Welcome to Gaia! ::

Before:

"No, have never been fishing," Kostya had replied, deliberately not asking her why she'd asked. America asked a great deal of questions, often times for reasons beyond his grasp. The question had been sly and innocent, almost coy in a way that had gone over his head.

"Veather not often good for it, in Tyumen." It wasn't a lie, per say, but it was an incomplete answer. If he didn't continue the thought, then America would pull it out of him, unravelling him word by word. It was a gift she possessed, one that she used frequently.

He craved it. She provided the sort of order in his life that set hip upon a path of wilful obedience.

She was giving him a look, so Kostya laid down a brick, and then another. Reconstructing a wall was a slow process for an amateur mason. "Never think too much about survival. Not till come here. Never had, ah. Worries for bad endings."

The supplies packed beneath Kostya's bed would put most small bomb shelters to shame, and they both knew it. America borrowed from it frequently, as was her right to do so as the President of the Basement Kingdom.

His President laughed, and Kostya felt as though if he didn't have such a complex, America would have clapped him on the shoulder.

Shopping first, she'd said. Then fishing. Be ready a half hour before midnight.

Kostya laid another brick, and nodded once to show his cooperation. It was time to go on leave.

Before:

Their portal had initially opened out in the middle of nowhere. Swamp and forest surrounding them in the pitch of night. It hadn't taken long to find the old cabin, thankfully unoccupied. America didn't quite know what they'd have done if Gunther Priddy had gotten a hair up his a** to go on a fishing trip at this time of year. Probably camped outside, no big.

But Kostya could learn those lessons at a later date. In the front yard stood the old toilet, flowers planted in its bow. Reaching in, she dug around in the dirt a bit and pulled out what looked like a piece of poop, and opened it up to reveal a set of keys, which she jingled happily at the other hunter.

Even better news was in the shed: Gunther had left the old army Jeep.

She'd never really stolen a car before, but it's not that she wouldn't if the opportunity demanded. But all told, she'd rather borrow an old family friend's who wouldn't notice its loss for a day or two. "Right then, let's see what's open at this time. You ever been to Walmart?"

You're Welcome:

Eventually she got Kostya to try something on. It was board shorts and he refused to take off the shirt, but sometimes you took what you could get. Holding her phone up she took a picture.

Fishing Poles:

They were standing before a veritable wall of fishing poles, as far and as wide as the eye could see. He wasn't convinced that even one of them was different from the rest, but he knew that in order to be saleable, this had to be true. Kostya was exhausted, and this was only the beginning. He stood by their two-- two!-- carts, staring into the distance as America deliberated on her weapon of choice.

He shook his head as a light buzzed, focusing on the countless pamphlets in his hands, each one talking about a different little pocket of the woods to visit. Cabins here! A cavern there! Snorkeling! A petting zoo! A lake! TWO neighbouring lakes! White water rafting!

One by one, he discarded the useless ones, and when America returned, her spoils in hand, Kostya had three reasonable options for the day.

"Can go to get food, on vay to one of these?"

Fishing Poles:

Sure fingers moved up and down the rod, tracing its bend, before slipping to grip the handle, firm then loose, flicking her wrist at varying strengths. America considered it for a moment, made a small face at the reel, placed it back onto the shelf, and moved to the next one. She'd already picked her own, of course. It was Kostya's that needed the special deliberation. Something good for a newbie, but not a little kiddie kit either.

Eventually she found a decent one that would do for a few fishing trips throughout the year. if not regular use. She made sure it was one clearly marked Made in America, too. The sight of him holding three pamphlets, likely pared down with careful thought and deliberation, caused something in her demeanor to go a bit softly fond.

"Yeah, what you feel like, Red?"

Bathing Suits:

The sigh was insistent, heavy, and resigned. He would do his duty.

"Then strategic. Choose cut to flatter curve, but also make sure secure." He pulled one suit that had been in the maybe stack, and removed. "America," he said, dryly. "Secure now, not secure later. Trust." In that same vein, he removed a bandeau bikini, and a one piece without enough room for...them.

Then, with a look of intense focus, he pulled out ones that passed his theories regarding swimming, water slides, and general activity. If America could fight in it, then it would be worthy. Kostya admitted to himself that it was significantly easier to inspect them when America was not wearing them, after having seen her in them once to know that they fitted.

He picked out three from the remaining: a halter top and vintage bottom, another halter with a more reasonable bottom, and a one piece with the sides cut out, to give her more illusion of curves. America's body was a weapon, and a busty one at that.

"Thse are best. Provide best fit, most security, and flatter to shape."

Well. She'd asked.

The Bait Shop

It was a little ol' cabin of a shop. Along with bait and some better lures than Walmart offered, America bought a stack of pornography for future Mark Bribes. The clerk gave her a level, disapproving stare which she met with a cheeky grin, sliding her eyes toward Kostya who was inspecting the odd bits of bric-a-brac places like these can't help but collect over the decades. The clerk treated him to a speculative look, and then finally nodded.

America rolled her eyes.

Fishing Poles:

He left his own weapon of choice in America's capable hands. Kostya could gut a fish, but that was the extent of his knowledge.

"If I say pelmeni," Kostya hazarded, still reading the tiny text of a brochure-- he'd need to ask America later what "B&B" stood for. "You are probably not knowing vhat I mean, huh?" he asked, looking up at America, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"Not caring vhere, then. Pork, please. Is preferred, vhen can get."