第11章 (4-3)

"Right? Gets the heart started!" America grinned, leaning against the countertop and watching him with undisguised fascination, as if studying a rare specimen in its new habitat. "So, agenda for today. First, we lose the uniform."

Soviet's gaze sharpened. "This is what I wear."

"Not here, you don't. You stick out like a sore thumb. Part of the experience is blending in, comrade." Before Soviet could protest further, America had already bounded off, returning moments later with an armful of fabric. "Here. Try these. They're mine, so they might be a bit... roomy in the shoulders, but they'll do."

He thrust the clothes into Soviet's arms: a simple, grey cotton t-shirt, a pair of khaki-colored trousers made of a soft, unfamiliar material, and—most egregiously—a brightly colored, short-sleeved shirt covered in a garish pattern of palm trees and parrots.

Soviet held the shirt away from his body as if it were contaminated. "I will not."

"Oh, come on! Live a little! It's called a 'Hawaiian shirt'. It's a staple of the carefree capitalist lifestyle!" America's eyes were sparkling with mischief. "Think of it as... reconnaissance. Understanding the enemy through his fashion choices."

The argument was absurd, yet it held a twisted logic that, against his better judgment, Soviet found himself considering. The goal was to observe, to understand. To remain in his usual attire was to maintain a barrier, and hadn't he, on some level, agreed to lower them, if only for seventy-two hours?

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