A small pile of cigarette butts litters the floor, ashes heaped and scattered off to Marlowe's left.  He's done some origami with the foil from the pack, and used a couple torn shreds from his t-shirt to wrap up his scabbed-up wrists.  He's urinated... yes, he used the facilities, not on the floor... and wished like hell he still had that bottle of Gatorade.<br/><br/>All of this to the random noises of groaning and scraping thumps from next door.  Unsettling, to say the least.  He's fascinated.<br/><br/>He looks up at the open hatch, hefting the tiny crane.  "Take dis crane from hand, grasshoppa."  After a moment's pause, he smirks and tosses the little thing aside, standing to follow the guards.