Caitlyn rarely comes to the canteen. She'd much rather sit and eat her lunch outside, or return to the apartment and stare at the map of the city she's pinned to the wall as though she'll uncover some sort of eldritch truth if she stares hard enough. She finds it difficult to get much of anything done here; usually, she finds herself sitting alone for ten or fifteen minutes before the chair becomes too uncomfortable or the noise becomes too irritating and she leaves.

Today is no exception. Shortly after arriving, she decides it was a mistake, and opts to simply return to work.

That is, until she notices a man scribbling in a language she hasn't seen in quite some time, one she thought no one else here knew. She approaches him from the side, eager if a little awkward, her own notebook held to her chest.

"You speak Ionian?"