[ a certain someone can be found kneeling in a Marina garden. he's wearing plain clothes today, not his habitual Order uniform, and working his hands in the dirt. his expression is distant, his blue eyes unfocused, and his gardening a little bit inattentive.
he just wants the feel of soil on his hands: the clean, slightly damp sensation of working at a long-time hobby, one his muscles know as well or better than his brain. it's nice not to have to think.
communicator is OFF, but it will still translate you if you come interrupt him. ]