"...Interesting. Very interesting. Is that how I come across to you, now that you've met me? Hm. Does it surprise you to learn you're the first person to accuse me of being cautious? In my life, in fact."

A ridiculous question with an obvious reply. Naturally she is not surprised in the slightest. To say she was would be to break the sanctity of her read. It would mean that Marcina Villajero respected the perceptive powers of the average pilot to match her own, when plainly she did not. And in the absence of that respect, it would mean that the observation was not significant. And it needed to be significant. That was a requirement.

Because it was not an accusation in the first place. It wasn't acceptable to laugh this off as a joke or let it melt into another misunderstanding or misfire. 'I see through you'. That was the intended message of this casual aside. 'I see through you, where others have not. You are a layered and subtle creature and I respect you enough to reveal that I recognize that.' It was meant as a challenge, to give optimal time for Mirror to add new and ideally unreadable layers to her performance before they met in a match. It was a seal of confidence, that they [i]would[/i] inevitably meet in a match. And it was an apology: revealing the insight negated a strategic advantage and reciprocated a similar concession Mirror had already made earlier in the conversation. 

But Mirror laughs, as if she'd been told the funniest joke in her life. She laughs, knowing Marcina Villajero will not be fooled into thinking Mirror doesn't understand what she did. She laughs as she reaches for her drink, and drains the remaining portion with a grin and a firm slam on the table, the kind you see in Terenian movies. Because in the end, this last move in the game had been the one that impressed her the most. Because her heart was pumping blood through her veins as swiftly as if she were a Huntress, finally blessed with worthy prey. Because this is the least and only kindness she can offer Marcina Villajero in such a strange and crowded setting. 

"You have a way with words, Marcina Villajero! You should have been born a Fisher. We might even have been sisters! Extraordinarily careful, hahahaha. I'm going to tell my mechanic you said that. Does yours charge overtime? Because mine..."

She whistles, a noise she is not particularly adept at producing. She can make one note, an upward slide that desperately wants a downwards follow to complete it. But her lips can't make the shape. She can't adjust her air inflow. And not for lack of practice. This is simply... beyond her. She smiles and shrugs it off. 

"She is... expensive. I should try harder to live up to your idea of me."

Why do this? Because the exchange would end unequal, otherwise. Because Marcina Villajero was surrounded by hangers-on with varying levels of sharpness and curiosity, and some of them would start asking bothersome questions about one or both of them. It would, in the end, say things about Marcina Villajero that would harm her. Her advantage in the arena did not deserve to be eroded by a conversation in a dive bar, and certainly not by a random failure of a war hero worth a quarter of the attention due to an arena champion. 

So here you are, then. A joke, told to a silly cat who held on through cinnamon poison just long enough to get drunk and debase herself. Let them say that Mira Fisher is a fool with delusions of grandeur but a hot enough ass to make up the difference. Or let them say that a pair of strangers met by chance and exchanged puns across language barriers before departing as friends. Let them say that each has found a worthy rival, if they much. So long as they are bored. So long as the talk that spreads is no more than bar gossip. 

You may not appreciate it until much later, Marcina Villajero. But you will at the very least not misinterpret it. Mirror is confident of that much. She rises with an exaggerated sway that hits at least ten people with her fluffy tail, and gives several others that turn around a brief but memorable glance at the body of a model. A girl of many, but not ubiquitous talents. What a shame she can't stop getting in her own way. What a shame Hybrasil culture is so... limiting. What a shame, what a shame, what a shame.

She waves behind her as she sways her way to the bartender, and whispers something in their ear. In the end, it was her account that would be credited for the drinks. In the end, it was Marcina Villajero that would have to decide how she felt about the service. Proactivity wins wars, didn't you know?