Waking up in an unfamiliar bed. Extreme headache. Several points on his legs and torso sore from stuff left in his pockets, and that's the good news - he hasn't been robed then. Unwilling to open his eyes just yet, he checks his most important possessions by touch, eventually resting his hand casually on his autogun. How many times has he woken up like this? Well, enough time to know this headache is no hangover. Recollections of recent past began to flow through his mind, and with them came the all too familiar feeling of danger that was the reality of his life, these days more than ever before. He pushed it to the back of his mind as he always did and stretched a bit, pretending to be only just waking up.
"Feth, my head hurts. Where am I?" he mumbles as his eyes struggle to focus on the ceiling above him, his futile hope that he's waking up in a cheap brothel vanishing as the reality of his situation firmly asserts its place.