Tony rolls forwards in his sit to squint at that little raised patch of hardware under wetware, the little—port, lets call it. The familiar illumination of ethereal blue. His attention doesn't pivot to Jim when he explains how it came to get under there, manages to put together through context and etymology what the heck an oncocidal is meant to be, and refrains from prodding it.

Just kidding, but he does raise his hand, wiggle his fingers in warning, and then prods it. Just a little. It's very scientific of him.

"That you know about," he quips, immediate and ahead of the rush of feeling some kind of way, swiftly on the rise. "What about anything else, since you've been here? Symptoms, signs? Now that you've had six months to fuck around and find out."