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They need to stock up on a few things, eventually.

It is only normal, after all. Even if this is anything but normal, with her here and both of them still having trouble with things that should be normal. He cannot find the bar (he has not really gone looking, not after the other day and how much it drained him to try) and she is nowhere near able to go looking, either.

So they make plans to head to the coastal town a few miles down the road. It will not be a long walk. There will be cigarettes, there. And maybe even lobsters, if they are lucky.

(He hopes they are lucky. The lobsters deserved it.)

He has his coat (as always) and he's gotten the most of the blood out of it. There are a few tears that need mending, still, but they are unimportant.

"We can cut across the field. It is shorter, that way."

Following the roads is for boring people, apparently.

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She obligingly clambers over the rail fence, waiting on the other side to offer a hand. She has barely even attempted to use her powers since that first night. She's almost glad there has been no word from Olga - she'd feel ridiculously weak in comparsion, even more than usual, and that's a feeling she's discovered she's not fond of.

"What sort of people live here?" Here being whatever part of the world he has dropped them in, obviously. She has already discovered that they are thankfully not terribly curious about old barns.

"Older," he says. "Retired, mostly. The man who owns this," he motions outward with his hand as he hauls himself over the fence and into the field. "Doesn't mind."

Or doesn't know. Either way, it doesn't matter.

"There are some tourists. In town."

The open air and hint of a sea breeze makes her think of summers in Artek, the years when she was younger and Boris Ivanovich would obtain dispensation to send her there, to recharge after brutally difficult training sessions and painfully disasterous fights. She always had a keeper, then - no one was quite ridiculous enough to send her so far away from Moscow without someone to keep her in line.

"There are always, by the water." If anything, she is one too - this is not Russia.

She wonders if she should get a tacky t-shirt.

"They are entertaining."

It also makes it easier to blend in to where there are new places and new faces. It is less stressful.

The grass and brush beneath their feet is not crushed beneath the weight of a thousand demon warriors, not stained with the blood and deaths of friends and foes. The air is clean and doesn't burn his lungs, and more importantly, does not burn his very being.

"Is it a superstitious people, here? Or are they very..." She makes a face, "Modern?" The systematic destruction of the old ways in Moscow nearly eradicated the Watches.

Again, her hand falls on an empty pocket, and she makes a mental note to put cigarettes in more than one pocket, next time.

"There are those with Belief, still."

It is an interesting time and place, this one.

"But there are not castles and dragons."

Though that would also be entertaining, if a bit...strange. It has been a strange few days.

Skellig trails his fingers through the blades of grass as they walk. It is alive here. It helps.

"Could have gone back, but would have been tricky."

"I do not need dragons." Castles, however, are always fun. She's just as happy with an old barn with ridiculously comfy blankets for the time being. "Not such a fan of scales."

"I hate snakes," he says. He still has evidence of that bite from the snake on his wrist, though it takes a certain eye to see the Dark pinpricks on his skin.

The field eventually meets a wooded area; after a sort walk through the light tree cover, they arrive in a place where they can see the shoreline. There is a small town, here. Various sorts of shops (both speciality and normal), a market, gas station, a small museum of local history, and a few dozen homes. There is also a boatyard down at the water's edge.

"This way," he says, reaching for her hand. They will get cigarettes, first.

Now that they are close to humans again, he might be able tell that she's starting to rebuild her reserves, skimming (So lighlty, so lightly, mustn't be greedy, there's no emergency here) from their emotions.

"I was here, once." She muses, as they reach the outskirts, "Not here, of course, but this country. My hosts did not like leaving the cities."

He can tell she's drawing off the emotions of the inhabitants, but only in part because it's similar to his own methods. (He does not actively reach, not unless he has to. It just sort of happens. Children are easier on his senses. There is less negativity, in them.)

"The cities can be useful." Sometimes he needs the grit and the stale water that fills the storm drains. "So is this. It is less..."

He struggles for the word he wants. Dirty is not right, but it is close.

She nods - there are days when she had to escape Moscow. There's a reason she had her house far out in the country, far far away from any of the complications of the city.

"Much less." She agrees, and waves cheerily (and more than a little implishly) at a trio of tourists (mother, father, small fat little boy) who are loooking at them with deep suspicion for anyone who would come tramping out of the country, rather than arriving in air-conditioned comfort of a rented car.

Skellig smiles at the boy, who waves back (despite his parents taking hold of his hand, to protect him from what must be a pair of wandering gypsies or something else equally disreputable) happily.

He rarely understands the allure of air conditioning, even on days when the air is so thick and muggy that it feels as if you're swimming. It's reality, ever changing, on the command of air streams and currents.

The door of the convenience market has a bell that jangles when they enter.

"I have money," he adds. "In case yours is...different."

Local currency is helpful, in situations like this. Plus, she is a guest!

She stoops to pick up a handful of pebbles on the way in, blinking at the artificial light indoors.

"I may be able to manage." She has enough for simple tricks, and there are things that are important, and things that are not.

She strolls towards the alchol aisle.

"You usually do."

Being able to afford liquor is a very important part of any holiday. And after they've survived the end of the universes...

He moves towards the snack aisle, confident that she will not get lost.

(The market is not that big.)

He grabs a bag of wasabi peas and a package of gummy worms, before moving to rejoin her near the alcohol.

Katya is making a pissy face at the shelves. Americans, she's decided, are idiots - they'll make their fake budweiser cheap and accessible, but make vodka (which, if she's being honest, can be equally vile if made poorly enough) expensive.

Not that it matters, but it's the spirit of the thing.

"This place is ridiculous." She grumbles in Russian, by which she does not mean the little store (the cute little old man behind the counter actually earned a grin from her, on the way in).
But she takes a bottle of the higher-end (aka something that was actually made in Russia and familiar to her) off the shelf, eyes his selections, and then goes on the hunt for black bread.

She's about to be disappointed.

The shelves contain nothing but brightly packaged white and wheat.

Skellig is looking for things that would go with lobster. He has a pot in which to cook them, if they even manage to find some. He digs into the small refrigerated case for butter. He passes on the ice cream.

(Sadly.)

But he glances up when he hears her cursing under her breath, again.

It's fairly mild cursing, all things considered, and stuff that's fairly ridiculous - she learned early on that cursing, when done by someone who could summon up some intent, was dangerous. Very dangerous.

But still.

What is this crap?

She turns to face him with a package of Wonderbread in her hand.

"Is this just a very bad joke?" She asks, plaintively. Where's the real bread?

"It...is Wonderbread?"

He's not sure why it would be a bad joke. It is bread. The package might be a little ridiculous, sure...

That earns another squinty-eyed glare, one that Olga would be proud of, before putting the 'bread' back where she found it and stalking in a flurry of irritation toward the front of the shop.

Whereupon she smacks straight into the local Puritan-esque attitude towards a young-looking woman who's buying hard alcohol and cigarettes this early in the day.

At least the liquor laws don't prohibit alcohol sales before noon, otherwise Skellig is sure that the poor old man behind the counter would hear an earful.

He waits patiently in line behind her, with his snacks and a few tins of soup.

(And a bottle of vodka. He would not expect her to share after the apocalypse.)

He is also going to buy cigarettes.

The poor shopkeeper is going to wonder what sort of heathens have invaded their sleepy coastal hamlet, at this rate.

She finally convinces the guy to let her buy the much needed supplies, and managing through a dint of glares and obviously thorough knowledge of her alcohol to avoid getting carded. She pays him, the pebbles in her pocket somehow transforming themselves into dollar coins when no-one was looking.

(Coins are easy. Paper money is harder, so she avoids it when possible.)

That done, she takes her spoils and makes her escape before she can give in to the temptation to ask the guy what he was thinking, not having proper bread.

Skellig is behind her, momentarily.

Sporting a new pair of sunglasses.

(It is bright, here.)

He has his bag in one hand.

"Now we should find lobsters," he says, nodding down the street that winds to the docks. "If there are any here. I have seen fish, so. Maybe."

She startles, momentarily, at the sight of Skellig in sunglasses - it reminds her of her patrolmates, and she wasn't expecting it.

"If they are here, we shall find them, and then we shall eat them." She declares, tapping out a cigarette.

The end obligingly lights itself, after a couple attempts. She makes a face at her own current lack of ability - this is getting a little ridiculous.

"I did buy a lighter," he points out, pausing in walking to do the same - only he lights his the traditional way.

He is still too damn tired to try anything else. Including caring about what tourists think of him and his companion.

"It would be easier."

"Da?" Katya asks politely, not entirely sure what he's getting at. The street is a gentle hill, thankfully, so she can focus on sucking down smoke (even though even the cigarettes are impossibly mild here).

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