"Damn." Osten couldn't even begin to fake his lack of shock over that, though his eyebrows rose in a vague amusement. "Skinny Lad would fold into that space like a fucking concertina." He couldn't help it. There was some kind of natural need to volunteer the boy for potentially dangerous and perhaps even painful situations. Like scrunch him up into what was basically a moving box that he might never be able to get out of at the other end. Taking a mouthful of tea, he turned his eyes to the ceiling. "They are hiding an entire floor," he mused. "I don't trust there not to be an Experiment C up there -- or below the basement." An idea that probably should have bothered him more than it interested him. "That's a lot of manpower." How many people behind screens did it take to keep the Compound under control? He'd like to know.
"They are when the person wrapped in them squeals." Osten saw no problem with admitting to that. It was true. "Gets boring when they choose to suffer in silence," he conceded after a moment. While Audrey thought of heavy bags, Osten considered asking Big Brother for a side of cow and a meathook. That would have the right impact. Then they could stuff it down the dumbwaiter and have it sent back as steak. "You can," he corrected. "Some of us have set routines." He shifted in his seat, unimpressed with the current arrangement. The others could babble about their rooms, but he couldn't care less about that part. He could have functioned just as easily in something resembling a prison cell for another year. The things he needed were the things that kept him from lashing out at the people they were housing him with. "Keeps me pretty and lessens the need for anger management." So he would be far more comfortable with a gym.
Draining his mug, Osten shrugged. "Was sort of my point." Although for all he knew, she really was just fitness-savvy.