The name Isaac is something strange and foreign to Maine, anymore. He recognizes it, but it doesn't feel like it fits him now, like it's something he left behind a long time ago, during another time and in another place when shit wasn't so fucking complicated. He looks down at Wash, the gold faceplate of his helmet glinting in the dim light of the bunker as he keeps the gun pressed flush to his chin.

And he's silent.

( -- ash? Wash, Dave, you fucking asshole, are you listening?

Yeah, sorry. What were you saying?

Are you sure you're okay to do this shit, man? I don't want -- )

But he's never really completely silent, with his mind running on hyperdrive, kicking up old memories and feeding them through his head like a movie reel he can't shut off.

Maine shifts his weight, leaning back on his heels into a more comfortable position. The Magnum stays where it is for a long second or two, pushing bruises into Wash's tender skin, before he's drawing his elbow to his knee and lifting the gun away from him.