He didn’t know it at the time, but he’d long for the old silence of places like this cell. The sounds of his own breathing faint, the subtle hum of the electric lights, and little else. There was something about the lights in this place that made his eyes hurt though. It was that sickly, too-bright, almost blue adjacent artificial light that he hated. Like a doctor's office but more maddening. 

The metal cot didn't even have a mattress, just 2 blankets and a nearly flat pillow. Stainless steel toilet in the corner, and a hard linoleum floor. White walls, one camera above the locked door and one in a corner above the toilet, one tiny rectangular window that looked out at the forest, where he could see the darkening skies and the tips of the trees. Thickest glass he'd ever seen too. One thick, impenetrable metal door with a sliding slot on the floor and one at eye level. One for meals and one for surveillance, he figured.

It was definitely a prison cell, but the cleanest he'd ever been in. And he'd been in a few over the years. He'd take one of those American midwestern ones with open cells that were divided by metal bars in a heartbeat over this one, where a cockroach or a rat was a cellmate, rather than this stifling oppressive silence.

"S'fine place you've found yourself in, idiot," the Sniper chastised himself. His voice didn't travel far, so he supposed the room he was currently in had some sound dampening qualities. Great, so even if I holler, ain't no one gonna hear me anyway.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been in there since he was thrown in. Shoulder sore from the tackle, the restraining arm lock from that man in the suit. He laid on that hard, sorry excuse of a cot, eyes shut to keep out the sickly light, counting minutes he knew he was rapidly running out of. He'd left his watch behind, so he couldn’t tell the time. Absentmindedly, he rubbed his neck and shoulder.

He heard the faintest of footsteps outside, growing louder as they came closer. They stopped at his door so he sat up. Squinting his yellow eyes at the door, there was a momentary pause before the heavy sound of several locks unlatching sounded through the room. He ran a hand through his red-brown hair, missing the feeling of his usual felt hat and inhaled slowly.  When the door finally finished opening, he stepped in. The Sniper's eyes widened ever so slightly as he leaned his head back against the wall and swung his legs to the floor.

The face of his target was watching him as he stepped in, the door slamming shut quickly and locking behind him. Dressed plainly in a white lab coat, white shirt with a grey tie and grey slacks. Unassuming grey loafers. Under one arm was a folding chair; under the other was a clear plastic clipboard and a thin metal object that he realized was a scale when he put it on the ground. He unfolded the metal chair, setting the clipboard onto it. He finally looked up beneath the tangle of his wavy bangs, a head of stark white hair that fell in slight curls to a length just under his ears. He stared a long time at the Sniper until he sighed and turned his attention to the chair.

It was his eyes that arrested him. Those weird lilac, lavender colored eyes behind rectangle lenses. The first time he'd seen them through the scope days ago, he couldn't believe they were real. Surely they were contacts, right?

Wait. His target had different colored eyes. Those were orange. Nothing like these ones, but no less unearthly. Not that his own yellow ones, the same shade as a canary, were any less unusual. It’s just that these ones were so...ethereal.

But…the faces were the same.

The white haired man lifted the clipboard, sat down on the chair opposite to him, a meter or 2 away. Still keeping his eyes locked onto him, he quickly pulled out a pen from his lab coat pocket, uncapping it delicately. He was wearing thin purple gloves, presumably latex free ones. He was definitely also a doctor...but this wasn't the Surgeon he was after.

"Well," he said, as he finally spoke. A softer voice than the other man's, but the same German accent. "Let's get started in your assessment."

"Assessment, huh?" He tightened his jaw and slightly tipped his head to look at him. The yellow eyes glared back with a growing intensity.

Ignoring the hostility, the Doctor flipped some sheets of paper, clipping them with a paperclip, until he was at the last page and wrote something.  He paused, tipped the clipboard to look at the bottom quickly, then looked back up. The Sniper could see that the felt pen had bled to the other side, so he could see the markings, so he frowned, confused.

"Your name?"

He flicked his gaze back up to him, turned his head slightly and kept his mouth shut. 

"Fair enough," he said, in a tone that was noncommittal and dull. He started writing a note, then paused and tipped the clipboard up ever so slightly. The yellow-eyed man could see somewhat clearly, written backwards from the Doctor's point of view, a short sentence. His handwriting was elegant, neat, and also somewhere between cursive and print.

just listen

He frowned, scowling. What in the hell was going on here?

"Height?"

He was extremely confused. How did this go from being detained for attempted assassination to a routine check up? Something about this began to churn his stomach.

"Uh. Hell if I know. 6? 6'2"?"

The Doctor shrugged and reached into his pocket, setting the clipboard down, the other papers flipping back on top of the one he was writing on. He pulled out a tape measure and gestured at the other man to stand up. He hesitated, until a look of mild frustration crossed the Doctor's face.

"Come. You don't have all day."

You?? thought the Sniper as he stood up. "Don't you mean we?"

"I mean you," he said plainly. The Doctor was shorter than he was, by perhaps several inches, and he used his gloved finger to hold the tape against the top of the Sniper's head and dangled the tape measure to the floor.  He gestured for him to hold it for him while he straightened it, and there was a fleeting second the Sniper considered using it to maybe strangle him, restrain him, something other than stand there like a fool as the Doctor fussed with the measurement a few times, holding it taut between the measurement of the top of his head to the floor.

But he didn't. He just did as he was told for some reason. Morbid curiosity of what was going on here, perhaps. Hesitation.

"Roughly 185 centimeters." He started to roll it back up by hand as he turned to the chair.

"And what's that in feet?" The Sniper crossed his arms across his chest. It's been awhile since he knew his own height in better measurements. 

"6'1"."

He put the tape measure back in his pocket as he bent over to get the floor scale. He placed it in front of the other man and motioned at it. Frowning, he stepped on it, watching the digital numbers climb. It stopped at 137 lbs.

The Doctor also frowned at the result as he sat back down and started recording the data. "...underweight..." he muttered. His eyes flicked up every now and then, observing his arms and the rest of his overall body critically.

The Sniper scowled as he sat back down on the cot, his arms still folded petulantly across his chest. "I was sitting in the flippin forest for 3 days, you think a Calorie Mate makes gains, son?"

The Doctor's eyes flicked up to give him an incredulous look at the word "son", then flipped to the last page. The backwards notes were in the middle of the page.

will you trust me

At the same time, still looking down at the clipboard, he asked, "Drink?"

There was a pause as the Sniper read the note, his gaze turned inwards briefly before he answered, "....no."

The Doctor's head snapped up and the other man caught a fleeting look of....panic? Distress? It was quickly swallowed up by that stoic look he had from the beginning. 

What he was thinking was happening might actually be happening. But that nagging "why" kept him from believing anything completely. He flicked his gaze quickly to the clipboard once and shrugged. "Well. Maybe once or twice every few weeks. Whiskey, hard liquor, beer."  To be fair, the Doctor wasn't making this easy on him. He wasn't sure if it was from a lack of thought put into it, or that he just wasn't able to put more planning into this line of communication.

The Doctor shuffled a new sheet to replace the one he started with, sliding the first into the middle of his stack. Another note appeared at the top.

I can get us both out of here

Both. That means he isn't completely against him, right? 

"Smoke?"

He took a chance, not caring how non sequitur the answer might be. "Both?"

The Doctor appeared to understand as he made a check mark next to the last note. "How much?"

"'Bout a pack every couple weeks? Most, one pack a week." 

The Doctor glanced up with a look of mild disdain. "You smoke while...working?"

"What of it?" In spite of the situation, the disapproval from this Doctor about his smoking habits while being a sniper amused him.

"Seems...counter-intuitive. And reckless."

Another note: please cooperate then

He smirked. "Sure."

Another note: I promise to help but you need to trust me

"How long have you been smoking?"

He gave the Doctor a single, faint nod, holding his gaze for a few moments before tipping his head back as if to think. "Since high school."

"How old are you?"

He flicked his gaze back from the ceiling, and cocked his head slightly. "How old are you?"

It put the white haired Doctor off of his rhythm. His face opened up in surprise, and this time he didn't bother trying to hide it. It was almost childish. "I...fail to see what that has to do with anything...but I just turned 40 last week. If you really need to know."

Interesting. Discounting the fine, silver-white hair, the Doctor didn't look a day over 30, tops.

"I didn't." The Sniper grinned at him. "I'm 34."

In an attempt to compose himself, the Doctor returned to his notes, shuffling his old sheet back into the stack and refreshing the bottom page with a pair of new ones. He glanced up and lightly chewed his bottom lip, staring at the Sniper intensely.

He spoke slowly. "Your eyes..."

The Doctor meant those hawk-like, canary yellow eyes he had. He figured he was going to ask, but he had the same question. "Yeah? You got weird ones too."

The Doctor wasn't going to let him derail the conversation twice. "Are they...hereditary...?" The other man blinked a few times in confusion so he clarified. "Is it a family trait?"

Still confused, he kept frowning. "Yeah? My dad had them too."

"Anyone else?"

"No idea," he confessed quietly. "I never really met anyone else in my family. We moved outta Sydney when I was like 11."

"I see." He started to write down more notes but their hidden communication halted. It worried the other man for a bit, as they sat in silence. Then, capping and setting the pen at the top of the clipboard, the Doctor leaned back into his chair, folding his hands over the stack of papers.

"You seem healthy enough. Aside from your weight and the worrying amount of smoking. A more thorough examination will likely be needed next."

"Next for what?" The Sniper leaned forward, leaning his forearms on his knees, loosely enter-twining his long fingers together. "I doubt you need me to be in tip-top shape for an execution."

There was pained look in those lilac eyes. "If only...you were so lucky."