He takes the tank back, looking confused and unsure as his his gaze goes from the tank in his hands to Sigma's face, searching desperate. The smile coupled with telling him to turn away... if he came from a culture, a world, where such things were done, he might be more aware of all the implication. He might see through how such things are done. As it is, the worry that grips doesn't tell him if all it's valid or not, that Sigma intends to be left to die, or if he simply wants this time alone.

He listens to the instructions, breathes deep, and steels himself. He's a subjugglator. He can't depend all on anyone so. That's how to lose people. So he lifts his chin.

"AIGHT," He says. He steps back so that he may bow, low and genuine-- a soldier to a superior though he will accept no superior now, and thus it is only in respect. And gratitude. "May Messiahs allow of our paths crossing once the fuck more again."