Hassan has a lot more belief in his senses that Wolfgang does, when the extenuating circumstances aren't this extraordinary. When his hands make contact with Wolfgang, he can already feel his lips wavering into that open-mouthed smile, that mad bastard smile, only for once it's not directed towards the world in mocking determination. And then Uri is hugging him and, looking past his shoulder, the reality of the situation hits Hassan again and something balls fierce in his stomach, fists curling into Uri's clothes. No, no, not here, how is he here, don't be here— and the guilt of that overwhelms him, because he's alive. Alive, when they're all about to be sent to their deaths.

It feels as though he's being winded and there is a weird sort of exhalation to accompany the sensation as he says, "I'm tall?" He thinks of Uri, five-years-old, button childish face and that same long hair. Or even Uri the last time he had seen him, gangly and pre-adolescent. And now there is --twenties? Mid to early twenties Uri, pale and skinny, but still Uri, still the same person he'd steadfastly decided at seven-years-old yes, you, you're one of us now.

There are people watching them. The guards are looking at the two of them with interest, whispering to one another and he hasn't felt this level of anger in a long, long time. In his own world he is on the move as much as possible, treading a fine balance of keeping his family at a distance but not too distant (losing one child is enough) and now there is something, someone they can use against him.

He huddles them both into a corner. It's a useless gesture but he feels the need to create the illusion of privacy anyway.

"So. What --where do we start?"