Disclaimer: All characters except for the briefly mentioned Reptile and Kitana belong to Mutant Enemy. I don't know who specifically owns those two Mortal Kombat video game characters, but they aren't mine. The title "Super Smash Brothers" belongs to Nintendo. I'm making absolutely zippo profit from this.

Author's Notes: Angel is my least favorite character; Illyria is my favorite. So, heck, I threw them together and this is what I came up with.

Purchased Happiness

It's hard to believe, Angel thinks to himself, that it's been a whole year. It doesn't seem like a year, but then again he's lived so many years that they tend to run together. This date, though, stands out with firm punctuation. On this day one year ago, they'd brought down the Circle of the Black Thorn, and it was worth a celebration. Tonight, unlike then, the only gore was found in the pixels of Gunn's television.

"FATALITY!" booms a voice from the X-Box, and Spike groans from his place in front of the screen. Beside him sit Gunn, Connor, and Illyria like ducks in a row. Around them are littered paper plates and half-full plastic beverage cups—evidence of the quiet—even homey- celebration they've been having in Gunn's den. A cheery fire flickers in the fireplace for the sake of the humans involved, though Spike has complained—loudly—that it dredges up less-than-pleasant implications for him. The room would be the perfect picture of a cozy family party were it not for the rather bloody scene playing out on the darkened screen of the television. Then again, considering that the party includes two vampires and an ancient demon god, that's probably par for the course.

"Aw, that's just nasty," Gunn says, cringing, and Illyria only tilts up her chin.

"REPTILE WINS. FLAWLESS VICTORY."

"This is bloody embarrassing," Spike mutters, dropping his controller. "Never shoulda taught her how to use this thing."

"What's really embarrassing is that she beat you using Reptile," Connor adds. Wesley and Angel shoot each other blank looks, obviously the only two who are uninitiated to the world of Mortal Kombat.1

"That's nothing. You should see her play Total War. Or Caesar III. Beat it in two hours.2"

"No way!"

"Ugh," Lorne protests, taking a sip of his Seabreeze. It's a casual movement—gone are the days of his nursing his drink glass, depressed. "Don't you kids get enough of that in real life?"

"Good point," Connor agrees, then grins widely. "Super Smash Brothers?"

"You're on," Spike says with a tip of his own drink.

As Connor leans over to replace the game cartridge in front of them, Angel, at the other side of the smallish room, sits back on the couch and studies his family. There is no way to describe his joy at having his son—his one and only son—with him like this. It seems a miracle considering all that they've gone through and that they both now remember. Yet here is his son, a happy, well-adjusted college student, playing video games the way a happy, well-adjusted young man would. Here is Lorne, laughing and singing amiably as he always done, before life ripped him apart and left him bitter and broken. Here are Gunn and Wesley, back from the dead and whole. And Spike, too—much as he would publicly hate to admit it, Spike is his family and always has been—and Illyria. No. Illyria, he corrects in his mind, is not really family— he still can't think of her that way—even though she's whatever the mystical equivalent is of married to Wesley. Spike and Gunn count her as a friend; Connor's as fascinated with her as ever. Lorne is slightly intimidated by her, but still showers her with any number of friendly nicknames. Everyone but him, it seems, is completely in her thrall.

But then again, they don't know…

She is sitting cross-legged on the carpet in front of the television, her back aligned in an impossibly rigid posture. The pose reflects the blend of human and otherworldly that makes up her being. How she can sit at all in her body armor no one is quite sure, but she's resisted all attempts to change into a less martial wardrobe. Angel is glad for this, because he knows that seeing her in a skirt and blouse would remind him too much of Fred, and her memory is too hard as it is.

It would remind everyone else of Fred, too… if they could remember. But they can't, and they won't.

It's all a mindwipe, of course, and this time there is no glowing box that can bring the memories back again. No, this one came from a much higher power than Cyvus Vail and his group of sorcerers, formidable as they were. It can and never will be reversed. Two mindwipes—Angel wonders what poor Connor must have in his mind now, or Wesley, or Gunn, or Lorne. Still, he cannot wish his decision away. It was his, and he is not sorry he'd made it. If he hadn't, would his precious family be sitting now in this cozy den, laughing and eating as if the world hadn't nearly ended? No. No, they would not be laughing. Save for Connor and Lorne they would all be dead, in a place from which Angel could never hope to release them. Wesley, Gunn, Spike.

All three of them had died, that night a year ago. It had been only he and Illyria left after the last enemy demon fell into the blood-swirled rain. He'd known there would be death—he had warned them, after all—but had also held out the barest flicker of hope that at least some of them would come out intact. Of his own death he'd had no doubt. It was to have been his fight and he'd fully expected to be cut down in it. But he hadn't. Wesley and Gunn, the mortals, he'd been sure would die. And they had. He'd been fairly certain Spike would pull through, because his grandchilde simply always did. Only he hadn't, not that time. Angel can still remember the rain-clumped ash- all that remained of the brash and brave Undead who was so much larger than life. When it came to Illyria he'd honestly not had an opinion one way or another. He'd hoped she'd live up to her reputation and take down as many enemies as possible, but beyond that he'd had no particular interest in her. Unlike Wesley, he'd never seen her as the last remaining link to Fred, or as someone who needed help and guidance. She was the thing that killed Fred. He'd told her he was glad to have her on the team and it was true, but she was a tool to be used, not a close comrade. He didn't feel guilty for such thinking because she looked on him the same way; he knew she did. Hadn't he learned such Machiavellian thinking directly from her?

That night, she'd fought as he'd never seen her fight before. They both had. Hamilton's blood had lent him near invincibility. That, coupled with his own strength and skill—and later his raging grief—carried him through. Illyria had simply been too angry to die, in whatever way it was that she could die. Her grief turned her into an unholy terror, and she'd mown down whole swaths of enemy lines with rage in her eyes. He'd never seen her fight that way; she was generally a methodical, emotionless killer. Not so that night. Ravaged with pain over Wesley, she'd literally torn apart anything unfortunate enough to come within her reach.

They'd taken down the dragon together- Illyria holding it to the ground, Angel aloft with his sword.

When it was all over, they'd stumbled through the door to the Hyperion, clinging to one another out of pure necessity. Portraits in pain, they'd been barely recognizable- leather hanging off in long shreds, each clothed instead from crown to toe in slipcoats of blood. There wasn't a part of either of them that hadn't been crushed, cut, or broken. Both were charred from the dragon's fiery breath, Angel more so than Illyria, for he'd first engaged it. They'd fallen to the lobby couch, clutched to one another, and a heavy axe that had still been hanging from underneath Illyria's ribcage came loose and clattered to the floor. They trembled violently, muscles spasming with fatigue. Two cold beings, neither of them could warm the other. The last thing Angel remembers of that time is her words, rasping out of her mouth amidst a wash of blood.

"My boys," she'd said. "I have to go get them." Hearing that—it was the closest he's ever felt to her. And she'd been right. He hadn't wanted to leave Wes and Gunn's bodies out there any more than she had; the idea of Wolfram and Hart's minions desecrating the bodies was horrible. Still, she hadn't been able to get up. Neither had he. Their adrenaline had finally given out, and in a matter of seconds their tortured bodies collapsed, shut down. Had the Senior Partners sent even the weakest of demons in upon them, they would have been finished.

Only they hadn't, or they hadn't had time. Angel has no idea how long he and Illyria were unconscious, but he doesn't think it was long—probably not more than a few minutes. All he knows is that he'd been awakened by the ever-stereotypical white light, filling the entire lobby. His vampire instinct had been to dart away, but his body could not obey his mental commands. How ironic it would be, he remembers thinking, if he survived the battle only to be taken out by a ray of wholesome sunshine?

Thankfully, the light had not been of the killing kind, but of the opposite. Instead, the light healed him in an instant, down to the very lightest scratch. Illyria had been healed, too, but for some reason did not rouse as he had. The message that came then had been for him and him alone. The light faded and from all around came a voice, free-floating but speaking directly to him.

It seemed that, at long last, the Powers That Be had finally decided to intervene directly. He was to be rewarded, the voice told him, for his bravery in removing the Circle of the Black Thorn. As a result, the Senior Partners had suffered a devastating blow, an apocalypse averted. The Shanshu, however, was not an option. Whether he truly has signed it away or whether it was not yet the time for it Angel still does not know. It hadn't mattered. He chose as he would have chosen even were his humanity still an available choice.

"Where are they?" he'd asked. "All of them. Where's my family?" He'd wanted—wants—them all back desperately, but knew that if some or all of his friends had found some sort of peace in the afterlife, he could not take that away from them. With Cordelia and Doyle such was the case. They were helping others, the Powers told him, and as much as he longed for them, he'd known he had no right to pull them back again. Lorne was alive, they'd said, but damaged beyond repair by his final assignment. Connor was living.

The worst news had come when they told him of the fates of Fred, Wesley, Spike, and Gunn. Fred, beyond all shadow of a doubt, was utterly and completely gone. Burned away. Irretrievable.

"But take heart," the voice had told him, even as that heart broke all over again. "Her influence lives on, and her memories. That part of her will always exist, in Illyria. Nurture it."

Angel still has no intention of nurturing it. Let Wesley, in his ignorance, love her, fawn over her. He, with his knowledge, still can't.

The news had not grown any better. The remaining three of his comrades had been swept up by Wolfram and Hart and placed in a holding area—in the Partners' own home dimension. Angel had protested, loudly. He'd made very sure when he brought Gunn and Wes into the law firm that there were no perpetuity clauses written into their contracts. Spike had never had a contract. The Senior Partners had no right to take them after death!

"Do you think that matters to them?" the voice had asked him. "They do as they please."

"Fine, then," he'd replied. "Then for my reward, I want them all back—Wes, Gunn, … Spike. And I want it so that Wolfram and Hart can never put their paws on them—or Lorne or my son—again."

"We can bring them back, that's easy enough. And while we can assure that they will never be bound after death by the Senior Partners, we cannot guarantee what may happen in their lives. They are your enemies, after all, and you're bound to engage. Also, there is the matter of Krevlorneswath."

"What about him?"

"If he is to be included in your reward, he must also be of use to us."

"So that's how it works, huh?" Angel had replied, bordering on sarcastic. He'd been too tired—and too battered by Senior Partners and Powers That Be alike—to worry about the ramifications of being flippant with a major universal force.

"Yes. That is how it works. To be whole again, Krevlorneswath must move past the guilt he feels over your assigned killing. This could take years that we simply do not wish to wait. You must agree that his memory of this event will be altered. In his mind, the man Lindsey will have been killed by the Sahrvin enemy. Are you in agreement?"

He'd hesitated. After the first memory re-structure he'd forced upon his friends, he'd been convinced he would never take such an action again. It was betrayal, an invasion of the worst kind. But if this would only help Lorne, and if it was the only way the Powers would help him… Yes, Lorne would be believing a lie, but if the truth did nothing more than to cripple him… A lie was still wrong, Angel knew that. But…

"I agree. Do it."

"It's done, then. It's simple enough, considering he and yourself were the only two who knew of the deed—besides the unfortunate Mr. McDonald. Of course, there is the similar matter with Mr. Wyndam-Pryce."

"What about Wesley?" By that time, his voice had become a demanding almost-growl. Why did even a reward from these Powers have to come with strings attached?

"He also was damaged, unpredictable. Ruined. He too will be of no use to us if returned."

"He wasn't ruined. He was moving on finally, starting to live again. He helped in the battle! How can that be 'of no use?'"?

"And he was killed, no? Death hung over that man's head far before the knife took him. Ever since the demise of his beloved Ms. Burkle, his soul was dying. If he is returned from the dead he will be worse still, because she was not there to greet him."

"So what does he have to forget?" he'd asked, bordering on defiance. "Fred?"

"Exactly."

Angel hadn't really been expecting that to be their answer, and he'd been stunned for a moment before recovering. "But Fred was Wesley's reason for fighting. She was everything to him—everything good."

"He fought for good before he knew her, and he would again. He would find someone worthy."

"Illyria," he'd muttered, darkly.

"Almost certainly."

"So why not just have him forget that she died? She could have moved, or…"

"Because Illyria would still be before him. Do not think you'll be sending her away, Angel. You'll need her, we assure you."

He hadn't had a reply for that. Certainly they would need her.

"And of course, everyone else will have to forget Winifred as well, or the exercise will be pointless. There will be the secondhand advantage that Mr. Gunn will forget his worst deed as well, and live all the happier for it."

Exercise. The Powers were creatures who thought nothing of dabbling in people's minds, of changing the truth and invading lives—but they'd been his only hope to save his friends. Illyria had broken into a holding dimension once with no trouble, but she was no longer the invincible god she'd been when she did it. He doubted even the two of them together could survive the Wolf, Ram, and Hart's own hell dimension. Still, he'd known if he did this, he'd be betraying not only the friends in question but Fred, too, in the worst way. She'd been wiped from this world already and from the next, and this would wipe her away from the one place she still existed—in memory. Would she simply disappear? Would Roger and Trish Burkle suddenly be childless? Would teachers back in a high school in San Antonio forget their most brilliant student? Would some young man, somewhere, forget who had given him his first kiss? Or would the memories be altered, like Connor's had been? Wesley would not remember his true love, but would he recall a sweet young woman whom he'd known briefly but left again? Would her parents think she disappeared for good that day in the library? He'd had no idea. He still doesn't know.

Betrayal. It all stank of betrayal. To Fred, to his friends, to her family, to everyone who'd known her.

But there was nothing left of Fred to betray.

And he wanted his family back, whole.

So he'd agreed.

"Done!" cried the voice, and there'd been a flash, brighter than the light that had healed he and Illyria. This time, she woke—to the sight of Spike, Gunn… and Wesley. Alive, on the floor of the Hyperion, blinking in dazed confusion.

Illyria'd been on Wesley in a moment, staring at him hard and reading him before her hand closed furiously around his throat.

"You dared to leave me! You're my guide and in my service!"

Wesley, unalarmed, had only chuckled lightly—her grip had evidently not been very hard- and tugged at her hand. "I assure you it wasn't intentional." A pause. "I'm glad to see you, too, Illyria."

She'd softened, almost imperceptibly, though her hand did not move. "You died and left me all alone."

Wesley, cognizant of the change in her, left off his light tone. "I'm sorry."

Angel had known then that much of Wesley and Illyria's relationship, as it had been, was still intact—with one gaping hole. What had filled up that hole? How did Wesley think Illyria had come to be? There, as he'd watched, her chokehold had suddenly become an embrace. Wesley, surprised, tentatively returned it. Illyria, muttering into his hair, began to speak of a bonding spell.

A few moments later she'd been granted her reward, though she'd been given no choice in the matter. Like Angel's it was also something that could be useful as well to the cause of the Powers. She was given her powers back. Every last one. Angel wonders if, had she been rewarded first, she could have reversed away the deaths herself, or if that would have been disastrous in the grand scheme of things. She probably could have broken into the holding dimension and freed their three fallen comrades. It's fruitless thinking, however. It was already done, and before long Illyria had gained another reward as well. Less than a month later, Wesley belonged to her in every way.

No one ever mentioned Winifred Burkle again, not that Angel has seen. Either they'd never known her, or she'd been such a fleeting memory that it didn't occur to them to mention her. Only he and Illyria know her now. Mindwipes, it seems, don't work on powers such as she, but that is for the best. Fred is the base and beginning of Illyria's humanity, and removing her memory would have been disastrous.

Angel knows she remembers Fred because she came to him once, not long after the battle, and asked why Wesley did not remember Fred. He suspects she hadn't pressed the issue, but even so, she'd been curious. He'd answered that he suspected a mindwipe and left it at that, not bringing himself or his choice into the matter. However, he is almost sure she knows the truth. It is difficult to put anything past someone who has lived so long as she has, to say nothing of her ability to sense and smell the very motivations in those around her. There is something, too, that passes between them, over Wesley's head, or Gunn's. But he does not worry about her revealing the secret—she won't. He knows she won't, despite her professed hatred of deception, because she prefers Wesley's happiness to the heaviness of his grief, and also because she enjoys the almost worshipful love he lavishes on her night and day. It is true that the love is misplaced, based on a lie, but Illyria is a pragmatic individual and not one to run herself to ground over circumstances she cannot change—or if she does she never shows it. It is one trait that Angel has come to respect about her, and that he secretly, at times, wishes he possessed. They don't talk often—two alpha wolves, respect is all they'll ever feel toward one another—but on one such occasion she'd asked him why he continued to feel guilt over deeds he did as a soulless vampire, a creature to which killing is native. No amount of explaining on his part could make her understand. In her original life she'd killed far more beings than he can ever imagine—for power, not pleasure—but no visible guilt plagues her. Now that she's on the ground with the creatures she once wiped out so easily he can imagine that she might feel some new empathy, maybe even regret, but regret is not quite the same as guilt. Sometimes he wonders, in idle hours observing her, if she were given a soul if it would make any difference.

He would have felt guilty—or more guilty than he does—for deceiving Wesley, were it not for the knowledge that he probably would have succumbed to Illyria anyway, given enough time. She may very well know this, which may in part explain her willingness to let him love her through the lie. Maybe she knows it isn't a complete lie. Angel would not have been surprised in the slightest, in the days before, to have found Wesley entangled with her. Even so, it would have been vastly different. He would have loved her—or have slept with her, which is too often not the same thing- against his better feelings, and it would have been drenched in self-hate. Destructive yet inevitable. Angel had seen the way Wesley obsessed over her in a way that was most definitely not healthy—and the way that she obsessed over him. As it is now, he knows Wes, a life-long demon hunter, feels somewhat uneasy about his unbreakable attachment to one of the most powerful demon-gods in the unrecorded history of the universe, but it is nothing in comparison.

Besides all that, it comforts Angel to know that, unbelievable as it seems, Illyria is so good for Wes on so many levels. In a way she's perfect for him, with her strange blend of strength and vulnerability that is the characteristic of every woman he's been involved with. He's a man who can love close to obsession, and one who wants to make his lover a goddess. Illyria considers herself a goddess—even was one, once upon a time- and is perfectly happy to be the center of his universe. Yet it isn't one-sided adoration. Wesley has often expressed his disbelief at the thoroughness of her love, at why she has chosen him to attach herself to. He isn't the center of her universe—she will always be that—but he's close. There is a part of Wesley that had always believed he wasn't worthy of love—Angel imagines, despite his friend's reticence to give details, that that's his father's influence talking—and that the darkness in him would push any love away. Illyria isn't afraid of that darkness, which two mindwipes couldn't wash away. Wesley has a broken past and sharp edges. Illyria doesn't smooth the sharp edges, but she embraces them.

Now, Angel watches them together. Wesley comes up behind her, crouching down with an offering. It's only a paper plate, filled with cheese and crackers, chips and dip, little cocktail franks in barbeque sauce—but he holds it out like an offering and Angel's cheek twitches. No doubt she's used to such royal treatment, with countless slaves to tend to her every want and whim. No doubt she's got Wesley trained to… Only—no- it's not that way. Illyria thanks him. She pauses the game and tilts her face up. It's a bit odd, the open brushing of her mouth against his—more of a tasting than a kiss—but Wesley smiles under it.

She does love him; Angel knows this, even if he does not particularly like it. For her, love equals protection. To even suggest splitting them up on a mission these days would be inviting disembowelment. Her memories of Vail's chambers- of the former master of time being just a moment too late—are too fresh. Even so, it's so hard to trust her. Angel has memories, too. Memories of her killing them all.

It was those memories in his mind that led him, one night, to bolt up to their room on the second floor of the Hyperion. They have their own place, but often stay overnight at the hotel headquarters during more involving cases. Wesley's cries for help had been streaming from that room, almost wild, mixed in with other words of anguish. They hadn't been anything that could have been construed as… well, as something Angel just really didn't want to think about. He'd burst upon the room, certain that Illyria had finally reverted to type and attacked him.

It was nothing of the sort, he'd found to his almost-shame. He'd first been met with blue eyes, glittering in the dark cave of the room. Illyria lay over Wesley, face resting between his bare shoulder blades, tense hands curled around each bicep, her expression feral and protective—a lioness with her cub… or her kill. Her lack of body armor had lent no vulnerability; she was hard and lethal and deadly. At the barest sound of his step at the door, the armor had begun its quick-creeping path over her blue-tinged skin.

Wesley moaned again, and jerked violently, and Angel had seen genuine pain come over her face.

"I heard… I thought there might be trouble," he'd explained lamely, gesturing.

"You thought I would hurt him," she'd retorted, her tone flat but still dripping accusation.

Angel had nearly pointed out that, not so long ago, her very existence had hurt him… but thought it hadn't been so long ago, it was a different lifetime ago.

Then, again, she'd softened, and stroked Wesley's damp hair. "Nightmares. He has nightmares. I can't stop them." Her face was titled downward, and he knew he'd seen the closest she could express to anger at herself. "Waking him does not help. They only come back again."

"No one can stop them, Illyria," he'd replied, gentling with a sort of strange sympathy.

"Once, I could. In my time nightmares were creatures who walked upon the earth, seizing their victims and exposing their worst fears and desires to all. If they did not amuse me I could dispatch them without a thought."

"Amuse you?"

"Nightmares served to make me laugh." Again, she looked to Wesley. "Not so anymore."

Remembering, Angel thinks that perhaps he was wrong earlier. No, he was wrong. Illyria may embrace Wesley's sharp edges, but if she could heal his broken past, she would. She probably has healed him, more than she knows, but there's only so much a non-human can do to help a human. Angel wonders how much more Fred could have done—but again, moot thinking.

He also thinks that if for some reason Roger Wyndam-Pryce ever comes seeking his son, he'll be dead before he clears the doorframe. There could also be some serious trouble with Faith, and Angel reminds himself to talk to Wesley about explaining that situation and its turn-around to his wife.

"I—I know you want to help him."

"But I can't," she'd said honestly, unbelievably revealing a vulnerability to him. "I can protect him, and I find that I am capable of loving him. I— understand much of what he understands. But…."

She hadn't needed to finish that sentence. Their eyes met again in that knowing way. "Yeah. Yeah, I know what you mean. I understand."

"HA!" Spike crows in triumph, having taken advantage of Illyria's distraction to unpause the game. His player, holding onto what looked like an erratically pounding mallet, knocked her character, an oversized spiked dragon, offscreen.

"You resort to tricks," Illyria replies, though somewhat disinterestedly. "Just like the rest of your kind."

"Aw, Blue, you've cut me to the heart." Spike rolls his eyes for emphasis.

"Hey, let me in this round," Lorne jumps in, putting down his drink. "I can't believe I'm saying that, but the little green guy—just too cute to resist."

"Yoshi?" Connor fills in, as Lorne slides down off the hearth and takes up Illyria's abandoned controller. She's now far more interested in trying some of the dinner—as it were—that Wesley has brought.

Hearing his son and watching Illyria brings words from the past to Angel's mind. 'You gotta do what you can to protect your family.' He understands that, and somehow he knows she understands it, too. They've done it. Her family is Wesley. Wesley is a part of his family. There's an overlap, and it's important. They may not be family to one another, but somehow, while he's always been the alpha male, she's become the alpha female of their little pack. Together they protect. Together they carry a lie. They're the outsiders—the dragonslayers—the non-humans, the oldest. Even Spike and Lorne are far more human than Angel has ever been, or Illyria ever will be. No matter how close they get to the others, they will always be somewhat apart, too.

Only Illyria's not quite an outsider anymore. She's trying.

"Is there room for another player?" he suddenly finds himself asking, and he gets up from the couch across the room.

"Oh, this I gotta see," Spike smirks, and hands over his controller. A character selection screen is up, and Angel studies his choices. "Let me guess—you'll pick the poncy elf with the sword."

Angel's brow creases in mild confusion as he chooses a fighter named "Link."

"Called that one," Spike comments dryly.

"How do I use this thing?" Angel asks, staring at the numerous buttons and small joysticks on the controller.

"I'll show you," Illyria offers, surprising him. It probably shouldn't have. Illyria enjoys an opportunity to share knowledge—that which can't be used against her, anyway- if only to subsequently show her own superiority at the same time. Still, it's a nice offer, especially considering that he might master the controls and later give her a run for her money in the gaming department.

Well, probably not.

"I need to know how to punch."

She shows him, and as she does the look passes between them again. Her eyes trace a path to each of their comrades, then linger on Wesley, then back to Angel. Has she been having thoughts just like his all evening? Yes, he thinks, yes she has.

And maybe, he thinks, sitting beside her, knowing this—she's family, too.

So they pause for just a moment and look at the members of their family. They're happy, and that happiness is a weight that Angel and Illyria bear on their shoulders. It's purchased happiness. Much of it is based on a lie.

But it's the best they can do, and they'll never stop doing it.

1 I sort of lost track of good ol' MK after Annihilation (after which it good a little too realistic-gory for me), so if Reptile has improved since then, I apologize to his fans. I just remember him being somewhat lower-strata in MKII, yet in the hands of a good player… He just seemed to fit Illyria. I'm a Kitana player, myself.

2 This is impossible.