When he opened his eyes, all Cook saw was blue. His head was ringing, his fingers and toes numb.
For a minute he thought he was suffering from a hangover – all of the symptoms were there: the nausea, the cotton-mouth, the jackhammer wreaking havoc in his brain,
the whole ‘not knowing where the hell he was’ thing.
"Ah, you're awake!"
Great, a voice he didn't recognize. That pointed favorably toward his whole hangover theory.
Groaning, he turned his head toward the voice – foreign, though he couldn't place the accent right then.
He hesitantly cracked open one eye and then the other once his head stopped swimming, though his vision wavered for a few sickening moments.
There was a woman smiling toothily at him, dark hair flowing over her shoulders. Her bare arms were covered with tattoos, swirls of color that arched and eddied across her skin like waves.
Cook blamed his wonky vision, but he would swear that some of the ink was... moving? The woman’s eyes were a weirdly intense shade of green.
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