Dear god, he thinks, staring down at the man below him, have I always been this hyperactive? Well - yes, apparently, though now the stream of babble makes his head hurt. (He can't tell if the thing giving him the headache is the noise itself or the fact that he's thought through the same scenario himself, in similar terms. It's like a psychic echo chamber.)

There are other differences too, now that Miles is letting himself actually look at the man below him in anything approaching detail. No telltale spiderweb of needler scars at his chest, nor the matching lines from his pre-cryo blood draining. A slightly softer face, with slightly fewer pain lines. No lingering grayness from a recent seizure ... What the hell is going on here? He needs himself to shut up for a moment so he can think. And pace. Preferably both.

"You're enough of a headache for the both of us," he says, reducing his two-handed grip down to one so that he can massage his temples with the other. "Just - give me a moment. Dear god. How old are you?"