[Citadel] Out and About ((open))

"Of course, my lady. It'll be out as soon as possible."
"Thank you. And please, don't rush on my account."
As soon as the waitress had turned her back scurried away, Mirala sighed. As one of the few matriarchs left on the Citadel after the galaxy's devastation, she'd been fawned over and bowed at by nearly every blasted maiden and matron she encountered - plus a depressingly large amount of other species - even with the recent arrival of some of the remaining Thessian elders, who were presumably used to that sort of thing.
And there were only so many ways one could tell prospective interviewers to bugger off.

"Blrgl," came a voice from within the perambulator beside her. Mirala smiled, reaching inside to trace her granddaughter's scalp with a finger.
"At least you'll never call me 'mistress', will you?"
Tiny hands grasped at hers. Always exploring her surroundings, that one, her little brain always working... looking for something to put in her mouth, apparently.
Lovely.

A clattering of cutlery and various other things signified the waitress' return with a pot of tea and slice of endracta cake. Once again expressing her gratitude, the matriarch's gaze drifted outside the café's seating area to the people milling about the ward proper.
Life persists in going on, even after all the horrors visited on it recently. Quite the wonder.

Over in the corner of the cafe, a turian in casual attire, cane leaning against his chair, sat and stared at his omnitool. Marius Pilum's eyes squinted as he read and re-read the terse message now scrolling across the screen:

LATEST REQUEST FOR TRANSFER RECEIVED.

And that was all.

Rather terse, even for a message from Command, but considering how often Marius had been transmitting requests for a transfer back into his old posting, hardly surprising. He'd probably moved from the "rather enthusiastic" category to "bitching relentlessly" in the eyes of the paper-pushers. They must have been truly desperate for commanders of line units, else he would've gotten his transfer by now. The Citadel was a fate worse than death for an infantry officer.

Or so common wisdom held. Marius hadn't exactly been a model for compliance with the norms. Hence his prior posting here.

His omnitool beeped at him: time to head for the gym. PT had taken on a double meaning for him, ever since the Reaper attack---and it was still hard to get used to the idea that he'd never be able to outrun a soldier under his command again. That he'd no longer be the hardest man in his unit.

I can still hand them their carapace in press-ups, though.

And if there was one thing, Marius had learned over the past year, an officer had to be just as mentally hard as he did physically. Sometimes even more so.

With a sigh, he grabbed his cane and hauled himself to his feet before limping out of the cafe.

Michael entered the café, his ubiqutous #42 Ottawa Senators Jersey over his Utility uniform. A new patch also adorned his jersey, the regimental patch of the 9th Marine Regiment. After ordering a Coffee, he looks around, noticing Mirala T'Narf. After receiving and paying for his coffee, He walks up to the table Mirala is sitting at.

"Mirala T'Narf, Is this seat taken?" he says, smiling. "How've you been?"

The man was nestled in a comfy chair in the corner of the cafe, his beverage slowly cooling as he turned the next page of the book he was reading, a history of the Comanche Nation. Michael McCarran reached for his coffee, taking a brief sip, before continuing on with his reading, immersed with the text.

Thus, when he reached for the cup again, his aim was a little off, the insulated cup finding itself spilled across the floor as a result.

"Shit."

He quietly swore, the brown liquid lightly staining the legs of pants. Recognizing what had happened, and his own obvious fault in it, McCarran set his book down, and reached for a nearby napkin, waving away a server who'd noted the problem

"I got it, I got it."

He said, waving her off.

Mirala raised a hand, palm outward.
"Only if you promise not to try and pledge yourself as a follower of my teachings or some other thing. It's a worryingly common occurrence."
Her hand dropped slightly, gesturing at the empty seat then at the cot beside her.
"Michael, meet my granddaughter; Siobhán, say hel-- oh."
Of course the little one had seen fit to bring up the contents of her stomach in greeting. Lovely.

Mirala grabbed a napkin from the table, dabbing at Siobhán's chest as gently as she could as the infant squirmed and gurgled.
"Sorry about this, the joys of the early months..."

Michael laughed. "Nah. That's definitly not like me, Mirala." he said, sitting down. "Plus, I think my CO might disapprove!"

Michael then looked at Siobhán. "D'awww.... Ain't she cute! Strange name for an asari... Irish, right?"

"I believe so," Mirala replied, cleaning the last of the mess off the little one, "it was her father who named her, in memory of those lost."
The matriarch returned to her seat, surreptitiously dropping the napkin on a passing waitress' tray.
"So, how have things been since the Reapers collectively realised they'd got the wrong galaxy, or whatever it was that happened?"

"Busy, Mirala. Since Ottawa was relativly unscathed, It's become a hub for the reconstruction effort. we've been up and down the eastern coast of North America. Right Now, my squad and I are on break." Michael said, then taking a sip of his coffee. "Heck, you know my pet varren, Urz? He's become the Regimental Mascot."

Taking another sip, Michael then asked "So, what about you? What have you been up to?"