[ Miming. D'Artagnan's eyes narrow a little while he tries to make sense out of those gestures. Then as Grey's arm turns, he notices what he hasn't before - that it's not just dirt and grime on that skin. D'Artagnan automatically reaches for him again, stilling his arm to look at them. All of them, so many words. ]

They're tattoos. [ His eyes slide back to the boy's strange face, and he shakes his head. ] Who are you? So many marks.

[ Where he's from - when he's from - tattoos like this aren't common. Sailors have them, and criminals. Often criminals. But those wouldn't be this kind of tattoo. They wouldn't be words, written in cursive, and...

Written in English. D'Artagnan can speak some English, now. He couldn't when he first arrived here, but he'd learned, because of those times when the translators fail. Reading it still isn't all that easy. The one he picks out isn't 'Trouble', but 'Die' - that one, he knows. But there are so many, and they seem so random. Individual words, not sentences or quotes. Just words, written all over the boy who doesn't speak. ]

They're how you talk, aren't they? I...

[ He pauses, and then his face settles into something sympathetic. ]

Listen. This? [ He holds up the nanite gun, letting Grey see it this time. ] It gives you a shot, and it fixes anything. Any injury. Just like your hand.

[ His head tilts, and he nods to Grey's broken arm again. ]

Do I need to give you more?