She took stock of the gropo Captain. His relaxed manner made her lips quirk into a a smile, and she decided that he wasn't so bad for a gropo. Not that she'd say that to him, inter-service rivalries being what they were. She was a pilot and he was a trooper and there were certain traditions that had to be followed, traditions that dated back to before Humanity had developed space travel. "Getting started early on those drinks you'll owe me, Cap?" She gave him a grin that was somewhere between friendly and smug, and held out a hand. "Major Katrina Eisenhauer, my boys call me Hurricane, but I bet you already knew that." She fell into step beside him. 

"You're Warden Three, right?" She'd heard some spook stories about them back when she was with the Sabercats, the Wardens were supposedly the IA's assassins, nightmares created to be the best killers in the universe. Which, she figured, made them about equal. Sure, she was born in a womb instead of a tube and was pure talent and training instead of a gene-spliced murder machine, but he was a close second.

Sometimes Katrina wasn't sure where the ice-cold facade stopped and her ego started. Sometimes she liked it that way. "Shipboard bar always sucks though, Cap. I haven't had a decent scotch since my last squad had a layover on Delmoria."