There's a young woman behind the counter, probably not more than twenty-one or -two years old, with badly-dyed black hair enough metal in her ears, lips, nose, and eyebrows to stick a magnet to her face. "Hey," she mumbles, smacking her gum. She doesn't look up from the magazine she's reading. "I think number eight's open. Ten bucks a night." Squelch, squelch, SMACK.

"...ten what?" Earth currency is apparently quite weird. What do they call a groat then, a "doe"?

The girl stops her chewing for a moment, and he can practically see the gears turning inside her (magnetically-) attractive head.

She looks up. "Dude. Dude. You're British."

And then she notices the blood....