The thing about LA—and there's lots of things about LA—but the thing about LA, apart from the parties and vegan food craze and actors who dress like hobos and its all around plastic-y, dispensable nature—you know, like one of those toys that comes in kids' meals: cheap but you still play with it because you're bored and your dad is shouting at your sister for spilling ketchup on the seat—.

Anyway. The thing about LA is, no matter how often anything changes, none of the changes really surprise you. Not like, for instance, say, the floor collapsing out from under you. Or a guy, just a random guy, in one of those kind of old-timey hats, hitting you over the head with a gun.

Harry thinks that's called pistol-whipping. Yeah, pretty sure.

Either way, it fucking hurts. He blinks at the guy kneeling in front of him, expression one of concern even in the dense shadows.

"I'm all right. I'm all right; I'm all right: it's okay. It's just—ahh." As he sits up, the thing with stars—it's not really stars but that's always what they show in cartoons, stars or birds, Wile E Coyote and the anvil: that's how Harry's head feels. He's just missing the Roadrunner's pitying beep beep. "It's just my skull."

He raises his head to the back of his head, touching the other guy's fingers, and whoops. Sorry? Sorry. He doesn't know the protocol for finding yourself in a new place with a concussion. Which is funny, actually, because he probably should by now have some idea—Harry looks around.

"Where's, uh. I was with—. But I don't see—. Did it get really dark suddenly or is that another symptom of concussion? There's a real Armaggedon, end-of-the-world, History channel feel going on here. I think that's—. Oh, okay, I'm just going to lie down again now. Okay."

Lying down—laying down? hmm—seems to be what his body is doing anyway.