To say that Natasha is displeased with the results of the trials would be an understatement, but she hides it well. In truth she's more annoyed with herself than anything. She had just figured that between the information she gave them and their own research, which had seemed to be fairly advanced that they wouldn't be this-- inept, if she's feeling petty. She knows this is completely different than anything they've done before, but at the same time, on her world this was old tech, late World War II, early Cold War, before the space program had developed anything other than haphazard accidents.
It doesn't take long for her to slide into the Medbay, that soft rustle of the Cetagandan robes she wears more days than not; every effort taken to look like she might almost be Ghem. Facepaint, hair braided and pulled up with a comb, the light perfume. She's learned more or less everything they'll teach her about their culture, afterall, learned more by watching, paying attention with a sharp eye for patterns and social dynamics.
"Lady Diya," she murmurs softly. Seeing that Sei isn't here, she actually looks at the woman instead of that polite aversion of her gaze that the haut-wife interestingly seemed to dislike.
no subject
It doesn't take long for her to slide into the Medbay, that soft rustle of the Cetagandan robes she wears more days than not; every effort taken to look like she might almost be Ghem. Facepaint, hair braided and pulled up with a comb, the light perfume. She's learned more or less everything they'll teach her about their culture, afterall, learned more by watching, paying attention with a sharp eye for patterns and social dynamics.
"Lady Diya," she murmurs softly. Seeing that Sei isn't here, she actually looks at the woman instead of that polite aversion of her gaze that the haut-wife interestingly seemed to dislike.