"Who? Who's they, how are you - how are you here right now?" You're Wash, she says, like he doesn't know that - doesn't he know that? Doesn't he? My name is, uh...it's, uh...

It's shelled in mnemonic ghost-white, a holo-avatar in SPARTAN gear, screaming when he rips away the piece of himself that can analyze what's happening, that can deconstruct and understand with perfect fucking clarity what's being done to him, and kicking it away, to god knows where.

I'm not crazy, okay?

That was the joke. That was always the fucking joke, because he must be, because there's no other explanation for whatever's happening right now.