Miles's bland smile stretches serenely across his face, if tightly, far enough into maple mead now that he doesn't meet his older self's tone with more of the same. A sort of relief, actually, the kind he's been craving, and all the more so for having to trudge through those grueling memories. You're not done yet, boy, a voice in his mind reminds him, and Miles reaches for his cup again.

"Resurgence," he says, like that word would mean anything to the other Miles, but he goes on. "Cryo wasn't for revival, it was for recovery. It's the Ingress. Spits people back out after they've died. Most of the time," he adds after a thought. Once in a while, somebody stayed dead. No rhyme or rhythm to it. "And it doesn't spit you back out whole, either. Those synthetics we got in our legs, the first ones..."

He very nearly raps on his cast but stops himself just shy, aborting it into a vague gesture instead. "Gone. Replaced with old brittle bone. How d'you think this happened?" Falling out of a vent shaft, actually, but that's another story. "A few memories, too. I chalked it up to cryoamnesia at first, but it turns out the Ingress is just greedy."