You don't give a rat's ass who I'm supposed to be here. You care more about who I was. And I need to figure both out, because neither is particularly clear at the moment. All I have is this stupid tablet and what people are telling me.

[She pauses.] I would rather have ended up reanimated in the body of one of the god-forsaken townsfolk here than without a clue of who the hell I'm supposed to be. You and that supposed friend of mine did it, and you didn't get anything for it. He's rambling on the network and Watson is off tattling to the administrator and we have learned exactly nothing--except that the nanomachines carry an imprint of ourselves and our memories and are quite good at getting screwed up. That, and that Sherlock is evidently completely off his rocker. [Even acting, she's talking fast enough and with enough real frustration that she has to stop to catch her breath.]

If time is running out and I'll either need to die or wait who knows how long for my mind to get straight again, then I'll take whatever risks you see as appropriate to start getting some damned answers.

[And she almost believes it, enough that there's a real desperation to her voice. It's just believable enough.]