"Good thing none of this means anything to me." It's forced, like pressing through the pressure of a rushing current; Sombra's certain that if any of this was part of her reality, her memories, it might tip Cortana (or Cortana might tip her—) over the edge of their collective sanity. Like this, at least, they can brace each other.

But she still hates the sound of that thing's voice.

"You want me to put on some music instead? I mean— if this is just an illusion, there's no reason we have to actually listen to it."