[ miles shivers at the hand on his back, but none of the tension eases from his frame, tightly coiled under his skin like a spring wound too tight. the heels of his hands are pressed to his eyes, but eyes shut or open, it doesn't seem to matter. he knows where he is even as he feels the room swim blindly around him, but it doesn't stop the tidal surge of sense memory of other times and places. the roar of shuttle engines drones in his ears, and behind his eyelids miles sees only the endless artifical sun of dagoola iv, the chime of breaking glass distant in his ears.

he's only abstractly aware that his heart is thudding harder now, tight in his chest, his forehead slick and clammy against his palms. he draws in a sharp breath and drops his hands to his lap, turning his face up to clark with a look of raw, weary devastation. ]

We tried to get everyone out, Clark, but we didn't. All the ones we left behind -- I was on the last shuttle up and we still didn't get everyone. I should've stayed.

[ didn't he? didn't he stay, and pay for it with his life? which time was it that he'd been trapped under all that glass and steel, and which was it that lieutenant murka got his head sliced off by plasma? or was it the glass that did him in, just like miles? how many times has he watched sergeant beatrice tumble from the shuttle hatch, swallowed almost immediately by darkness? miles's hands clench in his lap, his mind sputtering and stalling. ]