It's like the story he's telling has hit a critical mass of batshit nonsense that finally allows it to settle into unparseable static in her head. Killer robots. Sure. Why not.

But then the crockpot dings and all her other thoughts immediately turn to how much she wants to see the weird hotdog soup in there, so Darcy wordlessly retrieves a couple of bowls. Because when it is weird hotdog soup, she's making him drink it.