8.1: Shopping

Some time later, Anya emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, wrapped in one of Cornelius's old towels that was comically large on her smaller frame. The terry cloth was practically swallowing her, hanging down to her knees like a robe designed for someone twice her size.

Her dark mahogany hair hung wet and loose around her shoulders for the first time since he'd met her. He'd never seen it down before, always braided or tied back in some practical arrangement. Now loose, it fell in thick waves that caught the light from the window, and he could see now that it was longer than he'd realized, reaching halfway down her back. It made her look younger somehow, softer, though her storm-gray eyes still held that wariness that probably wouldn't fade anytime soon.

"That... was amazing," she said, and her voice carried genuine, undiluted awe that made her sound almost childlike in her wonder. "I've never been that clean in my entire life! And the water! It just kept coming and coming, stayed hot the whole time, and there was this soap —the one in the bottle? — that smelled like flowers and made these bubbles when you rubbed it and —"

She stopped abruptly, seeming to realize she was gushing, that she'd let her guard down and was showing excitement and vulnerability. Her expression closed off slightly, the walls coming back up.

"I mean... yeah. It was good. Fine. Whatever."

Cornelius smiled despite himself, charmed by the glimpse of the person underneath the armor of survival. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. Feel better?"

"Yeah. Lots." She looked down at her old clothes, still piled on the bathroom floor where she'd left them: the rough tunic, the patched trousers, the worn boots. "Guess I should wash them too, or... just put them back on?"

"Actually, no. We're going shopping first thing. We ought to get you some clothes that'll help you blend in here, then grab some food, then head out to pick up the supplies."

He checked his phone (7:47 AM now). He'd spent the last few minutes on hold with various truck rental companies, most of which hadn't opened yet, leaving messages and trying to figure out how to rent a giant truck on approximately three hours' notice.

"It's almost eight now. Stores only start opening right around eight. We've got plenty of time before we need to be at the distribution center."

"Shopping," Anya repeated, testing the word like she was learning a new language. "You mean... buying stuff, yeah? Going to those stores like the one we saw with all the food?"

"Exactly. Places that sell things. You go in, you pick what you want, you pay for it, you leave with it."

"And I can just... pick up what I want?"

There was something almost heartbreaking in the question, in the implied assumption that surely there must be some catch, some restriction, some reason she wouldn't be allowed to choose.

"...Within reason, yes. We're not getting anything expensive or fancy, mind you — just some practical clothes that'll last and fit in here. Jeans, shirts, a jacket, proper shoes. You know, basic stuff. Nothing crazy."

Anya nodded slowly, absorbing this, then looked down at the towel. "Can't exactly go shopping in this though, can I?"

"Oh, right! Uh."

Cornelius stood and moved to one of the remaining cardboard boxes in the corner. He'd labeled it "PERSONAL - LOW VALUE" in marker. Inside were items he'd relegated to the "don't care enough to organize" category: old t-shirts worn too thin for professional settings, sweatpants with holes in the pockets, workout clothes from a few years back, when he'd actually gone to the gym, worn-out items he'd kept meaning to throw away but had never quite gotten around to it...

He pulled out a pair of gray sweatpants with a drawstring waist, and a NYU Law School t-shirt. The shirt had come free at some alumni event, one of those promotional items that schools handed out to create the illusion of community and shared identity.

"These'll look huge on you, but they should work until we get you the real clothes," he said, holding them out. "The sweatpants have a string to tighten them, see? So they won't fall off, and we can roll up the cuffs so you don't trip."

Anya took the clothes and disappeared back into the bathroom. Cornelius heard rustling and what was probably a few muttered curse words that carried through the door but were too quiet to make out clearly... and then she emerged a few minutes later looking fairly ridiculous.

The sweatpants were pooled around her feet even rolled up, the elastic ankles creating bunches of fabric. The t-shirt hung on her like a dress, the shoulders almost falling off her shoulders, the hem reaching mid-thigh. She'd tried to make it work by tucking the front into the sweatpants, creating a bizarre, baggy effect that somehow made the whole ensemble worse rather than better. The fabric bunched awkwardly around her waist, emphasizing just how oversized everything was.

"I look stupid," she said flatly, holding her arms out and looking down at herself with an expression of pure resignation.

"You look like a college student who just rolled out of bed after an all-night... study session," Cornelius said, "which... is actually pretty common around here, especially near campuses. You'll fit in just fine until we get you better stuff. Trust me, I've seen people wear much stranger things on the New York subway and nobody even blinks."

"If… you say so?" She paused, shifting her weight from foot to foot, testing the feel of the too-large sweatpants. "But what about you? You going out in that?" She gestured to his borrowed noble's outfit.

Cornelius looked down at himself. He looked like he was cosplaying as a Renaissance faire refugee or, possibly, an extra from a period drama who'd gotten lost on the way to set. The outfit had worked just fine in the Vespertine March (it had even made him feel oddly appropriate there, like he belonged), but here? Here, it would draw attention they didn't need.

He went to the other cardboard box and found his last remaining pair of jeans: old Levi's, faded almost white in places, with a small tear in one knee that he'd always meant to patch and never had. They were from back when he'd been slightly thinner and in better shape, but they'd probably still fit if he sucked in his stomach a bit. He found a button-down shirt too, wrinkled but clean: a blue oxford that had been his go-to for casual Fridays back when "casual Friday" meant "slightly less formal business attire."

He changed quickly in the bathroom. The jeans were tighter than he remembered but manageable. The shirt was fine once he tucked it in, hiding the wrinkles somewhat. He finger-combed his hair into something resembling order — it was longer than his usual cut, shaggy in a way that his corporate self would have been horrified by, but it looked acceptably messy in a contemporary way rather than being obviously unkempt.

He emerged looking substantially more normal, more like a regular person out on a regular December morning in New York.

"Better?" he asked.

"Better," Anya agreed, assessing him with a critical eye. Then, hesitantly, almost shyly: "Th... thank you. For the bath. For the clothes. For... all of this. For not being like the others."

The gratitude in her voice was uncomfortable for both of them—she clearly wasn't used to expressing it, and he wasn't used to receiving it, not for basic human decency anyway.

"You're very welcome," he said simply. "Now let's get going. We've got a lot to do and not much time."

He grabbed two large hiking backpacks from the closet (and good packs they were too, North Face or REI or something like that, bought during a brief period where he'd convinced himself he was going to become the kind of person who went camping on weekends. He'd used them exactly once, for a trip upstate that had mostly involved him checking his work email from a tent and generally being miserable). He started loading one with cash, pulling out stacks of hundreds and fifties, counting as he went, rubber-banding them together in neat bundles.

He handed Anya the second backpack, empty for now.

"Here, this is for you. To carry your new clothes and anything else you might need. It's got straps that go over your shoulders — here, let me show you how to adjust them."

He helped her into the backpack, adjusting the straps so it sat properly on her shoulders rather than hanging awkwardly or digging in. The pack was a marvel of modern convenience, designed to distribute weight efficiently, with padded straps and a hip belt and sternum strap, the whole apparatus of advanced outdoor gear design that had evolved over decades.

She rolled her shoulders experimentally, testing the weight and feel, getting used to the sensation of wearing it. "It's light now," she observed. "Bet it won't be later."

"Probably not. But it distributes weight well — most of it goes on your hips rather than your shoulders, see? You'll be able to carry a good amount without too much strain." He shouldered his own pack, feeling the weight settle. "Ready?"

"Ready."

They headed out into the December morning, leaving the gutted apartment behind.

The elevator ride down was silent except for the mechanical hum of the cables and Anya's quiet breathing as she gripped the handrail and tried not to look like she was terrified. The lobby was empty except for the new doorman, who pointedly didn't look up from his phone as they passed.

The streets were properly awake now. Many more people were out. Commuters heading to work. Delivery trucks making their rounds. A garbage truck a few blocks away, its mechanical crushing sounds echoing between buildings. The steady background hum of eight million people beginning their day in compressed, vertical density.

Anya stayed close but she was adapting, Cornelius noticed. The cars still made her nervous —she flinched when one passed too close, the displaced air ruffling her hair — but she wasn't jumping at every sound anymore. The tall buildings no longer paralyzed her with their impossible height, though she still looked up at them with something like disbelief, as if checking to make sure they hadn't fallen over yet.

"So... where we going first?" she asked, her breath visible in the cold air, small white clouds that dissipated quickly.

"There's a Target a few blocks from here. It's a... well, a big store that sells everything —clothes, food, household items, electronics, toys, furniture. It should have what we need." He oriented himself, getting his bearings. "They open at eight. Should be open by the time we get there."

"Target," Anya repeated, her nose wrinkling. "That's such a weird name for a shop. Like you're, what... aiming at something?"

"Welcome to corporate branding. Nothing makes sense and everything's designed by marketing committees." He started walking, and she fell into step beside him. "You'll see a lot of weird store names. Best Buy. Bed Bath & Beyond. Dick's Sporting Goods. None of them make intuitive sense if you think about them too hard."

They walked through the morning city, two people from different worlds trying to navigate the strange overlap between them.

A woman jogged past — expensive athletic wear, wireless earbuds, ponytail bouncing with each stride — and gave Anya's outfit an amused glance but said nothing, probably assuming she was a college student doing the walk of shame in borrowed clothes.

They saw a man walking his dog — some kind of small, fluffy thing that looked more like a mobile dust mop than an actual animal. He smiled at them in that vague, pre-coffee friendly way New Yorkers sometimes did before the city's defensive walls went fully up for the day.

They were just another pair of people in a city full of people.

Anonymous.

Unremarkable.

Invisible in the way that only the truly large cities could make you invisible. Lost in the sheer overwhelming volume of humanity.

It was... perfect.