Untangling the pieces of him lost in the circuits of someone else's recollection isn't what he'd call an easy task. Living longer just increases the amount of shit you have to card through until you land where you want. Do you remember what you were doing? He remembers what a lot of people were doing. He remembers watching a streak of blue-white charge the Meta, full-tilt, the golden EVA shuddering beneath the weight of too many AI screaming into its head. He remembers trying to rip himself from a screaming Freelancer's head, a backbreaking shockwave of I hate goodbyes turning blood to ash. He remembers a list of names: who died, how, and just how much of this is your fault, that stopped being lies somewhere down the line, because there was no one left to lie about.

Think. Fucking think, Washington.

"...Chorus," he says slowly, parsing. Either it's right, or he's just seized the wrong memory at random. "We were winning. We were almost out."

Does that mean anything to her? Would it mean anything if she were real? Is she real?

She felt real when she offered him her hand. When she gripped it tight enough to ache through the kevlar.