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Zaeed slipped into the hole in the mountain. There were still enough shoring posts and buildings half-buried in the mud to identify the mine as having been a turian endeavor, once upon a time. In the days before the Reaper war. Before her.

Air hissed, cold and sharp against his skin. He felt the needles retract on their automatic arms, and had a brief moment of utter confusion. Who was he? Why did he know what a needle was? The thought of it brought back rushes of disjointed memories, medical caste examining him, prodding his biotic skills, experiments he performed on faint remains of the Inusannon.

Blood roared in his ears, an odd counterpoint to the oozing he could feel in his arm. His armor had a half dozen holes in it already, and he could hear the heavy tromping footsteps of the cloned krogan troops and the electronic warbling of the geth as they cautiously approached his position. They were the third squad to do so; he'd killed two dozen of the bastards already. But the wounds were taking their toll here, and he was out of medigel.

A switch closes, and electric power energizes my personality matrix. Linking with the Normandy computer synchronizes my internal clock. I have been offline for three days seventeen hours four minutes eighteen point three seconds. In that time, the armor panels damaged by corrosive thresher maw spit have been replaced, two wheels have been replaced, and my main cannon has a current theoretical accuracy of ninety-nine point nine nine repeating percent. A clear sign that the turian crewmate has had his fingers into my system. I approve.