At least Mal is clean-shaven and washed -- and he will never not bath every night if he can help it because sometimes he still looks down at his hands and sees rusty red and mud dried into the grooves of his skin -- with neatly pressed clothes. It's just too bad his clothing choices are a faded and drab olive-grey shirt with black pants but at least it makes Cassandra's clothing look much ore whimsical and bright in comparison.

The medic has one hand shoved deep into his pocket while his other hand keeps hold of the strap of his medical bag and it's this shoulder he shrugs, smiling at her. "Seattle Washington originally; s'a city like this one and the market is similar though I was never allowed down in it."

Mal's eyes move steadily around them, watching everything that moves too close or might be armed. "Haven't been there in two years, anyway. And what about yourself? S'not a style of dress I'd find anywhere on Earth."