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—taken you out to the Badlands?”

It wasn’t a bad thing. It was just…a /thing/. “No apology necessary,” he says in a low rumble, glancing briefly down as they zip out the gate before he takes a sharp turn, his elbows automatically tucking in to keep the Teddy secure, posture leaning forward. “Have I ever—

—comfortable with. It is familial, in a way.” Brows briefly pinch together and almost instantly smooth. “You are not with them now. Why.”

Being eight feet tall with a metal skeleton tends to give that impression, no matter how delicately one handles themselves. Arms swing behind his back for hands to interlock, thumbs rubbing over one another. “I am familiar. Most of these PMCs have an atmosphere I am—

—It is not particularly remarkable for its kind.” His head tips slightly to one side. “KorTac…I believe I have met a few of your number before, though I am not especially familiar.”

“I have not, but I know very little about you thus far.” His hand folds around hers with surprising restraint. A man grown used to handling the people around him with care. When he needs to. A single shake, and the hand slips away. “My name was chosen from a list.—

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“It was interesting and somewhat peculiar.” After a beat, he clears his throat. His bike is quieter than what Teddy might recognize, but still plenty loud enough to obscure, “As well as a bit untoward.”

—A massive hand extends, palm out, an offering to shake. “Stratos Incultix. Formerly 19-9 of the NC*PS Sec Guards. Presently the head of Section 19.”

“Most people are strange to me. This is not unusual. It is the variety of which they are strange that is unique.” His affect is monotone, his face utterly blank and nearly devoid of expression, but there’s a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth as he says this.—

—Stratos blinks at her. “I have been told that I am difficult to speak to.”

“No. I am not bored.” Hands slowly slot into the pockets of his dark, stiffly-starched uniform. The patch on his shoulder doesn’t reflect any of the usual PMCs, and any and all identifying markers like name or dog tags seem to be utterly absent. “I apologize.”—

—that for very long,” he muses, before the engine roars to life. Knees bump up to frame in Teddy’s legs, and after a moment of slower backing up, they tear off.

—His other arm outstretches to settle the other hand on the handlebar, one heel bumping back to sweep the stand up. “It is alright. You never know until you try.” Eyes flick down without his head budging. “Hm.” Back up. “I also do not know if I would be able to ride like—

Probably a little less comfortable when he has to shift a little to try and accommodate. Hips too wide for this to really be feasible in any capacity. Position to compromising to ride for long. His posture slacks infinitesimally when Teddy turns around, and he leans forward.—

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—focus-consuming ways of doing so.” Stratos blinks placidly and straightens. Not all the way; his full height is too imposing for casual conversation. His shoulders roll forwards, head tucking low.

He knows better than to ask about just using the personal FOV to access said phone. Because it is indeed a phone, not an Agent like his own. “I see. I was simply wondering why you would physically compose on paper when you have more efficient, smaller, and less—

—“I do not know how you wish to do this so I am leaving it to you.”

Stratos just loosens up his stride a little. Not much, he has infinitely longer legs than Teddy, but a little. Once they’re beside the bike he lets go of Teddy’s hand, slinging a leg over and settling. He leans back, plants one hand on a handlebar, and then holds out an arm.—