He can't think straight. Thoughts blurry and muddled and distracted, body acting slowly and clumsily, following the commands given without argument. And there's a layer of horror underneath that drugged laziness, a slow-dawning realization of his loss of control and his own lack of understanding. Stamped and set out into the reverberating chambers, the flashing strobes of alternating black-light and sharp luminescence give the crowd an ethereal, stop-motion effect when their silhouettes become visible.

It's nauseating.

It doesn't take long before he stumbles, shoulder meeting a cavern wall, breaths coming uneven and fast as he struggles to catch up with what's happening here. Insomniac's Ball? No-- this wasn't Insomnia. The geography of Cavaugh didn't lend itself to vast caves or structures of this sort. Farther out westward, maybe, outside the wall. And then the manner of arrival- black hoods and secrecy and a terrifying ease of compliance as he was shepherded along... Capture, maybe? But why let him loose among the crowd?

He's bumped from behind and, keyed up as he is, instinctively reaches for his daggers- clutching at air, trying to will them out from the magical space. He comes up short, met only by a burning sharp pain in his chest, sinking into his insides, grasping at his nerves. Hands move to clutch at his sternum with a wheeze-- and he immediately tries again, the pain only feeding into the growing panic of uncertainty. Again, it keys up that overwhelming pain in his chest, and he stumbles, sliding down the wall, likely looking like any of the revelers who've had too much and danced their way too exhaustion- eyes wide, breath fast, clutching at his chest with one arm and desperately at the air with another, almost pitiful looking with the shorn, buzzed hair barely masking freshly knitted scars at the back of his skull, and the standards white scrubs of new arrivals, each smudge of dust and damp from the carnivale-esque cavern a messy gray smear on the otherwise sterile clothes.

Not ten minutes in, and he hates everything happening.

Eventually, Ignis's thoughts have cleared, somewhat. Enough to calm down from how overwhelmed he was initially. The environment, though, is still rather overwhelming- a constant assault on the senses of thumping bass and echoing music and the occasional low moan from down a smaller branch of the tunnels, and the overwhelming clangor of people talking and shouting and reveling.

He's finally accepted that he doesn't seem to be in immediate danger, but the growing headache from the massive amounts of stimulation and the edging drugs still floating through his system definitely don't make it easier. Especially with how they seem to make his body act before his mind can catch up, mindlessly moving in any direction indicated before he can think otherwise. Which is how he's ended up closer to the the middle of the fray, after a woman(?) in an ornate outfit and a concealing mask had taken his wrist and demanded he, as others around, 'get over here for shots'.

The drinks fluoresce under the UV light, there's something off-puttingly milky about them, and yet everyone around takes one of the ring of short glasses- and near-automatically, he can't help but comply at the suggestion, picking one up himself and knocking back the fluid. (It's entirely too sweet, it burns in the back of his throat, and there's an odd aftertaste that's almost smokey. He decides he doesn't want to know what it might have been. Absently, his brain helpfully tries to remind him that he's still under the effect of some other unknown drug, and that mingling the two is likely a bad idea, but the thought doesn't manage to persuade the rest of him to be able to buck against the suggestions given.)

"If that's all-" It's an attempt at polite retreat and the words are careful, his accent lilting a bit more through the cotton-mouthed feeling of dehydration and medication, but the woman with the tray doesn't seem to hear, loudly announcing that there are still some drinks left, that people need to finish them off before she fetches the next round.

Noise and flashing lights and a massive anonymous underground party. It's easy to get lost in the twisting labyrinth of tunnels and halls. He'll be trying to seek a quiet area for the most part to sit and wrap his head around this all, and still occasionally being an idiot and trying to reach out for his canon powers, only to be struck by the pain of attempting again, only to try once more when it wears off, as though that would help him understand why or how it's happening. But as any suggestion will get an unnatural sort of compliance, it's only so long that such reprieves can last.

Ignis's head is throbbing. He's not sure if it's the eyestrain from his lack of glasses, or the lack of caffeine, or residual effects of the drugs or alcohol or whatever else he may have ingested at the ball, or maybe a side-effect from whatever invasive procedure occurred before he was thrust out into a gods-damned rave of all things, or perhaps a touch of all of the above--

But his head is throbbing and he's not even on Eos anymore, and he's in an absolutely foul mood because of it. That, combined with the necessary close proximity to the others within the safehouse, of course sets the stage for sparks and scathing comments- especially if communal areas are left in a disarray or completely trashed. It's a stupid coping mechanism, really- when faced with a completely lack of control over circumstance and situation, he's going to grasp onto the small things he does have power over. Some sort of small, basic action to confirm his own agency. And if that means aggressively scrubbing at old mineral rings in the kitchen sink with a scouring pad, or making another person's bed while they're in the shower, or bitching at them for leaving the laundry laying about, then so be it.

More often, though, he's sitting at the kitchen table, staring intently at the blank surface and moving his empty hand across it as though writing. He doesn't so much as look up when other's walk in, seemingly focused on his invisible note-taking and whatever words and articles he has scrolling across his vision thanks to the neural implant.

Not having paper is a pain, but at least he's making do with what he has here.

For the days he's stuck in the safehouse, characters are welcome to run into him in any manner of their choosing. From trying to prepare some sort of decent meal with what supplies are available (and damn, is he a good cook, even when prepared with locusts and cricket flour,) to pouring over the network and the internet and consuming every bit of information he can, or even just laying down on his own cot with a cold pack over his eyes to dull the headache.