Ikora sets down the takeout and watches Lodi read. They've been in this study for weeks now, desperately trying to decipher the prophecy. He taps the side of a datapad and the sound turns metallic as his fingertip flickers an experimental gold. Lodi's sleeves are rolled up, light catching on his forearm, if she looks carefully, she can make out something—a tattoo? Absurd. She's captivated. "This isn't right, Ikora. We can't hide the truth." He shakes his head. "Commander Zavala is making the wrong call." She still hears Zavala's insistence. "I know." They share a moment of mutual acknowledgment. Both are fundamentally incapable of disobeying a superior. "Have you told him…" About her future title. "Not yet." Ikora isn't sure how. "I'm not ambassador of… anything… yet either," he says with a dry shrug. "Guess we have yet to earn our promotions." "Lodi… is the future guaranteed?" He blinks, and stares into the middle-distance. Deep oak eye briefly flickering to burning blue. "You picked up pupusas for dinner," he prophesizes between sips of coffee. Ikora sighs, opens the bag, reveals his prize as she says, "I still don't believe you that cactus is edible but at least my death wouldn't be permanent." Lodi barks a laugh in surprise. Ikora's face becomes a question. "I didn't See you saying that!" He explains with a grin. "You didn't?" "No, I Saw you glare at me and start eating." His smile reaches his eyes, "The future happens. But the important parts aren't guaranteed." Ikora catalogues a discovery with warm surprise — her joke was the important part.