He'd comment on Kit's if he wasn't busy trying to remember the details of his arms as he sits down as instructed, but mostly this just involves him staring blankly and looking distressed at the same time for what feels like a long time.
"Dunno," he finally says after a significant amount of time, "they're Mintaka, I think." There is the definitive 'I don't know shit please don't ask me any more questions," look on his face as he says it. Chris Miles is not the kind of man who remembers numbers and line names and all that, he's the kind of person who memorises every world record ever published.
Anyway.
Chris takes off his hoodie - maybe actually seeing the hardware will help Kit know what she's dealing with. His own arms are similarly, very clearly not the ones he grew himself, (because why would you bother hiding that kind of thing at all,) all white and chrome and much sleeker and more stylish than his wardrobe would suggest he'd ever go in for. The left one is in great condition; clean and shiny and obviously functional. The right, on the other hand, is a goddamn mess. There's stuff all over it, (upon closer inspection it may appear to be icing,) and its movements are kinda sluggish. Not to mention the aforementioned rattling and what looks to be a chunk of a poptart sticking out of the inner elbow.
"I, uh. Woke up like this." He gestures to the arm, kind of apologetically, "don't remember much of last night, if I'm honest."
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"Dunno," he finally says after a significant amount of time, "they're Mintaka, I think." There is the definitive 'I don't know shit please don't ask me any more questions," look on his face as he says it. Chris Miles is not the kind of man who remembers numbers and line names and all that, he's the kind of person who memorises every world record ever published.
Anyway.
Chris takes off his hoodie - maybe actually seeing the hardware will help Kit know what she's dealing with. His own arms are similarly, very clearly not the ones he grew himself, (because why would you bother hiding that kind of thing at all,) all white and chrome and much sleeker and more stylish than his wardrobe would suggest he'd ever go in for. The left one is in great condition; clean and shiny and obviously functional. The right, on the other hand, is a goddamn mess. There's stuff all over it, (upon closer inspection it may appear to be icing,) and its movements are kinda sluggish. Not to mention the aforementioned rattling and what looks to be a chunk of a poptart sticking out of the inner elbow.
"I, uh. Woke up like this." He gestures to the arm, kind of apologetically, "don't remember much of last night, if I'm honest."