Near the Memory Emporium, across the way
He'd found the cigarettes in the pocket of his jacket, and that seemed right. He didn't normally smoke, but the body did, and it made his fingers twitch with the desire for nicotine. And he discovered that when he sparked the lighter and drew the smoke into his lungs, no one passing by looked over or complained for him to put it out. And that was good. He didn't want to. And he felt like he could probably make it an issue if someone else did.
Maybe he should have been more worried about finding himself in a body that wasn't meant to be his, but there were too many other, stranger, things in the universe (enough that had happened to him) that he couldn't quite find the worry for something like this. He wasn't hurting, wasn't being hurt, and that was a good thing, in his book.
(Though he could. He'd found the shoulder holster under his jacket while digging for the cigarettes, had brushed scarred fingers over the heavy solidity of the gun, and sighed. He didn't want that. Not like this.)
He'd settled himself on the floor while he smoked, one knee up so that he could rest his wrist there as he held the cigarette between drags, the other leg spread wide and long out into the pathway of the shoppers walking by. The body knew how to take up space, to spread itself and claim a bubble that was larger than normal, and force other people to accommodate it. He was across the way from the Memory Emporium, studying the signs of things on offer and contemplating them. He wondered if it would even work for him, the offer of forgetfulness. There was so much in his mind, more than he could hold, almost. But would trying for forgetfulness (or even just different memories) be better than the things on offer at the other two strange shops? He'd walked around and seen those storefronts as well, and had ended up here.
He took another drag and tipped his head back against the wall he leaned against, closing his eyes for a moment as he exhaled. There was someone out there with his body too, and that was a worry in itself. A worry that could be so much larger than the gun tucked below his arm.