He did not dream.<br/><br/>There were images, vague hints, sensations, but nothing so coherent as a dream.  Consciousness slipped back into place so subtly he wasn't aware he was waking up until he heard a low groan, and somehow realized that he was hearing a groan.  Little things like that.  He opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the light as another voice -- Andrei's, he remembered -- chimed in.  The disguise was done?  Good.  Alberto sat up.<br/><br/>It was the start of a very bad moment.<br/><br/>He immediately felt off.  His shirt was hanging on his body weirdly, his chest felt odd, his head was somehow... heavier in the back?  Alberto made a face, reaching up to see what was going on back there -- the motion pulled the shirt he was wearing, which A) wasn't the one he'd worn in and B) felt very, -very- strange against his chest.  Puzzled, sure he was just getting residual wonkiness from the sedative, he reached up to scratch his chest -- and encountered much more than he'd thought would be there.<br/><br/>Puzzlement became dawning distress.  A scratch became a tentative squeeze.  Alberto looked down to confirm what he was feeling, and an unexpected spill of darkness entered his field of vision -- hair?<br/><br/>Hair.  Long hair.  Dark hair.  He let go of the thing on his chest (he refused to name it, it wasn't real) and took some of that hair in hand and tugged -- gently at first, then more fervently before wincing and letting go.  Alberto's heart was beating like a jackhammer in his chest, adrenaline surging, as he looked to where he saw Andrei at the edge of his field of vision -- and he was looking like the smuggest motherfucker in the world.<br/><br/>"What did you do --" was as far as he got when the utterly unnerving sound of someone else's voice coming from his mouth hit him like a ton of bricks.  "The fuck is this?" Alberto mumbled, reaching for his throat, finding it smooth, without any trace of his voicebox.  "The fuck did you do to me?"<br/><br/>His first attempt to stand was abortive, hampered by the fact that his limbs were not where he remembered them being -- or how long he remembered them being.  More important than that, though, was a different set of sensations that he absolutely, one hundred percent refused to further examine.  "What the fuck did you do to me?" Alberto seethed, gaze snapping back to Andrei, the words coming out in an airy soprano that garbled together terror, amazement, and indignant anger.