Wash sleeps. It isn't restful. It hasn't been for a long time. Maybe eventually his brain will have finished using every scrap of it to process another set of memories, Epsilon, Alpha, the Director, but he isn't holding out much hope. Tonight those merge with York, with Carolina and Connie and Maine. There's this horrible black thing trying to swallow him; it has Sigma's voice, glows green like Delta. Screams like Epsilon.

He watches as his own hands cut York down, watch him die. And he feels nothing.

Morning is a relief. He shouldn't have bothered trying.

York isn't around when he wakes. Out scouting apparently. Kimball tells him the rough direction and he heads out too, following trails that he knows by heart. Even if he doesn't find York, it serves a purpose.