Okay, the immediate aftermath of a mission is frequently a bit of a blur, particularly when he's been badly injured. But Miles could've sworn that the last time he was conscious, he was with his fleet.

He is not currently with his fleet.

He is currently lying in a puddle in some nameless dirtside alley, squinting up at a reasonable facsimile of Earth's most famous tourist attraction. This seems unlikely to actually be Earth - they were more than a few days' travel away from it, last he checked - but that silver half-circle sure does look like Luna.

Can he move? He tries moving. Nope. No, he cannot move.

"Fuck," he mutters.