Mark, whose biography has taught him to approach terrifying, inexplicable, and irrevocable changes in his life's path with a sort of surly resignation, is doing all right with all of this. All-right enough to be ready to mock his brother instead of run to him, and all-right enough to respond to Miles' noise of disbelief - it sounds almost more like a birdlike Ark??? than it does his name - with a short shrug.

That cool composure fades, though, when he looks down to see that cast on his brother's leg - and all at once he comes to attention, anger boiling up in him. A broken leg doesn't necessarily have a who as a root cause - hell, this is Miles, he tends to do broken legs to himself - but his bone is synthetic, how the hell did a synthetic get broken, how the hell are they going to fix it here -

Mark reaches down for his brother's hand, all pleasure at scoring cheap points on Lord Auditor Miles gone. His grip isn't solicitous, isn't delicate, but it's caring; he supports his shoulder as he helps to lift him up out of the snow. "What the hell happened?" he asks with a nod down to his leg. And then, eyes narrowed, as he takes in the whole of him - "What uniform is that?"