"If every scar tells a story then I reckon you've got a best seller on your hands." He'd been sitting with you in the warmth of Mother Base's sauna for a while now, eyeing the scars across your form with an intrigued expression plastered on his face. He wasn't immune to curiosity and while he mostly tried to stay out of his soldiers business in terms of backgrounds in respect for their privacy, he figured you were here now and it was easier to ask you than to ask Miller to scrounge up your file. He knew he didn't have particularly perfect skin either, any number of ugly, jagged scars from knives, bullets and teeth lined his bulky frame, thin discoloured streaks cutting through the tan of his skin and the flecks of hair visible on his abdomen. It'd started when he had caught glimpse of a scar along your ankle and up your calf, the scar disappeared under your towel and he didn't feel like getting called a pervert so he'd turned his attention the the array of scars plainly visible on your chest and back. With a huff he gave your scars another look over and wiped the sweat from off his face with the back of his hand, taking care not to hit the shrapnel in his skull as he continued: "Y'feel like sharin' any of the stories behind them?"