Mercenaries typically didn't expect to be provided for comfort, this much Feral understood. But that fact did not make being cramped up in the back of a cargo plane like a bunch of palettes any more comfortable for the fledgling operator. The Lupo wasn't particularly fond of flying—a questionable fact, when one considered the location of Retra's base—and it surely showed. While other, more veteran soldiers-of-comfort busied themselves with naps and leisurely reading, Feral anxiously toyed with with the sword she had boarded with, tracing the patterns carved into its guard with thin fingers. The mixture of boredom and subtle tension in her stomach that flared every time a fighter craft boomed past the vessel and set it to rattling had begun to get to her by the time Chariot spoke up. 

Somber amber eyes drifted from one end of the hold to another, putting voices to faces as best she could based on gesture; they [i]were[/i] all wearing masks, after all. She had never been very good at the social aspects of this work, and rather than speak up immediately, she mulled over how exactly to introduce herself. At this rate, the flight to the base and the worry of making a good first impression had frazzled her nerves more than any additional examination could ever do. That part of this work she [i]knew[/i] she was good at, at least.

A brief lull following the introduction of a rather personable Lung provided an adequate opportunity to make her own, and she seized on the opening with no lack of trepidation.

[color=d2d9db]"My callsign is Feral. I specialize in close-range target removal,"[/color] She quietly articulated, as was her way. A few seconds and an awkward shuffle followed before she continued, not content with her initial brevity. [color=d2d9db]"This is my first year on the job."[/color]