At the moment, Brandon's currently in the corner of his cell, which has the the sprinklers on full, sending down a rather heavy mist of salt water. He's shivering, pale, and generally looks like shit. His clothing is plastered to his body, and the same with his hair. There's a good chance that he's been woken up at some point, and actually vomitted, judging by the smell. Fitzgerald studies the babbling captive for a moment, scratching his chin. "This one may be hard to get any more information out of," he says with a devious chuckle, "Still, my rage must be satiated."