Scaramouche turns his back towards the engineer so he can start the repairs. As expected he still feels hollow and utterly defeated. And he doesn't feel like saying much and merely focuses his gaze on the floor, noticing a tool kit lying around.

He can feel tugs at his back and he can hear the sound of tools afterwards. It reminds him of the Doctor, the only difference is that the room isn't filled with that horrible stench. The sound of Childe's voice make him snap out of that particularly nasty memory.

"Hm? My limbs?" Slowly Scaramouche turns his head and looks at him. "It seems you have kept your promise. Is it praise you wish to hear in return?" Because really, he isn't going to give it to you, Childe. As far as he knows, his life ended the second he fell out of that machine. A soft chuckle escapes his mouth and he shakes his head slowly.

"So what will my purpose be? Except for being a punching bag of some sort, that is."