For a full day the former pilot holed up in his apartment nursing a wicked hangover and some cuts, bruises, and general aches and pains that he couldn't catalog.
He didn't know if it was the City or Zoe's current...whatever that provided him water, coffee, and food stuffs for immediate consumption that morning but it was much appreciated. It had been waiting in a pile for him to wake up and bolt past it to the bathroom to empty his stomach of everything it contained.
On day two of the worst hangover ever plus the growing bruises from his fight, only part of which he clearly remembered enacting, he got tired of his bed, his ripe clothing, and the stubble on his chin.
Now he was sat under a tree outside somewhere because he still felt miserable and regardless to what this place actually was the sky looked beautiful, like in pictures. So still there in his ripe flight suit, a small plastic bag of shirts and a pair of pants hung on his fingers, he sighed rubbing his face. He grabbed a bottle of water that he'd tucked into a pocket and took a drink.