Blake is in mid-smoke when he hears it--the gentle pause he gives can be construed as many things: uncertainty. Disbelief. A calm, silent shock. His brow raises and the tilts his head to the side, nearly birdlike, smoke curling around his hand as the cigarette remains in between his fingers.

"Aliens," He echoes, hazel eyes bright. New, but not necessarily strange or unusual. The ghost of a smirk is still on his lips, finally taking a puff of the cigarette and crossing his arms.

"Aren't we privileged."