Could it be? Could we be back? Indeed we are, and we're kicking off our return by continuing our rewrite of the original stories. Look forward to that and Shadows actually coming soon.

This late at night, the only sounds competing for attention in the gas attendant's shack at Paradise Station were the rattle of the old window-mounted AC unit and the TV in the corner. John Murphy sat in the opposite corner behind the counter, feet propped up as he watched the latest episode of Survivor.

"Get it!" Murphy shouted, pumping his arm. "Get over it!" He groaned as the figure on the TV rolled off the log and fell into the muddy water below. "Goddamnit." A swig from his beer was interrupted by the squealing of truck brakes outside, and then by a plume of gray smoke wafting out from behind the cab of the semi-truck pulling into the station. "That's gonna be expensive," Murphy muttered as he swung his feet off the counter and walked towards the door.

There was nothing quite as bright in town as the truck's headlights, so Murphy raised his hand to block the light, guessing at the shape of the driver climbing out from the cab.

"Yeah, I'm here," the driver said. As he walked around the front of the truck, Murphy could make out an arm raised to the man's head - talking on a cell phone. "Call you right back," the driver said, then stepped out of the cone of the headlight and gave Murphy a nod. "Evenin'," the driver said. He was a tall one, with a thin nose and light brown hair barely peeking out from under his baseball cap. What the hell he was wearing that for in the middle of the night, Murphy couldn't tell.

"Evenin'," Murphy echoed back. "Looks like you've got one hell of a problem there. Judging by the color of the smoke, could be an oil leak. Service's closed for the night, but I'll let you park it by the side and we can take a look at it in the morning."

"Uh huh," the driver said. He checked his watch, eyed his phone and craned his neck to look at the sky, all without quite looking at Murphy.

The smoke drifted through the service station, enveloping Murphy in a blueish-grey mist. It smelled metallic, and tickled his throat. "Jesus, that's a thick smoke," he said, coughing and waving it away from his face. "That metal smell, could be bottom end damage. If that's the case, you'd better call your carrier and let them know you need a tow, that's more than we can handle."

"Right," the driver said. The smoke didn't seem to bother him even as it kept pouring out of the truck. Finally, he seemed to notice Murphy and looked at him. "You think the wind's gonna pick up tonight?"

"This time of year, probably not," Murphy replied. "Why do you ask?"

The driver smiled at him and raised his cell phone again. "Yeah, we're all set," he said. "Roll in the package." He hung up and gave Murphy another smile. "Thanks," he said.

"I'll get on the phone to Jim, we'll need his tow truck to move this," Murphy said, and walked back into the booth. He felt the driver's eyes on his back the whole way, and when he turned to look, the driver still had his eyes fixed on him. He was still smiling, too.

Murphy closed and locked the door behind him before picking up the phone - something about this stranger set the hairs on the back of his neck on end. It only took a single ring before Jim picked up his cell phone, so he must have already been awake.

"Hey Jim, we got a broken down semi here that needs moving out of the pumps," Murphy started.

"Did that plane get to you yet?" Jim asked. "Blew right overhead the north end of town flying down the highway, woke me up. Looked like some kind of crop duster."

Murphy looked northbound on the highway outside his gas station. Nothing overhead, but he could hear it getting closer. "No, not here yet."

"Looked like it was spraying something too, someone's gonna catch hell if we got dusted by some bullshit pesticide," Jim said, then started to cough. "You smell that? Smells like garlic."

"No, I don't," Murphy said as Jim's cough started to worsen. "You all right there, Jim?"

"Damn -" Jim was interrupted by a coughing fit that started to turn into wheezing. The plane was clearly audible by this point, almost overhead. "Damn pesticide -" His breath started becoming more labored as the wheezing grew louder and the plane .

"Sounds like you got a lungful," Murphy said, turning off the air conditioner as the plane blasted overhead. "I'm gonna call an ambulance, see if they can get to you." Murphy looked up, trying to catch sight of the plane. It was obviously some kind of duster, spraying something over the air. When he turned his attention back to the phone call, all he could hear was a slight wheeze on the other end of the line. "Jim? Jim, you there?"

"...help," was all Jim could push out of his lungs before his wheezing stopped entirely.

"Jim?" Murphy asked. "Jim, you there?" Silence. "Shit," he said, and banged on the glass. "Hey, stranger! You want to get inside, whatever that shit is, it's toxic!"

The stranger just looked up as the mist settled over the gas pumps, checked his watch, then kept staring at Murphy.

"I just got off the phone with my friend at the north end of town and he sounded pretty bad!" Murphy shouted through the glass before reaching back for the phone. "I'm gonna call for help!" He picked the handset back up, but this time all he got was three short beeps and a computer voice apologizing for the service being down. "What the hell?" Murphy fished in his pocket and pulled out his cell phone - even out here he usually got some signal, but not anymore. He looked back out the window as droplets of fine mist had settled over everything, including the man, who was still on his cell phone. "Hey, stranger! My phone's dead, call for help!"

The man's words were muffled through the glass; all Murphy could make out was "not able to penetrate" and "need to re-evaluate dispersal".

"Hey! Can you hear me?" Murphy shouted back.

The man paused and asked something about "test concluded", then reached into his jacket - but when his hand came back out, it wasn't a cell phone in it, but a pistol.

Murphy ducked down, squeezing himself against the floor as bullets first shattered the glass of the shack onto him, then ripped holes through the thin walls. Murphy waited for the shooting to stop, then flicked his left arm out, flinging glass shards off him. The driver's boots gave a soft squeak outside as they trod over the dry asphalt, while a sharp smell of garlic drifted inside. Jim had told him about that, hadn't he? Murphy listened, but the footsteps outside were soon drowned out by his own breathing as he started to wheeze and cough. He sounded like Jim did, breaths getting faster and shallower. His hands were shaking, too. He reached up, up to the counter. He had just enough strength to grasp the shotgun clamped underneath and pull it towards himself.

Murphy's eyesight dimmed as he tried to push off the floor, but his legs didn't work. He turned and twisted, working his back against the wall, trying to prop himself up on the counter. More gunshots ripped holes in the shack, but he couldn't dodge or even flinch anymore. He drew his last breath, one final wheeze, and then his lungs refused to work at all. Murphy's sight started to go grey and black around the edges as the stranger kicked the door in, but he could still move his fingers. He barely heard the shotgun go off in his hands, the recoil kicking the sawed-off double barrel from his hands. His vision narrowed to a tunnel as the driver fell over, his white shirt turned dark red. The stranger twitched a few times then was still, just as Murphy did the same.

It was 5:54 AM in San Francisco and Jaime Sommers was awake. She was still lying in bed, though, for two reasons: one, her sister Becca was asleep face down in bed next to her, and two, she was too busy thinking about how much trouble she was in. Will and she had been run off the road and shot at by a…'bionic' killer, some half-robot weapon in the guise of a woman. Those same bionic parts were in her now. And Becca was in just as much danger, only she could never know about any of this. Jaime would have to do everything she could to pretend nothing had changed. She had to explain everything away, somehow, had to keep up the appearance of normalcy. So get up at 6, it's a school day, get showered while Becca wakes up, fix breakfast while Becca showers, drive her to school, then - what then?

Jaime swung her legs out of bed and sat at the edge for a bit. She was facing the bedroom window now, not much of a view even when the curtains were open. The sun was barely up outside. Her body felt rested, somehow, but her head was a different story. She put her hands on the mattress, gripped it and took a deep breath. Get up, she told herself. Get up, get going, figure it out. She pushed herself up and got to her feet with barely any effort, then kept standing for a moment. The floor felt weird under her feet. 'Her' feet. She looked down on herself, flexed 'her' right arm. It all looked so ordinary.

Becca grumbled from the bed behind her. Jaime distantly remembered Becca being a light sleeper when they had to share hotel rooms on trips with their parents, and apparently that hadn't changed. "Jaime?" Becca asked through her pillow.

Jaime turned around. "Hey," she said softly, signing a more proper Good morning when Becca turned to look at her. For a moment, she just stood there, unsure what to do next.

What happened last night? Becca signed as she yawned.

Jaime stood still for another moment. I came back home, she signed, finally. "I came back home," she repeated out loud, for her own benefit. I couldn't leave you alone here, she added.

Becca sat upright, cross-legged on her bed. "Where did you go?"

"Will's place," Jaime said.

"Like earlier, when you got in an accident and didn't call me and came home weird and then collapsed and started crying?" Becca scooted closer. "Jaime, what's going on?"

Jaime looked away briefly and took a deep breath. "There's a lot going on," she said. "Tell you over breakfast?"

Becca sighed. "Tell me everything? Promise?"

"I promise," Jaime said. With her left hand raised flat up to her throat, she grimaced and pushed across her throat. Lie.

Becca opened her mouth to reply, then just stared at Jaime.

"Let's make breakfast, okay?" Jaime said, turning around and walking into the kitchen.

Becca sat on the bed, just a moment, then scooted off, bent down to grab yesterday's t-shirt from the floor and pulled it over her head. As she walked into the kitchen, her big sister was already getting out the bowls and preparing to pour cereal. Becca pulled out a chair and sat down, hooking her feet behind the chair's front legs. The tiled floor was far too cold for her bare feet. Jaime put a bowl of cereal in front of her, then sat down, too. Her bowl was still on the kitchen counter.

"So," Jaime said. "Everything." She took a deep breath. "Just...let me finish, so you know the whole story, okay?"

Becca looked at Jaime for a moment, then nodded.

Jaime thought for a moment, then it came pouring out of her. "I didn't just go to dinner with Will. I was also at a job interview. Will recommended me to his boss as a research assistant and, well, it looks like I got the job, I'm just waiting for the paperwork to make it official. So...there are going to be some changes. I know it's longer hours, but the pay is more than twice what I'm pulling in at the bar. I couldn't say no to that. I mean, I could hardly believe it in the first place." Jaime paused. "So between that and the accident, I was really...I'm sorry. I didn't want to worry you but I was just a big mess."

"But...you collapsed," Becca said. "You had, like, a seizure, and you were acting...really weird before then, saying some really hurtful things."

Jaime gulped. "I didn't want to worry you," she repeated. "But" - she sighed - "everything. So, the reason for all that was that I had a concussion from the accident." Noting that Becca was sucking in air to interrupt, Jaime signed Lie again and pressed on. "No, it gets worse. A significant concussion. I don't even remember what happened right after the accident. Will says I was conscious, but I don't remember what happened then until we were in the hospital. They told me they would have to keep me there, and I...I flipped out. I told them they couldn't keep me, that I had to go take care of my sister." Becca narrowed her eyes and again started to interrupt before Jaime cut her off. "It's...it's just what happened, Becca. Everyone said that was a bad idea, but I browbeat Will into talking to the doctors, and - I don't know how - he got them to let me sign out. He drove me here and then, well, you saw what happened. I told Will that there was no way I was going back to a hospital, so he took me to his place and he tried to help me there, but he...he had to go back to work, so after he checked me out and made me promise to take it easy and to call 911 if things got worse again, he called me a ride and sent me home." After the flood of words, her breaths were heavy and her eyes shimmered with wetness. "I'm sorry," she said. "I...I shouldn't have made you worry. I didn't want to...I thought it would be better if I spared you, but…"

"...but you wanted me to know the truth," Becca intoned, mirroring Jaime's deliberate speech.

"I needed you to know the truth," Jaime said. Again she raised her left hand to her throat and slid it across. Lie. "I...I hope that's enough for now."

"If you think that's enough…" Becca said.

"I'm sure there'll be more," Jaime said. "As we...figure this out. Right now I just want you to know that I'm all right and I hope we're all right." She met Becca's eyes. "...are we?"

"Well, I mean, what about your new boss, what's his name?" Becca asked, tracing a line on the counter with her finger. "What does he do, where does he work, what's his background? If you're gonna work for a guy I'd like to know who he is."

Jaime hesitated. "His name is Jonas Bledsoe and I swear I'll remember the company name once the paperwork gets here," she said, putting on a fake smile for a fake barb. "I don't know too much about him personally, but the company does research into alternative energy and medical science. They get DoD funding, though, so I can't be more specific than that. It's all very...classified, I'm told."

"Well, I'll just have to do some digging of my own, then -" Becca said.

Jaime snapped her left hand against her chest and tapped her index and middle finger against her thumb. No! She shook her head for emphasis. "I'll get you a brochure," she said, "if you turn in your English essay on time."

Becca stuck her tongue out. "Fine."

"I'm serious!" Jaime said. "Rebecca Louise Sommers, this is my serious face. I don't want to see you wrenching on that robot until that essay is done. It's 10% of your grade!"

"Good thing it's already done," Becca said, nodding towards her backpack by the front door.

"...I should proof-read it," Jaime said.

"I do need someone telling me if it's 'to who' or 'to whom'," Becca replied with a smirk.

"Hey, I used to charge thirty bucks an hour at the Berkeley library," Jaime said. "You're getting a deal here, young lady."

Becca's smirk widened into a smile. "I know. Thanks, Jaime."

Jaime smiled back. "Always," she said, then got up to get Becca's essay printout from her backpack.

With her sister's back turned, Becca pulled her personal notebook to her from across the counter. She flipped it open and scribbled down a quick note - Jonas Bledsoe, look into this - Jaime signing left hand, why? - then flipped it closed again. All Jaime saw when she turned around was Becca giving her a smile once more.

The action of the previous day was clear on the faces of Berkut's senior staff. Bledsoe had intended to give everyone the day off, but when the Department of Defense dropped a mass casualty field report in his email inbox that started with "142 dead" and ended with "vector, cause, and parties unknown", he had to call everyone in and just hope caffeine would be a good replacement for rest. Will Anthros looked like he had the worst of it, being dragged from his hotel that he only made it into a few hours previously, and so far the coffee in his mug hadn't helped with that at all.

The doors opened to let Jonas Bledsoe through. Before the door even closed again, he dropped a pile of still-warm printouts on the table and started sliding them across, one briefing packet for each of them.

"You're kidding, right?" Nathan piped up, first to finish scanning the summary. "The whole town?"

"Days like these, I wish I had a sense of humor," Bledsoe said. "But no, this is real. We're looking at an unknown chemical-like WMD released on American soil. Wiped an entire town off the map in minutes. Keep reading."

"Excuse me, Sir," Will began. "Is there any particular reason why -"

Bledsoe glared at Will. "Keep. Reading."

Several seconds passed in silence as Will joined the rest of the table in processing the field report. The casualties were the headline, the DoD, FBI, and DHS's utter lack of any clue who was responsible and how they did it the lede, but the real meat was two pages back with a freeze frame of a man standing in a gas station labeled Subject 1.

"So, like I was saying, that's terrible and all, but we're not the FBI," Will said. "Or DHS. Or even Army Chemical rapid response. So...why is this our problem?"

"Because of Subject 1," Bledsoe said.

He reached for a nearby wireless keyboard, dimming the lights in the room and bringing the screen in the back down. With the soft whirr of the projector's fans overhead, a stopped image from a high-angle surveillance camera appeared on the screen. Another keystroke and the video played, showing a man standing in the middle of a white haze hugging the ground, then taking out a gun, getting into a brief exchange of fire with someone at the gas station booth and finally getting shot down. Bledsoe stopped the video there.

"Subject 1 does not appear in any state or federal databases, there are no individuals matching his description in any recent intel and chatter is quiet on a big WMD attack, and considering the CIA, DIA and DHS have been fully on this for 6 hours now, they've shaken all the usual trees," Bledsoe said. "But that's not why this document is our problem, Dr. Anthros. Do you see any CRBN protective gear on Subject 1?" Bledsoe rewound the video to stop on the man, arm outstretched, aiming a pistol at something off screen.

"...no," Will said.

"Assuming this is a chemical attack, do you think atropine can do that?" Bledsoe asked.

"No, you would...have to dial it in for the exposure," Will said. "I mean, you can pre-dose, but only so much - and with the exposure needed to kill everyone else this quickly -"

"You'd go into tachycardia and die," Bledsoe finished for Will. "I see we've read the same training manuals, then. USAMRICD is looking into their records, but their entire department - whose job it is to come up with ways to resist chemical attack - has no idea what this is."

Bledsoe tossed the remote back onto the table in front of him. "That is why this is our problem. DoD took one look at it and fired it into my inbox asking for us to figure it out. So, what is it? Ideas?"

"Perhaps the vector wasn't chemical," Pope weighed in. "I'm not aware of any nerve agents that penetrate this quickly into closed structures. We should see more panic and attempted countermeasures from the victims inside their homes. People trying to flee. As is, this seems to have surprised and overwhelmed them very quickly. If we had a weapon like that, I would know it; if our enemies had weapons like that, SecDef would have already sent us to destroy them."

"It's...it's impossible," Will added. "The field autopsies all show classic symptoms of nerve gas exposure, the full acronym, but there's nothing like a vaccination for cholinesterase inhibitors, and, like I already said, the countermeasures can kill you by themselves if you're not already exposed to nerve gas. There's no organophosphate residue above background for a backwater like that, and enough nerve agent to wipe out an area this large would look like someone dumped a tanker of the stuff over the town. This is impossible."

"Well, it's obviously not," Truewell asked. She looked around the table as Bledsoe nodded in approval. "This isn't helpful, guys. We literally work in impossible every day. Stop saying what it isn't, but what it is."

A bit of silence descended on the table for a moment.

"Something this man didn't fear," Jae Kim said. "He stands right in the open as the cloud descends. He would have received near-maximal exposure. Yet he does not seem nervous. Look how he stands. He does not even turn to look at where the cloud is coming from. He knew this was coming. And he was either absolutely certain of his mission - or absolutely certain that the weapon couldn't harm him."

At just about that point, Will finished scanning the last page of the brief and flicked the package back towards Bledsoe. "Well, it's not any of the classics, unless the FBI lab messed this up," he said. "I give them credit for working fast in a field lab, but this report is a mess."

"What do you mean?" Bledsoe asked.

"Unless this town mines a lot of transition metals, there's a hell of a lot of contamination," Will said.

"What about this DMSO stuff on the chart?" Nathan asked. "There's a lot of that."

"Dimethyl sulfoxide," Will said, pinching his nose. "It's a common solvent, it doesn't make any sense for organophosphate testing, but they probably just used it to dissolve the sample for the test, which would be where their contamination issues came from, it picks up transition metal salts -"

"Would you use it with water?" Truewell asked, pointing to the relevant part of the FBI's test results. "There's water in their results, too."

"...no," Will said, grabbing his packet again and flipping through it. "No, you wouldn't."

"So, what do you think, Anthros?" Bledsoe asked. "Does this merit your interest now?"

Will scanned the packet for a few more seconds before looking up. "How soon can we be in Paradise?"

"Plane is waiting on the tarmac now," Bledsoe replied. "What are you thinking?"

"This dust sample," Will said, slapping his packet down on the table and pointing to another clipped-out spreadsheet. "It's all transition metals, elemental carbon, with just a hint of phosphate, enough to look like just fertilizer residue. It could be a novel nerve agent with the carbon and phosphate, but these metals...these are the same oxidation states I used for the anthrocytes. I think this might be nanotech."

"Which is definitely our problem to solve, then," Bledsoe said. "You and Truewell are the closest we get to experts on biological or chemical weapons analysis, so you'll both be going."

"What about Mrs. Sommers?" Truewell asked. "If we're not available for her -"

"We'll figure something out," Bledsoe replied. "The less we need to involve her in this, the better."

"Sir," Pope said, "can we afford to sideline our most powerful asset?"

"Damn right we can," Will said. "Jaime's been through enough already."

"And that's too bad, but not germane to my decision," Bledsoe said. "Right now there's nothing useful for her to contribute to this mission. If this changes going forward, I'll reevaluate. For now, Anthros and Truewell are up. Ambrose, Kim, you handle the onboarding. Make sure she quals as soon as possible. Pope...keep yourself available." He looked around the room. "That is all. Dismissed."

Sara Corvus awoke with a start, reflexes jerking her out of the bath of ice cubes and meltwater she was laying in. Her eyes told her the water was 33 degrees. The ice was losing its fight against her anthrocytes, but that was okay. She eased herself back down into the water, her motions slowed as she willed her stiff joints and muscles to move, her hands locked into curled shape after the action of the previous night. She settled back down until just her nose and mouth were above the surface, and felt her fingers loosen up joint by joint.

There was a knock at the door. "I heard you wake up," a thickly-accented voice said on the other side. It would have been muffled - should have been muffled - but it wasn't to Sara.

"I'm fine, Nick," Sara said. She stared at the ceiling, counting the small fractures in the plaster while Nicholas thought of what to say next.

"Will you need much longer?" Nicholas asked. "We did not debrief after last night." Another pause. "Take your time, of course."

"I'm not going anywhere just yet," Sara said. "And if you're gonna be standing there all day, you might as well ask your questions."

"Yes then," Nicholas said. Sara didn't have to open her eyes to picture Nicholas nervously picking at his sleeves as they stretched and shifted over his oversized arms. "What happened? You only said that they augmented Jaime Sommers and that you failed again before you went in the tub and fell asleep."

Her eyes told Sara that it had been nine hours in the tub. The moment Sommers dove out that window, she should have forgotten the rifle and bailed out. Didn't need the German to tell her that. "That's what happened," Sara said. "I took the shot. Couldn't punch through the glass. Berkut armored the bastard's apartment. After that, Sommers came after me. Kicked a sofa through the door and leapt out the penthouse window. Thought she would freeze, not cover four blocks in under two minutes. When she got to me...it wasn't Sommers. They used Tin Man on her."

"That is what you meant with, she is Berkut now," Nicholas said.

"I can take her," Sara said. "Tin Man's not very smart. She just got the jump on me. We can work around it."

"No, Sara," Nicholas said. "I know you feel badly about her -"

"Feel bad," Sara corrected.

"Feel bad about her," Nicholas continued, "but you were right. She is Berkut now. She will betray us, even if she does not mean to. She is going to always be a threat. You know how we must treat her."

If the heat flushing Sara's face had been real, a few ice cubes would have just melted. "Maybe try having whatever pump you use for a heart beat once or twice," she snapped back, sliding up out of the water. Nicholas went silent, but Sara could hear the floorboards squeal in pain as he shifted his weight. "Sorry. That was...I'm sorry."

"I understand you feel...bad over Sommers," Nicholas said. "But we must proceed with the mission. You understand that."

"Yeah," Sara said, sliding back down into the freezing cold bath of ice. "I understand."

Sara slid all the way down underwater to signal her departure from the conversation. She held her breath and waited for the anthrocytes to finish their job. Nicholas stayed by the door for ten or fifteen minutes more, then Sara heard him wander off. A threat, Sara thought, watching a bubble drift up from her nose. And she has to be addressed. She closed her eyes, and waited.

Commentary: Why Rewrite?

Robert: Heyo, welcome to more commentary and - above all - welcome back to our effort to rewrite the earlier stories in the Rebuilt-verse. Though you might not guess it from our radio silence, this story hasn't been far from our minds in the meantime, and while other things took precedence, we're now in position to get the ball rolling again. So the natural question is: why rewrite?

Well, in short, our rewrite of the pilot ended up changing events quite a bit. So everything happening after that would naturally have to change. And in the process of going over the immediate follow-up story, we discovered that there was a lot to adjust - and, surprising at least myself - a lot of stuff that was in turn already superceded by later developments. All that and the story's own problems led us to the decision to rewrite it.

Kasey: There was a good amount of the original Paradise that was decent plot-wise, but had uneven writing, and Jaime's section was unfocused and suffered badly from "she needs to do something". Also, the clear bright line of "Jaime is not okay with what is happening" hadn't been established, so she still swung back and forth between hating what Berkut had done and just going along with it.

Robert: I suspect we'll have more to say about Berkut as the story continues. But yeah, having a more consistent throughline for Jaime's character was big. In the original version, this is where trying to stick with what the TV series did really bit me in the ass. I wanted to do more with Will, and also give more weight to the attack on Paradise. I maintain those were good ideas, but they came at the cost of sidelining Jaime for much of the earlier parts. (Not that I think the episode did much with Jaime actually in Paradise other than punching the bad guys, but hey.) That's definitely something to fix here! Bonus points, we can spend Jaime's onboarding at Berkut on, you know, explaining some stuff and getting her to meet people, rather than boring you all to death with firearms minutia. I'll admit, it's a sacrifice for me? But I'm gonna pay that price, for you guys.

Kasey: You're welcome. Really, the point of the rewrite for both the pilot and this was to take the character stuff that got shoved into Big Sister after we actually sat down and plotted out what the characters should be, what the story should be, and the arc of everything, and start doing that work where it should have been done in the first place. We started the work in the pilot, and it continues into here. Not only for Jaime, but for the whole main cast. Sara and Nicholas were shorted badly in the original Paradise as well, and Becca's plot practically didn't exist. Also, the last vestiges of "TV show Will" were still in there, and they definitely gotta go.

Robert: For sure. So, the other big question: why are we still on this, years later? Well, despite everything that got this pushed down the schedule, we're still excited about this and we want to make it right. Also, speaking for myself, I'm kind of a stubborn bastard. Yeah, I'll whine and kvetch - Kasey knows - but I can't just let stuff like this go.

Kasey: We're not done. Pretty simple. Got more story.