The big man's hands come away easily. At the nape of his bare neck, where he'd covered that blessed warmth, the flesh is bright red. It looks like it's been burned — branded — with the lower half of a complex symbol.

If Maine knows it's there, he doesn't say. Can't say. Brown eyes are locked on North now. Desperate. Pleading. It's no expression Maine's ever shown before. But he's never done this before. He's never attacked Carolina. He's never turned on his team.

Then North's visor shatters. The pattern is exactly the same as York's after the grenade.

Maine recoils like it's North burning him. He drags himself back, away, all but throws himself towards the sound of Wash's voice. His bleeding throat leaves splatters of red in the snow. York's dead eye keeps staring.

You followed orders.

He did.

Do you regret following orders, Agent Maine?

No. He doesn't.

Agent York abandoned his team.

He did.

The consequences of his actions are his responsibility. There's no reason for you to feel guilty.

But—

Look away, Agent Maine.

He does.

Maine turns away from York's eye. Turns away from North's comforting presence. Looks for Wash.