Miles grins fiercely back, shrugging one shoulder. "If I make it back home and I remember all this? It's not going to happen. I'm going to make damn well sure it doesn't happen. And so will Bel," he adds, just a touch defensively, and God does he ever wish he could talk to Bel right now, if only to clear his mind of all these damn hypotheticals. "I've got no frigging clue why the Ingress dumped me here of all places and times -- maybe just because it was funny, that thing has a cruel sense of humor -- but I'm not going to make the same mistake twice. Not mine, and not yours."

It's his turn to have that slightly terrifying fire in his eyes, fueled by maple mead and momentum and hysteria and underneath it all, when everything else is eroded away, sheer spite. He leans forward in his chair. "So be Miles Illyan. He'll be whoever he needs to be -- outcast, translator, guerrilla warrior, whatever. He'll be a survivor. You already know plenty about surviving. You can do that much."