We, he says, and she'd say dissociative identity disorder, if it weren't for that flash of white eyes and crawling black veins. The sheer sight of that, however short, is enough to make her pause where she is, balancing on her toes, running through a list of options lightning-fast in her mind. Running is a bad idea. She doesn't know what he is, doesn't know if she can outrun him. Pulling the knife at her belt might not be the best idea either; whatever he is, whatever's going on, she doesn't want it to recognize her as a threat. She's worked with the Hulk for long enough that she can recognize these behaviors when they start to manifest. It isn't enough to have a handle on the situation, not by a long shot, but it's enough to at least let her get a finger on the pulse.

Her voice is as neutral as she can make it, and there's a subtle shift in her shoulders, in the way she holds herself as she watches him, wary. She isn't prey, but she's not the enemy. For all that he looks human, whoever the other half of that 'we' is probably isn't. "Don't know if you've looked around lately, but there's not really any cells nearby," she says, though she does consider the sturdy-looking front door. No point. There's a giant window right next to it. "Can't really lock you up without a place to do that. What else can we do?" Include herself in that 'we.' It's always safer to make them consider you a part of the arrangement.