While the training center has many uses, Albert's generally always looked at it like a gym, but with Jet having painted on the walls (now power-washed away) he came down to see if he couldn't find some more creative way of using the space himself. He works out every morning but his interests are stagnating in this place. No art save for advertisement, no books of any note, no music that he would actually call music other than anthems. Nothing for its own sake or the sake of something intangible.

At least he thought not until he unwittingly strides in on Initiate's percussion dance.

It doesn't look like a practice of alien faith to him, all color and tapping. It looks more like a one person Holi. He'd gone once with Pyunma, an effort on his friend's part to pull him from the emotional funk that had plagued him in those days. At the time he'd just felt awkward, a tall white sore thumb standing out in a sea of native peoples though Pyunma assured him he was the only one who felt that way. And by the end of it he wasn't exactly white anymore, the powered colors coating him from head to toe in brilliant hues. He'd groused about it at the time but he'd very nearly had fun, which is saying a lot for the German.

But it's not that memory or the color that draws Albert to keep watching, it's the music. He can hear it, the percussion that's supposed to go between Initiate's strikes, his composers sensibilities coming awake at the unfinished soundscape attempting to unfold. It needs more hands, more feet, and Albert finds himself tapping his foot on the floor where the beats are missing in spite of himself, and in spite of potentially getting caught watching something he's not sure he's invited to watch.