[archer's out cold until he wakes up, which isn't all that unusual for him. he completely forgets where he is and jolts upright quick enough that he almost pukes again when he realises he doesn't recognise the room and-- ah. yeah. right. he pulls himself to his feet and staggers out the bedroom with his cane (walking's always harder when he's been off his feet for the night), the shitty hotel carpet feeling like tinfoil under his bare feet and when did he take off his shoes?

he figures this could've gone significantly worse than it did-- he didn't fall off the edge of the wall and break his skull open when he was breaking into barry's room, barry didn't reflexively rip his head off. the target didn't show up early and judging by the lack of beeping on the tracker he has shoved into his pocket, they haven't missed their window. frankly, he could be doing a lot worse than his hair sticking up like he's been pulled backwards through a bale of hay and a nice pair of dark circles forming under his eyes.]

So I don't know about you, Barry, [he announces when he's within speaking distance to the cyborg.] but I'm ready to shoot this dickbag in the face then blow this roach infested shithole off to get a proper meal instead of whatever FSA nightmare they serve downstairs.