[Jacky is horrified. Completely, and utterly horrified. She has seen some awful things in her time, and her mind can all too easily picture some of the awful things Mister Bellic is describing. Her mind flashed on Master Goya's paintings, hidden away from the priests that would burn him for having them, of the tales of her majos amigos had told her of the bloody and violent acts of the French in Spain. The atrocities of war truly knew no bounds; the things men did to hold power were absolutely sickening.]

Jesus. [Placing her head in her hands, she hunched forward, shoulders shaking.] Jesus.

[Raising her head, she looked at him with pained eyes.] I am so, so sorry. I cannot even--

I have known death from an early age, but not like this. Lord, not like this.