#cmd(open)

[nonselfdestruct]

     "Please stop pointing that at me."

[nonselfdestruct]

     " -- is it dead?"

[nonselfdestruct]

     What do you mean you're sold out?

[nonselfdestruct]

     He's back in his apartment, sighing in the doorway. He'd left the place a mess in his frenzy to hurry out. Eyes roving over the room, they settle on something he'd so forgotten; the sweater, folded in over itself, beside a shelf. He walks over nice and slow, moving to crouch. He lifts it, nice and easy; no holes, no damage. With it in his arms, he stood, but lowered again when he saw what was under it.

     The only vidframe he'd had left of his parents.

     Others were stolen, or laid claim to by a few of his parents' old friends and confidants, who initially really didn't care that they'd had a son. And there it was, cracked, screen not even flickering.

     There was noise behind him, at his door, but he made no move to acknowledge.

[nonselfdestruct]

"We're closed."

It's spoken softly, over his shoulder, and he's not even moving to acknowledge whoever's at his door. His shoulders rise and fall in a visible sigh, hands starting to move again after, lazily pulling apart what now looks like a jumbled mess of wires and components.

There's another noise behind him, from the direction of the door, and he inhales sharply before any further motion.

He rises swiftly, a hand planting on the back of his couch, omni tool already visible and twin, charged blades running out from the gauntlet as he launches himself over the seat.  His breathing is shallow, orange points directed toward the source of the noise, as his hooded head rises to see the intruder. There's something burning behind red-ringed eyes.

"I said we're fucking closed."