He thinks about it—the beating a blur of pain broken up with moments of clarity, hard-won and excruciating. The hue of the creature's skin, those eyes. Stray sounds, trying to match them up with his body. “Didn't get a good look. Can't say I'd know on sight either.”

Rust twists his torso, digs a smashed pack of Camels from his pocket while moving as little as possible. He takes one for himself—there's a handful of cigarettes inside, not all of them matching—then extends the pack to Shaw.

“It'd vanish though, wouldn't it? Unless you think...” He's getting his hands on people not like them. Or stripping the back off someone left dangling in that cabin. “He called Salamanca pet before he offed him. Toy. Not things you'd go carving chunks out of. Traditionally speaking.”