"You're a little too fresh to be anybody's ancestor," Shepard laughed, from her lofty perch of thirty-two years, or fewer if they were counted properly, "Follow me."

She would not have been able to describe how exactly they breached the seething, unhappy mass of fists and egos, but if asked would cheerfully describe it as tripping over the bodies of anyone who got in our way. This was not, generally speaking, accurate, but it was close enough to the sensation of moving through a battle that has mostly devolved into pockets of conflict rather than generalized press as to serve admirably in its place. Shepard always did like an exciting turn of phrase.

So then, there was the relative quiet of carpeted halls, rich decor, and ah, yes.

"Buffet alright? I don't mind a steak, but for variety... C'mon."