There's a time for respecting a colleague's wishes, and there's a time for saving said colleague's idiot life, and as far as Wash is concerned, this is definitely the latter. He tears into hell's DNA until it dissipates entirely; only then does he stop to take a breath and offer Zenyatta a hand up, not that Zenyatta needs it. At least he's functioning again, or acting like it - Wash doesn't know him well enough to tell which it is yet.
"You're welcome." It's edged - it's been a very long time since Wash has fought alongside someone who was willing to lie down and die in the face of an enemy, and he's none too thrilled about it. (Suicide by monster may not have been Zenyatta's intent, but pacifism in the middle of an active battlefield has about the same result, as far as Wash is concerned.) "You really need to not let enemies get that close to you, especially if you're not planning on fighting them. There won't always be someone there to pull your ass out of the fire."
Wisdom of the ages duly imparted, he turns towards the nearest firepit with the intent of stopping any Catastrophists that plan on bungee jumping without a cord when what the fuck is that cloud in front of him-
In the brief moment before the shimmering mass of air subsumes him completely, he thinks of Reaper - that asshole would probably laugh if he saw Wash go out like this, a victim of Reaper's second cousin twice evaporated.
In the next moment, he can't breathe. Never mind that his armor is sealed well enough to withstand the vacuum of space, or that he's got a transuit on over it; the Unmolded Ones don't work on that particular wavelength, and Wash might as well have been wearing tissue paper for all the protection his armor gives him now. He crosses his hands over his throat - is it still the universal sign for choking even across dimensions? - and-
-suddenly goes slack as the Woe infiltrates his mind, slipping past the barriers he'd constructed to keep Epsilon's memories separate from his own and easily dragging them to the surface. He's screaming without air, choking on memories that aren't his but are still inescapable, all while a small voice in the back of his mind whispers for him to free himself.
He doesn't recognize that voice. It doesn't matter. It's not like he'll live long enough to figure it out anyway.
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"You're welcome." It's edged - it's been a very long time since Wash has fought alongside someone who was willing to lie down and die in the face of an enemy, and he's none too thrilled about it. (Suicide by monster may not have been Zenyatta's intent, but pacifism in the middle of an active battlefield has about the same result, as far as Wash is concerned.) "You really need to not let enemies get that close to you, especially if you're not planning on fighting them. There won't always be someone there to pull your ass out of the fire."
Wisdom of the ages duly imparted, he turns towards the nearest firepit with the intent of stopping any Catastrophists that plan on bungee jumping without a cord when what the fuck is that cloud in front of him-
In the brief moment before the shimmering mass of air subsumes him completely, he thinks of Reaper - that asshole would probably laugh if he saw Wash go out like this, a victim of Reaper's second cousin twice evaporated.
In the next moment, he can't breathe. Never mind that his armor is sealed well enough to withstand the vacuum of space, or that he's got a transuit on over it; the Unmolded Ones don't work on that particular wavelength, and Wash might as well have been wearing tissue paper for all the protection his armor gives him now. He crosses his hands over his throat - is it still the universal sign for choking even across dimensions? - and-
-suddenly goes slack as the Woe infiltrates his mind, slipping past the barriers he'd constructed to keep Epsilon's memories separate from his own and easily dragging them to the surface. He's screaming without air, choking on memories that aren't his but are still inescapable, all while a small voice in the back of his mind whispers for him to free himself.
He doesn't recognize that voice. It doesn't matter. It's not like he'll live long enough to figure it out anyway.