Any retort Chuck would have made about being called just Australia is cut off by the fact that he knows they've got to be right. It's a little disappointing, actually, when he's got plenty of fight left in him, half-tempted to stay and give the same treatment to anyone else who'd try to fuck with him right now, but for all that he'd like to say he doesn't care whether the police come or not, that isn't strictly true. It would just be inviting a kind of trouble that he doesn't really want and he knows it, no matter how primed he is to kick some more asses.

"Alright, I'm coming, I'm coming," he calls, exasperation heavy in his voice, though he doesn't waste any time in starting for the door after the others. There's blood still in his mouth, some on his cheek trickling down from a cut, but he can deal with all that later. If anything, there's something refreshing about the familiar signs of a fight, though he'd be hard-pressed to explain exactly what that is. There wouldn't be any sense in hanging around to do so, anyway, when they're much better off booking it out of here.