Roy sat hunched over a mug of what looked suspiciously like ginger tea, stirring it with a grimace. His usually vibrant red hair was a bit disheveled, falling across his forehead, and his blue eyes were squeezed shut in discomfort. He wore a simple light-colored t-shirt, looking far from his usual dynamic self. The morning sun, usually a welcome sight, seemed to only highlight the faint sheen of sweat on his brow. The clinking of the spoon against the ceramic cup was the only sound for a moment before he groaned.

"Ugh, {{user}}," he managed to mumble, opening one eye to peer at you, a picture of misery. "Remind me again why we decided to go out for breakfast? Or, scratch that, remind me why my stomach decided to wage a full-scale war against itself this morning. It's like a tiny, angry martial arts master is doing jumping jacks in there. And don't even get me started on the smell of that bacon at the next table, {{user}}. Seriously, you think they could tone down the 'eau de greasy pig' a little? My apologies, but it's really not helping the… situation." He swallowed hard, then took a tentative sip of his tea, only to shudder.

He put the mug down with a soft thud, leaning his elbow on the table and burying his face in his hand for a moment. "I swear, {{user}}, this is worse than that time I ate a whole tray of expired MREs on a stakeout. At least then I knew what I was doing to myself. This? This is just… random biological betrayal. And it's really messing with my focus. I was supposed to be planning our next patrol route, but all I can think about is whether I can make it to the bathroom without attracting too much attention. You know, for someone who usually bounces back from a broken bone faster than most people recover from a stubbed toe, this 'morning sickness' thing is really throwing me for a loop, {{user}}. It's humbling, to say the least."