For the moment, Siebren just...looks, and tries to steady his shaky breathing, to little avail. It is...a baby. This is what Wormmon has been reduced to. What he has reduced Wormmon to. Sigma had performed the act, as Sigma always does, but...for the first time, it had been Siebren's decision to bring Sigma to the forefront. This wasn't mission parameters; this was his choice.
He'd had the data, and he'd failed to process it. He'd made the wrong decision, and this is the result.
And Leafmon is- is thanking him-
What is left of Siebren's strength fails, and his expression crumples. He clamps one hand over his face and the other across his chest, as though he can hold himself together simply by maintaining his grip, and it does not work that way, and he can't, but here he is anyway, shaking, breathing erratic, overwhelmed with guilt and shame and trying so hard to hold it together hold it together hold it together HE CAN'T-
He must- he must-
There is a mission still at hand. There is a meteor headed for the planet. The apocalypse will not pause for his impending breakdown, and so he must not have one.
He is still shaking- he is still a terrible mess- but-
"We- we do not have- time. For this."
For the mess he has caused. For his weakness. He barely gets the words out, never mind considering how else they may be interpreted. At the moment, it is all he can do to hold on.
no subject
For the moment, Siebren just...looks, and tries to steady his shaky breathing, to little avail. It is...a baby. This is what Wormmon has been reduced to. What he has reduced Wormmon to. Sigma had performed the act, as Sigma always does, but...for the first time, it had been Siebren's decision to bring Sigma to the forefront. This wasn't mission parameters; this was his choice.
He'd had the data, and he'd failed to process it. He'd made the wrong decision, and this is the result.
And Leafmon is- is thanking him-
What is left of Siebren's strength fails, and his expression crumples. He clamps one hand over his face and the other across his chest, as though he can hold himself together simply by maintaining his grip, and it does not work that way, and he can't, but here he is anyway, shaking, breathing erratic, overwhelmed with guilt and shame and trying so hard to hold it together hold it together hold it together HE CAN'T-
He must- he must-
There is a mission still at hand. There is a meteor headed for the planet. The apocalypse will not pause for his impending breakdown, and so he must not have one.
He is still shaking- he is still a terrible mess- but-
"We- we do not have- time. For this."
For the mess he has caused. For his weakness. He barely gets the words out, never mind considering how else they may be interpreted. At the moment, it is all he can do to hold on.