Jo raised her eyebrows—in a doubtfully unapologetic 'Are you kidding me?—at that first question and his ludicrously hopeful thoughts on his age, as though to say no one was going to buy him as a fully-fledged adult-like this. Even his response smacked of something that was too hopeful and crestfallen about not hitting the optimistic head of that mark.

The rest.

Jo stares and goes rather still. She can feel the pickle on her shoulders and upper arms, upper back muscles tensing; that would be a chill if it weren't for the blasted arid wind of this unending desert the base and The Free Cities in total found themselves in. Four. Years. Old. Born looking that old. Four years old. Not supposed to talk about those years. Four years old???

"What?" It is more of an outlandish explosion of sound than anything else. "Yeah, I'm gonna go with that really doesn't work for me. You're gonna wanna explain what that means, and—" Her voice growing a little sterner, stiller, closer to steel; but not louder. "—what that makes you."