Not that advanced for a practiced drinker. A mere two sheets to the wind! Definitely still sober enough to reach...for a cargo pocket that does not exist in this fancy getup. Mumei sighs, rolls her eyes and digs into the cleverly hidden and utterly, stupidly tiny pocket that only fits her communicator because it's an old flip type. It's covered with a scraped and faded synthetic skin depicting some sort of pastel landscape, half covered with worn stickers.

"Sure," she says, as she flips it open, her face illuminated with the flicker of dozens of waiting messages, almost entirely advertisements or local announcements. After a moment scrolling and poking at settings, she holds it a bit higher. "There, should be able to grab it now." As could anyone else looking to pick up communicator codes nearby.