It isn't often that the warlord sits around in public spaces, but given how empty the city is, it's entirely too easy to find an entire diner to yourself on occasion. He does not come here to eat, but to sit and thaw out. The security tower he spends most of his time in is especially cold this time of year, not that it particularly bothers him.

Never once does he expect company, or at least, not in such a form. His helmeted visage turns towards the cat that's invited himself onto the table, and he simply stares for a long moment past the obscuring net and grill of his headpiece. Finally he responds, his tone curiously tinny and for the most part neutral. It doesn't seem he's entirely shocked by being spoken to by a cat either, but this would be the second he's encountered.

"I do not, not that credit or currency of any sort will do you good here. But I am certain that Thomas has something stored in the kitchen."