Chapter Text
It happens whilst they’re trapped in Dionysus Park, while Delta is tending to the second Little Sister, discovered in the J. Fischer Gallery and forcibly separated from her Big Daddy. He’s put her to work collecting ADAM, and she’s perhaps quarter of the way done with one body when the radio in Delta’s helmet buzzes to life, and Sinclair’s voice carries through.
“Uh - Sport?”
He sounds nervous, and it gives Delta pause to hear him like that. The last time Sinclair had sounded that anxious, Delta had been running through the quickly-flooding halls of Father Wales’s church in Siren Alley, and Sinclair had shouted at him to “Get outta there, kid!”
“Now, you know I don’t favour bein’ a bother, but, uh -”
The radio fizzles out and Delta flinches, feeling his own anxiety begin to spike, but then it comes to life again, only it isn’t Sinclair who speaks.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Stanley Poole hisses nervously, “if - if they see me, then they’re gonna tell ‘er, and then she’ll…Y-You gotta get down here, pal - right now, ya hear me? You gotta -”
The radio cuts off again, and Delta almost thinks to give his helmet a whack, assuming it to be a problem on his end, but then the connection returns with Sinclair’s voice.
“Would you pipe down a second? Think you’ll find I’m tryin’ ta - Oh, uh…Sorry, sport, I wasn’t talkin’ to you just then. Not through lack o’ tryin’, mind, but Stanley doesn’t know when to zip his lip an’ let a fella talk. Ah - (I’ve let myself get distracted) - Listen, kid, we seem to have some, uh, company down here, in the train station? I’m keepin’ my head down an’ my volume low, but I got a feelin’ they know I’m in here.”
There’s a clang in the background that makes Sinclair’s breath stutter in a gasp; something is banging against the doors to the train car, and if Delta wasn’t wearing a giant suit of iron and fabric, he’d dare say his skin would come up in goosebumps as his nerves begin to prickle.
He’s always associated the train and its stations with safety. There’d been that small scrap in Ryan Amusements, but that had just been another one of Lamb’s attempts to stop him from going anywhere, and the train had kept Augustus safe until Delta himself could walk over, he’d been right there to set them alight with his new Plasmid and whack them aside with his drill. Now, he’s halfway across the park, and he isn’t sure how strong the new car is, what with it being trapped in a flood for God knows how long, with no maintenance, no care, just ageing in saltwater. What if the windows…break?
And he’s not stupid, he knows it’s not a coincidence that Lamb has sent her little cult into the station while Delta’s far away, and, well…he’d break out into a sweat, if he could.
The voice he hears doesn’t help any.
“Sinclaaaiiiirrr,” it comes out in a sing-song, taunting tone, “come out, come out, come out, Sinclaaiiirrr…”
“…Alright, then, scratch that notion,” Sinclair says, “they definitely know I’m in here. I guess if they’re workin’ for Doc Lamb, they oughta know by now. Alright - Now, listen, sport, I’ll be alright. I don’t ever leave home without a firearm these days, so I can try an’ fight off anybody that might get on board. Train car’s fairly secure as it is, though, so hopefully I won’t have to.” Delta hears the rattling of metal and realises Sinclair is loading his gun. “Not that pickin’ off a few Splicers is beyond me…Jus’ don’t lose your head over it, alright, kid? You just finish gettin’ that ADAM with the Little Sister - it’s our ticket outta here.”
The clanging gets louder and Delta looks over his shoulder at the Sister, silently willing her to hurry up if she can; she’s oblivious, humming and singing as she stabs the needle into the corpse’s waist, then stands to guzzle its ADAM-infused blood.
He hears a breathy chuckle and turns back around to find a Spider Splicer grinning in his face, admittedly shocking him enough that he jolts, and he’s quick to smack them away with the side of his rivet gun, which he then uses to shoot a rivet ‘tween their eyes, effectively putting them down.
“But, ah…Obviously, if you’ve got a second to spare, I’d appreciate your presence in the station, in case o’ stragglers. Reckon they’ll find you a lot more intimidatin’ than they do me, and that drill of yours wouldn’t go amiss.”
Sinclair’s contradicting himself, telling Delta to focus on his task as though Sinclair doesn’t need him at all, and then asking him to come down to the station anyway, and Delta knows that must mean Sinclair is frightened, but he doesn’t want Delta to panic.
It’s a bit late for that; Delta had begun to panic as soon as he’d heard Sinclair’s tone of voice, and it’s only increasing as the radio switches off.
A scream cuts Delta from his thoughts and he whips around to find that a Splicer has bypassed his trap rivets, found a gap in the circle of them, and is grabbing at the Little Sister’s arm, pulling at it, picking her right off of the corpse and trying to drag her away.
“Let go, let go! No strangers!” she’s yelling at them, trying to yank her arm out of their grasp, then she cries out, “Help me, Daddy! Please!”
Delta rushes over, hurriedly trading his gun for the traditional drill and immediately stabbing it into the Splicer’s side, impaling them. He uses it to pull the Splicer away from the Little Sister, who stumbles as the Splicer’s hand is torn from her arm, and he turns away from the little girl to avoid spraying her with gore as he revs the engine.
The Splicer’s screams of agony become louder and higher-pitched as the drill spins, ripping their flesh apart, sending their blood flying, and their organs are reduced to hamburger meat while still inside their torso.
“Daddy’s mad and you’ll be sorry!” the Little Sister calls, sounding pouty but encouraging, and turns back to resume gathering ADAM while Delta flings the corpse away.
Sinclair’s plight returns to him, and Delta stands closer to the Little Sister now, in front of the gap that Splicer had found in his ring of traps, as he hears voices and footsteps fast approaching; if she’s interrupted in her collecting, then it’s just more time spent protecting her when he needs to be returning to the train station. He cares deeply for both of his missions: he’s always been protective of the Little Sisters and he wants to see them safe, either because of his nature as a Big Daddy or just because he has a heart and he likes kids, but he’s also itching to make sure Sinclair is safe - because, again, he has a heart, and Sinclair has lately found a permanent place in it. Delta has yet to figure out exactly what kind of title he now has, but he knows that the idea of being without him is…it’s not nice. He doesn’t want that, and he isn’t losing Augustus to Splicers.
He has faith in Sinclair’s ability to protect himself and he doesn’t want this worry to be perceived as him viewing Sinclair as useless (far from it, Sinclair had spent years in Rapture before Delta had come along, so he’s evidently picked something up in the time he’d been alone), but Delta won’t feel any less anxious until he’s gotten to the train station to assess the situation for himself.
If he goes back there and finds Sinclair has killed all of the Splicers - well, he’ll feel relieved for one thing, and proud for another, but he’ll still be making sure Sinclair is healthy and unhurt. If he is hurt, then Delta will not be leaving until every wound has been seen to, down to the very last scrape (who knows what kind of infections one could pick up in this hellhole?).
If there are Splicers in the station when he gets there, then he’ll be putting the fuel left in his drill to good use - and then he’ll be seeing to Augustus’s cuts and scrapes.
Either way, he will be certain Sinclair is safe before he moves on. He has to. Maybe it’s due to Sinclair’s near-death experience while Delta had been in Siren Alley, but Delta feels...more protective of him recently. More responsible for his safety. If Sinclair had perished in that train car, Delta doubts he ever would have forgiven himself for not moving quick enough.
He can’t have a situation like that again. He won’t.
He’ll be okay. He’ll be okay…
“Soon, Daddy, soon!” the Little Sister calls in a sing-song voice as she gathers, oblivious to the oncoming wave of Splicers, and Delta gives a rumble which sounds too nervous to come from one of Rapture’s deadliest creatures.
He’s more vigilant now, doesn’t let his worries over Sinclair distract him from taking down the Splicers popping out of nowhere to try and take the Sister and the ADAM. If anything, his concern for his companion is helping him here, sending adrenaline through him and a false belief that killing the Splicers will speed up the process, when in actuality it’s all down to the Little Sister in how fast ADAM gathering goes.
The Splicers truly do seem to pop out of nowhere, and he isn’t oblivious to the fact there’re more of them than usual, enough that he’s caught off-guard more times than he’d like, with one even managing to jump onto his back to distract him as the others pile in their attempts at grabbing the Sister. He grabs the one on his back by their head and tosses them away, then puts himself between the Splicers and the cowering girl before setting them all alight with Incinerate! 2, before finishing off that jump-happy Splicer with a well-aimed rivet to the forehead.
This is Lamb’s doing, he’s sure - the more Splicers bothering him now, the more time he spends here when he could be tending to Sinclair in the station. And if she’s this determined to keep him away from Augustus, then it means she’s planning something, and that only makes more anxiety pump through his system.
He’ll be okay…He’ll be okay…
It feels like a lifetime later, but eventually, the sick squelching of the needle stabbing into flesh comes to an end, and the Little Sister stands up from the floor, surrounded by the corpses of the wave of Splicers that has, thankfully, ceased.
“This angel’s all done now! Yaaaaayyy - Ooh!”
Her cheering comes to an abrupt and high-pitched end as Delta hastily scoops her up in one hand the second it registers to him that they can go now, and she’s still squealing when he practically throws her up onto his shoulders.
(It’s fine, he reckons, to do that; the other Big Daddies do too.)
“We’re racing, Daddy! Racing!” the Little Sister cheers as she holds onto him, her voice bouncing up and down as Delta sprints out of the room, heading back the way he’d come, back to the carousel room and then through to the maintenance tunnel.
He’s only just half-passed the carousel itself, about to head through the Securis door, when the radio buzzes to life. He hears gunfire, and Delta’s blood turns to ice when he realises what this means: the train’s exterior is a shield no more.
“Get yourselves off o’ my train!” he hears Sinclair shout, then there’s a yelp and grunts of exertion. “Get your…goddamn hands off o’ me! I said -”
Sinclair’s cut off by his own yowl, sudden and shrill, accompanied by pained shouts, and beneath them, Delta can hear the familiar sound of fists hitting flesh and Splicers giggling; Delta can picture him, arms held back while one Splicer takes shots at him.
“Oh, we ‘eard ya,” one of the Splicers says in a thick Cockney accent, gravelly and low and predatory. “Don’t you ever shut up? Maybe if we cut ou’ yer tongue, ya will…”
Delta hears Sinclair suck in a gasp - of fright, perhaps, or because the Splicers are evidently throwing him to the floor in the next instant, Delta hears the loud thud as Sinclair hits it, and then there comes more hurt noises, choked ones, ones that Sinclair could only make if somebody was kicking him hard in the gut.
His blood rapidly increasing in temperature, going from freezing to boiling in a millisecond, Delta lets out a furious roar and picks up speed, already through the bulkhead and into the next room, skidding in the sand as he sharply turns to avoid the decrepit furniture left behind from the flood.
DON’T HURT HIM!! Delta wants to scream, the words having no voice attached to them, just floating through the blank void his leftover conditioning has rendered his mind, even with his free will intact. DON’T YOU DARE HURT HIM!!
There’re Splicers in the tunnel, and a Spider Splicer catches him by enough surprise - thanks to the distraction in his ears - that Delta is the victim of a kangaroo-kick to the chest, which sends him stumbling and has the Little Sister crying out in fear, nearly falling from Delta’s shoulders.
Fuelled by the surge of protectiveness he has over the Sister and the pure frustration and exasperation he feels towards this nonsense, Delta lets out a roar that feels as though it shakes the tunnel and fires an Electro Bolt shot at the Spider Splicer, who’s hit at point range, keeping them in place for Delta to send his drill through their chest.
They shriek as they die, but Delta couldn’t care less, especially not since there are gunshots blasting his ears from over the radio, dying mutters of Splicers, and then comes another one of Sinclair’s yelps of pain and a clatter of metal that - after some thought, Delta realises - can only be Sinclair’s gun getting thrown away from him, leaving him helpless.
“- your damn hands off of me,” Sinclair yells again, strained, far away from the radio then getting closer by the end; the Splicers are moving him. “Get -”
There’s a loud bang of something hitting glass and Sinclair cries out again and the Splicers are laughing, and then Sinclair shrieks in pain, and Delta screams what should be Sinclair’s first name, if his voice box would operate well enough to let him speak English.
His howl overshadows all other noise briefly, and so he misses the fact that Sinclair and the Splicers’s cacophony of noises has left his helmet, and the radio has buzzed as its changed its speaker.
“The bonds we form, Delta - they can be some of the greatest weapons to be used against us,” Lamb tells him, sounding as cold and calculating as ever, and Delta has never so badly wanted her to shut up. “Myself and Eleanor, with the Family. And you, with the daughter you believe you have…and with Sinclair. I understand this drive you have, to reunite with Eleanor, but her bond with the Family is of a greater importance. Understand, Delta, that this bond is for the common good…while yours was formed by the will of the tyrant. We all have prices to pay, all have sacrifices to make for the sake of these bonds, and everything I have done has been my price. You have refused to pay yours...and so I am having Sinclair pay your price for you.”
THAT’S ENOUGH!! Delta wants to scream at her. TELL THEM TO STOP IT!! PLEASE - WHATEVER THEY’RE DOING TO HIM, HAVE THEM DO IT TO ME, I DON’T CARE!!
Whatever reply comes out of his mouth, he doesn’t pay mind to and she doesn’t reply to, as the radio fizzes out.
There’re four more Splicers down the tunnel and two of them shoot at him with their tommy guns, and he’s firing Electro Bolt at one of them and sending them flying with a hard smack with his drill before spinning on his heel to impale the second Splicer, blending them alive just as the third Splicer hits at his back with a pipe, making the Little Sister on his shoulders cry out in fright that one of the monsters is so close.
He’s turning to give the same treatment to the third Splicer as he did to the second when the radio comes back to life and there’s laughing and taunting in his ears - asking Sinclair if he’s had enough - and the sounds of fists hitting flesh, and the quiet, pained noises and wheezy gasps coming from Sinclair.
Spurred on by the desperate need to get back to the station, Delta is quick to throw the third Splicer’s corpse away, then he’s delivering an uppercut to the fourth Splicer with his drill, a simultaneous slice to the face with the drill’s tip and a harsh enough whack to the head that they’re put out of commission in an instant, and Delta’s heart just about stops when he hears coughing erupt from under the laughter in his ears, which dies down to snickering in response, and then come more of the thud, thump, thump, thud of punches landing -
“When…” Sinclair says, rasping and spluttering and so quiet Delta has to strain to hear him. “W-When he gets here -”
He’s cut off by his own yowl of pain, the sharp thud, thud, thud continuing under it, and Delta stomps over the corpses of his own victims as he resumes his run to the station.
“W-When...When he…he gets here...h-he’s gonna -”
There’s a thump-thump of something hitting against the train’s interior, and Sinclair groans, the sound bouncing as sobs wrack him, and the radio must’ve been moved closer to his head, for Delta hears him crystal clear.
“No...No…S-Stop…!”
Crack. Whack.
“Stop!! W-Would ya just -”
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Sinclair sobs in pain.
“Stop…Stop, now…I…I’ve had enough! I’ve had it!…Just - Just stop it -”
Sinclair’s own shriek is what cuts him off.
“No!! No, no! No - No more…!”
By the sound of the next thump and the sob that comes from Sinclair’s throat, the Splicers don’t listen to him.
Delta’s heart is pounding in his ears, overshadowed only by the sounds of gasping, choked whimpers, exhausted and half-hearted cries and attempts at coughing, and he’s never run so fast in his fucking life. He’s roaring, too, but he can barely hear himself, it sounds so far away compared to the pained noises in his ears, and then the radio fizzles as the connection dies and the silence that comes next is all the more deafening, enough so that his own enraged howls remain blocked out, sounding like he’s not in the guts of Rapture but in the water just beyond, far, far away, drifting.
AUGUSTUS!! Delta is screaming in the void of his mind. AUGUSTUS, AUGUSTUS!!
When he finally reaches the train station, there are no Splicers, but one of the train car’s windows is broken, and Delta runs up to the platform, completely neglecting to check if Stanley is still in the security booth because he’s so focused on Sinclair, only Sinclair, oh, God, Sinclair -
He nearly trips over something as he runs the length of the platform, and a quick glance shows him it’s a discarded drill, stolen from a dead Bouncer, and he thinks he knows how the Splicers managed to break into the train car. When he reaches the doors, they don’t open, and he remembers how the train is locked and so he thinks to try and force the doors open, only for there to be a distant click that, in hindsight, Delta will realise is Stanley opening the train car for him, the one decent thing Poole’s done since he got here, and the doors slide open before he can do any further damage to the car and Delta scrambles into he and Sinclair’s train.
There are dead Splicers laying in the train car, three of them, all slumped over and sprawled where they had landed, the gun that killed them laying nearby. They all have bullet wounds - in the legs and chest, mostly, but Delta sees the killing shots: a hole in one’s head and a shot to the heart each for the others - and they’ve made an ugly mess of Delta and Sinclair’s temporary abode, but Delta can’t even begin to focus on that right now.
Three Splicers are still alive and two turn around to Delta as soon as they hear him, both with the same savage grin on their faces. The other is too busy ramming their fist into Sinclair’s face to realise Delta has gotten into the train at first; after the initial punch, whatever it is that makes them notice Delta’s presence (probably the lack of shaking train doors), it makes them turn to look, and they too grin.
One of the Splicers is holding Sinclair’s radio. She’s responsible for delivering the soundtrack Delta had been made to listen to as he’d sprinted through the tunnel, the snickering and the shuddered gasping that had made Delta’s legs move faster and faster with every single one that had passed through the channel.
The second is brandishing a pipe, standing over Sinclair’s head, most likely responsible for the banging Delta had heard when Sinclair had contacted him, apparently now taking a break and letting his teammate take over.
The other…The other is holding Sinclair - they’re holding him by the collar with one hand, knelt down on the floor, straddling him, pinning his lower body down, fist still poised in the air from where they’ve stopped their assault, and Sinclair is not fighting back.
He’s not doing anything - he’s - his head’s turned away from Delta and he’s slumped and he isn’t - he’s not - he’s not -
“You like that song, big guy?” the radio-holding Splicer asks in sadistic delight, laced with a thick Brooklyn accent, nodding at him, at the radio in his helmet. “We know how much ya like Sinclair’s voice…”
Their companion gives Sinclair a shake, overdramatising the action, making sure Delta is watching as they do it, and Sinclair doesn’t move to fight back, he lets out a frightened whimper, and the very sound, it -
Fire erupts in Delta’s stomach as a roar explodes from his throat, and it has to be the same one he’d let out on the way here, but now there’s nothing overshadowing it and so now he can hear it, and it isn’t the animalistic, furious roar of the common Big Daddy that he usually lets out to warn people off, it’s not the rage that was injected into his brain and forced upon him, it’s full of his rage and his pain, that which belong to the man behind the monster despite how it sounds, and he’s still making the noise as he rushes over and grabs the Splicer straddling Sinclair with a hand that glows blue with Electro Bolt, his Plasmids reacting to his emotions, and rips them away from him, turning at the waist so he can throw them out of he and Sinclair’s train.
They go flying across the station like they weigh nothing at all, crashing into the wall with a crack and falling down to the floor beyond Delta’s view, and Delta grabs the second Splicer before she can even think of fighting back or escaping.
The radio goes clattering to the floor as his hand engulfs her entire face and the Splicer favours frantically grabbing at his fingers, and Delta picks her right off of her feet and starts slamming her head - over and over and over and over again - into the train’s wall.
It takes two slams for the blood to come, leaving a deep red smear against the wall as her scalp splits and her skull starts to cave in, and her screaming sends vibrations through Delta’s palm, but even that treatment is too merciful for her and so he throws her to the floor of the train and stomps over to her, and when she attempts to reach out for the doors - to find something to grab to pull herself out of this situation - Delta rewards her efforts by bringing his drill down, stabbing it straight into her spine and turning it on so that her back and guts can be blended while she screams bloody murder, her legs kicking as she tries to scramble for purchase.
She dies quickly enough and Delta’s drill comes to a stop, then he’s immediately whipping around as he hears a rush of footsteps and sees the pipe-wielding Splicer sprinting away, toward the exit to the station, and his fingers crackle with electricity as his Plasmids continue to feel his rage.
With a low, dangerous growl, like gurgling glass shards with a sore throat, Delta shoots Electro Bolt at him and he freezes in place, limbs stiffening and body shaking with the jolts, the pipe falling from his hand, and Delta stomps after him - not running, just marching. He doesn’t need to hurry.
As a man of his structure, with the length of his strides, Delta reaches him in no time at all, where the back of the Splicer’s head is snatched up in his large hand, and he doesn’t stop moving there.
After all, if the Splicer is so desperate to get out, then Delta will give him what he wants.
With the Splicer dangling from his hand, Delta continues his march until he reaches the far wall, just outside the station’s gates, where he slams the Splicer’s head.
The Splicer’s face caves immediately, leaving an ugly, meaty splat on the wall, and Delta yanks him free of his own gore and turns, letting the Splicer leave a trail of dotted blood below himself, and Delta slams his head - once, twice, three times - into the edge of Dionysus Park’s open gate, leaving a perfectly rectangular chasm in the fucker’s face. Once he’s done, once he hears the Splicer give a weak rasp of a pained groan, he decides he needs to do more, and so he spins around and throws the Splicer down, down onto the floor, next to the El Ammo Bandito machine.
The Splicer lays there, sobbing weakly through the remains of his mouth and nose, his breaths coming out whistling and wheezing, and Delta stomps over, grabs the top of the vending machine and snags one of his drill’s ridges against its side, and pushes it, toppling it over onto the remains of the Splicer’s head.
It pops like a grape, splattering Delta’s boots with ADAM-laced blood and brain matter, and the Splicer’s hand gives a final few death twitches as the rest of his liquid life spreads out in a puddle, sliding over the floor and growing slowly from beneath the machine, mixing with the waterlogged sand.
The machine’s lights flicker, and then the cheerful, automated music begins to play.
With the tube in his arm giving him a shot of EVE, Delta turns away from the sight, remembering there’s still one left; he walks back through the gate of the station, only for a hand to grab his boot, and he looks down to find the first Splicer - the one he had thrown, the one that had - had - had done that to Augustus - and he must’ve broken something when he’d thrown them because they’re trying to drag themselves rather than standing and running like their now deceased counterparts.
The Splicer gawks at him - grabbing his boot had been an accident, they’d only been trying to crawl to safety - and Delta can see the pleading in their bloodshot eyes, but he doesn’t give them the luxury of help or mercy, for there is still a fire raging in his belly, and so he forgoes any Plasmid usage and instead grabs their shoulder and flips them over onto their apparently-broken back.
“NO, NO -” the Splicer starts to scream, one hand coming up in defence, to beg, to plead, only for Delta to bring his drill down upon their head.
The very tip of the drill cuts into their skull like butter and Delta revs it; he’d stabbed it between their eyes and so their mouth is still able to open to let out a scream as the drill begins to blend their head, their legs kicking out involuntarily. They raise their hands and attempt - in a misguided but panic-induced thought process - to grab the weapon, and their hands are shredded and flayed and ultimately sucked into the roll of the drill. The stumps of their arms flail in the air, squirting ropes of red everywhere, like a kid allowed to run rampant in a paint store, over the wall and the floor and Delta’s helmet, and then they thump to the floor on either side of their head, which is being reduced to a bloody pile of mushy tissue and skull pieces as Delta steadily pushes his drill downwards, allowing more of the drill bit to cut into them, their screaming long over as their brain has been decimated and their mouth is coming to join their mangled eyes.
Controlled by his own rage, Delta holds the drill down long enough and hard enough for the tip to find the floor through the Splicer’s pureed flesh, prompting sparks to fly and for the Splicer’s head to all but be removed, chunks of meat and strips of skin swinging around as his drill turns, caught on the ridges, until the fuel runs out and the drill splutters and coughs to a stop, and Delta rips his arm from the weapon, leaving it imbedded within the train station’s floor, surrounded by the remains of the Splicer’s head.
With the Splicers dead and silence now ringing in the station, Delta tries to wipe the blood from his porthole with the back of his hand, smearing it over the bottom of the glass, and his rage subsides, leaving behind only the reminder that Sinclair is not moving and not talking in that voice Delta knows so well, and he’s crying out to him - a single, whale-like note - and turning and running back up the platform.
Augustus! Augustus!
He hears somebody vomit nearby, hears them mutter “Jesus Christ…!” and realises, in the back of his mind, that Stanley Poole had been perfectly fucking fine in his security booth and yet Sinclair had been left to suffer, and Poole is so fucking lucky, in that moment, that he’s locked behind a metal door, and that Delta is distracted from his anger.
The doors slide open again as Delta gets to the train and he sprints into the car, hands grappling at the doorway like that’ll help him move quicker, and he hurries over to Sinclair, where he freezes and stares, his body running a chill despite having no exposed skin. His legs are locked in place, like there’s an invisible barrier he cannot cross, like Rapture itself wants him to stop and stand at Sinclair’s side and enjoy the view.
Augustus…?
He doesn’t look like himself.
Sinclair is crumpled, laying like a puppet that’s had its strings cut, bloodied and bruised, not casual and comfortable and poised like he’d been when he’d sat on that train bench, at Delta’s side. There’s no happy grin or joking wink or amused smirk - there’s blood and bruises and cuts and grazes, all littered upon a furrowed expression Sinclair might wear when he’s tired. His face, a collage of ugly splotches of colour: the purple and blue and yellow and green bruises on his cheeks and chin and forehead, the black ones around his eyes, the browning red caking his philtrum from where blood had spurted out of his nostrils. It’s all so thick, Delta can barely see the shadowy dusting of facial hair Sinclair has, and his tanned skin tone itself can only just peek out from between the blots.
Sinclair’s eyes are shut and there are tears leaking down onto the floor. His lip is busted, his left cheek is now graced with a lump from where he’d been slugged especially hard by one of the Splicers, glass shards from the broken window are stabbing into his chin and right cheek and making them bleed, and his nose is crooked and swollen at the bridge.
His hair’s been pulled out of its usual slicked-back style - some hanging over his forehead, some sticking up from where fingers had roughly grabbed it and yanked his head back - and his clothes have been decorated with dirty marks shaped like the soles of shoes, ugly grey and brown smudges against the brilliant black and white. His right sleeve is ripped at the shoulder, half-separated from the shirt; his collar has been ripped open and has stamps of blood, his tie has been yanked enough that the knot has tightened but the loop is loose, dangling off Sinclair’s neck like a kid trying on their dad’s clothes; there’s a thick line of bruising over his throat, where his tie and collar had dug into his neck when the Splicers had thrown him around. His shirt’s been half-pulled from his trousers and his right brace has fallen from his shoulder and lays on the floor by his hip, and his trousers have a tear in one of the knees, where more glass shards glitter upon Sinclair’s torn skin.
His glasses are missing from around his neck and his pouches are absent from around his waist, and they lay on the floor nearby, his eyewear shattered into pieces, far beyond reparable, and his pouches slung away so Sinclair couldn’t use anything in them, couldn’t access the rest of his ammo. They’d truly left him helpless.
He doesn’t...look like himself.
Frozen to the spot he stands in, Delta gives another soft, whale-like noise to call out to Sinclair, and he catches shaky movement in Sinclair’s face as his eyes open to slivers, one managing to open more than the other, his sclerae little white marks against the purple and black and blue of his face.
He seeks out the figure standing over him and Sinclair flinches in fright, expecting Delta to be another threat, sucking in a weak, shuddering breath through his nose, his face twitching in pain as he struggles to do even that. It must hit him then, who is actually standing there, for Sinclair’s eyes widen slightly, and he coughs once, choking on it.
“Kid…” he says through the cough, and Delta can see blood on his teeth.
Delta watches as Sinclair just barely lifts his head, his eyes flitting about, searching the limited view he has from the floor, then he looks up at Delta and his chest shakes and his lips twitch upwards as he tries to muster a chuckle, but it comes out as a shuddered gasp instead.
When he speaks, it’s a pained whisper, raspy and weak, and Delta can hardly believe it comes from Augustus; he doesn’t sound like himself either.
“You - You showed ‘em who’s...who’s boss, huh…? Good...That’s...That’s good, son…I…I-I knew you would, see…?”
He tries another chuckle, but it comes out even more shuddered than the last. He twitches against the pain in his chest, in his face, and coughs again before his expression falls and his words get quieter, weaker.
“...I…I’m sorry, kid...I...I couldn’t…f-fight ‘em off...I-I tried, but I…I couldn’t...”
The last word is whispered so quietly that his lips barely move and Delta has to strain to hear it, and even in the dim lighting of the train cabin, Delta sees Sinclair’s eyes darken and the way his gaze slides away from Delta to go staring into space, glazing over, before his eyelids shut and his head follows gravity downwards, where it slumps to the side, leaving the shell of his ear pressed to the floor.
Delta stares at him, waiting for movement, waiting for Sinclair to open his eyes, but he doesn’t, and Delta feels ice shoot through his veins as he calls out to him again, a desperate noise from his Big Daddy voice box that should be Sinclair’s first name, and the reality starts to hit him: he can’t see Sinclair brea -
His radio fizzles to life and it’s possibly the worst sound Delta has ever heard in that moment because he knows it isn’t Sinclair on the other end.
“Oh…Oh, God…” Stanley says in his ear; he’d watched him kill that Splicer outside, he knows what mood Delta has been left in, and now he’s been left alone with him. “L-Listen, pal, I-I didn’t know what to do about…And - And - I-I mean, w-what was I supposed to do?! Shake my pen at ‘em?! Tell ‘em ‘no, don’t do that’?! Look, look, look - Si-Sinclair, see, he - well, he said you were comin’, so…so I figured y-you’d handle it! Y’know?! I…I didn’t know that he’d…a-and they…Oh, God - Is…Is he…?”
(“he said you were comin’,”)
(“I figured y-you’d handle it!”)
He was. He was coming. He was going to handle it. He - He was - He’d run, he’d fought, he’d been on his way, he swears it! He...He hadn’t abandoned Augustus (does Augustus think he’d abandoned him? Oh, God, what if he thinks -), he would never abandon him, he hadn’t, he hadn’t, he swears -
Delta snaps at Stanley, tilts his head toward the security booth and lets out a short burst of a roar to tell Stanley to GO AWAY, and Stanley stammers out “Okay, okay!” and hurries to switch off their connection and then he’s gone, which is good because Delta doesn’t want anybody on that radio anymore. If Sinclair isn’t on that radio, then Delta doesn’t want it on, he wants to rip it from his helmet and leave it to rust, he doesn’t want to hear anybody but -
“Ooooh!” the Little Sister on his shoulders coos, and he actually jolts because he’d honestly forgotten she was there.
It’s only briefly that he regrets subjecting her to the level of violence he’s just brought upon those Splicers - he reckons she sees this stuff everyday, and there had been really no other way of delivering punishment fit for the crime they’d committed.
“Look, Daddy!”
The tiny hand of the Little Sister appears at the edge of his porthole as she points a finger at Sinclair.
“It’s an angel!”
Delta’s heart just about stops.
No...No, no, no...
The Little Sister is talking, saying something about this angel being broken, but her words don’t register in Delta’s mind, everything sounds so far away like he’s sinking, sinking, sinking down into the depths around them, far, far, far away into the blue, further and further away, and Sinclair is - he’s -
Delta’s legs lose their strength and he falls to his knees, his heavy suit thumping to the floor, the Little Sister letting out a soft “Oof!” as she falls against the back of his helmet and wobbles dangerously on his shoulders. Delta grabs at the floor, dragging himself on his knees closer to Sinclair, and he reaches with shaking hands out to Sinclair to carefully turn his head so his hair is pressed to the floor instead of his cheek.
He gets no resistance. It’s like moving a doll.
Still trembling, still ice cold, Delta gently prods his temple - a spot a little less bruised than the rest of his face, he doesn’t want to hurt him - and Sinclair’s head simply slumps to the other side, there’s just no resistance and no movement from Sinclair, there’s just - just nothing.
Delta moans to him, makes the noise Big Daddies let out when their Little Sisters don’t come out of their vents, and tries pushing at Sinclair’s temple some more and tapping his forehead, trying to coax him into opening his eyes and telling Delta to knock it off.
Wake up, Delta is trying to say to him, please, wake up...Augustus…!
His vision blurs completely, he can barely see his own hand cup Sinclair’s face delicately, and when his sight clears, he swears - it’s faint, but he swears he feels an icy slide trailing down both his cheeks, falling down to his chin and disappearing. It happens over and over, his vision smudging before clearing, then smudging all over again, as his cheeks get more and more wet beneath his helmet.
His hands quiver as they press to the floor by Sinclair, supporting Delta, before he carefully slides one under Sinclair’s shoulder blades and the other under his thighs so that he can lift him from the floor, just slightly, and Sinclair’s arms dangle and his head flops back and hangs over Delta’s forearm. He brings Sinclair close to him, practically in his lap, half-carrying and half-dragging, his own trembling making Sinclair shake faintly, and Delta tips himself forward the best he can while maintaining balance and pulls Sinclair even closer so he can push his porthole into Sinclair’s chest, against his heart.
There’s a beat of silence in the station, and then Delta lets out a long, loud, agonising sound that no Big Daddy has ever made before. It isn’t whalesong or a shout or a roar - it’s just a scream, and it doesn’t belong to one of Rapture’s monsters, only to a grieving man.
Neither Sinclair’s chest nor his helmet do anything to muffle it, and so it echoes in the train station, thickening the tension in the air, numbing the bodies and freezing the blood of those around to hear it, and the Little Sister cries quietly and hides her face in the back of Delta’s helmet.
“Daddy’s sad…” she mumbles, tears sliding down her cheeks as she squeezes her eyes shut. “Poor Daddy…”
Delta’s wail comes to an end, punctuated by a few shuddered sobs as he lifts his helmet back up. The hand under Sinclair’s legs moves to tenderly cup the back of Sinclair’s head and bring it up so he can see his face, so he isn’t treating poor Sinclair like a ragdoll.
Sinclair looks so peaceful beneath the bruises and the blood. He doesn’t look happy or sad or worried or amused anymore. He looks like he could be sleeping.
Delta doesn’t know what Sinclair usually looks like when he’s sleeping, he’d never slept during their travels together between stations. He doesn’t know if Sinclair sleeps with his mouth open or with his hair ruffled or if he sleeps with one leg sticking out of the bed covers or whether he prefers to sleep on his back or his side or his belly. He doesn’t know if Sinclair snores or mumbles or has ever woken himself up from his nightmares with a gasp or a cry of fear.
And what is he like when he wakes up? Is Sinclair a morning person? Does he wake up ready to face the day or is he hiding under his pillow when the morning comes and asking for five more minutes? Is he going to the coffee machine first thing or is he content to stay without because he doesn’t need the caffeine to keep his eyes open?
Delta had hoped - at the end of their journey - that he would find out.
Seconds later, his radio whirrs to life again and Delta wants to tell everybody to just leave us alone, please, just leave us be, but the voice is speaking before he can get any sound out.
“Look, Delta,” Lamb says, in the same calm, borderline monotone voice she always uses. “Look at what your rebellion has caused…Look at what you’ve done. Sinclair needn’t have given his life in place of yours, and rest assured, I took no pleasure in giving the order for his death. But I couldn’t allow him to guide you further, for this is not your story, but Eleanor’s, and she has outgrown you. The bond you had with her is a thing of the past. But take heart, for Sinclair has fulfilled the role you gave him, and your bond with him has only been strengthened by his demise. I apologise for any pain you may feel, Delta. Whatever title Sinclair held in your mind is of little consequence to me, but, please, if you feel so inclined...take the opportunity to join him...wherever he may be now.”
The radio whirrs, and Lamb leaves him with Sinclair’s corpse.
Delta’s blood is cold and his limbs are numb.
‘Any pain he may feel’? How could she possibly even entertain the idea that he feels nothing right now, when he feels everything? Deep down, he knows it’s just another taunt, just a pin to his heart, salt in his wound, but - but he feels more than he’s ever felt right now, even back when she’d instilled the fear of a dying man into him, when she’d forced him to put a gun against his own temple and kill himself. Everything is cold and overwhelming, he’s feeling so much that it’s stifling, and she has the gall to even pretend to question the pain she’s put him in? Why? Why do any of it?
…To upset Delta. A jab at him, that’s all this had been. There’d been no other reason to make Delta listen to Sinclair as he was pummelled to death - a psychological attack to break him, that’s all Sinclair’s death had meant to them. It’d been a job, taking the life of another man, beating him black and blue until the life had faded from his eyes, Delta had seen it fade, he can still see it now, oh, Jesus -
Delta’s sobs increase in volume, making his shoulders bounce with hiccups, and another long, excruciating wail escapes from him as he cradles Augustus close.
That’s all Sinclair’s death had meant to anybody but him: a convenient way to stop him in his tracks - and Christ, it might be working, because Delta can’t move from his spot.
He still needs to get to Eleanor, but without Sinclair, it’s...He doesn’t want to move, he needs both of them, only Eleanor is his life source and he adores her more than even his conditioning had wanted him to, his precious daughter, but he needs both of them. And he doesn’t want to leave Sinclair, he can’t leave him; the train car isn’t good anymore, it’s too damaged, but he - he can’t leave Augustus, he can’t, he won’t. There’s nowhere to bury him, to honour him with a grave, and Delta doesn’t want to leave him to decay in Rapture’s guts, he can’t leave him like that, like he’s just another tally mark on Rapture’s list of the deceased, like - like he’s nothing, he can’t do that.
Mind moving a mile a minute, flashing from one thought to another in milliseconds, Delta tries to think of a way to undo this, but how does one cure death? How had he been brought back, years after his demise? He still doesn’t even…understand that, not fully. He’d woken up on the ground, in front of the Vita-Chamber -
The Vita-Chambers…those do it, those bring people back, but - but how? How do they work? Delta hasn’t had the time to learn, he’s had nobody to explain it to him; Sinclair had mentioned something on their journey, about co-inventing them, about working alongside a man called Gil Alexander and explaining it to a man called Suchong and - and Andrew Ryan ordering something about genetic frequencies or - or something, but he had never gone into exact detail.
Would he have to put Sinclair inside of it? Would he have to…to take a genetic sample or something, pluck a hair from his head or swab his cheek or take blood or something? What if he does something wrong? What if Sinclair comes back…wrong? What if he comes back in a worse state than now? Delta would never forgive himself if he dangled a chance of life in front of Sinclair’s face and then promptly snatched it away.
Delta lets out a choked sob as he turns and lays Sinclair down on the train bench, on the soft, leather padding, gently, like he’ll shatter and leave only dust behind, just to give Sinclair some comfort in death. He sits back on his heels, willing the radio to whirr one more time, but only if it’s Sinclair on the other end, only if it’s him giving Delta a task like normal, when Delta needs help. To just give him some information, anything, like he usually does, like he isn’t the one laying there, dead.
Please, Augustus, Delta wants to say, the words drifting in his brain like always, please, tell me what to do. Help me. Please, help me, just tell me what to do…! Tell me how your Vita-Chambers work - please…!
Of course, there isn’t a response, and Delta’s vision hasn’t stopped blurring.
What does he do now? What can he do?
Somebody…Somebody! Help me! Please, help me! I don’t know what to do! Please, help me, somebody…! Anybody…! Please…help…!
His thoughts dart to Lamb then, and beneath the numbing grief, rage starts to bubble, and sparks start to dance from one finger to another.
How could she be so cruel? How could anybody be so cruel? She’d ordered Sinclair’s death like it’d been her dinner, and she could’ve told the Splicers to make it quick, could’ve told them to just - just shoot him in the head or stab him with that discarded drill or something, but instead they’d beaten him until he could barely speak, they’d made Sinclair suffer, and for what?
Just to make Delta upset. Just to stop him from getting to his daughter. Well, are you getting what you wanted, Sofia? Are you happy now?!
Delta’s thoughts clutter and shoot through his head like the flickering of a cinema’s projector: how much pain Sinclair must’ve been in, how Delta could have saved him if he’d just run quicker (why couldn’t he have run quicker, why was he so slow, why hadn’t he just picked up the Sister and run the second Sinclair called, why had he been so selfish, why, why, why -), how Sinclair must’ve been so frightened, the prospect that his threat to the Splicers had been empty and he hadn’t actually believed Delta was coming for him (he was, he was, he swears, he was, Augustus, he was -), how Sinclair hadn’t needed to get involved at all (“Well, look at you…a bona fide knight in armour - complete with iron horse.”), the future they could’ve had (“ - curin’ your condition oughta be a cakewalk. Once we find Eleanor…the sky’s the limit.”), how Stanley hadn’t helped him (why hadn’t he helped him, why had he left him to suffer, why, why, why -) how Lamb could do this, how she could so callously treat Sinclair like he means nothing when he means so much, when he is half of Delta’s everything (“I like to look a man in the eye when I give him my word. You and me, kid - we’re goin’ places!”), how she could do that just to spite him - and Delta’s rage and grief and desperation surge within him, and blue sparks start to envelop his hands as he shakily lifts them, squeezes them into fists, Electro Bolt responding to his emotional state, making his hands glow with electricity and power and life and - and -
The idea is in his head before he can even register what it is and Delta moves on autopilot as he throws his fists up into the air, opens them and splays his fingers, then brings them down upon Sinclair’s chest.
Sinclair’s torso jumps, one harsh move that arches his spine and makes his head flop to the side, then his body thumps back down onto the bench and he remains still.
“Oooh!” the Little Sister coos behind his head. “The angel’s dancing, Daddy, dancing!”
Delta looks down at his splayed fingers, then shakes his head beneath his helmet, lifts his hands from Sinclair’s chest and lets them drop back down, firing Electro Bolt again, from his palms into Sinclair’s body.
Sinclair jumps again with the next zap, eyes still shut, body still unresponsive.
“Are you makin’ the angel dance for me, Daddy? Thank you!”
Up and down go his hands; Sinclair jolts, his body jerks on its own, the electricity punching him in the chest and flying through him.
Come on, come on, please, please, work, please, I’m begging, this has to work, please, please -
“It’s so beautiful, Daddy! Make ‘im dance again!”
Delta makes a short noise that’s half of desperation and half a reply to the Little Sister (please, don’t call Augustus an angel, he’s not -), but it’s not enough, Electro Bolt isn’t enough, he needs -
He reaches up, blindly grasps the Little Sister under her armpits and lifts her off of his shoulders, and despite how quickly he’s moving, he manages to carefully set her down on the floor beside him.
The Little Sister approaches Sinclair, her yellow eyes wide with wonder, lips set in a perfect ‘o’ shape as she gives an awed, “Ooooh!” and observes the angel up close. He has no ADAM, he doesn’t smell like it at all, he’s a dull, useless angel, but Daddy was hugging this angel and crying, and so that makes him interesting.
Irritated by the interruption but willing himself not to lose his temper with the Sister, Delta rumbles and uses one hand to push against her torso, making her stand back, far enough back that her presence opens the doors behind him, away from Sinclair, out of the way of what’s about to happen. Then he reaches up with both hands and yanks loose the tubes going from his oxygen tanks to his helmet, then unlocks the clasps keeping his headgear down, hands feeling tense and stiff as he does so, making it hard for his fingers to grasp the pieces, but in no less of a hurry.
His heart jumps into his throat - (“Now…take the pistol.") - and his anxiety spikes as the pneumatic seals hiss - (“Place it against your head.”) - and were it not for this important mission - (“Fire.”) - he would’ve needed a pep talk before he lifted the helmet. Such as it is, he spares only a few moments of hesitation - (“DADDY!”) - before squeezing his eyes shut and wrestling the headgear off, snatching it from his head, ripping it off like a plaster, even though his hands shake and his wrists feel locked up.
There’s a brief second where he hesitantly opens his eyes and stays there, basking in the silence of the station, the voices of the past gone, no harm coming to him, the helmet above his head, and then he’s marvelling at how he’s done it, he’s actually done it, before the bigger picture returns to him, and Delta places the helmet down, away from the Little Sister, the headgear turned away so Lamb and/or Stanley can no longer watch through the camera (if the latter is even daring to do so).
He expects to hear some sort of noise from the Little Sister - a scream or a gasp, something of fear or shock or disgust. He doesn’t know what he looks like, but he can’t imagine it’s anything pleasant to look at. He’s supposed to be some sort of Frankenstein’s Monster, isn’t he?
Delta should care what he looks like, it should be something he ponders, but honestly, he couldn’t care less right now, especially not as he tips Sinclair’s head back and squeezes his jaw carefully to force his mouth to open, freeing his airway, then he very gently pinches Sinclair’s nose - just enough to close his nostrils - and leans down to press his mouth over Sinclair’s, passing over air from his own lungs.
That’s the plan, anyway, but there’s something wrong because when he blows, the air whistles out, passes by his chin and his cheek, so there’s a gap somewhere, something is wrong. He tries to remedy this; he pushes his mouth against Sinclair’s hard, probably accidentally hurting him in the process, trying to make Sinclair’s lips act as a wall to stop the air coming out. He uses his other hand, has his fingers try to trap it, but he can still feel air leave somewhere, and the frustration gets to him.
He thinks quickly - he needs air, he needs oxygen, he needs it quickly, where can he get it - before the solution hits him, and he inwardly curses at how goddamn stupid he could possibly be, how he’s wasting time by being so stupid, to think he needed to remove his helmet and give the air from his lungs and not the air on his back -
With a short, angry growl from deep within his throat, Delta snatches hold of one of the tubes hanging uselessly by his shoulder, still attached to his oxygen tanks, and leans down so he can push the tube over Sinclair’s mouth, gently pinching his nose again with his free hand. He hopes it’s only oxygen in there, and not some fucked up special brand specifically for Big Daddies. He wants to think it’s just oxygen, but who fucking knows anymore?
All he can do is give it to Sinclair and hope it’s safe.
Please, please, don’t leave me, I need you -
“Where’s your hat gone, Daddy?” the Little Sister asks, confused, and if he weren’t so panicked and frustrated, Delta might’ve chuckled at the sheer naiveté from her, how innocent a reaction that is to whatever carnage his image has become.
Delta gives no reply to her, just shifts back and pushes down on Sinclair’s heart, pumping it - once, twice, three times - trying to coax it into working properly while simultaneously trying to keep his strength back so he doesn’t pound Sinclair’s ribs into dust. He gives Sinclair more air, passing him the tube again, pushing it so hard over his mouth, he leaves an indention in Sinclair’s blood-stained philtrum, but he’ll feel bad about it when Sinclair is back. He can have all of the oxygen in the tanks if he needs it, Delta will let him take it all; anything, if he means Sinclair gets to live.
(Sinclair grins at him, calls him one of his many nicknames amidst one of his many stories from his past, and Delta’s heart pumps hard in his chest, jumps and warms. Sinclair makes him happy, oh-so happy; not much does that nowadays.)
Please, please, Augustus, don’t leave me, don’t leave me alone, please, please, please -
Delta’s sparking hands go back over Sinclair’s chest.
Zap goes the Electro Bolt; thump goes Sinclair’s body when it falls back to the leather after arching from the shock.
“I like the angel’s dance, Daddy!”
Please, God, please, don’t take him away, please -
(He imagines them in the sunshine - himself, Sinclair, Eleanor, all sitting side-by-side on a beach somewhere, fresh out of Rapture. He imagines the smiles on his companions’s faces, faces that are clean of bruises and blood and tears and sadness, smiling peacefully under the blue sky, feeling the sun and the fresh air -)
There comes a BANG and a ping of a bullet ricocheting off the wall above Delta’s head, which has Delta flinching, and the Little Sister lets out a terrified shriek.
Delta looks at her and finds her to be scrambling back from the doors that slide shut without her presence, staring in fear out into the station, where a Splicer is bolting toward the platform.
“Stop right there!” the Splicer shouts.
Delta can practically hear Lamb’s voice in his head, all the reason he needs as for why there’s another Splicer coming into the station: I can’t allow you to do that, Delta. I can’t allow you to revive him and undo what’s been done.
He looks down at Augustus, checks to see if the bullet hit him, and it hasn’t, thank God, it hasn’t (he can’t get any more dead, but Delta doesn’t want him to deal with a bullet wound alongside everything else, and Augustus getting shot will for sure send Delta into another rage, and he isn’t sure if he’ll come back from that one in time), and then he lets out a growl that grows into a roar and he gets to his feet and throws an Electro Bolt shot at the Splicer through the broken window.
The shot hits and freezes them in place, making them shake and give jittering grunts at the pain, and that leaves them in prime position for Delta to shoot a rivet into their forehead with his rivet gun.
He hears - rather than sees - the body drop to the ground, as he’s whipping around and throwing the rivet gun down and falling to his knees to continue working, to go back to pumping Sinclair’s chest and giving air and using Electro Bolt on him, cursing himself for using it on that Splicer out there, he can’t waste EVE -
(He imagines a great, big house, the best Rapture-given money can buy, and Sinclair walking through the doorway, arms spread wide as he grins and turns slowly in a circle to gesture to the room they’re in, and he’s exclaiming excitedly to Delta, “Home, sweet home, kid!”)
Please, Augustus, wherever you are, come back, please, please, come back -
He’s so focused, he doesn’t hear the footsteps coming up the platform until the doors fly open and the Little Sister is screaming “DADDY!” and then he’s turning to see the blunt end of a wrench coming down upon him.
He grunts as he feels it hit his temple, feels the faint dribble of something cold running down the side of his head, the faint ache surrounding the cut, and he’s immediately lashing out with a roar (he wants to scream at them, LEAVE US ALONE!), using the side of his rivet gun to bash them aside, and then he shoots another rivet into their neck, and they fall, gurgling on their own blood.
“Don’t let ‘em get me, Daddy!” the Little Sister exclaims.
It’s shameful, but Delta wants to snap at her, They’re not after you! but he keeps any noises to himself. Instead, Delta kicks the Splicer out of the train car, then uses his foot to push his helmet into the pathway of the train’s doors, forcing them open.
Ignoring the Splicer’s slow death, he pumps Sinclair’s chest with his hand - one, two, three - and passes more air into his lungs.
“You’re still playing with the angel, Daddy…?” the Little Sister whispers, cowering still as she probably knows more monsters are on the way, looking at Delta over her shoulder. “It’s a sleepy angel…”
He gestures for the Little Sister to stay back and lays his left hand over Sinclair’s chest, pumps him full of three shots of Electro Bolt, each one punctuated by a confused comment from the girl, and he keeps his rivet gun in his right hand, poised and shooting at every Splicer that comes running through those station doors, and, God, are there a lot, he has to constantly whip his head around to look between them and Sinclair, one shoots him in the side but he won’t heal until -
(He imagines them safe, he imagines them warm, he imagines them far away from Rapture -)
LEAVE US ALONE!! JUST LEAVE US ALONE! WHY CAN’T YOU ALL JUST LEAVE?!
When he has to reload the gun, Delta takes the chance - he has to, he has no choice - and shoots the upgraded form of Incinerate! at the group of three Splicers that are in the station, setting them in a collective blaze that will kill them whilst he has his back turned. Thanks to that, he has to stop to suck in some EVE through the tube in his arm, damn-near emptying the container on his back, and he’s cursing himself on wasting even a single drop on those monsters when Augustus still isn’t back, and so the next Plasmid is Electro Bolt and it goes to Sinclair -
(He imagines them all sitting together beneath the night sky, seeing stars for the first time - the very first for Eleanor, a pleasant reminder for Sinclair, and both for Delta - and feeling the cool, night air.)
I’ll protect you better from now on, I promise, I won’t let this happen again -
“Let’s dance with the angel, Daddy!”
A Splicer bypasses the inferno and runs in and grabs at his shoulder, and he’s elbowing them in the gut instantly, then he’s using the blunt of the rivet gun to hit them; once to get them away from him, twice to cave in their skull.
He doesn’t bother kicking them off of the train, he’s too busy pressing the oxygen tube over Sinclair’s mouth to pass him more air -
We’re supposed to be going places, aren’t we?! You said we would! How can I go there without you?! I don’t want to! I won’t!
“This angel’s broken…No ADAM to be had here…!”
(He imagines watching Sinclair and Eleanor sitting together, smiling and laughing and getting along like family should, of them hugging like a father and daughter or - or an uncle and niece - or - whatever kind of relationship they might have, his beloved daughter and his...his...beloved…)
Stop thinking, don’t think, just move: he uses Electro Bolt, he presses the oxygen tube to Sinclair’s mouth, he kills the Splicers in the station, he pumps Sinclair’s chest, he listens to the Little Sister’s reaction, he does this, he does it, over and over and over -
(He imagines himself cupping Sinclair’s cheek delicately in one hand and Sinclair smiling in response, eyes lighting up with joy, and then Sinclair’s putting his own hand over Delta’s and pushing his cheek against Delta’s palm, shutting his eyes peacefully - in Delta’s wildest dreams, mayhaps.)
Please, please, please, please -
Stop thinking! Just move! Kill the Splicers! Give him the oxygen tube! Pump his heart! Zap his chest!
Jump. Thump. Stillness.
Time is running out. The glow is disappearing from his hands. EVE is running out. It’s not working, oh, God, please, no, it’s not working -
(It’s so unfair that he’s realising this only now as he imagines Sinclair’s cheeks blooming bright red under his hands, the adoration he pictures in Sinclair’s eyes as he gazes back at him - it’s so unfair how he’s only just realised how much Sinclair really means to him -)
“This silly angel’s counted all the baa baa black sheep!”
There are droplets falling onto Sinclair’s cheek and shoulder, descending his skin and soaking into the fabric of his shirt, and coldness is trailing down Delta’s cheeks as his vision blurs all over again -
(He imagines Sinclair’s relieved smile when he sees Delta without his suit. He imagines a candlelit dinner. Laying under the stars with him. Holding hands. Making love. Falling asleep beside him -)
Please, please, Augustus, please, come back, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t protect you, I’m sorry, just please, don’t leave me, don’t go, please -
The rivet gun’s empty, he has no more ammo for it, he can’t risk even the quick exchange between weapons so he lets the next Splicer come and caves in their head and stabs the pronged end into their eyes -
Please I’ll protect you better I will I promise I won’t let anything happen to you ever again just please please please please please please I’m begging I’ll do anything I’ll give anything please please please please -
(- and waking up beside him. Augustus in his arms. Leaning in for a kiss - only in his wildest goddamn dreams - )
Stop thinking!! Just move!! Splicers!! Tube!! Pump!! Zap!!
Jump. Thump. Stillness.
Not working, not working, not working -
Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease -
“Daddy? Are we gonna go get ADAM now? This angel doesn’t have any…”
Don’t think!!! Splicer!!! Tube!!! Pump!!! Zap!!!
Jump. Thump. Stillness.
Notworkingnotworkingnotworking -
PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE -
“Daddy?”
Tube! Pump! Zap!
Jump. Thump. Stillness.
Notworkingnotworkingnotworkingnotworkingnotworkingnot -
Please…Please…Please -
“Why’s Daddy crying again…?”
Tube. Pump. Zap.
Jump. Thump. Stillness.
Notnotnotnotnotnotnotnotnotnotnotnotnotnotnot -
Please…Please, God…No…No…No…No, no…please…
His body language is sagged and his head is lowered and he’s staring into space and the tears are flowing since every drop of hope has been drained from him and his hand moves over Sinclair’s chest and he goes to use Electro Bolt again and he’s on autopilot and the EVE is nearly gone and his hands are barely glowing anymore and he’s got just one more shot left in him just one more shot it’s all he’s got to give and if any more Splicers come then it’s over it’s all over so he needs this last bit of EVE he needs it for Augustus and Eleanor and their future and and and and and and and -
“Silly Daddy!” the Little Sister exclaims, giggling as she does so, and she jabs a finger at Sinclair. “That’s not an angel - he’s still breathing!”
Delta freezes, his spark-laden fingers hovering over Sinclair’s tie. His head shoots up and his gaze locks onto Sinclair’s chest, focusing on it - and, as if on cue, Sinclair starts to cough.
They’re so rough on his lungs and his aching body that each cough shakes him and makes him wince and cringe and gasp for air; whether it’s Sinclair’s movements or the fact that he’s a stranger that frightens the Little Sister, Delta doesn’t know, but she backs off, hands to herself in a defensive, meek position. He’s not so interesting now that he’s not an angel.
He’s...not an angel…
He’s not an angel…!
Delta slowly takes his hand away from Sinclair’s chest and then sits back on his heels, giving Sinclair his space, and he could just collapse as the weight of his fear and misery leaves him. The sight of Sinclair turns completely blurry and Delta blinks so the thick, icy cold rivulets can make their ways down his face, and from Delta’s chest comes a choked noise that wracks him as his hands fall to his lap.
Sinclair’s eyes open, slowly, weakly, just to slivers, and they immediately seek out whoever made that noise, whoever is knelt nearby.
When his gaze locks on Delta, Delta hears him suck in a gasp and sees fear on his face, and he supposes that’s to be expected in Rapture when one finds somebody kneeling beside them after coming back to consciousness. At least, he hopes that’s why Sinclair is recoiling, and not because of Delta’s face.
His own mind feels blank, emotionally and mentally exhausted if not physically, he can’t get tired that way. There’s still the lingering anxiety in him, the memory of the gun against his head, and the tiniest blip of wonder at what exactly Sinclair is seeing right now, but it’s all stomped down upon by the sight of Sinclair’s eyes - open, blinking, staring at him, full of increasing life - and the pure relief flowing through him, urging his tears to fall.
Even with the worry over what Sinclair must now think of him, he doesn’t hide or move away; his interests lie more in what he’s just accomplished. He marvels at Sinclair, transfixed upon him, wanting to wrap him up in his arms again and hug him and never him let go. But Sinclair is awake now, and he can’t know for sure if Sinclair would like that - and besides, he needs his space. Let him breathe, don’t impede that now.
Delta doesn’t know what does it in the end - maybe Sinclair recognises his suit, maybe the fact Delta isn’t hurting him like a Splicer would tips him off - but, just as Delta’s anxiety begins to take over and he urges himself to move so he can get his headgear back on, Sinclair’s eyes widen slightly, losing their fear and replacing it with a sparkle of realisation.
His expression relaxes then, relief and warmth floods his gaze, and, despite the fact his face must ache horribly, a weak, blood-marred grin tugs at his lips.
Sinclair must be so incredibly tired and hurting, but he still finds it in himself to talk - because of course he does, he’s Augustus Sinclair, and Delta has never been happier to know how talkative Augustus Sinclair is.
“Kid…!” he whispers, a croak in his voice, but with so much awe and joy. “That’s…That’s you…!”
If he hadn’t just brought Sinclair back from the dead, Delta would say this is the most relieved he’s ever been. Sinclair sounds no less happy than he would be when welcoming Delta back to the train cabin after one of Delta’s treks. In fact, Delta could daresay he sounds even happier, looking upon the man beneath the mask - and he doesn’t want to give himself hope, but…he could swear the way Sinclair is looking at him…is the same way he’d pictured it earlier…
One side of Sinclair’s grin is twitching as he wills himself to keep it up, his wounds crying out for him to stop using his cheek muscles, and once he sees it, Delta rumbles softly (which sounds different without his helmet, he realises, a bit more gravelly and a little less of an echo) and reaches out to tenderly brush his fingertips over Sinclair’s cheek, to tell him it’s okay to put the grin away. He goes to cup his face, but doesn’t in case he ends up pressing too hard over Sinclair’s bruises, so he settles for hovering his palm over his skin and softly stroking his thumb over Sinclair’s cheekbone.
Sinclair’s grin becomes a soft smile, then his eyes flutter shut and his head slumps and the smile falls, and panic stabs Delta in the chest; he prepares himself to hear the Little Sister declare Sinclair an angel again, tries to remember if he’d seen an EVE hypo or a Circus of Values on the way here and how long it would take to get to them, but then he catches the soft rise and fall of Sinclair’s chest and realises Sinclair has merely passed out.
It packs a punch, coming back from the dead; Delta should know.
That’s okay, though. Sinclair can rest however much he needs to. Delta will watch over him until he wakes up.