The alarm that woke him up was much less of an alarm, and much more of a whinge. Which might be why he didn't immediately react to it. He finally got his eyes open after an extra minute or two, muttering '[i]Ai, hijo de puta, ¿qué demonios está pasando...?[/i]' and blearily shaking his head to get rid of the cobwebs and the lingering feeling that something might be wrong after all. Or, at least, different from usual.

...those cobwebs were taking their sweet time getting out. He was almost having a hard time recalling what "usual" was - but given the fact he was in an empty white room, wearing a uniform grey outfit with a swatch of purple on the chest, complete with collars round his neck and wrists, with little but a pull-up bar and dresser in sight- oh, and a camera in one corner... yeah, this was probably a prison. He-

What was he in here for? He should know that if he was in prison. And what kind of prison put big old collars and shit round the prisoner's necks?

...what was his name again?

'Ah, shit. It's one of [i]those[/i] fuckin' situations.' Not that he could remember what "[i]those[/i] fuckin' situations" typically were, but for some reason, it seemed likely that this was one of them. Huffing grumpily, he rolled out of the minimalist bed, checking the uniform he had on again - no name, not number, nothing to say what he was called even as he knew he ought to be called out for it about now - and checked the rest of the room. There was nothing fancy about it, no seams or hidden doors he could take note of, though the main door was clearly open anyway. So, out he went, pushing the heavy slab of rubber-edged steel aside so he could get past.

Outside was about as bland as inside. Only difference was, it was a white corridor lined with more doors, instead of a white room. And it wasn't lit very well. All the lights were freaking out, for some reason. Seriously, this [i]was[/i] a prison, right? He was pretty sure he knew a prison when he saw one, though he wasn't exactly sure what that meant. Clearly, he wasn't the only prisoner, though... were there normally people to look after the prisoners? And if there were, where were those guys?

'Ay, anyone 'round?' he yelled, wandering down the corridor a bit towards where it... [i]felt,[/i] he guessed, like he'd normally need to go. 'If anyone wants to tell me what the fuck's happening, now's the time.' He couldn't help but take note of his voice as he spoke - he assumed it was something related to his skin tone, but he also realised that what he was speaking right now had not been the same as what he'd been speaking when he first woke up. Spitting out a few words in that first language, he was relieved that he at least hadn't lost his ability to speak it, and kept track of where it was different as he muttered to himself. It was, overall, more fluid than the rougher, slouchier tone he had with his second language, as though it wanted to flow more, but it almost seemed angrier as a result? Weird, real weird.