Wash in the meanwhile might spin the knife idly as they walk, just some idle thing to keep his mind busy. The silence is comfortable, quiet comes easily to Wash, and he's content just to wait and let herself build up to talking about it. He wouldn't mind if she changed her mind, really. But then she starts, and Wash is listening, keeping his eyes ahead.

It sounds crazy, and that alone might have him tensing a little instinctively, just for the choice of word, sorry, Beth. But then -- when somebody dies, they don't stop. A chill runs down his spine. Zombies, like in those old holovids, that's the first thing to come to mind, and the more she talks the more it sounds exactly like that. He's never been the type of guy for that kind of thing, has never thought about what it'd be like if they were real, and he's trying to imagine it, trying to process it. It's difficult, until she talks about how that's why you always aim for the brain. It doesn't stop, otherwise, of course it doesn't, and that's something grounded and real and practical for it all to click into place in Wash's head, at least a little. That's why she fights like that. She doesn't fight people, she fights. What they become.

A sharp inhale. What can he offer her? Sympathy, solidarity. That's kind of the best he can do. It's clear he isn't thinking of questioning her, that she might be lying to him.

"That sounds like literal hell," he says. Another spin of his knife. Quiet, otherwise.