Elliot manages to resist repeating his earlier startled epithet, but it flavors his mental output anyway. "That's fucking crazy." It's not accusatory, he isn't about to preach pacifism, but he can't help but feel a little out of place if they're capable of taking on and taking out something like the monster he just got the impression of. Elliot would probably lose against this young-voiced girl, let alone something big and wild and vicious.

Nervous laughter, very soft, under his breath. A spike of anxiety: he's out of his depth. Things he's been avoiding thinking about ( coma, station, Host ) buzz angrily in the back of his mind like a disturbed nest of bees. He wants, absurdly, to go home, as if home isn't shit, as if he didn't almost die.

He blares it like a siren, even though it makes him feel guilty, too, to have his own stupid deal when her pain, her loss, is so much more valid. "I have to go," he says flatly, affect stripper from his tone so it doesn't come out high with panic. "Do you... do you know if there's somewhere around here I could get away with smoking?"