"I have no idea." Why he was in a particularly chatty mood was lost to Scar. (Chatty as a relative word, of course.) He was stuck in a desperate situation; trapped with little chance of getting out without hurting himself or someone else. And his sickness still made him ache all over.

He mentally berated himself for starting to crack under all the pressure of so many other people reaching out. Trying to help. It was not an entirely unfamiliar feeling, to have people who cared for his well-being, but it still felt out of place. There was a reason he had avoided such contact for so long.

Inevitably, so many of them were only going to die.

"I have only heard of people leaving this place brainwashed or in body bags," Scar grumbled, glaring at the floor. He had to get out of here, though. That was beyond the question. He would break out, or he would die trying, for no reason other than to find his brother. There was no question about it. He would not fail again. First, though, he needed to rid himself of this sickness, which was another mountain altogether, it seemed.

"We need to figure out where the bastard is hiding." Scar's fingers clinched as he looked up to the now silent intercom.