CRASHBANGTEARSHRED

The whirlwind has passed, leaving ragged breathing in its wake. The room is lit by cold florescent light. Debris is everywhere, shredded comic books, gaming manuals, small lead and plastic figures in various poses litter the floor like caltrops. The breathing continues. At the center of the room the figure hunches over, on its knees. It's clothing is dotted red, seeping through. Small cuts and scratches cover his arms (we can make out its a male now), a spider web of blood on his skin. The breathing slows, and calms. A phone lies off the hook, some incessant chattering echoes from it, nonsense about IIS and administrative rights, policy and red tape. A hand reaches out, trembling, and puts the receive back on the cradle. Then gives a sharp tug and yanks the cord from the wall.

The figure uncurls from the floor. The scenery around him is familiar, and not entirely unexpected. He winces as sweat seeps into tiny cuts. What's left of his shirt is used to clean up the worst of it. It falls at his feet, the only clean place on the floor.

He reaches down, and picks up a figure. Then another. And another. Setting them back on the shelf. Once they are replaced he will sweep up the pages, taping them together, replacing that which is ruined beyond repair. Rebuilding. Restoring. All the while thinking: this is progress?

There has to be more than this.