Smells like floor wax. Ew.

Something felt strange as Feliks ebbed back into wakefulness – very strange indeed. It took him the better part of a minute to come to his senses, and even longer to figure out just what it was that seemed so out of place. It started with the realization that, yes, his back and neck were, like, totally in pain, and that for some reason he seemed to have fallen asleep sitting up – and while Poland had woken up in a number of odd places and positions, he had never woken up this way, because by now he knew exactly how uncool it was to wake up with a hard surface grinding track marks into his back because he’d spent the whole night pressing up against it. He grunted and shifted forward to take the pressure off his spine, but not even a lick of green peeked out from beneath his lashes.
Sometimes, it was nicer to ignore unpleasantness. No reason to open his eyes yet.
Plus, it totally smelled like floor wax. Eww.

To reduce the pain, he lurched forward, pressing his chest against his knees and feeling the muscles of his back loosen. It was satisfying, hearing the cracks echo out of his joints as he linked his fingers above narrow shoulders. The little jade capelet settled across his back fluttered as he lifted his arms and pressed up until he felt that final satisfying snap. Business complete. The little nation gave a contented little push of breath, and fought his way to his feet. As he stood, a little bout of wooziness hit him; he shot out a hand to steady himself, and it landed on something icy and smooth. Uh, what? This didn't feel like anything in the meeting room, or the hotel rooms they got, or, like, anything, really...

Feliks opened his eyes. It was a window, fashioned of thick, spotless glass that ran from ceiling to floor. Seriously, how'd he get out here? Wasn't there supposed to be a meeting? Had he, like, gotten totally drunk, or something? The view throught the glass was totally pitiful, looking out onto an empty, overcast street. Shaking his head in sympathy, the nation turned on his heel and – “GUH!”

Okay. This was, like, totally not funny. at all. Back on the ground – a totally gaudy mosaic of tiles that looked like something Atilla the Hun might have dreamed up – the blonde ground his teeth in irritation, eying an identical panel of glass. Whipping his head around, he finally understood what the problem was. It was a revolving door. Oh.
With a hiss of pain as pushed himself to his feet with the use of his now scraped palms, Poland steadied himself on his feet and pushed forward, in towards the little shop – because while the floor tiles weren’t awesome, there was this totally gorgeous scarf hanging on a rack in the front window.

When the door didn’t move, he frowned and pushed harder. If the completely empty midday street, his sudden lapse in memory, and rude awakening in a, like, totally awkward position in a revolving door didn’t bring him to the conclusion that there was something terrible wrong in this place, this certainly did. Nothing budged. Feliks hissed and gave the frame of the door a kick (even he wasn’t dumb enough to try and take out the glass with only a booted foot) that it only rattled some plaster dust out of the ceiling and into his hair. So not cool.

He turned around and switched directions, bracing his shoulder against the pane and feeling the door give very, very slightly. He grinned and pressed harder – oh god, that fresh air felt awesome on his face – until his progress came to a jarring halt. Something must have been stuck in the track, he realized, and indeed there was; in the directly compartment across from him, a little metal cash box had jammed itself into the path of the door and did not appear to be at all ready to let his gain any more space. As it was, he could only just fit an arm through the space he had created onto the street. Like, yeah, he was thin, but not anorexic, so no hope there. Well, at least he’d have some time to, like, figure our how he got here, or something. 'Cuz he held his alcohol much better than, like, this.