"Don't you give me a judgemental look, you're the one who brought me here and refuses to communicate beyond pointing and significant hood movements," Stacia says, mostly without heat. "I've literally talked to chattier rocks."

She watches the funeral in a contemplative silence, every passing minute making it more and more clear how different this Wash is from the one she knows from the Rig. This may be a possible future, sure, but it's clearly not the possible future of the version she knows. Something's wrong, something's been twisted, something needs to be put right. When the Ghost gives her a significant look, she rolls her eyes.

"Oh come on. You have to know that I was already planning treating his head like a puzzle toy. Metaphorically, not literally, literally would be gross."