He'd been helping guard the hostages and keeping an eye on their survellaince when a very familiar set of armor popped up on the feeds. He immediately transferred his duties to someone else and made his way to the communications room in question to deal with this intruder himself.

He was grateful for the trek, as it gave him the time to compose hismelf. This wasn't some meeting of age-old rivals; sure, they'd been on opposite sides of a crisis before, but back then she'd seen sense - he's hopeful that she would again.

He doesn't make any moves to conceal his entrance, sliding the door open and then closed behind him as he would have done joining his team on the bridge of the Staff of Charon. He gives her a moment, taking a couple careful steps into the room. It might not be her. It could be similar armor. But with all the other Freelancers showing up, he'd be very surprised if it wasn't.

He takes his helmet off. His carefully trimmed mohawk has given up the ghost int he years following her death, the calculated optimism in his face tangled with lines of frustration and a deep seated anger, but his eyes still held the warmth for her, seeing her (god he hoped it was her). "Connie ... didn't expect to find you here."