Ithi'Ka lurks in the corner of the room, her silver eyes heavy as she polishes dried blood from her longknife with a piece of tackcloth.  The fine, tough fabric sings softly in the tones of steel and death, the only sound from the shadow-cast dark elf-- muted, certainly, by the sounds of the sobbing child until Kasumi and Sam take him away.  She watches them go with something between curiosity and contempt.<br/><br/>With a smile that seems the result of great effort to lighten heavy eyes, Ithika gives a subtle nod to Garrett.  She resheaths her cleaned longknife, then mutters under her breath, "crazy son of a bitch" and smirks faintly.    She rises and edges closer, her presence even in this close room more shadow than self.  With a craned neck, she reads Garrett's article froum around the Major's knotted, freakish arm, then turns prudently away and walks a few steps before breaking into a mirthful giggle.  The sound, so unlike her, is surreally girlish, even a little unsettling.  "Very nice," she says amusedly before turning back to circle the room once more.<br/><br/>She eyes the artificer who handles so casually the weapons they've salvaged.  "I can use these things," she says softly, but makes no move to intercept yet.  They aren't hers.  She didn't kill the Ambassador.  No, her kills were of an inglorious breed-- slain beasts, messy falls from great heights, and a vast number of agonizing backlashes-- trap, hell.  Sabotage.  Graceless mass slaughter.<br/><br/>Edging near the Major's desk, Ithi'Ka looks pointedly at the folio, the turns her gaze back to the officer.  It's clearly a silent request for permission to review the file.