THE QUARRY

By: Scatterheart a.k.a. Hallospacegirl

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CHAPTER TWO: AN INTRICATION

The first sun was barely peeking over the edge of the tawny horizon when Obi-Wan Kenobi parked his landspeeder outside of Kibby's Fix-It Electronics Boutique. "Mos Eisley best metal fixer and seller! No metal part too broken for Kibby fix!" the banner over the tiny doorway proclaimed in fragmented Basic. Kenobi hopped out of the speeder, pulled his hood over his face, and ducked into the dusty store.

Several customers, a Twi'lek and three overweight Gamorreans, were already scrounging about the secondhand junk bins; the inhabitants of Mos Eisley preferred to shop at dawn, when the suns had not yet heated the polluted air to an unbearable temperature, and it was for this reason that Kenobi chose to venture into the city during the cruelest part of the afternoon, when the majority of life forms – including Stormtroopers – were havened within their quarters.

Today, however, was an exception.

Kenobi picked his way through the piles of spare parts to the low counter, where the diminutive Chadra-Fan was dozing with her downy head resting on her claw-like hands. "Good morning, Kibby."

The Chadra-Fan awoke in a flurry of high-pitched snuffles and squeaks. "Ben!" she squealed, blinking her round, black eyes at him. "Kibby not see Ben in the shop in many, many years! Welcome, welcome!"

"You exaggerate, Kibby. It's only been a month since I've asked you to fix my landspeeder engine. It's working very smoothly, by the way."

"Ben is Kibby best customer!" She eagerly wiggled her large, hairless ears. "Kibby can help Ben with something?"

He smiled at her enthusiasm – of course, most of her loyalties lay with the copious credits he carried inside of his sleeves, but he could also sense that he was growing on her, and that she would not betray him if the Empire decided to come knocking at the door. If the Empire decided to come. It was unlikely a squadron of Stormtroopers would pay any attention to a Chadra-Fan's tiny shop… and that had been precisely why Kenobi selected the inconspicuous place.

He swiftly glanced around him. The Twi'lek had left, and the three Gamorreans were engaged in a snuffling, heated discussion over radiator parts. He turned back to Kibby and retrieved the Imperial comlink from his pocket.

"I need you to make an exact replica of this," he said, placing the comlink softly on the counter. "I need you to do it now."

Kibby picked up the crushed pellet, rotating it in her furry palm, and sucked pensively at her elongated front teeth. "Exact replica? Communication device inside broken in fifty places. Kibby fix in two days."

"No, I want an exact replica, broken pieces and all. No – no. There won't be enough time for that. Listen, I just want a replica of the outside. You can fill the inside with scraps, bolts, anything. But make the outside look identical to this one. That should be simple enough."

She blinked at him, slowly. "Why Ben want this?"

"To give to a friend," he said, smiling.

She shook her head in confusion, squeaking and growling in her native tongue.

"Please, humor me," Kenobi urged. He crossed his arms in front of him and let the credit chips in his sleeves jingle musically in front of her oversized ears.

The ears twitched, perked. Their owner grinned at Kenobi brightly. "All right, Ben. Kibby agree," she chirped in Basic. "When Ben want this?"

"Today. Right now."

"Now? Impossible! Kibby need afternoon!"

"I know you can do it now, Kibby. You've never let me down, and I trust you. I'll stay here until you're done. I'll even buy that collection of electronic junk parts you tried to sell me last time." He nodded toward the small, brimming box behind the counter. "And I'll pay you double. For everything."

The Chandra-Fan glanced down at the broken comlink in her palm, and looked up at him with a vaguely ill expression plastered over her features. "Kibby… agree to Ben. Ben crazy hermit."

"Thank you, my small friend," he replied. "But you'll have to try harder than that next time. I've been called much worse."

An hour later, with a small canvas satchel clutched tightly in his hands, Kenobi rushed out of the shop, dove into his landspeeder, and swooped away amid a cloud of dust.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Back inside the hovel, quietly so as not to disturb the sleeping trooper, Obi-Wan Kenobi opened the narrow door at the end of the kitchen and slipped inside the small, overflowing workshop room. He locked the door behind him, flicked on a light orb, and set the canvas satchel upon the cluttered desk.

There was no more time to deliberate – he had deliberated all through the speeder ride back, and had finally promised himself to do this. And if the plan failed… well, if that was the will of the Force, then he would have no choice but to let it be.

And Luke. He sensed the physical distance yawning between them, a distance that would widen million-fold if he followed through with this plan. It would hopefully be a brief separation, but it would be long enough and far enough for him to err, lose control, fail the boy. Break his promise to the future of the Jedi Order.

No, he would not fail. He was doing this for Luke, for the prophecy, and even if he failed, the boy would not fail himself.

Kenobi sucked in a deep breath. There was no time.

He emptied the satchel upon the desk. Out tumbled the contents of the box Kibby had tried to sell him a month ago – he had not considered the odds and ends useful then, but when he had noticed it in the shop earlier in the morning, it had struck him with the idea for the plan.

He rummaged through the malfunctioning spark plugs, transmitters, batteries, and light orb crystals until he fished out what he was looking for – the Imperial retina-scan unit and military identification badge. The latter two items had been undoubtedly acquired last season during a riot in Mos Eisley between the fiercely protective Devonian storeowners and Imperial search troops. Several Stormtroopers had been killed, including this – Kenobi read the name on the rusty badge – General Peregrin Felth. Kibby must have pilfered the items from Felth's dead body during the chaos.

Kenobi picked up the nearest cloth, saturated it in cleaner oil, and polished the rust away from the badge. Then he took the squarish retina-scan unit and cracked it open. Inside, tangled within the wires, lay General Felth's retina identification card against a miniature laser. He scraped at it with his pinkie until it fell out of the unit, and tossed it into a darkened corner of the room. He opened the safe beneath the desk and found his own retina card that had been issued to him during his years of service for the Republic. It was dusty from half a decade of neglect, but still effective nonetheless. He blew the soft gray powder from the blue-green surface and slid it into place within the scan unit.

The unit emitted a series of quiet electronic beeps; Kenobi snapped it back together and shone the light into his eye. "Identity confirmed. General Peregrin Felth," the machine enunciated after a pause.

He grinned and slipped both the scan unit and badge into his tunic.

Then he grabbed the holo-projector from the safe, popped several batteries into the back, and contacted Bail Organa.

At first the blue hologram fuzzed with overwhelming static, but after Kenobi wiped the thick layer of dust from the receiver surface, the stately figure of the Alderaanian senator coalesced into view on top of the desk. He had not changed much during these five years, the Jedi observed. Perhaps had gained some weight and opted for a longer hairstyle. But it was still Bail Organa, the politician who had worked with him during the days of the Republic, and the staunch friend who had fought at his side during the ensuing war. The foster father of Luke's twin sister. Kenobi suddenly felt an odd, slightly bittersweet sensation that he had traveled back in time.

"Bail? It's Obi-Wan Kenobi," he said.

"Obi-Wan?" The senator in the hologram was squinting. Then he let out an amazed laugh. "My word, it is you! Obi-Wan Kenobi, my friend, I can recognize that handsome face from anywhere. You haven't changed a bit."

"It gladdens me to see you after all these years, Bail," he whispered. But it was not the time for pleasantries. "Please keep your voice down. I have something to tell you that's of the utmost importance."

"Yes, yes of course." The jubilant beam upon the senator's face faded, and he leaned in confidentially. "But wait – before you do, let me tell you one thing. The Empire thinks you're dead, Obi-Wan. They issued an official certificate just last week. It's time for you to finally get out of that sandbox and come to Alderaan. You know, change your name, start a Jedi academy at our secret Rebel base, train the young children of the Rebellion—"

"You know I have duties here. Anakin Skywalker's son is the prophecy that will save us from the Empire. I can sense it in the Force."

The blue, flickering image of Organa looked pained. "The Rebel movement isn't gaining any momentum. There's little motivation among the troops, because there's no one who truly believes that we can win a fight against the Empire. We need your guidance."

"Patience, my friend."

"You're our only hope."

"No, Bail." He smiled, a little ruefully. "I'm not your only hope. Have patience and you'll see. Perhaps the information that I've gained can help you bolster Rebellion morale."

"What – what information?"

"A Stormtrooper."

"A what?"

He glanced furtively at the locked door, and returned his attention to the incredulous Senator Organa. "It's a long story, Bail, and I don't have time to tell it. Currently, I have with me a Stormtrooper – she claims her name is Lena, license code A-186. She doesn't know my identity. She's been stranded here, and I can sense that she wants to fly off of Tattooine as soon as she can. I want you to send a replica Imperial transport ship to pick us up at the Mos Eisley spaceport. The pilot can fly us to your Rebel base, where the troops there can take her in for questioning. She has information. She's valuable."

"Hold on, Obi-Wan." Organa held up a hand. "What you're suggesting is dangerous, for you and for us. If we take in this trooper and she escapes and leaks the location of the base to the Empire, then the Rebellion might as well pack up and commit mass suicide right now."

"Yes, I understand. But Bail, her license number – A-186 – she's a first-class Stormtrooper. If I recall correctly from the days of the Republic, the headquarters of the first-class troopers are always located within the primary Senatorial planet. Imperial planet, in this case. Once she divulges that information to your Rebel base, they can find the location of the Emperor and launch an offensive."

The senator sighed, steepling his fingers to his mouth as his brow deepened its furrow. He was silent for a long time, staring at the ground, before returning Kenobi's gaze. "I'm not going to lie to you. This information… if we could get our hands on this and topple the Emperor, it would… it would have the potential to stop the war before it starts." He shook his head. "But on the other hand, if the plan blows up in our faces, your smashing entrance back into the limelight's not going to fare well with the Empire. You're not going to be able to escape the Imperials this time – they've grown stronger and they've expanded their borders – and I don't want to see you die."

"Bail, I know my purpose in the grand makings of the Force. For Luke and for democracy and for the Jedi, and if I happen to—"

He shook his head in frustration. "No, I meant you, my friend. Not this entire Jedi purpose thing. If the plan fails, what would happen to Obi-Wan Kenobi, the man?" he asked.

Kenobi rubbed at the soreness behind his eyes. "I know of the dangers. I'll be leaving Tattooine and I'll be leaving Luke Skywalker behind, and if something goes wrong, I might not ever return to my duty. Even now the Imperials might be intercepting this holo-projector signal – now you understand why I haven't contacted you for all these years, my dear friend? But this opportunity… this has the potential to save millions of lives, and you know it, Bail. I'm willing to make the sacrifice."

"You always are, Obi-Wan." The small holographic image of Bail Organa bleakly rocked back on its heels. "All right, give me the details."

"Aha, I knew you would come to your senses," he said, flashing the senator a short grin. "I'll be posing as General Peregrin Felth of the Imperial army. His license number is AA-014. Make sure the pilot of your replica Imperial ship addresses me accordingly and knows all of the Imperial procedures. Lena, A-186, can't discover our identities until we're safely at the Rebel base, or I'm afraid she'll sabotage the ship. Her combat skills are…" – he unconsciously touched the wound on his temple – "…considerable."

"You won't have to worry about that. The pilot I'm sending you, Crix Nadine, has firsthand knowledge of Imperial protocol. He was a rising hotshot in the Imperial army before joining the Rebellion at the end of the war. Oh, but don't worry, Obi-Wan, Nadine's dedicated to the Rebel cause. He's as loyal as they come. You'll call him by his alias, Pieter Corlis, when you meet him aboard the ship."

"How long will it take for the ship to arrive at Mos Eisley?"

"If we dispatch it now, it should be there in about two hours."

The Force bubbled around Kenobi lightly like packets of air chasing each other up from the bottom of a pond. Slowly but surely, the woman outside was rising from the dreamless clutches of the Force-induced sleep. He quickly grabbed the holo-projector with both hands. "Excellent, Bail. Do it. I have to go – I'll be contacting you shortly."

"Obi-Wan—"

He flicked the hologram off. And realized that the fake Imperial comlink was still in his possession. Blast it.

Digging it out from the pile of spare parts, he slipped quietly out the door. The main room was bathed in warm, early morning sunshine that spilled across the shelves and landed upon the blanketed figure in the cot. She was still asleep, but barely, stirring slightly in the bed and wiping a curl of dark hair away from her cheek with a forearm.

Kenobi crouched down by her armor, fitted the comlink into the helmet. It clicked into place crisply, and he sensed the bubble of sleep bursting in a silent little pop.

He stood up, ambling as steadily as he could to the wooden table. She didn't realize what he had done. And perhaps this course of action did not exactly follow the Jedi code in regards to honesty, he mused to himself. But at least the genuine comlink was his.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

There was something about this Ben that she couldn't quite lay a finger on. She followed his movements from beneath her barely parted eyelids, watched him idly swiping sand from the dilapidated table beside the window, watched him hang his heavy brown cloak upon a nail on the wall, watched him chew on a small strip of dried jerky. The actions were perfectly mundane, yet there was something about how he performed them that didn't seem ordinary – perhaps it was the way he navigated through the unbearably cramped hovel without disturbing so much as the dust upon the shelves. Perhaps it was the way his limbs moved so fluidly beneath the threadbare, multi-layered white tunic. Perhaps it was his eyes.

They were grayish blue like the cloudless sky after a thunderstorm, clear and unpiercing. And they were looking into hers.

"Good morning, Lena," he said with a serene little smile.

Yes, it was that. How he knew she was awake, even though she hadn't moved nor altered her breathing patterns since she'd been jolted from a dreamless sleep several minutes ago.

She let her eyes flutter open. "Good morning, Ben."

"How did you sleep?"

She frowned. Something was odd, out of place. She felt as though she had dragged herself up after a night of zero-g clubbing, juri juice and deathsticks, a guilty ache throbbing in her head to remind her that she should be remembering certain details of an evening that she had conveniently drugged to oblivion. Except now, there was no pain; only that nagging guilt to search her mind for memories lost.

And how she had been suddenly jerked awake confused her as well, made her apprehensive. She had heard no sound, felt no shake, distinguished no violent shift in the light that had been soaking through the thin skin of her eyelids. All she had seen was Ben, walking silently from the foot of the cot to the table by the window, then swiping sand away from the wooden surface with a corner of his sleeve.

One thing she knew for certain. He was hiding something crucial and she was too inexperienced to discern it.

"I slept fine," she answered the man perfunctorily. "No dreams."

"Good. How are your injuries?"

She gave herself a mental check, found that aside from the dull burn in her punctured leg and the general fatigue in her muscles, her body seemed to be roughly intact. "I feel… all right, Ben." She reminded herself that twelve hours ago she had been a shuddering breath away from meeting the Ultimate Maker, and she narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "How did you…"

"The speed-heal bacta salve performs wonders," he explained. "It lessens pain and can repair flesh wounds within a day. Bones need only two. It's a commodity one can't do without in these Wastes."

"Why don't you use it on that bruise?" She gestured to the disfiguration on his left temple; it was purplish and swollen, with a red scab plowing savagely through the middle.

"I prefer to save my stock. The traders visit the cities only once a decade. In any case…" He touched the wound lightly with a finger, giving her an almost sheepish smile. "I should know better than to walk into my utility shelf."

"Ah. I see." She pursed her lips in an outward expression of concern. Of course, he was lying. Even a first-year Academy cadet would know that the only way he could have received that bruise would have been to collide into the utility shelf at sprinting speed. And she had already seen him cruise about the room more effortlessly than a man walking through a vacant lot.

So why would he lie about this? What had he done during her sleep that he considered unfit for her to know? She felt a twinge of restless annoyance, more at her own lack of observational skills than anything else, and she sat up in the cot, her abdomen aching faintly in protest. "Thank you for all you've done, moisture farmer, but I think it's time for me to leave this place."

"Leave now? Lena, your leg isn't completely healed," the man protested. "Walk on it an you might sustain another fracture."

"I'll be careful, Ben," she responded. She didn't know why she was suddenly so anxious to get out of the claustrophobic little hovel, preferably away from him. He made her vaguely unsettled and untethered, like a little boat tossed about an ocean. For the Stormtrooper, for A-186, a loss of situational control could be a lethal mistake. Though the man Ben didn't strike her as dangerous, she was convinced he was – whatever he was – he definitely wasn't a moisture farmer.

Better to leave now than steep in regrets later.

She gingerly moved from the cot and tested the ground with both feet. The puncture in her injured leg flared briefly in pain, but it was nothing she hadn't handled before. She leaned into it, flexed it, felt the pain abate as her body adjusted to the pressure.

"How will you make contact with your superiors?" Ben was asking, stepping to her and holding out an arm.

She instinctively edged him away as she walked evenly to the pile of armor at the end of the cot – her leg burned only moderately, and she didn't need his assistance. "I'll call them with my comlink."

"I remember you told me that your comlink had been broken."

She stopped. Damnation. He was right; she had almost forgotten the moment when Nima had wrested the helmet from her head and crushed the comlink with the butt of his blaster. The sound had reverberated all the way down to the bottom of her gut and she had grabbed his hand, told him not to do this. Kill her, but not this. Don't leave. And she had stared into his helmeted face, and seen only the reflection of her own pathetic sniveling countenance reflected in the visor…

She knelt by her armor, fumbled for the helmet, and detached the comlink from the mouthpiece. It rattled uselessly in her hand like a capsule filled with metal scrapings.

Rebel scum.

Throwing it to the dusty floor, she turned to Ben. "Unfixable. I'm looking forward to the day I can cleave his damned head with a well-aimed blaster shot."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Revenge?"

"Call it target practice, Ben," she replied, and grinned. "I'll need transport to Mos Eisley. I can seek out the patrol troopers stationed there. They'll allow me to arrange for a starship to fly me back to the base."

He bent down beside her and ran finger down the singed leg plate. "You'll take your armor?"

She glanced sharply at the man, but his genial face betrayed no emotion. "Of course I'm taking my armor. I don't plan on leaving Imperial property here."

"Then let me help you transport it—"

"I don't think so." She grabbed his sleeve as he reached out to take the helmet. A flat, metallic rectangle tumbled out of the fabric and clattered into the white durasteel.

She snatched the item up. She knew it – this man had been hiding something all along, and this was it.

An Imperial badge.

She stared at the metal plaque in disbelief.

General Peregrin Felth, license number AA-014.

She glared at man at her side. "How did you get this?"

"Accept my apologies, A-186." His features had taken on an intense, serious cast. "A dozen Rebels have infiltrated into the Tattooinian troops, and I had to be certain you were not one of them before revealing my identity. Here." He retrieved from his tunic an Imperial retina-scan identification unit, shone the red laser into his eye, and waited until the machine emitted a short beep. "Identity confirmed. Peregrin Felth," the machine proclaimed tinnily, then deactivated.

"I pledge my wholehearted allegiance to the Empire, but I admit I'm not the best loved by my superiors," he said, tucking the retina-scan back into his sleeve. "Several quarrels and a scandal later, they effectively stripped me of my rank by assigning me to this thankless location. Then I suppose they thought I had died during the first Tusken raid in Mos Espa five years ago, so they broke all contact with me and assigned a new general. A much more qualified one, I have to say. I spent an eternity dodging the Rebels and trying to negotiate back into my sector, but the damned bureaucracy held me at a standstill. In anger, in revenge, I decided to take up this simpler and safer way of life."

She could only nod. This was… this was unbelievable, what he was telling her. Yet he had the Imperial retina-scan to prove it. He was General Peregrin Felth of the Imperial Army.

"But this life isn't exactly what I expected," Ben – Felth – resumed in the wake of her silence. "Now, instead of avoiding Rebels and blaster shots, I was avoiding late night Tusken raids. Lena, this is too inglorious. The prospect of dying at the hands of the Tuskens disgusts me. I was made for the Empire, not this."

She found her tongue. "So what will you do?"

"Simple. Make my way back to the nearest Imperial base and work my way up the ranks. Of course, I'll be needing to travel with you." He smiled. "I've managed to contact the Outer Rim Omega space station near Alderaan, less than four parsecs away. They only relented to send down a ship after learning I had you under my custody. "

"And if I choose to go by myself?" she countered, narrowing her eyes.

"The Empire believes I turned to stardust years ago, Lena. They won't allow me to board the ship alone because they'll suspect I'm a spy for the Rebellion. Only the two of us… together. I saved your life, A-186, and if I recall correctly, Academy doctrine states that a debt owed to a fellow militia member needs to be repaid."

That was true. She exhaled sharply. She wanted, no – needed – to fly out of this hellish planet, preferably with those memories of betrayal behind her, but she couldn't, not with a mysterious man who filled her gut with an unmoored, drifting sensation. He was still hiding in his weather-beaten hands much higher stakes than she could see. General or not, ally or not, she hated the greater power he was wielding, and the way his mellifluous voice and clear eyes could sway her mind as though he controlled it…

But if she didn't trust him, whom could she trust? She didn't possess much of an option there. He was an ally, she told herself firmly. He was even a friend. He had saved her life, and it would make no sense for him to now take it from her.

No. This whole business was too risky – she didn't know him.

Nevertheless, when she opened her mouth, she found the assent pouring fluidly out, almost against her will, "I'll go with you."

"Then it is settled," he said, rising to his feet and dusting the sand from his knees. "I'll pack my belongings and contact the ship. They'll be ready at the Mos Eisley starport in two hours." He opened a narrow wooden door and disappeared into an inner room.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Obi-Wan Kenobi let out a long breath and gathered his bearings. A Jedi should feel no emotion. Emotion leads to a loss of focus, and eventually to the dark side. Be calm. Calm.

He decided he could allow himself the tiniest hint of celebration, and laughed quietly to himself in the darkness of the small workshop room.

He had done it. In the name of the Force, he had done it.

He picked up the holo-projector and dialed it to Bail Organa's frequency; the senator flickered into being a moment later.

"It's working, Bail. She's agreed."

The senator made a sound that fell between a triumphant laugh and an apprehensive groan. "By the Maker, Obi-Wan—"

"You may personally thank me or punish me for my rash actions later, Bail," he replied. "Is the ship ready?"

"Already dispatched."

"Then I'll be seeing you before the Alderaanian day is over."

"Just like old times, my friend."

"Just like old times." He swallowed the strange knot that had formed in his throat, and deactivated the hologram.

There was still much to be done.

First, his appearance. He surveyed the tattered cloths draping over his body in shades of dusty brown, a mixture of Jedi and moisture farming garb, paired with combat boots and an old Republic utility belt. The appearance still leaned more towards Jedi Master than Tattooinian native, he decided; he wouldn't be surprised if an older Imperial guard from the days of the Republic recognized his robes and bearded face during his prolonged public exposure at the city and the crowded starport.

Kenobi pensively ran his fingers through his coarse beard. And stopped. Yes, yes, this would definitely have to go. Truth be told, he had grown this beard not for himself but for Anakin, really, to give his features an appearance of age and authority over the playfully impertinent young Padawan.

He flipped through the counter for his razor and mirror, remembering the first time Anakin had seen him with the dark blond beard covering his chin. The boy – no, he had already been a teenager then – had laughed in amusement and said, "Unbelievable, Obi-Wan. You look old enough to be my father now."

And he had countered, good humoredly, "It's Master Obi-Wan to you. And if you insist that I look like your father, then act like my son, Anakin."

Act like my son.

Kenobi finished shearing the last piece of the beard away from his jaw, watched it float to the ground, and let his reverie float down with it like a lost autumn leaf. For good measure, he evened the ends of his hair as well, separated it into a clean part and smoothed it down. Then he pulled from the safe beneath his desk a folded pile of starchy black and red fabric – it was an official suit the Council had insisted he wore to receptions and galas and other diplomatic affairs in which Kenobi had found no interest, and it was a restricting thing, its high collar and sleek tailoring hearkening to the later Imperial uniform design.

He shed off the Jedi robes and struggled into it.

"Uncivilized," he muttered, clipping his lightsaber to the discreet band sewn on the inner lining of the jacket. He dropped the Imperial comlink into his pocket, and tied the uniform's remaining wide red sash around his waist. And then he smiled into the mirror, at the unrecognizably youthful face smiling back.

Qui-Gon Jinn would have been proud.

He became aware of an almost… restless sensation churning through him, not entirely unpleasant, and it took a moment before he recognized it to be anticipation.

No, he absolutely couldn't feel this way. Anticipation meant selfishness; selfishness tore at the Jedi code. He was undergoing this trip for Luke and the Rebellion, and if the Rebellion required him to stay on the windswept desert dunes of Tattooine for the rest of his life, he would have gladly agreed to it. He calmed himself, smoothing his hands over the front of his jacket. A Jedi should feel no emotion. Emotion leads to a loss of focus, and eventually to the dark side.

It was time to go.

Kenobi flipped off the light orb and left the room.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

To be continued… (I have several following chapters already written, so expect quick updates in the next week.) Thanks for reviewing! And please, keep doing so.