"Oh, you might as well start screaming." Beckett's voice is low. Small. He'd be screaming too if it didn't just inevitably lead to non-stop coughing. He doesn't really see what the other options are. If you're at the point where you realize the only sensible course of action left is to start screaming, you probably know you're not going to have a reason to stop.

Maybe crying. There is crying. He is feeling that option. It's as though the horror has passed and left a quieter, deeper awareness in its wake, not only that this is wrong but that it didn't have to be this way.

"I already have your answer." That's one thing he has. It's not worth anything of what he thought it would be. "This is us. This has always been us. The rest was an illusion. There is no undoing it because we never truly changed. We just realized, that's all."