Siren scoured the Dromedary; Every inch, every panel accessible by hand or utility tool, every little nook and crook she spotted. Nothing. Perhaps unsurprisingly. If the Cobra wanted her dead, he would just do it himself. He's a man of action. Of being in the action. Setting up a bomb just for her isn't his style. Or so she's surmised.
Once again, against her better judgement, the agent settles in the bridge of the Dromedary. Could you call it the bridge? It barely had room for three persons; two seats at the front screens, and a third that made it impossibly cramped to try and get out into the main body of the ship. Following the Cobras instructions, she sets the coordinates in the Dromedary's computer, and lets it handle the traversing of the lanes.
The suited pilot stares through the visor of her helmet, the tactical display inside of it warning her at times that it cannot interface with the dated systems of her chosen vessel. Dead isn't quite the word, no. Maybe not even piercing. Her gaze remains locked on an imaginary dot on the center of the screen before her, waiting for the familiar Prosecutor to pop up on scanners.
"Cobra." She says, her voice distorted just slightly in the faint static and crackling of the dated freighters communications system.
