The Hilda Garde hovers over an unremarkable patch of ocean, Mojito dutifully holding it steady. Kuja, for his part, has insisted on all iMog slates to be turned off, batteries removed, and put in a box- before being stuck under the engine so as to maximize the amount of noise interference, if indeed the slates are a means of surveillance. He's not an unkind host; lunch is provided, but this is important.

In the cabin of the airship, Kuja takes a seat at the surprisingly-utilitarian table, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. "I apologize for the inconvenience, but I absolutely could take no chances on being overheard. By anyone." He inhales, crosses his arms. "Both of you were on Crystallis, yes? I need to know what you know about Garland."