"Mako Mori," she says, inclining her head slightly. He seems altogether unconcerned by the state of the dream, less bothered by its abnormalities and more comfortable with its transient nature. She tries to mirror his disposition as much as she can, leaning against the chair instead of sitting ramrod-straight as is her habit. "I haven't been in Manhattan for very long. And you," she continues, brow creasing in confusion. "People call you 'the Balladeer'? Is that short for anything?"

She is well used to the notion of nicknames being shorthand for another identity. The underground deals Pentecost had to cut to keep the program running for as long as it did had taught her that much, and Hannibal Chau had only been the last in a long list of black market dealers with which she'd become peripherally acquainted. 'The Balladeer' has the sound of a sort of official title or duty, though she isn't wholly sure what to make of that.