Oh, it's Zenyatta. The soothing metallic tones of his voice penetrates the fog in Rico's brain, and some vague semblance of coherent thought sparks to life.

"Do whatever the hell you want. Stubborn freak, you'd probably do it anyway," Rico grumbles, dropping the last bottle on the ground with a thunk, though it's more half-hearted than anything. He throws an arm over his eyes, flinching bleary-eyed at the light it emits, but the rest of his body remains decidedly limp on the table. The Orb of Harmony rapidly accelerates most of his drunkeness into 'pounding hangover headache', and Rico makes a face.

"It's my stuff, I can break it if I damn well want to. Shoulda - shoulda moved out of the way anyway. Three hundred stories is plenty of warning, isn't it?"