[ I had this dream last night. Well, that about settles it, doesn't it? If Danse had led with anything else, Arcade may've been able to maintain plausible deniability. He could tell himself that dreams are only dreams, no matter what other thoughts he's had put in his head, lately. Feelings he's felt without wanting to. He could pretend that his nightmare was only a perfectly understandable, entirely reasonable mixture of traumatic childhood memories and new, unpleasant experiences. That's just how the subconscious works.

(Except Danse wasn't really an unpleasant part of the dream, was he? Somehow, actually, his presence made it more tolerable than it ever was, before.)

He doesn't speak for a long moment, similarly using the act of smoking to stall, to sift through his thoughts as he eyes a scrubby patch of brush, studies it in the early morning light. ]

It was, I think. Navarro, right?

[ He glances, briefly, at Danse again, sketching a shrug. ]

I had that dream every week for months, when I was a kid. Only it was... Different, then. It didn't have an end. I'd just wake up, terrified, convinced I was going to suffocate on all that smoke.