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Sarita nodded and quickly grabbed hold of the fighter's wing, pulling herself up and shuffling her way across a ledge 'til she was adjacent the canopy. Her build, as best could be discerned beneath her flightsuit and the headshots Cobra had seen in her transmissions, didn't look particularly muscular or lithe, but looks were often deceiving. The Outcast was clearly a soldier, with reaction times and physical aptitude honed by extensive hand-to-hand combat experience.
Hardly a foot away from Cobra, she bent forward and began loosening and unbuckling the various latches that were too awkward for the Xeno to reach, instinct guiding her hands. The most recent common ancestor of Sarita's Rapier and Cobra's Rebel was built over eight hundred years ago, but even in the better part of a millennia's time, not much evolution of these essential internals had taken place. “Real leather for the seat. Imported from Guadalajara? I bet it's less expensive for your people than for the rest of Sirius.” As she asked, her eyes locked with Cobra's for a split second. In the cheap artificial lighting her irides looked black rather than brown, giving her masked face an uncanny look. The breathing filtered through her mask echoed in a similarly perturbing fashion. There were many reasons that outsiders viewed the Maltese with suspicion—regardless of circumstance, they always exuded an otherworldly aura.
“It seems like a nice ship, given what you have to work with.” The restraints were all released now, and to give Cobra the freedom to exit the cockpit however he wished, Sarita turned around and slid to sit on the nose of the ship just in front of the open canopy, legs hanging freely off the side and gloved hands planted palms-down firmly in place. Throughout the entire maneuver, her eyes were trained on Cobra, still space-black in the center.
