him as though he knew he was there but his eyes "looked through" him rather than recognized him. D continues to pace in front of the trees before finally being awoken by A. D says that he believes he had fallen asleep and had been sleep-walking in reaction to another vivid dream.'

She moves on to the dream's description, specifically to the ending which still twists knots into her stomach.

'D says he saw a blurry man who he believes was AR - identified by voice alone. He heard a man talking to AR but didn't recognize this voice. In spite of that, however, D believes that this other person was…'

"Himself." Or... The man who used to occupy his body. It is a regrettable reality that the man Rapture had been enthralled with - the character of "Johnny Topside" - no longer exists. He is dead, even if his body still eats, sleeps and communicates. That is the issue, however. That memory, for Delta at the very least, should not exist. It isn't his and should have died with his predecessor and with Andrew Ryan. The mind that formed it is gone, isn't it? Practically sucked clean from his head by plasmid needles... He is not "Johnny Topside." He is Delta - is a different individual. Maybe there are gaps in the science. Delta is an old model, after all. Old technology has its kinks and maybe there are fleeting slivers of the other man still clinging to the darkest corners of his rearranged psyche.

'D continues - using A as a translator - by saying that AR was interrogating him, accusing him of being a threat to the city in some way. D's "former self" stood his ground against AR and declared that, if AR would threaten him then he must be a threat.'

Strong willed and young... "Johnny Topside" was a headstrong character, perhaps a little prideful. She'd taken a vague interest when news broke of an outsider entering the city but stopped caring when all it ever became was swooning over his looks and brash honesty. The man called things like he saw them. Ryan didn't like that. Ryan also didn't like that his people liked that - Topside's fearless, perhaps even tactless spouting of his opinion. He'd never been rude about it, if she can recall correctly. Just… Blunt. Funny... Ryan enjoyed bluntness when it could be turned in his favor but called it rude when coming from the mouth of a surface-dwelling, boisterous Bostonian - and he was a Bostonian. There was no way his accent came from anywhere else. Andrew called it "the unrefined yapping of a brainless street-dog." And he claimed Topside was the rude one.

Memories of a long-gone life aside, nothing is making sense. Not yet. She knows it will, given enough time and she is a patient woman but, with matters such as Delta's wellbeing through this experimental venture on the line, she fears it will be an autopsy that reveals the truth. No... she can't think like that. It's entirely unlike her but she has to practice optimism in this trying time - if not for her own sanity, then that of those around her. Moods are shockingly contagious in this house. Brigid flips back in her notebook, trying to find something less concerning - something light, something she can passively analyze that doesn't allude to possible life-threatening issues. Armchair psychology.

Her eyes fall on the description of a whale shark. Sinclair claims it was a fixture in his dreams prior to the bond on occasion but now the creature has become far more prevalent. It's like his brain has latched onto the beast. A coping mechanism, perhaps? Something from a memory during times of less duress that his brain has chosen as a comfort image...

'A described the most recent time the whale shark entered his memory prior to his bond with D. He says he dreamed about it swimming outside a window where he sat with a former friend named Ruby. It swam back and forth, watching every move he made but its presence was not imposing. A claims he felt at-ease with the creature in-spite of the provoking nature of his conversation with the woman. The content of this discussion was left unexplored. A continues to avoid speaking on select issues which I believe may provide much needed context for current emotional stress.'

The next time it appears only seems to solidify her personal theory. It swims around playfully and watches over him, much like a pet. A positive presence…

"Mama Brig…?" The little voice strikes her, not due to its sudden appearance nor due to the nickname she'd nearly forgotten had been assigned to her. What startles Brigid is the nervousness which fills it. Tennenbaum turns over the back of the couch and spies one of the children - East Asian with a long braid reaching her thighs down the back. She wrings the hem of her yellow, polka dot nightdress.

"What is the matter, child?" the older woman asks in a light tone she affords to little else aside from the children.

"Come help." That isn't very enlightening.

"Why? What is it?"

A whine escapes the girl, frustrated for lack of an ability to convey whatever it is that has her so upset. Brigid resigns herself to this, however, as such behavior is commonplace among the girls, especially after everything they've had to endure. Tennenbaum stands and allows herself to be led to one of the bedrooms and then to a bed in the darkness neighboring the girl's own, empty one. Upon it lays a familiar child, one who has become the subject of distant concern over minor symptoms that never amounted to much... until now. Now, this child lays stiffly on her back, breathing shallow and skin pale to the extent that it's discernible even in the din of the night. Her eyes are open, but they lack awareness. They stare up to the ceiling, almost like she can see past it. Not even a hand waved over her face can break their trance.

…

The right hand webs into the left, threading fingers between fingers in a shaking, knuckle-popping movement. It ends when they are jerkily pulled apart but the action is repeated over and over and over again until the flesh between the digits is raw. It's almost as raw as the skin surrounding his eyes, rubbed so as a means to stave off the sleep only to cause them to swell. That is fine, too. The swelling is irritating. It combats the usually soothing silence which caresses him so enticingly in spite of feeling like a death sentence. Silence, darkness, feathered moonlight, eyes creating figures in the corners who he knows may or may not actually be there in equal likelihood… The phone ringing nearly makes him jump out of his skin.

After the initial fright, he doesn't move to answer it. One ring, two rings, three... It keeps going. It's grating, it's loud, it's exactly what he needs. Who's on the other end? Who would have a need to call him at this hour? ...What time is it…? He can't think. The ringing stops and he has to hold his breath to stop from relaxing too much at the lack of sound; however, that doesn't last long. The ringing returns within minutes. This time, though on quivering legs, he manages to make his way to his bedside and lift the receiver to his ear, though he forgets for far too long that a greeting is often required in answering any correspondence.

"H-h-hello?" That voice is foreign to him. It comes from his own throat but is strangled.

"We have a problem." Tennenbaum. Hearing that accent practically rams a knife through his chest.

"P-Pro- Problem? I -"

"I need you to get the staff to the location as soon as possible - tonight or early tomorrow morning. I fear it is life or death." Quick, to the point, unapologetic. She sounds so normal...

"What... happened? Is one of them hur-"

"It is one of the children. She is very sick."

"Children…?" One of the children... No, no, no… This wasn't supposed to happen. He turns to look at the shadows in the corners of the room and swears he sees one of them move closer out of predatory interest. "One of the... We aren't prepared for tha-"

"We have little time. Do as I ask. Whatever help they can offer is better than none."

"I- I can't -" Closer now the shadow creeps and he can practically feel its hot breath wafting across the back of his neck. Within bated silence, he continues to shoot shaky glances over his shoulder towards the shapes across each corner of his dimly-lit room. The monsters watch from the rafters… watch them both. It's a child… A child... That fact repeats over and over in his mind like it's taunting him. A child is going to die. 'The child or me' he thinks and that should be a much harder choice. Are these shadows in the corners of his eyes holding knives to his back? "Brigid," He begins in a hushed, desperate tone. "I can't tell you why but you cannot go anywhere near that place, okay? Don't ask, just trust me. Tell me where you are and I will send them to you. After they're done and the kid is able, leave. Find a new place to stay. I don't care how hard it is, I don't care what you have to do."

"I do not understand…We cannot just pick up and leave."

"And I can't explain anymore. Please, for the child's sake, tell me where you are. If I send you over there, she will die. I'll send everything that I can manage to help you."

It's a short stint of silence between them. Not too long - even if it feels like an eternity - but it's enough for her. It's enough for him to know she understands. "Alright."

"Alright?"

"Yes. We are not far outside of the town. Heading past the police station, there is a dirt road. Follow it for nearly five miles and there is a narrow, almost overgrown path. That is the path to our shelter."

"Okay. Good-bye, Brigid... Good luck…"

"To you, as well…" She catches his somber tone… mirrors it. She understands. Of course she does. She's smart. He shouldn't worry. She's always managed to drag herself out of the darkest pits dug by humanity, even when she herself held one of the shovels. He stops that train of thought rather abruptly, however. It won't be long before none of this will be his problem anymore. Three more phone calls and… he's shocked. The shadows are still, breath vanished, silence comforting again. He's… calm. Are those knives still aimed at his spine? Possibly - certainly will be in the future, but what does it matter? Let them take the plunge. Let them spill his blood. He hopes it stains the carpet so that some part of him will remain long after he's been disposed of. Maybe it'll soak through into the hardwood and people will simply cover it, leaving that part of him embedded into the very structure. As morbid as it sounds... he'd like that.

For now, however, in these last few, fleeing moments of night, he sits. He waits. For the first time in days, he lets himself sleep and it's the best sleep he's had in a long time.