Good. Good. The two of them, they'll be able to do something. Withstand the clawing grasp of men in uniforms with too many medals, at the very least.

She reaches out, running her fingers over the strange, hungry surface of the mirror as she might the surface of a pond. It's such a strange feeling, like she could close her fist and pull some of it away if she wanted--something warm, something nearly alive. There's more dimension to it than there should be.

"Death," Ruth agrees, softly. "Nothing but death."