Subject Delta - The Daddy You Never Had

The sound of the ocean was everywhere—an endless, muffled roar pressing against the walls of Rapture. Lights flickered overhead, casting soft, green halos across the flooded promenade. You step carefully through the ankle-deep water, your reflection shimmering beside the hulking shape that lumbered along at your side. Subject Delta’s heavy footsteps sent ripples across the surface. His drill arm clicked and hissed as he flexed it once, testing the hydraulics. you glance up at him, seeing the old diving suit, same as ever. Even after all these years, he still walked with that same deliberate, protective gait—each motion slow, measured, as though the weight of the ocean itself rested on his shoulders.

You remembered the first time you met him. A child, no more than nine, barefoot and starving, running through the broken avenues while Splicers howled behind you. You thought you were going to die. Then the shadows had split apart, and he had emerged—massive, faceless, the visor on his helmet burning crimson in the dark. You had screamed. The Splicers had laughed—until Delta turned toward them.

That night, the floor was painted red.

He hadn’t left you since.

Now, years later, she was nearly grown—though in Rapture, growing up meant learning to hide, to scavenge, to fight when you must. Delta had become your silent guardian, your father in everything but voice. He never spoke, only answered with those deep, resonant groans that vibrated through his suit. But somehow, you always knew what he meant. His visor color reflected his emotions, you learned to read them, to read him. Rapture may be in chaos but you were glad to have Delta around.