You know that moment when you're in a conversation and you don't quite hear what they say? You ask them to repeat it and they do, but it still sounds like they've got a mouth full of marbles and there's no going back so you just end up feeling cornered and extremely stupid.

That's about how Izzy feels now. And he does not take kindly to being made to feel stupid.

He's still hung up on what the fuck a neck romancer is. That is so wildly specific.

Manipulated human tissue sounds like a perverse sort of private time. History of objects, though. That he catches and can, at the very least, conceptualize.

"So no fire balls, no explosions," he tries, raspy voice looking for something useful. Some kind of artillery power.