"Isn't this what you want? A punching bag?" Scaramouche cocks his head a little, feeling utterly defeated but definitely not behaving like that. "You fight me, I lose, you repair me. Over and over and over again."

When Childe is done with diminishing the length of the screwdriver and there's nothing left but the handle Scaramouche makes it his business to throw it at the other's face with utmost precision.

"Heh..." Such a miserable existence, really. And all he can do is laugh. Because what else is there to do now? Just laugh all the pain away. "And if anyone might find out about your sudden need to ensure my survival your dear Tsaritsa will order her Fatui agents to drag your parents and siblings to her palace and gut them like fish. They are mere humans, no need to bother a Harbinger with such a task."

This time he doesn't move to the bed to pick up another weapon. He walks towards a corner of the room so he can put on his top and cover those miserable holes in his back.

"After all, nothing feeds anger better than betrayal. Trust is such a fragile thing."

And who could know this better than Scaramouche!