He can't tell whether it's his exotic status that's behind the brusqueness, or just the fact that he, a non-geneticist, is somewhere near the labs. He's certainly encountered his fair share of scientists as protective of their bioreactors as a mother hen. Or mother bear.

Curiosity apparently as lethal for Canadians as cats, he opts to push at the tolerance a little. "Your cuisine is worthy of much praise, but... point taken, ma'am. I have to admit some of the curiosity about this wing's more personal, though -- you might've seen the results of my intake physical?"

He hasn't bothered to volunteer excess information about the implant wired into his skull, or about the shorted out amp that leaves him about as biotic as the average kitten, but the idea that he'd have any sort of genetic privacy here is one he's not going to waste time considering. He might as well see about some answers. Or, more likely, some interesting non-answers.