( Jules has taken time to compose herself. Of course she has; for one, appearing in a anxious mess wasn't flattering for anyone. It didn't fly with her modus operandi of forever optimism, where people could be forgiven for thinking that every day she awoke in a waterfall of daisies, nudged into consciousness by a unicorns that carried her on roads made of rainbows.

Secondly, she is London. The capital, the overseer, and while she might still be counted as a beginner by some Order members (“not even three years yet, a bit green”), Julia Grumley was not a person to be trifled with – despite all appearances and assumption. Not anymore, and especially not when she had been on her way to a lovely, romantic weekend in Amiens and has been fucked right off into a bloody spaceship.

No. She takes her time. Make up, a silk scarf that does wonders to make this jumpsuit look better (lies) and a few minutes to compose herself. She's even got a smile, which might be considered a miracle, unless you've known her for more than five minutes.

So, here she is, clearing her throat, and eyeing the device with some curiosity. )

Um, terribly sorry to be a bother, but I seem to have wound up somewhere rather different than my intended getaway. I think I've got the hang of the basics, just about, but if there's any chance anyone's going to jump out with a big old “haha, we got you!” then sooner rather than later would be very much appreciated. Not that it isn't a lovely ship! I'm sure it's just... marvellous. Splendid, even! Fantastic.

( . . . Oh, God. Why? ) I'm Julia Grumley. Jules, actually. Only one syllable, much easier for everyone.

( Her voice is light, smile playful – you'd not think there was a thing wrong. Another beat, and Jules tilts her head a little, observing the device with sharp curiosity. )

I don't suppose there's anyone else from the UK here?
( It's not pointed, unless you know what she's talking about. ) I'm from London, myself.

( more lies )