Oh god. Daniel's going to have to class this one under nightmare, most definitely. He buries his face in his hands for a minute. He needs to, to. Process this. Right. Give him a minute.

Then a horrible thought occurs to him.

"Wait, so -" He turns to face Topher again, still aghast. "Ten seasons? But that's - that's ten years. And I've only been with the USAF for eight."

The idea that this could be a method of predicting Daniel's future is ridiculous but in a...vaguely, metatextually terrifying way, because there's evidently a universe where an innumerable number of civilians have apparent access to very classified information and a grasp of his very private life, right down to his hair length, it's a deconstruction of his own reality and it's - it's -

"This is a dream," he reminds himself, now grinding both palms into his temples. "It's not - this isn't real."

Except it is, technically, assuming Topher isn't a construct of his subconscious, manifested for the sole purpose of picking apart his life and reconfiguring it into fictional imaging for its own nefarious purposes. But he can't imagine what any of those would be.