And I'm
feeling tired
And I'm looking slow
And I feel so cheated
But there's nowhere left to go
Do what you feel, not
what you say.
And we're not prepared
What happens to us if we don't get there
And we're not prepared
What happens to us if we don't get there
~Not Prepared, Mesh
CHAPTER 8: ENTROPY, PT. 1
Jean-Luc and Irineé stood silent watch over Remy's sleeping body, their pale
fingers linked, hand in hand. They'd moved from shock, to denial, to faint hope
to the reality of seeing him, the range of emotion covered in such a short
amount of time that they were left reeling, spinning on the edge of a jagged
cliff that perched on the edge of exhaustion and the unknown.
The face of their father. The realization of half a lifetime's worth of hopes
and dreams. It was so much--too much. For Irineé, the feeling was too big to
hold inside her, and she felt it might burst from her at any moment, spill out
onto the face of the world that turned indifferently around her. She closed her
eyes, but she could still see the lean curve of his jaw in her mind, the
sharply sculpted shape of his nose that always made her think of Michelangelo
paintings.
"Rinny, you know you my prettiest daughter?" her Daddy asked with a grin.
"I'm your only daughter, Daddy," she said with a giggle as she played along.
Even at the young age of six she was used to this game by now.
Father. Dad. Daddy. The words echoed in Irineé's mind like ghosts.
"Well den, I must be tellin' de truth, non?" he said with a laugh, and she
squealed as he scooped her up in his arms and pulled her on to his lap,
tickling her until she pleaded for mercy, her stuffed bunny sliding away to the
floor.
He pulled her up and looked into her eyes, face flushed with laughter.
Red-black eyes, so strange and distant to her now, had been the center of
her tiny world. How she wished he would open them now, center her world for her
again with the ease of a smile.
"Pretty soon, you goin' to be too big for my lap," he said, with something like
regret.
"Uh-uh," she said, shaking her head and grinning. Her Daddy was always kidding
about things.
"Yep. An' one day, you goin' to be a grown woman, wit' your own life an' your
own kids."
But not yet, dad. Not yet, she thought, desperate. You were supposed to be
there. You're supposed to be here now. I still need you.
"No way," she said, but she tilted her head at him, skeptical now as she saw
sadness flicker in his eyes.
"Oh yeah," he said, with a faint smile, and tweaked her nose, making her smile
again. "But even den, no matter where you are, where you go, what you do, you
better know dat your Daddy always loves you."
She closed her eyes, and silent tears slid from beneath fluttering lids,
the years not dulling their edge.
"Even if I eat the whole jar of cookies?" she asked with a grin, used to this
game, too.
He nodded.
"And even if I beat up Jean-Luc?"
"Even den," he agreed. "Dough you better expect to be gettin' a butt-whippin'
of your own."
She searched her mind, tried to think of something new, something she'd never
asked. What was the worst thing she could ever do?
Be responsible for his death.
"Even if I kill somebody?"
He blinked, shook his head in surprise. "Dat's a strange question. You not t'inking
'bout killin' anyone, are you, Rinny?"
She shook her head, solemn. "No, Daddy." But she couldn't think of anything
worse. That was the worst. If she did that… would he really still love her?
"Would you, Daddy?"
Did you love me when you died to save my life?
"Lord, child," he said with a surprised, rough laugh, smoothing her hair back
from her face. He cut a surreptitious glance left, then right. "Your momma hear
stuff like dat an' it's gonna be curtains fo' your Daddy. She goin' to t'ink I
been puttin' bad ideas in your head."
"I won't tell her," she said and held up one hand. "Swear. And I won't kill
anyone, either. I just wondered."
Do you still love me now?
He smiled then, touched her cheek, and his fingers were so large, so gentle and
smooth as they brushed against her skin. "Of course, cherie. I love you always,
no matter what you do. You, Jean-Luc, an' your momma, too." He pulled her close
in a hug, and she threw her tiny arms around his neck, holding him tight. He
smelled like smoke and leather and comfort and all the safety of home.
Irineé blinked, tears turning hot with sudden emotion as they streamed from
her eyes.
"No matter what," he whispered.
He doesn't remember us. Doesn't even know he has children.
"Always."
Why did you forget us, dad?
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Magnus sat and fumed in silence at the image on the commlink screen.
"So what you are saying… Senator Lensherr… is that your mind has been moved
into a new body that is an exactly cloned, younger duplicate of your previous
body?" Senator Alba's political aide raised his brows in polite disbelief. The
man, Mr. Lavine by name, had been Magnus' junior by better than thirty years
two days ago. Now he carried a well-preserved decade on Magnus' countenance—which,
Magnus supposed, accounted for some of the patronization he was receiving.
"Yes. That is exactly what I am saying."
"I see. And is Senator LeBeau available to corroborate this story?"
"She is not," he replied, tone terse, words clipped.
"Has she been indisposed by some strange mutant circumstance as well?"
Magnus clenched his fingers against the console, and struggled to keep his
patience. "She has had a family emergency."
Immediately, the man's expression changed, the too-polite mocking tone leaving
his voice. "I'm sorry to hear that. I hope her children are well."
For a moment, Magnus was tempted to answer the man's unasked question.
Oh no, her children are fine. It's just that her husband has recently
returned from the dead after a seven year hiatus.
He bit down on the temptation and hoped that the expression on his face would
pass as a smile rather than a snarl.
"I will pass along your concern, Mr. Lavine. May we return to the situation at
hand?"
"Yes. And unfortunately, it is something of a situation. You do resemble… your
former self, but I'm not at all certain the Council will be able to continue to
recognize you. There is no protocol, no precedent or laws that decree how such
an occurrence should be handled."
"Surely there must be some way you can verify my identity?"
The man hesitated, then nodded. "Perhaps, yes. But that will still only carry
so far."
"What are you saying?" Magnus asked, eyes narrowing, storm clouds gathering on
his brow.
The man cleared his throat, straightened. "Senator Lensherr, I sympathize with
your situation, but you must understand how this will look to everyone. Identity
confirmation or not, they will never understand. These things simply do not
happen to normal people."
"Mr. Lavine," he said, voice rising with dangerous thunder. "With all due respect,
we are not 'normal people'. That is the entire focus of this debate."
Lavine nodded once. "I understand. That is, unfortunately, exactly the problem.
You understand as well as I do that the government is foundering, trying to
rebuild in bits and pieces. The new system does not work exactly like the old
one. We are lucky to have any sort of system at all. Government members are in
short supply these days, and not as well distributed as they ought to be."
"Tell me, Mr. Lavine," Rogue said as she strode into the room, face stern, body
held regal and high. "Is that a fancy way of leadin' up to sayin' 'we're
screwed'?"
"Senator LeBeau," the man greeted, rising a bit taller in his seat.
It was funny, Magnus thought, the respect they gave to Rogue despite the fact
that she was less professional and more passionate than most politicians. She
had a certain way of working under their skin and touching their cold,
corporate hearts to make them listen. It was the same bit of magic that had won
her his heart over the last decade or more, and Magnus' breath caught in his
throat as he turned to look at her, memories clouding his mind. Two days… two
days and an eternity ago. How quickly things could change.
"I was given to understand that you were beset by a family emergency."
"Ah still am. So you'll have to forgive me if Ah'm a little rough around the
edges today, Mr. Lavine, and hopefully you can understand why Ah want to put
this matter to rest in a hurry."
"Yes," he agreed. "But unfortunately, it may not be that simple. Given Senator Lensherr's
miraculous… circumstance, things may become a great deal more complicated than
they already were."
"But you're not sure of the legalities?"
He hesitated, drew his shoulders up and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "No.
Not as yet. But the legalities of the situation may be irrelevant compared to
the impact such a dramatic change is certain to have on the public."
Rogue nodded. "One thing at a time, Mr. Lavine. Let's figure out if we have a
leg to stand on before we go worryin' about the public perception. If we can't
legally continue the process then there's no need to alarm the public at all. Ah'll
get Theresa Cassidy on the books, see what she can find out. Ah expect ya'll
will be doin' the same. We don't have your resources, but we'll do what we can
to help resolve the problem."
"You are aware that the voice of the people will hold sway over the Council and
the President's final decision on mutant status?"
"Ah am," she replied, face calm and composed.
He nodded. "I will advise Senator Alba to take the matter under consideration
and continue negotiations. But be advised, the bottom line may be that,
legally, we simply cannot reconcile the matter due to this unprecedented change.
If that is so, then Mr. Lensherr may have to petition to become recognized as a
Senator again, as he will likely be regarded as an entirely different person
from the previous Senator Lensherr."
Petitioning. Paperwork. Years and miles of red tape. No one was elected to
office anymore; there simply weren't enough people. Petitioning was a fancy way
of saying "applying for the job".
"We'll do what we have ta, even if it means startin' over. We're not goin'
away, Mr. Lavine, and somehow, we have to find a way to live together."
Lavine nodded again. "I will convene with Senator Alba at the soonest
opportunity. I'll be in touch."
The commlink screen flickered and went black, and there was nothing but the
sound of silence between the two of them for a long moment. Rogue stared at the
dark screen and Magnus listened to her breathe, the quiet seeming to crawl over
his skin like electricity.
"I never could understand why you wanted me to head our Council," he finally
spoke into the gulf between them. "You are much better at handling these people
than I will ever be."
A weary sigh left her, and she folded her arms, cupped her hands around her
elbows. "You're the brains of this outfit, Magnus. Ah'm the heart." She paused,
considered a moment, then turned to him with a faint smile that made him think
of better times. "Besides, it's good for you to have ta talk to other people."
It was a good moment, a comfortable moment—one that spoke of many years spent
side by side in a multitude of situations just like these—and it made Magnus'
heart ache, because nothing was the same between them now.
"Sabiné…"
"Don't," she said, and looked away, eyes closing as if to deny the pain he
suddenly saw in her face. The tenuous moment of reprieve destroyed, she let the
motion of her head turn her whole body, and her feet carried her to the door.
"I'm sorry," he said as she reached the threshold, needing to say something
before she was gone.
She paused in the doorway, her head bowed. "It's not your fault, Magnus." She
wrapped her arms around herself and he could see the way her fingers dug deep
into her sides. "It's nobody's fault."
He watched her as she moved from the doorway, and as she walked down the hall,
he had the sudden, painful sense that she was walking out of his life forever.
He was a proud man, a stubborn man, and even in the face of everything that had
happened, some small part of him had harbored hope… hope that she could still
be part of his life, perhaps even that she would still love him. With the
turning of her back, that errant indulgence crumbled like a foundation shattered
beneath him, and he spread his hands out over the console to brace himself against
the sudden truth that hit him like the weight of the world.
Two days and a lifetime ago. He had thought only moments before that nothing
was the same between them.
And now he knew that nothing ever would be again.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
"Logan?" Jean asked as she sat up,
blinking as if she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing.
"Where am I… how did I…?" She stopped, looked around, and finally turned to
him, her lovely face perplexed. "Didn't I just leave New York?"
Logan chewed on the end of his cheroot
and shook his head. "Depends on what you mean by 'just', darlin'. If 'just
left' means six and half years or so ago, then yeah, you just left."
She stared at him, the shake of her head almost imperceptible. "What?"
"You left from New
York almost seven
years ago, darlin'. At least, last I saw."
"But I just…" her gaze fell away, confused as her mind raced to catch up with
the information he was giving her. "I just said goodbye to you," she said, her
deep green eyes searching his.
"That's the last thing you remember?"
She thought hard for a moment, then nodded, once, slowly. "Remy's funeral was
the day before. And then I left… went into space… and then…" she stopped,
frowned. Fragments of stars and lightning rushed through her mind, but nothing
else came. "I don't remember."
"Lot o' that goin' around, seems like,"
he said and struck a match to light his cheroot. Blue-gray smoke coiled around
his face and obscured his features from her, but she could still feel his eyes
on her, thoughtful and penetrating.
She narrowed a suspicious gaze on him and frowned. "What do you mean?"
"No offense, Jeannie, but you've been alive an' dead more than anyone else I
know. I'm just wonderin' if you're really you this time." Cool as a cucumber as
he tapped an ash from the end of his repulsive cheroot, maddening and
infuriating. Yeah. He was Logan, all
right.
"Of course I'm me," she said, her voice on the edge of snapping at him. "The
only me that ever was, remember?"
"Yeah?" he asked, voice casual as he looked her over, a smirk playing about his
lips. "Prove it."
And suddenly she was all too keenly aware of how close she was to him, how
small and warm the room was.
I hafta make sure that you're real.
She shivered—not all together unpleasantly—and as she drove the thought away, his
parting words came back to her. "Some things, you gotta take on faith."
"Well I guess that'll hafta do," he said with a grin.
"The question is: how did I get here?"
"Actually, we were hopin' you might be able to answer that one."
"Damn," she swore softly beneath her breath.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Remy opened one heavy eyelid and fought back a wave of nausea as the room
swirled and came slowly into focus. Two faces, fresh with youth and fraught
with pain stared at him with shocked green eyes that seemed… familiar somehow.
He licked his lips, found them dry as sandpaper and tried again, his voice
creaking from his throat. "You two a little young for nurse duty, non?"
Wide eyes only blinked back at him, too surprised to speak, and he heaved an
inward, weary sigh.
"Do… do you know who we are?" the young girl asked, her face so open and
pleading that Remy wished he had the answer.
"Non, petite. I wish I did."
A muscle in the boy's face tightened. "Are you sure?" he asked. "You really don't
remember?"
Remy shook his head. "I'm sorry."
The young boy's face turned bright red with sudden anger, and his eyes flashed
an even deeper shade of crimson as his temper took hold of him. "How could you
forget about us?" he demanded, his voice so vehement and pained that Remy
wondered exactly who this boy was.
"Jean-Luc!" the girl said, and turned on the boy with such ferocity the Remy
was momentarily taken aback. "You know he didn't do it on purpose!"
"All I know is that we've waited seven years for him to come back, Rinny, and
now he's here and he doesn't even remember us." The boy's hands clenched into
fists and a vein stood out in sharp relief from his temple. His eyes found
Remy's, and Remy trembled at the naked emotion he saw there.
"I'm sorry I don't--" Remy began.
"Shut up!" the boy shouted, about to shake apart with rage and sorrow. "You
should have just stayed dead!"
"Jean-Luc!" the girl gasped, her face turning pale white.
The boy spun away, heading for the door, and the girl followed him, her voice
sharp and reprimanding as she shouted his name. The world seemed separated from
Remy by thin layers of gauze, everything very faint, shadowy and far away.
"I was… dead?"
The door to the room flew open, and Rogue appeared, chest heaving, eyes bright.
"Jean-Luc! Irineé! You two shouldn't be in here alone--"
"It's all your fault!" Jean-Luc cried, and his voice was so loud, so filled
with outrage that Remy found himself unable to block it out. He raised his
wondering eyes to the scene that was unfolding and saw the boy just a few feet
from the woman, legs spread wide, hands still clenched at his sides. "If you
had stopped him that night! Kept him from going after Sinister, none of this
would have ever happened!"
The beautiful woman Remy had met when he'd first woken flinched from the words
like a physical blow, her face crumpling. "Jean-Luc, you know I did the best I
could--"
"If you had, he wouldn't have died! Maybe then we'd have at least one person
around who cared about us!"
"Jean-Luc!" the woman recoiled as if she'd been slapped, all the color draining
from her face. "You know I've always cared--"
"Yeah mom," Jean-Luc agreed, his tone dripping acid. "You've been great caring
about the Council, Magnus, the X-Men, even Dad's ghost. Everything else but us!
And now we've finally got him back and he doesn't even remember us!"
The woman shook her head, wordless, and Jean-Luc gathered himself in a tight
ball of anger and took a step forward, eyes blazing up at his mother. "At least
he's got an excuse for forgetting about us, mom," he said, his tone going
deathly quiet. "What's yours?"
The boy's mother clasped her hands over her heart, and Remy thought he could
hear it break from all the way across the room.
Jean-Luc stalked out, and the girl hesitated, putting one hand on the woman's
arm. "I'm sorry, mom," she whispered. She looked out the door, then back at her
mother's face as if torn. "I'll… go after him."
The woman stood there, eyes slack and dazed, and Remy wondered if she'd even
heard the girl's words.
There was a long moment of silence after the girl's departure that left Remy
feeling squirmy and awkward, despite the fact that he was fairly sure the woman
had forgotten his presence for the moment.
"Chere?" he ventured, and hoped she wouldn't explode on him.
She pressed a hand to her face, rubbed at her eyes and pushed at her face, the
vacant look slowly leaving her.
"I don't know what just happened, but I get de feelin' it's a family matter."
She drew herself up straight and nodded, sniffing once.
Still, she said nothing, and Remy twisted in the wind, feeling lost and
uncomfortable. "I would have left, but…" he said with an attempt at humor,
looking down at his bedridden body to finish the sentence.
"It's… don't worry…" she whispered, as if she didn't quite know how to answer.
Her emerald eyes were wide, rimmed with tears and ringed with sorrow and shock.
Looking into them, Remy found himself overwhelmed with the urge to comfort her.
"I suddenly get de feeling I never could resist a femme when she's cryin'," he
half-muttered, and tried a smile. He tilted his head to the side, studying her,
trying to understand what was happening around him. He still didn't know where
he was, how he'd gotten here, who any of these people were… and yet, the look
in her eyes drove all those thoughts from him.
"Did… somet'in bad happen to deir Daddy?" he guessed, having gotten at least
that much from the conversation. Maybe if she talked about it… and hell, it
wasn't exactly like he had anywhere to be, or like he'd be going anywhere soon,
given the way his body still felt.
"Yes," she said. Her eyes locked onto his, deep with more emotions than he
could name. He found himself mesmerized by the intensity of her gaze, felt as
if she were trying to tell him something with the weight of her eyes alone. "He
died."
"Oh," he said, voice soft and surprised. He felt sorry for having asked, but he
also felt something else… a faint tingle of thought that wouldn't quite come
into focus. In that moment, he was more aware of the blank canvas of his mind
than ever as the words echoed in his head, trying to form a pattern of
understanding.
He blinked, and then his eyes widened as he looked at her, the tumblers of his
mind falling at last into place, unlocking a small piece of understanding.
You should have just stayed dead!
"Oh," he breathed.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Magnus strode into the living room and glanced at the television screen as he
passed it by. A local newswoman's face loomed on the screen, her features
distorted by static and snow.
"Rumors still abound concerning the Mutant Affairs Council meeting two days ago,
when the mutant called Magneto, a well-known former terrorist, suddenly
collapsed in the middle of--"
He turned the power button off with a thrust of his mind, and the newswoman's
face disappeared.
"Father?" Wanda asked, her entire face a question as she turned to him. "Don't
you even want to know what they're saying about you?"
"I already know what they are saying," he said, sitting down and running a hand
through his hair. Longer now, it felt strange beneath his fingers, and he felt
somehow mildly ridiculous as he faced her; his daughter, now more than ten
years his senior. He wondered if she felt as foolish calling him "father" as he
felt being called that in this body.
"Magnus?" Colossus asked as he sat forward on the sofa. "What is wrong?"
"I need to speak with you, Piotr." He paused and watched the larger man tense,
took a deep breath. He would never get used to this, not if he lived forever.
"I fear I bring bad news."
"What is it?"
"It concerns Kitty."
Piotr stiffened, and Wanda laid a hand upon the large man's shoulder.
Magnus went on, speaking the words with efficiency and regret, and when at last
Piotr collapsed, broken with disbelief, it was Wanda who caught him, held him
in her arms.
If what they had been given to understand turned out to be true, Piotr would
need all the support he could get.
And yet, he couldn't quite keep a tendril of jealousy from him as it crept in
and twined around his heart.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
"…and then we went back New
York and… b-buried
your memory," Rogue stuttered. She wiped at tear-filled eyes that had barely
met his throughout the telling of the long story and took a deep, shuddery
breath. Remy was silent, his face balanced precariously on the edge of
composure, and she wondered what he was thinking, what he was feeling. She could
reach out, steal a look inside his mind… She dug her fingers deep into the
muscle of her thigh instead; let the pain calm the mad pounding of her heart.
After a long moment, Remy shook his head, red-black eyes distant and troubled.
"Dat's… dat's a lot to take in, chere."
"Ah know."
"I… I did all dis for you? An' for… de children?" he asked after another long
pause.
"Yes. Ah didn't want to tell you this way, but…" She shook her head and raised
her shoulders in a helpless gesture, tears threatening to spill over again.
"I must have… loved you all very much, non?" He twisted his neck to look at
her, and there was such a lost and gentle look about him as she met his eyes that
she could only nod and clamp a hand over her mouth to keep a sob from escaping
her.
Then his head lolled against the pillow, and that face she so loved and adored
turned from her with a sigh. "I'm sorry, chere. I don't remember any of dis." His
voice had changed, gone distant and strange again. Red pupils stared off into
the distance, seeing nothing, remembering nothing, and she suddenly felt as if
she were in the room with a complete stranger.
One touch of mah hand… she flexed her fingers, dug her nails deep into
her palm.
It wasn't fair. So many nights, crying and yearning for him, offering God any
trade He would take to have just one more moment with him. And now, as she
looked at him, her heart so filled with love that it hurt to breathe, she
wanted nothing more than to sink into his arms and feel him stroke her hair, hear
his voice with all its silky, gritty thread, feel it wrap around her, hold her
and keep her.
And she couldn't. even. touch him.
Skin she had burned to touch for years lay within inches, its familiar
landscape remembered on the tips of her fingers. The line of his jaw, the
smirking curve of his mouth that she had dreamed of kissing on more nights than
she could name, lay before her with the lush promise of hope. She only had to
lean over, let her hair brush against his face, let her lips touch his…
"I need some time… to t'ink about it all," he was saying, voice and gaze still
distant, still removed from her.
It was torture. And some, small, unnamed part of her wondered if she might not
deserve it.
"Time…" she echoed with a slow nod, her voice as hollow as her soul felt.
"I'd like a moment alone, if you don't mind," he added, still not turning to
look at her.
She managed another nod, and held on to her composure, somehow, until she made
it out the door. It shut behind her, and with that sound of finality, the thin
thread that had been holding her heart together snapped and fell free with an
unraveling that left her gasping on her knees.
She loved him with everything she had, loved him beyond life itself… and still,
she wondered if death had not been kinder than this.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
"Scanning for target…"
Dr. Hayes shifted with impatience. It was a perfunctory scan—they already
knew their target still lived—but a necessary procedure.
"…biorhythm not found."
She stopped breathing. Renaldo was looking at her, eyes questioning.
"Run it again," she whispered. "Check for anomalies and similar patterns. Maybe
the program is off. We need to be sure."
"Scanning for target…"
"…similar biorhythm found."
"It's the same pattern…" Renaldo said with a slow shake of his head. "Just a
few minor differences… but they're very strange."
"Strange?" she asked as she rose and walked over behind him, trying to get a
better look at the screen.
"I don't know how else to describe it. I've… I've never seen any readings like
this. I'd almost need a physical examination to be able to figure it out." He
pushed a few buttons, and the biorhythm data coalesced into a glowing pattern.
"This is our target," he said, pointing at the image. "And here's what I
found." A second pattern emerged, and with a few clicks, he overlaid it atop
the first.
Red energy patterns swirled, their lines pulsing and shifting in a cyclic rhythm.
The second pattern mimicked the first in almost every way… except…
"What in God's name is that?" Dr. Hayes asked, pointing a small spot on the
screen. It was miniscule, but distinct, and it glowed bright red—so bright it
was almost pink. It glittered and turned like an eerie ghost inside the second
pattern like a wheel within a wheel, seeming to pulse and shift of its own
accord.
"I don't know," Renaldo said, and shook his head in awe.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Magnus sat before the complex's internal speaker system, fingers pressed
against his temples to ward off a burgeoning headache as he considered.
They all had to meet, had to discuss the status of everything. His political
status, Remy's condition, Jean's sudden, violent arrival, the situation with
the Hellfire Club. The crises just kept on coming, no matter what they did, and
though he had been eager for a tangible battle only days ago, he now found
himself weary at the prospect. The emotional upheaval had left him feeling like
an uprooted tree, exposed and confused, roots and limbs splayed in every
direction.
Well, I suppose I could always go back to world domination, he thought
with a grimace.
The pain seemed to shift in his temple, pounding with more insistence, and he
gave a sharp gasp of surprise.
The ice-pick in his brain abated a little, and when he could think again, he
reached for the intercom button. He never gave the headache a second thought.
Most likely it was residual pain from Madelyne's attack, or perhaps an
adjustment to his new body. Nothing to be concerned about, in the wake of all
he had to deal with.
He forgot it. And beneath the surface of his mind, a dark and slithering shadow
curled, and bided its time.
