Vasiliy enters the space with something that sits awkwardly between confidence and uneasiness - uniformed as he is, he feels some level of artificially imbued authority, but—to quote the spine of a bent-up paperback someone left on the counter of the Blue Moon Diner during one of his night shifts—he's a stranger in a strange land and acutely aware of it. They're probably cataloguing his height, his accent, his dark hair and eyes and brows, just like the occupants of the endless cheap American houses that encircle his.

The closest thing he sees to any kind of medical personnel is the individual in a day dress and apron, who seems to be holding his? her? own fairly well, all things considered, so that's who he approaches when he takes his own break, glancing down at the rather translucent looking coffee in their hands.

"Is there any more of that?"