"Yeah, well, I have a bad habit of wanting things I can't have, and look at where it gets me." He gestures to the cell, a mocking Vanna White motion. He can't go after anything he wants without it backfiring horribly on him. This is just the latest installment of that pattern.

He's about to snap at Zenyatta again - that's not the worst that could happen; he knows what the worst that could happen is, and he's not going to live through that again - when Zenyatta asks about his cat.

I don't have a cat, is what he means to say. "Locus will, or York," is what comes out instead, almost without his thinking about it.

But Locus doesn't exist - Wash's dream created him. And York has been dead for years. These are facts.

But Locus will feed DC if Wash isn't around to do it, and Wash will feed Luna in turn. And York is the one who got him the kitten in the first place, anonymously delivered via Legion staffer. These are also facts.

What the fuck is wrong with him?!

He shrinks away from Zenyatta, back pressed to the wall, hands clutching his head, eyes wide. He can't lose it again. He can't. He won't survive. But how is he supposed to keep his grip on his sanity if he can't even remember what's real?

The cigarette falls from his fingers, hits the floor, and disappears. For a moment, the walls waver.