"Take the crisis in hand." Andyr repeats, slowly, like there's something funny about it, chuckling a bit to himself as he scratches a thumb nail along the table top between them, a small indention beginning to carve. There's anger there, boiling up, and entirely apparent in how he speaks, the way his expressions shift, the hold of his posture. Despite how his tone doesn't raise at all, and words remain even and measured, everything about him screams it. Anger, bitterness, and something much more vicious binding them up together. "Well, Mother Nature gave some of the new generation a gene to fix it. And what our great governments did was commercialize it."

There's a smile flashed, but not a kind one, and he's almost whispering it here, like it's some kind of secret, almost comical in the play of it. There isn't much of innocent wonder left in him, and hadn't taken much to wash over it.

"So, if you've got the cash, now, you can sap the health out of the Mice they keep in corporate labs, all carved open and stuffed with needles day in and day out, or maybe get yourself a clone to transfer your memories into, and live forever." It isn't difficult to imagine why this is so personal to him, and Andyr's never been subtle about anything, least of all this. "We've even got some that farm extra organs. Just snip one out and send it to someone with a fat wallet. Or, you know, a cannibal."

A tremor goes through his jaw, something hateful in the last sentiment. "That's how our government took the crisis in hand."