Frank
Maxwell tries to wring some fun out of his shitty body whenever he can. And this week, there's apparently a festival in town, so even though he had no one to go with, he decided to go just to have *Something* To do.

None of the souvenir stalls caught his eye (not quite true; he'd noticed some replica swords at a stall but paid them little mind until he was far away and had forgotten where,) but the food stalls certainly did. The selection reminded him of county fairs back home: candied apples, popcorn, cotton candy and fried foods galore. He decided to go for a hot dog; it seemed filling and it reminded him of home.

He got in line, behind a couple of strangers, and waited his turn while contemplating what he would want on a hot dog in Sweden. Definitely not Surstromming. Did they even have that? Probably not.
Ruth
Vizhkir Dragovich 

Vizhkir was making more attempts to leave his comfort zone. This rocket project had certainly netted intresting interactions with different people. But, at least for the next few hours, he was taking a brake from the near endless low altitude detonations that seemed to plague his rocket design.

The town had some sort of festival, and that seemed like it could be fun. He was a bit hesitant, he didn't really know what was in store and what would be expected of him. But he figured if he was on his best behavior (he normally was) and minded his own business he would be fine. The tall boy attempted to carefully pass through the gathered crowd of people, and for the most part he was sucessfull though there were a few instances of him bumping into people. 

As the smell of food invaded his nose, his stomach growled violently. It seems that the last of the potato soup wasn't enough for his stomach. Eyeing the stands individually, he decided on a hot dog. He had never tried one before and figured the worst possible outcome was him not liking it. And so, he filed in line behind someone he vaugly recognized.
Frank
Even though the line looked short, it apparently wasn't quite so short, and both of them ended up waiting there for quite a while — long enough for Maxwell to turn around and notice someone standing behind him whom he vaguely recognized.

From the Cradle, presumably. But... Who is it? 

"Excuse me, do I know you?"
Ruth
Vizhkir looked down a bit at the shorter person in front of him, his face scrunched up in an inquisitive expression as he attempted to remember where he may have seen him. 

"You look familiar." His said, scratching his chin. "Where from?" He murmered. He couldn't tell if he had interacted with this particular individual at the school or elsewhere. But for now, it vexed him.
Frank
Maxwell paused, looking up and down the stranger in front of him. He felt a little bit towered over. He listened to the voice, too; he's learned to do that since arriving at Newton's Cradle, distinguishing between Swedish people and foreigners based on their English.

This one sounded Russian.

"Newton's Cradle?"
Ruth
The Russian's eyes widened in surprise for a moment, before he nodded. "Да" He said, "I am Vizhkir Valentinovich Dragovich." His hand extended outwards, "And you are?"

He hadn't really spent time guessing where people were from based on how they spoke English. He knew his own probably wasn't the best, and his accent was rather thick.
Frank
Maxwell shook his hand a little gingerly. "Max. Hodgins. Nice to meet you." He wasn't even going to *Try* To pronounce *Vizhkir* With his American-ass vocal cords.

Someone left the queue in front, and Maxwell stepped forward to match. "Do you know what you're getting on yours?"
Ruth
Vizhkir, "Pleased to meet you Maxiumus." He said shaking his hand. He slowly moved forward, keeping a respectable few feet between the two. 

"I.. Have never had a hot dog." He answered. "I don't know what goes on them. Mayonnaise?" He asked. It was a safe option, after all it was a staple in his diet.
Frank
"... Maxwell." Awkwardddddd.

But he'd live. His turn in the queue came by the time Vizhkir admitted that he'd never had a hot dog before, but Maxwell reacted instantly, even though he knew he was holding up the line. 

"You've never had a hot dog before? Huh." He took stock over the options as the hot dog guy impatiently grunted at him to order, but he quickly realized that he'd be kicked out of the line and rushed to order:

"Uh— Two hot dogs, one with ketchup and mustard, the other with... Ketchup, mustard, and the pickled cabbage."

He paid the man, turned around on a dime, and offered the one with ketchup and mustard to Vizhkir. "Here. First one's on me. If you like it, you owe me next time."
Ruth
Vizhkir nodded in acknowledgement, "Apologies Maxwell." He replied, a bit sheepishly. Maximus seemed like the most appropriate guess to him, but he stood corrected. 

"No. We have something similar, sosiki but it's a breakfast food. I've never had an American Hot Dog." He said in explanation. In the times of the Soviet Union it was said they could be made of newspaper and rat meat, but in large that was speculation. 

He was surprised when the other boy offered him one of the hot dogs and gently accepted it. He stepped out of the line and nodded, "Thank you, I will be sure to repay you." He said before taking a bite. He chewed for a moment, letting himself taste it. He nodded in approval, "Is not bad." The hot dog wasn't that foreign to him, it tasted similar to the sosiki back home but it had its own unique taste. He wolfed the rest down, he was never one for eating slow after all, and took a hand full of napkins from the stand. He offered a few to Maxwell and used the rest to wipe his face.
Frank
Maxwell looked on with quiet amazement as Vizhkir wolfed down the hot dog in record time. Maxwell couldn't even hope to match it himself; he wasn't even halfway done. He graciously accepted the napkins and shoved them in his pocket as he spoke.

"Woah. That was fast, man. You should join a hot dog eating competition, you'd crush it."