Consciousness returned in the darkness. The boy opened his bleary eyes, but the harsh light hitting him head-on made him turn away and collapse back onto the bed.
His limp limbs and splitting headache told him without a doubt: yes, he had drunk too much last night. This was the price of a hangover.
His head felt like it was splitting apart, and he wished he were dead. Yondu was stingy as hell. He had said he would treat him to drinks, but after several Synthezoids serving alcohol crowded around, he had gone and bought the cheapest, most awful liquor.
His last memory was of being led away by a Synthezoid, who had said they were going to do something naughty.
After that, there was only darkness.
"An unfamiliar ceiling."
No matter what, the first thing to say after waking up was the protagonist's line. Peter Quill understood that well. Every TV show or novel he had seen on Earth and Sparta Star was like that, after all. They were all Wilson Entertainment products.
This place was obviously the interior of some spaceship. The cramped cabin contained only a hard bunk, with no windows and no furniture. Only the ventilation grate in the corner hummed away.
Ordinary people would definitely panic in this situation, perhaps smashing the door or running around in circles. But to a kid like him, one who considered himself protagonist material, what was happening right now was just like a "protagonist's lucky encounter."
Fine, using Earth terminology, he had chunibyo syndrome.
He believed he was the chosen protagonist of heaven and earth, that he was different from everyone else, that he possessed special abilities and so on.
He did indeed have a special ability: exceptional bodily coordination, and he learned all kinds of dances incredibly quickly.