['Kidnapped for their experiments' leaves a dark shadow of thought over Guy. Yet it's something he can't linger on, not those trains. While he may have a small amount of time between his first burst into the sunlight from out of the battledome thinking he was in Bergen-Belsen and the moment of now, it hasn't been long enough for these dark things to penetrate his mind. He still has the bloodied bandages on his neck from trying to claw away the tattoos with his fingernails, of trying to rake away the skin, sobbing and scared. Being branded, being numbered, being captured with eyes and ears seemingly everywhere is dangerous for someone who already looks over their shoulder as occupational hazard. It would make him paranoid. Madder.]

I have a friend who quite endearingly calls me 'mad bastard.' Though if you are wondering whether or not I think myself mad, or whether I am believed to be mad by others is a question I can't answer. If not due to the relative differences in definitions then due to the variance in cultural parameters that makes someone definably so.

[Madness is easier to talk about. Blathering on about himself is easier. Safer.]