It's not the first time he's found himself in a hospital bed, too bright lights and being guided around like a lamb trying to find its footing for the first time. He finds the repetition makes it easier to swallow, means he doesn't have any questions in the brief expect for cursory ones. The bigger ones - like how this all falls into place with the rest - aren't going to be something a simple QnA is likely to net any answers to. Something's slid out of place, which means the people running this ship (fleet, whatever) likely won't remember it and leaves him to fend for himself.

In summary: same shit, different day.

Charlie shoulders his way free from the briefing room, bypassing any offers of joining the military to retrieve his things. They're sparse: a handgun and a handkerchief, the former requiring a few extra hoops to junk through before they'll actually hand it over to him. He realizes with some dismay that he hasn't got anywhere to holster the bloody thing, awkwardly checking the safety before he jams it into the waist of his trousers. The handkerchief he carefully folds and forgets to pocket, absently scuffing his thumb across the fabric as he scans the immediate area.