He doesn't want to watch them at all. But he wants to sit here thinking about them even less. With a displeased grunt, he rolls off the bed and ejects Lotus's tape, scribbling his name on the sleeve and dropping it next to the others. Then he grabs one of the other tapes and sticks it in the VCR, quickly and decisively. It's not like it's hard. He's done worse than put a fucking tape in a fucking player.

...But as he sits down, the memory begins to play, and all his bravado deserts him. He makes a quiet, distressed noise low in his throat, drawing back away from the TV.