Delta Catch All

[daddy_topside]

Who: Subject Delta (daddy_topside) and pretty much everyone!
What: Delta v (small) Civilization
When: Varying times of the day!
Where: Varying spots but mostly around the outer edges of Pumpkin Hollow!
Warning(s): Canon typical violence (Bioshock). Will add anything if they come up!


Open - In Town! (Daytime)

Subject Delta was created for the sole purpose of attending to the protection of a singular Little Sister. When he wasn’t doing that, he was hunting for leaks and doing repairs on a megalomaniac’s underwater hell city.

Figuring out mundane things like housing and groceries isn’t… quite in his repertoire. You might as well have thrown a tortoise into a lake and gotten about the same level of drowning incomprehension.

Typically, Delta would commit to the fine art of simply disregarding everything anyone tried to tell him and forge his own path. It’s just this time he’s so far out of his depth, he doesn’t even have the familiar to fall back on.

In the end, stunned by the endless be-clouded skies and the sheer shock of it all, Delta simply parks himself on a rocky hill and contemplates insanity.


For Grace - Downtown (Daytime)

Money, at least, was a familiar concept to Subject Delta. Cash to be traded for goods (and services, but you didn’t exactly get service between the splicers having the run of the place and just plain being a Big Daddy). You didn’t crawl out of a libertarian’s wet dreams without at least learning that.

The question is just what to spend money on. Deprived of his weapons, Delta instead muddles about Downtown, accumulating frightened and wary stares from the sparse populace as he contemplates the window of a woodworking shop.

Comments

[daddy_topside]

Some strange reflex makes Delta reach for her before he really thinks it through, broad hand stopping midway through the motion of trying to steady her. He doesn't know what he intends it to mean and he knows what it might mean when he'd broken Grace's jaw in thoughtless protection before.

So there the hand hangs between them, along with the weight of the words he can't speak.

The last thing he'd seen — the very last thing he'd seen was Eleanor vanishing in purple smoke as the flames tore apart the hallway to the escape pod and flash fried him in his armor.

[deepbluerevue]

Grace shakes her head. Hell. “Hah. What’m I doing,” she mutters to herself.

[Internal thoughts]

Of course he can’t answer her. Ryan’s monsters ripped his throat right out. She hadn’t had any time to think about it, hadn’t had time for all these realizations to sink in — but he hadn’t had any more choice in the matter than Eleanor’d had, had he?

She can’t take this right now. She’s been shucked like a crab peeled from its shell, standing in a market full of strangers in ugly linen underthings and plain boots and a cane that isn’t hers, looking up every five minutes in startlement at a sky she hasn’t seen in nigh on twenty years, and here’s Subject Delta, whom she tried to get killed, reaching out to her as if to — what? Steady her?

No. No, if he can act mannerly, so can she.

She clears her throat. “Thank you, I’m — I’m just fine, sir. Excuse me.” Collecting herself with a deep breath, Grace nods at the Big Daddy. “I don’t have any writing implements as of yet. I was planning on finding a stationery vendor, but it might be faster to go back to town hall to borrow some, sir.” An unsure pause. “… Or Delta. Whichever suits your preference.”

[daddy_topside]

Delta draws back, that hand loosely curled. There's a oddness to his stance as he watches Grace visibly pull herself back together. Something like concern, almost, although one that Delta dutifully hides under the questioning look he offers her.

Well, it is a step up from 'monster' and 'devil' either way. Delta offers a lopsided shrug of someone who is far too used to wielding a heavy drill in one hand and not at all used to shrugging.

After a beat and a second thought, he points to the symbol on his hand. Delta. Delta is fine. He's not so sure what she means to do with the writing implements, but he'll go along for now.

[deepbluerevue]

Grace nods firmly. “Delta. Alright, Delta. Why don’t we go get ourselves some pens, or —” Her eyes widen as inspiration strikes. “— a school slate and chalk, if they’ve got it, and we can have a proper conversation. I figure that’s agreeable?”

[Internal thoughts]

If Delta could use vending machines with ease, Grace reasons, then he could probably read. And if he can read, he can probably write at least a little. If that doesn’t work, they’ll resort to charades. A clear problem to solve makes everything manageable. She mentally adds “stationery” to the top of her list, right in front of “proper clothes” and “a proper purse”. It feels unmannerly to have this voucher and map tucked under her arm like this.

[daddy_topside]

Delta should probably feel some kind of embarrassment at never even having the thought of writing as communication. Maybe he'd have gotten somewhere faster, waving signs at Grace explaining his ordeal.

Then again, "alliance" hadn't been at the forefront of his mind with the woman opening on wanting him hung in the front of Fishbowl Diner like a proper bag of meats.

He doesn't object either way. Delta gestures in the direction of the general store he'd walked past a few minutes prior. There?

[deepbluerevue]

Coming out of the general store with a mesh bag, a cheap fountain pen, two handkerchiefs, a compact mirror, lipstick, eyebrow pencil, mascara, a box of school chalk, a clever little doodad for holding the chalk to write with, and the biggest slate they had, Grace reflects that the normalcy of handing a bill over to a cashier and receiving change and goods in return probably ought to feel less normal, given the last ten years. She’d call it a breath of fresh air, except she keeps getting whiffs of something strange. Hell if she knows what, other than the Big Daddy waiting outside, but that’s something else entirely.

“How about we sit for a spell,” Grace suggests as she returns to Subject Delta, nodding at a bench just across the way. “I believe my legs need a break. You can try out the chalk.”

[daddy_topside]

Delta takes the ground next to the bench of course, if only because he doesn't particularly fancy squeezing Grace off her seat. He tucks one leg under the other, boot braced against cobblestone and his air tanks resting against the mossy retaining wall.

As Grace settles in, Delta contemplates the slate, listening to the distant sound of seagulls drifting through the thermals above them.

Has he ever written before? A stray memory of dark, braided pigtails and scribbles of color on rusting steel flooring. It takes more concentration than he'd predicted to scrawl out the letters, his hands too big to fit around the shape of the words. The letters are ugly and clumsy, but he eventually finishes and turns the board towards Grace.

It reads simply:

shes alive

[deepbluerevue]

If Grace weren’t already seated, she’d have collapsed right where she stood. “Oh, thank you,” she gasps, folding forward as though hit in the gut. “Oh, hell. Thank you, Delta, thank you.”

[Internal thoughts]

She failed her baby girl twice over, first letting her get snatched, and then never realizing that Doctor Lamb was no better than the rest of those Rapture rabble-rousers. Oh, hell, that was just today. It feels like she hasn’t had so much as a second to really think about — anything. Her heart can’t take much more.

Grace presses the heels of her palms to her eyes, trying to will the tears back into her skull. She can’t be having this. She just can’t. Who knows what kind of crazy lady the locals think she is already.

[daddy_topside]

Comforting someone isn't a skill Delta's had a chance to cultivate. In the face of Grace's tears, he has nothing to offer. He stares down at his own words, fingers resting against the smooth slate.

She's alive.

Delta leans back, peering up at the skies, ignoring the ache the brightness of it gives his dark adapted eyes. Purple smoke, a long hand reaching for him through the blinding brightness. He blinks away the afterimages.

Setting the slate and chalk down on his lap, Delta pulls a pack of cigs from one of his pockets. Flipping the packet open, he flicks out a stick and holds it up for Grace to take.

[deepbluerevue]

Movement in the corner of her eye makes Grace glance up — and she boggles at the cig in the Big Daddy’s hand.

“Did you go shopping before I even got here?” she asks, an incredulous smile tugging at her face. She hadn’t even thought about how much she needed a smoke, what with everything else going on.

It feels just right between her fingers. Feels a little more like herself.

[daddy_topside]

Delta snaps his fingers and a little flicker of fire comes to life between them. He holds it up for Grace, radiating something like humor.

It wasn't a wise purchase. Using his now limited supply of Eve to light cigs probably isn't wise either. Delta doesn't let himself care about it. Right now, it's just the sunlight catching the red wetness of Grace's eyes, dusting her cheeks with a warm glow.

[deepbluerevue]

It’s a motion she’s performed a thousand times, leaning into a flame and cupping it protectively, filling her lungs with warmth. She’d almost forgotten what real tobacco tastes like. It settles something in her chest, and she breathes out a long stream of smoke.

Grace rubs a hand over her eyes one last time, leans back on the bench, and, for the first time since running into him, really takes a good, appraising look at Subject Delta. At the charmingly casual way he sits against the wall, the slate and chalk and holder resting in his lap, the courteous offer of a light.

“I had no idea you were such a gentleman, sir,” Grace says, amused by the very thought. It’s better than feeling melancholy about these things surviving Ryan’s meat-grinder, anyhow.

[daddy_topside]

Halfway through lighting his own cig, Delta barks a strange, bestial laugh, something that wouldn't be remiss coming from the mouth of a hyena with its head in a bucket. It's a startled noise more than a humorous one.

Delta pops one of his air hoses out of its sockets with a well-practiced motion and sticks the butt in through the hole. The line hisses with escaping pressure for a moment before the stopper mechanism kicks in.

Cigarette secured, Delta wipes the words off the slate and scrawls new letters in their place.

news to me

[deepbluerevue]

Grace watches the whole rigmarole with morbid fascination. She understands a craving for a smoke, but this seems like a lot of effort.

“Well,” she replies, a smile still dusting her face, “I suppose you’re just a natural, then.”

The air between them softens into silence as they meditatively enjoy their respective smokes.

“Alright,” Grace sighs, once she’s smoked her light all the way down to her fingertips, “I’ve got one more stop, sir. If I have to stand around in this getup for one more second, I might just lose my mind.”

[daddy_topside]

looks good, Delta opines, lifting the final dredges of his own smoke away from the port and exhaling as he writes. Gray wisps out of the hole.

Still, he's already stubbing out his cig on the ground and pushing onto his feet. As he waits for Grace to get ready, he screws the airline back into place and tucks the slate board into the gap between his tank and back, the chalk into a pocket.

[deepbluerevue]

“I appreciate the effort,” Grace says dryly, “but there’s no need to fib.”

---

Grace does not exit the clothing shop in a different outfit. This is what she gets for getting all giddy about being able to shop like a civilized person again.

“Well,” she sighs, trying on a rueful smile. “Serves me right for not budgeting. I suppose I’ll be heading to the tavern.”

[daddy_topside]

A lot of a big daddy's life is waiting. Waiting around for their little sister, waiting around for maintenance techs, waiting around for supplies. Delta finds even now, awoken from the chained mindlessness as he had been, he doesn't half mind it, watching the clouds roll on by and leaning against a lamp post.

How much of him as he is now is who he is? How much of that nature is what he was created to be? Is there a difference at all?

When Grace comes out of the shop without anything for her troubles though, he draws out of his head. There's a little moment of him distantly contemplating her. And then he pulls out his bag of brass, holding it out for her to take.

[deepbluerevue]

Grace stares at the clinking bag of coins. “The slate was a gift, Delta,” she says, raising a brow at him. “I haven’t yet shaken the notion that I owe you my life, sir. You’ve got to get yourself set up as well.”

[Internal thoughts]

Ordinarily, she’d already be batting her eyes in gratitude, but he’s being almost unfairly gracious. But oh, would she ever love some proper clothes…

[daddy_topside]

Delta snorts. He's got his food and he's got his smokes, and if the town doesn't keep their word regarding the stipends and labor, then they're getting a temperamental big daddy on their hands.

Right now, this cash is surplus and he's got nothing else to use it for. Delta's hand does not retract.

[deepbluerevue]

Grace wavers for one more moment before her will buckles and she takes the bag. “I’ll accept your charity just this once more,” she cautions, but there’s a good-humored tone in her voice as she withdraws twenty-five brass from his bag before pushing the sack back into his hand. “But I’ll be repaying this loan, understand? I’ve had enough of Family-style communal funds for a while.”

[daddy_topside]

No arguing against that. Delta takes the sack back and gives her a thumbs up of acknowledgement.

[deepbluerevue]

When Grace reappears, she’s clad in a simple outfit of long brown skirt, linen shirt, light brown vest, and tidy women’s boots, and looking much happier about it.

“I really owe you one, sir,” she beams. With a quick swipe of lipstick, pencil, and mascara, she’s feeling more like herself. “I think I can show myself at the tavern, now.”

[daddy_topside]

Delta has to trust his porthole to keep the direction of his gaze obscure because he'd be a downright rube otherwise, staring at Grace as she applies her makeup. The change in the way she held herself was fascinating in and of itself, but the addition of clean, well-picked clothes made a startlingly big difference too.

Pushing off the lamp post, Delta uncrosses his arms and awkwardly plants them on his hips, suddenly feeling oddly out of place next to this well kept lady and her unstained and as-yet untorn clothes. Then he gestures in the vague direction of said tavern: shall they?

[deepbluerevue]

“Lead the way,” Grace says, grandly magnanimous.

The Oak and Iron looks like a very old, once-sumptuous building that’s been stubbornly maintained throughout the decline of the town. A good thing, too, if it’s now housing a sudden influx of newcomers. It’s crowded inside, and the chatter falters as Grace walks in with Delta lumbering behind. She tilts her chin up and summons a faint, intriguing smile to her lips. This kind of attention can be spun, if Delta plays along.

“Are you the proprietor of this establishment?” Grace asks the older woman in a work dress and apron behind the bar top. At her somewhat unsure nod, Grace leans in with a confiding air. “Thank goodness for that. I only just arrived and I cannot tell you how disoriented I’ve been. You wouldn’t happen to know how I would get set up?” Then, as if an afterthought, she adds, “Oh, and this gentleman is newly arrived as well. Doesn’t seem to be much of a talker,” she chuckles.

The proprietor seems a bit skeptical, but she still marks down their names on an official-looking ledger and hands each of them a room key, with a brief explanation of the complementary housing and meal organization. Thank goodness for that, because Grace banked on that when she blew her entire starting stipend.

Tragically, the rooms are on the second floor. Grace purses her lips.

“Delta,” she asks. “Could you do me one more favor and hold this?”

[daddy_topside]

A distant memory of conversations through smoke. Tailored suits and glimmering dresses, the weight of stares heavy on his back as a little hand guides him though rows of silk draped tables. Delta blinks away the afterimages of candles in his eyes, listening distantly as Grace introduces him.

The stares and wariness aren't new. Grace talking about him like he's not just a freakish background fixture on the other hand. Well. He's not too sure what to make of that, or what to do about the strange intermingling of uneasiness and peculiarly easy trust. Delta doesn't acknowledge the proprietor: he just takes his keys and trails after Grace.

He doesn't even catch himself holding his hand out for her bag and cane until he's done it and Delta finds himself thinking he'd do Grace a thousand favors and be just dandy with it.

It's deeply unsettling.