Alas, the democratic burden of queuing. No cigarettes in here? Daniel checks. No smoking, damn. (Even though he resented places that still allowed it, not long ago; drove him nuts to be taunted.)

He sits. Yeah yeah, everyone looks incredible, and Daniel should have a bag over his head. Such is unlife. He rests with elbows on the table, and takes a minute to scan through the crowd, skimming over minds. Practicing. After a short while he closes much of it out, reducing it to a quieter din than the talking— and that, too, he turns the dial down on, so his senses aren't overwhelmed. Getting pretty good at it, which is pleasing.

And so he can look over and listen to Louis' answer, too.