8.2: Shopping

The Target loomed ahead of them after a few blocks. It was a massive box of a building, all red and white branding, with the bullseye logo visible from blocks away. Even at this hour, there were already cars in the parking lot: early shoppers who'd been waiting for the doors to open; people finishing night shifts looking to grab some things on the way home; morning commuters who needed to pick up food or office supplies on the way to work.

The automatic doors whooshed open on their own accord as they approached — Anya froze for a full three seconds, staring at the doors that had opened by themselves, trying to figure out if the doors themselves were magic or if someone invisible was controlling them.

"It's... a sensor, Anya" Cornelius said quietly, gently tugging her forward. "Think of this setup as... OK, imagine a standing wave — like the kind you'd get near the rapids, in certain places along a fast-flowing river — except the wave's in the air and invisible. See that black device up there? It can sense when someone walks through that wave, disrupting it — and that's what causes the doors to open. It's not magic. Just technology."

"Right. Technology. More of those lightning-catching tricks of yours." She didn't sound entirely convinced but she let him guide her through the doorway nevertheless.

And then she was inside, and her eyes went huge.

The store stretched out before them like a cathedral to capitalism: aisle after aisle under bright fluorescent lighting that turned everything slightly harsh and flat and over-saturated. Everything was clean and organized; labeled with the obsessive precision of modern retail. Dozens and dozens of metal shopping carts lined up like metal soldiers, waiting to be deployed. Employees in red shirts were moving between sections with practiced efficiency. There were signs hanging from the ceiling indicating departments: CLOTHING, ELECTRONICS, HOME GOODS, GROCERY, SEASONAL...

And... the stuff.

Just endless, overwhelming amounts of stuff, categorized and displayed and available for purchase. More things than any single person could ever need in a lifetime, all gathered in one place and available for the taking... if you had the proper "paper promises" to exchange, of course!

"This is... all one store?" Anya whispered, her voice tiny and awed. "Just one? This is all one building?"

"Indeed. And there are thousands of stores like this across the country. Tens of thousands worldwide, if you count all the similar chains." Cornelius kept his voice low, aware that they were drawing some attention from early shoppers. "Come on — the women's clothing section is this way."

He guided her through the store, one hand lightly on her elbow to keep her from wandering off or stopping every three feet to stare at something. Anya's head swiveled constantly, trying to take everything in, her storm-gray eyes wide and hungry for information about this impossible world.

They passed through home goods first: kitchen supplies on their left, bathroom items on their right. Anya stopped dead when she saw the kitchen section, staring at the display of pots and pans and utensils and gadgets whose purpose she probably couldn't even begin to guess.

"Um... Cornelius? Why's that pot got holes in it?" she asked, pointing at a colander with genuine confusion in her voice. "You'd just lose all your food through the bottom, no? Seems stupid."

"It's for draining water from cooked pasta or washed vegetables," Cornelius explained, demonstrating with hand gestures. "See, the idea is: you pour everything in — let's say you've boiled noodles in water — and the water goes through the holes but the food is too big to fit, so it stays in the pot."

"Huh." She processed this, probably filing it away in whatever mental category she was building for "weird Earth things."

"Still seems like you could just pour careful-like and not need a whole special pot with holes."

"You're... not wrong. But specialization is kind of our thing. We make specific tools for specific jobs even when a general tool would work just fine."

They moved on.

The electronics section made her stop again — there were entire walls of televisions all showing the same bright, moving images, sounds coming from everywhere at once. She stared at a particular display TV showing some nature documentary, watching a lion chase a gazelle across the African savanna in ultra high definition.

"That's... not real, right?" she asked. "That's like... like a painting that moves? Or is it more of a window to somewhere else?"

Cornelius considered how to explain it.

"Neither? Both? It's more like... a recording. See, what you see here was real at one point. Someone went out and filmed that with a camera — that's a device that records images in a... well, a kind of special book with lots of tiny canvases. Except, the book draws the images by itself in an instant, recording whatever it's pointed at. What you are seeing here on the screen? It's just a series of these recorded images, all slightly different from each other, flashing by one after the other. And there are lots and lots of these images going by — sixty or more of them every single second. Because there are so many of them, the pictures on the screen appear to be moving, even though what you're actually seeing is just a very, very large number of still frames." He could see she didn't quite understand, but they didn't have time for a full explanation of television technology. "I'll... explain more later. We need to keep moving for now."

The clothing section was overwhelming by any standard, but for Anya it was clearly beyond belief. Racks and racks and racks of clothes in every color. Every style. Every size imaginable. More clothes than she'd probably ever seen in her entire life: all in one place, organized by type and size with the ruthless efficiency of modern retail logistics.

Shirts arranged by color in a rainbow gradient.

Pants folded and stacked in precise piles.

Dresses hanging in perfectly spaced rows.

Shoes displayed in neat lines, sorted by style and size.

The sheer abundance of it all was staggering even for Cornelius — and he'd grown up with this!

"Okay," Cornelius said, trying to think practically. "You're going to need — let's say three pairs of jeans, five or six t-shirts, a couple long-sleeve shirts for layering, a warm jacket for winter weather, socks, underwear, and proper shoes. That should cover basics and give you options."

Anya was staring at a rack of jeans, her hand reaching out slowly, tentatively, to touch the fabric like she was afraid it might bite her or disappear if she made contact too quickly. "These are the 'jeans'? The special pants you mentioned?"

"Yep. They're made from denim — that's a heavy cotton fabric, see? Very durable. They're comfortable, last a long time... they're basically universal casual wear out here. Pretty much everyone owns jeans."

He pulled a pair off the rack and held them up against her, trying to estimate size. She was small, thin from years of inadequate nutrition. "You're probably... what, a size 6? Maybe 4? Hard to tell with those sweatpants drowning you."

"...I don't know what those numbers mean."

"They're local size measurements. Here—" He grabbed several pairs in the smaller sizes. "Go try these on in that room over there—" he pointed to the fitting rooms, "—and see which ones fit best. You want them snug but comfortable, with room to move but not falling off."

"Try them on?"

"Put them on." He stopped, realizing the complication. "...Of course, you'll want to take off the sweatpants first. In the private room. Then put the jeans on. Then, you can come show me which ones fit. The room is private, don't worry. It's got a door that locks, and there are mirrors so you can see yourself."

Anya looked skeptical but took the jeans and headed toward the fitting rooms, walking slowly like she was approaching something potentially dangerous.

Cornelius positioned himself outside the fitting room area, leaning against a rack of clearance items, earning a curious look from an employee restocking nearby (a young woman, maybe early twenties, with a name tag that read "Jennifer").

"Girlfriend's not familiar with American sizes," he said by way of explanation, giving her what he hoped was a charming, harmless smile. "Traveling from overseas, you know? Different measurement systems."

"Ah, gotcha. That's rough. Let me know if she needs help — I can grab different sizes for you guys." Jennifer smiled and moved on, crisis of potential suspicious activity averted.

Five minutes later, Anya emerged from the fitting room in a pair of dark-wash jeans that fit her surprisingly well: snug in the hips and thighs, slightly loose in the waist but nothing a belt couldn't fix. She still had the oversized NYU t-shirt on top, which admittedly looked a bit ridiculous with the fitted jeans, but the bottom half of her looked normal now, at least.

She looked down at herself, turning to see different angles, running her hands down the denim like she couldn't quite believe what she was feeling. "These are... weird," she said slowly. "Tight. Way tighter than anything I've ever worn! But... not uncomfortable? They move well." She did a few experimental squats, testing the range of motion, then stood and walked a few paces. "Yeah. These are good. Way better than those sweatpants of yours. How do they look?"

"They look great! Grab two more pairs — maybe a lighter one and one in black, so you have variety and options for different situations."

She disappeared back into the fitting room and emerged a minute later with the two pairs she'd liked best — a lighter blue wash and a black pair. "These ones! These feel right."

"Perfect. Now let's get you some shirts."

The t-shirt selection was easier.

Anya gravitated toward simple, solid colors with no designs or logos — practical choices that would work in any situation. She picked out long-sleeved shirts in dark green, gray, faded blue, black, burgundy, and a dark purple that was almost plum. All in women's sizes that would actually fit her instead of drowning her. Cornelius also grabbed her a grey zip-up hoodie in charcoal grey.

"That's like a jacket, yeah?" Anya asked, examining the hoodie, running the zipper up and down experimentally.

"Sort of. It's for the milder cold. It's got a hood for rain or wind—" he demonstrated, pulling the hood up, "—and pockets for your hands. But, of course, we'll get you a real coat too—something warm for winter weather, because, as you've seen, New York gets cold."

For the winter coat, he found her a puffy North Face feather jacket in dark teal. It was nothing fancy,:just good insulation, water-proof shell, and an equally water-proof hood. She tried it on and her eyes went wide.

"It's... like wearing a cloud!" she said, her voice muffled as she buried her face in the collar. "And it's so warm! How's it so light but so warm?"

"Synthetic insulation. Traps air in tiny pockets, and the air acts as insulation. It's very efficient." He checked the price tag — $159.99. "That works. Fits good?"

"Fits perfect," she answered, beaming.

Shoes came next. Anya's feet were tough from years of wearing inadequate footwear or going barefoot, callused and hardened in ways that modern humans rarely experienced.

Cornelius found her a pair of warmer boots for winter: well-insulated and waterproof, with decent traction.

"Here, try these on. Walk around. Make sure they're comfortable and don't rub anywhere that'll give you blisters."

Anya sat on the little bench provided for shoe-trying. She laced the boots up experimentally, pulled them snug, stood, took a few cautious steps.

"They're... bouncy," she said, surprise coloring her voice. She took a few more steps, then jumped slightly, testing. "Like... they absorb the impact. That's so weird. My feet don't hurt when they hit the ground."

"That's called cushioning. Modern shoe technology — foam and air pockets and engineered materials that distribute impact force." Cornelius found himself smiling at her wonder. "Makes walking easier on your joints. Reduces fatigue. Prevents injury over time."

"Huh." She took a few more steps, walked to the end of the aisle and back, getting used to the sensation. "I like it. Feels like... walking on clouds or something? Or like the ground's made of moss. Like it's way softer than it should be."

"That's the idea."

They added socks and underwear to the growing pile — Cornelius doing his best to make those selections quick and impersonal, grabbing multi-packs and letting Anya confirm sizes without too much discussion because there were some things that were just inherently awkward. Then they headed to the checkout.

The total came to $487.63 including tax. Cornelius counted out six hundreds from his pocket and took back change. They bagged everything up, Anya transferring her new clothes into her empty backpack with the careful attention of someone handling treasure.

"Isn't that's a lot of money for clothes?" she said quietly as they walked toward the exit, her voice carrying a mix of guilt and wonder.

"Not... really. Not by modern standards, anyway. These are all pretty cheap, actually — Target's considered a discount store." Cornelius held the door for her, and they emerged back into the December morning.

"We make our own clothes when we can. Trade for them when we can't. Repair them until they fall apart, then cut up the scraps to patch other things." She considered the backpack full of new, store-bought clothing.

"Different world, different resources," Cornelius said. "But that's what we'll be trying to fix! We'll see if we can get your world access to some of these resources so our people can have decent quality clothes."

"...Yeah." She was quiet for a moment, processing. Then: "Did you say we were going to get food? It would be great to eat something. I... I'm hungry."

"Yes, of course. Let's get some food. There's a diner a couple blocks from here."

They found it easily — one of those classic New York diners that looked like it hadn't been renovated since the 1970s and probably served the best breakfast in the neighborhood precisely because it hadn't changed, hadn't modernized, hadn't tried to be anything other than what it was. The exterior was stainless steel and glass, with posted signage that proclaimed it to be "OLYMPIA DINER" in large, red and blue letters. The windows were fogged from the inside heat meeting the outside cold, condensation running down in rivulets.

Inside felt like a time capsule: red vinyl booths with duct tape covering the worst of the tears, a long counter with spinning stools, black and white checkered floor tile, and that particular smell combination of coffee, frying food, cleaning solution that seemed common to every diner in the city.

It was nearly 9 AM now, and the place was moderately busy. The breakfast rush was winding down but hadn't ended yet. Construction workers in reflective vests occupied a large booth, eating with the methodical efficiency of people who needed calories for hard physical labor. An elderly couple sat at the counter, reading the newspaper and occasionally commenting to each other. A few solo diners were scattered throughout, lost in their phones and their own thoughts.

Cornelius and Anya slid into a booth near the window, Anya immediately touching everything— the vinyl seat, the laminated menu, the napkin dispenser, the little jukebox selector on the wall (that hadn't worked properly in at least twenty years).

A waitress appeared almost instantly: middle-aged, world-weary, efficient in her movements, with the kind of professional warmth that was friendly without being invasive. Her name tag read "Deb" and her apron had a coffee stain that suggested this wasn't her first shift today.

"Coffee?" she asked, already holding up a pot, the universal diner greeting.

"Please," Cornelius said. "Two."

Anya stared as Deb poured the dark, steaming liquid into their cups, filling the air with a burnt, bitter smell that was — somehow — both unpleasant and comforting at the same time.

"What'll it be, hon?" Deb's pen was already poised over her order pad, ready to write before they'd even spoken.

Cornelius ordered without thinking, falling into the comfortable pattern of someone who'd eaten at diners like this hundreds of times. "Two big breakfast platters. Eggs over easy, bacon and sausage, hash browns, toast. And... a side of fruit, if you have it."

"You got it!" Deb scribbled and disappeared toward the kitchen, moving with practiced efficiency.

Anya picked up the coffee cup, sniffed it suspiciously, her nose wrinkling. "What's this? Smells burnt. Like something got left in a fire too long."

"Coffee is... an acquired taste," Cornelius admitted, reaching for the sugar and cream packets. "Try it with sugar and cream — makes it much more palatable. Here, watch." He demonstrated, dumping in two sugars and pouring cream until the coffee slowly turned from black to a pale brown, the color of cardboard.

Anya copied him with the intense concentration of someone performing a ritual whose purpose they didn't quite understand. She added sugar, added cream, stirred with the spoon, then took a tentative sip.

Her face scrunched up immediately, her eyes squeezing shut. "Ugh. That's terrible! That's like drinking burnt grain water with some honey in it. Why do people drink this?"

"Yeah, diner coffee is usually pretty bad," Cornelius agreed, taking a sip of his own and immediately regretting it. She was right — it tasted like it had been sitting on the burner for hours, burned and bitter despite the cream. "But it's warm and it has caffeine! That helps."

"What's this 'caffeine'?" Anya pushed the cup away, clearly deciding she wanted nothing to do with it.

"It's a chemical — a drug, technically — that makes you more alert, helps you stay awake and focused. Blocks the receptors in your brain that make you feel tired."

"So... it's like a potion?" Anya's eyes lit up slightly. "You got potions here?"

"Um... sure, let's go with that. Yes, it's like a potion. And it's legal, socially acceptable, basically universal. Most people here drink coffee or tea or energy drinks — all of them have caffeine as an ingredient." He paused. "It's one of the most widely used psychoactive substances in the world."

"Psycho-what now?"

"That means it affects your mind. Changes how you think and feel. Makes you less tired, more alert. Sometimes a bit jittery if you've has too much."

Anya looked at the coffee cup with renewed suspicion, like it had just become potentially dangerous. "And... people drink this every day? On purpose?"

"Multiple times a day, usually."

"...Your world is so weird."

+++

The food arrived before Cornelius could properly respond. 'Deb' set down two enormous platters — eggs cooked over-easy with the yolks still a bit runny; strips of sausage and crispy bacon that crackled slightly from retained heat; hash browns that were perfectly golden and crispy on the outside; thick slices of toast slathered with butter that was melting into the bread; and a small bowl of mixed fruit on the side — melon cubes, strawberries, grapes, and even a few pineapple chunks, all glistening with freshness.

Steam rose from the hot food, carrying with it smells that made Cornelius's stomach growl despite his emotional turmoil. Perhaps Anya was apt with her earlier "potions" comparison after all... fried food, butter, and coffee indeed felt like alchemy to him just now: a special alchemy of breakfast food that transcended its individual components.

But Anya just stared at it all.

She stared at the plate in front of her like it was a test, a trap, something that couldn't possibly be real.

"This is..." She swallowed hard, and Cornelius saw her throat work with the motion. "This is too much. Far too much food! This is more than I'd eat in three days back at home."

"This is just a normal breakfast here," Cornelius said gently. "Maybe even on the smaller side for some people, with only the two eggs. I've seen people order twice this much, and still get a slice of pie for dessert on top of that."

"I can't..." Her voice cracked slightly. She looked like she might cry, her eyes getting shiny with unshed tears. "I can't eat all this! It's wasteful. We should save some, take it back for—"

"Anya." Cornelius leaned forward, his voice gentle but firm. "You told me there were two hundred and sixty people in the March. The remnants of this one plate, even assuming we could keep it fresh, won't make any difference. It wouldn't feed even one person for one day. But the two hundred tons of rice we're planning on buying in an hour? That will. That will feed everyone for months. Years, even. So eat. Please. You'll need your strength for what's coming."

She picked up her fork — holding it awkwardly in her fist like a weapon rather than a utensil, clearly not used to the implement — and took a bite of the eggs. Her eyes widened almost comically.

"Oh," she said, her mouth still full. "Oh shit. Fuck that's good! What the fuck is this shit?"

"Diner eggs. From a chicken. They are... underrated," Cornelius agreed, starting on his own plate.

She ate with single-minded focus after that, every bite savored, every element of the meal consumed with an attention that spoke to years of food scarcity. She ate the eggs, careful not to lose any of the runny yolk. She ate the bacon, crunching through it with evident pleasure. She ate the hash browns, the toast, the fruit — strawberries and melon and pineapples that were probably shipped from California or Mexico (or possibly even South America), treats that, likely, never existed in the Vespertine March.

She scraped the plate clean with her fork, making sure she got every last bit, and when she was done, she sat back with a hand on her stomach and an expression of wonder on her face.

"I'm full," she said, like she was announcing a miracle. "Like... actually full! Not just 'not hungry anymore' for the moment but full to the brim. My stomach feels tight. Like, I can't eat any more."

"How often were you full, back home?" Cornelius asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.

"Almost never. Maybe on good harvest years when I was little, before everything went to shit? Before the blight got bad and the Barons got worse. But definitely not in years! Not since..." She stopped, thinking. "I don't actually remember the last time I was full."

The casual horror of that statement sat heavy between them like a third presence at the table.

"Well, that's going to change," Cornelius said firmly, forcing certainty into his voice. "When we get back with the food, you and everyone else are going to eat until you're full. Every day. At least three times a day. And while you're doing that, we're going to figure out how to fix the land, break the curse, and... make the March great again."

Anya looked at him with an expression he couldn't quite read — something between hope and skepticism, between trust and fear of disappointment. "You really mean that, don't you? You really think we can fix it?"

"I have to believe that we can. And yeah, I think we can. Sure, it'll be hard. And it'll take time. And it'll probably be more complicated than we expect. But I definitely think we can do it!"

"You're crazy," Anya said. But she was smiling when she said it, a real smile that reached her eyes. "But the good kind of crazy. And maybe that's good. Maybe your kind of crazy is what we need right now."

Cornelius paid the bill — just $44.57 for two full breakfasts, an absolute bargain by any measure — leaving a twenty-dollar tip because Deb, who was working multiple shifts, had been efficient and kind, and because he had a backpack full of cash and tipping generously just felt like the least he could do.

They headed back out into the December morning, now fully bright with winter sun, the sky a pale grey that looked washed out and cold.

They were walking back toward the apartment when something finally happened. A woman's voice, high and sharp and dripping with false sweetness, cut through the sidewalk crowd like a knife.

"Cornelius? Oh my God, it is you!"

He froze.

Turned.

And found himself face-to-face with Madison Pierce.