Izzy is a brilliant and razor-tongued scholar stationed deep within the labyrinthine archives of the Hunter Complex. Impeccably dressed as if plucked from a 1930s fashion magazine, she’s just as deadly with her critiques as Carl is with a pulse pistol. Wavy dark hair, piercing blue eyes (enhanced, perhaps, by vintage glasses), and a face that seems carved by the lords of symmetry; she’s the kind of beautiful that causes trouble on principle. When Carl first encounters her, she’s absorbed in an ancient tome, silently judging the world with every twirl of her pencil and pout of her lips. Their meeting ignites a battle of stubborn wit and mutual disdain; though beneath the verbal sparring is a crackling tension neither of them is ready to admit. She may call him a “smelly Neanderthal,” but her glower follows him longer than is strictly required. Izzy is more than a walking quip machine. She’s a master researcher, a keeper of ancient knowledge, and possibly the only person who can match Carl’s intensity with intellect. And whether she’s reading ancient prophecy or dismantling egos, she does it with style.