"My name is Mako," she says politely. She hesitates before extending a hand, uncertain of how someone who exudes the air of so much dominance will interpret the gesture. She does not remember ever seeing someone like her before. The stern, no-nonsense disposition is vaguely reminiscent of Pentecost, but she knew Pentecost. She knew he had softer edges.

She does not know if the same will hold true to whoever this is.

"Who are you?" she asks, straining not to allow any note of wariness to enter her tone.