[Open] He says, it's mine to give, but it's yours to choose

[silberfuchs]

Who| Albert and Jet, Albert and Sigma, Albert and YOU
What| After having to shoot his husband out of the sky during the last District mission, Albert's been captured.
Where| Detainment Center. Visiting room, cafeteria, etc.
When| After the D8/D9 liberations
Warnings/Notes| Violence, suicidal topics, past body horror, forced drug abuse, body horror, probably other horrible things.


1. Arriving (Closed; for Jet)

He didn't resist.

Not when Punchy brought him into the enemy camp with a wavering gun and Albert's hands on his head knowing that a bullet of such small caliber, even at that close range, would just glance off of his metal body. Knowing that Punchy wouldn't shoot him, that he wouldn't go through Punchy to get away either, no matter how easy it would be.

Not when the Peacekeepers, an ironic use of the words, put the butts of their rifles to his face and back anyway as soon as they'd moved him to where he could be secured, where they could make sure he wasn't loaded, wasn't a bomb about to go off. He didn't feel it, not matter how he went down.

Not when the powers went off and he felt all those bruises, felt his skin taut on his cheek bones shiny and purple and tender to the touch. He doesn't touch it. He lets it be, a visible statement to how he must look inside.

He doesn't struggle, doesn't run, doesn't fight despite a myriad of opportunities. He barely even reacts until he's been put in his cell, the forcefield a barrier of static between himself and his captors. And even then it's one simple sentence.

"Show me Jet Link."

It's a threat despite its simple delivery, and it still somehow carries weight despite the energy barrier between anything Albert could do and those who wouldn't survive if he did it.


2. Settling

It's surprising how much prison and the military have in common as far as regimentation. There's a schedule for everything, rigid and unyielding. It would almost be a comfort in the irony of how similar it is to Thirteen's overly structured environment if it didn't also bring Albert memories of Black Ghost, of occupied Mocawa, of a lack of every autonomy that makes Thirteen bearable and keeps Albert grounded instead of adrift in memories he's sought for decades to repress.

Get up. Push ups until the force fields go down he couldn't do push ups at first, not when they'd kept his legs and arm for testing. Impossible to do push ups with only one extremity, shower not as cold as on Ghost Island, he thinks. He couldn't feel temperature right in those days, food, forced reeducation violence for its own sake, or for fear's sake. It's easier to detach from than being picked apart piece by piece, to know you died on the table at least twice but that didn't stop them and you're still here, still here with little else to focus on than the agony inside and a voice in the vent.

But there's no voice in the vent. There's no vent, and the voice is...

Gone.

No. He refuses to believe that. Jet's still there, and Albert will find him and bring him back and they'll turn this around just as they did with Black Ghost. Just as they did on Mocawa. Just as Jet was able to reassemble Albert into a functional human being, Albert will do the same for his husband. That's the first step.

And it starts with him playing along. Tired grunts and stiff movements, no complaints as he's taken out and paraded through the day from one meaningless event to the next with as much resistance as a windless sea. But embers burn in the back of his psyche and there's something truly unsettling in the way he complies, the same reaction to a soft word as a barked order, as a shove. It's all the same for now.

It may not be later.

004 doesn't forget voices. Doesn't forget faces.

004 can wait a very.

Very.

Long.

Time.

--

It's only been a week, but Albert's rarely seen in any company when there's down time, either the cafeteria or in the exercise yard. He exudes an aura of nothing. Void, cold and uninviting but a little sad as he does nothing more interesting than eat his food or stand against a wall. He barely says a word, but looks, watches, and sees.

Sometimes, he'll offer a hand with a task, wordless but there at the right time to steady someone before a fall, or catch something as its dropped. Sometimes, he'll stare too long at someone, perhaps deciding if further association is wise, or maybe willing them to come at least partially fill that void that surrounds him for lack of ability to overtly invite. Sometimes this is someone he knows, sometimes it isn't.

As time wears on, he looks at the ground more than people, looks at his shoes more than faces, trying to focus on something known only to himself. Or so he might think. It's obvious how sickness of the heart wears on a person, even one as old and experienced as Albert Heinrich.


3. Tinkering (Closed; for Sigma)
It's not long before they come for Albert too.

There are no drugs involved for him because they're not needed; direct control isn't necessary when they have what they know is dearest to Albert's heart under a proverbial gun, ready to have the trigger pulled the second he misbehaves. So he goes quietly, under guard, to the facility's infirmary.

He's not sure why, he feels fine, but instead of a doctor they bring in someone who's clearly an engineer, small precision tools and a work apron instead of sanitary whites and needles. For Albert, it's just as bad anyway. He's tense the entire time, even if he lets the man at his arms and legs without complaint, poking and prodding with the same manner as one would go at a leaky sink. He's not a person here, even less so than the cog he was in Thirteen. Here he's barely even an appliance.

Albert attempts to distract himself as the man whistles through his teeth thinly and tunelessly, the cyborg's eyes wandering to whoever else may be in this part of the facility. He doesn't recognize most, but one individual catches his eye, someone who before he was taken to Thirteen, Albert would have readily shot on sight given half the chance.

Sigma Klim.

Now, the German's eyes meet the other cyborg's and plead silently and faintly for a moment, an intervention despite Sigma's clear need for repair himself. And maybe that would be a good distraction, a way to get this man to leave Albert alone, repair Sigma, and then leave, letting the two old men if not talk, then at least breathe without a third unknown hanging over their heads so directly.

Comments

[metalicarus]

It's not a request immediately honored. Whether by choice or necessity, it isn't specified, but it's a couple days before there's any sign anyone heard him. It's the sound of a door at the end of the hall opening and more than one pair of feet coming towards the cell. A peacekeeper appears and deactivates the cell door, perhaps a testament of how much they believe Albert powerless with how little concern they have for him escaping or trying to strike back. Or maybe it's because of the person they have with them, the blond shoved into the cell's confines before the field flickered back into place, shutting them in. The guards moved away from the cell door, but didn't leave, a threat for good behavior.

Jet, for his part, wasn't dragged or unconscious, when shoved into the cell, he took a couple off-balanced steps before regaining his footing and standing where he stopped. His hair hung in his eyes, covering them as it once had when it was a different color and hiding the younger cyborg's expression. At least until some sound from the other side of the room caught his seemingly distant attention and his blue eyes snapped up to see the source.

They weren't nearly as glazed and empty as before and, despite the damage taken in the field, he was perfectly unharmed now, the only sign something was wrong was the slowness of his mind and the dilation of his pupils despite the cell's light.

His expression turned from confusion to worry and a hint of sadness. "Albert...where've you been? I couldn't find you."

[silberfuchs]

He'd repeated only that for days, despite any questioning done. Each prod for information, each kick aimed to hurt, to get him talking, only resulted in the same three words. Over and over.

"Bring me Jet."

It's a threat and an offer both at once, a promise for cooperation and for insubordination in the same breath, in the shape of the words. Albert's entire presence hinges on the very idea that Jet is here too, that Albert can do something for him if he could just see him.

They do him one better and bring him right to the cell.

Albert's sitting on the cot, head bowed and elbows on his knees, not praying - never praying because he knows no one is listening - but thinking, waiting, biding his time and nursing his wounds. They're superficial, for now. He guessed they wouldn't do anything too harsh to their cannon fodder unless there was a real show of dissent and Albert's said nothing but those fore aforementioned words since he arrived, yet been a model prisoner otherwise, so bruised cheeks and sore ribs are his lot.

The second Jet's in the cell Albert's head snaps up, his body snaps to attention, rising as if it's controlling him instead of the other way around. He's not conscience of the movement, only that he's moving towards Jet and every fiber of him wants to embrace the man he'd all but killed days prior. That he had killed before, in the Arenas. It's this place, this place that kills them in small ways just as much as large ones and he has no idea how to reconcile it.

Albert takes Jet's face in his hands, large and calloused but oh so gently making sure Jet's eyes are on him, overly black as they are, almost drowning out the sparks of deep sky at the edges. "I'm here, Sparrow."

[metalicarus]

It's slow, not hesitant but more as though it just took him that long to process what he was seeing, but Jet reached up to trace his fingers along a bruise on Albert's cheek softly. Why was he hurt? Was it Black Ghost? No, but they hadn't been together in a cell before. Had they? No? Yes. No. His confusion flickered across his expression but his concern overwhelmed it.

"Fran said she couldn't find you so I got worried. Gotta tell me when you want to run off for a bit, you know? Might think you hopped a flight to Germany or something, jerk."

There was something. Something about Germany. Something he remembered.

"Are we gonna go home soon? The cat'll miss you, you know. Gotta make sure she's being fed and I know I promised to help clean up the apartment. I keep slacking on that."

[silberfuchs]

The touch is familiar and Albert closes his eyes just a moment, letting himself be relieved that Jet is here and engaged, that he doesn't look through Albert as if he's air. He thinks he can feel his heart settle just a bit.

In the next moment it drops. Francoise, long dead, and then a cat they'd never owned and an apartment they'd never lived in together and Albert's eyes open with concern as he searches Jet's face for where he is now, mind sliding in and out of reality and memory as it seems to be.

"Jet?" He barely breathes, hoping to any and all higher power that this is a terribly tasteless joke. He moves his thumb against Jet's cheek, trying to bring him present. "Jet, do you know where you are?"

[infinitemayonnaise]

The exercise yard is kind of boring, really. Same old exercises, same old exercises. So a new face, even one Nitou thinks he might have seen before--like he remembers much of anything from when the Capitol wound him up and sent him out to fight all glazed over--is a cause for interest.

But maybe Nitou should stop staring at persons of interest and start paying attention to what he's doing, because his shoe has come untied in the middle of his exercise routine, and he's about to face-plant on the ground. Hard.

[silberfuchs]

He's close, which is probably why Albert gets there in time to catch Nitou and prevent him from getting intimate with the pavement. With a small grunt of effort Albert sets the Rider on his feet.

He remembers Nitou, not just from Arena coverage but from his run-in in the Districts, helping Haruto escape. There was something more than the connection of enemy soldiers between Haruto and Nitou, one that Albert's seen more than once among his own team. Based on that, and what had happened to Jet, Albert doesn't believe the boy to have fought them of his own accord. It's the Capitol's doing. Again.

Although how Nitou will react to Albert's rescue is another thing.

"Careful," he grunts, not having much in the way of words lately.

[infinitemayonnaise]

"Hey, thanks, man!" Nitou is quite glad he has not faceplanted; not faceplanting is about as good a day as one might expect around this detention center. There's no real hint of recognition, nothing to suggest he might be holding a grudge against Albert for fighting against him--or even remember doing that. "You really saved my bacon! Are my shoes untied?" Gotta check that, that's important, safety first!

[silberfuchs]

"Yes." He would have made some joke were it an easier time, he's sure, but that Albert isn't here in the Capitol, or anywhere really. He's not sure where he went, just that he can't survive in this environment.

"Nitou, yes? Haruto's friend?"

[didnothing]

Luna doesn't really belong in the exercise yard, but right now she doesn't belong many places. With one arm nonfunctional there isn't much for her to do until Sigma is revived and able to see to her repairs, so instead Luna's left to her own devices for the time being. That translates to a lot of flitting around the Detainment Center looking for somewhere to spend time.

The sight of a face she recognizes from District Thirteen is startling, then dismaying. She's hardly the first person to be captured, but still every familiar face here is a disappointment. And if he's new... Luna hesitates to approach him again. Without repairs or even a change of clothes her right arm is dead and dangling at her side, melted metal and burnt wires visible underneath torn clothing and artificial skin just under her shoulder. There's no skirting around what she is this time, and while Albert's assessment of robots like her is correct it hurts all the same.

Still, he'd brought Luna her original necklace while they were both in District Thirteen. Whether he knew the truth then or not, whether she still has the necklace or not, Luna still feels grateful enough to Albert that despite her dread she approaches him anyway. When she gets closer she sees that he looks weary, and then concern wins out over personal feelings. "Excuse me? Um...Albert, right? It's been a while since we last met."

[silberfuchs]

"Luna," he says, more in dismay then recognition. For all he was aware she was still in the relative safety of District Thirteen, not to mention the condition of her arm. With it being chilly out, he has a jacket, and immediately removes it in favor of putting it on Luna's shoulders, though he pauses before he does.

"Do you want me to look at that?" Far too forward; if their positions had been switched, Albert would have reeled at someone who's barely an acquaintance offering to see to his cybernetics, but in this case they have few options and Albert is better equipped than most to at least assess damage. He knows his own inside and out, at least, and those principals apply.

Not that he has anything with which to fix the damage to her arm, but it's worth an offer.

[didnothing]

At first Luna's confused as to why Albert looks merely disappointed rather than betrayed or suspicious - that's what she expects of most people who find out what she is, and certainly of someone who holds such firm opinions of robots. Then he offers her the jacket and then an examination of her arm, and she realizes: he hasn't made the jump yet. He probably thinks she's a cyborg like himself or Sigma, rather than a fully mechanical thing, and is treating her accordingly.

She could take this. She could go along with it and maybe Albert will never find out. She could save some heartbreak that way. But Luna's already tired and heartbroken from Sigma's death - feeling the moment his mind's presence faded out, realizing that the last of the family she served was dead - and awaiting his return with a dead arm and nothing to do but feel self-conscious. It's easier to admit the truth than it is to keep dodging around the truth and feeling guilty for it, especially now that she's been returned to her mechanical body.

She shrugs off the offered jacket and steps away, shaking her head. "I'll be fine," she says, not quite able to meet his eyes. "I'm not affected by these temperatures, and the Capitol should be bringing...they should be bringing my creator back any day now." She doesn't mention Sigma's name yet. "He'll be able to see to my repairs once he's returned."

[silberfuchs]

"Your modifications must be extensive." He's not bothered by temperature either, with his normal cybernetics. If it weren't for Doctor Gilmore's specialized synthetic skin, developed specifically for the Zero Zero Cyborg Project, he might not have been able to feel anything, let alone temperature. As it was, it used to be a simply muted sensation, a mental nod to something being 'cold' or 'hot' but more a knowledge and memory of the concept than an actual sensation.

Normally, Albert would realize something was off with Luna's phrasing. That she refers to her 'creator' instead of her doctor or scientist or whatever other title a biomechanical engineer may have earned to achieve his knowledge. But as things stand, Albert's exhausted mentally and physically. He'd been given the once over more than once over due to any number of enemies he'd made of the Capitol (Cyrus Reagan springs to mind...) and his mental exhaustion, while less visible than the bruises, is far more severe. Jet's not in his right mind, and Albert worries near constantly over his ability to help his husband, especially while stuck here. These things in concert make him abnormally obtuse.

"Still, it's dangerous to have the exposed wires. Please, keep the jacket as long as you need it." He settles it lightly around her shoulders, black leather looking immense on her small frame.

[sizeofyourbaggage]

They don't let Sam out as much as they did before, when he was treated as more or less a regular prisoner. Now there's gaps and jumps in his time, missing pieces that leave him more changed when he wakes up, both physically and mentally. He doesn't think too closely into it, and that's only partially intentional. Most days, it's hard to think anyway. Most days he clings to what he knows is true, even though he's finding that harder and harder.

But today he's out in the exercise yard, not really focusing on anyone and caught up in his own head. Until he notices Albert standing against a wall.

There's a pause while Sam looks at him, head tilted almost bird-like as he tries to sort through conflicting feelings of relief and dismay. He doesn't want Albert here, he knows that, he wants Albert safe - but he can't help but latch on to a familiar face, to one he's held on to so strongly.

He gives up trying to figure it out. Everything is conflicting lately; he doesn't want one more.

"Albert?"

[silberfuchs]

"Sam." Unlike with Luna, Albert's not surprised to see Sam here. He knew his bother was at the mercy of the Capitol, had even chosen to leave him in favor of Terezi's rescue, a decision he doesn't regret but still feels guilt over, especially given the shape Sam seems to be in.

A little closer, Albert bridging the gap between them in an unprecedented show of movement, and he can see there's something not right, along the same vein as what's not right with Jet. Drugs, then, and experimentation, and lord only knows what else.

Albert had once compared Panem to his time with Black Ghost and decided it wasn't as bad. Now, he's certain its worse.

"Sam, what have they done?"

[sizeofyourbaggage]

Despite everything they've been through, Sam's never once felt like he needed to hide from Albert. Or if he has - it hasn't been like this, where suddenly the idea of Albert knowing something about him fills his chest with dread. If he were more self aware, maybe he'd be able to figure out if it was just that he doesn't want Albert to know or that he doesn't want to face it at all. That he doesn't want to say it out loud.

Even though he participated in the tail end of the battle for District 8, testing out some of the things they'd done - upgrades, all in the name of the Capitol - somehow, actually answering that question feels like it'll make it more real.

Sometimes it's hard enough to tell what's real and what isn't, he doesn't want to make this the thing that's real.

He doesn't step back, but he doesn't answer, either, just shaking his head.

[silberfuchs]

"Sam..." He can see, just a little. There's a change in mannerism, a change in posture. Sam's still Sam, but that coupled with something he hasn't seen on Sam's face to his memory, shame or denial, something he's achingly familiar with, something he's had in himself and seen in Jet and...

Albert steps closer, stands tall, makes himself the rock he feels he needs to be here when all his friends and family are drifting and need that anchor. He can be that, if he has to. He can ignore his own fear and doubt and the black cloud that threatens to make a liar of him and drag him into oblivion if it means he can ground Sam and get him talking.

"Please, brother. Talk to me." If anyone understands torture, it's Albert.

[pimpcanes]

By contrast, when Black Tom walks into the prison, he does it like he owns the place. It doesn't matter that he died the last time, or that he believes the Capitol is going to fall. All that matters is that he believes he has the upper hand over an opponent who is, right now, totally at the mercy of the entity which Tom is synecdochal to.

He claps his cane against the bars, which are a ridiculous addition to the force-fields of the Detention Center. It's for effect, naturally, not because he actually knows the bars to have any use aside from show. The Detainment Center now looks more like what it truly has always been: a prison, down to the quaint recreation hours and skill-building for the less soldierly of the captures. The shields and bars only lock at night, but they underscore the real nature of the place.

He knows who he's here for, and what. He's here for the man who so dishonorably killed him three battlefields ago, and he's here to gloat. It's a habit Tom's quite fond of and has no intention of ever quelling. He smacks the cane against one of the bars and stops a few yards from where Albert's standing.

When he looks at Albert, there's a coldness in his face that only casts the excitement there in a crueler light. He remembers being shot in the head - or, rather, he remembers the lack of closure that comes from so close and immediate an end. The cold and inexplicable oblivion of a quick death. He remembers it as if it happened seconds ago.

"Enjoying yourself in here, lad?"

[silberfuchs]

Tom may believe himself to be the Capitol, but all Albert sees is a thug who plays at stardom, an attention-seeking child. Tom clearly didn't get enough hugs when he was young.

Still, given their bad blood and Albert's current situation he knows he best be careful, especially knowing that with the cyborg's very public relationship, Tom has every ability to make not his own life hell - he's used to that - but his husband's as well. He won't give Tom a new reason.

The problem is the man has plenty of old ones.

He doesn't say anything, not just yet, simply looks at Tom through the combination of force field and bars and does his best to appear downtrod, defeated, and bone-tired. It's not difficult, and entirely convincing, likely because at just this moment it's true.

[pimpcanes]

Unfortunately for Albert, Tom didn't come here with the intention of breaking down a fresh, energized man into pieces. He isn't disappointed or dissuaded that Albert looks exhausted. Tom just came hoping to dance in the ashes of a spirit that's been extinguished. He came to rub salt into wounds because he can.

"Come now. You put a bullet in my head but you can't even give me a few words to let me know how you're doing?"

He claps his cane against the bars again and then leans against it, crossing his ankles as he stands.

"You know, I put in my request to be the one to interrogate you personally. Unfortunately, it seems that we both have other obligations."

[culturalappropriation]

It's a strange, liminal state Punchy's in. Since they're sending him out onto the battlefield, they need him to be more responsive than a mere Avox, but appealing to his programming is the easiest way to get him to cooperate. He's been fighting back harder than ever - on the last mission he even went so far as to pull out his earpiece - and so they had to do some 'tune up' brainwashing, a few days in solitary to remind him of his worth.

But that's as far as they've gleaned onto the vital fact that he's been using others as his tethers to himself. That he's been using his love for them, his affection and friendship and loyalty, to keep his head above defaulting entirely. If they had gone any further, they'd know better than to let him visit around the Detainment Center.

They would know better than to let him stumble around making apologies.

It's that same forthrightness he showed Albert back when he apologized for getting Bucky shot. It's the same stiff lip, the same awareness that it's him at fault, not the Avoxing or the situation but him. This time it was just who he is instead of what he was doing - he doesn't know that Albert wouldn't have made a run for it with any other captor.

"Don't worry, homes, I ain't got a piece to wave at you this time," he says, walking up next to the cell.

[silberfuchs]

He could say he wasn't worried then, that the fact that Punchy had a gun didn't mean he was at all concerned about being shot. Even if he hadn't been a full cyborg at the time, near entirely metal and bulletproof, Punchy has never held any threat for him other than in negligence.

He opts to keep that to himself.

"How are you?" His voice is raspy, raw not with yelling but more akin to disuse. He's mostly communicated until now in grunts; even in Thirteen before this he had stopped being terribly communicative save in very specific cases.

Punchy is a specific case, as odd as it is to hear a man who looks like he's gone ten rounds ask his apparently physically healthy visitor how he is.

[culturalappropriation]

"On the grind," Punchy says. It's as honest an assessment as he can get. For being brainwashed again, for having every trigger for his programming hammered at again and again, he's holding up surprisingly well. He's managed to keep himself sheltered, like an orchid in palm in a hurricane.

Albert seems, somehow, the opposite of that, but not weaker for it. He seems a mountain face eroded into majesty by the winds. Maybe Punchy's just that desperate to see an old ally.

"You sound like you ate up a pack of cigs." Punchy pats at his jacket, thinking of the times in the past where they shared those handrolled ones Albert had in Thirteen. "You want one?"

Thanks for waiting!!!

[futilecycle]

After the sound of the gun, he remembers a bed. Sigma Klim regained consciousness four years ago to a medicated haze, blinded and bound to a cot, a failed infiltrator. His shoulder still ached with the stress of the clamp and when he tried to blink his eyes open, he found something oppressively heavy had been pressed over his eyelids. He'd tried to feel for what the object could be, but discovered quickly that it would be an impossible feat with his arms cut clean from their sockets. Even his perfect memory cannot tell him if Diana ran her hand through his hair him to lull him back into sleep, or if he had started to scream.

It's those following three months of utter, infantlike helplessness that haunt him most as he regains consciousness on a Capitol slab. Automatically his cybernetic arms tear at an eye that has been restored to rip off bandages that don't exist. It was like this each time - Sigma Klim lived and died in circles.

When his wits return he is taken without comment and without struggle to an infirmary. Sigma had never expected to get this far, had never expected to be revived, but instead of relief he feels... resigned. He allows himself to get lost in his pity as they prepare him for surgery, for the full-arm modifications he had promised they could use for propaganda purposes. Sigma Klim was ever under Quintus Falxvale's gun and playing to the Capitol's tune kept him from taking a second bullet to the head.

As they lay out the delicate, miniscule machinery that would line his new metal skeleton, Sigma finds he must look away. Surely they would not go so far as to cut off his arms while he watched? He decides to focus on anything else to keep his mind from the impending operation - when his eyes find Albert's accidentally. Though his instinct is to pretend he had not seen his plea, he cannot know how much he owes Albert Heinrich. His faith in the rebels assures him that it is a significant debt.

Sigma spends several silent seconds thinking before he decides to act. It likely would not end well, but it would at least soften the treachery he'd committed when it came time to answer for it. He addresses the scientists buzzing about them:

"...Pardon me."

Sigma is used to commanding attention, but bluffing is something he has never been good at. A genuine man at heart, Sigma allows the heaviness of his decision to quake and soften his voice. "I... have changed my mind. I will allow for enhancements to my eye as well, at the Capitol's discretion." Ms. Florbelle had begged him to do modifications, for his consent would give them an opportunity they could not refuse: one free pass to tinker around in his frontal lobe as they pleased. Sigma sighs nervously, makes a show of twitching his hand, rubbing his shoulder. "If you could please prepare while I still have my nerve..."

Surely he would not go ignored, and thorough preparations would give them the time they needed to speak. Sigma's eyes return to Albert's and he waits, still as live game in a hunt.

[silberfuchs]

The engineer working on Albert's leg, seemingly trying to pry open a particularly obstinate panel, doesn't budge at Sigma's words. He wasn't assigned to the former Gamemaker, just told to tune up the cyborg prisoner and see what could be made of him for battle, but a quick tap on the shoulder by the lead on Sigma's case has him looking up and nodding. He leaves after them in the same amount of hurry, leaving his tools in the sterile metal tray at Albert's bedside and leaving the two cyborgs... if not alone, then very near to it with how separated the rest of the room is with dividers and curtains and banks of beeping medical machinery. There's still a guard posted outside, visible through the closed clear sliding door of the room, but he has his back to the interior. It's the best they're going to get.

Albert knows better than to say thank you, not where whatever bugs are sure to be in the room can hear, but he does node in gratitude and let out a breath. He'll have to face their tinkering sooner or later, but he'd rather put it off.

"So."

It's really all he can think to say, his brain stalling for a way to tell Sigma that he knows, that he believes him, that he understands how hard it must be to be in the position the man has made for himself for the greater good. Albert may not agree with everything Sigma has done, but he can certainly respect the difficulty it calls for and the toll it takes on every relationship in someone's life. He'll be a help, if he can, especially as it seems that Sigma has fallen out of favor. Possibly an effect of Kurloz's network post, though Albert hopes that's not the case. Even if it is, he won't tell his brother when he does manage to get out of here; the Troll has enough to worry about beyond things he can't change now.

[futilecycle]

Sigma clears his throat, diverts his eyes as though embarrassed to be seen through - but the corner of his mouth curls into a knowing smirk. Don't mention it. Albert had already paid him a similar favor, after all. He senses a solidarity connecting them that he cannot explain, something beyond the crucible of cybernetics. Perhaps it was that Sigma knew how it felt to choose between a calling and a lover? His expression settles, cybernetic eye whirring nervously.

The prospect of becoming a Capitol wind-up toy makes Sigma almost sick to his stomach, so he decides he might focus on making a once-ally a permanent one. "Albert Heinrich. ...I saw your husband," he begins tentatively. For the first time between them, his voice is soft. "It is a shame. I understand how difficult it is to be separated, truly." And this, too, is the only way he can voice his condolences with the proverbial microphone at his neck and a gun to his head. He dares not study Albert's expression. There are some things that strangers are not supposed to see.