He's not even pretending to be competent. There's no wariness there that Wash can see, no evidence of the training they'd gone through. How could he have thought, even for a second, that it could be York? The other Freelancers are long dead. There's just him left.

He tracks the guy's movements through the scope anyway, finger on the trigger, even if he's not supposed to make them a target. Control wants them alive. Wants to use them. Which is a bullshit plan in Wash's opinion but hey, he gets paid either way. Let Control hang themselves with it.

There's something about the way the guy moves that sets him on edge. A prickling sense of familiarity that he quashes ruthlessly. Even so, he zooms in when he sees him reach up to remove his helmet.

That scar, the eye. It's been years and yet he'd recognise him anywhere. Of course he would. He can't forget.

"York."