For a split second, Wash does nothing. He just fought two of these assholes last night, and he is not in the mood to deal with another one so soon.

But he's here, and Wash doesn't get a choice.

He draws a plasma blaster, stolen from Cashmere in last night's battle, from the pocket of his jacket. "Oh, fuck off," he says, in the same tone that one would use to shoo a cat off the front porch, and fires several shots at Finnick's head. Look who's not fucking around.