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

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

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.

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"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?"

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.

"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.

It's a little easier to think with Albert standing in close like that, giving Sam something to ground himself in. A lifetime ago - it feels like a lifetime ago - he'd tried his best not to use people to keep himself grounded, but he'd failed even back then. Since he's been here he's purposefully used them, and he's reminded himself hundreds of times over that whatever the Capitol tries to make him think doesn't matter, not when he has his family to hold onto.

Sam isn't usually as physically affectionate with Albert as he is with some of the other members of his little family, but he ignores that right now, the rest of the way into Albert's personal space and reaching out with one hand to hold on to Albert's shoulder.

"They're taking extra measures to remind me who's side I should be on."

He wants to add that he's fighting it, that it won't work as long as he's got all of them to hold on to, but he doesn't want to draw attention to what he's using to fight it. There's a part of him that's trying to act like it's working more than it is - he promised Bucky that he wouldn't put himself in danger, that he'd keep playing their games to keep safe.

But that's only half of Albert's question. And he still doesn't know how to respond to the rest of it. So instead he activates - whatever they'd done to his eyes that replaces what the HUD his goggles used to give him. He ignores the read outs popping up because he's pretty much only doing it because he knows how similar it is to Jet's - save that Sam's is tinted red where Jet's is blue.

"Oh..." A breath more than a word, carrying all the horror and sympathy that well up within Albert at the sight of Sam's pupils opening like lenses. No, not like lenses, they are lenses. The same as Jet, and he can imagine what Sam is seeing, the readouts and information suddenly winking to life across his vision. He sees it too, with his powers active.

Sam's hand is on his shoulder and Albert's hand moves to mirror it, taking a firm grip on his brother's opposite shoulder in support. "It's disorienting, but you'll get used to it."

He hates to say that, knows that his own response if told that when he'd first been remodeled would have been that he doesn't want to get used to it, doesn't want to be this inhuman thing they'd made of him that can't see or feel or function like a normal human being. He understands every little thought that might have crossed Sam's mind, the hatred for what was done, the potential inherent in the modifications and the self-loathing that comes with even the slightest acknowledgement that there could be some good in it.

Albert realizes too that this is what they're doing to Jet, this is why he's drugged and ragged. They'd studied him, reverse engineered Gilmore's work and tacked it into Sam, and Albert can't help but feel responsible on some level for the continued suffering they keep in the world as Zero Zero Number cyborgs simply by existing.

"I'll help you. You're not alone, Sam. I promise you, I'll help you."

Edited 2016-02-16 08:00 (UTC)

Albert's right. For all that Sam isn't thinking about it, isn't dealing, his kneejerk response to that is that he doesn't want to get used to it. He doesn't know what the Capitol is planning on using this for, but he knows it's not for anything good.

And he knows the best thing he can do is try to stay strong, and to keep them from gaining complete control over him. The only way he knows how to do that is to hold on to what he's got, to the support system that he'd somehow managed to keep for himself.

So even despite Sam's instinctive reaction, Albert's promise to help him - his promise that Sam isn't alone - means everything.

'I know.' He signs it, keeping his hands low between them. It's not foolproof, but it makes him feel just a little bit better, signing it rather than saying it outloud. 'I've got you. I'm not going to let you go.' Sam taps the side of his temple.

But then he frowns. He remembers not being able to tell Albert anything about Jet, the last time he saw him - and he still doesn't know much more, but he knows he's not alone in this here, either. "Jet. And Clint. They're back there with me."

The fervent wish that he had his own cybernetics intact takes Albert by surprise. He'd often thought of it in and out of the Arenas, but it wasn't so strong as it is now, the almost longing for his mental transmitter, for the ability to show Sam what it is to be one of them, instead of just tell, now that there isn't any choice. It's almost a farce in how deeply he now wishes for that part of him he'd loathed for such a long time, wishing it gone or himself gone with no compromise. How times and circumstances change.

He shoves the thoughts aside, choosing instead to be present, here for Sam and the current problems instead of pining for the past.

"I've seen Jet. I wouldn't cooperate until they assured me of his safety. Clint I haven't seen. Did they...?"

Did they do the same to him? Somehow it's difficult to actually ask the question.

Sam's thoughts have already wandered off a little, just in the brief time between his comment and Albert's response, but they snap back when Albert begins speaking again. He's been using thoughts of Albert to keep himself here, and there's a part of him that's grateful that it seems to work even better when he can actually see and hear him.

There's a rush of relief when Albert says that he's already seen Jet. It doesn't make their situation any better and he doesn't know if seeing Albert had helped Jet at all, but he's selfishly glad that he doesn't have to try to explain the state that Jet's in.

Clint is easier, especially when Sam can practically hear the rest of that question, even though it went unvoiced.

"Yeah." There's a pause as he attempts to put his thoughts in order. "I don't know all of what they did. It's..." Hard to tell, when Sam can't even figure out everything they'd done to him - and that's only partly because he doesn't want to look to closely.

"We can help him too. I would need to see what was done, but there are ways to deal with pain from the grafts and working through the physical therapy." It hadn't felt like 'therapy' when Albert had gone through it, relearning how to hold a pencil without breaking it or to walk when his balance was completely different in an environment where he would succeed or the scientists observing would mutter to one another about scrapping him and using another subject if he failed. He won't let that be the only force behind Sam and Clint's recovery, though he has to admit it's certainly motivating in a morbid way.

Albert draws his mouth into a thin line, trying to look Sam in the eyes, trying to see where he is mentally before the conversation goes on. This is trauma he's familiar with; working through interpersonal relationships may not be his wheelhouse, but your body suddenly not feeling like your own, your questioning your own humanity, or your own identity, that he's struggled with most of his life.

"Sam," he's quieter, less business-like. "Tell me what you're thinking about yourself."

Just like when Albert had said that he'd get used to it, there's a moment where Sam's mind rebels. He doesn't want to deal and he doesn't want to work through physical therapy and he doesn't want this. The Capitol's pushing him as it is, trying to figure out if their experiments are working and running tests and throwing him into the battlefield with his mind all fucked up, and he doesn't want any of it.

But he doesn't have a choice. He has to deal, and he doesn't know if it's better or worse that even when he does try to focus on it, what the Capitol's been giving him makes that hard.

It's easier to deal when he can't think about it.

"It's hard enough to think about anything right now." But that answer settles uneasily with him, for all that it's true. He and Albert have always been as honest with each other as they can be, even about the tough shit. He switches to signing. 'I don't want it, but I can't stop it.'

I know, Albert signs too. If it's easier for Sam this way, so be it. I know better than anyone.

Flashbacks cross his mind, memories old but all too commonly dusted off for how heavily they weigh on him. Screaming on the surgery table for release, pleading for death and then wondering if that's how it would ever end. Do cyborgs die? Would he ever be allowed that respite? He's no longer human, so it would serve reason that he's no longer himself, that he's instead whatever they made him to be. A soldier. A weapon. A tool of destruction with no will of his own.

Only they hadn't done their job.

I think, therefore I am. He signs it carefully to Sam. A cliched thought, adage ingrained in collective human memory. You think, therefore you are still Sam Wilson. Whatever happens, you are still you.

Maybe he's responding to a conversation they're not quite having yet, Albert thinking the question of self worth is looming as it had with him. Or perhaps Sam will be like Jet, a ball of certainty concerning who and what he is despite the plans made for him. Or GB, who didn't seem to care. Or Joe, perpetually confused. Everyone deals with it differently and Albert only has his own experience to go on. He tries to focus.

They can't change who you are.

Sam watches Albert's hands moving, registering the signs he's making and the words the translate to, but it's like there's a filter over everything keeping him one step removed. Or maybe quicksand is a better metaphor, considering every time he tries to fight it, it feels like it's pulling him back in deeper.

"I can't think."

He'd meant to say it quiet, but it comes out harsher than he'd intended. Talking to Albert is making him try to sort through things in a way hasn't had to before. He has Jet and Clint, and he knows distantly that the only reason he hadn't completely shut off is because of them, but they're not in any better shape than he is. Things drift together when they talk; sometimes he can't remember if he had a conversation or if he only dreamed it, but it doesn't matter. He doesn't have to keep things straight when neither of them really can, either.

But now he does. Now he's trying, fighting to keep himself focused. He knows what Albert's saying is true - they can't change who you are - and he's still clinging so damn hard to that. Holding tight to what makes him Sam, to the best pieces of himself, so the Capitol can't touch them no matter what they do to him.

"I'm not- I don't remember-" Breathe, he needs to breathe. He needs to stop fighting to stay afloat because it's not working, and he's only gonna wear himself out. He's gotta fight smart, not desperate.

"I'm still holding on."

Sam's outburst has Albert pressing his mouth in a thin line. He thought he knew how to help here, had a handle on what Sam is going through because he went through it himself, but he has to stop again and take stock.

Questions of identity and worth came later; this is immediately after, this is when the pain and drugs meant to dull it are warring with each other, leaving him exhausted and mentally devoid. He doesn't know what the Capitol uses for this. Not morphine, but maybe something similar for all it messes with both Sam and Jet. Morphling he's heard about, so perhaps it's a medical grade version, which does make it resemble what he went through. Withdrawls, too. Shakes, fever and chills, being unable to keep anything down. Of course he wouldn't be able to think...

"I'm sorry." He says it quietly and then just breathes, deliberately inhaling and exhaling the same way that Barnes had shown him when he'd been struck with that strange illness the first time and had to be carried to the infirmary in Thirteen. It helps overall, he's found, and Sam's breath is coming shallow. "Just try to focus on counting slowly for now. Breathe slowly. One... two..."

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

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