Shaw, too, pauses for an unnaturally long time - both taking in his words, and mulling over his question. Does she describe Earth - a place that this guy clearly isn't familiar with - as a whole? New York City, which is home intermittently and impermanently? The military bases she'd lived on as a small child, when her family had moved around for her dad's work? Iran, which she's never set foot in but is still imprinted on her bones?

"I'm from a prison, too," she says, finally, and she hates that this is back to feeling like the truest, most natural answer. She'd escaped. For a couple weeks there, she'd been so sure of it. "I'm strapped down to a bed with a needle in my arm, most of the time. I might still be there now."