"Vamo embora Verônica, é armação isso aí," came a woman's voice. It felt distant, like he was underwater trying to hear people above the surface. "O cara se finge de desmaiado e depois vem dez assaltar a gente."

"Mulher, armação assim eu caio de quatro," said another female voice. His head throbbed as he tried to make sense of the foreign words.

"Ave Maria Verônica, o pastor sabe que tu fala essas coisas?"

"Com um tanquinho desses, se isso é tentação do diabo eu vou de mala e cuia pro inferno, minha filha."

The girls continued to chat, their voices and footsteps growing further and further away. What had they been saying? It'd sounded like a Latin-based language. Portuguese? He was sure he'd heard it before.

Not that it mattered. Where was he? He struggled to remember what had happened. He'd been working out in his apartment on a particularly warm day, and he'd felt sick and gone to the kitchen for water, and then...nothing.

Now he was lying sprawled on a patch of grass in a curbside, with a splitting headache and no clue where he was or how he'd gotten here.

"I need to catch my bearings," he mumbled to himself. "Okay. Stay calm. Where is this?"

He sat up, holding his head. The architecture here seemed different. People seemed different. There was a shabby-looking bar in a street corner, adorned by green and yellow flags, full of patrons watching a soccer match on a tiny TV, many of them shirtless. It was warm out, but the sight was still odd. This was definitely not Blüdhaven.

"All right," he mumbled, pushing himself to his feet. "Either I'm hallucinating, or this is..." He looked around, taking in the unfamiliar sights. A man walked past him, wearing a yellow shirt with the number 11 in green on the back. "Brazil?"

How the hell was he in Brazil? Was he dreaming? Was this a prank?

He patted himself, looking for his phone, wallet, anything, and frowned upon realizing he had nothing on him but the clothes he was wearing. "Great. Fantastic."

Now what?