Chapter Text
As far as the work goes, he minds welding the least. When he isn’t escorting little Eleanor as she flits from corpse to corpse, he is given menial tasks to keep him busy and keep things functioning, chores that are easier for him than they would be for the small, unprotected citizens of Rapture: out through the airlock and into the slow-motion world of the seabed. Something about the muffled, steady pressure of the ocean above, the serene movement of seaweed and fish around him and the city like a snowglobe below- he finds it soothing.
Occasionally he will catch a glimpse of himself reflected in the glass, the expressionless helmet and bulky silhouette illuminated by sparks as he solders a weakened joint or drives a bolt into place. Often, he sees people on the other side of the glass, but they always turn quickly away, as if fearful of his gaze.
Most of the time, his thoughts are jumbled and broken. Seemingly random things will fill him with unplaceable deja-vu, certain sounds will jolt vague memories. When he tries to focus too long on any of them, his head fills with painful static and his tenuous grasp slips away. As it is, he has a strange collection of images and sensations without context: dirt under the fingernails of his too-small, ungloved hands as he clutches a fistful of tiny white flowers; the taste of iron and salt bubbling up from his throat as he is dragged through a strange doorway; water falling from above in sheets as a flash of light and a rolling rumble fill the air; a man in a hat and gown holding a rolled-up piece of paper and smiling proudly as he extends a hand; steel bars sliding shut with an echoing clang. He wishes he could recall the concrete details of his humanity, things like a name, a home, a birthday. What he has instead are a designation stamped on his hand, an endless patrol through a strange underwater city, and the moment he opened his eyes inside the helmet and was Subject Delta.
Sometimes, though, his mind feels more his own, and he revels in his clearheadedness in the same beat that he dreads losing it again. He runs through what he knows over and over in these moments, turns every scrap of knowledge into a mantra even if he doesn’t fully understand it: A wondrous Engine is contriveing; In forme, t'is said, much like a Bell. Hyperbaric oxygen therapy may be used as a treatment for those suffering from decompression sickness, or “the bends”. Et d’un’ chanson d’amour la mer, A bercé mon cœur pour la vie. Recent soundings have shown that the Mendocino Escarpment extends a full thousand miles from shore.
He’s playing and replaying one such snippet in his head as he seals a few cracks in the foundation of a building: Hippoglossus hippoglossus, or the Atlantic Halibut, is a species of flatfish in the Pleuronectidae family. Hippoglossus hippoglossus, or the Atlantic Halibut, is a species of flatfish in the Pleuronectidae family. Hippoglossus hippoglossus, or the Atlantic Halibut, is a species of flatfish…
He’s repeated the words so many times that they’ve blended into nonsensical nothingness when he looks up to see two men in the room in front of him. It’s an office, he thinks abstractly, the angular shapes of the desk and chair dredging blurry memories up from his subconscious. The men appear to be in intense conversation, one leaning against the desk and the other all but looming over him. They’re both of a stocky build, the leaning man a head shorter, dark-haired and clean shaven and oddly familiar, the other sporting a bare scalp and a mustache over a sharp grin. On second glance, it might not be conversation so much as- ah.
This, too, rings familiar somewhere in the vacuum of his recollection, stirring something as he watches the shorter man slide off the desk and onto his knees. He knows what this is, what it means, even if he has nothing solid to compare it to in his life as Delta. He should turn away, his somewhat vestigial sense of shame informs him, but just then the kneeling man looks at him- meets his gaze, somehow, despite the double layer of glass between them. The man’s eyes are dark and shining and suddenly that slight stirring is something alive and urgent, ravenously covetous of this strange, intimate bit of contact, and his face heats up despite the cold depths leaching into his suit.
“Close the blinds, willya? I don’t like that thing watching.”
Sinclair pulls away from his current activity, wiping his chin, and glances up at the hulking figure through the glass. “He’s not hurtin’ anything. ‘Sides, with that helmet, how would you know if he’s even looking our way?”
Fontaine growls in annoyance, either at the answer or at the interruption it caused, and shoots a glare first at the Protector and then down at the man crouching in front of him. “You would say that, you little deviant. What, you getting off to those big freaks now?”
With a good-natured chuckle, Sinclair stands up and undoes his fly, shrugging out of his suspenders and dropping his pants around his ankles. “If I’m a deviant, what does that make you?”
It’s meant as a distraction, and it works. Fontaine grabs him by the shoulder, spins him and pushes him down onto the desk again, presses up against him from behind. “Impatient.”