One that was better back home was that, with a helmet (and/or without actual facial features), he never needed to worry about what his face was doing. He could make any kind of (imaginary) face he wanted, so long as his tone was what he wanted.

So it means that without the practice, he's got the worst kind of poker face. The shades in moments of confusion, intrigue, anger, shame. His feet stand their ground, but he angles his body to shy away from the poking, settling for a grimace that he eventually tries to pass off as an awkward smile.

"Hey, heh, I never claimed to be, y'know, one of those song...artist people," fuck fuck fuck, "who write. The song writers. Or a singer. Hum a few bars and I can probably keep humming, but who has time to memorize songs in the middle of a war?"

Besides him and literally all the other simulation soldiers ever, before Freelancers come and fuck everything up. So much time.