[ For the most part, Angela was utterly 'harmless'. He can't see the Caduceus Blaster that's strapped against her holster underneath her ribs, but she's able to keep herself alive for the most part if things went to hell. She hopes not. Not with what she had been thought to uncover. It was a brutal scene - she could anticipate the manhours that would follow any surgeon to repair the battered men.

There was two ways this could go, she thinks, and she hates both of them. Coming to terms that this man truly was the ghost she had long since left behind or that he would willingly fight her. She pushes on among the downpour of rain on the streets, the puddles ruining her favorite pair of suede boots in the process. A small price to pay. ]

Is that all you have to say?

[ Her accent is heavy, a superiority that was hard to shake. She's hissing, vindictive in her own right. ]

Barking orders like you're some commander.

[ Did that strike a note? She's not sure, but as she holds tightly onto the hook of her umbrella, she looks for answers she likely wouldn't get. ]

You're wanted on multiple counts of terrorism and treason. Maybe it is time you stop making enemies.