"Okay," he agrees. It's easier to do that if it's an order, easier to think around whatever they'd put in his head. It'll die down eventually. He'd only been in there for a few minutes. He clings to York as they approach the door and he winces when he kicks it open, the sound stabbing into his skull.

There's about twenty guns pointing at them. More than that. Wash hooks his chin against York's shoulder, brings his lips close to his ear. "Camo units," he whispers, a warning about what else might be waiting before he pulls away, staggers to keep himself upright and holds up his arms.