There's absolutely no acknowledgement of Albert's presence, let alone if Jet heard him, and Jet must have heard him. Albert knows his husband's enhancements, knows he could hear a field mouse in this war zone if he cared to find it. Something else is going on, and a feeling sinks to the pit of Albert's stomach at the thought of what the Capitol could have done, the German cyborg feeling sick and tasting bile as he makes his way through the fleeing throngs, a fish against the current.
Jet lands on the somehow still intact state building, looming like a bird of ill omen, a rook in brilliant white instead of midnight black. He surveys the destruction he's wrought with an impassive expression. Not uncaring so much as simply nothing, no intent behind those blue eyes, no character.
What have they done to you? Albert's heart screams and keeps on screaming but his head has to ignore his own distress, has to think then act before this gets worse. Before Jet does something more direct than breaking down buildings.
He has to shoot his husband down.
He can recover him then, Albert reasons. Drag him back to Thirteen and raise hell until something is done to help him, until he has his husband back. Even if he has to take Jet back in pieces, he'll put them all right again, shard by shard. He knows where each and every one fits and he owes the man who'd done the same for him no less, the man he loves no less.
But it still hurts to line up the shot. Hurts to drop to one knee in the middle of the street as the last of the civilians run terrified past him, not sparing a second glance for the man of metal kneeling in the heart of a war zone. It sears worse than anything he's ever felt to pull the safety from the launcher in his knee, to tick off the wind resistance and angles in his HUD. To force himself to think fire when he can see in his mind's eye Jet falling from the atmosphere, hugging Joe tightly to himself, as so much stardust, lying on the cold floor of the museum as his life drains from him, staying by Albert's side as they're slowly enveloped by the ocean, flayed, gouged, eaten alive.
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Jet lands on the somehow still intact state building, looming like a bird of ill omen, a rook in brilliant white instead of midnight black. He surveys the destruction he's wrought with an impassive expression. Not uncaring so much as simply nothing, no intent behind those blue eyes, no character.
What have they done to you? Albert's heart screams and keeps on screaming but his head has to ignore his own distress, has to think then act before this gets worse. Before Jet does something more direct than breaking down buildings.
He has to shoot his husband down.
He can recover him then, Albert reasons. Drag him back to Thirteen and raise hell until something is done to help him, until he has his husband back. Even if he has to take Jet back in pieces, he'll put them all right again, shard by shard. He knows where each and every one fits and he owes the man who'd done the same for him no less, the man he loves no less.
But it still hurts to line up the shot. Hurts to drop to one knee in the middle of the street as the last of the civilians run terrified past him, not sparing a second glance for the man of metal kneeling in the heart of a war zone. It sears worse than anything he's ever felt to pull the safety from the launcher in his knee, to tick off the wind resistance and angles in his HUD. To force himself to think fire when he can see in his mind's eye Jet falling from the atmosphere, hugging Joe tightly to himself, as so much stardust, lying on the cold floor of the museum as his life drains from him, staying by Albert's side as they're slowly enveloped by the ocean, flayed, gouged, eaten alive.
Albert screams.
The missile fires.