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Making her way up to Cobra's vessel, Sarita acknowledged him with a polite, but subdued, dip of her head—a more graceful version of the universal 'sup nod. “Not at all. Every station's layout is different, but when you spend years living off-planet, you learn to intuit your way around anywhere.” In person, there was no hint of the hispanophone accent that came thru over neuralnet comms or in-space radio. Despite the slight muffling and tinniness of her voice as filtered thru the mask, she sounded like a true-blue Libertonian, with a bit of a middle-class Denver accent even. She spoke with a reserved confidence, befitting the soldier and negotiator that she was, not too assertive, aware of her surroundings and of her interlocutor's demeanor. She had clearly learned to speak both languages to a perfect degree of fluency, something rather unusual for any Hispanian.
The subtleties of the insurgent's self-grooming motions were not lost on the mercenary, but of course, she diplomatically said nothing. Standing on the floor of the hangar bay a few feet away from the nose of Cobra's fighter, Sarita did her best to keep a friendly but alert posture and facial expression. Naturally the cardamine respirator almost entirely hid the latter, but her cheeks were still visible, and if nothing else, even subtle physical cues would impact her business partner's perception of her. Cobra wasn't the only one who took first impressions seriously.
“If anything, it feels... homely, in a way, to see such industry among your men.” This statement was a lie, and they both knew it—Sarita was clearly viewed with apprehension or active disgust by everyone else around her right now—but she said it with a bit of self-aware humor in her voice. Her best attempt to break the ice, brushing gently against the elephant in the room (here, herself) without explicitly calling attention to it. She hoped that her business associate appreciated the tact, that it served to convey the exchange past the awkward opening phases into less choppy waters.
