He's grateful for the Initiate's sense of duty, for Sigma is not certain he would be able to remain so calm if their situations were reversed. The Doctor does not have flesh on his arm left to bite into to keep himself from screaming, and as the Initiate's nails near the splinters, he tenses and grins his teeth. He does not think to lay down as it would make him feel vulnerable should someone come after them, and with one hand he cannot remove his shirt without disturbing his wounds. They would have to make do.

Within seconds there is the sound of the phalanges of Sigma's left 'hand' screaming against the tile, dragged across the floor as he makes a fist. That was just one fragment of many, but Sigma is already breathing shallowly, whimpering in pain. He looks over the Initiate's shoulder, staring into nothing. He tries to focus all of his attention on watching for other Tributes.

Before the Initiate starts on the next one, he manages to speak between breaths: "You... You'll have to disinfect them with the alcohol..." He didn't care how he did it, if he waited until the end and soaked one of the shirts he'd found in alcohol, or if he poured it over the wound as he worked. In fact, Sigma decides he'd rather not know: he looks up at the ceiling, not so high that he cannot watch for enemies out of his peripheral vision, but enough so he cannot watch the Initiate at work. Anticipating pain was the worst part of suffering.