A floor down, gone grey nearly from head to foot thanks to the dust of crumbled cement and sheet rock, Charlie slowly extricates himself from the tangle of debris with a groan. His back aches something fierce, but that might be from the table he landed on. He does a brief inventory of his personal effects (balls, cock, wallet and watch) to make sure nothing's busted. Part of him isn't surprised to discover that the radio is the only serious casualty of the fall - it's hissing and popping, screaming from where it's lost signal. He tries for a moment to re-tune it and then dismisses the effort entirely and clicks it off. So much for that.

Limping slightly - piss, bollocks, his shoes are going to need a thorough conditioning after this nonsense -, Charlie makes his way from the thankfully empty apartment and clatters down the shared staircase to the ground floor. He doesn't bother with holstering his weapon before he moves out onto the street - the bloody roof just caved in and he's covered in dust. If that's not the definition of conspicuous, he doesn't know what is.