Beth rolled her eyes again. "Yes, I agree, why don't you just leave?" she replied, visibly sizing up the hunter. In spite of his help in capturing the vampire, Beth would feel infinitely more comfortable without him present. The man vanquished people like each of those in the bunker on the regular, and beside that, she did not appreciate his attitude. "We're not savages," she said, straightening her back. "We can keep this from the outside eye. You certainly aren't going to do a better job."

She shook her head and turned to the vampire. "Can you believe him?" 

Circling the room at a languid pace, she continued her observations of its inhabitants. She held herself in check, and such a thing took strength, when Autumn spoke. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm already dead," would not be met well, and nor would it help their cause. So Beth kept quiet, even when Flint returned; she could trust Tony to say what she was thinking. 

And just as their captive seemed ready to cooperate, the girl changed. Her stature altered in the slightest of manners, in a way only someone paying close attention would notice. It was a quarter inch movement of the shoulders, or a tilt of the head just so. 

Beth lifted her head a fraction when the sound of strong, determined footfalls carried through the bunker. Reluctantly, she pulled her eyes away from the vampire upon hearing her name. She gave the Asgardian a nod, then slowly followed her into the hall. Even as she walked some few feet from the doorway, she could hear the vampire's words. For a moment, a small smile played on the ghost's ethereal face. The girl positively vibrated with information... and a quiet tenacity Beth respected. 

She regarded Rikive, but before she could question anything, Parael sailed by them and into the room. His voice was clear when he spoke, very little trace of the screaming they'd heard earlier, and so the name reached her in full. [i]Charles Gordon.[/i]

The name set in motion a visceral recollection of shared memories that left her feeling defiled, in the same way someone marching on her grave might. The hive-mind of memories among the undead opened itself to individuals without prompting and whenever it pleased, and Beth had yet to meet any ghost with the ability to choose what they saw. She picked up the nauseating scene of a massacre of Cheyenne hundreds of years ago, where Charles Gordon fought and killed under another's command, a long time ago in conversation with an old ghost who provided her with the odd lesson on burials and ancient magic. Experiencing it again worsened the feeling.

"He's at least two hundred years old," she announced, standing in the doorway. "And experienced in war. He fought to kill Native Americans, one battle I can verify, the rest, I'm guessing he didn't join in just for the one go at it." She crossed her arms, frowning. "Anyone else like to share?"