Clarke's inappropriate level of interest in each and every passenger she comes across is... both personal, and impersonal. She's somehow managed to take people watching to a whole new level, making snap judgements about who is useful here and who would end up being a liability if they went to war. The constant lookout for new potential allies is admittedly a bit exhausting — and she won't lie, it's hard to rely on the same tricks when sat across from someone distinctly not human. She'd struggled over deciding to trust Gal Friday because she couldn't gauge the amount of honesty or pain behind eyes that she wasn't built with.

She's looking for flecks of a soul in the piercing red lights inset into his helmet, and thoughtfully tilting her head to the side a bit.

"Is that what you're called? An Omnic?"

With that follow-up line of inquiry hanging in the air between them, and some semblance of eye contact established, Clarke very casually deals him that other card he'd asked for.

It's an eight. From the bottom of the deck.