( Clint— like Eastwood. So many Americans here with such American names. Names like Hank and Ethan Chandler. Truly a disproportionate amount from the colonies; on the bright side, there'll never be a queue for the tea, she supposes. Provided they can't find a way to get out of here before a cup of tea becomes a priority, of course.

Interesting to learn this Clint Probably-Not-Eastwood is in the hero business, too. Right off she's thinking maybe fire brigade, search and rescue, something of the sort — until her mind replays the memory she saw. The suits, the intensity of it, the otherworldly nature. The fae sure have made an impressive selection of their kidnapping victims. Maybe here the odds skew in a particularly more grand direction?

His question doesn't even require a single second of thought: )

Oh, loads. Constantly. All the time, really.

( But what's life without a little trouble, yeah? Boring, is what. Boring's for people who, like, retire or something.

She skirts around him to aim for a fallen tree nearby; it makes for a decent Perching Log, and she settles in against it, absently brushing bits of moss and tree bark away to give her palms a clean(er) place to rest. )

Spend a lot of time on other planets, do you, Clint? That memory, that wasn't on Earth, was it? Didn't look like it.