Sigma expected the alcohol to burn, but not one of his infinite lives had prepared him for the fire the union of gin and blood would create. Sigma screams, the desperate wail of a man who, more than all the evil in the world, hated pain. Seconds later it is choked out, lost in his throat, not wanting to put the Initiate in any more danger than he already was. As he writhes, his functional arm sprawls out behind him and gropes for the crowbar he had laid against the wall. He clings to the weapon like a hand to hold through pain. Then it is done, and Sigma gasps and sobs between breaths, tears burning down his cheeks.

It takes him a good while to compose himself. Tears give way to a stoic, hollow expression. From his position on the ground, Sigma drags the crowbar along the floor carefully, trying to make as little noise as he can manage. He no longer has the strength to lift it into his arms.

He adjusts his grip on his only weapon until he is satisfied he could swing it, given the need. "...If someone comes, you run," he commands. His eyes are empty, his head limp against his shoulder and staring at the floor. He cannot tell the Initiate how he loves him and how much good he has done, but he can express his gratitude in other ways.