"So do I," Gabriel said darkly. Communication. Dreams. The idea, and transmitting it. He'd used to do all that, once. He'd always had a soft spot for great inventors because of that. And he knew, very well, just what sorts of things humanity could invent that could do this kind of thing.

"Though I have to admit the glass is a surprise," he added, glancing at one particular spike and cocking his eyebrow at it. Then he looked back at the Doctor with a blink. "I ... have."

He frowned. Huh. So that's what they must've planted in his head this time around. It felt ... right. Real. Like the last one, except it was in a way both more unnerving and less. His last memory hadn't belonged to any part of him; once its intensity had worn off, it had been almost amusing how anachronistic the memory had truly been. Amusing, but frightening because of how little it fit and how well they had made it fit.

This was different. Two thousand years spent wandering the Earth different. Before then, countless millennia flying over it, passing out messages and--before humanity--dwelling in Dad's creation. This kind of memory, knowing the landscape, the world his Father had made ... it was his. Gabriel's. And that it belonged to Sylvester too made him uncomfortable on a totally different level.

"I got taken in a few days ago," he said, a little absently because he was sorting through his impressions of the surface and what it ought to be.