Teammate still says a great deal, especially coming from what she knows of Maine's history. War forges bonds. She's seen the unshakeable friendships between the men in her life, won in trenches and bloodied conflicts, the unspoken trust earned between them. So when Wash gives his verdict, she takes it as truth, bemused and a little charmed as she glances between them: "Ringing, huh?"

She's not an expert in reading the Freelancer's micro-expressions yet, so the validation from someone who knows him better is an unexpected little beat of assurance. "I didn't know Maine had a teammate here. Happy to meet you, Wash, even if the circumstances are..." She trails off, and a flap of her hand to the abandoned, near-empty inn around them speaks volumes, summarises it all in a way that words can't. "Apparently they say this just happens sometimes."

There's a low ebb of frustration in the woman's voice as she says that, crossing her arms, but the sight of these two men stalking in means she feels on steadier footing, at least. Competent people. Soldiers, fighters. Much as she appreciates the level head of people like Foggy, she's a child of war herself, and automatically feels better with a pair like these two by her side. (It makes her fingers curl against her arm, itching for a shield, a rocket flail. Old habits die hard.)