[Beckett almost laughs. Something escapes him, a crack of a sound, as brittle as his mortal body feels. He could easily draw back again now, back to the safety of deflecting, if he just avoids the wrong questions. The right questions. Or maybe if he just doesn't ask any questions at all.]

Why are we babies? Because we might have a hard time dealing with a post-apocalyptic wasteland of total despair?

[But he will. He does. It's who he is. There isn't much of him left, but there is that, built into him like the Beast's blind instinct for survival. Neither of them is something he can escape.]

Or is it because we expect the world to offer us some kind of grace?