When Ben wakes, he half expects to find Shar stretched out on beside him. Instead he finds himself alone, pitifully human, arms wrapped round the back of what feels to be a kitchen chair, that is strangely earth-like in its structure. His wrists hurt, arms ache and Ben feels cold metal fastened over them both. So, still only half-awake Ben twists, and is met not with a the rattle and slide of chains, but the painful stabbing of something that scraps against his skin and holds the metal twist of his left wrist still. But more importantly, it hurts, refusing to bend and slide the way rope or one of the more usual binding tools that bad guys use do. That's more than enough to wake him up and he cranes his head back, witnessing the rough, rust-speckled end of an orange pipe in the corner of his vision, and realising with a quick thrill of horror that Kundo had actually bent the entire length around his hands. The result is a hell of a lot more painful that's he's used to.

Clever though, he grudgingly concedes. But not clever enough.

'Big Chill,' he states firmly.

Nothing happens. No burst of green light, no electric thrill up his spine as it twists and breaks apart to rebuild itself into something new. Ben is left human. Because. Nothing. Happens.

Ben fights off the initial burst of panic and tries again.

'Humungousaur! Heat-Blast!'

The panic rises and swells, as he recites off every name he can think of. He can hear it in his voice as he rattles off the various access codes and passwords Azumuth has drilled into his head time and time again. But nothing changes. His bones don't break, his skin doesn't harden into a mineral like-shine and he remains Ben.

All that's left is to push out a frustrated breath of air, whine, 'aw, man,' and let Kundo play the next move.

He doesn't have long to wait.

'Yes.' Kundo's voices rolls out between them, smooth in comparison to the thudding hobble of his steps. He looks bad, sores on his bald skin weeping as new metal patches bite over the exposed areas of his skin like make-shift armour. 'You like men, don't you?'

Ben's jaw drops open, not at the contraction, because well, nothing Kundo says really surprises him at this point, but at the sight of the once proud master, stooped and bent, pushing himself along on a knot of granite he has fastened his hands over, a long swirl of marble descending to the floor beneath it. It's a fancy walking stick, Ben realises. Not a staff for battle. Simply a prop for holding Kundo up, something he actually depends on for balance.

'What did you really teach those Muroids,' he asks nastily, because nope, he hasn't suddenly forgotten the cruel twist in Kundo's voice and the pointed barb of 'you like men, don't you?' 'Breathing exercises? Because no offence, but you don't look like you're in peak fighting condition.'

Kundo smiles, but not nicely. And Ben is left gasping suddenly as the watch-face of the Omnitrix presses insistently into his skin. There's a shift suddenly, as the strap unravels from his prosthetic wrist like it's alive or something and the next second he feels its cool plastic-like grip wrap round his other, warmer hand. The pulse in his wrist beats hard and fast, a throb steady in his palm as the strap tightens just a little too hard.

'I had time to think in my new prison cell, to mediate and become one with all that surrounded me,' Kundo says, as though nothing unpleasant at all is happening. Dimly, Ben takes in his surroundings, light and airy and free of rock. It looks rather like the inside of an abandoned mill or farm or something, orange light spilling through the gaps in the curtains that float out around Kundo like a halo. 'I learnt to listen, to the buzz of the machinery around, that constant humming. Eventually I realised that it was nothing more than a heart-beat, just a different form of breathing. But like all breath, it can be controlled.'

He walks around Ben in a circle, the thud of his stick like a third footfall as he pauses at Ben's back. 'When Blonko first came to me, he was unsteady. Too eager to please. His breathing was erratic, like the pulse of wings in a small insect. And that was what he was: an insect.'

With no warning at all, a sharp pain bursts against the back of Ben's skull and he slumps forward, breathing heavily, stars in his vision. The stick leaves the back of his head as quickly as it came and Ben is forced to acknowledge that maybe Kundo isn't quite as decrepit as he looks.

'Yes: his breathing was like that too when I disciplined him.'

Rage builds in Ben at this, makes him hulk out great breathes and then rein them in, cold and steady. He knows this game.

'Was Rook Da happy about you beating his son with a stick?' he manages, almost, but not quite nonchalantly.

'Earth must be full of spoilt children such as yourself if you consider what I just did a beating.'

Ben raises his head, looks Kundo in the eye. 'I'm not a kid. And neither is Rook. He's not waiting for you in class anymore.'

A snarl breaks Kundo's face open, parts his lips from his gum. His teeth are yellow and sharp and looking at him reminds Ben of lions on nature documentaries.

'No,' Kundo spits. 'He is getting, ah, how do you say it? Getting 'schooled' by you in the art of getting fucking with a monkey.'

Ben can't help it; he laughs. And manages to lean his head to the side as Kundo's stick sweeps through the air, raking waves of motion against his hair. Kundo raises a brow, looking impressed despite himself.

'It seems you are as agile as one too.'

'Do not forget annoying.'

Rook's voice. And it sweeps down between them, fierce as a gale. And the he is rounding the doorway, splintered planks from the broken frame hanging over his furrowed brow like a veil.

'You get one warning, Kundo,' he says, the threat low and heavy in his face as his arms sweeps up, the end of the Proto-Tool pointing directly at Kundo's face, sores and all. 'And I warn you now; the blasts from my weapon will do more than ricochet off the new armour you have woven for yourself.' He shrugs at the look Ben casts him. 'Upgrades,' he says by way of explanation.

Kundo smiles. 'How apt,' he says. 'But while you and I have 'upgraded' as you would say, I feel it is only fair that your partner suffer a downgrade in exchange.'

The Omnitrix strap tightens against his wrist, unbearably so and Ben chokes, feeling something wet run down against his fingers. Blood, he realises, a little too familiar with the stickiness. And he is glad suddenly, that he cannot see the resulting spill of red from his wrist, that he will not be treated to the sight of a familiar nightmare, and have to travel into a flashback that will grab hold of him and slam him against the wall. But oh, it does just that and more as Omnitrix saws against his skin again and this time he lets out a grunt, is forced to shut his eyes against the pain as he hears Rook whisper, 'what are you doing?'

His eyes fall open, see Rook's eyes hovering on the spot behind his chair, beneath his hands where he knows, can feel, the blood slipping down to pool on the floor.

'He lost one hand; I am simply cutting the other one free.'

Kundo's voice is steady, damn the bastard, whilst Rook's is anything but; it shivers, shaking as both hands clench on the Proto-Tool.

'Stop it.'

Dizzy, Ben wonders how far Rook is really willing to go. And how much distance there is left between the bone and rest of his wrist. He's whimpering now, feeling the scream building in his throat at the thought that it's his Omnitrix that's doing this to him, cleaving his second hand from his body.

No, he tries to think, no it's not. It's Kundo doing this.

The Omnitrix bites bone, blood vessel, or something else hard enough to let a scream spill out past his lips, and Rook's eyes dart over to him agonised. That's all it takes, for Kundo to spin, to hook an ankle round the chair and whirl it round so Rook's treated to the gory image of the Omnitrix slicing through his wrist.

Ben is in a little too much in pain to either appreciate or witness the blur of blue and black as it crashes into Kundo, the piercing scream of the Proto-Tool rising in the air as it fires off a shot. Despite this, Rook is all precision, kicking a boot into Kundo's jaw, even as the marble stick slams down into his eye.

Ben may have shouted something; but now Shar is here, deft as a ghost, slipping through the gap in the curtains to wrestle her arms round Kundo's throat and drag him down. Kundo howls, scrabbles, and chokes, and Ben feels viciously glad for that.

Then Muroids are piling in like there's an all-you-can-eat buffet opening up, and Rook grunts, almost tripping over the chair as he twists, the shape of him close to Ben, his hand clambering round the back of the chair - and then orange peeks into the corner of Ben's vision, the slice of an oh-so-familiar blade whizzing in and out of his tortured sight, the heat of it's laser-like light spilling over his waiting hand and-

-he's back there again, nothing but pain and dark and a voice he can't quite recognise, telling him to bite down-

'Ben! Ben!'

He awakens, screaming, to the feel of Rook's hand on the side of his face, and the accompanying rattle of the shorn pipe as it drops away from his hands in pieces. Rook's injured hand is cradling his gristley, mutilated one, blood seeping through the bandages to create a valley of red and Rook is crying, chanting, 'forgive me, forgive me, I'm sorry' as his other hand drops from the side of his face, clutches the Proto-Tool and tries to bear the blade down on the Omnritx itself.

Ben can't help but jerk back protectively. Even now, after everything, an older fear is rooted deep down inside of him, the one that tells him 'no', whenever the Omnitrix is in danger of leaving his wrist and disappearing into the hand of another.

But he really shouldn't have bothered flinching. Because naturally enough, the blade of the Proto-Tool fizzles and refuses to make as much as a dent.

Rook's eyes narrow, even with the tears leaking from their golden glare, and he sniffles, whispering harshly, 'I am going to kill Azumuth.' The tone is cold and savage enough to wake Ben up, and he stares out dimly, right into the yawning maw of a Muroid that Rook has yet to notice. Ben's prosthetic hand rears up instinctively, slapping down the long, lean, crocodile-like bend of the jaw that snaps towards them. How strange, he thinks dizzyingly, that this should still obey him when the Omnitrix doesn't, just because, what, Kundo's whispering to it?

...Guess he'll have to shout louder.

Ben sees the crowd of Murroid charging toward them, forcing himself to his feet and clutching hold of a surprised Rook who stumbles after him with a token protest.

Shar lets out an 'omph' of sound as she's finally flung against the wall, her hairband nearly spilling off round her neck at the force of the impact, but Ben doesn't have time to worry about that, not with the hoard of scrabbling feet and teeth nipping at their heels. With the last flurry of strength, he punches the stick of marble Kundo is catching his breath over, watching it crumble down into cracks and rivers of black. Because who needs an ancient alien martial art to cut stones with, when you have a fake arm instead?

He swings round, Rook catching on as they dive out of the way, the whole hoard of Murroids crashing into Kundo in the physical gap their absence brings. And Kundo flails, disappearing under a swarm of grey furry bodies as Ben watches stonily on, the Omntrix loosening it's iron-tight grip. Ben almost faints at the rush of new pain that brings on, muscles and blood suddenly loose and free, both of Rook's hands suddenly clapped and cradled round this new site of gore, binding it together with sheer bloody-minded determination.

The Proto-Tool clatters to the floor, unnoticed and Rook spares a glance for his sister as she rightens herself, stumbling overt to bend down and retrieve it, her fingers clumsily fumbling over a switch. The orange blasts out from the wrong end, scattering and pushing the Muroids away and she aims a sheepish grin at her brother before she stamps over to Kundo's unconscious form, aiming a sharp kick into his side just to make sure.

Ben's not sure if he has quite enough room in him to care at the moment.

'Makes sense,' he tells Rook triumphant, half falling into his boyfriend's arms. 'Because he has to concentrate to control something like the Omnitrix, otherwise why didn't he bother turning my arm against me as well?'

But Rook isn't impressed. 'Ben,' he says gravely and Ben giggles, adrenaline rapidly wearing off. 'No, Ben, listen, you have to transform, while your hand is still attached-'

Ben blinks. 'Ooooooh,' he says slowly. 'Riiiiight.'

He can barely think of the right name, but after a careful prompt from Rook whispering earnestly into his ear, he pushes the word out into the air.

'Wildvine,' he spits, taking comfort in seeing the familiar threads of green trail out to link wrist and hand together, vines bunching up in a tight coil to erase the pain.

Now he can faint.

This is how it happens the first time; hazy light, almost grey through his eyelids. He comes to with a moan and a cough, sound distorting, turning fuzzy to his ears. It's like he's tuning into a radio, but all of him is set to the wrong frequency, a jumble of nerves wound up with no way to ease the tension that runs through him.

He feels drowsy, doused up on the light and endless white that surrounds him. Weird, because he's used to the grey and green of the Plumber base and the medical department he usually gets fixed up inside. But there's no high tech scanners here, just a steady beep, beep, beep that's here to drive him insane.

'Sweetheart...'

A hand on his face, his Mum's voice. It sounds wobbly.

'Jello,' he says and laughs, knows instantly that's it's the wrong word to say.

'Carl? Carl! Come quick, he's awake!'

'Easy, easy...'

His Dad's voice joins the cacophony. A steady clap on his shoulder, announces the presence of his hand. But it's soft, gentle, barely stirring the skin. And Ben frowns as a chord of pain strikes him, a bite of some foreign throbbing sensation that travels from the shoulder his Dad refuses to touch.

'Ben? Ben! Can you hear me?'

'He's-'

'Dad.' Ben is confused, but then realises that Grandpa's been cut off, choked off by the flat tone of his Dad. Flat, but the sound still cuts out like a whip. 'Leave. Now. We don't want you here.'

Ben moans, tries to say 'no, I want you to stay,' struggles to lean up.

'No, Ben, honey, don't-'

'Ben, for Pete's sake, you'll rip out the drip-'

Ben is awake, staring in the wide, white faces of his parents, their skin bleached of anything resembling health. They're ghosts, clowns, pale and frightening. But nothing is as frightening as the pain that rips through him, of the blurred memory of it, that has his eyes racing down to the shoulder where a clump of white protrudes, a clump of white and no...

Ben chokes. Gasps. Lurches forwards and breathes, sweat soaking his brow, dripping into his eyes.

'Ben!'

It's not like the movies, he does not scream. But he panics, loses himself for the impossible seconds he tries to blot out of his memory later, the second his Dad wrestles with him, his Mom cradling his head in her arms.

'It's alright, you're safe-'

'I promise,' his Dad breaks in over her struggling voice.

That's a lie. Ben has never been safe. And here is the ultimate proof.

This is how it happens the second time: he wakes up in Rook's room. Breathes, listens, sweat on his brow again. But no one's there. Outside, behind the barrier of the door, he can hear a scuffle in the corridor and the faint clatter of dishes in the kitchen downstairs. And, if he concentrates, the tiny creaks of the boards bending under anxious feet, just metres away.

Ben may be human now, just Ben, but still he knows that Revonnahgander ears aren't keen enough to pick up the slide of a duvet as it unveils a wrist, nor are they sensitive enough to detect the roll of his body as he leans over to inspect the hand that was nearly severed. And has his view met with a perfectly ordinary set of fingers and nails.

He doesn't know what he was expecting. There's no line, no scar, no tattered pockmark of a scab sewn onto his skin. Just a hand. Ben clenches it tightly, savouring the burn of pain. It's still there. He's here.

And before he can change his mind, he leans forward, cups the Omnitrix that betrayed him against his mouth with only the slightest of shudders and says, quite and fierce, 'Nanomech.'

And then he's there, out in the sky, slipping past the cool glide of the window. The breeze buffets him, lifts him up and he sees the light in the Proto-Truck on. Letting his instincts guide him, he falls towards the beacon of it, hearing the thunder of Rook's voice as it pours out into the night, just as he lands against the ground, human once more. For once, luck is on his side; for the door is open, just a tad, enough to let the sound spill through.

'Everything that has befallen you is your fault,' says Rook. 'Not mine.'

'I know,' drones Kundo, 'but I realised it would ease my suffering, if I could increase your own. At first I thought about giving you an offer, about asking you to cut off one of your hands rather than watching your beloved ape lose his remaining one. But no; it hurts more when you are denied a choice and made to feel powerless. The way I felt when I awoke and found half of me turned to metal.'

A pause. Then:

'You are disgusting,' Rook Da says.

'As are you,' Kundo instantly replies. 'You let your son consort with a human. A man besides.'

'I seem to recall,' says Rook Da loftily, 'that your sister spent the last of her days housed in the arms of another woman.'

'She was Revonnahgander,' Kundo mutters and there is something old and weary in his voice, something barely there, barely, should Ben dare to think it, human. 'That thing you let touch your son, is not.'

There's a slam, a thud, and Ben jumps as he hears a body being thrown against the side of the van he's smothered himself against.

Heavy breathing and then Kundo spits, a dink of sound, of something small, like a quarter, ringing out against the floor.

'Ah,' says Kundo, sounding suspiciously pleased. 'You have punched out one of my canines, Rook Blonko. You are determined to rid me of as much of my natural body as you can, aren't you?'

Rook Da hisses out a breath at the contraction, but Ben jumps as something altogether different happens. The door nearest him heaves open and Rook clambers out, looking wild and fey, blood rubbed against his knuckles. Ben freezes as Rook spins and catches sight of him, his quick outtake of breath, unfortunately, not being in the list of things quiet enough to escape the ears of a Revonnahgander. They stare at each other and Ben can't quite make out the expression on Rook's face. Is he angry? Is he sad?

'Oh Kundo,' says Rook Da heavily, thoroughly ignorant of the stare-down happening outside. 'What happened to you?'

The spell is broken at this. Rook marches towards him, even as Ben cracks out a nervous 'hi,' and there is nothing gentle about the way the Revonnahgander seizes his metal hand and tugs him away.

'And you are wrong,' Rook Da suddenly continues, even as his voice fades out from Ben's ears. It drifts out, lost, into the night Rook is steering him into. 'I have not let Blonko do anything for a long time now. That choice is down to him, not me. And certainly, I am glad to say, not you.'

Rook marches and marches. Ben trots. Considers snatching his hand back. He could, he knows. This arm is strong enough to, in a way his last one wasn't.

And then he see it; a disused storeroom. Rook pulls him over the fields, easily stepping over the furrows in the earth that Ben almost trips over, his feet pressing down into the soil enough to make him feel awake, to feel their moist coolness shift and cling to his naked feet, and then they're inside, clumps of earth being pressed against the boards of the storehouse.

Ben's eyes land on the pool of blood on the floor, the curtains still flapping, ready to encase whoever steps into their trailing dance. And that becomes him as Rook pushes him there, wrapping the fabric round his arms to chase away the chill that catches at him.

Ben is now thoroughly awake and painfully aware that he's not wearing much. Just a shirt and some underwear. And. Well. Yikes. He really hadn't bothered to actually think before he let himself escape the house as a tiny flying bug, huh?

A tear rips through the air, fabric spilling down around his head as Rook pulls it from the frame. As it falls over him, Ben can see it's really just a bunch of complicated netting and loops, thin gauze like the type his Mum likes to cover herself with to keep the mesquites away.

He smiles, even if his heart's not in. 'This won't let the bed bugs bite right?'

'Just me,' Rook answers, leaning down to kiss his neck. But despite his words, no teeth flash out, to clamp down on Ben's skin. It's just a kiss that lands there, nothing more.

His hands are big and heavy though, and it is they which seem to bite as they close on his shoulders, his arms, still pulling the curtain over him. There's a cocoon here and it's all comprised of Blonko.

'Lucky you, I'm not wearing much,' Ben manages, but he trembles, eyes landing on the space where the chair had overturned, where the blade had pressed down. Where the stain of blood still was.

'That is your fault, not mine,' Rook says primly. 'You could have changed, before you started to spy on me.' But his words, when they land on Ben's ears, feel gentle and not harsh.

Ben wriggles awkwardly in return. 'Is this really a good idea?'

'It is an excellent idea,' Rook says firmly. 'But only if you allow it.'

Ben pauses. 'Every psychologist and therapist out there would have our heads,' he decides.

This point doesn't seem to stop Rook from lifting him off his feet and bringing him to the floor, pushing him down into the netting like a trap. 'All the more reason for you to feel as though you should say yes, then, is it not?' he asks, looking amused despite himself.

Ben grins. Fastens his hand, the one he's nearly lost today, into the scruff of Rook's neck.

'You know me so well.'

'And I'll hurt anyone who tries to change that,' Rook murmurs and Ben's breath escapes at that, at the contraction, an advantage Rook presses, to win himself an open-mouthed kiss. It's heavy and hot and Ben doesn't have to say it, those three fabled words that, he knows, are the reason Rook so easily lost his cool, made Kundo choke out a tooth.

'Dude,' he says, relaxing into Rook's hold. 'No way. You're too nice for that.'

Rook just looks at him, before pointedly sweeping his still bloody fingers over Ben's cheek, lifting them up, enough for Ben to see the drying brown marking the fur.

Ben shrugs and rather pointedly lifts up Rook's other hand, bandages still falling over the fingers and palm, before he breathes a kiss onto the twisted grey knots.

'That's different. You made a bigot lose one of those vampire fangs of his. He'll think twice before messing with us again.'

Rook smiles sadly. 'No, he will not,' he says, effortlessly prying the lie apart. 'Which is good,' he adds, 'because I will definitely not think twice about punching him again, the next time he appears.'

The sex is...not exactly therapeutic. It's not penetrative, nor is a mirror to some of the stuff that Ben has, albeit tentatively, watched in some gay porn videos. It's simple, involves hands cushioning dicks with both calluses and unsteady, fumbling palms, and in some odd way this reassures Ben; he's not sure what he would do if Rook turned out to be a pro at this. Pout, maybe. Try and swallow his pride. Maybe pout some more. But no; it's a little rough, true, and the stain on the floor catches his eye more often than not, but it happens. More importantly, it feels good. Rook feels good, his pants landing on his skin with hot and heavy precision, rolling over him with all the power of a lion.

He should feel frightened, Rook crowding him in like this. He doesn't. There's open air here, the curtains keep him from the stone of the floor and Rook's breaths by his neck, tell him that there's the safety of a shout nearby, an ear willing to listen.

Perhaps that reassurance is all he needs. Every time his breath catches, every time his eyes linger on the blood that escaped his wrist, they find that stutter yanked away as Rook's hand passes into view, the dried flakes of fur decorating his sight.

Rook isn't his keeper or his protector, though he suspects the Revonnahgander often feels that way. Perhaps he is simply Ben's, label be damned.

Ben holds him close, sighs his release into the air. And it is not bad or good, that he did this.

He is simply here, with two arms and someone who loves him.

Not there, in a memory, with a friend who can do nothing but hurt him. And cut off one of his arms.

For the second time today, Ben puts that particular nightmare to bed. And turns his attention to Rook, who is busy panting into his neck, breathing little whispers that sound suspiciously like fully formed sentences. Ones choked with guilt like, 'I will not fail you again,' or 'I will do better next time, I swear.'

Ben frowns and runs his hand over Rook's neck.

'Dude,' he manages. 'Don't.'

Rook stiffens. 'I cannot help it,' he says lowly. 'Twice now, I have been helpless, when you were in danger of losing a piece of yourself. The first time...well. We both know what I did the first time.'

He stares hostilely at the shinning metal line running from the ball of Ben's shoulder and smoothly runs a hand along it's length. 'I know it is foolish. And I know I cannot reverse time.' Something dark crosses his face at that. 'But still I wish I could have found something more to do at the time.'

'You've done plenty,' Ben corrects somewhat sharply. The boneless haze his body was in danger of falling into is now lost, gone, at the chipped clip of Rook's voice. 'You've done more than your fair share. And I'm glad it was you.' He tries to picture Gwen or Gwen being forced to shear off his arm and flinches. Gwen is strong, but not always in the way he sometimes feels she needs to be. She can be protective, her anger burning hot, but it's never ruthless cold, the way it sometimes has been for him and Kevin. He's not sure if she could have ever been able to look at him, been able to force herself through the hospital doors to visit, if she had been put in Rook's position. Kevin could have done it, he knows. But he would have been surly, black-faced, filled with more self-loathing. Added what he did to Ben as one more in a long list of why he was such a screw-up, a failure, who doesn't deserve people like Gwen and Ben to love him.

Rook, in some ways, is probably the most well-adjusted out of all of them. Although that's maybe because unlike the rest of them, he has had a normal, stable childhood. He has chosen to be a Plumber, never having been thrown into a life full of peril the way the three of them were before puberty had even had time to strike.

But, well. Now...

Ben takes Rook's face in his hand. Leans up to kiss him and ignores the wetness he feels his fingers sliding into.

'Hey now, it's okay, I've got you,' he manages. 'I forgive you. Even if I don't think there's really anything to forgive you for. If you need it, it's allll yours.'

He tries to smile, feeling something inside him clench at the heart-broken look on Rook's face.

'You should not be comforting me,' the Revonnahgander says lowly, brokenly in response. 'Not when you almost lost your second hand today.'

Ben suppresses a shiver. 'I'm not the one who's crying,' he points out. 'That always takes priority. It's like an unspoken rule or something.'

'Not for everybody,' Rook mutters and Ben wonders what he's thinking, his eyes hooded and dark as he stares down at Ben. Then his lips quirk, just slightly, and his fingers reach into Ben's hair, smearing it against their short tuffs of fur.

'You need rest.' His voice is decisive, that firm bite of confidence shoved back into his tone. Though it does nothing to prevent Ben seeing the damp sleekness of the fur matted down under his eyes. 'Rest and peace. You deserve it.'

Ben laughs, not entirely distracted and shoves Rook away, before the guy gets it in his head to try and carry him or something. 'We both do. Come on.'

He takes Rook's hands, smiles up at him. And is gratified to see something melt in Rook's eyes in return, that dark bitterness easing into something softer. He squeezes the furry fingers interlocked with his own and hopes that just this, being Ben, is enough.