The part of him that's still lost in the flare-and-spiral of Alpha's memories can allow for it - for someone who can give him an order and make it sound like the most sensible thing in the world - with a minimum of struggling. She says they should get out of here, and there are, actually, too many parts of him that agree with that.

The part that still remembers what it is to be under Freelancer's thumb complies readily. Meaning he should probably stand.

His throat feels raw and scratched, like the vocal cords are bleeding, and this isn't the loudest you've ever screamed in your life, Agent Washington. He knows it's not. He knows it's not.

So he plants his free palm against the grass and starts to lever himself to his feet.

"Is there even...anywhere for us to go?"