[Dimos--

Dimos has never danced.

This is likely not a strange thing to know, when one looks at him in his cowboy boots and faded jeans. However, yet again his legs are beyond him, his motor skills beyond his own control for the moment, and he's been ensnared in the invisible conga line. It's a hell of a picture, actually; one shirtless grey cowboy, covered in bandages and scars, completely deadpan, following the traditional conga cadence.

He doesn't even look away once he realises they're dancing past someone. He does, however, speak very clearly.]

Do not get close. I will become exhausted, and beyond the point of functioning. You, however, may not be salvageable if the same happens to you.

[He also doesn't really give a shit about clothes; newer models have shirts, cloaks, garb that protects them from the elements, but none of this matters to him. (What he's currently wearing is only worn out of habit and a sense of public decency needing to be followed, in order to assimilate quietly.) It's the smell of this store, thick and warm and fruity, that draws him in.

Once he realises there's no food source, however, he allows himself to look at what's on offer. It's more an idle act done out of curiosity and the thought of 'perhaps keeping something for his master if he ever arrives', that Dimos can be found delicately putting on a large straw hat (atop a pile of 3 other straw hats already balanced on his head) and rifling through a rack of jauntily-striped polos.]

There is no khaki. Why is there no khaki? It is a tactical choice.