"Wouldja look at that-- chums know each other, that's downright heartwarming."
CAPTCHA's words accompanied her rise to her feet, and her slow yet inevitable path towards the plane's bathroom facilities. She made a show of stretching her body, groaning and creaking as if lounging on the table had been oh-so taxing on her lovely frame. With one final twist of her back- she slumped against the door of the lavatory, and made a gesture of 'whaddya gonna do?' as she shrugged and swiftly disappeared into the spacious, luxurious, chamber. The conversation and questionnaire were dying down, and CAPTCHA made swift work of allowing her mind to mingle with every single device in this corporate drek facility. Her lips twitched, she accessed the Resonance, and her Living Persona manifested in the digital area of the bathroom. Her bouquet extended into the metaphorical air, and the flower petals of the dead roses began to swarm in the room, creating a brief, yet utterly debilitating, localized storm of Noise. No more secret cameras, listening devices, or strange scanners for the moment.
She stepped to the counter, brushed it idly with the back of her hand, and in her next gesture began to pour out and organize an absolutely fat line of Novacoke. An old nail file came out of her pocket next, lining things up just so before the woman leaned down and took a mad rip. She rose back up, snorting once, before pinching her nose and tilting her head back.
"--Oh, frag, that's it."
She stepped forward once more, carefully brushing any remnants of the substance into the sink then humming aloud in a showy tune as one might if they had just finished their bathroom business and were trying to be polite about things. The sink fills, then drains. Then fills. Then drains. Then fills again. And, at last, drains once more. The storm of Noise subsides, returning any such recording devices to their ordinary functionality without so much a shred of a sign of conventional hacking having occurred on their Johnson's plane.
When CAPTCHA emerged from the bathroom, it was moments before the landing and she had a positively wicked grin on her face.
CAPTCHA steps onto the bus, joined by the Ares Duelist drone which was half-assedly covered with its own freshly-vended armored jacket. Her other small drones fit onto her person, in a pocket or under the collar of her own armored trench coat, well enough; the Dalmatian, Alondite, had been launched surreptitiously into the air the moment the cargo door had opened, the sizeable drone soaring higher and higher as its sensor arrays came online until it was a nearly unnoticeable dot beyond sight range. The only issue was the Steel Lynx, which CAPTCHA had insisted on having its crate loaded on top of the bus no matter how many extra minutes it would have taken for an industrial powered cart to come by and do so. The bus carries them out the back of the airport, then deposits them to meet their final team member.
CAPTCHA's shit-eating grin mellows into a sultry variant.
"Ooo, man of the cloth. This girl likes the hard-to-get types. Or is this priest the confessional type, because, hoo, have I got some sins to get off my chest." She unhelpfully catcalls as Wildfire tries to actually achieve some kind of productivity.