"It's called ice cream," Catra replies, jabbing a spoon into an incredibly blue half-dome of the stuff. It doesn't move as she digs out a bite-sized portion, which probably bodes well for it not being an animal.

Or at least for it being thoroughly dead, which may not be all that comforting.

"They have it over there." She cocks her head in the direction of a stall, with a line of people four deep.