Mike had prepared himself for just about anything. He'd checked that his shirt was tucked into his pants all the way around; checked his pockets weren't making any awkward bulges; he'd even pulled out his aviators and popped them on for effect. His expression was a carefully honed mask of professional contemplation, and he nodded occasionally, arms only half-folded so he could muster a musing fondle of his beard while he pretended that everything Specialist Hawkins had to say was of the utmost importance.

He'd been prepared for just about anything. Except that.

The bottom fell out of his stomach, and drained down far enough to transform into an embarrassingly urgent need to pee. He was glad for the Aviators hiding so much of his eyes and eyebrows; the what the fuck expression his muscles urged him to adopt would have been much harder to disguise otherwise.

"You're General Heller's daughter."

It wasn't a question; or even a statement; more a resignation, and acceptance of a woefully undesirable, but completely understandable fact. After all, of course the universe would prank him like that. Why give General Heller a daughter who looked like him with pigtails when he could have a child who looked like Aphrodite?

"No ma'am," he answered with a sigh. "Seems that the General didn't tell us a damned thing."