[ a mild hum leaves him, still finding the name odd, but accepting it either way (andyr, you have a random ass y in your name, you can't talk). the boy steps up next to him, and while andyr doesn't turn his head at all to signal his attention shifting, he is sliding his eyes to look at him. or, rather, the arm attached to him. ]

Did you lose the arm here or at home?

[ a year is a good enough time to get in deep enough shit to lose a limb, but who knows how dangerous his home world was. andyr's finding a lot of them aren't quite so insane as his own is. maybe there's a small comfort, when he finds people from places actually worse than his world. few and far between as they are. as for the suggestion? welp. ]

I don't spar, and I'd beat you in any race. [ unless he's some kind of augmented as well, which, considering the people Andyr's met out and about the Moira, is very likely. as for the sparring part, welp. that's from a lifetime he'd given up, and it doesn't sit comfortably with Andyr to go back to it. That, and, he doubts he really can. He'd rather just avoid it that come to his senses with someone's windpipe crushed under his hand. ]

You know if there's anything heavier than this shit around?