She smiles, but there's something about it - something that doesn't reach her eyes. She's cold, like ice, even when her smile isn't. But it's not a reason for concern.

"Three years, in October. And a year, previous to that, but my memory is not so reliable on that front. I run the garage." She takes a moment, another sip. "My name is Saya Wallace. And you?" The more she speaks, the more perceptible her accent becomes, something clipped and vaguely South African. Namibian, exactly.