The peaceful quiet of the Relaxation Room made it one of Miguel's favorite haunts. But even here, he wore his usual combo of nanosuit and sweater that somewhat accomodated his proportions.

So he enters, carrying a cup of his own comfort habit (the espresso in the building is surprisingly decent) and watches the unfolding scene stone-faced. There it is. A bag of rice mid-immolation. Another day, another incident of minor Pole Chaos.

Setting the mug on an end table, he lassoes the bag with a tether of laser web and tugs it out onto the stone hearth, careful to avoid getting cinders on wood.

"Let's not owe him a workshop, too."