Not here, specifically. [Here it comes. The long line of explanations he doesn't want to embark on. The part where you're dead and but you didn't just die and it's been years and I'm not who I was and a million other things that he thought he could shake but can't, in the end. Memory is the rope always around his neck, drawing tighter.]

[It's like C.T. slid something into the carefully compartmentalized parts of himself and sent it all tumbling down, all over again.]

But...the here where this is. I mean, we're not where we were. The mission. The Sarcophagus.

[Sentence fragments, loose pieces of information. It's like jostling a bucket full of screws and hoping that one of them jimmies in where it's supposed to, but he can feel the buildup in the back of his throat, his own infuriating vagueness grueling and acid.]

It hasn't...I haven't been there in a while.