She stares at him, eyes wide and maybe a little terrified in addition to impressed. She'd be saying the exact same shit if their roles were switched, she knows that.

And as scared as she is, as much as she's felt the sting of the Rift's wrath, nothing will make her demur when told explicitly that she belongs to something else.

So she turns on the cat, allowing herself to be bolstered by Rush's absurdly overconfident assertion, as well as bolstered by his general presence. "We are not your things," she says coldly. "And we are going to find a way out."

They are both making an immense gamble with an entity which, as Daniel's example has shown, can kill them at any moment, for no reason at all. And they're essentially giving it one. They are jointly assuming that they are interesting enough specimens that it will not destroy them completely; and they are hoping, too, that it will continue to underestimate them.

Let it do what it will, she thinks, reckless and afraid.

She needs a drink. No, fuck that. They just essentially declared war on a sentient spacetime entity. She needs, like. Thirty goddamn drinks.