[One of the apartments at the Casualty Communal. An empty sofa, and a coffee table with six coffee mugs on it. A white-haired man with some bizarre device on his face has a seat on the sofa, yet another cup of coffee in hand. He glances at the communicator, takes a sip, and sighs.]

When you don't know what path to take, you keep on walking for the sake of making progress. That's one of my rules.

[Another sip.]

I've been given the tour, and it all smells like a bad brew to me. No pun intended. I'm sure I'm not the first person to complain about being ripped away from pressing business to fight somebody else's war for them, though, so I'll take the risk of letting my forebearers do the griping for me. I intend only to orient myself, a simple traveler in this wide and aimless universe of ours.

[He sips again.]

Ha...! I suppose the first and most important question remains ever the same: where do I find a good cup of coffee around here?