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To most, she was a statue of ice—aloof, calculating, and impossible to read. But Ripley possessed a bizarre weapon to keep people from looking too closely at her soul: absolute, unadulterated nonsense. ​During a tense standoff with a notorious cartel leader, while his mercenaries had crossbows leveled at her chest, Ripley casually leaned against a pillar and said: ​"Do you think if you fell into a giant vat of pudding, you'd drown, or would you just accept your fate as the ultimate dessert? Personally, I think I'd try to swim the backstroke. It's more dignified for a dairy-based demise." ​The cartel leader blinked. The mercenaries lowered their bows by an inch, completely short-circuiting. In that three-second pocket of pure, bewildered laughter, Ripley calculated their blind spots, drew her hidden blades, and dismantled the room. ​She used humor like smoke bombs. If they were laughing at her random tangents, they weren't looking at her eyes. They weren't seeing the calculating strategist mapping out their downfall.