"Trust me, I am well aware," Adele answers with scathing disapproval, and just enough grit in her voice one might gather the impression she's been at it long enough she intends to will the synthehol to her bidding. With near petulance, she picks up her glass to punctuate her point, draining the rest of its contents.

It isn't until then that she really looks at her companion, not bothering to lift her head. She frowns as she takes stock of those small details, the Greek psi perhaps the most interesting of them all. She lifts her head, hair smoothing into some semblance of order.

"You are not one of those under this ship's employ," she surmises, accent a little low and loose from its general prim British tenor.