( distantly, she's aware of the tendrils of exchange between the two of them. whispers that can't be picked out amidst the louder thoughts that pound in between her temples like a heartbeat. it makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, and earn a suspicious glance around the room once clarke drags her gaze from the databank in hand. it'd been easy enough to activate, to find the index of the briefing report sent out to those who came before them, and while it's too dense to read through with the buzz of conversation about, it's enough to spark a few more questions.

once upon a time she might have raised her hand in a classroom setting. but this is a lengthy discussion nitpicking the semantics of subterfuge. )

You don't want soldiers, you want political spies. That's different. ( which she has a whole mess of feelings about, and yet... trepidation isn't chief among them. a flare of irritation, some sour sentiments about sending so many of them, working the odds against them for being discovered. that's how her history with such things has unfolded at least. a brief glance back at the mission statement, then back to their orientation leaders. )

How do you expect us to interrogate Enemy agents about which group they're working for without letting them know we're onto them?