A towel and a water bottle land with a soft thud on a bench in the training room. Graves has made the effort to wrap his hands already, an indication of nothing other than vanity.
Graves knows nothing of Crow nor his abilities (a question that went unasked to his assistant in favor of more fun activities), but his confidence has carried him thus far in life. The look he shoots at Crow exudes it, a cocky grin on his lips.
"Y'got a preference for music, soldier?"
@cmdr-graves
Crow looks up from where he'd been folded to the floor, stretching. His eyes flick first to the water bottle, then Graves' hands, before finally settling on his face. They narrow, just for a moment; his expression settles back into neutral.
Commander Graves. To say he's famous--or infamous, rather--would be an understatement. All the bravado of a homegrown American hero, mixed with the ego of a man with more power than sense. Normally Crow would steer well clear of men like him, but he doesn't have much of a choice here.
If they're going to be stuck on base together, he'd prefer to get a sense for his ability. The devil you know, and all that.
[Anything heavy is fine,] comes the text-to-speech voice from his phone. Crow stands, flexing his gloved hands. Watching. Waiting. Then, before he can stop himself, he types out: [Though we could listen to a lullaby while I knock you out.]
