"I dunno about what kind of prosthetics you were making, but I slapped a whole leg out of a dead truck-former's torso once and it lasted five years! Just in time for that supply line red-tape clog-up on Bozick to work itself out," Spinister snorts, flipping another table up right with his foot. "Some bolt bucket up in the ranks misplaced the documents for the whole damn planet, can you believe it? One of the battalion commanders spent whole week slowly pushing a branding iron through his head."

"Anyways," digression aside. "I'm in a mood to con you out of something, so how about a bet?"