[Ratchet inhales slowly but shrugs and holds both his arms out. There's scarring around both, and from the scarring down to his fingertips his hands are... odd, almost out of place, the skin a slightly different shade.]

I've been a combat surgeon since--well. [His expression is closed and unreadable, but he's certainly dragged enough unpleasant personal information out of Miles for one afternoon and he supposes fair is fair. He doesn't hesitate.] For a long time. And a regular doctor before that, with a practice during the day and a free clinic in my off-hours ever since I graduated medical school. Eventually my hands just... stopped working. Quit. Nothing I or anybody else could do to fix them.

[He folds his arms back in, trying not to let the gesture seem protective even as his shoulders curl in defensively.]

So, I got new ones.