It isn't seeing Vika made of scrap components that concerns him most (though it is concerning, to say the least), it's watching as she seems to dissociate where she sits, angry at what looks, even from a distance, like the kind of wind-up key associated with clockwork of old. He's been working quietly at his own table, only looking up when someone on staff has offered him a refill on the water, or juice, or weak ale that he's been drinking, or to inform him that a meal would be ready soon if he would like to partake (there's a pleading air to the way they try to convince him to eat but when your stomach has shrunk enough that just a hand pie could make you nauseous there's not a lot to be done about that). Now, as his hand and wrist begins to cramp, signalling a need to stretch, Bart stands and carefully pushes his chair in against the table where his work is stacked neatly.

"Pardon me," is what he leads with, approaching from the opposite side of the table to keep from spooking her.