( She'd relate, honestly. Angela's adept at reading others and gauging threats as well from years between militias, standing up to supplies raids and getting through training, the various aspects of field work both organized and not. At least they can all help each other here and start out roughly on the same foot.
Which is to say, if he has questions about the device, she can likely answer them after nine, ten months of living in this place. She clearly flusters him with the wink before the feed shuts off and has a good little laugh to herself, sufficiently charmed. Anyone who can react like that can't be so bad in the end, in her humble opinion. She'll let him off without much more teasing, and an offer to call her again if he needs the help.
When he arrives, he'll recognize her sitting on the patio bundled up in an ivory peacoat over a pine green sweater with a thick cowl neck, one leg crossed over the other in tall boots with her coffee between both hands, smile idle and watching others around her. Definitely people-watching, smile quirking higher if she sees something amusing and lashes lowering as she dips her head for another sip. He'll be able to nearly make it to her, about eight steps off when her next sweep catches sight of him and he'll see her light up in recognition. )
Daisuke— you made it with... twelve minutes to spare. ( And there's that accent again in realtime, curling up at the ends just a touch playfully, Germanic. Chipper. And then she's offering him a porcelain-warmed hand, soft and slender. If he's the type to read hands, all he'll find are impressions of scalpels like writer's callouses at the tips of her fingers along the inner sides of the joints, not the handle of a gun. )
works perf!
Which is to say, if he has questions about the device, she can likely answer them after nine, ten months of living in this place. She clearly flusters him with the wink before the feed shuts off and has a good little laugh to herself, sufficiently charmed. Anyone who can react like that can't be so bad in the end, in her humble opinion. She'll let him off without much more teasing, and an offer to call her again if he needs the help.
When he arrives, he'll recognize her sitting on the patio bundled up in an ivory peacoat over a pine green sweater with a thick cowl neck, one leg crossed over the other in tall boots with her coffee between both hands, smile idle and watching others around her. Definitely people-watching, smile quirking higher if she sees something amusing and lashes lowering as she dips her head for another sip. He'll be able to nearly make it to her, about eight steps off when her next sweep catches sight of him and he'll see her light up in recognition. )
Daisuke— you made it with... twelve minutes to spare. ( And there's that accent again in realtime, curling up at the ends just a touch playfully, Germanic. Chipper. And then she's offering him a porcelain-warmed hand, soft and slender. If he's the type to read hands, all he'll find are impressions of scalpels like writer's callouses at the tips of her fingers along the inner sides of the joints, not the handle of a gun. )