Sans laughs, in genuinely amusement. He's inhaled some smoke at this point, which burns his lungs a little. It's a weird, foreign feeling, but sort of neat. Breathing being a necessity is weird. He takes out the cigar and holds it idly.

"Point is, the whole scheme of this place is that they have control over all of it. Doubt they want their little ant farm to go to hell any more than you do, pal."

"Place like this," he makes a wispy gesture with the smoke coming off his cigar, "money's justa state of mind."