Two years, they said.

A full tour of the bases. He was moving up in the ranks, slowly but surely. He needed to take on more responsibility. Part of the job, brook no arguments. It was his duty.

Room one-eighteen.

Wash fished around in his pocket, fiddling with the unfamiliar surface of his new phone while balancing a small box of his belongings precariously with the other arm.

Key. Key. Ah.

No time to tell anyone. Just enough time to pack. She'd been busy anyway, surely. She was always busy, that one. Industrious, clever, sharp and soft all at once -

He banished the thought automatically. It hadn't been two years anyway, although it felt like so much longer. They'd requested he report back - something to do with general malaise, some new threat aimed squarely at their remote island -

- where his heart still beat -

The lock gave and the door swung open with a faint sigh. Empty. He felt a painful mix of relief and regret. He wasn't ready to face anyone right now - it'd been too long, and not long enough. His movements were awkward and jerky as he dumped the contents of the crate onto the mattress and automatically reached beneath - one sheet, one comforter, neatly folded and packaged slid out, as well as two regulation pillows - and then sat heavily on the bed.

He buried his face in his hands and finally allowed the memories to sweep him away in a squeezing, tearing and soul searing flood.

Clerise. Clarice. The redhead and the blonde, two halves of a whole, the troublemaker and the responsible one. They had all been through so much together - surely that one ray of hope and happiness would be eternal.

But there'd been blood. So much blood and yet not enough, not like in the movies. Her head rolled out of sight and into his nightmares.

That could be any of them. They were surrounded by insanity, after all, weren't they? Their lives were like a dream from which they'd never wake - not until they were dead. Then they'd be discarded, a useless husk no longer of service to the greater good. It wasn't even hard for Wash to imagine it. In the wee hours of the night, one arm snaked around the slender pale-skinned figure beside him, he replayed it over and over again.

The screaming. The smell of burnt hair and flesh. The sight of her face and body being burned away to nothing, the jeers of the unnatural crowds, the smug look on the horsewoman's face.

His shoulders trembled.

When the call came, he had been overwhelmed by fear. The image of that raven black hair tangled around a broken, lifeless corpse was burned into his mind. He knew if it came to that, he was powerless. In that moment, he realized that it didn't matter where he was or what he did - death would come for them all someday. The knowledge had worn on him throughout the months, till the tension was too much to bear.

"Please," she had whispered that day in the cells, eyes big as lanterns and bright with tears.

Please let me go. A prayer of desperation. Please don't let me see.

When the call came, he packed up his things quietly, quickly, and headed for the portals in silence. His breath had been loud and ragged in his ears, and he hadn't trusted himself to speak. It was for the best, he told himself weakly. He couldn't protect her. He couldn't protect anybody.

For the second time in Wash's life, he ran away. He traded one prison for yet another.

He'd broken his phone - problematic, against regulations, he'd had to be issued a new one. The pieces of it were tucked in a small cloth bag, a somber spot of shame against the ramshackle that was Wash's world for the last very nearly two years. A worn toothbrush, a few shirts. His wallet, falling apart now at the seams. He sat in silence for some time, motionless besides the fine tremors that danced across his muscles. Called back to another disaster. Called back to bear witness maybe - as penance for his cowardice.

She'll know, a feminine voice whispered, quieting the thunderous flood of his thoughts for a moment. In his isolation, that voice had been his constant companion; his salvation.

Wash hadn't been able to resist. He'd checked in with a Life tech before returning to his room, shuffling awkwardly through the familiar-but-strange corridors. Pictures of torn books, white rabbits and prim English dresses, of notes and flowers and the sharply acrid scent of medicines assaulted his mind, a torturous vault of memories. The message he'd received had been one that enkindled despair, shame and hope.

Somewhere out there, Sasha Belrose was alive and well.