For just a moment, there's a slight darkening of her expression. A momentary cloud passes over her face. But there's no real time for feeling grim, is there? They've got difficulty and danger ahead of them, and nothing distracts you like feeling sorry for yourself. So, half for Naismith and half for herself, she explains away her dark mood: "I don't know whether to be relieved or furious that it was subpar equipment that kept us docile for generations."

Okay. Brooding enough; that's all she's got time for. At once, she turns her attention to the gun in her hand. "Right," she says, her voice firm - or, less charitably, bossy. "We've got to keep you alive, first and foremost. I expect that suits your goals no less than it suits mine. So if there's danger, I take the brunt of it. You let me defend you. Agreed?" She takes a look down at the gun in her hand, frowning as she tries to puzzle it out. There's not much time for that, though; she already hears bootsteps from a hallway down.

"Behind me," she tells him - only then stopping to consider that perhaps a mercenary captain is more accustomed to issuing orders than he is to taking them.