Jay stares at Tim, brow (well, the ridge of pale, hairless skin that operates roughly the same way as a brow) furrowed, until Georgia speaks again.

At her comment about swords, Jay snorts. "Lucky. All I've got are these." He holds out his spindly hands. Without shifting, his best bet is to try and slap the monsters to death. "And yeah, it's good. It's always helped, even back home. Honestly, the few months Tim and I were working together were probably the safest I've felt since--alright, what the hell is going on?"