~~The Spark Transplant~~

By Ayngel

*Warnings:* None in this chapter. Later, heavier smex of the sticky, p&p and spark variety. Medical procedures and near death.

Disclaimer: Dream though I might, I still don't own Transformers or make any money from this.

Continuity: G1

Plot: When Vortex suffers an irreparable injury to the spark and Hook can't fix him, a spark expert is called in from the Autobot ranks.

Characters: Hook and all the Constructicons, First Aid and the Protectobots, The Combaticons.

Notes:-

Sorry this chapter was long in coming. It turned out to need some background. I prefer the Protectobots several million years old and coming together in the same way the Combaticons did – as opposed to about two months old and created on Earth – but it did mean some extra thought!

I must explain also: I always wondered where Kup, Roddy and the others were whilst Optimus, Megatron etc. were all entombed on Earth (and after that) I decided they were on Chaar, Kup having moved there some time during a lull in the war when he decided the Quintessons and other aliens were a threat and he was better deployed there. "Somethin' wipes us out, it won't matter who wins the war."

Kup took a contingent with him. And there they stayed, for a very long time. Until Chaar was attacked and they returned to Cybertron after Season 2. Which is why it was a burned out, deserted wreck in Season 3! Kup and co were still there at the start of this story.

Anyway, here's Hotspot's POV with First Aid's forthcoming 'ordeal.' And some other drama and stuff of interest before the operation.

Chapter 2

Chaar, One Earth year previously ….

Hot Spot watched as the great shuttle, Skylinx, pulled into the docking bay of the spaceport at the Chaar military base. A wave of longing assaulted him. It had been so, so long since he had seen First Aid. He had thought this moment would never arrive.

Yet beneath the excitement, the fire fighter's nervous relays jangled with uncertainty. On the one hand, he was certain nothing would have changed; after all had they not parted before and come back together, only to have simply 'taken on where they left off' and to find their friendship stronger, if anything, than before?

On the other hand, First Aid could be unpredictable. Distant, hard to fathom, and even harder to convince. Particularly when he'd done medical wonders in some far flung place he'd had to leave prematurely. And the big question was, having been dragged away from wherever he was this time, and whatever social injustice he was fighting, was he old friend enough to go for The Plan?

As Skylinx' ramp extended and the first few passengers emerged, Hot Spot thought of the desperate expression on the Prime's face at their meeting on the Ark last orn, the obvious tiredness and despondency of the Autobots who had been on Earth. My troops need a break from tending to the humans, he had said. But that does not mean that the welfare of this sentient race is not paramount. I trust you to gather the very best team for this crucial task. I know I can depend on you ….

And First Aid was, without question, the very best of the best when it came to 'tending' sentient beings. Undoubtedly, he would absorb the account of the human predicament with rapt attention. Yet, Hotspot reflected again, you just never knew. If Aid had made plans on some impoverished outpost he regarded as of higher priority, then the new would be leader of the 'Protectobots' – as Prime had said they would be called – may be destined for a stern lecture, a reminder about priorities and a hunt for another medic.

And that was without the 'other' complications. But Hotspot didn't even want to think of those right now.

A familiar red and white form appeared at the top of the ramp, and anything but sheer joy vanished from Hotspot's processor. His spark flared warmly as First Aid paused, looking around, carefully taking in the surroundings as he always did and sampling the clear air. Hot Spot waved frantically and started towards him, ignoring admonishing remarks from the security guards.

First Aid merely gave a little smile before heading down the ramp.; and whilst Hotspot was overwhelmed, as he drew near, with a desire to pull his old friend into his arms, consuming him with a demonstration of all he had missed for the last few hundred thousand vorns, First Aid's whole demeanour told him this was out of the question.

No, not much had changed. And The Plan was very much up in the air.

"It's good to see you!" was all the medic said, before a brief and decidedly passion-less hug. But the way he headed briskly off towards the mess also told Hotspot that First Aid was in the mood for business. And that did augur well for The Plan.

…..

Later, they sat in the mess at Chaar's barracks, watching a team of rotaries practice mock stealth attacks on a grounder team. The grim figure of the veteran, Kup, was in full view, hands on hips, roaring orders as the recruits sped past. Every now and then, his yelled commands penetrated the mess walls, along with the roar of engines and rotors. But the patrons within were too used to it all to pay any real attention.

"This 'outfit,' the Prime wants," First Aid said, taking a dainty sip from his cube of distilled medium grade. "Am I to understand that it is purely to look after these organic creatures? No fighting?"

"That's the idea," Hotspot said. "When I was asked to pick a medic, I thought of you because of your experience with organics, although," he lowered his optics, "you know I would have looked for a reason for it to be you, anyway."

First Aid smiled shyly. "Is that so?" he said. Then he raised an optic ridge. "And what else?"

Hot Spot took a bigger drink of his very decidedly high grade cocktail. He had known this would be the tricky part. Well, a tricky part. The really tricky part was yet to come. "I have to be honest. The war continues, and whilst Cybertron has an 'arrangement' between Elita and Shockwave, it is fragile, and relations on Earth between the Prime and Megatron are at an all time low. We would sometimes be fixing the results of their hostilities and …" he sighed. "Possibly called into combat ourselves."

First Aid stiffened, his disapproval obvious. Hot Spot's spark sank. "Although I'm assured that's a last resort," he finished quickly.

But to his surprise, Hot Spot wasn't informed, in no uncertain terms, that First Aid's part in the mission was 'off.' Instead, the medic smiled grimly. "I have learned from my travels that, unfortunately, war is not uncommon," he said. "And I accept it better than I used to, although I still don't agree with it, and certainly not with its necessity to 'strengthen races' - which as, you know, some who I have worked with have believed …." He paused. "Sometimes, however, it is necessary to resolve conflicts and move on."

Hot Spot's spark swelled with relief.

"It is not my role to pick sides," First Aid went on. "My duty is to preserve those who suffer and maintain their health. Sometimes - just sometimes - if one side favours a more peaceful resolution , I will favour their interests and support that side. But that is a last resort – and ends as soon as it is no longer necessary to adopt that position."

"Right!" Hot Spot said, encouraged in spite of the some what despondent note in his friend's voice. "Well that, I am assured, is the situation here."

Shouting, and the thwop thwop of rotors close to the window were followed by a mild explosion as the marauding rotaries evidently succeeded in hitting their target. First Aid watched as a red and white one wheeled over the mock bombsite in an obvious display of showing off. Another larger green colleague ushered him away from the glowering figure on the ground.

First Aid looked at them long and hard. Then he turned to Hot Spot with very blue optics. "The priority will still be the humans," he said. "My concern is that you've picked members for this team who may struggle with this. I'm not talking about Groove, obviously, who for eons has been of the same mind as I. But that youngster out there - Blades - and the grounder, Streetwise. They strike me as – belligerent. Do you really think they are capable of - restraint?"

Hot Spot nodded, watching the two rotaries fly off as Kup remostrated with the ground team, obviously deficient in allowing the 'attack' to succeed. "An understandable concern," he said. "But they've been here a while. I know there hasn't been the open conflict with the Quintessons that Kup and Magnus expected, but there have been skirmishes on outposts. Sharkticon antics - that kind of thing. They've had a chance to fight. They are keen, now, to exercise their protective roles. I think under my guidance they are manageable."

First Aid raised an optic ridge. He looked far from convinced. "I suppose that if we are required to fight, then sending them in will spare me the indignity," he said. "That rotary obviously finds it to his liking," he took a drink, the shadow of a smile crossing his faceplates. "They do, as a rule. It is hard to overcome that tendency."

The fire engine smiled. "I hoped you would see it that way," he said.

There was silence as the sounds of the mess tinkled around them. Hot Spot took a deep breath. For now came the really tricky part. "Of course – when we're acting as a gestalt, it won't be possible to differentiate," he said. "Between who's keen on fighting and who isn't, I mean."

First Aid's hand froze midway in putting his drink down on the table. There was a silence so palpable that Hot Spot was certain if he reached his hand out then strands of ice cold silence filament would wrap around it. Then the blue optics were upon him, more piercing than he'd ever seen them before.

"When we're acting as a what?" First Aid said.

…

Earth, 1986, Protectobot Base, Earth

Now, as he watched First Aid packing equipment neatly into white boxes, Hot Spot thought of that conversation on Chaar, and his spark sank. He had doubted often, since their arrival on Earth, about talking First Aid into this whole thing. And now, this? Hot Spot could only shudder with dread at the thought of what awaited his friend.

For it had been hard, adapting to Earth, to the city, to the base. The planet was different, challenging; nothing like what all but First Aid and Groove had ever experienced. But that was the least of their concerns. Far worse was the fact that, no matter how nice the other Autobots tried to be, or how much 'bonhomie' issued forth, they had failed to conceal their resentment. And Hotspot knew, all too well, that the reason was simple: they suspected Prime had called his team in to make up for the others' inadequacies.

It seemed no amount of praise and deference would stop Ratchet's sniping, or Inferno's jealousy, or Prowl and Ironhide's constant disapproval of Blades and Streetwise. Or the 'atmosphere' Hot Spot could feel every day surrounding the 'special' treatment the Protectobots had received in getting their own base.

Indeed, the only ones who appeared unconcerned were the Aerialbots, who genuinely liked them. But even then, there had been that 'incident' with Slingshot which had gotten Blades and Streetwise locked up, the snickers from the others, the feeling that they all felt the petulant flier deserved it, but had not spoken up, only too happy to observe the discomfort of the even more recalcitrant newcomers.

Hotspot watched as First Aid lowered the lid on the impeccably packed medical equipment in the first box, and clicked it shut. So amazingly tenacious, First Aid had been here, sticking to human medicine, learning from human doctors and allowing the worn out and grouchy Ratchet every kudos with his own kind – even if sometimes they did seek First Aid out, secretly, because they liked his methods. And through it all, First Aid had forged on, somehow finding time to get their own gestalt functional – even though it was hardly his field.

And functional Defensor was – so much so that Hot shot had thought, perhaps, that things were getting a little easier, especially since Defensor had floored Bruticus, with the amazing additional factor that it was First Aid's fist which had done the damage. Now, however, amid disappointment that the Combaticons hadn't ceased to exist, there was this. And that disappointment - outrage, even - was only one of a number of good reasons why trying to fix Vortex was a really, really, BAD idea.

The door hissed open, then, and Groove appeared. "You gonna be long?" his gentle optics regarded First Aid with almost as much concern as Hot Spot felt. "It's just that Skyfire don't wanna be too long. He's twitchy about the cargo."

It was some comfort, Hot Spot supposed, that Groove was going too. Although if neither came back …. Hotspot didn't want to think about that. First Aid looked across crisply. "The cargo will be fine, you can assure him. Just make sure it is secured well. I will be along shortly."

Hotspot heard thinly disguised strain in his voice. And he could not help it, anger surged through him. First Aid was trying to prove his worth! To the Autobots, who had made him feel like this. And, even more so - yes, Hotspot darkened further at what he knew, had become evident was the far more detestable reason, the thing which had compounded even further their troubles here - The Decepticon gestalt. Or, rather - the other Decepticon – medic.

Hot Spot thought of the pull from the old bond, the random seething desires, the raging emotions he could feel every time they combined; and the sure knowledge that – without a doubt – First Aid's 'performance' within Defensor had been driven, not by hostility towards Bruticus, but by a bizarre and spark driven revenge for Bruticus' previous attack on Devastator.

"You don't have to do this!" he burst out, aware that he said this for about the fifth time. "You don't have to prove anything to him!"

First Aid clicked the second case shut. He looked reproachfully across. "Hot Spot as I have told you, I have a patient to treat. What Hook may or may not think of my performance is entirely beside the point!" He looked at the two locked boxes. "Now – are you going to help me with these, or do I have to call Streetwise in?"

It was entirely the point, the Fire Engine thought bitterly. He let out a discontented sigh. "I'll help you," he said. Not even bothering to transform, he stacked the boxes and picked them up, trudging out of the door.

…

As they walked to Skyfire, Hot Spot found his own emotions seething again. "You know, Vortex really is the worst kind of Decepticon," he blurted out. "One who actually enjoys maiming and killing. Somebody so at odds with your ethos First Aid, that why you should help him at all is beyond comprehension!"

First Aid stiffened reproachfully. "That sort of argument will not wash, Hot Spot!" he said. "And you know it. Vortex is a patient! With a fixable ailment. Although I have been swayed towards the Autobots in this conflict, my medical coding forbids me to differentiate. I intend to fix it!"

"Yeah well, when he comes round, he might not be too receptive to his 'healer,'" Hotspot grumbled. "His team tended up in a crumpled heap because of you, then nearly got deactivated. I gather he's not too benevolent to mechs who frag him around. You heard what he did to Swindle. And that's one of theirs!"

"It was not I who 'fragged him around' but Defensor," First Aid said. "The entity you insisted I participate in, even though my attitude to the subject was perfectly clear. We simply did our duty. That said, if Vortex becomes difficult on that account I shall deal with it. If he makes it, which – if what you have been telling me all morning is correct - he won't."

They had arrived at Skyfire's ramp. Pausing, Hot Spot looked exasperatedly at his friend. "Yeah – well that's right!" he said. "You don't even know if this will work. It's never been tried in an organic environment. And its never been tried by you, First Aid!"

But First Aid's face set in an indignant mask. "I've observed quite a few spark transplants, Hotspot! I intend this to work. I'd be grateful if you didn't question my abilities! I've had quite enough of that lately."

Groove appeared, then, and took the topmost box without a word, disappearing up the ramp. Hotspot put down the rest of the pile. First Aid went to take the next, but Hotspot put a hand on his shoulder. It was worth cutting to the chase. "Look, I know you've had a hard time," he said. "I also know – because I know you First Aid – that you're disappointed because Hook hasn't been more – cordial. But you know what he's like! And he was like it even before he became a Con!"

There was a silence. Hot Spot knew he had gone too far. But First Aid did not storm off as he had expected. Instead, he stood up. "All right, if you must know - there are rumours!" he said. "That crane, the orange one, Grapple. He's still got the thing for Scrapper. And they talk!"

He folded his arms indignantly. "Everyone thinks Hook taught me everything I know, that our gestalt only functions because of his defacto expertise …"

Hotspot felt bleakly triumphant. "So it is about him!"

"It is first and foremost about my patient! And second, for us too. It is my chance to demonstrate my abilities to everyone on this planet - so the humans can be confident in our abilities and the Protectobots can walk tall!" First Aid's optics took on a determined glitter. "Hook's useless with sparks!" he whispered. "He doesn't understand them. And he thinks spark therapy is a load of claptrap. Everybody also knows that he knows nothing about them! It will not be possible, after this, for people to think he taught me!"

His worst fears confirmed, Hotspot strengthened his grip. "Aid, you don't have to…"

For a moment, a terrible anguish flickered in First Aid's optics. "I do," he whispered. "I must do this, and then fix my own spark, otherwise we will never …."

But a rumble came from the shuttle then, just as Groove returned. "Would you two be so kind as to finish loading and strap in?" said Skyfire's gentle, polite voice. "I would like to be at this island base by nightfall. And I'm informed also that whilst the Decepticon copter is stable for now, he is not expected to remain so for long."

"Indeed!" First Aid's efficient medical functionality mode was back. "Give me a hand with these, Hotspot, would you please?"

Wearily, Hotspot took the rest of the boxes on board and secured them in the hold.

…

The island base of the Decepticon gestalts, somewhere in the Pacific.

A swishing sounded, interrupted by the whir and peeping of the machines and odd clank of the metal bucket as Longhaul painstakingly washed the medbay floor. His hangdog expression more than conveyed his sentiments, that yet another burden had been placed upon him, one much more onerous than anything else so far. Scrapper ignored it, far more concerned by the unconscious copter on the operating table and the agitated Combaticon leader at his side.

Vortex' intakes sighed in rhythm. Scrapper was struck once again by how unblemished he was; how perfect, and how he looked, to all intents and purposes, as though he were simply in recharge. Beside him, Onslaught shifted impatiently, as Mixmaster added a green liquid to a feeder line which entered Vortex' arm conduit.

Scrapper found himself surprisingly sentimental, once again, at Onslaught's obvious distress. He knew another outburst was coming. If only Hook had hung around just for a little while before taking off with Bombshell ...

Scrapper supposed he should be thankful that Hook had at least - reluctantly - agreed to the procedure. But it wasn't enough. Hook needed to assist with the operation. Onslaught would likely blow a gasket if he didn't. And it would be disastrous if it succeeded and First Aid got the credit.

Besides, Onslaught was asking too many awkward questions. He turned to Scrapper now. "D'you think he could still be saved without this? He's looking better!" he exclaimed.

Mixmaster looked up from tinkering with the conduit. "Yeah!" he cackled. "Right as rain! I've b-bunged in a sp-p-spark expander which has increased function! And it's st-t-stopped the b-bullet in its tracks!"

Onslaught's relief was almost palpable. "Well there you are then! You can call off this Autobot nonsense! Sounds he could survive without the surgery!"

Scrapper found his spark aching. He thought of the fondness he had for his own team, the attachment he felt for them of the anguish he would feel, later, at the raising of expectations which proved futile. But, as was so typical of late, he found himself unable to send more than a reproachful glimmer in Mixmaster's direction. He hoped First Aid would hurry up.

"Not exactly," he said. "What Mixmaster has done will be a temporary measure. It will keep Vortex going until – until the surgeon gets here."

Graunching sounds came as Longhaul moved furniture to wash underneath. Onslaught looked cross again. "And how long will that be?" he snapped.

"He's on his way now. In an express shuttle."

Onslaught grunted. "Should have gotten Blast Off to go and get him," he muttered. "I shouldn't have taken any scrap about non Combaticons in the cockpit. Pitspawned gestalts!" he glared at the three Constructicons. "Well don't look like that! You weren't programmed by a half insane Seeker!"

Longhaul's face darkened. "You ain't saddled with bein' programmed a gestalt's gopher!" he complained.

"Yeah!" said Mixmaster "Poor old Longie!" Although he sounded anything but sorry. "But hey! You gonna let little cutie-bot m-medic inside Vortex's inner workings. Could be the start of a whole new ph-ph –phase!"

Scrapper wished he could somehow deactivate their voices. "If you think I'm gonna have some woosy Autobot poking in our programming, forget it!" Onslaught exploded. "He fixes the spark, then he frags off. If I let him live. Understand?"

Scrapper wondered if Hook was talking to Bombshell, right now, about assuming control of the Combaticon programming; if that was what the deal with the insecticon was about, and what Onslaught would say if he knew. But he didn't have time to think about it. The leader was glaring at him, his red optics like coals. "So where's this spark coming from? I take it they don't just sprout from the ground!"

Mixmaster cackled again at that. "H-hey – fresh picked from outside o'the Ark this morning!"

Onslaught shot him a furious glance. "If I find out you're thinking of actually PLANTING some Autobot spark in Vortex then you'll be sorry for that, mixer …."

Mixmaster shrugged, and opened his mouth to speak. But Scrapper cut in. "Let's not jump the gun, shall we?" he said, thinking he sounded condescending, and like Hook, although he really was not trying to be. "It will be of the surgeon's choosing. I believe the identity of the spark's previous owner is largely irrelevant – although there has to be some compatibility."

Onslaught started to pace. "I want a full run down before he starts. D'you understand. If I don't give the nod, the spark stays in the box, got it?"

Maybe after all, thought Scrapper, would save a lot of trouble. "I'm sure the identity will be revealed, and everything will be explained," he said.

There was silence. His task complete, Longhaul picked up his mop and bucket and exited. Mixmaster hummed softly, against the backdrop of the machines and the copter's hissing intakes. Onslaught crossed to Vortex and then was looking at him again, his face soft. But then his optics narrowed.

"If this doesn't work, then Swindle is going to wish he had never been created. He will have me to administer his punishment this time!"

His head snapped up. And then, he asked that question again, the one he'd asked at least five times already. "And where IS Swindle?"

"I don't know," Scrapper answered. And that was the truth.

….

Fetching some high grade from his not so secret stash, Scavenger looked with dismay at the despondent Swindle, who sat on the edge of the berth, tears still streaking his face and his optics dull. He shivered every so often. Scavenger put down the grade and went to another compartment next to the firmly locked door, rummaging for a space blanket among the diverse collection of other paraphernalia inside.

The more upset Swindle got, the more profoundly annoyed Scavenger became. He thought of how captivated he'd been at his first even sighting of the Combaticon, how hard he'd had to work to become friends with him, and how different it should be now. They should be laughing and joking, going out to fossick for more 'collectables' at the beach, not him sitting here like a shivering wreck.

And it was all their fault! As Scavenger returned to the berth and draped the blanket gently around Swindle's shoulders, arranging it carefully over the tyres, a spiteful satisfaction at he 'little problems' he'd caused filled his processor. That trench Onslaught had blundered into which had accidentally not been quite covered up; the tank's tantrum over his missing canon which for some inexplicable reason was sitting among Scavenger's 'collectables and, of course – the best one of all - the loose boulder at the edge of the quarry which had somehow toppled and fallen, landing on the Blast Off and Vortex as they 'did things' at the bottom.

They deserved it. For how they'd been to Swindle.

"I don't care that he got shot!" the Constructicon said as he returned to fetch the energon. "And frankly, I won't be sorry if he doesn't make it!"

But Swindle's mouth only turned down more at the corners. "I'm still tied to him," he said. "And its awful, him like this. It's like a great blank nothing. You know how it is, Scav."

Scavenger did. Various of his team members had been at near death enough times over the eons, and wouldn't be here at all had they not had Hook on hand. He cursed, not for the first time, the fact that Swindle was also part of a gestalt. But maybe, now, he would not be for long. Not this gestalt, anyway.

"But it's not the point!" Swindle went on, his voice wavering. "It really was an accident!" His hands shook as he took the cube. He sipped on it.

Scavenger sat down next to him. He thought back to earlier in the day, to the exercise with the Stunticons which had gotten outta hand, to when Motormaster knocked Brawl unconscious at the training ground perimeter, and Blast Off took off for this clear decoy. It had left only Vortex and Onslaught to take on the whole Stunticon contingent - led by a gleeful Mixmaster - who had been plotting the Combaticon demise ever since their arrival on Earth.

And Swindle had leaped up from the scouting position and grabbed the rifle from the cache of weapons Vortex had left him to guard. Scavenger had seen Swindle struggle with the rifle, bullets erupting in a spray around all of them. Nonetheless, the Stunticons had retreated, just as the furious shuttle returned in a strafing run over the hastily fleeing cars.

But any contribution Swindle may have made had been forgotten in the subsequent mayhem with the copter unconscious on the ground and Onslaught yelling loud enough to be heard on Cybertron "How dare you disobey my orders! I told you to stay where you were!"

"Swindle I was there, OK?" Scavenger said. "If Vortex doesn't make it, you got me as a witness. I know you were trying to help!"

"It won't make any difference," Swindle muttered. "I think Onslaught even knows I didn't mean it. But Vortex said not to touch that rifle. They'll use this as an excuse to get rid of me. Once and for all."

Scavenger put his arm around the jeep. "Look … Boney saw it too." It had been Bonecrusher who alerted Hook. Scavenger reflected that he wouldn't have bothered.

But Swindle shook his head. "I told you Scav, when we got put away - back before the war - they still think it was me who turned them in. And I know that seems like eons ago – but it kinda isn't to Onslaught. To him its like – yesterday. That's why they've given me such a hard time here and that's why …" he hesitated, "that's why I took certain advice and tried to decommission them, even though I was never gonna do that in the first place. It just seemed - hopeless."

Scavenger pulled Swindle closer. He had said several times before how he didn't blame Swindle over the spare parts episode - would have helped him if he'd known what was going on. Whoever had 'advised' Swindle – a fact he seemed reluctant to disclose – had their head screwed on.

Scavenger's hand slid up and down the Combaticon's arm. The spaceblanket made a soft, crinkly sound. "All the spare parts did was make matters a thousand times worse," Swindle said miserably. "It's been hell ever since – you know that, Scav. This is the end of the line."

"But you didn't do that either, did you? Turn them in, I mean."

Swindle sighed. "Like I said, Scav, I dunno. There's a great hole in their databanks from around that time, just as there's one in mine. I don't think so. But when I tell them I didn't do it – I don't even know if its true."

His voice trailed off weakly and he put his head on Scavenger's shoulder and allowed the Constructicon to comfort him. Scavenger held him close, his lips on the top of the dark helm. He decided it was time, high time, that he suggested the thing he'd been wanting to suggest for quite a long time now. The thing which would get Swindle back to his old self – and not be this miserable wreck. Not to mention being - well - kinda with him.

"What happened, happened because you don't need them," he said. "There's other ways."

When Swindle spoke again his voice was a bare whisper. "I didn't want there to be other ways," he said. "I realized after that – I wanted to be in the gestalt."

Scavenger kissed him tenderly on the helm, his lips lingering. "You can be in a gestalt," he said. "You can be one of us. You can become - a Constructicon."

….

Thank you for reading :-) TBC