He stands in the middle of the Northern District, face scrunched and cigarette forgotten in his hand. Nothing was familiar, his mind rolling through city after city after city in an attempt to pick where he was. But, it was useless. This was not familiar, not even from books or televisions.

Flicking the cigarette to the ground and stepping on it he shrugs, oh well, it was clean and relatively modern. Nothing to worry about for the moment. He whistled an old song and started down the street, wobbling a bit as his feet tried to catch up to the rhythm of the city.

"Damned place. can't get a 'old of it." The accent was warm, a meld of Creole and Barbados, "Can't get 'old of anyone come t'ink a it." So alone...but not unarmed, he'd had worse odds.

"Oh!" He came to a swaying stop, staring straight up at the sign reading 'Furman's Bar'. "Now 'is place...'as merits."