dear_mun | Considering some things.

[There is silence from Descry.

Verbal silence.

His eyes are closed. His face is blank.

But there are confusing things he hears under the surface of thought. Things he can't help but hear.

Better to pretend they can't be heard at all.]

[His thoughts tended to cycle but always returned to one point.

He needed her to come back to him and he would do anything to make that happen.

The 'her' wasn't a lost lover. The 'her' was a little girl whose appearance was, at best, ghostly. But she smiled. She laughed. She had loved him and called him Daddy.

There were images of her lying in a pool of blood, a deformed man standing over her, but there was also steadfast refusal of the idea that she was dead.

She couldn't be. She just couldn't.]

[Those thoughts are like a spiral. Endless, overlapping. He keeps them distant, but only enough that the spirals sink into the endless rambling text of a mind. A mind not human any longer.

It isn't the pictures. It's the emotions. The glow of the smile. The fierce joy of laughter shared. The ballooning warmth of a delighted name.

"Daddy!"

Cutting pain. Like being gutted. Descry had nearly been gutted before. Denial, not as sharp but lingering. She wasn't dead. She couldn't be.

(She was dead. Dead and gone, the truth refused by a mind unstable.)

He lifts a hand and presses it to his mouth. The lines around his eyes crease, but they're closed. The tears don't escape. He doesn't even know if the once-man to whom this mind belongs can cry.]

[He can.

He did. He did after she died. After he couldn't find her in any of the living children he found throughout Rapture's hallways.

He had knelt before a statuette, a mockery of a girl like her, and he had cried. In his low, wordless, pained voice, he had cried, and he had been sedated, and he had been taken away - but she wasn't dead.

He had just failed her. He had failed her and she didn't want to be around him anymore because he had proven that he couldn't protect her.

But beneath it all, there was a certainty. If he brought her enough ADAM, enough of the slimy creatures that ADAM came from, then she would love him again. She would be his little girl again.

He would be Daddy again, and they could live happily, safely, in a city beneath the waves.]

[Yes. He had cried. Descry should have known better than to wonder. The spiral leapt, from here to there, and took him with it. Daggers twisting, sobs yanked out of him with all the ease of a gut hook.

This was beyond normal grief. This was almost a mockery of it, made unnecessarily sharper by ... something. Like fire licking the edges of an image. Something had been done to this man.

The spiral beckoned and in it he saw the answer. A skating of words whose context he could discover if he only read a little further.

He shut the mental book and opened his eyes, and his soft voice was a jarring chorus.]

Who were they?

[A chorus. A chorus like hers, bass underlying the sweeter tones, the hint of dissonance...

Like home.

He had no voice, he couldn't answer, but the voice brought up memories of men and women in lab coats, of Yi Suchong, who was swiftly executed after making the mistake of smacking one of the little girls.

Of Gilbert Alexander, who had crowed his success.

Of Brigid Tenenbaum, who had altered the little girls.

Of Andrew Ryan, who imagined a city deep underwater and made it become real.

Of splicers, disfigured, misshapen, and hungry for what his girl had carried.]

[Too much. Too much even closed off as the thoughts are, horrific as they are. These aren't just visions of war like Descry is used to. This is experimentation on innocents.

Experimentation on humans. Using them as lab-rats. As tools. As if they have no souls, no thoughts, no feelings of their own. Of something like magic, more addictive than magic, rarer and more precious than magic. The sensation of protecting what was being hunted.

Being hunted by those who needed, wanted, consumed and never replaced a precious resource.

Pain. Savagery. Being changed. Loving and losing and never, ever being able to accept, and an endless, calling spiral.

Descry presses his hands to his face and breathes. He wishes he weren't alone. He wishes someone else was there, someone he could use to balance this swelter of memories. There isn't, and experienced or not he's ready to drown.]

Stop thinking. Please.

[A request in that voice. How could he say no? It pulls at those old, ingrained responses and it pulls him into doing exactly what is asked of him.

Smooth. Simple.

Practiced.

Just like he had done for years of deep, cool, blue water.

He stopped thinking. Just like when he had walked and kept walking.

Act. Don't think. Even if acting was standing still and silent. He did it. And he did it very well.]

[This is almost worse. A spiral of thought reduced so simply, so cleanly, to nothing more than a still, deep pool. That quick a reaction should not have been possible. A mental scar that spoke of the wounds underneath. Conditioning.

But he'd take it. He'd take it because, right now, just the passive presence of someone ... something ... nearby was better than its memory.

For now.

Until the simple, unmoving patience starts to make his temples ache. No longer a man. No longer anything. An automaton with thoughts. Like background noise. Start slow. With basics, to build up a construct, even a mental construct, in which to house the copied mind of this no-longer-man.]

What was your name?

[He held up his unarmed hand, the symbol there echoed in his mind in print and in a chorus of voices, gentle enough, all of them.

"And bring... [a ruffling of papers] Theta."
"Subject Theta is progressing nicely."
"And here's Theta; his conversion was surprisingly easy."
[A helmet placed over his head.] "About time we got to cover up Theta's ugly mug."

Theta.

The only name he knew anymore.]

[Theta. The symbol of the earth. The Celtic Cross, variously the sun and divine grace. The representative of perfect nine, three by three, all holy numbers.

The symbol of the soul.

How appropriate, for a man with none. Or not enough of one to be called a man.

Theta. The monster who cried for his lost one.]

What was hers?

[That, there was no one answer to. One voice called her, "Little One," with the lilt of German and the depth of care.

Others, less caring, called her, "the Gatherer."

Some, with the tone of avarice and malice hissed, "It's one of those Little Sisters!" before the impact of his drill silenced them forever.

There was never a name. Never a real, recognisable name.

To him, she was simply 'her.' Her. Perfect, beautiful, precious, cherished 'her.' She who showed him toys made from discarded cord and a baseball, held together with ribbons and tacks. Who spent long minutes fussing over a bow she tied to a drill brace and that he had worn with pride.

Her. His little girl.

With thoughts of her came images of strawberry candies and chocolates, sweet little songs that were slightly warped by the duality of her voice, but to him, were better than any orchestral performance.

Adoration. Devotion. She was the reason he lived. And he would be worthy of her again.]

[No name. No name but a being, a presence. There was a discordance to the memories, but not as well; a difference between how Theta viewed his experiences compared to how Descry, an objective observer, saw them.

Descry could see the fear. The fear of Theta, of his obsession, of his savagery.

Descry could see his love, his protectiveness, his desperation.

Theta, the monster with a soul.]

You should call her Grace.

[Grace. That which imbues with mercy, forgiveness, love. That which makes souls worthy.]

[The word bloomed in his thoughts, taken hold of and claimed and clutched tight like a precious thing.

Grace.

Full of golden light and feathers, hearkening to the angels she so adored. Roses and lilies and sprays of baby's breath. Grace.

The name was granted to her in his mind, fitting into place as if it had belonged there all this time.

Grace.]

[It's better than before. Theta and Grace, memories Descry can put in their combined box in his own mind. Not forget. Never forget. But they had their place, a place he didn't have to look if he didn't want to.

[He doesn't have much choice, right now. Put the memories in their box, file them safely away one by one, until he can cope with the distance. Until they're nothing more than words on a page, and not vibrant moving images.]

How long has it been? Since you've seen her?

[Another difficult question to answer, another swirl of memories, all joined but none quite coherent.

Her body handed over to careful scientists.

A cell.

A search.

Another cell.

And then, ocean. Ocean, as far as he could see. As far as he could walk.

Slugs. Dark and wriggling and collected in a net bag crafted from fishing nets that were found in the muck. Repairs made on shorelines, but besides that.

Walking.

The oceans sometimes deep and dark and impossible to see beyond where the lights on his suit reached. Other times shallow and clear and visibility stretching for miles.

But no clear measure of time beyond a lengthy stretch between then and now. Days, nights, weeks, months, years, ocean temperatures that went between freezing (below freezing) and as warm as bathwater.]

[A long time. A very long time, not just in a facility but searching the expanse of an ocean. And the ocean is very large. So large that the simple memory of it is almost overwhelming.

Descry covers his face and breathes. He can sense the pressure behind those memories, the force of the ocean over him. It's enough to make him feel claustrophobic. How long could Theta go on? How long until Theta's body simply fails, without ever finding the little girl he loved, would never find, because she had been killed so long ago?]

How much longer can you go on?

[Not how much longer would he. At some point, Theta's body would fail, surely.]

[With that, it was repairs. Visions of repairs. Of riveting his helmet and tanks back into usability, of harvesting sea sponges and using pieces of nylon from sunken boat cushions and failed life jackets, and remaking his filters.

Of the new and constant irritation of water against his skin, and the knowledge that his suit was slowly failing beyond what repairs he could manage.

The looming spectre of failure.

It came with despair, anguish, soul-deep pain that he would fail her even after all this time.

Fail her again.]

[It takes a moment for Descry to block out that despair, to relegate it to the box in his head where it belongs. Where it can be something he observes instead of experiences.

[Theta has been alive for so very long. Longer than anyone should. It makes Descry think of Skulduggery, because even though the skeleton detective hasn't yet reached a lifespan other sorcerers can't, sooner or later he will.

[It's probably an unwise idea. The nature of this not-man means he could die very easily if he makes the wrong move. But he's already died once, and Theta deserves some peace. It wouldn't be the first time Descry has performed a mercy killing, even though that's not how Theta would see it, if Descry isn't careful to hide his intent.

[But it would be easier if Theta wasn't wearing his helmet, or some parts of his suit.]

I can help. What needs repairing?

[He unwinds his scarf. His clothes are magically tailored, a mix of impenetrable and weather-proof--unable to be cut versus unable to be soaked. Some of them would be useful, surely.]

[What needed repairing was more difficult to say than what didn't, but the most immediate problem was a seam.

A simple seam. One that he could have easily repaired himself if he'd just had his rivet gun functioning. If he'd just had rivets left. But no. No, this seam was there in his helmet and allowed water to seep in and pool against his skin, to irritate, to infect, and eventually, would allow him to be drowned or crushed by the pressures the rest of the suit could withstand.

So he lifted his hand, the hand bare of his drill to tap the seam in question, drawing attention to the hints of pressurised air that escaped in the smallest of condensation-laden wisps.]

[ _{a loooong drag off his cigarette.} ]

_{Well. That is one hell of a blast from the past.}

You look as if you've still some fight in you, Theta.

[Dented. Rusted. Crusted with barnacles.

Still standing.

Looking at a man a part of him thought he recognised in a vague, distant way, like a figure through fog.

He answered with a low rumble, half warning, half query.]

Now now, there's no need t'be hostile. I don't mean you any harm, Daddy.

[ _{he sticks his cigarette holder in his mouth, crossing his arms and looking Theta over.} ]

Well, you've certainly seen better days, but who out of Rapture hasn't?

[Rapture. Another memory slotted into place.

Walking away from the city, away from the rush of water that he himself had caused, drilling through the wall.

Being put into a cell. Yelling...

Who had been yelling? Him? But the voice wasn't right. His voice was low and groaning. He certainly couldn't make any real words.

Yet, this man...

His programming was still in place. If he made no move, Theta couldn't attack, no matter what his memories (how could he believe them, that wasn't him, that hadn't been him, he didn't look like that) said.]

Unless those barnacles are a fashion statement.

[ _{he smiles, retrieving the cigarette holder from his teeth and putting his hands on his hips.} ]

Not your strongest decision, but I'll give you one for creativity.

[He grumbled, lifting one hand to his helmet and pulling away one of the mollusks, crushing it easily in his palm.

There. Problem solved.]

That wasn't very nice.

[ _{he's still teasing and smiling, but he's definitely starting to wander away, a little concerned at the sudden violence.} ]

Don't get yourself into too much trouble now?

[It wasn't intentional. But his focus was on one thing, and these memories...

Were they memories at all?

Perhaps from the ADAM.

He still needed to find her again. The Little Sister he had to prove himself to.]

[Her eyes widen....was that a robot? Betty approaches curiously but careful in case he should be dangerous.]

[There is no overt movement toward her - not to attack, at least, but he did watch.

He watched carefully, because while something in his mind told him to trust scientists, he had to be cautious of splicers. And of his ADAM cache.]

[Betty wouldn't know what a splicer or an Adam cache was, but she was a scientist. She's not entirely sure the robot is aware of her just yet and gives a careful wave to test a theory.]

...hello...?

[The voice that answered was human.

Maybe.

Perhaps in the past it had been human.

But now, it was low, wordless, groaning. But it was, at least, acknowledgement.]

[An answer! But he didn't sound well, was there a person in there?? Betty takes a step closer, slightly alarmed as she tries to put a hand on his arm.]

Are you alright?? Can you hear me? Do you need help?

[The suit is battered, but he still remains wary - there is his drill there, as salt-corroded as it is, but this woman...

She had no weapon. And if she got violent, she would be easy to take down.

But she wasn't acting like that would be a problem. Instead, she was acting like one of the technicians, one of the engineers, who could actually offer repairs.

He answered her with another moan, but this one didn't sound pained.]

[She's still worried, he couldn't form words, whoever was in there.]

Are you injured? Can I help you out of there? [Betty wasn't sure if the suit, if it was a suit, could be opened.] I want to help.

[Injured? Not so much. But he did tap on a seam of his helmet that had developed a leak. That wasn't an injury, but it was something he could answer with.]

[What was he pointing to?]

Your helmet?

[His gloved fingertip - an odd glove, with ports at each fingertip and palm - traced the seam, perhaps a bit obscured with rust and sea life, but a seam all the same. One that was ever-so-slightly buckled.

Enough that now and then, the smallest puff of air escaped.]

Oh no... [So there was a person in there. Betty gestures for him to bend down.] Here, if you can get closer... [she could try and get the helmet off, maybe he could breathe better, maybe even speak]

[Oh. She wanted him to remove the helmet. Scientists often did for repairs, so he reached up, instead, and unfastened the latches.

The hiss of pressure equalised quickly - moreso than it should have, thanks to the leak - and he lowered the helmet off his head. What it showed underneath was more monster than man.

His flesh was bulging with muscle and vein, his trapezius muscles so large that they barely gave his neck room. His skin was ashy grey, where it wasn't coloured like an old, severe bruise. Yellow eyes practically glowed out of an expressionless face topped with lank, wet hair that was a lifeless black.

But perhaps worst of all was the line where flesh met suit, where skin was obviously grafted to metal, irritated from exposure to salt water.]

[Her eyes widen, unable to speak for a moment. It wasn't what she had expected to see, though honestly what could she have expected under such a suit? He was unlike any person she had ever seen.]

...oh my... [her voice barely a whisper]

[Not knowing what else to do, she offered a hand to take the helmet. She wanted to see where he was grafted to the metal but Betty didn't want to overstep any unspoken boundaries. She was just too much in shock from seeing him to mention it just yet.]

How did you come to be like this??

[The helmet was huge. Heavy. He knew that if he handed it to her, she couldn't carry it. Instead, he let it hang from one hand from the handle at the back - one of a pair. This suit was specially constructed. That much was obvious.

There was still no spoken answer, though. A rumble of a voice, less echoing without the helmet on, but from a throat that no longer sounded quite human. He couldn't answer. Not in words.]

You can't speak.... [Poor guy. Betty is at a loss how to help him. Or where he even came from. She tries to put on a smile that hopefully says she wanted to be a friend.]

I'm Betty. It's...nice to meet you.

[He could not introduce himself.

He remembered, though, that at times, a new scientist would have to be brought in. They had something of a limited lifespan in the labs. They wouldn't all know the Protectors' designations.

He held up one hand, a symbol on the glove, to identify himself. A circle, like an O, with a serifed bar horizontally in the center.

The Greek letter Theta.]

Considering some things.

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sorry, busy busy weekend!

No worries. (:

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i am easy for how this goes btw.

Well, Theta will defend himself if he feels the need, and he does have some plasmids and EVE.

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erm, how tall is he? In relation to normal woman sized Betty?

He's around seven feet tall, at least.

ty!

No prob. (:

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