Exploration has thus far netted Daemon very little intelligence about the place that he's been deposited, but he--and even in the privacy of his own mind, the thought is very, very dry--lives in hope that it might. As such, he's at the gas station, pushing in through the door to the tune of the little bell that announces his presence. Past the threshold, however, he halts, bemused. This is, ah, a culture he had not experienced before; from the technology that powers the lights to the type of packaging, nothing is familiar. He'd had an inkling from the cabin's amenities, but.

Ah well.

Upon discovering that there is no attendant, he pokes around the glassed-in cool storage until he finds a beverage that is not a lurid shade of orange or green, and opens it up to drink while he investigates the rest of the space. He doesn't get far, not when the rustle of fabric draws his attention.

"Hello there," he greets the person shuffling through shirts. His eyebrows rise toward his hairline at the text splashed across some of the shirts, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. With genuine curiosity, he asks, "Have you found anything appealing enough to wear?"