Sigma lays back against the wall, jacket slipping from his shoulders, unblinking and attempting to keep tears from falling from his eye. He's grateful his boy is alive, grateful his conditioning had begun to break. That would almost be enough to die peacefully here, to let himself slip into unconsciousness and be picked off early.

He forces himself to resist the temptation. Wounds exposed, embedded in bloodsoaked fabric, Sigma explains what he needs. "...My cybernetic arm met a grenade. I am otherwise fine, but the shrapnel buried itself in my chest. I have alcohol to disinfect my wounds, but I cannot remove the fragments on my own. If you could do that much, I would be indebted to you again..." He hates to be a burden on his own child; it makes him feel decrepit. When he raises his gaze to the Initiate again it is filled with affection and an apology. "...It looks worse than it is."