He's been alone for six months. He's coming apart at the seams. Literally, actually. He looks down at his sleeves, at the rough way the threads are falling off of his clothes. This probably had something to do with how he washed them in the shower every night, or perhaps had something to do with the fact that it was his only outfit.

He sighs, and heads down from his hotel room. The sonic doesn't work, but his bank account does, at least. Even overseas, which is terribly convenient. All that interest has made for quite a bit of disposable income. Not enough to last him forever, though.

He needs new clothes. Another suit would be just fine. He heads off towards the wharf.