His helmet is thick with the scent of flowers. It's rosemary spooling up into his helmet's filtration systems, blue petals that burn their heady scent into his nostrils. Someone told him that rosemary is used to help the memory, used to sharpen one's ability to recollect. He doesn't remember who. He just finds it to be the bitterest fucking irony imaginable, which is probably why it's these particular flowers choking him out, sucking the blood from his veins, draining him dry.
It's memory that's killing him, and memory that sharpens his mind. Catches the shadow of a man with eyes of a familiar animal green, and Wash tastes iron in his throat.
"Director."
He stands, stiff, no weapon in his hands but there's a sidearm at his side that he's wondering if he should be drawing right about now (it was your sidearm Carolina handed to him, wasn't it?), and he hopes to god that he's the premonition of the Director's own death ghosting into his very fucking soul, taking root, reminding him of just how many times he attempted to put Wash down in one way or another.
breaking this combo with gROWING PAINS
It's memory that's killing him, and memory that sharpens his mind. Catches the shadow of a man with eyes of a familiar animal green, and Wash tastes iron in his throat.
"Director."
He stands, stiff, no weapon in his hands but there's a sidearm at his side that he's wondering if he should be drawing right about now (it was your sidearm Carolina handed to him, wasn't it?), and he hopes to god that he's the premonition of the Director's own death ghosting into his very fucking soul, taking root, reminding him of just how many times he attempted to put Wash down in one way or another.