The Road Not Taken
by Soledad
Disclaimer: The characters and settings in this series belong to The Mark Gordon Company, ABC Studios and Showtime. Only a couple of original characters belong to me.
Rating: Teens, just to be safe.
Genre: Stargate: Atlantis/Criminal Minds crossover.
Timeline: Early Season 4 in Criminal Minds. Set after "Memorial" Early Season 2 for Stargate: Atlantis, set after "The Siege, Part 3", with General O'Neill still in charge of the SGC.
Summary: With his genius, Dr. Spencer Reid could have chosen a number of various profesions. What if he he'd chosen to leave the FBI after several years of work with the BAU? What if a secret project had found a place for him where he could put both his scientific mind and his profiler training to excellent use?
Warning: I see the SGA characters a little differently than most people. If you don't like my point of view, it's your right, and I have no problem with it. You should give me the courtesy of respecting my opinion about them the same way, though. So, if you like Sheppard and Weir but don't like Kavanagh, please do us both the favour and hit the Back button now. If you chose to read the story anyway, don't make me responsibe for your hurt feelings. You've been properly warned, haven't you?
Author's notes to this story:
Unlike my other Atlantis stories, this one is more or less a canon one. Meaning that it's not part either of my "Moments of Joy" or "Darkroom" alternate universes. However, some aspects remain the same as in all my other Atlantis stories: like the Athosian's custom to live in clan marriages, or Kavanagh's personal background. Also, I used the version in which Zelenka is married to the Athosian woman Marta in this one.
Several Stargate SG-1 characters have a cameo appearance, due to the fact that the story starts back on Earth during the time in which the command staff of Atlantis was back, too. The only characters from a different universe are the members of the BAU-team.
I messed up the timeline of the two universes a little to make those events happen at about the same time. But this is the only AU element of this story.
Part 01
"What do you mean we can't go home just yet?" Supervisory Special Agent Derek Morgan, a handsome black man in his mid-thirties, demanded angrily. "The road trip will take forever as it is!"
They were sitting in the office provided them at the Operations Support Bureau of the Colorado Springs Police Department, in Colorado Springs, Virginia, having just closed their latest case… a rather unusual one.
It had started with random shootings at bus stops and other public places. The victims seemed to have nothing in common… absolutely nothing. Some had been young, some old; males and females, from every possible social environment. Some had been Asian, some of African-American origins, some Caucasian. There had ever been two European tourists among them, from different countries across the old continent, who had never met before… and a Navajo businessman who had come from New Mexico for a business meeting.
It just had not made any sense. At first, they had suspected another terrorist cell behind the events – after their recent experiences in New York, that had been a logical assumption. But as Reid pointed out, terrorists would have chosen more crowded places, to spread fear and to show that they could always stay a step ahead of the police. This unsub had seemed to kill randomly, whenever something provoked him. Her. Them. Whatever.
It had been Garcia who first noticed the similarities between these killings and the Michael Douglas movie, "Falling Down". The possibility of all this being the consequences of a basically harmless person being stressed beyond endurance had inclined the team to rework the profile drastically, even though the local detectives had found the idea ridiculous.
Nonetheless, Garcia's instinct had proved right. The unsub had been a simple, middle-aged school teacher, with a mild allergy to cigarette smoke. After thirty-four years of responsible work and peaceful existence, she had finally snapped under the pressure and began to shoot at people who blew smoke into her face in public areas.
Just like that. It had really been that simple. Not a terrorist, not a psychopath, not a perverted monster – just a very ordinary person pressed too hard and no longer able to deal with the pressure.
It only made the whole issue the more depressing. That basically normal, likeable people could turn into remorseless killers, just because they had been pressed too hard.
"I couldn't take it any longer," she had said simply during her investigation. "I had to do something. Those people were killing me, poisoning me piece by piece. I had to defend myself somehow; nobody ever defended me."
She had not denied anything. She had not regretted anything. Somewhere along her way, she had become completely indifferent towards right and wrong. All she had wanted was a little peace. It seemed frightening that she'd had to kill eighteen people to achieve that.
It was no wonder that Morgan wanted to be done with the whole case and forget it as soon as possible. That was what all of them wanted. Cases like this one were even more depressing than the worst atrocities caused by evil, mad, pervert criminals… because they involved basically good people who had turned into monsters for perfectly acceptable reasons.
Their most recent unsub had not wanted to be bothered by cigarette smoke. That was an acceptable demand in itself – why should she have put up with the annoyance, with the rudeness of smokers who did not care whether she wanted to inhale their smoke or not? The truly depressing part was that she had not seen any other way to be spared the annoyance than to kill the offenders.
Something was seriously wrong with today's society when people came to such conclusions.
Morgan wasn't the only one who got very angry when Hotch told them that they had to stay in Colorado Springs for another two days, until all the paperwork was done. There was nothing that they could do about it, though. This was an unusual case, probably a new problem that might become more frequent in the future, so it needed to be thoroughly documented.
This mostly affected Hotch, Reid and Garcia (at her computers, back in Quantico), but as they had all come with the same car, the others had to stay as well, unless they wanted to take the bus. They had informed Rossi and Prentiss, who had been called away in a different case, and settled down to sit out the time needed to finish this one.
Reid considered himself lucky – at least he had something to do, working on statistical probabilities of similar cases happening again and locating the most likely type of environment that could lead to them. He was working with one of the local detectives and Garcia via the internet, while Hotch helped out with the final interviewing of the witnesses. In eighteen cases, that meant a lot of people, and after a while even Morgan got drafted to share the burden – not that he would mind. It made time pass a lot faster.
They were all ready for today's lunch break, and Reid was relieved to turn away from the computer screen for a while. His eyes were burning, and he felt as if he hadn't had a cup of coffee for ages – although it had only been an hour or so.
Books were definitely easier, both on the eyes and on the mind, but computers were more efficient. He'd long accepted that fact. Just as contacts were more practical than glasses… even though he preferred glasses, personally, and still used them at home. Granted, they had the annoying habit to get dirty every twenty minutes, but still…
He was so deep in thought that he walked straight into someone – most likely one of the witnesses – when leaving the office. As usual when this happened (and it did happen to him a lot) he blushed beet red and began apologizing profoundly.
"It doesn't matter, really," the person he'd run into answered in a friendly manner. "I should have paid more attention myself."
Reid finally looked at the tall, handsome young man… and frowned. He found the guy vaguely familiar, but he couldn't quite remember where from. Having an eidetic memory was one thing – but the human brain had the self-preserving tendency to put insignificant stuff out of focus.
"Do I know you from somewhere?" he asked.
The young man nodded. "I think so, Dr. Reid. You used to be in my brother's research group at CalTech," he proffered his hand. "I'm Dion Kavanagh. We met a few times when I visited my brother at the university."
The name finally did ring a bell. Reid now could remember the lanky, long-haired young scientist from the research group of Stokesian dynamics. Calvin Kavanagh had been a brilliant, arrogant, often impatient man whose promising career had been seriously hampered by the fact that two small children depended on him. And not just financially, like it was with many divorced fathers. Reid vaguely remembered that Kavanagh raised his kids alone, with the help of his sister, after a long and ugly courtroom fight with his ex-wife. Which raised the question…
"What are you doing in Colorado Springs?" Reid asked. "Last time I heard from your brother you all were living in Pasadena."
"That was two years ago," the younger Kavanagh brother said. "We've moved here when Calvin accepted a researcher job from the Air Force. I've graduated in the meantime, too, and am now working as a physical therapist in the Air Force Hospital. That's how I got into your case; one of the victims was my patient."
"I see," Reid hesitated for a moment, then asked anyway. "How's Dr. Kavanagh doing?"
The brother of the man in question shrugged. "I'm not really sure," he admitted, a little uncomfortably. "I never understood much about his work, and most of what he's doing is confidential, so he's stopped speaking about his job entirely. But it's very different from what's done for CalTech."
"Oh?" Reid wondered. "How so?"
"Well, for starters, he goes to other places a lot – field trips he calls them," Dion Kavanagh explained, "and we never know how long he'll be gone. Last time he was away for about a year. We had no idea where, we hadn't had any contact and all we were told was that he might not come back again at all. It was a hard time for us all, especially for the kids."
"But he did come back, didn't he?" Reid asked, his mind whirling with possibilities. What in hell had Kavanagh gotten himself into?
Dion Kavanagh nodded. "He did – with a concussion, several broken ribs and a severe case of PTDS. And we still don't know what's happened to him. I don't think we'll ever be told, either."
"That's odd," Reid murmured. "I never imagined Dr. Kavanagh to be involved in weapons research."
"He's not!" Dion replied sharply. "That was the only thing he told us about his job. His speciality is satellite micropropulsion systems, and that's what he's working on… wherever he does it."
"Last time I read a publication by him, he was researching liquid crystals," Reid corrected. "That kind of research can be used for a great variety of purposes. He might not have a say in the matter what his research will be used for, in the end."
"He'd have quit in that case!" Dion Kavanagh said vehemently.
Reid shook his head. "They might not allow him to quit. When someone is too deep into some secret project, they won't always let him leave just like that. There are too big risks involved."
Dion Kavanagh shot him a baleful look. "If you don't believe me, you should ask Calvin himself. He lies in the Air Force Hospital – and is bored out of his head."
"Perhaps I will," Reid said thoughtfully.
He excused himself for a couple of hours in the early afternoon and drove to the Air Force Academy Hospital on the Pinion Drive. He parked his rental car in the visitors' parking lot and went to the information desk to find his former colleague.
The strong, familiar scent of medicines and disinfectants bit his nose as soon as he entered. It called back unpleasant memories; of the time they had been sitting on the floor, waiting for news about Elle, fearing for her survival. Of the times when he had to be in there, having taken care of the injuries suffered during the one or other case. He really hated hospitals, but sometimes you couldn't avoid going there, for various reasons.
What he hated even more than hospitals themselves was the often irrational behaviour of hospital personnel towards visitors. Like that of the uniformed orderly beyond the information desk, who – instead of simply telling him where he would find Kavanagh's sick room – kept asking questions about him. Who he was. Where he'd heard about Dr. Kavanagh being treated here. Where did he know Dr. Kavanagh from, and what did he want from the man anyway.
For a while, Reid answered patiently, even though he didn't understand why all these questions were necessary. Granted, Kavanagh did work for the Air Force now, on some secret project, but certainly, that wasn't reason enough not to allow people to visit him in the hospital, was it?
Finally, the young agent had enough. He pulled out his badge and laid it onto the desk between them.
"Look, Master Sergeant," he said with forced patience. "I don't know what your problem is, but I seriously doubt that visiting a college friend, even if he is now working for your boss, requires to go through the special investigations of the Holy Inquisition. So, you either tell me now where I can find Dr. Kavanagh, or I'll make a few phone calls that will make your life hell for the next year or so."
The sergeant gave his badge a baleful look. "You're not big enough to cause me any problems, boy," he scowled.
"Maybe not," Reid agreed amiably. "But my boss most certainly is. He used to be a prosecutor and knows very well which buttons to push, even if we belong to different organizations."
"That won't be necessary, Special Agent…" the pleasant female voice trailed off in askance behind his back.
Reid turned around and was standing face-to-face with a lovely, russet-haired, blue-eyed woman in a white lab coat and a stethoscope around her neck.
"Dr. Reid," he supplied," from he Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. We are working on a case with the local police department here. I heard that Dr. Kavanagh is bed-ridden and bored, and thought I'd visit since I'm here already."
"Dr. Alisen Brightman," the lady doctor introduced herself. "You must forgive the Master Sergeant; he has his orders. Some of our patients have gotten back from rather… sensitive missions. Anyone outside from their immediate family needs special clearance to visit them."
"And Dr. Kavanagh is one of those cases?" Reid asked in surprise. "I'm sure his brother would have warned me if…"
"Oh, so it was Dion who told you he's here?" the doctor's face brightened a little. "Well, in that case I think we can make an exception. Give me a moment to ask my boss, but I don't think there would be a problem."
She vanished behind one of the unmarked doors – presumably in a security office – and returned only a few minutes later, smiling broadly.
"Well, that's settled," she said. "You can go in… I'd ask you, though, not to discuss with Dr. Kavanagh his recent mission. It's classified. As an FBI agent, I'm sure you understand what that means."
Reid shrugged. "Of course. I'm not trying to spy, doctor. I just want to see him, since neither of us can know when we get another chance like this. My working hours aren't exactly regular, either."
"Good," she said, still smiling. "I'm sure Dr. Kavanagh will be glad to see you. Colonel Dixon," she called out to called out to a big, hard-faced man with a buzz cut and pale, almost water-blue eyes, "would you mind to show Dr. Reid the way to Dr. Kavanagh's room?"
The man – he was wearing a pair of washed-out jeans and a blue shirt that matched his eyes – turned around and gave Reid a piercing look. He seemed like someone who was used to people snapping at attention in his presence… and quaking in their boots under the weight of his stare.
Reid stared back at him, not the least intimidated. Colonel Dixon might be the terror of the lower ranks, but he was nothing compared with the diverse psychopaths, serial killers and bloodthirsty madmen Reid had to face on a regular basis.
"Sure," the colonel finally said in a slow, pleasant voice. "There's only so much scientific babble I can take on my own. Moral support would be welcome. Are you a scientist, too, Dr. Reid?"
Reid shrugged. "Not a practicing one. I do have the degrees, but I'm with the FBI, in Quantico."
"I see," those water-blue eyes seized him up expertly, assessing his most likely abilities. "Profiler, right?"
Reid nodded. "Basically, yes. We do a lot of field work, too, though."
It was a colonel's turn to shrug. "You don't have to explain me anything, doc. I don't judge people by their gun qualifications; although, as an FBI agent, I assume you have to qualify yourself regularly. I don't have a phobia towards scientists, either, as my resident geeks would tell you. No, not that floor… the next one. Kavanagh's in room 321."
"Is he one of your resident geeks?" Reid asked as he followed the instructions.
Dion shook his head. "Not anymore; a fact I still regret. I liked working with him; he's got a very… well-organized way to do things."
"I remember," Reid smiled. "It used to drive the others in our research group nuts. They called him Mr. Anal Retentive."
"You were together at CalTech?" Dixon frowned. "You seem awfully young for that."
"I was awfully young back then," Reid said matter-of-factly. "Barely past sixteen when I first graduated; and certainly the youngest in the group."
"Sixteen?" Dixon shook his head in amazement. "How did you manage that?"
"It's not as complicated as people seem to believe," Reid answered with a shrug. "Once you've taught one part of your brain to concentrate – to focus – it frees up energy in another part of your brain, which can give you a certain lucidity. Time begins to stand still… relatively, of course."
"And how did you deal with the older classmates?" Dixon asked. "My oldest is just this side of twelve, and is glared at like he was some sort of mutant all the time, because he's already in high school."
"I finished high school at the age of twelve," Reid replied, "but it wasn't always easy… or pleasant."
Dixon nodded in understanding. "Yeah, I can imagine. I often wish Noah had inherited my bulk, instead of his mother's fragile build. Being too young, too smart and scrawny is a lethal combination. I have to put up regular appearances at his school, in full uniform, and look threatening all the time, so that the bullies would leave him alone."
Reid swallowed, the causal remark of the colonel reopening old, barely healed wounds.
"Your son is fortunate," he said quietly. "I wish I had a father who'd have gone such lengths to keep me safe."
That earned him a quick, compassionate glance. "Yours didn't? How so? Me, I can't stop worrying about my kids – I've got four, you know – lying awake all night and praying they won't get hooked up on drugs eventually, or worse, wind up dead in an alley somewhere."
Reid winced. The 'hooked up on drugs' remark hit a bit too close to home.
"Well, my dad decided that I was too much trouble to deal with and left us when I was twelve," he said bitterly. "That means me and a psychotic mother with a split personality disorder who couldn't make a difference between reality and her own strange world."
He stopped, mortified by the ease he had spilled out his heart to a complete stranger. It was not his wont; but the recent reunion with said father had shaken him badly. To learn that the man had lived in his close neighbourhood all those years but never had the decency – or the balls – to contact him was almost too much to bear.
To his credit, Colonel Dixon let his sudden outburst of honesty slip, without any commonplace comment.
"Some people should not be allowed to have kids," was all he said before ushering Reid into Dr. Kavanagh's sick room.
One had to admit that the long-haired scientist offered a rather… colourful sight, with his bruised face – one eye was still more or less swollen shut, although the bruises had already begun to change colour, from blue and black towards purple and yellow. His naked torso was wrapped with bandages, presumably o fix his broken ribs, and he wasn't wearing his glasses, which was more shocking than him being probably naked under the hospital-issue blanket.
Calvin Kavanagh had always been a very fastidious man, who'd never had let anyone see him less than correctly dressed. It must have been a leftover from his childhood. He was the son of a very strict, very conservative priest, with strong opinions about what was appropriate and what was not. Plus, not wearing his glasses would make him vulnerable, and he hated that feeling more than anything else.
Colonel Dixon, however, didn't seem to be shocked by the man's dishevelled state. He probably had seen worse, if – what was likely – he was going on Covert Ops missions. Although how Kavanagh had gotten himself into such things was still a mystery.
"Hey, doc," the colonel said cheerfully. "All alone and bored again, I see. Well, cheer up! I've brought a visitor who'll probably understand what you're talking about, even if you get all mathematical on him."
With that, he waved and left them alone.
Kavanagh opened his one good eye to see who'd come. Said good eye, while also myopic, recognized Reid – and widened in surprise.
"Spencer Reid," he said in a somewhat croaked voice. "What are you doing here? I thought you were with the FBI!"
"I am," Reid took the chair standing next to the be. "Actually, we've just wrapped a fairly bizarre case here, in Colorado Springs. I ran into Dion; he said that you could use company."
"What I could use is my laptop," Kavanagh scowled, "but the frigging doctors won't allow me to work in bed. You must build up your strength first, Dr. Kavanagh! They say. You need to rest and recover! How am I supposed to get my backlog of work done if I'm not even allowed to read? It's ridiculous!"
"Not if you feel half as bad as you look right now," Reid retorted. "Besides, without your lasses, you won't be able to see the screen anyway. Remember, I used to work with you. I know you're quite short-sighted… physically, I mean."
"Speaking of which: what happened to your glasses?" Kavanagh asked. "If I remember correctly, your eyesight is even worse than mine."
"I switched to contacts," Reid explained, "at least when I'm working. They are more practical than glasses."
"I dunno," Kavanagh said doubtfully. "They're a bloody nuisance. We tried them for Liam, but he couldn't get used to them."
Liam was Kavanagh's older son, around nine or ten, most likely. Reid could remember a fragile, way too serious child, with dark blond curls, big blue eyes and glasses. The boy had been quiet, intelligent, precocious – but deeply wounded by the disastrous outcome of his parents' marriage; abducted by his own mother who could not deal with the demands of having a mentally disabled younger child. Kavanagh had just gotten him back at the time Reid had met the boy.
"How's Liam doing?" he asked. He'd found the kid very likeable and felt for him. Nobody should go through such things, especially not at such a young age.
"Surprisingly well," Kavanagh said, smiling a little. "We found a school where he could be with kids his own age but is given extra courses that will help his intellect forward at the pace he needs. And Tommy can have special care in the same place. We've been lucky."
Tommy, Kavanagh's younger son, was suffering from the Fragile X syndrome, meaning that he wouldn't be able to learn at the same speed as other kids and probably never develop beyond the mental abilities of a six-year-old. Having two children with so diagonally opposite abilities would have been a strain on every family; it was even more so for a single parent. Reid greatly respected Kavanagh for the heroic efforts the scientist made to ensure his sons could lead a normal life… as far as it was possible for them.
"It still surprises me that you've accepted a job from the military," he said. "You were so adamantly against doing weapons research…"
Kavanagh didn't answer at once; as if he were considering how much he was allowed – or willing – to reveal.
"I'm not doing weapons research," he finally said. "Look, I'm not allowed to talk about this, but… let's just say that I believe in what I'm doing right now, despite some of to people I have to work with. It's important work; and interesting, too."
"But it keeps you away from your family; at least that's what Dion said," Reid pointed out.
Kavanagh shrugged.
"Yeah, that's true, and I'm not happy about that aspect of the job, but… it has to be. Besides," he added with a crooked smile," they pay me well, and we desperately need the money. Both boys need special care, which is not cheap, Siobhan stopped working to be with them all the time, which is very good for them, but it means we've lost one income, no matter how lousy it was. And Patrick doesn't make lots of cash, either. He's a good construction worker, but there's just not enough work in these days. Plus, I still have to support Dion. He can eke out a living, but it isn't enough to pay back his student's loans, too. This way, at least we aren't broke all the time like we used to be."
Reid remembered the financial disaster Kavanagh had constantly been fighting during their shared years as young researchers and nodded. He couldn't blame the man for wanting a way out of that, especially with a large family depending on him. Besides, who was he to judge Kavanagh? He carried a weapon ad had killed two men during his years with the FBI. Granted, they had been crazed and dangerous and wouldn't have hesitated to kill him – and Hotch – had he not acted faster, but still…
"Well, you may not be broke, but you're definitely broken in several places," he jested.
Kavanagh laughed – and winced in pain immediately.
"Ouch!" he complained. "Don't make me laugh! My ribs can't take it."
"Sorry," Reid apologized. "I just never thought a scientific career would be so dangerous. If you set the dangers of academic intrigues aside, that is. Perhaps I really made the better choice going to the FBI, after all."
Kavanagh snorted. "That was a criminal waste of resources, if you ask me. One doesn't need genius-level intelligence to shoot at petty criminals… or even not so petty ones. I've read your dissertation about identifying non-obvious relationship factors using cluster weighted modelling and geographic regression… it is beyond brilliant. Even after all those years, nobody has come closer to the solution; and I've met a lot of very bright people in the recent years."
Reid did not react to Kavanagh's remark, because it had an uncomfortable amount of truth. He had felt wasted and intellectually unchallenged lately, and with JJ leaving the team and his mother losing any ties to reality with an increasing speed, he'd begun to ask himself whether he shouldn't think about a career change. He would hate to leave the team, but there was no arguing with the fact that he was stagnating there. Even if he managed to gain his third BA – and there was little chance that he wouldn't – how would that bring him forward if he wasn't using it… just like his other five degrees?
"Speaking of publications," he said, changing the topic, "I haven't seen any new papers from you since you've successfully defended your second dissertation about fluid mechanics and transport processes by complex and multiphasic fluids. I thought you'd be working on your third doctorate by now."
Kavanagh shrugged again. "I am. You just won't get the chance to read my dissertation, most likely. Not in the next couple of decades, that is. Perhaps not even later."
"I see," Reid nodded. "Confidential research."
"I can't tell you even that much," Kavanagh replied, "but I'm sure you'll be able to find the answer on your own. You've always been exceptionally bright, after all."
"I don't think I need any specific answer," Reid smiled. "All right, let's talk about something you are allowed to speak of. Have you ever continued your research concerning liquid crystals? That was a promising theory to create new, cleaner fuel for microsatellites, if I'm not mistaken. Did it work out in practice?"
"Yes and no," Kavanagh said. "It has its promises, but Dr. Petersen and I run into certain problems when it came to storage and such things."
"You mean Dr. Willem Petersen?" Reid clarified. "That Danish scientist who specified in the possible uses of advanced microfabrication technologies in the constructing of optical, magnetic and micro-fluidic nanostructures?"
Kavanagh nodded. "So you did know him?"
"To say that would be an exaggeration," Reid answered. "I followed his lectures and papers on the internet; they were absolutely brilliant," he stopped, suddenly suspicious. "What do you mean I did know him? Has something happened to him?"
"I'm afraid I can't tell you that, either," Kavanagh said grimly.
Not that he needed to, really. Reid wasn't declared a genius for nothing. But he also understand that he couldn't grill Kavanagh about that topic, either, unless he wanted to land them both in really deep trouble. So he switched back to the topic of scientific research, as it seemed the only harmless one, and soon they were excitedly discussing Reid's original theory about cluster weighted modelling and its possible uses by the identifying of non-obvious relationship factors.
Master Sergeant Ploughman, the man behind the information desk, had never waited for his relief quite this impatiently. He'd been placed there to filter out suspicious visitors and to report potential security risks to his superiors, who would then now what to do with said risks.
This Reid character was definitely one of those suspicious visitors. The security camera had filmed his behaviour upon arrival, and Ploughman had managed to make a magnified stand from his badge. It seemed genuine enough, but it never harmed to do a thorough background check on any suspects… and this little punk was definitely one who needed to be checked. However, to check out the background of a high-ranking FBI profiler, Ploughman needed someone with a much higher security clearance than his own.
When his relief finally arrived, he jogged over to the security office. Choosing the phone with the secured line – the one that connected him directly with the Pentagon – he grabbed the receiver and pushed the button.
"This is Master Sergeant J. Ploughman from the Air Force Academy Hospital in Colorado Springs, Virginia," he barked. "Give me Major Davis, now!"
~TBC~
