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{{{As I said with my first post, he definitely knows, the "ditto" thing was comparing to Oliveman's}}} {{{unless it's the notepad explanation}}}

Seeing Cecil's sentance, Charlie nodded, giving his annoyed look to the man. "He's mute, 'ya idiot." He said flatly.

Charlie shook his head again. "And why would they do that?" After the man had pointed out the flabs under his forearm, instantly groped them again, it was still a very weird feeling to have them there. "Part of one of the changes. They look like fins to me, actually."

Baltar took the notebook subconsciously, still looking at the...fins?
That would go along to the distinct animalism theme, He stroked his stubble growth and they don't sway in this breeze. They're rigid; they're not vestigial. "They seem pretty seemless with your skin. Was in an operation they performed, or was it one of these "phasings" I hear about?" His desire for more information was beginning to overwhelm what social graces he had, still half-staring at the fins. When he noticed the two eyeing his own hands, he realized he still had the notebook, and read it.

Gah, more biology, he thought wryly, what fun! He attempted to recall high school anatomy class... Laryngeal.. Larynx? Sounds right.. One of the breathing tubes in the lungs? Yes. Wait, cancer? He realized his blunder... his profound blunder. Grasping for words, "I didn't mean any offense, I...I..." He looked away, sharply. The brain always going faster than the mouth. "Sorry."

Cecil wrote back, It's okay.

Really, he didn't like it when they were sorry, or any kind of pity. He got over the fact that he wouldn't be able to talk for the rest of his life a loooooong time ago. Course, the excuse came in useful once in a while, it got Mister big mouth to pause between breaths.

What's your name? He wrote down as he showed it to the man.

Cecil Milner He wrote, Doctor, huh? Wait, you're not working for those guys in the labs, are you? From the looks of it, Bress seemed to be as much as a victim as Charlie and himself. You never know though, even if the doctor was working for Feral labs, he probably wouldn't tell them anyway. If living in New York city taught him anything, it was to not take anything at face value, people could be innocent and truthful the first moment, and the next moment, they're as fake as a trading card in Chinatown. It wasn't paranoia, in fact, he was trusting up to almost to the point of naivety (And gotten mugged because of it), but he knew people had secrets to hide, so he kept his guard.

Cecil shrugged, he scribbled in his book and "Said" to the doctor, Beats me, if you wanna look around, I'll come along.

Cecil raised an eyebrow. Guess the doctor was smarter then he seemed. He didn't want to sign at the moment so he wrote again,

If you put a million banshees in a large room, unleashed a strep throat virus upon them and ask them to sing, that's my voice.

It was the usual response for Cecil for anyone who actually wanted to know what he sounded like. He refused for many reasons, mainly because it felt like a b***h whenever he tried to make a sound.

So I don't. He signed, walking forward. Christmas eve and now he was signing with a meteorologist, trying to find his boat. This has been one weird night.