This mission, if anything, is proof that they're running too thin around here. Command's been giving Ohio the run around for a month now about getting some more people on this tub, even having that goddamn Kig-Yar aboard had been another set of hands. As if he needed any more proof that their lives and their missions were absolute last priority.

Normally it wouldn't stick, but Ohio's too tired right now to set up the hoops to deny it scares him, much less to jump through them.

He grunts in acknowledgment as he passes York. There's York, working on a puzzle or something, hanging out in armor because that's what you do. It takes him another ten seconds to stop skating on familiarity and realize what the fuck.

The sidearm isn't on his hip when his hand goes for it. Of course it isn't here, he didn't think of it and of course it would be now. Shit.

It's York, but it can't be York because York is dead and his name was right there in the recovery logs. There's a stranger on Ohio's ship, right here in front of him in full armor, and where are Lane and Saunders? Why didn't Retiarius warn him? And he's not in fighting shape, not at all, but fear is pretty quickly whipping around into enough anger to work with for now.

"Who the fuck are you?"