The Closing Of Watchful Eyes

by F0ssiliZ3d

Summary:

In which Mark Meltzer is saved by Subject Delta in Dionysus Park.

Notes:

It breaks my heart knowing how close you are to Mark.

Disclaimer: This is a Bioshock 2 rewrite, featuring some lines lifted from the source material. I don't claim to own those lines or these characters.

Chapter 1

***

Mark recognises Cindy even with her back to him. He recognises the pink ribbon in her hair, the one he bought her for her fourth birthday. Over a year since she disappeared, and there she is. She stands by a rusted carousel, singing, "The man in the moon is a girl, Mr Bubbles."

“Cindy?” he calls.

She doesn’t glance his way. Mark takes in a shaky breath and moves closer. He crouches down, making sure he’s in her eye-line.

“Cindy, sweetheart.” He bites back a sob, “It’s Daddy.”

She doesn’t recognise him, and Mark feels the tiny glimmer of hope he’d been clinging to wither. He’d thought he would get to her in time, but he was too late. Sofia Lamb had twisted his little girl into a demon. He reaches into his pocket for his cassette recorder, hesitating over the record button. He isn’t sure why he started making these recordings in the first place, but it became a comfort. Now, he prays that there’s someone out there who will find it.

“Listen.” He babbles into the recorder, “If anyone hears this, I have to know how to cure her –”

Above his head, something shrieks.

Cindy startles.

Mark knows the sound. The skinny armoured bitch that took his girl in the first place, the one that for a year he'd known only as The Traveler. No doubt Rapture gives it another name. He draws his pistol. He’d choked before, but this time he’s ready.

He doesn’t see the monster until its too late. It leaps from the top of the staircase onto the ground and swoops Cindy up in its arms.

"No!" Mark screams, "Get back! She's my little girl!"

He shoots until his pistol is empty. The monster screams, charging towards him – until a second figure slams into it. Mark scrambles back, fumbling in his pockets for ammo but coming up empty. The newcomer is not a saviour, but another one of those rumbling beasts he’s spotted around the city. This one is larger than The Traveler, but The Traveler is clearly more powerful. It flips once, twice, and shoots a blaze of fire like Armageddon at the second monster. Mark scrambles to stay clear. The battle wages for a few minutes longer, and then The Traveler leaps the full staircase in one and disappears through the doors – disappears with his daughter.

“Cindy!” Mark gasps with anguish, but Cindy is long gone, and the park is silent once more.

Silent, save for the beast, who turns to him, shaking the ground as it walks.

“Stay back, monster!” Mark crawls away. The creature watches him. The light of its porthole isn’t red like Mark had seen the others turn before they attack. Perhaps a good sign. Not that Mark should bother applying logic to this hellscape. He’s still hoping that he’ll wake from this nightmare with Cindy tucked in her bed.

The monster reaches out, palm open, with a first aid kit in hand.

Mark gawps. Something wet trickles down his cheek and he swipes at it – and hisses, finding blood on his hands. A cut. From when, he couldn’t be sure. No doubt he looks far from a gentleman.

Apparently, the creature agrees. It takes a step towards him and stretches its arm with the first aid kit.

“Away from me, I said!” He shouts, “You understand me, you child-stealing freak! That was my baby girl that thing took – my – my sweet baby Cindy.” His shouts crumble into sobs. He presses his face into his hands.

The creature rumbles.

“Best leave him, Chief,” says another voice, crackling through a radio transmitter, and Mark looks up with surprise. Another man? A sane man? Not one of those blasted Splicers?

The monster – Chief? – makes an unhappy sound and drops the first aid kit on the ground at Mark’s feet before turning and walking in the direction of the train station. Snatching the first aid kit, Mark pushes himself up and follows. He keeps a safe distance, listening to the crackle of the monster's incoming radio transmissions. There's another man speaking now, a man who introduces himself as Stanley Poole, and not long after that Sofia Lamb speaks, the woman he keeps hearing over the PA system. Sounds as if she and the monster don't get along.

Chief notices him tailing and pauses, as if to let him catch up.

Mark grits his teeth and keeps his distance and Chief quickly walks on. From what he'd seen of the other beasts, they're disinterested in those who don't pose a threat. Mark figures he may as well use that to his advantage, and lets the creature clear the way. Chief makes quick work of any Splicers that come their way, and soon they're in the station. When Chief pauses to listen to Poole at the window the station security booth, Mark creeps past. There's a train waiting at the platform. He isn't sure where to go, but anywhere is better than here. He reaches the train doors and they slide open -

- at which he finds himself staring down the barrel of a pistol.

“Sorry, friend," says the man stood in the doorway, "This train is taken."

It's the first man he heard on the radio, the Southern American accent easy to identify. Mark stares at him, noting the clean shirt and slacks, and a face lacking any deformity, unlike the Splicers. Truly, a sane man. A handsome one, even. Dark hair and dark eyes.

Mark scrambles to think of something to say, but soon feels the ground jump underneath him and hears the heavy footsteps of Chief approaching. He ducks aside as the monster stops by the train, giving a low growl like something a caged animal might make.

The man keeps his gun pointed at Mark, but glances at the monster, "When I said 'let's rendezvous' I didn't mean bring the whole kit and caboodle, Chief."

Chief grunts, sounding almost stubborn.

“I'm sure he won’t give us any trouble. Hell, he looks more spooked than suspicious Stanley over there.” The man looks at him. "What’s wrong, sugar? First time in Rapture?”

Mark swallows.

The man's eyes widen. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

The Splicers, now, those Mark could predict, but what's a sane man in a crazy town willing to do? If this man is half as desperate as Mark is, there's no doubt he'll pull the trigger. But a sane man could be reasoned with. He raises his hands, "I'm certainly not here to cause any trouble."

"One can't be too careful." The man waves the pistol. "Back up, stranger, and skedaddle back to wherever it is you came from."

Chief huffs and closes one giant hand over the pistol. The man startles, and Mark startles, expecting a shot, but Chief gently pushes the man's arm down.

The man looks aghast. "Now listen here! Little Sisters are one thing, but you can’t adopt every stray kitten you find. This train car is crammed with just the two of us!"

Chief snorts, moving its hand up from the pistol and onto the man's wrist.

The man flushes red and pulls away. He tucks the pistol in its holster. "Well, alright then, you bleeding heart."

Mark watches the exchange, caught between horror and confusion. What kind of man befriends a creature like this? What kind of man is capable of befriending a monster like this? "I'm not interested in an encroaching on your good selves, sir. I just need transport - and to know where that freak took my little girl."

"What freak?"

"The one that looks like -" he gestures at Chief, "- but skinnier."

"That's a Big Sister, pal. By God, you really aren't from Rapture, are you?"

"Is anyone truly from Rapture?"

"Suppose not. Looking for your little girl, you say?" The man cocks his head at Chief, "Seems to be something of a theme around here."

Chief huffs, turns sharply, and leaves them on the station platform. It stomps down the steps and past the schedule display, disappearing into a tunnel. From the train security booth, Stanley gives a nervous wave.

Mark relaxes somewhat.

"Why don't you sit yourself down while you patch up. Don't try any funny business. This train can't go anywhere until Stan over there decides to unlock the station, so there wouldn't be much point." The man ducks into the train.

"How do I find the Big Sister?" Mark says, following the man into the second train car. In the corner of the car, there's a screen showing the corridors of the park. It takes him a second to realise that it's the first-person perspective of Chief as it marches through the park, killing Splicers as if on some kind of crusade.

"Nobody finds a Big Sister. Make her mad, and she'll sure as hell find you."

"Then how do I make her mad?"

"Bad idea, sport."

Mark twitches. He'd always hated nicknames. "My name is Meltzer. Mr Mark Meltzer."

"Augustus Sinclair, esquire," he smiles lazily. "You sitting or not?"

Mark glances at the first aid kit and sits down on the bench chair, cleaning the blood from his face. Sinclair tugs a cigarette from his top pocket and lights it. He offers one to Mark, who hesitates before accepting. He could do with something to calm his nerves.

"I'm not kidding around, Mr Sinclair," he says as he lights the cigarette and takes a drag, "I came here with every intention of bringing Cindy home and I will not let that creature stop me."

"You're damn lucky you survived the encounter. Even if you could lure one out, you don't stand a chance of fending it off. Even if you did, what's your plan? It ain't some person you can exchange pleasantries with like you and I are doing. We're upstanding gentlemen, two men willing - I hope - for an equal exchange of information, if you'd be so kind. Big Sisters aren't like us. She won't tell you where Cindy is just because you asked nicely."

Mark stands.

Sinclair straightens up, "Now where are you high-tailing off to?"

"If I cannot lure the Big Sister back, then I'll find Sofia Lamb."

Sinclair laughs, “You don’t know your Brute Splicers from your Big Daddies, sonny. You’re better off finding a hole to hide in and staying there.”

“I know the Splicers.” Mark snaps. He may not be a Rapture citizen, but he had learned a lot since he arrived. The Splicers are the people with the messed-up faces, hooked on that ADAM wonder drug... One had cornered him before the sound of a little girl’s singing lured him away. Since then, they hadn’t bothered him. He’d been wondering why but – he glances at the screen with the Chief’s display on it – it seems they’ve bigger targets. All a Splicer seems to want is ADAM and Mark hasn’t a drop of it in his blood. He doesn’t want it.

Sinclair gives him a thoughtful look. “Suppose you do. Hard to miss, really.”

“I was doing just fine with them!” Mark growls out, ignoring the part of him that sounds suspiciously like his ex-wife, telling him to swallow his pride and accept that he’s out of his depth. “I know more than you think. I know about the little girls harvesting that ADAM stuff from blood, I know about that cult leader, Sofia Lamb, and that she has my daughter! And you’re not going to stop me from finding her and –”

“Whoa, nelly!” Sinclair holds up his hands, chuckling, “I ain’t interested in stopping you from doing anything. You want to knock on Sofia Lamb’s door, be my guest. Hell, you can wander out of here right now. I won’t stop you.”

Mark clamps his jaw shut. He can feel a vein popping out of his temple. God, what is he doing? This is the first sane person he’s met and he’s running his mouth like a schoolboy with a bruised ego. This place must be getting to him. He pinches his nose and slumps back onto the bench seat.

“Chief might be a little disappointed if you leave.” Sinclair adds after a moment, “Seems you and he have a goal and an enemy in common. What’s say you join us, pal?”

“I'm not your pal.”

Sinclair smirks around his cigarette. “I hear ya.”

Mark licks his lips. “That – That beast, Chief – you control it?”

Sinclair snorts. “Not even a little bit. He’s my partner.”

“Partner? He’s a monster.”

“Now, now. There’s no need for name calling. Poor Chief gets enough of that from the citizens of Rapture without topside folk joining in on the hollering.” Sinclair actually looks angry that Mark would dare insult his ‘partner.’ Perhaps he isn’t as sane as Mark initially thought. Either way, he’s wasting his time here. He needs to get to Cindy. He takes a final, steadying drag of the cigarette and puts it out on the bench seat.

He stands, “Thank you for your hospitality, Mr Sinclair."

“You’re making a mistake, sport.”

“I’ve gotten by just fine on my own so far.”

Sinclair raises an eyebrow. "Yeah, so I saw."

Mark flushes. Dammit, I'm acting like a fool. 

"How's this, sugar," Sinclair pats the seat next to him, "I reckon you have more than your fair share of questions about Rapture, you've certainly your fair share of ignorance - no offense intended. I'm happy to educate, if you can return the kindness. Tell me about the surface."

"It's a colder place now hundreds of little girls have been taken from their homes. Taken and turned into -" Mark stops, noticing the screen. There's a little girl, just like his Cindy. The monster has her in its arms and Mark feels dread swell up inside of him.

"Daddy, are you taking me home now too?" says the child, as the beast lifts her up onto its shoulder.

"Ah," Sinclair says, "Those girls."

Mark's breath catches in his throat.

Chief walks to a vent and lifts the girl off its shoulder. It places a hand over her forehead. The tips of its fingers glow, brighter and brighter until the screen is filled with light. When the light clears, the girl's eyes are clear of the yellow hue. She, god, she’s human again!

Mark feels tears swell to his eyes.

"You're looking for the cure to your little girl's condition, right?" Sinclair lifts an eyebrow, "Well, you’re looking at him.”

 

---

 

Notes:

References:

The fic's title is adapted from a quote Mark says in a letter. Quote is “I can't sleep anymore. I lie awake, haunted by the watchful eyes of those poor lost girls… waiting for us to find them.”

"The Traveler" is Mark's name for the Big Sister throughout his investigation in There's Something In The Sea.

 

Chapter 2

Notes:

Fanart of Mark and Sinclair on the train. Everyone show it some love!!

Sinclair is less forthcoming with his information once Mark asks how Chief does it. He wags his finger and says, "Now, now, Mr Meltzer, I thought we had an understanding. Equal exchange and all that. So far, I've been doing all the givin' and you all the takin'."

Mark scoffs.

"Why, I reckon you owe me..." Sinclair lifts his fingers, making a show of counting on them, "Well! Three questions!"

"Fine. What do you want to know?"

He holds up one finger, "How'd you make your living before you came down here, Mr Meltzer?"

Mark blinks. He wasn't sure what to expect - questions about the civil unrest, maybe, or what's happening with the space program (are these people even aware that there is a space program? He hopes not). He did not expect personal questions. What, really, did Sinclair have to gain from knowing who Mark is?

"I was a private investigator."

Though, technically speaking, his only client for the past year had been himself.

Sinclair grins, "You don't say! Old Andy Ryan wouldn't be too pleased to hear that if the sucker was still kicking." Mark recognises the name. Andrew Ryan had been one of many people who had disappeared in the 1940s. Mark had also found a few of the man's recordings and seen his photograph on posters all around Rapture. Mark's old contact at the ONI would bust a nerve if ever found out that the vanished socialite only went and built a city under the ocean. Ryan's vision was admirable, if mental. The name Sinclair rings a bell too, though Mark is uncertain where he'd heard it. For all his research, Rapture remains a complex mystery.

There's a pause, but Mark offers nothing else, not willing to get caught owing the man any more than three questions. Something tells him that Sinclair is the kind of man who uses information as a currency.

"Hmm." Sinclair looks hard at him. "You seem the tight-lipped type, would you agree?"

"Is that one of your questions?"

Sinclair laughs. "I like you, Mr Meltzer. Really."

Mark, despite everything, finds his lip twitching upwards.

“In actual fact, my second question,” he raises his second finger to showcase this, “how’d you get down here?”

Mark frowns, “I thought you wanted to know about the surface.”

“I did, but then you said the words ‘private investigator’ and, well, you’re the one piquing my interest now.”

With a huff, Mark gives him the short version. He found a lighthouse and soon after the ship he was on was attacked by Splicers, who had risen out of the ocean in globe-shaped submarines. He’d escaped, made it to the lighthouse, and found another sub just like the ones the Splicers had used. And so, here he was.

Sinclair listens and gives a thoughtful hum. His gaze lingers on Mark, enough to make Mark’s skin prickle.

“Your final question?”

“Eager, aren’t you?”

“I’d gladly take that as your question if you’re struggling to think of one. Maybe then you can answer how the beast fixes the girls.”

Sinclair’s expression shutters. "How about we set aside the questions for now. There'll be plenty time for that later, if you decide to tag along with us to the Fontaine building, that is. Happens to be our next destination. I don't really see how you're getting out of here any other way."

Mark eyes the cigarette he'd mushed into the bench-seat. Sinclair's offer felt like a ruse so he wouldn't ask another question about Chief. It seems Sinclair has no problem sharing anything about Rapture in general, but questions about the Big Daddy strike a nerve.

Mark’s questions only seem to mount higher, but what if he set them aside a moment? He could stay with Sinclair and Chief, find Cindy, and perhaps ask Chief to cure her, but what would the cost be? Sinclair would ask for something in return, no doubt, and though it worries him, Mark knows he'll agree to it.

There's only one course of action.

“I humbly accept your offer, Mr Sinclair.” He holds out his hand, “I’d like to travel with you."

They shake hands and settle back into their seats.

Minutes pass in silence. Mark watches the display pensively as Chief explores the park, curing every child it finds - not without using them to soak up ADAM first. Sinclair doesn't even bat an eye at seeing those little girls stick needles into corpses and gulp down the blood.

Rapture is disgusting, Mark thinks, not for the first time since his arrival. But if tolerating it means getting Cindy cured, then he's willing to do just about anything.

To his credit, Chief doesn’t let a single Splicer lay a hand on the girls as they collect the ADAM. They attack in droves, and Chief fends them off.

"Causes an awful racket sometimes, that kid,” Sinclair says, “but its damn fine entertainment."

Mark bites back his disagreement. Those little girls in the middle of all that gunfire... He'd gone to war to prevent something as terrible as that. Here, it's normal.

There's a muffled gunshot, a girl screams, and Mark feels anxiety swell around his chest. He pushes himself to his feet and stumbles towards the train doors. Sinclair doesn't move, but Mark catches the amused quirk of his eyebrow, and flushes hot with shame. He pushes into the first train car, lets the doors slide shut behind him, and tries to control his frantic breathing. If the nurses at Tollevue saw him now, they'd shake their heads and usher him right back into his room for 'calm time.' He braces his hands on his knees. Perhaps he's still in Tollevue, and this is just a prolonged psychotic break.

The space feels too confined. Mark steps off the train, breathes sharply in - and wonders where, exactly, does the air come from and how much of it is left. Not a helpful thought, mind.

In the security booth, Stanley Poole rambles into a radio, "- deep sea explorer with iron cojones, pal -"

Mark didn't hear the rest. Behind him, there's a gentle whoosh and breeze ruffles his hair. He turns. Something red, like rose petals, flickers to the floor. Rust, perhaps. He glances up at the ceiling, where glass and metal holds the ocean from cascading on their heads, but can't see where the flakes came from. He shakes his head and approaches the security booth window.

Stanley sets the radio down just as Mark taps on the glass.

Stanley yelps and spins to face him. "God, Splicer! Back away -"

Raising his arms, Mark smiles in what he hopes is a friendly manner, "Peace. I'm no Splicer."

"Huh." Stanley creeps closer to the window, "Oh, it's you. You and Augustus are in cahoots, huh? Well, nothing's changed. Until that Big Daddy deals with those Little Sisters, your train is grounded."

Deals with them? Like those girls haven't got names and loved ones going sick with worry for them? The thought of them had kept Mark awake at night, but down here they're just things. Mark tries not to show his contempt.

"You know who I am?"

"Uhhh, should I?"

He hadn't been talking about him then, the deep-sea explorer. He shakes his head, "Never mind."

"Now that you mention it, I've known Augustus a long while and, well, I ain't ever seen you around before."

“I haven’t been around long.”

Stanley blinks. “Now, hold up. You mean you came here, what, within the last year or…?”

“In the last week.”

“You – you broke into Rapture?” He waves his hands excitedly, “Came down from the surface all on your own? Like Johnny Topside?"

Mark hears that whoosh again but ignores it. There had been someone else like him. He meets Stanley's keen eyes and jerks his chin, "Who's Johnny Topside?"

"He was a deep-sea explorer, amigo! He appeared one day out of the blue. See here!" Stanley ducks away from the window for a few seconds. Mark hears rustling and scraping as something is shoved aside - and Stanley tumbles back with an old newspaper in hand, pressing it to the glass. The paper is called Rapture Tribune and the heading below it reads He Who Found Rapture: Everything We Know About Johnny Topside.

Mark's eyes widen, but the feeling of camaraderie weakens at the sight of the publication date. The article is well over ten years old. Johnny Topside is probably long dead – or transformed into one of those Splicers.

"There! Penned by yours truly." Stanley puffs out his chest, "Caused something of a stir when he turned up. Local celebrity. A hero."

Mark only gets to read a few lines - a hit with the ladies who admire his quiet, mysterious - when Stanley thrusts the paper away and replaces it with another, this time with the heading Where Is Johnny Topside? 

"This one was on the stands for a day before Ryan pulled the story, making this sorta...exclusive, I guess. Special edition. Once Johnny was off the streets, well, Ryan didn't want any more buzz about him, see. Sweep him nice and neat under the rug, nice and quiet behind bars. Ryan thought he was a spook and if Ryan says so, it is so. Hey, wanna read? It's good if I do say so myself."

Stanley clearly has an obsession.

"Is he still alive?"

“Oh sure!” Stanley laughs, a short, sharp laugh. “Well, uh, in a manner of speaking."

"Meaning?"

Stanley breaks his gaze for a second, and promptly changes the subject. "Say, do all you topside folks have spines of steel?"

In Mark's peripheral, something flickers red. Whoosh.

"Cause you're gonna need it."

Mark hears a cackling scream and something else like a gust of wind, followed quickly by another dozen. Mark turns in time to dodge the storm of fire soaring his way. Inside the booth, Stanley yelps and ducks his head, but the glass protects him. Mark fumbles for his gun, searching for the attacker.

Another whoosh. A Splicer appears on top of the train-car, stepping out of a cloud of red dust. Mark dives to avoid another blaze and rolls painfully down the steps. He twists to get a look at the Splicer, but it's gone. He crawls along the floor, boots skidding in the slime and ocean crud, until he's pressed against the train schedule sign. He lifts up his gun. Point and shoot. He'd shot a gun before, back in the war... and the thought of the war is enough to make him dizzy.

The Splicer reappears in front of him.

It's then when Mark remembers he has no ammo.

He freezes.

A shot cracks the air. The Splicer swings over and hits the ground, her head a mangled mess.

Sinclair stands in the open train-car door and holsters his pistol. "I hate to say I told you so, but..."

"Don't say it." Mark pushes himself to his feet.

"Nice shot, Gus!" Stanley says, wringing his hands.

"Hello, Stanley." Sinclair says, dryly, "Don't mind my friend here. He's been in the Tate Merlot and gone and worked his grey cells loose." He ignores Mark's spluttering, "He has grand delusions of being from the surface, poor thing. All of it is nonsensical wittering. Sorry to get your hopes up." He closes a hand around Mark's forearm, looking at him pointedly, "Come back to the train, kid. We can't be out here."

Mark concedes, letting Sinclair pull him back to the train.

Stanley calls after them, "You oughta tell your friend about what you did to Topside, Gus!" 

Sinclair does a full body twitch. By that point, his hand is resting on Mark's shoulder, so Mark feels it ripple through him. Hearing Stanley's words, that hand feels like a cold iron clasp leading him into a cell. He expects Sinclair to speak, but he doesn't, and that beat of silence screams admission.

"Then maybe, uh," Stanley goes on, "he won't go wandering where you don't want."

Sinclair's hand tightens as he looks over his shoulder at Stanley. "Like I said, my friend here is drunk."

They enter the train, and Mark waits until the train door closes before he swipes Sinclair's hand away and whirls to face him. "Is everyone from the surface just a commodity here?"

It takes a second for Sinclair to look at him. The man's face has gone pale and he seems, for a moment, trapped somewhere far away - a feeling Mark knows all too well - before he glances at Mark and gives a wry smile.  "Stanley an' me have history and it's not pretty. He's gotten a little big for his boots while ruling the park, I imagine. Don't let him soil our friendship."

Mark folds his arms. "I don't care about your history with Poole. I'm talking about the hundreds of people taken from the surface, Maybe you know a few? The first was in 1946 and -"

"They weren't taken, they were invited. And while we're on the topic, you're better off not blabbering to people about who you are and where you came from. Why if Lamb knew you're crawling around here she'd -" He breaks off, wincing, "Let's just say folks who aren't invited don't get treated so kindly."

"Like Johnny Topside?"

Sinclair leans back. "You're a prying son of a gun, aren't you, Meltzer? I figure that's how you got your detective gig."

The words strike something sore inside Mark's heart. He feels his expression shutter. It was, after all, his tenacity to find the missing girls that caused the Big Sister to target his darling Cindy. Amanda had certainly thought so when she divorced him.

For a few moments, they stare at each other - Mark, glaring, his anger now turned to shame, and Sinclair, expression cool but eyes narrowed. There's a part of Mark telling him not to push so hard, that part that sounds like Amanda. After all, Sinclair has offered him transport out of Dionysus Park and Chief is a means to cure Cindy. He has nothing to gain from starting arguments. Sinclair and Stanley may not be spliced up, but they're still Rapture citizens and thus his righteousness is lost on them anyway.

And Sinclair had saved his life just now.

Mark drops his glare, "As you said earlier, I have my fair share of ignorance."

"That I did."

"I owe you thanks, at least. For saving me."

That seems to startle him. He rubs his neck. "Well now... you're welcome, sport." He moves quickly into the second car. Mark ducks in after him, watching as he rummages through a crate in the back.

After a moment, Sinclair tosses a first aid kit under-arm to him. “Patch yourself up, kid.”

Mark wrinkles his nose. “I’m rather certain I’m older than you.”

“If that’s true, you look as fresh as a daisy, sugar.”

“I’m 46. And yourself?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know," Sinclair says, smirking. Mark opens his mouth to protest but stops when Sinclair raises three fingers. “I’ll take that instead of my third question.”

Mark chuckles. “All right.”

The peaceful moment of camaraderie is soon interrupted by Stanley's voice playing through the display. “That’s it!” He tells Chief. “Hey, come on back. I've unlocked the train for ya!" Right on cue, there's a resounding clunk from the station doors. It appears Stanley is a man of his word.

"Sounds like chief has handled all those Little Sisters. Shouldn’t be long now before we set off.” Sinclair sits down with a sigh, reaching for another cigarette.

Mark sits opposite him just as another voice speaks.

"Delta,"

It’s Sofia Lamb, sounding somehow soft and stern at the same time. They hear her voice twice: First, from the PA system outside, and again, as it plays through the camera on Chief's helmet, at a second’s delay, "Our conflict of interest seems to be upsetting Eleanor. For her sake, I have made it clear to these men that you are not to suffer. I accept full responsibility for any anger you may experience before you die."

Mark thinks a couple of things in quick succession. First, what's delta? Second, who's Eleanor? The first question is quickly answered when a slew of those disappearing-reappearing Splicers converge on Chief and attack him. Which leads to the third thought God damn Sofia Lamb.

"Aw hell." Sinclair grapples for his radio, "Doc Lamb's turnin' up the heat, chief! Head on back to the train station, let's hit the trail!"

Chief starts running. If the onslaught of Splicers isn't bad enough, there comes another sound. It's so loud that the camera briefly loses focus whenever it sounds - a horrible shrieking that Mark has grown oh-so-familiar with. The Big Sister.

Courage, or stupidity, seizes him. He looks around and spots a box of armour-piercing bullets. This time – this time! He loads them into his pistol. Sinclair, whose eyes are fixed on the screen, only turns when the pistol chamber clicks shut.

Their eyes meet.

Sinclair pales. "I know what you're thinking, sport, and it's a bad idea."

"Make her mad, you said."

"She'll kill you."

"She took my little girl."

He shakes his head. "I ain't going after you. Houdini Splicers are one thing, but that – no, thank you, I quite enjoy breathing."

"I won't ask you to save my life again, Mr Sinclair."

"You're mad. You're madder than Steinman. No, madder than Cohen!"

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr Sinclair."

"Mark!"

Mark is already out of the train and running towards the screams.

 

---

 

Notes:

References:

Mark knows about Andrew Ryan from The Vanishing, which refers to the disappearance of people from 1946 to 1952, all people who went to Rapture when it was first built. The Vanishing led to the creation of an organisation called the International Order Of The Pawns, with the goal of finding Rapture.

Mark's old contact at the ONI is a man called Roscoe Inman.

Tollevue Hospital is a psychiatric facility Mark ends up in. He goes twice, the first time because of a mental breakdown he suffered after losing Cindy, and the second time to find a man inside.

Mark is 46, born in 1922. Out of interest, Sinclair is 54 though I like to think he looks younger due to being pampered. That, and Mark has stress wrinkles.

 

Chapter 3

Notes:

Warning: Violence, blood, needles.

It's easy to find Chief. Mark just follows the sound of battle.

There's screaming in the distance. He breathes in deep and runs out of the station, through the glass tunnels and dark corridors, until he finds Lamb's Garden. Chief is there, in the middle of the room, fighting his way through, more formidable than a tank. The hailing gunfire makes Mark freeze, his heart clenching and fluttering.

"Who's that?" A woman shouts, "Someone new?"

Mark shakes himself and draws his pistol, looking all around. It's so dark that it takes him a moment to spot the Splicer coming his way and by that time he's too slow to react. She slams a wrench against his back and knocks him off balance. He drops the pistol, tucking in, and rolling to get out of the way. The Splicer, no doubt once a beautiful woman, has a face full of surgical scars and a snarling, wolf-like grin. Her frock is torn and bloodied, exposing swollen knees.

"Oh, darling, darling, darling," she says, creeping in closer, "where are you going? Be a gentleman, would you, and lift up my skirt while I…" She launches and Mark jolts aside. The wrench lodges in between the spikes of a stiff coral plant. The woman pulls, but it's stuck, "Blast it! Infernal thing!"

Cracking a smile, Mark turns to grab his pistol.

Except someone has beat him to it. 

Damn Splicers!

This one has a torn cloth wrapped around one eye, though it does little to obscure what the ADAM has done to him. He lets out a cackle, points the pistol at Mark's head - and then lets out a gasp, and that's it, as he's struck in the head with a spear and launched into the wall.

"How dare you!" screams the woman, "Why, I…" And she's dead too. Another spear, straight through her eye, and the thrust of it not only flings her back but dislodges the wrench too.

Mark is grateful his stomach is empty.

Chief runs over, taking the spears from the bodies and reloading them into a speargun. With a low growl, he turns to Mark and for a second Mark wonders if he recognizes him at all.

"It's me!" Mark raises his hands.

Chief swaps out the speargun for a... is that a rivet gun?  and lifts it, pointing it at Mark.

"Wait!"

A single shot whizzes past Mark's ear - straight into a Splicer running at him from behind. And, Lord knows how, the Splicer only goes up in flames and takes a beeline for the pond in the middle of the garden. Mark lets out a breath, hefting his eyebrows. Chief growls again, pointedly, as he steps around Mark to shoot another round to finish the Splicer off. The message is clear: Go back.

For a moment, Mark considers it, until the room shakes with another unearthly shriek and the doors on the far side of the garden open revealing a red light like something from the depths of Hell. There are still plenty of Splicers in the room at that point, but they cower and scream and soon it becomes apparent why. The Big Sister doesn't care who she kills. She strikes any Splicer who gets too close, driving a giant needle clean through their chests, and hurling them aside like broken toys.

This - this Mark had not got the chance to see before. On the surface, the Sister was but a fleeting shadow, quick and invisible, whereas here she could be studied. Mark quickly takes in her strength, her anger, and thinks Christ, Sinclair was right. What in the blazes am I doing here? a thought soon drowned out by his thundering heart. Chief fires a couple of pathetic rounds from a machine gun which seem to bounce off her. Not only does she have impossible strength, but also some kind of telekinesis. She lifts her arms and all the rocks and corpses in the room rise and swarm around her.

Chief grabs Mark by the waist, pulling him flush against his chest, and twists so the debris strikes him square in the back. They buckle, but Chief catches himself before he falls, keeping Mark safe and untouched beneath him. Rolling off him, Chief fires a hail fire of rounds. The Sister hisses. When Mark next looks, she's flipped away a couple of paces and Chief is holding out his hand to help him to his feet. Mark takes it, and Chief hoists him up and pushes him behind his back.

The Splicers don't seem to stop. Even with the Sister taking half of them out, they pour into the room from all sides. Lamb seems not to care how many soldiers she loses in this fight.

Chief backs them towards the steps, shooting as he does so. He gives Mark a gentle nudge, motioning him to go up, up and onto the balcony where he would be sheltered from the fighting. Mark runs the first couple of steps until he's around the corner, and from there, watches Chief push back into the heart of the battle. The Sister, as if in some temper tantrum, stabs a couple more Splicers before rounding on Chief once more. The remaining Splicers follow her lead, either ignorant or unbothered by her slaughter. Whatever their feelings, if they had any, Lamb had sent them after Chief and Chief alone.

Mark bites his lip. The Sister holds the key to finding Cindy. I can't sit here and do nothing.

He scans the ground and spots his pistol, lying near the entrance he came in. Next to it is the Splicer that Chief killed, blood pooling onto the ground from the hole in his head. Mark rushes over. The wrench is there too, having spun this way when it was dislodged from the coral.

Mark glances over his shoulder.

All the Splicers are dead now.

Chief hits the Big Sister with a bolt of electricity from the palm of his hand, lighting up her and the pond water she's standing him. Her joints lock up. Mark hollers, raising his fist - not that either would be able to hear him in all this chaos.

Though Chief manages to deal a little more damage - or, at least, Mark hopes so - the Big Sister isn't subdued for long. It's but a moment before she is moving again, though she seems slower than before.

Mark grabs the pistol, lifts it...

Do it. Do it for Cindy. 

His finger is poised on the trigger, but not moving.

Chief is pinned against the dead tree in the middle of the pond. The Big Sister launches at him and there's no space to dodge - and Mark gets a terrible cold thought. If there's no Chief, there's no cure, and if there's no cure, there's no Cindy.

Chief yells with agony as the Sister stabs him. Once. Twice. 

There's no more time.

"Dammit all!" Mark tosses the pistol aside, picks up the wrench instead and charges, screaming like a barbarian. He strikes the Sister across the head with all his might and knocks her clean off Chief. She lets out a startled cry and flips to recover her footing. Mark is not so elegant. The force of the swing sends him stumbling over the side of the pond steps. The wrench flies out of his hands. By the time he turns, the Sister has spun on her heel and is facing him. She shrieks, the sound so piercing that Mark's teeth ache.

But his strike has given Chief time to recover. Chief shoots a wave of frost from his fist, freezes the Sister's joints so she can't move, and then jams his machine gun against the Sister's chest and fires a slew of bullets until the Sister collapses.

Mark waits.

Chief waits.

She doesn't move again.

"Well then!" Mark's voice comes out in a sharp burst, "I suppose reasoning with her was out of the question after all."

Chief whips round to him.

Mark nearly buckles. This creature isn't your enemy, he reminds himself, The enemy is dead. He stares hard at the Sister. Suddenly he can see all the little girls kidnapped over the past year, stolen from their beds, from their homes, their watchful eyes haunting him at night; all of it because of this creature. He'd chased her across the world. For the past year, the world treated him like he was crazy. It's hard to believe she is dead at his feet. Crouching, he looks closer. He hadn't a proper look before.

He pats his jacket for his notebook and finds it in his inside pocket; he remembers moving it from the breast pocket to keep it dry. Inside is the photograph he managed to capture of the Big Sister while he was on the coast of Saint John. His photograph is but a frightening, blurry shape, but he can pick out the features now: The round helmet, the giant needle on the creature's arm, and the tank on its back.

He notes down the description and the name 'Big Sister' on a blank page and shuffles closer to search the creature. As he does so, he hears Chief wander off, but a quick glance assures him that he isn't going far. Looking back at the Big Sister, he runs his gaze over her armored body. He isn't sure what he expects to find, certainly not a map to Cindy's whereabouts, but he'd hoped to find a little more than the stray dollars and bullets.

He puts his notebook away again. When he turns, he startles: Chief is holding Mark's abandoned pistol in one hand and in the other a handful of rounds.

"Ah -" Mark begins.

With surprising dexterity, Chief flips open the chamber to load it, only to see it already stocked. The pause that follows feels rather pointed.

"About that -" Mark reconsiders speaking and congratulates himself on a decision well-made. He feels abruptly like a small boy in front of his disappointed and bewildered father, knowing that an explanation is in order but would likely make the situation more awkward. Instead, he focuses on how well Chief knows his way around a weapon. Are all these 'Big Daddies' trained like military machines?

At last, Chief slams the chamber shut and holds the pistol out to him.

Clearing his throat, Mark takes it and holsters it, "Thank you."

That isn't the end of it. Chief bends, picks up the wrench, and makes a show of gripping it in both hands. He gestures at Mark with it, as if to say Like this, see?

"I know," Mark says.

Apparently, his reply isn't convincing enough. Chief pokes him hard in the chest.

"Ow! Yes, alright," he rubs the sore spot, "point made."

The radio crackles. "Point rather understated if you ask me," Sinclair says. "Now, if you're quite finished with your little suicide mission, I suggest you head on back so we can get a-moving. Try not to get yourselves killed, and by yourselves, I mean you specifically, Mark." There's a ripple of anger in his voice. "Why, if I'd 'ad known you would have hightailed it into the jaws of hell, I wouldn't have wasted a bullet on the Houdini."

"I didn't mean to sully all your hard work," Mark says dryly.

There's a clamoring from the other end of the garden and, in the distance, a couple of shots go off. Chief presses the wrench to Mark’s chest with a firm growl. This isn't over. Mark grips the wrench tight. There's no point lying to himself anymore; the pistol is out of the question. He hadn't been able to fire it since he was twenty-one. But, by God, he'll beat those Splicers within an inch of their lives. He nods to Chief.

Chief grunts back.

They exit Lamb's Garden. A few Splicers attack them in the promenade, but Chief makes quick work of them. Their route back to the station brings them past the carousel where Mark lost Cindy. While Chief stops by one of those bizarre 'Gatherer's Garden' machines, Mark stands watch - but can't help but look at the carousel. His heart hurts.

A gentle tap on his shoulder snaps him to attention. Chief, for all his strength, could be remarkably delicate.

Mark furrows his brow as Chief holds out a stout bottle filled with glowing green goo. "What is this?"

"That's concentrated ADAM, sugar," Sinclair chimes in helpfully, "Lab-tested and approved by yours truly at Sinclair Solutions. Will give you all kinds of…"

"Spare me your PSA! I'm not touching that ADAM stuff."

"Hmm. Well, I'll try my darnedest not to be offended. Seriously, Mark, if you're going to keep runnin' headlong into danger, you're gonna need a little more punch, especially if you're sticking with us. We're going right into the belly of the beast, friend, and you won't make it if your only card is sweet lady luck."

Right on cue, the machine sings, "Smart daddies get spliced!" 

Hearing that hurts almost as much as seeing the carousel does. If he had been a smart daddy would Cindy still be with him? He clenches his jaw, "...what will it do to me?"

"Lift that bottle to the camera, Chief, show me the label." Chief does. Sinclair hums, "Well it ain't no doozy, but it'll do you a world of good. Excellent choice, Chief. It's a gene tonic by the swell name of Armored Shell. It'll make your skin tough as nails - don't make that face! Your skin will still feel the same as it does now. Any sweet lover of yours waitin' for you back home won't know the difference. Sinclair Solutions makes marriages, not breaks them."

Too late for that. Mark's eye twitches. If Amanda were here, what would she say? No doubt, whatever he decides would be wrong in her eyes. In the last hour, he's had so many close calls that not taking the ADAM just feels like an act of stubbornness and pride. On the other hand, taking it means he profits off the suffering of those kidnapped girls, off of Cindy, and he's complicit in the system that took her from him. Would he be able to look her in the eye when he saw her again?

You won't be able to look her in the eye at all if you're dead. Mark takes a breath, Anything for Cindy. He takes the bottle and Chief hands him an empty syringe. He swallows. That needle is huge.

"Just push that hypo below the skin, sugar," Sinclair says. "All gentle, like. Don't ram it in like some horny brute..."

"Shut up, Mr Sinclair."

Chief rumbles.

Mark pushes the needle into the bottle and pulls back the plunger, wincing as the green goo fills the syringe. He breathes out, tugs the needle from the bottle, and for a second flounders - until Chief takes the bottle for him.

"Thank you," he blurts, grateful and ashamed at once. "Alright." He positions the needle above his wrist, mutters a resigned, "Here we go," and pushes it in. It doesn't hurt, not physically. Truth is, he's numb. He watches the goo disappear into his skin and tries to ignore the feeling that he's taken a backhand to his daughter's face.

He expects - well, he doesn't know what to expect, but he feels nothing. Nothing but his own guilt. He tosses the syringe aside.

"He picked you out a nice one," says Sinclair, "Most of them have one hell of a kick."

Mark eyes Chief, as he turns to move up the stairs past the carousel. Gentle, protective and considerate, he's far from the monster Mark first assumed, and he found himself growing fond and ever more curious. He shifts the wrench from one hand to the other and follows.

Chief pauses at the top of the stairs to reload his shotgun. He carries, amazingly, seven weapons: two on his calves, two on his thighs, and the other three across his broad shoulders, though there hardly seems room for them. His back is also occupied by four cylinder tanks. The smaller of the two, one red, one blue, feed directly into his skin through IV tubes, no doubt supplying the creature with nourishment and a steady supply of EVE. EVE, Mark had learned shortly after his arrival, was some kind of chemical that jump-starts ADAM-induced superpowers. He rubs his fingertips together, not sure if he'll need some EVE for his newly-acquired durable skin.

As they step into the piano bar, Sofia Lamb speaks once again.

"Through ADAM, Eleanor will become the Daughter of the People - a true Utopian. Brilliant beyond measure, but utterly selfless. As she ascends, Delta, you and I will seem as dogs, circling and snarling amid the afterbirth."

"Lamb seems to have it out for you," Mark says.

Chief - Delta? - throws him a bottle of Hop-Up Cola he finds behind the counter and gives a dismissive wave.

Mark opens the bottle and takes a sip. It's long gone flat, but he's so thirsty. "This 'daughter of the people,'" he murmurs, keenly watching his object of study for a reaction, "I've heard it before. Or seen it, rather, scrawled on the walls. She seems to be some sort of Christ-figure. I suppose that makes Lamb God. She certainly seems to think so."

'Delta' hums. He raises his speargun and shoots an incoming Splicer. The giant helmet he wears restricts him of any flexible shoulder movement. When he turns, he can only turn his whole body. Mark notices the engraving on his hand, the symbol for delta. Of course. But then is Delta a name, or a brand? Rapture seemed to churn these creatures out by the dozen so the latter was more likely.

"Delta," he tests, and the creature pauses. "Sinclair neglected to mention your name."

Delta flexes his hand.

"Though he did mention you were searching for a little girl." They exit the piano bar by the leftmost door to begin making their way through the gallery entrance. Mark keeps talking, thinking aloud more than making conversation, "Not a Little Sister, clearly. It's Eleanor, isn't it?"

"Eleanor, Eleanor, Eleanor," sings a male, echoing though the gallery, and Delta goes tense. "We shall ascend through her, she is our vessel to salvation, we shall be reborn." A chorus follows. Ten, perhaps more, voices all chanting with the first, "We are the Family, and non-believers are not welcome here."

Here we go again, Mark readies himself.

Seconds later, they come parading up the stairs. One of them is holding a Tommy gun and fires an uncontrollable blaze of bullets. They ricochet off Delta's suit.

Mark goes rigid. He feels the bullets hit him, but doesn't see blood. For a second, he thinks they're shooting rubber pellets, but the rattling of shells hitting the floor tells him otherwise. The gene tonic works! The bullets sting like someone throwing rocks. He charges and clobbers the offender across the head. The Splicer, the idiot, tries to smack him with the butt of his gun but Mark gets in three more hits before it has the chance.

Twenty minutes later, Mark is covered in blood that isn't his and panting. The silence that follows is too unnerving to be blissful. "Is that all of them?" he asks. He's a little unsteady on his feet and Delta rests a hand on his shoulder. Mark doesn't stiffen this time. He even manages to smile at Delta. "Well," he rolls his shoulders, "That was certainly something."

He examines himself. His clothes are torn with bullet holes, but his skin is remarkably unscathed. What a world, where a bullet leaves just a scratch. It's easy to see why the citizens got so easily hooked on this stuff. That's why the kidnapping started. They needed the girls to harvest the ADAM from the blood to meet market demand. Mark's gut coils. God, Cindy, I am so sorry.

Delta seems to notice his change in demeanour and mewls softly.

Mark dips away and hurries down the remaining stairs. "So," he says, distractedly, "You and Sinclair are planning to steal Christ from a church full of these raving lunatics." he looks at Delta with raised brows, "And Sinclair seems to think I'm mad."

He laughs, and he swears Delta laughs too. The doors to the station slide open, muffling the sound, and Mark has no time to think on it because Sofia Lamb speaks again, voice coming through the PA once more.

“Subject Delta, I have known for years of Stanley’s betrayal here, and had forgiven him," she says. "But in compromising Eleanor now, he seals his fate. You see, it was Stanley who turned you into Ryan."

Delta freezes.

"He is responsible for what you have become. The security booth is open now. You may have your revenge.”

Mark stops, confused and unsure, but when Delta presses on ahead, he scrambles to follow. The train is in sight, directly ahead, but instead of moving towards it, Delta hesitates just before the platform, lingering on the doorstep to the security booth. Sure enough, the door is open.

“Sweet Jesus...Lamb knew…?” Stanley says, voice shaking. He backs away from the window, “And she just let me hang myself out to… Oh, God! Now, now, now, c’mon, pal! The - the train’s ready. Just...just let me live!”

Delta stands, almost completely still except for the heavy breathing rocking his shoulders. Not even while he was fighting did he breathe so hard.

Mark glances at the train, at Delta, and at Stanley cowering in the booth. He has a gut feeling and he doesn't like it.

Stanley spots him. "You! Tell him I was a fan! How was I to know that Ryan would lock him up? I just wrote a goddamn paper, I swear!" 

There it is. Mark's heart thuds twice in the space of one beat. Delta is Johnny Topside. Mark doesn't understand how or why, but it's the truth. He looks at Delta - seven foot tall, impossibly strong, and wonders if Rapture can turn sweet little girls into demons, then what can it do to a man? The answer, of course, is right in front of him. The question that remains is why.

Delta makes a decision. He steps into the security booth.

“Oh, Christ almighty!” Stanley whimpers. “I - I swear it wasn’t personal, okay?! Don’t. Don’t! Please!”

Mark itches to step forward, to go in there and ask his questions and lay down all the facts. Just how deep does this nightmare go? What is his sweet baby girl in the middle of? How many victims has Rapture claimed? If someone doesn't stop Delta, then who will give Mark those answers? His shoes scuff on the floor as he steps forward.

A hand closes around the crook of his elbow.

Sinclair. When Mark faces him, there isn't so much as a hint of his sleaze, only seriousness. "Come onto the train, Mark."

"But…" He has questions, so many questions, so many terrible possibilities lining up in his head, the clues and implications slotting together. A year's work behind him, and a lifetime's still a head.

"Old Andy Ryan used to say 'our choices make us.' Now I never cared much for what Ryan used to say, but when it came to that, I agree wholeheartedly." Sinclair's mouth sets in a grim line, "When a man has all his choices taken from him, you should allow the ones he can get. I won't ever let anyone rob that man of himself again, you hear me?"

Mark feels a swell of respect for Sinclair. They step onto the train, leaving Delta to deal with Stanley how he sees fit.

 

---

 

Notes:

References:

The first time Mark sees the Big Sister is on the coast of St John. He mentions in this letter that he tracked the Big Sister there and manages to get this photograph. The Big Sister follows him home and takes Cindy.

 

Chapter 4

Mark remembers a time he was facing a man who wronged him. 

It was the day after he was discharged from St. Ignatius General Hospital, April 25th 1968, what felt like a life time ago now. The night before he'd tried to capture the Big Sister by the Hudson River, but all he'd gotten was three broken ribs and a broken leg. Amanda, kind as she was, helped him, carrying his belongings, and walking with him into town so he could catch a bus.

On their way, they passed a bar.

"I need to borrow a telephone," Amanda said, "Then I can ring my parents. Let them know you're out of hospital." She stepped into the bar, and Mark hopped in after her. "They still think of you, you know? They always do. Now, where's..." She approached the bartender and asked about the telephone. He directed her to a room in the back.

Mark waited by the door, struggling to get used to his crutches, and gritting his teeth against the pain in his ribs. He’d taken painkillers, though they didn’t seem to do much good.

"Well, if it ain't the PI himself."

Mark glanced towards the sound of the voice and saw Detective Benjamin Stango, the police officer investigating Cindy's disappearance, sitting at the end of the bar. Stango looked him up and down, "What the heck happened to you? Get beat up?"

"Accident," he replied coolly.

"Accident. Sure, sure." Stango stood up when Mark attempted to follow Amanda and blocked his way. "I'm interested to hear more. What say you come down to the station later this afternoon? Answer a few questions. See if we can't get to the bottom of all this."

"I'm not exactly in a fit state to be going anywhere."

"And yet here you are."

Mark paused. "Let me pass."

Stango frowned. "You're rotten, you know that? You're not fooling anyone with this sympathy act. I know you're behind it. You took your little girl." 

Mark's eyebrow twitched. "I beg your pardon?"

"I know a guilty conscience when I see one, Meltzer. It's written all over your face."

Mark's breath rushed from his lungs. He teetered back into the bar and rocked a nearby glass bottle. Pain bled across his chest. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to bring the bottle to Stango's face. He would have, if he hadn't needed both his crutches to stay upright.

And if Mark had known that this was just the start of a campaign of callous phone messages, stalking, harassment, and a tirade of other accusatory behavior, then he would have brought that bottle to Stango's face and beaten him twice over.

Luckily Amanda appeared at his side. "Detective, if you please. I need to get him home now."

Detective Stango had the decency to look ashamed. "Begging your pardon, ma'am."

They left the bar and went a little way down the sidewalk.

Mark hobbled ahead, muttering, "How could he think that I would hurt my daughter?"

"Mark..."

"I've done more for this investigation than anyone! Just because the world is blind to what's right in front of them doesn't mean I'm crazy!"

"Mark."

"And it damn well doesn't mean I laid a hand on Cindy. What has he done since she was taken anyway? Nothing!"

"I want a divorce."

Mark stopped talking. He looked at her.

"It's time," she said, smiling sadly. "You never liked me anyway."

They hadn't lived together for weeks. She'd only come to help him out of hospital because she knew he had no one else, and he loved her for that. To say he didn't like her was just...

"That's not true."

She laughed. "Isn't it? I had to practically force you to do your marital duties. All these years, Mark, and I've felt so unloved by you. You never even tried. I thought maybe you were a... you know... a homosexual, a homophile. But you're not, are you? I watch your eyes. You never look at anyone. Well, except Cindy."

Mark clenched his fists. "You're not accusing me of..."

"No," she interrupted. "I know you better than that."

He relaxed somewhat. It was true that their marriage had been on rocky ground long before Cindy's disappearance, but at least Amanda didn't think him capable of something as unthinkable as that.

"I don't know what you are, Mark," she said. "Did you know I bumped into Mary Buford the other week? She said to me 'Mark and I used to go steady back in school, and he was ever so odd. I think the reason he's so obsessed with flying saucers is because he's secretly an extra-terrestrial.' And everyone laughed. I was so embarrassed. That's not even the worst of it. Everywhere I go, everyone wants to ask me about my UFO-spotting husband. They want to know how crazy you are. For God's sake, Mark, you were admitted into a lunatic asylum. I can't do it anymore. I can't listen to everyone talk about you and talk about Cindy." Tears crept into her eyes, "She's gone, Mark. I'm sorry. I know you don't want to accept it. But she's really gone."

He wasn’t shocked. Perhaps he was too drained, too depressed, to feel anything. Or perhaps it was because this day was inevitable. Their matrimony had survived only by sheer momentum. He'd stayed out of fear, knowing that people always saw the little oddness inside him, and marriage was a feeble mask, and Amanda had stayed because her parents didn't want an unmarried daughter.

Either way, he couldn't put her through this anymore. She'd given up, that was her prerogative, but he knew what he saw on the beach was real. If he gave up, he'd lose Cindy forever.

Amanda was right. It was time to end it.

Mark took a deep breath. "Alright."

If she was expecting more of a fight than that, she didn't show it. She didn't look surprised at all.

"But I do love you," he said. "I'm sorry I made you feel like I don't."

"I know."

"It'll be easy to annul, I think," he murmured. "Just tell the court about my reputation." The exact phrasing that ended up being used was 'Through both deed and neglect, Mr Meltzer did recklessly endanger the safety and well-being of his spouse and family.' Mark didn't argue. It was the truth.

Amanda wrung her hands. "I'll stay with you until you're healed."

"I'll be fine."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I'll be fine. I'll stay at my office in Montauk. I can get around easily enough."

Never mind that his broken ribs ached terribly.

She pursed her lips. "If that's what you want. Lord, I don't even know how you managed to get yourself so banged up in the first place."

Mark opened his mouth, but she shook her head. She didn't want to hear about how he'd fought a metal monster on the beach. She wouldn't believe him anyway.

****

Sinclair switches off the display and the radio while Delta confronts Stanley. A few minutes later, Delta steps onto the train. The train-car shakes with the force of it. And then the train pulls away from the station.

Mark interlocks his fingers and presses them to his mouth. He thinks. He thinks about Cindy. And Stango. About Amanda. About Johnny Topside. About how a year on and everything he thought he knew was proving to be minuscule. He glances at Sinclair, who watches the doors to the train-car, bouncing his knee.

The train passes out of Dionysus Park and cuts smoothly through the water. A few seconds of silence pass before Sinclair notices Mark is watching him and gives a sultry smile and a wink.

Removing his hands away from his mouth, Mark says, "You should talk to him."

"What are you yammerin' on about, surface?"

"He's your partner. He needs you."

“Ain’t you sweet.” Sinclair huffs, taking a cigarette from his cigarette case and putting it between his teeth. “Got you pegged from the start, sugar. Don’t you worry. Kid's as tough as the suit he wears."

“Perhaps.” Mark hums, watching him. "Or perhaps you're too frightened to talk to him."

"Me? Frightened of him? You hit your head out there, Mark?"

"I can see how guilty you feel."

Sinclair tuts, rising. "You’re bein’ a little presumptuous, don’t you think? Suppose you reckon you have me pegged just as much as I have you.” He moves to the back of the train-car, and crouches in front of the supply crates, "Now hush, or you'll make me lose count of our inventory. Wouldn't want that, now we have an extra mouth to feed, would we?"

Mark rolls his eyes. He tugs his notebook out of his jacket pocket, determined to review his notes before he meets with Lamb, yet finds his gaze lingering on the train-car doors. Someone had to talk to Delta, and if not Sinclair then... He claps his notebook shut, puts it away, and walks through the doors into the front car.

Delta stands hauntingly still, staring straight ahead.

Oh, but that isn't his name, is it? Now he's a serial number, Delta. Johnny, the press once called him. What would his mother have called him? Johnathan, perhaps. John? If that was even his real name at all. A man, so much like Mark himself, and now not a man at all.

And what is he supposed to say? I'm sorry your humanity was taken away from you? I'm sorry you had to find out that way?

As Mark inches closer, he notices Delta's fists are clenched and he's kneading an empty space on the console. Mark clears his throat. Delta looks at him - and looks again, no doubt expecting Sinclair.

Delta waits a moment, but when Mark fails to find his words, he turns back to the window. Back to pushing his knuckles into the metal as if he could crumple it like paper.

Mark steels himself. "I came to apologize."

When Delta whirls to face him, the whole train-car shakes. Mark breathes sharply, straightening his spine, but Delta moves no further and Mark realises that he meant no harm. He quickly clears his throat.

"When we met, I was rude to you. You offered me aid and protected me as you guided me here, and I wasn't grateful. I'm sorry for that. And thank you."

Delta does nothing.

Mark feels himself wilt. He folds his arms. "Listen, I - I don't claim to understand your past or even you as you are, but I know enough to connect the dots. Stanley sold you out, and Sinclair..."

Delta stiffens.

"Tell him what you did to Johnny Topside," Stanley had said. Does Mark have the right to babble his unproven theories, sow seeds of doubt between these two men? He backpedals. "...well, I don't know his involvement. If his shame is anything to go by, he feels somewhat responsible at least. Perhaps he was directly involved. Perhaps he knew about Johnny Topside the way everyone else seemed to. Whatever the case, I think he's frightened of confronting you about it."

Delta grunts. It sounds like a question.

Mark unfolds his arms, "Of upsetting you. Angering you. I don't know." It's blatant that whatever Sinclair feels for Delta, it's rooted deep. "I had a friend who acted in a similar way. After I returned from the War, I -" He pauses, removes the pistol from his belt and looks at it. He holds it in both hands and breathes slow. "I can't fire this. I have many times before but now I can't... because when I fire it, for a moment, I'm no longer in the present. I go back to the War and to the things I did. Who I was."

He glances up.

Delta shifts towards him slowly with his hand outstretched. Mark lets him take the pistol and watches with a slight tilt as Delta checks the chamber. Delta gives that same grunt.

Uncertain, Mark shakes his head.

Delta points to the chamber, at the cartridge inside.

He's noticed that Mark had stolen. "I took some ammunition. I was desperate and empty and -"

Delta makes a sound.

I was empty.

"Ah. You're right. I did fire it before. You would have heard, I suppose." He licks his lips, "That was different. Cindy was there. I think a... fatherly instinct took over. I've not been able to fire at any other time."

And he'd failed to protect Cindy, so what good was he, really? He would be dead if not for Delta.

Point made, Delta passes the pistol back and gives Mark a pat on the shoulder. He's surprisingly gentle, as if to say It's alright or You can do it.

Mark sighs, "What I'm trying - and remarkably failing - to say is that thinking about who I was brings me a lot of pain. My friend was aware of this and tried their hardest to avoid the subject - but I don't agree with that." He clutches the pistol tighter, "I hold onto this not out of hope that I will one day be able to fire it without choking, but because who I was is just as important as who I am. I won't deny my past. It was real, and it's a part of me. I am as much that eighteen-year-old boy in the mud as I am the forty-six-year-old man trapped under the ocean. So, I -"

With Delta so still, Mark feels a ripple of doubt. Is he just rambling nonsense to a creature who can't even comprehend it? Is he even making his point clearly? He pushes on anyway.

"We deserve not to have ourselves denied. People might think you’re a monster. Everyone back home thinks I’m a murderer. And a freak.” He clasps the pistol, “It’s the little things that matter. Things that help us feel like ourselves when others prevent us. So whichever you choose - Delta, John, Chief - I will respect it. It's the least I can do."

Mark looks up at the porthole on Delta's helmet. There's a splatter of blood on the right side and a drop slides down, depressingly, like he's crying. Mark's heart starts to pound. He's afraid, yes, but not of Delta - but of becoming something like him. Of being trapped inside that terrible suit, bolted shut, voice taken, body and bone distorted. He couldn't imagine turning into that.

He glances away, shrugging. "You don't have to choose now. Or ever if that's what you wish." He puts the pistol away and nods to Delta. He turns to leave.

Delta steps forward, touches his shoulder. When Mark looks at him, he claps the back of his hand - where the symbol is engraved.

"Delta, it is." Mark remembers that he hadn't introduced himself. "I'm Mark. It’s good to meet you."

Delta makes a soft sound.

The monster and the freak, Mark thinks dryly. What would Amanda think if she could see me now? 

Behind him, the train-car door slides open. Sinclair waltzes in, holding two tin cans in his hands and a third under his armpit. "How do ya'll feel about canned peaches for dinner?" He tosses the right-hand can up in the air and catches it. He looks at Delta, and blinks. "Aw, hell, look at you, sport." Passing a can to Delta to free up his hand, he tugs a handkerchief from his pocket and stands on his tiptoes to wipe the blood off of Delta's helmet window. "Let's get that darn mess of of ya. Reckon you'll need to see, right kid?"

Mark side-steps to give them space, eyeing the exchange with curiosity.

Sinclair sees him looking, frowns a touch, and then tosses a can of peaches in his direction. "Catch, twig."

Mark does, pulling a face at the new nickname. "Twig?"

Sinclair hums, tilts his head in Delta's direction without taking his eyes off Mark. "What do you think, chief? He look like a twig to you?"

Delta grunts.

"Two against one. Jury's out, twig."

"Well, at least I don't look like a toad."

Sinclair's jaw drops. "Wha - hey, now! That is mighty rude. And after all the kindness I've shown you." He presses his palm to his chest. "Why, I can just feel my poor, black heart breakin'."

For a second, Mark panics. Once again, he's stuck his foot in his mouth. But then there's a rumble from behind Delta's helmet, his shoulders shake, and Mark meets Sinclair's eyes, notes the way they light up, and realizes that Sinclair is trying to cheer Delta up.

Sinclair flourishes his arm. "I guess I have no choice but to drown my sorrows. Bottoms up." He taps his can of peaches against Delta's and Mark's, cracks it open with the pull ring, then swigs it like a pint of beer. 

The ridiculousness of it makes Mark chuckle. This, he thinks belatedly, is nice.

Which is enough to give him pause. He blinks, stomach twisting. He hasn't socialized like this since long before he started his investigation. He's forgotten what it's like to simply be in someone else's company. This mindless camaraderie is almost too much to bear. He turns his head, finishes eating the peaches, and wipes his mouth on the back of his sleeve.

That, it seems, is what Sinclair was waiting for. He crooks his finger at Mark. "Come on back here with me now. Let the kid eat in peace."

Oh, Mark thinks, glancing between the canned peaches in Delta's hand and the heavy-duty helmet. They leave, him first, and then Sinclair. As their backs are turned, there's a drawn-out hiss, like a steam engine depressurizing, and Mark, unable to help himself, glances back to see Delta removing his helmet. He catches a glimpse of bloated, bruised flesh, before the train-car door whooshes shut.

He sits down, pressing his fingertips together. He has a lot to think about - though, to his frustration, he can't concentrate. There's a phantom ache in his calf where the Big Sister had fractured his bone that night by the Hudson River.

On top of that, Sinclair keeps staring at him. Mark should think, after all the negative attention he'd gotten in the past year, that he wouldn't be put on edge by a stranger's glance.

"Why do you keep looking at me?"

Sinclair smirks. "What can I say? I like a handsome face."

Mark scoffs. He lies back on the bench seat and closes his eyes, determined to ignore Sinclair - and go through what he's learnt in his head.

Before he knows it he's fallen asleep. He dreams of the kidnapped girls standing in a line, of Cindy in the middle. He dreams of their eyes - watchful, always watchful. But no longer sad. Now, they're clouded yellow.

And hungry.

---

 

Notes:

References:

Mark legit got hospitalized by fighting a Big Sister, though it's implied that Big Sister attacked in self-defense only. This was after Cindy was kidnapped.

Detective Benjamin Stango spends the majority of TSITS giving Mark a hard time, stalking him and leaving him multiple phone messages which are available to listen to here.

Amanda's reason for divorcing Mark can be read here. Mark says in this letter that their marriage "survived by sheer momentum… staying together because it’s the way it's supposed to be." I took this and ran with it. I do see Mark as aroace, but there's absolutely no proof of this in canon.

I made up Mark's war backstory, but he's the right age to have been a solider so I figured why not.

Chapter 5: A Brief Interlude By A. Sinclair

Sinclair is thinking about money. This is not unusual for him. All his life he's pursued green, investing, re-investing, buying cheap, and selling double, poking his fingers in all the pies, so much that even trapped in his bolthole in Ryan Amusements, waiting on his knight, he was sitting on a velvet cushion.

But as he sits in that dirty train-car, thinking about money, he finds that he isn't just thinking of the sweet green and all the gold watches and comfy shirts he can buy, he's thinking about a affording a private island, a place for Delta where no surface folk can gawk at him, or of surgeries to get him out of that suit, if that's what he wants, and of just being free of this stinking waterlogged hellhole. And that he finds himself stuttering at. Why's he thinking so damn sentimentally? Why can't he focus on what's really important, like a steady business plan for when they get topside?

He's roused from his thoughts by a soft patter as Mark's notebook falls onto the floor. He glances up, sees how Mark's fingers have fallen loose, how his eyes are closed, and his chest is swelling and sighing.

Sinclair huffs a laugh. He pushes off his knees and rises, tucking in hands into his back pockets as he gives Mark a once-over. He snaps his fingers near Mark's ear, and when he doesn't stir, he does it again with the other. Mark doesn't react. He's practically comatose.

"Well, ain't somebody spent," he says softly. He bends and scoops up Mark's notebook and opens it up. As well as the pages being crammed with notes, there's newspaper clippings and photographs jammed in between, held down by paperclips.

He skims through it, wary that Mark could wake at any moment. He catches glimpses of Mark's obsessive, frantic thoughts. It’s downright fascinating seeing him piece together the Rapture story - part of it, anyway. Mark is fixated on the names too, having written them in block letters and circled them several times over. Camille. Ulrike. Elena. Cindy. Jennifer. Chantal. Mary. Maura. Among others.

On one page, he wrote, I dreamed about the girls again last night. All I see are their eyes, haunting me. I can't escape them even when I'm awake. I need to DO something. Tell Roscoe! He'll understand.

Sinclair feels sorry for the poor man. He's seen less depressing scrawls on the walls of Persephone's prison cells. He focuses on the name instead, "Who's Roscoe? That your sweet lover, Mark?"

Mark grunts.

Sinclair freezes, looking at Mark's face - only he hasn't woken, in fact he's snoring and looking more and more unhappy as he does, like he's struggling against the biological cannon ball chained to his ankle and dragging him into the depths of slumber. Sinclair notices a stray hair fallen over his forehead and thinks about correcting it but holds off. Instead, he tucks Mark's notebook under his armpit and leans over him. There's a bulge from something on the inside of his jacket and Sinclair shamelessly unbuttons it to have a gander.

"Don't mind me, sugar," he murmurs. "I know I said no more questions, but I'm still so gosh-darn curious about you. Sadly, I can't say it's below me to pick a man's pocket while he's sleeping, but since you and me are such good friends and all, I'll put everything exactly where I found it. Scout's honor." He opens the jacket and unfastens the inner pocket. Inside is Mark's wallet, and inside that is the man's business card.

MARK G MELTZER

PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

"Mark G Meltzer, huh?" Sinclair pauses with another thoughtful glance at Mark's face. "Care to share?"

Mark snores.

"Sorry, what was that? Didn't quite catch that."

Mark sleeps on.

"Graham," Sinclair decides after a moment. "Mark Graham Meltzer. You look like a Graham." There's nothing else of interest inside, which is disappointing, so he tucks it back into Mark's pocket and fastens his jacket again, smoothing down the front with his palm. "There you go, see? No harm done."

He shifts the notebook out from under his arm and moves to place it back on Mark's lap when a sheet of paper falls out.

"Aw blazin' hell!"

No doubt Mark is the kind of PI who knows his notes inside-out and back-to-front, and knows exactly where a little paper like that fits. Sinclair snatches it quickly off the floor. Judging by its water-wrinkles, this isn't the first time its fallen out. If that's the case, then maybe Sinclair will be alright jamming it back in any old place. And, because he can, he unfolds it for a quick peak to see if it's anything of note...

"Well I'll be damned."

It's something of note alright.

He stands so fast he nearly tips over. He runs to the train-car doors, opens them with an angry push of a button, and pushes into the front car, "Hey, kid -" he starts, and then pauses, because Delta is only just putting his helmet back on, and he catches slight of swollen, pink flesh, of the veins pressed right to the skin like they were gasping for fresh air - and maybe that's why Delta left the helmet off for as long as he did - and it all comes spinning back. What happened with Stanley. What happened after. What Mark said.

"I can see how guilty you feel."

Trust them to pick up the only stray who can see right through him. Damn private investigator alright. Nosy blither. 

He only has himself to blame. He could have kicked Meltzer out the minute Delta was gone. Better yet, let the Houdini get him. Instead, he'd only gone and invited him along and what good had that done him? Sure, Meltzer knows what the current situation is topside and could provide a little expertise to help Sinclair hustle his way into a new life - but that's all hot air. The sorry truth of it is, Sinclair invited him along because it's what Delta wanted, and these days Sinclair is inclined to do whatever makes Delta walk a little lighter.

Soft. That's what it is. Augustus Sinclair is turning soft.

Delta fixes the helmet on firmly and presses his boot on the empty can of peaches, flattening it with no effort at all. Sinclair swallows. Right. What was he thinking? As if a can full of peaches and a little banter makes right everything that's been done. He clears his throat, adjusts his rumpled shirt, and pushes the fringe of his hair back into place, as Delta turns to him and stares at him in silence.

"Our guest is a snorer," Sinclair says, fiddling with his suspenders. "He's clearly not slept in a dog's age so I thought I'd hol' up in here while he catches some winks, if you don't mind, of course."

Which ain't the issue.

Delta doesn't make a sound, which only makes Sinclair more nervous.

"Listen, sport, the truth of it is that's only half the reason I'm in here."

Sinclair is good at spotting opportunities, always has been, so occurs to him that this is the perfect time to confess the terrible things he's done. Stanley Poole got the ball rolling, as they say, and since they're on-route to Fontaine Futuristics, where Delta would no doubt find out more about his past, it's better to speak now rather than later. After all, Stanley publishing his story about Johnny Topside was saintly compared to what Sinclair did. It was Sinclair who practically took Johnny Topside by the hand and walked him into that Big Daddy suit. It was Sinclair who rented him out for an extra couple of dollars to get spliced-up, tested on, and mutilated.

He doesn't even remember what Johnny Topside looked like. Oh, he remembers the stories alright, but he couldn't pick him out from the crowd he sent over to Alexander and to Suchong, and only knows that Delta had been sent to the former, since Gilbert Alexander was the pioneer of the Alpha series.

He remembers watching Andrew Ryan, huffing and puffing as he paced behind his desk, wittering on and on about this visitor, and how ignorant and naive the public was for treating him like a movie star rather than some bitch from the CIA or the KGB or whatever else Ryan's paranoid mind thought up.

He remembers Ryan sliding him a cheque, huffing "Deal with him, Sinclair."

He remembers pocketing that cheque, gleeful, uncaring, like he's done before and done since. He'd done it to Lamb. And if Mark had arrived a decade sooner, no doubt Andrew Ryan would have made the same request for him.

Maybe Lady Luck sent Mark their way on purpose. Mark Meltzer, a goddamn mirror of Johnny Topside, sent all the way from Irony Lane to voice a ghost's anger, pry into Sinclair's heart and tell him what for.

And didn't he deserve it.

His heart aches. He imagines throwing himself at Delta's feet like the sinner he is, hands clasped, pleading "I'm sorry, kid! I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He imagines telling him, "I meant it about our private island, son. I'd give you all the money in all the world, do anythin' to make it right, let me make it right. God, please."

Only Sinclair doesn't say any of that because Sinclair is also good at weaseling out of trouble, so he excuses the matter by addressing the other problem.

"I found something on Mark's person you ought to see."

Delta lets out a short grunt of surprise when Sinclair shows him what's on the paper. It's a drawing, clearly done by a child, of a little girl standing next to a lighthouse with the header "Look for the Big Bright Light!" and below it is in a message written in some kind of code.

"Look familiar?" Sinclair says, except he already knows the answer, "Because if you ask me, this looks an awful lot like those messages Eleanor keeps leaving you. Sure the cipher is new, but the rest is textbook Little Sister scribblin'. 'Look for the big light?' Sounds like someone has been giving out directions. Now, how'd you reckon an ignorant man from the surface gets his hands on something like this?"

Delta reaches and takes the drawing gently from Sinclair's hands. With the tip of his finger, he lays a feather-light touch to the girl's chest, mewling quietly.

Sinclair feels his resolve soften. "I know you miss her, chief, but do try to keep on topic."

Delta passes the drawing back.

Sinclair shrugs, folding it up and tucking it in his trouser pocket. "My point is, either Snarky Marky isn't as new to Rapture as he acts or he was lured here. No matter how you look at it, he's involved with something bigger than he says he is. Or involved with someone. Might even be Lamb herself."

The sound Delta makes next is dismissive. He pats his chest, Sinclair's shoulder, and then points.

"What's that, son?"

Delta repeats the motion. His chest. Sinclair's shoulder. Points - points to the doors leading to the second train car. And then he closes his fist, squeezes tight, and makes a high-pitch yip.

Sinclair had gotten used to Delta's gesturing, but sometimes he's baffled. In response to Sinclair's blank stare, Delta repeats the motion again, gesturing - himself, Sinclair, train-car - Mark?

Me. You. Mark.

Fist clenches.

Together.

And the gesture would have been mighty heartwarming if not for the third party in the equation.

"Don'tchu tell me you don't see a problem with this." Sinclair hisses, "Whoever sent this drawing topside knew that Mark's kid got snatched and wanted Mark here. That's not something we want to get muddled up in, kid! We have our own problems! Last thing we need is extra trouble. Meltzer, he - well, he complicates things."

With a sharp look, Delta shifts back from Sinclair. He touches the back of his hand, the delta symbol, and gives an angry huff. Sinclair knows what he's trying to say. He'd had his ear pressed against the door when Mark decided to speak to Delta in private, when he'd asked him what name he preferred. Sinclair can't say he didn't swoon a little when Mark did that. 

"I know you like him, son. I like him too." He grimaces, "Mostly. Man's got nerves of steel, but less brains than a Brute Splicer and he's twice as stubborn. While it's admirable that he's willin' throw himself headlong into just about anything, I saw what he was like out there. The man quakes in his boots, kid. Couldn't pull the trigger when needed and bonking a Big Sister on the head doesn't count. He'll get himself killed. A little dose of skin-stiffening tonic won't stop that."

There's a small part of Sinclair that realizes he's running the risk of babbling himself hoarse, and that he might just end up confessing despite the effort to avoid it.

Another part fills with a sudden, unshakable anger.

"Oh, and while I'm on the subject -" He sucks in a breath, brings himself to his full height, and jabs Delta hard in the chest. The blow doesn't do a thing, except bruise Sinclair. "- what'chu go and do that for? Wastin' ADAM on a stranger. That stuff ain't a dime a dozen and there you are giving the damn stuff away. Might as well start a small side-hustle of your own, get them Splicers in a nice orderly line stretching through every bulkhead. 'Roll up and come on down to Delta's Free ADAM Giveaway! Two plasmids for the price of none!'"

He stops, a little breathless, and blinks. Where in the hell had that come from?

For a moment, Delta stands there with his arms folded, saying nothing. The train-car fills with the sound of Sinclair’s ragged breathing. Slowly, as if worried he's going to spook Sinclair, Delta raises his hand. Sinclair is too wound-up with anger and anxiety to buckle. Bringing his fist over his shoulder, Delta gives the tank of EVE on his back two firm, ringing taps.

Sinclair breathes. "Yes, I know you have more than enough, but that's not the point. Time's coming when you might not. You've gotta - you've gotta be ruthless, chief. Lamb will be. She's been nothing but. We've come so far, made the smart calls, and I - I don't... I don't want him getting you killed."

Which is a statement of mighty nonsense when a little thought is applied to it. What could possibly bring Delta down?

Next to him, Delta has gone still.

Sinclair rushes to explain. "Not that I doubt your ability, son, but he's no little one. You can't exactly sling him onto your shoulders when things get hairy."

Delta hums.

That startles a laugh out of Sinclair. "Alright, maybe you could and as interestin' as that would be, I'd rather you didn't go to the trouble. 'Sides no Little Sister is going to be happy in your arms when he's standing nearby. You won't get a drop more ADAM and where we're goin' that's gonna cost you."

There. Plenty of fine reasons to take out the trash. It ain't got nothing to do with Mark giving voice to his insecurities. And it sure as hell doesn't have naught to do with that slither of envy he felt when he watched the two of them strolling side-by-side.

"So," he says distractedly, "We're in agreement, right? Mark's got to go."

Delta makes an unhappy sound.

Sinclair raises his palms. "I know Mark is wanting to go with you, but you're better off on your own. Can we agree on that at least?"

There's a moment before Delta gives his affirmative huff.

"Alright," Sinclair says, relaxing somewhat, "Well, let's stick to that then. You focus on finding Eleanor, and I'll deal with Mark." Deal with. Just like when Andrew Ryan used to ask - and if Delta's stiffening shoulders are anything to go by, the implication is clear without the context. Sinclair swallows the lump in his throat. "Talk to him, I mean. Obviously I'm not going to open the door and kick him out into the cold Atlantic, chief. I'll ask about this drawing, see what he knows."

Delta drops his shoulders. He isn't pleased.

Sinclair hasn't exactly made peace with the idea either, despite good reason. He'd invited Mark after all. Looked him in the eye. Made him a promise.

There's a short ding from above their heads and Sinclair turns to look at the map above the doors. The light for Fontaine Futuristics is lit green.

"Looks like we're nearly there." He turns to Delta and claps him on the arm. He tries to ignore the cold icy dread shooting through his veins. "Best of luck to ya, sport."

Delta stares back at him, and Sinclair gives him another affirming pat before quickly returning to the sanctuary of the other train-car. Mark is still asleep, and Sinclair allows a quiet sigh of relief. He tucks Mark's notebook back under his hands and settles down onto the bench opposite.

The train arrives at Fontaine Futuristics and lugs to a halt. It's a moment before Delta leaves, his footsteps loud and heavy on the platform outside, something hesitant in his walk. He pauses just outside the train and turns to the window, just a glance, before he moves off.

Picking up the radio, Sinclair watches Mark sleep. He'll be raving mad when he wakes and finds Delta has gone without him. He wets his lips, already deciding what he needs to do.

"This is it, chief," he says, "end of the line."

It feels far from it.

---

 

Notes:

Thank you for 90 + kudos!

Also it's my birthday today and I totally spent the day writing this because why not.

---

References:

The names of the girls in Mark's notebook are all girls mentioned in Phase One of There's Something In The Sea.

"Roscoe" is referring to Roscoe Z. Inman. Mark was initially very trusting of Roscoe, which is why I included this reference, but later Mark grows distrustful of him and speaks to him less and less.

"Mark G Meltzer" - I have no idea what the G stands for. I am open to suggestions.

The drawing of the lighthouse, supposedly by Cindy.

Chapter 6

Mark wakes to a rocking motion, one he'd felt many times when he'd taken the train between his homes in Montauk and Fairview, and notes that the train has changed lines. For a second he thinks he's on that familiar track between sanctuaries, but reality soon shatters the illusion. He growls in frustration, ashamed at falling asleep, and presses his palms into the grooves of his eyes.

He sits up and finds himself alone in the train-car. A glance back at the display screen doesn't tell him much - it's switched off. Frowning, Mark rises. There's chatter coming from the front cabin, Sinclair's unmistakable sugary voice. It's easy to see why he and Delta make a fine partnership, one silent, one talks too much, one physically foreboding, the other persuasive. For a second Mark thinks back to that moment of camaraderie the three of them shared and feels that familiar twist in his gut.

Shaking it off, he steps into the front train-car. He expects to see Delta and Sinclair, but Sinclair is alone, talking into his radio transmitter. When their gazes meet, Sinclair smirks, clicking off the radio. "Well! Rise and shine, sugar!" He props his hips against the console and tilts his head, "I was starting to wonder if you'd slipped into an early grave. Wouldn't be outta character for you now, would it?"

"You won't let that go, will you?" Eyes narrowing, Mark glances over his shoulder at the display screen. Switched off, yes, but not necessarily disconnected. He's been made a fool of. He takes a breath and calmly says, "You lied to me."

"I appreciate that you're quick with the uptake, Mark. Makes things a whole lot easier."

Mark clenches his fists. "Maybe you're not so quick. You failed to realise that my daughter's life is at stake," he moves closer, jabbing a finger at him. "Don't underestimate what I'm willing to do to reach her."

"Cool your beans, twig!" Sinclair laughs. He steps forwards and claps Mark with both hands on either shoulder and holds him there. "This is just a momentary diversion. Anyway, the walkway to the Fontaine building is closed for us regular oxygen-breathing types and has been for a while."

"Meaning?"

"The tunnel connecting the main building to the train station lobby is gone, Mark. Collapsed. Out of commission. Unusable -"

"I get the picture." Mark shrugs out of Sinclair's grip. "I take it you knew this and chose not to inform me?"

"That's a mighty low thing to assume." He doesn't deny it.

"You said I could travel with you."

"Is that not what you're doing?"

"Sinclair!"

"Mark." Sinclair brushes past him and presses the switch on the screen to turn it back on.

Delta appears to be wandering through a large lobby. Mark glimpses lounge sofas, a fountain beneath a globe statue, and fake plants, though it’s hard to ascertain where each feature is in relation to the other because Delta is being attacked... though not by Splicers this time. The attacker is another Big Daddy, one that looks identical to Delta himself.

"Now, really,” Sinclair turns to him, “Look at that and tell me you want to be in the middle of it."

Mark grits his teeth. "If you won't turn this train around, then I'll do it myself." Turning sharply on his heel, Mark steps into the conductor's train -

"You can breathe underwater then? I guess we won't be needing that plasmid after all."

- and Mark promptly turns around again. "Plasmid?"

"The one that makes a lowly oxygen-breathing mammal such as you and I grow a fine pair of gills, o'course!" Sinclair flicks open his cigarette case with a playful click. He slides out a cigarette between two fingers, "One that we should be nearing the vicinity of right about..." He points the cigarette at the ceiling and at the same time the train halts, nearly rocking Mark off his feet. "...now."

Bracing his hand against the wall, Mark squints out of the frosted windows. It's too dark to see what lies beyond them.

"How about it, Mark? I reckon I've misjudged you. You must have enough smarts to have made it this far on your own, so what's say you head on out and pick up this plasmid? That way you can walk the ocean floor and be back with Delta in a jiffy. You'll be needing to pass through the ocean to reach Lamb's office anyway."

Mark narrows his eyes. A plasmid that grants such an ability probably exists, but why would Sinclair mention it now?  Something had to have changed. For some reason, Sinclair wants him off the train. Was it something he'd done? He thinks back. Perhaps that moment of camaraderie was one-sided, his desire for connection blinding him to how unwelcome and offensive his presence truly is. Him, the freak.

Or perhaps this is the price he'd predicted Sinclair would ask of him in exchange for Cindy's cure. If so, why wouldn't Sinclair say as much? He didn't seem the sort to dance around the cost of his services.

"This plasmid can't mean too much to you," he says cautiously, "otherwise you would have sent Delta to collect it."

It seems Sinclair anticipated the question. "If you must know, Delta needs Eleanor. The bond they share is the only thing stopping the poor kid from slipping into a coma. Where we are right now - well, it's way off-track. I wasn't going to risk his health for a detour, even if it leads to a gold mine."

If he is lying, he's good at hiding it.

Mark hums. "And where are we exactly?"

"Neptune's Bounty, twig. Fitting name if you ask me."

"And what's Neptune's Bounty?"

"Fishing port. Among other things." And without getting his agreement, Sinclair picks up the wrench Mark had used as a weapon and gives it to him. Numbly, Mark takes it and Sinclair slings an arm around his shoulders and steers him towards the train doors. "It'll be easy. Quick in and out."

Now that is definitely a lie. Mark scowls, "Sinclair..."

That makes Sinclair pause. They stop by the doors, silent, and Sinclair looks at his feet and mutters a soft, "Aw hell," before he takes Mark's hand and presses a spare radio to his palm, covering it with both his own.  "Here, sugar. I'll be just a click of a button away."

Mark glances from Sinclair's face to his hands. They're soft hands, a touch yellow from the cigarettes, but oddly comforting. It's easy to fall into that comfort. If Sinclair is lying, he wouldn't give him a radio, would he? Just like that, the decision is made. A new fear fills him, the fear that in a few moments he'll be on his own again.

Placing down the wrench, he raises his other hand and covers Sinclair's - and Sinclair blinks, stiffening, and his eyes widen as they meet Mark's.

"If I bring you this plasmid..." Mark says, watching Sinclair's startled expression, "...you won't ask anything else of me? You'll help me get Cindy back without any further prices to pay?" 

Clearing his throat, Sinclair pulls out of Mark's grip. "Sure thing, twig."

Nodding, Mark slips the radio into his outside jacket pocket, picks up the wrench, and steps off the train. He glances back and sees Sinclair rubbing his hand as if injured, his gaze flicking up to meet Mark's as the doors close between them.

He tests the radio, "Sinclair? Are you receiving me?"

There's a moment before there's a response. "Receivin' you, Mark. Don't fret if I don't answer all the time. I've got to divvy myself between you and Delta now. And remember I can't see what you're seein', so if anythin' happens you'll need to use your words."

"Understood." Mark returns the radio to his pocket and starts moving.

Neptune's Bounty certainly smells like a fishing port, though the stink is not nearly as putrid as it was in Dionysus Park. The train station leaves much to be desired too. The wooden platform is half-rotted, creaking under his feet, though the ceiling is well decorated with geometric squares. This would have been a beautiful place once. Crossing the platform, Mark descends some steps onto a concrete floor and turns a corner, leading to a short hallway with a square door at the end. The door is golden, decorated with two fish in the top corners, and a sun in the middle above two curling ocean waves. It rises open on his approach, and he steps through it to a large foyer. It’s dark and dank, closer to a cavern than a room. Above him hangs a billboard advertising McCracken Crabs.

“Alright,” Mark speaks into the radio, “I’m in some kind of…foyer. There’s an advertisement for McCracken Crabs. Which way is the plasmid?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Sinclair replies, “Neptune’s Bounty was a hideout for smugglers back in the day. Search the crates. See if you can pick up a weapon you're comfortable usin'."

Mark cranks open the nearest crate, but finds it filled with only tobacco. He continues his search. In an abandoned trunk, he finds clothes roughly his size and changes his bullet-hole ridden shirt for a new one. Maybe, by some miracle, the plasmid will be inside one of these crates too.

"Say, Mark," Sinclair says coolly. "Going back to that tale you told me about how you stumbled upon Rapture in a ship. How exactly did you find yourself sailing this way?"

"Believe me, Sinclair," Mark grunts with effort as he opens the next crate, "that is a long story."

"I'll bet."

"Do you expect me to search all these crates?"

"Be the smart thing to do." Sinclair says this with a dismissive tone and goes straight back to questioning. Mark can't help but feel that this is a repeat of their question game and begins to feel more uneasy about Sinclair's motives for bringing him here. "You know, you're not the first geezer to seemingly fumble their way here. There was another, a lone survivor of a wreck much like yourself."

Mark winces. Those final moments aboard the Nellie Bly were rapt with chaos. He'd escaped on a dinghy moments before the Splicers attacked. What remained of the ship and the crew, he couldn't be sure.

"I remember that night like it was the 4th of July." continues Sinclair as Mark moves through the chamber. "Andrew Ryan made a public announcement dronin' that we had to 'protect our great city' from the intruder. Turns out this kid who found us wasn't just an unlucky passerby. He was brought here for a purpose. Lured like a fish on a hook. Funny that."

He says nothing else, and Mark isn't sure what to say in response. If this is another of Sinclair's games, he's not in the mood to play. All the events of the past year are too painful to regale the likes of Sinclair with.

Neptune's Bounty is silent now, except for the stream of water that tumbles down from the ceiling, splashing as it hit a small pool between the two boardwalks. If there are Splicers here, they aren’t making themselves known. Though Mark knows not to trust the silence.

His instincts turn out to be on the money.

Crossing the boardwalk, he follows the signs for Fontaine Fisheries, passing a Gatherer’s Garden, when he hears a tip-tapping above his head. He looks up and sees someone crawling on the ceiling, humming to themselves. Fear grips him. He doesn’t dare look away as he inches past. He’s almost made it across the platform to a second passage when the Splicer starts hurtling damn meat hooks at him. He dives for cover behind the column. Several more flying projectiles hurtle past his ear.

“Come here, stranger. Lamb wants to see ya!”

The Splicer drops from the ceiling in front of him. Mark slams the wrench against its skull. Pulls back and slams it again. The Splicer yelps, leaping back onto the ceiling and scuttling away. Mark runs for the passage, diving around the corner in time to avoid another strike from flying hooks. He waits. Time stretches uncomfortably long.

At last the Splicer charges into the passage, looking left and right. Mark dives forward and clubs the Splicer on the back of the head. The Splicer swings round, one of its hook cuts across his mouth. Mark cries out. He tastes blood.

The radio in his pocket crackles. “Mark? I hear moaning and not the fun kind.”

“One minute!” Mark retreats back towards the Gatherer’s Garden, hiding behind the column once more. The Splicer runs into view, its overly long arms scratching the floor. Mark quickly rounds the column, comes up behind the Splicer, and delivers a final blow to the back of its head. It falls to the floor with a gruesome, wet sound.

“Mark? Dammit, twig, where are you?”

Mark spits blood before speaking into the radio. “Yes?”

There’s a sigh of relief. “There you are. Everythin’ alright?”

“Copacetic.”

“Uh-huh.” He can hear Sinclair's trademark smirk, "You just got attacked, didn't you?"

"Yes. Yes, I did."

There’s a quiet huff of laughter from Sinclair, and Mark lets out one of his own, though the action only stretches his new cut. Wincing, he wipes blood on his sleeve and notices his cuffs are torn, though he has no idea from when.

"Do gene tonics wear off?" he asks.

"Genetic splicing is more or less permanent, sugar, but if you're findin' that your Armoured Shell ain't quite living up to its name, it's probably because you've picked a fight with a tougher sort. Think about it: Civil War is brewing, your neighbour has tough skin, you get tougher bullets, your neighbour picks up a stronger brand, and so on and so forth. You get the idea."

"It's easy to see why this place fell to ruin so quickly." Ignoring the blood, Mark continues moving through the passage, up some stairs, towards a place signposted as Upper Wharf. "What about you, Sinclair? You don't seem to have any unnatural abilities."

Sinclair snorts. "Didn't your mother ever tell you it's rude to ask about a man's splicin' habits? Buy me a drink first."

"I suppose genetic modifications do fall under the 'second date' category."

"Unless you're a hot-head desperate to impress his lady love. In some cases, literally. If I had a nickle for every time I heard about a teen boy smoking his gal's hair off, I could close half my businesses."

Mark crouches to search another crate. This one, finally, offers a lucrative find.

A crossbow.

It looks to be in good condition. There are even some arrows at the bottom of the crate too. Mark grins. “Eureka!”

"What you got there?"

"A crossbow." He finds some rope and binds it to his back.

Sinclair hums. "Say, there should be a tavern somewhere. If I were you, I'd set yourself up a firing range - if the bar hasn't been completely cleaned out. Shouldn't be too hard to find. Crude place, if I recall, not at all like my own line of bars – Sinclair Spirits. Now there was a good place to get a drink, back in the day. Fine place for a second date too."

On the far side of the Upper Wharf, Mark finds a gate with a sign saying CLOSED! UNDER ORDER OF THE WHARF MASTER, only the gate is wide open so he walks through. The Wharf Master is probably long gone.

It's there he finds the tavern Sinclair mentioned. It's called The Fighting McDonagh's. There's music coming from inside, a happy jazz song he recognises but doesn't know the name of.

Entering the tavern, he finds the source of the music - a small record player on the bar counter. "I could say bella, bella, even sehr wunderbar. Each language only helps me tell you how grand you are -" The record player skips, distorting the jazz solo that follows. Wincing, Mark lifts the needle with his knuckle and set it aside. The silence that follows makes him feel queasy, but it's better than creepy music.

Luckily, the bar isn't completely stripped bare. He lines up a couple of bottles on the counter and takes a couple of paces back. He aims and fires at the bottles, skimming the first so it wobbles and topples over. The next two he hits straight away. The soldier training is still in there, somewhere. He collects the arrows that didn't break and preps another line of bottles. Using the crossbow felt different to the pistol, almost like a fantasy, as if he was a boy playing at being Robin Hood, so it doesn’t bring up memories of the war. He shoots a few more bottles until he's used to the kickback and then heads upstairs.

Naturally, the tavern follows a nautical theme. There are fish nets slung like hammocks across the ceiling and barrels for tables. There's plenty of rubble, but the place is largely intact - a far cry from the awful state Dionysus Park is in.

The bar must have doubled as a place to stay because upstairs there are numbered rooms. Mark takes a look inside one. It's impossibly dark, just a faint blue light from a tiny window. Still, he can make out the cold wooden floors, a single framed poster which has fallen off the wall, revealing a hole behind it, and a mattress. Laying on the mattress are two corpses, arms wrapped together, and beside them is an audio diary, a photograph of a girl and an empty jar of pills.

Mark presses play on the audio diary. 

"We saw our Masha today." It's a woman's voice, shaking and pleading, "We barely recognize her. "That's her," Sam said. "You're crazy," I told him. "That thing? That - that is our Masha?" But he was right. She was drawing blood out of a corpse by Fontaine Fisheries, and then when she was done, she walked off hand in hand with one of those awful golems. Masha!"

The woman shrieks Masha’s name. Is that what he'd sounded like when Delta had found him by that awful rusted carousel? He closes his eyes and takes a long, steadying breath.

He'd assumed Rapture citizens were all lawless lunatics, but he was wrong. They'd suffered, just as he has.

When he opens his eyes, the room seems brighter, somehow. There's a yellow tint to the room now and the shadows have moved.

Licking the sweat off his lips, Mark reaches slowly over his shoulder where the crossbow hangs. As he does that, he turns. The yellow light is coming from behind him. He grips the crossbow tighter, completes the turn, and finds himself staring into the eye of a Big Sister.

---

 

Notes:

I'm using this map of Rapture as a guide, which I didn't even know existed until I read Underwater Eden by jadrea which is just... *chef's kiss

---

References:

Mark has two houses, one in Montauk and one in Fairview. Both in New York. His main home is in Fairview, Montauk is for vacations.

Mark wrote a letter to Phil Isidore which mentions his escape from the Nellie Bly just before the Splicers attack. Given Mark ends up in Rapture, he doesn't know what happened to the crew, but sadly they are all killed.

 

Chapter 7

She's supposed to be dead - Oh, but he's an idiot! Of course there is more than one! If there's dozens of Big Daddies, why wouldn't there be dozens of Big Sisters?

The two of them stare at each other, not moving. The yellow light flickers - the eye is cracked, a slanted, ugly scar running through it. In the surrounding blackness, Mark can just make out the shape of her head and lithe body. She's sitting in the corner of the room, legs splayed, arms limp at her sides. He would have thought her dead if not for the light coming from her helmet. He hadn't heard her come in. That thing had been in the room with him the whole time, just sitting there. Perhaps the cracked helmet isn't the only part of her that's damaged. Perhaps she's weak. Weak enough for Mark to deal with her.

One less hunting little girls. He lifts up the crossbow, looks down the visor, until he's aimed directly at the crack in her eye. But his intuition tells him that something isn't right. She's different to the Traveler he spent months hunting. It was always a red light sighted on the coasts where the girls went missing, and the one Delta killed in Dionysus Park had a red light too.

What difference does it make? The bastards that made her probably ran out of red bulbs.

Come to think of it, the Sister doesn't seem to be looking at him at all, rather through him, as if he is just an object in her peripheral, and she appears almost dazed. Perhaps she had even been sleeping if the creatures could do such a thing. Mark wills himself to stop asking questions, to stop connecting the dots, to stop rambling, but he can't. He lowers the crossbow, just a touch - and a touch too quickly. The Big Sister startles. Yellow light turns red. 

Before he's able to take a shot, the Big Sister springs to her feet and lets out a shriek so loud it makes his teeth ache. A second later, she runs from the room. The door whooshes open and slams shut again. Mark pushes after her.

There's no sign of her in the hallway, but Mark hears her feet pattering and glass breaking. He runs to the balcony and catches a glimpse of her before she rounds the corner towards the exit. If he takes the stairs he'll never catch her, so he leaps over the balcony rail. He steps on broken glass as he passes the bar and exits the tavern. The steps leading from the tavern he takes two at a time and runs full force into the door at the end of the hall when it opens too slowly for him. The door isn’t open halfway before he ducks to get through it. Entering the glass tunnel, he notices the sign for Jet-Postal Substation but sees the door firmly clamped shut. There's a scurry of footsteps to his right and he follows the sound in time to see the Big Sister head towards Upper Wharf.

By the time he passes through the tunnel, the adjacent flooded corridor, and through the open gate onto the Wharf, he's lost all sight of her. He skids to a stop. Listens. Hears nothing.

He lets out a frustrated growl. Perhaps she isn't as damaged as he thought.

Which leads to the question: Why didn’t she attack him?

The pain in his knees from when he leapt over the balcony is making itself known. Allowing himself a moment of respite, he wanders to where the boardwalk hangs over Lower Wharf and sits, dangling his legs over the edge. There's a sloping rooftop beneath him to rest his feet on. In front of him is a window, showing him the murky ocean beyond it.

"Is it safe now, Mr B?"

Mark looks down. Below him is a Big Daddy and a Little Sister walking across the grimy floor. 

"Squish squash!" the girl cheers, slapping her naked feet in the mud. As they reach the ramp, the Big Daddy offers the girl his hand, which she takes, and he helps her up. "Let's go find an angel, Mr B! I can hear their wings flut-flut-fluttering." She gasps suddenly and points, "Can I slide down this?"

The Big Daddy grunts and gestures for them to keep moving.

"Aww, no fair! It's like a big slide! I miss the playground, Mr B. After we collect the ADAM, will there be time to play? I want to go to the playground." She gives a wistful sigh.

Mark knows he shouldn't linger. Had he not met Delta, he would have regarded the pair with a righteous disgust before hurrying back to whatever hovel he'd made his camp. Now he can't help but notice the genuine bond between the two. When they reach the top of the ramp, the Big Daddy swings the girl by the hand. She shrieks and giggles. "Higher! Higher, Mr Bubbles!"

Tears spill from Mark's eyes and he brushes them angrily away.

"Up, up!" The girl cries, in that same exact way Cindy used to.

And Mark would never refuse. He'd swing her in a circle before wrapping his arms around her and kissing her head. Once they were out walking in Yosemite Park. It was Cindy's birthday and Mark had planned a treasure trail for her. He'd put her on his shoulders so he could show her a book and map he had in his hands. His memory of the book itself was hazy, only that it was a book of ciphers and codes. Cindy owned one called A Child’s Garden of Cyphers which he'd forgotten about until her disappearance. Perhaps it was the very same one.

"See this?" He said, pointing to a line of symbols at the top of the page. "This is called a pigpen cipher."

Cindy giggled. "Piggy cipher."

"Pigpen."

"Piggy!"

Mark snatched her hand and pretended to nibble her palm. "I'll gobble you up, little piggy!"

She squealed with laughter, rocking backwards.

"Careful!" Amanda, who'd trailed behind them the whole day, silent but seemingly content, snapped forward and smacked Mark lightly on the arm, "Stop it. Get her too excited and she'll fall! Where are we going anyway?"

"That's for our navigator to work out." Mark patted Cindy's leg to get her attention. "This piggy cipher will tell us the way. Can you work it out, Cindy?"

Talented for a young child, it took less than a minute for Cindy to crack the code.

"I got it!" Cindy pumped her arms, nearly toppling off his shoulders again. Mark quickly passed the book to Amanda and lowered Cindy to the ground, "Daddy, I got it! It says go right!"

"Well, what are you waiting for? Go on!"

She waddled ahead.

"Your other right!" Mark laughed as Cindy turned and waddled the other way.

And just like Mark had done that day in the park, the Big Daddy lets the Little Sister wander a short distance ahead, never taking his eyes off her. Mark covers his mouth with his hand in an attempt to muffle his sob. The tears won't stop spilling out.

There's a crackle from the radio. "Mark?" says Sinclair, voice cautious.

Mark swallows. "Y-yes?"

There's a moment before Sinclair speaks again. "You hanging in there?"

Mark shakes his head, bites his lip. "It's - it's the girls. The girls, Sinclair - they..." The words tumble out, impossible to stop. "They all fit the same profile. Brunettes, every single one, except for my Cindy! Cindy is blonde. She wasn't supposed to be here. She never - she never would have been a target if it weren't for me."

"Don't go giving yourself too much credit."

"You don't understand!" He squeezes the radio so hard for a second he thinks it might break, "I couldn't stop chasing the lost girls. I hunted the Big Sister and when I failed to keep it contained, it followed me. I led it right to Cindy. It took her because of me. When I saw her in Dionysus Park, I knew that even if I cured her, I will never be able to make that right. That this place will cling to her for the rest of her life and for the rest of mine. Do you have any idea what it's like looking at someone and knowing that you are the reason they're broken?"

There's no response.

Mark inhales sharply, hot with shame. "Forget I said that. I've -" He forces a laugh, "I've gotten too used to talking into a recorder. I apologize."

"I know what it's like." The words come on an exhale, sounding almost like an accident. If Mark hadn't been listening, he might have missed them entirely. Sinclair lets out a dark chuckle. "You really are a private investigator, aren't you? Not just by title - right down to your DNA. Well you pegged me, Mark. I'm no Catholic. The guilt - now that's recent, but you spotted it fair and square. Quite the eye you have there."

"I don't expect you to confess your sins."

"Good thing too otherwise we'd be here all day."

Mark feels himself smile. Drying his face on his sleeves, he says, "I don't mean to make things complicated for you, Sinclair."

"...It's fine."

"Really? I doubt you planned for any of this." Mark leans forwards to watch the Big Daddy and Little Sister pass underneath him. A door whooshes open and shut again and he hears them no more. "And I know you don't trust me, even if you do try to hide it behind all that Southern charm."

Sinclair is silent.

Mark frowns. "How's Delta?"

"He seems to be amusing himself by chasing a Teleport plasmid."

"Then I'd better get on with searching for ours. Where should I look?"

When Sinclair next speaks, his voice sounds strained. "Listen, Mark -"

Mark doesn't hear the rest. A figure runs past him, leaping off the end of the rooftop and somersaults down into the squishy sea bed below. Ducking low, Mark swings his legs back onto the Upper Wharf and crawls backwards.

"What in the hail Mary was that?" hisses Sinclair.

Mark keeps low. "A Big Sister."

"Don't you even think about it."

"Too late."

"Mar -"

He turns the radio down, so Sinclair's voice is but a faint whisper, and then he puts it in his pocket, grabs his crossbow off his back, and shuffles forward. As he peaks over the edge, he half-expects the Sister to be gone again.

She isn't. She's watching him, holding him in her yellow spotlight. It's the same one from the tavern, judging by the jagged crack down her porthole eye. He waits, but she doesn't pursue him. Is she taunting him? Or does she want something from him?

Is there a difference?

"Oh this is a bad idea," he murmurs, pulling himself off the Upper Wharf and down onto the roof. "This is the most idiotic thing... the second most idiotic thing I've done today."

He walks along the roof to where it hangs over the Lower Wharf boardwalk and drops down. He waits again anxiously, and still the Big Sister does not come for him. He moves out from behind the wall. The wooden strips creak beneath his feet. The Big Sister remains in the middle of the seabed, still watching him. Suddenly she squats. Mark braces himself for her to lunge. Instead she places a small box in the mud at her feet and jumps back. And waits.

Waiting for him.

"Bad idea," he whispers again, moving down the ramp. There's a faint fizzle from the radio in his pocket as Sinclair attempts to reach him.

The Sister lets him approach, dancing on her toes like she's nervous. Her light is still yellow. Maybe that's a good thing. Delta's porthole is always yellow. The other Big Daddies too when they're not fighting. Is yellow code for calm?

She doesn't look calm. When he gets within four feet of her, she hops back a pace - which for her gigantic frame is about three feet. She pauses again, and he moves again. Finally his toes meet the box. He doesn't take his eyes off her as he slowly kneels down and grasps for the box. It's larger than his hand and he struggles to grip it, but he can't risk lowering the crossbow just yet.

But he can't find his grip. He bites his lip, glances down so he can position his hand a little better, and when he looks up again the Big Sister has leapt up onto the Upper Wharf boardwalk. Letting out a hiss, she flees the scene.

Mark shoulders the crossbow, hoisting the box onto his knees for a better look. It's a small lock box with a string of cipher code symbols etched on the lid. Keeping him from opening it is a numbered padlock. But Mark has seen this before. He recognises the symbols scratched into the metal. Digging out his notebook, he flips a couple of pages through it until he finds the page where he'd scribbled down the decoded alphabet. He turns to a blank page - the last blank page in fact - and flicks back and forth until he's translated the message on the top: 0825

Cindy's birthday. Of course! Mark punches the numbers into the padlock and the box pops open. There's a paper inside, scribbled in crayon, and another, much longer, coded message. As Mark works, he's faintly aware of the sound of sloshing water around him and the distant mutterings of the Little Sister and rumblings of her guardian. He is wholly engaged by the message, a kind of pinpointed focus taking over him.

The first sentence translates to: I saw you today, Daddy.

He freezes.

She had recognised him! Not only that, but this note couldn't have been written more than a few hours ago! Cindy is still herself, even if she couldn't express it. Mark nearly crumples the note in sheer joy.

He quickly translates the rest, writing out the message in full:

I saw you today, Daddy. I hope you knew it was me.

Momma Sofia put brown in my hair and now I look different.

But it's still me.

I miss you, Daddy. Please come soon.

"I'm coming," he whispers, "I promise. Please hold on for me."

There's a more urgent crackle coming from his jacket pocket. Shit. He grabs the radio and turns it up, in time to hear Sinclair ranting, "-absolute, utter halfwit -"

"I'm here."

"Are you tryin' to give me a heart attack, son?"

"Sorry." He can't bring himself to mean it.

"Nice to know you're still breathin'."

Mark laughs. He can't help it. "Yes! I'm so alive."

"Oo-kay. How'd you manage that?"

"She didn't attack me. The Big Sister. She - She left me a..." He stops himself. Stop rambling. He’ll think you’re crazy. Only he isn’t in New York anymore. He doesn’t have to conceal the conspiracy. Here it isn't conspiracy. Sinclair would not only believe him – because Mark had been right, dammit – he could even provide a unique perspective, the perspective of a Rapture citizen.

Sinclair's voice sounds innocently curious. "Left you what, Mark?"

A ripple of unease goes through him. Sinclair sounded like the doctor at Tollevue did when Mark insisted that he didn't need psychiatric treatment. At the best of times Doctor Lyman had a soft, authoritative voice, much like Sofia Lamb in fact. The kind of voice that lulls some but Mark only found patronizing. Doctor Lyman had an uncomfortable interest in diagnosing Mark - or rather assigning a diagnosis, conclusion already made before Mark could refute it.

Sinclair is asking a question but speaks like he already has the answer. Sinclair is probing.

Sinclair who brought him here to find a plasmid yet hasn't mentioned it since.

"Mark?"

He doesn't reply. Suspicion mounting, he flicks through his notebook again, this time with a different purpose. Almost everything is accounted for. Almost everything. The drawing of the lighthouse is gone. The drawing that appeared in his room on the Nellie Bly. The drawing that prompted him to abandon the ship and search for the lighthouse on his own, moments before the Splicers attacked it, arguably saving his life. He'd had it after he left the sub. He'd had it after he and Delta fought the Big Sister. Now it's gone.

"You went through my pockets while I slept," he says.

Sinclair matches the accusation. "You said that you didn't know a darn thing about Rapture."

"I don't."

"We both know that isn't true. Who brought you here, Mark?"

"My daughter."

"Sure thing and I admire you for that. What I'm talking about is the damn instructions written on this here crayon drawing. You didn't just stumble upon Rapture like a little lost lamb, did you? And neither did you detective your way here, not without help at least. So who helped you, Mark?"

"Would you like me to write you a list? Did you really think I was the only person who noticed all the disappearances over the years? Of course I had help."

"I don't doubt you had a sleuthing team. That's not what I'm talking about. A Big Sister hand-delivers you something and you expect me to believe you don't have contacts here? This drawing in my hand has instructions, Mark, not to mention some whack code on the bottom -"

"It's says 'Hide and Seek Daddy, you are getting warmer.' It's a Lutwidgian Cypher from a book of puzzles I bought for Cindy . The instructions are from Cindy. This box is from her too. She might be a Little Sister, but part of her normal self is still there. I know how it looks, Sinclair, but believe me when I say I don't have contacts here. I'm not working with someone to trick you, or -" he fumbles with his words, "Christ, I don't know, working with Lamb or whoever else lives in his depraved place. I only want my daughter back!"

There's a beat before Sinclair speaks again. "Your five-year-old kid writes in code? Really, Mark?"

"She's seven."

"You're bein' played!"

"I don't care."

"I do. We don't need the extra trouble!"

Suddenly Mark's in a rage. "You cowardly bastard!" he snarls, "You only sent me here to get me off the train when you could have just asked me what I knew! No wonder you haven't told Delta how you feel."

There's a silence.

Mark seethes.

Sinclair splutters. "How I what?"

"Oh spare me the act! It's blatant. You love the monster you helped create."

"Now listen here -!"

"No, you listen. I -" Mark stops.

He doesn't stop because he hears the footsteps coming up behind him. They're too quick and quiet for him to react to. He stops because there's a blow to the back of his head and the words that were meant to come out are instead an anguished cry.

---

 

Notes:

I cannot believe y'all commented within about two minutes of each other when I posted the last chapter. I was FLOORED. Are you in the same room? It's okay you can tell me.

---

References:

Canonically, Cindy is into codes and spies. 

'A Child’s Garden of Cyphers' is a book written by Orrin Lutwidge. Mark gave it to Cindy, which is why he believes that Cindy is the one leaving him messages. It isn't confirmed whether Cindy is actually doing this or not.

Cindy is blonde in There's Something In The Sea, but brunette in the game. The creators confirmed that the Little Sister with Mark in Fontaine Futuristics is Cindy, but they didn't have time to change her hair colour.

Throughout TSITS, Mark is left puzzle boxes. The first he suspects is from Cindy, left by a Big Sister.

Cindy's birthday is August 25, 1961.

Doctor Lyman was Mark's psychiatrist while he stayed at Tollevue. He's creepy.

The drawing of the lighthouse is one of the last clues Mark gets. He gets it while he's sailing, though it's not clear how. Implied that a Big Sister broke in and left it.

The Lutwidgian Cypher is from the book A Child's Garden of Cyphers.

Cindy was kidnapped when she was six. She has been missing for over a year.

 

Chapter 8

Notes:

Warning: Splicers being Splicers. It's a Bioshock fic, what are you even here for?

Thanks to Delta gifting him the gene tonic, Mark is spared what he's sure would have been irreversible brain damage, but not the pain and dizziness. He's still recovering from the blow when a bag is pulled over his head, its mouth drawn tight around his throat. He swings his fists, hitting someone. A man yelps.

An arm goes around his neck and pulls him off his feet. He lands on his back, on top of the crossbow, the butt of it digging in between his shoulders. His hands are bound.

"Grab 'im by his loafers already, El!" A woman screeches.

"Let go of me!" Mark kicks and kicks, managing to hit someone again - the same man as before, if the yelp is anything to go by.

There's another blow to Mark's stomach. Something hard and long and metal. It makes a small clink as it catches the floor. It doesn't hurt as much as it would have had Mark not taken the ADAM Delta gave him. Still, Mark curls onto his side and brings his knees to his chest to protect his intestines from another hit.

"Aw nice!" Leathery hands paw Mark's back as they snatch the crossbow.

"Quit groping him already, you puff!" One of them, the woman Mark thinks, grabs him by the bicep. Mark tries to pull away, but too quickly he's grabbed by the other arm. Two hands, two Splicers. One is larger, leathery, as if wrapped in something, and the other slightly smaller but no less strong.

"I said let go of me!" His shouts are ignored.

They drag him through the mud. He struggles, twisting and writhing, and even manages to tear himself free, which only earns another strike to the head. Stars swarm his vision. A second of unconsciousness follows. When he comes to, he's still being dragged. He can see vague shapes through the bag's fabric. He's sure he's being dragged through a hallway. Underneath him, coarse wood scratches his skin.

They go down some steps. Mark feels every bump. At some point, the coarse wood beneath him becomes hard, cold, and wets his clothes as he’s pulled through it.

It’s ice.

Soon after, they stop. The Splicers grip him by his binds and force his arms above his head. His binds are caught on something – and when the Splicers let go, Mark is suspended. He kicks, searching for the floor, but can’t reach it.

Finally the bag is ripped from his head. He blinks. The light is so searing bright it stings his eyes. It's not just light - it's white, sparkling, and Christ it's cold. His breath comes out in clouds.

He's in a meat locker.

Christ please tell me these people aren't cannibals too. There are no human bodies but his own hanging from the ceiling, only fish, but it brings him no relief. He looks up. The hook holding him is rusted, brown and gritty, almost as if it could turn to powder with enough force. Whenever he moves flakes of rust fall onto his face.

"Hey!" The male Splicer 'El' jabs him in the stomach with the broken pipe. "Eyes over here, intruder. All must heed the word of Doctor Lamb."

In the middle of the locker, the woman is messing with a bundle of wires. A television rests on a stack of crates, a large cord running from the back, along the floor, and somewhere out of the locker.

“Stupid thing,” mutters the woman, kicking it.

That does the trick. The television screen blinks on. At first it's white, with nought but the words ‘PLEASE STAND BY’ and then a woman's face appears. She's a white woman, blonde hair, and wears cat-eye glasses.

“Mark Meltzer,” she says. “The man who stumbled upon destiny in progress.”

Mark scowls. 

"Oh, did you think your presence was hidden from me? I have watched you since the moment you trespassed here. I instructed my people to leave you be. I even sent Big Sister to watch over you.”

Watch over him? Sinclair couldn’t have been right, could he? That the messages are simply lures from Lamb?

He shakes his head. “Then you brought me here?”

For a second, Lamb seems puzzled by the question. “Ah. You’re wondering ‘Why now?’ Why, after all this time, have I decided to meet you face-to-face?”

He doesn’t correct her. If there’s a chance she doesn’t know about the messages, he couldn’t have her find out.

“Thus far your presence has been like that of a fly's. Inconsequential. Yet, I’m taken in by your suffering. You see I, too, was separated from my child once – incarcerated by the man you have made an ally. I had no means of knowing whether my daughter was safe. Allow me to ease your burden,” Lamb looks at something off-screen. "Come here, Cindy."

A small child climbs onto Lamb’s lap.

God, it is Cindy! Brown hair, yes, but the same face. Same pink ribbon.

"Cindy!" he calls, "Cindy! Can you hear me? It's Daddy."

Cindy shows no sign of heeding him.

“There now,” Lamb places a hand atop Cindy’s head. “As you can see, she’s unharmed. A year apart, I know you must have worried terribly for her. Would it bring you some relief, Mr Meltzer, to know that your daughter has served a common good?" Lamb combs her fingernails through Cindy's hair, revealing a stripe of blonde beneath her dyed fringe. "What more could a parent hope for?"

"That she would do it of her own free will."

Lamb looks sharply at him. "Free will is the excuse men give to destructive self-interest." Her voice softens, "I don't expect you to see it my way. You are a father, and I am a mother. I understand you, Mr Meltzer. I understand your love for your child. What you fail to realise that what you think of as parental love is simply a bias. Your love is ownership. You are smothering your daughter. But in Rapture Cindy can become more. You think that you're rescuing her, but did you ever stop to think that she is already rescued?"

Mark laughs. "Rescued? She was stolen from her bed!"

"A regrettable circumstance, but necessary. Do you understand what ADAM is, Mr Meltzer?"

"If you're about to tell me that it's so goddamn important that you had to steal dozens of girls from their homes, don't bother. No amount of parlour tricks can make up for how many lives you've destroyed."

"No amount of parlour tricks would," agrees Lamb, "but you fail to see the true potential of ADAM. It's the key to eradicating all of mankind's vices. Not only can it change the gene, but it can also capture a sample of it. As the Little Sisters recycle ADAM from bodies, a piece of that person goes with them. Their memories, their drives - all of it remains after the person has departed."

"And you can also light a cigarette with the snap of your fingers," Mark says dryly. "I know. I've seen the posters."

That's the last straw.

El marches to Mark's side and smacks him across the face with a pipe.

Mark cries out. The pain is twofold - one part, the force of the blow itself, and the other from the sting of the cold.

"Now, now, Elgar," says Lamb, a ripple of amusement under her reprimand, "He is merely a chained dog, snarling and snapping at anyone who shows their hand. The key to dealing with such creatures, naturally, is to select an appropriate punishment. Look here, Cindy." Lamb takes Cindy by the chin and turns her dazed face towards the camera, so her yellow ghoulish eyes meet Mark's. "Do you know this man?"

Cindy's eyes widen. "A stranger! He's scary!"

Hearing that hurts more than the blow from the pipe. Mark fights back his tears.

"There, Elgar, you see? A scalpel is a far more efficient tool than a blunt instrument."

Elgar cradles the pipe but gives a conceding grumble.

"Run along now, Cindy." Lamb lowers Cindy off her lap - and Cindy disappears from Mark's view.

He jerks against his chains, some desperate, unthinking part of him hoping that if he stretches he'll be able to catch another glimpse of his daughter. Had he really been wrong? The messages aren’t proof that Cindy still knows him? Or perhaps this is just a twisted game. Yes, it had to be! Lamb's powers of manipulation at work.

"Your daughter is brilliant." Lamb continues, "She's much like my daughter - empathetic and intelligent, a perfect basis for a Utopian. Under careful tutoring, she could even match Eleanor herself. Think of it. She and Eleanor would be sisters of altruism, two of a kind, working in unison. Through ADAM, Cindy will become the best humanity has to offer. It would be unethical to allow you to squander her potential by taking her back to the surface. I can, however, offer you a reunion. You may live alongside her as her protector, helping her to collect the ADAM for our cause. Once your servitude is done, and it is time for Cindy to ascend, ADAM will allow you to continue to remain in her life. You will become a part of her, along with the Rapture Family, and be her guide long after your body has decayed."

Her plan is somehow more insane than Mark could ever have predicted. It isn't just manipulation, it's mutilation! And yet, he can feel some part of him is tempted by it, the reunion. What else did he have, but Cindy? No wife. No family. No friends.

What he did have is hope, the tiniest glimmer, but hope all the same. Cindy's cure.

Reunion or not, he cannot condemn Cindy to whatever half-life comes from being a Utopian.

"My daughter already is the best humanity has to offer," he says through gritted teeth, "I won't be part of this goddamn science experiment. She won't be part of it! I'm going to find her, one way or another, even if I have to tear this fucking city apart."

"Ah, the tyrant shows his true face," says Lamb. "See how he would rob us of Utopia to fulfil his own selfish desires.”

The Splicers give Mark looks of disgust.

"Bastard!" screeches the female Splicer.

Elgar paces the room, scraping the ice with the end of the pipe. "Let me beat him, Doc!" he mutters, "I'll beat the tyrant outta him. I'll do it for The Family!”

"Steady now. Remember that the tyrant lives within us all," Lamb soothes. "Truthfully, Mr Meltzer, I need only one People’s Daughter. Eleanor is the dream. If she is lost, Cindy would make a fine substitute but at the moment she is not necessary. I know Delta is drawing close," she cringes saying his name. "He would take my only child from me, and to save the world I would have no choice but to take your child from you. It need not be this way."

Oh I see where this is going, thinks Mark. As if he could stop Delta even if he wanted to. Still, he trembles at the thought of Cindy as a replacement. He has to get out of this. Both daughters need to be saved. Mark would have it no other way.

"You can easily prevent this," says Lamb, "if you bring me Sinclair."

Mark blinks. Sinclair? Why Sinclair?

"Sinclair abandoned me." Mark finds himself saying, "I don't know where he is."

Lamb hums. "Now that would be a pity, if unsurprising. Sinclair cares not for others. He thrives on the misery of those he betrays. Certainly a lie founded on truth. Well made, Mr Meltzer."

"It's no lie. Ask your people. They found me alone."

"Don't cling to this feeble ruse, for your own sake. I hate to see you suffer further, but please understand that I am mother to the Rapture Family, and to protect them, I will pay any price.” Harsher, she says, “Elgar. Mimi. Get Sinclair’s location out of him, by any means necessary. Do your duty to your Family.”

With that, the screen goes black.

Something in Mark's brain clicks. Mimi and Elgar. With one name, Mark might not have made the connection but two?

“…Mimi Tabor?” he breathes.

Mimi is holding meat hooks, giggling quietly.

Mark really doesn’t want a repeat of that experience. He swallows, speaks louder, "Mimi Tabor."

Mimi looks at Mark with a startled expression. “Eh? What did you just say?”

“Mimi Tabor, isn’t it? I know you.” It’s a feeble, half-thought, but Mark latches onto it. “I mean I… I met your half-brother, Lee Seward.” Once, in passing, and it's so hard to remember it now. He fumbles on, racking his brain for something useful. If only he could reach his notebook. “I met him in – in – in… in Tangiers! I met him in Tangiers!” He laughs with triumph. Given how still the pair of Splicers are, he knows he's onto something. "I know you too." Mark nods at Elgar. "You're Elgar Vankin."

Elgar is still as can be. Mark isn’t sure what to make of that, but at least he’s not swinging the pipe at his head. It hangs loosely in his hand. "Lee's still in Tangiers? After all this time?"

Mark nods. “He never stopped looking for you.”

Elgar's eyes widen. "R-Really? God, Lee." Suddenly he's in tears, a whiplash shift in his demeanour. "God, God, fuck, what did I do? Lee! Why'd I go and leave you?"

Mimi knocks the back of Elgar's head with her elbow. “Snap out of it! He’s trying to make an idiot out of you!”

“Shut it!” snarls Elgar, shoving her. “You didn't even like him!”

"Who cares about that stupid fucker?" Mimi squawks. "We have the Family now! We're about to see Utopia! Lee never believed we would. Jokes on him now."

While they’re distracted, Mark tries breaking the rusted hook. Hoists up and drops. No use. He needs more force. He tries again. The hook bends a little. More rust falls. What he really needs is support under his feet.

"Hey!"

Mark startles as a pipe is shoved at the base of his throat.

"Go on, keep talking," Elgar says. He's pantomiming at being tough, but there's desperation in his wild eyes. His tears aren't dry, though it's hard to see them, given how stretched his skin is, how it shines from the strain of being scarred. "How'd you know so much about us and Lee?"

“I’m a private investigator.” Mark smiles. “I know a lot about you.”

Though their names are about the extent of his knowledge. If he recalls correctly, Seward is something of a bitter, distrusting man and when they spoke Mark hardly got a word out of him at all. No matter. He just needs to keep up the ruse until he escapes.

“Yeah right!” Mimi jeers.

“It’s true! Check my wallet. My ID is in there.”

Elgar jabs Mark's larynx. "Nice try, but I'm not untying you that easy! Lamb will have my head. She's making us live forever, you get me? I won't untie you for nothing! Not even...” he sniffles, "Not even for Lee."

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it," Mark says hoarsely, "but that’s not to say you couldn't reach into my pocket and get it. That way you'll know for sure I'm telling the truth. It’s in the top. Inside.”

Narrowing his eyes, Elgar props the pipe against the wall and reaches for Mark's jacket blazer. Just as Elgar undoes the first button, Mark wraps his legs around his torso.

"Hey, what - Get offa me!" Elgar swings, but Mark pushes his knees together, locking them in a bizarre embrace. "Fucking shithead! Mimi, you daft fucking cunt, help me!"

Mimi just cackles. 

"Fuck's sake, Mimi!"

Everything depends on Mark keeping Elgar beneath him. The man continues to struggle, but Mark holds on tight. With Elgar now taking his weight, the strain is off his shoulders. Gravity is no longer working against him, but there's no time to savour the relief.

"What are you, some kind of fucking limpet?" Elgar bats at Mark. "Let go already!"

"Ty vole, Elgar!" Mimi laughs so hard the skin around her mouth starts to tear. "Ty vole, ty vole, ty vole!" she chants like a child discovering a word for the first time. The locker fills with nonsense screaming.

Mark yanks hard on the rusted hook.

It breaks.

Mark and Elgar topple to the floor.

Snapped out of her bizarre chant, Mimi sucks in a surprised breath. "What on Earth..."

Mark seizes his chance. Though his hands are still bound, he's able to grab the pipe and swing it at Mimi's head with enough force to bash her into the wall. A splatter of red appears in the snow. Elgar wrestles to his feet, and Mark takes a swing at him too, knocking him back down.

At the far side of the meat locker, Mark's crossbow and wrench are leaning against the wall. He runs for them. His legs are stiff, either from the cold or from hanging too long. He slips, the ice taking the grip from under his feet. Luckily, it speeds him up. He skids to a halt by his weapons. First, he cuts his binds with the point of the arrow. Then he grasps the crossbow, turns, and fires a shaky shot through Elgar's shoulder. Mimi is getting up now, too. Damn Splicers, why can't they just stay down? He jams the wrench behind his belt and stumbles to the door.

It's not much warmer outside. All around him is covered in ice. It looks like there's more meat lockers, two doors on the opposite side of the room, another next to the one he was just in. On his right, he sees an exit and charges for it.

Feet crunching through the frost, Mark hobbles through a hallway, through a door, and then another before he sees something vaguely familiar. Wooden floorboards. A spillage of water tumbling from a hole in the ceiling. In the middle of the room, there's a column with a health station attached. He hasn't been here before but judging by the style he can't be too far from where they caught him.

Behind him, the Splicers scream:

"Where are you? Where ARE YOU? Do you have any idea what Lamb will do to us if we don't find you?"

Followed by a mix of uncontrollable sobbing and laughter. Mark had heard less unnerving outbursts from the patients at Tollevue. He convulses and flees. He passed through another entryway and stumbles over some crates. When he looks out in front of him, it's a relief to see the Lower Wharf. 

Thinking fast, he takes the steps in front of him. It's tempting to head up, back in the direction of the train station, but he'll never make it out alive with the Splicers on his tail. He has to lose them first. He heads down. The base of the stairs is dark and flooded. He crouches in the shadows. Every part of him is shaking. Above him is footsteps, one set running along the wooden boardwalk, the other tapping along the ceiling.

Mark spots Elgar first, taking the route towards The Fighting McDonagh's, followed by Mimi, who drops down from the ceiling with another cheerful giggle, still singing "Ty vole.” Even after they're out of sight Mark can still hear them. He creeps back up the stairs, looking cautiously around. Mimi and Elgar won't be the only Splicers roaming around looking for him. He has to get out of here, head back to the train station and back to Delta -

Back to Delta.

How?

Mark pats his pockets for the radio. No use. He'd lost it when he was jumped. He couldn't contact anyone. Not that it matters. Sinclair is probably long gone.

What now? Go back to his original plan, he supposes. He’d slowly picked his way through Rapture, bulkhead after bulkhead, and wandered through a place called Siren Alley and heard the Splicers whispering about Lamb and her science facility. They said Alexander is the ferryman. Originally Mark had planned on hunting him down, bartering passage somehow. If the tunnel to Fontaine’s is collapsed, Alexander must have another means of getting through.

But first, Mark has to get from Neptune's Bounty to Fontaine Futuristics.

And he has no idea where they are in relation to each other.

His best course of action is to return to the train station. There's sure to be a map there and, hopefully, another train. He limps towards the McCracken Crabs billboard and soon finds himself in the large foyer he came through after leaving the station. For a few panicky moments, he can't find the door he came through. He walks past it before he notices, twists round, a movement that shudders his bones. The door slides open. With a painful sigh, he remembers there's still a hallway and stairs before his destination.

The stairs are the worst part. His legs are stiff, refusing to bend easily. Finally, he makes it to the top.

There's a train waiting.

It's the same train. Sinclair's train. No matter Mark’s misgivings, he should at least warn the man.

The train doors open as he approaches. Sinclair stands there, gawping at him. “Holy Moses, twig. You’re still kickin’!”

“And you're still here.” He twists his neck, looking over his shoulder, but there's no sign of the Splicers following. He glares at Sinclair. "Lamb is looking for you. I don’t mean you and Delta. She asked about you specifically. I wish I could tell you more but that’s the extent of my knowledge." He feels himself teetering and collapses his weight against the train. "Her followers are here. You need to leave."

Sinclair doesn't move.

"Are you dense, man? Go!"

“I can’t very well leave without my passenger, now can I?” Sinclair says, and Mark can only stare, utterly confused.

“But… you wanted me gone.”

“I did, twig, and I’m sorry.” Sinclair looks at Mark imploringly, “Now I do hate to keep repeatin' myself but, if you would kindly get back on our train then I'll happily ride on outta here."

The relief that courses through him is almost as overwhelming as the pain. Mark doesn’t allow himself to be distracted by it. “I want an explanation, Sinclair.”

“Anythin’ you want, but first -” Sinclair yanks Mark onto the train by his shirt and with a push of a button starts the engines. With a violent shudder, the train pulls out of Neptune's Bounty.

---

 

Notes:

References:

Elgar, Mimi, and Seward are characters briefly mentioned in There's Something In The Sea. Seward talks about Elgar and Mimi's disappearance in an interview and mentions they left looking for Utopia, so I thought it fit to include them here.

You can find this on the Bioshock Wiki here, and an image of the interview article you can see here and here.

Mark comes across the article while he's investigating the disappearances and later meets Seward for big complicated TSITS plot reasons I barely understand because I haven't played it, I'm just trying to piece together Mark's backstory from the Wiki. Short version: Seward is one of the many, many, many people who helped Mark get to Rapture.

 

Chapter 9

Mark pulls out of Sinclair's grip, only to be hit by a wave of dizziness. His head simultaneously wants to float and plummet, the latter winning out. Luckily, Sinclair grabs him by the shoulders before he once again causes damage to his skull.

"Steady now!" Sinclair cups the back of Mark's head. "There we go, whoopsy daisy. That'll be the adrenaline wearing off I imagine. Handy thing, that Armoured Shell, but it's no Cure-All. Makes you tough, but not invincible. And I hope you don't mind me sayin', but you look like hell."

"I'm fine." Mark blinks away the black spots in his eyes, gingerly reaching up to touch the back of his head where Elgar had struck him with the pipe the first time, only to find his fingertips brushing Sinclair's hand instead.

Sinclair hums. "Nothing a little rest and first aid can't fix, I'll give you that." His slides his hands from Mark's sweat-logged hair to his shoulders.

Mark might be dizzy, but he notices Sinclair unclip something from behind the lapel of his jacket and grabs him by the wrist as he's about to slip it up his sleeve.

Sinclair startles and huffs a laugh. “Nothing gets past you, does it? I bet magicians hate you.” He shows what he’s holding – a tiny, clip-on wireless microphone. "One-way radio. Miniature, obviously, designed and built by yours truly. You like it?"

"Did you plant that before or after you riffled through my pockets?"

"You take the private in ‘private eye’ seriously then."

“I expect basic decency.” Clenching his jaw is starting to hurt and he flexes it, only to hiss at the spike of pain from his cheek. That’ll be from when Elgar knocked him across the face.

Sinclair tilts his head, gaze lingering on what is no doubt an apple-sized swelling. “Let’s take care of that.”

They enter the second train car. As Mark slumps down onto the bench seat, Sinclair rummages through the crates of supplies.

"You know, it's a good thing this train came pre-packed with a whole lotta goodies. Have a feelin' a lot of this was left behind when Dionysus Park was flooded." Sinclair takes out the fire blanket from the compartment at the back of the car. "The last train we were on had nothing special, and I'd sent the last of what we had to chief to get him out of a tight spot in Siren Alley. Hell of a fight that too. You should've seen it."

"What are you doing?"

Sinclair settles the fire blanket over Mark's shoulders. "Your lips are lookin' pretty blue."

"Splicers," hisses Mark. "They had me in a meat locker."

"Technically speaking that was more of a fish locker. We don't get cows here in Rapture. They don't take kindly to submersibles." Crouching, Sinclair pulls the blanket tighter around Mark’s front. Next he picks up a first aid kit and tears it open. "Anyway, this tight spot was thanks to a man called Simon Wales, one of Lamb's most loyal. None too friendly, as you can imagine. In fact, the reason we had to trade trains in the first place is because Wales decided to launch a torpedo into our last one." He tips a couple of drops of rubbing alcohol onto a bandage.

Mark frowns. "I can do that.”

"I know you can." Sinclair doesn’t let him. He takes Mark's wrist and rolls up his sleeve and numbs his forearm with the alcohol. Next he takes the small needle of ADAM from the kit. "The torpedo went and split our train in two. Chief was sent hurtling into the ocean, but that's no bother to him. Yours truly, on the other hand, was stuck in the car. Now Prentice Mill made these trains out of the good stuff, so on the surface the damage didn’t look too bad – except the oxygen filtration system had gone with the front car.”

Mark’s eyes widen at Sinclair’s blasé smile, until he feels a sharp pain in his arm. “Ouch!”

"Whoops." Sinclair pulls the needle out.

The swelling on Mark’s cheek shrinks, along with the scrapes on his back and the bruise on his skull. Within seconds, the pain subsides. Mark is reminded of Cindy drinking blood and shudders.

"So my air is runnin’ out, and Delta's off being attacked left, right and centre, and I -" Sinclair pauses, shakes his head, "well, I'm thinking that I'm on my way to join my parents in the hereafter. Only the kid pulls through. He saves me!"

Tidying up the kit, he settles back onto the seat opposite Mark and folds his arms. It’s a few seconds before he speaks again.

“Next I see him, he’s with you. Can you blame me for exercising a little caution?”

"You were jealous?”

Sinclair opens his mouth, but stops and shakes his head. He stretches his legs, crossing them at the ankles. "You sure get some funny ideas in your head, Mark."

“If I’m such trouble, why didn’t you leave me?”

"Why'd you warn me about Lamb?" Sinclair counters.

"Because she's a raging psychopath."

Sinclair barks a laugh. “Can’t disagree with you there. Took the words right out of my mouth.”

“And yet you can’t use your mouth to give a direct answer to a simple question.”

“I have much better uses for my mouth than that.”

Mark rolls his eyes.

Sinclair tilts his head. "Here I was figuring you'd be grateful I hadn't hit the road the minute you were out of the train. Believe me, I was tempted. Wouldn’t have even given you a radio if not for your puppy eyes.” When Mark glares, Sinclair holds his palms up, "Aren’t you glad I changed my mind? The fact of the matter is I didn't like the thought of leaving you, so…" His cheeks flush pink, “…that’s that.”

He feels bad. Mark recalls what Sinclair said to him before he was captured, about being new to guilt, and lets out a sigh. He does sound genuinely remorseful. If Mark were in his position and it were Cindy he was protecting, he wouldn’t hesitate to leave anyone behind. He’d already sacrificed everything, his career, his reputation, his friends, his wife – all of it left behind.

“I would have left me,” he admits, snorting softly. He knew Sinclair didn’t trust him. He knew he complicates things for them. He knew that Sinclair made up a story to get him off the train. Being left behind isn’t what angered him.

He wanted Sinclair to believe him about Cindy.

He wanted someone to believe him.

Now he doesn’t believe himself.

Cindy didn’t recognise him. Cindy couldn’t have written the message in the lockbox or the message on the drawing or the messages that came before he even knew the word ‘Rapture.’

Closing his eyes, he presses the back of his skull to the wall. He isn't in pain anymore, but he’s still cold. He focuses on warming himself up, blowing onto his hands, rubbing his fingers together, and rubbing his legs. Repeat. Hands. Legs. Repeat.

Sinclair watches these futile attempts before he rises to his feet, lifts a corner of the blanket, and sits down next to him, tucking the blanket around them both. His warm leg presses against Mark's cold one.

"Atlantic Express was built with a boiler under every seat, I believe.” Sinclair says, repeatedly flicking his cigarette case open and closed. There are only two cigarettes left. “I try as I might, I can't seem to get them working again. Electrics are in a shambles, but I suppose that's what you get for pickin' up a locomotive that's been submerged for a while. If chief were here he’d probably offer to warm your hands with Incinerate."

“That sounds dangerous.”

"Naw, he's gentle." Chuckling, Sinclair slips out a cigarette and lights it. He takes a drag and offers the cigarette to Mark. They pass it back and forth until it’s finished.

The train jolts as it switches lines. The two men rock, knocking shoulders. They sit in silence, sharing warmth. After a few minutes, Mark stops shivering.

Sinclair taps his foot, sending vibrations through the floor. After a beat, he says, "I am sorry, Mark. Honest, I am. I just wanted to know what you'd do if you were on your own, see if you were contacted - and I suppose you were. By a Big Sister of all things. Can you really blame me for doing what I did? Chief and I, we're partners, and I've invested a whole lot in him so to add another straw to the load he's carrying is just... let's just say, I'd rather not imagine what straw will break that camel's back. What I did wasn't nice, I admit that, but I am genuinely holding my hand out for forgiveness."

“I understand, Mr Sinclair."

"Back to 'Mister' huh?"

Mark looks straight ahead, watching through the frosted window as the ocean slides by. Schools of fish startle and disperse. A piece of seaweed snags on the top left corner of the train window for a few seconds before the speed rips it in half.

"You'll, uh..." Sinclair clears his throat, moving. The blanket falls off Mark's shoulder. Sinclair reaches into the front pouch on his waist-bag and takes out the folded drawing of the lighthouse. "...be wantin' this back, I suppose."

Mark takes the drawing and stares at it.

Sinclair watches his face. “I’m sorry your kid didn’t recognise you. It was real unkind of Lamb to do that.”

"...I wanted to believe she was reaching out so badly." He’s tempted to crumple the drawing into a ball but can’t bring himself to. “She was always so smart. I really did think she was contacting me.”

"Let's say it is from her."

Mark looks at Sinclair in surprise.

Sinclair shrugs. "Lookin' at that scribble, there's no doubt in my mind that it's a kid's drawing. No reason to think it wasn't done by a Little Sister, Cindy or otherwise. Sure, someone might have snatched it up to be a manipulative little so-and-so. But you know your kid better than I. Is leaving ciphers and doodles and little lock boxes somethin' she'd do?"

Mark nods.

"There ya go then! Don't let anybody tell you otherwise."

Mark blinks. It’s embarrassing how much lighter those simple words make him feel. “I…” He clears his throat, “Thank you. And I forgive you.” He drops his gaze to his inner pocket, so doesn't notice Sinclair startle, and by the time he’s slotted the drawing back in the correct place in his notebook, Sinclair has schooled his expression to his usual charming smile.

“Glad to hear it.”

“In any case,” Mark reaches for the crossbow sat next to him on the bench and raises it up, "It wasn't a complete wasted journey, even if your - how did you describe it? - gill-growing plasmid doesn't exist."

"It exists on paper. Andy would never let me get away with somethin' that'll let people leave his city so easily."

"But he let you have an easily-disguised listening device?"

"Not quite. I reckon he wouldn't have been none too happy with that either," Sinclair flashes his teeth, "if he'd ever found the ones I planted in his office."

"You're a sleaze, Mr Sinclair."

"Sugar, I think you mispronounced ‘certified genius'. And drop the 'Mister' will ya? Makes me feel like my grandpappy."

"Only if you drop those infernal nicknames."

Sinclair sucks air in through his teeth and tuts twice. "You drive a hard bargain." He glances over Mark's head at the screen on the wall.

The volume is low, but Mark faintly hears gunfire, and turns to look too. Delta is in a dark room. In the hazy red and orange light scattered here and there, there's glimpses of checkered tiled flooring and grime from the ocean. There are Splicers and Big Daddies that look like Delta all converging on him. Delta ducks and weaves, fires his weapons and his plasmids. He's even deployed mini-turrets and glowing trap rivets to help him fight the battle.

Mark glances at Sinclair, noting his look of concern.

Sinclair taps his foot a little faster, and when that doesn’t soothe him, he stands.

In no time at all the fight is over with and Delta is still standing. He moves up some metal steps and to an enormous tank, filled with red liquid. There's something else in there too, some giant bloated creature, speaking in a haughty, clipped tone, 

"How dare you try to - buy me out with this... This bribe. This... pittance, this sublime... God damn you, Delta!"

Clicking on the radio, Sinclair barks a laugh. "Ha-ha, perfect son! You reeled him in. Now use that console there to take a gene sample. It should print up a genetic key automatically!" His grin lifts his whole face and it's impossible not to find it charming.

Mark chuckles.

Sinclair notices. He jabs a finger at him. "What did I say about funny ideas?"

"I didn't say a word."

The console spits out the 'genetic key' Delta is waiting for - whatever that is - and Sinclair continues, "You've got the key to Lamb's hideout, sport. Eleanor's down there! Now just head out to the Oxy-Fill station and use it."

“I think it’s sweet,” Mark says, after a moment.

Sinclair looks at him, brow raised.

“Your ‘partnership.’”

Sinclair shakes his head ruefully. “I’d love to be in your sweet, naïve little world, Mark, not knowing your Brute Splicers from your Houdini’s and yet thinkin’ you know what’s what.”

“I’m not saying you’re in love with him.”

“Then what, pray tell, are you sayin’?”

“That you care about him, more than you think you should, and that’s not a bad thing. In truth, I’m rather envious of it. Love doesn’t come so easily to me.”

“Now that’s the most unbelievable thing you’ve said so far. You tellin’ me there’s no sweetheart waiting for your handsome face to come home?”

Mark glances away for a second, “I had a wife. She divorced me.”

“Sorry to hear that, sport. Her loss.”

“She thought I didn’t love her.” Mark looks at Sinclair, “So you should tell him.”

“Even if it was like that – which it ain’t – he’s a Big Daddy.”

"But he's also a man."

"And he's also a man." Sinclair says darkly, "Got an opinion?"

"Your proclivities matter not to me," he murmurs, suddenly exhausted. He slides the blanket the rest of the way off him and folds it up, focusing his gaze on that. "Tell him. Or don’t. It’s only a recommendation.”

Once Mark has folded up the blanket and set it aside, he finds Sinclair’s hand in his face and looks up again.

“Figured since we’re starting again and all,” Sinclair is grinning. It’s not a smirk, or a businessman’s smile, it’s something altogether warm and involuntary. He nods to his outstretched hand. “We should do it the proper way and wipe away all that nasty dishonesty."

Mark smiles, rises to his feet, and shakes Sinclair’s hand firmly. It does feel different this time, not a truce but a genuine offer of friendship. Next to them, on the display, Delta moves into an airlock and cranks the lever to flood it.

Sinclair radios him. “One other thing, chief. Sofia Lamb decided to grace us with another spiel and mentioned plans of turning Mark’s little girl into a replacement for Eleanor. If you ask me, that’s nerves talkin’ but I wouldn’t put it past her to try something just as extreme. If Lamb loses Eleanor but still gets her saint, we can kiss our private island goodbye. Watch yourself, sport.”

He offers the radio to Mark.

After a touch of hesitation, Mark takes it. “Delta, it’s Mark.”

There’s a notable stall in Delta’s step as he exits the airlock, and he shakes himself before pushing on towards the Oxy-Fill station.

“I wouldn’t ask you to put my daughter in front of yours, but if you do see Cindy, please, do – do what you can. Thank you. And good luck.”

Delta slots the key into the slot on the Oxy-Fill station. There’s a faint rumbling and Delta’s camera trembles. He turns to the sound, facing a cliff face as it descends into the seabed and reveals a hidden tunnel behind it. Unflinchingly, Delta pushes against the current towards it and enters a second airlock. As he drains the chamber, Mark finds himself thinking how good it’ll be when the three of them are together again. Three men, walking the same path.

---

 

Notes:

A lot of you have been super interested in Mark's backstory (which is awesome!) so I've added all the references I've made to There's Something In the Sea on the previous chapters, so check those out if you haven't already.

Chapter 10: An Entr'acte Featuring A. Sinclair

Notes:

Happy (slightly late) 15th Anniversary to Bioshock!

They're not back in Fontaine Futuristics two minutes when everything goes to hell.

It starts with Delta pushing his way into the glass cage Eleanor is holed up in. The minute he passes through the first set of doors, the radio in Sinclair’s hand fizzles. Sinclair slams it with his hand and looks, panicked, at the screen. Delta is in the decontamination chamber now, but the picture is cutting in and out.

“Your signal's breaking up! We can't hear or see a thing. Something in that room is blocking me!"

The screen goes black.

Mark sits up straight. "What was that?"

Lamb, Sinclair thinks, not able to stop himself from clenching his teeth. He doesn't know why the signal to Delta's helmet camera cut off, but he knows she had something to do with it. Still, no need to panic, right? The kid can handle himself just fine without Sinclair watching him. Hell, Sinclair is probably more a distraction to him now than anything, right? Right?

The fuzzy screen makes him twitchy. He reaches up and slams his palm against the side of it in a feeble attempt to get the connection back, but only succeeds at making the static jolt like a lightning strike in a blizzard. There's not so much as a vague impression of what had been there before, of Eleanor laying, tossing and turning, in her cage.

“Kid?” Sinclair tries, licking his dry lips, “Come on. Give me something.”

"Sinclair?" Mark sounds concerned.

"It's fine." He gives the screen two more good whacks before sitting down. This is different to when Simon Wales torpedoed their train. Back then, even though he was running short on air, he could still see and talk to Delta. Now he's completely cut off. "It's probably just some high-tech security feature Lamb's installed to keep peeping Toms from spying on her daughter, that's all. Soon as chief gets her out of that room, the signal will be back."

Mark, dammit, looks downright pitying, which is the last thing he needs.

Sinclair flicks open and shut his cigarette case with a nervous click-click-click-click-click. He thinks back to the moment Delta crossed his sorry path. Holed up in his bunker in Ryan Amusements, shivering, scrounging on creme cakes and pep bars, a far cry from the top dog of Rapture he once was. Delta was his war horse to thunder through Lamb's army and ride on to the surface where he could be top dog once more. Only Delta had proven himself more than just a slightly more approachable Big Daddy to the average. From that first train ride when Delta, having just acquired Incinerate, went to warm Sinclair's fingers.

“Well!” breathes Sinclair, hardly believing his eyes. “That’s a fine use for Incinerate if I ever saw one.”

Delta grumbles, and Sinclair can’t help but take it as an agreement. Then he thinks about how no man with the explosive power of Incinerate in their fist is able to control it like this so-called monster is doing now. Why, crazies more often set themselves ablaze than whatever they truly intended. And here’s this Big Daddy, the craziest, scariest monster in all of Rapture, treating him as gentle as it treats a Little Sister.

Sinclair rubs his hands together, shivering at the memory of Delta warming them. They'd been strangers then. Sinclair hadn't even thought of Delta as a person, not really, and Delta had no cause to trust Sinclair either, but still Delta offered kindness. Repeatedly going out, fighting, even bringing him a drink and something to eat on occasion, and as the hours wound by, Sinclair found himself caring more about Delta than he ever thought possible, and he'd liked to think that, maybe, Delta cared about him too.

"Sinclair."

Startling from his thoughts, he flicks the cigarette case shut. "What?"

"We've got a connection."

Sinclair lifts his head to look. Sure enough, the static has stopped buzzing and the screen is clearing up, slowly at first, the image breaking through the white. Relief floods him, and he lifts the radio back to his mouth, only he doesn't get a chance to speak before Mark clamps his hand over the radio, holding his finger to his lips and shaking his head. It's but a second before Sinclair realises why. The image on screen is all wrong. It’s not Eleanor. Delta ain’t even upright. The floor is tilted up against the right side of the screen because Delta is lying down. There's an awful groan as the camera, as Delta, is dragged along. His limp, fallen body is being dragged across the floor. He isn't fighting it. He isn't awake.

"Ya big molly," a Brute Splicer grumbles, and then the camera shifts as the Brute props Delta up at a new angle, and the image of the room swings, giving Sinclair a view of Eleanor’s cage. Two people stand by her bed. Given the torn bloodied skirt and bare feet, the one on the right is a Splicer, the Thuggish kind he reckons. The other is Sofia Lamb.

"Heart's ticking again," says the Splicer.

Ticking again? No, no, no, no, no! She couldn't have - not even Lamb would...

Eleanor lies there, still except for the tiny movement of her lips, her words too quiet to be picked up by the microphone. Her eyelids flutter as she slips in and out of consciousness. She turns, gaze half closed, and stretches her fingers out towards Delta. Her mouth moves again, and though Sinclair can't hear it he knows the word.

"Father..."

"Shush, it's over now." Lamb takes the hand Eleanor was reaching towards her daddy and folds it in her own, just for a second as if indulging a bad habit, before she places it down atop Eleanor's stomach. "I am sorry, Eleanor. I know you think you hate me, but I promise you... next time you wake you will feel differently."

Eleanor closes her eyes.

There's a terrible scraping of metal on the tiled floor. The footage trembles, Eleanor and her cage sinking slowly away as the Brute drags Delta across the atrium.

Without a so much a hint of warmth or shame for what she's done, Lamb turns to the Splicer next to her and declares, "Prepare the ADAM. Once she's rested, we will all be reborn."

The group of Splicers burst into excited chatter, too stupid to realise that they're dying to live inside the body of a saintly child who doesn't want none of it - a child Lamb just murdered in order to sever the bond between her and Delta. Which means...

Sinclair grabs at his scalp. "No, no..." In the corner of his eye, he spots Mark reaching for him, but he shoves past him and to the crates where he's stored their stuff, jamming all the ammo he can find into his pockets and into his waist-bag. He can barely breathe, "- we've got to - got to..."

"Do you have a plan?" asks Mark.

Sinclair's heart is thundering.

"Sinclair." Mark seizes his shoulder, turns him so they're locking eyes, and shakes him. "Stop and think for a second."

"I - Think?  He's a powerhouse, Mark, and he's gone down! Lamb she - Eleanor's heart had stopped. That can only mean -" No, no, no. He's not dying. Don't you ever - “He needs our help, alright? He is the purest thing in all of Rapture and he has nobody but us now. I won't leave him behind. You can stop and think, detective. Sit on your goddamn thumbs if you want too. I'm going to get him out of there."

"Don't be an idiot. Of course I'm coming with you. I just meant that if you have a little more than determination, I'd like to hear it!"

Oh.

Obviously Mark isn't the type to sit and stew - he wouldn't be in Rapture if he were - he's just trying to snap him out of making a reckless decision. Not that Mark is without sin in that particular regard. Honestly, Sinclair is surprised to have another person fighting in his corner. He ain't usually one to act without a plan either, but his mind is drawing a blank. What can either of them do? Two is better than one but it sure doesn't even the odds. Not when neither one of them is spliced and Mark can't shoot a gun. The place will be full of Splicers, every person in the vicinity the closest, most loyal of all Lamb’s followers, and no doubt she’s got security on every wall on top of that. Hopefully Delta's taken care of the last of the Big Sisters, but given how Mark seems to attract them, it'll be just their luck to run into one when they least expect it.

It's not just risky, it's deadly.

Except none of that matters because Delta will die alone unless Sinclair, for once in his pitiful, selfish, money mongering life, decides to do something good.

He looks at Mark, spreading his hands. "Determination is about all I got right now."

"Fair enough," Mark says. There's not even a flicker of hesitation in his eyes as he grabs the crossbow from the seat, loads a bolt into it with a click, and straps his wrench and pipe to his belt. He wriggles the pistol out of his jacket and passes it to Sinclair. "You'll do better with this, I think."

Sinclair takes it with a grateful smile.

Armed with as much as they can carry, the two men burst out of the train and down the platform steps and through the gates into the foyer. Luckily Delta cleared out the Splicers when he came through, so what's left is bodies and silence.

"Okay so -" And this feels good, still having an ear to babble too, "Persephone has no train station, being a high security detention facility and all - had a personal bathysphere back in the day - but what that means is our only route is the very same one chief walked."

"I heard the Splicers say Alexander is the ferryman."

"Yeah, well, Alex The Great won't be helping us, I'm afraid."

"Then how do we -"

They go through the double doors leading to the airlock and the answer to Mark's question hangs on the wall at the bottom of the steps. A diving suit in the same style as a Rosie, a helmet, and boots to match. Once upon a time, maintenance workers used them to go out and fix the city's troublesome leaks, before the Big Daddies took up the duty instead. There are two suits, in fact, just the right number.

But it isn't seeing the suits that made Mark stop talking. It's the wagon that had been left for Delta, or more accurately, it's the sun scribbled in chalk and Eleanor's desperate plea to Please hurry Daddy. 

Sinclair glances back at Mark, who's frozen with that quizzical furrow in his brow. Sinclair never did explain the full story behind why he was so suspicious of Mark's secret messenger. "Presents from Eleanor," he manages, feeling a little cruel in case Mark thought his was another message for him. "Left by the little ones."

Whatever Mark is thinking, he tucks it away with a shake of his head and follows Sinclair, descending the steps without a backward glance at the message so reminiscence of the ones he received before. As they reached the bottom of the steps, a light comes on and there's a click and a high-pitched bing before the screen on the wall switches on. For a second, Sinclair and Mark freeze and Mark even makes a grab for the crossbow slung over his shoulder. A picture of Gil Alexander appears on the display and the automated message Sinclair had already heard through Delta’s camera starts to play.

“October 9th, 1967. Hello." Gil Alexander clears his throat, "My name is Gilbert Alexander, and by the time you hear this, I will be clinically insane. I-I am recording these diaries in advance, as a last-ditch effort to assist anyone I might threaten in dealing with me.”

"We can ignore that," Sinclair says, watching Mark swallow and lower his hand back to his side.

Mark's gaze moves to the diving suits hung on the wall and he sucks in his cheeks. "And here I thought the Fontaine building was closed for us 'oxygen-breathing types.'" He says it lightly, no doubt trying to inject a little levity into the situation.

"Think of it this way, if I had let you wander out into the ocean with Delta, you would be pushing up daisies right now!"

That... is the opposite of levity. The thought of losing Delta and Mark sends a shiver right through him. To think, just a few hours ago he was trying to get rid of Mark and if he had succeeded he would be making this particular journey alone. Certainly, he's glad to have company.

"I suppose so," Mark says, as if he hadn't thought about it.

Sinclair stops in front of the suits, stomach rolling. When's the last time someone checked these things were in working condition? Probably way back before the civil war. Who's to say the tanks had oxygen in them? Who's to say the tubes still fit right? 

He's stalling. He never used to be afraid of the ocean but being trapped in a torpedoed train car that's leaking air makes one rethink their relationship with the briny deep.

It's Mark who moves first, tugging the suit off the wall and yanking it on like a giant pair of pants, legs first, and pulling it over his arms after. Seeing him is a reminder of how cowardly Sinclair truly is. Mark doesn't seem to mind that they're about to be walking through the icy sea into certain death. Of course he doesn't. Sweet mercy, is there nothing that frightens him?

Mark pauses as he's pulling on the boots and looks up, and Sinclair balks.

He only went and said that out loud.

"Plenty," he murmurs after a moment, and quickly finishing fastening the boots.

Sinclair hurries to do the same. He won’t waste another second.

***

They find Delta not long after they’ve abandoned the diving suits. He’s only a toe-dip into Persephone, really, through the airlock, down the elevator, past Security Checkpoint A, and through the tunnel.

The Splicers have cuffed him to a gurney. He’s on his back, face-to-face with the ceiling, and he makes no indication that he heard them enter the room at all. He’s not moving.

Quick as can be, Sinclair is by his side. "Kid! Wake up. Come on."

"Is he...?"

"He just needs a minute, that's all." Bracing his knee on the gurney, Sinclair leans over Delta and places his palms on either side of his helmet, giving him a gentle shake. "Chief? Don't you do this, not after all we've been through."

Only Delta doesn’t move. He’s almost as still as a corpse.

“He’s breathing,” Mark says, coming closer. “He must be injured. Can’t we give him the same stuff you gave to me earlier?”

Sinclair rounds the back of the gurney to check Delta’s tanks. They’re so bulky that they prop his head up, and Sinclair has a good enough view of the small red and blue tanks between the larger ones for supplying oxygen. “Health isn't the problem."

"The bond," murmurs Mark after a few moments.

Hearing it brings a sharp pain to Sinclair’s chest. He shakes Delta again, not able to look away. There has to be a way to wake him… The coma shouldn’t have taken him so fast, but maybe… maybe because Delta had been struggling to hold on all this time, being so distant from Eleanor, that when the bond did break his heart couldn’t take the stress. Is that why he’s gone so quickly?

Delta’s fingers twitch.

“Chief?”

He doesn’t wake. Sinclair feels the tiny glimmer of hope die.

He won't wake. He's sinking deeper and deeper into a coma just like the Alphas who lost their little ones before him. Who's really to blame for that? Lamb - sure. Gil Alexander for inventing the whole Alpha series and the blasted coma 'fail-safe' to begin with - why not? Or him, the man who provided stock for the Protector Program, kept its wheels turning while making bank doing it, and not caring for the men or the Alphas that suffered because of it.

“I’m sorry, kid,” he whispers, “I might as well have put you on this gurney myself. I – you know what I’ve done, don’t you?” He can’t bring himself to say it, not even now when Delta is unable to hear him. "You pieced it together like I knew you would. Believe me, I never meant to be anything but upfront with you. Tried to be honest with you about my flaws, but I couldn't - I should have told you this much sooner. God, I'm so sorry."

He lowers his head onto Delta's chest.

“So long, kid,” he whispers, “and thank you.”

There’s nothing else left but getting out. If Delta can't save Eleanor, maybe Sinclair could try? At least then he'll be fulfilling half of the bargain he promised.

Before he can do much more, there’s a crash outside the room, followed by the heavy stomping of something large approaching.

Sinclair turns, expecting Mark to be there. Only he isn’t. Sinclair vaguely recalls him saying that he'll 'give him space' and feels a flush of embarrassment at mourning like a widow. He jumps to his feet and runs to the door.

Mark isn't the one standing there when the door opens. It's about the biggest, meanest, ugliest Brute Splicer he's ever seen.

"Evening, gov'nor."

"Aw, hell." Sinclair dodges as the damn brute paws for the front of his shirt. He fumbles for his pistol, manages a shaky shot in the Brute's face, though it doesn't deter him. The Brute simply wipes the blood out of his eye like wiping sweat off his brow. What Sinclair wouldn't give for Delta to wake up right about now. In a flash, he remembers what Mark said - Lamb is looking for you. You specifically - and hell this is all pay-back for that unpleasant incarceration business, isn't it?

All of a sudden, there's a sharp twang. The Brute stops advancing. The first twang is followed by a dozen more, like someone is ringing a rather unceremonious dinner bell. The Brute's eyes widen, mutters a quiet "Eh?" before his feet slide out from under him. He teeters left, crosses his legs to steady himself, only to tip the opposite way and fall face-down onto the floor with enough force to shake the cabinets. Across his shoulders is a line of bolts, stuck deep through both cloth and skin. Sinclair glances up to see Mark entering the room. He's holding the crossbow, looking between it and the Brute Splicer with an eyebrow raised like he can’t quite believe what he’s done.

"I found tranquilizer-tipped arrows," he says casually. He taps the Brute with his boot. "I figured he needed enough for a large rhinoceros."

"Thanks, sugar," Sinclair says breathlessly. "You just saved my hide."

"I had to make us even at some point."

Sinclair chuckles.

Mark looks at him and grins. It's a grin that makes him look a decade younger than he is and it's gone just as quick as it appears. He glances at the Brute. "How long do you think he'll be out?"

"Not long enough." Sinclair glances back at Delta and sighs.

“Is there really no chance at all of him waking?”

“The Alpha series was made with an unbreakable physiological bond to a single Little Sister. They can’t live without it. The minute Lamb stopped Eleanor’s heart…” His voice breaks.

"We'll make Lamb pay," says Mark, blunt and simple.

Sinclair looks at him with a touch of surprise. He can't help but wonder if that's what Delta would want. It’s what Sinclair wants, for sure, but Delta? No he wouldn’t want that.

Though it hurts, the decision is easy to make. There's still one daddy needing to save his daughter, even if it isn't the one Sinclair planned on helping.

"Lamb ain't worth the spit needed to take her to task. Let's find your kid, rescue young Eleanor, and take our leave of this goddamn place."

---

 

Notes:

Two seconds later:
Delta: *wakes up* What did I miss?

Chapter 11

Mark and Sinclair make their way through Persephone in silence. Occasionally Mark glances in Sinclair's direction, studying the tense line of his jaw, unable to ignore the anger coming off of him and unsure what to say to soothe it, or how to express his gratitude that Sinclair still decided to help him.

So silence it is.

They're not walking long when they come across the atrium, the last location they saw Delta conscious in. There's a stained red carpet spread across the stairs, leading to Eleanor's 'cage' as Sinclair puts it, which stands on the far side of the room. Filling most of the room are four enormous tanks that stand from floor to ceiling, filled with glowing ADAM, lighting the atrium blood red. Mark spots a few more of those vending machines, a health station, and random paintings of butterflies. To his left, something more important catches his eye. There's another room, visible through glass windows. The plate above the door says 'Office Of Dr. Sofia Lamb.'

"Over here!" He hears Sinclair say, but he's completely focused on Sofia's office now. He moves towards it, not realising how close Sinclair is until he grabs his arm. "Where are you goin'? Eleanor's cage is this way."

"I'll be a minute."

"Be a min -" Sinclair notices what's got his attention, "Oh, no you don't. Enough of that, twig, I know you've got a score to settle. You're not alone in that department, but we're exposed here and I don't fancy a repeat of what happened with that Brute. Leave Lamb. She isn't worth getting killed over."

"She's the only one who can lead me to Cindy." Mark pushes off the hand Sinclair wrapped around his wrist. "I'm not Johnny Topside. You don't have to feel responsible for me."

He expects Sinclair to be angry at him for saying that, but Sinclair cracks a smile. "Too late."

The two of them go inside Lamb's Office. The room is more or less horseshoe-shaped. The inner arch of the horseshoe is lined with a long bookcase, empty, and at the top of the outer arch is a large window overlooking a deep ocean trench. Lamb's desk sits in front of it. Lamb isn't there, but Mark doesn't let his guard down. They approach the desk on which stands the PA microphone Lamb used for all her announcements. Mark recognises some of the features of the room from his first meeting with Lamb, when he was captured by Elgar and Mimi. Cindy had been here, sitting on Lamb's knee. Mark balls his hands into fists.

"She ain't here," says Sinclair, relieved. "Let's skedaddle before our luck changes."

Mark ignores him. He pulls open the top drawer on Lamb's desk and pushes aside clipboards and papers. "Maybe she left a note or a diary or something to tell us where she'd go next. Where would you go if you were her?"

"Hell, I imagine."

Mark slams the first drawer shut and moves on to the second. It's locked. He pulls harder, rattling it.

"Don't strain yourself, sugar." Sinclair drops a key in front of him. Mark freezes, blinking at him, and Sinclair shrugs. "This used to be my office."

Mark takes the key gratefully and unlocks the drawer. Inside is an audio diary. He pushes play.

"Look here," Sofia Lamb says, voice distorted by the crackle of the tape. "This photograph is of a man called Brent Hudson. He was a programmer who had his work stolen from him by his partner. Before he died, he began work on a new program he hoped would get him the recognition he deserved. I want you to write the first line of code for this program."

There's a quiet sniffle.

"I want my daddy," says Cindy.

Mark's knees go weak.

Lamb continues, uncaring. "I want you to write the first line of code from Hudson's program."

Cindy is crying. "I don't know Hudson's code, miss. I only know codes and ciphers for keeping things secret. I know Piggy -" she sniffs, "Pigpen cipher and - and Lutwidgian Cypher. My daddy taught me. Please let me go."

"You're not thinking hard enough. Concentrate."

"I don't know! I'm sorry, miss. Please."

"Write the first line of Hudson's program."

"Doctor Lamb?" Maybe it's because of her crying, but Cindy's voice changes. The inflection is deeper, slightly accented, and more puzzled than afraid. "Where are we? Why am I here? Last I remember I was... I - I was killed. What... No. No. This must be a dream. A terrible dream."

The tape ends.

It's like someone has taken a knife to Mark's chest. There’s no other word for what he just heard other than psychological torture. Sinclair might think Lamb isn't worth punishing, but oh does Mark disagree. He feels sick. He covers his mouth, trying to hold back his nausea, and breathes through his fingers. Rage boils in the pit of his stomach. Before he can think twice, he yanks on the drawer with the full intention of ripping it clean off its slides and hurtling it across the room.

"Stop, stop, Mark!" Sinclair gets Mark in a headlock and pulls him away before he can do any damage.

"Get off!"

"Only if you quit flailing around like a Brute Splicer in a china shop."

Sinclair is surprisingly strong for someone who acts so pampered, though Mark could break his grip easily enough. He doesn't, the rational part of him prevailing. He doesn't want to hurt Sinclair, so he waits, clenching his fists. He finds himself calmed by the sturdiness of Sinclair's arms around him and the softness of his belly pressed against the small of his back.

"I've got you," Sinclair murmurs into his ear, sliding his hand into Mark's hair.

Mark can't help but feel ashamed. Minutes ago, Sinclair lost Delta and now he is the one comforting Mark when Mark couldn't even offer more than a few words in return. "Sinc-mmph!"

Sinclair covers his mouth. "Shush!" he says, low and urgent as he walks them backwards in a strange dance until they're around the corner they came from. Sinclair pulls them flush against the bookcase.

There's someone coming. Footsteps patter from the right side of the room. Whoever it is, they're panting; short, little huffs and grunts.

Mark reaches for his crossbow. Sinclair's hand covers his, telling him to wait.

Not a minute later, a Little Sister walks past. She doesn't see them at first, entirely occupied with the Big Sister helmet she's carrying. It's almost the same size as she is and she's rolling it along the floor with one hand while she drags a diving suit behind her with the other, grunting with the struggle. When the suit snags on a lifted floorboard, she lets go of the helmet to use both hands to pull it out and the helmet keeps on rolling until Mark stops it with his foot - which is when the Little Sister notices them.

The three of them stare at each other in frozen silence.

"Well," breathes Sinclair after a moment. "Isn't that a mighty interesting sight. Come on, twig, before her tin daddy comes running. Don't quite fancy being turned to minced meat."

The Little Sister moves closer.

Sinclair stiffens.

She doesn't scream. No Big Daddies or Big Sisters come barrelling towards them. The girl simply looks at them, yellow eyes narrowed with suspicion, and her tiny mouth pursed. She shares the same features as the others - dark hair, pale face - bizarre imitations of Eleanor Lamb no doubt. Her face, though, is one Mark knows. It's one of many he'd studied, but her name doesn't come to him.

"Hello," she says.

"...evening." Sinclair, to his credit, does well to mask his discomfort. He inches a little to the left, taking Mark with him, when the girl speaks again,

"Are you sure, Daddy?" she whispers to herself. She looks at them uncertainly. Strange how the emotions are still readable despite the entire width of her eye sockets being clouded. "They look like bad men."

Mark carefully removes Sinclair's hand from his mouth. "I think she's on her own." Arching his brow, he adds softly, "You can let go of me now."

"If you insist." Sinclair lets him go.

The Little Sister tilts her head, watching them. Her fingers brush Sinclair's trouser leg, like she wants to hold him but is nervous to. "Daddy says I'll be safe with you."

Mark and Sinclair exchange a glance. Mark knows that this isn't normal behaviour for a Little Sister.

She goes on, "He says you left your Mr. Bubbles suit at home." She wags her finger at them. "That was silly, Mr. Bubbles! You both look like the bad men without your suits!"

Sinclair starts to tremble. "It can't be," he whispers, voice hoarse. Slowly he kneels, looking into the Little Sister's eyes like he's trying to see right through them. "You're not talking about any ol' Big Daddy, are ya? You're talking about mine."

"Mm-hmm. Daddy is in here." She taps her temple.

"...Chief? Is that you? It is, isn't it?" Sinclair draws a sharp breath, harsh as a whip crack, and when he lets it back out it sounds like a sob and a laugh at once. "Jim Dandy! I should have known you'd find a way out, son!"

"I thought -" Mark can't help his bewildered tone. "I thought you said there was no chance of him surviving."

"I thought so too!" Sinclair rises so fast the Little Sister startles and takes a step back. He jumps, pumping his fist. "I don't know how, but that son of a gun stuck it to Lamb yet again and I -" The next thing Mark knows he's wrapped up in Sinclair's arms again with Sinclair laughing down his ear. He's more animated than Mark has ever seen him, and for Sinclair that's saying something. When Sinclair pulls back, he has a grin so wide that Mark can't help but grin back. Sinclair clasps Mark's shoulder, squeezing. "Lady luck is shining on us." His eyes speak a promise, and though Mark didn't doubt that Sinclair would keep his word about helping him find Cindy, he's warmed at the gesture. He manages a nod and Sinclair steps back.

The Little Sister lets out an impatient huff. She reaches up and takes both of their hands, pulling them to the pieces of a Big Sister suit on the floor. "Daddy says we need to hurry! We have to get the Big Sister suit to Eleanor!"

She lets go of them so she can run ahead, only to stop again and look back at them, considering.

"You are Mr Bubbles," she says finally, pointing at Sinclair and then at Mark, "and you are Mr B! Now let's go!"

"Hold on a minute. Why am I Mr Bubbles?"

"Surely you can't complain after all the nicknames you've dished out."

"Those aren't nicknames, those are badges of honor!"

"How is 'twig' a badge of honor?"

"Oh, you're still on that -"

"Come on, slowpokes!" The Little Sister cries, stamping her tiny naked feet on the cluttered floor.

Mark huffs with amusement and quickly joins her, crouching as he frees the diving suit from where it was caught on the crooked floorboard. It wasn't just a diving suit and helmet she was carrying; there's one of those ADAM syringes the Big Sister uses as a weapon, wrapped in the middle of the suit. Who, exactly, thought it was a good idea to let a child no older than six go around collecting these things? Shaking his head, he folds the syringes up in the diving suit and tucks both under his arm. "I've got this," he tells the girl softly, unable to look at her. "Go on now."

She patters away.

A second later, he hears Sinclair squawk.

Mark turns.

The girl is by his feet again with her arms spread wide. "Up! Up!"

Sinclair balks. "Ah! No, no, no. That ain't on, chief. Kids and me never mix well. I'll only drop the little'un." He's backed into the bookcase by the approaching girl. He shoos her with a motion, "Go on now. Get! If your Daddy's listening he'll be telling you the same."

Mark watches, feeling that part of him that's so drained it shouldn't be able to function retreat a little, soothed by Sinclair and Delta's antics. "I have a feeling Delta is listening and very much enjoying this."

Sinclair's cheeks and nose go pink. "You!" he jabs a finger at him, "Shut it!" And to the girl, he says, "Chief, you and I are going to have words about this as soon as I figure out how to get you from this -" He gestures, "- back to your old self."

Mark decides to take pity on him. He pushes the folded diving suit to Sinclair's chest and bends to pick the girl up.

"Weee!" The Little Sister cheers as he sets her on his shoulders like he'd done with Cindy a hundred times. When the girl pushes her fingers into his hair, the familiarity of it almost overwhelms him. It takes a second for him to compose himself enough to pick up the Big Sister helmet. As Sinclair heads for the door, Mark digs in his pocket with his spare hand for his notebook. He flips it open, thumbing through the pages. Many months of practice had made him depth at turning pages one-handed.

The Little Sister leans around his head to look. "Ooh! Pretty!"

Mark turns to the notes he had on the missing girls.

The Little Sister gasps. "That's me!"

Underneath her photograph, Mark has hastily written Jennifer Walker, taken aged five from her holiday bungalow in Puerto Rico. "That's you," he agrees. "Do you remember your name? Jennifer."

"Jenny-penny, Lilly-poppy, Lolly-poppy!" She sing-songs, giggling, with no indication that she understood the question. 

"It's alright," he tells her, patting her leg. He jams the notebook back into his jacket and wipes his eyes on his sleeve.

"Why are you crying, Mr. B?"

"No reason." As they leave Mark glances back at the audio diary, thinking about the awful things Lamb had done to Cindy and could still be doing. He's so tired, but his mind works and he walks in a daze, trying to piece it all together. 

Here's the key points:

1. Lamb needed ADAM to perfect a Utopian. (Eleanor)
2. She sent the Big Sisters to steal girls from their homes, so she could turn them into Little Sisters to harvest ADAM. (Why just girls?  DOESN'T MATTER!)
3. At some point Lamb became interested in Cindy. (Hudson Program? Manipulation or relevant to her plan?)
4. Someone from Rapture has been contacting Mark using the same cipher Cindy and he used.

There are pieces missing like leaves scattered to the wind. He would give up finding the answers if it meant seeing Cindy safe again.

Mark and Sinclair enter the atrium and move towards Eleanor's cell. The cell door is unlocked, opening on their approach, but Eleanor remains on the bed inside, her eyes closed. Sinclair ducks in first. The doorway isn't tall enough for Mark to walk through with Jennifer on his head, so he reaches up to remove her.

"Wait, Mr. B!" she says.

Her urgency makes Mark pause. "What is it?"

Jennifer shifts on Mark's shoulders and Mark feels her bring her face close to his ear. "Daddy wants to tell you something, but it's a secret. He says..." she pauses, and even though Mark had never heard Delta speak, he imagines him whispering the words for her to say. "He says you're a good person."

"That's his secret?"

Jennifer swats him on the head. "Not done!"

Mark laughs. "Okay, okay! Please continue."

"Daddy wants you to promise that if anything bad happens - if Daddy becomes an angel - that you'll look after Augustus and Eleanor. Be- because Augustus and Eleanor are most important people in all the world to Daddy and they deserve the sun." She holds her pinkie finger in front of his face. "He says you have to promise. Like this, see?"

"Christ, Delta, I... Can I move you for a moment?" He puts down the Big Sister helmet and grasps Jennifer, carefully manoeuvring her so she's sitting on his forearm, and Mark can look at her face.

She's filthy. A streak of blood sits at the corner of her mouth. Dirt mixed with water has dried dusty on her cheeks. He remembers the first time he saw a Little Sister, gorging herself on blood like some kind of vampire. Even now, the sight of them sends chills down his spine. He looks into her bright eyes, imagines them to be the glow from Delta's helmet porthole.

She looks back at him with a frown. She holds up her finger again. "Pinkie swear. Mr. B has to pinkie swear for Daddy."

Mark takes her little finger with his own. "I'll pinkie swear, but I have conditions. Firstly, Daddy won't become an angel."

Jennifer's eyes widen at this. Mark wonders how much of that is herself and how much is the part of Delta that lingers in her mind.

"I'm going to make sure he gets out of here. I'm going to make sure that you -" He bops her on the nose, "and Delta, and Sinclair, and Eleanor and all the other girls see the sun. No one else is going to suffer because of Rapture." He presses his hand to the pocket where he keeps his notebook. All those names he's carried with him. It has to end. "No one else. Not anymore."

Jennifer's mouth parts into a little 'o' shape.

"And the second condition is," Mark smiles, "that your Daddy better tell Sinclair exactly how he feels about him."

Jennifer frowns. "That part is secret."

"Good things should be shared. I think your Daddy knows that." He adjusts her, "Now I'm going to put you down because I can't feel my arm."

As he sets her onto the floor, she says, "Daddy says he's ex...ex-stream-ly grateful. He's happy Eleanor asked him to watch you."

Mark freezes. "What?"

Jennifer smiles, does a little hop, and sets off on her way like the interaction hadn't happened. Blissfully ignorant. "I like it when all my daddies are friends!" she chirps, passing through the quarantine chamber door.

...leaving Mark standing there, reeling. He feels as though he's on a precipice and whatever he finds out next will mean he will either fall or fly. He can only pray that whatever happens, he will finally have all the pieces he needs to reach Cindy. He isn’t sure how much more he can endure otherwise.

---

 

 

Notes:

This chapter is dedicated to my dad who walked in on me playing the Little Sister portion of Bioshock 2, watched me loot everything, and promptly burst into laughter because he was picturing a child struggling to carry more loot than would fit in a car.

Also you may have noticed that this is now part 3 of a thing. I wrote another fic about Mark because I am w e a k.

References:

Brent Hudson is a character mentioned in Minerva's Den.

Jennifer Walker is a missing child mentioned in Mark's investigation.

Chapter 12

Notes:

yoooo 180+ kudos??? o.O ...guys, I might start crying.

Eleanor Lamb looks nothing like her mother. Sofia's hair is fair, but Eleanor's is as dark as the deep ocean waters she grew up in. The only feature they have in common is their blue eyes, which are now watching Mark narrowly as he enters the cell behind Sinclair. Mark stays dutifully by the door, even though he longs to walk over there and demand answers. Why did you ask Delta to watch me? Where is Cindy? Have you been sending me messages?

"Don't mind him. He's with me." Sinclair tells Eleanor. "Can you stand?"

"The sedatives are still wearing off." Eleanor speaks with a crisp English accent. "Mother put me to sleep while she -" She winces as she slides her legs off the bed, " - accelerated my treatment. I'm still very weak, but once I become like Father I'll be strong enough to fight back at last." She smirks. "Mother won't know what hit her."

Sinclair flashes a grin. "I'd sure hate to be Lamb right now – well, more accurately, I'd hate to be Lamb at any time of the day, but you catch my meanin.'" With a bow, he presents Eleanor with the folded diving suit and Big Sister weapon, "Your garbs, ma'am."

Eleanor hums the same way a child would when plotting mischief. When she stands, Mark's eyes go wide. She's tall. Taller than any woman Mark has ever seen, though not quite as tall as Delta. Her limbs seem stretched; long, thin arms and legs, and a torso longer than average. Little Jennifer doesn't even reach her knee.

"Eleanor is going to be big and strong!" Jennifer bounces on her toes. "Daddy's got proud feelings!"

"Thank you, Father. You've no idea how much that means to me." Eleanor turns her heavy blue gaze to Mark, her eyebrows pinching. She looks at him a moment before her gaze flits down to the helmet he's carrying.

Right. Mark shifts the helmet awkwardly between his hands and crosses the room in a step.  "I'm Mark," he introduces, holding the helmet out to her.

She takes it slowly. "I know who you are."

That much he expected. "Delta told me you asked him to watch me."

Sinclair gawks at him. "When?"

"It's true," Eleanor says. "When Father found you in Dionysus Park, I was there too - watching through his eyes. And I knew you. Of you, at least. The Little Sisters and I have grown very close, and Cindy whispered about you while she slept. So I asked Father to keep an eye on you."

Cindy dreamed of me. Christ. Mark swallows the lump in his throat. "T-Thank you."

"I didn't do it out of kindness." Eleanor eyes him, "Given Mother's interest in Cindy, I couldn't be sure she didn't bring you here. She's invited allies to Rapture before. You could have been a scientist or a doctor or someone else she wanted to infuse in me. I'm still not sure what to make of you."

"I can vouch for him." Sinclair steps between them, placing a hand on Mark's shoulder. "Believe me, him and I have done this dance already. He isn't working with your mother, doll. He's got just as much cause to hate her as you."

"Where is Cindy?" demands Mark.

"I don't know."

Mark feels a little more of him break at Eleanor's answer, and Sinclair squeezes his shoulder.

"Mother separated her from me and the other Little Sisters... it must have been months ago now. I'll be honest, until you got here Mr Meltzer, I assumed Cindy was dead."

"D-dead?"

Eleanor nods. She turns, placing the pieces of the Big Sister suit onto the bed. "There was no word from her. Though The Family protect the Sisters, there are still rogue Splicers and survivors who target them, especially ones without protectors. It's rare, but not unheard of that they're killed." Keeping her back to them, she reaches over her shoulder and pulls her dress off over her head.

Mark and Sinclair quickly turn, sharing a mortified glance. Little Jennifer slaps her hands over her eyes.

"Lamb must have been keeping her from you," Mark mutters, "She told me Cindy could be a sister of altruism, a second Daughter to the People."

The rustle of fabric ceases.

"How interesting," Eleanor says after a moment. "If she planned on making a second messiah, she hasn't mentioned it before."

"But she was interested in Cindy?"

"I believe so. Mother rarely pays attention to the Little Sisters, though she will occasionally put them through intelligence tests for her amusement. To her they are simply a means to an end." The leather squeaks as she aggressively tightens the buckles on the boots. "They are slaves whose only purpose is to collect the ADAM she needs to convert me into her vision. She... began watching Cindy more closely. I thought maybe she performed well in one of Mother's tests. And then she was gone. I never considered Mother might have wanted a replacement."

There’s a touch of hurt in her voice.

"I reckon Lamb's far too fixated on you to consider swapping you out for some topside kid." Sinclair meets Mark's gaze. It's soft and confident at once, like a salesperson with the very unfortunate position of selling a funeral service. Mark isn't sure how to take that. Sinclair might not even believe what he's saying, but that doesn't matter. His goal is the same: comforting Mark. "Her empire is crumbling around her. The very fact that you wandered in just goes to prove that. If you ask me, she's holing Cindy up somewhere simply because she wants to keep a hold of that tiny bit of control she has left."

Mark returns Sinclair's soft look with one of his own - and a gentle arched eyebrow to let him know This isn't working but thank you for trying. "And how can you be so sure?"

Determination enters Sinclair's expression. "Because I know Lamb well enough to know that she keeps her cards tight to her chest. If Cindy is such an important asset to her, why was she left to wander alone in Dionysus Park?"

And that... is a rather good point. Mark hadn't even thought of it, a detail so minor that it slipped his mind. What if that's the key? Cindy alone...

"I'm ready." Eleanor says.

The two men turn. Eleanor is dressed head to toe in Big Sister armour. The light behind her helmet is a friendly green hue. She's just strapping the Big Sister weapon onto her arm.

Mark doesn't wait. He steps a little closer. "When did you lose contact with Cindy, exactly? Do you remember the date?"

"Mark," Sinclair says softly.

"It's alright. Let me think." Eleanor lets out a huff as she clicks the three straps together around her forearm. There are circular dials on each one. "It was October, I think. I can't say when for sure. It's hard to keep track of time when your mother doesn't let you leave your room."

"No that's..." Mark swallows, "That's alright."

October. Christ, of course it was.

October had been a terrible month. After scraping together what he could find on Rapture, after sneaking into Tollevue to talk to Lutwidge, he'd hit a dead end. It seemed he'd chased clues that led him nowhere. He was starting to doubt that Rapture was even real. Then came October 21st, the one-year anniversary of Cindy's kidnapping. He'd spent the day pouring over the same old notes, unable to focus on any of them. His thoughts kept turning to a year ago that day, to watching his brave little girl sneak off to the neighbour's stables to ride their horse, while he'd foolishly packed up his camera and staked out a spot on the beach to seek the red-eyed 'Traveller.'

It was his fault. He'd practically taunted the Big Sister into taking Cindy. Worse, he'd failed her. A full year had passed, and he was no closer to finding her. He'd run as fast as he could to get nowhere at all.

He walked to the beach, a morning ritual, and his only form of exercise outside of walking to his PO box. The morning was clearer than it had been as of late. A strong breeze shoved off the rain and fog, though winter made itself known in the form of dew on the long grass growing from the sand dunes. He sat on his coat on the sand and listened to the sea crashing ashore and tried not to think that he should have been walking Cindy to school. It was Monday, start of a new week. What would she be doing in class if she was still here? Running circles around her Math teachers, no doubt.

Dusk fell before he moved. Half-frozen and aching with hunger, he struggled to stand. The darkness came on so suddenly that he mistook it for the shadow of the Traveller. He ran home, every now and again glancing back to see nothing but his shadow but terrified all the same. Once home, he lay awake in bed, eyes itching from a lack of sleep. He hadn't slept at all, really, since Cindy was taken.

Three times in the night, he heard faint cries from outside. Three times he ran out onto the porch and saw nothing but the crashing tides.

The fourth time he'd just managed a few hours of sleep when he was woken by a shriek. No sooner had it woken him had everything gone quiet again. He switched on the lamp on the nightstand and checked the time. His pocket watch said it was just after 3:30.

Was it Cindy or was it another nightmare? His mind was splitting. He took his notebook from his top drawer and journalled what was happening to keep his mind from jumping into depths he couldn't come back from.

all quiet now

bother cops? alrdy think im crazy.

great.. AUDITORy Hallusinatoins nw

just great

nobody tell dr Lyman

At 4AM, he fell asleep with his face down on the open page, ink still wet. Naturally, he got up late. Worse, he had to spend an extra twenty minutes scrubbing Lyman's name out of his skin, shuddering with revulsion.

He went to the beach.

And that's when he saw it.

A sandcastle. A city, actually, carved out of sand. It was Rapture.

And in front, etched into the beach, was a message in Lutwidgian Cypher. When he'd de-coded it, it said: What's taking so long? Daddy come find me.

It wasn't the first message from her. As it turned out, it wouldn't be the last.

If they were from her at all.

Mark looks at Eleanor in the Big Sister suit and wonders. "I thought -" he stops.

Eleanor tilts her head. The Big Sister suit grants her far more flexibility than Delta's, but the gesture is still reminiscent of one her father would make.

"I thought, maybe, you'd sent me messages. Guiding me here."

"What kind of messages?"

He digs the drawing of the lighthouse from his notebook and shows it to her. "This isn't the only one I got. It started with an old vinyl record with what I thought was Cindy's voice asking me to find her." At this, Sinclair winces sympathetically. "And then a message on the beach etched in the sand. I found this drawing as I sailed here."

"And that message the Big Sister left you in Neptune's Bounty," Sinclair adds.

"Fascinating." Eleanor turns the drawing over in her hands. "All with these same markings?"

"Yes," Mark answers, "Is there any reason a Big Sister might do this?"

"Most Big Sisters are Mother's slaves, but I don't think Mother is behind this. There are many forces moving in Rapture, some I don't understand, but... I've heard rumours. Whispers from the Little Sisters about a rogue Big Sister who is controlled by no one, who snatches up wandering little girls and kills Splicers no matter who they align with. There are survivors in Rapture who are of sound mind, who are my Mother's enemies, though I doubt any of them could influence a Big Sister to do something like this. What I can say for sure is that if Mother was behind this, I would know."

Mark refuses to tear up again. This is good, he tells himself. He knows something he didn't before.

Whether Lamb is feigning her interest in Cindy or not, what's apparent is that Cindy got lost for a while, 'left to wander' through the halls of Rapture without a protector, and re-appeared in Dionysus Park, possibly searching for ADAM after the water drained away. Was she snatched up by this 'rogue' Big Sister?

And if Sofia Lamb isn't controlling this Big Sister, who is?

"Thank you," he manages. "That was helpful."

"Don't lose hope, Mr Meltzer." There's warmth in her voice now. "If there's one thing I've learnt from Father, hope is the most powerful thing we have." She bends to pick up Jennifer, looking into her eyes. "You are my beacon, Father. My conscious. Every Little Sister you saved gave me hope. I am free now because of you, and I will do the same for the others." From the centre of her palm comes a white glow, growing brighter and brighter as she presses her hand to Jennifer's forehead. The glow seeps into Jennifer's skin, lighting up her veins, her eye sockets, and in a bright flash, she is a Little Sister no more.

Eleanor places her down gently and gets on one knee so they're closer to eye-level. "You're free now, but if I might ask you one more favour.” She hands Jennifer the drawing of the lighthouse. “Go to the paediatric ward and see if any of the girls recognise this drawing. We’ll meet you there.”

Jennifer nods, folds the drawing neatly in half, and scuttles across the room to the sun-shaped vent.

“Paediatric ward?” Mark repeats.

"That's where we're headed next," says Sinclair with a curl of his lip. “I happened to have parked my vehicle nearby. A lifeboat of sorts. Our ticket outta this tank.”

A lifeboat. How, exactly, did Sinclair think he could bring Delta, Eleanor, himself, and the girls out of Rapture on a float? Sinclair must have seen the scepticism on Mark’s face because he responds by raising a finger to his lips like it was some big secret.

"Let's go get Father." The glass door to the quarantine chamber whooshes open as Eleanor approaches it. "I'll clear the way. Stay close to me!"

Staying close proves a touch more difficult than expected. Eleanor is fast. She takes care of the few Splicers straggling in the corridors, hailing them with fire, and running down the steps, through the corridor, and around the corner in a matter of seconds.  When Mark and Sinclair catch up, entering the room where Delta is being kept, Eleanor is stood over the gurney. Delta is awake, raising his heavy helmet to look at her.

"These suits always did make me think of you, Father," she tells him, as she pulls the restraints apart with her hands, "I guess I still remember you in shining armour, but now it's my turn to fight for you."

Delta swings off the gurney, landing heavily. The cabinets shake from the force of it.

"Kid..." Sinclair breathes, frozen in the doorway.

Mark can't imagine how he's feeling. Minutes ago, they thought Delta was as good as dead. The relief must be staggering. Knowing it won't last must be crippling.

Delta rises to his full height, checks his weapons, re-loads those that are empty, and doesn't look at them. Sinclair clears his throat quietly and shuffles towards him, but before he can speak Delta steps past him without so much as an acknowledging glance. Sinclair's smile drops off his face. He meets Mark's gaze, blinking furiously, and Mark can only heft his eyebrows because what on Earth was that about?

Eleanor and Delta move quickly into the corridor. Mark and Sinclair trail behind. They head back up through the atrium where Eleanor promptly handles a few more Splicers before they can get the drop on them. One of them she stabs through the ribs with the syringe and hisses "I am not your bloody messiah!"

Mark turns to Delta. "Your daughter is terrifying."

Delta makes a sound like a gleeful whale.

“You expected different?” Sinclair says.

They head left, past Eleanor's cell, and through a bulkhead. This part of Persephone is cobbled together from iron rivets, long stretches of floor grating, and filthy walls.

"Upstairs, quickly." Eleanor beckons them. They follow her up onto the main floor of the docking platform and towards the window.

“That’s a sight for sore eyes!” Sinclair breathes.

When he said ‘lifeboat’ Mark expected something similar to the dinghy that he left the Nellie Bly in, a small, rickety thing that wouldn’t hold them all. Or maybe one of those bathyspheres at best. But this? It’s nothing to sniff at. Sinclair’s lifeboat is big. Not exactly a submarine but close enough. Oddly, it resembles the space capsules NASA are building. Suddenly Mark pictures Sinclair joining the space program and being the genius who gets man to the moon.

"This is yours?"

"Designed and built it myself. More or less. Got a couple of prisoners to do some of the heavy lifting, naturally."

Delta grunts. A short, angry sound.

Sinclair’s grin falls again.

Mark senses this is going to result in something unpleasant. “Um,” he begins, but doesn’t get much further when a clipped voice over the PA announces:

"Warning: A security curfew is now in effect. All cells and bulkheads are sealed until further notice."

The docking platform is filled with ear-splitting alarms, one after another.

"This is an emergency," Sofia Lamb intones over the PA, "Subject Delta has escaped. Eleanor Lamb has been stolen and manipulated into working with a tyrant. Stand and fight... protect the future of the Rapture Family." Even without the announcement, the cackling voices and thundering footsteps warn them what's about to happen.

Splicers are coming. A lot of them.

And Sofia Lamb has them trapped.

---

 

Notes:

October 22nd 1968, Mark sees the sandcastle and coded message he believes to be from Cindy. Here is a picture.
The Bioshock 2 and There's Something In The Sea timelines don't quite add up. Bioshock 2 takes place in 1968, but according to There's Something In The Sea, Mark doesn't arrive in Rapture until February 1969... which I guess is pretty much '68 so... ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Cindy went missing on October 21st 1967. Mark writes a very depressing journal entry about it on the one year anniversary of her disappearance which was a big inspiration for his angst this chapter.
July 1st 1968, Mark gets the viynl. You can read Mark's notes on it here, and you can listen to it here. Skip to 1:38 to hear Cindy/Little Sister's voice.

Chapter 13

Notes:

200 kudos??? Thank you ♥♥♥

Delta pushes Mark and Sinclair behind him with one hand, reloading his shotgun. Eleanor dashes for the stairs as the first of the Splicers appears there, killing them quickly. More keep coming. Two appear on the bridge above their heads and Mark fires an arrow through their heads. Sinclair is masterful at dual-wielding pistols, apparently, and the three of them manage to move away from the gangway window.

For a dying man, Delta is still formidable. He does most of the work, using Plasmids and weapons, to keep the worst of the onslaught at bay. Mark focuses on not wasting an arrow. He pulls the pipe from the noose in his belt and whacks a few of the sons of bitches on their way onto the bridge. The worst are the - what had Sinclair called them? - the Brute Splicers. There's three of them, huge, muscles swollen like prize cows, and they have no problem taking Delta on in a fist fight. Mark checks his tranquilizer-arrows, but he doesn't have enough for one of them let alone three. Besides, there's plenty of small fry who could do with an arrow.

They battle their way onto the bridge and duck behind the parapet to avoid getting shot. Down below, a Brute shouts, "Come down here and fight man to man, ya poofs!"

Delta huffs nonchalantly and steps off the platform, hailing gunfire at the Brute. The final bullet is Delta's boot, crushing the Splicer's skull beneath it.

"Are you insane?" shouts Mark.

At the same time Sinclair laughs. "Right on, kid!"

Delta staggers a little on the landing, his knees buckling, and the hesitation costs him a blow to the back of the head as one of those blasted Houdini's appears. While its distracted, Mark gets an arrow through its shoulder and Sinclair gets a bullet through its cheek. Eleanor swoops in for the kill.

And Delta? The minute he's back on the bridge with them he ho-hums like he wasn't almost a TV dinner.

The Splicers keep coming. Soon the bridge is not the best place to be. They move, Delta doing most of the protecting, until they've gone back towards the door marked THERAPY and are on the stairs again. Just like in Dionysus Park, Delta tries to get Mark and Sinclair to a safe corner to hide. Unlike Dionysus Park, there isn't a place to hide. All they can do is fight.

Out of nowhere, Delta falls. Or rather, what happens is that his hands and fingers clench up like he's been electrocuted. He drops his weapons. His muscles clench all the way, his body shuddering, and in the next moment he's on his knees, pinned between a cluster of the damn Splicers.

Mark moves without thinking. He slams one Splicer across the head with the pipe and then another. Sinclair follows, shooting, reloading, shooting. Delta lugs himself to his feet, grabs his weapons, and they fight the rest off together.

Once they’re in the clear, Delta gives Mark this look. It's hard to know what he's thinking behind that porthole but if Mark had to venture a guess he'd say he looks stunned.

Mark clears his throat. "There." He pats Delta's arm and steps around him. "Good to go."

It's all too quiet again, save for the alarms. Bodies are everywhere. Sinclair steals a tommy gun from one and pickpockets spare ammo, while Delta attends each of the vending machines scattered around, including the Gatherer's Garden.

Eleanor comes running from whatever corner she fought in. "The override switch is in the holding wing. Using it is the only way to reverse the lockdown."

"I hate to tell you this, but you'll be needin' the master key to do that," says Sinclair. "The master key ought to be in the warden's office, but once the lockdown is released all the cell block doors will open and we'll be seeing a flood of black and white stripes. I don't fancy getting mauled by prisoners."

"We can fight them off!"

Sinclair grimaces. "That I don't doubt, little miss, but I'm a little apprehensive of simply walking into that hailblaze, especially when some of those folks might recognise me."

Delta makes a sound halfway between a grunt and a growl which makes Sinclair go pale.

"Goddammit, we don't have time for this!" Mark shouts, "Where are the girls?"

"Paediatric ward," Eleanor answers, "In the therapy wing."

Mark looks over his shoulder and spots the sign directing to therapy. He sets off running.

"Where are ya goin'?!" Sinclair shouts after him, but Mark doesn't answer.

He leaps over a corpse, or three, before he's through the door and inside a glass tunnel. He hears footsteps behind him and looks back, momentarily panicked, but it's Delta and Sinclair. Eleanor appears in a puff of purple in front of him and speeds ahead, no doubt trying to impress her father. Barely thirty seconds after they entered the tunnel, Delta lets out a yelp and stumbles. Mark skids to a halt and goes back.

"Easy now!" Sinclair takes to Delta's right, Mark on his left, and the two of them shoulder an arm each. Using them for support, Delta pushes himself upright again. He's breathing hard, the sound muffled but still audible through his helmet.

"Oh, Father," Eleanor whispers.

"We've got him, sweetheart," Sinclair says, smiling through clenched teeth.

Neither Mark nor Sinclair step back until Delta gives an affirmative huff. Mark picks up the shotgun he dropped and hands it back to him, and as he does, Delta lifts a pinkie finger. Remember what you promised.

Mark nods silently.

"I won't let her take you away from me again Father. Hold on." Eleanor goes ahead, leaving the three of them to walk a man's humble pace. 

It takes less than a minute for them to reach the therapy wing. The moment Mark sees it, it's like ice has shot through his veins. Despite being thousands of miles away from Tollevue and Doctor Lyman, Mark is immediately reminded of his 'stay' in the mental institution, which is the last thing he wants to recall right now. Tollevue was in better condition, for sure: A slanted sign, paint chipped off in places, reads ORDERLIES ARE ON DUTY AT ALL TIMES. Papers are scattered everywhere, no doubt thanks to the filing cabinet slung onto its side like it was used for cover, which it probably was. Probably recently.

"You alright, sugar?" Sinclair says lowly. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"To tell you the truth, I find therapy unnerving." Mark drags a hand through his hair, dishevelling it. "I've done time in a mental institution. It wasn't pleasant."

Before Sinclair can respond to that, there's a muttering from the end of the corridor. Delta holds his finger to the front of his porthole, hushing them. Skirting away from the small fire crackling away at the end of the corridor, they creep further into the wing, passing, ironically, a broken pipe gushing water. It's some comfort that any blaze in Rapture can't get far.

***

Eight or so dead Splicers later, Mark searches a storage room for more arrows for his crossbow, though has no luck. He's turning to leave when he stops mid-stride and yells, "Christ!" because there's a Big Sister stood in the doorway. A second too late he registers the green light pouring between the mutin on its helmet porthole.

"Did I frighten you, Mr Meltzer?" says Eleanor gleefully. She tugs off the helmet. "Does this make you more comfortable?"

He can only pray Cindy won't grow up to be this vexatious.

"You really shouldn't wander alone you know," she continues, "though I understand you've made that a habit."

"How can you know that? Wait. No. Don't tell me. It's because of Delta. You can see through his eyes."

"Not anymore." Her eyes shine with a puzzled grief. 

"I'm sorry," Mark says, though it doesn't feel adequate. This woman, barely grown, has been trapped in a box with only the eyes and ears of Delta and a few little girls to tell her what's happening in Rapture, and Rapture is a very small world indeed. Now her closest bond has been ripped from her. 

She raises her chin. "Thank you." She puts her helmet back on and gestures for him to follow. "The girls are this way."

He hurries after her. Sensing that she's either going to teleport or run, he blurts out. "I wanted to ask. The Big Sisters. That is - are all the Big Sisters like you? Girls in suits?" He thought back to the one killed in Dionysus Park and felt a repulsion shudder through him that he hadn't felt since he first injected himself with ADAM.

"They're like me in that they were once Little Sisters now grown," Eleanor says simply.

"Right. What I mean is, can they be turned human again in the same way the Little Sisters can?"

Their conversation is interrupted by a couple of Splicers. After they've dealt with them, Eleanor continues, a touch breathlessly. "There's no plasmid that can undo what's been done to them. Before he was driven insane, Gil Alexander tried curing a Big Sister. I think he thought of it as a chance at redemption. Or perhaps he thought, since he cured me, he could cure others. However I was rehabilitated over many years, starting when I was a child - like the Little Sisters you saw. The Big Sisters..." She shakes her head. "They're unstable, Mr Meltzer. They've been feeding on ADAM for nearly ten years. No one has ever been able to successfully cure one. Without Doctor Alexander, I doubt anyone else will come close."

"What happened to the one Alexander tried to cure?"

"I think you know."

"The rogue."

"Who else?" Eleanor twitches, like she's been waiting patiently for something, and her patience has run its course. "May I ask you something now?"

That surprises him a little, but he nods.

"You promised Father you would end the Rapture nightmare. Why?"

"Because..." Rapture nightmare? That's one way of putting it. Why had he promised or why was he trying? Either way, he hadn't thought about it. He'd just said it. "Because that's what I aim to do."

"But why? You came here at great risk to your life. I understand saving someone who helped you or helping an innocent who crosses your path, but I don't understand why you would put yourself at risk when you don't need to. That's not very clever, Mr Meltzer."

Mark snorts. "I never said I was clever."

Eleanor tilts her head. "You certainly don't seem stupid."

"...thank you?" The expectant look on Eleanor's face doesn't change. She's waiting for him to give her an answer that would satisfy her. "I can't leave those girls here. They've haunted me too long to leave this place without putting an end to what caused their suffering. It's the right thing to do."

"Because it's a kindness? Mercy?"

"No. Not exactly."

"What then? What do you gain from it?"

She must think him the most terrible kind of man. "I - Nothing, of course."

"Then why do it at all?"

What does she want him to say? Does she think him dishonest? He glares at her. "Do you really think that people only act in their own self-interest?"

She doesn't answer.

Mark's brain catches up. Of course. Of course that's what she thinks. She was raised by a cult leader, thrust into a world that could kill her any second, and has only the idealised decisions of her father figure to guide her. She isn't interrogating him, she's curious. He takes a breath. "I started looking into the girl's disappearances because I saw that people were getting hurt and details that could have prevented it were being ignored or missed. When you see something wrong and you don't say anything and someone gets hurt, that makes you complicit."

"Ah! You're talking about heroism."

"Uh..." Mark flushes. "I suppose."

"You're a hero then?"

"No! I'm - I'm just... I'm not..."

"You're very confusing, Mr Meltzer." She turns abruptly then, possibly growing bored of him, and joins Delta's side. "We're almost at the paediatric ward. I expect we'll be fighting our way inside."

***

Eleanor suspected right. Delta insisted, through growls, huffs, and gestures, that Mark and Sinclair stay outside during the onslaught, which they do, with their backs resting on the walls and listening to screaming, gunfire, and explosions going off in the room next to them.

"So... mental institution?" Sinclair drawls.

Mark closes his eyes briefly. "Fishing for information again? I have to say I think you know more about me than I do about you by now."

Inside the ward, there's another explosion, followed by: "STAY AWAY FROM MY FATHER!"

Mark grimaces. "Shouldn't we...?"

Sinclair lights his last cigarette. "Best not." He takes a long drag of the cigarette and then says: "54."

Mark frowns, puzzled.

"My age. If I'm recalling correctly, you asked - way back when."

"54," Mark repeats flatly.

"Don't go announcin' it to the world. That's the sort of thing a man likes to keep private."

"But... you look younger than me."

Sinclair barks a laugh.

"Unbelievable."

"You're still a looker, kid."

"Don't you dare start calling me 'kid.'" He jabs a finger at him, "Or son. Or kiddo. Or, I swear to God, junior."

Sinclair squints at him with mirth. He covers his mouth, but smothering his laughter has his whole body shaking. He stops when Mark shoots an arrow over his shoulder to kill an approaching Splicer.

***

When silence falls, Mark and Sinclair enter the paediatric ward. The girls are protected by glass and a door that none of them can open, but Eleanor can bypass. The girls sleep on stained mattresses atop rusty bed frames. They don't even have blankets.

"You go on ahead," Eleanor says, "I'll get the girls to the lifeboat. I'll be as quick as I can."

Mark lingers, watching her wake each girl in turn, rid them of their yellow eyes, and take them by the hand as she carries them away in a puff of smoke. He'd seen the Big Sister teleport once before, when he'd first encountered one in Rapture, and couldn't help the unease inside him. A year of nightmares thanks to those suits doesn't go away in an instant.

Sinclair stands next to him. "They'll be alright," he says, jostling him gently.

Delta comes to stand by his other shoulder and lets out a gentle rumble. When Mark turns to him, Delta is holding out his pinkie finger. Mark's promise didn't just include Delta, after all.

"Say," Sinclair says cheerfully, "I reckon we oughta get a drink when this is over."

Delta warbles in delight.

"A drink?" Mark repeats incredulously.

"Topside, obviously. Care to recommend a place? I did invite you onto my train for your good wisdom after all."

Delta huffs.

"Alright, sport. Our train."

Mark hums. "I do know a place."

"I just knew you would! What do you say to next Thursday, 5 o'clock sharp?"

Mark could point out that there is a lot standing between them and next Thursday, and that he's not entirely sure what day today is. He could but he doesn't. He allows himself the moment of peace in good company, pondering a future with Sinclair and Delta in it. "I'd like that."

Delta purrs as if to say I'd like that too. He points to himself, to Sinclair, and lastly to Mark and then clenches his fist.

"What's that?"

"You. Me. Him," Sinclair answers, "Together."

Delta tenses, nods, and walks abruptly away. It reads as embarrassment, which makes Mark laugh until he turns to share his amusement with Sinclair and finds him frowning. The moment of peace is gone. Sinclair looks sad, though he quickly dashes it with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes and claps Mark on the shoulder before moving past him towards the exit.

It's then that Mark spots Jennifer crawling through a Little Sister vent. She crawls out of the ward and Mark scans the room for another vent and spots one. He approaches slowly, listening for her crawling through. She appears, jumps down and scuttles towards him. Her bare feet make a soft pattering on the grated flooring. "Hello again," Mark says softly as she comes up to him.

"Here's your drawing back, Mister." Jennifer holds out the folded paper to him. Now she's human again, her accent is unmistakably Pennsylvanian. "I asked about. Found out there was a girl here who used to write in code like that."

Mark slowly kneels in front of Jennifer. "What happened to her?"

"She went with Sofia one day and came back different. Every day she went with Sofia, and every day she came back a little different, and then one day she stopped coming back. Never saw her again."

"You say she was different. Could you tell me more about that?"

Jennifer shuffles her feet. She glances away from him to where Sinclair and Delta stand, watching. She gives a little shrug. "Just... said some things."

"Like what?"

Whatever it is, it's clearly bothering her. Mark is loathed to push a child like this, but he must. "Jennifer, please." She blinks at him, startled, because she remembers her name now and this is the first time she's heard it spoken aloud since she was taken. Mark isn't so sure if it was a good idea to say it at all, if his knowing her name made him appear more threatening than friendly, but it's too late now. "That girl’s name is Cindy. She's my daughter. I've been looking for her. And for you too." He takes his ID out of his jacket and shows her.

She looks at it for a long time. "You a policeman?"

"I work with the police." Occasionally.

Eleanor reappears. With all the other girls gone, she's ready to take Jennifer to the lifeboat.

Mark holds up his hand and gives her a pleading look. "Just one moment."

Jennifer bunches her skirt in her hands.

Mark inches a little closer. "I need your help Jennifer. You've been found, but Cindy is still lost. Anything you tell me will help."

Those brown, shaky eyes flit up to meet his. "She... she said scary things. Before she went away."

"What did she say?"

Her fists are clenched so hard around her hem that she shakes.

"It's alright," Mark says in a hushed voice. "You can tell me."

"She didn't want to get ADAM no more. She said that when we take ADAM, the angels don't sleep." Tears appear in her eyes. She drops her voice to a whisper, "She said they're awake. And they scream."

---

 

Chapter 14

Notes:

I'm pretty sure this is the longest chapter yet.

Uhhh...

Anyway, here are some warnings. Just to, you know, warn. There's references to canon-typical human experimentation, forced imprisonment, and child abuse. Nothing graphic, but everything implied.

With the paediatric wards cleared, they head back to the docking platform and onwards to the holding wing so they can reverse the lockdown. Mark, Sinclair, and Eleanor wait by the inmate processing desk in the holding wing lobby while Delta hacks open the next door. Sinclair looks increasingly nervous the longer they stand there.

Once the door is open, they step into another glass tunnel. They continue in a full circle to the security check point and hit the prisoner admission button to open the way to the cell block. While there, Mark notices Sinclair pull a photograph from the wall of mugshots. It’s of a man, a rather dejected one with terror in his eyes. Sinclair stares at it for a long time before he slips it into the middle pouch on his waist.

“Beginning Admission Sequence,” says the pre-recorded security announcer. It takes a few seconds for the cell block door to open.

It’s fitting, Mark supposes, that Lamb has made a prison into the base of her operations. He’d seen dozens of ridiculous homages to Lamb throughout Rapture – altars, shrines, butterflies, and paintings – but this place is excessive. The first thing Mark sees is a giant cloth butterfly slung on the wall and lit in a ghostly blue light. Scattered across the floor are handprints in white paint, repeating the same butterfly motif.

Delta and Eleanor handle any Splicers that might give them trouble. As they pass through the cafeteria, Sofia Lamb decides to grace them with another one of her radio messages.

“Eleanor, I know you can hear me. I am in Sinclair’s lifeboat now. Delta cannot reach me here, but you can. We…we shall return to the surface together – if you will only step inside and accept your duty. Remember, Eleanor… Mummy loves you.”

“Ah, yes,” drawls Eleanor. “Mother is testing me. One last game. Fortunately by now I am the world’s foremost expert at breaking her rules. I’ve made my choice, Father.” As she says this, she touches the side of Delta’s helmet – on his cheek. “And if needs be, I’ll die for it.”

Delta returns the touch, pressing his thumb under Eleanor’s chin.

Mark is happy for Delta, but he misses Cindy so terribly. The lifeboat. He takes a step backwards towards the stairs, only for his retreat to be cut short when Sinclair catches him by the elbow.

“Slow your roll. Can’t reach her until we reverse the lockdown, remember?”

“I wasn’t going to…” he begins, but Sinclair’s raised eyebrow reminds him to quit while he’s ahead.

Sinclair laughs. “You tickle me greatly, ya know that?”

“I’m beginning to get that impression.”

“I’d sure hate to lower your opinion of me but there’s something I’d like you very much to hear.”

This sounds serious. “…Alright.”

"You wanted to know more about me? What would you say to knowin’ that I used to rent folk in here out to Plasmid trials? Have their minds and bodies re-worked until they went mad and, to top it off, had them conditioned to follow orders. And what would you say if I told you that chief was one of them?”

Mark waits to see if Sinclair has anything else to add and then he says, “I know.”

Sinclair blinks.

Mark counts on his fingers. “Stanley said Delta was arrested. He said you did something to him. Your office is in the detention facility. You’re scared of the prisoners. You lab-tested ADAM and branded Plasmids. His name is Subject Delta. You act incredibly guilty…”

“Alright-y, I get your point…”

“You already know what I think.”

He thumbs the middle pouch on his waist bag. “Want me to bear my heart, I suppose. Tell him how I rented him out to make an extra nickel and then have the gall to confess that I’m sweet on him. Is there really nothin’ else you want to say? I’m giving you an amble opportunity here to let out a little of your pent-up rage. Don’t be shy now.”

Mark gives him a flat look. "Sinclair, you're my friend so I'm obligated to tell you that you're an idiot. Come on. Let’s get a move on."

Sinclair is too stunned to follow, so Mark does what Sinclair had done for him and takes him by the elbow and pulls him along. When they reach the north quad of the cell block, it’s suspiciously quiet. Sinclair takes a cautious look around and nearly walks into the stair railing.

“Sinclair, do you remember the code to the watch tower?” asks Eleanor.

“That I do.”

“Excellent. I’m going to make sure we aren’t disturbed.”

Mark, Sinclair and Delta head up the stairs. Upon reaching the watch tower, Sinclair keys the code into the door and steps aside to let Delta in through – Delta, who pointedly looks straight ahead and skirts to avoid touching Sinclair.

Mark leans in to whisper into Sinclair’s ear. “Talk to him now. There won’t be time later.”

Sinclair pales, yet his face is resolute. He knows Mark is right. He sets the tommy gun and his pistol on the floor.

"What are you doing?"

"Showin' him I mean no harm."

You’re a fool, Sinclair, Mark wants to say. He wants to say what Delta had told him; that Augustus is the most important person in all the world. He wants to say that from the moment he first saw the two of them, he knew they had a connection. That it was the mutual respect between them that helped Mark see Delta as the man he is. That when they were on the train and drank those ridiculous canned peaches together, Mark saw exactly how special their connection truly is and he’d taken it into his heart without quite meaning to, determined to shelter it, and maybe that’s selfish because he can’t love anyone the way these two love each other and he doesn’t have the right to take a tiny piece for himself when he is still very much a stranger to them.

"Here." Sinclair holds Mark's pistol out to him. "You best be takin' this back now."

"You know I can't fire it."

"Then it's time we both face what frightens us."

Dammit. Mark takes the pistol and stashes it in his jacket-blazer.

Sinclair sucks in a breath, tucks in his shirt, pats down the cowlicks in his hair, and looks at Mark. "How do I look?"

Mark reaches over to correct the twist in his left suspender. "Perfectly handsome."

"Flatterer."

Despite Sinclair’s tenacity, Mark still has to push him into the watch tower. He seals the door on them for good measure. If Sinclair steps out of that room without apologising, Mark will shoot an arrow up his backside. While they talk, he takes up a defensive position near the top of the stairs. The safety wall gives him cover, but the height allows him to see if anyone is coming. On the lower level, Eleanor scouts the cells at a record speed and soon runs up the stairs to join him.

“What’s the delay?” she asks.

“Your father and Sinclair are having a talk.”

“A talk?”

“An important talk. They need to be alone.” He isn’t sure what Eleanor knows and doesn’t want to tell a history that isn’t his.

Eleanor tilts her head at him. “Do you think Father will forgive him?”

Ah.

Well, that answers that.

“I don’t know,” he replies. “That’s not something we have any control over.”

“What would be the heroic thing to do?”

She’s teasing him.

Mark shrugs. “I wouldn’t know. I suppose heroes in stories are always the forgiving types.”

Eleanor hums. “I didn’t get to read many stories growing up, except ones Amir let me borrow. I had to hide them so Mother wouldn’t know. She was very particular about what materials I consumed.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

A moment passes before Eleanor speaks again. “I think I should forgive my mother, but I don’t want to. I want her dead. What does that make me?”

Mark should probably say something wise or comforting. Blame it on the exhaustion, but he ends up saying, “If it’s any consolation, I want your mother dead too.”

Eleanor fidgets. “Mr Meltzer –”

“You can call me Mark, you know.”

She doesn’t. “What are the people like on the surface?”

“Everyone is different. Some are decent. Some aren’t. You usually only find out which after you’ve known them a while. Oh, and we don’t generally murder each other.”

Speaking of murder, it isn’t long before there’s another ruckus. Immediately, Mark is on high alert. No one is going to interrupt this moment between Delta and Sinclair if he has anything to say about it. He steadies the pipe in his hand and looks to Eleanor, who nods at him, before running towards the direction of the noise. Mark doubts she needs his help - ever since she got into that suit she's been completely formidable - but he follows at a safe distance, making sure to keep the watch tower in his sights at all time. Eleanor pins the stray Splicer in cell block D. She snatches him by the front of his torn shirt and hoists him off his feet.

"Wait, wait, wait!" blabbers the Splicer, "I just want to talk, I swear."

"You,” hisses Mark, loud enough to give Eleanor pause.

Elgar Vankin waves his hands. He's unarmed, though that doesn't mean much in a city where some can teleport, and others can shoot fire from their hands. "Look, see? I ain't playing, I promise!"

“Oh really?” Eleanor purrs. “Taken manipulation lessons from Mother, have you?”

“No, no, no, no, no,” Elgar pleads. He nods shakily at Mark, "I've been thinking on what you said, you know, before..."

"You mean when you had me strung up in a meat locker?"

"Right. Uh. Sorry about that."

Eleanor rolls her shoulders. She lowers Elgar to the ground but doesn’t let him go. “Well then, Mr Meltzer, how will we deal with this one?”

“Oh come on!” Elgar says, “I wanna talk. That’s all!”

"Likely story."

"I do, I do! You met my Lee, right? You know things. I just want to talk to you."

"You can talk to me,” Mark says sweetly. “Start by telling me where I can find Cindy."

Elgar blinks. "Who?"

Mark shoves him against the wall so fast that not even Eleanor expected it. "Cindy, you son of a bitch."

"I don't know nothing about no... Oh. Oh! Right. The cavy!" The expression on Mark's face must be terrifying because Elgar yelps and lifts his palms up in surrender. "Not cavy. Not cavy. The girl. I remember." He laughs nervously. "Doctor Lamb doesn't care about her no more. She figured she could use Cindy to scare you into turning over Sinclair or Delta or even into becoming a Big Daddy yourself. Get rid of you for good. You know things, private eye. You being here sows seeds of doubt in The Family. Doctor Lamb doesn't like that." Elgar shakes his head emphatically. "No, she doesn't like that one bit."

Which... was Sinclair's theory. That's the only reason Mark considers believing this lunatic.

"What about using her as my replacement?" hisses Eleanor.

“You’re the one and only.” Elgar’s eyes are full of worship. “No one else. Just you.”

Eleanor lets out a snarl. “Lucky me.”

"I'll take you to her, if you want!” Elgar nods eagerly. “I know where your little one is. She’s close! Really, she is!" He frees an arm to point, “Doc put her…” He waves vaguely, “…out of the way. You can have her."

Mark tries not to let his hope crush him. He breathes steadily.

“You can have her, and – and you tell me what you know about Lee. I… I can’t remember his face, you see? I get all muddled when I think about it. I wanna be able to remember his face one last time.”

“Who’s Lee?” Eleanor asks.

Mark sighs. Time for his notebook again. If he’d known Cindy’s fate depended on Lee Wilson Seward of all people, he would have been more thorough in his notes. As it happens, outside of his summary of their in-person meeting, there isn’t much else he has on the man. What he does have, crammed into the pocket on the inside of the back cover, is a folded-up newspaper interview with the man, including his photograph – rather, a photograph of the back of his head.

Mark holds it up. “Does this interest you?”

Elgar looks like he’s about to start crying. He reaches for the picture, but Mark withdraws his hand before he can take it.

“Where is my daughter?”

Elgar moans. “You shithead!”

Eleanor hoists him off the ground by his shirt.

“Gah! Okay. I’m sorry! It just came out. Words just come out my mouth sometimes! I’ll take you to her.” With a jerky motion, Elgar leads them down the stairs. Eleanor keeps the point of her Big Sister weapon trained on the tail of his spine the whole time. He gestures to the entryway leading to Solitary Confinement. “She’s in there.”

Mark jabs the pipe at him. “You first.”

“You’re mean.”

“Oh believe me,” Eleanor says snidely. “He’s the kind one.”

With a gulp, Elgar hastily goes in. It’s dark, but the light from Eleanor’s helmet allows them to find their way down the metal stairs. There are five hatches – No. Mark shudders. Not hatches. Prison cells. These are oubliettes. His pulse thunders in his ears as Elgar points to one. In less than a second, Mark is on his knees next to it, tossing the pipe aside – the clatter of it echoes painfully – and he’s shaking uncontrollably as he finds the release mechanism on the hatch and hauls it open. The cell beneath isn’t much bigger than a square metre and, thankfully, not deeper than a couple of feet. A couple of candles, half-melted, light up the small space, so Mark can see the girl inside almost perfectly. She’s sat on her floor with her arms around her knees and her head down. The pink ribbon he bought for her birthday is still in her hair.

"Cindy?"

Cindy slowly lifts her head. Her eyes aren't yellow. They are a deep a brown as his own. Unmistakably human. "...Daddy?"

Mark reaches down and pulls her out of the hole, wrapping her in his arms. "Oh, Cindy!"

"Daddy!"

They hug each other. Her cold, cold body sucks the heat out of him, but he only holds her tighter. She presses her face into his chest, her tiny frame rocking as she sobs, loud and unabashed, and paws at him. He strokes her hair, brushing back her dyed fringe to see the flash of blonde beneath it, blurring as his eyes water. "Cindy..." His relief nearly cripples him. "Oh, baby-girl. Oh, my sweet baby. I've got you. I've got you now. Everything is going to be okay."

"Daddy." Her tiny fists bunch at his tattered shirt. “I’m sorry. I had to.”

He doesn’t have to know what she’s apologising for. He presses a kiss to the crown of her head. "Whatever you had to do, whoever..." he swallows, "Whatever you had to do to survive, it won't change anything. I love you. I will always love you. God, Cindy, I've been so worried about you. I thought I'd lost you forever.” He pulls back to look at her, hardly believing it is her. "It doesn't matter now. I'm so happy to see you."

"I'm really sorry," she whispers again, tears in her eyes. "Had to be careful."

"I know. It's okay. It was you all along, wasn't it? You sent me those messages. It was always you." He despises himself for doubting it. “You used our code. You got clues to me. Don’t ever be sorry for that.”

"My friends said we had to play hide and seek. I had to hide until you found me. They didn't mean to make you cry before. They were just trying to keep me safe."

“Your friends?” He repeats, irrevocably, achingly relieved that someone had taken care of his little girl.

“You’re crying again.” Her face is the picture of distress, “I’m making you cry, Daddy.”

“These are happy tears.”

“They are?”

He nods.

“Promise?”

“I promise.” He lets her go a moment and shrugs the crossbow off his shoulders. “Come on. I’m getting you out of here.”

Just as he settles Cindy onto his shoulders, there’s a flicker of red in his peripheral and a hauntingly familiar whoosh of displaced air.

Sofia Lamb wouldn’t leave her leverage unguarded.

“I’ve got them. Get out of here!” shouts Eleanor. Before she finishes her sentence, they’re joined by three Houdini Splicers dressed in identical surgeon coats. Eleanor laughs. “Oh, Mother must be more deluded than usual if she thinks the three of you stand a chance against me!”

“Precious Eleanor –” One of them starts to say, but Eleanor is already on them. The room fills with flames. Mark runs for the stairs. He hears someone pursuing him, so he secures Cindy with a hand around her ankle, spins on his heel, and delivers a punch to his pursuer’s face.

Elgar yelps and falls sideways onto the floor. Mark manages another step when Elgar grabs his leg and pulls hard, causing him to slip on the wet stairs and land painfully on his back. Cindy shrieks as they topple. Mark twists round to check on her, but Elgar is on him, seizing him by the collar.

“I got her back for you! You owe me!” Elgar slams Mark’s skull against the stairs.

Cindy screams, “Daddy!”

Mark shoves at Elgar. “I can’t damn well take you to your lover if you kill me!” Goddamn idiot Splicers!

“He won’t want me! Look at me. LOOK AT ME!” Elgar grasps his hair in his hands and pulls until his scarred scalp splits down the middle, oozing plasma and staining his bandaged hands pink.

With a half-terrified, half-disgusted sound, Mark scrambles to stand. He reaches for Cindy again, unspeakably desperate to get her away from this vile madness.

Elgar stalks after them. “You don’t know what you’ve done, PI. You fucking shit, you’ve ruined everything. I believed in The Family. I gave everything for The Family and then you came here with your – with your private investigator badge and your photograph – and talking all that shit about Lee like you even know. What am I supposed to do now, huh? WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?”

“If Lee loves you, he won’t care what you look like.”

Elgar lets out a deranged cackle. He claws at his skull again, as if exposing the raw skin wasn’t enough, he now wants to tear right through to his skull. “Won’t ever know, will we? I’d rather die than let him see me like this. Kill me, limpet! Fucking kill me.”

Then he lunges.

Mark pushes Cindy out of the way. As she flees towards the cell block, Mark takes another punch from Elgar, who is sobbing now, his hits barely doing a thing, and Mark almost feels bad for him.

Almost.

Especially as Elgar gets a hold of himself long enough to toss them both into the crossfire of Eleanor and the Houdini Splicers. Flames are everywhere, coming from all directions as the Houdinis disappear and reappear. Elgar seizes Mark by the throat. Mark marches backwards, slamming himself and Elgar against the wall. The force of it isn't enough to make Elgar let him go, who seems determined to pay him back for using him as a step ladder earlier.

A Houdini spots them struggling. "Euthanasia!” he barks, growing a ball of flames in his fist. “Doctor's orders!"

It gives Mark an idea. As the Houdini throws the flames, Mark grabs any part of Elgar he can get hold of and twists, putting Elgar between himself and the fire. The flames scorch them both. Elgar takes the worst of it. He lets him go, shrieking in pain, and Mark thumps to the floor, rolling, gasping, rolling some more.

"FIRE, FIRE, FIRE!" Elgar blunders around, tripping over Mark and falling. The smell is the worst part, like sticky, sweet pork burning.

With a shudder, Mark moves towards the stairs again, calling out Cindy’s name. When he reaches the cell block, there's something much worse:

A Big Sister.

And it isn't Eleanor.

It's the one with the cracked eye, the very same one he saw in Neptune's Bounty. Cindy, who is hiding behind the support column, gasps at the sight of her.

Mark reaches over his shoulder for his crossbow – only to remember that he’d left it in Solitary. The Big Sister snatches Cindy and runs. Mark draws his pistol and chases after her. The cell block door lifts open and slams closed again just as Mark reaches it and, in a moment that feels endless, it shudders back open, sensors slow to pick up his presence. Mark charges through it, leaving the fire and Elgar and the other Splicers screaming behind him, screams which turn into gurgles and abruptly into silence. He thinks he hears Eleanor call out for him, but he doesn’t slow down. He won’t. Not now. Not when he just got her back.

He chases the oblong shadow as it dances around the corner -

And he stops.

Because the Big Sister is right there. The crack in her eye is like a lightning strike hovering above him. Cindy is curled in the basket on the Sister's back, wide-eyed and frightened - a shock of relief in them when she sees him - and Mark makes a sound primal and unrecognisable, but ultimately wasted breath.

The Sister clenches her fist in Mark's bloodied and tattered shirt, and in a puff of purple smoke, she steals them both.

---

 

Notes:

*backs away slowly*

Chapter 15: A Timely Apology From A. Sinclair

Notes:

I seem to recall promising topclair content...

It’s been a long time since Sinclair was last in the watch tower. Back then, Persephone was brand new, positively gleaming, hastily assembled but sturdy, his perfect thinktank. When Sofia Lamb took control, he was barred access and, frankly, hadn't planned on being here at all if it weren't for Miss High and Mighty herself thinking she could take Delta down. The thought of Delta on that gurney still sends shivers through Sinclair - but that gives him a little courage too. He has to make this right.

"Hey, uh, kid?" Sinclair hovers behind Delta, watching him pick through crates and drawers. The watch tower is clean by Rapture standards, save for an oil spill from Lord knows what, but Delta is fixing that: Anything he can't use he tosses unceremoniously over his shoulder. A can of peaches goes rolling right into Sinclair's foot. "Hey, chief. Mind sparing me your eyes for a minute? I've got something I need to say."

Delta stops and looks at him.

This is it then. Here goes nothing. Sinclair clears his throat, which is parched all of a sudden. “Your hints haven’t gone unnoticed. You’re cross with me, and I don’t fault you for that. It's less than I deserve.”

Delta stares at him.

Sinclair…hasn’t really got a word to say now. Come to think of it, he’s never offered a genuine apology to another man's face in all his life, not even when he was caught thieving as a young boy - save for that one he offered Mark earlier, of course. Figures there's a knack to it, one decent folks have a lifetime to practise. How exactly does one get from that opener to the ‘I’m sorry’ part without it sounding cheaper than a Siren Alley hooker?

“I deserve as much," he says. He's already said that, hasn't he? "And it comes as no surprise, really. Have to be honest, I knew the moment you went to Fontaine’s that you would piece together your past.”

Delta hasn't moved an inch. Lordy, is he even breathing?

"I know! You wouldn't believe the stroke of luck I had..." With shaky fingers, Sinclair reaches into the bag on his waist and takes out the mugshot he pinched from the security check point. Prisoner 458: Johnny Topside is stamped on the front. He tried not looking at the face, but that sort of thing can't be helped. He holds the mugshot out to Delta. “It doesn't make up for it but I figured, maybe, you’d want somethin' of yourself back.”

Delta doesn't move.

"Come on now, kid! I ain't playing with you. It's the real deal."

The seconds before Delta moves feel terribly long. His footsteps are slow and precise. When he gets within stepping distance, Sinclair panics. He closes the space, snatches hold of Delta’s wrist, and presses the photograph snug into his palm.

“There you are. For you, kid.”

Delta stares at the face of the man he once was, the man whose real name remains unknown, and still he does nothing. No happy warble. No angry growl. Not even a little grunt to indicate he understood. As the silence stretches on, Sinclair begins to think he might have made a terrible mistake.

“I’m not trying to rub your nose in it, son," he says hastily. "I just thought you… well, I thought you might want it. Like I said, it’s not worthy recompense - I wouldn’t dream of implying as such - but it's... it's something, right? Chief?”

No sound, though Sinclair notes the tiniest of trembles along Delta's arm. Dagnabbit, he has only gone and upset the old boy! What was he thinking, showing him exactly what he's lost? He racks his brain to come up with something to say to fill the terrible, aching silence between them. Delta has never been much of a talker, but he's never been this quiet. Sinclair has to do something. Why, he's got to show him that the picture isn't some two-bit keepsake, it's an ideal to strive for!

There's a ruckus from outside the watch tower. Sinclair turns, briefly, to the rightmost window. He can't see what's going on from where he's standing, and it would be mighty rude to move from Delta just yet. Whatever it is, Mark and Eleanor no doubt have it handled.

Oh.

Oh, but that's it!

Of course. Why didn't he think of it sooner?

“Chin up, sport. It just occurred to me that we’ve stumbled upon a whole lotta luck with regards to your situation.”

Delta lowers his arm, focusing on him instead of the mugshot.

Sinclair grins. “Why! Mark, of course! He has that there journal of his and, as you know, I took a peak earlier and I'm telling you he'll know something. He’s got just about every name of everybody who went missing this side of the Atlantic jammed between those pages or between his ears. I reckon he knows your real name. And if not, he’s got the mind to figure it out. Why, he could even find where you came from! Wouldn’t that be grand?”

Finally, Delta makes a noise. A small, tiny huff.

And - there's this smell. Like chemicals. Sinclair is too busy studying Delta to notice that it isn't from the oil spill. It’s only when a wisp of smoke curls up in front of his eyes that he looks from Delta's face to the mugshot in his hand. It promptly bursts into flames, melting into a lump in Delta’s palm.

“Kid!” Sinclair cries, shocked. He reaches to snatch the photograph back but stops himself last minute. It’s too late. The last remnant of Johnny Topside is gone.

Delta tilts his palm and lets the smouldering lump fall to the floor. Grunting, he turns his back on Sinclair and stomps off to search the room - a search he’s already conducted.

Sinclair stares, open mouthed. Has his apology been rejected? Hold on now, old boy! You’ve not said the words yet. He summons his courage once again, though it feels weaker. His body his quaking from the inside out. “Chief.”

Delta continues to pick his way through the drawers on the warden's desk, not paying Sinclair any attention.

“Delta.”

That does it. Delta whirls round to look at him.

At first, Sinclair's a little surprised that worked. Until he remembers that was the first time he’d ever used Delta’s name. It was always kid, or chief, or sport. Never Delta. Never the name they gave him in the lab. Sinclair thought he was being kind, but he was being cowardly. The realisation shakes him. His eyes become wet.

“Delta," he chokes, "Kid. I’m sorry.” Despite feeling like he can't breathe, he presses on, “God, I am so, so sorry for what I did to you. For my part in it. For every damn thing. I built this place, and I sold you out to those plasmid trials. I bottled up and made a mint on the ADAM they tested on you. I put you in the Protector Program. You’d be a man if it weren’t for me. I deserve to pay for that. I know I’ve never tried hiding the kind of person I am but that doesn't change that I should have said all of this upfront.”

Delta is as still as he would be if he were encased in ice. He's gone quiet again, unlike Sinclair’s heart which is jackrabbiting against his ribs.

“And…” Sinclair licks his lips and takes a cautious step forward, “if you’re willin’ - if you’re not wanting to part ways that is - I will spend the rest of my life makin’ it up to you. Scout’s honour.”

He looks at Delta hopefully. Delta looks back at him, unmoving.

Sinclair wilts. “Of course if you ain’t then that’s perfectly alright too. Your choices are your own. I hope that no matter what I’ve done, whatever it is you must think of me, you know that your choices matter.”

Finally, as if in slow motion, Delta moves again. He crouches and scoops up the melted lump of the mugshot from the floor. He holds it on his open palm and, slowly, meaningfully, he closes his fingers around it. His grip his so tight that his gloves creak; he crushes the mugshot into powder. It trickles through his fingers like snowfall. With a gruff sound, he claps the mark on the back of his hand.

Sinclair tries not to be hurt by it. He knows Delta well enough by now that he’s doing this to prove a point. By Sinclair's own words, Delta's choice matters. Sinclair’s feelings don’t. He's lost the right to be hurt a long time ago. If Delta doesn't want him, then that's his prerogative.

“Right,” he murmurs. “I understand."

He's okay with this.

He has to be okay with this.

But it hurts. It feels like it was his heart that Delta burned and crumpled in his fist. His chest is aching. Stop it. Stop it. You're a grown man and you deserve this. Be grateful he hasn't pinned you to the wall with the speargun.

"Of course," he manages, blinking back tears.

Delta mewls softly.

Sinclair smiles shakily. "Like I said, it's your decision. You have Eleanor, after all, and -" A tear drops onto his cheek and he wipes it quickly away. His face burns. "- and I reckon an island will get a little busy with me on it too."

Delta’s shoulders jerk, and he lets out a short grunt of surprise. The next thing Sinclair knows Delta has stomped up to him. Eyes widening, Sinclair backs up, palms raised in a halting gesture, and Delta stops his advance. He waves his hands, a recognisable gesture of a panicked No.

“No?”

Delta makes that pawing gesture. Together. He points at Sinclair, at himself: You and me. Together.

"Together?" echoes Sinclair, feeling numb. He looks at the pile of ash on the floor. There’s no mistaking that kind of action. That, my friend, is a definitive get out of my life. "I - I'm feeling mighty confused here, son."

Delta brings his fist to his chest and then repeats his earlier gesture by clapping the symbol on his hand. The delta symbol. It takes a second for Sinclair to realise that Delta’s gesturing is more literal than he first thought. Completely literal, in fact.

“You’re Delta now.”

Delta huffs an affirmation.

“Johnny Topside is nothing but ashes.”

Delta huffs again.

Sinclair backs away, too numb to notice his friend reaching for him. He'd wanted Delta to have choices. He doesn't want him thinking there isn’t one at all. Aw hell, he really has messed this up. "You're wrong!" he shouts, "You can still get it back! You can’t give up!”

The reaching pauses. Delta does a double take.

Sinclair isn’t finished. “You’re a trooper, kid! I'm telling you, once we’ve gotten your heart fixed up, you’ll be well on your way. Don’t you dare start talkin’ like there’s no hope left! That's - That's - That's nonsense, that's what it is!”

Delta takes a determined step towards him. Sinclair matches it, blood boiling, so they’re chest to chest. He brings himself to his full height, puts on the same smile he used to give the down-and-outs who stayed above his bars, the ones he encouraged to stick around by discounting their drinks. He wants Delta’s loyalty. He wants Delta to know that he’s still useful to him. It’s not working. The expression won’t hold still. It slips and he can't make it stay.

“You think I wouldn’t? You think I wouldn't spend every second I have left trying to make you happy? You’re talking to Augustus Sinclair, my friend. There’s nothin’ I can’t get my hands on, and there’s nothin’ I wouldn’t do for you!”

The tears he'd been fighting win the battle. They spill down his burning cheeks.

"Aw hell," he hisses. He ducks his head, brushing angrily at them. They refuse to let up. It's like every tear he's never wept has decided to come cascading out. "Ignore me, kid. It's just… It's just the thought of you giving up breaks my heart, that's all."

Sinclair startles when Delta reaches for his face. One knuckle is enough for Delta to hold Sinclair's chin and tilt his face up. Carefully, he brushes the tears from Sinclair's cheek. Sinclair lets out a strangled laugh.

"Just like - Just like when we met, huh kid? You reached for my face then too. Surprised me how gentle you are, you know. Still surprises me, I reckon."

He can't stand this. He can't stand it.

He reaches up and closes his hand around Delta's finger, halting his movement. He squeezes it. Looks up into Delta's helmet. Sees his sorry reflection on it, all worn and wet.

"Please don't give up, kid."

Rapture may think the monster is behind the glass, but the real monster is reflected on it. Sinclair is too damn selfish to look past it to the eyes of the person on the other side. He can't even let Delta have this. He just had to make one more selfish demand, even though a second ago he'd promised that his choices mattered. He's no better than Sofia Lamb.

Delta sighs, a big, long exasperated sound like a train letting out steam. He tugs his finger loose and catches Sinclair's hand with his own. He takes hold of Sinclair's other hand and brings it up to rest on top of Delta's, on top of the triangular symbol. Makes Sinclair tap it this time.

Sinclair frowns. "I... I'm afraid I'm still not getting what you're trying to say."

Delta drops his hands. Slowly, he clasps either side of his helmet. There’s a hiss as the pressure releases and in one swift movement, he pulls the helmet off his head and drops it to the side. It crashes to the floor, rattling the loose drawers, and making Sinclair jump.

Sinclair doesn’t look away.

Delta has green eyes. They shine like emeralds from the scarred canvas of his face. His facial features are a little wry, a little bumpy. His lips are pressed tightly together. In the middle of his forehead, surrounded by a web of blood vessels, is a steady amber light. Sinclair is breathless, taking it all in. This is the face of his friend. His partner. He can't help himself. He almost misses it when Delta, once more, claps the symbol on the back of his hand. The gesture is softer this time.

Oh.

Sinclair is an idiot.

"You’re not looking for a cure, are you, kid?”

It's so simple. It's too simple. Yet, this is Delta's choice. His choice is himself, this version of himself, the good, the bad, and the ugly.

“You’re Delta now."

A huff. Yes.

"Johnny Topside is gone, but you’re okay with that?”

A hand wave. So-so.

Sinclair can’t help but laugh. “Accepted it then."

Yes.

It makes sense. Big Daddy or not, Delta knows who this version of himself is. Johnny Topside could have been anyone. He’s certainly not Eleanor’s father.

"That's what you've been trying to say this whole time?"

Delta nods, shoulders loose with relief. It's much easier to see the change in body language with the helmet off.

“Well... we got there in the end, didn't we?” Sinclair lets out a helpless, breathy little laugh. Delta warbles. And he's smiling. Sinclair has never seen him smile before. He flushes. “I thought… Never-mind what I thought. As long as you’re happy. That’s all that matters.”

His heart, which moments ago had felt like a painful lump of charcoal, now felt as full and warm as a hearth. Delta doesn't hate him. If that ain't the best news since... since ever!

There’s just one thing he doesn’t understand.

“While I’m pleased as punch that our partnership is still afloat, if you’re not wanting a cure I fail to see what you get out of me being here.”

Delta rolls his eyes. Actually rolls those damn pretty emeralds of his. Next thing Sinclair knows, Delta has him by the thighs. Sinclair let’s out an undignified yelp as Delta carries and drops him on the desk and traps him there with his arms. Unable to move, Sinclair can only gawk as Delta, once again, flexes his fingers and clenches them, that same gesture Sinclair had seen half a dozen times before.

Together.

“Oh,” breathes Sinclair, staring into the vortex of those green, green eyes. He smirks, “You want me stickin’ around for my charm alone, do ya? I can certainly do that." He presses his palms flat against Delta's chest, gives a gentle push, but Delta doesn't step back. "Kid? Chief, what's wrong?"

Delta is frowning. He gestures to his face.

Sinclair smiles softly. "Makes no difference to me." Blame it on the euphoria, but his next words tumble out by accident, "I'm rather sweet on you, actually."

Delta's eyes go wide.

Aw hell. Sinclair claps the back of his neck. "Uh, if you don't mind of course." He winces. If you don't mind? That's a hell of a thing to say! He pushes at Delta's chest again, to no avail. He is thoroughly humiliated. "Be a peach and forget I said that."

Delta purrs. He's smiling wider than before. He clasps the back of Sinclair’s skull, drawing him close so their foreheads touch. Thanks to his strength, their skulls bump a touch too hard and Sinclair grunts with surprise.

“Easy there, sport,” he chuckles. “A knock to the head is a sure-fire way of taking care of me, but I suspect that’s not quite what you had in mind.”

The hand cradling Sinclair’s head shifts, a large thumb moving to brush Sinclair’s cheek. With a shiver, Sinclair returns the gesture, touching lightly against the rubbery skin of Delta’s temple. The muscles in Delta’s cheek twitch in the smallest of flinches.

Sinclair drops his hand to Delta’s shoulder. “Sore spot, huh?”

Delta nods and pushes his face into Sinclair’s, nuzzling him. Delta doesn't have a nose, but Sinclair's brushes the little nub where it once would have been. Then Delta kisses him, hot and eager, and Sinclair, who hasn’t been touched in so long, moans so loud he surprises himself. Every part of him is blazing now. He can’t imagine what Delta’s feeling. It’s been twice as long for him, and twice as hard trapped in that bulky metal suit. He leans right into Sinclair. Sinclair tips back to make room and laughs into Delta’s mouth when he ends up flat on his back. Delta pulls back, his hands bracketing Sinclair and his broad shoulders heaving.

Sinclair props himself up and kisses his little amber light in the middle of his forehead. The light turns green.

"Say," Sinclair gives it a tender tap, "That's a neat trick. Green is friendly, right? Like when you've been hypnotised or newly bonded with your..." Sinclair trails off.

Delta looks faintly embarrassed.

"I - I didn't think it could work that way."

Delta shrugs. Poor kid, it’s not like he’s to know.

"Don't suppose that'll cure your heart problems?"

Delta prods at his chest, sighing.

“Worth a shot.” 

Delta lowers his forehead onto Sinclair’s shoulder. In return Sinclair wraps his arms around him, holding him tight.

“No matter. I’m here with you, Del.”

Delta warbles happily.

“You like that? Del.”

Delta nudges their cheeks together, nodding.

“Del it is then! ‘Chief’ was getting a little old.” Sinclair pushes against Delta’s chest again and Delta steps back. “We best hurry on in any case. Mark and Eleanor are waitin’ on us.”

There’s muffled fighting coming from outside the watch tower. Delta puts his helmet back on. Sinclair hops off the desk and keys open the watch tower door. On the floor below, Eleanor is looking around like a wild thing. She spots them, "Father!"

Delta runs to her. Sinclair hastily picks up the guns he left by the watch tower entrance and checks them for ammunition before following.

“Father, I’m so sorry.” Eleanor is saying, “Meltzer has been taken.”

Sinclair is halfway down the stairs and halts, heart stuttering. “Taken? How?”

“A Big Sister.”

“Oh hell, of course it did! The man’s a Big Sister magnet!”

“I should have been quicker.” She looks pleadingly at Delta, who touches her shoulder kindly. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t blame yourself, doll. This is your mother’s doing.”

“I don’t think it is. If she’s taken him, she would already be gloating. If Mother was being honest when she said she is on your lifeboat, then she would have no reason to take him. This is something else.”

Sinclair drags a hand through his hair. “I knew he was gonna bring us nothin’ but trouble. Well, alrighty then. I say we reverse the lockdown as planned.”

“That will release all the prisoners!”

“Sure will, but it will also open the way to the lifeboat.” He looks at Delta. “Del, darlin’ time’s running short for you. Whatever happens, you've got to get on that boat. Your life depends on it.” He bites his lip, “…but mine doesn’t.”

Delta growls.

Sinclair grabs the handlebars on his helmet and turns him so they’re looking at each other. With the vantage of the steps, Sinclair is the one looming over Delta for a change. It doesn’t stop Delta from reaching up and fisting his hand in Sinclair’s shirt.

“None of that! There’s a snowball’s chance in hell we’ll find Mark before your heart gives out. I don’t want to say our fare-the-wells, but I’ll feel a mighty lot better knowing you and Eleanor are on some beach somewhere, sipping out of a coconut and dancing in the sun. You live, you hear me? I’ll come find you.” Sinclair drops a kiss to the top of his helmet. “Rapture hasn’t beaten me so far.”

There’s going to be hell to pay. Nobody takes what’s his.

---

 

Notes:

This chapter was alternatively titled 'how to write 3000 words of two idiots talking past each other that somehow still ends up okay right up until they realise their other idiot has been kidnapped.'

Chapter 16

Notes:

I blinked and this hit 245 kudos. I am freaking out

The moment the purple smoke clears, the Big Sister drops Mark onto his back. The hard wooden floor scrapes his palms as he crawls backwards - only to find his back meeting a wall. He's trapped.

He doesn't know where he is. He can't tear his eyes away from the Big Sister. He draws his pistol. He hadn't been able to fire it before, but this time he will. It's time we both face what frightens us, Sinclair had said. And he will.

This time he won't choke.

Not when Cindy's life is on the line.

He hoists up the pistol to point directly at the Sister's face. The glare of her glowing cracked eye stings. It blinds him to almost everything else in the dark room - but he sees movement. It's Cindy, climbing out of the basket on the Sister's back.

"DADDY NO!" She runs between them, standing there with her arms out in front of Mark's loaded firearm. He drops his arm before Cindy finishes speaking. "She's my friend! She's my friend!"

"Your friend?" Mark repeats dumbly. The pistol lands heavily on the floor as it falls from his loose and tired fingers. "She kidnapped you."

Cindy doesn't move. "No! She saved me. She's been helping me."

Behind her, the Big Sister crawls closer. On instinct, Mark lurches forward. He has hold of Cindy before he realises it, pressing her to his chest, his arms around her, and he pushes back against the wall. His heart is pounding. The Big Sister jerks forward too and freezes when Mark does. They stare at each other, the both of them waiting for the other to make a move. Just like in Neptune's Bounty. She hadn't harmed him then. Perhaps she won't harm him now. He watches her, sweating from every pore. Her light is yellow. His eyes start to water as she crowds him. Desperate, unthinking, he shoves at her face with his hand. He hasn't the strength to push her away; she grants him the mercy of space between them. Or, perhaps, she is backing up to pounce. Mark feels around for his pistol - only to realise that the Big Sister has taken it.

She sets it down behind her, crosses her legs, and sits. Watching him. The ceiling is too low for her height, and she has to jut her neck slightly. She tilts her head from one side to the other, studying him.

"It's okay, Daddy," whispers Cindy.

Mark shakes his head, hugging her tighter.

The Big Sister drops her gaze. Mark blinks splotches from his vision and continues to watch her as she bends her head towards the floor and begins to scratch markings into the wood with the tip of the syringe attached to her arm. She seems wholly uninterested in them now.

Mark thinks back. Dammit, he's so tired, but he has to think. To that moment in the cell block, minutes ago.

"You were rescuing her," he whispers. "You were rescuing her from Lamb."

"She's my friend," Cindy says into his chest. "You smell bad."

Mark snorts. Finally, he tears his eyes away and looks at his daughter. His beautiful daughter, with her scuffed knees and grime on her face, lines down her cheeks from tears. "Are you okay?"

She sniffs. "I missed you."

"I missed you too." He kisses the top of her head. "I'm sorry I took so long."

She smiles faintly. "I knew you would find me."

He doesn't want to look away. He's terrified that if he looks away from her for a moment she'll be snatched again. He takes her tiny hand, cold but very real, and takes a second to take in their surroundings. There's not much he can see, though the yellow light from the Sister's helmet lights up some details. The walls and floor are decorated with chalk drawings. Cindy's drawings. A family, a man, woman, and girl. A horse. A house by the beach. Things from home. There are dozens of them. Some have faded and been drawn over.

"There's a lamp." Cindy tugs at his hand. She means to walk past the Big Sister, and he tightens his hold, keeping her still. She looks at him, a touch nervously. "The light, Daddy. I don't want to be in the dark."

The Big Sister stops scratching the floor and raises her head, casting more light on them. The room isn't more than 20 square feet, scarcely bigger than the oubliette. There's a makeshift hammock made from an oversized T-shirt slung between the walls, held by nails. A few unlit candles lie on the floor.

"This is our hideout," Cindy explains, tugging Mark's hand once more. Mark follows her to the lamp, careful to keep himself between her and the Big Sister. He's starting to accept that the Big Sister might not harm them, though he doesn't trust her temper not to change. He's seen how fast that yellow light turns red. Cindy picks up a box of matches off the floor and before Mark can take them off her, she's lit the lamp and blown the match out like she's done it a hundred times before. His baby girl has had to grow up so fast. He can see their year apart on her features now the lamp is lit. She's older and thinner and sadder.

"You look sad, Daddy," she says softly. "Are you hungry?"

He lets out a soft sound of despair as she pulls him towards the hammock. There's a tiny lunchbox underneath, which she flicks open and takes out two pep bars. She holds one out to him and he takes it, slowly. "You always were good at keeping your room tidy."

She grins. She's still a child, seeking her parent's approval, and suddenly she's leading him around by the hand: "This is where I keep toys" she says, pointing to a pile of broken toys and teddy bears with missing limbs. "This is the toilet," she says about a layer of newspaper. "This hole used to have stinky water coming out but not anymore," she says about a ventilation grill. She's so innocent and proud that she doesn't know how much she's breaking his heart.

"Cindy," he interrupts her. "We're not staying here."

There's a scruffle behind him, followed by a long, drawn-out scratch as the Big Sister drags the tip of her syringe along the wooden floorboards. She has turned so she's facing them, and Mark's pistol stays behind her. She's rising now, hissing low and quiet like a viper. Mark puts Cindy behind him and backs away.

"Daddy?"

"Stay behind me, sweetie."

The Big Sister's light is still yellow, but she's tense in every limb.

"She's my daughter," he tells her. "I'm taking her home and you can't -"

It's then he notices what the creature has been scratching all this time. Lutwidgian symbols. She must have learned them from Cindy. Evidently, they'd known each other a long time. So this is, what, possessiveness? Protection?

And had they... had they lived here together?

The pieces of the puzzle begin to fall into place. Eleanor said she lost contact with Cindy in October; around the time Mark found the message on the beach. The rogue Big Sister had taken her after all. They’ve been…helping each other, apparently. Working together, while living in this... pit. 

But, surely, Cindy isn't in control of this creature? Is she acting out of her own free will or is there another mastermind pulling her strings?

Mark looks hard at her. "Are you like Eleanor? Are you like Delta?"

The creature doesn't respond.

"Or perhaps neither," he murmurs.

"She doesn't talk," Cindy says, uncertainly, "and she doesn't listen good either. She only listens to..." she trails off, biting her lip.

"Stay close to me, okay?" Mark murmurs. Friend or no, he doesn't trust her. To the Big Sister, he says, "You've been haunting me for over a year. If you're really a friend to my daughter, you'll let us go. You'll let her come home with me."

Still no response.

Mark has had enough of this. "What do you want?!"

"She wants her Mommy and Daddy," whispers Cindy. "They're the only ones she listens to. They're the ones who told me to hide when you were all chained up."

Oh, of course. It's another one of these 'Mothers.' First Lamb, now this - yet another cult leader. "Then where are they?" He demands of the Big Sister. "Why else would you bring us here if not to meet your masters?"

Behind him, there's sniffling. Mark whirls round. Cindy is sobbing. Her tears are spilling so fast she's struggling to wipe them away. In an instant, he's holding her.

"Oh, baby-girl. It's okay. I'm here. Did I scare you?"

She hiccups. "They're hurting my head."

"Who's hurting you?"

"The ghosts."

Mark's blood goes cold. "The... ghosts?"

Cindy nods.

Is this trauma? Or are there really ghosts in Rapture on top of everything else?

"They want to talk to you," Cindy says quietly, scuffing her bare toes on the floorboards. "They say they can explain better."

"The ghosts want to talk to me."

Suddenly she's bunching her hands in her hair. "Stop it!"

"Cindy?"

"They're screaming, Daddy. They're always screaming because they're meant to be..." She balls her tiny fists tighter around her dyed locks of hair. "They're meant to be angels but instead they're ghosts. And they don't like it. They don't like it. They remember how they died. They all remember. They just want to sleep. They make my head hurt. They're too loud!"

"Let me talk to them. If that'll make them stop, I'll talk to them." Tears prickle his eyes. He doesn't understand what's happening, but he hates seeing her in so much pain. She's supposed to be at home solving puzzles or at their holiday home, riding their neighbour's horses, or doing math equations, anything, anything but this. "Cindy?"

Cindy has her head down, her fists bunched against her temples. She's breathing slowly.

"Cindy, it's okay." He grasps her elbows. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. You're safe with me."

When Cindy looks up, her eyes are yellow.

For a second, Mark thinks she's somehow slipped back into being a Little Sister - but there's another possibility, one that he had been afraid of the moment he heard it. And suddenly he knows. He knows what's happened. He knows what the ‘ghosts’ are.

"No..." he whispers.

"Please understand..." pleads Cindy - only it isn't her saying it. Her voice is layered with a thousand others. Men. Women. Children. Young. Old. People who died in Rapture, preserved in ADAM, and now speaking through his daughter. "...we did not choose this."

"No. No. No." He grips her tighter. This isn't his daughter. Yet, he grips tighter because he doesn't know what else to do. "I saved you. I found you and I saved you."

"This happened long before you arrived." The amalgamation of voices is settling into one, the voice of a woman. It's almost like listening to a recording of someone speaking in a crowded room. Though he can clearly hear a woman's voice, the others still whisper beneath it.

Mark trembles. "This can’t be happening. Lamb wants Eleanor. Why would she -"

A cavy. Elgar had called Cindy a cavy.

"Oh my God." Sobs shook his body. "Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God."

"We didn't choose this." The woman - the Ghost? - says again. "For what little it's worth, I am sorry, Mr Meltzer. This is a terrible thing. There aren't words for it."

Next to them, the Big Sister is pressing closer.

Cindy, not Cindy, glances at her and raises a hand in a soothing gesture. "Shhh," she whispers, and truly now, she. All the other voices had faded, like they'd warred for the position of mouthpiece and this woman had won. "It is alright. This man won't harm us."

Mark looks between them. "Who are you?" he chokes out.

"I was once like you. A parent whose little girl was taken away and made into a monster." After a pause, she adds, "The rest of us are... farmers. Shopkeepers. Fishermen. Smugglers." Her voice changes with each one, a new person introducing themselves before settling back into the mother's voice. “We are not important people. But I think that is why we are here. We mean nothing to Doctor Lamb. We have no purpose in her Utopian."

Mark covers his mouth as his stomach lurches. He hasn't eaten in a while, so there's nothing to empty but the feeling doesn't leave. As nausea smothers him, his goddamn brain won't stop thinking, won't stop slotting the puzzle pieces together, and oh, how easily they come together now, spelling the worst possible scenario, the one scenario he hadn't thought to entertain because it was too awful.

"So..." His voice shakes, hands dropping limply to his sides. "You were practice."

"Yes."

"And you've been like this. For months. Before I got here."

"Yes."

Mark didn't think it was possible for his heart to break anymore. He breathes in and out slowly, though every part of him trembles with the effort. "And, Lamb, she... she didn't want you. Because you were 'unimportant.' She - Christ - She broke my little girl and threw her away like a toy!"

He buries his face into his hands.

The Ghost, truly a parent, is patient. She waits while he gathers the last of his strength and composes himself long enough to ask his next question.

"What do you want from me?"

"Nothing," she says kindly, "Just to save a little girl. When we saw that Cindy knew these little symbols," she looks meaningfully at the ciphers the Big Sister had scratched on the floor "we thought that if we used them, we could bring help without Doctor Lamb finding out. Splicers are... too stupid to report nonsense drawings. And us... We came to Rapture of our own accord. We knew we could guide someone here if we got a message out. And perhaps if we saved one little girl, it would make some of this right."

She crosses the room to the Big Sister, who silently lowers her head until it's touching Cindy's palm.

"I would not have you lose your daughter the way I did mine." She looks at him over her shoulder. The yellow glow in her eyes almost matches that of the Big Sister. "Her name is Masha. She was one of the first of the girls to be bonded to those awful golems! Ryan's men thought her special and so they hid her away. Poked and prodded her. And when she grew too big to collect ADAM, more men took her away and put her in armour and she became the first of a new kind of monster."

"And they still thought she was special," Mark murmurs, recalling the story Eleanor had told him, "because they thought they could change her back."

"I cannot be sure what she remembers, but whatever has been done to her... she remembers my voice - her mother's voice - and remembers to listen to it."

Christ! thinks Mark. It’s all coming together now. Cindy was kidnapped, transformed into a Little Sister, and after Lamb’s interest waned and her experimentation was complete, Cindy was discarded and found by the rogue Big Sister – by Masha. They came to this hideout, lived a half-life of survival, of scribbling messages in code, until the day Mark arrived and Lamb had use of her old experiment once more.

It's easy to see how his encounters with Masha fit in too. After Cindy was snatched from Dionysus Park, Masha was left alone. The vessel containing her mother's voice had gone, so where else was she to go but... 

Neptune's Bounty.

Where Mark found her, slumped, dejected, in the room where her parents had ended their lives. She'd sat there. Didn't even care that he was there until he tried to kill her, and instead of killing him she'd ran and come back with a message because that's what her mother had instructed her to do.

Not from Cindy, because Cindy was back in Lamb's hands by then.

She'd written it herself, repeating what Cindy and her ghosts had taught her. She dropped it at his feet and, Christ, the way she had looked at him. Twitchy. Nervous. Mark thought she was going to kill him, but what if those nerves were hope? A child trying to do the one thing that might make her parent happy.

"I think she remembers more than you think," Mark tells Masha's mother.

"I am not sure if that is a blessing or a curse," she replies. She turns to Masha, "You will listen to this man now, yes? Keep him safe."

Judging by the hiss Masha gives, she's not pleased with this idea.

"Nay, none of that. Be a good girl."

Christ, thinks Mark, she really is her mother. "What's your name?"

"No name. I'm not myself. I am memories pressed together. The things I have told you are things my real self would never know. My real self died a long time ago. If I had my way, I would not be here at all."

"I understand. You're a victim in all this too."

"You are very kind for not resenting us, Mr Meltzer."

"How could I? I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you."

"Cindy is lucky to have you for a father."

Mark swallows. If only. He could have done so much more. He could have gotten here sooner. He could have prevented Cindy's kidnapping in the first place. Cindy isn't lucky to have him. He's lucky to have Cindy. "How do I fix this?"

"How do you banish us from your daughter's body, you mean?" She says without judgement. "Believe me, there is nothing I want more. But I do not know. As I said, we are not scientists. None of us understand ADAM, and now it is our prison. Perhaps we deserve this. We should have never come to this cursed place."

Mark huffs. "I know the feeling."

---

 

Notes:

Kudos to all of you who saw this coming

Chapter 17

It was 1942 when Mark shot his first man dead. It was at the battle of El Alamein in the mist of dust kicked up from the minefields. He was 19 years old.

For a long time afterward, he tried to pretend that none of it happened. There was him, Mark Meltzer, private investigator, and then there was the 19-year-old fool stood in the middle of a minefield. He tried to convince himself that they weren’t the same person, until he realised that doing so did more harm than good. He was Mark Meltzer, soldier, detective, father.

But something had changed in him, something that stayed after the War ended.

He couldn’t shoot anymore. Not with a gun, at least – not with that gun. The pistol he still carries almost thirty years later.

It's not the killing, he knows that. He's killed one too many Splicers for it to be that. It's not killing that stops him.

It's not even, he thinks, the fear. He'd shot at the Big Sister when Cindy was in danger. He could shoot when Cindy's life was at risk. He thinks, he hopes, he could shoot if Sinclair or Delta were in danger now he knows them. For certain he could. And would. They're in his heart now just as Cindy is.

Perhaps he needs a reason, no, an explanation. If he shoots someone - such a noisy, intrusive way of killing - it can't be senseless. He has to be able to tell himself later that it was for a reason. During the War, he had the best reason there was. Liberty. Freedom. The end of tyranny.

He was good at firing a gun back then.

Now, he cradles the pistol, thinking. He checks the ammunition even though he knows the chamber is full.

Masha, lulled from listening to her mother’s voice, lies on her side on the ground, mewling softly.

“What are you going to do, Mr Meltzer?” ask the ghosts of Rapture’s dead, their voices merging together again.

Mark takes a deep breath and puts the pistol away. “I’m going to fulfil my promise to my friend.”

“What promise is that?”

“To end this.”

Cindy’s yellow eyes flicker nervously. “Mr Meltzer,” the voice is different, singular, a man’s voice, and Masha lifts her head. Masha’s father, perhaps? Cindy had mentioned he is around too. “You won’t end it. There is no end to it. There are others in Rapture. Survivors, who have made a life here and won’t leave. And there will always be others from above who’ll find Rapture. You’re just one man. You can’t stop all that.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“Run. Take your girl and whatever friends you’ve made here and never come back. And don’t tell anyone else about it. Wash your hands of it.”

Mark had certainly planned on that, but how could he wash his hands of it if he hadn’t done what he could to stop it from happening again?

“Mr Meltzer.” Another voice change, back to Masha’s mother. She seems to be the Ghost in charge. “I would tell you something else too.”

“There’s more?”

“I believe it would help you.”

She tells him more – tells him of worse things but of nice things too, things that Mark can cling to despite the horror, and he's grateful for her kindness.

She explains that the memories inside of Cindy fold and twist and collide. They remember things from many, many years ago – tens of years ago – things that happened in each of the ghost's lifetimes. Memories they're unsure belong to who. They remember Cindy’s life. They remember Lamb’s experiment in excruciating detail.

And they’d screamed, confused and crowded – “We are sorry for this most of all. Poor Cindy should not have had to listen to that.” – and then Lamb cast them aside and Splicers came to kill them. It was dark and frightening and they were alone.

And then there was a yellow light. And a scream, not from them, or from a monster, but like that from a bird of prey protecting her nest. And they knew that yellow was safe and red means stop and green means go. Masha saved them.

All the other Little Sisters Masha had saved had ran back to hidey holes, but not Cindy. So Cindy and Masha found their own hidey hole. They decorated their hideout with chalk drawings. They cosied up together to sleep. They played tic-tac-toe and hopscotch. Cindy taught Masha ciphers. Cindy pretended to be a spy and pretended Masha was a spy too; Cindy drew trees. Masha scrubbed them out. That was the only thing they’d ever fought over.

"Masha was born in Rapture," Masha's mother explains, "She is afraid of trees. She saw them for the first time in Arcadia and thought they were monsters. It broke my heart."

It made sense, then, that when the time came for Masha to deliver the clues to Mark, it took a lot of convincing. Because even though she's Masha, she's still a Big Sister. That means she is stubborn, quick to anger, and possessive. She wouldn’t go to the surface more times than she needed to, and she wouldn't take Cindy there because her instincts told her that Little Sisters need to stay in Rapture and be protected. She wouldn’t go at all if Cindy asked. She would only listen to her mother.

"Be brave, my Masha," her mother told her through Cindy's lips. "I promise the trees won't hurt you, your helmet will protect your eyes from the bright sun, and if it rains, it is not a leak, and the sky won't break. All these things I promise you."

Masha shuddered and pressed her head into Cindy's tiny hands, as if desperately trying to break through the vessel to reach her mother within.

"You must." her mother said, stroking the top of her helmet. "For Cindy. For your dear mother. Someone must know the truth of this awful place."

And Masha would go.

One day, an ordinary day, Cindy woke to a strange, spluttering growling noise in their hideout. The sound of rushing water. It ended almost as quickly as it began. The ventilation grill that usually spluttered with water had gone silent. Something had happened and all the water had drained out.

Cindy got up. She could smell ADAM coming from the vent, and even though she wasn't a Little Sister anymore, she still yearned to gather. She jumped down from the hammock and went over to the vent. It still stank of seawater, but the ADAM smell was overpowering.

The ghosts tried to stop her from leaving, but even with them in control, it was too difficult to ignore the urge to gather ADAM. They were only memories after all, and the memory of being a Little Sister was the most recent and most powerful. Cindy pulled off the vent cover and crawled inside, leaving Masha alone and asleep in their hideout. The inner walls of the vent were covered in grime and seaweed and little barnacles. She crawled over them, scraping her knees and hands, until she was out of the vent and in a new place. In the new place, there was a pretty carousel.

But then the Big Sister had come. It wasn't Masha. It was one of Sofia's.

Cindy didn’t have Masha anymore. But she still had the ghosts.

"Shush," they whispered, "We mustn't let her know what we've done. We must play hide and seek until your father finds you. Stay quiet, Cindy. Stay inside."

Even when Lamb locked Cindy away in the cold, dark hole, she wasn’t alone.

“So you see,” the ghosts tell Mark, “Despite how it appears, it wasn’t all bad. I hope that is of some comfort to you.”

Mark is shaking. “Thank you. I needed that.”

She nods. “We will leave you now. Good luck, Mr Meltzer.”

That’s all the warning Mark gets before Cindy is stumbling into his arms. He keeps her on her feet, supporting her by holding her shoulders. She blinks up at him. The yellow glow is gone from her eyes.

“Daddy?”

“Hey, sweetheart. How are you feeling?”

She rubs her eyes. “Sleepy. The ghosts using my mouth always makes me sleepy.”

“I’ve got you.” He picks her up carefully. She presses her cheek to his chest, smiling tiredly up at him. He brushes a sweaty strand of her hair from her forehead. “I’m going to fix this, Cindy. I promise.”

“I know you will.” She closes her eyes, dozing off.

Mark turns to Masha, who sits on her haunches, watching him. "Masha?" he says tentatively.

Masha cocks her head.

"I need to get to Sinclair's lifeboat. In Persephone. Can you take me there?"

Masha stares silently back at him.

“Your mother said you had to help me.”

She rises so quickly it startles him into taking a step back.

He clears his throat when she makes no further movement. “Right then.” He takes a step closer, looking up at her cracked helmet. “Off we go then?”

She closes her hand around the fabric on his shoulder pad – and in a puff of purple she takes them away from the hideout. When the smoke clears, Mark is stood in the docking platform, staring out the window at Sinclair’s lifeboat. Masha lets go of his shoulder and scuttles back, like a dog waiting her master’s orders.

“Thank you,” he tells her, which doesn’t get a response, but he expected as much. He looks at Cindy, who is drifting in and out of a fitful sleep. He carefully rouses her. “Cindy, baby. Wake up.”

“Hmm?”

He smiles when her eyes focus on him. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“So, um, I need to do something important. It’s not something a child should see, okay?” He looks at Masha. Every fibre of his being protests when he says, “Will you look after her for a few minutes?”

Masha rises, next to him in a moment.

Instinctively, he grips Cindy tighter, recoiling. “For a few minutes. Don’t leave Persephone. Can I trust you?”

He isn’t sure he can. There’s nothing to stop her from disappearing with Cindy in her arms, but part of her understood what it means to have a parent, enough for her to reunite them in the first place.

Cindy clenches her fist around Mark’s shirt. “Please don’t leave me. Don’t leave me alone!”

"I'll be right back, I promise. Look at me, Cindy. My brave, brave girl. I won't leave you in this place. No matter what happens, I'll won’t leave you in this place. I swear to you. I will never, ever leave you."

She buries her face into his chest, sobbing. “But I don’t want you to go! It’s not fair!”

He rocks her, humming an old lullaby from when she was a baby. “Shush, it’s alright. I’ll come back. I’m coming back.” He shuffles closer to Masha, who opens her arms to take Cindy. “I’m coming back. I promise.”

Cindy clings to his shirt. “No. Daddy, please, don’t leave me. I’ll… I’ll hate you forever and ever if you leave me!”

Mark unhooks her tiny fingers, kisses them, and steps back. “I’m not leaving you. I’m coming back.” He points to the lifeboat on the other side of the glass. “I just need to check if someone’s in there, okay?”

She’s reaching for him. “Let me come with you! Daddy!”

“I’m coming back,” he whispers one last time, before turning and running up the steps, two at a time, to get to the access corridor to the lifeboat. When he reaches the upper floor, he looks back and sees that Masha and Cindy have gone. He fights the instinct telling him to call out for them. He has to trust that Masha will care for her. She’s been caring for her for over a year. Mark has to believe that she’ll continue to do so, even if his gut is telling him he’s wrong.

An elevator takes him up to the lifeboat's access corridor and he quickly, but quietly through it, until he’s inside the lifeboat.

Sinclair has certainly outdone himself. Earlier, Mark had thought the lifeboat resembled NASA spacecraft and he wasn’t exactly off. He wishes he were in the right mind to appreciate it. There’s no chance of that, however, because Sofia Lamb is here.

She has her back to him. She’s looking at the ocean life moving past the window. She wears a blue dress and a navy cardigan. There isn’t a spot of filth on her.

Mark is silent as he approaches. The only sound he makes is the click from the pistol when he levels it at her head.

"After all your talk of family and unity,” growls Mark as Lamb slowly turns to face him, “you would abandon your 'people' without hesitation."

"Mr Meltzer," Lamb greets, expression neutral. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"You should have. After what you did." She doesn't so much as flinch when Mark presses the barrel of the pistol against her head. How can she be so calm when everything inside Mark is shaking? He's shaking so hard he's sure his heart is going to erupt.

She raises her eyebrows. Her cat-eye glasses slide a fraction down her nose. "What I did?"

"Don't play games with me. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

Lamb hums. "So you've found your daughter. I'm happy for you. It must have been wonderful for you to see her again. Why, I remember how it felt when I was united with Eleanor after she was taken from me-"

"Oh, I don't care!" Mark snaps.

Lamb's eye twitches. She raises her chin and keeps on talking. "Where is dear Cindy? I admit I've been worried about her."

Mark's hand trembles. He tries to steady it but it only trembles more, so he steps back, hoping the distance will cool his nerves. "Worried about her? You locked her in a dungeon. You experimented - no, you tortured her!"

Lamb stares levelly back at him, as if he’s nothing more than a toddler throwing a tantrum.

"You'd already done it." Saying it feels like a stab to the heart. "She wasn't a replacement; she was a trial run. You would never corrupt your perfect vessel without testing the process on someone else first. You, you fucking bitch, you looked me in the eye and made me believe that I could save her.”

"I did not lie to you, Mr Meltzer. Cindy served a cause far greater than herself."

Mark is next to her again in a second, pressing the pistol to the middle of her forehead. "Shut up! Shut up! I lost everything because of your fucking crusade. I don't want to hear another goddamn word out of your mouth."

Lamb stays quiet.

Mark keeps talking, unable to stop himself. "What's worse is that you rejected her because she didn't fit your ideal. You broke her mind, and you threw her away. Left her to wander alone. She couldn't even have a Big Daddy to protect her because you'd twisted her so much that she wasn't a Little Sister anymore. She was something completely unaccountable, even by Rapture's standards. She had no one. No one except...except the one other creature that was rejected too."

Confusion flickers across Lamb's expression before she quickly dashes it away. But Mark catches it.

"Oh. Oh, you didn't know, did you?" He sneers. "Which part I wonder? That there's a rogue Big Sister or that you, Doctor Lamb, gave my daughter the power to control her?"

Lamb blinks. This is a revelation to her as well.

Mark barks a laugh. "So much for 'Lamb is watching.'" 

"I knew of the rogue Big Sister."

"But you don't know why she obeys Cindy. You don't know why she helped bring me here." He dances back a step. He's sweating from every pore, but he's grinning so hard his teeth hurt. Lamb prides herself on intelligence. She values it more than her 'Rapture Family.' She's a narcissistic manipulator who wants to convince everyone she holds all the cards. And now Mark knows something she doesn't. He's going to enjoy this. 

"It makes no difference to me, Mr Meltzer," she says calmly, the lie as clear on her face as the splatters of blood on Mark's own.

"Oh but it does, doesn't it? Sinclair was right."

Lamb scowls, thunderous.

Oh, Mark enjoys that a lot. "Sinclair was right," he says again, just to see her expression once more twist with distaste. "You were frightened of me. The man who - how did you put it? - 'stumbled on destiny in progress.' You have no idea how I got here. You panicked. Sent a Big Sister to snatch up Cindy so you could blackmail me. All the while you were ignorant of the fact that I wouldn't be here at all if it weren't for your massive mistake.”

"You're acting rather erratic." She narrows her eyes and tilts her head. "In fact I'd say you displaying symptoms of a manic episode."

"Would you like me to tell you what your mistake was?"

Lamb’s expression remains cool, save for the line between her eyes. She takes a long, slow breath in through her nose. "Tell me."

Mark grins. "Actually, it was two mistakes."

Her nostrils flare.

Mark holds up a finger. "Mistake one: The minds you put inside my daughter, those 'ghosts' - you thought they were insignificant. You didn't predict that they would fight back." He raises a second finger. "Mistake two: One of those ghosts is a mother."

Lamb frowns. Mark revels in the confusion on her face.

"A real mother," he says, "A mother who knows what it means to love her child more than herself. That child is the rogue Big Sister. And the love between them is so powerful that even through torture and memory loss and death and rebirth, they found each other. They listen to each other. And that's something you will never be able to comprehend because your daughter doesn’t love you. And you don’t love her.”

"I do love Eleanor."

"No, you don't. Not in the way that matters. Not in the way that means sacrificing everything for her."

Lamb protests no further. There are tears in her eyes, but they don't fall. It's not the revelation that she's unloved that haunts her; it's the terror of being seen for what she really is.

Mark stares at her a few seconds longer. The glee he had is fading fast. Exhaustion places its heavy hands on his shoulders. He takes a shaky breath and lowers the gun like he's conceding. "But maybe you can prove me wrong."

Lamb's brow twitches up in interest. Oh, he's got her.

"I want you to undo what you've done to Cindy," he says, watching Lamb's brow crawl even higher. "There's no reason for her to continue to suffer - or the minds that you put inside her. Let her come home without them. Let her put this behind her."

"And what would this 'prove' exactly?"

"It would prove that you're as empathetic as you claim. It'll prove that you are capable of love." Mark is exhausted now. He's desperate. Though he knows it's a mistake, he can't stop himself from pleading. "Please. Please. Give her back to me."

Lamb watches him for a cool moment. And gives her answer:

"No." She raises her chin arrogantly. "No, I think not. From what you've told me, Cindy is vastly improved as she is now. My only mistake was not seeing it sooner."

Just then Mark's ears fill with a terrible ringing. He despises her. He despises her more than he thought possible. He doesn't breathe. He doesn't think. He raises the pistol and shoots Sofia Lamb through the head. He doesn't see her body fall. He only hears the gunshot reverberating, echoing, until it is not one gunshot but hundreds, and he's standing at the edge of a minefield in a body leaner and fitter, alongside men who died years ago and those surviving he's lost contact with.

When he blinks, he's back again - only just. He recognises the shapely body of Sofia Lamb. A strand of hair had slipped from her updo when she'd fallen and there was blood in it. He'd got her right between her eyebrows. He isn't sure how long he stands there, staring at the body, his shoulders heaving. There is a splatter of blood on the window, a shock of red against a deep blue backdrop. He looks at it, confused for a few moments as to why there's a shark passing idly by the window and not, say, a dust cloud from a desert obliterated by explosives.

"Mark?"

The voice is familiar, but not one he would have heard in El Alamein. One he's only come to know recently.

Focus, fool. You're not in El Alamein. You're in Rapture.

He turns.

Sinclair, Delta and Eleanor have just entered the lifeboat. They're covered in blood and filth. Delta is leaning to one side, his giant shoulders slumped with weakness, and Sinclair has his arm braced on Delta's back. Eleanor stands on Delta's other side, not holding him but clearly ready to. They're all staring at him.

Mark pinches the skin on the back of his hand, trying to bring himself back to the present. "I, um..." 

"You're a sight for sore eyes." Sinclair lets go of Delta and moves cautiously towards him. "I thought we'd lost you for good, sugar."

"Mother," whispers Eleanor. In a moment, she crosses the room and crouches next to Sofia Lamb's body.

Mark looks at her shakily. He doesn't know what to say. An explanation, he thinks nonsensically. A reason. "She - She'd already done it."

Eleanor looks at him - Mark can't read her face with the helmet on, isn't sure he wants to - and then she's looking back at her mother, leaning over her body to tuck a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

"She…" He startles when he notices how close Sinclair has gotten. Sinclair has his arms raised. Why? Is he frightened of Mark? He looks frightened. No. No. He looks worried. Mark looks at his pistol and hastily tucks it back into waistband. "She - She'd already done it. Lamb. Sinclair, she - she used ADAM on my little girl."

"Aw hell," whispers Sinclair. "Come here."

In the next moment, Sinclair is hugging him. Mark doesn’t have time to take it in before Delta gathers them both up in his arms. And even though Sinclair and Mark are sweating, and Delta's armour is cold and pointy, and all three of them are stinking and filthy, Mark's knees go weak. He doesn't remember the last time a grown person has hugged him, let alone two. He hugs back. He's desperate too. He slings one arm around Sinclair's waist, the other he paws at Delta's forearm, until Delta snags his fingers with his own and just... holds on. Delta is puffing, a low soft sound, like I know, I know, I know. 

They're all trembling. The three of them, touch-starved, blood-stained, tired, so endlessly tired, mutually tremble in each other's arms. It's grounding. The ringing in Mark's ears subsides. Sinclair adjusts for them both, keeping one arm firmly against the small of Mark's back, and shifting to the side so he can have the other on Delta's. Mark and Sinclair's foreheads touch, and Delta's comes to rest on top as he pulls them closer together.

---

 

Notes:

I was gonna end this on a cliffhanger but given how sad the last chapter made you I figured you deserved some hugs. Free hugs to everyone x

Chapter 18

Notes:

Warning for ya typical Bioshock needles and such

"It doesn't matter. It's over now," Sinclair is saying, "Ya hear me? We've done it. It's over and done with."

Delta lets go of Mark's hand so he can pet his head, rumbling in agreement.

Only it isn't over. Mark has fucked it all up. Shaking his head, he wriggles out of the embrace. Sinclair and Delta let him go easily and Mark's hurt and grateful and confused all at once. He shakes his head again. He doesn't know why. There's no time to think about this now. It isn't over. There's more to do.

"Hey," Sinclair reaches for him as if to pull him back in. "Steady there, sugar. You look spent."

Mark skirts away from his hold, and then changes his mind, and takes both of his hands. "I -" He looks at Sinclair. "Thank you." Sinclair furrows his brow as Mark lets go and stumbles past him so he can rest his hand on Delta's arm. "Thank you," he tells Delta. "For - for saving me. Truly. I would have been done for if not for you."

Delta hums like whale-song and suddenly he’s reaching for him too and Mark can’t stand it. He steps back. He can barely look at Eleanor, but he manages to whisper a pathetic "sorry" before he flees the lifeboat.

"Hold on, Del. You rest easy now. I'll get him." Sinclair's voice follows him down the glass corridor. “Mark! Hold your horses!”

Mark staggers to the elevator. He underestimated how close behind him Sinclair was, because Sinclair manages to get into the elevator before the door closes. They go down together.

“I swear, twig, the moment we get topside I’m puttin’ you on a leash! Just where are you hightailing off to now?”

Mark opens his mouth. Says nothing. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. He’ll start at the paediatric wards, he supposes, and then go to Fontaine’s. He’ll turn Rapture upside-down if he has to.

Mistaking his silence for guilt, Sinclair juts his chin. "A bullet through the head was no less than she deserved. Don’t you feel an ounce of guilt for puttin' her down. The way I see it, you’ve done all of Rapture a favor.” He smirks, “They might even be singing your praises when all’s said and done.”

"It’s not that. She was the only person who could reverse what's been done to my daughter and I shot her."

"Where is your kid?" The elevator stops. Mark steps out and holds out his arm to bar Sinclair from following, but Sinclair jams his foot in the doorway to stop the door from closing automatically and taking him back up. “I’ll be needin' to hit the docking clamp release before we can launch.” He nods to the control panel on the bridge.

Oh, thinks Mark, feeling more idiotic than ever. “I’ll do it. You should be with your knight in shining armor.”

"Call me greedy, but I'd rather have both my knights."

"I'm no knight, Sinclair."

"Take it from somebody who’s committed more sins than the Devil himself can count, whatever it is you're trying to prove you've already done it. Tenfold."

Sinclair doesn't understand. "There's no help for Cindy on the surface,” Mark explains, voice hoarse. “The only chance of helping her is here in Rapture. Without Lamb, I… I have no choice but to find the solution myself and I don’t know how long that will take. You have to leave.”

Sinclair is shaking his head. “You're not staying.”

"I don't have a choice." Mark walks out of the docking access corridor onto the balcony. There's no sign of any Splicers. He heads for the steps. "What's the alternative? Bring her to the surface, where no one knows about ADAM? They won't know what to do with her. They'll take her away from me. At best, they'll lock her up in a mental hospital. At worse, she'll become an experiment again!"

Sinclair follows close behind him. “You’re speculating.”

“So far everything I’ve speculated has become true.”

“That doesn’t mean you martyr yourself!” As they reach the bottom level, Sinclair grabs Mark's wrist.

Mark whirls round, shouting like that'll get Sinclair to understand better. "She has the ghosts of Rapture inside her head! Dead people, talking to her, living inside of her! I spoke to them. They told me everything."

Sinclair is talking over him. "Mark. Twig. Sugar – Hell. Slow down, will ya?"

Their struggling must look threatening. Across the chamber, there's a wholly familiar shriek. Sinclair goes pale. With Cindy still secure in the basket on her back, Masha appears out of nowhere and crosses the docking platform in less than a second. Her weapon is hoisted up, ready to strike.

Before he can think better of it, Mark throws himself against Sinclair. "NO!"

Masha stops, bouncing on her knees.

"No, Masha.” Mark has his arms wrapped around Sinclair, glaring at Masha over his shoulder and panting. “He's my friend. Friend. You understand me?"

Friend is a word Masha knows. Her light switches from red to yellow, though she still looks tense, no doubt unhappy about taking Mark's orders. Eyes bulging, Sinclair looks between them. An explanation is order.

“This is Masha. She’s the one whose been delivering those messages.”

Sinclair glares. "Oh, so she's your guardian angel now."

Mark lets out a strangled laugh. "Something like that." Certain Masha won't pounce, he turns to her, arms open, and Cindy climbs over the brim of the basket on Masha's back and Masha passes her into Mark's arms. He turns back to Sinclair and gives him what he hopes is a reassuring smile. "I'll be alright. I lasted in Rapture before I met you. You don't - You don't have to look after me anymore. I'm not your redemption for Delta."

Sinclair, who has been staring mouth agape, abruptly clicks his jaw shut. "I know you're not, but -"

"Then please go. I promised Delta you would get out of this place."

“Mark, listen to me…” Sinclair doesn’t get to finish because they’re interrupted, once again, by a Big Sister. Eleanor teleports onto the docking platform. She’s holding her mother’s body in her arms. Mark quickly tucks Cindy’s face to his chest. He knows it isn’t the first body she’s seen, but he doesn’t want her to figure out how Lamb died. Eleanor watches Masha, who arches her back like a threatened cat. Saying nothing, Eleanor lays Lamb in front of the window. She positions her so her hands are clasped on top of her belly. 

"We're ready to launch, by the way, if you've finished.” Eleanor rises to her full height, glancing at Masha.

Mark averts his gaze. He can't look at her. “I’ll release the clamps,” he says. He is about to head up the stairs to the controls when Sinclair takes hold of him again. He whirls round. “I’m not arguing with you anymore, Sinclair!”

"You can drain the ADAM out of her."

Mark freezes. "Drain the - Are you certain?"

“Yes!” Sinclair looks like he’s about to pop a blood vessel. “‘Am I certain?’ Have you been walkin' through Rapture with your eyes shut? Little dimples ought to know!”

“I used to take ADAM from angels,” Cindy murmurs.

Sinclair gestures empathetically at her. Trying to regain his composure, he sucks in a breath. "I'm not sayin' it'll be easy, mind, and it won’t be too pleasant for her. The ADAM will be replicating as we speak. The only way to stop it is to flush it all out so her body can start afresh. It'll have to be every drop of her blood, Mark.”

Gasping, Cindy tightens a tiny fist in Mark’s shirt. He smooths a hand through her hair. Ridding her of every drop of blood would certainly kill her, except… "I could give her a blood transfusion. We’re the same blood type."

Sinclair smiles a little. "Something better off doing topside, wouldn't ya say?"

Mark chokes on laughter. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

As they had been talking, Masha’s tense posture had grown even more so. Her shoulders hike up and down. Her hands are sparking with the smallest flashes of electricity – it’s this that Mark notices, a flitter of light in an unexpected place, and that’s when he notices something more alarming.

Her eye is red.

"Masha?" Mark holds Cindy closer and backs up alongside Sinclair.

“You’ve upset her, Daddy,” whimpers Cindy.

Lightning fast, Eleanor is between them. "Get to the elevator!"

Sinclair and Mark run up the stairs. Below them, Eleanor and Masha stand parallel. "Masha, is it?" Eleanor says sweetly, poised to fight. "I suppose you and I are like sisters. I would say I don't want to hurt you, but when it comes to protecting what my father holds dear, I actually don't mind at all."

Masha screams. It isn't a single, extended shriek the Big Sisters tend to make. It's a series of short, sharp cries, rising louder and louder. It sounds almost like she's screaming no over and over and over again. Stunned, Mark stops and looks at her. Masha is violently throwing her hands up and down with every cry she makes. Her back is arched, her knees are locked. She isn't advancing on Eleanor. She isn't looking at Eleanor at all. She's looking at Cindy. She's looking at Cindy and she's howling like a child whose world is ending.

Because it is ending.

Because Mark is taking her family away.

He could say To hell with it. He's given enough. His daughter has suffered enough. But by now he knows how these creatures work. They're fast, they're formidable, and they don't stop. If he takes Cindy, Masha will hunt her down and all this will start over again. The Rapture nightmare will continue forever.

He knows what to do. He runs back the way he came.

"Mark!" shouts Sinclair, a hand and foot in the elevator.

Mark ignores him. "Eleanor, I have a plan! Give me ten minutes and let her come after me!"

"What?" Eleanor whirls to gawk at him. While she’s distracted, Masha pounces and Eleanor counters before Masha can slip past her. The clash of them colliding reverberates through the chamber. Crossing the bridge, Mark charges through the door to the Infirmary. He's loathed to return to this place, but it’s the closest thing to a hospital and he needs medical supplies if he's going to do this. He was medically trained while in the army, and though remembered very little of it, he knows he can perform an emergency blood transfusion.

It’s madness. Absolute madness. But what else can he do?

He enters the large common area and cautiously looks round, uncomforted by the quiet. Though he, Sinclair, Eleanor, and Delta had passed through here earlier to rescue the girls from the paediatric ward, he doesn’t trust that the area is secure. There are plenty of bodies from their earlier carnage, some blackened charcoal thanks to Delta using the Incinerate Plasmid. There’s another aspect that makes the silence unnerving. There are no more announcements. No more sermons. Merely the infrastructure creaking under the pressure of the ocean and distant mumblings of Splicers awaiting orders that won't come.

As there is no immediate danger, Mark carries Cindy to the pharmacy. Once there, he puts her down and starts searching the cabinets. A couple of them are on their side, drawers half open. The floor is littered with pills, hypodermic needles, and patient records. The lights above their heads flicker.

“Help Daddy find a cannula," he tells Cindy, "It’s a long, thin tube.”

Thumb in her mouth, Cindy patters around and opens the lower drawers. Mark is distracted by the sight of her bare feet standing painfully on the mess, and how she doesn't seem to mind, before he shakes himself and starts pulling open as many drawers as he can. They could have minutes before Masha finds them.

“Is this it?” Cindy holds up a sealed packet with a cannula inside.

“That’s it! Great job.”

There’s a noise from the Infirmary entrance. Mark hooks Cindy to his chest and ducks. Cindy paws at him, breathing hard against his arm. Peeking over the counter through the window, Mark sees immediately who enters.

It’s Sinclair and Delta.

Mark stands, revealing himself. "What are you doing?"

“Oh thank heavens!” Sinclair and Delta move towards the pharmacy’s back entrance. Instructing Cindy to stay, Mark meets them in the corridor. “A leash, I tell ya!” Sinclair is saying to Delta as Mark steps through the pharmacy doors. “Maybe even a bell.”

Delta warbles in agreement.

“Why are you here?” Mark demands.

Sinclair looks wholly unimpressed. "For such a smart fella, you’re awfully dim. We’re here, Mark, because once again our passenger has gone walk about and given us no choice but to drag his sorry self back to where it's supposed to be."

“But…” Mark’s protests are cut short when Delta prods him hard in the chest. "Ow! Yes, alright. Point made."

"Point rather understated if you ask me," Sinclair says, “You do realise the minute you start draining ADAM outta that girl every Splicer in Persephone is going to be on us like a pack of starving hyenas. And just who is gonna fight them off while you're donating?!”

That hadn’t occurred to him.

“Um…” he begins.

Sinclair shakes his head. Delta folds his arms. They’re quite the pair. “I think, Del, we’re going to need set up ourselves a line of defence.”

Delta grunts – and heads back to the main chamber, where Mark is sure he saw one of those vending machines that stock ammunition. He wants to help, but Sinclair bars his path.

“You stay in there – ” He jabs his finger at the pharmacy door, “– where I can keep my eye on you. Let me tell you, twig, you’re gonna owe me a whole store’s supply of hair dye with the grey you’re givin’ me.” Mark tries to apologise, but Sinclair does something Mark has never seen him do before. He loses his temper. “¡Dios mío! ¡Me voy a volver loco!”

Mark has no idea what that means, other than, possibly, a demand to do as he has been told. Whatever the case, Sinclair storms off in the same direction Delta had, leaving Mark to blink dumbly after him. Shaking it off, he returns quickly to the pharmacy. Cindy is looking at him with worried eyes.

“Is Mr. Bubbles and that man going to help us?”

“Yes.” There aren’t adequate words to describe the extent of the warmth and relief and the fear and the guilt that course through him – so he doesn’t acknowledge it. He gets onto his knee in front of his daughter, who is shaking. “Cold?”

She shakes her head. Not cold, of course. Frightened.

“Do you remember the treasure trails we used to do? The ones where you had to solve puzzles to work out which direction to go?” He gathers her up in his arms and sits her down on the countertop by the window intercom. As she straightens her skirt, he sits on a supply crate in front of her. Like this, he’s lower than her. “I was thinking when we get home, we go on the biggest puzzle-adventure ever. It’ll be grander than any trail we’ve ever done before.” He undoes his cuff button and rolls up his sleeve.

Cindy furrows her brow. She watches him undo his tie and wrap it tightly around his arm. “I don’t think I like puzzles anymore,” she admits.

The blood vein on Mark’s arm rises to the surface as he pulls the tie taut. “You know what, sweetie? I’m rather sick of them myself.” He looks through the window at Sinclair and Delta. They’ve positioned mini-turrets and traps at every entrance, building a blockade between him and anyone who might try to get to him.

Unlike earlier, they look comfortable in each other’s presence. Sinclair is talking and Delta is attuned to him, always partway turned to him no matter what he’s doing. Mark can only surmise that the apology went well. He hopes so. It would be an awful thing if the affection between them had run dry. More so if they met their ends here. Mark doesn’t want that, but no good will come from arguing. He’s about run out of arguments. Anything he says, the two of them are determined to ignore. He doesn’t know why they insist on helping him when escape is so close. Perhaps – and this thought brings a stirring in his belly – but perhaps they’ve taken him in their hearts just as he has with them. He very much doubts it. He’s always had a habit of falling in love in the wrong way, a way that isn’t compatible with others, a way that some wouldn’t call love at all. He loves their love for each other. He loves that it’s a messy, horrific thing turned pure, that it’s full of forgiveness and redemption and promise. It gives him hope.

Mark smiles at Cindy. “What would you like to do instead?”

“Family dinner.”

“Family dinner,” repeats Mark. “That’s the greatest idea I’ve ever heard.”

Encouraged, Cindy gives the biggest smile. “Like on Thanksgiving. With Momma’s apple pie. And ice-cream!”

“Apple pie and ice-cream,” he agrees. There would time, later, to explain the divorce. “Okay. We’ll do that.”

When Mark looks at the glass again, Delta is stood there. He’s loading slugs into his shotgun. As he finishes, he notices Mark’s eyes on him and turns a fraction, enough to press his palm to the glass. Mark gazes back in fascination. From where Delta is stood, it would appear that his palm is touching Mark’s forehead. He’d done the same when curing the Little Sisters. Mark wonders what he’s trying to say.

It does, however, remind him that there’s something else he must do. “Cindy, baby. I’m sorry to ask this, but I need to talk to the ghosts again.”

Her eyes shine with unshed tears. She sniffs. “Okay.”

Mark waits, hating how she winces and whimpers, and when Cindy looks at him again her eyes are awash with yellow. “I take it you know what I’m planning to do,” he says.

“We were listening,” confesses the collection of voices. “Is this not dangerous?”

"I don't think I've done anything safe since I got here."

Their brow furrows. “We do not understand. You’ve found a means of exorcism.” Mark grimaces at the word. “Why would you wish to speak to us?”

"Because I don't know what will happen to you,” Mark replies honestly. “You deserve to be consulted.”

They eye him shrewdly. “And if we wished to remain as we are? Would you allow it?”

“No,” he replies honestly. "Which is just as well because I don't think that's what you want."

The ghosts laugh, an eerie tangled web of noise like being in crowded theatre, that makes Cindy’s body convulse.

From outside the infirmary, Masha shrieks. She’s close. Her scream is so loud that it sends vibrations through the floor, shaking the mess of pills around Mark’s feet.

“Holy Moses,” Sinclair breathes.

Delta revs up his drill.

Mark knocks on the glass window to get their attention. “Don’t attack her!” He's beginning to get used to the stunned looks they give him.

“Is that my Masha?” Masha’s mother is teary-eyed. “You’re proposing that I… that we… to my Masha?” She trembles. “I don’t know if I can bear it.”

“If I take you and Cindy away, she’ll come after us. You said that if you could save one little girl, it would make this right. This way you can save two. All she wants is her parents.”

“Her parents are dead, Mr Meltzer!” There’s more than one of them talking again. Masha’s mother, the voice of the man he assumed was her father, and soon others join the assemble. “They took an overdose over ten years ago. All of us inside here are dead. We’re just memories!”

“You’re more than that to her. You’re more than that to my Cindy. She called you her friends. You protected her, you kept her safe – you could do the same for Masha.”

The door to the Infirmary rises. Masha darts down the stairs. Eleanor is close behind and soon has her pinned to the wall. Eleanor isn’t using Plasmids, which leaves the pair brawling like lionesses. Delta is practically buzzing, clearly torn between holding off and rushing in to defend his daughter. He gives Mark a sharp look and a huff.

Trust me, mouths Mark, and Delta does.

“Meltzer!” Eleanor shouts as she struggles to keep Masha subdued. “Whatever this plan of yours is, you better bloody get on with it!”

“Look at her,” Mark tells the ghosts. They turn, staring out the window to where Eleanor has Masha pinned. They’re still tussling. Neither of them are resorting to Plasmids. Like siblings, it seems they’ve mutually agreed to not hurt the other too badly. Masha shoves her hand into Eleanor’s face as she tries to break free. Eleanor manages to pin the offending hand to the wall by the wrist. Turning her red eye towards them, Masha reaches – reaches out her arm as if she might be able to stretch her arm far enough across the room and snatch Cindy up. She’s making those same, short sobs. The ones that sound like No, no, please, no!

“You’re right,” Masha’s mother whispers. There are tears in her eyes. “She doesn’t deserve to be alone.”

“Eleanor,” calls Mark. “Let Masha go.”

“You sure about this?” shouts Sinclair.

It’s already too late. Eleanor lets Masha go. In a flash of purple, she’s disappeared. Before Mark can finish turning around, she’s in the room with him. She has the needle raised, ready to strike…

"Enough, Masha!"

Masha stops. Any son or daughter dreads that tone of voice.

“How dare you,” her mother says, and Masha’s red eye changes to a nervous yellow. “I asked you to protect this man and you’ve tried to hurt him.”

Masha begins to sink to the floor.

“Have you forgotten all we talked about?”

Stinking even further, Masha drops her head and keens. Her arms fall loose at her sides, her weapon forgotten.

“You would rob Cindy of her father as you were robbed of yours?” It’s Masha’s father who speaks these words.

Masha shakes her head. She’s so low to the ground that her forehead brushes the floor.

“It’s okay, Masha.” It’s not the ghosts anymore. Cindy is her normal self. She climbs down off the counter and stands in front of Masha. “I know you didn’t mean it."

Masha raises her head.

“Thank you for taking care of me.” Cindy pets Masha’s helmet where her cheek would be. “But I have to go home now. And I know you don’t want to come with me so...” She holds out her arm. “You can take them. Take them with you so you won’t be alone anymore.”

For a long time, Masha just stares at her. And then, slowly, she leans forward and presses their foreheads together.

Mark sighs with relief. He looks through the window at Sinclair, Delta, and Eleanor. Delta is lowering his shotgun and Mark realises that he’d had it levelled at the glass, ready to shoot Masha through the head if things hadn’t gone to plan. It still amazes him how quickly Delta is willing to come to his defence.

“Ready?” Mark asks them.

Smoothing down his hair with his hand, Sinclair lets out a breathless chuckle. “After that display I reckon there’s no surprises left.”

Delta grumbles.

“Here we go then.” Mark feels a sharp pinch as he slips the needle into the vein in the crook of his elbow. Blood runs through the tube. He slips the other end into Cindy’s arm. She doesn’t even flinch.

Masha pushes her syringe into Cindy's other arm and slowly begins to drain her blood.

---

 

Notes:

Sam has drawn fanart of Mark and Sinclair on the train. I'll link it to the appropriate chapter later but I wanted to make sure everyone saw it. Everyone must look at it. Go, go, go, go!

Chapter 19

It’s a surreal experience. Though gunfire and explosions are pounding on the glass, Mark is engrossed in making sure that his blood is flowing through the cannula. The soft flesh in the crook of his elbow throbs, but otherwise everything other than his daughter fades away. He talks to her, trying to distract her. She holds his gaze, nodding every so often, and squeezes his hand tightly, as if she's trying to distract him too.

Glancing up at Masha, he sees the glowing ADAM fill the chamber of the syringe attached to her arm. Once it’s full, it drains out through the plastic tubes on Masha’s arms and into her body. When the chamber fills and empties for the third time, Mark begins to feel a little light-headed. At last, Masha carefully pulls the needle from Cindy’s skin. "Do you have them?" Mark whispers. His vision is starting to go spotty now.

Masha nods. She takes a stride backwards and teleports away.

He snorts quietly. “You’re welcome.” A small explosive goes off near the glass window. His ears start to ring. He doesn’t care. There’s a spot of blood swelling from the puncture in Cindy’s arm. Mark works his tie off his arm and presses it to the wound. "How do you feel?" he asks.

"...empty."

“Oh, baby-girl.” He picks her up, bringing her close. “It’s okay. I’m here.” He tries to stand with her in his arms but his knees buckle. He settles on the counter. He rubs Cindy’s back, tells her he loves her, that everything is going to be alright. For a few minutes he stays there. Behind him, Delta roars. Mark doesn’t turn. He holds Cindy’s face to his chest and continues to rub her back, as if there is any chance of preserving the last bit of innocence she has left. When it goes silent, Mark summons the last of his strength and rises, carrying Cindy in his arms. He leaves the pharmacy and joins his friends. As he walks through the doors into the main chamber, he sways. Sinclair is there to steady him.

It’s not Mark who falters. As they’re walking back to the lifeboat, the moment they reach the bridge in the docking platform, Delta crashes into the railing. It bends under his weight. The entire bridge shakes. He stays there, gripping the railing in his fists, and lets out a low moan. Eleanor and Sinclair go to him, but he waves them away. He rolls his shoulders and gives a yip, the same way any man would when he’s pretending to feel better than he is.

“I’ll release the clamps,” says Mark softly.

“Mark,” warns Sinclair.

“It’s only over there.” He kisses Cindy on the forehead and hands her into Sinclair’s arms, who lets out an indignant squawk.

“Let me take her,” says Eleanor. “I’ll get her to the lifeboat.”

“Yes. Yes, absolutely. That makes more sense,” babbles Mark. He watches Eleanor like a hawk when she takes Cindy from Sinclair. Cindy gives Mark a worried glance and he tries to smile reassuringly. Once Eleanor teleports away, Mark hobbles to the control panel while Sinclair and Delta shuffle to the elevator. Mark’s vision tunnels. He blinks furiously, chasing away the blackness. Bracing a hand on the control panel, he takes a moment to glance over the various controls before he pinpoints the release mechanism. In the corner of his eye, something moves. He turns sharply, drawing his pistol. At the end of the walkway, crouched in front of a Gatherers Garden, is Masha. Mark holds his breath. Her back is to him and she’s putting something down at the foot of the Gatherer’s Garden. She glances over her shoulder. Her light is green.

Lowering his pistol, Mark presses the release mechanism. By the time he turns back to Masha, she’s gone save for a whisp of purple smoke. At the foot of the Gatherer’s Garden is a pink teddy bear holding a green box with a red ribbon. The only logical conclusion is that she’s trying to say thank you. Quickly, he goes and puts the bear under his arm before he runs back to the others.

“Launch sequence initialising,” the security announcer says. “Draining ballast tank. Estimated time to launch: Two minutes.”

Mark joins Sinclair and Delta at the door to the docking tunnel. As they move toward the elevator, Delta stumbles again. He throws out his arm to brace himself against the wall and stands, panting. His knees tremble.

“Whoa there!” Though attempting levity as always, Sinclair’s voice is barely even. He hoists Delta’s arm over his shoulders. “Come on, Del, my darlin’.”

Mark ducks under Delta’s other arm to take the weight. They pile into the elevator, and it takes them up and into the tunnel. They step out, haltingly. Mark’s heart is beating hard. Almost there!

“Come on, sport.” Sinclair says through clenched teeth. They walk. One step at once.

It’s less than fifty yards. The bend proves to be the most difficult. The tunnel veers right and Delta veers as they attempt to make the turn, nearly crushing Sinclair against the wall. Delta holds out his arm just in time, pressing it against the glass above Sinclair’s head. The glass cracks under his strength. A hair-thin spray of water bursts through.

“I’m alright.” Sinclair pats his side. “Come on now. Almost there.”

Delta is breathing so hard it’s audible through his helmet. Right in front of them is the entry to the lifeboat. It’s ten yards away. Mark’s vision swirls. With a low, determined growl, Delta lifts his arm off of him and continues to walk on his own, one heavy step followed by another. Mark and Sinclair stay by his side the whole way.

At last, they’re on the lifeboat. Mark’s gaze flicks to the splash of blood on the window and hurriedly away – away and down to the crook of his arm, where for a second he’s horrified to see he’s holding a pink teddy bear instead of his daughter. He looks wildly around. “Where’s Cindy?”

“She’s on the lower deck with the other girls.” Eleanor runs past him to Sinclair. “Sinclair, we need your genetic key to activate the beacon tower.”

“I’m with you.” Sinclair is breathing hard. “Just gotta – gotta catch my breath.”

“Now, Sinclair!” snaps Eleanor.

Mark’s heart is tumbling. “Where’s Cindy?”

“She’s on the lower deck!” Eleanor says again.

“Fetch him his kid, doll, before he loses it. I’m right behind you.” Sinclair heads towards the ladder. Eleanor is gone and back again by the time Sinclair makes it to the ladder. She presses Cindy into Mark’s waiting arms. Cindy bunches her fists into Mark’s shirt.

“Sixty seconds to launch,” the security announcer says.

Delta sways and lugs his weight against the wall of the craft. Mark slumps against the wall next to him and the two of them slide to the floor in unison. Mark blinks black spots from his eyes and rolls his head to gaze up at Delta. He's leaning over in the opposite direction to Mark, a little at first, and then a little more and Mark realises what's happening, but there's nothing he can do to stop Delta from tipping all the way to the floor.

"Delta!"

"Del?!"

"Father!"

All three flock him. Together, Sinclair and Eleanor haul Delta onto his back.

"Aw, kid! Del, come on now!" Sinclair grabs at his helmet. "Don't you do this to me. Not now!" He looks pleadingly at Eleanor. “Help me with this.” He shifts aside and Eleanor joins him, running her hand down the seam of Delta’s helmet until she finds a release mechanism. The helmet is in the way, Mark realises belatedly. It not only covers Delta’s head, but also his chest. There’s a hiss as the seal breaks. Air gets under the helmet and fogs up the glass. Eleanor and Sinclair lift it away.  And then Sinclair has his hands on Delta’s chest, pushing. “Kid. Del! Come on!”

“Thirty seconds to launch,” the security announcer says.

“Daddy?” Cindy stares at Delta, wide-eyed. “What’s wrong with him?”

No doubt hearing the commotion, the other girls emerge from the deck below, one by one, beginning with a pair of curious eyes and then more.

Sinclair continues to perform compressions. “You… You surprised me at every turn, sport. I’ve asked a lot of ya but if you could find it in yourself to surprise me one more time, I’d be…mighty grateful.”

The girls are gathering around them. “Mr. Bubbles is hurt,” whispers one.

“Poor Mr. B,” says another.

“He’s the nicest Mr. B there ever was,” says Jennifer.

Sweat runs off the end of Sinclair’s nose. “I know we don’t have much of Rapture’s bounty to divvy up, but I promised you a bouquet made o' money, right sport? Del. Del, please.”

“Ten seconds to launch,” the security announcer says.

There’s pressure beneath them, vibrating through their knees, their hands, whatever part of them is pressed to the floor. The engines roar – and suddenly the boat detaches from the docking platform. The force of it knocks everyone off their feet. A child screams. Mark lands painfully on his arm, but quickly hoists himself up. Sinclair is still getting up, leaving Delta unaided. Mark throws himself onto his knees by Delta’s side and takes over the compressions. He pushes, pushes, pushes at Delta’s chest. Blinking back black spots, he takes a deep breath and covers Delta’s mouth with his own, breathing into his lungs. He returns his hands to Delta’s chest, pushing, pushing, pushing. He puts his all into it. After everything that’s happened, Delta is not dying!

Sinclair is speaking to him, but he can hardly hear what he says over the sound of the water rushing past the windows. From the corner of his eye, he can see black edifices sinking. The lifeboat is rising. Rapture is descending.

After a couple of minutes, Mark begins to feel weak. The effects of the blood transfusion are catching up to him. But if he stops… He can’t stop! He has a promise to keep. He gasps for breath and covers Delta’s mouth with his own again. The lifeboat breaks the surface – and suddenly it’s bright, bright, bright. Too bright to keep his eyes open. As he pulls back, hands grasp his shoulders and tug him away. He fights. Tries to. He’s too weak.

Eleanor takes his position. It’s Sinclair’s arms around him, one braced across his chest, a hand in his hair. Eleanor keeps going. Minutes pass. The lifeboat drifts, piloted only by the waves splashing up against the sides.

And then…

And then Delta’s eyes flutter open.

Eleanor stills. “Father?”

He squints up at the sky, at Mark and Sinclair, and – and with his crooked mouth, he smiles. His smile. His smile is exactly how Mark pictured it. He can’t help the startled noise he makes. Sinclair lets go of him and kneels at Delta’s side.

"Look Del," he whispers. "Sun's shining just for you."

Eleanor balances Delta’s head on her knees. She rests one hand on his forehead, avoiding the sensitive area around the light, which is green now, nearly matching the shade of Delta’s eyes. Delta’s chest is heaving. He reaches for Eleanor’s face, hesitating shy of touching her. Eleanor pulls off her helmet. His hand is the size of her head. His thumb presses into her cheek. With his other hand, he brushes a knuckle along Sinclair’s jaw. He rumbles, content.

Cindy reaches for Mark’s hand, and he curls his fingers around hers. That’s when he remembers the teddy bear. It’s on the floor, on its side, where he'd dropped it. He crouches, picks it up and shows it to her. “Masha left this. I think she meant for you to have it.”

Her eyes widen. “A gift!” She says this like it’s of great significance, perhaps because she hasn’t been given a gift in over a year. She takes it gingerly from him.

“I think… I think she might have been saying goodbye,” he says tentatively. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know you were friends.”

"It's okay," murmurs Cindy. "She’s gone home, just like we’re going to, right?"

He brushes the tears off of her cheek with his fingers and kisses her forehead. "That's right. It’s time to go home."

***

As the icy Atlantic wind pushes the lifeboat past Rapture’s lighthouse, Mark herds the girls below deck. With only summer dresses on, no socks or shoes, their flesh is pimpled from the cold. Below deck is a spacious cabin. The girls pile on top of the bunk, though not all of them fit, and those on the bunk offer the blanket to those on the floor. When they notice the teddy bear Cindy is holding, they start talking excitedly.

“What is it?”

“Open it!”

“Girls,” Mark interrupts, a touch firm. “Try to get some sleep, okay?”

“Better listen to him,” Jennifer whispers. “He works with the cops!”

“He’s my dad!” Cindy says proudly. “He’s a private detective.”

“Whooaaa!”

Mark holds a finger to his lips and the girls hush their voices to whispers. He glances at the console, where Eleanor is sat at the VHF radio, listening intently to static. He approaches her carefully. “Eleanor, I’ve been meaning to…” he begins.

“If you are about to offer apologies or sympathies for killing my mother, I’d rather not hear them.”

Mark closes his mouth. He nods. “Understood.” There isn’t much he can say. With another glance at the girls, he goes up the ladder. Delta’s head is on Sinclair’s knees and Sinclair is stroking his forehead, talking quietly about islands and riches to keep him awake.

“The world’s our oyster, kid,” he’s saying. The tips of his ears are pink. Mark can't believe he's noticing it for the first time, but all Sinclair has to keep himself warm is a thin, stained button-down shirt and a faded red and yellow striped tie. Shrugging off his jacket blazer, Mark drapes it around Sinclair's shoulders and settles down next to him, shoulder to shoulder, as they had been on the train when Sinclair helped warm him.

Delta hums in gratitude. Mark nods in return.

Sinclair looks down at the jacket. “By God, you really are a twig! I’m goin’ to pop a seam!”

“Oh, be quiet.” Mark grins at Delta. “Is he talking your ear off?”

Delta snorts weakly. Making the sound has him wincing and he squeezes his eyes shut. Sinclair pats his head.

From behind them comes a pattering of bear feet. Without looking, Mark knows it's Cindy. “Cindy,” he scolds softly, lifting his arm so she can huddle underneath it. “You’ll get cold up here, baby.”

Cindy mumbles a nonsense protest and buries her face into Mark’s side.

“Stubborn,” Sinclair observes lightly. “Can’t think where she gets that from.”

With a trembling hand, Delta pokes Mark in the chest. The gesture is weak, barely felt. Mark catches his hand and squeezes it.

“That’s right,” murmurs Sinclair.

Delta closes his eyes.

“Daddy?” Cindy says suddenly, “What does re-sti-tu-tion mean?”

“Rest-i-tution,” he corrects gently. “It can mean a couple of things depending on the sentence.”

“‘Restitution for the Alpha Series Pair Bond.’”

Delta’s eyes shoot open. Sinclair stiffens. Mark looks at Cindy curiously. She’s holding a handful of papers. The top page is covered with hand-written notes and a diagram of a Big Daddy exactly like Delta. “Where did you get those?”

Cindy looks innocently up at him. “They were in Masha’s gift.”

As Mark leans over for a closer look at the documents, Eleanor emerges from below deck and rushes towards them. “There’s been a reply on the radio! A ship is coming…” She trails off – and then snatches the papers out of Cindy’s hands.

“Hey!” says Cindy.

Eleanor is locked in place, gripping the papers tight, staring at them.

“What is it, doll?” asks Sinclair.

“This… This is Doctor Alexander’s research!”

***

A ship horn announces the approach of the Icelandic Coast Guard. By then a mist has rolled in, but the lifeboat’s tower beacon is lit up, red and blinking, and the ship cuts through the haze towards them. As the ship, which the radio operator identified as the Ægir, comes alongside them, Mark spots a line of crew at the railing, shining lights at them. The girls gather around Eleanor’s legs, frightened, as two crewmen throw down a gangway onto the lifeboat. There’s a noticeable hesitation when they spot Delta, and Eleanor slides into a battle stance. Sinclair flicks her on the elbow.

The doctor crouches at Delta’s side. Her eyes move up and down him. “What is your name?”

Delta lets out a wheeze and lifts his arm, attempting to show her the engraving on the back of his gauntlet.

“It’s Del,” answers Sinclair, stammering. “Del… Delmor. He’s mute.”

The doctor nods and turns over her shoulder and calls out to the crew in Icelandic. It takes six men to lift Delta onto a stretcher and carry him onboard the Ægir and to the sick bay. Eleanor is close behind. Then the girls. Mark. Sinclair.

The crew mutter to each other, low and suspicious. Mark raises his chin. They’re a sight, certainly: Two men, beaten and bruised, one unnaturally tall young woman, twenty-one bare-footed girls, and a disfigured giant chained into a diving suit. They get the sort of glances Mark expects – the sort of glances, in truth, he’s gotten before – only this time Mark doesn’t feel like a freak. He doesn’t feel like he’s being accused of murder. He holds no shame in his heart whatsoever for himself, least of all for the company he keeps.

Once they’re all onboard, the ship’s doctor remains with Delta while a group of nurses check the rest of them. Mark’s bruises are inspected, his cuts disinfected, and the blood that isn’t his washed off.

“Name?” a nurse asks.

“Meltzer. Mark Meltzer.”

She notes this down. “What has happened to you, Meltzer?”

“It’s all a blur really.” Glancing across the sick bay, he meets eyes with Sinclair, who is being seen to by another nurse. Sinclair nods slightly. “I’m very tired.”

***

Despite what he told the nurse, Mark does not go to sleep. He can't. He cries privately in the small en-suite of his cabin that the crew kindly provided. He cries from the shock of being above ocean level, of being alive, of Cindy behind a partition away. Once he's calmed himself, he exits and sees his sweet baby girl sleeping soundly on the bed like she hadn't been through an ordeal - and that nearly sets him off again, but he manages to contain it. He kisses her forehead and leaves as silently as possibly, going next door to check on the two girls sharing the next cabin, and the two after that, and the two after that, until he's looked in on all the girls to make sure they're alright, that they're still there, and he isn't dreaming.

He goes back to his cabin and sits at the desk. He tries penning a letter to Amanda, which proves fruitless. He ends up scribbling I TOLD YOU SO before scratching it out. The letter ends up in a crumple. In her sleep, Cindy mumbles about ghosts and ADAM. Mark goes and smooths her hair. She settles down.

He has no idea what he’s going to tell Amanda. Or Detective Stango, who’ll no doubt stick his nose in once Mark has returned to New York. The girls come first, of course. Social services will need to be contacted, naturally, and the girls' families. The police would handle that, but Mark couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t at least check in to make sure the girls settle alright. Oh. And he needs to contact Lee Seward and tell him what happened to Elgar and Mimi. Supposes he’ll leave the part out about exactly how Elgar died, and that Mimi is still down there, mad from splicing but alive. At least, Mark assumes she is. Dropping himself back into his chair, he drags a hand through his hair and sighs.

There’s a quiet knock at the door.

“Come in,” says Mark.

Sinclair enters. He’s in a state. He looks worse than Mark has ever seen him. Which must mean…

Mark bolts upright. “Is Delta…?”

“He’s still kickin’ – asleep, mind. But alive. Doc’s given him a dose of morphine for the pain, and now there’s nothin’ to do but wait and hope. There’s no curin’ heart failure, after all.” Sinclair slips his thumbs behind his suspenders and rocks on his feet. “Better than the alternative.”

“The alternative?”

“Most Alphas go mad.”

“Ah.” Mark tries to think of something comforting to say. Sinclair has done so much for him. He owes Sinclair his life, and more. “But… Doctor Alexander’s research… could resolve this? If Delta’s conditioning is broken, there’s no reason he’ll won’t recover the same way Eleanor did. He woke before. He can do it again.”

"Don'chu go addin' me to your list of burdens."

Mark blinks. “I – what?”

Sinclair raises an eyebrow at the papers crumpled on the desk. "Naw, you're right. 'List' rather understates the fact."

"They're not burdens. You're not a burden."

"I figured you wouldn't see it that way," Sinclair replies softly, looking fond. He approaches. "But here's the thing - you can't see the state you’re in right now." To illustrate his point, he bends the head of the desk lamp all the way down until the shiny top of the lampshade is facing Mark, and he can see his reflection. He looks, in a word, unrecognisable. If it weren't for his 5 o'clock shadow, he'd look like a dead man walking. 

"Huh," is all he can say. And, after some consideration, he adds, "I'll clean up when I've finished this."

"You know something? When I first saw you I thought 'There's the face of a man who hasn't slept in a dog's age.' And I was right, wasn't I? Why don't you rest?"

"There's too much to do."

Sinclair sits on the desk. The papers crumple as he slides his thigh across it. "Mind if I just remind you of what you've been through in the last 24 hours? You shot a woman, transfused a whole lotta blood into little miss over there, damn nearly killed yourself givin’ Del the kiss of life, and Lord knows what else!"

Mark runs his tongue over his teeth. He is rather tired.

"Twenty minutes of shut eye," Sinclair flashes him that businessman smile. "You can do that."

"You'll wake me?"

"I make no promises."

Rolling his eyes, Mark rises from his desk with a huffed "Have it your way then," and flops onto his back on the bed. Sinclair turns out the light. Mark expects him to leave, but tenses in surprise when Sinclair lifts the bed cover and lies down next to him. "What are you doing?"

"I can't trust you not to crawl back to your desk once I've gone so..." He slings his arm across Mark's chest, anchoring him there. "I figured I'd make it so there's no escapin'."

Mark shuffles to accommodate the extra body in the bed. "This is ridiculous. You're insufferable, did you know that?"

Oh, and Mark can hear the size of his grin when Sinclair replies, "I happen to have on good authority that I'm rather charming, actually."

"Your apology to Delta went well then? I’ve been meaning to ask."

The pause that follows makes Mark grin in victory. "It - It went swell.”

"I hate to say I told you so, but..."

"You think you're so smart, don't ya? Not smart enough to shut ya trap and get some sleep. Stop thinkin' for three seconds, would ya?"

Mark tries. He can feel every part of him crashing. The warm hands of sleep reach up and smother his face, adding weight to his eyelids, and pulling him away from all coherant thought. But then, like a spark of electricity, he happens on another thought. It's urgent, so he figures Sinclair won't mind. His eyes shoot back open. "Do you have somewhere to go after this?"

Sinclair chuckles. "If I don't answer, will ya drift off at last?"

Perhaps not as urgent as Mark thinks it is. Fair enough. Exhaustion's heavy hand take hold of him again, pulling him towards sleep and Mark lets his last coherent thoughts he has slip past his lips. "You can stay with me, if you like. In Montauk. Our neighbours have horses. Does Delta like horses?"

If Sinclair replies, Mark doesn't hear it. Finally, he's closed his watchful eyes.

---

 

Chapter 20: A Final Word From A. Sinclair

Notes:

did we hit 290 kudos right before the finish line? yesss we did xx

Sinclair is afraid to sleep. He feels like he's wandering through dream land, all dazed like a man hit with a nasty dose of Electro Bolt, and he isn't quite sure he won't wake up back in his bolthole in Ryan Amusements. He nods off eventually and wakes an hour or so later, feeling warmer than he has in a decade.

For a few minutes, he listens to Mark's soft, breathy snores. Mark's in the deepest of sleeps, the likes of which he hadn't been in since the train. He looks peaceful this time, his face tucked up near Sinclair's. On the train, Sinclair had ignored the stray hair spilling over Mark's forehead; this time he doesn't. He sets it back into place, curving it up and over Mark's crown, careful to keep his touch lighter than a feather. Slowly, he eases out of the blanket cocoon and rises to his feet. He tucks the blankets around Mark's lithe frame and takes himself down to the sick bay, tucking his rumpled shirt into his trousers and straightening his tie as he goes.

Eleanor is there. She has her forehead resting on Delta's chest, but the moment Sinclair appears in the doorway she sits up, shoulders tense, reaching for the Big Sister weapon stashed under the bed. She doesn't relax when she notices it's him.

"It's alright, doll." Sinclair sits on the opposite side of the bed, his thigh flanking Delta's ribcage.

“I was just resting my eyes.”

“Of course,” he says gently.

They stare at each other, neither of them knowing what to say.

“I – I’ve been going through Doctor Alexander’s notes on the Pair Bond,” Eleanor says eventually. “It… It looks promising but…” The notes in question are bundled tightly in her fist. She holds them out to him. “You were a pioneer of ADAM. What do you think?”

Sinclair’s stomach rolls. He clears his throat, slips on his reading glasses, and takes the notes from her. It’s clear from the messy scrawl and occasional nonsense word that Doc Alexander was slipping into insanity when he wrote this. Doesn’t exactly bode well.

“Hard to say,” he admits. “I pioneered ADAM products. I don’t know much about how they spliced Big Daddies, unfortunately.”

Eleanor gives a stiff nod. Sinclair hands her the notes back and watches as she folds them up and tucks them under the Big Sister suit that she refuses to take off. They go silent again. Sinclair purses his lips. Ignoring the propaganda Sofia spewed, he can count on one hand what he knows about Eleanor Lamb. With the fight over, they have little to talk about.

"They'll ask for our names once we reach port,” Eleanor says. It sounds like a question.

"I imagine so. There's a whole lotta bureaucracy to look forward to. People askin' where we're from and figuring out where we ought to be goin' - that sort of thing." There's no mistaking her thoughtful expression. "You’re thinkin' of changing your name, aren't you? Dropping 'Lamb' perhaps?"

Her brow furrows. "What was that name you gave Father before? Del..."

"Delmor. Meaning 'of the sea' I believe. Used to have a schoolmate by that name, back when I was living in Panama."

"Eleanor Delmor," she murmurs thoughtfully.

Sinclair hums. "Catchy, if a little twisty on the tongue. Could shorten it, perhaps." He shrugs. "Personally I'm not one for aliases, but you've got a long way 'til we reach port and plenty of time to think on it. Your daddy, on the other hand, will be needing a full name. And... if he's amendable that is... I've been thinkin' George, after the sweet state of Georgia." He flushes, and hastily adds, "He wouldn't have to use it day-to-day, of course! Only on his documents."

Eleanor lowers her chin, watching Delta’s face. “When he wakes, we’ll ask him.” She reaches over and smooths a hand across Delta’s forehead. “It’s strange. I remember so very little of my time as a Sister, but I remember his love for me and mine for him. I won't lose him. Even if the worst happens, I won't lose him."

Sinclair is a tad unhappy with the implication. "Hold on now. It might not come to that. Even... Even if we were unfortunate enough to lose your daddy, are you sure that's what you want to do? After everything you went through, you'd be making yourself a vessel for him. It's not somethin' to take lightly."

"I need him. I don't know who I am without him.” She meets his eyes and tilts her head thoughtfully. “Though I suppose you’d want a little bit of him too, wouldn't you?"

"No thank you."

"But you love him."

Clearing his throat, Sinclair glances to the doorway. Thankfully they’re alone. Though a crew member could walk by any minute. "I do,” he says quietly, “But... It wouldn't be him. It'll just be his memories. He wouldn't really be there. Be like giving yourself a personal poltergeist and, well, we did just risk our lives trying to free Mark’s girl of the very same.”

Eleanor looks like she wants to argue.

"I won't stop you, if that's what it comes to," he adds, "but there's still time. He's in good care now. Say, where's that doctor gotten to anyhow?"

Eleanor flushes. "I may have frightened her off." When Sinclair raises his eyebrows, she adds, "I was asking her what sort of doctor she was. Her answers weren’t very satisfactory."

"They're not all like your mother. There's plenty of genuine, helping doctors in the world."

"I won't trust anyone's opinion until Doctor Tenenbaum has a look at him. I need to send her a radio message, but the crew won’t let me near their equipment."

"I’ll have a word with them. If that doesn’t work, Mark might be able to talk them round. He has experience with sailors if I recall correctly." Sinclair watches her expression tighten. "I noticed you've been giving him the cold shoulder. You must be angry with him for doing what he did."

Eleanor sighs. "I'm not angry. I'm confused. I've been trying to decide whether I should kill my mother or forgive her. Now I can't do either. I don't... I don't know what choice I would have made. I don't know who I would have chosen to be."

Sinclair doesn't know what say to that.

"You are right about one thing." Eleanor stands. "Father needs a doctor until we reach the shore. I should find her and apologise." She leaves the room.

Sinclair clasps his hands together, rests his elbows on his knees, and waits for Delta to wake up.

He doesn't.

***

Fourteen hours of enduring seasickness, the occasional medical check-up, and the unabashed staring of several Icelandic crew members, the Ægir docks in Boston. Authorities and medical services are waiting for them. Some blabbermouth has also alerted the media and the cops are holding them off behind a hastily assembled police line. The sun is already stinging Sinclair’s eyes something awful, so having a slew of photographers dazzle them with camera flashes doesn’t help his mood. Still, he’s always been good at sticking on a smile so he’s sure to flash his Steinman teeth at whoever points a lens his way and doesn’t stop himself to ask if journalists can tell the difference between a smile and a sneer.

The little ones cry out, covering their eyes as the cameras light up like a series of fireworks going off. Mark is carrying Cindy and Jennifer and the two of them whine and press their faces into his chest. When medical staff and cops bring Delta down the gangway, the flurry of lights is at its worst. Sinclair can’t keep his smile on for that. Cops keep back the eager journalists as the Ægir crew and medics lift Delta off the gurney and into the back of an ambulance. Another series of flashes goes off when two cops bring Delta’s helmet off the ship, carrying it between them, and again when Delta’s collection of weapons is confiscated. Sinclair is seeing so many splotches that he can't see the face of the medic who asks for Delta’s name.

“It’s George,” Eleanor answers. “He’s Mr George Delmor, and I’m his daughter, Eleanor.”

“Okay. Come with me, Miss Delmor.” The medic gestures for Eleanor to ride in the ambulance.

Sinclair feels as if he’s back in the middle of the ocean. “Where are you taking him?”

“Massachusetts General Hospital.” The medic closes the ambulance doors. Eleanor hops into the passenger seat without a backward glance. As the ambulance drives away, Sinclair’s heart pounds doubly against his ribs. He takes a deep breath. He’s not alone. He’s got Mark.

It takes a little longer, but once the girls bar Cindy are buckled into police cars, vans, and ambulances, it’s time for Sinclair and Mark to be chauffeured to the hospital as well. On arrival, his efforts to reconvene with Delta are thwarted, firstly, by hospital staff who insist on sticking a cannula in his arm to resolve his dehydration and low blood sugar and, secondly, by cops who want to ask him questions. He ends up in a bed in a dimmed room separate to Mark, while an officer interviews him:

"You've been registered as missing for over a decade, Mr Sinclair. Care to explain why that is?"

Sinclair barks a laugh. "That's news to me! Suppose tha's what happens when you go galivanting across Europe. I've been sleeping under trees and in caravans. With no folks, or dependants, I didn't think anybody would miss me. Honest mistake, officer."

"Sleeping under trees? For ten years? You don't seem the type."

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“How did you end up in the ocean?”

“As I said, I’m somethin’ of a traveller. Though, I’ll admit being stuck in the Atlantic wasn’t on my itinerary. Cruise went sideways.”

“The girls you were with. Are you aware that they were reported as missing nearly two years ago?”

Sinclair hefts his eyebrows. “I wasn’t.”

“That’s an odd coincidence, don’t you think? Were they on your cruise?”

“I’m not sure. Might have been, I suppose.”

“What was the name of the ship?”

“Afraid I don’t recall. Would have been on my ticket, but that was lost to the ocean with my luggage.”

The officer stares at him, unimpressed. “Excuse me a moment, Mr Sinclair.” He leaves the room.

Sinclair senses trouble. Quickly, he slides the cannula from his arm and gets out of bed. He exits his room and heads down to reception in the hopes of finding where Delta or Mark are. He finds Mark using the hospital payphone. Cindy is by his leg, little fist clenched around the fabric. She spots Sinclair and gives him a tiny, shy wave. Sinclair waves back.

“…It’s hard to explain,” Mark is saying into the telephone. “You can speak to her. She’s here.” He turns slightly to look at Cindy, which is when he notices Sinclair. He flashes a gentle smile before he turns away and continues speaking into the telephone. “No, no, no. I understand. It’s better for you both if you talk in person. I’ll see you soon. And Amanda? I – I’m sorry too. For everything I put you through. Okay. Okay. Goodbye.” He places the telephone on the hook. He starts walking towards Sinclair.

In the corner of his eye, Sinclair catches someone watching them. Through the automatic sliding doors Sinclair sees a cop leaning over the reception counter and chatting to the receptionist.

Mark takes hold of Sinclair’s wrist as he passes him and pulls him along. “I found out where they’re keeping Delta.” His hand is warm, and his grip is steady, as real as can be, yet Sinclair still feels like he’s adrift in ocean waves.

“We’re spies now!” whispers Cindy, which doesn’t help none.

Mark pulls Sinclair around a corner, out of sight from the reception. They don’t stop. “I might be arrested soon,” Mark adds.

“Care to run that by me again?”

“I spend two years investigating the girls’ disappearances and suddenly I show up on a raft with them. Not just my daughter. All of them. Sound suspicious to you?”

With a touch of panic, Sinclair wraps his fingers around Mark’s and halts them. “I didn’t leave nothing behind. I have a nice little nest-egg; enough money to buy the best lawyers.”

“I might need it. But it can wait.” Mark untangles their hands and jerks a thumb towards the ICU. “This way.”

As they pass through a double set of doors, the officer from Sinclair’s room steps in line with them. Sinclair startles, but the officer doesn’t spare him a glance. “Really dropped me in it, haven’t you, Meltzer?” he mutters, tossing a glance over his shoulder.

“I owe you a drink,” agrees Mark.

“You owe me a bar.”

“Not an officer,” Sinclair guesses, pointing his finger at the man in an officer’s get-up.

“Not an officer, but plenty of friends who are. The name’s Roscoe Inman, former Lieutenant Commander at the Office of Naval Intelligence. I know all about the monsters coming from the sea so if you stop bullshitting me, Mr Sinclair, I might be able to keep you and Meltzer from being too thoroughly investigated.”

***

Delta has a private ward in the ICU. Inman – who, for the record, Sinclair does not like – guards the entrance once Mark and Sinclair go inside. He turns away cops, but nurses he allows. Hospital staff dip in and out, checking Delta’s vitals and replacing the bandages that are pulled taut around Delta’s swollen and bleeding chest. The fabric of the suit has been cut and pulled away, exposing his chest where the worst of the bleeding is.

“He had another heart attack,” Eleanor explains shakily once the nurses have gone about their business and left the room. She has a stern expression on her face, but it’s obvious to any passing stranger that she’s been crying. Privately, no doubt; only allowin vulnerability when alone. “They used bolt-cutters to cut the chains, but when they tried to remove the suit, his skin had healed into fabric. They tore him open. I tried to stop them, but they said that the bleeding would stop on its own, but his heart wouldn’t start again without help.”

“They, uh… They made the right call,” Sinclair whispers. “They did, doll. I promise you. Big Daddies, they… well, as you probably know later models had their organs grafted into the mechanics. Alphas were made before that particular light bulb went off, so… in all likelihood, this occurred after. He would have gotten hurt, and the suit fused to his skin as he was healing.”

“Jesus Christ,” whispers Mark.

Sinclair tears his eyes away from Delta to look at him. “So..." He raises an eyebrow. "Nobody waitin’ on you, huh?” He says it mostly to tease, desperate for a hint of levity before he crumbles. Admittedly, there’s a fraction of him that’s irritated.

“Roscoe helped me during my investigation. I... I owed him an explanation," he lowers his voice, "even if it's not the whole truth. He's hardly a close associate, but he's a good man."

“Calling him by his first name.”

“Is he trustworthy?” cuts in Eleanor.

“He is,” Mark says firmly. "Roscoe has contacts in the State Department who will be able to speed up your application for citizenship. You and your father.”

“I don’t care about citizenship. I care that my father is safe. Tenenbaum won’t come here if there is law enforcement and photographers. Can your associate deal with that?”

"Speaking as someone who has spent the last year being accused of murder, I can tell you that no one can 'deal' with that. People on the street might walk by you without saying a word, but gossip spreads fast. The only thing that kills gossip is being uninteresting. Unfortunately, I think that ship has sailed."

Sinclair hums in agreement. He’d known this was going to be a messy business the moment the Ægir had picked them up. When he’d been locked down in his bolthole, he hadn’t pictured his return being so public. “What tale are you suggesting we spin?”

“The truth, more or less. We escaped a child-snatching cult.”

Sinclair barks a laugh.

Eleanor frowns. "Will they believe that?"

"You'd be surprised how common of a story it is." Mark shrugs. “In any case, we can’t expect the girls to be anything but truthful and…” He brushes a thumb over Cindy’s head. “I’m not going to burden Cindy with secrets. Therefore we… we apply logic to their fanciful tales. Might they mention blood-drinking, we say it was a ritual. We burden the lies, so they can tell the truth.”

“Hiding the clues,” murmurs Cindy sleepily. “Like a puzzle.”

“Exactly.”

“Just don’t mention my mother’s name.” Eleanor’s back is to them now. She’s staring out of the window. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life hearing it.”

Over the course of an hour, they hammer out the details of what they will and won’t tell to whoever might ask. When that’s done, there’s nothing to do but wait. Delta keeps on sleeping. Three different nurses change his dressings. Sinclair drinks more coffee than he has in a decade. Mark tries to occupy Cindy with a Sudoko out of The Boston Globe, but she’s fussing and refuses, opting to cling to him instead. He combs his fingers through her hair and dozes. Sinclair borrows the newspaper and reads it page-to-page. Twice.

“Huh,” he says.

“Hmm?” Mark says tiredly.

“You failed to mention we were headed to the moon.”

“I was preoccupied.”

Eleanor’s face is the picture of curiosity. “It’s possible to go to the moon?”

“So say these folks at… Na-sah.”

Mark snorts, and Sinclair figures he's said something ignorant and feels a touch of irritation. Mark shifts in his chair, nudging Cindy so she slides off his lap. He stands and stretches. “I suppose now is a good time to fill you in on things like I promised.”

Eleanor turns sharply from the window, eyes fiery for the first time since they docked. “Tell me how to get to the moon.”

Mark huffs kindly. “Let’s start with something simpler.”

He doesn’t get chance to say much at all. The moment Cindy notices her daddy’s teaching, she perks up and eagerly starts rattles off all the facts an elementary schooler knows.

"Assassinated?" Sinclair whispers to Mark as Cindy speeds from the subject of US presidents to something else entirely. Girl’s good at keeping numbers in her head, he’ll give her that.

Before Mark can answer, there’s a knock at the door. Inman opens it. “Meltzer? She’s here.” He opens the door wider, allowing a woman into the room. She’s a thin, pale woman with dark hair in a plaited bun. She’s staring at them, shocked, confused, but her eyes settle on one of them.

Cindy slowly stops talking. She stares at the woman. “…Mommy?”

The woman chokes. She crouches and little Cindy runs into her open arms. Ex-wife, recalls Sinclair, glancing at Mark. He looks like he swallowed a rock. Slowly, he rises from his chair and the three of them exit the room together.

Sinclair half-expects Mark not to come back, but he does – alone – and he settles right back in his chair like he’s decided this is where he needs to be.

***

Eleanor is right about Ol’ Doctor Tenenbaum. She won’t come when there’s eyes. It becomes a whole other delicate matter.

The cops vacate and the hospitals visiting hours end. Exiting the hospital, Sinclair, Mark, and Eleanor make their way to a nearby hotel for the night. Mark shakes Inman’s hand, a goodbye, a thank you, a ‘let’s meet again’ – Sinclair doesn’t care for which – and Inman leaves with a promise to Mark not to worry about his impending arrest.

Sinclair, Mark, and Eleanor check into the hotel. Ol’ Doctor Tenenbaum arrives in Boston late the following evening. They arrange to meet under the cover of dark in the newly built City Hall Plaza, which isn’t exactly inconspicuous but it’s open and there’s no way of anyone sneaking up on them. Tenenbaum is dressed much the same as she was when Sinclair last saw her, in a long pencil skirt and a thin button-up cardigan.

"Hello, Eleanor. It ist a pleasure to meet you in person." She nods at him. "Sinclair." To Mark, she gives a silent, slightly furrowed stare.

“These are the notes I told you about over the radio.” Eleanor hands her Doc Alexander’s notes. “Can you do anything with them?”

Tenenbaum glances cautiously around before she begins to go through them page by page. “I must be honest with you, Eleanor.” She tucks the papers neatly together, folds them, and slips them into an envelope. “There is a slim chance he will return to what he used to be. I will do what I can, but I will need time. I will return to my lab and contact you from there. I cannot say for sure how long it will take.”

“But Delta needs your help now,” Mark says impatiently.

“I understand the urgency,” Tenenbaum says, “however I cannot remain here. I left a – friend behind, one who is in a similar state to Herr Delta, und he needs my care, but I vow I will do what I can.”

As Tenenbaum walks away, Sinclair murmurs for Mark and Eleanor to go back to the hotel, and hastily follows her. As he joins her in step, he clears his throat. “Got a ride?”

“I came via the subway. It ist easier to lose unwanted tails.” She glances at him through the corner of her eye. “Did you know Boston’s subway was the first one to be built in this country?”

“I did not.”

“I’m trying to learn more history. Though it does not interest me in the slightest, I’ve found that history has much more important lessons than science. Human atrocities, for example.”

Sinclair laughs. “Goin’ straight for the jugular, I see!”

“I was surprised to see you. I expected only Eleanor, and that, you, had gone off to some other place to make your own way in this world. This tells me that, perhaps, you have had the same change of heart as I. Though perhaps that ist just wishful thinking. Why are you here, Sinclair?”

Sinclair flushes. “What can I say? I’ve grown rather fond of the old boy.” They’ve crossed the plaza now and are heading down the steps towards the street. "It’s got my mind turning. How – how do you handle being forgiven for what we did?"

She looks at him with surprise. "You think I am forgiven? You think the children I butchered forgive me? This ist not a question I entertain. I do not see the children I hurt. They are grown now, und live in relative peace. My presence would disrupt that. Most often, it ist better for our victims that we exit their lives forever. We have no right to expect forgiveness. Forgiveness ist for those who are hurt to heal. Not ours to demand, but theirs to gift. Herr Delta has given you this gift und I think he did it not for himself but for you. You should proceed with caution."

"What are you trying to imply?"

They’ve reached the bottom step when she stops and glares at him. "I mean exactly what I say. Proceed with caution. If your continued presence becomes a hinderance to his recovery or if he should ever ask it of you, you should exit his life without question." Her eyes narrow. "I wonder if your greed would allow it. Do you see Herr Delta as your friend or as your property?"

"He's no property! Not to me or anybody!"

"Speak with your actions, not your words. Then we will see if you have changed. For now, I suggest you remove Delta from prying eyes. The longer he remains here, the more danger he is in. Should you find a more secure location, contact me from there. Otherwise I will see you here in one week. By then Delta’s fate should be clear.”

***

They take Delta to Montauk. It’s much closer to Boston than Georgia and easier to transport Delta there.

Montauk is on a slip of headland, stocked with lakes and country parks, with neighbouring islands. They make the trip by air ambulance. Sinclair can’t deny that he’s tickled when they land noisily on the fenceless lawn outside a grey-blue cottage, and the folks living next door and opposite stick their heads out of their front doors for a gander. The house opposite has a paddock, and the horses within scarper as far from the helicopter as they can get. Sinclair is even more tickled when Mark waves at the couple living in the house by the paddock. They’re bug-eyed, too stunned to wave back.

“I’m sorry for the mess.” Mark kicks unopened letters off the doormat as they enter the house. “I, uh, left in a bit of a hurry.”

Delta is awake as they help him into Mark’s room, though he stumbles and rips the wallpaper when he tries to keep himself upright. Once they do get him into bed, he’s out like a light. Mark offers Cindy’s room to Eleanor, since Cindy is staying with her mother for the foreseeable. Sinclair takes the davenport, a luxury compared to his previous accommodation.

“Where are you sleeping?” he asks Mark.

“I have a spare bed in my office.”

Sinclair can't believe this man. “O'course you do.”

***

Mark is arrested on a Thursday. He returns 24 hours later, pale and shaken up.

Sinclair pours three glasses of whiskey and hustles Mark to Delta’s bedside before that busy mind of his starts spinning in circles. He sets the third glass on the cabinet by the bed. Delta slowly blinks at him, having just woken from a five-hour sleep and well on his way to another.

“5 o’clock sharp, as promised.” Sinclair raises his glass. “To our first drink topside.”

***

Tenenbaum returns two days earlier than she said she would. Her arrival is announced by pounding on the front door, pounding so loud that Sinclair forgets that he’s on the surface and thinks there’s a Splicer on the other side of the door instead. Mark is just as cautious. He looks through the spy hole before he lets her in.

The underside of Tenenbaum’s eyes is black and heavy, yet she walks with her chin high and her back straight – too prideful to show a hint of exhaustion. She sets her gladstone bag on the kitchen counter and opens it, removing a bottle with amber liquid inside. She hands it carefully to Eleanor, who eyes it like it's the second coming.

"I must warn you – this will not resolve everything,” Tenenbaum explains. “This serum will remove the chemical restraints the Pair Bond has placed on Delta's mind und body, so it should prevent any further heart attacks. However it will not undo the mental conditioning. Only time und willpower will do that. His mind will not know his body ist healed and he will likely suffer the effects of the broken Pair Bond indefinitely."

"You're saying it won't work," grumbles Mark.

Tenenbaum shoots him a glare. "I am saying exactly what I mean to. Herr Delta is... in an unfortunate position. His body ist damaged from heart failure and the Pair Bond ist telling him that all he has to live for has been taken from him. Neither of these facts can be changed. Alexander's notes are detailed, but they are incomplete. The 'restitution' he wrote of was one designed for stable Alphas, whose little ones were still living. I believe this was a starting point for him, however he lost his sanity before he could devise a solution for the other Alphas. I did what I could with what I had.”

“Thank you,” Eleanor says.

“It is the least I could do,” Tenenbaum replies. “Come. I will show you how to administer the serum.”

***

“I’ll take over now,” says Sinclair, standing in the bedroom doorway next to Mark. Eleanor ignores him. They’re supposed to watch Delta in shifts, though when it comes to getting Eleanor to leave her daddy’s side, they would have better luck cooking on ice. Damn teenagers. “You should be getting some rest.”

“I don’t need rest.”

Sinclair looks at Mark and mouths. Do something.

“Eleanor, it’s been six hours.” Mark says bluntly.

“I’m aware,” she replies. “My circadian rhythm has adjusted quite nicely to life above the ocean.”

“Then maybe you should do something with your life above the ocean. How about I introduce you to the horses next door?”

“I have no interest in meeting horses.”

“Tommyrot!” Sinclair puts his hands on his hips. “Your daddy didn’t spend all that time fighting for you, so you could lock yourself up again.”

Eleanor stands so sharply her chair falls over. “Don’t order me about!”

Mark holds up his hands. “Alright, alright. Let’s not do this in here.”

“I’d be happy to fight you outside,” Eleanor says with a gleeful sneer.

“No! No fights! You’re not scorching my lawn. Again.”

“Oh, you can hardly see it!”

“It’s black,” says Mark, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

“It is not!”

“I’ll show you.”

“Oh for goodness sake!” Eleanor marches from the room. Mark follows, though not without tossing a victorious grin in Sinclair’s direction.

“That’s one way to do it I suppose.” Hefting his eyebrows, Sinclair sets the fallen chair back on its legs and sits down. “You know, kid, you best recover before your daughter lays waste to the village.” He settles his elbows on his knees and rolls the tension out of his shoulders. "Can't say a barbecued Mark appeals to me."

Tenenbaum’s serum drips through a cannula into Delta’s arm. Sinclair averts his eyes. This – This caring business sure takes its toll. His heart is so sore. He focuses on his hands. His fingertips are cold, like Rapture’s still got an icy grip on him, and he rubs his palms together.

Delta’s hand closes around his.

Sinclair startles. His eyes find Delta’s looking back at him. He looks healthier. His skin is brighter. He’s smiling. His deep emerald eyes hold tears around the edges. “Hey, sport!” He sobs and laughs at the same time. He clasps Delta’s hand in both of his. Squeezes them tight. “Hey. There you are. We’ve gone and woke you with all that yelling, didn’t we? You know I – I knew you’d pull through. Didn’t doubt you for a second.”

In the hallway, Eleanor is yelling. “You are seeing things, Mr Meltzer!” The door swings open and slams into the wall. Eleanor freezes in the doorway. “Father. You… You’re awake. I…” She balls her trembling hands. “How… How are you feeling?”

Delta hums happily.

“Good. Tenenbaum said that… that there might be…” She sniffs. “Father. Oh, Father.” She finally lets go of those tears she’s been holding onto. She throws herself by his side. “I’ve been so worried!”

Delta warbles softly and pushes two fingers into her dark hair. She crawls into the sliver of space next to him and lowers her head onto his chest. Delta curls an arm around her. Sinclair watches him watching her – watching all the love in his eyes. Delta lifts his gaze to meet his for a second and then gazes at Mark, who’d slipped in behind Eleanor and is now standing by the bed.

He rubs the back of his neck, smiling awkwardly. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

Sinclair and Delta look at each other. And – rightfully so in Sinclair’s opinion – Delta grabs Mark by the front of his shirt and hauls him down to join in the hug.

***

With Delta on the mend, Sinclair starts planning. Soon, he’ll take a trip to Georgia, take his belongings out of storage, contact his bank, and visit the old villa he left behind when he moved to Rapture.

He’s in no rush, of course. Delta is comfortable here. He takes walks on the beach whenever he’s got the strength to do it. The village kids marvel at his battle scars. Some folks gawk, though Delta doesn’t pay them any mind.

Little Cindy visits often. Delta is, of course, pleased as punch to have a little one in the house, though Cindy doesn’t take to him as quickly as the Little Sisters did. She mostly draws over the top of puzzle books. Mark tapes her doodles to the refrigerator like any good daddy would, and the first time Sinclair saw one depicting himself and Delta his heart tumbled so fast he didn’t think it would stop.

One evening, not long after, he and Delta are sat on the balcony. From here, they can see the rooftops of all the houses on the street, the treetops, all the way down to Lake Montauk. The sun is setting, and the water is shimmering like a blanket of diamonds. It’s a rare moment of privacy. There are no nosey kids from the village, no journalists, and no g-men or people pretending to be g-men. Sinclair is enjoying a cigarette. Below them, Eleanor, Mark, and Cindy are playing a game of tag. Eleanor is carrying Cindy on her shoulders and springing around the garden like a cricket, laughing boldly as Mark struggles to keep up. Sinclair closes his eyes and breathes it in: the sky, the trees, the lack of stink in the air, yet a hint of salt from the nearby coast to remind them what they ran from.

Delta pokes Sinclair on the arm to get his attention. He rubs one fist on his chest in circles. He’s been learning sign language. “I’m sorry,” he’s saying, followed by a sign Sinclair hasn’t yet learned.

Sinclair furrows his brow. “Sorry about what, sport?”

Delta repeats the gesture. A box. A box opening. Something glowing inside of it. He hastily adds, “Left behind in Rapture.”

"Oh," Sinclair says. He’s talking about Rapture's bounty; the scientific wonderments that were going to make Sinclair rich. "That's..."

He hadn't thought about it. Money was his life's pursuit, and he hadn't thought about it since... He can't remember when.

"...that's alright, Del, my darlin’. Don’t you worry about that."

Sinclair, for one, isn’t worried at all. For sure, he senses a little rainfall on the horizon, an oncoming storm if you will, but he'd never let a little splatter of water bother him. When it comes to trouble, the surface isn't even in the same league as Rapture. They'll be alright. More importantly, Sinclair will do whatever it takes to guarantee them a secure future. He always gets what he wants.

But that's a fight for another day. Right now, he has what he needs. It's no private island, but it's certainly worth twice as much.

 

---

Notes:

And that's a wrap, folks!

Whoo! I can't believe it's been a little over a year since I started this. This fic is very dear to my heart and I'm so happy to have gone on this journey with such lovely and encouraging readers. I honestly wasn't expecting this fic to find any kind of audience so I am beyond thrilled with the attention it has received. I can't thank you all enough xx

Notes:

I have a tumblr. Feel free to chat or tweet or tumble or whatever it is I'm supposed to do over there.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 3 of The Guardian, The Seeker & The Sinner