Catching Maine's glance, Brigitte reaches for her tool belt, pats it down looking for her supplies. She'd packed light for the unpredictable walk, but she'd taken some things, in the event that their people were injured: a roll of gauze, some antiseptic, a little bit of water to clean wounds. It isn't a large bottle, but it should be enough to wet his parched throat a bit and bring some relief. She hands it over, and tries to gauge Wash's condition as he moves. If he's limping, and how he carries himself. How badly they might have hurt him.

"Come on -- let's get out of here before any more of them show up." Who even knows how many clones they might have out there? Possibly unlimited. "I don't know about you, but I'm not looking forward to killing ourselves over and over," she says, ruefully. A little bitterly.