It cuts a fucking knife-ache in his chest, it really does. She was the one steadying him, and the roles have abruptly flipped before he can even wholly get his bearings. She keeps saying Wash, and that's his anchor. You're Agent Washington. Not the man who moved him around like a chess piece on a board, or the wirework of ones and zeroes that slit into his neural implants and set him ablaze, or the thing that it was sheared from.

"Look, right now...the worst that's happened is you've lost your sight, and I've lost my - " And I've lost my shit. " - memory."

There's a joke there about how many times has that happened, right? but he bites it down before it can worm its way out. Not a good time for it. Whether that instinct belongs to him or someone with slightly more advanced talents in interacting with people without making everything worse, he can't say. "It might not be permanent. It could be the atmo, or..."

Fuck. With Connecticut out of commission, he's the only one who do any spotting.

"All I see is just...grass. For miles. And flowers too, I guess, but there's nothing - no door or anything that might show how we got here."