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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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.

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."

It's not surprising that Tom would cheerfully jump into tormenting Albert when he's down. He has the entire act down right to the twirled mustache, why not go full bore into a gloating monologue?

"What a shame," he replies with a deadpan tone that still succeeds in sounding vaguely smug. He looks at Tom flatly. "I would have liked the chance to surprise you again."

He's not even sure why the bravado; it's certainly not the best thing he could be responding with, but Tom is just so annoying...

And so gleeful in being as annoying as he is. Truly, no one's taken the time to explain to Tom that supervillainy has moved on from its flashy, maidens-on-traintracks heyday of the mid-70's, or if they have he's doggedly ignored their concerns.

Part of it's just a flair for showmanship, but part of it is quite calculated as a front for the Capitol. They're so eager to buy into appearances that they'll turn a blind eye to this peacock of a villain hoarding information from Peacekeeper headquarters and using it for bogus arrests, or amassing funds to create an escape plan under the guise of planning a luxurious vacation.

"Aye, you did surprise me." He doesn't twirl his mustache, but he does rake his fingers through his hair. "I took you to be a hero type. That was my mistake. I should have figured you more for something much darker than that."

If the comment about heroes is meant as a slight, it doesn't come off as one. Albert's never thought himself a hero, not in the sense of comic books or pulp fiction. He lives in the real world, where so-called heroes are simply victorious victims of circumstance or timing and villains are those who put their own machinations and desires over the ideologies of the majority. It's not exactly so cut and dry as that, since someone can be both at once, but Albert's a soldier above all, and the tactically sound decision had been to shoot Tom down when the opportunity presented itself and keep moving. He doesn't have to feel good about it for it to have been the right choice at the time.

He does, a little, but that's besides the point.

"A darker world produces darker people." He just shrugs, hoping annoying crypticisms will bore Tom into going away so Albert can continue to try and sort out what he's going to do with himself in the Capitol in peace.

"Oh, pah." Tom actually makes a hand gesture to go with that syllable, a dismissive handwave as he folds his arms. "How terrible can your world truly be? There isn't a world out there that hasn't had concentration camps or cannibalism or fascism. It's as innate to humanity as breathing is."

It's something Tom tells himself sometimes, an absolution of his own sins by ratcheting up the voluminous transgressions of everyone else in the human race. What is he does besides living out his destiny? The world needs villains. History bends and contorts itself to make them.

"A child's murdergame is a new one, I'll admit. I wasn't expecting that when I showed up here. Was that old hat to you yet?"

"No, pitting children against each other in death games was mostly relegated to fiction, though forcibly conscripting them into private armies was done." Something he hadn't much experience with personally, but he hadn't lived under a rock once he was woken up in the future. He read the news. Not to mention what had happened on Mocawa, teaching Elraine, Hikaru, Eve, Kiri, and Shindou - none of them of age, some barely in their teens - how to aim, how to shoot. It was self defense, it was to facilitate escape from an insurmountable foe, but it still felt fundamentally wrong. Like Punchy, like Clementine, like-

He has to stop his mind going off on that tangent lest he never return from it.

"But you're not wrong. Every world has its evils. Mine had an apocalypse." It doesn't sound scathing, not really. Actually it's almost conversational, since he knows he has no chance of forcing Tom to go with angry word and clipped phrases. He might as well resign himself to a chat.

"Hardly just private armies, where I'm from. There are many a government that conscripts its children." Tom somehow thinks that's totally morally different than using the child you raised as a weapon against your cousin and bullying her into a life of crime against her will. One of these is clearly discrete from the other in obvious ways. The two don't overlap at all in his mind.

"Oh my." Tom whistles. "An apocalypse. Our apocalypse was a person, and our universe was reset, and honestly after a while it gets so grim that it seems better to just focus on the individual rather than the ecosystem, don't you think? You'll never be happy if you worry about whole cultures."

"That is true. It's debatable whether those are legitimate governments or simply warlords posing as such. I suppose it doesn't matter to those on the ground, though." Albert shifts, actually looking at Tom as they talk, though he doesn't get up.

"The desire is there, to let someone else worry about it - or let no one worry about it. Humanity is actually more resilient than anyone thinks it is. And you have to wonder if perhaps the bad way things go is just how it's supposed to be through evolution or some cosmic pattern we're too small to see. It boggles the mind, honestly, and is much easier to ignore for our own personal spheres." He sighs and it sounds like a chuckle. "But then, if there is some kind of pattern to it, who's to say our actions or inactions aren't part of that?"

Waxing philosophical with a super villain? These are truly strange days.

"The only thing that matters to those on the ground is where they'll get their next meal. People are remarkably simple-minded when you take away their resources. There's a reason the Districts haven't overthrown this yoke in seventy-five years that has nothing to do with the, ah, questionable decisions the governing body makes."

Tom snaps his fingers at an Avox, and gestures for the slave to bring him a chair. He's enjoying this, even if it's not as antagonistic as he predicted it.

"Of course are actions are a part of that. The only question is whether it's worthwhile to care." Tom smiles like the cat that ate the canary, as if he's found the secret to happiness and is deigning to share just a drop of it. "I found my life improved dramatically when I stopped worrying about how my actions fit into that 'pattern' you're speaking of."

He's forced to watch Tom order around the Avox. That, more than anything, rankles under his general feeling of listless ennui.

"Perhaps, but certain change is never effected if no one cares, or takes far too long to save those who are suffering if nothing is done sooner, rather than later." He eyes Tom through the bars, letting a small smirk cross his face. It's not smug, more knowing. "Though if I were to guess you're more the type to be motivated by self-interest than philanthropy."

"Ah, but you see change as a good thing. Some people here are quite happy with the status quo. Think of how sad and fearful their lives would be if they didn't have all the luxuries of the world spoonfed to them." He takes a seat, throwing his arm back over the headrest of the chair and balancing his cane across his knee.

"You're right, of course, lad. I don't give a toss about them really. I'm here for my own interests, and if I were you I'd consider doing the same."

"There isn't anything to force anyone into caring about their fellow man if they are comfortable. That's how many organized religions start, as motivation to combat just that, among other things." Albert shrugs. "I just find it curious that you have absolutely no desire to change things even for yourself. You're still a prisoner, even if your cage is gilded."

Tom's smile becomes false; some muscle relaxes around his eyes that suddenly makes it clear that Albert's tapdancing on a nerve of his, a cord that pulls the trigger to an impulse. Because Tom loves nothing more than to monologue and gloat, and even knowing that there are cameras here, he wants to show Albert wrong.

"You've pegged me as indolent, haven't you." He leans in, teeth bright in his smile, smart and stupid all at once as he tilts his hand. "You don't know what it is I want really."

"Not indolent, no. You've been plenty busy building yourself up here through victory and networking." He runs a hand over his chin, appraising Tom through the bars. "Power, then? Win your own freedom through political shaking and come out to trod down on everyone else? It's a simplistic guess though so feel free to enlighten."

"That'd be a bit simple, wouldn't it?" He strokes his goatee, smiling not at Albert but off into some unforeseen future where his patience and plotting is duly rewarded. He'll make them suffer for having made him beg for the right to carry his cane. He'll see them dance at his command.

"Wouldn't you like to know if I have more complicated machinations at work?"

"I'm fairly certain you're just trying to put yourself on top. It's rather obvious." Albert snorts, leaning back a bit with the air that he has Tom all figured out. He know he doesn't entirely, but the easiest way to get a villain monologuing - besides 'you won't get away with this!' - is to insult their so far unknown plans as rudimentary. Generally it makes a narcissist have to explain just why you're so wrong.

"I haven't bothered to hide that," Tom says, although his catlike attitude becomes less indolent and more sulky. "Anyone with a brain wants that. No lad wakes up in his youth and thinks, today is the day I'd really like to have someone with no idea how to run a government tell me to dance for my supper."

"So far, I've seen nothing to hint at anything deeper than that." A shrug. "And I don't think anyone with a brain wants to be in charge themself, even if they disagree with the powers that be. Hell, you could argue that anyone with a brain would shun an absolute leadership role, settling happily for their opinions to be heard and heeded, but without the stress of absolute control. Everyone prodding at you for this or that, arguing when things aren't exactly to their liking. It just sounds exhausting to me."

"Having any sort of power doesn't mean being in charge, lad. There's a reason I never tried to take over the world like some villains in my home universe."

Aside from the fact that world domination hasn't been a fruitful goal since the days of Caesar, Tom doesn't have the energy for all the mollifying one would have to do as a Supreme Ruler. That doesn't mean he doesn't think he deserves it, just that he doesn't want it.

He jiggles his cane over his knee. "Do Germans understand freedom?"

Albert narrows his eyes at the question, taking it for the insult that it is, though any real response he can have to it is ineffectual. "Better than most."

There's frost coating his words, and he's growing very suddenly but not unexpectedly tired of this conversation. Not that he can quit it as he likes without Tom trying to prod him through the bars like an excited child at the zoo.

"What is your endgame, then?"

"Only the ideals. The privilege to do whatever I want, of course. True love. Wealth. None of this involves anyone else except my wife and whomever else I decide to let tag along, you see."

He leans back, looking past Albert, as if at a future projected behind him. "None of it involves countries at all. I don't need these people worth a damn."

"So you're operating under a sort of nihilist, heidonistic egoism." It's unsurprising and Albert's almost disappointed. He's not sure why he expected more from Tom or even if he wanted it. He can't quite fault Tom for wanting to settle back with someone he loves in relative comfort, he supposes. The difference is Tom doesn't care what happens to anyone else on the way.

"I can understand, I suppose. There's little I'd like better than to retreat somewhere with Jet and block out the rest of the world most days."

Tom rankles a little bit. He doesn't like the way Albert isn't impressed with Tom's admittedly shallow plan, but then again, Tom can comfort himself knowing he's moving towards it in a steady upward trajectory while Albert rots in a cage.

"I'm surprised you haven't already given in to those impulses. You know, plenty of people call them base, but I just think of them as pure. Anyway, I've just taken steps to secure that future."

"I'm an altruist." Which he's absolutely certain Tom just heard as 'I'm an idiot'. His type always does.

Granted, Albert's not entirely an altruist either, more a believer in moral responsibility. He has the skills to act to the betterment of those around him, and therefore is morally obligated to do so. It's a conceit he's struggled with before, knowing that people sometimes don't want his help or believe they can help themselves, but even that and his own deeply rooted want for a simple life - one he earnestly believes he would have if he weren't a cyborg - aren't enough to allow him to turn his back if given the choice.

"I understand that by cryptically alluding to having 'taken steps' you want me to ask you about it, but really I don't care anymore." At least moral responsibility doesn't come with a compulsion towards social graces. "Whatever it is, I'm sure you've thrown a great many under the bus to achieve it. Congratulations on your egocentric machinations. Pardon if I don't applaud."

He's done with even half-hearted attempts at being a careful conversationalist, and whatever Tom thinks he can do to him remains to be seen, but he feels detached from whatever consequences the mustache-twirling cartoon outside the bars can come up with. Perhaps that's his depression talking, but he feels as if he could currently face down a firing squad with little other than a batted eyelash. Life, death, torture, it gets all jumbled up when he can't shake the weight of his husband's body in his arms, when it's Albert that pulled the trigger.

He still hasn't seen him. Doesn't even know if the Capitol thought it worthy to revive Jet. It's the main reason why Albert hasn't succumbed to that black cloud in his lungs and throat, though he's certain the found family he has left in District 13 would be disappointed in him as well, were he to allow himself to choke.

It would be so much easier, though.

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pimpcanes - 2016-06-14 22:23 (UTC) - Expand

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silberfuchs - 2016-06-14 23:16 (UTC) - Expand

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

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cw: depressive thoughts

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