[ Wash is cooperating, for the most part.

Waking up face first in the snow wearing nothing but a body suit that's meant to go under much more protective armor isn't exactly the best morning he's ever had, but he's had worse, in some ways. The thermal layer is enough to keep him from freezing to death, but not enough to prevent a great deal of discomfort, and it had taken him far too long to struggle to his feet, to fight past the throbbing headache enough to try and take stock of his surroundings. There's just -- snow, mountains and foothills, none of it recognizable, a feeling deep in his stomach that leaves him sick and queasy and feeling like something's gone terribly, terribly wrong.

That was a while ago, now, and that feeling hasn't gone away. It takes effort to not sway a little with every step, and Wash finds his vision swimming in front of his eyes every now and then, just forces himself to ignore it and press on. When those soldiers had arrived, when they'd been given orders to escort them back to base, wherever that might be, Wash hadn't really felt like cooperating -- but they have weapons and he doesn't even have his fucking armor, can't even really remember what happened before he got here, and he's smart enough to know when he should pick a fight and when he should play along. There are others here, others being escorted along with him that had seemed just as confused and uneasy, and maybe they aren't any friends of his, either, but he'd rather be talking to one of them than one of their escorts.

He lags behind purposefully in their little escort group, or maybe he moves to the side, hangs out somewhere near the back -- either way he's found some way to move up next to you out of earshot from those soldiers, maybe while you're all still on the move or maybe after they've called for a stop for some reason or another. ]

Do you know what you're in for? [ It'd sound like a light-hearted quip and it kind of is, but there's something too dry about the way he says it, bitter and sharp. ]

No -- No, don't. I'll just --

[ Fresh from a physical examination, Wash is still a little off-balance, not exactly recovered from whatever It was that brought him here ( or whatever it was they did to him to bring him here ). Some assistant is trying to help him out of the room, to offer him somewhere to rest before he's escorted somewhere to stay, and Wash is shaking his head, pushing them away, no, I'm fine, I'm fine. Those last words he snaps a little too sharply, the poor assistant backing away immediately into the examination room in response, and Wash has half a mind to maybe apologize or say something, but, never mind. He is fine. He's fine.

He just shakes his head, brings a hand up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. According to the physician on staff, everything about his vitals looks normal, other than some obvious stress and tension, would you please relax, sir, but it's fucking hard to relax when there's bright lights and clean gleaming walls and people in lab coats tapping their pens on their clipboards, and.

Focus, Wash, Focus. Exotics. They'd called you an exotic. They're called Cetagandans, the Cetagandan Empire, and all the other words had been too alien for him to follow. He'd wracked his brain searching his memories of all the star map's he's studied but he's sure not heard of an empire. Wash tries to sit down, but he's too agitated, too nervous, something still twisting hard in his chest whenever someone in a lab coat walks past, and there's -- that facepaint. Strange. Foreign. Alien.

He's just leaning against a wall off to one side in the little waiting area by the medbay. He's not exactly unapproachable, he just seems -- more than a little stressed, right now, and he'll talk if you say something to him. ]

[ Feel free to run into him anywhere in the exotics room! You can probably find him staring and frowning at the fatigues he's been given by the Cetagandan soldiers, staring at the well-prepared food, or staring and not-quite-engaging with any of the Cetagandans that come by.

Basically he's going to do a lot of staring warily at things. ]