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child of neptune, im the daughter of the sun

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Rapture's passageways are still a comfort despite the deterioration. It's calming, listening to the soft taps of leaking water hitting the tile floor; it's distracting. The fish are pretty looking outside the glass, and if you stare long enough, you can pretend to see boats miles high above you.

You don't have to pay attention to the blood surrounding you.

Eleanor Lamb absentmindedly throws a splicer off of her syringe with a sickening squelching noise. She hardly pay attention to the dying wails they give as they bleed out on the floor, and her newly refilled bottle of ADAM glows in the corner of her eye as she stares out of the glass.

A large eel swims past, and she places her right hand up onto the cracked surface. Something twists her gut around, an emotion of some kind, but it's been years since she's been able to identify them as separate feelings. It moves past without so much as a glance at her, and she watches the way its body moves back and forth. She vaguely mimics the motion herself, finding something entertaining about the mannerism, and she thinks to herself that she should swim out and see if she can swim like that too. Something bubbles from her throat - a laugh? A cry? She's not sure, they're all the same now - and it echoes from inside her helmet and out into the hallway.

"I'll bury you, you fuck!"

It's instant. All she sees is red.

Turning to her right she can spot another splicer running up to her, shouting incomprehensible babble, aiming a gun of some sorts.

Rage. It's the one emotion she still knows; it's impossible to forget. She always feels it, in varying degrees, and as another sister-killer comes charging towards her she feels it so deeply her skin feels like it might boil and burn off.

The eel is forgotten and she lets out a piercing scream. It doesn't hurt her ears anymore, her throat mutation leaving her with no vocal abilities besides this and bubbled cries. Hearing may no longer be a strong sense of hers, but the screaming is all she can do. The only expression she has left of herself - other than the blood and the crying and the ADAM.

The splicer is dead in moments.

Sometimes she wishes she could still see the roses.

The splicer wears a mask, and for a brief second she sees flashes of a New Years Eve party, holding her father's hand and watching him shoot himself in the head. She turns to look back at the glass, and catches her transparent reflection. Her port hole is a bright red, it illuminates the creases of her helmet and the stains on her armor. The child drawings on her basket and side are highlighted, and her lanky limbs shake.

Eleanor Lamb is 16 years old and she is a monster.

Screaming fills the hallway again. She cries out and wails, howling out...something. She doesn't know what these emotions are, or what they're supposed to be. Whatever she's feeling, it's strong and fills her entire stomach. Her heart has a physical pain as she screams out whatever this is, and she stabs her syringe into the glass in front of her. It cracks the length of the hallway but doesn't break through, and with a small tug it's back in her control.

Her port hole dims a bit, the red fading in its brightness. Her rage bubbles down to a low simmer.

A thought crosses her mind, and she hesitates.

She's shaky, and it's stupid and dangerous. But something inside her is itching, and she lifts a trembling hand towards the clasps of her helmet.

Her helmet doesn't hiss like her father's did when he shot himself, and the cold air frosted by deep sea temperatures hits her face like a punch in the gut. She's stunned, still for a moment as she opens and closes her mouth, reveling in the feeling of not having the moisture of her breath come back and hit her against her helmet. She lifts her gloved hand to her face, and it comes away slick. Years of grease and grime that's either come underneath the seal or naturally occurred from her skin shows on her palm, and strands of stringy and greasy hair fall in front of her eyes.

She looks up to the glass.

Her face is lit up by the glowing yellow of her eyes, her pupils and irises completely masked by the mutation the sea slug has given her. Her face is covered in sweat, and her lips and the skin around them are a sickly green and white. Under her eyes are bags of black and blue, dark purple and green. Her hair is stuck to her forehead, and the rest falls limply around her shoulders. It hasn't been cut or washed in years. The corners of her mouth are covered in a dry mixture of spit and coughed up ADAM. Her nose is crusted with old snot and the dirt on her face has lines from where her tears have fallen.

Eleanor screams.

Her scream bounces and echoes all around her, and she sits on the ground. Tears cascaded down her face and made soft taps on the floor - not unlike the leaks of Rapture's glass. Spit flew from her mouth and hung from her lips as she screams, letting out whatever this feeling she had free itself from her.

She screams until her throat can't make sounds anymore, and the sound of loud and metal footsteps approaching makes her stop immediately.
She looks up from where she was sitting, and watches as Delta walks up to her. He stands beside her for a moment, his helmet turning to look at her own one discarded on the tile. Slowly, he holds out his hand to her and waits. He's still as patient as ever.

Eleanor is tired. She slumps, and makes a grab to her helmet, cradling it in her arms. She looks back up at her father and instinctively puffs her bottom lip out some as more tears run rivers down her face, spit and ADAM bubbling up from her mouth. Delta lets out a low, deep rumble and continues to hold out his hand. She lets out a sigh and grabs it with her own, and he pulls her up to her feet. She gargles out a low noise in response.

He holds her hand and begins to walk from where he had approached from, and she watches as he leads them through the walkway and into a marketplace clearing, approaching a Circus of Value.

A bucket sits beside it, collecting leaking water from above as the crack in the ceiling waited for a Rosie to tend to it. A splicer lie decaying nearby, and Delta lets go of Eleanor's hand for a moment as he leans down and tears off a part of its shirt. Turning, he holds it carefully in his hands as he steps to the bucket, and dips the cotton into the collected sea water. She watches carefully with a piercing focus at what her father is doing.

He turns around and holds it out to her.

Her eyebrows furrow, and she tries to think of why he could be giving it to her. She takes it and questionably holds it to her like she did with her old doll, but Delta shakes his head. She watches him hold up his huge, gloved hands and move them around on his helmet, and suddenly it clicks.

The water on her face is cold, and she recoils a moment before dragging the cloth down her face.

The residue that was left behind on the cloth was a myriad of different colors, mainly consisting of grays, browns, and reds. She smiles, and rubs it on her face again.

Delta stands and watches her, a hum reverberating from him the entire time.

Eleanor scrubs her face raw, her skin burning from the salt. It doesn't phase her though, and it takes a louder bellow from her father for her to break out of the motion. Looking up, she sees his helmet glowing a vibrant green, and her chest fills with a familiar emotion, one she knows tied them together, but can't place her finger on it. She drops the dirtied cloth and lunges forward, wrapping his torso in her arms, gurgling out a light giggle. He hugs her back, and he laughs an airy and drawn out rumble.

For a moment, she doesn't feel rage anymore.