[Jean very nearly lets that get to him. The familiarity of it—the tone, the explanation, the patented Jean-Heron kid gloves treatment—settles his nerves for just a moment. His eyes stop darting around long enough to settle back on Harry, truly taking in how different he seems. Months indeed—there's a marked improvement between then and now. Maybe he really has been jogging.

He barely recognizes the man in front of him.

He shrugs Harry's hand off with a brusque disgust, repulsed in an instant. Emergency or no, he can't let himself drop his guard.]

Trash pile? That doesn't sound new for you, Harry.

[That opens the door for some very easy retaliation, so he pushes past it quickly, taking a step back so he can raise his voice again.]

Peninsula? Like, like—where? I've not heard of it. Certainly not on Le Caillou, I assume.

[It's moments like this he wishes he had Kitsuragi's propensity for writing details down—he's sure he has a legal pad somewhere, but not on his person. Vicquemare squeezes his eyes shut, trying to commit the flood of information to memory clearly and precisely.]

Displacement. Ve—ry fucking specific.